Whilst I was primarily wowed by last week’s opener to the new series, I wasn’t the only one having worries about the abundance of plotlines being introduced and secrets set up. And with this second episode, cracks in Moffat’s genius are beginning to show.
I know I never thought I’d hear myself say a bad thing about the man. But Day of the Moon simply tried to do too much. The really sad and disappointing thing about it is that it’s made of sublime component parts; it just didn’t work as well as it could have done as a complete whole.
The start of the episode was really impressive. All three companions seemingly hunted and gunned down in stunning and iconic American locations by the FBI. The Doctor locked up in Area 51 with a striking beard and strait jacket. Then of course a brilliant escape. It’s here perhaps that the flaws start to show however. Was anyone else baffled by the need for such an elaborate plan? Especially when later in the episode they simply wheel out President Nixon as the ultimate authority in their favour? Ultimately you can ignore the implausibility of our Timelord’s scheme for the added benefits to the drama; the cinematic scale of Americans locations, the stunning CGI shot of Apollo 11, a swimming pool dive from River and a seemingly bearded and beaten Doctor.
It’s later in the episode, around the middle, when the dialogue gets so bogged down with secrets that can’t yet be revealed, that as a standalone episode Day of the Moon begins to unravel somewhat. It’s simply unsatisfying for an audience to have so little payoff on the hints of huge revelations. In many ways Day of the Moon is too similar to the first episode; I was expecting it to leave a great many of the secrets untouched, to wrap up the story of The Silence in suitably engrossing style. In the end the Doctor sees off the terrifying foes rather easily, even if we’re told that this isn’t quite the end of them.
With the concluding two parter of the last series Moffat demonstrated his understanding of the impact of contrast, and there is not enough contrast between these first two episodes. The scenes in the children’s home are too similar to those in the tunnels at the end of The Impossible Astronaut. They have some wonderfully, typically Moffat ideas that are truly haunting, but throw in all the stuff about Amy’s baby and the completely confusing space suit and it’s all too much. These scenes with images of “Get out” scrawled on the walls and markings on Amy’s skin could have formed the foundation to a brilliant episode, but they are overshadowed by random but no doubt significant moments like the woman saying “she’s just dreaming” from behind the door. They also don’t sit right with the light hearted, race against time that’s the rest of the episode.
I’m not saying that I did not enjoy Day of the Moon. I am probably just bitter because it so completely baffled me and I’ll look back on it more fondly with hindsight. There were undoubtedly more than a handful of classic moments, and some brilliant dialogue. But it all just felt rather disjointed and overloaded. The relationships and jealousies between the companions are almost beginning to resemble soap opera. Here’s hoping that next week delivers a cracking and clever story truly independent of the secrets of the series.
Of course I’m not going to sign off without mentioning the Timelord child. Is it Amy and the Doctor’s? That’s the constant suggestion, which means it’s not as simple as it seems. Not that it does seem simple. I’m confused. And I have mixed feelings about it. Whilst Moffat should continue to push the boundaries of the character and take risks, he also could push it too far. One thing’s for certain; it’s worth sticking with the series to find out if its fetish for cliff-hangers becomes misguided or is sheer genius.
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We all make mistakes. We all have regrets. Regrets in particular are an undeniably universal part of the human condition and the lives of everyone; from rock star to street cleaner. It doesn’t matter if you’re the flawless Empress of dozens of kingdoms or a waitress in a greasy spoon; there will be things you wish you had done differently. Sometimes, when things get really bad, it’s a cliché phrase of woe to wish that the ground would swallow you up. Usually though you’re probably more likely to be hoping for a window onto the past. A hole big enough to crawl through, or a door if you’re feeling especially demanding. There’s not a soul on Earth, no matter how content they may profess to be, that wouldn’t consider the chance to go back. The chance to revisit a moment when everything changed.
Boiled down to its basics, this is what The Door is all about; that irrepressible human desire to erase what has been eternally written on the pages of history and memory. That craving for just one chance of redemption and the opportunity to take another path, a happier route, on the journey of life. In many ways The Door is an extremely simple tale but it’s one that uses fantasy to suggest dark and disturbing truths about human nature. It will simultaneously cut uncomfortably close to the core of your personal experience and be impossible to imagine and relate to.
