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Curse your sudden but inevitable betrayal! Why Blake’s 7 is the best TV sci fi ever made

“Where are all the good guys?”

“Could be looking at them.”

“What a very depressing thought…”

In 2000, the BFI’s panel of luminaries elected Fawlty Towers as the greatest all time piece of British television – followed by social classic Cathy Come Home, and then (of course) the madman with the box. When they opened it up to the public, the online poll was topped by Blake’s 7 – despite it not being on the BFI’s original list.* This doubtless owes something to the tenacity of fanboys – fans of hard-hitting social drama don’t tend to hang around on the internet and mobilise in force to right statistical injustices.

Never mind that though, because make no mistake: topping that list is exactly where it deserves to be. Made in that swathe of productions piggybacking on Star Wars’ success, Blake’s 7 was lightyears ahead of its time in terms of its character complexity, moral ambiguity and use of season arcs. Made by Terry Nation, creator of the Daleks, during the same era, and with a heavy overlap of writers, actors, props and creative talent, it’s somewhat like the Torchwood to Classic Doctor Who – its older, adult cousin. Co-writer, later showrunner, Chris Boucher and occasional contributor Robert Holmes complete the trilogy of authors also topping the chart of Doctor Who’s greatest episodes. Early season producer David Maloney produced five  of Who’s stone-cold classics; great directors working for both shows include Douglas Camfield, Michael E. Briant, and Maloney again. If you’re not an aficionado of classic Brit sci-fi, you might not grasp the gravity and importance of those sainted names – so imagine, if you can, James Gandolfini joining the cast of The Wire for a HBO miniseries scripted by Joss Whedon and Aaron Sorkin, then directed by David Yates…

(For pedants: the trilogy are Genesis of the Daleks, Robots of Death and either Talons of Weng Chiang or Caves of Androzani. The stone-cold classics are Mind Robber, War Games Genesis of the Daleks, Talons of Weng Chiang, Deadly Assassin)

[caption id=”attachment_2314” align=”alignleft” width=”300” caption=”Stand back! For I have the power to defeat evil hidden in my sleeves!”][/caption]

So it runs in the same quarries – and yet could not be more different in outlook. One moment, Blake is living a happily drugged existence on the perfect Earth of the future. The next, he’s experienced a deep miscarriage of justice at the hands of the government, whom he discovers are ruthless and evil in their pursuit of total control. Because he is a Hero, he decides to dismantle the Federation and fight for Freedom! Can Blake lead (read: bully) his outlaw crew to victory? Before getting stabbed in the back by one or all of them? What could possibly go wrong…?

Everything – it’s very British in that sense. A show made by people with no faith in the civil service, police, army or anything else. Evil space vamp Servalan actually emerged two years before Thatcher’s rise to power, but the comparison is hard to unsee. Things break. Computers talk back. Minor characters well sketched – grumpy civil servants, disgruntled bodyguards. It’s a realistically mundane assessment of evil: sure, the Federation don’t allow personal freedom and occasionally wipe out a planet, but at least the buses run on time. The titular seven are his crew: a rag-tag bunch of escaped convicts who hate him, forced together by circumstance but more concerned with their own survival than truth or justice. The only advantage these incompetent amateurs have is in nicking the best ship in the galaxy. As if to cement how fragile their little union is, ship’s computer Zen manages to be the most unreliable member of the team. Are there invaders on board? “Wisdom cannot be given, it must be earned.” It can detect a bomb rigged up to the ship’s insides, but refuses to do anything about it until there is actual “damage” to fix…

The fatalism is also home-grown: the show’s greatest asset is its sense of genuine danger. There’s a running joke in cinema that evil minions can’t shoot straight. The Federation could teach Darth Vader a thing or two about running a dystopia – they are just so evil. Dissent? They just march in and shoot everyone. Failure? If you’re lucky, they’ll reassign you. Even if you don’t do anything wrong, you might just get sacrificed to a bit of ruthless bureaucracy. They’ve evidently read the Evil Overlord List and taken note of what not to do. By the time Blake decides to shoot off to save the universe, he’s already lost twice – my rather shocked first impression of the opening episode, circa 2009, reads “I’ve just sat through 50 minutes of the hero, failing, failing, failing, failing.” This makes for very exciting, unpredictable television: you are never under any illusions that the heroes can’t fuck up, and that the consequences won’t be horrific if they do. Minor characters tend to have the life expectancy of a Spinal Tap drummer. Major characters don’t fare much better.

[caption id=”attachment_2315” align=”alignright” width=”300” caption=”The show’s most memorable antagonist - the cold, camp Servalan. Supreme commander of the Federation army, and femme fatale par excellence, slinking around her space base like the galaxy’s most self-satisfied Persian cat, and shocking even Travis-the-nutter with her cruelty. Not based on Thatcher. Honest.”][/caption]

Meanwhile, the ex-con “good guys” are only good in a relative sense – at best antiheroic, and at worst prone to selfishness, hubris and sheer human fallibility. In Who, the Doctor is a powerful guiding force and moral arbiter, and we accept his goodness at almost face value for most of the time. While Blake is initially yer typical fighter-for-freedom-and-justice, he is apparently the only man in the universe with such high principles. Greed, selfishness, normality seem to motivate everyone else. When Blake settles on a ludicrously heroic course of action, the supporting cast (including those we are meant to respect) always look on very dubiously. In the future, people will still complain about bad maintenance and carry photos of their wives and children in their wallets. It’s not just that this show is dark – it’s the way it keeps you off kilter until you genuinely don’t know where to stand.

Blake’s 7 is primarily a character-based drama. With the Liberator (mostly) under his control, Blake’s main antagonists aren’t the Federation but his very own crew, most of which just want to get rich or go home. Sci-fi gods Steve Moffat and Nigel Kneale are two high-profile haters, and this say a lot about where the show’s sympathies lie. Both are writers of pure science fiction, ideas men – B7 indeed leaves much to be desired on this front, cribbing off Huxley and Asimov whenever it starts looking too much like space opera. Both wrote it off as a lot of squabbling, which is about right. And if Moffat has a failing as a writer, it is that he does not understand character, nor does he put them at the forefront of his scripts. In contrast, J. Michael Straczynski of Babylon 5 cited Blake’s 7 as an influence so often that Gareth Thomas was brought out of retirement (in costume, no less) to present him with his SFX award at a con in 1997. Straczynski’s description of his show could apply equally well to its precursor: “to take [science fiction] seriously, to build characters for grown-ups, to incorporate real science but keep the characters at the center of the story.”

