Review: The British Guide to Showing Off

Proving that the old adage “truth is stranger than fiction” still stands, Jes Benstock’s kitsch documentary about the history and staging of the Alternative Miss World contest may be the weirdest, most surreal hour and a half you’ll ever spend inside a cinema.

Set up by artist Andrew Logan in 1972, the AMW – as the documentary fondly refers to it – deliberately subverts the outdated, hetero-normative principles of its mainstream namkesake to produce a dazzling, anti-establishment spectacle of everything that is outre. This is a world where “eveningwear” is less likely to be a slinky ballgown than a giant replica After Eight box. Previous winners include transsexuals, robots, septuagenarians and Derek Jarman.

The British Guide to Showing Off is set around the 2009 contest – the 12th since 1972. We follow Logan and his team, which includes a typically effervescent Zandra Rhodes, as he finds a venue (the Camden Roundhouse), a co-host (Ruby Wax) and, eventually, a winner (ah, that’d be telling). Interspersed with the main narrative are titbits from Logan’s biography and the history of the competition, which are both presented in of charming mix of live action and animation.

One of the most appealing things about this documentary is the total lack of self-consciousness among both Logan and his contestants. While the contestants clearly revel in the freedom to express themselves as freakishly as they want, at the same time it doesn’t seem to occur to anybody that the whole thing is, well, a little bit surreal. In the documentary’s funniest scene, Logan’s polite, well-spoken adopted sister Janet (aka Miss Handled) is cheerfully telling a buttoned-up, stiff-lipped businessman about the contest. When she offers to show him photos, he tries (not very convincingly) to conceal his shock at the sight of a gleeful Janet stark naked, with red paint daubed over her breasts and genitals. While he blushes and stammers as tactful a compliment as he can manage, and the audience is laughing out loud, Janet is far too absorbed in talking about the competition to even notice.

The contest is closely associated with the gay rights movement, and the documentary makes this clear. It looks at the 2004 contest, which was a benefit for Elton John’s AIDS charity, and also the homophobic impact of Clause 28 on the contest (media-led mutters along the lines of ‘ban this sick filth’). Yet Benstock skilfully avoids overemphasising the role this plays in the contest: it’s a celebration of gay culture, sure – but it’s a celebration of pretty much everything else as well. It’s reassuring to the spirit of the contest that Benstock stresses the overwhelming diversity of the contestants.

At times, though, “overwhelming” might seem to describe the documentary pretty well. At a little over an hour and a half it’s just long enough – any more and it would soon start to drag. At times the relentless onslaught of colour and noise make for a hefty sensory overload. The animated sequences, in particular, are fairly stunning – but on occasion, there’s just too much on screen to look at. That said, it’s hard to deny that the documentary’s garish, lurid style is totally in keeping with the AMW.

The documentary’s subject matter, combined with the ferocious enthusiasm of all involved, make this is an especially likeable piece of film. Logan (who, as a child, was founding member of the “Happy Club”) seems pathologically unable to express negativity about any of his endeavours, but he’s still sharp-witted enough to avoid an irritating demeanour of pure twee. As such, we’re rooting for him the whole way – and it’s a genuine delight to see the 2009 contest come off without a hitch. As for the winner… Actually, forget it. You’ll have to watch it to find out.

This review first appeared on Flickfeast.co.uk on 7 November 2011.

Review: Jack Goes Boating

Having started life as a play, Philip Seymour Hoffman’s directorial debut retains much of its stagey flavour. But it also proves that Hoffman’s flair for the bittersweet – evident in several of his previous roles – is not confined to his acting. With Jack Goes Boating, Hoffman has demonstrated his considerable worth as a talented and thoughtful director.

As well as directing Hoffman also plays the title role: a New York limo driver with a passion for reggae (which explains the half-hearted cornrows) and an ambition to work for the MTA. His co-worker Clyde (John Ortiz) arranges, along with wife Lucy (Daphne Rubin-Vega), for Jack to be set up with neurotic funeral worker Connie (Amy Ryan). Their shy, tentative relationship quickly falls into contrast with the fast-crumbling marriage of Clyde and Lucy.