The Door is a German film, telling the story of David Andernach, played by Mads Mikkelsen. I was dubious of Mikkelsen’s ability to carry this film off. I am most familiar with him from Casino Royale, in which he played a suitably menacing but also expectedly caricatured Le Chiffre. The way The Door is constructed requires intense focus on the personal viewpoint of Andernach and Mikkelsen is in practically every scene. You really notice it when things centre round his wife for a few minutes towards the climax. Thankfully his performance is varied, convincing and touching at times.
Also good are his wife Maja (Jessica Schwarz) and daughter Leonie (Valeria Eisenbart). Eisenbart is especially excellent as a child actor accurately expressing the knowing innocence of children, reacting to the sensational and dramatic events of the plot. Andernach’s mistress Gia is played by Heike Makatsch, and if I’m being really picky, which I guess I am, her performance was bland and predictable. She does play perhaps the least diverse of all the characters though, particularly when compared to the other more mysterious, male neighbour to the family.
However whilst poor performances could conceivably have ruined The Door, the really standout thing about this film is the story. It’s the sort of plot that can’t be justified in summary. I certainly can’t make my description of it much more alluring than the mildly interesting efforts of the production notes, without spoiling the surprise factor that made The Door so immensely enjoyable for me.
What I can tell you is that Andernach is a famous artist who is over the road fucking the neighbour one day when his daughter trips over her shoe laces and drowns in the family pool. Five years later Andernach is a broken man, begging his former wife for forgiveness. He tries to drown himself in the same pool, only to be rescued by a friend. He then follows a butterfly (his daughter wanted him to catch them with her but he chose a rendezvous with his mistress) to a hidden door that opens onto the day she died. He intends to simply save her and then perhaps alter his future, but he finds himself trapped in the past, lurching from one unintentional catastrophe to another.
In a way I’m tempted to write one review of The Door for those who have not seen it and one for after you’ve all hunted it down and enjoyed its one hour and thirty five minutes or so. It’s a film that raises a lot of big questions and emotional themes that would be interesting to discuss in more depth. You think you can work out its progression from the premise but you probably won’t. I will say that its poignant overall message seemed, for me at least, to be something along the lines of; we can all relive the past if we pay a big enough price and surrender enough of ourselves, but it’s a part of being human to let go and move on.
Trying to bottle up the raw feeling I got from The Door makes it sound far from creative or moving. But watching it with its tender score and acting and simple surprises, you are really sucked in. For once the glowing descriptions of the film adorning the marketing are totally apt and spot on; The Door is a “dark moral fable” and “an accomplished supernatural thriller”. You’ll be gripped by it, fascinated by it and haunted and moved by it. You’ll wonder what you’d do confronted with your own door.
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Tagged 007, 2006, 2009, 2010, acting, action, Andernach, April 18th, artist, blog, Bond, Casino, certified, cinema, Collinson, Community, condition, Craig, culture, Cuts, Daniel, dark, David, director, DVD, fable, failure, fascinating, film, Flickering, follow, fresh, Gary, gateway, German, Gia, gripping, haunting, Heike, history, human, imdb, Incredible, James, Jessica, Le Chiffre, Leonie, lies, love, Love Actually, Mads, Maja, Makatsch, Me, Mia, Mikkelsen, mistakes, moral, movie, Mrt'sblog, murder, myth, narrative, new, novel, optimum, past, Politics, portal, raw, Real, regrets, releasing, Review, Rotten, Royale, Schwarz, sci-fi, screener, script, secrets, sex, spoilers, story, style, success, suit, supernatural, The, themes, thoughts, thriller, time, Tomatoes, tragic, trapped, travel, Trim, Twitter, Ultra, Valeria Eisenbart, Verdict, violent, writer, writing
I only discovered BlogalongaBond recently. But blimey what an excellent idea. Talking about 007 once a month for two years, and each film in turn; blogging bliss for Bondian fanatics like me.
Then I realised I had just missed the boat for writing about Goldfinger. My first contribution to BlogalongaBond would have to come hot on the heels of a month’s glowing discussion of the world’s most famous franchise’s most iconic entry. How was I going to compete with that? I couldn’t rant and rave about every single classic scene moulded into cliché by endless reference and repetition. As many bloggers said when reviewing Goldfinger, it was THE Bond film and in the eyes of many every one since has aspired to its formula and fallen short of its magical mix.
After watching Thunderball though, I remembered why it’s always been more than the shit part of the National Lottery to me. I loved Thunderball growing up as a boy, and I love it now. For me it is better than Goldfinger. Aside from From Russia With Love, Thunderball is the film that best captures the origins of the character; Ian Fleming’s James Bond transplanted onto the screen.