[caption id=”attachment_2316” align=”alignleft” width=”259” caption=”“I’m not stupid, I’m not expendable, and I’m not going!”“][/caption]

Because if dystopia is primarily an analysis of humanity under extreme circumstances, that’s right where characters need to be. Snarky, self-interested computer genius Avon is the series most iconic and popular character: waltzing off with the best lines, gleefully picking holes in Blake’s idealism, intermittently threatening to double-cross the central cast whenever it looks good for him, while slipping further away from his own ideal of a safe life, detached from emotion and mortal peril alike. He never smiles; until he picks up the habit of grinning when things hit rock bottom, and then he rarely stops. There are as many Avons as there are fans of the show to interpret him – the complexity and duality in the performance may owe something to actor Paul Darrow, who seems to have the most bizarre interpretation of him of all, as suave and badass (“The obvious person to replace me as Avon would be Brad Pitt…”). Similarly, one suspects that Blake only became interesting because Gareth Thomas insisted on playing the shiny boy-scoutish role scripted for him as a bit of a baddie. Both interpretations nestle uncomfortably with the script, and precipitate some character magic – as the series develops, Avon evolves towards a thrill-addict with the revolutionary bug and a penchant for black leather, and Blake starts making dodgy ethical distinctions and slipping off the moral highground. Blake is no more Kirk than Avon is Spock, but one suspects they’d both rather like to be.

[caption id=”attachment_2317” align=”alignright” width=”247” caption=”“Also, I can kill you with my brain”“][/caption]

And yet, while the performances are generally standout, and the script always zinging; its chief failing is still, as an ensemble show, to make more of its ensemble. During filming, David Jackson (Gan) quietly handed a piece of paper to the writer with the word “ten” on it. This referred to the number of words he had in this week’s script. A character who is nice, loyal and takes others at face value is perhaps necessary in a rogue’s gallery of antiheroes, but comparatively dull to write for. The potential offered by his straightforwardly moral outlook was only used once: it is Gan who objects to Blake teaming up with a gang of drug dealers to advance the larger cause of Freedom. This failure is especially noticeable in the second season, when the galaxy’s best (female) pilot and their telepathic (female) assassin spend most of their time on the Liberator making the tea and waiting for the boys to come home. Cally – said telepath – is in particular criminally underused. No one bothered with a consistent series bible, or to flesh out her alien culture, so it’s ignored. Her character flipflops from suicide bomber to pacifist moraliser. Her powers are poorly defined. Fantastic character opportunities are entirely forgotten. But the writers, who opted to make it the Blake-And-Avon show, didn’t seem to care; and most of the time, you won’t either.

All this personal drama is set squarely against intergalactic politics. Television producers like their products to be static, and easy to encapsulate and trap in buzzwords.

[caption id=”attachment_2329” align=”alignleft” width=”281” caption=”“When Avon holds out the hand of friendship, watch his other hand. That’s the one with the hammer.”“][/caption]

B7 is nothing if not fluid: as Avon gets so fond of saying, no one facet of the show is irreplaceable. The orbits of the characters jostle against one another and the wider world, presenting a slightly different challenge and experience each season. To say much more of howwould ruin one of the show’s chiefest charms. They are rarely fighting the same Federation: as much as Blake would like to use a Self Destruct Switch to dismantle it all overnight, it is a realistic beast with a billion heads and beating hearts, and it changes over time. The political landscape shifts around them – and their acts do have consequences.

One series takes place among the outer worlds, predominantly beyond Federation control, as they try to prevent their expansion. Another series is a right mess, with a chaotic crew defaulting to piracy or vengeance missions as often as they try to save the universe. The statistically inaccurate title should read “Blake’s 6.555556”, and even that’s not quite right. Arcs, foreshadowing, echoes and dark mirrors – deeply unusual for a 1970s show even if, the more one reads, the more one suspects much of what is so perfect about this series occurred entirely by accident.

Apt.

This is backed by fabulous, pacey plotting. A focus on process, whether it’s learning to operate the spaceship or springing locks, gives it an earthy verisimilitude. A lot of sci fi shows just whip out the technobabble and brush over the specifics. I’m not claiming that B7 never does this. But it is grounded in a very physical reality. All the tools seem to do things – machinery takes time to mend, and you feel Avon’s various tools all do something in particular. I’ve never had serious beef with the sonic screwdriver – i

[caption id=”attachment_2320” align=”alignright” width=”300” caption=”Actual dialogue on discovering they have been tricked with a clever copy: “that isn’t Orac, it’s just a box of flashing lights!”“][/caption]

f you need your heroes to get through a door to the next bit of the plot, then fair enough. But Matt Smith has taken it to a new low by waving it like a magic wand; take that crutch away, and all of a sudden getting through that locked door becomes a major plot obstacle in its own right. As little things go wrong all the time, this mundane activity makes the world feel very real.

Yet despite what we devotees would have you believe, the series is not perfect. The special effects are, well, 70s Beeb effects – infamously achieved on a weekly budget of £50, they are a mixture of the strangely beautiful and charmingly inept. The space-medieval costumes give a consistent look – it always feels as if there is a fashion to which they are adhering – but that doesn’t preclude some individually ridiculous choices, with much of the leatherwear brought straight in from a sex shop. And whatever Space Brownie points they earned by predicting the rise of the surveillance state, they lost with the introduction of supercomputer Orac:

CALLY: Is it a computer?

ENSOR: It most certainly is not. It is a brain, a genius. It has a mind that can draw information from every computer containing one of my cells. Orac has access to the sum total of all the knowledge of all the known worlds.

BLAKE: You mean it can draw information from any other computer without a direct link?

What they effectively have there is the internet. In a fishtank.

