Tag Archives: Blood

127 Hours


Let’s brainstorm awful ideas for movies. The sort of film that should never be made or would only be attempted by foolhardy, insufferable idiots. Mmm let’s see. It’s actually harder than you might think to think of truly terrible premises. First of all I thought of a bed ridden man who likes to photograph boxes or gravel or picture frames (not the images just the frames), or something unbelievably dull. But make him a bed ridden man and he suddenly has an element of sympathy and interest.

An ordinary man with a fascination for gravel or sand then, who likes to talk about this obsession to the few people in his life, other boring folk perhaps or patronising do-gooders. Actually scratch that. Maybe just a saucy account of a weekend away for Tony and Cherie, a blow-by-blow description of dinner at Gillian Mckeith’s or X Factor runner-up Ray Quinn’s struggle to publish a novel.  In fact that one sounds quite funny.

Hang on I’ve got it. Take one guy; make him a bit of an arrogant, irritating prick. Then have him set off on some mad, impulsive trip without any means of contacting anyone. Make sure he doesn’t tell anyone where he’s going; we need to keep human contact to an absolute minimum. When he’s penetrated suitably deep into the wilderness, way, way beyond civilisation or chance of rescue, trap him somehow. Like throw him down a canyon and have him wedged by a rock so he can’t move. Then pick a random amount of time, something silly but memorable like 89 or 127 hours, and just leave him stuck there, barely moving. That should be truly awful.

Imagine pitching this idea to producers. Not a chance of getting your dream realised. Unless maybe you’re Danny Boyle and the industry hangs on your every move since Slumdog Millionaire. And also let’s just say it’s a true story to properly get their juices flowing, their minds racing ahead in time to the prospect of awards success, emotional crowds gushing praise in theatres everywhere. Watching someone motionless and isolated shouldn’t work, and it couldn’t be further away from the vivid romp through India that was Slumdog, but somehow Boyle makes it not just tolerable but inspiring and riveting.

It certainly helps that the film itself is 94 minutes as opposed to the real time, 127 hours, long. It also helps that Boyle’s playful and distinctive direction grabs you from the very first scene. Knowing the claustrophobia that’s to come, Boyle peppers the opening to the film with visual interest and movement. Watching climber Aaron Ralston get ready is a marvellous experience through Boyle’s eyes.

The screen splits and divides into two or three, with intricate close ups of bottles filling with water and hands rooting around in drawers and shelves. These loving details are then impressively contrasted, first with an atmospheric night drive and then a frenetic bike ride across a bright orange, stunning Utah landscape. This scenery, with its back drop of sheer blue sky, is properly showcased with gorgeous wide shots. At the same time Ralston’s speeding movement is conveyed with fast editing and camerawork. When he comes off his bike to energetic music your adrenalin is really pumping.

The soundtrack to 127 Hours is terrifically good. A.R. Rahman, who worked with Boyle on Slumdog, really excels here with a difficult task. The opening and endings to the film are particularly wonderfully scored. I was not a fan of Slumdog’s score, or indeed the film itself, so it’s refreshing to see Boyle doing something completely different despite the easy options no doubt available to him now as an Oscar winner. He clearly cares about this incredible true story and set about bringing it faithfully to life. He couldn’t have done this half as well without the excellent James Franco.

Franco plays thrill seeking climber Ralston as both a slightly annoying arse and a clever, likeable everyman. In the early scenes he meets two female climbers and effortlessly impresses them with his knowledge of the area and daring sense of adventure. His youthful, flirty antics with them in startling, deep blue waters give the ordeal that follows far greater emotional resonance. Franco portrays the panic of being trapped superbly, as well as the calmer more reasoned moments. He’s completely believable and does well without other actors to spark off of to continually engage us.

The story also works so well due to flashbacks of Ralston’s life, showing his regrets and key memories of loved ones. These segments humanise Ralston; he isn’t just a physical machine stuffed with practical climbing knowledge, seeking an adrenalin fix. He’s made mistakes like all of us. And Boyle’s script and direction leaves the flashbacks realistically and suitably vague. In a starving, dying of thirst state delusions are bound to be half-baked. More importantly the gaps can be filled by the audience; everyone longs for their own friends and special, loved people in their lives, as Ralston goes through the levels of despair.

