Dariush Alavi

Best Films Of The Year + Hitting The Pause Button

2012-01-02T18:30:00.000Z

Some of you already know why, in 2011, this blog was devoted almost exclusively to film reviews: various other writing projects have caused me to be extremely busy since about mid-2010 and I needed to think of something that would allow me to keep DariushAlavi.com ticking over and wouldn't entail my spending hours agonising over what each subsequent post should be about. Film reviews seemed like a neat, logical solution. The task I set myself was to write one paragraph on every movie I watched in 2011 (either at the cinema or at home) and I'm pleased to report that I've accomplished it.

However, as the end of the calendar year has brought the little project to a natural conclusion, I think this is the right time to close the entire blog for the foreseeable future. The aforementioned writing engagements are becoming increasingly time-consuming and as there are only so many hours in the day, something's got to give. So, before I present you with my customary list of my favourite films of the previous twelve months, I'd like to thank those of you who've taken the time to read my musings and to leave comments and send me emails about them. Your support has been greatly appreciated.

Here we go then:

My Favourite Films Of 2011 (in the order in which they were seen)

Never Let Me Go [Mark Romanek]

Archipelago [Joanna Hogg]

Le Quattro Volte [Michelangelo Frammartino]

The Tree Of Life [Terrence Malick]

A Separation [Asghar Farhadi]

And as this is my final post, I'll permit myself a few 'honourable mentions': True Grit; Cave Of Forgotten Dreams; Pina; Submarine; We Need To Talk About Kevin; The Future; The Deep Blue Sea.

Happy new year, everybody!

Ciao for now,

Dariush.

Film Review: Three Colours Red / Trois Couleurs Rouge [dir. Krzysztof Kieslowski; 1994]

2011-12-31T18:30:00.000Z

When you know a film as well as I know Red, re-watching it becomes an experience that's as much about yourself as it is about the movie. You find yourself reacting less strongly to aspects which had a tremendous impact on you years ago, whilst scenes which seemed relatively unimportant when you were younger resonate with new force. Like all great works of art, Kieslowski's final film transcends its specific context and speaks to all people of all times, using its simple story of a young student's developing relationship with a mysterious retired judge to explore ideas about the hidden forces that bind us all together. Its technical accomplishments are rivetting to watch: Piotr Sobocinki's photography provides as much evidence as one could ever wish for that a landscape is a character in itself; Zbigniew Preisner's music speaks of bruised tenderness with every haunting note; and Kieslowki's use of tracking shots is intelligent and beguiling, connecting disparate elements with subtle grace. But the real stars are, appropriately enough, the people, especially Irene Jacob and Jean-Louis Trintignant in the lead roles, who effortlessly lend their characters the quirky unknowability that makes each of us unique. An unforgettable tour de force, Red remains my favourite film of all time.

Film Review: How To Train Your Dragon [dir. Dean DeBlois & Chris Sanders; 2010]

2011-12-30T20:30:00.000Z

Watching How To Train Your Dragon reminded me of how much there is to enjoy about Hugo. Yes, this story of a skinny (which is Hollywood-ese for 'unmanly', 'geeky', 'socially outcast') young Viking who realises there's more to be gained from trying to befriend rather than kill the dragons with which his fellow villagers insist on going into battle has its fair share of enjoyable moments. But after a while, the oh-so-knowing, ironically contemporary tone of the dialogue (particularly that spoken by the child characters) begins to grate and makes you realise this is precisely the sort of stuff which will date very quickly. The CG animation is wonderful and there are a few genuinely absorbing sequences (notably those depicting the training alluded to in the title) but ultimately, this gets filed under 'Fun But Forgettable'.

Film Review: Attack The Block [dir. Joe Cornish; 2011]

2011-12-30T18:15:00.000Z

As far as multiplex-friendly, 90-minute long, 80s-inspired alien invasion movies go, Attack The Block does a decent job of ticking all the right boxes: it pushes its plot along at breakneck speed, it sports an excellent electronic score and it features endearingly minimal special effects. It also goes above and beyond the call of genre duty in its decision to set the action on a south London housing estate (an inspired choice) and to feature a gang of hoodie-wearing, mobile-phone-stealing yoofs as its main characters. But the very aspect that makes Cornish's directorial debut so original and endearing (ie the verbal spats between the youngsters and the adults they encounter as they try to rid the country of monsters) constantly has to make way for the demands of the story, which is a shame, because a bit more talking and a touch less action might have made the film much more memorable.

Film Review: Blue Valentine [dir. Derek Cianfrance; 2010]

2011-12-29T18:30:00.000Z

Blue Valentine is an excellent example of a film that is let down by its own structure. Clearly, Cianfrance's intention was to portray only the opening and closing stages of a relationship and expect the viewer to fill in the gaps in the middle. This strategy works up to a point and, indeed, there are several evocative scenes which convey the birth and death of love with commendable power. But in order to become truly memorable, the story needed to provide a few more specific details about the reasons for the marital breakdown; passing comments about problems with alcohol abuse and thwarted professional ambitions serve only to make the material seem generic and rather nebulous. Nevertheless, the movie is well worth watching for the almost documentary-like style with which the camera depicts domestic life, the deft use of flashbacks (the entire story is told by cutting back and forth between past and present) and, most notably, for the heartbreaking, intelligent performances from Ryan Gosling and Michelle Williams.

Film Review: Three Colours White / Trois Couleurs Blanc [dir. Krzysztof Kieslowski; 1994]

2011-12-28T19:15:00.000Z

When it was released in the mid-90s, White was dimissed as the weakest chapter of Kieslowski's trilogy. Although I've always been very fond of it, I concede that much of its impact is lost in translation, not least because of its tone-deaf English subtitles. However, recent socio-economic events have been kind to this sardonic essay on the pros and cons of equality. In the 90s, Poland was desperate to emulate its western neighbours with a fervour that many Europeans found difficult to comprehend. Now, the imminent collapse of the EU and the rising importance of India, China et al make it somewhat easier to appreciate how much greener the grass can be on the other side of the political fence. With characteristic finesse, Kieslowski weaves these ideas into a tale about a hapless Polish hairdresser who is so stung by the way his French ex-wife treats him, he'll stop at nothing to get his revenge. A masterpiece of black comedy, with a superb score from Zbigniew Preisner.

Film Review: Three Colours Blue / Trois Couleurs Bleu [dir. Krzysztof Kieslowski; 1993]

2011-12-28T18:15:00.000Z

About fifteen minutes into its running time, Blue's protagonist (played with unforgettable precision by Juliette Binoche) is woken from a nap by a burst of orchestral music. She looks straight into the camera, following its movement as it pans from one side of her face to the other. The screen is filled with a deep shade of azure; then it fades to black. We're not sure if the music has really been played somewhere within her earshot or whether it was a product of a fevered dream. Or perhaps it has some ghost-like life of its own. This brief scene pretty much sums up everything you need to know about the first instalment of Kieslowski's much-lauded trilogy: it displays his ability to draw intense performances from his actors; it showcases his extraordinary skill at merging plot with theme, so that the seams between the two are almost invisible; and it highlights his masterful use of filmic language. In short, this enigmatic story of a woman coming to terms with loss and liberty is quite simply one of the most intelligently constructed films of the last 25 years. Watch it on Blu-ray and marvel at the thought that has gone into the composition of every single frame. Beautiful stuff.

Film Review: George Harrison - Living In The Material World [dir. Martin Scorsese; 2011]

2011-12-24T20:10:00.002Z

Although I was brought up in a Beatle-loving household, George Harrison was spoken about only as one of "the other two" members of the band. Scorsese's documentary of this complex, intriguing cultural figure filled in some of the gaps in my knowledge with considerable finesse. Using new interviews with key figures in Harrison's life (including Paul McCartney, Ringo Starr and his widow, Olivia) as well as expertly chosen film and music clips, the movie charts his rise to stardom, his post-Beatle perfoming career, his work as a film producer and, needless to say, the development of his profound spirituality. Despite his tight focus on his subject, Scorsese allows the material to resonate with wider contextual issues, producing what is, in effect, a chronicle of an entire musical age as much as it is a story of one individual. And although it's almost 4 hours long, it zips by and leaves you wanting much, much more.

Most Memorable Film Moments Of 2011

2011-12-23T12:42:00.000Z

Please allow me to indulge in another shameless plug. I've been mentioned not once, but twice in the latest episode of Francine Stock's consistently excellent Film Programme on BBC Radio 4. Please click on this link to listen to the show and if you really haven't got time for the whole thing (your loss!) then just fast forward to the 18th minute. Once you've done that, come back and let me know about your most memorable cinematic moments of the last twelve months.

Film Review: Carnage [dir. Roman Polanski; 2011]

2011-12-22T20:00:00.000Z

Polanski's silver screen version of Yasmina Reza's acclaimed play is so very stagey, one wonders if the director was actually trying, for some reason unknown to the rest of us, to emphasise its non-cinematic tone and texture. In baldly theatrical fashion, two sets of parents meet to discuss a fight between their children. Cue: lots of trendy, psychobabble-inflected conversations about the law of the jungle versus the law of civilised society. A mobile phone is flung into a vase. Tulips are thrown about the room. Kate Winslet vomits on some art books. Various other hystrionics follow. On stage, the set up probably worked quite well. At the cinema, the contrivances are frequently painful. Having said all that, it would be unfair not to mention that Jodie Foster and Christoph Waltz turn in a couple of well-judged, suitably filmic performances and that some aspects of the characters' development are amusing to watch.

Film Review: Shame [dir. Steve McQueen; 2011]

2011-12-21T13:59:00.000Z

Michael Fassbender is without any question one of the finest English-speaking actors working at the moment and I have no doubt that he formulated detailed, intelligent reasons to explain why his character in this particular movie has reached such an extreme degree of emotional isolation. I just wish that this internal planning had been made more overt on screen. Through a series of increasingly tortured incidents – some of which are compelling and moving – McQueen presents several days in the life of a man whose uncontrollable craving for sexual experiences leads him ever closer to self-destruction. But despite the commendable performances and the explicit nature of several scenes, the film remains opaque and rather superficial.

Film Review: Christmas Vacation [dir. Jeremiah S Chechik; 1989]

2011-12-19T13:49:00.000Z

I wonder if, in twenty or so years’ time, part of the pleasure of watching a screwball comedy made in 2011 will come from seeing what will, by then, have become ‘period details’. That’s certainly the case with this particular instalment of the National Lampoon series, which tells the story of creepy-as-ever Chevy Chase trying to bring his wife, children and in-laws together for a traditional Christmas celebration. Yes, many of the gags are funny, but most of the laughs come from realising how the last two decades have seen countless changes in attitudes to women, elderly people… and hair. Amusing, but forgettable.

Film Review: A Separation / Jodaeiye Nader Az Simin [dir. Asghar Farhadi; 2011]

2011-12-18T13:44:00.001Z

With painstaking attention to detail, Farhadi weaves an intricate web of deception and conflicted loyalties based around a middle class man’s attempt to find someone to look after his Alzheimer’s-suffering father whilst he’s away at work. When the woman he employs accuses him of causing her to have a miscarriage, events around the characters become increasingly convoluted. This is cinema at its very best: layered, naturalistic performances; a gripping, thought-provoking, completely unforced narrative; intelligent, unobtrusive directing (featuring excellent handheld camera work and subtle framing). If Kieslowski were still alive and wanting to make a film in Iran, the result may well have been A Separation. Quite superb.

Film Review: Hugo [dir. Martin Scorsese; 2011]

2011-12-13T18:41:00.000Z

It’s helpful to assess Hugo in terms of what it isn’t rather than what it is: it isn’t manic or frenetic; it isn’t desperate to impress with ironic humour; it isn’t patronising to children; it isn’t afraid to keep its plot simple and linear; it isn’t full of 3D clichés. A charming tale of an orphaned boy who tries to understand the world around him whilst keeping the clocks ticking at a Parisian train station, it features excellent performances, sumptuously realised visuals and – with the inclusion of Georges Melies as a key character – a heart-warming respect for the art of cinema. I found some of its comedic moments less than convincing and I confess I’d hoped for a more complicated story, but these are minor criticisms in the face of the movie’s main achievement, which is to present complex themes in an easily-comprehensible, gentle manner to 21st century children and make them enjoy every minute of the experience.

Film Review: Departures / Okuribito [dir. Yôjirô Takita; 2008]

2011-11-30T18:02:00.001Z

If you ignore the sentimental moments (of which there are several), the lapses into broad characterisation and the creakiness of certain sections of the plot, what remains is a moving examination of modern attitudes to death, a subject conspicuous by its absence in modern cinema (see Uncle Boonmee). The plot revolves around a frustrated cellist’s attempts to earn a living away from the pressures of Tokyo by moving back to his village and becoming an ‘encoffiner’ – a near-religious figure who carries out an intricate (and highly watchable) purification ritual on dead bodies in order to prepare them for a funeral service. It is this aspect of the film that provides its most compelling sections: brief, tantalising glimpses into the ways various families experiences grief and loss and, crucially, the manner in which they display these emotions to strangers. The movie’s visual style frequently plays to western tastes (indeed, it was awarded an Oscar for Best Foreign Film) but at the core of this curious tale lies an intriguing and memorable idea.

Film Review: The Deep Blue Sea [dir. Terence Davies; 2011]

2011-11-19T17:55:00.000Z

The stately, almost staccato pace of some of Terence Davies’ films can make them difficult to watch; the technique occasionally feels like a none-too-subtle attempt to imbue scenes with an importance they might not otherwise possess. Fortunately, in The Deep Blue Sea, it works extremely well, helping to punctuate the shift between the past and the present, stave off sentimentality and reflect the main character’s state of mind. Set soon after the Second World War, this adaptation of Terence Rattigan’s play examines twenty-four hours in the life of Hester as she recovers from a failed suicide attempt and looks back on an ill-fated love affair with an RAF pilot. Rachel Weisz is mesmerising in the lead role – using an unusual accent and dreamy vocal delivery to suggest Hester’s leap into unconventionality – but Simon Russell Beale and Tom Hiddleston (a rising star, if ever there was one) are equally affecting. A moving, melancholy and quite beautiful piece of work.

Film Review: The Future [dir. Miranda July; 2011]

2011-11-12T19:50:00.000Z

Some films seem to speak to the particular circumstances of one's life with such startling lucidity that they should either be watched several times or avoided like a double-bill of Titanic and Avatar, depending on how one feels about being shaken out of one's comfort zone. Miranda July's The Future is about two people in their mid-30s. It shows them trying to express their creativity within a world of unavoidable economic realities. And it portrays their deepening understanding that time really does flow in one direction and that the past is, indeed, in the past. In short, it's just the sort of thing I shouldn't have watched if I'd wanted an easy evening at the cinema. But then I rarely want my evenings at the cinema to be easy, and I found myself quite convinced by this curious, deceptively slight effort. Be warned: it comes with kookiness galore. Several scenes are from the point of view of a particularly philosophic cat. A key sequence features a dialogue with the man in the moon. And July herself - as the female protagonist - is bound to irritate some viewers with her semi-vacant, spaced-out performance. But for every questionable moment, there's another which displays a genuine attempt to grapple with tricky themes and, crucially, a sharp understanding of the power of cinema. Quite original and ultimately quite moving.

