Alps (2012, Giorgos Lanthimos)

A wide-shot introduces us to a dancer alone in a deserted gymnasium, Carl Orff's Carmina Burana fills the room, her routine begins. An impressive routine nonetheless, but when the track comes to an end she is far from forgiving of her performance as she tells her unseen coach that she finds the track difficult and ill suited, that she'd prefer to perform alongside a 'pop' track. The coach says "you're not ready for pop", after which he makes a violent threat upon her life if he were ever to catch her performing to pop music.

And so begins Alps, a film that to call strange would be an excerise in futility. A film with opening and closing scenes seemingly unconnected to its main premise; a group known after the ...mountains hired to act out the lives of the deceased to ease the pain of the bereaved. But it does make some sense when remembering that the film was made by Georgios Lanthimos, the man who gave us the wonderfully severe Dogtooth. That film, like this one, drops us into a world that appears like our own but is more like some kind of alternative reality in which common existential matters are played out on a stage. And like Dogtooth the film drops the viewer into a world of regulation, of rules that only reveal themselves slowly but rarely fully. A world where hierarchies and relations have already been defined, we merely observe what happens when these chains of command and protocol are challenged.

One of Dogtooth's many shocking scenes was one of a woman being beaten severely (albeit briefly) with a VCR. Why? Because she brought 'unacceptable' material (a VHS copy of Rocky) into the house of what can only be described as her employer. Lanthimos seems to understand fully that life's assemblance of order exists soley because of violence - and as the opening scene described here - more precisely the threat of violence.

The group Alps - named by leader Mount Blanc for the mountains' irreplacable stature that could replace other natural monuments if nessessasry - ask the grief stricken people who desire their service a multitude of monotonous questions such as who the deceased's favourite actors were, favourite actress, what their favourite food was. These questions are pointlessly shallow yet seem important in the cynical ethos of the film, as it seems to point to how much we amount to living or dead.

As we witness more and more reinactions of Alps customer's lives, the lines that divide the members cold method acting begins to blur, as shown through an unnamed female member (Aggeliki Papoulia) who disobeys Mount Blanc's ground rules. The actress begins to pine for the fabricated lives bought by the customers instead of her own; a lonely existence looking after her father that mirrors all to closely the awkward infamiliarity of her work. She simply isn't happy in her own skin, how many of us are? How much of our own personality is ours? the percentage, I'd imagine, is on the low side. Are we (or at least many of us) just fleshy sponges that soak up vaccuous pop culture?

The film's set up and concept is an intrigueing one and one I expected to have more of a cautionary approach, or at least a little more pathos contained. There certainly are moments of poignancy, such as a regular client; an old blind lady who two Alps members act out the roles of her best friend and husband. A venture that reveals how we hang on to and obsess over even the most hurtful of memories. But largely Lanthimos's aim is rather despairing (though interestingly so) as his film looks to decipher how much worth is in our lives, the level of pain we leave behind for loved ones, along with the faint whisper we leave in the grand makeup of the cosmos. It's a cynical affair but ln this filmmaker's hands is never less than compelling in its loose absurdity and its reticence:

- How did such an eclectic mix of people of all ages come to form Alps?

- How does Mount Blanc hold his position as leader? He clearly holds intimidating authority.

- No one is enjoying the job, yet no one quits. Why?

- Did the member's legit day jobs come before or after the founding of Alps? Members working in the hospital seem to be implanted to hone in on grieving possible future clients.

- Why does is matter who drinks out of whose coffee mug in the staff room?

All these aspects are everything and yet not actually important. The absence of set-up and closure is what makes it such an insatiably engrossing and intense affair.

Alps questions the unknowable nature of the human condition and asks how little there might be to know, anyway. It's a horrible thought that those you love, when asked to describe you in death, might say; he/she liked tennis, Morgan Freeman, and had a slight leaning towards pasta. Does it all amount to this?

Rust and Bone (2012, Jacques Audiard)

As uneven as it is unconventional, this love story of two damaged souls finding strength in one another feels like new ground for its director, despite its retreading of past themes.

After delivering his finest film to date with A Prophet - a sprawling and transcendent crime-thriller that won the Grand Prix at the 2009 Cannes Film Festival - expectations were set higher than usual for Jacques Audiard to deliver another tremendous piece of cinema, something he's yet to fail in doing. Following the relationship between a nomadic kickboxing single father (Matthias Schoenaerts) and a recently paralysed Killer Whale trainer (Marion Cotillard), Rust and Bone is a mixed bag of results that remains genuine throughout, never failing to evoke the overwhelming emotions needed to drive the story along.

Alain (Schoenaerts) is a typical protagonist for Audiard; introduced feeding himself and his young son scraps from the tables of others while occupying a train, the two are between homes, Alain between jobs. He finds pay working nights as security guard and eventually through his background in fighting gets drawn into the world of illegal fighting gigs. Sleeping on his sister's sofa he has one foot in a repetitive ( yet legit) societal construct yet the other in the underworld. His eventual meeting with Stéphanie (Cotillard), a woman now wheelchair-bound after a recent accident with the very animal she lived to train,  soon becomes a fascinating relationship of empowerment and frustration.

Audiard and co-writer Thomas Bidegain use this fateful meeting to usher the dynamic of two contrasting personalities as they find solace and pain in one another. The power is often in the court of Alain, whose obliviousness and emotional aloofness  gives him an invincibility of sorts while the more 'aware' of the two, Stéphanie, at first finds strength in her lovers indifferent attitude towards her disability before growing to resent it as her love out matures his. This switching dynamic never fails to spark intrigue in its wavering nature and ambiguity, most notably in Stéphanie's almost fetishistic feeding off Alain's fighting physicality as a surrogate for her own loss, an interesting notion merely hinted at.

