Thursday 22 September 2016

Mission: Imposspielberg Vol. 2: Hats and Aliens


Having defined what we now know as a blockbuster in Jaws, Steven Spielberg was starting to establish himself as a bankable and talented director; a money machine for the studios.  From 1977 to 1984 he would cement this reputation and in doing so make a series of unforgettable films which defined many a childhood.  He also made 1941 but for the purposes of this, we’ll pretend that didn’t happen.

Close Encounters Of The Third Kind was a favourite of mine when I was a kid, but having watched it again as a 35 year-old kid, something has occurred to me: this is the strangest blockbuster I’ve ever seen!  A Richard Dreyfuss’ Roy Neary sees a UFO and this leads him to have an epiphany/mental breakdown, alienate (pun intended) and drive away his family by sculpting large mountains in and around his house, before turning his back on his planet by leaving with the aliens.  In terms of narrative, it’s pretty far from a classical structure; there is no villain or obstacle per se, save the obstructive  military; the hero, a compelling, driven, obsessed character, is kind of a dick to his family and we forgive him for it.

That said, it’s a wonderfully constructed film with a brilliant performance from the underrated Richard Dreyfuss.  There are classic Spielberg moments: the lights that float over Neary’s car instead of driving around; the mashed potato sculpting; the lost aeroplanes in the desert; that John Williams riff; the mothership.  From the oppressive chaos that marks every scene with Neary’s family to the terrifying abduction of Melinda Dillon’s son, Spielberg captures the feelings many of us cling to from our childhoods: wishing that you could see an alien, and they would come to Earth just for you.

I decided to omit 1941 from my little Spielberg project, because 1941 kind of sucks and I don’t own a copy.  It’s silly, slapstick and farcical, and not in a good way.  Much better suited to the manic energy of stars Dan Ackroyd and John Belushi than the visual imagination of the director. 

Luckily, he moved on and gave the world the gift that keeps on giving in Raiders of the Lost Ark.  The 1930s setting has helped ensure that this film simply does not get old.  The hero, too rough hewn and road worn to be a James Bond type but just as indefatigable and  resourceful, is just flawed enough to be real and could not have been cast more perfectly (although was nearly played by Tom Selleck).  The set pieces are still timeless and classic after classic: the temple and boulder roll; the Tibetan bar fight; the Cairo market; the Well of Souls escape (snakes…); the aeroplane fistfight; the truck chase (my personal favourite); and the climactic Nazi melt.  These are peppered with charm and imagination and drive a juggernaut plot, with by the ultimate MacGuffin.  Aside from Indy, it’s filled with great supporting characters (Karen Allen’s tough Marian is still his best companion) and fiendish villains (anyone who says they don’t want to punch Ronald Lacey’s SS officer Toht is lying).  Indiana Jones is not so much a classic and classical cinematic hero, he’s a legend and his first outing still feels like it was made yesterday.

By now established as Hollywood’s go-to guy for blockbusters, Spielberg decided to make something aimed squarely at the kids.  Developing ideas from Close Encounters but instead of obsession, themes of friendship, family and coming of age are the order of the day.  1982’s E.T. is still incredibly sweet, despite the world hardening around it for the ensuing 34 years.  Yes, there are parts of it that haven’t aged terribly well, such as the flying bikes, and the 2002 digital augmentation that blights my copy looks like absolute crap, but E.T. is still steeped in the amazement and awe that have become Spielberg’ hallmark.

The trademark broken family unit is at the forefront here, essential to Elliot’s (Henry Thomas) relationship with E.T., who fills a gap in his life left by an absent father.  Dee Wallace is brilliantly ineffectual as the mother, demonstrating how unnecessary authority figures are to a world where only Elliott and his bond to the alien matter.  It’s a simple story, full of plot holes and silly moments, but as an uncynical film about the joys of being a child and desperately wanting to cling to it even as it flies away, it is absolutely peerless.

With such mileage in the character and following the huge success of Raiders, Indiana Jones was resurrected in 1984 for Temple Of Doom.  Unlike today, sequels were not a given at the time and films like Jaws, Back To The Future, Ghostbusters and Indiana Jones started the trend that now blights cinema: almost any successful film will be given a sequel.

It’s still a cracking film but watched so soon after Raiders, you can tell it’s not quite in the same class.  The ‘Anything Goes’ opening is Spielberg’s homage to classic Hollywood musicals.  Jones’ introduction, white tuxedo and lady on his arm (kind of…), is pure James Bond, mixed with Jones’ slapdash chaos.  Temple is driven by another Macguffin, although much like the rest of the film it’s not quite up to the standard of the first; magic rocks don’t quite carry the same cache as the Ark of the Covenant.  Setting the film a year before Raiders is also a strange move; while the setting is too brief and inconsequential to really impact the film, with hindsight, it takes away some of the edge.