It’s a dialogue-heavy four-hander, and as such there’s no mistaking its theatrical origins. Occasionally the long stares, heavy breathing and awkward silences make it all feel a little bit self-conscious; but in general the screenplay, adapted by Bob Glaudini, works well in this context.

Much of this is down to the incredible performances. Each actor conveys, with impressive subtlety, the pain and unhappiness of their own character. Ryan spectacularly embodies Connie’s constant, brittle nervousness, while Hoffman is convincingly appealing as the likeable and shy hero of the piece. But it’s Ortiz and Rubin-Vegan who steal the show, working particularly hard in their portrayal of a marriage gone badly – and in many ways inexplicably – wrong.

There are some wonderful comic moments here, but it is not primarily a funny film. It’s a touching, raw story about all kinds of relationships that rests heavily on the actors’ various chemistries with each other. And of all the twosomes that you see in Jack Goes Boating, it’s the love between Jack and Clyde which probably emerges as the most earnest. The scenes of Clyde teaching Jack to swim are among the most intimate and heart-warming in the whole film.

Hoffman, already an accomplished stage director, brings a quiet but assured confidence to his debut. It probably helps that there is some familiarity with the piece: he and Ortiz, as artistic co-directors of the LAByrinth Theater Company, first brought Jack Goes Boating to life in 2007 (all the original cast, except for Connie, remain intact). After watching the film one can hardly blame Hoffman for sticking to the project for so long: this is an affecting, profoundly moving tale which is impossible to forget, and a sterling turn in Hoffman’s already-impeccable movie career.

This review first appeared on Flickfeast.co.uk on 31 October 2011.

Review: Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark

With some movies, you can make a pretty accurate guess as to what you’re going to get. With Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark, you know straight away: title aside, famed gothic comic-book artist Troy Nixey is at the helm while Guillermo del Toro is both co-writing and producing. The only surprise here is that this promising-looking mix of scares, shocks and weird artistry is only sporadically effective.

It’s the tale of architect Alex (Guy Pearce) and interior designer Kim (Katie Holmes), an arty New York couple whose ambitious restoration of a sprawling Gothic mansion is disturbed by the arrival of Alex’s young daughter Sally (Bailee Madison), handed over to Alex by his neurotic and notably absent ex-wife. Feeling lonely and rejected by her mother, Sally starts exploring the creepy, cobweb-drenched basement which, as she discovers, has been colonised by a gang of evil fairies.

Based on a 1973 teleplay, Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark boasts slick design values that perhaps belie its made-for-TV origins. The house is both beautiful and convincingly alienating, drawing obvious comparisons with cinema’s original horror-movie-mansion in The Haunting. The artwork that runs throughout the film is (as one might expect from an artist-turned-director) quite beautiful: from the alluring title sequence to the darkly compelling drawings Kim discovers, created by the house’s original owner. And yet, it’s not quite what it ought to be.

Part of the problem is that, for the first two-thirds, it’s Sally leading us through the story; as a result, this sometimes feels rather like a kid’s adventure movie. In particular, her attempt to befriend the fairies may make viewers wonder if they’ve stumbled into the latest Disney movie.

The fractured family element is also unsatisfactory; we learn just enough about Sally’s mother to be intrigued (she’s unnecessarily put her daughter on to Adderall, she’s instilled her with unreasonable food habits) but we never find out why she and Alex divorced, why she sent Sally away or even what their relationship was like. The tension between Kim and Sally also fails to ever really come to life, partly down to Holmes’ lacklustre performance as the reluctant stepmother. It’s not until Kim takes a leading role in uncovering the house’s mysterious goings-on that Holmes, and indeed the film itself, really get into their stride. There are, unfortunately, one or two unintended sniggers to be had as the horror gets more exaggerated – and the appearance of Alan Dale, as an architectural bigwig, doesn’t help. (You just look at him and want to laugh.)

Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark is a good enough way to pass 90 minutes, but what lets this down as a really great horror movie is, ultimately, its silliness – which is a shame, because that’s a quality which often works well in the genre. But sadly, this lacks the crucial knowingness of its scary-but-delicious superiors – rendering it an okay film, but one that should have been much better.

This review first appeared on Front Row Reviews on 6 October 2011.

Review: Tyrannosaur

Having made her name largely through comedy, it’s interesting to see Olivia Colman try serious in this gritty urban drama. Also taking an unfamiliar role in proceedings is Paddy Considine, who makes his debut appearance behind the camera as director and writer.

Colman plays Hannah, a Christian charity-shop worker whose mild-mannered, good-Samaritan demeanour belies the secret violence she suffers at the hands of her husband James (Eddie Marsan). Peter Mullan is Joseph, the vicious and aggressive misanthrope who stumbles into her shop looking for refuge, and finds himself drawn into a powerful and touching friendship. As the domestic violence perpetrated against Hannah worsens, Joseph gradually becomes her only protector – and in doing so, begins to question his own life of rage and self-destruction.
Tyrannosaur, a project developed from Considine’s 2007 short Dog Altogether, is a film drenched in anger. From the first scene, in which Joseph delivers his beloved dog a fatal kick in the ribs, to the tragic conclusion, we’re thrown into a disturbing filmscape where violence is everywhere. Some of it is random and senseless, like Joseph’s pub attack on three snooker-playing teenagers; and some of it is intimate and calculated, like James’ private and repeated abuse of Hannah.

The disparity between both is made clear to us: Joseph’s poverty-stricken, council-estate environment jars with the Barratt home and flash car of Hannah’s materially comfortable middle-class existence. “So this is your world,” Hannah remarks when Joseph takes her to a grotty, run-down old pub. But the real difference between them – that one inflicts violence while the other suffers from it – is far more significant. As they grow closer this distinction becomes less clear, giving rise to truly bittersweet drama.
Some of the scenes may be hard to take – within the first fifteen minutes we’re forced to watch while James urinates on to Hannah’s face, a moment of sickening degradation. But Considine is careful never to make the action lurid, or over-the-top; instead, thanks to subtle dialogue and quietly convincing performances, we’re encouraged to recognise just how depressingly realistic Hannah’s marriage is.

It’s no surprise that Mullan – having forged an entire career out of bleak urban dramas – excels here. He gets the balance of Joseph just right, resisting the temptation to tip over into psychopath territory. As a result, even the most hardened viewer ends up rooting for him. Colman, however, is a revelation.

Her performance is so compelling, and so carefully nuanced, that it’s impossible to think of her as that sharp-witted funnygirl of British sitcoms. The terrible intimacy of her scenes with Marsden are truly frightening, thanks to the hard work put in by both actors. As James, Marsden isn’t physically imposing and he doesn’t look all that thuggish – but he’s got the air of menace down pat. It’s a terrifying performance, perhaps all the more so for the ordinariness of his appearance. Also worth mentioning is Ned Dennehy, playing Joseph’s wild-eyed, racial-hate-spouting pub friend Tommy. It’s a small, not particularly significant role, but Dennehy absolutely steals the scenes he’s in. It’s a shame that his part couldn’t have been made bigger; however distasteful his character may be, when he’s onscreen you can’t quite manage to take your eyes off him.

Tyrannosaur may well be described as grim, dark, depressing; but Considine skilfully engineers several moments of real warmth and even humour in the film. Hannah and Joseph are there to bring out the best in each other, and that it works well is largely down to the sweet, gentle chemistry between Colman and Mullan. In many ways, it’s a classic love story in which we get to see the romance blossom between our two heroic leads. That this love story thrives in a world filled with anger, rage and violence, without ever compromising on its admirable commitment to realism, is testament to Considine’s sensitive and thoughtful handling of the material. A touching, thought-provoking and ultimately necessary piece of cinema.

This review first appeared on Flickfeast.co.uk on 3 October 2011.

