Inside Llewyn Davis, the new film from the Coen brothers, is an odd hybrid of comedy and existential howl of despair. Set among the clubs, coffee shops and rented rooms of the New York folk music scene of 1961 it stars Oscar Isaac as Llewyn, a gifted but catastrophically self-centred performer whose efforts to establish himself as a commercially viable act are constantly sabotaged by his thoughtlessness and refusal to make the necessary accommodations of other people’s help and constructive advice. He’s repeatedly seen tramping through snowy streets to whatever kindhearted acquaintance he thinks he might be able to persuade to put him up for the night and his spare time between his very occasional gigs seems to be spent in arguing with and generally alienating fellow musicians, family members and record company bosses. About the only living being other than himself that he shows concern for is a ginger cat that he manages to misplace while minding a friend’s apartment.
Llewyn’s misadventures and lack of social niceties make for some very funny and sometimes winceworthy scenes, with dialogue as sharp and inventive as you might expect from the makers of The Big Lebowski and Miller’s Crossing. There are several genuine laugh-out-loud moments. But there’s also an underlying melancholic tone that makes his bumbling plight feel almost tragic at times, most notably during a speculative roadtrip that Llewyn makes to Chicago in order to try to impress a famed folk music impresario. His two travelling companions (one taciturn, one patronisingly garrulous) seem not just eccentric but disquietingly alien and the long car journey to a freezing, windswept Chicago comes over like an odyssey to the dark depths of Llewyn’s soul. The muted, soft-brown, colours that the Coens use for the bulk of the film give way here to deep wintry blues and near-blacks that couldn’t be a better choice for spelling out “All hope is lost”.
Llewyn’s one redeeming quality is that he is, despite all his arrogance and indifference towards the people who might help him, a pretty spellbinding guitarist and singer…which means that Oscar Isaac must be as well, as we’re treated to several unbroken and closely observed sequences of the man doing his thing, at live shows and auditions and at one point even in the passenger seat of a car. The Coens have always been good with music (witness the groundbreaking success of the O Brother Where Art Thou soundtrack) and one of this film’s main pleasures is the way it’s saturated with stripped down folk songs that are captivating and authentic (or authentic-sounding, anyway. I’ve got no idea how many of the pieces here were written specially for the movie). The fingerpicking and close harmonies are gorgeous and even the deliberately cheesy tunes have a weird fascination.
You wouldn’t call Inside Llewyn Davis a feelgood film by any measure other than musical as it ends up feeling as weirdly unresolved and ultimately a bit unsatisfying as other recent Coen efforts No Country For Old Men and A Serious Man. It is however exquisitely made, with some great turns by the cast (Carey Mulligan is convincingly and formidably pissed-off as one of Llewyn’s one night stands) and an unusually affecting atmosphere. It’s certainly the best film I’ve seen about a talented but self-destructive acoustic guitar player since Woody Allen’s Sweet And Lowdown about fifteen years ago…although I guess there hasn’t been too much competition there. And it’s got the best cat acting ever.
The Railway Man is an adaptation of the autobiography of Eric Lomax, a British World War Two veteran whose horrific experiences in Burma at the hands of the Japanese army were causing him severe post-traumatic stress even thirty-five years later. When Lomax discovers that the interpreter Nagase who facilitated his barbaric interrogation sessions is still alive and working at the same location he decides, with the encouragement of his new wife, to take the trip over to South-East Asia to face his demons and maybe achieve closure.
This is an earnest and worthy film that sets out to explore weighty themes of memory and reconciliation and if you’re looking for an actor who can deliver stiff-upper-lip repressed torment you’re not ever going to do better than Colin Firth but even so, I dunno…it all felt a bit fumbled and awkward to me. It’s structurally odd, starting as it does with a rather charming meet-cute between Firth and Nicole Kidman on a train, the light tone of which is absent from the rest of the film, before working its way through a rather contrived set of flashbacks showing Lomax as a young man being captured and set to work along with the rest of his unit on the infamously high-casualty Burma railway construction project. Presumably this format has been adopted so that the audience gets the information about Lomax’s past in the same sequence as his wife uncovers it but it might have been better for the flow of the film to have presented it in a straightforward chronological order. I was also distracted by Kidman’s haircut and over-precise enunciation and, slightly less trivially, by the decision to cast the defiantly Swedish-accented Stellan Skarsgard as Lomax’s former comrade-in-arms Finlay. Surely we’re not running that short of adequate Scottish actors? It all feels like someone should have run an iron over the script to minimise the wrinkles before they started shooting.