Film Review: The Adventures Of Tintin - The Secret Of The Unicorn [dir. Steven Spielberg; 2011]

2011-11-10T19:50:00.001Z

I'm pretty sure that Herge's Tintin books were the very first things I ever read. In fact, I think I became something of a fan. But I'm equally sure that I haven't touched them since I was about 8, so perhaps I'm not exactly in the core demographic for Spielberg's big-screen adaptation of the baby-faced journalist's adventures. Its plot is suitably preposterous and sprawling, but it displays a very poor sense of pace. If there's one thing Spielberg has always been good at (and I say this as someone who generally isn't a fan of his work) it's knowing how to contrast moments of action with quieter sequences. That skill appears to have abandoned him here, with the result that he's created a feature-length barrage of unengaging bangs and camera somersaults. Perhaps one reason for this is that the technology has made it too easy for him to crank everything up to 11... which leads me to the subject of 'motion capture', the part-animated, part-live action technique used to create the film. From a design perspective, it provides an opportunity to realise a rich, gorgeous vision of the distinctive world of Herge's comics. But from a story-telling point of view, it produces an effect that's simultaneously too realistic and not quite realistic enough. The way audiences perceive mo-cap may well change with time, but for the moment, as far as Tintin is concerned, it's merely another questionable facet of a film that proves you can't just shove a load of set-pieces against each other and hope they'll form a coherent whole.

Film Review: Animal Kingdom [dir. David Michôd; 2010]

2011-11-02T19:45:00.000Z

Crime sagas often work well when they're told from the point of view of someone on the periphery of the main action. In this case, it's 17-year-old Josh who's just become an orphan and turns to his grandmother and uncles for support. Unfortunately for him, they're heavily involved with violent crime, which compels him to have to decide the direction in which he wishes to take his own life. Punctuated by several surprising twists and refreshingly devoid of cliches, Animal Kingdom strikes an admirable balance between cranking up the tension and presenting an engaging character study. James Frecheville as Josh and Jacki Weaver as the inscrutable matriarch are quite superb, as is the evocation of the Australian setting. A triumph.

Film Review: We Need To Talk About Kevin [dir. Lynne Ramsay; 2011]

2011-10-26T19:45:00.000+01:00

Not having read the Lionel Shriver novel on which this film is based, I went in with foreknowledge about nothing except - as is often the way - the story's concluding revelation. Still, this didn't detract from what turned out to be a moving, unsettling, deeply visceral cinematic experience. Tilda Swinton is consistently excellent as the mother of an odd teenage son whose behaviour casts a deep shadow on the life of her whole family. And Lynne Ramsay's directing unashamedly turns the entire film into an exercise in subjective story telling, a move that's entirely appropriate for a story in which different points of view and individuals' perceptions of events have a direct bearing on the development of the plot. Psychologically astute and totally mesmerising.

Film Review: Contagion [dir. Steven Soderbergh; 2011]

2011-10-19T19:45:00.000+01:00

Soderbergh's movies tend to be so slick and stylised, that they often convince you they'll be memorable whilst you're actually watching them. But as the days after the initial viewing pass, you realise that they've left you with little more than a sense of... well, slickness and stylishness. Contagion is a case in point. It's a brisk, confident, thoroughly gripping story of the consequences of the spread of a deadly form of swine flu. It features solid performances, particularly from Matt Damon, Kate Winslet and Laurence Fishburne. Its plot develops in a wholly plausible manner. And most commendably, it underplays the hysterics that one might expect in such pre-apocalyptic tales (shots of lawless mobs are kept to a minimum). But somehow, it never leaps into the realms of greatness. That said, it's more intelligent and enjoyable than most of the popcorn fodder clogging up our multiplexes.

Film Review: Midnight In Paris [dir. Woody Allen; 2011]

2011-10-07T19:45:00.001+01:00

It seems fairly clear that Allen will never give us another Bananas or Annie Hall (or even a Deconstructing Harry) but the best thing about his twilight films is that they convey truths about modern life with a gentle wisdom and a quirky, unabashed sense of fun. Midnight In Paris brings these attributes to the fore in its portrayal of a frustrated, 21st-century writer who finds himself transported back in time to share a few evenings with the likes of F Scott Fitzgerald, Hemingway and Gertrude Stein. The conceit is amusing and so is its execution, allowing first-rate performers such as Kathy Bates, Adrien Brody and Tom Hiddleston to show off their talents and chew up the screen. There are a few moments of lazy editing (there’s no reason why someone of Allen’s calibre should settle for simplistic shot / reverse-shot sequences) but they don’t detract from what turns out to be an enjoyable, faintly melancholy viewing experience.

Film Review: The Double Life Of Veronique / La Double View De Veronique [dir. Krzysztof Kieslowski; 1991]

2011-10-04T19:45:00.000+01:00

It’s difficult to be concise about a film I know better than almost any other, but I must adhere to my self-imposed one-paragraph rule and resist the temptation to produce a dissertation. (Speaking of which, would anyone like to read my thesis on the Three Colours? What’s that? I’ve made you all read it already? Oh, right.) In short, then, this is one of the most beguiling movies I’ve ever had the pleasure to watch. An inexplicable, mystical tale of a young French woman whose life seems to have been foreshadowed (perhaps even controlled) by an identical woman living in Poland, La Double Vie uses recurring images of lenses, light and duality – as well as Irene Jacob’s naturalistic, award-winning performance and Zbigniew Preisner’s unparalleled musical score – to present a unique meditation on Love, Life And Everything Else. It’s as perplexing as it is moving, but that’s what makes it unmissable.

Film Review: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy [dir. Tomas Alfredson; 2011]

2011-09-29T19:24:00.000+01:00

So, is it as good as everyone's saying? My answer: very nearly. Yes, there are times when Le Carre's tale of a search for a mole in the British Secret Service feels as though it's been inelegantly rammed into a two-hour running time. Yes, Tomas Alfredson's direction sometimes displays too much of the sterile coldness that was also in evidence in Let The Right One In. And yes, most of the supporting characters aren't allowed any opportunities to develop and become memorable. But the performances are exemplary - especially Gary Oldman's, whose neck has never been more expressive - and the restraint with which the period setting has been evoked is admirable (were the 70s really so dingy?). A soft-spoken, sardonic, thoroughly masculine piece of work which stands a strong chance of going down as a classic of the 'thinking person's spy flick' genre.

Film Review: Jane Eyre [dir. Cary Fukunaga; 2011]

2011-09-23T20:30:00.001+01:00

For some reason, Britain and the USA currently seem incapable of producing many period dramas which successfully convey the illusion that their characters genuinely inhabit the time in which the story is set. The anachronisms appear in several different forms, notably unconvincing dialogue and ill-judged casting. Thankfully, this latest version of Jane Eyre avoids such traps and presents an engrossing, suitably melancholy take on Charlotte Bronte's creation. Mia Wasikowska excels as Jane, managing to convey both fragility and determination with laudable understatement. And the story's Gothic elements are never permitted to divert attention from the development of the central relationship. The grandiloquent music is sometimes at odds with the pared down visuals and there is the inevitable feeling that a great many nuances and details have been sacrificed in order to keep the film's length manageable, but I suspect Ms Bronte would essentially have been quite pleased with this particular effort.

Film Review: The Skin I Live In / La Piel Que Habito [dir. Pedro Almodóvar; 2011]

2011-09-16T20:31:00.000+01:00

A sense of camp horror (or should that be 'a camp sense of horror'?) has lurked in the background of several Almodóvar movies, but here it's allowed to take centre stage in an engrossing, flashback-heavy tale of a plastic surgeon's attempts to create artificial skin. Antonio Banderas is suitably creepy in the lead role and Elena Anaya is a vision of flawless, silver screen beauty as the subject of his experiments, but the real stars here are the style and the ideas. Almodóvar has always enjoyed blurring the boundaries between genres and your enjoyment of his latest effort will almost certainly depend on the extent to which you're willing to follow the leaps he makes from melodrama to sci-fi to psychological thriller and, of course, to horror. It's worth sticking out the twisted ride, especially as there's an intriguing - not to mention provocative - revelation about two-thirds of the way through.

Film Review: Starter For Ten [dir. Tom Vaughan; 2006]

2011-09-09T19:53:00.000+01:00

No matter how simplistic or forgettable a film may be, it’s hard to be scathing about it if its heart is in the right place. So yes, this story of a working class whiz kid trying to place his feet on the correct rung of the social ladder at Bristol Uni circa 1985 has more than its fair share of campus-drama clichés, but with its central conceit of a team’s preparation for University Challenge, it manages to keep itself afloat and offer just the right number of wry observations about attitudes to class and education. The performances are appealing (Benedict Cumberbatch is especially watchable as the maniacally ambitious team captain) and the plot moves along at an enjoyable pace. Top marks for effort.

An Empty Suitcase

2011-07-28T07:32:00.000+01:00

Red Pen Season is over, July is nearly at an end and an empty suitcase appears to have materialised in my study. It must be time for me and the Divine L to embark on another summer adventure. The cross-Channel ferry beckons...

Needless to say, there won't be many posts for the next few weeks, but then there haven't been many for several months, apart from the film reviews, of course. Rest assured, I am still writing, but the demands of various other projects leave me with almost no time for this blog.

Be good while I'm away. It won't be long before I return with a moan about the latest cinematic atrocity.

Film Review: Green Lantern [dir. Martin Campbell; 2011]

2011-07-25T06:25:00.000+01:00

Trust me, this was not a film I chose to see. But if I'm going to stick to this year's blog resolution, then I must religiously chart every cinematic experience, even those in which I was a mere chaperone. Having said that, Green Lantern isn't as awful as I'd feared: it made me want to slash only one wrist, not both. Yes, the special effects are watchable, but it's impossible to feel any sense of genuine tension or danger in a story where the protagonists' super powers allow them to create a physical manifestation of absolutely any thought that pops into their minds. Surprise, surprise, this makes the plot and, crucially, the denouement - which relies on the all-powerful, unstoppable villain conveniently becoming stupid for a few moments - completely uninvolving. The only saving graces are a few moments of chuckle-worthy comedy and Peter Sarsgaard, who brings an unsettling, seedy creepiness to his portrayal of Hector Hammond. Sadly, it's a performance that belongs in an altogether different sort of film. Oh, and Ryan Reynolds deserves this year's Ben Affleck Charisma Vacuum award.

Film Review: The Tree Of Life [dir. Terrence Malick; 2011]

2011-07-23T06:25:00.000+01:00

Where to start? So much has already been written and said about Malick’s latest that it seems pointless to add any more words to the debate, but for what it’s worth, my view is that this is a rare example of a film that genuinely deserves the adjective ‘bold’. With its presentation of an archetypal, Texan family’s life in the 50s and its fantastical diversions into documentary-style depictions of the birth of the universe (complete with dinosaurs) it is a unique portrayal of a singular, individualistic vision of the world. It has its fair share of mis-judged (some would say pretentious) moments, but it also conveys tremendous beauty and is frequently moving. Most remarkably, it reflects the fleeting, seemingly arbitrary, perplexing, heart-breaking and life-affirming nature of memory itself. A must-see, if ever there was one.

Film Review: Potiche [dir. François Ozon; 2010]

2011-07-21T06:25:00.000+01:00

There's nothing like a bit of political incorrectness to get you chuckling, especially when it's in French, it features Deneuve and Depardieu and it treats its audience with intelligence. Poking fun at the gender politics (and the clothes!) of the 70s is probably quite easy, but Ozon stops his story from descending into predictability with a well-judged series of gentle twists and surprises. His chief asset is Deneuve. Playing the trophy wife of the title, she uses her trademark inscrutability to add just the right amount of weight to this story of a woman who takes over her husband's umbrella factory and discovers she's got a formidable business brain on her shoulders. Frothy, amiable fun.

Film Review: The Incredibles [dir. Brad Bird; 2004]

2011-07-19T06:11:00.003+01:00

A couple of years ago, when Sight & Sound were compiling their list of the most important films of the last decade, I was pleased to see that one of the few computer animated movies they’d considered for inclusion was The Incredibles. Its original release wasn’t met by the ecstatic plaudits which were heaped upon Wall-E, Up and Toy Story 3, but I’ve always considered it to be one of Pixar’s finest creations and I’m pleased to say that it stood up very well to my recent repeat viewing. With its wickedly inventive, postmodern story of a family of super-heroes trying to live a normal life in a society that no longer takes kindly to the intervention of people in capes and funny costumes, it treads that fine balance between appealing to both children and adults without pandering to either. The production design and incidental score are superb – and make several sly nods to slick thrillers from bygone days – and the animation manages to remain touchingly human without scrimping on spectacle. A real winner, especially on Blu-ray.

Film Review: Time Bandits [dir. Terry Gilliam; 1981]

2011-07-13T19:17:00.000+01:00

I won't have anyone deny that, at his best, Gilliam is a dazzling film-maker. But he's certainly not consistent. I approached Time Bandits with a great deal of optimism, partly because it's one of his most beloved releases and partly because he made it right before Brazil, which remains one of my favourite films ever. Sadly, this picaresque story of a young boy travelling through time with a group of hapless dwarfs bumbles along from one incident to another before reaching a pretty forgettable climax. Gilliam's trademark quirkiness seems forced, the special effects haven't dated well and even the cameos from the likes of Michael Palin, John Cleese and Sean Connery barely raise more than a titter. On the plus side, it isn't quite in the same league as The Adventures Of Baron Munchausen, which I couldn't even bear to finish.

Film Review: Oranges And Sunshine [dir. Jim Loach; 2010]

2011-07-11T19:41:00.000+01:00

In a nutshell: amazing story; very disappointing execution. Jim Loach's debut feature recounts the true incidents that led to social worker Margaret Humphreys' discovery of a shocking, long-running, UK-government scheme of forcibly relocating poor and/or illegitimate children to Australia. Their parents were told that the children had been adopted and were therefore no longer contactable; the children themselves were told that their parents had died. Over the course of several decades, thousands of youngsters were uprooted in this way; many of them still don't know their true identities and haven't been able to trace their families. Like I said, an amazing story. Sadly, Loach's method of telling it ultimately reduces proceedings to the level of a simplistic TV Weepie Of The Month. Emily Watson is excellent in the lead role, using her expressive eyes to convey both resilience and vulnerability, but as a whole, the film makes almost no impact at all.

Film Review: Senna [dir. Asif Kapadia; 2010]

2011-07-09T18:55:00.002+01:00

Ah, the dangers of testosterone. When it's being useful, the chemical promotes dynamism and fearlessness. But when channelled along more dubious paths, it leads to resentment, rivalry and downright foolishness. The far-reaching effects of the substance - or, to be less abstruse, the various facets of masculinity - are the central theme of this gripping documentary about the career of Brazil's ill-fated Formula 1 driver, Ayrton Senna. Using only pre-existing footage (and the audio of some newly recorded interviews), Kapadia paints a picture of a fairly complex man whose increasing success appeared to lead to heightened cynicism and bitterness. Despite what several critics have claimed, there are no obvious villains in this story and certainly no-one emerges as a saint. A frenetic, dangerous environment such as a Formula 1 track is bound to bring out the very best and the very worst in people, and it is Kapadia's ability to capture the richness of humanity that makes his film so compelling.

Film Review: X-Men First Class [dir. Matthew Vaughn; 2011]

2011-07-05T06:28:00.000+01:00

Within the context of super-hero movies, Bryan Singer set the bar very high with the first X-Men: it featured memorable characters, a solid plot, commendable performances and several inventive visual flourishes. This latest instalment - a prequel which portrays the genesis of the conflicted relationship between Charles Xavier and Magneto - isn't quite in the same league. Having said that, it provides over two hours of clever, enjoyable entertainment. The actors play it straight, the special effects know when to take a back seat and the story is suitably engrossing. But Vaughn's insistence on imbuing the visuals with a sense of 60's 'international espionage thriller chic' hampers the pace and - which is rather more worrying - results in far too many shots of nubile women in various states of undress. I realise comic book adaptations strive to appeal to the teenage boy audience, but I thought X-Men was always supposed to be a notch above such crude tactics.

