Cormac McCarthy is a pessimist. As anyone who has seen the Coen Brothers’ brilliant adaptation of No Country For Old Men might infer, his stories abound with images of the worst that humanity is capable of. Blood Meridian alone is enough to make one simply give up, depicting a man descending to the deepest depravity. If one goes in for that sort of thing though then The Road is one of his best, its stark story of survival after some undefined apocalyptic event* told through simple and disciplined prose.
Director John Hillcoat brings to the adaptation much of the stark aesthetic that made The Proposition such a riveting watch, even re-enlisting Nick Cave and Warren Ellis to provide the soundtrack. The cinematography is stunning: gnarled tree-skeletons grope at the sky while in the distance colossal wild-fires ravage the land, leaving it thickly choked with ash. Hillcoat presents a world utterly destroyed, awe-inspiring in its sense of realism and permanence.
Through this landscape move a man (Viggo Mortensen) with his son (Kodi Smit-McPhee), bound to each other by the necessity of survival. It is a world of stark moral choices, with no room for any shades of gray. The man tells the boy that they are the good guys and tries to live up to the label, despite being haunted by memories of the past and of his wife (Charlize Theron). In a world stalked by roving bands of cannibals** however, dwelling on the past is an unaffordable luxury.
The acting is uniformly excellent, Mortensen strong and controlled as ever, while Smit-McPhee manages to renew one's faith in the ability of child actors. The supporting cast is just as good, Robert Duvall and Michael Kenneth Williams (Omar from The Wire) both turning in superb spains as desperate fellow-travellers. Much of the dialogue has been imported verbatim from the novel, the characters confronting the landscape with terse, practical statements.
One false note is the inclusion of a clunky and unnecessary narration by Mortensen that weighs the film down by not simply allowing the viewer to mentally fill in the blanks***. It’s as though there was some nervy producer in the background worrying about recouping the costs laid down for the FX, demanding that the whole thing be made as accessible as possible even if the effect is to diminish the film artistically. Expect a director’s cut in a few years time.
Despite the sense that McCarthy has attempted to strip away all the noise of modern life to reveal something raw and essential about human nature, The Road is nonetheless a very American story. The man is a classic rugged individualist, his journey one of following an ever-unfolding frontier, surviving on his own wits in a land bereft of community. In some ways it is a US survivalists’ wet dream, the story indulging hungry yearnings for the end of the world by taking them seriously.
This leaves little room between a never-ending oscillation between determination and despair. It's difficult not to see the conceit of this, as for all the striving to arrive at some hard truth it ultimately tells us nothing, moving beyond messy historical reality into a dark fantasy of meaninglessness in which people act without cause or effect or consequence. For McCarthy the only way out of this nihilistic double-bind is by falling back on Christian faith, the boy assuming a Christ-like aura of divine innocence.
The flipside to this is the grim satisfaction the filmmaker’s take in depicting infanticide, sexual slavery and other abominations. Although the most extreme excesses of McCarthy’s novel have been exorcised from the script – no doubt at the instigation of the aforementioned producer – there is nonetheless something gloating in the portrayal of the cannibals, the pleasure of seeing one’s worst fears confirmed. Against this the film’s (and the book’s) hopeful ending feels somehow hollow, the reestablishment of some basic social order feeling inadequate against the horrors that precede it. That all said it's a moving story, vividly realised for the screen. In a month dominated by blue aliens and falling meatballs, you could do much, much worse.
Other things of interest: The Demon Duck of Doom; Charlie Brooker on form; the phrase 'Suck My Toe'. Learn it. Use it.
* Although hints are given that it wasn’t nuclear in nature, the precise cause of the calamity is never mentioned, McCarthy being less interested in cause and effect than in human response.
** I guess roving bands of vegetarians wouldn’t be quite as scary.
*** Think of the effect of the narration in the original release of Blade Runner and you’ve about got it.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Dances with Smurfs
So I saw Avatar the other night. It was fun. Although in what follows I continue to refer to it as such, it seems wrong to think of it as a film for a variety of reasons that will become clear. It WAS fun though. So, here are my thoughts about it. I’m not going to describe anything about the story specifically or what is actually portrayed on screen, beyond stating that:
Firstly, there’s the money. Avatar is one of the most expensive films ever made. It cost more to make then all three Lord of the Rings films combined, although a fairer comparison as far as scale of financial expenditure goes might be to poor ol’ Kevin Costner’s leaky bucket Waterworld.