That said, Temple gives some great peril, to the point that the film is actually quite dark.  The plane crash escape, the spike-trap room, the attempted sacrifice of Willie Scott (Kate Capshaw, more scream than character), the conveyor belt fist fight, and the rope bridge escape.  All hugely memorable and loads of fun.  It also offers some of cinema’s great skin crawl moments with the infamous meal and bug cave scenes.  The supporting characters also aren’t as strong as in Raiders, with Mola Ram (Amrish Puri) looking cool and evil but not really doing much; from an audience point of view, I suppose Thuggee cultists aren’t as scary as Nazis.  Willie Scott isn’t fit to polish Marian Ravenwood’s medallion and becomes very grating as the film goes on.


Compared to about 90% of other films, Temple Of Doom is more fun, more exciting and just better.  The only disadvantage is that it had to follow Raiders Of The Lost Ark, which is an impossible feat.  Top men would struggle. Top men.

Sunday 11 September 2016

Mission: Imposspielberg, Vol. 1: Cars and Sharks


Not having children is great.  One of the many perks is being able to do silly things like decide to buy loads of DVDs, arrange them on the shelves chronologically and by director, and then decide on a whim that you want to watch all of somebody’s films.

Steven Spielberg was always my favourite. For as long as I can remember I’ve been mesmerised by the things he puts on screen, the sheer magic he can conjure , and the way he can take you back to your childhood for a couple of hours.  So, ironically, not having a child has allowed me to indulge in some childhood regression by watching every Spielberg film in order, and then writing about them in the time I’m not using to change nappies and pretend to be a normal person.

Here goes nothing…

Not owning (nor knowing how to get) copies of Firelight, Savage or Something Evil, I’ve started with the excellent TV movie Duel.  While I distinctly remember conversations with my parents in which they suggested that the devil himself was driving the truck, that fact that we don’t know the driver’s identity is a stroke of genius.  Dennis Weaver, playing the first of many Spielberg ‘everyman’ characters (named Mann, as it happens), gives a great performance as the not-entirely-likeable hero.  He’s something of a coward, has alienated his wife, and the film suggests early on that he provokes the truck to begin with, but Weaver sells him with enough conviction to carry the film as the sole character.  I’ve always maintained that the film would work with no dialogue at all, such is the strength of the young Spielberg’s direction, using inventive shot choices and eking tension from every possible source.  He certainly could have done without Mann’s internal monologue, which doesn’t always work.  For me, the truck is one of cinema’s best monsters and while you can say that Duel is his audition for Jaws, it’s clear from this that young Spielberg is both talented and evil.

The lesser-known classic The Sugarland Express is next. Starring a young, manic, and absolutely brilliant Goldie Hawn, and William Atherton, who would go on to play the most annoying man in Die Hard, this film is way better than I remember.  It’s beautifully shot, shows much of the flair we’ve come to expect from Spielberg, but this introduces a trope that will recur time and again throughout his career: the fractured family unit.  From Close Encounters, Temple Of Doom, Empire Of The Sun through to aspects of Catch Me If You Can and Bridge Of Spies, the broken and/or surrogate family unit is something he goes back to again and again.  Another thing worth noting here is that Sugarland is a caper so wilfully bizarre and populated by idiots, the Coen brokers have been plundering it from Raising Arizona onwards.  They have taste.

Jaws is next, and I don’t really need to explain how good a film it is.  Spielberg understand the cardinal rule of monster movies: the monster is scarier when you don’t see it.  It’s true, your imagination is way worse than anything that you can see on screen.  Keeping the shark hidden does two things: builds the tension in your mind, and hides a limited budget.  The best thing about Jaws is the characters: a social cross section of Richard Dreyfuss’ wealthy shark expert, Roy Scheider’s land-loving middle class cop, and Robert Shaw’s unforgettable working fisherman. They are brilliant together, with chemistry and tension in abundance. The scene where Shaw’s Captain Quint delivers his USS Indianapolis monologue is stunning, and each of them has memorable dialogue.

Jaws is the textbook monster movie, with lessons for generations of directors to come.  It takes its time, particularly during shark attacks, allowing the scenes to breathe and not letting the audience get disoriented like so many films do today with A.D.D editing and emphasis on speed. Spielberg also understands that this isn’t a film about a shark, it’s a film about people faced with difficulty, and it gives you enough of those people to make you like and care about them.  But when the shark attacks do come, they’re bloody, brutal, and still terrifying.


Spielberg would hit all of the right notes again with Jurassic Park, and most of them with War Of The Worlds, but here he wrote the rulebook and in doing so invented the very thing that would define his career for decades to come: the event movie.