But there is so much to like. It’s what Firefly could have become** in its second and third series – without its lightness of heart and belief in humanity. Its tonal agenda is similar to that of rebooted Battlestar Galactica, some 30 years early – space opera made to play by “real world” rules. It almost explicitly holds a dark mirror to Trek – our Federation’s logo is identical to theirs, only skewed and pointing towards the Fascist right. But for canonical inconsistencies, Trek’s benevolent mission of democracy could be the propaganda either Federation would write for itself, as Blake and his Merry Men could be the rebel folk heroes of the oppressed in either universe, its atrocities the propaganda of insurgents.

Summing up and setting the tone for things to come, the first thing our heroes do when sealed in a room together is squabble. Blake fails to impress his audience with his grand plan to put power back with the honest man:

AVON
Listen to me. Wealth is the only reality. And the only way to obtain wealth is to take it away from somebody else. Wake up, Blake! You may not be tranquilized any longer, but you’re still dreaming.
JENNA
Maybe some dreams are worth having.
AVON
You don’t really believe that.
JENNA
No, but I’d like to.

The show could not be better encapsulated than by: “No, but I’d like to”. Can he do it? Perhaps. Do we believe he can do it? Maybe not, but we’d like to. Intrigued? Over the next year, I will be rewatching the series for Squarise, dishing out five-stars like wedding confetti, and I’d like to invite you to join me. You might laugh. You might cry. But you’ll probably just wince and sneer sardonically, then giggle like you’re about to go off your rocker…

Series 1 will begin “airing” as my exam schedule allows. I’ll also be writing a fuller review on Psychostrategy for fellow veterans: any discussion here in the comments will be chaired strictly for spoilers.

*The Bfi list can be read online, but I strongly advise you do not read their article on Blake’s 7. Nor anyone else’s – be paranoid about spoilers, because the surprising twists of fortune make this show and some barbarian reviewers have no standards…

** Firefly vs Blake’s 7: large cast o’ moderately noble crooks follow once-defeated leader against evil oppressive Alliance of planets from whom they have nicked some formidable technology. It also anticipates the space-as-Old-West analogy fully explored by Firefly. Joss Whedon has never formally acknowledged inspiration, but watched side by side it’s hard to believe it’s not there. This is no criticism of Firefly, which is also fantastic in its own right. And despite Nation’s dour outlook on authoritarian structures, it’s certainly Mal’s crew who suffered the worse fate….

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Forget it, Jake: Why I Will Not Be Seeing Polanski’s New Film

“He’s rich! Do you understand? He thinks he can get away with anything.” - Chinatown (1974)

Trigger warning: this article both discusses and describes a sexual assault

Art should exist purely for itself. Strong words, and wise. For what role should that kind of moral judgement play in the censure of art?

[caption id=”attachment_2252” align=”alignleft” width=”151” caption=”La Source by Ingres.”][/caption]

I am an aesthete, a surviving proponent of the  1890s movement that promoted “art for art’s sake”. The aesthetes protested against both the Victorian tendency to “use” art for moral or didactic purposes (cf Mr Dickens, whose tiresome centenary is everywhere), and the increasing mechanisation of ugly anonymous consumer goods. William Morris, creator of elaborate handmade tapestries and wallpapers, said “Have nothing in your house you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful”. Or here it is by Oscar Wilde: “Our age has lost the abstract sense of beauty! Nowadays men treat everything as if it is meant to be a form of autobiography”, and he goes on to depict an artist disappointed in himself at having created a painting that seems to reveal all his private secrets. This far predates Barthes Death of the Author – a figure who passed away in his essay of 1967.

It’s an ideal, of course, and filled with flaws – chiefly, that people buy mass-produced chairs instead of a hand-carved and craftsman-loved one-of-a-kind sedan not because they are dull artistic pariahs, but because money doesn’t work like that. Nevertheless, Gautier’s central premise is a tempting one – that morality should play no role in the sphere of art. “What care I,” asked George Moore, “that the virtue of some sixteen-year-old maiden was the price paid for Ingres’La Source?”. It’s hard to disagree with him now, at a century’s distance, that the world would have been “better” for the innocent lass to keep her kit on, and “better” for lacking a fine painting.

You see what I did there? Because it’s the virtue of a thirteen year old maiden at the heart of the moral problem posed by Roman Polanski’s New Film. And she didn’t even do it to creation of art.

So, in brief. We all know that Roman Polanski is on the run for rape. He can’t go to the US, or he’ll be arrested, and he can’t go anywhere which will send him back to the US. Back in the 70s, he accepted a plea bargain and hence pleaded guilty to the central charge of unlawful sex with a minor. From Wikipedia:

“We did photos with me drinking champagne,” Geimer says. “Toward the end it got a little scary, and I realized he had other intentions and I knew I was not where I should be. I just didn’t quite know how to get myself out of there.”^[13] In a 2003 interview, she recalled that she began to feel uncomfortable after he asked her to lie down on a bed, and described how she attempted to resist. “I said, ‘No, no. I don’t want to go in there. No, I don’t want to do this. No!’, and then I didn’t know what else to do,” she stated, adding: “We were alone and I didn’t know what else would happen if I made a scene. So I was just scared, and after giving some resistance, I figured well, I guess I’ll get to come home after this”.^[14]

[caption id=”attachment_2258” align=”alignright” width=”300” caption=”“I don’t blame myself. You see, Mr. Gittes, most people never have to face the fact that at the right time and the right place, they’re capable of ANYTHING.” - This is a great encapsulation of noir as a genre, but poor practice in the real world.”][/caption]

Strong stuff. Polanski countered that it was consensual, but in California law – as well as sound moral sense – a thirteen-year-old can’t consent. He also claims that “she did not respond negatively when he inquired as to whether or not she was enjoying what he was doing”. Which, be that as it may, means little in a room between a 45-year-old man and a 13-year-old girl: the power dynamic requires that nothing short of her enthusiastically pouncing on Polanski with no encouragement will look like good consent. Instead, she describes the encounter as “really I just tried to let him get it over with.”(Disagree? More about consent)

In exchange for pleading guilty, Polanski was to do 9o days in a psych ward - this was delayed until he could finish his newest movie, and in the event did only 42. On hearing that jail time was being rumoured counter to what had been agreed, he skipped the country and has been running since. Now with the distance of time, things have got complex – the girl is now grown and sick of the press attention, and has got her revenge through suing for a hefty settlement. The judge and prosecution have been criticised for irregularities. Polanski has claimed he regrets it – unsurprisingly, considering what a nuisance it’s caused. He’s also apologised, and apologised well: “She is a double victim: My victim, and a victim of the press.” But it’s ironic that he still feels no compulsion about keeping the case open, thereby keeping her in the press’ attention every time he breathes.