When, however, The Railway Man does get going and is allowed to get to the heart of its story it succeeds well in getting across the horrors of this particular corner of war. The scenes set in the 1940s are both vibrant and harrowing, presenting a convincing depiction of brave and resourceful men struggling to survive in a hostile situation. Jeremy Irvine does an excellent job as the younger Lomax who’s put through hell when his enthusiasm for making maps of trainlines is misinterpreted by his captors and some of the other actors look disturbingly malnourished. The film’s also pretty affecting later, when a stony-faced Firth returns to confront Nagase – you’re genuinely not quite sure how these scenes will play out. There’s enough good stuff in this film to make it worth your while if you’re interested in the subject, or just want a good cry – I was just left feeling that it was a shame that a fairly amazing true story had been put on the screen in such a convoluted fashion.
If you thought Martin Scorsese’s new epic The Wolf Of Wall Street was going to be a heavy and serious critique of the excesses of the banking sector in the last few years think again. It’s based on the memoir of the stockbroker Jordan Belfort which came out before the big crash of 2008 and details his working practices, fraudulent activities and jaw-droppingly unrestrained playboy lifestyle in the years of plenty…plenty being a euphemism for industrial-scale misselling of stocks and shares of highly dubious potential.
Leonardo DiCaprio plays Belfort as a slick, ambitious and hyper-confident salesman who’s convinced that the world is for his taking as long as he can make his pitch irresistible. As it turned out, he was right: within a few years of starting his career by coldcalling gullible clients with honeyed promises from scuzzy offices converted from garages he was making millions a month, able to afford a mammoth mansion in upstate New York, a yacht the size of a shopping centre and a constant cycle of uproarious parties and sleazy liaisons, fuelled by a regime of illegal stimulants and relaxants. All of this is rendered on screen with gusto and panache, with the scenes set among the coked-up, aggressive dealers on the trading floor barely less feral than the bacchanalian orgies that follow (the dwarf-tossing party actually occurs in the workplace, while trading is open). This film is very much in Scorsese’s comfort zone, and with its tale of the rise and fall of an outsider through a vicious hierarchy of power it’s highly reminiscent of Goodfellas, even down to the cocky voiceover and the freezeframes, and I also recognised the same tone of heightened mania that runs through The Aviator. What it’s lacking, despite all the luxurious trappings, beautiful models and top of the range sportscars, is glamour – DiCaprio and an unexpected cameo from Joanna Lumley aside, all these chancers look and act like slobs. At times it’s a gallery of flab, bad hair, base appetites and self-centredness, with Jonah Hill’s performance as Belfort’s bizarre right-hand man Donny a particularly fascinating study in creepiness. The good times of course can’t last, and the FBI gradually get wind of Belfort’s insider deals and failure to declare mountains of cash, making for a denouement that may be inevitable but is still pretty dramatic, and along the way there are at least half a dozen setpiece confrontations and capers that seem destined to become classics (Belfort’s return home from the country club down the road from his house had me cackling in my seat).
The Wolf Of Wall Street is a riot, three hours of outrageous and reprehensible behaviour that had me gasping, laughing and occasionally even cheering throughout despite the misgivings of my impeccably right-on inner Guardian reader. Politically correct it isn’t but hilarious it most certainly is and there’s just enough self-awareness and punishment for its loathsome lead characters for the viewer not to feel too bad about it.