Tuesday 6 September 2016

Film Review: Cafe Society


When you’re a fan of somebody who’s been around a while, you always harbour the hope that they’ve got one more masterpiece in them.  I remain optimistic that Spielberg has another Jaws in him; Scorsese seems to effortlessly turn out masterpieces like The Wolf Of Wall Street; likewise, the Coen brothers with their ability to find genius in remakes and oddities. While Francis Ford Coppola hasn’t really been great in my lifetime (1980, since you’re asking), Oliver Stone’s mojo has apparently deserted him, likewise Brian DePalma, John Carpenter and Spike Lee, while the likes of Clint Eastwood have an approach which is, let’s say ‘scattershot’.  Can Woody Allen be relied upon for one last Annie Hall, or another Manhattan?  Hell, I’d settle for another Midnight In Paris or Blue Jasmine, and I remain hopeful.

When you’re prolific, it’s natural that you’re going to have a mixed success rate.  When Woody is good, he’s still one of the best; when he’s below par, it can be painfully dull.  Cassandra’s Dream remains one of the worst films I’ve ever had the misfortune to see and it’s hard to believe that the same man who made Annie Hall put his name to it.  That said, John Carpenter made both Halloween and Ghosts Of Mars. Time waits for no man…

Woody’s latest, Café Society does a lot of what he’s really good at, and has some moments that recall his profligate, rambling lulls.  Thankfully, the good parts thoroughly outweigh the bad.

It’s recognisably Woody, from the jazzy score to that typeface on the opening credits.  For the second time, he has cast Jessie Eisenberg as his onscreen proxy, and the setting (the roaring 1920s-30s, this time in Hollywood) is one seen before in Bullets Over Broadway and Midnight In Paris.  This being Woody, though, disillusionment rather than nostalgia is the theme of the day and Hollywood turns out to be empty glamour, a far cry from his beloved New York.

Woody is at his comedic best when he gets a little weird: unexplained time travel from Midnight In Paris, fourth-wall breaking and subtitled thoughts in Annie Hall, Alec Baldwin acting as Eisenberg’s visible-to-only-him spirit guide in To Rome With Love, and pretty much all of Deconstructing HarryCafé Society isn’t particularly strange but one striking playful touch is Woody casting himself as narrator. He will be acutely aware of what it means for writer/director to appear as omniscient narrator in his own film; Woody goes meta, winking at you through the fourth wall.

Whether it’s a comedic caper or a deadly serious meditation, Allen’s skill is often in finding scenarios through which to pose big questions about love, life and death.  He takes the strands of his characters’ stories, twists them into knots, sometimes nooses, and Café Society offers a typically Allen scenario of unrequited lovers and difficult choices.  It’s as satisfying as any ‘love’ story he’s done, with a bittersweet, wordless ending which recalls the break up scene which ends Manhattan; much his characters sometimes want to and maybe should be together, life is cruel and won’t allow it.
The drama is brought to life by some fine performances from an against-type Steve Carrell and a revelatory Kristen Stewart, whose restrained turn helps buy back some of the credibility she lost with all of that silly vampire business.  Eisenberg is good at the Allen impersonation and shows some range as his role changes in the latter stages and he grows in confidence. They are supported by an able cast, including the always-excellent Corey Stoll and Blake Lively.

It has flaws.  Sometimes a frustrating trait of Allen’s is that he includes what seems like every idea, every scene he writes, and this can sometimes mean that his films lose focus.  The central love triangle is engaging and rewarding, but is framed by Bobby’s (Eisenberg) extended family.  Typically Allen, much of the humour is derived from the darkest source, in this case Stoll’s gangster brother, Ben and his murderous tendencies.  While some of the family moments are great and funny (he can’t help but throw in a buzzkill philosopher), they also feel like they don’t add much other than jokes, and feel like they’ve been imported from a different, funnier film.  Some of the family scenes, particularly those concerning an angry next door neighbour, slow down the main plot and make the film seem less focused; fun as they are, you’re often left wondering how it affects the main characters.

That said, Café Society is simply satisfyingly Woody.  It’s beautifully shot, features a wonderful jazz score, and has heart and laughs. It’s sweet and bittersweet where it needs to be, and somewhat satisfyingly puts Woody back in New York following a world tour of sorts; a Central Park-set kiss feels like a reunion between director and city.  He’s also written some of his better zingers on favourite Allen subjects of death and Jewishness in years; it’s just a shame they’re all assigned to characters who sometimes seem like they’re in a cameo from another film.


It’s no Annie Hall, it’s no Manhattan, although it shares DNA with both.  It’s not quite on par with Blue Jasmine or the wonderful Midnight In Paris but easily matches and in some places surpasses recent hits Magic In The Moonlight, Whatever Works or Vicky, Cristina, Barcelona. When it comes to enduring writer-directors – and now narrator – I’m not convinced that Allen has another masterpiece tucked away behind those glasses, but I’ll happily keep watching him try.