The hilarious thing is, there’s no doubt that the rape happened. She says it happened. He says it happened. But for some strange reason, Hollywood hasn’t noticed and people keep working with him.

I’d love to assume an aesthetic position on this, but it’s aesthetics at the problem’s core. Because Law is peeping around her blind for him. A petition demanding his immediate release last year described him as “an artist of international reputation. This extradition [would] deprive the film-maker of his freedom.” In other words, his identity, the word that defines him is “film-maker”, not “rapist”, and his international status as an artist trumps any moral judgements we might make about his conduct.

The real tragedy, of course, is that Polanski’s a fucking fine director. It’s all well and good to have principles, but one senses this would all be easier were we dealing with Uwe Boll. Were I given the choice, right now, between seeing him brought to justice at the price of him never making another film, a knot would develop in my stomach; the love theme from Chinatown would follow me all day, like a plaintive ghost.

[caption id=”attachment_2264” align=”aligncenter” width=”560” caption=”Spot Roman Polanski in this picture.”][/caption]

But, y’know. It would still be the right thing to do. And Jake Gittes would agree with me.

Sure, it happened a long time ago – but it’s not unresolved through some strange quirk of fortune, but because he was a coward who fucked off to France. It’s an unequal understanding of law which says you’re less guilty of crimes because you also create great beauty. If you’re sufficiently successful, you are in fact above the law. A few people who have asked, “but he had such a hard life!” – which is indisputably true, and doubtless it has changed him. But again – not enough to justify. In his letter from imprisonment, written in Geneva last year where the Swiss ultimately decided not to extradite him, he lists his complaints and none of them compel. The victim wants to drop the case because she is tired? That’s an evil thing to use in his own defence – she’s tired because the case has dragged out for 30 years, by his running the events have never ended. But his concern for her is touching. He agreed to only serve 90 days? Perhaps, but wiser minds prevailed against this backroom deal because the 42 days he actually served is pretty paltry compared to the crime. It’s also been said that he’s never raped anyone else and is therefore not a continued danger to those around him. Which might be true, but it’s hardly an argument. Because looking at this mess, I might think it best to not report and just spare myself the trouble…

These two facts are indisputably true. Roman Polanski did rape. He’s still not served jail time. It is not generally the place of the private citizen to provide the law – except he’s escaped the law by foul means, using his fortune and reputation to blind sympathisers. It’s time he should have served like anybody else. There’s no complexity or controversy here. He works in the world of dreams, but even there – all crime must get its comeuppance. Even there – when successful men escape justice, it’s not painted as laudable and right, it’s a moment of inescapable noir horror, the darkness at the end of the tunnel.

I’m a little disappointed that anyone’s working with him. But fellow actors have a lot at stake here. If they play the “he’s an artist!” card, the same defence might cover their indiscretions in future.

So I’m asking you, the viewer, to assume moral responsibility for your viewing – the same moral responsibility that Polanski abandoned by fleeing, that everyone who has worked with him since has neglected, that various sheltering governments have ignored. No one will take responsibility – but you can.

Don’t see his new film. If you absolutely must, leave it for five weeks so your viewing does not dimple the box office returns. Try and buy his back catalogue second-hand; but above all, do not go and see his new film.

To do so is to support him financially, but moreso, contributes to that aura of an “artist” whose works are so important, so crucial to the world’s development that he transcends the common laws of us mere mortals, and our 13-year-old-girls who had an uneasy sick feeling and didn’t say exactly no because they feared they wouldn’t be allowed to go home otherwise and who are now 46-year-old women who are so tired, and drained by the compounded cruelties of the years and the system and the press that since 2003, when she hoped he’d return to America so that everything could finally be over, she’s changed her mind. She hopes he doesn’t, so people stop dragging it up, so that everything can finally be over. A pragmatic move: she’s given up on any better justice, and is probably right to do so.

Cinema remains a money-centric business. Anything which keeps Polanski bankable, like successful new films, keep him making films. So long as he’s making new films, he can flash his reputation around as a smokescreen and armoured suit. Gautier would be outraged at making any sort of artistic decision on the basis of the artist’s morals. And yet I cannot see any other way justice will find Mr Polanski. Had he done his time, we could watch with a little more peace. But he started this connection. 33 years of questions about his moral behavior have been rebutted by “yes, but he is a good artist”. So if we cannot punish the man, we must punish the art.

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DVD REVIEW: Ca$h

Éric Besnard’s debut feature film Ca$h has drawn numerous comparisons to Steven Soderbergh’s Ocean’s Eleven and sequels, and understandably so: both are slick, stylish crime capers, and share a number of elements of visual style. But for all the criticisms of Soderbergh’s films, they are at least well-constructed and boast high production values, and it seems unlikely that Ca$h can compete on this level.

First things first: as much as the promotional material for Ca$h focuses on Jean Reno, he is by no means the main character. That dubious honour instead goes to Jean Dujardin, playing a vaguely Clooney-esque ‘charming rogue’ stock character, with wildly shifting priorities and a penchant for wearing polo shirts with a blazer (which has always struck me as an odd sartorial choice, a strange combination of smart and casual which succeeds in being neither). His roguish persona is set up far too obliquely, as he uses counterfeit money to buy a bunch of roses for a lady, and then proceeds to steal a large quantity of money from a stranger on a bus. This second crime is a problematic one, however: films or television shows concerning con-men need to show that the victim deserves to be robbed in order to maintain the ethics of the protagonist, whereas in this case the worst crime the mark has committed is to try and pick up a coin from the floor of the bus. However, as dubious as the ethics are, there is a nice twist on the otherwise tired and clichéd ‘wallet-grab’ stunt, in which a skilled thief bumps into his victim and manages to steal their wallet with just a moment’s physical contact.