Film Review: Le Quattro Volte [dir. Michelangelo Frammartino; 2010]

2011-06-23T06:32:00.000+01:00

Sometimes you want to be reassured that cinema hasn't really sold its soul to the multiplex. Sometimes you want to see evidence that it is still possible to make a film without excessive dialogue, without incidental music and without conventional story structures. Sometimes, you just want to watch something that doesn't treat you like an idiot. Cue: Le Quattro Volte, a beguiling little gem that's ostensibly a documentary-style exmination of life in a sleepy Calabrian village. Whether it's focussed on an old man who believes that ingesting the dust swept off a church floor will cure his ailments, or on a kid (and by that I mean a young goat) who gets separated from the herd, Michelangelo Frammartino's camera appears to say very little but in reality speaks volumes about the cyclical, interconnected nature of existence. And the film's final shot of smoke pouring out of a chimney is one of the most satisfying, most apt conclusions I've seen in months. Totally absorbing, as long as you're in the right frame of mind.

Film Review: Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives [dir. Apichatpong Weerasethakul; 2010]

2011-06-16T20:33:00.000+01:00

Proceed with caution. 2010's Palme d'Or winner is a mystifying, unfathomable meditation on the twilight period between the conclusion of life and the beginning of death. Without ever quickening its snail's pace, it presents a series of intriguing tableaux in which the eponymous uncle quietly ends his days surrounded by his nearest and dearest. But the idiosyncracies of Apichatpong Weerasethakul's style won't be to everyone's taste. His story features ghosts, taciturn monkey-men and a sex scene between a woman and a catfish. (Yes, you read that right.) It refuses to meet the audience's need for answers and explanations, resolutely staying away from any Occidental notions of how a narrative ought to work. Having said that, I can't deny that I found it compelling... but don't ask me to explain what it's about.

Film Review: Hanna [dir. Joe Wright; 2011]

2011-06-05T11:33:00.001+01:00

The only thing worse than trash is well-made trash. Joe Wright's Hanna combines strong performances, surreal, Lynch-ian imagery, a visceral soundtrack and flashy editing to tell the story of a 16 year old girl - whose angelic face belies the fact that she's a Terminator-style killing machine - as she travels across several countries to find her father. It's a slick, brash, confident product. But it's also rotten to the core. I spent most of it asking myself if it was sadistic in itself or if it merely portrayed sadistic characters. Ultimately, the glee with which it insisted on glamorising its violence answered my question quite clearly. Each year, I have the misfortune to watch at least one movie that infuriates me with its patronising attitude to its audience and its cynical attempts to appear profound and insightful. In 2011, I suspect that film may well turn out to be Hanna.

Film Review: Thor [dir: Kenneth Branagh; 2011]

2011-05-25T06:30:00.000+01:00

Everyone has their weaknesses and one of mine – at least in the realms of cinema – is comic book super hero movies. Give me two hours’ worth of ridiculous costumes, decent special effects and an intelligent story which sticks to the rules of its own world, and I’m happy. Thor doesn’t fare too badly on the first two counts, but it fails on the all-important third. It isn’t a complete disaster. There are some well-played moments of comedy, the visuals are suitably glossy and the casting is generally impressive (Archipelago’s Tom Hiddleston proves yet again that his star is most definitely rising) but the plot - which centres around the eponymous god's banishment to earth - relies too heavily on convenient twists and irritating coincidences. Never mind. I’m holding out for X-Men: First Class.

Film Review: Pina [dir: Wim Wenders; 2011]

2011-05-18T21:48:00.001+01:00

Sticking a camera in front of an acclaimed stage production usually results in an awkward mess that drains its source material of life and reduces it to a display of embarrassing amateurishness. Anyone who spent some of their A Level Lit lessons watching BBC Shakespeare adaptations will know exactly what I mean. Wim Wenders completely avoids this trap in his latest film, a presentation of excerpts from various Pina Bausch-choreographed pieces, interspersed with voiceovers from members of her company. As we hear their affectionate, elliptical statements about the woman’s effect on their lives and careers, we watch their bodies creating the most fantastical shapes, both in a theatre and in incongruous ‘real’ settings, such as a traffic island in the middle of a busy interchange. They bump into chairs strewn across a deserted cafe. They climb a gigantic, rain-soaked boulder. And they fall into the embrace of a patient, watchful partner. The dances open themselves to all sorts of readings about trust, rituals and relationships, but the overriding message would appear to be that the human form – whether working alone or as part of a group – is endlessly capable of producing extraordinary beauty. There was probably no need for it to be filmed in 3D, but Pina will almost certainly go down as one of the year’s most original releases.

Film Review: The Hunter [dir: Rafi Pitts; 2010]

2011-05-18T21:45:00.000+01:00

Rafi Pitts' latest doesn’t quite deliver on the promises it makes in its first half. With commendable restraint – and a striking use of light and colour – it builds up a portrait of a taciturn night security guard who spends much of his free time roaming the forests outside Tehran. But when a tragic event causes him to commit a crime, the story loses its way and dwindles to a hollow climax. Internationally-released Iranian films can’t help but be seen as statements about the country’s regime, and The Hunter certainly invites a sub-textual reading, but ultimately, it doesn’t quite shake off the feeling that its central idea would’ve worked better as a short. Having said that, I’m very pleased to have seen it, because it’s the first film I know of in which the central character’s surname is the same as mine!

Film Review: The Arbor [dir: Clio Barnard; 2010]

2011-05-07T06:23:00.002+01:00

It's the sort of idea that almost certainly would have been written off as film-making suicide by a market research focus group: make a documentary about a working class playwright who died when she was 29, but instead of showing the actual footage of the interviews you've conducted with her relatives, get a group of actors to lip-sync their words in a variety of settings. It may sound terribly overwrought, but it works. The playwright in question is Andrea Dunbar and even those not familiar with her work will find a great deal to mull over in Clio Barnard's compelling portrayal of her relatively short-life and its many ripples. Whilst raising questions about class, family, parenthood and racism, the film takes the documentary form in an intriguing direction and proves that, when placed in the right context, theatre can still be mesmerising and relevant.

An Interesting Record

2011-05-06T06:45:00.001+01:00

Time flies when you're not blogging. But, by some cruel quirk of physics, it seems to slow down each time you pick up a red biro.

Yes indeed, the above statement is a thinly veiled hint to those of you who know what I normally get up to at this time of the year: Red Pen Season has arrived. I won't say that blog posts will be kept to a minimum, because I haven't actually written any for ages... apart from the brief movie reviews, of course, which I've been publishing a) because I thought they'd make an interesting record of the year's film viewing and b) because most of my free time's being taken up by another writing project and I don't want to have to spend ages agonising over what to write on this blog. Deciding to stick to short reviews - at least for the foreseeable future - seemed like a sensible thing to do.

As I type these words, (some) people in the UK are voting in the first referendum since 1975, which has led to inevitable discussions about the way the country's run and the nature of 'Britishness'... which has in turn led to all the predictable, racist cliches about what England is really all about and how important it is to maintain traditional values etc etc... and I've just noticed my red pen under my nose and realised that maybe some things never will change.

Film Review: Source Code [dir: Duncan Jones; 2011]

2011-04-14T10:44:00.000+01:00

I can't make up my mind about the basic premise of Source Code: it may be clever, or it may be deeply flawed. An American soldier (amiably played by Jake Gyllenhaal) finds himself on a train, sitting opposite a woman he doesn't recognise. Within moments, he realises he isn't the person everyone else seems to think he is. In fact, when he looks at himself in a mirror, the face staring back at him isn't his own. A bomb explodes on the train, killing all the passengers... at which point our soldier wakes up inside a capsule and is informed that he wasn't really on the train at all. He'd actually been transported into the residual memory of one of the train's dead passengers (I kid you not) so that he could attempt to identify the bomber and avert any further attacks. As far as ideas go, this one isn't any more fantastical than that of, say, Inception. But the sci-fi geek in me wants a more plausible explanation for why it's possible for certain events in the story to take place. On more than occasion, I found myself getting into a mental tangle brought on by a preoccupation with questions like, "Yes, but if he's over there, and that guy's dead, then how come he can get off the train and see things that the dead guy never saw..." etc etc. In the end, I gave up and allowed myself to get swept along by the narrative's considerable force. As far as mainstream sci-fi movies go, this is nowhere near the moronic territory of most Hollywood fare, but a similar subject was handled more memorably by Terry Gilliam in 12 Monkeys.

Film Review: Submarine [dir: Richard Ayoade; 2010]

2011-04-05T06:30:00.002+01:00

Teenage boys struggling with relationships and awkward family situations aren't exactly under-represented on the silver screen, but Richard Ayoade manages to find a novel way of presenting this familiar subject in Submarine, a film which will surely walk away with this year's Best Comedic Use Of Laconic Welsh Accents award. In the form of Oliver Tate, the movie gives us a memorable, angst-ridden (and hormone-riddled) adolescent, desperate to find a way of connecting with the sardonic object of his affections whilst trying to rescue his parents' marriage. Ayoade stamps his own mark on proceedings by indulging in all manner of audio-visual wizardry: freeze frames, non-realistic use of sound, garish colours etc. More often than not, the tricks work well, successfully underscoring the drama. But at times they're unnecessary and merely highlight the fact that what really makes this film work is the endearing characters, the superb performances (there are no weak links in the cast) and the simple, absorbing story. Thoroughly entertaining, although it doesn't quite know how to end.

Film Review: Cave Of Forgotten Dreams [dir: Werner Herzog; 2010]

2011-03-25T06:45:00.000Z

There's a transcendent scene in Anthony Minghella's The English Patient where Naveen Andrews hoists Juliette Binoche up to the ceiling of an abbey so that she can take a closer look at some old frescoes. The flare she's holding for illumination wraps her in smoke. The harness in which she sits swings from side to side. Gabriel Yared's music cascades from high to low and back up again. As Binoche gazes through the mist, catching glimpses of various faces, she realises that she's looking at much more than ancient paint: she's looking at history. And history's looking at her, making her understand that she's part of the artwork too, that one day, the memory of her will be as unreachable and tantalising as the memory of the figures in the paintings. The same sense of the connections between us and the past runs through Werner Herzog's remarkable Cave Of Forgotten Dreams. Shot in giddy 3D (for once, the format is well utilised) it's essentially a showcase of the 32,000 year old (!) drawings on the walls of the Chauvet caves in France, interspersed with contributions from archaeologists, albino crocodiles, a perfumer and, of course, Herzog himself. With his world-weary Bavarian tones - and the help of Ernst Reijseger's score - the director uses the caves as a springboard from which to launch a breathtaking meditation on time, change and the limits of perception. Unique and beautiful.

Film Review: You Will Meet A Tall Dark Stranger [dir. Woody Allen; 2010]

2011-03-23T18:55:00.001Z

I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy several moments in Allen's latest film. I'd be lying if I said I didn't think some of the performances worked quite well some of the time. I'd be lying if I said the plot's quirky intricacies didn't make me reflect on the quirky intricacies of the plots of all our lives. But it's difficult to feel much enthusiasm for a movie where each promising scene is followed by one displaying toe-curling clumsiness. The story trundles along at a moderately entertaining pace: a struggling writer becomes obsessed with a woman living next door; an art gallery assistant starts developing feelings for her boss; an elderly woman tries to make sense of her world by visiting a medium... All the separate elements weave in and out of each other with varying degrees of success. But the whole thing feels rather stale. We've met these people before, especially the figure of the ditzy prostitute on whom Allen has relied too many times as a source of comedy... but then I'd be lying if I said I didn't laugh as Lucy Punch - the latest incarnation of Woody's Whore - gave the camera her vacant stare. So I suppose that essentially You Will Meet A Tall Dark Stranger just about manages to be all right. But only just. And "only just" is rapidly running the risk of turning into "not nearly good enough" as far as Allen is concerned.

Film Review: Archipelago [dir. Joanna Hogg; 2010]

2011-03-19T18:55:00.001Z

How refreshing to watch a film where the camera moves only if it has to, where the editing allows each scene to develop in a way that feels completely unforced and where the performances are of a standard so high, you forget that the actors are acting. Having said all that, Archipelago probably won't be to everyone's tastes. Some will disparagingly call it slow: its plot revolves around little more than the relationships between various family members as they 'enjoy' a holiday on the Isles Of Scilly. But the wealth of detail in its observations of human behaviour makes it one of my favourite films of the year so far. Regardless of whether it carries the sort of social significance for which many critics have praised it - it's a rare example of a serious English movie about (shock horror) the middle classes - it is an intelligently constructed piece of work in which Hogg displays an impressive command of her craft, especially when it comes to knowing how to frame an image. By showing us, say, the bottom of a flight of stairs whilst a mother and daughter are having a row on the first floor, or a back garden whilst there's an awkward situation inside the kitchen, she pulls us into her story with enviable ease and confidence. And she gives us one of the most delicious restaurant scenes I've seen for years.

Film Review: Cassandra's Dream [dir: Woody Allen; 2007]

2011-03-15T07:00:00.000Z

The opening shot of Cassandra's Dream shows Ewan McGregor and Colin Farrell running towards a boat. But the sequence appears to begin too early, as though the editor has inadvertently permitted us to catch a split-second of behind-the-scenes reality: we actually see the actors spring to life, no doubt in response to Allen's cry of "Action!" This sense of awkward amateurishness continues through the entire movie, reducing it to a pretty embarrassing mess. Somewhere in the background, you can just about detect the ghost of what could have been a perfectly respectable plot about two brothers agreeing to murder someone in exchange for money, but the execution leaves a great deal to be desired. Only the fact that it's made by the director of Annie Hall and Deconstructing Harry causes you to wonder whether there's a reason for the clunkiness, whether the pale performances, the one-dimensional dialogue and Philip Glass' portentous score are signs that the whole thing is an exercise in irony. But no: this is woefully simplistic fare with hardly any redeeming features whatsoever.

Film Review: Inside Job [dir: Charles Ferguson; 2010]

2011-03-12T08:45:00.001Z

How many times have you heard yourself saying that you "don't really get this whole 'financial crisis' thing"? Well, it won't qualify you to write a PhD on the subject, but Inside Job will certainly go some way towards explaining why, for instance, governments around the western world currently feel obliged to make savage cuts to public sector budgets and why bankers continue to provoke outrage for taking home over-inflated bonuses. Although the documentary presents the situation from an American point of view, there's enough here to interest people anywhere in the world, especially when Ferguson turns his attention to various high-profile academics who were paid large sums of money to write reports supporting dubious financial policies and practices. 'Poker face' doesn't even begin to describe how some of the interviewees react to the questioning. An impressive film, well worth travelling some distance to see.

[Incidentally, if you're interested in brushing up on this complex but undeniably important subject, I'd recommend these two books: Whoops! by John Lanchester and The Spirit Level by Richard Wilkinson and Kate Pickett.]