But then, James Cameron is an old hand at managing projects that leave Ben Hur floundering at the starting gates size-wise – that flick a few years back about the boat** for instance. With that one under his belt, he was able to have complete creative control over this, with the obvious proviso that it produce a competitive return on investment, which is after all the whole point of the exercise as far as Fox is concerned.
Avatar is different from those mentioned however in that Cameron has aimed at nothing less than the creation of a completely original and self-contained world while having the financial and technological heft*** to realise his vision. It is literally the most spectacular film ever made, and will no doubt remain so until the next one.
I didn’t even watch it at the IMAX or in 3D and was still left slumped slack-jawed in my seat until the end of the credits. And although spectacular films are a dime a dozen these days, none really compare with the sheer volume of visual creativity and talent that has been poured into Cameron’s blue-faced baby – most of names I sat jelly-brained watching scroll up the screen were of the employees of visual effects studios… Cameron apparently decided to give contracts to ALL of them.
Secondly, plot. Avatar is immaculately conceived and executed. It’s skilfully paced with no wasted scenes, the characters are cleanly drawn, it’s engagingly written and is quite generally taut, trim and terrific. And although Cameron indulges in the old crutch of a voiceover – he can’t help but tell rather than show – those two and a half hours simply fly by. And this is because there hasn’t been a film since the original Star Wars that has employed the ideas of Joseph Campbell with greater skill and cynicism.
Briefly, for those unaware of the work of said gentleman, back in the 40s Campbell conducted a large examination of mythology, religion and folklore through the prism of psychoanalysis to demonstrate that all human storytelling operates on the same underlying structures. His main thrust is that the most powerful stories fall into the same pattern, in which an archetypal hero**** is plunged into adventure. Guided by a mentor he discovers that he has power, learns to use it, overcomes evil (usually with the aid of a magic sword***** as well as other supernatural aids), wins the girl and lives happily ever after. The point of this for Campbell was that each stage of the journey mirrors the development of the child into a fully-realised adult. It’s the story of being fully initiated into life and is immensely powerful to most people in a very fundamental sort of way.
With Avatar, Cameron distils this formula to a remarkable degree. He’s by no means unique in Hollywood for making use of it – Lucas, Spielberg and the rest of the gang have built their careers on it******. I say his treatment is cynical however because it quite self-consciously exploits the myth of America’s founding to effectively rewrite history. The similarities to Pocahontas, Last of the Mohicans and of course that other flick from Big Kev Dances with Wolves are not accidental, with the core difference being that beneath the dazzling veneer of the fantastic setting, Cameron has managed to transmute American cultural guilt over the decimation of the Indians into the American triumphalism of ‘happily ever after’. In reality of course, the story ended and continues to end quite differently, which can't help but lend the film a strong whiff of moral cowardice.
Thirdly and finally there is the manner of the film’s release. Although there is at least one pirated copy currently available on the internet, nobody in their right mind would watch it. Although it’s probably only a matter of time until video pirates can reproduce 3D, they will never be able to replicate spectacle.
In order to ensure that the spectacle produced the right effect, i.e. hordes flocking to the cinema, the marketing folks at Fox managed to negate the bad press that usually filters out from the media in the lead up to release by keeping the lid on things, swearing critics to secrecy and even going so far as to ship the film reels and promotional products to cinemas under various codenames, before bombarding the public on a massive scale after Boxing Day when everyone was sitting around ODing on turkey, wondering what to do with themselves.
Indeed, the weakest link of the whole event – and it is an event, in as much as a product can be******* – is the film itself. In all, Avatar is a superb example of late Capitalism operating at its finest. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go and see it again.
Tasty new year treats: Brutal Poodle, food for thought, new Adam Green! Hurrah!
* Who is, incidentally, only the second solid actor I can think of in recent times who has managed to transform himself into a believable action hero. The other is Daniel Craig (I don't count Christian Bale as an actor), but I almost feel as though Worthington is better. Just quickly, movie trivia†: in both Avatar and his last film, Terminator Salvation (he was the best thing about it), the female lead lays her palm on Sam’s chest and intones ‘you have a strong heart’; an appropriate pick up line I feel, because I actually think that Sam does. Personality, not so much, but heart, certainly.
** I prefer Lonely Island’s take on the nautical world to be honest. So much more succinct.
*** Note the length of time that Avatar was in gestation for – the Titanic was brought back from the depths twelve years ago now. Why the wait? Quoting imdb once again: “James Cameron originally attempted to get this film made in 1999 as his immediate follow-up to Titanic (1997). However, at the time, the special effects he wanted for the movie ran the proposed budget up to $400 million. No studio would fund the film, and it was subsequently shelved for almost ten years.” That is, they had to allow the technology to catch up. I suspect Mr Cameron owes Mr Jackson quite a few beers for helping things along.
