'The Ides of March'

George Clooney, as a director, clearly intends to follow in the footsteps of Robert Redford or Clint Eastwood, in terms of his politically engaged film-making, even though he neither possesses Redford's gritty commentary nor Eastwood's lavish aesthetics, yet, anyway.

Let's not put the cart in front of the horse, or the endorsement in front of the governor, or whatever the saying is. The Ides of March follows the young media genius Stephen Meyers as he works on the Pennsylvania governor's presidential campaign, the film is mainly set in Ohio whose polls could decide the potential outcome of the presidential preliminaries. He works under the experienced Paul Zara and contrary to the latter, Meyers has an almost naïve faith in the liberal democratic values of their charismatic candidate Mike Morris.

On the other side of this political ring-fight, we find Tom Duffy, a shrewd campaign manger who seems not only to see all the strings, but pull them as well. Duffy, naturally attempts to hire Meyers whom he sees great potential in and Meyers, somewhat foolishly, agrees to meet, even though he eventually turns Duffy down. Things get messy as Meyer's journalist friend senses a scoop and learns of the meet. Throw in a gorgeous young intern and the political débâcle is on its way.

Based on a theatre play 'Farragut North' by Beau William in 2004, it comes as no surprise that the plot in itself is a skeleton plot, following a trigger, consequential action to the situational circumstances and the results of those actions. This bareness in terms of plot structure, makes the overall feel of the film result in a certain notion of staginess as it isolates the characters in symbolic concepts of idealism, corruption and the weaknesses of pride and personal gain. The 'twists' (and the quotation marks here are very much deliberate) are straightforward to blunt, emphasising the good old truth that politics is a dirty business, as if we hadn't seen it all before. The intern business feels contrived at times as it relies too much on Clinton's little indiscretion with a certain Monica Lewinski, relevant at the time of the play's opening, but almost anachronistic in present day.

The film's concentration on the characters of its unfolding leave one very important element of the political power play out, namely the people, or the votes for that matter. Granted, this could be deliberate as it illustrates how, in the end, a campaign is nothing but the sum of actions of the opposite campaign teams at play, at the same time however, the film could have benefited from the introduction of the masses and their more or less blind belief in the promises of the candidates as it would have heightened the cynicism of political observation.

As such, Clooney focuses on a cinematography of close-ups, highlighting the conspirational closeness of the protagonists and an atmosphere of dirty secrets in which the latter are nothing but a means to get headway in this personal road of success. The framing translates a feel of absolute isolation, of a closed universe in which trust is a luxury, loyalty an impossibility and idealism just a sign of naivety. The colour scheme is one of expensive subdued, plain in its dark greens, browns and beige, not unlike the lounge/bar in high class hotel, in which whispered echoes provide a background noise which prohibits any genuine voice or sound and as such become utterly unreal.

The performances are, of course, excellent, how could they not be with Philip Seymour Hoffman and Paul Giamatti on board. Am I the only one who cannot help but feel guilty boredom in seeing those two high-class actors, which I know are never going to et a foot wrong in terms of performance? Hoffmann plays his character with the beaten desolation of a man who has been in the business for years, which seems to have drained the colour from his very figure and Giamatti who plays Duffy with the nihilistic perseverance of a pit-bull, who doesn't so much know why he has to bite as he just knows it's in his nature. The real reverence of the film, however, lies in Gosling, who, since Drive has really drawn attention to himself. He carries the film with an aggressive nonchalance which is as much put on as it is strangely enough innocent. There's nothing new to the role of the young idealist who becomes corrupted along the line, Gosling, however, manges to infuse the role with a genuine intensity of a man who is in over his head and needs to make a choice of whether to relinquish his principles and success or whether to lose with his integrity intact, but nothing much else left. Clooney cleverly puts on a sideshow performance in his portrayal of the charismatic governor, his role almost becomes a parody of the figure of Clooney the actor himself, charming, but with an underlying tone of sinister calculation. The audience witnesses Clooney the actor, acting, which conjures the uncanny comparison of the Hollywood machinery and the governmental power play, supposedly making the most important decisions of a whole nation. In the end, the film seems to suggest, the show must go on.

As such, even thought somewhat simplistic in its treatment of the preliminary presidential campaign and all the conspiracies this entails, the film does raise some elemental ethical questions, the most important of which is whether it is better to win and have a chance to instate half the principles to believe in or whether to retain your ethical integrity, but lose. Even if the film's overall cinematography feels at times too glossy for its supposedly grim and realistic conveyance, while the emphasis on soured idealism, the backstabbing of the loyal minion (Y tu, Brutus!) and the intern as back-story might feel too contrived and simplistic for its own good, it does not diminish the necessity of films which raise elemental political questions and raise an awareness in an audience which must soon again make their way to the voting booth.

'Wuthering Heights'

If you enjoy romantic period dramas with damsels falling for handsome, dashing gentlemen in well-cut suits and impeccable manners, who even though somewhat lacking in the realm of emotional expression, nevertheless make up for their shortcomings in deeds and heroines who overcome their prejudices after traditionally rejecting the first marriage proposals as to prove their personal worth and interest in the man, not the economic capital, if you enjoy, longing female protagonists in wind-swept skirts standing on a hill musing in taking in the highly romanticised landscape of more often than not the lake district, then, beware, do not go and see Andrea Arnold’s Wuthering Heights.

The newest version of Emily Bronte’s monumental text of the English literary canon comes from none other than the maker of the critically acclaimed Fish Tank. It seems an odd choice of text for Andrea Arnold at first, but quickly proves plausible in breaking the novel down to its bare essential themes rather than taking it as a mere classic. Like Fish Tank, Wuthering Heights deals with the figure of the adolescent outsider; it deals with the dispossessed and is infiltrated with a distinct social realist tone. 

In terms of plot, the film follows the first half of the novel, in that it depicts the arrival of the later named Heathcliff to the family home of the Earnshaws’ in the middle of nowhere, also known as Victorian Yorkshire. In a bout of Christian charity, the head of the family has taken this boy in from the streets of Liverpool and given him a home in exchange for labour.  Heathcliff quickly attracts the hatred of the family’s eldest son Hindley and is thus subjected to constant humiliation and even physical abuse by the latter. He finds a companion in Catherine, the younger daughter and soon the two prove inseparable and roam the bleak moors of Yorkshire all day long. Catherine and Heathcliff’s relation is of an almost animalistic nature, strong, wild, occasionally cruel, defiant, desperately loyal, and innocent while erotic at the same time.

Of course the text lives through this all-consuming relationship and Arnold cleverly equals the nature of their relation with the powerful imagery of the landscape which becomes a character in its own right.  This is no sanitized period drama version of the moors shot through a glossy Hollywood lens; this is a highly desensitized treatment of a landscape whose bleakness is more council estate than countryside and the characters mirror and become part of it, rather than battling against it. This is almost a primeval world in its essential bareness and the difference between man and beast is narrow to non-existent, as Heathcliff is sent to sleep with the animals on the farm and Catherine licks his wounds in imitation of an animal taking care of its own.

The constant alteration between wide angle shots of the landscape and extremely confining close-ups of the characters make for a visual shock, which renders the overall feel of the film a visceral one. Arnold and her cinematographer Robert Ryan introduce images of as delicate as bleak beauty in focusing on the textural nature of the thing on screen, prioritising the tactile over the visually comprehensive. As such we are presented with images which seem almost of an alien nature as butterflies and bugs are magnified to the point of becoming unrecognisable, the rough creaks of the wide planes of Yorkshire remind of the close-up of Cathy’s hair and the focus on dead and trapped animals become almost unbearable to watch, not so much necessary components of country life as uncanny representatives of the abject. Let’s just say that any scholars of the haptic will have a field day with this film. The twin obsession with death and sex is omnipresent in the littering of animal corpses on the screen which are as much part of the filmic landscape as Cathy’s and Heathcliff’s erotic tensions. This linking of death and sex culminates in the last scene in which Heathcliff visits the corpse of Catherine. Here, however, one cannot help but feel that Arnold is pushing for extremes rather than really feeling the necessity to include this scene in the film in terms of character-understanding.