Film Review: North By Northwest [dir. Alfred Hitchcock; 1959]

2011-03-10T06:45:00.000Z

Here's one more reason why North By Northwest is brilliant: even though it stars James Mason, its story is absorbing enough to stop you from thinking about Eddie Izzard every two minutes... not that thinking of Izzard is to be avoided, mind you. Hitchcock's masterful tale of mistaken identity and Cold War spy games displays more intelligence in its first fifteen minutes than you'll find in the combined running time of most modern blockbusters. It's witty, gripping and stylish AND it features at least two sequences that have become classics of American cinema (one of which is notable for the fact that it makes absolutely no use of incidental music). A must-see oldie, if ever there was one.

Around Her Neck

2011-03-08T06:35:00.001Z

Today is International Women's Day and the latest issue of The Observer quite rightly takes the opportunity to highlight the appalling gender inequalities that still exist around the world. If you've got a few minutes to spare, I'd urge you to read these articles: Liberia: A Land Divided by Emma Thompson and Tindy Agaba, Feminism's Global Challenge by Mariella Frostrup and Sister Act by Rosie Swash. And if you really haven't got any time, then just read this extract from Thompson and Agaba's piece. It shows that there's still plenty of work to be done and that we can't afford to be complacent.

At the radio station I hear this story of a 10-year old girl who, according to custom, was taken by her grandmother into the bush to be initiated into the Sande Society, the traditional female organisation.

Along with 25 others, her clitoris was cut away, the same knife being used for all. One of the girls started to bleed excessively. They tied a noose around her neck and dragged her about until she was dead. All the women made loud noises as this occurred. The 10-year-old asked her grandmother why. The old woman told her it was not permitted to die alone in the forest and her family would be told that the devil had taken her. Then the child asked why the women had made all the noise. It was so that her screams would not be heard in the village.

Next, the initiates were made to lie on the ground, where they were covered in fresh grass. They had to lie for three days without food until the grass was dry. Then a meal was prepared. There were little knobs of meat in the food and when the child asked what they were, the grandmother said that if the clitorises were eaten in this way, it would ensure that any child who dared to speak about what they had seen would surely die.

Film Review: Winter's Bone [dir. Debra Granik; 2010]

2011-02-25T08:45:00.001Z

Insular communities often make compelling subjects for films, but the greatness of Winter's Bone comes from much more than just a fortuitous choice of context. Set in the USA's unforgiving Ozark mountains, it tracks a young woman's attempt to keep a roof over her family's head which, because of prior events, means confronting the local equivalent of the Mafia. Featuring an intelligent, rock-steady performance from Jennifer Lawrence, every frame of this quiet movie smoulders with menace, increasing the tension until it seems to ooze out of the tips of the skeletal branches that are eternally hovering over the characters' heads. Similar in tone to Peter Strickland's must-see Katalin Varga (2009), it holds you in its icy grip from beginning to end and provides more proof that American cinema shouldn't be judged purely on the basis of a few summer blockbusters. It also features some of the best casting I've seen in months: the lines on these actors' faces are craggier than the landscape!

Film Review: I Am Love / Io Sono L'Amore [dir. Luca Guadagnino; 2009]

2011-02-23T09:55:00.001Z

It features a scene in which an extra-marital affair is brought to light by a bowl of soup (no, I'm not kidding), but that's about as original as things get in I Am Love, an over-wrought examination of the relationships between the various members of a wealthy Milanese family. The link between food and sensuality is made thunderingly obvious throughout the film, not least in a sequence where the central character responds to a plate of prawns with such enthusiasm, you wonder if the crustaceans came from a branch of Ann Summers rather than the local fish market. If it is worth watching, then it's purely for Tilda Swinton's central performance: the actress displays her tremendous range with unostentatious ease, adding much needed subtlety and control to proceedings. Otherwise, this is pretty ordinary fare, made less palatable by unnecessary visual flourishes.

Film Review: True Grit [dir. Ethan & Joel Coen; 2010]

2011-02-19T10:05:00.002Z

I'm not a great fan of westerns, but what I do appreciate is a good story, well told. That's why the Coen brothers' version of True Grit gets a firm thumbs up from me. By toning down their characteristic quirkiness, they've made room for the elegant simplicity of the plot, which sees a 14-year old girl hiring a drunken marshall to avenge the murder of her father in 19th century America. The performances are almost faultless - Hailee Steinfeld is astonishingly self-assured as the precocious Mattie Ross - Roger Deakins' cinematography brings the landscape to life with memorable potency and the dialogue oozes crafty wit. Yes, the hype surrounding the movie is perhaps excessive, but then hype often is. It may not turn out to be year's most important release, but True Grit is a solid, skillfully-crafted piece of intelligent entertainment that treats its audience with respect and adds another entry on the increasingly fascinating list of Coen movies concerned with the collapse of moral codes and the unreliability of traditional authority figures.

Leave The Service

2011-02-17T06:30:00.001Z

Almost 100 RAF trainee pilots have been told that they will have to leave the service. Apparently, the funding's dried up and the number of new recruits has had to be cut. Add them to the list of youngsters with nothing to do. Watch as UK society continues to sink.

The cynical side of me thinks this increasing gloom may well lead to a resurgence in the production of high quality art in this country. But I expect few people will be willing to publish or exhibit any of it because the costs and risks will be too great.

As winter turns to spring, the climate in Britain is becoming decidedly chillier. The clouds show no sign of disappearing. And here's something else to cheer you up: apparently, within the next ten years, the world's largest economy won't be the USA, but China.

Film Review: Brighton Rock [dir. Rowan Joffe; 2010]

2011-02-13T09:30:00.000Z

I suppose this new adaptation of Graham Greene's 30s novel deserves some credit for having ambitious intentions. It shifts the action to the early 60s, thereby placing it against the backdrop of the Mods and Rockers conflicts. It features heightened, starkly lit visuals. And it attempts to draw intense performances from its actors. But somehow, the disparate elements never gel. For a start, the pacing is poor. Once the initial premise is set up - a young hoodlum enters into a doomed relationship with a waitress in order to prevent her from implicating him in a crime - several functional scenes follow each other in predictable succession with little sense of tension or danger. The other problem - which stems from the first - is the presentation of the theme of Catholic guilt. Using shots of churches, crucifixes and religious paintings, Joffe keeps insisting that we take his film as a study of people seeking salvation for their souls, but because we haven't grown attached to the central characters, these spiritual ideas fall flat too. A disappointing mis-fire.

Film Review: Never Let Me Go [dir. Mark Romanek; 2010]

2011-02-10T06:45:00.002Z

A great deal has already been written and said about the difficulties of adapting a piece of literature for the screen. The consensus appears to be that if you loved the book, you're almost certainly going to be disappointed with the film. So it was with a considerable sense of relief - and a fair amount of surprise - that I found myself thoroughly impressed by Mark Romanek's vision of Kazuo Ishiguro's must-read 2005 novel, Never Let Me Go. Adhering to the same structure as the source material, the movie looks through the eyes and memories of Kathy H (played with heart-breaking restraint by Carey Mulligan) to follow the lives of three children as they grow up and learn that the world has a very specific, frightening fate in store for them. Some will argue that the plot's obviously allegorical overtones and Romanek's precise, bleakly-coloured framing create an air of pretentiousness. I'd say the writing and visual style are evidence of a sincere, intelligent (and largely successful) attempt to tell a story that confronts uncomfortable psychological truths. The performances are first-rate (for once, even Keira Knightley's canine-baring leer is well used), Rachel Portman's music memorably underscores the bleakness and Adam Kimmel's photography adds a suitable touch of other-worldliness to proceedings. Just ignore the final voiceover's redundant and explicit spelling out of one of the central themes.

Film Review: Kick-Ass [dir. Matthew Vaughn; 2010]

2011-02-08T06:40:00.001Z

Be warned: if you never went through a phase of reading comic books and you have absolutely no time for stories which feature super powers, rubber costumes or secret identities, then Kick-Ass almost certainly won't win you over. However, those of you who did donate a sizeable proportion of your pocket money to the pension funds of Marvel and DC will probably find a great deal to enjoy in this clever tale - replete with over-saturated colours and skewed camera angles - of a teenager who hatches a preposterous scheme to become a local crime fighter. Super-hero movies are fairly easy to spoof, so Kick-Ass ups the ante by presenting parody side-by-side with a bona fide 'caped crusader' story. The mix of the two works surprisingly well, highlighting the comical elements of the former whilst emphasising the exaggerated action of the latter. When the violence reaches Tarantino-esque extremes - which it does on more than one occasion - it risks souring the movie's playfulness (not least because much of the mayhem is caused by a foul-mouthed little girl) but a judiciously restrained moment of wit usually comes along to redress the balance. And the blink-and-you'll-miss-it shot of two costumed teens bopping along to Gnarls Barkley's Crazy is priceless.

My Little Bit

2011-01-31T19:39:00.003Z

Guess what, people! One of my little film-tweets was read out by Francine Stock on BBC Radio 4's Film Programme last Friday. If you'd like to listen to the episode, please click here... and if all you want to hear is my little bit, then fast forward to about the 10 min 45 sec mark. But if you've got half an hour to spare, play the whole thing! The Film Programme's always worthwhile.

Film Review: Black Swan [dir. Darren Aronofsky; 2010]

2011-01-26T15:45:00.001Z

The current issue of Sight & Sound points out that the narrative device of the "duplicated woman is a largely male fantasy". Bear this in mind if you decide to watch Black Swan. Its central character - a ballet dancer whose personality begins to splinter whilst she's preparing for a challenging role - is basically an empty vessel, desperate to be filled by the affection of anyone around her. The camera lingers on her agonised face, making a fetish of every plaintive look in her eyes. And the story conveniently equates creative self-expression with rather dated and predictable ideas about sexual awakening, thus providing an excuse for some box-office friendly gratuitousness. Natalie Portman is terrific, rising above the material with a maturity I don't think I've ever seen her display. There are a few genuinely creepy moments and the special effects team deserves credit for its admirable contribution to proceedings, but ultimately this is simplistic, pretentious fare with clichéd characters and a finale that tips over into silliness. There is a right way to do high melodrama, but this isn't it.

Spouting Utter Nonsense

2011-01-25T06:25:00.000Z

Last week, a fair amount of publicity surrounded a speech made by Baroness Warsi at Leicester University. If you've got a few minutes to spare, it's an interesting read and it highlights what I've long considered to be a growing problem in UK society.

Sadly, I'm not sure how we're going to solve it. When reasonably well-educated, middle class people feel comfortable spouting utter nonsense about religion in general and Islam in particular, it's hard to imagine a scenario in which the general public moves to a position of informed tolerance.

Film Review: 127 Hours [dir. Danny Boyle; 2010]

2011-01-24T06:40:00.001Z

Several people have claimed there's no need to watch Boyle's latest film because the fact that everyone knows the plot's ending drains the movie of all tension. Hitchcock would probably have said that the suspense actually stems from the certainty that the credits won't roll until the bloody deed has been carried out, and he would have been right. When it does finally arrive, the climax is suitably visceral and cringe-making, but it would have been far more effective had it been preceded by a few judicious lulls in the action. In his attempt to place the audience right in the core of adrenaline-junkie Aron Ralston's predicament - his arm was irretrievably lodged beneath a rock during a freak accident in an isolated Utah canyon - Boyle appears too frightened to allow the pace to slow down for an instant. The viewer is constantly attacked by surreal visions, split-screen techniques and quick-fire editing, to the extent that one is never allowed to appreciate the more reflective moments of what must, at times, have been a profoundly still and silent experience. The film's use of sound and music is masterful and James Franco delivers a commendable performance, but a less manic telling of this extraordinary story would have been more memorable.

Work Too Hard

2011-01-20T06:40:00.002Z

More depressing news: Hampshire County Council will cut 1200 posts this year. As if that weren't bad enough, the latest stats show that 1 in 5 (that's 20%!) of all 16-24 year olds are out of work. Mass unemployment is never healthy, but mass unemployment amongst one of the most impressionable, malleable sectors of society can be downright deadly.

History's taught us this lesson time and time again: if you're looking for a way of pushing some sort of nationalist, jingoistic agenda and you've got a large number of disgruntled, unfocussed young people (especially young men) right under your nose, you don't have to work too hard to win them over to your cause.

The next few years may indeed be difficult, but not just because we're all going to have to count our pennies very closely. We may also have to deal with increasing levels of race-based social tension... tension which may lead to disastrous consequences if it isn't dealt with in an intelligent, forward-thinking manner.

Film Review: Catfish [dir. Henry Joost & Ariel Schulman; 2010]

2011-01-18T06:30:00.005Z

It would be a shame if Catfish is remembered solely for the mini-controversy about whether it's a genuine documentary or a piece of fiction cleverly masquerading as fact. Making incessant use of the electronic imagery that has become an integral part of our world (think: Facebook chats, Google Street View, arrows guiding our journeys on a SatNav screen) it shows the growing, Internet-based relationship between Nev Schulman - a young, New York-based photographer - and a family living in Michigan. When a certain aspect of the friendship starts to grow more serious, Schulman discovers that perhaps one's Facebook buddies aren't quite what they claim to be. To my mind, the film's central revelation isn't nearly as surprising as the fact that three young, techno-savvy artists living in one of the most sophisticated cities in the world appear to be bowled over by the realisation that the people using social networking sites aren't all paragons of saintly honesty. However, beyond the question of factual accuracy, beyond the hype and beyond the (slyly?) amateurish camerawork lies a touching story about responding to deception with tenderness and compassion. It's also notable for Schulman's considerable on-screen charisma and a virtuoso montage in the opening minutes.

A Few Fundamentalists

2011-01-15T06:45:00.001Z

Here are a few moments from a recent conversation with an educated, middle-class, thirty-five-year-old English male. It all started with the Middle East, then moved on to the subject of revolutions and then somehow got on to this:

He: The problem is that Muslims are being allowed to take over European countries. They want everything their own way. They want to impose their religion on us. It's like we have to give in to them over everything.

Me: Give in to them?

He: Totally. If someone says something against Christians, then that doesn't matter. But if someone dares to say one tiny thing against Muslims, then there's this huge fuss and the authorities have to make official apologies and the whole thing just gets massive. Look at what happened with those Danish cartoons. There was such an uproar that the Danish government had to make an official apology.

Me: I don't think you can judge a whole religion on the actions of a few fundamentalists.

He: But it wasn't just fundamentalists.

Me: Actually, I think it was. I'll bet that if you'd carried out a genuinely representative survey, you would have found that most Muslims wouldn't have condoned the uproar over the Danish cartoons. Sure, they may have been upset by the cartoons. They may even have been offended by them. But they probably would have preferred it if the whole situation hadn't been blown out of proportion. It's the fundamentalists who react in extreme ways. It's the fundamentalists who get all the media attention. And it's the fundamentalists who give Muslims a bad name.

He: But that's not true. They're just completely different people. They react violently to everything. They're backward in so many ways. You can't deny that.

Me: Umm... actually, I can completely deny that.

He: How?

Me: Well... why don't you tell me how they're backward.

He: If you look around the world, it's obvious that all Muslim countries are uncivilised in all sorts of different ways. The freedoms they give people. The rights of women. Their system of punishments. They go around chopping people's heads off.

Me: Hang on. For a start, there are very few Muslim countries where chopping off hands or heads is still an official punishment. And anyway, what you're doing is confusing the religion with the political systems of certain countries.

He: But all Muslim countries are run in those ways.

Me: No, I don't think you can say that.

He: Yes, they are. You can't deny that. If you look at Christianity and you look at Islam, you cannot say that Islam gives people the same amount of freedom.

Me: Actually, there are many areas of life in which Islam gives people tons more freedom than Christianity.

He: Yeah, right!