For all the raw emotional ferocity and catharsis so wonderfully displayed it can't be helped but feel that Audiard took on more than he could handle. His cinema has always walked a thin line (like his central males so often do) between the anthropological approach of the Dardenne brothers and the explosive visceral machismo of Martin Scorsese. Here, for the first time since 2001's Read My Lips (a film thematically echoed here) have the results been so uneven, with too many aspects being juggled and left ultimately in the air. At points the film doesn't seem sure what direction to take, most evident in a unnecessary plot involving Alain's participation in illegal hidden surveillance in the work place. At this point the film ventures into societal ethics and of economic repercussions that although marls a shift in narrative feels awkwardly contrived next to the stark realism of the piece so far.

Rust and Bone is from start to finish an example of great filmmaking without being a great film in itself, and within it are many great stories that end up unrealised. Despite a sense of confusion at its core, the film's central relationship between Alain and Stéphanie acts as anchor to a film destined to trail off. The performances are spectacular throughout; Schoenaerts excels in making the oblivious brute of Alain an endearing character capable of growing personably as well as in stature. Marion Cotillard reminds just how talented she is after a recent strand of disappointing performances in the US. In her native tongue she is unrivalled as a performer, it just seems that many American directors can't bring out what is so clearly there for the taking. Audiard also shows growth as a director, with this being his most visually developed film to date and one which seems to embrace visual storytelling and musical possibilities more than any of his other films. Alexandre Desplat's score is used with more gusto than before and an unforgettable use of Katy Perry's 'Firework' marks a more adventurous and unconscious choice from one of world cinema's most exciting auteurs.

Top 10 Films Of 2012

1. Amour
2. The Master
3. Tabu
4. The Kid With A Bike
5. The Turin Horse
6. Once Upon A Time In Anatolia
7. The Muppets
8. The Raid
9. Silver Linings Playbook
10. Martha, Marcy, May, Marlene


What a wonderful year 2012 has been for cinema, something certainly proven when putting together a top ten list has been as difficult as this. Many films haven't made the list yet were thoroughly enjoyed such as Killer Joe and Magic Mike, two rather contrasting films featuring standout performances from Matthew McConaughey, films I long believed would make the list after saving my sanity during the summer season. Pixar's Brave and Andrew Dominik's second Brad Pitt vehicle Killing Them Softly were also both hugely impressive but fell short by their own standards and the year's offerings as a whole. The deeply moving Chilean documentary Nostalgia For The Light was just left off the list, another highlight of the year for sure.

Those left in the top 10 have been the ones that have affected me the most such as Michael Haneke's unflinching story of elderly couple Georges and Anne in Amour, or The Dardenne Brother's raw depiction of childhood neglect, The Kid With A Bike. Some films left me amazed in their ambition; The Master saw Paul Thomas Anderson further disband with narrative and his collaboration with Jonny Greenwood proving once again to be a uniquely visceral experience. Other equally inspired uses of music were Bela Tarr's final film The Turin Horse in which a single motif was used throughout to break up a despairing apocalyptic silence. The surreal use of Phil Spector's 'Be My Baby' in Tabu, Miguel Gomes' lamenting tale of love in which our relationship with memory and the cinema we digest is beautifully explored. Then of course there's the films that have been enjoyed in the purest sense of the word; the ironically removed humour and infectious songs of The Muppets, or The Raid with its still unmatched level of inspired intensity, proving there's still life left in the action genre.

Here's to 2013!

Amour (2012, Michael Haneke)

In Michael Haneke's previous film, The White Ribbon, a conversation unfolds between a young boy and his older sister as she's prompted by her sibling to inform him of the nature of death and our inescapable mortality. The sister is honest, doing the harder option of which the naive youngster purposefully smashes a nearby cup as a reaction to his dismay. The scene is one of Haneke's most tender, a word seldom used to describe the Austrian filmmaker, though it also sums up his most recent film in its stark portrayal of distressing subject matter. With Amour, the lives of elderly couple Georges and Anne are followed as they cope with debilitating illness and ultimately death. The film neither dilutes or diverts from the truth at any juncture. An uncompromising depiction of, as the bold title alludes to, love, not romance but love in its purest and most honest form. Like the sister in The White Ribbon Haneke respects and saves his audience from a deviated truth, presenting a brutal depiction of life which winds up as an ultimately life affirming and inspiring piece of work.

Beginning with fire services breaking down the locked doors of retired music teachers George and Annes house, the film works from the couple well and in good spirits attending the concert of a previous student of theirs. The day to day interactions between the two (Jean-Louis Trintignant and Emmanuelle Riva) are so utterly convincing as a couple who've known each other for 50 or more years. As Annes suffers a stroke leading to a 50% paralysis we see the lengths to which George will go in caring for his wife and the infinite depths of his love for her. The affection between them is made clear not through contrived speeches but through what is left unsaid, the stroke of a hand, a look, and as we follow the drama, the sacrifices. One of the biggest feats of Amour is its ability to create humour out of its interactions and the deeply understood characters; as Georges tells an untold childhood story of his tearful breakdown in front of an older boy, she jokes that he's in danger of wrecking his image in his old age. When asked how, she replies, "you can be a monster". It's an acute sense of humour at the heart of Amour, as Georges finds the idea funny and clearly a true observation on his wife's part, it's the frank understanding between them that drives this honest sense of adoration.

