MANNA FROM HEAVEN

Let it come down…

One of the reasons for starting me-ac was for it to be a sort of impromptu diary of those cultural events one attends or absorbs, but often fails to record. There are obvious reasons for this – the most startling being a lack of any real time to process or even fully immerse in the distractions that make the daily grind palatable. We hear it, watch it, read it, maybe even eat or drink it, but we rarely savour the essence of what we so avidly consume, we’re so busy needlessly chasing our tails or racking up second-hand opinions as our own. Now I’m no exception to these rules by a long chalk – peering into the cavernous abyss of my finances (or their startling absence) is frankly terrifying, and getting worse by the nanosecond – but I’m choosing, temporarily, to delay my descent onto skid row by allowing myself to wallow, even luxuriate, in ignoring those age-old time-is-money dictates.

And, since me-ac cranked into inauspicious being, nothing has brought more simple joy or so swiftly sped through 90 minutes than an early afternoon, deliriously childfree, screening of Cloudy With A Chance Of Meatballs.  

Adapted by authors Ron and Judi Barrett from their well-received book of the same name, Cloudy… kicks off at a relentless pace and barely steps off the gas for its duration. It centres around Flint Lockwood (voiced by Bill Hader), a young inventor on the small sardine-tinning island of Swallow Falls. While different from his peers he’s also desperate for their approval, pouring all his energies into his lab work, with varying degrees of success – from self-spraying shoes, to rat birds and his malfunctioning Monkey Thought Translator. And despite his despair at his earlier failures, and his father’s seeming indifference to them, Flint pursues his increasingly ambitious dreams thanks to his mother’s tireless encouragement.

Almost before the viewer has had time to process the news, we learn with a jolt that Flint’s adored mother passed away sometime in his early teens. And with adulthood looming, Flint is under increasing pressure to abandon his inventions for a role in the family tackle shop; though father Tim (James Caan) and son have clear communication problems, the thickset mono-browed dad only able to converse in oblique fishing metaphors (with very acute, if accidental, similarities to Eric Cantona’s infamous “When the seagulls follow the trawler…” press conference).

Flint’s last gasp attempt to stave off living a humdrum life in Nowheresville is his invention of the Mutating Dynamic Food Replicator – a machine that, quasi-Biblically, transmutes water into food. And it’s while plugging into his community’s central power supply that he comes into contact with the film’s other central characters – the avaricious Mayor Shelbourne (Bruce Campbell), cop Earl Devereaux (Mr T), former child star and town bully Baby Brent (Andy Samberg), glamorous weathergirl/love interest Sam Sparks (Anna Faris) – as a controlled rainfall of cheeseburgers delight and entrance the previously fish-fed locals. 

The unhinged, capacious Shelbourne seizes this chance at making a real name for himself, his blandishments and the previously obscure charms of local celebrity persuading Flint to sing to his tune, only for his weather demands to get increasingly anarchic, super-sized and out of control. Already palpably strong, the animation really comes into its own here, with sustained hails of giant foodstuffs descending onto Swallow Falls with increasingly catastrophic consequences.

Add some terrific dialogue – “That spaghetti twister is just an amuse bouche compared to what’s on the way!” – to a taut, killer script and some surrealist touches (like the knowing nod to Eraserhead, and more explicit allusions to the entire disaster movie genre) and it’s clear directors Phil Lord and Chris Miller are having as much fun with their source material as the viewers are with the fruits of their toils.

And while I rank Toy Story 2 up there with the best of Hitchcock in terms of nerve-jangling suspense, I also spit on those insipid twits who somehow equate certain children’s movies with high art statements worthy of Tolkien. Cloudy With A Chance Of Meatballs has no such lofty pretensions. It may be a prescient parable about the perils of over-consumption, but it’s also an easily digestible, self-contained treat. Time well wasted, whatever any errant clock-watcher protests.

