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Film: The Pacific Battleship Yamato
Release date: 27th September 2010
Certificate: 15
Running time: 143 mins
Director: Junya Sato
Starring: Takashi Sorimachi, Shidô Nakamura, Yû Aoi, Jun'ichi Haruta, Ryô Hashidume
Genre: Action/Drama/History/War
Studio: Metrodome
Format: DVD
Country: Japan
Based on a book by Jun Henmi, The Pacific Battleship Yamato tells the story of the famous Japanese battleship, the largest ship ever built for war, and its last voyage.
The story revolves around the young cadets during WWII, and their training leading up to the sinking of the Yamato. The story is framed by the sailor Uchida’s adopted daughter’s story.
After his death, curious to understand her father’s experiences, she asks Kamio, a fellow sailor, to take her to the Yamato’s resting place. Reluctantly, Kamio agrees and the rest of the film is told in flashback, recounting the story of the crew of the WWII battleship, concentrating on the ship's demise during Operation Ten-Go…
In the early scenes, we get a sense of the power and grandeur of the Yamato as the new cadets get an introduction to naval discipline and routine, which establishes the setting well for the audience, before the film focuses on the dramatic battle sequences, which are spectacularly staged and realistically bloody. Limbs are blown off left, right and centre, showing the harsh truth of war.
The human side of the story, however, is told rather heavy-handedly. The film suffers from overacting from many of its cast. Many of the naval officers’ parts seem to consist of squinting angrily and shouting - with little emotion. Whilst they were no doubt disciplined, a little more of a human side would have created greater audience empathy. It doesn’t help that there are virtually no female characters apart from Kamio’s young cousin, and Uchida’s lover, who appears briefly. This is very much a story of male camaraderie, wartime heroism and sacrifice.
In fairness, the actors playing the young Uchida and Kamio are convincing, and bring a much needed humanity to the story. Uchida escapes hospital in order to fulfil his duties aboard the ship and fight alongside his comrades, and is portrayed as something of a rebel and a thinker, which makes for a good contrast with the other characters.
Some viewers may have a problem with the dialogue, which is rather stilted, but this effectively conveys the discipline and uniformity of the Japanese navy, and it is refreshing to see the events of WWII told from a non-US perspective - although there is an equal amount of patriotism and machismo as found in most war films.
The action is almost entirely set aboard the Yamato, and sometimes this can make the film a little repetitive, especially since many of the scenes involve cadets following orders and doing drills. The first half of the film is particularly stilted; it is like watching a series of military training videos. The action picks up in the second half, however, and the film becomes more exciting as the Yamato prepares for the battle at Okinawa.
The scene of the night before the big battle is an emotional one; we see the cadets getting drunk, sharing a final meal and staring silently out to sea. Both they and the audience know what is to come, and this builds the tension effectively. The action accelerates towards the end; the final battle, which is a lengthy (it takes up most of the second half of the film) and visually spectacular one, and some of the final scenes are very touching, as we witness the deaths of some principle characters and the tragic consequences of this for family and comrades left behind. In these scenes, we certainly get a sense of the cost of war, and the lasting impact that remains for those that survived.
The Pacific Battleship Yamato is a film which depicts the realities of war. It is essentially an extremely long battle scene, which is striking as well as being brutal. The film falters and meanders a little when it comes to the human elements of the story but the finale will certainly hold the attention of the audience as the Yamato is attacked from all sides, and mass destruction and death ensues. CP
Film: I Am Love
Release date: 13th September 2010
Certificate: 15
Running time: 120 mins
Director: Luca Guadagnino
Starring: Tilda Swinton, Flavio Parenti, Edoardo Gabbriellini, Alba Rohrwacher, Pippo Delbono
Genre: Drama
Studio: Metrodome
Format: DVD
Country: Italy
Tilda Swinton’s career, much like her personal life, is nothing if not interesting. From Hollywood blockbusters to independent and art house cinema, her performances have seen her take on a variety of issues and roles. In Luca Guadagnino’s I Am Love, she tackles Italian high society in early 21st century Milan, in a story of adultery, wealth and loyalty which delves below the surface of the decadent lifestyle it portrays.
Emma (Swinton) is a Russian born wife of an upper class businessman living in Milan. At a birthday party thrown for her father-in-law, Edoardo (Gabriele Ferzetti), the old man announces that he is to retire from the family textile company and names his son, Tancredi (Pipo Delbono), and grandson, Edoardo Jr. (Flavio Parenti), as his successors.
As the party draws to a close, Edoardo Jr. receives a visit from his chef friend Antonio (Edoardo Gabbriellini), and Emma seems drawn towards him. Later, she travels to his home to see the site where he and Edoardo intend to start a restaurant together. Here, they begin an affair which reignites Emma’s zest for life, but will have terrible consequences for her family…
As the camera cuts through various shots of a snow-covered Milan, and John Adam’s orchestral soundtrack soars above the skyline, it is clear, right from the opening, that I Am Love is going to be a visual and aural experience. Every shot exudes class and conviction, as the cinematography, lighting and camera work all combine to joyous effect. This is, for the most part, not merely superficial; rather it is a means of visually representing one of the themes of Guadagnino’s story; the lavish, extravagant nature of the world in which his characters live. This is made clear by the way we are first introduced to Antonio, through a window which blocks him from our full view, suggesting that he is an outsider who does not belong in this world, and will thus disrupt it. However, the roaming and predominantly unobtrusive camera does not invite us to judge characters in a particular way; instead it simply lets the story unfold in all its visual splendour, allowing us to formulate our own opinions as we watch.
Sensuality seems to be central to experiencing the film, and it is something that Guadagnino does very well. The contrast between the scenes in winter and in summer exemplify this, as we can almost feel the winter’s chill or the warm, radiant summer sun through the excellent use of light and colour. The use of food is also a way of heightening the sensual nature of many of the scenes and, as well as playing an important role in the plot, food often symbolises the experience of pleasure, particularly for Emma. Food plays an important role in her relationship with Antonio, not only because he is a chef, but because it signifies the change that she has brought about in him, allowing her to rediscover what her passions in life are, and to treasure them.
The plot flows extremely well, and is also well layered, with subplots offering interesting points of comparison to the story of Emma and Antonio’s affair. For example, when Emma discovers that her daughter is involved in a relationship with another woman, it causes her to think about boundaries and conventions, and how defying them in pursuit of love has made her daughter so happy. The story involving the potential sale of the family company suggests that what we are witnessing is not only the end of a marriage, but the end of an entire family - the death of a way of life.