Filmed with the expert precision we've come to expect from Michael Haneke, the drama often unfolds over a series of static long takes with Darius Khondji's photography bringing out a richness in the halls of this chamber piece. Isabelle Huppert does a fine job as the daughter unable to cope with the situation, a situation she finds herself on the outskirts of. It's the remarkably brave performances from Trintignant and Riva, though, that truly make the film as haunting and ernest as this; the candidness of the picture leaving the performers seemingly unfazed by the overwhelming emotions they've created. It's impossible not to think back over key scenes in Amour and escape unshaken, to feel rejoiced in the film's power of communicated humanity but also drained by its uncompromising discussion of decrepitude and euthanasia.

The Shining - Extended Cut (1980, Stanley Kubrick)

The mystic pulling force of The Shining continues to endure as we're given the tantalising chance to revisit a milestone of genre filmmaking, on the big screen in its original 144 minute cut no less. A transcending example of technical innovation, saturated in ambiguous wonder, and lasting iconography that remains steadfast 32 years on.

Having the chance to witness any Kubrick film in the cinema should never be missed; whether it be the baroque decorum of Barry Lyndon (1975) powered by NASA manufactured cameras, the expansive 70mm filmed 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), or the final expressionist strokes of the dreamlike Eyes Wide Shut (1999). I wondered what I'd get out of a film I'd already extensively revisited, what could be gained from the newly placed scenes cut out of its original UK release? On this occasion the scale of the screen only added to the feeling of space so carefully constructed by Kubrick, you really feel the roaming camera this time as it glides the halls of The Overlook Hotel. Only through this can you see The Shining for what it's really worth, giving extra attention to those enticing clues in every shot.

For those not so familiar with the film may find the newly replaced scenes go straight over them, they're subtle and hardly have a drastic effect. There is a doctor's examination of Danny at the Torrence residents before their move, the conversation between doctor and mother Wendy adding more emphasis to Danny's 'gift' and his mother's attitude towards a past familial incident. Also there is an additional scene that gives Chef Dick Hallorann's journey back to The Overlook extra strain as his concerns for the family mount. These examples sound superfluous but though I've never had a problem with The Shining's 119minute cut I've been so suited to over the years, it certainly benefitted from being further drawn out to give father Jack's murderous decent into madness extra weight. If ever there was a complaint besides Shelley Duvall's polarising performance it was that Jack's transition was too abrupt. This new (old) cut certainly puts this concern to rest as we're given a more tantric exercise in terror.

Anyone who's watched the brilliant making-of documentary by Kubrick's daughter Vivian will know the strain put on Shelley Duvall as mother Wendy, desperately protecting herself and son from an evil from within the family unit. While Kubrick pampered Nicholson and gave him free reign, he put Duvall through hell to the point of collapsed exhaustion. What we then get is a lesson in overacting from Nicholson as he chews the scenery, having the time of his life, to Duvall quite literally just projecting her very real torment onto the screen, she barely needs to perform at all. This all just works, its a strange dynamic but it works on a bizarre level of deranged entertainment verging on black comedy. Enough praise cannot be aimed at 7year old Danny Lloyd as the Torrence's 'gifted' youngster. Whereas most child performers are awkward and merely read the lines they're given with great strain or jarring control, Lloyd manages to give his lines weight. You see genuine terror in his eyes and in quieter scenes see him thinking before he speaks, thinking not as a child remembering lines but as one answering to an adult.

For as many people that have seen The Shining there are nearly as many readings of it. For those who enjoy it for the great horror that it is, appreciating it at face value, is fine. But it's those who dig into the bottomless pit of possibilities it harbours who really love this film, with recent documentary Room 237 showing the extent of its cult following to almost worrying (sometimes comical) levels. It can be viewed as many things, and it certainly isn't just one of them; domestic abuse, child neglect, artistic vanity/frustration, and historic repression. Just a few themes I believe the film tackles, at least one which are evidently apparent to me.

The creator of The Shining Stephen King took a disliking to Kubrick's vision, due to the extremely loose adaptation of work very precious to him. The main difference that gripes most is the central character of Jack Torrence who, in the book, is a clean-cut upstanding man whose subsequent possession is made all the more shocking due to his pristine manner in which he's at first presented. With Nicholson's Torrence we're given a rough and ready man who is hinted at having, however forgivable, a history of violence and alcoholism. Whereas some shoot down Kubrick's version arguing that his maddening decent can be seen coming a mile off, what's interesting is the idea of temptation fuelling the film, that the hotel is using old demons to have Jack kneel to submission. Just think of the woman in Room 237, of the miraculous appearance of the barman in The Gold Room. As Jack is told he's, "always been here", the sense of a predestined tragic fate and an omniscient evil is put forth.

Like the maze which prominently features throughout and certainly in the now iconic finale, the film is also a journey easy to loose oneself in, to enter and never feel like each trip was the same yet feeling all the more familiar still. We know from the extensive analysis over the years the The Overlook Hotel doesn't make logistical sense, its a living breathing and deceptive animal more similar to a maze than the place of pleasure it poses to be. Each viewing feels like something has shifted, that something new has come to life, that yet again something else feels obscure just when you made sense of another. It's main scares are made of building menace rather than the cheap tactics of today's horror, the conversation between Jack and Delbert Grady in the bathroom is the most apt example as a conversion of manners is played out before slowly revealing a most sinister purpose. 

With its restlessly moving camera, dynamic ambitious sound design, wild spectrum of performance, and uncompromising open-ended approach, The Shining is a film that simply cannot be praised enough in short form such as this. It's an endless road of questions, one which gets under your skin for good and has you believe, like Jack, that you've never left, sentenced to roam its halls forever.

