Mohsin Khan compares foreign arthouse to eating cornflakesForeign art-house cinéma: it makes you think of cultured ideas and high-brow creativity. The reality? Boredom, immaturity, wanton shock, and two minutes of cleverness stuck in an epilogue for the critics.

Take Tarvosky’s Solaris. It has a ten minute long scene, shot from the back of a car, as it goes down a road. There’s no dialogue, no emotions seen, nothing besides a Soviet bloke with a muppet haircut driving. There’s not even a traffic light changing colours. Whatever purpose the scene served, three minutes would have been enough. Or thirty seconds. The director said it was deliberately boring. If I want to be bored, I can eat some cornflakes. Evoking the existential feeling of ennui is showing me nothing new. 

Nor is showing me random out-of-focus penises on a street corner in the first five minutes. French films love doing that. We’re not talking about a naked person in a bathroom doing something useful like peeing or changing clothes or having an orgy. We’re talking penises in public during daytime. For no reason. Why? I never see men walking around unzipped in Paris, so why do I see it in their films? Still think French films are high-brow? Lowest-weird-denominator, more like. What they forget is that gratuitous shocking cannot stand on its own – there has to be some meaning behind it.

Then you have the pompous narrators. Art-house loves blokes who jump in randomly, talk for twenty minutes while staring at the sky, and then return you to the film. Film is not an audiobook – what happened to show, not tell? And the dialogue in art-house films is freaky. Even with the translation. “I bless the day I was made immune to you and all your kind” (Anatomie de l’Enfer) – Who, in the 21st Century, talks to a stranger like that? Who?

Oh, and they love water. Maybe it’s because foreigners don’t live on an island, but when you see your fiftieth ocean “metaphor”, it gets a bit tiresome. There’s only so much you can see in an iceberg. Unless you crash into it.

Foreign films also have names for buildings and companies that sound like something out of Monty Python. Can you imagine a gay nightclub seriously calling itself “Club Rectum” (from the otherwise-perfect Irréversible)? With a patron named ‘le Tenia’ (the tapeworm. Now there’s a name that GCSE French missed)? It’s just like a tute essay: art-house just “blags” from nothing!

Foreign art-house cinéma: it makes you think of cultured ideas and high-brow creativity. The reality? Boredom, immaturity, wanton shock, and two minutes of cleverness stuck in an epilogue for the critics.

Take Tarvosky’s Solaris. It has a ten minute long scene, shot from the back of a car, as it goes down a road. There’s no dialogue, no emotions seen, nothing besides a Soviet bloke with a muppet haircut driving. There’s not even a traffic light changing colours. Whatever purpose the scene served, three minutes would have been enough. Or thirty seconds. The director said it was deliberately boring. If I want to be bored, I can eat some cornflakes. Evoking the existential feeling of ennui is showing me nothing new.

Nor is showing me random out-of-focus penises on a street corner in the first five minutes. French films love doing that. We’re not talking about a naked person in a bathroom doing something useful like peeing or changing clothes or having an orgy. We’re talking penises in public during daytime. For no reason. Why? I never see men walking around unzipped in Paris, so why do I see it in their films? Still think French films are high-brow? Lowest-weird-denominator, more like. What they forget is that gratuitous shocking cannot stand on its own – there has to be some meaning behind it.

Then you have the pompous narrators. Art-house loves blokes who jump in randomly, talk for twenty minutes while staring at the sky, and then return you to the film. Film is not an audiobook – what happened to show, not tell? And the dialogue in art-house films is freaky. Even with the translation. “I bless the day I was made immune to you and all your kind” (Anatomie de l’Enfer) – Who, in the 21st Century, talks to a stranger like that? Who?

Oh, and they love water. Maybe it’s because foreigners don’t live on an island, but when you see your fiftieth ocean “metaphor”, it gets a bit tiresome. There’s only so much you can see in an iceberg. Unless you crash into it.