Thunderball the novel was a return to form for Fleming, who had taken a break after Goldfinger to produce a collection of short stories, For Your Eyes Only. The book introduces the character of Ernst Stavro Blofeld for the first time and provides Bond with an excellent enemy for two other brilliant novels, On Her Majesty’s Secret Service and You Only Live Twice. Of course the films made Blofeld Bond’s ultimate nemesis from the outset, whereas prior to Thunderball, in the literary world of Bond his primary foes had been unorthodox Russian organisation SMERSH. Lampooned in the 60s by Bond spoof Casino Royale, SMERSH sounds unavoidably silly compared to the sinister SPECTRE headed by mysterious Blofeld.
Interestingly the physique of Blofeld in the novels is quite different to that presented in the films. The most memorable portrayal of Blofeld is perhaps Donald Pleasance’s scarred little bald man in You Only Live Twice. In Roger Moore’s time the character is reduced to being dropped down a chimney in a pre titles sequence. Thunderball showcases Blofeld at his best; unknown, all powerful and faceless.
Thunderball also shows off Bond at his best. In a PTS far superior to the aforementioned Roger Moore effort in For Your Eyes Only, we learn everything we need to know about 007. In my view Thunderball’s PTS is also better than Goldfinger’s despite the prevailing view being that Goldfinger’s is the most flawless of the series. As several bloggers pointed out, Bond’s ridiculous duck disguise in Goldfinger spoils the other elements somewhat and to me Thunderball’s PTS is a stronger standalone mini-story, which also ties back to the main adventure.
Steven Spielberg once said that to him, James Bond was a detective, a suave Sherlock Holmes with a gun. For the directing legend Bond was at his best when distilled to this level and he tried to replicate elements of this when creating his Bond equivalent, Indiana Jones. I certainly think that description is a simplification of Bond’s character. But the mighty Spielberg has a point. There’s plenty of sleuthing and relying on Bond’s instincts in Connery’s early films, and particularly Thunderball. It’s something the modern films lost sight of and need to get back to.
Bond is certainly knowing and observational when he unmasks the widow in Thunderball’s PTS as an enemy agent. Connery’s charm, charisma and comedy are turned up to the max and the whole sequence looks stylish. Bond quips and flirts with his female assistant. Then in a brutal, ahead of its time fight scene that the likes of Jason Bourne and the modern 007 are returning to today, Connery kicks his opponent’s ass, savagely strangling him to death with a poker.
The PTS then ends with an outrageous escape via jet pack and gadgets galore on the sleek Aston Martin. These tongue in cheek gizmos aside, the gadgets in Thunderball are at the pitch perfect level. There’s a wonderful scene with Q in which sensible but clever gadgets are introduced that will return to prove vital in the plot. Connery’s sparky dialogue with Desmond Llewelyn is the best in the entire series.
So after the PTS we know who we’re dealing with; James Bond 007, licence to kill, with girls, guns, gadgets and grisly action galore. It’s then that the film introduces the masterly plot that remains durable, relevant, captivating and even slightly plausible today. Goldfinger took Fleming’s immense imagination and made his ideas work better on film than they did in the novel. In Thunderball Fleming’s fantastical schemes once again marvel and delight, and shock and scare, this time sticking closer still to the original story. It’s a testament to the story’s selling power that a major legal tussle over the rights to a remake led to the 1983 unofficial entry starring an aged Connery, Never Say Never Again.
The legacy of the nuclear arms race remains an issue today and the power of rogue atomic weapons to frighten certainly endures. The enormous importance and scale of events adds terrific drama to the story. It’s a drama any Bond film needs and thrives off of; the global significance bearing down on 007’s shoulders as he conquers personal hurdles to unravel it all. Coming up with the perfectly judged plot remains the biggest challenge for those behind new Bond films today because they can’t compete with Fleming.
Thunderball is the first of the films to deal with Fleming’s fascination of the sea and the underwater world. Today it is increasingly difficult to find exotic locations for Bond when holidays can whisk you practically anywhere in a flash. But the colourful realm beneath the waves, glowing in a turquoise tint, remains another mostly inaccessible world. There’s something alien and yet attractive about the monstrous creatures living amongst the sand and sun rays. There’s something dark about anyone who can master this environment and exploit it for his own gain. Something secretive about the tropical depths.