**** When it comes to archetypes, Campbell literally wrote the book, that book of course being The Hero with a Thousand Faces.
***** Cameron replaces this with a giant six-winged four-eyed bright red dragon. Awesome.
****** This is why the film was such a safe bet for investors, and is in turn why Cameron was able to have such an absurd budget at his command. He’s not an artist, he’s a businessman.
******* Hell, you could almost say that Avatar is in essence a cinematic version of a U2 concert ‡. Actually, that kind of implies that U2 are worth seeing. Perhaps the Stones would be a more appropriate comparison.
† cheerfully cribbed from imdb.
‡ As opposed to Waterworld which is more the equivalent of Eurovision.
- It’s set on an incredibly lush alien world that would be staggeringly original if Blizzard hadn’t got there first (I hate myself a bit for thinking of that)
- There’s some seriously badass creatures – Peter Jackson eat your heart out
- It deals with the concept of Gaia in a refreshingly accessible way – James Lovelock would probably approve
- Not only does almost every character fulfil an instantly recognisable archetypal role, but they’re mostly blue to boot
- It would be really, really easy to take the piss out of it if Matt Stone and Trey Parker hadn’t already got there weeks ago
Firstly, there’s the money. Avatar is one of the most expensive films ever made. It cost more to make then all three Lord of the Rings films combined, although a fairer comparison as far as scale of financial expenditure goes might be to poor ol’ Kevin Costner’s leaky bucket Waterworld.
But then, James Cameron is an old hand at managing projects that leave Ben Hur floundering at the starting gates size-wise – that flick a few years back about the boat** for instance. With that one under his belt, he was able to have complete creative control over this, with the obvious proviso that it produce a competitive return on investment, which is after all the whole point of the exercise as far as Fox is concerned.
Avatar is different from those mentioned however in that Cameron has aimed at nothing less than the creation of a completely original and self-contained world while having the financial and technological heft*** to realise his vision. It is literally the most spectacular film ever made, and will no doubt remain so until the next one.
I didn’t even watch it at the IMAX or in 3D and was still left slumped slack-jawed in my seat until the end of the credits. And although spectacular films are a dime a dozen these days, none really compare with the sheer volume of visual creativity and talent that has been poured into Cameron’s blue-faced baby – most of names I sat jelly-brained watching scroll up the screen were of the employees of visual effects studios… Cameron apparently decided to give contracts to ALL of them.
Secondly, plot. Avatar is immaculately conceived and executed. It’s skilfully paced with no wasted scenes, the characters are cleanly drawn, it’s engagingly written and is quite generally taut, trim and terrific. And although Cameron indulges in the old crutch of a voiceover – he can’t help but tell rather than show – those two and a half hours simply fly by. And this is because there hasn’t been a film since the original Star Wars that has employed the ideas of Joseph Campbell with greater skill and cynicism.
Briefly, for those unaware of the work of said gentleman, back in the 40s Campbell conducted a large examination of mythology, religion and folklore through the prism of psychoanalysis to demonstrate that all human storytelling operates on the same underlying structures. His main thrust is that the most powerful stories fall into the same pattern, in which an archetypal hero**** is plunged into adventure. Guided by a mentor he discovers that he has power, learns to use it, overcomes evil (usually with the aid of a magic sword***** as well as other supernatural aids), wins the girl and lives happily ever after. The point of this for Campbell was that each stage of the journey mirrors the development of the child into a fully-realised adult. It’s the story of being fully initiated into life and is immensely powerful to most people in a very fundamental sort of way.
With Avatar, Cameron distils this formula to a remarkable degree. He’s by no means unique in Hollywood for making use of it – Lucas, Spielberg and the rest of the gang have built their careers on it******. I say his treatment is cynical however because it quite self-consciously exploits the myth of America’s founding to effectively rewrite history. The similarities to Pocahontas, Last of the Mohicans and of course that other flick from Big Kev Dances with Wolves are not accidental, with the core difference being that beneath the dazzling veneer of the fantastic setting, Cameron has managed to transmute American cultural guilt over the decimation of the Indians into the American triumphalism of ‘happily ever after’. In reality of course, the story ended and continues to end quite differently, which can't help but lend the film a strong whiff of moral cowardice.
Thirdly and finally there is the manner of the film’s release. Although there is at least one pirated copy currently available on the internet, nobody in their right mind would watch it. Although it’s probably only a matter of time until video pirates can reproduce 3D, they will never be able to replicate spectacle.