Foreign films also have names for buildings and companies that sound like something out of Monty Python. Can you imagine a gay nightclub seriously calling itself “Club Rectum” (from the otherwise-perfect Irréversible)? With a patron named ‘le Tenia’ (the tapeworm. Now there’s a name that GCSE French missed)? It’s just like a tute essay: art-house just “blags” from nothing!
by Mohsin Khan

4/5
25 January Ageism is not an easy subject for a filmmaker to tackle. Any film with an axe to grind runs the risk of seeming preachy, whilst the premise of a crusty old man befriending an impressionable teenager smacks of sentimentality. Yet director Michael Shroeder manages to avoid both pitfalls, creating a film that is thoughtful without being too worthy, and moving without being saccharine.

Christopher Plummer stars as Flash; a retired Hollywood gaffer with a bad temper and a drinking problem. Plummer manages to imbue the cantankerous old man with real charm and likeability. It is a poignant and highly nuanced performance of a deeply troubled film veteran who grudgingly befriends a novice.
Shroeder is brave enough to people a film about a retired and forgotten Hollywood crew with a cast of retired (and largely forgotten) Hollywood actors. M. Emmet Walsh plays a mistreated ex-screenwriter, creating a tragic glimpse into the phenomenon of nursing-home neglect. Former child star Michael Angarano more than holds his own amongst this experienced cast, and is convincingly gauche as Cameron, the teenage would-be director that enlists Flash’s help.

It is the growing bond between these two that forms the emotional core of the film; Shroeder’s writing is eminently believable, and Plummer and Angarano have real chemistry. Shroeder only disappoints when he fails to trust in the power of the leisurely narrative and attempts to jazz things up. The flashy camera work that has become his signature can be forgiven, but the school-yard scenes fail to convince. Man in the Chair does not need such references to youth culture to be attractive to all ages; the powerful script and sterling cast are more than enough.

by Emma Whipday

Album review: Love Is All Mixed Up by Love Is All Modern Swedish music seems to be making quite a splash recently, with bands such as Shout Out Louds, The Knife and the confusingly-titled I’m From Barcelona all making the jump across the North Sea. Love Is All made that same journey in 2006 with their debut album Nine Times That Same Song, sounding like a happy mixture of The Go! Team, Yeah Yeah Yeahs and with a little bit of The Pixies added in. Mixed Up, as the name might suggest, is a remix album done by artists such as Metronomy and Hot Chip. So how does it fare?Quite well, really. Leaving almost nothing of the original, each remix takes the track in a totally new musical direction, from the synth-laden sound of Maps’ version of ‘Turn The Radio Off’ to the danceable beats of ‘Spinning and Scratching’, Metronomy style. However, one or two tracks drag, with some overly long running times for no apparent reason. Particularly guilty of this is Studio’s remix of ‘Turn The Radio Off’, which stretches the same idea over ten minutes and bizarrely features the riff from Talking Heads’ ‘Psycho Killer’. Opening track ‘Felt Tip’, remixed by Fyars, is passable, but pales in comparison to Hot Chip’s take on the same song, which has a much more ambient feel than most of the album, while still managing to be cheery and upbeat. Admittedly, the general electro theme does get a bit tiring, especially when many tracks have a fairly repetitive style.Mixed Up provides a refreshing new look at old songs, and is well accomplished in its own right. Fans of the original may miss the fast-paced intensity, but there is such a variety of styles on this album that most will find at least a few tracks to enjoy.
Four stars.
Thomas Barrett

5/5
25 JanuaryThe clever approach of this thoughtful anti-war film lies in its choice of protagonist: Tommy Lee Jones plays a patriot, whose loss of faith with his son’s involvement in Iraq is charted via unexpected and sordid discoveries in both personal and political realms. This original angle, taking an empathetic and humanising view of individual American soldiers, will make it hard for the pro-war lobby to dismiss. Focusing as it does primarily on the story of a murdered son, it engages viewers’ emotions first, with intense and intelligent acting; only at the start and finish are horizons broadened.

