Film review: 20,000 DAYS ON EARTH

Directed by Iain Forsyth and Jane Pollard

9/10

I remember now. It all came back. Despite the brief conversation with Blixa Bargeld, “Higgs Boson Blues” could have a million verses for all I care. And then Brighton, of course. Seven Sisters. I guess there will always be a part of me that will think Brighton is my favourite British city. The time spent there, in the warm chill of early January, expecting rain and then not expecting it, with Nick Cave’s latest songs playing in my head. “Brighton sky”, says Cave, “is unlike anything I’ve ever seen”. This is something you would have to take for granted.

However, the nostalgic feeling should not fool you. One of the greatest things about this Nick Cave documentary is that it doesn’t try to be nostalgic. Even if Cave does speak at the very beginning of 20,000 Days On Earth about how much he cares for the past. Past is a way to go forward and sometimes a memory means more than a person who caused it.

We start with Cave waking up in the morning and end with him standing on the beach, night gathering around him and then swallowing the lanky silhouette into the sparse sounds of Cave’s last album. And in between there is a day in the life of an artist. His 20,000^th day on Earth. We go through his creative process, his archives (the only time when Mick Harvey is mentioned) and even some of his anxieties. At just a little over 90 minutes, this is like the best sexual experience: unforgettable and seductively brief.

20,000 Days On Earth is a robust, inventive documentary with never a dull moment. We hear Cave say smart, vaguely philosophical things (which, crucially, always make sense); we see him chat with Warren Ellis (fantastic chemistry); we even see him during an unlikely psychiatric session (the story about Cave’s father reading to him Lolita at the age of 19 is particularly priceless). Then there are brief forays into his archives full of rare pictures, locks of female hair bought at some Berlin flea market and more amazing stories about Tracy Pew and some lonely guy Chris who lived in Germany and was mad on erotica. And there is even time for a full take on “Higgs Boson Blues” which sounds raw yet somehow fully realised. Like the documentary itself.

Great presence, great charisma, and a rare chance to look behind the stage flamboyance (Kylie Minogue describes him as a big tree in the storm – which sounds apt and even manages to soften Nick Cave’s perpetual frown). He is concerned about not being able to reach out to that one guy in the last row (come on, Nick). And he is defiant but very much aware of his age. What if the memory goes? What if it all goes?.. And like a 12-year old fanboy he is bedazzled by some Nina Simone performance he once saw. It’s the transformative power of the artist who should always be able to impress and to intimidate. Does he still have it? He feels confident yet the idea is heavily on his mind. 

And then there are parts where Cave just talks about his wife Susie (who barely appears), God and the sacred process of writing songs. Nick Cave is a man with a vision, and in the end it’s this vision that ties the documentary together and makes it not just a film about inspiration but a deeply inspirational experience in its own right. The memories of Brighton are my own powerful testimony to that.

БЕЛЫЕ НОЧИ ПОЧТАЛЬОНА АЛЕКСЕЯ ТРЯПИЦЫНА

Режиссер: Андрей Кончаловский  

Из удачных эпиграфов за последнее время я могу вспомнить разве что цитату из Джойса в недавнем романе Уилла Селфа: A brother is as easily forgotten as an umbrella. Это забавно, изобретательно. Это вообще не имеет никакого отношения к тому, что будет в книге. Это не лезет в голову и не заставляет думать в определенном направлении. И это книга. Эпиграфы в фильмах – это плохая идея, потому что глазам ты доверяешь гораздо больше, чем воображению. Но цитаты в конце фильмов? Что за мания? Что за дурацкое самолюбование? Что за назидательная порнография? Что за отношение к своему зрителю?

Но это действительно случилось в конце нового фильма Андрея Кончаловского. Точнее - две вещи. C одной стороны, цитата из шекспировской Бури, с другой - ракета, взлетающая над маленькой, изодранной деревней на севере России. Когда мне с упоением рассказывали об этой сцене, еще до просмотра фильма, я думал, что нет. Не стоит. Нельзя. Мы можем молчать полжизни, но не умеем при этом не сказать слишком много. После тихого, размеренного повествования нужно непременно ткнуть лицом в символ – пусть и хороший, пусть так точно характеризующий современную страну.

И все-таки Кончаловский меня уговорил. Белые ночи почтальона Алексея Тряпицына – это муторный, но крайне притягательный фильм. За свои полтора часа, то ли художественных, то ли документальных, он просто показывает жизнь главного героя, почтальона Алексея Тряпицына (все имена в фильме настоящие, потому что все персонажи в фильме настоящие). Который два года не пьет; который включает телевизор и даже не смотрит на экран; который в кого-то, наверное, влюблен; который умеет терпеть и делать свою работу (но больше терпеть); который просыпается ночью от вида серого и непонятно откуда взявшегося кота. Это все (кроме, пожалуй, кота) самые обычные сцены из самой обычной жизни. Но от них невозможно оторваться.