Cash’s romantic pursuits seem fairly contrived, too: his relationship with the woman he sends the flowers to seems shallow, and definitely not enough to persuade him to give up his entire lifestyle. Is she smart? Is she funny? Or is it just because she’s pretty? These are all questions which are not addressed in the early portion of the film, and this makes their relationship seem slightly unbelievable. It could also be due to the fact that, in her initial appearances, Garance (played by Alice Taglioni) is so one-dimensional that she may as well be called ‘Token Love Interest’. While there is a twist to her character which develops later in the film, the original relationship is not established sufficiently to make the audience care about it to any particular degree.

Similarly, while he is clearly the main attraction in terms of publicity, Jean Reno as master thief Maxime is viciously underused, with no discernible character traits beyond a lust for money. While his cinematic output has been less than stellar lately, Reno has proved himself a competent and engaging actor in the past, and it is unfortunate that he has been wasted to such a degree as in this film.

On the other side of the narrative divide, the police element of the film is unfortunately riddled with clichés, from the ambitious yet smouldering female police investigator (in this case Julia Molina, played by Valeria Golino) who gets too close to the case, to the single-minded police chief who has spent years tracking a master criminal (played, somewhat bafflingly, by respected thespian Ciarán Hinds). Not content with being a cliché, however, Julia also manages to be an incredibly fickle character: it is somewhat unbelievable that someone who has supposedly spent a long time following Cash’s movements would join forces with him so quickly and readily. While this is explained later in the film, it jars quite uncomfortably within the narrative with no immediate explanation beyond “she’s a bit crooked”.

In terms of wider narrative, while it is set up as a ‘crime’ or ‘heist’ film, the actual crime of the film, a sizable diamond heist, is such a minor point as to almost become insignificant. Instead, it is a fairly tame revenge narrative wrapped up in crime-based twists and turns, and this is where it falls down in a big way: while there are twists and turns, ultimately there are as many back-stabs and double-crosses as the third Pirates of the Caribbean film, and they are about as coherent. This jumble of twists changes the film from a vapid but slick crime caper to a turgid, confused tangle of plot threads, each of which is difficult to care about.

But these things could be forgiven to a certain extent if the film was fun, or at the very least well-constructed. Unfortunately, Besnard is no Soderbergh, and the visuals of Ca$h end up being grating rather than slick, with the lengthy heist-plan sequence being one of the main culprits in these terms. The use of split-screen in these sequences was irritating in Ocean’s Eleven, but in Ca$h it’s just plain contrived: it is a tired visual device which gives the illusion of increasing pace but ultimately adds nothing to the pacing of the film as a whole. What is worse than this sequence, however, is the fact that it does not depict the actual heist. Instead, the heist proper is played out in a fairly standard sequence without the use of split-screen, and this just makes the initial sequence even more frustrating. Similarly, there are far too many freeze-frames of Cash when he’s just done something clever: Besnard clearly believes that these moments occur with far greater frequency than the audience does, and Dujardin doesn’t really have the charm necessary to pull this kind of shot off.

Finally, the music: while some decent funky or jazzy music can really elevate a film like this, once again Ca$h falls down. Not only are the music cues throughout the film jarring and cheesy, they are of a fairly low quality, as though someone spent half an hour on GarageBand attempting to make music this kind of film should feature, and as such the result is scrappy and ultimately boring to listen to.

While a film such as Ca$h was never likely to be a deep or artistically enlightening piece of work, the least that could be expected was a fun crime caper. Unfortunately, what is delivered by Éric Besnard is a scrappy, ill thought-out and generally dull film, with characters who fail to be even marginally engaging and a muddy, confused plot.

[rating:1]

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FILM REVIEW: The Artist

Never before have I sat in a commercial cinema - teeming with popcorn, rustling with late arrivals and feeling slightly tainted by the greed evident in the inordinately high ticket price - never before, while thus sat, have I experienced not simply applause at the end of a movie, but spontaneous applause during it. Nor do I remember ever getting enjoyment from watching my fellow patrons, laughing, eyes gleaming with the absolute transport of joy. High praise indeed. Go see The Artist, if you have eyes to see it with. It’s the 20s: George Valentin is a big-name silent movie star, Peppy Miller’s just starting out, and they’ve just invented the “talkie”. The twist is - it’s filmed in black and white, as a silent movie.

Arty decision, but what is unique about The Artist is its self-conscious artistry leaves nobody out. The experimental movie is built on elitism - it’s complicated (Christopher Nolan), alienating (David Lynch), off-putting (Lars von Trier) or simply written in “foreign” and requiring people to read. You could show The Artist to your kids as the beginning of a cinematic indoctrination - it’s PG rated, contains no philosophy, no nihilistic sex, and a performing dog. Similarly: the Artist is unashamedly cinephiliac, but it’s not going to show you up if you’re not a connoisseur. In fact - and I’m about to leave my film buff reputation wide open - I’d go as far as to say there are no specific movie references. A touch of Singing in the Rain, shades of Sunset Boulevard and All About Eve (but without their cruelty) moments that reminded me of Groucho Marx, yes. But at no point are there obscure in-jokes simultaneously proving how dashed smart both the director and you, the flattered fan, are for spotting them - it’s built on something cleverer than pastiche, and far more universal than completist film geekery.

Instead, this is a great way to kick-start a love of that most loving of eras - the 1930s romance. Movies like the Fred Astaire/Ginger Rodgers musicals were not simply as insubstantial as air, but like taking flight upon it - like being snuggled in a dream and sent ice-skating on sugar. Similarly, the Artist is quite at home with its unabashed melodrama - simple characters, simple story, perfectly performed. Cinema which doesn’t challenge or question - but simply makes you happy with every breath.