Initially, a backdrop of radio and television clips seems to present the triumphant rhetoric objectively, but soon these voices lapse into silence and the potent image of a coffin draped in an American flag is used to silently voice dissent. However, the bitter irony is that this young man has been killed not serving his country abroad, but on home soil. The aim is to illustrate the dehumanising effects of military combat – how war turns young men into killing machines, drives them to depravity against their will and makes many of them victims too.
Paul Haggis, the only man ever to write two successive Oscar winning scripts, has penned a smart and compelling indictment, not only of Iraq, but of all wars. Charlize Theron is a savvy maverick detective, Susan Sarandon a rather underused grieving mother, but more chillingly convincing than either is the culture of secrecy portrayed as symptomatic of the higher echelons of the military. The closing note is one of defiant disillusionment, as the Stars and Stripes are hoisted up the flag-pole deliberately upside-down – an international distress-symbol, and a sign that something is very wrong.

 Album review: Beat Pyramid by These New Puritans Every song on this album follows the pattern of opening track, ‘Numerology’. An insistent drum-beat starts out, broken into by a harsh guitar riff, before the whole thing is ruined by meaningless repetitive lyrics in Jack Barnett’s terribly grating voice. “Are these guys American?”, my roommate asks, “perhaps they’ve been affected by the writers’ strike?”. Barnett appears to be trying to use his voice like an instrument, constantly repeating the same words. Trouble is, the words are hollow and his voice is unpleasant and whiny. This effect only really works well on the oddly-named track ‘£4’, and I longed for more tracks like ‘MKK3’, where the singer’s voice suits the bleak monologue and he doesn’t repeat himself too much or actually attempt to sing.This is a shame because the band has a genuinely good rhythm section, reminiscent of Interpol or Franz Ferdinand at their best. Synth effects are less uniformly successful. They can they provide brooding interludes or palate-cleansers as in ‘Colours’ and ‘En Papier’, but sometimes they just get in the way or sound cheap, as in ‘Costume’ and ‘Swords of Truth’. All in all, this is a bruising, unforgiving record. I wouldn’t recommend anyone to listen to this start to finish; it pounds ceaselessly into your skull and the band don’t seem to have grasped the concept of varying their sound to give the listener a break. Having said that, there are some songs that would work great at indie club nights; they know how to build up to a climax and break it down. This is an eminently danceable record with some great beats and rhythms, and if they just found themselves a new vocalist they could even go far.
Two stars.
– Michael Bennett