Me: It's true. Islam allows abortion, up to a certain number of weeks of pregnancy. Islam allows contraception. Islam allows divorce. Centuries ago, Islam gave women the sorts of inheritance and ownership rights that western, Christian women didn't get to enjoy until just a few decades ago.

He: So how come all Muslim countries are still so backward?

Me: I really don't see how you can say that.

He: They totally are. We've moved on and they've stayed stuck in the past.

Me: So the west's human rights record is totally spotless, is that what you're saying?

He: It is compared to Muslim countries'.

Me: I don't accept that. Plenty of so-called civilised, Christian countries have done lots of things they can't really be proud of. Don't forget that a few decades ago, it was a deeply Christian country that took the world into the biggest war it had ever seen.

He: But I'm talking about today. Muslims just want to impose themselves on everybody. Why should I walk down my street and have to see a veiled woman?

Me: Why shouldn't you?

He: Because this isn't a Muslim country. If they want to come and live here, they should respect our ways. Like they have to in France.

Me: Personally, I think what they've done in France is awful. I don't see any problem with religions being allowed to mix, with people from different cultures living side by side. If a woman wants to wear a veil, I don't see what's wrong with that. In France, Christian pupils and teachers aren't allowed to wear crosses. I think that's pretty awful too.

He: Yeah, well, you can see why they've done that in France, because they probably realise that if they don't do something, they'll get completely taken over. Because the fact is that Muslims are basically more violent, more aggressive people and they want to have everything their own way. They run their countries like barbarians and they want to bring their ideas and ways of life into our countries.

---

I could go on, but I think you get the idea. I will just repeat one thing, though: this was a conversation with an educated, middle-class, thirty-five-year-old English male. Bearing this in mind, was I right to be shocked or shouldn't I have expected anything different?

But what do you make of this? Come on now, be honest. Leave an anonymous comment if you prefer, but tell me what you truly and genuinely believe. Do you divide the world along religious lines? Do you subscribe to this idea of 'us and them'? And if you live in the UK, do you believe you're being invaded. I'd love to know your thoughts.

Film Review: The King's Speech [dir. Tom Hooper; 2010]

2011-01-11T06:25:00.001Z

There is much to enjoy in Tom Hooper's stylish dramatisation of the relationship between George VI and his speech therapist, Lionel Logue. The performances (particularly Firth's) are pretty much note-perfect, the period detail evokes an appropriate sense of pre-40s bleakness and the story raises topical questions about national identity and the need for authoritative figureheads. But in its (successful) attempt to tick all the right boxes, the film leaves almost no room for surprises. There's a touch of fairly predictable - but thankfully not over-emphasised - psychodrama, a scattering of near-sentimental, Oscar-friendly exchanges of dialogue and a disappointingly safe take on some of the supporting characters. If this sounds churlish, then call me an old killjoy, but I think a film needs to be a tiny bit braver to deserve the 'masterpiece' label that so many critics are attaching to this very polished and very entertaining piece of work.

Film Review: Peeping Tom [dir. Michael Powell; 1960]

2011-01-10T11:13:00.001Z

21st century cinema goers aren't especially shocked by films which depict serial killers venturing into the seedier realms of society to look for their victims. We tend not to be put off by excessive violence. We don't mind the odd bit of gore or exploitation. That's why Michael Powell's Peeping Tom now makes such fascinating viewing. Today's audiences would probably see it as an intelligent, sharply focussed exploration of a young man's descent into madness as he finds himself unable to fight his murderous (and artistic!) urges. Some may even consider it rather slow and question the inclusion of a few set pieces which, on the face of it, appear to add little to the narrative. But I daresay that very few people would be able to understand why the film - which was, it must be remembered, made by a highly respected director who'd enjoyed considerable acclaim for A Matter Of Life And Death and The Red Shoes - caused such scandalised outrage when it was released and effectively ended Powell's career. Yes, it's a compelling, creepily unsettling movie and well worth for those attributes alone. But as a marker of how deeply society has changed since 1960, it's even more remarkable.

Film: Best Of 2010

2011-01-09T13:00:00.001Z

I know, I know, it's been ages since I've posted anything on this blog. My excuse is that I'm trying to juggle a few other writing projects at the moment, but I couldn't let the first fortnight of 2011 go by without my traditional look back at the previous year's film releases. Sadly, I have to say that 2010 was an appalling year as far as cinema attendance was concerned. I suppose the main reason for this is that the recession made its presence felt in the world of film distribution, with the result that non-London independent cinemas either didn't manage to obtain any prints of minority releases or were forced to show less populist fare at impractical times. Therefore, instead of presenting you with a Top 5, I think I'll have to restrict myself to choosing just 3 favourite films from the last twelve months. Here they are, in the order in which they were seen:

Lourdes [dir. Jessica Hausner]

A deceptively simple examination of a pilgrimage to one of the most important religious sites in the world, with gentle, relaxed performances, cheeky wit and at least one superb Catholic joke.

The Social Network [dir. David Fincher]

I can't stand Facebook and this film reminded me why. Stylish, intelligent and masterfully put-together, it attempts to make us re-consider the ways in which we're damaging the quality of our interaction with other human beings.

Of Gods And Men [dir. Xavier Beauvois]

Based on the true story of the French monks who were murdered in Algeria in the 90s, this is an almost unbearably moving portrait of the power of faith in all its most beautiful and most destructive forms. Buy it on DVD if only to watch the transcendent Swan Lake sequence.

So there you have it. Feel free to comment and share your own favourites with me and other readers. Oh, and just in case you're interested, 2011 has got off to a fairly healthy start with Peeping Tom on DVD and The King's Speech at the cinema.

Most Influential Writers

2010-11-19T19:10:00.002Z

I don't often respond to getting tagged (umm... well, actually, I don't often get tagged) but this particular game was too tempting to ignore. Here are the rules, as they were presented to me, complete with dodgy wording:

1.List 15 writers that have been the most influential in your life, including poets and playwrights
2.Compose this list in under 15 minutes
3.Tag at least 14 friends and me (so that I can see your choices)
4. Have fun

And below is the list I came up with. If you're one of my Facebook friends, watch out: I'm about to start tagging.

1. Kazuo Ishiguro
2. Toni Morrison
3. Michael Ondaatje
4. James Joyce
5. William Shakespeare
6. T S Eliot
7. Roald Dahl
8. Milan Kundera
9. George Orwell
10. Edith Wharton
11. D H Lawrence
12. Pat Barker
13. Brian Keenan
14. Graham Greene
15. Terrance Dicks

A Clearer Focus

2010-11-12T06:30:00.000Z

A few lines to apologise for my recent silence. This time, it hasn't been caused by the usual culprit - the day job - although that has been inordinately hectic for the last few weeks. The real reason is that I've been thinking long and hard about the direction in which this blog should go. I've probably (?) decided that I won't shut it down entirely, but I do need to find a clearer focus for it.

Whilst I'm considering what this might be, I'll just mention a three-part documentary called The Big Silence which UK readers can find on the BBC iPlayer. It followed five people trying to use an 8-day silent retreat to connect with their souls and, perhaps, confront questions about personal spirituality. All of them were affected in deep ways, but the real test came when they tried to apply the insights they'd gained into their daily lives... which brings us back to inordinately hectic day jobs. It was well-worth watching, if only for its depiction of current British attitudes to religion which, more often than not, appear to be ignorant and bigoted.

Have a good weekend,

D.

Muster Any Strength

2010-10-07T19:15:00.000+01:00

I'll bet you can all remember the day you left home (unless of course you haven't left home, in which case, I'll bet you can't imagine what that day's going to be like). I can recall just about everything about it, except the exact date, which is a touch ironic, but never mind. As I write these words, a niece of mine is on her way to start her life as a student at one of our most august seats of learning, and the text messages I've received from her have sent me straight back to that evening in Dubai when I got on a plane and travelled 5000-odd miles to Cardiff. I remember my brother and I hugged each other so hard, we couldn't actually muster any strength to say the word 'Goodbye'. For days afterwards, I was what you might call an emotional wreck.

And yet I never doubted - not for one moment - that I was doing the right thing. Even though a part of me thought my whole world had been obliterated, I could also hear a clear, constant voice in my heart, reassuring me that all would be well.

There aren't many moments in our lives when we experience such certainty, but when they do come they're an absolute gift. We just need to have the courage to accept them.

A Frightening Number

2010-09-24T20:35:00.001+01:00

As far as documentaries go, John Humphrys' recent BBC2 film wasn't half bad. It reflected a genuine desire to grapple with a complex issue. It was relatively honest about the realities of the UK's class system. And it made the all-too-rare acknowledgement that sometimes, what we want for our own children isn't what we claim to want for society as a whole.

The one aspect of it which I did find disappointing was its willingness to go along quite happily with the idea that a child's education is provided solely by his or her school. As a nation, we seem to have forgotten that teachers are just one factor in the equation that forms a well-rounded individual. Granted, they may be the most formal factor, but the home has an immense role to play too... and I don't mean that in the sense of middle-class parents buying the services of private tutors.

Why do children from poorer backgrounds regress during the summer holidays while their wealthier counterparts continue to develop? Because the latter have parents or guardians who tend to fill July and August with all sorts of opportunities for meaningful interaction with the world, thereby providing real, constant education.

So yes, I applaud any programme that dares to suggest the closure of all independent schools as a means of solving the 'inequality problem'. But I do wish we could begin to admit that for a highly developed, affluent country, we've got a frightening number of awful parents.

Crossroads In Pune

2010-09-17T06:15:00.000+01:00

Here's another Indian video for you. This one was taken at a relatively quiet crossroads in Pune where I was struck by the magic of the traffic. Watch the clip to see what I mean.

Man In Pune

2010-09-08T19:31:00.002+01:00

If any of you have ever smoked a beedi, you may enjoy this video of a man in Pune wrapping them up at astonishing speed.

Busy For Hours

2010-09-02T10:00:00.002+01:00

For a place where several hundred severely disabled men, women and children are looked after, the atmosphere in Mumbai’s Asha Daan is surprisingly quiet and relaxed. The nine nuns who run the place clearly wish to avoid ostentation, although they’re effusive when it comes to greetings. “Look around,” they say. “Talk to the people. Ask them how they are.”

The Divine L and I have a brief stroll around the wards, large warehouse-like spaces with neat rows of steel beds, corrugated iron roofs and dodgy electrical wiring sprouting from the walls.

In the area reserved for babies and toddlers, a girl crawls towards us, her entire lower body twisted at a cruel angle, forcing her to shuffle across the floor like some sort of agonised human accordion. She smiles as she approaches us.

In the teenagers’ ward, another girl sits on the edge of her bed. Instead of eyes and a mouth she has deep sockets of warped, puckered skin. We wonder if she’s the victim of an acid attack. She shakes her head from side to side and mutters unintelligible words.

A small figure pops up behind us, a chubby teenage girl with a wide grin. “Birthday, birthday!” she says, giving us an exaggerated handshake.

“Whose birthday?” I ask.

“Birthday, birthday!” she repeats, shaking hands again.

A nun walks past, adjusting her blue and white habit around her shoulder. “She’ll keep you busy for hours with her ‘birthday, birthday’,” she says.

The male ward is particularly affecting, or is that just because we’re culturally conditioned to respond with deep shock to the sight of shattered men, lying still on their beds, their eyes devoid of any sense of purpose.

A breeze picks up: the clouds are about to burst again. All over the place, clothes are drying on metal grilles, but they’ll soon be soaked.

We enter another ward and immediately feel at home when we see several children seated around a table, doing their homework. Within moments, I’m placed next to a bright little wheelchair-bound, nine-year-old girl who’s converting improper fractions to mixed numbers. She’s eager to show off her knowledge of times tables – which is very impressive – and she whizzes through her sums with ease, her dark eyes locked in concentration.

“What would you like to be when you grow up?” the Divine L asks her.

The girl shrugs her shoulders.

“I think you’d be an excellent maths teacher,” I say, at which point she bursts out laughing and covers her face in embarrassment.

The rain hits the roof with a force that makes us think we’re surrounded by hundreds of firecrackers going off at the same time, but the children are used to the din and they just carry on with their work.

As we leave, a figure calls out from the distance. “Birthday, birthday! Bye bye!”

“Bye bye!” we shout, and walk through the gateway, hand in hand.

Very Rarely Confronted

2010-08-26T08:26:00.000+01:00

It really is impossible to over-emphasise the prominence and importance of smells in Mumbai. My last post was just a brief, tip-of-the-iceberg sample of the stream of chemicals that constantly enters one's nose in this genuinely sensuous city. I could've mentioned the aroma of jasmine and tuberose coming from the garlands hanging by the florists' stalls, or the salty freshness blowing into Chowpatty Beach, or the dampness of rotting wood in the ramshackle buildings from the 20s and 30s...

If nothing else, all these olfactory encounters make me realise how extremely sanitised our version of reality has become in the western hemisphere. We tend to experience smells on our own terms: we decide when to spray the deodorant or dispense the fabric softener or light the incense stick from the 'ethnic' store. We're very rarely confronted by smells, and when we are, we tend to find the experience unpleasant or downright repellent.

There's no doubt that India's changing at a breathless rate and that it isn't quite the same country I visited 6 years ago. But if there's one quality it appears to have retained it's a sense of being more closely connected to the elements than we are in the west. Before you roll your eyes, rest assured I absolutely don't mean that in a 'pseudy', neo-spiritualist way... although there's plenty of that sort of thing in the growing number of suspicious, tourist-trap ashrams, but that's another story... No, I mean it in the simplest, most prosaic sense I can imagine: you walk in the city and almost nothing stands between you and the world. You're welcome to see, hear, smell, touch and taste as much as you're able. And that's something that doesn't happen very often when you're a tourist in Europe.

Into Your Face

2010-08-22T03:00:00.000+01:00

Two minutes in Mumbai:

You walk past a sugar-cane juice seller and catch a whiff of an incense cone: rich and smoky, a Catholic scent that feels out of place amidst the noise of the streets. You look to your right as you pass a side street and you almost gag as the stench of rotting fruit and stagnant water rises from the collection of rubbish that’s been dropped from the flats above. Next comes the bhel puri wallah, with his bags of chilli powder, coriander chutney and sev. Your nose detects green herbs and peppery spices. Moments later, as you cross the street, you have to hold your breath as a passing bus releases a cloud of petrol fumes right into your face. Then you’re in the midst of stalls selling multi-coloured fabrics and you breathe in the soothing cleanliness of pressed cotton. The humid breeze carries the unmistakable scent of fried onions. Sure enough, a few seconds later, you see a mountain of pakoras, glistening with hot oil. And then, someone opens the door of an attar wallah’s shop and you close your eyes to enjoy the dusty richness of sandalwood, the green smokiness of vetivert and the near-indescribable animalic sledgehammer of oud.

Plastic Nike Bottles

2010-08-18T06:52:00.000+01:00

Just across the Mula river from Pune’s Koregaon Park is a large gym on the first floor of a modern building. Lining the floor-to-ceiling windows is the familiar sight of sweating bodies – with obligatory towel around neck – doing battle with treadmills, cross-trainers, stationary bikes and rowing machines. As they sip energy drinks from their plastic Nike bottles, they look out at the city below and see a small slum: a few tin and corrugated iron dwellings held together by some force that appears to defy the laws of physics. Outside one of the hovels, a small boy squats and defecates. A wet, brown rat sits perched on top of a heap of rubbish, its tail coiled around a bottle of Coke. And on the other bank is a massive Westin hotel, its black glass exterior giving it the appearance of a gigantic coffin. On the mezzanine level, people are chatting and drinking wine from crystal glasses.