This being said, considering the film deals with such heavy emotional material, it is difficult not to wish that Guadagnino would delve a little bit deeper into his characters. We get a sense through the performances of the actors of the passion that exists between Emma and Antonio, but the reasons for them falling so deeply in love are never looked at in much detail. Characterisation is something that is unfortunately lacking, as we are introduced to several characters, such as Tancredi and Edoardo Jr., who seem very interesting, but we do not learn as much about them as we would like to. The film’s conclusion suffers from being somewhat melodramatic, but this is only in relation to how emotionally restrained the rest of it has been, and had we had a deeper sense of the characters involved in the build-up, the ending may well have worked far better. This is a small complaint, however, as I Am Love is a rich and layered piece of cinema, delivered with flair and style.
Full of elegance and class, and backed up by some powerhouse performances, I Am Love may be, at times, a victory of style over substance; but what an enjoyable victory it is. PK
Film: The Man Who Loved Yngve
Release date: 20th September 2010
Certificate: 15
Running time: 90 mins
Director: Stian Kristiansen
Starring: Rolf Kristian Larsen, Arthur Berning, Ida Elise Broch, Ole Christoffer Ertvaag, Jorgen Langhelle
Genre: Drama/Romance
Studio: TLA
Format: DVD
Country: Norway
A high school coming of age tale is a well trodden genre, but a coming of age story coming out of Norway could pretty much be anything, having heard stories of school classes climbing trees in forests, and being forced to drink copious amounts of beer before they’re allowed down during their graduation period.
The Man Who Loved Yngve is not that film, rather it introduces us to Jarle (Rolf Kristian Larsen), a young man with a love of music, Katrine and very little else in his sparse, cold corner of Norway.
Jump forward six months from skipping a school history trip and he has everything a young male could possibly want. Cool friends, a beautiful girlfriend, and he is the frontman in the Mathias Rust Band - but all this is fleeting as Jarle’s about to be introduced to the new boy in school, and the surprising object of his affections, Yngve…
This is a film that is surprisingly void of cliché. Set in 1989, during the height of the aids epidemic, there is always the danger of falling back and relaxing on stereotypes to tell the story. Such is the strength of Stian Kristiansen’s vision and the intelligence of Tore Renberg’s screenplay (which he adapted from his own novel) that this film is never likely to fall into that trap. The love triangle between Jarle, Katrine and Yngve is never overly forced into unnatural narrative scenarios but is allowed to flow organically between the classroom and the tennis court.
Larsen is excellent as Jarle, both as the care free boy who’s got the girl at the beginning of the film and gradually through to confused but curious admirer of Yngve to openly, at least to himself, infatuated teen. His ability to be openly smitten with the new boy yet wearing his mask of ‘normality’ with friends and girlfriend alike is a skill not yet mastered by actors twice his age. Ida Elise Broch (Katrine) is under utilised but represents the ‘gold standard’ of the dreams of every teenage boy in her role as beautiful and sexually active girlfriend/band manager. Yngve (Ole Christoffer Ertvag) has quite a similar job to that of Ida Broch in that he’s given little more to do but be a teenage honey trap for Jarle, but yet it works as this is his tale, his decisions and, ultimately, his life that he is in the process of defining. Arthur Berning, as best friend Helge, gives a strong supporting performance as the alpha male of the group, and most likely the most difficult person Jarle will have to come out to should he decide his future lays with Yngve.
The score is a dream, a strong collection of credible tracks from the ‘80s and contemporary works that sit beautifully together, and most importantly have a strong sense of the character and the influences that a young aspiring musician in Norway during the Cold War decade would have.
The film is not without a sense of humour, something that can be missing in films grounded in such serious issues as sexually and relationships, but fortunately the director has remembered that boys (regardless of sexual orientation) will be boys. Helge’s utter distain at his best friend taking up tennis is something that will make you laugh before you can fully take in just how dark that statement is, given the time period. Likewise, the scene where the best friends venture out to purchase weed from a drug dealer who has managed to break both arms and is in desperate need of someone to help him tidy up after a bowel movement is distinctly Norwegian humour.
The cinematography does an excellent job of depicting where Jarle’s attentions are directed, and his desires swinging without being overly showy or self aware, which is good, as the rest of the film is so silently mature that flashy or overly stylistic cinematography would simply detract.
The film’s real strength is shown in the last twenty minutes. This is not a criticism of the first hour and ten minutes but as the film progresses, and Jarle’s choice become more and more limited, The Man Who Loved Yngve naturally ascends to several significant scenes. The exchange of those three little words at a busy house party between the two boys, Katrine’s tearful exchange in the aftermath of the party (also the strongest drama scene Ida is given) and the showdown between best friends are fitting pay offs for the slow burning dilemmas that have been building up through the course of the film.
Previous experiences of Norwegian cinema could leave you with a misguided view that it was all machismo and death metal documentaries, but that’s clearly not the case. The Man Who Loved Yngve may not be the most original piece of cinema to come out of a nation that is crammed with creative vision, but it is a tender, confident and genuinely moving cinematic achievement. More than anything else, more than a tale of sexuality, friendship, loss, dreams and fears it is a tale of basic human needs. A story simply about love and the mental journey some have to undergo in order to accept it. DL
Film: My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done
Release date: 27th September 2010
Certificate: 15
Running time: 93 mins
Director: Werner Herzog
Starring: Michael Shannon, Willem Dafoe, Chloe Sevigny, Brad Dourif, Udo Kier
Genre: Drama/Mystery/Thriller
Studio: Scanbox
Format: DVD
Country: USA/Germany
This is an English-Language release.
Germany’s Werner Herzog (Aguirre, Wrath of God, Fitzcarraldo) teams up with David Lynch to reunite many of his cast and crew from 2009’s Bad Lieutenant to produce My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done. Grossing just £6815 in the UK, and opening on only two screens, is the film an experimental psychological profile of a real crime or a Lynch wannabe that misses the mark?
After returning from a tragic white-water rafting trip in Peru, Brad McCallum’s over-reliant relationship with his mother ends in violence as he murders her with a sword in a neighbour’s home. Homicide detective Hank Havenhurst (Willem Defoe) arrives on the scene with his partner Detective Vargas (Michael Peṅa). They carefully scrutinize the crime scene before realizing Brad has holed himself up across the road with two hostages and a shotgun.
Shortly after, Brad’s fiancée Ingrid (Chloe Sevigny) arrives, along with Lee (Udo Kier), the director of a play the couple have been starring in. The police interview the pair and delve into Brad’s past in an attempt to ascertain his motivation, while trying to maintain control of a dangerous situation that can only get worse…
After the unpredictable brilliance of Bad Lieutenant, Herzog’s second character study of 2009 has a lot to live up to. It is, of course, an entirely separate entity, despite sharing members of the cast and crew, as well as thematic similarities. Unlike Bad Lieutenant, however, My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done struggles with poor characterisation, lacklustre performances, a lack of originality, and the unavoidable expectations that accompany the Lynch attachment.