SEEING RED

Voyeur’s delight…

Andrea Arnold is clearly a burgeoning talent. If last month’s Fish Tank was something of a revelation, her feature debut, 2006’s Red Road – which I finally caught up with last night – proves it’s far from a flash in the pan. Like Fish Tank it was both written and directed by Arnold, but this time under a whole series of restrictions imposed by the Dogme-inspired Advance Party. In short, this was for three writer-directors to make separate films featuring the same nine characters, played by the same actors. Major characters in one film turn to minor figures in another, with no restrictions on tone or genre. Oddly, but no matter here, the other films in this series have failed to materialise.

Red Road’s plot centres around the withdrawn and skinny CCTV operator Jackie (Kate Dickie, a sort of Caledonian PJ Harvey). While not manning the massed banks of video screens for City Eye Control, her life seems broken, almost in stasis, her work a buffer from the real world, save for occasional bouts of loveless sex in the Land Rover of a married colleague. Hints of the bigger darkness engulfing her slowly begin to emerge when she attends a relative’s wedding and engages in a stilted, slightly cryptic exchange with an older man whose significance is, initially, frustratingly aloof.

The humdrum, vicious circle of her life is split asunder when a working Jackie spies a girl she suspects is about to be sexually assaulted on some wasteland. She’s about to phone it in but stops in her tracks when she realises the act is consensual. As she zooms in for the close-up a dim hint of recognition crosses her features. It’s clear she knows who the ginger male chugging gleefully away is, but she’s also spooked and rendered incredulous by it.

Tracking ginger quickly becomes Jackie’s obsession. She has a leap on her quarry through all the surveillance techniques at her fingertips, though almost at the expense of her job – at one point missing a near fatal stabbing. She eventually traces the man we have now learned is Clyde Henderson (Tony Curran, a sort of Caledonian Mick Hucknell) back to the titular Red Road flats, where she follows and eventually, excruciatingly, confronts him.

Arnold keeps the viewer on tenterhooks throughout. The full story only unfurls in dribs and drabs, and she piles on the darkness to ensure the viewer feels the full electric snap and crackle of tension when Jackie and Clyde finally confront each other face-to-face. As with Fish Tank, Arnold’s flair for seemingly natural dialogue shines through – the script is sparing throughout, with zero flab but bags of gristle. And as with her social realist filmmaking forbears the sex scenes are raw and unflinching (although best to not extend those earlier Hucknell and Harvey comparisons without first packing a voluminous sickbag).

And if all this sounds somewhat grim and far from dinner at the Ritz, none of that was advertised on the brochure (indeed, there’s a beautiful simplicity and almost calming solemnity to the American fly poster for the film – see top of post). Arnold coaxes credible, cogent performances from Dickie and Curran – with strong support from Clyde’s hair-trigger sweetie/psycho pal Stevie (Martin Compston) and dim-witted girlfriend April (Natalie Press) – somehow managing to fashion a cathartic coda from a seeming impossible premise. That triumph would elude lesser talents and is further proof that all eyes should stay trained on this fiery, precocious filmmaker. 

FILM CLUB

Sofa surfing and celluloid…

WHAT IS FILM CLUB?

Saturday was another belated entry in 2009’s Film Club. What is Film Club? As its name broadly trumpets, it’s simply a selection of movies chosen by a small group of friends. Nothing radical there, though these aren’t just any old movies, but ones to selected to fit set themes; then screened in a random, just out-of-the-hat fashion. It’s also a rather elaborate excuse – not that one’s needed – for your humble servant to get busy in the kitchen, ideally conjuring up some top nosh that reflects or pays reference to the movie in question, the dining table designed as a forum for post-movie discussion.

