Body horror: Natalie Portman in Aronofsky's latest film.

That it’s a (sort of) horror film about ballet may seem paradoxical, but, really, it’s an inspired choice of subject matter. Ballet may well be one of those tastefully expensive art forms enjoyed by today’s bourgeoisie, but it is essentially an art performed by human bodies pushed to unnatural extremes. It is this essence of the dance that Aronofsky captures – the acute exertion, both physical and mental, and the damage that is wrought upon the film’s protagonist as a result.

Ballet, however, is but one aspect of Black Swan. As much as Aronofsky draws from Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake as inspiration and backdrop, the film is more concerned with the nature and dangers of obsession. In that respect, it recalls not just Pi, but also Requiem for a Dream and The Wrestler.

Black Swan is not particularly subtle, and it does possess some melodramatic tendencies. Nevertheless, it’s a near flawless film, and an excitingly radical one at that. It’s unusual that a formally experimental film like this gets such a wide cinematic release, and, as such, one can only hope that people skip that other horribly brain-numbingly awful looking Natalie Portman film that’s out at the moment and see this instead.

Directed by Darren Aronofsky
Starring Natalie Portman, Vincent Cassel, Mila Kunis

RATING:
★ ★ ★ ★ ★

A girl and a gun - sans irony.

Given that, it must be said that their latest entry is deeply disappointing. Devoid of the moral complexity of No Country for Old Men or the ironic wit of Burn After Reading, True Grit is a consistently predictable Western on par with the worst cowboys-and-indians dross of the John Wayne era. All gun fetishisation, thinly drawn caricatures and grating score, the film amounts to little more than an unduly nostalgic homage to an overrated genre.

There are some redeeming features. The dialogue, for instance, is enjoyably old-West-ish, and there are a few moments in which the film threatens to become interesting. These, however, are quickly squashed by waves of rousing music and crowd-pleasing violence.

There are several possible explanations for the state of True Grit: firstly, that it is secretly a huge pisstake, kind of like Australia or the Westboro Baptist Church; or, more plausibly, that the Coen brothers have been simultaneously possessed by the ghost of “One Shot” Beaudine. If the latter is the case, viewers ought to exercise care and treat future Coen output with due caution.

Directed by Ethan and Joel Coen
Starring Hailee Steinfeld, Jeff Bridges, Matt Damon

RATING:
★ ★

A photographer looks on in dismay - an expression likely mirrored on the faces of many audience members.

It’s harsh, but more or less accurate – Guetta is, at best, an amateur. So, what are we to make of a similar effort by one of the most revered directors in the world?

Film Socialisme, the latest film from Nouvelle Vague pioneer Jean-Luc Godard, is, to say the least, a bit of a mess. It has all the hallmarks of a bad student film: self-indulgence, sledgehammer metaphors, gimmicky aural and visual techniques, and atrocious dialogue. If it has a coherent message, it’s well-hidden.

This is not to say that art must always strive for accessibility. Many great films continue to reveal new complexities after repeated viewings, and tend to be better for it. It is a mistake, however, to confuse obtuseness and complexity. In the case of Film Socialisme, there doesn’t appear to be much underneath the slogans, ambiguous political commentary and occasionally gorgeous cinematography.

There are grains of ideas, at least: a multicultural cruise ship carries overtones of the decline of Western affluence in a globalised world; likewise, the diverse range of materials that the footage is filmed on, along with depictions of various types of electronic equipment, speak of the cacophonous technological age we find ourselves in. These are interesting topics, but it is unclear if Godard actually has much, if anything, to say about them. In any case, they’re quickly sidelined by superficial self-indulgence.

One might argue that Film Socialisme cannot be fully appreciated after only one viewing. It’s possible, but it must be said that very few viewers will have any incentive to revisit what is, frankly, a tedious film.

Godard deserves some credit, at least, for doing something different. In comparison to standard festival arthouse fare, Film Socialisme is like an unexpected plunge into an ice bath. Unfortunately, it’s also unbearably pretentious, a quality that has become more and more the defining aspect of his output. That he continues to receive unmitigated praise from some quarters despite this tendency is testament alone to the dangers of adherence to Auteur Theory.