Herzog’s focus on character development relies heavily on the actors’ performances, which in this case are, unfortunately, severely lacking in depth. Shannon’s dull performance in particular belies the tension and shell-shock his character is supposed to be experiencing. The monotony of his performance permeates the film with a feeling of flatness, accentuated by the stark, digital video used to frame the production. The flashbacks of Brad in Peru show a man with a severe lack of emotion, which continues throughout his supposed breakdown, and culminates in his mother asking the titular question. This emotionless tedium could be construed as characteristic indifference, but it is at odds with how the rest of the cast react to him.
Ingrid, Brad’s mother and Lee all seem to accept his bizarre behaviour as acceptable, only picking up on key points when probed by Defoe’s detective. Defoe offers a slightly better performance, although his grizzled cop has little development other than acting as the audience’s anchor throughout proceedings, asking the questions that the audience needs to know in order to advance the plot. Brad Douriff’s Uncle Ted brings a much needed comedic character to lighten the tone, as the eccentric ostrich farmer struggles to understand Brad’s interpretation of Sophocles and the flamboyant Lee’s motivation behind his amateur play, a Greek tragedy where the lead kills his mother with a sword.
It is impossible to ignore the inspiration Herzog has taken from the directorial output of executive producer David Lynch, which, in this instance, occasionally borders on parody. The main narrative focus of the police investigation into the murder is based firmly in reality, framed by stark digital camera work and minimal flair, while the flashbacks offer a richer palette of colour and thematic development. The absurdity and uncanny nature of Lynch’s work is mirrored in the dinner scene when Mrs McCullum forces a serving of jelly on Brad (much to Ingrid’s distaste) and the accompanying silences, and too when she continually barges in on Brad and Ingrid in the bedroom. The positioning of the actors in a faux freeze frame feels so forced and awkward that it is impossible not to feel like Herzog is merely trying to mirror Lynch’s style instead of conveying an artistic message.
The heavy symbolism throughout Mrs McCullum and Brad’s home is impossible to ignore. Pink flamingos are prevalent (forming the basis of the film’s twist, glaringly obvious from the beginning) standing tall in the garden and ornamentally throughout the house. These ornaments are to American lawns what the garden gnome is to the UK, but the extreme to which they are used in the house only exacerbates the sense of surreal Herzog adds to the grittiness of the main story, while placing the characters perfectly at odds with the ‘white picket fence’ ideal of suburban America.
Ernst Reijseger’s eerie, foreboding score is the perfect foil for the fractured character of Brad, and is a highlight throughout. The dark music successfully offsets the film’s eccentricities, such as the laughable amateur dramatics of the play, and Brad’s insistence that he has found God - and that he is the man on the porridge oats can. These juxtapositions add to the sense of division between Brad’s mental state and the real consequences of his actions.
Herzog combines a psychological profile of a broken and desperate individual with absurd, Lynchian surrealism to create a film which, unfortunately, fails to deliver. The performances are too weak and the characters too one-dimensional to really allow the audience to sympathise with them, and it is this sense of apathy that dominates the film. The pairing of two legendary filmmakers of this calibre should have been something truly special and unique, but this falls rather flat. RB
Film: The František Vláčil Collection
Release date: 13th September 2010
Certificate: 15
Running time: 430 mins
Director: František Vláčil
Starring: Josef Kemr, Magda Vásáryová, Petr Cepek, Jan Kacer, Emma Cerná
Genre: Documentary/Drama/History/Romance
Studio: Second Run
Format: DVD
Country: Czechoslovakia
Coinciding with BFI Southbank’s František Vláčil Season, the rehabilitation of the Czech filmmaker’s cinema continues with the release of this box set, containing three of his greatest films alongside Tomáš Hejtmánek’s documentary.
For too long František Vláčil has been overshadowed by his internationally better-known compatriots Miloš Forman and Miklós Jancsó. Though often compared to the cinematic giants of the 20th century, he remains a generally unknown figure outside his homeland. His films contain elements reminiscent of the great visionary directors (from the poetic lyricism of Tarkovsky to the textural richness of Kurosawa, from Bergman’s existential mysticism to Welles’ epic grandeur), but Vláčil’s vision was always distinctly and unmistakably his own. The achievements of Vláčil in three extraordinary films released between 1967 and 1969 guarantee his place among the true greats of international cinema.
Marketa Lazarová (1967)
Adapted from Vladislav Vančura’s 1931 avant-garde novel, Vláčil’s 13th century historical epic deals principally with the conflict between the rival Kozlik and Lazar clans, and the doomed love affair between Mikolaš Kozlik and Marketa Lazarová…
Vláčil’s masterpiece, and a film which manages to explore more ideas and themes than most directors approach in a lifetime. With scenes depicting wild pagan rites, incest, rape and numerous brutal acts of violence, it would seem exploitative in the hands of a lesser artist, but such is our immersion in Vláčil’s painstakingly recreated world that it never feels in any way sensational. By filtering our viewpoint almost entirely through the eyes, thoughts and feelings of the characters, the film allows us to inhabit a world where we take as perfectly natural that a family should believe they are descended from werewolves, a father avert a curse by dismembering his son’s arm, or the heroine fall in love with her rapist.
Vláčil had spoken of the sense he got from most historical films was of watching contemporary people merely dressed up in historical costumes. In order to avoid this pitfall in his own picture, the director relocated his cast to the depths of the Šumava forest for a two year period of preparation, where they were put to constructing the various sets with traditional implements, living in period clothes and speaking in the dialects of the time. As a result, the acting feels less like performance, and more as though the actors are living and breathing their respective roles.
As dedicated to historical veracity as Marketa Lazarová is, Vláčil’s films were also intended as dialogues with their own times - with themes of paganism vs. Christianity/organised religion, German vs. Czech, the film is open to political interpretation. That the powers that be did take this view would eventually result in Vláčil’s cinematic output being severely restricted in the years to come.
With its extensive cast, and constant dislocations in time and perspective, it can be a difficult, often confusing watch, and you may only get your bearings about an hour into its 159 minute running time. Stick with it, though, and it rewards you with astonishing imagery, and a depth that is as visceral and emotional as it is intellectual.
Voted the best Czech film of all time by a survey of the country’s critics in 1998, it has been described elsewhere as one of the greatest films ever made about the Middle Ages. More than that, it is simply one of the finest films produced in the history of world cinema. A staggering achievement.
The Valley Of The Bees (1967)
Also set in the 13th century, the story was written in collaboration with the novelist Vladimír Körner, and deals with the conflict between human nature and dogmatism.