Review: Everywhere & Nowhere

With his 2006 feature debut, Kidulthood, Menhaj Huda established himself as a promising young director whose best work was probably still to come. It’s a shame to report that with follow-up Everything & Nothing, he still hasn’t quite got there.

The film follows Ash (James Floyd), the teenage son of Pakistani immigrants who push him to study accountancy and set him to work in the family corner shop. It’s a path at odds with his own dreams of becoming a DJ, slowly realised over the course of several club nights with his mates (who include Blue’s Simon Webbe and The Inbetweeners‘ James Buckley).

It’s a well-meaning film (albeit with a few smatterings of casual misogyny) and you can’t accuse the actors of not trying. Floyd, in particular, puts in performance so earnest that you really want him to succeed. But his character just isn’t strong enough to carry the whole film, which is unfortunately what is being asked of him.

Ash is the central figure around a whole host of cross-cultural issues revolve: from the Asian girl who knows her parents won’t accept her non-Muslim boyfriend to the gay guy pushed into marrying his cousin, as well as an impressionable teenager who catches the interest of some radical Muslims. They’re interesting issues to explore, but none of these narrative ideas ever reach their full potential. As a result, their effect on Ash’s sense of conflicting identity (“I come from everywhere and nowhere,” he tells one girl) is a lot weaker than it needs to be.

That, in the end, is the main problem with Everywhere & Nowhere. One can’t help drawing comparisons between this and Bend It Like Beckham – but in Gurinder Chadha’s tale of a Sikh girl torn between family and football, the main character had everything to lose. There’s simply not enough conflict in Everywhere & Nowhere, and as a result that there’s not nearly enough at stake. Ash’s internal struggle manifests itself with him meandering aimlessly around London, looking vaguely troubled. His passion for DJing, meanwhile, is somewhat taken on faith given that he spends relatively little time spinning discs. Perhaps Bend It Like Beckham conveyed this kind of passion more convincingly because football is inherently more interesting to watch than DJing. Even to the most seasoned Ibiza tourist, Ash’s choice of hobby is not exactly a spectator activity.

Despite all of this it would still be unjustified to write Huda off altogether. Everywhere & Nowhere has all the makings of a good film, even if it is rather let down by a couple of dodgy narrative decisions. But it’s a heartfelt, uncynical piece of filmmaking that has potential stamped all over it.

This review first appeared on Flickfeast.co.uk on 29 September 2011.

Review: Crazy Stupid Love

Very often, the romantic comedy survives on formula and inevitability. Not that that necessarily makes it less successful – it’s worked well for many a good movie. Nonetheless, it’s admirable to see Crazy, Stupid, Love trying something more ambitious with the genre. Rather than the usual two-hander, rom-com responsibility is here handed to a talented and very consistent ensemble cast; the plot, meanwhile, is an intricate mix of several different threads.

Cal (Steve Carell) is a forty-something loser with a forty-something loser haircut who dresses in forty-something loser clothes. When his wife Emily (Julianne Moore) tearfully asks for a divorce, citing her own infidelity, Cal finds himself hooking up with habitual ladykiller Jacob (Ryan Gosling), who teaches him how to dress, drink and flirt. But Jacob’s own effortless technique starts to come unstuck when he meets straight-talking lawyer Hannah (Emma Stone). Meanwhile Cal’s son Robbie (Jonah Bobo) is harbouring a crush of his own on his four-years-older babysitter Jessica (Analeigh Tipton) – but she’s secretly in love with Cal.

There’s a lot going on in the movie, and while the plotlines don’t gel together quite as evenly as they might, the handling of so many elements generally feels well-balanced and well-paced – allowing for a pretty steady flow of laughs. The jokes aren’t likely to make you hysterical (although there are one or two killer comedy twists), but that’s because Crazy, Stupid, Love‘s aim is towards something engaging and appealing rather than side-splitting and outrageous.

That may be reflected in the choice of cast, because while comedy may be Carell’s natural home it’s perhaps more unusual to see Moore and Gosling sidle into rom-com territory. Luckily they both put in impressive comic turns, though Moore’s character, struggling with the guilt of an affair and mixed feelings for high-school sweetheart Cal, naturally lends itself to a more subdued performance.