A short distance away, diners are sitting in the garden of an Italian restaurant, gazing up at the giant eucalyptus and bamboo trees around them. A peacock appears from nowhere, showing off the almost unnaturally vivid blue of its tail. It jumps onto a low branch and proceeds to hop higher and higher, letting out its distinctive squawk every so often. A waiter appears to light coils of incense, releasing a spicy sweetness into the air. And as the sun sets, graceful shapes fill the sky: the unmistakable pointed wings of bats.

Meanwhile, the Mula flows through the city, bashing its forceful waters against razor sharp rocks.

The Right Direction

2010-08-15T17:13:00.001+01:00

The first thing I notice in Powai is that the skyscrapers are bleeding. From their thirty-storey summits, an unsightly mix of mould and mildew is slowly working its way to the ground, threatening to cover the buff-coloured exteriors in the same blackness that shrouds so many of Mumbai’s buildings. You can cut into the green hills to make room for apartment blocks, but I guess you can’t yet ward off the corrosive effects of the monsoon, not even if you name the buildings ‘Eternia’ and ‘Heritage’.

This is one of the city’s showcase neighbourhoods, a place where the pavements are tidier and the roads are more organised. I see a cow casually crossing the street – as though not quite able to decide whether to have a latte at Barista or Café Coffee Day – but the area doesn’t display any of the organic haphazardness that is arguably one of India’s most endearing characteristics. Here, the environment is staunchly man-made. There are plenty of tall trees around, but I never shake off the feeling that I’m a pawn dwarfed by the frightening scale of the edifices around me.

As I stroll from one international chain store to another, all my buttons are pushed at the same time and my head is filled with paradoxical questions about cultural imperialism, hypocrisy and the definition of progress. It’s too simplistic to reduce all the issues to platitudes like, ‘India shouldn’t lose its own identity,’ because even a relatively basic statement such as that is loaded with questionable assumptions. But I can’t help but wonder if things are moving in the right direction.

I decide to have a drink at Gloria Jean’s, “for old times’ sake,” I tell myself. But as soon as the words enter my head, I chuckle and realise that I’m as much a product of the corporate age as this Ballardian vision of the future. I get my nostalgia hit from an outlet of a company whose products I used to consume decades ago in Dubai, that temple of world consumerism.

I stick the straw into the plastic cup, and as the minty-chocolate taste fills my mouth, I recall shopping mall outings with friends. And above me, the clouds are darkening, threatening to pour more black blood onto the buildings.

Make Sound Judgements

2010-08-08T06:37:00.003+01:00

Whenever I go on holiday, I decide that I really ought to know more about politics, architecture and economics. Visiting a foreign country must be such a rich experience if you can look at the buildings with an expert eye and come to intelligent conclusions about how they reflect the society that built them, or if you can read the business sections of the local newspapers and make sound judgements about the direction in which the country's heading. Feeling slightly clueless in relatively familiar places like France and Spain is one thing, but trying to connect the disparate dots with which one is presented in India is quite another. The Divine L and I have now been here for over a week and we've got so many questions to which we don't seem to be able to find answers.

Judging the whole of India on what one sees in Mumbai is probably as foolish as judging the whole of Britain on what one sees in London, so I'm trying to be careful not to form too many generalisations in my head... but so much really does seem to have changed since my last visit 6 years ago... although that trip was mainly to Rajasthan, which means I've got to be even more measured with my personal observations, because I'm not necessarily comparing like with like...

But here's one question we've been asking ourselves: where have all the beggars gone? Last time, it was almost impossible to walk along a tourist area without being surrounded by a small horde of skinny, wide-eyed children tugging at your sleeve, trying to persuade you to part with a few rupees. Here in Mumbai, that hasn't happened once. Of course, I am by no means complaining about this, although I do wonder where they've all gone. Have they somehow been caught up in the rapid expansion of the middle class or have they been obliged to move elsewhere? I've asked a few local residents, and they don't seem to know the answer either, although they do acknowledge that several parts of town that, a few years ago, would have been used as shelter by street dwellers are now almost completely empty. And I'd also be interested to learn about the effects on the economy of the arrival of countless 'western' brands. Everywhere you turn, there's a Nike or a Swarovski or a Benetton. At the moment, one can also find plenty of independent, Indian-owned shops, but how long will that last? In the long run, will consumers enable the retail market to maintain that fine balance between supporting local businesses and welcoming foreign endeavours, or will the big boys win?

Later this week, we're hoping to visit a Mother Theresa orphanage, and I expect that'll raise even more questions, but then the best holidays are the ones that make you realise the world is much larger and much more unfathomable than you ever suspected.

My Loyal Readers

2010-07-25T06:00:00.000+01:00

Here's something I'll bet you didn't know: this blog is exactly five years old today. Quite a few things have happened since July 05. For a start, I wasn't married. I hadn't completed my novel. And I was allergic to any product bearing the Apple logo.

I never manage to post as many entries here as I'd like to, but I know my slackness hasn't deterred some of you from visiting regularly, so on this fifth anniversary of the creation of a conduit for my semi-coherent ramblings, I'd like to express heartfelt thanks to all my loyal readers.

I'm not sure what the next five years will bring, but I've got a fairly clear picture of the next month: the Divine L and I are off to enjoy the monsoon-soaked enticements of India. Blog posts will probably be few and far between, unless of course I happen to latch on to some Wifi at opportune moments.

Before I embark on my long flight, I'll leave you with a question: if you could go back in time and give one piece of advice to your five-years-younger self, what would it be? I think I'd probably say something like, "You need to push yourself harder, because before you know it, you'll be writing a post about the fifth anniversary of your blog..."

Hope August treats you all well,

D.

Rome's Trevi Fountain

2010-06-23T20:31:00.003+01:00

Some of you will not be surprised to learn that I'm going to have to deprive you of my nonsensical musings for a short while. (Think: several red biros and lots and lots of paper.) But I'd like to leave you with something to do.

I discovered today that the average sum of money thrown into Rome's Trevi Fountain every single day is 3000 euros... which isn't really all that shocking. It is, after all, one of the must-see spots in one of the world's most popular cities - and it isn't exactly tiny - so it's not hard to imagine 3000 people throwing a euro each into it every day.

But anyway, your challenge is to come up with the most ingenious and discreet way of stealing one day's supply of coins. And here's a little incentive: I promise to send a little prize to whoever comes up with what I consider to be the best idea. No matter where you live in the world, I promise to send the prize to you.

The only condition is that you have to post your idea on the Comments section of this blog. Comments posted on Facebook will not be accepted: only those left on dariushalavi.com will be considered.

Your deadline: Wednesday 7th July 2010. Get going!

---

UPDATE 7th July 2010: The competition's over, folks. And you don't need me to tell you who the winner is. Congratulations, Rachel. Text me your current address and I'll send you the prize asap. Thanks for entering.

Nature And Vacuums

2010-06-18T17:45:00.002+01:00

I'm no scientist, but I believe there are currently three Laws Of Thermodynamics. I'd like to propose a fourth: systems will make active attempts to collapse.

What I mean is that we don't seem to be able to just let things tick over nicely for too long. If a difficulty doesn't pop up and attempt to topple a state of equilibrium, then we create one. It's almost as though something's always got to be inside our 'problem box'... which of course calls to mind the other law about nature and vacuums.

It's a weird, almost masochistic state of affairs, but it's unquestionably real, and I'm convinced it exists not just in families and workplaces, but also in the way our governments run our countries. Do we clutch on to some bare minimum of negativity because we feel it defines us? They say daylight would be meaningless without night. Perhaps we subconsciously feel our happiness is partly defined by our stresses and anxieties. So here's a thought for you: the next time you want to make an enjoyable event more pleasurable, immerse yourself in a crisis first.

---

PS. I've just checked out Wikipedia, and apparently there's also a 'zeroth' Law Of Thermodynamics... oh, and I think the Third Law basically expresses the same idea as my Fourth Law, which makes most of the above redundant... I did say I'm no scientist...

PPS. Chinua Achebe said it better: Things Fall Apart.

Very Much Reality

2010-06-10T19:00:00.001+01:00

One of the oldest pieces of parenting advice is that if a child asks you a question, your response should provide only as much detail as he or she would like. So, if a little one says, "Why did that man drive around the countryside killing people?" an initial reply might be, "I think it's because he was unwell." And if the child then doesn't come back with something like, "But what made him so unwell?" then you can assume that you've given as much info as he or she is willing to deal with at that moment. If a child wants more details, they'll ask more questions; they'll indicate to you where they'd like the line to be drawn.

I've been wondering lately if we take this attitude through into adulthood, and I suppose I've been prompted by the realisation that I know very little about certain topics which I'd claim are important to me. I accept that we can't all be experts on everything, but even so, I can't really explain why I'm not entirely clear on, say, what's currently happening in Iran, not just in relation to the UN's attitude to the country, but also in terms of the state of the lives of ordinary Iranians, trying to go about their daily business.

The same applies to the recent case of the aid ship stopped by Israeli troops. My knowledge of the details of the incident is patchy at best, despite the fact that I'd usually declare myself to be someone who wants to possess a full picture of what's happening in the Middle East.

And as for The Financial Crisis, well, my standard line in conversations about the subject is, "I don't really understand economics," after which I go on to spout the usual, hollow lines about the American housing market being at the root of the problem.

Of course, all this could be remedied. I could commit myself to reading a newspaper thoroughly once a week. I could subscribe to various experts' blogs. I could pick up the phone and talk to knowledgeable friends and relatives. But part of the point I'm trying to make is precisely that I avoid doing these things. Sure, there's only so much we can cram into one day and some endeavours have to be prioritised over others. But maybe, on some level, I'm reverting to a child-like state and exposing myself only to as much info as I feel I can bear. Maybe my subconscious isn't as opposed to blinkers as I'd like to believe. T S Eliot did once say that "humankind cannot stand very much reality". Could it be true that, for all my opposition to nanny-states and censorship, what I really want is a pat on the head and a promise that everything's going to be all right?

Just One Problem

2010-06-03T19:00:00.002+01:00

I'm told I shouldn't eavesdrop on other people's conversations. My defence is that I never make a conscious effort to listen in. If certain sounds are loud enough to reach my ears, there's not very much I can do about that. And anwyay, why would I want to deprive myself of little gems like the one I recently overheard at King's Cross?

Picture a waif-like, 20-something blond - half her face covered by massive white sunglasses - talking on her mobile.

"Yah, but listen, listen, I've got to tell you something. ... I was putting my bins out the other day... What? No, they've changed it, it's Tuesdays now, but anyway, doesn't matter. Remember Hollie told me that her boss lives next door to me? ... Hollie with the mole. ... No, she hasn't had it removed, that was Gemma. Hollie's the one who's the marketing consultant. ... That's her. But anyway, listen to me. The bitch never told me her boss is good looking. And I mean really good looking. I mean seriously really. ... He was putting his bins out at the same time as me, and I just thought, 'Oh my God, there is no way that is Hollie's boss!' I mean, what a bitch. ... And I just said, 'Hi, are you Hollie's boss?' and he was like, 'Yah', and I was like, 'Oh fab. I'm her best friend,' and oh my God, you should've seen his smile. ... No, no ring. I'm pretty sure Hollie told me he's single. But anyway, later that day, I called Hollie and I was waiting for her to say something, but she didn't say a word, so I was like, 'I bumped into your boss this morning,' and she just went, 'Aha,' and I said, 'We chatted for ages,' and she goes, 'Aha,' and I said, 'Did he mention me at all?' and she just went, 'No.' But I know she's lying. I'm totally convinced she's lying. Bitch. I know he mentioned me to her. She's gotta be lying. ... Yah, yah, yah, I know, but I reckon I'm gonna go round to his later this week and say I've got a problem or something, like I can't flush the toilet, or something like that. I'll think of something. ... No, I mean properly good looking. ... Yah ... But there's just one problem. ... His name's Cliff."

And that was when I had to catch my train.

The Combined Coolness

2010-05-27T17:45:00.002+01:00

Is there a word to describe the feeling of coming full circle? 'Satisfaction' isn't quite deep enough. 'Completion' is somewhat emotionless. 'Accomplishment' implies too much intent. I suspect there is one somewhere, either in English or some other language, and if I knew what it was, I would've used it last Saturday evening.

Here's an understatement for you: Doctor Who was a significant part of my childhood. It didn't just capture my imagination: it pretty much defined it. It served as a springboard for almost all my adolescent writing. And it even shaped the way I speak today... but that's a story best saved for another post. So even though, in my opinion, the programme's 'new' version isn't anywhere as inventive or ingenious as what they're now calling 'the classic series', last Saturday's episode was always going to be special.

The reason for this, dear readers, is that the red force-field you see in the photo above, covering a plot of land in a Welsh village, was created by none other than my stepson. And what was even more special is that he watched the entire episode with me, which officially beat the combined coolness of meeting Tom Baker, having a chat with Matt Smith before he was a glint in the Daleks' eye-stalks and getting Sophie Aldred's autograph from a penpal. It was a wonderful moment which made me feel... well... rather full and rather circular.

Volcano People - Chapter 1

2010-05-21T18:48:00.000+01:00

Okay, here we go folks. I've been working on my volcano memoir for a few weeks and I'd very much like to share the first chapter with you. If you've got the time to read it, I'd love to know what you think.

---

Sirkeci Station, Istanbul, Sunday 18/4/10 2130

“Babe, I don’t think the lights are working.”

I’m sure Linda’s words didn’t quite register at first. I’d only just managed to throw our luggage off the wrong carriage and onto what we hoped was the correct one, so the fact that we might not be able to enjoy such luxuries as electricity was going to need a little longer to sink in. All that mattered at that moment – a mere thirty minutes before the scheduled departure time – was that the nine hours of queuing in the cold really had resulted in a bona fide train booking and that the train really was about to start heading in the direction of the UK, aka home.

I stood in the cabin doorway and could just about see Linda’s unmoving frame through the gloom, sitting on the bottom bunk with impressive calm. I glanced to my right. James and Edina – a couple we’d only met the day before but were about to get to know very well – were busy sorting themselves out in their cabin under the helpful glow of the fluorescent strip above their heads.

“What d’you mean they’re not working?”

“I mean I can’t turn them on. They don’t seem to be working.”

“But everyone else’s are.” I surveyed the corridor again, and sure enough, ours was the only cubicle in darkness. “Let me have a look.”

I walked in, convinced she simply hadn’t found the master switch that would solve the entire problem, and started running my hands along the walls and surfaces around me. A few moments later, my eyes adjusted to the dimness, and I found myself emitting a few chuckles.

“What’s so funny?”

“This cabin. I’m sure I’ve been in it before. Or one exactly like it.”

“Been in it before? What’re you talking about?”

On one side of our little enclosure were three bunks, the top one shorter than the other two, as though intended for a child. The walls were covered by a thin, scratched, fake-wood laminate that probably hadn’t looked half-decent since the early 80s. The radiator below the window was a battered, misshapen metal grille that wouldn’t have been out of place at a scrap yard. This was Soviet train design at its most iconic; exactly the sort of cabin in which I’d spent many childhood summers.

“They’re just like Polish trains,” I said. “Or at least like old, Communist Polish trains. I’ve been on loads of them. I remember we once had to spend the entire journey down to the south hiding our puppy from the guard because animals weren’t allowed on board.”

I think she nodded, storing away yet another detail from what she likes to think of as her husband’s exotic past.