After years of hardship within a society founded on the precept that suffering is the way to God, Ondřej makes his escape from the Order of the Teutonic Knights and returns to his homeland, only to be tracked down by the zealous Armin, tasked with bringing the prodigal son back to the Order…
Opening with the image of a beehive and the busy drones working within, it’s easy to draw a parallel with the politics of Vláčil’s time, and after Eisenstein’s Alexander Nevsky, it’s almost impossible to view a film featuring Teutonic Knights without thinking of the 20th century aggressions of Nazi Germany.
It’s a far more straightforward film in terms of its chronological structure than Marketa Lazarová, and while not quite as daring in its aesthetics, it still contains some breathtaking images. There is beauty both in the austerity of the Baltic coastal setting and in contrasting scenes set in Bohemia that contain a vibrancy and use of light that shines through the black-and-white film. Some of the most memorable images are also some of the most horrific (a deserter knight thrown into a pit of savage dogs played out like a nightmarish ballet, or a sword fight set against a backdrop of smoking kilns).
Again, Vláčil manages his trick of immersing us in a world almost unrecognisable from our own, allowing us to identify with characters even when their actions appear inexplicable by a modern understanding. When Armin is compelled to his shocking act of violence towards the end of the picture, it seems beyond comprehension and yet also perfectly in keeping with the film’s logic and internal conflicts. It may appear an alien world, but in a 21st century still plagued by dogmatism and religious fanaticism, it is one we must finally recognise as our own.
The Valley Of The Bees possibly suffers through inevitable comparisons with Vláčil’s previous piece, but it remains an immensely powerful work in its own right. Had Vláčil only produced this one film, it would be enough to assure his reputation as a director of singular genius.
Adelheid (1969)
Another Körner collaboration, this time set in the aftermath of WWII and depicting the relationship between a Czech lieutenant who is assigned a manor house on the Czech-German border and Adelheid, daughter of its previous Nazi owner, who is allocated to him as a servant.
The first film to address the brutal post-war expulsion of the ethnic Sudeten German population from Bohemia and Moravia, it remains a taboo subject for many Czechs even today…
This was Vláčil’s first colour film, and if it perhaps lacks the ravishing beauty of his medieval works, there is still much to admire. Vláčil’s gift for evocative landscapes and expertly framed images remains in tact, wonderfully demonstrated by one scene as Adelheid returns to the manor house beneath an archway of snow covered trees. His camera has neither lost its ability to find beauty in images that should rightfully inspire horror (the bars of a cage, allegedly used by the Nazi Heinemann to torture prisoners, reflected in a puddle).
On the surface, the story would seem to deal with yet another doomed love affair; but it is less about love than in it is about a basic human need to connect - one constantly frustrated, in Vláčil’s film, by ideological and historical divisions. In a world in which even this fundamental need is repeatedly stifled, the possibility for love seems very distant indeed.
It is Vláčil’s most heart-wrenchingly sad film; mining a deep well of loneliness and pain, ably captured by the naturalistic performances of its two co-leads. Adelheid’s apparent stoicism masks an inner turmoil that even the most psychologically resilient would struggle to bear (her father awaits execution, her brother presumed dead in Russia - her future, like that of most Germans, appears a bleak one). The clearly (perhaps terminally) unwell Lieutenant Chotovicky is drawn to Adelheid mainly because he has no-one else in the world, as he admits during the almost unbearably poignant final scene between them. When he wakes up to Adelheid after they’ve presumably made love and says: “Now I am home,” it is an ambivalent moment. The manor house he occupies is really no more home for Chotovicky than it is for Adelheid.
Closer in feel and appearance to the humanist films generally associated with Czech cinema of the period, Adelheid forms a link with Vláčil’s other films through its dense network of poetic imagery and symbolism that achieves an effect closer to that of poetry or literature. A very human and deeply moving picture.
Sentiment (2003)
Tomás Hejtmánek's documentary on Vláčil is sourced from interviews conducted before the director’s death, which are re-enacted by the actor Jirí Kodet. It intertwines sketches from Vláčil’s life, the memories of his colleagues and abstract shots of his film’s original landscapes, to create a documentary film quite unlike anything you may have seen before…
Hejtmánek’s film is marked by a sense of absence and loss more than anything, most pertinently that of the late director that is its subject. Belying the suggestion of its title, it is, in fact, the most unsentimental of tributes, achieving by means of it a greater sense of poignancy.
It neither attempts to fully explain nor simplify its subject, be that the artist or his films. It can’t be considered an introduction to Vláčil’s cinema (having very little to say about the films, and actually requiring a prior familiarity with them to make it work). Instead, it presents a great artist simply as a man, unapologetically and with all his contradictions. Assuming the words spoken by Kodet are, in fact, Vláčil’s, it reveals a man as difficult as he was brilliant. It is, at times, very funny, as when he rants against an unseen assistant of Hejtmánek’s, referring to him as “that mute automaton,” in spite of Hejtmánek’s attempts to explain the poor man’s shyness is only because he feels intimidated in the presence of Vláčil. But there are other times when his conversation becomes quite moving, when he talks about the break-up of his marriage or his gangster son. Another theme that constantly comes up in his conversation is his craving for solitude, but then he tells a story about the deep loneliness he felt while hospitalised in China, or even, more touchingly when he thanks Hejtmánek for providing him with someone to talk to. Kodet’s performance, it should be said, is excellent, and it never feels like we are actually watching an actor.
Interspersed with these re-enacted interviews are shots of the locations used for key scenes in Marketa Lazarová, The Valley Of The Bees, and Adelheid, sometimes with the original actors returning, now aged almost beyond recognition. Often when documentaries about films return to locations, they’re barely recognisable, a McDonalds or a Starbucks where a location once stood. Vláčil’s locations remain largely unchanged, and even without the clips of dialogue and sound Hejtmánek sometimes overlays, these landscapes seem haunted still by the ghosts of Vláčil’s cinema. The technique is repeated most poignantly when the camera pans over Vláčil’s empty apartment.
It can be quite bleak. As Vláčil asks why some were recognised while he was passed by, the film seems to question the ultimate reward for an under-appreciated artist approaching the end of his days. The answer lies in a remarkable body of work that assures the immortality of Vláčil’s cinema and, through it, that of the artist himself.
An unusual documentary that does not tell us anything so much as it makes us feel - one less about facts than it is about emotion. Its title, then, is an apt one. A fine tribute to a truly great director.
Though issue could be taken with the decision to include in the box set three films already available in their present format (two of which Second Run released only this year), the highly reasonable price makes it a minor quibble taking into account the inclusion of Hejtmánek’s documentary. If you are unfamiliar with the cinema of František Vláčil, this collection cannot come recommended enough. A strong contender for box set release of the decade. GJK
Film: The Girl On The Train
Release date: 27th September 2010
Certificate: 15
Running time: 102 mins
Director: André Téchiné
Starring: Émilie Dequenne, Michel Blanc, Catherine Deneuve, Mathieu Demy, Ronit Elkabetz
Genre: Drama
Studio: Soda
Format: DVD
Country: France
Directed by one-time film critic Andre Techine, The Girl On The Train was inspired by a real life scandalous event in France in 2004 and its resultant play. The film serves as an intriguing insight into the socio political culture of modern France, and the often complex and difficult nature of the family unit in French society.