 The use or non-use of sound reinforces this notion of essentialism in terms not only of character emotions but also life in the 19^th century. The raindrops on the lens of the hand-held camera, the shaky cinematography and the sound of wind with an occasional cry of a lonely bird come to emphasise the harshness of a life lived in a cramped cottage which translates as an existence lived in poverty and a constant draft. The characters here are very much a product of their surrounding as they live a life in defiance of the elements and stifling social conventions which make of Catherine and Heathcliff not only outsiders in terms of gender and race, but also dependents on respectively marriage and charity. The sparse dialogue conveys the sense of impossibility of expression with occasional violent outbursts such as Heathcliff’s : ‘Fuck you all, you cunts’ which left the respectable middle-aged and distinctly middle-class audience gasping while at my screening one couple bowed their silver-haired heads and left in a self-righteous huff. The straining from the novel’s original dialogue, however, makes sense in that it brings the emotional core to a modern level. Heathcliff and Catherine are children left to run wild, they are dirty and uneducated, of no economic consequence and socially marginalised. This living on the fringes of society is here translated through the characters lingering in doorframes, peeping through keyholes or window frames, especially Heathcliff is always looking from the outside in.

At the same time, however, this negation of verbal expression proves the only digression from the novel which left me somewhat bewildered. In the novel, Heathcliff has a very distinct voice and refuses to be victimised in expressing defiance at all cost. Here, however, Heathcliff’s muteness makes him more of a victim as one gets the feeling that he has no means of defence. Also the film’s radical gutting of the novel’s gothic framework, leaving out not only the supernatural, a wise decision in terms of the tone of the film, but also some of the character traits, leave the protagonist as representatives of bare emotions such as anger, passion, pain and loss, rather than rich textual figures to be explored. One cannot help but feel that essential traits of what make these iconic characters have been left out, such as the cruelty Catherine and Heathcliff display as children, mostly to their immediate surroundings, but also to themselves. Also, the Hindley character seems to be portrayed as a mindless bully rather than a boy who sees himself confronted with the potential loss of his place as an heir and deprived of his father’s love and as such resumes to physical violence.

Why can’t you always be like this? Cathy’s father asks her when she snuggles up to him. This question leaves an audience unfamiliar with the book bemused as they have not seen proof of Cathy’s wickedness. Also the first scene shows Catherine spitting in Heathcliff’s face, an action which makes no sense in accordance to the next scene in which she invites him to visit the moors with her. The novel, naturally, has the time and pace to establish this sadomasochistic relationship between Cathy and Heathcliff, in which the two characters seems to hate as much as love each other , as one torments the other only to be fiercefully loyal to them once the outside world turns against them.

The lovers’ reunion after Heathcliff’s return also somewhat leaves to be wished for, as the adult actors seem to close in age to the child actors which makes the supposed time-frame appear artificial and unbelievable. Also the adult Cathy character looks utterly dissimilar to the young Catherine in looks and behaviour that one almost feels like watching a different character. Some of her behavioural changes must, of course, be attributed to her marriage to the socially refined Linton, but even in her interaction with Heathcliff she seems more teasing than passionately in love. All of the performances, from the young non-professional actors, to the more established older actors are superb, their performances, however, are completely desynchronised, a fact which greatly weakens the second part of the film.  

All in all, the film’s greatest asset lies in its effect on the audience, as it has the same shocking and startling impact as the novel had on its 19^th century readership. Even thought the film proves flawed in terms of character development, which would have been acceptable in a loose reimagining of the Bronte text, but becomes a shortcoming in an adaptation, the fact that Arnold managed transform a well-worn classic into something new and raw which brings back to life the original audience response in its shocking and unsentimental approach deserves nothing short of critical admiration.

Oh yeah, before I forget: Heathcliff is black.

'I'm sorry LOVE'

What does it mean to be in a certain space at a specific moment, and how does this tie in with not only your, but life in general? Is there such a thing as common existence or a concept of life which is not only universal, but can it be expressed at all and if so, how? These conceptual inquiries are as old as mankind, nevertheless, film-makers generally tend to shy away from them in our post-modern age, which more often than not prefers to feign disillusionment at life's mysteries. After all, if God is dead and any attempt at political action seems futile from the start, what point is there in making sense of the world and our existence in it?

Fortunately, Julien Pearly's I'm sorry LOVE bravely aspires to come to terms with this universal concept of subjectivity within the space of existence.

First of all, to fully appreciate the merits of this short film, one has to be aware of the fact that each space, in this case the city of Edinburgh, has its own sensuality rendering it distinct from any other space in the world. Every city has its own essence made up of associative images, smells and colours. Berlin has its evocative grandeur, its high buildings always emerged in half shadow, or half light, its self-ironic treatment of old and new in which the sausage with sauerkraut is treated with the same kind of gleeful integration into the day to day as the latest electronic gypsy swing musical concussion which is blasted from the rooftops in Kreutzberg. London is a celebration of the grey and brown tones of its buildings with its numerous makeshift cafés in which the light baby blue paint is fashionably cracked, while the paper lampshades appear to be the latest instalment of the local artist/writer/musician/waiter. At the same time, the smell of different foods dominate the Brick Lanes of London with an underlying hint of the old, the musty, in short, the river.

What then is Edinburgh? Edinburgh, for me, is sitting in a kitchen in which every item, from the cupboards to the toaster seems to stem from the seventies, where a discarded Elvis figurine with only one arm sits comfortably on the spice rack next to half empty jars of middle eastern spices. Where people do not offer you a nice piece of cake with a cup of tea, but a shot glass of Polish cherry vodka with some oatcakes and hummus. Edinburgh is orange and brown, the Gothic of its streets coincides perfectly with the warm tones of the trees on Greyfriar's cemetery. Edinburgh is the eternal autumnal city.

Pearly perfectly captures this sense of Edinburgh as a city, as his protagonists lounge on a couch which seems to have been adopted from the Bethany shop, they sit on a radiator in front of those quintessential windows which let in the draft and whose slightly tilted angle within the glass makes the world outside seem like a mysterious place or they cycle through the hustle and bustle of the Haymarket area or the greens of the meadows. Pearly understands that space is not in itself self-contained, but made up of an infinite amount of components, ever-changing, ever-shifting, refusing to validate time and space as being fixed. The stop-motion graphics of the film perfectly encapsulate this sense of time as a subjective construct, in disrupting the continuity of a fixed time illusion. The overlapping of sound and image and the discrepancy between the two comes to mirror the notion of subjective time or moments being real, but not necessarily in sync with what we would like to think of as the general truth of the world. To put it differently: you're in your room, hanging up laundry (must be Sunday night), when maybe without even be conscious of it, you hear the sound of a coffee grinder coming from the kitchen in the flat upstairs, this sound is as much part of your reality as it is of your upstairs neighbours', even though you come to think of it as disparate from you as it originates in a different 'scene' from the one happening in your life.

As such, the sound of someone making tea will overlap images of the characters sitting on the bed with a guitar or looking out of the window. At the same time, the dialogue runs over a series of disparate images, as such mirroring the subjective thought process and the latter's omni-presence in all subjective existence. There is a sense of eeriness to the images and sound which stems from the subtle dismantlement of a fixed time-space continuity.