Наверное, все дело в этом огромном разрыве, который случился между этой жизнью и твоей жизнью. И теперь все это кажется причудливой экзотикой. Сырое, неиспорченное чувство Алексея Тряпицына. Он вдруг улыбается или смеется. Нет, не оттого, что смешно. Просто он не знает, как по-другому отреагировать. 

Еще мне понравилась многословность названия. Сразу подумалось об Истории Аси Клячиной, которая любила, да не вышла замуж. Как будто после американского периода и всех этих жутких щелкунчиков и курочек ряб и глянца, он вернулся к тому, что у него получается лучше всего. Русская деревня, почти недосказанная, почти без претензий. Вообще это не слишком просто, отыскать страну в 2014 году. Такое ощущение, что Кончаловскому удалось. Так что черт с ним с «Оскаром». Белые ночи почтальона Алексея Тряпицына – это почти великий фильм. 

СОЛНЕЧНЫЙ УДАР

Режиссер: Никита Михалков

Вот если бы мир перестал существовать в 1994 году. Не в 1995, когда Михалков получал «Оскар», а сразу после того, как он снял Утомленных солнцем. Не навсегда – на время. На двадцать лет. И не было бы неплохого, но бездушного и пафосного Сибирского цирюльника. Не было бы замечательного, но испорченного концовкой 12. И уж тем более не было бы этого безвкусного художественного суицида 2010 и 2011 годов. И Михалков не был бы ни воскрешенным советским генералом, ни благородным русским офицером, ни Александром III, ни Бесогоном… А затем, двадцать лет спустя, вышел бы фильм Солнечный удар. И никто бы слова плохого не сказал.

Это все к тому, что художника не должно быть слишком много. Художник может быть нескромным, претенциозным, высокомерным. Художник может быть каким угодно. Но его не должно быть слишком много. Михалков вышел за пределы экрана до такой степени, что это начало казаться неприличным. Что, тем не менее, не должно отвлекать от одной непонятной и ужасно нелепой мысли: Солнечный удар –  это очень хороший фильм.

Хотя конечно. Когда фильм закончился, и женщина слева в очередной раз всхлипнула в носовой платок, в голове была безумная, но вполне осуществимая идея. Я напишу две совершенно противоположные рецензии. Первая будет восторженной: в конце концов, человек, который снял Рабу любви, не может выстрелить себе в ногу бездарностью типа Предстояния или Цитадели. А вторая рецензия, опубликованная рядом, на той же самой странице, будет разгромной: может, очень даже может. И я буду искренним в обоих случаях, и в обоих случаях я буду прав.

Никита Михалков – это талантливый российский (я готов даже сказать «русский») режиссер. Но с годами уходит чувство меры, и говорит он в своих фильмах слишком много (нельзя, нельзя давать цитату перед титрами!) Каждая сцена и каждый символ его фильмов после 1983 года – это как кольцо, брошенное в конце алленовского Матч-пойнта. Черт его знает, в какую сторону оно упадет на этот раз. Но при всех моих претензиях к Солнечному удару (о чем ниже), Михалкова спасает эмоциональность и настоящая страсть к выбранной теме. Кольцо не перелетает и не падает в воду. Слегка покрутившись на грани, оно все-таки спасительно соскальзывает вниз.  

Солнечный удар построен на двух произведениях Бунина. Такой, по крайней мере, была первоначальная идея. Рассказ «Солнечный удар» и удивительный бунинский дневник Окаянные дни, где Ленин – это животное, а Маяковский – Идиот Полифемович. Но если без «Солнечного удара» здесь никак не могло обойтись, то Окаянных дней в этом фильме попросту нет. Единственное – это тот страшный, мучительный переход от царской России к советской власти. Михалков много играет со светом, но все же самое сильное, что есть в этом фильме, – это лицо главного героя. Вся эта распухшая серость. И один вопрос, который задается тут же, в лоб: «Что… что все это было?..»

Кто-то хочет в Москву, а кто-то – в кровавую римскую провинцию, к Понтию Пилату. Всегда приходится выбирать. Но даже несмотря на довольно-таки навязчивые переключения между двумя историями, царской и советской, все кажется вполне органичным. Русские офицеры распарывают погоны, подписывают советские бумаги и отчаянно и безвольно готовятся к будущему, которого, конечно, не будет. В частности, тот самый герой, чье бесцветное и непримечательное лицо вдруг начинает наполняться историей из прошлого. В 1907 году он плыл на пароходе и ощутил любовную страсть, которая солнечным ударом прошла по всему телу, но затем наутро исчезла и оставила только шаль под подушкой и перечеркнутую записку на столе.

Солнечный удар – это символ не столько гениальный, сколько неотразимый. У символов позднего Михалкова есть одна проблема: они очевидны. Закругленные и кастрированные, они почти лишены естественности, и ты будешь до бесконечности слышать голос мальчика, который будет бежать вдоль обрыва и кричать «Господин офицер, вы забыли часы!».. Летающая шаль, которую мы все уже видели тысячу раз. И детская коляска. И поршни, которые так настойчиво напоминают, например, о Крейцеровой сонате Швейцера. Но все-таки символы эти, от карманных часов до старых фотографий, бьют наотмашь.