Jeanne (Emilie Dequenne) is a 22-year-old woman struggling to get to grips with her life and her circumstances. As she continues to coast along living in her comfortable home, Jeanne’s childminder mother Louise (Catherine Deneuve) attempts to get Jeanne a job in the office of her former lover and renowned lawyer Samuel Bleistein (Michel Blanc).
Jeanne’s lack of sufficient qualities sees her badly fail in her interview, but, after an accidental meeting, she falls in the arms of her exciting and impulsive amateur wrestler boyfriend Franck (Nicolas Duvauchelle). Yet when Jeanne and Franck’s seemingly idyllic life together falls apart under shady circumstances (resulting in Franck’s arrest), Jeanne once again feels isolated and lost as Franck turns against her because of her naivety and flexibility with the truth of her circumstances.
Seeking attention and recognition, Jeanne pretends to be the victim of an anti-Semitic assault on a train by a gang of youths, cutting her hair and daubing swastikas and scratches over her body as ‘proof’ of the incident. However, as the story snowballs on a huge media scale amidst Jeanne’s claims that she was victimised due to carrying a business card of the Jewish lawyer Bleistein (she herself is not Jewish), Jeanne must ultimately face up to the dramatic consequences that her shocking lie has created for herself and those around her…
At the centre of the controversial claim of anti-Semitism, Emilie Dequenne as Jeanne reveals a want and desire to be noticed in a society that she seems to float through (often on rollerblades). Jeanne is an alluring yet frustrating character; a young woman who sees no option of changing her lack of prospects unless manipulating those around her into feeling sympathy for her.
Jeanne’s naivety means that she has no idea of the extent to which her story will be covered in the media and talked about across France. Within this central plot point in the film, Dequenne’s portrayal of Jeanne as an almost passive presence to events in her own life, before and during the resulting media storm of her extraordinary lie, is impressive. Yet The Girl On The Train is at its most interesting in the interplay between Jeanne and those closest to her, where this is most effective in her relationship with her boyfriend.
In the scenes where Jeanne moves in with Franck (Duvauchelle in an intriguing role with hidden depths), there is an element of unease and danger to the character’s fleetingly happy existence. Jeanne’s time with Franck reveals her passiveness and willingness to go along with what other people want for her, as she simply cannot fathom what she truly wants for herself. Jeanne’s traumatic break-up with Franck is the catalyst for her decision to lie about being the victim of an appalling anti-Semitic assault, where the strained relationship between Jeanne and her mother (who senses her daughter’s falsehood) in the wake of intense media scrutiny of the allegation feels deeply authentic.
However, it is in the film’s subplots surrounding Bleistein and his family that the film becomes rather unstuck. A hint of a relationship in the distant past between Catherine Denueve’s Louise and Michel Blanc’s Bleistein is only fleetingly engaging, and unfortunately pales in comparison to the relationship between Franck and Jeanne. Additionally, while Mathieu Demy and Ronit Elkabetz are decent performers in their roles as Bleistein’s estranged son and somewhat estranged daughter-in-law respectively, the segments of the film focusing on the straining family dynamics between them (a middle-upper class family cultivated by Bleistein’s success as a lawyer) feel like a fairly extraneous diversion from the film’s primary focus in Jeanne.
Despite this sense of misdirection, Techine does make some good parallels between Jeanne’s situation and Bleistein’s grandson Nathan (Jeremie Quaegebeur); tying in themes of race and identity present throughout the film. Jeanne uses Bleistein’s identity as a Jew in a desperate attempt for her own emotional gain, but in the scene where she admits her lie to Nathan, Jeanne begins to come to terms with the impact of her actions. Where Nathan (showing an astuteness beyond his years in second-guessing Jeanne’s story) is on the cusp of adulthood, and is about to celebrate his coming of age Bar Mitzvah, Jeanne is a confused young woman without a clear sense of who she wants to be. The scene between both characters serves as a turning point in the film, where Nathan is primed for adulthood in understanding the complexities of his elders, and Jeanne finally appears to accept the consequences of a situation she caused to become a more assured woman.
In the well portrayed central role, Emilie Dequenne demonstrates the angst and yearning for attention of a young woman willing to make an extremely shocking and visceral allegation of anti-Semitism in modern day France. Techine’s film provides insight into modern French society in the context of identity and family dysfunction, although some of the film’s subplots involving the lawyer Bleistein’s (Blanc) family fall a bit flat in comparison to the central relationships between Jeanne, her mother and her boyfriend. DB
Film: The Milk Of Sorrow
Release date: 4th October 2010
Certificate: E
Running time: 94 mins
Director: Claudia Llosa
Starring: Magaly Solier, Susi Sánchez, Efraín Solís, Bárbara Lazón, Marino Ballon
Genre: Drama
Studio: Dogwoof
Format: DVD
Country: Spain/Peru
Following an Oscar nomination for Best Foreign Picture, The Milk Of Sorrow brought director Claudia Loser to the attention of world audiences. Here, that film is packaged with her directorial debut, Madeinusa. Both films are concerned with the emotional journey of characters played by her muse Magaly Solier, and offer meditations on sex, violence and death in Peruvian society.
The Milk Of Sorrow
The Milk Of Sorrow is a film steeped in sex and death. Opening with a deathbed lullaby about rape, the narrative goes on to describe the turbulent family life of Fausta as her nosebleed and fainting begin a tale of mourning, marriage and the intrusion of Peru’s tumultuous history on its present.
With her uncle insisting that Fausta bury her mother prior to her cousin Aida’s wedding, the film explores the grieving daughter’s experience of reconciling the loss of her mother, and her final links to Peru’s past, with the joy and optimism of her family’s future…
The Milk Of Sorrow opens with a black screen, over which can be heard the faint, cracked voice of a lullaby being softly sung. Melodic yet brutal, the song unflinchingly describes the brutal rape of a pregnant woman who was forced to eat her own husband’s penis. That woman is Perpetua (Bárbara Lazón) and the child she was carrying is Fausta (Magaly Solier), the film’s main protagonist. It’s an extremely touching scene: the gentle melody juxtaposed against the horrific lyrics is jarring, and still more so as the singer is revealed to be an extraordinarily frail old lady. Having given up her song, Perpetua passes away.