The concept of Imagination as treated in the film comes to bear resemblance to the romantic concept of Imagination as an imprint of reality in the 'mind's eye', most tellingly revealed over the image of the characters in the park as the Romantics themselves explained Imagination with the image of a tree. They wondered if the tree is reality or whether the image of the tree as presented in the onlookers mind came to represent reality. The male protagonist struggles with the concept of separate realities, whereas the female protagonist seems to accept an imaginary world as her own subjective world. Imagination comes to stand as the process of 'going into that imaginary world and knowing that its yours'. The male protagonist, seems to conflict with his own subjective existence in trying to 'eradicate the illusion of choice'. Theses modern characters are very aware of the main pitfalls of Romanticism, as whereas the latter receded to Nature and almost shied away from society, this couple realises the impossibility of living outside the societal norm and as such comes to feel disconnected from their own truth.

This impossibility of living outside the societal construct furthermore manifests itself in the emotional reality of the characters and the discrepancies in subjective perception of the same relationship, ultimately resulting in alienation. The male character suggests that being in love must be lived from one moment to the next, without the, what he sees as, socially imposed concept of finding that 'one' person. The female character counters that this concept is not so much socially constructed as emotionally perceived as, for her, the feeling of jealousy has nothing to do with society, but comes from within. She realizes that he is shying away from a notion of collective responsibility. In our times of extreme individualism, subjective thinking comes to suggest an entitlement to 'have it all' as he puts it. At the same time, she argues that all action has a consequence, a fact which can, and indeed should not be negated. As our reality is as subjective as it is social, individual responsibility must include the subjects which make up your reality as they are in your immediate vicinity.

A sense of melancholia pervades the film as the characters come to realise the impossibility to fully connect to an Other. Modern existence is in essence alienated and even though a certain closeness can be achieved, all in all the discrepancies in subjective perception render a coming together of individuals impossible. While I'm sorry LOVE affirms the truthful nature of all subjective imagining, it equally depicts the consequence of these disparate realities which cannot but result in a gap, a separation of subjective beings.

The film's overall construct is tightly assembled and the cinematography is of a haunting beauty as the camera lingers lovingly on the characters through rain drops on the window. The blurred lens used to depict some images comes to reinforce this almost fairy-tale, but definitely mysterious quality of the world we live in, all the while hinting at that unknown place from which all creation, expression or, indeed, thoughts stem. The characters often linger on the edge of the frame, while the camera emphasises a seemingly unimportant element in the setting, as such granting an equal importance to our surroundings. In this it comes to embrace life in all its complexity without presumptuously trying to render it 'understandable' or 'knowable'.

All in all, I'm sorry LOVE represents an impressive piece of film-making which captures this sense of what it means to live in the world, in a space made up of disparate subjective perceptions perfectly. The melancholic beauty of the images introduce this special kind of sadness which is as comforting as disquieting, as the film quietly whispers: 'I'm sorry LOVE'!

If you fancy having a look at I'm sorry LOVE, please go to:  http://widgets.distrify.com/widget.html#107

'POM Wonderful presents: The Greatest Movie Ever Sold'

The genre of documentaries is generally associated with dusty classrooms, the mating rituals of the South African bumblebee or the relief of a tedious day being interrupted by an hour's worth of merciful darkness. Never very exciting, but always, you know, 'kinda interesting', the documentary was bound to suffer a slow and painful death at the hands of all those Miss Schroeders (my fourth grade teacher) and Mr Forsters (maths teacher first and second grade) who seemed to be just as glad to get a break from the pretend enthusiasm about the microcosm of life as illustrated by a beehive as we were.

Along came Morgan Spurlock, or was it Michael More?, here's to that the chicken or egg question, and introduced us to a new genre of documentaries which celebrated the documenter as much as it denounced the ethically suspect interviewees. It wasn't exactly witch-hunt material, but surely was more exciting than boring observation, coupled with a healthy sense of objectivity.

Spurlocks' latest pop-doc looks into the world of product placement or 'co-promotion' as it is referred to nowadays. This is a film within a film, as Spurlock is depicted trying to get brands to fund his film all the while placing products and adverts within it. In the meantime he is making a film about these companies and how modern marketing is taking over creative production. Get it? Remember that scene from The Lady from Shanghai, with the mirrors? Well, this is similar on a conceptual basis.

The audience then follows Spurlock through what seems like endless board meetings and pitching of ideas, up to the point he finally manages to get his first sponsor on board, which eventually leads him to land the juice manufacturer POM wonderful for one million dollars. In exchange, Spurlock not only has to appear in an advert for POM within the space of his feature, he also agrees to include the sponsor's name in the title.

All of this is done with a tongue-in-cheek attitude, which one cannot help but feel is a certain reassurance on Spurlock's part to the audience that even though he might be 'selling out', he is doing so ironically for the sake of exposure, in an attempt to affirm his own sense of integrity. Spurlock claims that his film is all about transparency, and this might be considered valid in his attempt not to influence the audience. At the same time, however, this 'transparency' is never challenged and introduces a notion of shallowness, as the film fails to convincingly engage in the most obvious of questions raised by 'co-promotion', namely the corruption of artistic integrity. Granted, Spurlock conducts a series of interviews with the likes of Quentin Tarantiono, J.J Abrams and Brett Ratner, getting a neat, tightly edited point of view from each one of them, conveniently covering all bases of the argument, from the director who embraces product placement as part of popular culture (guess which one of these...), to the one that takes it as necessary evil, to one who sees it as the death of artistic integrity. Tick the box!

Spurlock's film is not bad as such, rather, it remains aimless and ambivalent throughout, never really committing to any one stance. The structure of the documentary is poor in its slightly odd juxtaposition of themes and its mixing of tones. First it relies heavily on Spurlock himself as a brand, selling him as a commodity, not only to the companies, but, moreover, to the audience itself. Sperlock possesses the charm of a used-car salesman, rendering the overall tone one of gimmicky entertainment, rather than serious investigation.

All of a sudden, however, as if realizing that he wants to be taken seriously as a documentary film-maker, Spulock attempts to induce some intellectual weight into the equation, including what can only be called snippets of discussion with, for example, Noam Chomsky and Ralph Nader. In a painfully obvious, if slightly charming in its boyish enthusiasm, pun on modern marketing and subjective branding, Spurlock, with blatant glee, meets Donald Trump, who comes to represent a symbol rather than interviewee, important in his presence rather than his vague answers. All throughout the interviews, Spurlock can be seen drinking POM juice and even entangling Chomsky in a lively discussion about the merits of the brand of the shoes funding the very scene Chomsky is in. Self-referential nods like this, provide the film with genuinely funny moments in which the audience chuckles at Spurlock's obvious enjoyment in this admittedly quite simplistic form of irony.

There are glimpses of what seems to be almost the film Spurlock attempted to make within this accumulation of semi-witty comments on the nature of the marketing machinery. These moments sit odd within the structure and tone of the documentary. Spurlock visits a school affected by governmental cuts and reacts by taking matters into its own hands by selling space for advertisement purposes. One of the most critical and shocking scenes reveals the introduction of free TVs in classrooms, in exchange for twelve minutes of corporate broadcasts, in which the adolescent students are targeted with specific adverts of, for example, skin products and blockbuster trailers marketed to their specific age group. It is here, that the audience truly glimpses the ugly nature of marketing as it clearly reveals how an individual is brainwashed without personal choice. For a brief moment, corporate marketing raises its ugly head, as the film treats it, not with tongue-in-cheek mockery, but illustrates how in our age of so-called individualism, we are in the end, nothing but specific targets in a machinery which classifies members of society by their buying power in terms of age, gender or lifestyle.