Михалков вообще это умеет – бить наотмашь, до крови, до сентиментальности раздирая кожу и нерв. Взять, например, разгадку тех двух таинственных слов. Наверное, сцена будет понятна даже тому, кто не пережил того солнечного удара, о котором вспоминает главный герой.

Что касается заимствований, то здесь интересно. Красть у себя в тысячу раз опасней, чем красть у других. Красть у себя – это все равно, что признаваться в своих ошибках или верить в собственное превосходство. Но первое Михалкову не грозит, а говорить о втором уже как-то поздно и бессмысленно. Сцена секса (вполне, нужно сказать, неплохая) не может не напомнить об Утомленных солнцем, а из Неоконченной пьесы (определенно лучшего фильма Михалкова) здесь и ленивая атмосфера, и две сумбурные, надоедливые девицы («жабы зеленые»), и эта любимая его фраза: «А потом», говорит девушка в момент романтического напряжения, «а потом – суп с котом». И здесь можно долго думать: это целостное видение автора или это все же пародия на самого себя (думаю, что и то, и другое).

Из обычного еще шутки, которые то необязательно пошлые и надуманные, то вдруг неприлично смешные. А еще тщательная продуманность сюжета, безапелляционные монологи персонажей, пронзительная музыка Артемьева, безупречная игра актеров (совсем, кажется, неочевидных), несколько совершенно необязательных сцен (обед с фокусником – это слишком уж большая роскошь для трехчасового фильма) и, конечно, лицо самого Михалкова. На старой фотокарточке, приближенное до самого крупного плана. 

И все-таки хорошее перевешивает. В Михалкове есть, что любить: стиль, содержание, и то самое навязчивое величие, тот масштаб, которого в российском кино больше ни у кого попросту нет. Я готов даже закрыть глаза на весь тот бред, который он теперь говорит. В конце концов, Эзра Паунд поддержал Муссолини. Иногда – иногда – художнику можно что-нибудь простить. Пусть только на время... Никогда бы не подумал, что скажу это, но Солнечный удар – это мучительно хороший фильм. 

Film review: FADING GIGOLO

Directed by John Turturro

6/10

Woody Allen is both a blessing and a trap. You don’t expect to put him into your film and retain any trace of identity. And you sure as hell don’t expect that if you give him the leading part. He does that old neurotic trick, says a good joke, sucks up all the space from the screen and makes Fading Gigolo a second-rate Woody Allen pastiche.

And yet it is Woody Allen who saves this film from being an all-out bloodless disaster. He is alive. He breathes. He says stuff. He even has two or three decent (if vaguely familiar) jokes. Rest of the cast (and this can also apply to the film itself) is generally solipsistic. Sharon Stone doesn’t really do anything and Vanessa Paradis is duller than death.

John Turturro (who’s directing his fifth film here) is better, but only marginally. He plays a quiet New York florist, Fioravante, who is encouraged by Woody Allen’s character (failed used bookstore owner turned unlikely gigolo) to participate in a ménage à trois involving the latter’s dermatologist Dr. Parker. The gigolo trade that then ensues is an intriguing Allen-esque idea, one that – by all means – has lots of potential. And there are sparks here, bits and pieces of a well-written script that should but doesn’t.

Because I honestly do not care. Half the time Fading Gigolo feels numb and fails to engage. And when it does, it’s not through the virtues of a strong screenplay or great acting or Turturro’s exciting filmmaking. It’s because Woody Allen appears within the frame and shakes things up by simply doing his thing. No magic involved. 

Fading Gigolo feels like a very shaky, uncertain film that is only slightly above average. It doesn’t quite realise what to do, how to balance seriousness with humour, vulgarity with charm. It doesn’t know how to be convincing. Whereas John Turturro is the one person who should know how to be convincing. After all: when you do Jesus, you do the Jesus.

Film review: UNDER THE SKIN

Directed by Jonathan Glazer

9/10

Under The Skin is Scarlett Johansson versus the city of Glasgow. For me, a mouth-watering proposition.

This film is unsettling, bizarre, utterly fascinating. I can only imagine three types of people who would wish to see it: aliens, weirdos and movie critics. Possibly Scarlett Johansson fans, but that depends on whether they can tolerate a Glaswegian accent. As for Johansson herself, I think she should be applauded for starring in what is essentially a non-commercial project for a few left-field festivals.

The synopsis, if in fact there is any need for that, would not make too much sense. Johansson is a girl riding in a posh car through random grim Scottish streets picking up random grim (some are, indeed, very grim) Scottish guys who go for her looks like disbelieving flies would go for an open can of raspberry jam in the middle of an abandoned house. She seduces them and they ‘follow her into darkness and are submerged in an abyss of liquid’ (if you can trust Wikipedia on this one). It’s when odd becomes normal. You have to accept what you see.