So, at the dawn of 2009, five big themes were selected: black and white, food, drink, music and sport. It’s telling that nine months have passed and we’ve only got on to the fifth of these – though not always for want of trying. Another fundamental rule of Film Club is that screenings are postponed if any of the congregation has imbibed more than two (alcoholic) drinks before we press play (a rule, one suspects, is vicariously flouted by certain parties when they’re simply not in the mood), and this has scuppered many recent attempts. But with autumn’s dark nights almost upon us, chances are we’ll make it at least two-thirds through the list before the year’s end. And so to business…

 #5. THE NIGHT OF THE HUNTER

Category: Black and white

Year: 1955

Length: 93 minutes

Chooser: KC

Based on David Grubb’s international bestseller of the same name, The Night Of The Hunter draws on the true story of Harry Powers, hanged in 1932 for the murders of two widows and three children in Clarksburg, West Virginia.

Adapted by director Charles Laughton and screenwriter James Agee, Powers becomes Ben Harper (Peter Graves), who manages to deposit his stolen bounty of $10,000 with his nine-year-old son, John, and four-year-old daughter, Pearl, just before the police haul him off to the cells. Sentenced to death by hanging for his crime, his last days are spent sharing a cell with Harry Powell (Robert Mitchum) – a wonderfully wayward and charismatic preacher – doing a brief stretch for an invidious spot of car theft.

Mitchum’s Powell is a captivating and classic cinema villain, instantly recognisable for his trilby with its tilted brim and the brash LOVE and HATE tattooed on his knuckles (more on these in a moment). As Harper starts talking in his sleep Powell is already trying to connive a way of finding out where he’s hidden the money, and resolves to pursue the treasure as soon as he’s released. In one memorable short soliloquy he toys with his trademark flick knife, praising his creator for his imminent good fortune: “Lord, you sure knowed what you was doin’ when you put me in this very cell at this very time. A man with $10,000 hid somewhere and a widow in the makin’!”

It’s not long before he’s worming his way into Harper’s widow’s affections (Willa, another fine turn by Shelley Winters); though the children seem to instantly divine that his intentions are far from honourable. One of many beautifully shot scenes is Powell turning up at their house during the night, reciting the traditional hymn Leaning On The Everlasting Arms: “Leaning, leaning/Safe and secure from all alarms/Leaning, leaning/Leaning on the everlasting arms!” It’s a recurring musical motif during his dogged pursuit of the cash and one that lives in the memory long afterwards.

Powell soon manages to overwhelm Willa with his hellfire sermons, scriptures and hymns, though John maintains a loyal antipathy, even in the face of Powell’s arch demonstration of the medicine show, The Sermon Of Life, in which his tattooed hands interlock in a schizophrenic wrestling match. “These fingers, dear hearts, is always a-warrin’ and a-tuggin’, one again the other,” he clarifies. “Now, watch ’em. Ol’ brother Left Hand. Left Hand, he’s a-fightin’. And it looks like LOVE’s a goner. But wait a minute, wait a minute! Hot dog! LOVE’s a winnin’? Yes, siree. It’s LOVE that won, and ol’ Left Hand HATE is down for the count!”

With almost indecent haste, Willa and Powell are married, though any carnal designs the former was harbouring are soon put paid to on their honeymoon night as Powell declares, in full preacher mode, that sex is sinful. Thankfully, in his twisted world view, murder and child torture isn’t, and after his fabled flick knife does for Willa he begins an involved cross country chase of the fleeing John and Pearl that propels the film firmly into thriller territory (with a bit of David Attenborough thrown into the visual melting pot).

Remarkable in many ways, The Night Of The Hunter was a flop on its release. Laughton’s decision to film in black and white, when colour was just in vogue, may be a contributing factor, but there also seems to have been resistance to the German Expressionist styles – odd camera angles, distorted shadows, strange sets – winningly favoured by cinematographer Stanley Cortez. And while The Night of The Hunter proved to be Laughton’s one and only film in the director’s chair, it has abided and endured better than most.