Exit Through the Gift Shop made this point so well. Substitute the crowd of self-important art aficianados lining up to see the “Mr. Brainwash” exhibition with a legion of Godard fanboys, and the result is more or less the same. Jean-Luc Godard was a brilliant, ground-breaking director who, it seems, ran out of interesting things to say a long time ago. Only the delusions and rampant pretentiousness of the art world enable lesser works like this to be treated with anything in the way of reverence.

Directed by Jean-Luc Godard
Starring Élisabeth Vitali, Eye Haidara, Catherine Tanvier

RATING:
★ ½

Coming to a Happy Meal near you.

I should preface this by noting that I am yet to see Wall-E or Up, Pixar’s two most critically acclaimed productions to date. Still, considering the similarly gushing critical praise lavished upon Toy Story 3, I can’t help but wonder if there’s something I’m not getting.

Perhaps it comes down to how much worth you place on the technical. I can admire the immense amount of work that goes into these productions, and note the significant advances that have been made in animation techniques in a relatively short time; in the same way, I can appreciate the special effects of a Hollywood blockbuster for what they are. Yet, for me, these are peripheral concerns in comparison with a film’s entertainment value, complexity or worth as a work of art. Under these criteria, Toy Story 3, like The Incredibles and Finding Nemo, strikes me as another fairly mediocre studio production.

One of Disney’s most frustrating aspects tends to be the absolutist morality that pervades practically all of its children’s films. Thus, in Toy Story 3 we are once again presented with heroes and villains; the latter, as in any Disney film, completely incapable of any sort of redemption. It’s almost as if the Hays Code were still in place: the ‘bad’ character must suffer for his past wrongs, and thus will inexplicably prove his wickedness in several climactic scenes in order to justify his inevitable comeuppance. Not only does it make for poorly developed characterisations, it’s a tactic that treats the audience with a certain degree of contempt.

The inclusion of ‘Barbie’ as a character also raises eyebrows. While one would think that this particularly dubious child’s toy, active promoter of body fascism and sexist gender roles that it is, might warrant a little bit of satire – but no, the character’s portrayal turns out to be far more homage than parody. Needless to say, Mattel would not have assented to anything but a positive portrayal of their product – which is not to imply that Pixar necessarily had any contrary intentions, but serves to highlight the creative drawbacks inherent in this kind of brand-subservient cinema.

Some will contend that a kids’ movie should be immune from political or ideological criticism. I disagree. Given the greater vulnerability of a young audience to brainwashing, I would argue that films like this should be scrutinised more thoroughly as opposed to less so. Indeed, I have often wondered if the cartoonish morality promoted by the Bush administration could be sourced to a population raised on popular media like Disney (and its constantly reiterated good/evil dichotomy). As a whole, media like this can make a powerful contribution to the process of socialisation, and it would be naive to argue otherwise.

On face value, Toy Story 3 isn’t a terrible film. Apart from a rather quaint reliance on ethnic stereotypes and gay jokes for humour, it does have some genuinely amusing moments. On the most part, it’s a fun, if not particularly challenging, kids’ movie, and even carries a few vaguely positive messages about loyalty and leaving childhood behind. This being the case, is the above criticism unduly harsh?

Perhaps, but it needs to be said. At the time of writing, Toy Story 3 sits at number 8 on the IMDB top 250 of all time. While it is inadvisable to take that list too seriously, it does suggest that a vast number of adult viewers have given the film very high ratings. Most film critics’ reviews have followed a similar pattern.

Is it really possible for so many people to be wrong? I have to wonder if this kind of fawning reaction can be at least partially explained by the lacklustre, unimaginative fare that has come to define mainstream American cinema. It seems as if viewers are clinging onto every barely-tolerable film as a validation of the movie-going experience, when the products (in most cases sequels, remakes or simply turgid rubbish) are struggling to justify the ritual. For better or for worse, I’ve come to expect a little more from cinema than this.

Directed by Lee Unkrich
Starring Tom Hanks (voice), Tim Allen (voice)

RATING:
★ ★

The courageous lead actors, Margo Stilley and Kieran O'Brien.