Of course Johansson’s character is a twist, an allegorical statement, but there is also something almost hilarious about her driving around Scotland and trying to engage in casual conversations. It just feels so real. It’s like Johansson is genuinely bewildered by what is going on around (which is a bit like this, but without the adrenaline). Though in the end, it might not be so easy to tell – who is alien and who is not. The ending is surreal but also direct and hard-hitting and leaves little room for imagination. Imagination was what came before. 

Under The Skin is definitely a bit of a mind-fuck, but it is done with so much style and genuine, engaging oddness that you’re more than willing to hallucinate to whatever’s thrown at you. Crying infants, neurofibromatosis, empty skins. This film unsettles your senses, and does it on purpose and with a great deal of relish. It goes for your guts, whether you have them or not. Challenging and visually impressive. Smart, too. This is great cinema.  

Film review: THE GRAND BUDAPEST HOTEL

Directed by Wes Anderson

9/10

You see there are still faint glimmers of civilization left in this barbaric slaughterhouse that was once known as humanity. Indeed, that’s what we provide in our own modest, humble, insignificant… ah fuck it.

You don’t really laugh at Wes Anderson’s films, do you? You smile (constantly) and you chuckle (occasionally), but you don’t laugh. The man is too quirky to make you laugh – even if he did come close this time. Not since Alec Baldwin’s classic scene in Glengarry Glen Ross have I heard ‘fucking faggot’ said with such gusto and style. Adrien Brody had me there. In fact, this film features some of the most hilarious swearing I’ve heard in a while. Because no one can do it quite like a guy who gave us Moonrise Kingdom and Fantastic Mr. Fox

Obviously enough, The Grand Budapest Hotel looks exactly like a Wes Anderson film. That disarming, cutesy-witty style of his, preserved in its ideal state down to every last word and wrinkle. And every time you think: but it shouldn’t work, those mannerisms, that suffocating dollhouse perfection. And every time his masterful execution just wins you over. You accept his rules, you have no choice.

The cast is breathtaking. Usual suspects (including, yes, Bill Murray) mixed with new blood (Jude Law, Ralph Fiennes, Mathieu Amalric, others). But while the acting is always impeccable (Fiennes in particular is a portrait of solemn hilarity), you always get the feeling that these are no more than talented puppets, beautiful animated dolls in a Wes Anderson show. And I mean that in the best possible sense.

The Grand Budapest Hotel is like a weirded-out adventure story for children. The usual, then. From shot one, Anderson places you into his world, and this time it is a fictional country called Zubrowka. Eastern Europe, by the looks of it. Gustave H (funny, kind, generous, odd), a concierge of one truly striking and singular hotel, is framed for murder and is on the run. Lots of cute characters and whimsical sequences along the way, nothing you would for a moment mistake for reality. Most of the story takes place in the 1930’s, and you will be aware that some bad stuff is going on outside, but the Nazis are a Mickey Mouse organization and even the prison view is basically a postcard from Amsterdam.

Allegorical statements don’t really fit into a Wes Anderson world, so instead enjoy it as a unique spectacle. The Grand Budapest Hotel is a genuine tale of kindness for insecure adults with a strong sense of self-irony and taste. 

Film review: WE ARE THE BEST!

Directed by Lukas Moodysson  

8/10

Sweden is as good a country as any other, but you don’t really expect to see a Swedish film about punk rock. I don’t mean ABBA and I don’t mean Scandinavian metal scene. It’s not that. It is just that unless you are Swedish or a punk rock nerd (beats the purpose), you won’t know Johnny Rotten had any bearing on that part of the world. But of course he did.

The film is set in Stockholm. Bleak and cheerless, depressing snow bogs you down. School sucks, family issues, hair metal on the rise. This is the perfect background for something nasty and exciting to emerge. Enter punk rock. Enter three friends (pre-teen girls) who find themselves at odds with the existing conventions: Christianity, bad music, boredom. Punk may be dead, but they know it isn’t. They know it is alive and well and the sole purpose of their lives. The reason they play it whenever they have a chance, the reason they hate school, the reason their hair has to be so short, the reason they get drunk and fight and fall in love for the first time.

But above all – they start their own band. Obviously, they have no idea how to tune their instruments, they can barely hold them. One girl plays acoustic guitar, and that’s about it. Small triumphs and tragedies along the way, and then we reach the big final scene that in reality is not any bigger than the last chord on David Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust album. And it doesn't have to be.

Now of course We Are The Best! is not a film about punk rock, even if you get to hear lots of good Swedish music from the period. It is basically a coming of age story and a complete, pointless triumph of idealism. Because idealism is always pointless. But who cares – when you have the music and you have the guts. This film is touching and funny. And maybe a little sad. Because idealism passes. Or does it.