In order to ensure that the spectacle produced the right effect, i.e. hordes flocking to the cinema, the marketing folks at Fox managed to negate the bad press that usually filters out from the media in the lead up to release by keeping the lid on things, swearing critics to secrecy and even going so far as to ship the film reels and promotional products to cinemas under various codenames, before bombarding the public on a massive scale after Boxing Day when everyone was sitting around ODing on turkey, wondering what to do with themselves.
Indeed, the weakest link of the whole event – and it is an event, in as much as a product can be******* – is the film itself. In all, Avatar is a superb example of late Capitalism operating at its finest. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go and see it again.
Tasty new year treats: Brutal Poodle, food for thought, new Adam Green! Hurrah!
* Who is, incidentally, only the second solid actor I can think of in recent times who has managed to transform himself into a believable action hero. The other is Daniel Craig (I don't count Christian Bale as an actor), but I almost feel as though Worthington is better. Just quickly, movie trivia†: in both Avatar and his last film, Terminator Salvation (he was the best thing about it), the female lead lays her palm on Sam’s chest and intones ‘you have a strong heart’; an appropriate pick up line I feel, because I actually think that Sam does. Personality, not so much, but heart, certainly.
** I prefer Lonely Island’s take on the nautical world to be honest. So much more succinct.
*** Note the length of time that Avatar was in gestation for – the Titanic was brought back from the depths twelve years ago now. Why the wait? Quoting imdb once again: “James Cameron originally attempted to get this film made in 1999 as his immediate follow-up to Titanic (1997). However, at the time, the special effects he wanted for the movie ran the proposed budget up to $400 million. No studio would fund the film, and it was subsequently shelved for almost ten years.” That is, they had to allow the technology to catch up. I suspect Mr Cameron owes Mr Jackson quite a few beers for helping things along.
**** When it comes to archetypes, Campbell literally wrote the book, that book of course being The Hero with a Thousand Faces.
***** Cameron replaces this with a giant six-winged four-eyed bright red dragon. Awesome.
****** This is why the film was such a safe bet for investors, and is in turn why Cameron was able to have such an absurd budget at his command. He’s not an artist, he’s a businessman.
******* Hell, you could almost say that Avatar is in essence a cinematic version of a U2 concert ‡. Actually, that kind of implies that U2 are worth seeing. Perhaps the Stones would be a more appropriate comparison.
† cheerfully cribbed from imdb.
‡ As opposed to Waterworld which is more the equivalent of Eurovision.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Mouse Mice Moose Meese
I drove back from Melbourne on Thursday. One hit. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. At least one hopes that no one will be collecting $200... Overtaking semi-trailers on hills becomes so addictive after a while that it becomes all too easy to forget about those pesky 'radar used in this area' signs.
Anyhoo, I dragged my sorry ass through the door to find a cheery Irishman in my kitchen. What's that, a gig at the Annandale? Garage rock is just what I need! And so after showering away three days worth of grease and travel dust and resuming my regular odour, off we plunged.
There's been murmurings of late about the continued viability of the Annandale - the lawyers seem to be growing fat off the stream of noise complaints that persistently flow down Nelson St. It wouldn't be hugely surprising if it went the way of the Hopetoun sometime in the near future, which would make it the largest scalp to be claimed by the city's culturally inflexible residents. Ten years time: Sorry? Live music? And what might that be?
Not that such concerns seem to be bothering the management of course who are pushing ahead with another round of hefty renovations that look set to open out the venue considerably, through the addition of a new entrance on Parramatta Rd and an expansion of the outdoor seating area out the back. All to the good.
In the meantime though it's the same dense, occasionally claustrophobic hellhole*, and so perfectly suited to a civilised evening of garage rock. Touring Texans Thee Oh Sees revved things up suitably with a noise injection somewhat in the vein of the Black Lips. Although nowhere near as experimental as fellow-lone-star-staters White Denim or even the joyfully slap-dash Times New Viking, the OCs generated some solid energy, only dissipating somewhat towards the end with some proggy inflections that began to outstay their welcome.
After some entertaining shadow puppetry on the requisite pull-down cinema screen from the folks up the front - silhouettes of various well-loved farm animals such as ducks, dogs and cows were popular as well as of course the Bill Clinton - Melbournites the Eddy Current Suppression Ring got stuck into it. Unlike approximately 90% of the crowd I hadn't had the pleasure before and so was gratified to find that, despite some pretty dreadful decisions being made on the mixing desk, they kick some serious buttock.