By the same token, Spurlock shows us an alternative reality in visiting Sao Paulo, a city which has bravely put a ban on all public advertisement. In seeing the pure, almost naked, space of this city, the audience comes to truly realize the degree of its desensitisation in regard to the appropriation of space by marketing. Sao Paulo's people re-appropriate their living space, commenting on the fact that they are finally able to focus on the space they inhabit, without being targeted at all times. At the same time they literally inscribe their city in the form of artworks on the walls of their buildings. All of a sudden, the audience is confronted with an awareness which is as simple as it is shocking, namely the fact that a city or any space for that matter should be a construct of its people, rather than a corporate reality in which its inhabitants are walking marks of their individual economic capital.

Even though these moments sit quite awkwardly within the general construct of the film, they are, nevertheless, the only 'real' moments of reflection and come to present the film most of us would have liked to see. The rest of the film comes to appear as a mere means of appeasement for the sponsors. Interesting as the procedure of getting funding for a film might be, in itself the depiction of this process reveals nothing original and leaves the film somewhat without depth and a curiously hollow framework.

As such, Spurlock's work presents an entertaining account of the marriage of modern marketing and cinema, it does, however ultimately fail to resolve the real issues at stake, such as the corruption of a sense of artistic integrity, the marketability of the modern notion of individualism and the all-pervading presence of advertisement in modern life. The film awkwardly lingers on the surface and even while providing some moments of genuine entertainment, the rare moments of authenticated interest fail to merge homogeneously within the text. Spurlock becomes the master of the obvious, meanwhile, however, this might be a reflection on the desensitization of its audience's viewing habits as a result of the constant surrounding of adverts or product placements, invisible by its visual omni-presence.

This reviewer is going to leave you with two warnings: first of all, you are going to want a POM juice by the time you leave the cinema: do not give in, if you want to look in the mirror while brushing your teeth by the time you get home! Secondly, you are going to notice all product placement for weeks to come, which on the one side, might spoil your favourite programmes, on the other, what is the primal purpose of a documentary if not the raising of awareness and who knows, maybe you'll reinvent your life and can be found in Brazil in a year's time, drinking Mojitos in a street café, blissfully aware of the naked purity of the space surrounding you.

'Drive'

Make way for the Vikings, because here comes the latest installment from the mythic North, with Nicholas Winding Refn's ultra-sleek Drive, easily the most anticipated release this autumn.

This time Refn finds himself in unfamiliar territory, namely in Southern California where the heavily clouded LA skies convey a sense of despondent foreboding. Drive deals with an protagonist who seems to be only marginally more skilled in verbal expression than Refn's last protagonist 'One-Eye' and again, remains a character with no name.

The Driver, then, is an extremely skilled mechanic who not only drives for movies, but also the getaway car in heists. He has only one rule: He will only wait for five minutes before leaving the criminals to their fate, why, is not quite clear. His personal failure of a boss Shannon plans on building a stock-car business with a little financial help from two crooked mafiosi. When the beautiful Irene moves in next door, the driver falls quietly in love with her and finds a sort of surrogate family in her and her son Benicio. Unfortunately, her husband is released from prison and owes the wrong people some money. They want him to do one last job and the driver agrees to help on the condition that they leave Irene and her son alone. Of course, things go horribly wrong and chaos and violence ensue.

So much in terms of plot, and there really is nothing more to it. It is a skeleton plot, simplistically classic in its treatment: Decent guy falls in love with innocent girl who glances longingly at the hero and needs saving. The one last job that goes wrong and a protagonist who gets entangled in a very noir serious of events which can only end in betrayal and death. Throw in some mafiosi and a lot of violence which makes Joe Pesci seem like a choir boy and you have a Hollywood classic. At least, this is what Brian de Palma would think. Refn, however, goes about things differently...

The driver clearly taps into the long ancestry of brooding, silent types, from Clint Eastwood (most notable reference being The Man with No Name and the toothpick) to McQueen in Bullit and last but not least Gary Cooper. He is the Western hero, the lonesome wolf, unbeatable at what he does and with a set of moral principles which are old-fashioned in their allusion to the Southern gentleman. Gosling seems to be attracted to exactly this type of role and, to be fair, it suits him. He communicates with the outside in half smirks and quiet glances. Only that sometimes, his muteness appears to be not so much enigmatic as socially reclusive and slightly dumb. The man does know, however, how to carry a pair of wranglers.

Gosling delivers a solid performance, foremost emphasized by the cinematography which clearly focuses on his physicality, in, for example, introducing a shot of his back when he carries Benicio down the hall and clearly accentuates his broad physical frame. In fact, throughout the film, Refn seems to be reversing the cinematic tradition of sexualising the woman, in this case played beautifully understated by Carey Mulligan, instead the camera lingers on Gosling almost lovingly, finding new angles to show the masculine lines of his jaw or the triangular shape of his body. The scorpion on the back of the silver jacket is not only a reference to the Welles' movie Confidential Report, it also introduces a phallic symbolism to the character which cannot be coincidental.

What makes Drive a different film from what it should be, is its beautiful cinematography and contemplative pace. Newton Thomas Sigel, mostly known for his work The Usual Suspects, knows how to transform each image into a still life. The camera grants space to the compositions, never rushing which allows for the opening of introspective space. Images, like the driver in a mask gazing through the deli-window which is composed of white and red squares, are treated with a notion of aesthetic respect, giving Refn's text a cinematic quality which goes beyond mere story-telling.

Drive's cinematography is not so much original as referential. Refn displays the typical enthusiasm of the European director who is given the toys of American cinematic tradition. As such, it plays on the chiaroscuro visuals of the noir era, with its stretched shadows, its rainy street and, evidently, its blinking neon signs of an LA which is anything but the city of angels, as the glitzy surface only partly veils the underlying tone of corruption and betrayal. At the same time, Refn and Sigel tap into the New Hollywood movement of the seventies, as they take evident pleasure in framing the driver from a low angle in his car, while the raindrops on the windows turn the street lights into a glooming halo. These aesthetics are a clear tribute to Scorcese's Taxi Driver, while the mean streets of LA appear to be influenced as much by Scorcese as by Chandler's fiction.

The musical score, often criticized for its electronic sleaziness and over-bearing presence, becomes reminiscent of a Michael Mann film, as the brazen superficiality of the eighties come to tie in perfectly with the frivolity of a city which by definition proves artificial. The credits in pink come to represent another homage to eighties/nineties texts such as Heat or Miami Vice.

Drive as such comes to stand for the art of superficiality, as it clearly favors aesthetics over plot and paints a portrait of LA as being a series of appearances which prove ever-shifting, as it negates any foundation in truth or reality for that matter. As such the driver with no name remains the perfect protagonist as he proves a presence rather than a character, he is obsessed, but without purpose. He is the drive behind the action, even though never deliberately. Here, again, the noir protagonist comes to mind as the driver he is double-crossed and lured into a series of traps. This is a universe of existential loneliness, where trust is a luxury only granted to the female protagonist.

Even though Refn's Drive might come across as too self-consciously retrospective in its aesthetics,at the same time, it proves truly post-modern in its treatment of the concept of artificiality. Its main asset lies in its visual pleasure rather than in its merit as a textured drama, as the glossy cinematography conveys an intensity which draws no distinction between its treatment of beauty and violence. This is no gritty, realist drama, it is a highly-aesthesized piece which proves enthralling in its appreciation of American cinematic culture, its intense cinematography and its sordid depiction of a city which, here, proves as beautiful as dangerous and unnatural.