Film review: THE DOUBLE by Richard Ayoade

Sometimes brilliant doesn’t work without bizarre and bizarre doesn’t work without brilliant. The Double is a good example of that. The very opening train scene, confusing and eye-catching, Franz Kafka as done by David Lynch, will show you the way. Whether the way is out or in, that’s a different matter entirely, but I was purring with delight. Like a well-read and well-fed cat. A young man is sitting in a completely empty carriage. Suddenly another passenger rises up in front of him, asking the young man to give up the seat. The young man looks around, bewildered. He then gives up the seat.

The young man’s name is Simon James (Jesse Eisenberg), and he is but a muted fly in this Kafka-esque world of blue drinks, bureaucracy and suicide. He loves a girl (Mia Wasikowska), but he is too shy to make a pass. Nobody notices him, and that seems to suit him just fine until one day his doppelganger arrives. James Simon is everything Simon James is not: witty, ballsy, socially-confident. But the face is the same (‘you are not even Chinese, so it’s pretty fucked up’). Physically the two men are completely identical. The concept isn’t new, of course, but it will always be intriguing as long as you do it right.

Richard Ayoade based his film on the eponymous novella by Dostoyevsky and threw in Kafka, Lynch and a little Orwell (mainly the colonel’s figure) for good measure. He did it right, The Double giving the impression of being both odd and extremely well-honed. Controversially, I believe The Double to be one of Dostoyevsky’s best works (in fact, only second to The Village of Stepanchikovo). It may read like a clever Gogol pastiche, but it is also unique in that the brilliant farce comes filtered through the existential issues Dostoyevsky would later present in a rather different, religiously earnest tone. 

The charm is that apart from being so stylish and well thought through, The Double is also wonderfully all over the place. The bizarreness seems natural, and your laughter is genuine. The humour comes in nervy, unlikely bursts and takes you off-guard. The scene with the doctor (Paddy Considine – he also appeared in Submarine, Ayoade’s debut film) was absurd genius, and that aforementioned quote was effortlessly non-PC. Overall I’d say the acting is good, but this is more of an idea-based film. Like pretty much its characters, the actors are statistically insignificant. Simon and Hannah should never make as much sense as all that silly printing they do. The words, too, become larger than life. ‘I am a person. I exist’. 

The Double is a wonderful story of alienation and rebirth. It is short and concise. It says all it wants to say in less than an hour and a half and leaves you with a strong feeling that you’ve just seen something strange, inspired, challenging. Perfect for an awkward first date.

Film review: NYMPHOMANIAC by Lars von Trier

3 + 5  = ?   (sorry about that)

Before we get down to this elegant, elegiac story about fishing, let’s get one key question out of the way: why in God’s name do they pay with British pounds in this film? Is this Blackpool? Not some dreary, forsaken Vontrierland on the outskirts of Scandinavia but goddamned Blackpool? Yes, I know, fuck geography, the story is supposed to be universal and they could as well pay with Mongolian Tugriks. But still. Those sad curtains on train windows made me sad.

I’ve always had an issue with Lars von Trier and his freewheeling way of manipulating emotions. From Breaking The Waves to Antichrist, it has always felt like cheating. His subtlety is shallow and humourless, and you don’t prove your point by showing a mentally deficient girl wanking off salacious jerks on bleak Scottish buses. Well, apparently you do, but then it feels like cheap art.

So where does that leave Nymphomaniac? Von Trier’s very own, all-out, sexed-up Inland Empire? Lasting four hours, with unsimulated scenes featuring professional porn actors? With graphic perversions and every kind of orgasm imaginable (you’ve seen the infamous poster)? With sex addiction breathing at you from every inch of your screen? Well, let me put it like this: Nymphomaniac is Lars von Trier’s greatest achievement. (Sic!) There’s precious little to enjoy here, and after four straight hours I looked like a humped ghost, but Jesus Christ – sometimes when you are outrageous all you have to do to succeed is become unconditionally, uncompromisingly outrageous.

Look no further.

Was it Gore Vidal who said that the worst thing about watching pornography is that you might actually like it?.. With von Trier’s latest, you are never in danger. Nymphomaniac is some of the unsexiest sex I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s creepy, freaky, sticky, disgusting. You would have more chances with a John Updike novel. But can you say it is excessive? Can you say Lars von Trier went too far? Hell no, and that is his outrageous triumph. So don’t halve the experience, watch the whole thing in one sitting – if at all. It’s not rewarding, it’s overwhelming.

While not exactly linear, the story is very straightforward and easy to follow. “I discovered my cunt when I was two years old”, says Joe (Charlotte Gainsbourg is a class act) to an old man who rescued her bruised and beaten in the street, and off we go. The man, a well-read virgin and a charming bachelor, is played by Stellan Skarsgård (who else?), and he is there to listen, dissect and analyse each section of her story via fishing, insects and maths. It’s both preposterous and rather wonderful, and adds a touch of lightness to the depressing proceedings. Quite inexplicably, Nymphomaniac can occasionally be rather entertaining (von Trier actually has a sense of humour, in a film about sex), but that’s until the second part kicks in and things become a little... heavy.