And passing through these levels he arrives eventually at resignation. Ever since the boulder trapped his arm he has quietly known what he’ll have to do, what he’ll have to endure and sacrifice, to escape back to his life. Incidentally the moment when the boulder falls and snares him is the only part of the film that feels less than real, as the rock bounces for a moment like the polystyrene prop it probably was. Apart from this the close, stuffy, handheld camerawork injects genuine realism alongside the fantasies.  

And the moment when he cuts through his arm, the single headline grabbing fact either attracting or repelling viewers, was believable. What was refreshing was that on a number of occasions you think he’s going to, but doesn’t. The film keeps you on its toes, waiting for the pivotal moment, and when it comes it shocks you and continues to shock as he battles through the unimaginable pain.

Whilst the gore shouldn’t disappoint those seeking it, the blood and horror wasn’t as bad as I was expecting it to be. I’m normally quite prone to sickness at such things but I barely looked away. It’s undoubtedly horrific but unavoidably compelling too. And crucially 127 Hours isn’t about a guy cutting his arm off. It also doesn’t have any other overriding, commanding themes and messages. The beauty of the story is that it can be about whatever you want. And whatever you make it about in your own head, the eventual rescue is as uplifting as cinema can be.

I’ve seen six of the ten films on the Oscar Best Picture list now. Of these six, 127 Hours is only better than Inception in my opinion. Black Swan I enjoyed the most and The King’s Speech, The Social Network and Toy Story 3 are all better films in their own ways. However the true story behind 127 Hours is more remarkable than any of these tales, despite the fact its circumstances inevitably limit the scope and entertainment value of the film. Some critics have unfairly suggested 127 Hours only made it onto the shortlist because Boyle is a past winner. It’s a film that excellently and faithfully brings to life an amazing true story, with directorial flourish. And at times, thanks to Franco’s charm, there are surprising laughs to get you through. It doesn’t deserve to win Best Picture, but it more than warrants its nomination.

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The Queen is a bridge to our proud past


Audiences are flocking to see The King’s Speech absolutely everywhere, ultimately not because of the quality of storytelling and filmmaking but a deep rooted attachment to monarchy. Many now simultaneously resent the royal family and find something irresistibly exotic about them. In a superb article in today’s Guardian, Jonathan Freedland goes some way to explaining the popularity of the film and in particular its appeal to Americans. He also, most accurately and interestingly, points out why even the most reasoned of arguments in favour of a more modern, fairer system will fall down whilst our current Queen remains on the throne; a rare, living link to the vital foundations of our most important national memory. And despite the flaws of our monarchy it’s refreshing to witness the powerful respect for history that maintains the love for them.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2011/jan/18/kings-speech-republican-challenge-war-queen

Outcast


When you’re an established director in British television it must be important to time your leap into films. It could be a matter of waiting for the right opportunity to come along. You might have a brainchild of your own to nurture into life. However you go about it, mistakes could be fatal for your aspirations. Do you stick to what you know or strike out boldly to get yourself noticed?

Colm McCarthy adopted the practical approach of a bit of both. Born in Edinburgh, his debut feature is set in the city and packed full of bleak, grey vistas. They’re similar to the gritty tone of one of McCarthy’s previous credits, Murphy’s Law. And McCarthy relies on the star of that show, James Nesbitt, to head up a strong line-up of British acting talent in Outcast. The director also co-wrote the film, which is a shocking and dramatic departure from glossy programmes like Hustle, The Tudors and Spooks which also adorn his CV.

Outcast is the tale of Mary (Kate Dickie) and Fergal (Niall Bruton), a mother and son pair that find themselves settling into a dingy, dirty flat on a rough estate on Edinburgh’s outskirts. As the film progresses it’s clear that Mary is fiercely protective of her son and that she and him are running and hiding from something dark in their past. Connections which link them to Cathal (Nesbitt) gradually surface, who arrives in the city on a primal hunt to kill. It doesn’t take long before members of the recognisable British cast start dropping like flies, but the culprit remains ambiguous right up until the climax of the story.