'Jane Eyre'

So, after eighteen screen adaptations and nine TV series, we are yet again being treated to a cinematic version of Charlotte Bronte's 'Jane Eyre'. One can understand why a novel like 'Jane Eyre' seems to attract film-makers' attention, considering its dark, brooding romance, its atmospheric settings and its cinematic possibilities in terms of female character development.

Cary Fukunaga's treatment of the Gothic novel remains traditional in its being character- and mood-, rather than plot-driven. Fukunaga fully exploits the novel's setting in the North with its windswept planes, dramatic despondent skies and darkly magical woods. The surroundings, here, are highlighted and take on the role of a further character, serving as a direct projection surface for Jane's inner life. Its foggy woods come to mirror the uncertainty and turmoil she experiences emotionally in Thornfield. So far, nothing new.

Jane enters this world an orphan, lonely and desperate for love. Bewildered and dejected, Jane stands on a crossroads to nowhere, facing an uncertain and lonely future. One cannot help but agree with Mr Rochester's assessment of Jane as an otherworldly creature as Mia Wasikowska embodiment of one of the most famous literary figures stares out to the world from the inside, with a gaze that is as observant as it is inexperienced. Jane comes to stand for purity in this world which more often than not corrupts its inhabitants and lets them descend into their own personal hell. If Jane stands for otherworldliness in this tale of woe, Mr Rochester embodies the world itself with all its temptations and danger.

Jane Eyre is first and foremost a tale about discrepancies: the inside and the outside, the public and the private, the master and the subordinated, free will and emotional dependence, and above all choices made and consequences suffered. Ever since its first adaptation for the stage, these discrepancies have been embodied in Jane and Mr. Rochester, which is why these roles carry an immense responsibility in terms of performance. Jane must be subordinate but proud, willing to give in, but elusive, she is mostly characterised by her honesty and her refusal to 'speak nonsense'.

Wasikowska plays Jane with a persuasive restraint, a self-possessed dignity which supposedly masks the passionate heart underneath that controlled exterior. Here lies the only real representational issue, as Jane seems slightly too restrained, one cannot imagine the pale nakedness of Jane's face to burst out in a passionate appeal to Mr. Rochester. The dramatic quality of the novel goes somehow amiss in this adaptation. The contemplative pace and gloomy cinematography might hint at the underlying, nevertheless forceful desires that inhabit its protagonist, these desire, however, never come to be fully appraised, nor explored by the film.

The character of Mr Rochester is foremost characterised by the compelling sense of physicality Fassbender infuses the role with. There is a real sense of physical constraint with an elemental restlessness to Fassbender's performance which comes to dominate Rochester's actions. Even though seemingly relaxed in his armchair in front of the fireplace while talking to Jane, Rochester seems to fidget without moving, ready to jump up at any minute. Rochester is the eternal restless, always looking for a home and a notion of peace he knows is unattainable to him. This nomadic disquietude perfectly accords with Jane's calm equanimity on screen. As such, Fassbender manages to infuse the Rochester role with an intensity which lets his secret torment shine through in all his actions.

The courting of Jane and Rochester comes to represent a slow dance, or game if you will, in which Jane, suspicious of Rochester's gentleness and motives, constantly aims at keeping her own sense of identity, her own free will. Rochester, however, teases and pursues Jane with a vehemence which can only come from a man who knows the wrongness of his own doings. At the same time, Fassbender introduces a sense of humour to the role which has often been ignored by cinematic adaptations, but which is very much present in the novel.

Even though, both Fassbender and Wasikowska deliver solid, finely tuned and intelligent performances, one cannot help but notice a missing element at the film's core. The film's pace seems to muse on its protagonists' inner states, hinting at them through its contemplative rhythm, while, at the same time, treating the two crucial dramatic events of the plot, the wedding scene and the discovery of Bertha mason in the attic, with a briskness which seems negligent at best. Also, as mentioned, the passion which supposedly drives the main characters to either give up their home or ignore all social conventions and even the law, fails to accurately translate on screen.

Fukunaga's Jane Eyre is certainly a very faithful adaptation to the text. Its treatment of the story is traditional to the point where the film seems afraid to take liberties, as it honours the classic paramount that is the text. The film's cinematography comes to capture the sense of existential loneliness and isolation perfectly and mirrors it in its natural setting, again honouring the tradition of the Gothic novel. At the same time, however, the film feels at little too restraint for its own good and fails to convey this sense of playfulness in the Jane/Rochester conversations and the notion of all-consuming passion dictating the characters' actions. As such, this version of Jane Eyre certainly represents a fine portrayal of the novel, deliberately understated, beautifully shot and solidly performed, in the end, however, it fails to render justice to the novel's emotional core and in this lies its main shortcoming. Still, all in all, an adaptation which will please all the faithful Bronte readers as its main pleasure lies in recognition, members of the audience who have not read the novel, however, might find it frustrating to relate to the characters' motives.

'In a world...'

You have just sat through dancing M&M's, confused car owners desperately looking for insurance and a pseudo self-ironic treatment of Hollywood mentality brought to you by a major mobile phone company, when, lo and behold, the lights are dimming and the green mysterious glowing of the screen authorization comes up. What can I say? It's a fresh feeling, like a newborn just opening its eyes, like the morning dew on rose petals, like the opening of the take-away box on a hangover: everything is possible, you're in sync with the world: the trailers are about to start.

It's one of life's better moments, but, alas, so easily spoiled by the blue shimmering light in the corner of your eye, caused by the pre-adolescent with a Blackberry right next to you, the rustling, and smell for that matter, of the once-a-month movie-goer who is just about to indulge in what looks like something that has already been eaten before, but is actually sold as nachos with cheese sauce, or the giggling of the thirty-something 'girls', one of them just having to relate last night's amorous endeavours with a skiing instructor named Hans!

There seems to be a rumour about a strange people which sees trailers as an extension of the advertisement before the film. A people that cannot understand the almost carnal pleasures of watching those short, self-contained masterpieces, those cinematic appetizers that leave you hankering for more. For too long have these people hidden in our midst and it is about time that someone speaks out: 'In a world, in which one ordinary film reviewer...'

Naturally, the very nature of trailers is a cynic one, the manipulation is perhaps most apparent in the music accompanying the trailers; as often the film itself is not even finished by the time the first teaser trailer comes out, the trailer houses are forced to look elsewhere for the musical score. Producers then have a look at what musical scores proved successful in the past. If, for example, they want the feature to remind the audience of a Tim Burton film, they will choose a slightly changed version of a Danny Elfman score. If they want the trailer to have an epic atmosphere, chances are, the audience will hear some kind of Carmina Burana interpretation. Just pay attention to how often you have heard an altered version of the Requiem for a Dream soundtrack and you will get an idea of the film business' very own brand of recycling.

Also, trailer producers know that, even tough generally one should never give away the ending in a trailer, a certain target audience, one that enjoys rom-coms, for example, might enjoy knowing that the feature advertised will have a happy ending, a fact which will then influence this particular audience to buy a ticket. Trailers are about salesmanship and persuasion techniques, nevertheless, the motive does not necessarily have to spoil the pleasure:

Due to the MPAA regulations, trailers should never be longer than two-and-a-half minutes, which generally does not give the producers a lot of leeway, it does, however, mean that trailers are altogether extremely tightly edited, as every second counts, they tend to be narrative miracles as they have to condense the plot into an exceedingly tight time frame and the they have the possibility of editing out corny lines, cheap jokes or just plain old bad acting. Trailers are the films you are wanting to see, not the films you will see.