Shia LaBeouf (Joe’s one ‘love’) is surprisingly tolerable, Stacy Martin (young Joe) is jeune et jolie and Jamie Bell (K, a sadist Joe visits for violent whipping sessions) is brilliantly nondescript. The acting is superb, but the most memorable performance award has to go to Uma Thurman. She shows up in one bizarre, farcically tragic scene (which I will not give away) and drives you from laughter to tears with insane ease. I wish von Trier did more things of that upbeat nature, because frankly the lengthy hospital scene was sickening and dull.

Overall, the story covers every aspect of nymphomania that von Trier’s feverish imagination could summon, from premature stimulation to ‘fuck-me-now’ clothes to alphabetical lovers to playing Bach’s symphonies during cunninglingus. Plus, the visual imagery is way beyond suggestive and the foley artist must have been having a blast. Nymphomaniac is grotesque and gratuitous, but it is filled with neat, clever sequences (the train section is a high point), thoughts (‘secret ingredient to sex is love’) and ideas (the one about cutting fingernails is a quirky gem). And don’t even get me started on vaginas being compared to automatic doors. Bloody hell, Lars.

The ending was good, easily his best since Dogville. The sort of thing you half-expect and still find confusing, bewildering, completely out of order.

If you choose not to watch Nymphomaniac at all, good for you. If you watch it once, that is also fine. That’s your decision. However, if you have actually enjoyed the experience once and wish to watch it again, you must be, openly or secretly, no one else but this film’s subject matter. By which I of course mean a strange fish. 

Film review: VENUS IN FUR by Roman Polanski

There’s a key difference between a young artist and an experienced artist. A young artist takes a huge theme and makes it into a small story. An experienced artist takes a small theme and blows it into stratosphere. Just take a look at what Roman Polanski is doing these days.

Carnage was minimalist. It had four actors and a ridiculously minor incident at its centre. Venus In Fur is even more extreme. It has two actors and a seemingly routine audition at the end of a busy day. Like Carnage, Venus In Fur was based on a play. Like Carnage, it’s intense, has a great dialogue and is an absolute feast to watch.

This of course is all about the famed and controversial 1870 novel by Leopold von Sacher-Masoch. It’s Paris. A small theatre amid gloomy surroundings. Writer-director Thomas Novachek is planning a stage adaptation of Venus In Furs. Vanda is a girl who comes into the theatre at the end of an exhausting day with the desperate intention of getting the main part. She has it all: the looks, the attitude, the costumes, even the name. Reluctantly (it’s been one hell of a day and his fiancée is waiting), Thomas lets her do the thing. He becomes Severin (he is not an actor, but he can read), they trade the lines, and suddenly it all comes alive. Art becomes life and life becomes art. The psychological insight that Polanski offers is priceless.

That said, the joy of Venus In Fur is in the acting. The chemistry between Emmanuelle Seigner and Mathieu Amalric (who looks a little like Polanski himself in his La Locataire years) is extreme, brutal, mesmerising. I couldn’t look away. Seigner in particular captures the screen and devours it with natural swagger and electrifying eroticism. She is the perfect Venus. Or maybe it’s Thomas Novachek?.. 

Venus In Fur is many things: hidden demons, insecurity, creative struggle. But it really is about art. How frightening it is. How complex and punishing. How jealous of life. Exceptional film.

10 BEST STEPHEN KING ADAPTATIONS

As any sane person with a clue will tell you, Stephen King is one hell of a writer. For all his limitations (occasional clichés and self-plagiarism), few can create such powerful, absorbing imagery over the space of two short sentences. Imagery is of course what movies are all about, so you understand the strong creative itch that film-makers will have when reading a sweet little novel like The Stand. 

It really is no wonder that over one hundred film adaptations of King’s works have so far been made. Some have been dreadful (The Langoliers – if you are over 12), some have been remade multiple times (you should see last year’s Carrie to see how bad things can get), some have begotten completely unnecessary sequels (seven in the sad case of Children of the Corn). Some have angered Stephen King to no end. Some, however, are wonderful. This list includes what I believe are ten best adaptations of King’s novels, novellas, short stories. No TV series, no Salem’s Lot, but all of these have to be seen at some point or another. These are frightening, thrilling, often insane. And always impressive – so you have no excuse, really. 

Two films that narrowly missed out are The Dead Zone and Apt Pupil. Both are very good, with Christopher Walken and Ian McKellan giving some of their most memorable performances. Apt Pupil in particular is a very nasty piece of work, but then it has more to say about Nazism and past in general than you would care to admit. And the most unsettling thing is that I was actually rooting for Todd in that final scene... I blame Stephen King for that.

10. PET SEMATARY (1989)

As far as films with misspelled titles go, Pet Sematary is the scariest one. Freaky, unnerving experience. Even when something doesn’t quite work (the completely unnecessary subplot with Zelda), it is scary all right. The premise is your standard horror film fare: an adorable American family moves into a new house. Two cute children, a cat and swings in the yard. What’s not to like? The twist is a pet cemetery behind the house where things don’t exactly die. They come back to haunt those who buried them. It is one brutal twist, and I promise you that the last 20 minutes won’t leave you for days. The face of Gage will get stuck in your mind like that line from The Ramones: “I don’t want to be buried in a pet sematary…”. Thank God I didn’t see it when I was a 14-year-old boy watching Soviet comedies in shady black and white.