WHAT TO EAT

We're talking good ol’ fashioned southern fare here, so it has to be hearty. There's a scene in the film where the fabulously named Icey Spoon (Evelyn Varden), proprietor of the local ice cream parlour, prepares supper for the recently bereaved Powell and his brood – southern roast chicken, baked sweet potatoes, collard greens and the ubiquitous corn bread, so that's as good a place to start as any. You'll need some homemade ice cream to follow too, and maybe a warming shot of Southern Comfort with your post-picture coffee.

NB: Due to a late scheduling change this was a major missed opportunity on the grub front so we settled for equally scrumptious homemade pizzas – bases from a recipe by the River Cottage's Daniel Stevens (River Cottage Handbook No 3: Bread) and Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s roast tomato sauce, topped with figs and goat cheese plus an improvised blue cheese and broccoli calzone. Both hit the spot.

 

   

TANK TOP

Andrea Arnold’s true grit…

Sometimes even the best-intended critical comparisons can rankle. On Friday The Guardian’s Peter Bradshaw strongly opined that Andrea Arnold, on the back of her second feature Fish Tank, could be a natural successor to Ken Loach – a huge compliment, yet a heavy mantle for any filmmaker to carry. And while Arnold shares Loach’s essential premise of telling tales that resonate with real life, with fully-rounded characters and naturalistic (and necessarily profane) dialogue, it would do this clearly talented auteur a real disservice to be boxed off so neatly at such a nascent stage.

Set in an unprepossessing sink estate in Romford, Fish Tank centres around the triangular fortunes of 15-year-old Mia (a startling tour de force from new find Katie Jarvis), her boozy and bruised single mother (Kierston Wareing) and the sudden arrival of the latter’s new boyfriend Connor (a fully nuanced turn from Michael Fassbender, last seen at his shit-kicking best as Bobby Sands in Steve McQueen’s incredible Hunger).

Mia is in the full throes of a troubled adolescence – violently alienated from her peers and at odds with her mother who seems resentful of her blooming youth as her own looks crack and fade – and finds her only solace through two litre bottles of cheap cider and a deep immersion in freeform dance. Connor’s arrival in their small flat startles her from the start. “You dance like a black,” he says, the air thick with tension, after catching Mia busting moves in the kitchen. “I mean it as a compliment”. Stunned by the backhanded big-up, Mia is unable to respond with anything other than teenage insouciance, but some sort of marker of what’s to follow has been set, and the viewer’s never quite sure whether Connor’s genuine interest in Mia is purely patriarchal or something far more prurient.  

Initially it seems the former as ‘the family’ – completed by younger daughter Tyler (a fantastically feisty turn from Rebecca Griffiths) – attempt a first outing together; all the way to a remote, muddied lake. Connor wades into the water, and with Mia’s help, miraculously pulls out a large perch that he ceremonially kills with a stick. Mia gashes her foot on a rock in the process and the interplay between her and Connor is terribly taut and tender. Tellingly, the fish – their intended supper – never makes it to the plate as alcohol – a constant factor in the film’s myriad unravellings – unsticks Connor’s best laid plans.

I could go on, but any more would spoil this real treat from a clearly burgeoning talent – not least as a screenwriter with a firm footing in everyday dialogue, something much harder and challenging to pull off convincingly than any fat tract of goblins and gremlins gobbledygook. Characters that might have been archetypes and stereotypes in less capable hands become fully fleshed – flush with foibles, flawed, and awash with a fury of conflicting emotions when pushed too far.

As with Arnold’s debut, Red Road, and as with Loach, there will inevitably be some naysayers waving their ‘It’s all so bleak’ placards and protesting about the hand-held camera work and partially hip-hop soundtrack being, respectively, visual and audio shorthand for documentary realism. Let them moan. Yet Fish Tank is far more life affirming than its premise suggests: Mia and her mother attempting an unlikely rapprochement at the close – though in the least schmaltzy way imaginable. It’s sterling stuff, ya ken?