The titular ‘the milk of sorrow’ is an affliction which Fausta has ‘inherited’ from her mother. As she suffers from a nosebleed and faints, her uncle suggests that the trauma of her mother’s ordeal was transmitted to her via breast milk. Searching for a more plausible explanation, Fausta’s doctor suggests that the cause of her ongoing medical problems is more likely to be a potato which she inserted into herself as a barrier to unwanted sexual advances. Either way, it seems that the reason for her ailments lies in misguided or archaic beliefs. With a background such as hers, it’s little wonder that Fausta is a nervous and timid character.
Fausta is given the opportunity to shed some of her inhibitions and build her self confidence when it becomes her task to transport her mother’s body from her home in Lima to her native village. Needing cash to make this happen, she takes a job working as a maid for a wealthy musician. The contrast between the calm and wealth of her employer’s home and Fausta’s busy, bustling life are immediately apparent – especially given the tracking shot which follows Fausta through a heaving marketplace on her way to her new job. The stillness and quiet are underscored by lingering shots of a silent Fausta awaiting instruction in an empty hall.
Having met her new employer, Aida (Susi Sánchez), Fausta cuts away a small piece of the potato which she keeps inside herself. Although perhaps a tad clumsy, this eccentrically symbolic act marks the beginning of Fausta’s journey to self-discovery. Resisting the temptation to rush the process, progress is hesitant and halting with false dawns and setbacks marking the way.
The most notable of these setbacks occurs following an agreement between Fausta and Aida. After one of her necklaces breaks, Aida promises to give her maid one of the loose pearls every time she sings for her. With her mother’s funeral to pay for, Fausta agrees, despite feeling embarrassed by the arrangement. It’s an underplayed scene: Magaly Solier’s performance is rarely anything other than subdued. As the two characters pick the pearls up from the bathroom floor, they come closer to each other in the middle of the frame. It’s a beautifully choreographed moment – even the manner in which the characters retrieve the spilt pearls speaks volumes about them. When Fausta eventually realises that Aida’s motives aren’t purely to hear her sing, another blow is struck against her awakening self.
The performance of Solier is absolutely central to the movie. She’s a beautiful and engaging presence. Her features are delicate, but there is steely determination in her eyes. Often filmed in close-up, she reflects rather than acts – often without words. Yet every dent to her pride registers – sometimes almost imperceptibly – on her face. It’s a portrayal suffused in melancholy which manages to anchor the emotion of the film without dragging it down.
The Milk Of Sorrow is framed magnificently and looks wonderful. At its heart is an enigmatic acting performance, and it has a lot to say about recent Peruvian history and the role of women in its society. Its not hard to see why it received an Oscar nomination – the story of a girl with a difficult background making good is very ‘Hollywood’ – but its just as easy to see why it did not win. It’s a difficult film to love – some of its metaphors are clunky, and its imagery a little too obvious. But despite this, it’s thought provoking and well worthy of attention.
Madeinusa
Claudia Llosa’s directorial debut is a beguiling mixture of Peruvian and religious tradition and traditional Western. Even the main protagonist’s name – and the title itself - is a twist on the expression ‘made in the USA’. But the issues addressed by the film are far more serious than the pun-based title might suggest.
In the remote village of Mayacunya, life has been largely unchanged for years. Here, Madeinusa (Magaly Solier) and her sister Chale (Yiliana Chong) share the home of their father, the town mayor. Madeinusa is clearly his favourite: his sexual advances towards her are rebuffed early in the piece. Coupled with the jealousy of her sister and the pain of her mother’s abandonment, Madeinusa has little comfort but for a box of possessions her mother left behind. But as the Holy Time draws closer, a stranger from the city arrives. How will he affect a community unused to strangers and a family which is at the point of falling apart?
The opening scenes see immediate parallels drawn between Madeinusa, the village girl of an Incan descent and Salvador (Carlos J de la Torre), a ‘gringo’ geologist from Lima. Her world is one of domesticity, rat-poisoning, gentle song and removing lice from her sister’s hair. Salvador, meanwhile, listens patiently to the inane ramblings of his driver, whilst growing increasingly exasperated at a situation which sees a flooded road halt his progress. His outsider status is established from the outset – his clothes and manner are markedly different, and his cynical smile underlines this.
The sense of intrusion continues as Madeinusa’s father, Cayo (Juan Ubaldo Huamán) returns home drunk and clambers into bed between his two daughters. Whilst Chale pretends to sleep, he begins to grope Madeinusa. Played with an almost weary resignation, it’s a strangely unsettling experience watching the young daughter reasoning with her father that he cannot sleep with her – yet. As Cayo’s face looms large on the screen, recognition flickers in his eyes and he falls asleep – to the relief of all parties.
That Madeinusa was able to deter her father was due to the impending Holy Time celebrations. With the town gearing up for the festivities with music, colourful decorations and alcohol it becomes apparent to a western audience that something potentially unsavoury is afoot: comparisons with The Wickerman would not be far from the mark. In a celebration which clearly takes its lead from Easter, the Holy Time focuses on the period between Jesus’s death and resurrection. The villagers believe that in this time sins are invisible to the Lord and, as a result, anything goes – even sleeping with your own children.
The film refuses to cast judgement or take the side of either the interloper from the city or the village locals. As such, the villagers are shown neither to be innocent or cruel – this refusal to point fingers allows the audience to make up its own mind on an ambiguity, which would almost certainly have been eradicated in a more mainstream picture. Despite this, there is a reluctance to allow Salvador to witness the celebrations and he’s locked in Cayo’s house out of the way.
When Salvador and Madeinusa’s paths inevitably cross, there is an immediate attraction. With the gaze of God averted, this leads to a sexual encounter which is anything but romantic. It’s little more than a quick knee trembler and doesn’t serve the plot particularly well. To believe that an urbane city dweller would fall so quickly for a village girl on the basis of this particular shared experience is something of a stretch. Having lost her virginity earlier in the day, the inevitable happens and Cayo also sleeps with his daughter – aware that Salvador has done so first.
The tension is ramped up from this point in, with Salvador clearly in some peril. Whilst Cayo begins to include him in the celebrations, it is with a sense of menace – not least in a scene where the menfolk of the village gather in a room and use scissors to remove each other’s ties. As the men methodically cut through each other’s neckwear, the scene grows increasingly dangerous for Salvador: he’s not wearing a tie. A cleverly constructed moment of terror flashes across his face as he realises his turn has come – and at the hands of Cayo.
As the plot unwinds, it becomes more obvious that tragedy will ensue, although the way events unravel might prove surprising. There’s also a deliberate ambiguity regarding the timing of events and whether the sins committed in the denouement were witnessed by God or whether they will be forgotten.
Director Llosa has created an intriguing film which poses more questions than it answers. The central performances are uniformly excellent and the scenes are framed sumptuously – particularly as the mask-clad villagers drink and dance. But the heart of the film relies on a believable relationship forming between Salvador and Madeinusa – sadly, that relationship is not quite believable enough. Although given the movie’s sting in the tail, maybe it is?