9. THE MIST (2007)

The Mist is Frank Darabont’s least celebrated adaptation of King’s work. This time we’re dealing with a 1980 novella about a military experiment gone wrong. Thick mist overcasts a small American town and spawns monsters of various kind. Apocalyptic stuff. A group of people gets stuck in a supermarket, and the horrors outside (tentacles, gigantic insects) are almost matched by the horrors inside (general stupidity and religious fanaticism – King’s beloved subject). The Mist is engaging from start to finish, a perfect film for a late evening with a bad storm knocking on your window glass. A word of warning for those who have read the book: the ending is different. To this day I can’t decide whether I like it or not. But apparently Stephen King appreciated the change.

8. THE GREEN MILE (1999)

This is a big one, of course. Oscar-nominated, 3 hours long, Tom Hanks. Oscar-nominated fine, Tom Hanks fine (having said that, this is a serviceable but not especially inspired performance), but those three hours might have been stretching it. Still, everything exists in this film for a good reason, and despite obvious parallels with The Shawshank Redemption (this film suffers from inferiority complex), the thrill and the emotional impact go deep into your psyche. The mouse made me cry, twice. “The Green Mile”, a death row in the morbid era of the Great Depression, is a very real place due to strong performances and an expertly scripted plot. The supernatural element should look completely ridiculous, but somehow doesn’t. Not in a faithful Stephen King adaptation. Besides, it’s not like I didn’t cry because of that mouse. Twice.

7. STAND BY ME (1986)

I have already confessed my unconditional love for the brilliant coming-of-age novella this film is based on. This is one of those non-scary Stephen King works that are all about the man’s enormous storytelling power. Very minimalist plot: four boys go on a silly but exciting quest to find the dead body of a missing teenager. It’s not about where you get, of course, but how you get there. I’m generally a big ‘children’s acting’ agnostic, but Stand By Me didn’t make me wince even once. All the boys have different personalities and they convey those differences quite effortlessly. The film might seem more sentimental than the book, but as far as coming-of-age stories go – this is one of the best ever. Side note: “An Encounter” by James Joyce has to be my personal favourite.

6. SECRET WINDOW (2004)

Every list has to have a surprise choice, and mine is this little film from 2004 that was unjustly dismissed by critics. Worthy, sharp direction from David Koepp. Masterful soundtrack from Philip Glass. And one of the strongest performances from Johnny Depp. I don’t see how this could go wrong, and it didn’t. Depp plays Mort Rainey, a frustrated writer who has recently lost his wife and is currently going through a severe bout of writer’s block. The frustration intensifies when one morning he is confronted by John Shooter (John Turturro giving a very cynical performance), a farmer from Mississippi, who accuses Mort of plagiarism. It’s a tight thriller, engaging and with a good twist. Plus, the film is well aware that the ending is the most important part of the story. Secret Window was based on the novella Secret Window, Secret Garden.

5. DOLORES CLAIBORNE (1995)

Kathy Bates and Jennifer Jason Leigh. I couldn’t look away, this truly was one of the most compelling acting duets I’ve ever seen. The story is well-constructed and overall Dolores Claiborne is a powerfully bleak drama. Still, it’s Bates and Leigh that make it happen. Mother and daughter, seemingly so different, who are reunited following the suspicious death of a paralyzed old woman Dolores was looking after. There’s a huge will left, and Dolores is suspected of premeditated murder, not least because there was one particular incident in the past involving the death of her husband. Her daughter, Selena, is a semi-successful journalist who gets back to the depressing small town of her childhood to help. There are lots of hair-raising flashbacks telling about the gruesome past that brings the women so close to each other. Alcohol, cigarettes, despair and those immortal words: “Sometimes being a bitch is all a woman has to hang on to”. A devastating film.

4. MISERY (1990)

If you’ve read King’s brilliant book On Writing, you’ll know how proud he was of the idea for Misery. A famous writer gets into a bad accident and is rescued by an obsessive fan. His number one fan that is a complete nuthead, a nurse with a history of violence. She traps the writer in her quiet, isolated house, and does things that will occasionally make you scream or look away or jump in your chair. She makes him write a new novel with the sort of plot she would like. She also has a pet, a pig named Misery. You have to give it to Stephen King: it’s the sort of idea many writers would kill for. Also, it’s the sort of idea that pretty much ensures the success of the actual story. Kathy Bates again, and this is the performance that won her the Academy Award in 1990 and so early in her career. Unforgettable little film.