Beasts Of The Southern Wild (2012, Benh Zeitlin)

In Benh Zeitlin's feature debut the wrestling match between the human spirit and human nature is explored from an infant world view. With an exceptionally assured central performance by the film's 9 year old star and wondrous moments of serene beauty, it's therefore a shame that Beasts Of The Southern Wild is often suffocated by its need to overcook key dramatic moments. 

Environmental concern is at the heart of this film; set in a flooded deep south like an apocalyptically heightened New Orleans, we follow the lives of those who remain in their floating homes on borrowed time as icecaps continue to melt. It's the small but plucky Hushpuppy who the film clings to and her longing for an absent mother and dealings with a hot tempered father. Fight or flight become the two options as some flee the south to seek refuge from the elements in the north, though Hushpuppie's strong willed father and a motley crew of other alcoholics fight to stay against the power of the environment and government.

Opening with a vibrant carnival the film's tone and celebration of life is expressed immediately; an endlessly mobile camera almost uncontrollably soaking up the surroundings, intimately ecstatic, almost to the point of frustration. This handheld approach to shooting is consistent and can be at times exasperating, it seems Zietlin's camera is given the view point and the energy of a child and is as such -  both pure and draining.

There is plenty to admire in this picture, for one, it accomplishes much given the modest budget and scale of production. The photography is stunning, the set design unique and genuine, both feeling lived in but with the grit never outweighing the fantastical. It's an assured debut and clearly an example of a filmmaker to look out for, yet my frustration stems from wanting to love this film more. That the key ingredients were there and drawing me into its beauty, a beauty burdened by a sense of forgery. Working with child performers can be cumbersome and these problems of strained drama most commonly result from this, however, its young central performance is a remarkable one. If anything 9 year old Quvenzhané Wallis outshines the rest of the cast.

The battle between human nature and spirit, of Man's relationship with natural order, infant point of view, and the sporadic unapologetic voiceover brought to mind the cinema of Terrence Malick. With its internal struggle stemming from juxtaposed paternal figures and a focus on the nomadic, it falls somewhere between Days Of Heaven and The Tree Of Life. But where these films felt effortless, airy and uniquely candid, Zeitlin's film has an unfortunate need to smother its charm. I'd stretch to say Beasts Of The Southern Wild tries to delve into the infant mentality, to heighten every emotion, to make five moves when one was adequate. Conscious or not this approach alienates us, keeps us at a distance when we want to immerse ourselves in the emotions of these people and their position, eased by a wave of emotion instead of pummelled by it.

Overall this is an exciting debut from a talented young director surely still forming his craft, a filmmaker with a team that have miraculously created so much from so little. Though I felt I was stopped from falling in love with Beasts Of The Southern Wild the fact that it arose such strong feelings about this denial is enough to praise as it left me far from apathetic.

The Turin Horse/ A Torinói Ló (2011, Béla Tarr)

To describe The Turin Horse as a contemplative, stagnant, bleak, devastating piece of cinema seems perhaps not entirely redundant but truthfully a little patent in the face of a new film from Béla Tarr. It is indeed all these things and a fitting end to one of cinema's most uniquely pushing artists; A vision of humanity's end is shown in almost perverse starkness as we follow the day to day lives of a farmer, his daughter, and their horse.

If his 2000 offering Werckmeister Harmonies offered a partial, and arguable, exploration of Voltaire's infamous quote - "If God didn't exist, it would be necessary to invent him" - The Turin Horse explores the tragic end of another philosopher in Friedrich Nietzsche. Opening narration recites the remarkable story of Nietzsche who upon witnessing and intervening a stubborn horse's brutal flogging by its owner, lived the rest of his life essentially bed-ridden and mute. So many questions arise from this account; what about this incident led a great mind to disintegrate, to seemingly give up hope? Was the reality of the scene so horrific as to profoundly change this man in an instant, or was it the final push of a man already fighting an internal battle? Like the fate of the horse, we'll never know.

One can only take from the emphasis on this source inspiration that the horse and driver in Tarr's film are representations of the ones witnessed by Nietzsche, that the despairing apocalyptic world the characters find themselves in is the end of civilisation as envisaged by him, the disintegrating grapple with hope and faith in mankind made real through the decaying surroundings and relenting elements. The Turin Horse can certainly be read as a state of mind, as it can be read many ways.

Werckmeister Harmonies explored the 'need' for the idea of God and the desolation that follows the extermination of an ideological deity, what we get here is a further demonstration and a peek further down the line of where the previous film left off. As we follow the menial daily routine of the farmer and his daughter, the hazardous environment as well as outsider hints through philosophical ramblings certainly point towards an end of days scenario. God, if ever present, is certainly not anymore. The couple's daily lives are shown in painstaking detail, a rigorous approach to display so little as they dress, go about their chores, each eat a boiled potato, and sleep. Only to be repeated day in day out monotonously with depressing conviction. Nearing the end of the film as the couple's horse has withdrawn from his duty and is refusing to eat and drink, they go about their usual routine regardless even now living in darkness. They both stare at their raw potatoes and as the father begins to eat his, the daughter does not, he tells her that she must. The Turin Horse presents us with a need to live at whatever cost despite a clear lack of purpose to, this daily grind and hardship, this routine remaining unbroken, and for what? What drives us to keep going when all hope is lost? Inherent survival rationale? A chance at glory in the next life? One could argue for the latter if this picture wasn't so clearly set in a Godless landscape.

Typical of Béla Tarr's cinema The Turin Horse paints a bleak picture of life and a harrowing meditation of its worth and our purpose. It does however pose important poignant questions, as many as its opening story leads us to ask and with as little answers to follow.