Unqualified praise has been rare, and there are reasons for that. Some have found Michael Winterbottom’s film empty, unsatisfying – a film lacking narrative, or purpose; at just 69 minutes long, somewhat of a half-arsed effort. These criticisms are not entirely unwarranted, but they are mitigated by the fact that 9 Songs may just prove to be one of the most important films of the first decade of the 21st century.

In a society deeply riven on the topic of sex – on the one hand, nominally espousing the merits of sexual freedom whilst bombarding its citizens with sexualised advertising, on the other, caught in the grip of an at-times hysterical pseudo-morality – it’s understandable that 9 Songs, arguably the most sexually explicit ‘mainstream’ film ever made, aroused the level of controversy it did. Its initial banning in Australia, however, provided further proof of a disturbing fact: that our society is more comfortable with realistic representations of torture and mutilation than simple depictions of two adults consensually fucking. Whether or not the widespread discomfort felt towards the latter has influenced the generally negative reviews is inconclusive, but one suspects it is a factor.

Another of the film’s most derided elements is actually one of its major strengths. The periodic live music interludes not only provide a sense of the passing of time, but chart the changing states of the relationship in a rhythmic manner reminiscent of Atom Egoyan’s little-seen masterpiece Calendar. This repetition removes the need for gratuitous plot exposition or intertitles, and, to the frustration of some viewers, gives the film’s narrative a far looser feel. However, if we are to view 9 Songs as the experimental film that it essentially is, this is one experiment that works in its favour.

Its greatest achievement, however, lies in its depiction of sex – not because actual sex hasn’t been shown before (it has, of course, been a staple of pornographic movies for over 100 years), and not because 9 Songs is unusually erotic (that will always be subjective), but because it subverts the way sex has traditionally been shown on film, pornographic or otherwise. It may seem odd to lump Hollywood cinema and pornography together in this regard, but what they share is a tendency to depict sex in an extraordinarily artificial manner. In 9 Songs, Winterbottom takes an entirely different tack: he employs hand-held camera, a naturalistic colour scheme, minimal dialogue and an appropriate mixture of diegetic and non-diegetic sound. Primarily through such techniques, he manages to invoke a believable sense of the kind of warmth and interpersonal intimacy that is in many ways central to the sexual experience, in doing so lending the film an unprecedented level of realism that goes well beyond mere depictions of the mechanical act.

This achievement may not seem like that much of a big deal to some, but the fact that cinema has for so long failed to authentically portray something so integral to human existence ought to be reason alone to give this film more recognition. In a society that is becoming increasingly definable by its insincerity and inability to deal with reality, anything as real or honest as 9 Songs deserves praise.

Directed by Michael Winterbottom
Starring Margo Stilley, Kieran O’Brien

RATING:
★ ★ ★ ★ ½

Ciarán Hinds and Iben Hjejle, in front of some of the fantastic Irish architecture on display in the film.

In almost clumsily meshing two rather incongruous genres together, The Eclipse leans more towards the first type of cinema. And yet, somehow, it works. If it were only a romantic drama or cheap thriller, it would probably be disappointingly mundane; yet, through some good acting performances, a credible story and a refreshing sense of understatement, this literary adaptation from Ireland is engaging and quietly moving.

The main preoccupation of The Eclipse lies with with grief and catharsis, and it’s amazing that such an oft-visited theme can still be presented in a fresh manner. Like so many protagonists before him, Michael (Ciarán Hinds) has recently lost his wife; like a fair proportion of those, he has children to care for; and, like a few more still, he finds himself visited by ghosts. It seems odd in this sceptical age that the supernatural is so readily employed in films like this; but here, unlike in the otherwise impressive Genova (2008), it feels reasonably credible. Far stranger is the incorporation of jolting ‘horror’ sequences, which act as a contrast to the rest of the film’s subtlety. Thankfully, these are used sparingly and actually serve to take the story in unexpected directions.

The other primary narrative of the film, in which Michael and visiting American author Nicholas (Aidan Quinn) compete for the affections of another writer, is also well constructed. Quinn’s arrogant, aggressive character is clearly the villain of the piece, but he is far more than the sneering caricature that he could have been – in fact, he is played in a welcomely sympathetic fashion. In fact, all of the performers are excellent, particularly Hinds, who plays the role of grieving husband convincingly and movingly. One particular scene towards the end is so emotionally authentic that it will likely reduce a fair proportion of the audience to tears; an achievement that is testament to Hinds’ skill as an actor.