The main draw card of course is former vinyl factory work experience boy Brendan Suppression's convulsive vocals. He's mad as a cut snake but then so was the entire front of the crowd - it's been a while since I've seen actual crowd surfing**. Suppression worked past the aforementioned issues with the vocal mix however, maintaining an intense rapport with part time Dave Hughes impersonator Eddy Current, the pair of them winding each other up to ever more spastic eruptions.
Or at least I thought so, being subsequently told that compared to previous gigs the band seemed to be running on about three-quarter capacity. Perhaps it was just the niggling sound issues - it was certainly bloody difficult to make out what Suppression was babbling about half the time, particularly the semi-spoken word declamations delivered from atop the bar - but the band did seem to be having some difficulty in busting things up a notch. Who knows. Perhaps they traveled from the garden state on the blacktop.
Random things to pass the time: Latest pitchfork rubber stamped uber-group; Sufjan Stevens musing on the existential absurdity of doing anything let alone making music. Heh; Ali Smith's The Accidental - I love books that force you to have an opinion.
* I have yet to see a bathroom more disgusting than the men's room at the Annandale, and that includes the dungeon beneath the biker bar off Tottenham Court Road in London where I could almost *see* the hepatitis dripping off the walls.
** I particularly liked the girl who pulled off her shoe whilst in midair and promptly began beating the bloke beneath her with it who had apparently stuck his finger where he shouldn't.
Anyhoo, I dragged my sorry ass through the door to find a cheery Irishman in my kitchen. What's that, a gig at the Annandale? Garage rock is just what I need! And so after showering away three days worth of grease and travel dust and resuming my regular odour, off we plunged.
There's been murmurings of late about the continued viability of the Annandale - the lawyers seem to be growing fat off the stream of noise complaints that persistently flow down Nelson St. It wouldn't be hugely surprising if it went the way of the Hopetoun sometime in the near future, which would make it the largest scalp to be claimed by the city's culturally inflexible residents. Ten years time: Sorry? Live music? And what might that be?
Not that such concerns seem to be bothering the management of course who are pushing ahead with another round of hefty renovations that look set to open out the venue considerably, through the addition of a new entrance on Parramatta Rd and an expansion of the outdoor seating area out the back. All to the good.
In the meantime though it's the same dense, occasionally claustrophobic hellhole*, and so perfectly suited to a civilised evening of garage rock. Touring Texans Thee Oh Sees revved things up suitably with a noise injection somewhat in the vein of the Black Lips. Although nowhere near as experimental as fellow-lone-star-staters White Denim or even the joyfully slap-dash Times New Viking, the OCs generated some solid energy, only dissipating somewhat towards the end with some proggy inflections that began to outstay their welcome.
After some entertaining shadow puppetry on the requisite pull-down cinema screen from the folks up the front - silhouettes of various well-loved farm animals such as ducks, dogs and cows were popular as well as of course the Bill Clinton - Melbournites the Eddy Current Suppression Ring got stuck into it. Unlike approximately 90% of the crowd I hadn't had the pleasure before and so was gratified to find that, despite some pretty dreadful decisions being made on the mixing desk, they kick some serious buttock.
The main draw card of course is former vinyl factory work experience boy Brendan Suppression's convulsive vocals. He's mad as a cut snake but then so was the entire front of the crowd - it's been a while since I've seen actual crowd surfing**. Suppression worked past the aforementioned issues with the vocal mix however, maintaining an intense rapport with part time Dave Hughes impersonator Eddy Current, the pair of them winding each other up to ever more spastic eruptions.
Or at least I thought so, being subsequently told that compared to previous gigs the band seemed to be running on about three-quarter capacity. Perhaps it was just the niggling sound issues - it was certainly bloody difficult to make out what Suppression was babbling about half the time, particularly the semi-spoken word declamations delivered from atop the bar - but the band did seem to be having some difficulty in busting things up a notch. Who knows. Perhaps they traveled from the garden state on the blacktop.
Random things to pass the time: Latest pitchfork rubber stamped uber-group; Sufjan Stevens musing on the existential absurdity of doing anything let alone making music. Heh; Ali Smith's The Accidental - I love books that force you to have an opinion.
* I have yet to see a bathroom more disgusting than the men's room at the Annandale, and that includes the dungeon beneath the biker bar off Tottenham Court Road in London where I could almost *see* the hepatitis dripping off the walls.
** I particularly liked the girl who pulled off her shoe whilst in midair and promptly began beating the bloke beneath her with it who had apparently stuck his finger where he shouldn't.
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