Emilio Largo had a tough act to follow. Auric Goldfinger is the master villain to beat with his distinctive characteristics and fondness for a verbal duel prior to some ghastly fate waiting for our hero. Largo also struggles to impose himself when the magnificent early scene, with one of THE Ken Adam set designs, showing the SPECTRE meeting makes it clear that he is merely a puppet and drone himself. The true power lies elsewhere. This definitely makes him a different kind of villain. He doesn’t compete with Goldfinger but he doesn’t lack menace or do a bad job either.
What about the girls then? For me in Domino and Fiona Volpe we have two of the best Bond girls ever. Pussy Galore, as played by Honour Blackman, is iconic for sure but mainly because of Fleming’s outrageous name. Domino comes across as one of the most beautiful girls that even Bond himself has ever seen in the novel, and Claudine Auger doesn’t do a bad job at all of visually representing this on screen. As for Volpe, she is incredibly sexy and seductive. Her bright red hair set her out as dangerous, but also as red hot. The scene where she is waiting for Bond in the bath and he offers her merely shoes to put on, and the dancing scene at the Kiss Kiss club where she dies, are two of the most memorable in cinematic history for me personally, never mind the Bond series.
During Bond’s scenes with Volpe there are some cracking Bondian quotes from the script and Connery also delivers some of his best lines in the role sparring with Largo: “Do you know a lot about guns?”, “No but a little about women”, for example.
Another reason for Bond’s scenes with Volpe being so memorable for me, particularly the ones at the Mardi Gras, is the film’s score. I think Thunderball is the first time Barry uses the “00 theme” and his variations on the Bond theme itself to provide tense music are catchy and complimentary to the action throughout. Even when the film has aged less well, for example the scene in the health club on the rack and the unintentionally comedic speeded up careering of the boat at the end, the music remains superb. Tom Jones’ title song is no Goldfinger, but it’s undoubtedly addictive and Bondian. And besides I hear poor old Shirley so much that her voice starts to grate.
In the end it’s for those moments in which we see what purists call the “real Bond” that I remember Thunderball. When Connery calmly kills the Professor in Dr.No after he’s had his six shots I knew that was a truly Bondian moment. It marks out the detached killer in Bond’s character so well. He is so used to living his work that he carries it off with a ruthless efficiency that looks effortless and irresistibly cool. There’s another moment like this in Thunderball. When Largo’s chief henchman Vargas is sneaking up on Domino and Bond on the beach, Domino spots him. Bond turns, almost nonchalantly rolling over, to fire a harpoon through his chest. This is the assassin in Bond. The moment’s slightly spoilt by Connery’s quip, “I think he got the point”, but even this dark humour becomes part of the character that fans can love.
Watch Thunderball and you’ve hit the 007 jackpot; never mind the riches of Goldfinger.
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After an indulgent weekend rest, I’m beginning to make some headway with short stories. It’s starting to seem like there are some broad categories of tale. Many are symbolic and first person. The following tiny attempt at something is based on the style of some of Haruki Murakami’s short stories.
One Wednesday I went looking for love. I’ve no idea why that particular day made a search seem necessary. Usually I’d dismiss such an undertaking as a foolhardy waste of time and effort. But that day it seemed possible I might find something resembling love at least. I didn’t have a rational hope in my mind or blind faith in my heart; just the sense that I might glimpse something if I took time out to look for it. And an overwhelming need to stop for a moment.
Perhaps it was the way the sun fell in dusty rays on my pillow. Or, in fact, not my pillow at all, but the forever vacant one next to it. The way the feathery grains wafted over the empty, unruffled fabric. The way they swirled upwards in a golden bliss. The way they danced with their infinite, weightless friends. The very fact that I could see them, rather than a face cloaked in sleep or a sprawling arm, highlighted my loneliness.
Outside my gloomy bubble, the sun smiled and everything was right in the world. The worker ants dashed about bathed in optimism. Something told me that it was going to be a good day, if only I was sure to stand in the middle of it. I could hardly lie in bed, daydreaming of aimless floating, when the grass was so green and the sky so blue. I had to get up and look.
I threw the window open and rushed about my flat in an inexplicable, excitable daze. Wednesday, some people said, was a hump day, from which the downward slide to the weekend began. It was the beginning of the descent from monotony to freedom and relaxation. My working hours were sporadic, but it just so happened I had to be somewhere for one o’clock. I might have finished looking by then; I might not.