CRIMINAL MINDED

Mesrine? Mais oui!

GANGSTER NO 1

Thanks to the minor modern deity that is – cue corporate plug – Orange Wednesdays, I whiled away the other afternoon in the engaging company of Jacques Mesrine. More specifically, I caught Public Enemy No 1, the second part of Jean Francois Richet’s four-hour plus Mesrine biopic, and a welcome addition to the upper echelon of gangster greats – a list that’s been achingly predictable and oddly static for a while, though any worth its salt should also reserve space for Matteo Garrone’s organised crime classic Gomorra.

PULP FICTION?

As with its first instalment, Killer Instinct, the entire plot of Mesrine would be dismissed as fantastically loony and implausible were it cooked up by some fledgling screenwriter or, come to that, the increasingly wayward Tarantino. Yet to all intents it’s predicated on real facts, if possibly muddied by Mesrine’s pumped-up and unreliable prison-written memoir L'Instinct de Mort. Yet even without the big screen treatment (see also André Génovès 1984 flick Mesrine) or its author’s attuned grasp of poetic license, Mesrine led an extraordinary life of crime.

THE UNTOUCHABLE

After busting his first cap while serving for the French Army in the Algerian war (a pivotal scene in the first film), he embarked on a concentrated criminal career that witnessed him rob countless banks (often two in the same day), take a judge hostage, escape prison repeatedly, lead a failed jailbreak, smuggle arms, kidnap millionaire Henri Lelièvre for a tidy six million Francs, amassing a double-score body count along the way. A busy shopper at his local toupee purveyors, Mesrine was able to move around France and abroad unmolested, earning the affectionate sobriquet ‘The Man of 1,000 Faces’.

Yet while the details are ably and stylistically intact, Public Enemy No 1 is much darker than its predecessor. Perhaps because the Mesrine modus operandi is so well established – he knows, as do we, that his time in any maximum-security facility is limited – thoughts inevitably turn to the cumulative weight of his crimes and the psychological bounty that his newfound fame and notoriety extracts from him.

THE PAYBACK

As he ages Mesrine is increasingly seduced, even addicted, to his public image – at one point asking his jailor who Pinochet is, aghast that he’s been relegated from the main newspaper headline – and strives to keep brand Mesrine a going concern, selling increasingly inflammatory interviews to the likes of Paris Match and likening himself to a modern revolutionary. As his ego bloats to mirror his generously capacious frame – fame, it seems, has turned him into something of a gourmand – the film reaches its tipping point when derogatory comments from journalist Jacques Tillier in the far-right newspaper Minute lead him to exact a brutal, bone-chilling revenge.

This transgression from charming, bank-robbing bon vivant to cold-blooded psychotic egotist is Mesrine’s dark heart, and recalibrates emotions for the film’s beautifully staged ending – the subject’s prediction of his own demise proving unerring.

GOODFELLA

More than anything, this exhausting watch is made compelling thanks to a bravura central performance from Vincent Cassel. In frame for virtually every second he imbues Mesrine with a winning mix of charm, personality and largesse, willing the audience to root for him despite the regular acts of violence he perpetrates against both his foes and the women he’s ably seduced. It’s a career-defining performance, Cassel even bulking-up Raging Bull style for his grand finale.

Seasoned Cassel admirers will be far from surprised. Like many I first caught him in Mathieu Kassovitz’s La Haine in 1995, playing the troubled Vinz with acute sympathy during a pivotal time in hip-hop’s hostile take over of the French popular music market. And while his turns in L’Appartement, Doberman and Le Pacte des Loups are equally accomplished, none more reluctantly tugs on the memory than his role as the avenging boyfriend in Gaspar Noé’s harrowing rape drama Irréversible (you can sidestep a long dark night of the soul by listening to Cassel’s humorous account of its genesis here). 

Yet whatever he turns his talents to next, Cassel will have to go some to top Mesrine as his masterpiece.