I pointed in the direction of a small, roughly square-shaped cabinet in the corner. “If you lift the lid off that, you’ll find a sink.”

A moment later, she’d swung the cabinet cover back on its hinges to reveal two grimy taps perched over a cracked, off-white basin. “A bit like on the Indian sleepers,” she said, “except this one smells awful.” She pushed the lid back down, but didn’t quite manage to suppress the odour of rust and stagnant water.

“That could be ’cause it also makes a handy urinal.”

“Charming!” With a laugh, she sat back down on the bunk and rubbed her hands together. “Well, we were more impressed with the trains in Rajasthan, weren’t we?”

“Definitely,” I muttered, “and I don’t think...” I flicked a few more switches above the doorway, “I’m going to get these lights to work.”

“Great. The one thing we haven’t got is a torch.”

“Maybe it’s just a fuse or something. I’ll ask the guard to have a look once we’ve set off.” I sat down beside her, pulled her head close to my chest, locked my hands around her body and cast aside any concerns about the fact that my clothes were badly in need of the services of a washing machine. “We are doing the right thing, aren’t we?”

“Oh babe, come on, stop now. We’ve made a decision. No looking back.”

“I know, I know... it’s just that...” I sighed. “I mean, say we get to Belgrade and find out we can’t get an onward booking for days.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Actually, there’s a very good chance it will happen. There’s thousands of volcano people across Europe, trying to get home on the trains.”

“Then we’ll just have to sit tight in Belgrade for a while.”

“And in the mean time, the planes might start flying again.”

She pulled herself out from my arms and looked into my eyes, or at least I think she did. The gloom was deepening by the minute. “Look, we said from the very start that this may turn out to be a bad decision. But we’re making it based on the information we’ve got now, which is that the volcano may keep going for weeks. And BA have said they’ll reimburse us...”

“If that’s true...”

“Well, they’ve said it, so they’ll have a fight on their hands if they try to back-pedal. And we’ve just got to make the best of it and get home as quickly as we can.”

I managed a nod.

“And anyway, be grateful we didn’t end up in that other carriage.”

“Oh my God, I know!” Somehow – and we never did find out how – we’d managed to buy tickets for a double sleeper cabin, but we weren’t wise to this fact when we’d first got on the train. Our reading of the illogical numbering system on the tickets had suggested that we were destined to spend the next night and day of our lives sitting – I repeat: sitting, not sleeping – in a six-person compartment that looked about as comfortable as wearing a neck brace. Luckily, the passenger whose seats we’d commandeered under false pretences – a Serbian lady with a spine-chilling repertoire of frowns – shooed us out of the way and sent us in the direction of the guard who – with what we came to learn was characteristic ebullience – showed us to some bunks and blankets. “I’ll bet that woman wishes she’d never said anything.”

Lin managed another chuckle. “Well, I’m glad she did, because I’m telling you now: I think that carriage would have tested even my patience.”

We sat in silence for a few more moments and although I racked my brains to think of something optimistic to contribute to the shadows deepening around us, my mouth remained shut. In the end, as always, it was Lin who restored some sense of perspective.

“You never know,” she said, “it might be quite fun to spend a night in Budapest.”

“We’re not going to Budapest.”

“Oh.”

“We’re going to Belgrade.”

“In Hungary?”

“No, in Serbia.”

“Oh, right.” Pause. “But I thought you said this train’s going to Budapest.”

“No, I said part of it is going to split off and go to Bucharest.”

“Oh, right... When’s that going to happen?”

“No idea.”

“But we’re in the right carriage for Budapest?”

“Belgrade.”

“I meant Belgrade.”

“I certainly hope we are.” I sighed. “And by the way...”

“Yes?”

“We’ve already been to Budapest.”

“Have we?”

“Yes. It’s the capital of Hungary. You took me there for my birthday once. And although we enjoyed it, we said we wouldn’t be in a hurry to go back any time soon.”

She let the words drift between us. “I thought that was Bulgaria.”

“No. We haven’t been to Bulgaria yet. We’re going to pass through it on this train.” Little did we know at the time that “pass through” was a term to be interpreted with considerable laxity.

I stepped out into the corridor. “I’d better see the guard about these lights.” As I walked down to the end of the carriage – whose most attractive features were some strip lighting and a line of thin-framed, pull-down windows – the train lurched into life and, with a groan of pre-Glasnost gears, pulled out of Sirkeci.

“We’re off!” someone shouted with a level of enthusiasm bordering on hysteria.

The conversation with the Serbian guard was brief, but surprisingly coherent, considering the density of the vodka fog which emanated from his mouth. He spoke some basic Polish which – when coupled with the language’s similarity to Serbian – meant that communication wasn’t anywhere as difficult as it could have been. With a few elegant hand gestures and the repetition of words like światło and nie ma, I soon conveyed the essence of the situation, although all I got in response was a smile and a shake of the head.

Somewhere behind me, excited voices yelled. “Look, there’s the Blue Mosque. And there’s the Haghia Sophia.” But I didn’t have any time for such trivialities and was being compelled to abandon my most refined Marceau miming in favour of frantic attempts to show the guard that without lights, I wouldn’t be able to see anything – both hands across eyes; head darting left and right – that I wouldn’t be able to read – hands open before face like a book; quizzical expression – and that I might even stumble and fall – comedy trip on fictitious banana-skin.

The guard furrowed his brow, nodded and patted both my shoulders with his great paws. I think somewhere, his drink-addled mind had grasped that he was dealing with a pretty desperate inmate.

He motioned me back along the corridor – a brief glance through the windows confirmed that, yes, hallelujah, we were indeed heading out through Istanbul’s megalithic urban sprawl – and started flicking and tapping switches as soon as he entered our cabin.

“Can he fix it?” Linda asked, with a composure that suddenly made me understand that she wasn’t especially worried about the lack of lights at all: she was more concerned about the effect she knew it would have on me.

“I don’t know. He seemed pretty surprised that they’re not working. Maybe he’s got a spare bulb kit somewhere.”

The guard gave us a few frowns, a few raised eyebrows, a few shrugged shoulders. Or perhaps he didn’t. Things were now so dark, I could’ve been standing next to a polar bear, for all I knew. But I’m pretty sure he turned to face us and gave us another of his nothing’s-wrong-with-the-world smiles.

“Light,” he said.

“Yes?”

“No work.”

“I know.” Anxious glances. “You fix?”

With a wave of a hand and a guffaw that was probably heard in the upper reaches of the ash cloud, he proclaimed, “No!” and started walking away.

I scrambled to my feet. Cue: comedy banana skin. “But, wait, wait...” How to explain the enormity of this predicament? “There’s... there’s no light!”

He spread his arms open wide, gave the Cheshire cat another run for his money and boomed out one single word. “Romantica!”

Linda and I looked at each other, took a deep breath, and then, in a flash of radiance from outside, caught sight of the grimy floor. Our trip to Belgrade was going to be – in the most diplomatic sense of the word – rather interesting.

But perhaps you’d like to know how we ended up on this train the first place? Perhaps you’d prefer a more sequential, less post-modern version of a tale which includes a quest for the perfect wash-and-blow-dry in Sofia, angry exchanges with the Foreign Office and a tarot-card reader from Somerset? Perhaps you’re interested in finding out that, in spite of the blinkered way we navigate through our everyday lives, most people out there are capable of displaying tremendously moving levels of kindness and helpfulness? Well, are you? Yes? Right then, if you’re agreeable, I need to start by taking you back a few days...

© Dariush Alavi 2010

Considered Less Important

2010-05-14T18:00:00.003+01:00

So we've ended up with a coalition. Well, I don't think that's such an awful result. I've made a few snide remarks about the 'Nick n Dave' show on Twitter, but the truth is that I don't see why joint governments are necessarily ineffectual. I may not agree with many fundamental Tory philosophies (such as the view that we're not European) but if we must have Cameron at No. 10, then maybe we should be grateful that we've also got the LibDems to dilute the most regressive excesses of Conservatism. Compromise isn't as dirty a word as politicians would have us believe and I, for one, am a firm believer in the idea that creative tension between passionate individuals can achieve amazing outcomes (and no, I didn't just steal that line from a fortune cookie). Mind you, I hope the new cabinet has got a superb PR team on its side: they're going to need as much sugar-coating as they can find to get the public to swallow the inevitable 'austerity measures'.

Perhaps I'm exaggerating, but I think one amazing outcome has been achieved already: for the last few weeks, people up and down the country have engaged with the political process. They've discussed the track record of their local MPs. They've made coherent judgements about the merits of one party against another. They've analysed voting intentions with colleagues, friends and loved ones. Until now, these were activities best left to those grumpy garlic-eaters across the Channel. Sure, hundreds of people complained that an episode of Eastenders was considered less important than Gordon Brown's farewell speech, but many thousands more tuned in to see the culmination of a series of events which, they knew, would have genuine implications for the future of this country.

I remember when I was at Uni, one of my lecturers frequently complained that young people had lost sight of the political dimension of the life around them.

"Do you mean political with a small 'p' or a big 'P'?" I once asked him.

"I don't make a distinction between politics with a small 'p' and politics with a big 'P'," he said, "and that's precisely the point I'm making."

Back then, I could only dimly see what he meant. Fast forward several years, and maybe, just maybe, British society is on the brink of comprehending that, whether we like or not, we are all political animals.

---

In other news, I should just mention that I'm still working on my memoir of our ash cloud rail journey from Istanbul. Several people have written to ask for more details about the odyssey. Please bear with me a little longer; I hope to post something about the trip soon.

Share

Grant More Power

2010-04-05T20:04:00.002+01:00

If I had more time, I'd write a longer a post to express the outrage - the complete and utter red-faced spitting outrage - that overcomes me when I read articles like the ones below, but thankfully, I'm fortunate enough to be able to spend the next few days doing something much more pleasant. However, I feel duty-bound to bring these two items of 'news' to your attention, and I apologise in advance for any outrage you may experience when you click on the links. If, after reading the two pieces, you DO NOT experience any outrage, I would be very interested to hear from you.

Here they are: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1263581/An-iPhone-spy-teacher-Pupils-told-email-secret-verdicts-staff-DURING-lessons.html and http://www.guardian.co.uk/education/2010/apr/03/children-job-interviews-questions.

The Divine L said it best: all this is yet another example of adults' desire to shake off the responsibility that comes with being adults. For whatever reason - fear / uncertainty / the worst kind of moral relativism - we no longer seem to want to impose our voice upon children, and instead we grant more power to their half-formed, inexperienced, infantile little squeaks. And we dare to call ourselves a nation that cares about the welfare of young people.

A Communal Notion

2010-03-29T20:08:00.004+01:00

BBC4 recently concluded a series of three superb films by Vanessa Engle which attempted to chart the history and development of the feminist movement from about the 60s. The first episode, 'Libbers', consisted of interviews with some of the undisputed heroines of the field, including Germaine Greer and Marilyn French; the final instalment, 'Activists', portrayed a group of women currently trying to keep the feminist spirit alive in Britain. Taken as a pair, the films provided a thoroughly fascinating examination of how society has changed over the last few decades... and by that I certainly don't mean that it's become better.

The women shown in the first episode were intellectual powerhouses. By and large, they managed to obtain the very best education that society was willing to offer them at the time and they shaped themselves into real forces to be reckoned with. They had a sense of purpose which - although it unquestionably stemmed from personal experiences - somehow embraced a communal notion of womanhood rather than placing excessive emphasis on the individual. They were charismatic. They were fearless. And they were driven by the conviction that the injustices which they saw around them should and could be dealt with.

The women presented as the activists of today come across as a very different breed. Perhaps that's partly because it's now relatively easy to place the likes of Greer on a pedestal and hail them as genuine pioneers. Maybe the current state of gender politics persuades us to view the past through forgiving, almost sentimental lenses. Or maybe today's feminists are just a bit wet. One thing's for sure: they're not intellectuals. Heaven forbid! I mean, we don't want today's role models going anywhere near geek territory, right? The whole lot of them put together don't have as much charisma as Ms Greer can muster with one raised eyebrow. And ultimately, they seem more interested in belonging to a cosy club than in putting the world to rights.

Maybe I'm being overly harsh in my assessment, but for some reason I simply wasn't convinced by all their protests against pornography, prostitution and sexism. They became animated and excited when dicussing what types of salads to prepare for a meeting, but when they were rattling off lists of all the social issues which they considered important, it sounded like little more than lip service. Or maybe I was just bothered by the fact that I thought they were all making a huge, fundamental error: excluding men.

The feminists of the 60s and the 70s couldn't have been more in touch with the realities of the lives they were trying to expose and criticise. The 21st century variety seem to have ignored that a) many men are on their side and b) many men are suffering the same treatment that was reserved only for women a few decades ago. In a time when you can walk into your local branch of TK Maxx and be confronted with a poster of a completely naked, fully objectified man, any sort of movement that claims to hold human dignity as one of its core values cannot afford to sideline half the population. If feminism is to enjoy a meaningful resurgence, it needs to realise that men should now be seen as potential allies.

Somewhat Defeatist Philosophy

2010-03-08T20:45:00.000Z

Now seems a good time to kick the blogging ball back into motion. My hardware was recently returned and – touch wood – seems to be working fine so far. The latest issue of Sight & Sound (available from today) features a few words by yours truly on the letters page. And – hit me over the head with a pair of 3D glasses – Avatar didn’t win Best Picture! Things could be a lot worse.

Perhaps this is a somewhat defeatist philosophy, but maybe sometimes the main thing for which we need to be grateful is that situations aren’t as awful as they could be. I managed a quick return visit to Poland not long ago and whilst I was travelling on a bus with a relative, we were presented with a sight which, we both knew, would have been an utter impossibility twenty years ago:

The main entrance of a gleaming shopping mall, festooned with banners bearing the new Pepsi logo. Hordes of bored-looking, newly-moneyed people streaming in and out: teenagers with scowls and iPod headphones, glamorous women with expensive pouts. Shiny logos lining the way to the multi-storey car park: BMW, Lexus, Mercedes. Fast food. Blackberries. Lattes. H&M. River Island. Sephora.

“Just look at it all,” she said, her lips twisted in a grimace. “See how it’s all changed. Still,” she shrugged her shoulders, “it’s better than it was.”

Sometimes, we just don't give 'better' the credit it's due.

Get less uptight

2010-01-02T18:00:00.003Z

Rightly or wrongly, in the past, I've rarely permitted myself to publish reviews on this site. Perhaps, in this new decade, I'll persuade myself to get less uptight about such things, but I'm afraid my views on the subject are a little old-fashioned: I agree that everyone's entitled to an opinion about films, books etc, but I don't agree that everyone's entitled, or qualified, to inflict that opinion on everyone else. Having said that, once a year, I revert to my twelve-year-old self and I indulge in the boyish activity of making lists. So here we go again: my rundown of my favourite films of 2009. But this time, I've gone one step further and - taking my cue from The Times and from Sight & Sound - I've also compiled a personal Top 20 of the last decade. Hopefully you'll disagree with most of my choices and we can get a dicussion going!

Top 5 of 2009 (in the order in which they were seen)

Entre Les Murs (The Class) [dir. Lauren Cantet]

Subtle, thoughtful, complex and full of moments which turn out to be much more memorable than you think they're going to be when you first watch them.

Julie & Julia [dir. Nora Ephron]

Most critics dismissed this as an unimportant souffle of a film, but I think they shot themselves in the foot with their analogy. A good souffle is devilishly hard to make and, if pulled off, it is an unforgettable gastronomic experience. Ephron's film was most certainly a delicious souffle and all the better for it.