While it’s pretty clear that civilisation in general is going through a bit of a bad patch at the minute, what with the revival of the concept of the undeserving poor and the slashing, belittling and selling off of essential public services for reasons that seem dubious at best, there are however one or two fringe benefits to being alive right now, particularly if you’re into old movies. Back in the day, before videos and DVDs and way before on-demand streaming, you sometimes had to make herculean efforts to see any film not currently on general release, either by waiting up into the small hours to catch a screening on one of the three TV channels or by attending film clubs, where the quality of the prints were usually so dire that you weren’t left much the wiser by the end. The advent of VHS rental shops seemed like a revolution, but even then you usually ended up squinting at something smeary and riddled with tracking artefacts and there was the ever present possibility that your machine would chew the tape into unusability. Plus it wasn’t necessarily cheap: shops would often require you to buy one film at retail price before they let you start renting, and the price of a film could be something like £45, which could represent several weeks worth of disposal income in the early 80s.
Nowadays on the other hand you can get high-definition surround-sound transfers of just about anything beamed direct into your cerebral cortex within seconds of thinking of it. Or, if you’re still wedded to the idea of the physical product you can probably order it on disc for the price of a latte or a magazine. For example: as part of their centenary celebrations, Universal studios have issued a handsome box containing blu-rays of eight of their classic horror movies from the 30s, 40s and 50s and you can currently get it online for £18. That’s Dracula, Frankenstein, The Mummy, The Invisible Man, Bride Of Frankenstein, The Phantom Of The Opera, The Wolfman and The Creature From The Black Lagoon. For eighteen quid! It’s an austerity-age bargain! And these are no knocked-off cheapo editions either – they’re buffed up, restored, gleaming transfers with yards of value added material such as documentaries and commentaries attached, and you even get a glossy little book and postcards showcasing the original promotional art.
So far I’ve only watched Dracula (1931) all the way through. It’s a classic, just for the opening ten minutes, which are all wild mountainside roads and the Count’s spectacularly cobwebbed and ultra-gothic castle. The sets and matte paintings are just gorgeous. Eventually Bela Lugosi makes his appearance and despite his slightly stilted delivery (you can tell English is not his first language) he’s immediately the definitive Dracula: elegant, charming, slick-backed and exotically accented. He couldn’t be more of a contrast to the rat-like Max Shreck in Murnau’s 1922 Nosferatu and is the template for more or less every screen vampire-in-chief ever since. I’ve got to say that the earlier film is ultimately more effective and resonant due to its sheer weirdness and scenes of plague and disaster – where Murnau showed a whole town succumbing to the baleful influence of the vampire, the 1931 film seems to bed down into long and not very dramatic dialogues scenes that take place in a comfortable mansion, as though we’re watching a stage play. The main points of interest are Dwight Frye’s manic interjections as the possessed Renfield, which do shatter the slightly soporific tone even if they’re a bit hammy.
Anyway, one film down, seven to go and if you’d told me thirty years ago that a collection like this would be available for the price of a small shopping basket at Tesco I’d have told you that it sounded like someone somewhere had got their priorities a bit tangled.
New Year’s Resolution: if you can’t find anything interesting to say then keep it short.
Case in point: 12 Years A Slave, Steve McQueen’s adaptation of nineteenth century black musician Solomon Northup’s 1953 book of the same name. Northup was kidnapped and sold to a succession of plantation owners, under whom he witnessed and experienced barely imaginable cruelty. The film’s been garnering five star reviews for months and is as surefire an awards-magnet as I’ve ever seen for its theme, its pitiless but never gratuitous depiction of the barbarity and degradation of slavery, the skill and judgement of its makers (despite all the horrors here they still managed to bring it in as a 15 certificate) and the quality of the acting, particularly Chiwetel Ejiofor as the brutalised Northup, Michael Fassbender as his drunk and sadistic “owner” Edwin Epps and Lupita Nyong’o as an unfortunate girl who Epps has taken a perverse shine to. I could go on for another few hundred words, many of which probably be along the lines of “searing” and “unflinching”, but others have said it much better elsewhere. It’s pretty much a bulletproof classic. I will however throw in a couple of observations: firstly, that I did very much enjoy Paul Giamatti’s cameo as a silver-tongued slave dealer (“my sentimentality is the length of a coin”) and secondly, that it did leave me with a yen to dig out the old mini-series Roots. My guess is that while it would probably come across as a lot more stagey and a bit less intense than McQueen’s film it would still make a good point of comparison and stand up well, if only for showing the monumental effects of slavery on successive generations rather than one displaced man.