That Crazy, Stupid, Love resists portraying Emily as merely a cheating, marriage-wrecking bitch indicates the secret of the film’s success: every single character is likeable. You’re rooting for Cal, you’re concerned for Emily, you’re charmed by Jacob (it doesn’t matter if you’re a man or a woman – trust us, you’ll be won over). Even Kate (Marisa Tomei), the reformed-alcoholic English teacher Cal sleeps with – thus unleashing a torrent of psychopathic rage – is tuned to kooky, rather than malicious. The only character with hints of cartoon villainy is Emily’s co-worker David (Kevin Bacon), with whom she cheated. But even he is well-meaning, kind of. And in any case, there’s a reason Bacon so often plays the bad guy: people love him anyway.

True malevolence of any kind is an alien concept to this deeply amiable piece. It doesn’t even stoop to the gross-out scene, considered by many a comedy of the last five years to be nothing short of obligatory. It’s not laugh-yourself-sick hilarious, nor is it can’t-get-it-out-your-head memorable. But it is sweet, sincere and very, very funny.

This review first appeared on Flickfeast.co.uk on 19 September 2011.

Review: The Silent House

Horror is without doubt one of the most popular film genres – if not the most popular – in cinema history. The standard girl-in-peril plot has been tinkered with endlessly, and this is especially true of films in the last ten years. No doubt instigated by the Scream franchise, there’s been a real trend lately for the postmodern, innovative scary movie. But sometimes, the simplest tricks are the best ones – and that is well demonstrated by Uruguayan horror The Silent House. It sticks firmly to the oldest conventions in the book, knowing full well that, used in the right way, they do the job perfectly.

The film centres around Laura, a young woman who arrives at a rundown house with her father, the two having agreed to stay there while they renovate it on behalf of the owner. They both go straight to sleep, but soon Laura is woken by a strange rattle above – the owner having forbidden her to venture upstairs.

That’s basically it in terms of plot, and even then this already minimal setup is rushed through as fast as possible so that director Gustavo Hernández can get straight into the juicy stuff.

The action may take place in a stonewashed cottage rather than a sprawling gothic mansion, but the mood is nonetheless faultlessly spooky. It’s a convenient feature of the house that there’s no electricity, thus necessitating a stark hand-held lamplight that serves only to point to the creepiest, darkest and most hidden corners of the house. What little light there is becomes washed in the lamp’s menacing bluish tinge.

Ostensibly filmed in a single shot (which, like the based-on-a-true-story tagline is a somewhat dubious claim), we follow every minute of Laura’s terror as she hears odd noises and sees weird shadows moving around her. We’ve seen all this a hundred times before: Hernández uses old-hat techniques like mirrors, offscreen swishes and even children singing, which is a touch so cliched that it has almost become a satirical joke of the genre. Yet The Silent House nonetheless manages to overcome the dusty tradition of these staples; it’s effective, engrossing and really, really scary.

This is the kind of film you have to pay close attention to. Not because it’s complicated; the storyline is as basic as they come. But the atmosphere is so unsettling, and the tension so admirably taut, that you really can’t afford to break your focus for a second. Which is no hardship, because The Silent House is utterly absorbing (and only 82 minutes long).

Of course, this should all point to a ten-star review. And based purely on the first hour, it does. Unfortunately, however, the film is badly let down by a disappointing finish, which spectacularly fails to match the effective chills elsewhere. Admittedly, you probably wouldn’t be able to guess the ending – but that’s largely because it makes almost no sense. To elaborate any further on this would be to give away the big final revelation – but trust us, it’s a letdown.

It’s a pity to see The Silent House ultimately descend into silliness, because elsewhere in his debut feature Hernández demonstrates real talent as a filmmaker. He’s clearly done his research and knows extremely well how the best horror films work. It’s just a shame that this film missed being admitted into that category by such a narrow margin.

This review first appeared on Flickfeast.co.uk on 29 July 2011.