South American cinema has rightly been lauded in recent years, with films from Argentina, Brazil and Mexico earning richly deserved praise. The Milk Of Sorrow and Madeinusa offer a chance for audiences to explore the continent further, offering new insights into Peruvian culture and history, as well as the chance to see the development of blossoming director Claudia Llosa and ingénue Magaly Solier. Although occasionally clumsy, the impression given is that Llosa may be capable of polishing these rough edges off and creating a cinematic diamond. RW
Film: Sons Of Cuba
Release date: 20th September 2010
Certificate: E
Running time: 88 mins
Director: Andrew Lang
Starring: Yosvani Bonachea, Cristian Martinez, Santos Urguelles
Genre: Documentary
Studio: Mr Bongo
Format: DVD
Country: UK
Sons Of Cuba documents the pupils of The Havana Boxing School as they are subjected to a physically demanding training regime. Despite having an average age of 8, the pupils are pushed to their very limits - told that victory in the sport is not just a matter of personal pride but of national duty.
Cuba, 2006 and Fidel Castro has just taken ill. Paranoia begins to spread that the Americans might try and attack while their beloved leader is incapacitated.
As their country stands on a razor’s edge, a group of young boys are being indoctrinated into athletic acts of violence. The boys are told that failing is not an option, and that far from being merely a sport, boxing is Cuba’s opportunity to show that their country is the best, and that the revolution was an unmitigated triumph.
While the film focuses on a larger group of boys, our main protagonists are Cristian, a boxing prodigy, Santos, a boy whose passion for pastries stands in the way of his boxing success, and Junior, lovingly referred to as Dalmatian because of the bald spots found on his scalp.
As the day of the Under-12’s championship approaches, the training becomes more extreme, the punishments more harsh, and it soon becomes apparent that the sport, far from being a simple matter of national pride, is actually becoming detrimental to the stability of the children involved…
Sons Of Cuba ignores the emotional bombast and political posturing of so many modern documentaries. The film’s resistance to caricature and moral absolutism allows us to emotionally engage in all the characters involved. It is this skill that elevates Sons Of Cuba from other films of its ilk, leading to a movie that has genuinely aimed for a balanced account of events, allowing for opinion; both political and emotional to form at the viewer’s digression. That’s not to say that what is shown is vacant - quite the contrary. Its ability to invoke an open-ended discussion is derived from just how rich the images are. We hate seeing these children being reduced to tears by their environment, but we are allowed no villain to pin the blame on. The coach is shown as a loving and gentle man, and Castro himself is a ghost, appearing as an image on the wall, a reflection on TV screen - a holy icon. With no scapegoat in sight, we are forced to concentrate on the matter at hand, which is the children, and the relationships that they form.
This refreshingly humanist approach is aided by Andrew Lang’s beautiful images. Storms forming over Cuba, ripples in the puddles outside, and close-ups of the boys crying all invoke emotional responses as multi-layered as the political issues they explore. Images of nature, water in particular, mix the threatening (the storm clouds) with the fragile (the tears), which culminates in the ring - little children as innocent and confused as any children being forced to unleash torrents of violence and choreographed abuse (these visuals allow us to see the politics as being almost inconsequential).
While Castro and the revolution are imprinted in every part of their culture it has become so second nature that it is given no great importance. The real tragedy here is the growing link between innocence and responsibility. These are boys that are being made to take on the reasonability of men, which is not just a Cuban problem, but a worldwide one. When Santos lies cuddling into his grandmother, it is a visual reminder that these people are just children, and it is to our shame that their youth is easily forgotten in the faux-maturity they have been forced to exhibit.
But Sons Of Cuba is by no means a tear-jerker. The images that stay with you after the film’s end are images of warmth. The boys comforting each other, mother’s crying with pride. Here we have a documentary that is all the more important for focusing not on a single ideological vantage point, but on the human experience.
A beautifully shot and well considered documentary that is as emotionally engaging as it is informative. Andrew Lang’s film exhibits a fragile beauty that is never allowed to indulge in the sentimental. A filmic experience not easily forgotten. AC
Film: By The Will Of Genghis Khan
Release date: 27th September 2010
Certificate: 15
Running time: 122 mins
Director: Andrei Borissov
Starring: Stepanida Borissova, Sergei Egorov, Gernot Grimm, Orgil Makhaan, Eduard Ondar
Genre: Action/History/War
Studio: Manga
Format: DVD & Blu-ray
Country: Mongolia/Russia/USA
There have many films about the life of Genghis Khan, the founder of the Mongol Empire and notoriously ruthless warlord of the late 12th and early 13th centuries, and director Andrei Borrisov’s By The Will Of Genghis Khan (2009) followed hot on the heels of Mongol: The Rise To Power Of Genghis Khan (2007), the first of a proposed three-part trilogy directed by Sergey Bodrov. Both films focus on the earlier years of Genghis Khan, but By The Will Of Genghis Khan was made for an estimated $10 million, roughly half the budget of Mongol: The Rise To Power Of Genghis Khan.
By The Will Of Genghis Khan adopts a straightforward, linear approach to its subject, charting Genghis Khan’s life from birth to the point at which he began to build a vast empire that would eventually cover most of Asia and large parts of the Middle East and eastern Europe.
Named Temujin at birth, the boy who would eventually become Genghis Khan endures a difficult childhood, but his early experiences give him a strength and determination that distinguish him in later life.
Temujin’s father, the leader of a minor nomadic Mongolian clan, dies after being poisoned by a rival clan when Temujin is still a young boy. In response, his own clan exile Temujin and his remaining family, regarding him as too young to take over his father’s leadership role. Later still, he is kidnapped and tortured, but eventually he manages to escape and, with guidance from his mother, Hoelun, begins to form important alliances with other clans…
Central to Temujin’s development, and the film’s narrative, are his relationships with the people closest to him: his long-suffering mother, childhood friend and blood brother turned rival Jamuka, and first wife, Borte, who at one point he has to rescue after she too is kidnapped by a rival clan. There is also plenty of action in the form of protracted battle scenes, but By The Will Of Genghis Khan attempts to show something of the man behind the warrior; a man who exercised what, at the time, was a remarkable tolerance for different religions, and a willingness to engage in negotiations before putting his enemies to the sword.
Largely shot on location in Russia and Mongolia, By The Will Of Genghis Khan should be much better to look at than it is. Unfortunately, much of the film appears to have been shot on less than premium quality digital cameras, giving the film a flat, at times almost amateurish quality that negates the effect of some stunning scenery.
It may seem unfair to criticise a film for limitations that are probably due to a restricted budget, but given the ambitious nature of the film, and the director’s obvious desire to shoot an historical epic, there are clearly elements of the film that were compromised by a lack of funds. Some of the battle scenes, for example, come close to looking like the weekend antics of an historical re-enactment society, with just not enough men or horses to do the job. Apparently, the Mongolian army were on hand to help with certain scenes, but it doesn’t really show.