A Serious Man [dir. Joel & Ethan Coen]

The Coens' sense of humour doesn't always work on me, but I thought they got the tone just right with this deceptively flimsy tale and its hapless protagonist.

Bright Star [dir. Jane Campion]

It's a shame the marketing people decided to sell this movie by resorting to all the predictable quotes: "gorgeous", "beautifully shot", "ravishing" etc etc. Yes, it is all those things, but it's also much more. Avoiding all cliches, it is a cinematic poem to the state of being in love, as experienced, refreshingly, from a female perspective.

The White Ribbon [dir. Michael Haneke]

Haneke is brilliant at creating an atmosphere of relentless unease, a skill which was put to superb use in this perplexing, monochrome enigma.

My 20 favourite films of the last 10 years (in no particular order)

Bright Star [dir. Jane Campion]

The White Ribbon [dir. Michael Haneke]

It may be too soon to include these two, but I did find them very impressive.

Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon [dir. Ang Lee]

Beautiful, unadulterated cinematic magic.

The Son's Room [dir. Nanni Moretti]

Still one of the most moving depictions of bereavement I've seen.

Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter... And Spring [dir. Ki-duk Kim]
I think it was Kieslowski who said he'd always tried to capture the notion of a soul on film; I suspect he would've liked this meditative, unforgettable piece.

Donnie Darko [dir. Richard Kelly]

Far too clever for its own good, and surprisingly affecting.

The Queen [dir. Stephen Frears]

Some said this belonged on the small screen. I thought its televisual aesthetic was part and parcel of its effectiveness as one of the most astute pieces of social commentary I'd seen for ages.

Grizzly Man [dir. Werner Herzog]

A bizarre, thought-provoking story, told with admirable restraint.

The New World [dir. Terrence Malick]

I think I'm the only person I know who found this movie superb. Never mind. It had me eating out of the palm of its hand from the first notes of its mesmerising music.

Team America: World Police [dir. Trey Parker]

Without any doubt, my favourite comedy of the last decade. I'd happily sit through it again right now. Durga, durga...

Russian Ark [dir. Aleksandr Sokurov]

I confess I wasn't wowed by this when it came out, but eight years have passed since its release and I often find myself recalling many of its unique images. As accomplished an example of 'pure cinema' as we're ever likely to see.

Monsoon Wedding [dir. Mira Nair]

A sentimental choice, perhaps, but I've seen it about four times, and it's improved with each viewing.

In The Mood For Love [dir. Wong Kar Wai]

There's nothing like a story of inscrutably repressed emotions and this is a heart-stopping example of the type.

Code Unknown [dir. Michael Haneke]

Haneke's films are deliberately arch, but the technique worked very well in this multi-strand essay on communication.

Persepolis [dir. Vincent Paronnaud]

I'm not sure if I prefer the book or the movie, which is evidence enough of the latter's greatness.

Adaptation [dir. Spike Jonze]

A wickedly cunning, endlessly watchable little gem.

Mysterious Skin [dir. Gregg Araki]

A blistering portrayal of the effects of all sorts of abuse, especially the most potent, most common kind: self-delusion.

There Will Be Blood [dir. Paul Thomas Anderson]

A letter published in Sight & Sound claimed that my enjoyment of this film was evidence of a misogynistic streak in me. Thankfully, S&S printed an apology, which meant that I could continue admiring this operatic behemoth of a movie with a clear conscience.

Into Great Silence [dir. Philip Groning]

Contemplative, uncompromising and genuinely unique. There will probably never be another film quite like it.

Etre Et Avoir [dir. Nicolas Philibert]

Easily my favourite documentary of the decade and an absolute must-see for anyone who has ever had any dealings with children... which basically means everyone, doesn't it.

So there you have it. If you've made it this far, thank you! A very happy new year to you. I promise I'll try to keep the self-indulgence to a minimum in 2010.

Black White Chequered

2009-12-24T10:18:00.003Z

Believe it or not, I'd spent the last few weeks preparing a few blog posts and hiding them up my sleeve, intending to publish them in a steady stream before the end of the year. But then my laptop decided it was going to take this whole Christmas thing far too seriously and it insisted on a complete rebirth. Chaos ensued.

So as I've just reinstalled Dreamweaver - and vegetables and turkey beckon - allow me to write nothing more than the following.

Normal service will be resumed soon. Until then: peace, laughter and stable hardware to each and every one of you.

Green

2009-12-10T18:00:00.003Z

Here's a question for you: is it all right to give money as a gift?

If your answer is an immediate, unqualified Yes, then don't read on. You'll probably find the rest of this post needlessly convoluted and pedantic. But if your gut tells you that there's something wrong with handing over cash on someone's birthday or at Christmas, then join the club.

A book I recently read stated that most moral stands are essentially irrational: they're instincts formed in the emotional part of the brain which then commissions the logical part to come up with seemingly sensible - but ultimately weak - arguments to justify the sentimental response. That's why, if you try to break down many long-held moral values - such as 'lying is wrong' - you eventually arrive at an exasperated cry of, "Because it just is!" And maybe that's also the reason for my total inability to come up with a truly non-emotional reason to support my strong feelings on the matter of money and presents.

Perhaps it's partly to do with culture and upbringing: I don't remember ever getting cash for a birthday. But delve a little deeper into memories and complexities appear. Whilst it wasn't permissible to give money for birthdays and Christmases, it was obligatory to do so for various Eid celebrations and for Persian New Year. Go figure.

Maybe it's because money seems cold and impersonal. 'I can't think of a gift that's got your name on it, so I'll just hand over the sum I'd intended spending on you.' But what if the recipient actually asks for money? Surely 'cold and impersonal' no longer apply, because money is what's specifically - and personally - been requested.

Maybe, in my mind, money is something you earn for doing a job, whereas a gift is something someone would like to give you because - fundamentally - they'd like to make a statement about their relationship with you. If the word used to make that statement is 'cash', then, in my opinion, the relationship is vulgarised and is, perhaps, reduced to some kind of corporate contract.

But the business of earning money casts its own complication over this issue, because many people have a personal rule that they will give the gift of money to people who aren't earning (ie children, usually) but they won't do so to people who are gainfully employed. There may be some logic at work there, but I suspect it's pretty flimsy.

And when you start talking about earning money, then you're knee-deep in all kinds of social awkwardness and potential faux pas, because very few things screw us up and embarrass us as much as the green stuff. Attitudes to discussing wages and salaries have changed in the UK over the years, but I'm told that in France it is still considered incredibly crude to reveal and chat about one's income. Contrast this with India, where one of the first three questions you're asked by strangers is, "And how much are you earning?"

So where does this leave me? Well, certainly with lots of wrapping of parcels which are unashamedly thicker than banknotes. The fact is that I really and truly dislike - and feel cheapened by - the thought of Father Christmas turning into a reindeer-powered ATM... but I can't really tell you why. It just feels wrong.

Russet

2009-11-25T20:03:00.002Z

Today's post is a bit of a cheat, because it contains words which I can't claim as my own. I'm sharing them with you because... well, let's just say they resonated. They're taken from today's Woman's Hour interview with Zadie Smith.

Z Smith: Novels are such a mess. Novels make you feel sick when you're writing them. You hate them when you've finished them. ...

J Murray: So, when you begin a novel, what's going through your mind if you're thinking, 'This is going to be awful.'

Z Smith: When you begin you're full of hope, aren't you? You're so enthusiastic, and you usually have a really elaborate plan. ... You start in enthusiasm and then you can get very excited towards the middle, and the end is sometimes a drag. I'm always very happy when I finish them. It's just, afterwards... the feeling towards it kind of sours. For me, anyway.

Nice to know my loneliness is a figment of my imagination.

Orange

2009-11-19T19:59:00.003Z

A few weeks ago the Chief Rabbi, Jonathan Sacks, made a speech which generated a fair bit of controversy. Here's why:

"Parenthood," he said, "involves massive sacrifice: of money, attention, time and emotional energy. Where today, in European culture with its consumerism and its instant gratification - ‘because you’re worth it’ - in that culture, where will you find space for the concept of sacrifice for the sake of generations not yet born?"

In a seemingly unrelated incident, a spokesman for a teachers' union recently responded to the government's plans to guarantee (!) that all children will receive a good education by saying the move will turn into a "whingers' charter" for more litigious parents.

Finally, it is becoming increasingly difficult to resolve the issue of illegal downloading (of music, films etc) partly because one of the main obstacles is the belief of young people that they are entitled to have pretty much whatever they wish.

All these snippets are, of course, closely linked to each other and their links are explored in my novel. So I guess I ought to keep my eyes on the silver lining and tell myself that as long as headlines like the ones above remain in heavy circulation, one day, before too long, someone's going to pounce on my book. Or maybe I should send a copy of The Only Children to Jonathan Sacks. He's got friends in high places.

Lilac

2009-11-11T20:00:00.003Z

Saturday. Midday. The menswear department of a well-known international chain in a very popular English town. I'm here because I've seen a scarf in the window and I'd like to have a closer look at it. I wander briefly and I find a few scarves, but not the one I'm after. Then I see it, right up on a top shelf, wound around the neck of a 'head and shoulders' mannequin. My eyes scan the shop and I find the Sales Assistant, sorting through some cardigans. I walk across to her and as soon as I see her face, I realise I'm in for some fun.

Everything about her screams: 'Just because I've got a badge and a uniform, doesn't mean you can expect me to do any work.' Her face is wearing the permanently bored expression that always makes me question my stance on corporal punishment: lips half-parted; mouth half-sneering; eyes half-droopy; chin curled with disdain. Her hair is an artful tumbleweed of messiness. I'm reminded of Dolly Parton's line about how much money it costs to look really cheap.

"Excuse me," I say, and we get the first huff. She rolls her eyes and looks at me. Clearly, she's been folding the cardigans according to some complex mathematical equation and I've broken her train of thought. She's got every right to be annoyed. "You see that scarf over there?" I point at the mannequin. "Could you please tell me where it is in the shop? I've found the other scarves, but I haven't seen that one."

The sneer grows and the curl of the chin deepens. She takes a deep breath, sets her voice to 'Patronise' and says, "We don't get many accessories."

At this point, several thoughts go through my head. I notice how she pronounces the statement as a question, which further weakens the aforementioned views on physical violence. I wonder whether I should just turn around and walk straight out. I tell myself that perhaps I don't need to keep my neck warm after all. But the one overriding thought is that I'd love to know how we've just made the leap from "Could you please tell me where that scarf is?" to "We don't get many accessories."

But of course, this incident is taking place in Polite Society, so all I say is "Sorry?" and then she blinks, raises her eyebrows and repeats, "We don't get many accessories," but this time with two question marks at the end.

"I just need to know where you keep your other scarves, so I can have a look at that one, please, and see how much it is."

And now she huffs and puffs as though she's auditioning for Three Little Pigs and she stomps over to the other side of the shop. She yanks open a drawer and I see it's stuffed full of different scarves, except for the one I'm after. She shuts the drawer and attacks another one, all the while breathing in and out with so much venom, I'm starting to wonder if the Met Office is going to raise an alert about unusual wind formations in a small patch of southern England. No luck with the second drawer either. "It's not here. 'Cause we don't get many accessories. Like I said." She points at the mannequin.

"Riiiight."

"We just put them out around the shop. As soon as we get any."

"I see." I don't really want to argue with this charming young lady, but the presence of several scarves inside the drawers she's accosted would seem to taint the truth of what she's just told me, and I also don't want to get side-tracked, so I just say, "What about this scarf, then?"

Finger points at mannequin. "It's there."

And - dim-witted dolt that I am - I only now realise what she's been driving at. "Oh, so you're saying it's all right for me to take that very one?"

"Yes," she smiles, and turns back to her cardigan calculus.

At this point, I should mention that I'm carrying a couple of other bags, so when I reach up to the top shelf to try to drag down this Holy Grail of neckwear, I nearly bring the whole display crashing down on my head. "Actually," I say, interrupting a devilish sleeve tuck, "could you get it down, please, because I'm worried I might wreck the mannequin."

Remember the way Superman puts out fires by breathing on them? Well, he could have learned a thing or two from this paragon of customer service. She inhales, and I imagine her lungs expanding like two puffer fish. She gives me a glare. And then she proceeds to rewrite the Beaufort Scale.

Still, to giver her her due, she does march back towards me and she does whip the scarf down and she does, sort of, hand it to me. Naturally, I don't expect her to say anything along the lines of, "Here you are," because I know she's already on to her next equation. Tricky things, cardigans.

I examine the scarf and I'm almost hoping that I'm not going to like it, or that it's going to be too expensive, so that I can tell her that I'm not interested. Luckily for her sums, I decide to buy it.

I suppose I could tell her that her attitude leaves a lot to be desired. I could complain to the Manager. I could even have a rant about the way in which customers are generally treated in this country. But of course, I don't do any of these things. I spend a few more minutes wandering around the shop, and then, like an obedient little spender, I clutch my purchase-to-be and head over to the till.

That's when I see the queue: at least fifteen people, holding various items of clothing, lips pursed, shoulders tense. And there, behind the counter, scanning barcodes at a rate of 'Christmas isn't till April' is the lady herself, Little Miss Gormless, huffing away.

Do I join the queue? Of course I do.

White

2009-10-23T06:30:00.002+01:00

I watched Question Time last night and was not surprised to have all my views on the BNP and Nick Griffin totally confirmed. I think everything the party stands for is dangerous and egocentric and I consider Griffin himself to be particularly moronic and reptilian. I was pleased to see that most members of the studio audience seemed to be opposed to him too, and that they were willing to express their feelings in passionate terms.

However, I must confess that, as the credits rolled, I was filled not with a renewed faith in British society, but with a distinct sense of dread. Sure, on the one hand, the broadcast showed just how far this country has come in what is a relatively short time. After all, not so very long ago, a man of Asian ancestry claiming that he's proud to be British wouldn't have been supported by cheers. And a claim that homosexuals are "creepy" wouldn't have been greeted with boos and hisses. So, yes, 'polite society' has learned how to adopt a more tolerant facade and has widened the boundaries of what is deemed acceptable in a public setting. This is an unquestionable achievement and I don't wish to belittle it. But my worry is that many people haven't necessarily become more tolerant: they've just become better at masking their intolerance.

A tremendous amount of ugliness is revealed the moment you crack the surface of the life around you. All it takes is a trivial mistake on a road or - even worse - in a supermarket aisle, and you find yourself on the receiving end of gallons of pent up rage and frustration. Several people will happily tell you to your face that they don't have a problem with refugees coming to Britain, but as soon as there's a chance that those refugees might move into their own neighbourhood, the backtracking begins. And how many times have you heard a sentence that starts with the words, "I'm not racist, but..."? Give a few individuals the protection of anonymity, and you see their real opinions streaming out, just like on today's pages of the BBC's Have Your Say forum.

Perhaps I'm just having a 'bad faith' day. You know, the kind of day when you think the combined morality of every single person on the planet is weaker than the principles held by one solitary amoeba. But it cannot be denied that several thousands of people voted for and support the BNP, and I don't fully buy the argument that the increase in their success is a result of dissatisfaction with the more mainstream parties. Somewhere, beneath the multi-lingual street signs and the multi-coloured television presenters, is a festering gash of fearful, unpredictable, animalistic narrow-mindedness and hatred. And it really worries me. But what worries me more is that, even though a great many of us can somersault onto our high horses in response to one edition of a TV programme, the next time an election comes around, we won't be bothered to get out and vote.