The film does contain some flaws. At times, things are signposted a little too obviously through camera technique and soundtrack; also, whilst shifts from the main protagonist’s perspective allow for some excellent scenes (mostly involving Quinn), it is a jarring technique that seldom works in subjective third-person narratives like this. These issues are, however, simply signs of directorial inexperience, which, overall, do little to mar Conor McPherson’s third feature. Subtle, moving and an interesting example of genre film-making, The Eclipse is an impressive film.

Directed by Conor McPherson
Starring Ciarán Hinds, Iben Hjejle, Aidan Quinn

RATING:
★ ★ ★ ★

Max Records (right), who gives an impressive performance in his first major role.

Paradoxically, this is primarily achieved through an astute appreciation of childhood, which is something that Disney films generally lack – instead, they tend to portray a patronising, superficial interpretation of how children feel. The minority of films that actually feature children as protagonists usually portray them as ‘cute’, unrealistic characters. In contrast, Where the Wild Things Are has clearly been created by someone who is young enough to remember what it is like to be a child. For those of us that do, the film’s emotional resonance is all the more profound.

Directed by music video extraordinaire Spike Jonze and adapted from a popular picture book by Maurice Sendak, Where the Wild Things Are is a brilliant example of how to make a good film with mainstream appeal. Its artistic merits, which are considerable, in no way detract from its accessibility. The slender plot might, admittedly, frustrate those who equate entertainment with action, but viewers with the ability to immerse themselves within a film are likely to be enthralled. Technically, Where the Wild Things Are is superb, with exhilarating cinematography, a refreshingly eccentric score and a couple of excellent performances. But considering that this is, after all, a children’s film, these are peripheral concerns compared to thematic content.

The central premise is a child’s construction of a dream world as a coping mechanism to deal with difficult everyday realities. Some might be taken aback by how subtly violent Max’s imagination can be; however, this authenticity is exactly what should be getting plaudits. Nine-year-olds are capable of feeling angst, loneliness or fury, and anyone who doesn’t acknowledge this fact has forgotten what childhood is actually like. So, why don’t more children’s films portray these emotions? Why is it assumed that kids cannot cope with the portrayal of emotions that they are probably already acutely familiar with? It seems likely that this can be put down to the extremely narrow definition of ‘entertainment’ that informs dominant paradigms behind the creation of media aimed at children.

This is not to say that every child will enjoy this film. Like all of us, they are products of societies in the grip of popular media, and it is possible that some will find Where the Wild Things Are ‘boring’ or too dark. Indeed, it is probably not ideal for those under the age of, say, six or seven. Nevertheless, most older children should enjoy it immensely, while teenagers and adults may well find themselves pleasantly surprised by a children’s movie that is profound, moving and genuinely entertaining. It’s a rare occurrence, but, as this film thoroughly proves, it’s possible.

Directed by Spike Jonze
Starring Max Records, Catherine Keener, James Gandolfini (voice), Paul Dano (voice), Forest Whitaker (voice)

RATING:
★ ★ ★ ★

Marcello Mastroianni in the final scene of Fellini's masterpiece.

In many ways, La Dolce Vita is a scathing attack on the entertainment industry. That on its own is always welcome, but Fellini goes a step further by taking a humanist perspective; and, in doing so, he makes the effects of commercial media practises all the more tangible. When a swarm of journalists dance around a grieving widow, we are filled more with despair than revulsion. Even the shallow, opportunistic protagonist is given a three-dimensional character, which means that we are capable of pitying, if never really liking, him.

The film consists of a series of vignettes, which are only superficially linked through the presence of the central character (Marcello Mastroianni, in one of his defining performances). A bigger framework, however, is constructed through his interactions, various assignments, volatile relationship with his girlfriend and vapid, endless parties. In one segment, he tries to seduce an international celebrity; in another, he tries to spend time with his estranged father; and in one of the film’s most poignant scenes, he joins a mob of reporters at the site of a supposed miracle. That particular sequence, mostly played as Buñuelian comedy, achieves a kind of religious significance when rain begins bucketing down like some kind of celestial wrath. The ‘miracle’ may well be ridiculous, but the devotion of the locals isn’t; and as such, the parasitic media presence becomes a vulgar and sacrilegious attack on god and humanity.