All the hallmarks of Tarr's films are present; the gorgeous monochrome photography, the seemingly infinite long takes that take the viewer past a level of acceptance and into a hypnotized state of wonder, and Mihály Vig's deeply affecting music; a single piece that beckons the end, never letting up under its extensive use. All these elements combining to once again show us a vision of humanity in decline. Tarr's career has largely dealt with societal fallout and so The Turin Horse is a fitting end to his work as we're brought to the seemingly bitter end of life, made present as the final strands are worn away.

Over the summer we've been shown the world under dire threat in countless blockbusters, with the heroes defending mankind's future as it hangs in the balance. Whether I've stomached all the apocalyptic suspense I can through over-saturation I don't know but The Turin Horse has delivered a scenario of uncompromising consequence. Here with a cast of few we're quite literally shown the decaying of a slowly extinguishing world, a refreshing counteraction to the blockbusters which shout loudly as everything could end yet ultimately showing no individual loss, no real consequence, nothing being truly at risk. Beyond the fireworks display these films offer we must ask why the creators expect us to invest in their story's predicament, to invest in their characters when nothing is actually at stake.

The Turin Horse grabbed me from its stunning opening and didn't relinquish its grip till the bitter end; How a horse has earned its place among the best performances of the year is a miracle as its scenes are the most heartbreaking I've ever witnessed, emotional without a shed of manipulation. It is a crowning jewel on the career of an artist we can only say goodbye to reluctantly, but Béla Tarr has delivered undoubtedly one of the finest films of the year as well as his own body of work. Therefore there must be thanks in our mourning of one of modern cinema's most distinguished voices, a true genius which his final film firmly lays claim to.

Watched This Week: 08 - 14/10/12

His Girl Friday (1940, Howard Hawks)

A long time favourite of mine, I revisited this gem recently after my girlfriend begged me to show her the film I've constantly sighted over the years. Cary Grant stars as Walter Burns - a newspaper editor desperate to stop his best reporter and ex-wife from leaving the paper and remarrying. The film is both touching but not without a cynical edge, a bitterness seeping in like so many of Howard Hawks' films. Hawks was, as Mark Cousins rightfully describes him as, the great chameleon of Hollywood; a filmmaker who masterfully took on each great American genre, crafting some of the greatest examples of each. One of the first and finest gangster films with Scarface (1932), film-noir with The Big Sleep (1946), romance - To Have And Have Not (1944), War - Sergeant York (1941),  Musical - Gentleman Prefer Blondes (1953), and the western genre with Red River and Rio Bravo (1948/59). The un-flashy and sheer economy of his visual approach marked him against auteurs of the time, it was only from the adoration of the Cahiers Du Cinema critics that had people re-evaluate the workman like assembly of his pictures to seek deeper. The French critics were fascinated at the control and quality of Hawks' films while remaining in the artistically crippling studio system and found subtly planted but clear themes running through his work. The 'Hawksian' woman is perhaps what he is most famous for given the times his films were conceived, woman who worked and fought alongside men and gave it better than anyone, even humiliating the comfortable egos of their male counterparts. Here, Hildy Johnson is the most fearsome of all of Hawks' heroines. Hawks began experimenting with the romantic comedy in 1934 with Twentieth Century, a dizzyingly paced story also of a desperate man trying to keep a woman from leaving him. Here the overlapping dialogue is utilised for the first time with actors almost spitting lines at each other in a machinegun like flurry. This manic approach was then taken to the next level with Bringing Up Baby (1939) before (in my opinion) being perfected in His Girl Friday. Being 70 years old it's outstanding how fresh the film feels, having watched it well beyond a dozen times over the years it never fails to get a huge reaction out of me and I dare anyone to find a cheekier and more mischievous character than Walter Burns. I also dare anyone to name me a more versatile director than Howard Hawks, one that matches the sheer impact and undeniable quality, a filmmaker who took on every major genre and won, taking his championship to his grave.

Duck, You Sucker (1971, Sergio Leone)

Sticking out as the much neglected film in the short lived but wholly impressive career of Sergio Leone, film historian Christopher Frayling comments that audiences weren't ready for the new 'maturer' phase of Leone's career. The befuddled advertising of Duck, You Sucker helped non either as it would later go by three titles; A Fistful Of Dynamite was used predominantly in the west to help cash in on the success that came with The Dollar's Trilogy, while Once Upon A...Revolution helped tie in with Leone's previous film Once Upon A Time In The West. One title actively disguising the film's motives and themes while the other actively acknowledging them, one can forgive distributors for rebranding the film due to the original title translating poorly on the world market. Here, Leone continues his much evolving style and pushes it to the extreme; his pace as languid as ever, scenes drawn out for longer, and with camera movements even greater in scope and execution. What's most interesting, though, is how much darker the film is in comparison to what came before it, darker even than OUTITW due to its footing in the bloody historic events of the Mexican Revolution. Focussing on two distinctly different men as they travel through the battles and bloodshed of the revolution, the film's vision manages to be as intimate and personal as it is epic. Rod Steiger's dirty bandit Juan teaches James Coburn's IRA man John a thing or two as they experience great loss and treachery, both shown to us in events from past and present. This central theme of treachery and friendship would be delved into with even more intensity and melancholia with Leone's next film, his swan song, and his only foray into another genre in Once Upon A Time In America. The film's pacing and Ennio Morricone's surprisingly experimental jaunty music certainly stands Duck, You Sucker apart from the rest of Leone's canon, however, it also makes for the most touching of his films too with the end battle sequence revolving around a mighty train crash being one of the best of Leone's moments. A truly dazzling action scene that only sinks the heart upon remembering that Leone planned a war film with Robert DeNero just before his passing.