From the start Outcast tries too hard to establish its weird, horrific credentials. Rather than subtly revealing the occult aspects to the story, the clunky script hammers them home. We watch as Nesbitt’s character endures the application of painful ritualistic carvings to his back and immediately afterwards, Dickie’s mysterious mother drawing blood from her own naked chest and daubing ancient symbols over the walls. Later when Fergal’s teen love interest Petronella (Hanna Stanbridge) barges into the flat and discovers these odd images, Fergal simply explains his mother has different beliefs, rather than panicking or struggling more realistically (and interestingly) to keep the secret burden from his friends. Equally bizarrely Petronella isn’t fazed.

With so much blood and gore on show, Outcast needs strong, engaging and believable characters to be watchable. Unfortunately a weak script again lets down the cast. Most of the characters are nothing more than stereotyped caricatures. The highly sexed yobs on the estate are entirely predictable, as is Doctor Who’s Karen Gillan’s small role as an estate slut. Petronella’s simple brother is also a cardboard cut-out of a character. Her relationship and eventual love for Fergal, a key pillar of the plot, is not at all convincing. Another faulty key ingredient is Nesbitt’s miscasting as the menacing pursuer. Most of the time he appears baffled and far from frightening. Christine Tremarco gives a good performance as a rather pointless housing inspector and Dickie’s genuinely mysterious mother is just about the only character with the capacity to deliver proper scares. She does so a number of times, springing out from nowhere on her wandering son, issuing warnings and cursing Tremarco’s character so that she loses her mind.

For a horror film Outcast is far too predictable and its execution is heavy handed. All the pieces of a really gripping, frightening story are there but they simply don’t fit together in the right order. The crucially important occult influences are both overused and not ever satisfactorily explained. Grand themes like repressed sexual desire, forbidden fruit and ancestor’s sins returning to haunt the next generation, never quite come off. Brutal sacrifices and attacks, potentially original elements of the story, are uncomfortable to watch but never truly shocking. When more traditional scares arrive in monster form, the special effects look amateurish and almost laughably like a parody of a classic.

Most of the praise heaped upon McCarthy’s debut feature seems severely misguided in my view, although one review is right to hail the project an “ambitious” one. Sadly for the British film industry, Outcast lacked both the polished script and the resources to pull off what it was attempting. Throughout the whole thing you’re never quite sure what’s going on, but you’re never shocked or scared either. Outcast’s two dimensional plotting and characterisation means that a handful of sexy scenes, the charms of rising star Hanna Stanbridge and continuous gore are all that’s left to endear it to the (I suspect male) teenagers keen to get hold of it on its release, despite the 18 certificate.

Doctor Who Series 5: The Verdict


I feel guilty that after airing my views on that early teaser trailer on this blog, warning that this series may fall short, it is only now that I have found the time to correct myself. However that is largely due to the fact that I have enjoyed this series so much that to sit down and analyse both its successes and failings after each individual episode would have spoilt the experience. In truth though the vast majority of my doubts for the future of the nation’s beloved Timelord had been dispelled following Moffat’s first episode, The Eleventh Hour. This extended adventure abandoned the repetitive London setting of the Russell T. Davies era and brilliantly ushered in a whole new set of characters and relationships, along with a regenerated Doctor. My greatest concern, the ability of Matt Smith to replace Tennant in the role, was also mostly alleviated by his first performance alone.

That is not to say this series has not had its disappointments. When Moffat has personally penned an episode there have been no problems with quality or balance, but other writers struggled to successfully tick all the Whovian boxes. The first episode to disappoint was The Victory of the Daleks, although to be fair this may have been because expectations were disproportionately raised by the sight of Churchill and the pepper pot villains in the trailer and were impossible to live up to in a single episode. Perhaps the worst episodes of the series were the Silurian double bill set somewhat unbelievably in a Welsh mining town undergoing a globally ambitious drilling project, staffed by the odd local. I think it was a mistake to follow the rurally set Amy’s Choice, one of those brilliant low budget, idea heavy episodes stuffed with terrific acting performances, humour and insight into the Doctor’s character, with another village location and casually brush aside the glaring lack of funds by having the Doctor insist he had been aiming for Rio. This two part story also felt thin and unable to properly engage for two whole weeks. A promising start, of Amy being sucked into the earth, gave way to a predictable storyline of culture clash and negotiation, with crudely drawn Silurian and human characters.