In the forties trailers would be merely created to contain information about the upcoming feature. Alfred Hitchcock himself would stand on the film set, not caring about any such principle as disrupting the cinematic illusion and quite happily relate the events of his upcoming thriller. The trailer for The Big Sleep even has Humphrey Bogart walk into a bookshop with Lauren Bacall as a shop-assistant recommending the Raymond Chandler novel the film is based upon. Later, foremost in the seventies, the teaser was born, little snippets of the film, not giving away anything of the plot, but conveying a mood, catching the atmosphere of the film, most famous example being The Shining teaser in which we see but the elevator doors opening and blood pouring out.

The modern trailer tricks you into wanting to see a film, they come to represent a marketed means of nurturing the short attention span of a modern audience. In a hyperbolic treatment of a film's scenario lies the crux of the matter: When we think of film, we mostly think of highly dramatised series of events, the editing in trailers is designed to mirror the audience's heartbeat, the fast pace of an action thriller,for example, therefore will literally get your heart pumping. Granted that these are all manipulations of your viewing habits, but they also represent a form of condensed essentialism which will instil every minor event with a significance most individuals long for in their day-to-day.

This reviewer will, naturally, conduct extensive research of an anthropological nature before starting an article. So, in preparation for this scientifically incredibly valuable subject of audience behaviour in trailer-viewing situations, this reviewer walked down the street with her I-Pod playing first John Williams musical scores and later the Yann Thiersen soundtrack for Amélie Poulin. Walking past the bus stop with Williams' compositions blasting in my headphones, all of a sudden, the old man reaching into his pocket becomes a potential threat, my surroundings seem move in slow motion as the man, with a mad glint in his bloodshot eyes, slowly retrieves....his wallet and gets his bus fare out. Switching the music to Amélie then, the same man suddenly looks wistfully gleeful, a bit like the farmer in Babe, secretly chuckling about the many wonderful absurdities of life. Switch the I-Pod off, and the man is just a man, carrying a bag of pork scratchings and a 2-litre bottle of White Lightning in a blue corner-shop bag.

Modern individuals seem to long for some kind of grandeur in their dealings with the world. It is this grandeur which cinema provides, most condensed in its form of trailers. It comes as no surprise that most trailers start with 'In a world..', not in the world, or in our world. Trailers bring us a two-and-a-half minute condensation of a world in which everything is significantly more relevant and every action has a consequence which will prove life-changing. And let's face it, in a world where absolutely nothing happens when you pop to Tesco's for a half pint of milk, a bit of excitement wouldn't go amiss. If we could but all live : 'In a world...'

'Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy'

Tomas Alfredson's Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy's very beginning makes it clear that it has no intention of following in any kind of spy-film tradition, especially not in any over-glorified James Bond iconography, as the main protagonist does not say a word until about twenty minutes in. This Le Carré adaptation presents an intricate character-study, revolving around five major characters in the Secret Intelligence Service, MI6, nicknamed the Circus. The crux of the film is a mission in Hungary gone horribly wrong resulting in the dismissal of the head of the Agency, aptly named Control and his right-hand man George Smiley. After the death of Control, as a result of a terminal illness, Smiley is called out of his forced retirement to find a Soviet mole at the very top of the Circus. He partners up with the young and ambitious Peter Guillam and Ricki Tarr, a somewhat rougher agent, usually called in to do the dirty work.

What follows is not so much a fast-paced, action-fueled chase for a one-dimensional mole figure as it is the portrayal of a universe of paranoia in which the public and private secrets of the agents involved, threaten to strip them of the last trace of humanity. In this stifling sphere, anxiety takes over, as the agents attempt to come to terms with the fact that in 1970's Britain, the Cold War negates any clear-cut distinctions or moral choices. This is a world of ignominious compromises in which the identity of the mole is overshadowed by the fact that every single agent has a motive for betraying their country. In this bureaucratic microcosm of the Secret Service,inevitably standing for the political climate of the world, only the infallible belief in the concept of duty provides a justification for actions which more often than not stand in direct opposition to a common human principle of ethics. It is in the name of duty that the agents accept personal sacrifices which end up eroding any sense of subjective identity as they become puppets in a governmental scheme, chess figures in a game between two abstract principles that face each other in a war which is as cerebral as it is violent.

This is a stagnant and sterile sphere in which the agents act out of resigned automatism rather than political conviction. The film's grey and beige color scheme, the smokiness of the interiors, the slow pacing, the shallow focus shots, the lingering close-ups of inanimate objects and the wide angle shots of the wide office building all contribute to a terse atmosphere in which a sense of quiet violence committed in the name of a belief system which has become obsolete, pervades every frame.

George Smiley is a man whose yearlong dealings in the Circus seems to have drained him of any sense of personality, or color for that matter. He is the quintessential chess player, predicting every move, an analyst, unemotional, patient with an underlying sense of great personal suffering. Gary Oldman's performance is superbly understated, managing to convey the emotional destitution of a man betrayed by his wife, without ever abandoning his icy self-control. His life is dominated by the notion of absence, most notably by his wife's absence, not so much conjured vocally as hinted at visually in the pile of letters on the mantelpiece, the general atmosphere of stillness in the house, the faceless figure of a woman in a flashback. The absence of his wife in Smiley's life runs parallel with another over-shadowing absence-presence in his life, namely the figure of his opponent Karla, head of the Russian secret service. As such it comes as no surprise that his relationship with Karla is epitomized by the object of a lighter, given to Smiley by his wife and stolen by the Russian.

As we penetrate deeper into this dark and claustrophobic labyrinth that is the Circus machination, the endeavors of the characters take on a desperate, almost obsessive nature. In this atmosphere in which trust becomes the luxury of the naive, the public space suppresses the private at great personal cost and every private passion constitutes a potential advantage for the opposite party. In this stiflingly male confines, the female comes to represent absence, it comes as no surprise that the whole text is pervaded by a sense of homo eroticism, which not so much taps into the realm of the sexual as it comes to equal loyalty, a sentiment which culminates in the last scene.

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy is not so much a plot-based film, as the story line is classic in its almost simplistic treatment of the spy novel. This is a film that captures a mood, the densely atmospheric cinematography ties in with the tradition of The Lives of Others rather than following in the British tradition of James Bond. The languid pace, the terseness of the images and the brilliantly interwoven musical score convey a paranoid impression which is as capturing as it is stifling. The self-ironic treatment of the Charles Trenet song 'La Mer' renders the atmosphere of the Christmas party even more absurd as Santa wears a Lenin mask, marriages break apart, and secret glances disclose a reality in which mistrust and betrayal reign. The Nursery-Rhyme quality of the title reinforces this dark and twisted conveyance of a universe in which the motives for actions are cerebral to unknown, while the same actions have consequences of the most violent nature.

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy is a cinematic masterpiece, in which the performances are superb, the cinematography is densely atmospheric, the production design near perfect and Alfredson proves again that he is a virtuoso in terms of mood and character-development. As such it is rightly claimed to be the best British cinema has to offer this year. A Must-See!!!

'The Walking Dead'

Frank Darabont's The Walking Dead sets a traditional premise, known from films like 28 Days Later, in having its main protagonist wake up from a coma only to find his surroundings irretrievably altered. While he slumbered peacefully in is hospital room, recovering, in this case, from an injury sustained while dealing with a bunch of meth dealers, sheriff Rick Grimes is awaken to find the world almost deserted, littered with corpses that are anything but dead. Confused, Grimes stumbles through the streets of his home-town in Georgia, only to find his house abandoned and his wife and son missing.