Like the dog. George Valentin’s co-star is a performing mutt - a man’s best friend, doing tricks on-screen, tugging his trouser leg and taking care of him off. Comedy animals are pretty tacky, but the Artist refuses to be embarrassed by the notion. There’s no irony, no kitsch - just pitch perfect pratfalls, and moments of genuine emotion. Such is the film’s lightness of touch, its childlike wonder that laughing at the antics of an adorable canine seems no problem at all. In a film where everyone’s acting with merely their faces and movements, perhaps it seems more at home?

The old stars aren’t dead. Dujardin and Bejo carry the story with ease - the lack of dialogue is never a strain. George Valentin has an old world charm, half Fred Astaire, half David Niven, all screen presence and silk smoking jackets. Peppy Miller, meanwhile, lives up to her name - infectiously ambitious, impossible to ignore, and likely to win this decade’s “best performance in a cloche hat”. John Goodman, as an archetypal Hollywood producer, actually manages to turn the sound “ka-ching!” into a facial expression.

At times, I was reminded that perhaps the 30s was a better time for film - challenges were opportunities. The modern movie was born before sound, and as a consequence learned to convey information in different ways - like billboards and newspapers, or an empathetic soundtrack. The Artist’s soundtrack is considerably better than any silent movie score, with perhaps the exception of our modern, experimental troop Minima. The jokes are simple and visual, but better for it. At one point (I do not mind describing it, as you’ll see it in the trailer - which I urge you to watch immediately), the infatuated Peppy embraces Valentin’s empty coat. After a moment, she slips one arm into the sleeve, giving the impression that the coat is holding her also, and dancing with her. The optical illusion is perfect, as is her shocked expression when “his” hand slips rather too low. I can’t adequately define the invention, romanticism and laugh all bundled up in that gesture without thoroughly destroying something never built to be deconstructed. And oh! How I’ve missed dance scenes where the camera pans merely left and right, letting the audience see every step and leaving them in no doubt it’s really the actors dancing.

This film lives on its set-piece gags, stunning moments of showmanship which play with the absence of sound - so I’ll not spoil too many. As an example - in the opening moments, we are at a film première. “The End” comes up on-screen, the music soars, and we with the characters are poised waiting for the audience to roar with applause. Instead, the music stops - the silence is deafening - and we are left watching the crew’s happy reactions. Other stand-out moments include an argument (“why won’t you talk to me!”), a dream (Valentin screaming at the screen, but no sound coming out), and one bravura moment when a tedious sound-effect cliché was replicated with a title card, drawing the first stunned round of applause from those sitting around me.

You will laugh! You will cry! I did both, and am accordingly handing in my 1990s post-meta-irony card. From the applause and the smiles of those sitting around me, I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m not the only one. Nor was I the only one pretending I could tap dance back out the doors to the real world.

You might say we’d been left speechless.

[rating:5]

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FILM REVIEW: Tiny Furniture

[caption id=”attachment_2230” align=”alignnone” width=”580” caption=”Lena Dunham and Jemima Kirke in Tiny Furniture.”][/caption]

Lena Dunham hasn’t done much in film yet; Tiny Furniture serves as her debut into films that people are actually likely to see at some point. It’s certainly a product of the times; made on a tiny budget with a small cast of characters, it epitomises the kind of indie, DIY aesthetic that amateur filmmakers everywhere can recognise and likely appreciate. Picking up prizes at Sarasota and SXSW, it’s a festival indie through and through, with Dunham showcasing her acting, writing and directing skills in what can only be described as her film.

Aura (Dunham) has graduated from university in Ohio, where she left with a film theory degree that she can’t turn into an actual life. For her efforts she has a smattering of largely unseen YouTube videos, a broken down relationship, and a sobering return back to her mother’s (Siri, played by Laurie Simmons) apartment in New York. The film revolves around Aura’s struggle with figuring out who exactly she is in this world, whilst dealing with volatile romantic prospects and the constant drama of her British train-wreck of a childhood friend, Charlotte (Jemima Kirke).

Tiny Furniture is absolutely a film made for arts students; as a film student myself, heading towards a useless film degree of my very own, the worries plaguing Aura’s every waking moment are fairly similar to my own. Whilst I might not necessarily fall prey to some of the more dramatic moments in the film, the spirit of the problem remains the same. Dunham handles this with no small amount of elegance and tact, refraining from allowing her characters to sink into any real maudlin episodes without adding a much-needed element of irony and self-parody. The film is billed as a comedy, after all, despite the fact that it feels more like a funny drama. As many of the laughs come from recognising tell-tale signs of our own reactions to a strange and unresponsive world as they do from the actual jokes (jokes being used here in as cool and indie a way possible, of course. There’s no “knock-knock” in this film).

Dunham has been called “the Woody Allen of Generation Y”, and while I dare not pretend to understand what exactly constitutes Generation Y, I can certainly understand the comparisons to fellow Manhattanite Allen. Dunham shares Allen’s love of witty dialogue and sardonic humour, and the love of New York. From the disparate lofts and apartments in which Aura and her friends dwell to the dingy gallery that Charlotte curates, the vibrancy of the city never seems to ebb away; it is compartmentalised, perhaps, but never separate. Dunham is much more understated, to be sure; by allowing scenes to simply occur without unnecessary flourish or distraction, the strengths of her writing come through more readily. Every character is defined by what they say, as most of the time the characters are either walking, standing or sitting down; it’s a fine line between drowning an audience in florid, unrealistic dialogue and painting every personality with the same brush, but Dunham strikes the balance.

Unfortunately, she’s not much of an actor; she does a solid job throughout, and there are moments where she actually steals whole scenes, but since she is in virtually every frame of film, her understated performance tends to just turn into a bland performance. This is most apparent when she is in scenes with the fantastic Jemima Kirke, who bubbles over with palpable energy whenever she is onscreen; her frequently drunk, lascivious and irresponsible character is perfectly matched with her acting skills.  Dunham’s mother and younger sister, Laurie Simmons and Grace Dunham respectively, play Aura’s mother and younger sister, Siri and Nadine (pronounced Nay-dine, apparently); both are great in their roles, particularly Grace as a perfectly pitched insufferable high-achieving sibling. It’s always nice to see a film being carried almost entirely through by a cast of female characters, which Tiny Furniture certainly is. During the course of the film, Aura experiences some romantic confusion with two men; Jed (Alex Karpovsky) being a mildly obnoxious YouTube b-lister, and Keith (David Call) being the handsome, self-centred sous chef at the restaurant where Aura works.