Whole water droplets, untouched by the deadly stab of a towel, quivered in the chill from the window as I pulled on some clothes. I was out the door early, way before the rising sun had climbed above the clustered buildings of my road. I travelled light, reasoning that love could do without any extra baggage. Even my watch, which I regarded practically as a vital organ, lay forgotten about somewhere near the bed. My cavernous empty bed.
At first I simply walked. Up streets, down alleys, across roads. My creased, hastily buttoned shirt billowed around my waist like a skirt in the wind. I drew glances from passersby and tore past determined commuters. Rounding a corner onto a key London artery, I recoiled like a vampire in the harsh, all consuming stare of a fierce mid-morning sun, focused like a laser between two squashed buildings into my eyes. I felt them roll back in their sockets, suddenly burning with the vibrancy of it all. I staggered to a nearby wall, colliding with an irate businesswoman, greedily sucking hasty gulps from a cigarette, discarded yards later. I caught my breath.
Where best to stand for a fleeting glance of love? Where was the pivot, the enlightening epicentre of this shiny, beguiling day? Panting against my grimy patch of wall, I spied a gargantuan bookstore and made my way inside. Calmer now amongst the scent and flicker of turned pages, I allowed the dream of a likeminded, slender hand reaching out for the same book to grow in my mind’s eye. Browsing here today I would find love, I thought.
It didn’t happen. And neither did it happen at the cinema, where I lingered about the foyer, peering round pillars for the elusive moment. Hopes were raised and dashed by beautiful women scanning my favourite poetry or chatting noisily about a film I wanted to see. One o’clock came and went. It’s funny but I never once seriously considered approaching any of them. I think deep down I disliked the notion wheeled out by some, so called, “romantic” men, that it was possible to fall repeatedly in love with numerous women from the most meagre meetings. Inexperienced I may be but I’d formed my own ideas of love.
I didn’t go in for this chance encounter, novelistic crap. If I’d known anything like real love it was born first out of friendship. It surely couldn’t blossom just like that, in a single moment in all its complexities, between utter strangers; could it? So I gave up hope and set off home; trudging forlornly without any of the energy or automatic spring to my step I had left with that Wednesday morning, cursing such a total waste of such precious time. I began rehearsing the pointless phone call to work, explaining my absence.
But near the station I saw a record store, the type that was the domain of collectors and enthusiasts. I found myself wandering in. Subconsciously at least I clearly wanted one last throw of the dice, even when I knew things didn’t work like that. It didn’t take long for regret to wash over me on stepping inside. I felt almost instantly conspicuous, an agent behind enemy lines with their cover about to be blown. It wasn’t that I disliked music. I simply knew nothing about the dusty vintage jazz or limited edition punk littering this place. And I despised any form of artistic snobbery. Glancing at the other customers I could tell most of them did it for superiority, for bragging rights rather than passion.
Except one couple that is. Only they weren’t a couple, exactly. He was rifling through boxes of records, almost in a frenzy, whilst she leafed through the odd selection, drifting quietly just behind him. I felt myself instinctively drawn to them. They were fascinating. Though standing so close, it was clear they were not together. And yet it seemed as if they would be; they ought to be.
It felt too cliché to be real. Both were absorbed in their browsing, their mutual passion evident despite their completely contrasting methods and expressions. Both backed gradually towards each other, their gazes locked intently on the records. Then as he made an erratic eureka lunge for a treasured collectable, there was the inevitable clash and she dropped her own prize.
After endless seconds of token British apologies and awkward eye contact, they both shared a kind, selfless smile for a snapshot of a moment. It was a smile that said they knew each other, and had done for years. And yet it was also a smile of discovery, of innocence and renewal. I had watched the whole unremarkable incident. They left the shop separately. As far as I know nothing came of it, not that I chased the matter up. But it made me feel as if I’d seen love; if only a rough edge of what its purity could be.
I don’t know if I was in my right mind that Wednesday. Most would probably say I wasn’t, given the circumstances. Back then the operation seemed a long way off, but it was still an ever present, looming reality. Now I only have hours to wait. I think of that weird Wednesday and my sudden compulsion to search for love. I remember it as I try to bring myself to trust absolute strangers with everything I have. I cling to it in case anything should go wrong and I am left with a brief window of time to properly fall in love, and be loved in return.
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Tagged art, Bradbury, category, challenge, Chekhov, creative, first person, for, Haruki, Hemingway, imagery, Liam, London, looking, love, Mann, month, Mrt'sblog, Murakami, narrative, of, reading, short, stories, story, style, symbolic, Trim, Twitter, writing