Convinced that they're still alive, Grimes makes his way to Atlanta to find them, after spending the night with two survivors, Morgan and his son, who linger in a kind of emotional purgatory, not being able to leave the house as their wife and mother still haunts the premises as a zombie.

In a parallel storyline, the spectator is introduced to what has the feel of a hippie commune, but ultimately is a makeshift society composed of survivors of the zombie pandemic. The group is led by Shane, whom the spectator recognises as Grime's partner from one of the first scenes. Through what feels like a little bit of a too convenient coincidence, Grimes manages to make contact with and eventually joins the group. In an again convenient turn of events, he finds his wife and son living with the group.

So, with the characters being introduced and settled in a societal structure which allows the writers a somewhat wider scope of protagonist action and reaction, let the carnage begin... Or so I thought, but here the series takes its first surprising turn, as the pace is slower and more contemplative than one is used to from other zombie treatments. Don't get me wrong, the iconography is traditional in its gory imagery and slouching, groaning zombies, however, the treatment of the latter is, ironically, somewhat more humane, as the spectator is reminded of their once being human individuals. The zombies are never referred to as such, the series names them walkers. One of the most surprising moments occurs in the first episode in which Grimes bends down to the crawling torso of what once used to be a woman and says: 'I'm sorry this happened to you.'

Grimes is very much portrayed as the lone wolf, the copper with a heart of gold, not afraid to go out and do right. He is almost a stereotype in himself, the strong silent type, you know the one. It's Lincoln's performance, however, which manages to infuse this rather one-dimensional character with something more, if not complexity, at least some sort of integral depth. Lincolns' performance perfectly captures the expression of a man who goes from waking up to a world in which the concept of norm has lost all meaning, to a character who will do everything to keep his group alive all the while having no illusion of the bleak future awaiting them.

The title 'The Walking Dead' not only refers to the zombies, albeit, also to the characters as they could get infected any minute, while the life they lead is so desolate, that one gets the impression, it's almost not worth living. This is a bleak, godforsaken environment and the series' refusal to infuse the general mood with anything even resembling hope, makes for a program which is very much fine-tuned to the human drama lying at its core. While traditional zombie films mostly cover the outbreak of the epidemic, The Walking Dead expands on this theme in exploring the possibilities of life after survival, more often than not finding life to be a lonely, sordid affair in a barren world stripped of any comfort or incentive beyond food and shelter.

This sense of hopelessness and almost lack of future translates in the series' bleak cinematography with its barren, desert-like, sun-drenched colours, endless stretches of abandoned land and roads, carcasses of deserted cars and homes and long takes of characters which seem lost and unnatural in their surroundings which have been taken over by the walkers. It is the humans which seem out of place as the world is transformed into one lifeless vacuum of silence. The series manages to translate this noiselessness, the muteness of the world into images, as any noise made by humans falls away, which lends the tone of the series a tense eeriness. One is almost tempted to scream out only to fill the silence, but, as one soon learns, noise attracts zombies, thus silence is not only natural in this new world, it is necessary, which is why the series allows for moments of stillness, again unusual in this genre. As such the concept of silence proves interesting as it stands in stark contrast to modern life with its constant sensual stimuli and overpowering tendency to loose itself in a noisy day-to-day, thus loosing all direct rapport to the essential given of existing in the world.

The walkers, naturally, become metaphoric for the modern angst of pandemics, terrorist attacks, the crumbling of economic structures and the loss of individuality in a mass of sheer conformity. The group itself becomes illustrative of a societal microcosm in which new rules and governing principles are quickly established, however, contested by some members of the group, thus hinting at the humanly constructed nature of all authoritative body most of us are quite happy to oblige. Shane and Grimes take leadership of the group, in competition to each other, however, quite happy to make decisions for the whole of the group. Here lies one of the main issues of the series, as the women depicted in it are mostly used as emotional catalysts or mere instruments to further the plot. Lori, Grimes' wife, mostly justifies her screen presence in becoming a prize, lost by Shane, gained by Grimes. The other female characters are purely reactionary beings, never allowed to make an independent decision, they have to be protected and seem to spend most of their time washing clothes in a pond. In one scene, in which the women seem to engage in what has become their favourite pass-time, namely laundry (note how strange the washing of clothes becomes if the characters seem to be wearing the same clothes over and over again) they even comment on gender stereotypes and laughingly conclude that nothing much has changed in this new world order.

When Grimes takes most of the men on a rescue mission to Atlanta, the camp is attacked and numerous members of the group die as a result. Later, Shane condemns Grimes for having left the group with no men to defend them. Given that the series is set in Georgia, with two protagonists that are sheriffs, a certain amount of machismo attitude can and indeed should be expected, this however, leaves the female characters pale and under-developed in contrast to their male counterparts, which is a shame as the series could have profited from a few stronger characters.

In the end, what the series benefits most from, is its beautiful, barren, desolate cinematography in which the strangeness of seeing an urban environment devoid of the human element makes for eerie, while stunning viewing. The sense of hopelessness and post-apocalyptic nihilism that pervades the series and the allowance of a depiction of the walkers as former human beings rather than mere lumps of animated flesh, sets the series aside from the rather strict canonical rules of the zombie genre. The Walking Dead is not without fail, as the female characters leave a lot to wish for and the testosterone-fuelled power-struggle of the males becomes almost ridiculous, however, its focus on societal character interactions, musings on life after survival and assertion of moments of speculative beauty make The Walking Dead an addition to the world of 'cinematic' TV which is out to be taken seriously. Rest assured though, dear fans of Evil Dead, there are a lot of heads to be bashed in with whatever instrument is at hand and the zombies still have the munchies....Some things never change, they do get better, however, with a bigger budget!

'You Will Meet A Tall Dark Stranger'

You Will Meet A Tall Dark Stranger, again, has Woody Allen portray an array of characters who are deeply unhappy and frustrated by their choices in life. Allen's film is structured around two couple whose marriage has, or is bound to fail. Helen and Alfie are an upper middle-class couple. Just about to get a divorce, Alfie, struggling to come to terms with the fact of getting older, leaves his wife Helen, who, after a failed suicide attempt, sips her way through London, burdening her daughter and trying any kind of self-help available to modern woman. She eventually finds console in her visits to the charlatan fortune-teller Crystal. Alfie finds his form of recreation in more mundane territory, namely in his affair and eventual marriage to Essex actress/call-girl Charmaine. In the middle of it all, we find Sally, Helen's and Alfie's daughter, married to the failed novelist Roy. Sally starts her new job and delicately flirts with her boss Greg, a dashingly handsome Spaniard gallery owner. Roy, for his part, becomes obsessed with lady in red he spies on from his window.

All is not well in the Allen universe, as Sally and Roy eventually split up only for Roy to end up with the girl next door, Dia, after having stolen the identity of his writer-friend in a coma in order to pass the latter's brilliant first novel off as his own. Sally wants to open her own gallery with a loan her mother has promised her and as such find fulfilment in her career. Sadly, though, her mother Helen has become entangled in the occult and developed such a dependency on Crystal that she refuses the loan, as the stars are aligned in an unfortunate manner. The last scene leaves us with Helen and her fiancée who owns an occult bookshop, happily planning their life together.

The first scene has the narrator borrow Macbeth's statement that life is a tale, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing, setting the deeply nihilistic frame for the rest of the film. The spectator realises from the beginning that the characters will not have a great chance at happiness as they struggle through their day-to-day, alienated to the point of resentment.