The film’s penultimate sequence, a party overflowing with ennui-driven excess, is perhaps more depressing than satisfying, but it is essential to set up the brilliant finale, in which the protagonist stumbles down the beach to observe a monstrous oddity. In the distance, a young female acquaintance, representative of a happier, simpler way of life, beckons to him. He cannot hear her words, so shrugs and returns to his intoxicated, spiritually barren entourage. Some might recoil at the blatancy of the metaphors in the final scene, but they are both appropriate and succinct. The title of the film (in English, ‘The Sweet Life’), at first seemingly self-evident, becomes inverted: any sweetness that this empty lifestyle might possess is shown to be superficial, brief and destructive. Far from being reactionary, this is an extraordinarily relevant conclusion. La Dolce Vita is less a relic of a previous time than a very contemporary reflection on modern Western society and its celebrity-obsessed media – a noxious force that, 50 years on, shows no sign of capitulation.

Directed by Federico Fellini
Starring Marcello Mastroianni, Anita Ekberg

RATING:
★ ★ ★ ★ ½

Tommy Wiseau shows off his acting range in one of the film's many unintentionally hilarious scenes.

Of course, for the sake of the unitiated, a brief summary is necessary. In 2003, a low-budget film called The Room was released. Directed by and starring amateur filmmaker Tommy Wiseau, the movie gained instant notoriety due to its inept direction, appalling acting, endlessly quotable dialogue and ludicrously melodramatic plot. Over the intervening years, it has become somewhat of a cult hit, and screenings are now boisterous affairs that involve regular audience participation, open derision and a deluge of plastic cutlery. It markets itself, entirely justifiably, as a modern successor to Plan 9 from Outer Space and Robot Monster, and takes a well-earned place in the annals of ‘so-bad-it’s-good’ cinema.

One may well view all this with some skepticism. In this era of media construction, after all, is it unreasonable to speculate that the film’s ‘cult’ status and artlessness might be manufactured? It’s possible, but unlikely. If this were the case, it would have to be said that Wiseau possesses a level of subtlety heretofore non-existent in American cinema; besides, it is actually difficult to believe that anybody could make this up.

A more valid criticism might relate to the audience participation. Yes, it’s a fun and refreshing experience to engage in spoon-throwing, catcalls and general unruliness at the cinema, but what does this actually say about the film itself? Would it not be equally amusing to do so at a screening of any number of the lifeless Hollywood-produced films churned out each year?

It’s debatable. Certainly, it’s likely that watching The Room on DVD at home would be more of an excruciating experience than an entertaining one; still, it cannot be denied that the film possesses an ineptitude that goes beyond the functional mediocrity of Hollywood cinema, which kind of works in its favour. It is the (albeit misplaced) sincerity of The Room that makes it far more watchable than so many dull, processed studio products. While we may find ourselves crying with laughter during the overwrought finale, it is difficult to not feel at least slightly affectionate towards Wiseau and his train-wreck of a film after the credits roll. Perhaps, in a perverse way, he has managed to contribute a little more creativity and amusement to a cinematic landscape that is in dire need of both qualities.

Directed by Tommy Wiseau
Starring Tommy Wiseau

RATING:
★

Bulle Ogier in a sequence near the end of the film. Whilst photographs like this may seem to attest otherwise, Out 1 is actually in colour.

For this reason, a film like Out 1 (runtime: 729 minutes) is a challenge for even the most hardened cinephile, and it goes some way in explaining why it has only ever been screened on a handful of occasions and remains extremely hard to find.

Originally devised as a TV series by maverick Nouvelle Vague director Jacques Rivette, it raised little interest from the French networks, and wound up being given a brief theatrical run instead (Peter Watkins was forced to do much the same with his brilliant nuclear war pseudo-documentary The War Game, although that had more to do with state censorship than issues with running time). Shown a couple of times in 1971, Out 1 (as well as the four hour long ‘short’ version, Out 1: Spectre) has re-emerged at a handful of Rivette retrospectives over the last two decades, and many who have seen it, including esteemed US critic Jonathan Rosenbaum, have acclaimed it as one of the greatest films of all time.