From a technical perspective, cinematographer Jody Lee Lipes opted for a Canon 7D D-SLR camera to shoot the film; it certainly fits the whole mood of the film that it is shot on prosumer equipment, with the 7D giving the film an authentic lo-fi aesthetic whilst still allowing Lipes and Dunham to compose their shots with similar depth-of-field as that found on 35mm cameras. For better or worse, it looks like a very accomplished student film, rather than a professional feature. There are those who may respond to this, or it could be a point of detraction; personally, I rather enjoy the sense of realism that comes from it.

With Tiny Furniture, Lena Dunham sets herself up to be a minor sensation, with any lack of wide visibility being made up for with keen attention from those in the know. She currently has a TV show in development for HBO, as well as a film co-written by herself and fellow indie up-and-comer Ry Russo-Young. Until then however, Tiny Furniture is a wry and clever little film about a film graduate trying to find herself, a far cry from Dunham herself, who clearly knows what she’s doing.

[rating:4]

Tiny Furniture will be out on Criterion DVD in March, 2012.

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FILM REVIEW: Mother And Child

[caption id=”attachment_2226” align=”alignnone” width=”580” caption=”Naomi Watts in Mother and Child. © Verve Pictures.”][/caption]

I’d like to warn all of the cinema-going public that advertising can be misleading. From glancing at the theatrical release poster for Rodrigo Garcia’s Mother and Child one may imagine it to be a cute flick, the sort of film where girlfriends can enjoy their overpriced popcorn for two hours and then leave the cinema with a warm fuzzy glow inside. Unless you get your fuzzy glow from watching Naomi Watts awkwardly simulate sex with a fragile Samuel L. Jackson (I imagine some would), this isn’t that sort of film. What it is, however, is a fascinating exploration of the nature of family and what it is to be a mother.

The plot centers around three women and the difficulties that they endure attempting to sustain a fulfilling existence. First, we have Annette Bening as Karen, a woman who finds it impossible to recover from the guilt she experiences after given up her daughter for adoption when she was fourteen. Naomi Watts is Elizabeth, the daughter Karen never knew, a high-flying lawyer but so independent that she finds it difficult to build relationships with others. Finally we have Kerry Washington as Lucy whose infertility has driven her to the long and arduous route of adoption. The narratives of these three removed lives are seamlessly intertwined to create a tapestry of emotions that is at some points humorous and uplifting but is balanced with a selection of heartbreaking scenes.

Garcia shoots the film with a beautiful subtlety, a 14-year-old Karen at the opening of the film merely removing her t-shirt to signify the conception that is about to take place, but at the same time is not afraid to shock. We see characters go through physical trauma as well as emotional, the birth scenes considerably graphic and suggesting that this is a more sophisticated and evocative film than one may first give it credit for. The cinematography is stunning yet intimate, a lack of non-diegetic music making the visuals almost more powerful. Bar a couple of rather clichéd slow motion sequences that I’ll overlook, Garcia does not dress up modern life or the glory of motherhood and instead presents us with a realistic depiction of society.

The performances are truly what drives Mother and Child, Garcia’s statement that ‘I don’t know how actors work’ seeming perhaps overly modest for the incredible acting that he has teased out in this picture. Bening in particular is a vital contributor to the quality of the film, her ability to be extremely amusing and then switch into a harrowing breakdown before our very eyes. Watts embodies a challenging role with a new level of maturity, playing off Samuel L Jackson (who plays her boss) in a fascinating series of interactions. Washington has a slightly smaller part out of the female trio, but portrays the emotional turbulence inside the mind of a woman who so desperately longs to be a mother but cannot with a beautiful honesty.

My one criticism of the film would perhaps be the ending. Throughout Mother and Child Garcia keeps the plot believable and the acting improvisational to the point where it feels like this could be a true story, but at the ending of the film everything seems to fall into place so coincidentally that audience members openly laughed at the screening I attended. Some viewers may be pleased at the closure the film gives, but I can imagine others feeling a sense of injustice at the fairytale images we are left with after what feels a convincing two hours of cinematic journey. I’ll let you decide.

Mother and Child is not a film for the faint-hearted. For a start, it’s well over 90 minutes long which, for a film with no action sequences, may seem a little much for some viewers. The subject matter is emotionally intense and resonates long after the film is over. Naomi Watts doesn’t look as good naked as you’d imagine. Asides from all this, it’s an incredibly well acted roller coaster of a film and a triumph for Rodrigo Garcia. While it may not be the top of your 2012 cinema priorities list, I imagine it will pick up an award or two and is definitely worth a watch.

[rating:3]

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TV REVIEW: Doctor Who - “The Doctor, the Widow and the Wardrobe”

[One that fell through the cracks, entirely due to my own grievous oversight over this holiday season. Sorry, Phil! - Ed.]

As something of a Christmas staple, the Doctor Who Christmas Special is a show which many people look forward to throughout the year. Over the years, we’ve had an enormous spaceship hovering over London, a runaway bride unexpectedly materialising in the TARDIS, a potential new Doctor, the end of time itself and a timey-wimey version of A Christmas Carol starring Michael Gambon. So what has the brilliant (or deranged, take your pick) mind of Steven Moffat dreamt up for us this year?

In short: a brilliant episode. From the pre-credits sequence to the heartwarming reunion at the episode’s close, “The Doctor, the Widow and the Wardrobe” oozed charm, humour and warmth, pretty much everything you could possible ask for from a Christmas special of a well-loved British television series.