Perhaps even more problematic is the overblown dialogue, overflowing as it is with laboured, quasi-poetic lines that are meant to be profound but border on parody. Some of the performances don’t help either, with too many of the cast engaging in hammy, melodramatic overacting.
On the plus side, By The Will Of Genghis Khan at least attempts to show what motivated Genghis Khan in his conquests, and presents a reasonably balanced view of the effects of his empire building. Eduard Ondar is, for the most part, convincingly stoic as Genghis Khan, and has to be commended for faring so well with a script that doesn’t do him any favours.
There may be a lot wrong with By The Will Of Genghis Khan, but it’s certainly nothing like as bad as The Conqueror, the 1956 turkey starring John Wayne as Genghis Khan, and it’s unlikely to be bettered by an upcoming Hollywood biopic of Genghis Khan with Mickey Rourke in the title role. According to recent reports, Rourke claimed the new film will be directed by John Milius, the Hollywood screenwriter and director who is perhaps best known for writing Apocalypse Now - and for directing Conan The Barbarian. By The Will Of Genghis Khan may be a little flat visually, and curiously dull given the overblown dialogue and acting, but at least its central character doesn’t resemble a punch-drunk plastic surgery victim, and it doesn’t have the overall feel of an extended heavy metal video as filmed by a swords-and-sandals fantasy fanatic.
By The Will Of Genghis Khan fails to really engage, but it’s not without its merits, if you’re prepared to overlook certain shortcomings. With a bigger budget and better writing it could have been so much more impressive, but it’s a flawed historical epic that doesn’t quite achieve what it sets out to do. JG
Film: Arn: The Knight Templar
Release date: 20th September 2010
Certificate: 15
Running time: 113 mins
Director: Peter Flinth
Starring: Joakim Nätterqvist, Sofia Helin, Stellan Skarsgård, Milind Soman, Simon Callow
Genre: Action/Adventure/Drama/Romance/War
Studio: High Fliers
Format: DVD & Blu-ray
Country: UK/Sweden/Denmark/Norway/Finland/Germany
Based on the first two volumes of Jan Guillou’s trilogy of novels, Arn: The Knight Templar is a grand epic atypical of contemporary Scandinavian cinema. Europe is stepping onto Hollywood’s playing field - how does it fare?
Arn Magnusson (Natterqvist) grows up in a monastery, where he is taught the ways of swordsmanship and archery by a former Knight Templar. A natural, he is pulled into the political jostling between his family and a clan that rivals them for the throne of the country that will one day become Sweden.
After being exposed as having had pre-marital relations with his fiancée Cecilia (Helin), Arn is punished by being sent off to fight in the Crusades with the Knights Templar; while Cecilia is sentenced to twenty years in a harsh convent.
On Crusade, Arn encounters the great Muslim warrior Saladin (Soman), in whom he sees a kindred spirit. This warrior’s bond with the Christians’ enemy unsettles the Knights around him, and casts a cloud of doubt over Arn’s fate.
Can the courageous Knight survive the Holy War, and return to rescue his beloved?
This is the most expensive motion picture of all-time in Scandinavia, and it shows. But while the scope is Hollywood-esque, the sensibility retains a welcome European flavour. The visuals may be grand, with every scene feeling genuinely epic, but Arn: The Knight Templar also offers a convincing depiction of medieval grime that lends it just as much authenticity as Ridley Scott’s two recent excursions to cinematic Middle Ages (Kingdom of Heaven, Robin Hood), without being as distractingly showy.
That is not to say that Danish director Flinth has offered a film that is ‘down and dirty’ or ‘grittily realistic’, as some viewers might expect of a film from the continent that is (mostly) subtitled. This is mass market, commercial filmmaking, telling a traditional, familiar story in widescreen, and with the sound turned way up. Every penny of the estimated $30 million budget is on the screen, and the level of this film’s sophistication makes one wonder where all the money goes on the glut of $100 million-plus efforts America churns out every summer.
Perhaps Hollywood can learn from this film’s production, in the way this film has clearly learned from American blockbusters of previous eras. For while it has an undeniably European tint, Arn: The Knight Templar feels distinctly ‘Hollywood’ in many ways - the lush cinematography, all wide lenses and careful composition; the script’s deliberate pacing and clear three-act structure; and the tame love scene accompanied by a sweeping orchestral score. Flinth thinks big and shoots big and, if the film from time to time unconsciously emulates the tics of ‘lesser’ commercial Hollywood (occasionally thin characterisation, plot signposting), this particular meshing of European and American sensibilities is most definitely a new and intriguing cinematic experience.
Story-wise, the film is a mixed bag. Well-shot, highly visceral action enlivens a plot that, while engrossing, does not offer much in the way of genuine surprise. This is only a problem in the film’s opening act - a flashback from its enthralling opening sequence, which establishes the respective fates of Arn and Cecilia. At around forty minutes, this flashback - which serves only to illustrate what the viewer has already figured out for themselves - is something of a patience-tester. But with the gorgeous visuals on show, and a cast on commanding form, the story soldiers through and comes to life once back in the ‘present day’. Indeed, the scenes of the Knights Templar debating their tactics delight with their ‘old-fashioned’ spirit and verve. Even better are the ‘head-to-head’ scenes with Arn and Saladin - kindred spirits bound by a code of honour both resolutely believe in. Natterqvist and Soman play these scenes utterly straight, but without obvious macho posturing - the effect is near-electric, and a viewer almost wishes the intervening scenes move quicker, to get to the next Arn-Saladin duologue.
Not all of the narrative moves as smoothly, however. Indeed, while the Crusades-scenes engross, the subplot featuring the plight of poor Cecilia, trapped in an abusive convent, is more predictable, and does not always sit comfortably with the grandeur of the battle-sequences. And there are persistent niggles - such as the near disappearance of the excellent Stellan Skarsgaard and Michael Nyqvist after the flashback sequence; or a sluggish middle twenty minutes where Arn’s primary motivation (to get back to Cecilia) sets him at odds with the war raging around him, the clash robbing the narrative of some momentum.
But, as with the best of ‘spectacle cinema’, the film rides out the rougher patches and consistently delivers solid, relatively undemanding entertainment that thrills and excites. It may well be that Europe gets the hang of blockbuster movie-making, and bigger and better ‘event’ movies follow this film. If it comes to pass, Arn: The Knight Templar deserves to be remembered and recognised as a big first stride towards that future.
A bit uneven, perhaps, but this is an ambitious and enthralling film - a glorious warning shot to American cinema that will hopefully be followed by more direct hits. Europe has stepped onto Hollywood’s playing field, and has scored. JN