Is it? Well, yes, if you like Rivette. That alone is a big ‘if’, as Jacques Rivette has never been a commercially successful director. Only two of his films were hits (Celine and Julie Go Boating (1974) and La Belle Noiseuse (1991), both superb), and many remain difficult to find on DVD today (Out 1 only recently became available over the internet after a rare videotape was uploaded) – In Australia, only three of his twenty-one films are commercially available. Nevertheless, he is greatly respected within the film community, and with good reason – his playfully surreal narratives, sense of pacing and use of improvisation set him apart as one of cinema’s most unique and satisfying film-makers.

Out 1 deals with a theme that re-occurs throughout Rivette’s work: the nature of acting, particularly in the context of theatre and improvisation. His fascination with acting makes Rivette’s films a far more collaborative process than many of his contemporaries, as the improvisational aspects allow actors to have a far more active role in determining how the film comes together. Out 1 is roughly divided into four major narratives, gradually intertwining and blurring as the film develops: two consisting of acting troupes, each trying to devise post-modern theatrical adaptations of Aeschylus plays; the other two individual petty thieves (played by Nouvelle Vague icons Jean-Pierre Léaud and Juliet Berto) pursuing eccentric methods of making money; and an overarching plot involving a mysterious Balzac-inspired conspiracy centred around an organisation known as ‘the thirteen’. Numbers seem to play a curious role in the film, although this is probably just one of its more idiosyncratic elements.

As with any Rivette film featuring a ‘conspiracy’ narrative, the mysteries and secret organisations are little more than a red herring. As the characters are slowly explored and revealed and their plans and interpersonal connections break down, the film becomes increasingly symbolic of post-1968 ennui and the decline of the ideals of that era. For a film made in 1971, these were remarkably prescient themes; another French director in Jean Eustache would tackle this topic equally satisfyingly in his 1973 masterpiece The Mother and the Whore. But this is not the limit of Out 1‘s scope.

Comprised of eight episodes of roughly 90 minutes each (the beginning of each episode has a brief, abstract black-and-white still montage of the events of the previous chapter), Out 1 is no less watchable than any quality TV series, and may even be better experienced on a one-episode-at-a-time basis. This is not to say that it doesn’t remain challenging even when viewed in segments. Like most Rivette films, it uses the first few hours to simply establish the characters before embarking on the plot, of sorts, and some of those early scenes (particularly the sequences depicting the actors’ heavily abstracted ‘exercises’) seem interminably long. These scenes are important, however, not just as an exploration of the improvisational acting methods that play both a literal and a metaphorical role in the film, but as a method of adjusting the viewer to the somewhat languorous pace of the film. Paradoxically, long takes make long films far more tolerable for an audience, and this understanding of pacing has led Rivette, along with more modern directors like Michael Haneke and Béla Tarr, to create films with less commercial running-times that nevertheless retain the capacity to leave viewers enthralled.

In a film that is in many ways about acting, the acting is fantastic. Many famous Nouvelle Vague faces appear, including the aforementioned Léaud and Berto, the outstanding Michael Lonsdale and Rivette regular Bulle Ogier. Even another legendary director in Eric Rohmer has a great cameo as a Balzac professor who appears in a pivotal scene. The people and architecture of Paris c. 1971, though, seem to have an equally significant role – the city landscapes, crowd scenes and interested onlookers freeze Out 1 in time, a document of a place at a point in history.

After a little more than 720 minutes, the film ends on an impossibly brief, enigmatic note; yet, the exhausting journey that the viewer has taken is so full of possibilities, intricacy and spontaneity, that one would be forgiven for wanting to start all over again from the beginning, or see the next twelve hours in the lives of these characters. For those who have watched many kinds of cinema and think they have seen everything the art form has to offer, Out 1 is a reminder that cinema has the potential to be so many more things and diverge in so many more directions than current conventions allow. For film-makers, film critics and artists of all disciplines, this is something to be cherished.

Directed by Jacques Rivette
Starring Jean-Pierre Léaud, Juliet Berto, Michael Lonsdale, Bulle Ogier

Rating:
★ ★ ★ ★ ★