The Virgin Spring (1960, Ingmar Bergman)

One of the more traditional films in Bergman's extensive career but by no means any less impressive, winner of the 1961 Oscar for best foreign language film it still stands as one of the great man's best films and a timeless parable still used today. The story of a good natured, deeply Christian family taking in unbeknownst to them the rapist and murderers of their daughter is sublime human cinema filled with heartbreak, tension, and a backhanded affirmation of life. I say backhanded because in The Virgin Spring, like his later masterpiece Cries & Whispers, Bergman who was famously troubled with his faith and the 'silence of God' was clearly envious of his characters' faith. Perhaps living through their faith could he ever get as close to understanding himself and the futility of his own efforts. His characters are like children in the face of God, in their darkest hour still unconditionally loving and trusting, something Bergman found he could never be. His characters breathe an idea into the film, that the human soul cannot be broken though it can be made dirty, but looking behind the camera one only finds the truth of the man trying desperately to understand such behaviour, wishing he could be as they are. The Virgin Spring was the first time Bergman and cinematographer Sven Nykvist worked together, a partnership that would last over the following 25years and become one of the most legendary cinematic parings of all time. Bergman and Nykvist's composition is as perfect as ever and makes a case for being the most stunning of Bergman's monochrome output. A clear blueprint for Wes Craven's 'video nasty' The Last House On The Left (1972), Bergman's film was adapted from a 13th century Swedish folk ballad and started an alchemic cinematic bloodline of films that explored similar philosophical alleys with varying results. For those looking to begin with the cinema of Ingmar Bergman, this along with Summer With Monika (1953) and Wild Strawberries (1957) are the best places to start before moving on to the likes of The Silence and Persona (1963/66)

The Kid With A Bike (2011, Jean-Piere & Luc Dardenne)

Abandoned youth, directionless angst, and the limitless capacity for human kindness fills the newest offering from the Dardenne Brothers. The Kid With A Bike is the most accessible of their films to date, filled with genuine emotion and tenderness but also that cold slice of pseudo-reality that runs through all of their work. As usual you can expect a film devoid of any idea of closed romantic realism but still one of the most uplifting experiences of the year. 

Cyril is a young boy who has been rejected by his father, living in a foster home due to his father's lack of responsibility Cyril spends the first half of the story coming to terms with his unaffectionate parent. A struggle which unfurls heartbreakingly as you see the one way street of love the two of share. Within a struggle happening in a local medical practice between Cyril and his social workers, a woman literal topples into Cyril's life as he uses her as an anchor to meet his demands. This woman, Samantha, played by the wonderful Cécile De France, takes an instant liking to the troubled boy and later reunites him with the bike his father took from him. A relationship grows between the two as Cyril stays with Samantha on weekends before becoming his permanent foster parent. Not all is happy families at first, though; Cyril resents his new carer and doesn't stop at filling the gap left by the absence of a father figure which gravitates him towards a life of crime. The central drama revolves around Samantha's devotion to the young boy and her battle to keep him from ruining his life, desperately trying to restore his faith in the people who really care and not those out to exploit him. 

Samantha's love for Cyril is never explained through her own upbringing or any factors from her past and neither do we wonder her reasons, she just does, unconditionally through the sacrifices she makes from him from the offset. There is a moment when she breaks down realising Cyril is beyond help, her emotional outburst is heart wrenching, a mighty testament to De France's palpable performance and the sheer power of cinema on display. Pure cinema that comes from a human place, one that isn't moulded with a demographic in mind. The Dardenne's films, like the undeniable post-war movements they're so in tune with, are of small human crises that of course in the shadow of big budget Hollywood seem insignificant to some, but it's these stories that matter and are the ones we often live through ourselves. If the cinema is a vessel for the human experience then the Dardennes are creating pure cinema.

The film has a revelation in the form of Thomas Doret as Cyril who makes his acting debut here, the psychology behind his eyes is just remarkable as you can see his thoughts and feel his detachment. The pent up emotions of the film are beautifully displayed with the use of Beethoven's 'Adagio un poco mosso' which sporadically plays in dramatically heightened moments before refraining, only in the closing credits does the piece unfold beyond what was allowed during the drama.

The Kid With A Bike is as masterful and deeply humane as anything you'd expect from these two filmmakers who throughout their career seem incapable of making a film without relevance. They are two of the finest living directors, kings of understatement, achieving more than most artists ever aspire to or dreamed of. At times during the film I was so caught up in the lives of these characters during certain moments I could swear my heart ceased beating, very few films contain this power and even fewer filmmakers can harness it. The secret to their success is their sincerity and appreciation for basic human experiences with their most recent venture being perhaps the best example of this rare humanity.

Killing Them Softly (2012, Andrew Dominik)

George V. Higgins' 1974 pulp-crime novel Cogan's Trade gets a modern revamping with an intensified sociopolitical twist in Andrew Dominik's newly titled Killing Them Softly. Though the underlying themes of this microcosmic tale of retribution are often as on-the-nose as some of the harsh hits throughout, with its ambitions fully realised and the help of an outsider's eye it transcends its genre trappings making one of the most aspiring crime pictures in many years.

An ex-con hires two younger men to hit a mob-protected poker game after second guessing the direction of the mob's counterblow, an outcome that will go in the three's favour as they leave clean with $50,000. In steps Jackie Cogan (Brad Pitt) also hired, this time by the mob to find those responsible for the robbery. Jackie is an intriguing kind of enforcer, an intermediator of both political and financial wellbeing playing off public (street) perception to see that business carries on as usual without truth disrupting commerce.