3. CARRIE (1976)

Carrie is a classic and a very peculiar one. There’s an interesting juxtaposition at the heart of this film, and it will work into your brain slowly and in a very unnerving way. There are all these bright colours and there’s something inherently dark and frightening creeping in. It’s something that will draw many new generations into this story of an awkward girl who gets her period blood and thinks she’s about to die. Carrie was of course the first adaptation of a Stephen King book, and arguably it’s the most stylish one. It was directed by Brian De Palma, and you will know it from the first shots. Carrie is hated by everyone in her school, she has no friends and her mother is an abusive religious fanatic. However, Carrie has supernatural power and she will unleash her revenge. Some intense and memorable scenes will stay with you for quite some time. By modern-day standards, Carrie will hardly be considered a horror film, but then what modern-day standards have to do with anything?

2. THE SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION (1994)

This is one of the most universally adored films of all time and while I would love to dispute that, there’s precious little to fault here. The Shawshank Redemption is brilliant entertainment and one of the very few Stephen King adaptations that can be enjoyed by just about anyone over 16. It’s a thrilling prison drama, and a plot that never lets go. Unlike The Green Mile, it doesn’t have a supernatural element and doesn’t feel overlong. There’s basically no horror element here, and it masterfully balances the high voltage and intensity with moments that are reflective, humourous and sometimes genuinely moving. The pacing is perfect. Tim Robbins? His best performance. Morgan Freeman? One of his best ever. The twist is so smart and well-plotted, it will impress you even on later viewings.

1. THE SHINING (1980)

Anthony Burgess didn’t like what Kubrick did to A Clockwork Orange, and Stephen King flat out hated what Kubrick did to The Shining. Makes perfect sense: Kubrick's artistic vision was too vast to be placed within another man’s plot. He reworked The Shining to his own vision, and in the process made one of the greatest, most bizarre, disturbing and enigmatic films of all time. People will never stop talking about the symbolism and the ideas of The Shining (I highly recommend last year’s documentary Room 237, but only if your nervous system is really strong), just like they will never find out how Jack Torrance got out of the pantry. I think King wrote a great novel, but I also think that Kubrick took it to a whole new level of artistic achievement. There’s no need to describe the plot. Just see it for yourself and watch the Overlook Hotel slowly sink into deep, and quite graphic, insanity.

2013 films: ROUND-UP

A few others that were good but maybe not always too good.

ONLY LOVERS LEFT ALIVE. Tilda Swinton walking down the narrow streets of Tangier to a lovely acoustic melody. Tim Huddleston with a naked torso examining rare guitars. John Hurt high on blood. Impressive stuff. There isn’t much of a plot here, but Jarmusch is the kind of director who can seduce you with style. ‘Crypto-vampire love story”, this film has beautiful bloodsuckers that swear too much. A-

PHILOMENA. Catholic church, bloody hell. The story is intriguing enough, but what makes Philomena so good is the awkward relationship between its two main characters – played by Judi Dench and Steve Coogan. A gullible, kind-hearted woman and a cynical journalist who is after a human interest story. B+

ENOUGH SAID. James Gandolfini’s last performance, and a bloody good one at that. Enough Said is a romantic bittersweet comedy that is ultimately more sweet than bitter. Also note: if you enjoyed this film, you must be getting old. B+

UPSTREAM COLOUR. Shane Carruth’s second film is stylish mindfuck about a parasite that lives in pigs, orchids and humans. It’s all very intricate, but you hold on – because the vibe is pleasantly dreamy and the story is mesmerizing in its own odd way. Is this indie sci-fi for people who know how to wear scarves? B+

SIDE EFFECTS. A very effective pharmacological thriller from Steven Soderbergh. Many people seem to have a problem with the unbelievable plot and the confusing onslaught of crazy twists, but personally, I don’t mind that in a thriller. Jude Law gave a very good performance. A-  

BEHIND THE CANDELABRA. Steven Soderbergh again, in a year that was supposed to be his last. This one is about pianist Liberace (Michael Douglas is outstanding): love, money, fame, betrayal, plastic surgery. Not a classic by any means, but an interesting study of gay eccentricity and lush extravagance. B+

CAPTAIN PHILLIPS. Another true story (maybe too many of those?) and another good thriller. Tom Hanks is masterful as a gutsy captain of a container ship attacked by Somali pirates. I don’t know how this got Oscar nominated at the expense of Inside Llewyn Davis and Blue Jasmine, but ah well. B

THE CONJURING. Maybe it’s the fact that The Conjuring is said to be based on real events. Maybe it’s the fact that it doesn’t take much to scare me. Maybe it’s demons. But I believe this was the single most frightening experience in my life. There were lots of teenagers laughing at the beginning; by the end of it, they were either gone or completely creeped out. B

THE HOBBIT: THE DESOLATION OF SMAUG. Brilliant entertainment from Peter Jackson – as ever. This is no longer Tolkien we are talking about, of course, this is Jackson’s fanboy imagination going obsessive, adventurous and a little insane. Honestly, I don’t see one reason why I should mind any of that. Besides, Tauriel was extremely attractive. Even for an elf. A-