Gareth Peters explores the allure of chocolate In Roald Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, one of my favourite children’s novels, most readers shriek with concern and shielded glee when rotund brat Augustus Gloop almost drowns in a river of chocolate; I however merely lick my lips with envy whenever I think of the young German’s fate. Indeed, I can’t imagine a better way to go. Yes, I am a chocoholic, but I’m not alone. There are few things that most people agree on, but a fondness for chocolate is surely one of those uniting opinions. If we all just sat in the streets eating chocolate the world would be a better place. A peaceful, harmonious – if morbidly obese – utopia. It is because of such properties that we should all be selling our own arms (who really needs them?) in order to get hold of a ticket for tomorrow’s chocolate extravaganza at the Union. There’s no point of boring you with the details, but it’s going to be good; one of the best things to come to the Union in ages. Natalie Portman is a close second though. So why should you be flocking in your droves to stuff your willing faces? If you’re like me, you really don’t need to be told why; you’ll just understand the urgency of your attendance. You were probably behind me in the queue at Sainsbury’s on the first day Cadbury’s brought Wispas back. If not though, you may be wondering why a bar of creamy, melt-in-your-mouth chocolate causes others so much excitement. Clearly, there’s something a little bit wrong with you.A recent archaeological dig discovered a site in Honduras used to cultivate cacoa beans which dated from between 1100 to 1400 BC, showing just how universally popular this foodstuff is. In such early days chocolate was consumed exclusively in its liquid form until its value as a solid was discovered. Now, there’s nothing better when sitting in front of the television than a bar of Dairy Milk or, in my case, a family size tin of Celebrations. Is there anything more instantly exciting than that split second when you peel back the foil to reveal a tablet of the most appetising colour of brown in existence? There are a multitude of companies selling their own signature taste, and many produce hundreds of varieties, so it’s never been easier to develop an unhealthy yet oh so satisfying addiction to the stuff. One must always remember that moderation is your friend; even if you’re reading this while gorging your fifth Ben’s Cookie you should remember such classic mantras as ‘a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips’. However, you can comfort yourself by remembering the many health benefits of chocolate, for there are enough to justify a ‘five bar a day’ diet if you choose to believe them. Cocoa is full of anti-oxidants, and dark chocolate is rich in flavonoids epicatechin and gallic acid, which are thought to possess cardioprotective properties. If you choose to incorporate chocolate into your fitness regime though (I certainly do) it’s definitely best to cross over to the dark side; having a small portion of dark chocolate daily can lower blood pressure and, according to some studies, cholesterol too. It has even been suggested that chocolate decreases the risk of cancer, but until further tests have been carried out it is impossible to know whether or not a Milky Way keeps the tumours at bay. Chocolate is also famous for its aphrodisical benefits, reasons for which are relatively mysterious. There are theories which suggest its serotonin content acts as a sexual stimulant, but no one understands for sure why a chocolate-covered strawberry is so alluring to so many. Whatever the reasons, a study concludes that a person’s brain activity and heart rate increase when one eats it, more so than when one is kissing another person and with a longer lasting after-efffect. While we bite into our favourite bars though, it’s probably important to remember that we’re ruining our teeth, eating ourselves into an early grave and clogging our insides with lead (chocolate has a rather high concentration of this). Morally speaking as well as physically though, the world in which our favourite snack dwells is far from sweet. Nestle are famously corrupt, and it seems unnecessary to explain why as almost everyone I come across chastises me every time I offer them a Munchie or bite into an Aero. For those who are unaware of such corporate greed though, just type ‘Nestle kills babies’ into your favourite search engine, although the instruction kind of eliminates the point. And anyway, I find it impossible to resist chocolate despite such points against certain companies. So, if you’re not a fan, then you just haven’t found the right bar for you. And if you are, you’ll see me tomorrow at the Union, swimming in the chocolate fountain.

Sweeney Todd
3/5
25 JanuaryBetween the spurting blood, churning human flesh, and snapping necks, Tim Burton’s film of Stephen Sondheim’s musical retelling of Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street is not for the weak of heart, or stomach, for that matter. But more than the special effects, it is the portrayal of a world in which, ‘the lives of the wicked should be cut brief, and for the rest of us, death will be a relief’, that is as disturbing as it is absolutely absorbing.

Near the opening, a half-lit, nearly dead Johnny Depp appears in rags and sings, ‘there’s a hole in the world like a great black pit, and it’s full people who’re full of shit.’  So Sweeney introduces us to his London, a city crawling with venomous men, filthy in body and soul, unyieldingly cruel people who don’t deserve their very lives. In this world, being baked into pies and sold is a fate almost too good for man.

In short, Sweeney Todd may be a musical, but it’s no Andrew Lloyd Webber. While Sondheim has a deft hand with comedy and sentiment, it is in capturing the cruelty, sorrow and degradation of man that he excels. It would be worth paying admission merely to hear his lyrics. But while Sweeney Todd has made audiences’ skin crawl in theatres for years, it is Burton’s deft work that brings the menacing immediacy of the stage production almost flawlessly to the film.

In fact, their shared morbid interest in human depravity is so strong that it’s surprising Burton didn’t make Sweeney Todd earlier. The tale of a barber who returns from abroad to seek revenge on the judge who banished him for life on a false charge is, mostly, a story of the horrifying power of hatred.  As Sweeney puts it upon his return, ‘the cruelty of man is as wondrous as Peru.’  As wondrous and, like it or not, as enthralling. Especially since Depp embodies Todd’s character so fully that you cannot pry your eyes away, even when that means witnessing spouts of blood previously unimaginable outside a Tarantino flick. 