Killing Them Softly certainly concerns itself with contemporary politics, the current economic climate, and the ramifications on the business sector; organised crime is presented candidly here as a delicate business also under the strain of the recession. It is, after all, a trade like any other and despite the gun welding personnel of the involved, their finances are not bulletproof either. Writer/director Andrew Dominik has stated that he has always viewed crime films as a representation of capitalism, that no other genre acceptably features central characters selfishly crusading for personal gain. Dominik's point might seem patent at first but is entirely accurate, especially as he takes this underlying theme and pushes it to the forefront be be examined and exerted in his film, making an airtight case. The results are severe in both execution and effect, with Obama's (then campaigning for presidency) speeches providing regular commentary on the desperate acts of violence displayed throughout the film.

The film is hardly homework, though, requiring not even a basic knowledge of current political happenings to enjoy. Filling in for the overly simple plot is an incredible array of characters expertly played by a note perfect ensemble; Ben Mendelsohn (Animal Kingdom) and Scoot McNairy (Monsters) are wonderful as the depraved duo who hold up the poker game, their bumbling and sophomoric sensibilities providing the majority of the film's laughs. While James Gandolfini steals the show with a short appearance as Jackie's old friend, flown in to take care of an organised hit. Though staggeringly funny at times, his Mickey is a broken man whose misfortune has crippled him, figuratively speaking. His outward musings of his thin marriage and the possibility of doing more time is delivered with such heart and conviction that this unlikable man introduced for a matter of minutes becomes a tragically sympathetic character who's zest and professonality has gone down with the economy. His choice of business has destroyed him. Brad Pitt hardly leads the show but his Jackie Cogan is interesting beyond the instantly classic exterior; Jackie is capable of great violence but unlike the others likes to remain distant, often physically distant, but also away from the emotions that death can bring. Jackie comforts his prey to a degree, easing them into a false sense of security before the deathblow.

There is a sadness, a biting nihilism to the story and a desolate bleak atmosphere expertly maintained from start to finish. Dominik and director of photography Greig Fraser give Killing Them Softly a fitting end-of-the-world vibe that sticks even through the film's many successful bouts of humour. The film also includes some visually arresting moments (some effective with others falling on unnecessary) to heighten the humdrum nature of the story, especially during more violent moments where he never fails to make you flinch. It's reassuring to know that a filmmaker can still make violence uneasy to an audience. Even his off-key treatment of the opening credits stands you on edge before the first shot has even been fired.

Killing Them Softly is an unapologetic indictment of the 'American Dream', hardly new territory or much to be proud of by now. Given the almost alien representation of the America we're used to seeing through Hollywood, the film's desolate locales, the morally devoid characters, and the bitterly infused words of Brad Pitt in the film's final line, we get an uncharacteristically ambitious crime film that plans to entertain as well as backup its ideology and succeeds at doing both. Whether Killing Them Softly will gain a major audience from its food-for-thought approach to genre filmmaking, we can only hope, as this is a cut above the rest and Andrew Dominik is now going 3 for 3.

Tabu (2012, Miguel Gomes)

Effortlessly profound, this gentle heartbreaking tale of doomed love earns its power from its incredible restraint rather than melodramatic indulgence. A film that while making radical steps in storytelling manages to remain intimate, offering insight into the connection between cinema and the unlimited power and illusory nature of memory.

Tabu unfurls in a seemingly straightforward manner but in hindsight makes for a difficult task to delineate, where to begin with this deceptively broad film? The story begins in Lisbon 2008 with a drama revolving around an elderly lady named Aurora, her black maid Santa, and neighbour Pilar. Aurora's behaviour becomes increasingly distressing before she is hospitalised and in her final hours asks Pilar to track down a man she used to know by the name of Ventura. Until this point the film had built these three characters before abandoning them for the elderly Ventura who then takes centre stage to narrate his and Aurora's past. It's in this telling of the tragic demise of Aurora and Ventura's relationship that the film's premise and experimental pushing becomes apparent, with this 60s set story being told completely through narration while the onscreen action remains silent.

Shot in the old academy aspect ratio of 1:37:1 and entirely black and white, director Miguel Gomes tells his story as a silent feature with the same technical specifications as filmmakers from the turn of the 20th century, though the film does include sound from non-diagetic sources such as the jungle of Tabu where the story takes place. All this sounds rather gimmicky but Gomes is coming from a different place entirely from, let's say, The Artist; Tabu does more than reference cinema of the past, here he applies it to the very heart of human experiences. If we think of how we absorb the world around us and thus how we memorise it, we process through many fragmented images and never a fluid flow of the same. Our eyes seldom hold for more than two seconds, we blink, we move, all adding to a whole which is remarkably similar to how cinema works. Gomes' film links human memories with the cinematic medium, the silent medium adding an overwhelming edge of nostalgia to the proceedings. 

That we hear Ventura's recounting of events but never the characters' voices speaks of a film that is challenging the notion of memory, the scenes are played out before us but our 'trusting' commentator provides the context. Of course this aspect provokes extra thought into the authenticity of affairs, but the agonising love letters between Aurora and Ventura that are dictated with the same earnestness can only be read as genuine.

Gomes' film is remarkable in its inducing power, largely because of the amount of elements omitted, elements that would normally be the make-or-break tool for most films. Music is used very sporadically and actions such as gunshots fired towards game or human targets during the story aren't shown, we're shown the consequences of actions never the actions themselves. These are minor details when compared to the larger more resistant nature of the film's narrative in that it refuses to turn back on itself. When a new chapter starts, past character are never reintroduced or harked back to for emotional reflection. This wholly progressive drive of Tabu is perhaps explained through a line from one of the love letters that declares, "You may run as far as you like for as long as you like but you will not escape your heart". Yes the film looks back but in its propelled and detached sentiment to its first half Tabu is certainly failing on purpose to move forward while the past beckons it back.