Following this Richard Curtis’ Van Gogh episode was also weak, despite some nice flourishes. The gaping hole in the strength of Curtis’ tale was the fact that the monster of “pure evil” only Van Gogh could see turned out to be an irrelevance, easily dealt with and disconnected from the heart of the story. In many ways it may have been better to dispense with the monster completely and simply have the Doctor indulge in a spot of emotional time travel, as this is clearly all Curtis wanted to do and in the final scene he did it wonderfully movingly. I was also not enthused by The Lodger despite generally positive reviews of it elsewhere. For me the basic premise of the plot could have been much more satisfactorily explored (I mean something was building a TARDIS??? What?) and the sight of James Corden on television is beginning to verge on repulsive.

Having said this that episode did offer an unblemished close up of the eleventh Doctor’s character, charisma and performance. For me the most pleasantly surprising thing about this series has been the ease with which Matt Smith has become a Timelord and banished nostalgic longing for Tennant. His interpretation of the character has seen a refreshing return to a more detached, alien figure, as by the end of RTD’s tenure Tennant’s Timelord was still lamenting the loss of Rose and envying his duplicate’s mortal existence with her. It’s clear that each actor playing the Doctor draws heavily on his predecessor however, and Smith clearly embraces much of Tennant’s lunacy, whilst also reviving the arrogance embodied in Eccleston’s leather swagger. For me it seems only fitting that the last of the Timelord’s should have such a high minded view of himself and Smith plays the Doctor brimming with a quirky, bumbling confidence of his own. Karen Gillan also brings assurance and feisty fire to the role of redhead Amy Pond. The actress has been at her best when not trundling out generic whiny phrases in a thickening Scottish accent, but in rare glimpses of emotion such as during the scene when she could not open her eyes, surrounded by Weeping Angels. The return of these stealthy statues from critically acclaimed Blink was a gamble for Moffat but one he pulled off spectacularly. He must also gain much credit for Smith’s fresh take on the Doctor, as his writing emphasises both the marvellous methodical detective and mad professor in him.

Indeed there seems to be no doubt that most of what is good about this new look Doctor Who is down to new head writer Steven Moffat. Previous contributions to the RTD series made his talent for exploiting childhood fears evident, but given creative control over the show he has shown an aptitude for the perfect two part episode and a gripping narrative arc. I have already praised the opening episode but the second, The Beast Below, thrilled me. It had a chilling cocktail of scares, “smilers”, floors sliding away in lifts, a shadowy government (led by the demon headmaster!), and also established Amy’s competence as a companion in a unique, imaginative way (Britain floating on a space whale!) that said something about the Doctor. The return of the Weeping Angels managed to capture the brilliance of the original by acknowledging the need for a different type of story, with Moffat himself comparing it to the greater scale of Aliens 2 following Aliens. And after all the teasing about cracks in time, what a finale last weekend!

Episode 12, The Pandorica Opens, was fantastically bold in scale and again the setting of Roman Britain was a refreshing departure from the RTD trend of grand finales unravelling in present day London. After several twists and turns the Doctor was imprisoned within the Pandorica by an alliance of his foes, as the TARDIS began to explode and destroy the universe itself. It was difficult to predict the direction of episode 13, but one would have guessed some sort of reckoning for the Doctor with his formidable coalition of villains and an explanation as to who, or what, was manipulating the TARDIS and causing it to explode. Certainly what sounded like the voice of Davros could be heard in episode 12, cackling that “silence will fall”.

However much to my relief Moffat continued to surprise, as Davros would have been a tired end to such a fresh new series. Moffat seems to recognise the key to successful double episodes is contrast, and so the Doctor went from facing a horde of enemies to a solitary, ailing Dalek and the little problem of a “total event collapse”. Cue some gloriously fun time hopping involving a fez and a mop and a performance ranging from daft brilliance to retrained pain from Smith that confirms his evolution into the last Timelord. The significance of the wedding was at last explained and Rory and Amy restored to the TARDIS, all set for new adventures, with the huge questions of River Song and who caused that explosion still to be answered.

All in all Moffat has rebooted the show, just as the Doctor hit refresh on the universe  with the “Big Bang 2”, and restored a sense of the magical and fairytale by always surprising and sometimes replacing the blockbuster scale of RTD’s tenure with classic, intimate scares (e.g. the headless Cyberman in episode 12 vs. the hordes of them in RTD stories). Best of all as this fairytale series comes to an end it feels as if it is only the set up for something greater to come.