The film is certainly not without fault. In order to keep tension ratcheted up, Burton stifles many of the score’s more comic and sentimental numbers. ‘The Worst Pies in London,’ and ‘A Little Priest’ are, normally, hilarious songs. But Helena Bonham Carter’s interpretation of Mrs. Lovett, the obsessively devoted pie shop owner who ‘disposes’ of Sweeney’s victims, is too subdued to allow the comedy to shine.

Burton’s consistently dark adaptation instead directs the entire production towards its gruesome and tragic end. Ultimately, while this comes at the sacrifice of much of what makes the stage production delightful, it creates an arresting and magnificent world on film, portraying a view of mankind that will leave you with a bad taste in your mouth for days to come.
by Willa Brown

 2/529 JanuaryWill Eno’s The Flu Season sends out a very clear message: ‘This is drama! You need to switch your brain on.’ It’s a message that in some ways can only have the opposite effect on its audience. The play shows us a budding romance between two inmates in a psychiatric hospital (Andrew Johnson, Lucy Murphy) being treated by a clumsy doctor and nurse team (Sam Bright, Amy Mulholland).

The really brain-busting bit comes with what this production calls ‘the meta-theatrical level of the narrators.’ Eno has a pair of narrators provide trite commentary on events during every scene change. They come out with vapid gems like: ‘is repetition a failure of daring or a step towards deliverance?’ This device shows that Eno lacks faith in the strength of his original story. It’s a lame trick to add depth and pseudo-sophistication to a play without bothering to build them into the plot itself.

What redeems this show is the sensitivity of its production. Johnson and Murphy deliver beautifully tuned performances throughout the nervous development of their relationship. Eno’s patronising approach to characterisation seems to be: ‘Aren’t mad people sweet and funny.’ However, these actors give their roles a dignity that makes the grim conclusion surprisingly moving.

Along with Mulholland’s slightly daffy nurse, the central couple respond well to the surreal drift of the language, with its non-sequiturs and subverted word order. It seems unfair that this show got a reviewer who so disliked the play itself. You might love engaging with Eno’s commentary on his own work or the self-conscious cleverness of the narration. These things pissed me off and distanced me from the wonderful work of the production itself. It is charming in spite of its material, which must be some sort of recommendation.

by Sam Pritchard

4/5
29 JanuaryIf you like your theatre witty, pithy and sexy, Guy Levin’s production of Closer is well worth seeing.

Desire is the driving force in a play which sees a quartet of 1990s Londoners caught in a claustrophobic web of lust and deceit. Staging is minimal: Closer’s real focus is on self-consciously clever dialogue and the simmering sexual tensions it reveals. This is not a play concerned with weighty philosophy. We are made aware of the links between death and desire, but these are not satisfactorily explored. A meta-theatrical debate concerning art as exploitation is touched on, then disregarded. Closer does not treat any concept (apart from that of sex) more than superficially, abandoning profundity for clever wordplay and vivid volleys of banter. This is sometimes very effective, and the actors really bring out the humour of Closer’s best lines. Occasionally, though, one can be left unsatisfied. Verbal and emotional parallels are constantly drawn between the characters in a way that can feel heavy-handed. Some aspects of the play now seem dated. The scenes based on an internet sex chatroom in particular have lost much of their shock effect.

Yet whatever the deficiencies of the script, the acting is consistently superb. Lindsay Dukes captures the simultaneously vulnerable and sexually provocative nature of stripper Alice, and Harry Creelman and Alex Bowles give understated and convincing portrayals of photographer Anne and obituary-writer Dan respectively. Whilst Matt Maltby as Larry initially engaged better with the comic scenes, his progression towards unsettling anger was ultimately extremely powerful.

Closer really benefits from the pared-down treatment it receives in this production. Both the comic and serious scenes are handled well by a talented cast, and the sharp wit of the dialogue is counterpoised with convincing outbursts of passion.by Elisabeth Lewis-Barned