The pre-credits teaser, involving the Doctor thwarting the seemingly annual attempt to take over/destroy the Earth at Christmas, is simultaneously an epic action sequence and an affectionate pastiche of Russell T Davies’ somewhat more bombastic Christmas specials: the image of a vast alien spaceship hovering over Earth is one we saw almost annually since the show was revived back in 2005, and to dispose of it within the first thirty seconds of the episode was a trademark Moffat pull-back and reveal. But the stand-out element of this sequence in particular is the music by Murray Gold, taking the familiar theme written for the Eleventh Doctor and cranking up the ‘Epic’ dial, thus taking an already spectacular scene to a whole new level.

by Phil Boothman

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My Right To Watch: Landmark Obscenity Trial

Trigger warning for simulated rape. While I’m not going to go into disturbing detail, this post is NSFW and discusses pretty out-there porn. This article relies heavily on the work of @lexingtondymock and @NichiHodgson, who have been livetweeting the courtroom these past days, much to my delight. All courtroom quotes have been sourced from their twitter feeds, which are accurate but obviously not as much so as a proper transcript. I’m also indebted to this background post by ObscenityLawyer.

“An article shall be deemed to be obscene if its effect or (where the article comprises two or more distinct items) the effect of any one of its items is, if taken as a whole, such as to tend to deprave and corrupt persons who are likely, having regard to all relevant circumstances, to read, see or hear the matter contained or embodied in it”. (Obscene Publications Act, 1959)

You just missed the obscenity trial of the decade.

by Emily Monaghan

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FILM REVIEW: Shame

Where is shame? In what forms does it come? How much shame is there in the modern society today? Who dictates what is shameful and what is not? What does shame make us do? In Steve McQueen’s new film, presented at the 68^th Venice Film Festival, the spectator is plunged in an ocean of shame; an ocean created by no one but ourselves. In Shame, through the sexual obsession of the protagonist, we are driven on a journey to understand how modern society is drenched in regulations that make us eternally ashamed.

The film opens inside the New York City subway where it also, not unintentionally, closes. McQueen physically takes us beneath the metropolis where the relationships between humans are fervent; we are presented with a spectacle of man in a world that he has created himself under his own feet. An exchange of looks establishes a connection between a girl and Brandon (Michael Fassbender), the protagonist. The underlying message caught in the character’s eyes is a desire for flesh, an animalistic instinct for sex that we are all drawn towards to some extent and that we all need to satisfy. The train stops and the girl steps down. The protagonist chases her but loses her in the river of bodies of the NYC rush hour.

In this opening sequence we are confronted with the crucial dichotomy that constitutes the focal point of the film: the contrast between instinct and society. Through the lens of a sexual obsession - one of the most condemned instincts today - the British director highlights the constraints of society with a strength that is oft-unseen. The humanity that we find in the film is made of distant stares chasing each other, connections that transcend word and contact. McQueen, in these innermost moments, uses a language of music and images, which, not coincidentally, is the purest we can find in cinema and one that reaches for something eternal and non-material: the soul.

The texture of the film is enriched with brilliant reflections on many of the laws and features of modern society in the postmodern metropolis such as the loss of identity, race, sexuality, relationships, family as an institution and the seductive power of consumerism. The stories of this successful businessman and the many Pirandellininan masks he wears in different social circumstances display the array of facets reality is made of. The mask changes when he is dealing with his sister, his boss, his secretary or a stranger and the sequences gain immense value as they depict how we are shaped as a person by the environment and situation we experience in determinate moments of our lives.

McQueen, uses the power of cinema to its utmost. The sequences where he strips the city of its voice and replaces it with music and images are some of the strongest, most intimate moments seen in cinema. He rids the screen of the dirt that stains the purest depiction of man. We are presented, in Shame, with a new prototype of realism. We reach closer to truth not via a faithful depiction of life on the street and not by placing the camera to film the world on an everyday basis. Society makes that moment inherently fake. Instead man is left alone with his feelings, emotions and instincts. A beautiful example of this is the long tracking shot that follows the protagonist as he goes jogging. As he is running engulfed by darkness and the coldness of artificial lights we see nothing less than a display of man.

In this display however man appears as defeated he is a victim of the world that he has created. The impersonal, post-modern, surroundings that frame Brandon in the film fail to donate him character or attributes. He is lost and the city is not a place of comfort anymore because its features are those of artificiality and lack. The New York streets form a maze that needs to be overcome not by living in it but by transcending its very structure. McQueen, just like a psychotherapist, lets his city speak its heart in order to analyse it and to cure it. The central character is brought to a catharsis, a moment where he has to face all the strongholds that had governed his life to that day and react. For the character, and for us, this is a moment of realisation, but it only comes at the end of a road that brought him to destruction, and therefore requires reconstruction.

On top of the spectacular directorial efforts from McQueen, the film boasts mind-blowing performances by all actors. In the role of Brandon, Michael Fassbender earned the top honours at the 68^th Venice Film Festival, winning the best male leading actor award. Carey Mulligan also displays a beautiful and more mature interpretation in the role of the sister Sissy.

Overall Shame is a film of stunning visual attributes and great directorial touch. The themes and messages treated are never simplistic nor banal. They seek and manage to reach and explore areas of the human so deeply that nobody has ever set foot there. As an added attribute I will say that, for me, Shame is also a film that everyone will enjoy watching and, thanks to the power of its subliminal message, will reach the most part of the viewing audience. A depiction of society on its knees in the shape of sex and vacuous facades, nothing better to see on a cinema night out.

[rating:5]

Related articles

• Michael Fassbender Wins the Best Actor Prize in Venice For Shame (popsugar.com)
• The Indie Corner: Shame’s Got Critics Blushing (filmophilia.com)
• Venice: “Shame” Is a Masterpiece (thefilmexperience.net)

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Timeline of Doctor Who - An Infographic

From James Ged, the infographical warlock behind the Doctor Who By The Numbers graphic featured previously on the site, comes this ever more ambitious attempt to condense the ups and downs of Doctor Who’s more-than-slightly daunting timeline. To these relatively uninitiated eyes, this is a gorgeous way of breaking down the show’s progress into digestible info-chunks, splitting the show by year, companions, Doctor #, and more. To the experts, no doubt there is much to gain from seeing what was already so indelibly inked into your minds laid down in glorious colour and streamlined elegance.

We have a soft spot for Doctor Who, and we certainly have a soft spot for infographics like this. Check it out below, and don’t forget to click through to the original site for the full-size version!

Via: CableTV.com

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