Each character of Pilar, Santa, and Aurora live in isolation and loneliness despite their proximity to one another; Santa lives with her employer in the house she maintains while Pilar is but a few feet away from Aurora's front door. The first half that tells of this three way relationship is in itself a masterful depiction of loneliness to the second half's portrayal of love, loss, and memory. There's also the feeling that though Aurora's story is told here, the focus could have been shifted to any of the other characters for a story worth being told, after all, everyone has one to tell.  Even those closest to Aurora didn't know of hers, the story that was the key to so many of her flaws and downfalls. On this sad note the film proposes how hidden people can be in plain sight, how anonymous we can be to those closest to us, and how it's tragic part of the human condition that we can never fully know anyone. 

Tabu washes over you calmly before revealing itself in the coming hours and days afterwards, a rewarding emotional labyrinth and a stunning example of classical filmmaking. Classical, not in the sense of the past cinematic techniques utilised but in the harmonious marriage of content and style.

Anna Karenina (2012, Joe Wright)

Joe Wright's adaption of Tolstoy's enduring masterwork is a gliding, flamboyant, and overall shallow experience due to the director's placing of technical wizardry over building affinity with his characters. An unfortunate and frustrating recurring issue within the work of a clearly talented filmmaker that can be argued for this time round due to the trivial nature of the characters and desperate need to repackage a classic for modern digestion.

The tale of a socialite woman's decent into despair as she chooses a life of 'true love' to a young Count over her marriage to her statesman husband, is a timeless and still revelatory example of literature, much regarded as one of the greatest examples ever written. However, despite its profound lasting influence on not just literature but film and art in general, it would have been naive to play it straight when bringing Anna Karenina to the big screen. Audiences after all, especially those not familiar with Tolstoy's novel, may find the unfurling drama all too familiar as what makes the book so rich may seem conventional when translated to film. The approach taken turns the story into a kind of semi-stage play, an elaborate theatre house where the scenes psychically convert on screen before the viewers eyes as the characters roam and inhabit an enclosed performance space. Exterior shots are kept to a minimum with often peripheral details painted on the interior walls. The effect is often jarring, taking a short while to ease into though never stopping short of remarkable. This mode of storytelling makes for the most interesting component of Wright's film but also the source of its collapse in some respects.

Keira Knightly gives one of the strongest performances of her career as Karenina; as an actress she continues to climb great heights to lose her detractors, while she may have a lot more to prove, after her dazzling turn in A Dangerous Method and now this she is certainly developing as a performer and must be appreciated. Jude Law has similarly suffered from a hoard of critics throughout his career but likewise delivers a truly wonderful act as Karenina's good natured yet unloved husband Alexei. His character could so easily be construed as God fearing, a detached man devoid of emotion, obsessed with social standing. Given his screen-time and narrative function it's testament to Law's performance that he is felt to be so tragically human despite his seemingly idealist nature and rigid moral coding. His Alexei is full of compassion and love despite receiving none himself, ending up the most memorable and sympathetic character of this film's mighty ensemble. Aaron Johnson as Count Vronsky, the man who passionately falls for Anna and vice-versa, doesn't do much more than create a young ambitious militant man with shallow aspirations, but that was his function. The story, after all, is of a woman's search for contentment and truth in a society lost in fabrication and compromise; the technical inventiveness surrounding the characters, the exuberance of the living set piece they inhabit, portrays the superficial elegance of the city's high life. While juxtaposed against the story of Konstantin, close friend of Karenina's brother Oblonsky, and his quest to marry Kitty, Oblonsky's wife's younger sister,  a woman he truly loves, does the film refine itself. Refining itself to show the purity of Konstantin's rural life and sincerity of love compared to the damaging social mores of the city; a great theme in Tolstoy's work that is conveyed rather well here. In fact it's in these moments with Konstantin where the film works best, as we're ceased to be bombarded by the film's roller coaster effect and given the chance to invest rather than being forcibly removed from feeling. 

Martin Scorsese one said of his similarly themed The Age Of Innocence, that it was his most violent film, quite the opinion from 'the master of the mob movie'. Yet Scorsese's feelings towards his film rings true and here Joe Wright also does an excellent job of creating the social scrutiny felt by Anna Karenina after her affairs have been aired. The maliciousness of society is unleashed upon Tolstoy's 'Scarlet Woman' shown in the film through striking utility; during a horse race in which Anna unconsciously reveals her feelings towards Count Vronsky and at a restaurant where all eyes scrutinise her every move, Anna's shame is expressed with a Brechtian use of Tableaux Vivant as the room freezes and fixates on her. 

Adapting a novel of this magnitude was never going to be an easy task and to a degree Wright has pulled it off. Whether his clear technical adeptness as a director and his refusal to let us get too close to his characters is needed this time round is debatable, as this approach to his work has stifled past efforts. Atonement was more about the bigger picture of human lives than the personal intricacies of relationships, as was the case with Hanna. In the former, the example of how simple misunderstandings and the troublesome subjective viewpoint of personal experience can ruin lives was put forth. With Hanna the inevitable fears of parenthood and destruction of innocence in the world were played out at the expense of emotional investment. Perhaps this wouldn't be such sore spot if Wright's films weren't such platforms to show off his technical virtuosity as a filmmaker, because it only highlights his shortcomings as a storyteller. Whether his pitfalls actually help his Anna Karenina this time round, I'm not sure, but it certainly isn't the failure others have reported it to be. Is Anna Karenina a great film? Not by a long way. Is Joe Wright capable of making a great film? Yes, he just hasn't managed it yet but I know he's got it in him.