Gemma Jones shines in her role as Helen, a sad and lonely ex-wife who is faced with spending the rest of her life on her own. She manages to play Helen with a naivete which becomes destructive. In her, for lack of a better word, idiocy, Helen is self-indulgent to the point of being obnoxious as the word of her fortune-teller becomes gospel.

In this universe, personal success is not a matter of intelligence and subjective worthiness is no guarantee for happiness. Alfie, meanwhile, indulges in a few months of sexual bliss while in the end being left with the horrible realisation that he has made a terrible mistake all the while not knowing whether the son he so desperately wanted, is his or not.

One can see what Allen intended to create with his film, a think piece/character study set in middle-class bohemian London about alienation and the absurdity of social interactions all of which infused with a sense of groundlessness and nothingness. Unfortunately, Allen manages to create one of those rare films in which the characters remain lifeless, even though the performance of the actors, with exception of Josh Brolin, is superb. Brolin's performance appears staged and wooden, he lingers awkwardly in the frame and whoever gave him that haircut should be shot. Granted, Brolin's character Roy is supposed to be socially awkward, conscious of his failure as a writer, sadly, there is a difference between an awkward performance and performing someone awkward. The characters reactions' often seem strange, even within the Allen parameters. How would a young woman ever find it flattering if an older man from across the street confessed to spying on her while she undressed?

The only character I wholeheartedly enjoyed, despite of her almost cartoon-like performance, was the Charmaine character. Yes, she is one-dimensional, yes, she is a stereotype, however, she is at the same time rather sweet in a child-like manner. There is nothing contrived about her nature, she is a gold-digger and sleeps around, in the last scene, however, she appears honestly dejected in becoming conscious of letting Alfie down.

Anthony Hopkins, for one, is at his best as he decides to play Alfie with a gravity which gives this comparatively ridiculous character a profoundly sad and heart-breaking quality, as we realise that his desire for Charmaine was not only spurred by sexual desire, but furthermore by the yearning to have another son after the death of his first one. Hopkins delivers one of his most compelling performances in the last scene in which his face contorts in a exhausted, empty and painful expression as he demands a DNA test.

The biggest, or most noticeable let-down, however, proves Allen's dialogue, which seems utterly unfamiliar with the British idiom. Roy asks Dia whether she loves her fiancée and she replies that yes, she loves him, but sometimes she 'wavers'. I don't think anyone in Britain, since the times of Henri James, has ever used this word again. After half an hour and what felt like 150 'isn't it's and 'darling's I was ready to scream and slap Allen across the face with a piece of battered fish. Even Gemma Jones sounds contrived, as Allen attempts to make the British actress sound even more British.

Allen's You Will Meet A Tall Dark Stranger depicts life as a series of self-delusions and disappointments which, in the end, amount to nothing. Unfortunately, this is also the most fitting description for the film itself.

'Sherlock'

Sherlock Holmes is back! After Guy Ritchie's last venture into the cinematic interpretation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Victorian adventure novels, Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat and have picked up Britain's most famous detective and given the stories a modern twist. The BBC-produced series is set in 21^st century London and stars Benedict Cumberbatch as Holmes and Martin Freeman as Dr. Watson. The first season is structured into 3 independent 90-minutes episodes, starting with Doyle's 'A study in Scarlett', here under the title 'A Study in Pink', directed by Gangster N. 1's Paul Gaughin, followed by 'The Blind Banker' and 'The Great Game'.

The series' main asset lies in its modern re-interpretation as it leads us through urban London's narrow back alleys, its sleek glass-fronted finance district to the borders of the Thames. It quickly becomes obvious that we have left the gas-light streets of Victorian London behind, even though the lighting of the series clearly alludes to that period with its golden and brown brick colour-scheme, suggesting that even in this technically advanced modern environment, the motives of crime have never changed. Crime is human, revenge, greed and passion are never out of date, only the means of its execution and resolution have altered, as Holmes and Watson are texting, blogging and using GPS systems all throughout their adventures. These modern devices, however, do not impair the qualities of the plot as they never undermine Holmes' deductive investigation methods.

This is no highly stylised English version of CSI, it clearly highlights the fact that crime is human, committed and resolved by individuals. As such, human motivation lies at the heart of the series' theme. The characters carry the series; they are, without exception, well thought through, coherent and with personal quirks which make Sherlock come alive. The script is peopled with original characters, from a landlady who serves biscuits and consoles Holmes that 'a nice murder'll cheer [him] up', to Watson's girlfriend who works nine to five and doesn't mind knocking out Chinese gangsters on a first date. As such, the characters display that typically British attitude of taking things as they come, whether it'd be a pint or a murder. They keep calm and carry on. At the same time, the characters all exist in relation to Holmes, this as such comes as no surprise as the minor characters are often reliant on the protagonists, here, however, the supporting roles are defined by their attitude towards and their opinion of Holmes.

Detective Inspector Lestrate is mainly characterised by his frustration in dealing with Holmes while not being able to hide his admiration for the latter. As such his screen presence is justified by his disposition towards and his assessments of Holmes' actions and train of thoughts. The same goes, to a certain extent, for Watson. Even tough he is very much an equal partner, rather than the ridiculous sidekick from the past, he is nonetheless Holmes' audience, staring admiringly at the great master while cleaning up after him, sometimes literally. Watson makes up for all of Holmes' shortcomings, most of which are of a social nature.

At the same time the series introduces a worthy enemy in reintroducing Holmes' arch-enemy Moriarty from the novels. He first appears in a minor role pretending to be someone else (notice how I'm trying not to spoil anything, here?), he is a hyperbolic character whose exaggerated body language misleadingly introduces him as a somewhat farcical buffoon. Things couldn't be further from the truth as this buffoon becomes the most frightening character of the series as his eerily comical behaviour turns psychotic. The spectator, just like Holmes underestimates Moriarty. At the same time, Moriarty serves as classic nemesis to the Holmes character as the two represent two sides of the proverbial coin. Their thought process is identical, one anticipating, manipulating and comprehending the thoughts of the other. Both characters engage in a game which lies outside the boundaries of common morality. These are characters functioning outside the norm, intellectually and in terms of motives.

This confrontation with his nemesis also emphasises the darker side of Holmes. The character play-off heralds a blurring of the line between sociopath and psychopath and the spectator is uncomfortably reminded of the female detective's assessment of Holmes in the first episode, stating that one day Holmes will be the one to commit the murder rather than solve it. 'Will it help me solve the case quicker if I care [about the victim]?' he asks an astonished Watson, alluding to his purely cerebral evaluation of the world, which discards any interactive relation of an emotional nature. Holmes' intelligence lies in his ability to objectively assess the world, to see its workings from the outside, hence from a completely detached point of view. His only relation which could remotely be called interpersonal is his alliance with John Watson.

Watson is an ex-soldier, just returned from the war in Afghanistan. He suffers from a psychosomatic limb and PTSD. The spectator is first introduced to him in a therapy session in which his therapist urges him to communicate with his surrounding. Watson does what any modern individual would, he starts blogging, a habit that backfires in episode 3 as the bomber uses the medium to keep updates on Holmes', a comment on modern need for exposure without realizing the risks involved. The series introduces us to Watson as a broken man, returned from war to a life which has no one waiting for him and battling with a severe depression. Ex-soldiers, struggling with PTSD are often known to fall into depression once once their life is no longer in immediate danger and Watson is no exception, a man desperate for distraction-cue Holmes!

This modern version of Holmes needs a flatmate, but seeing that he's a sociopath, the search proves difficult. This is the premise of the series, a broken soldier looking for the distraction of danger and a socially detached, brilliant consulting detective (yes, the only one in the world!) with what bears all the symptoms of Asperger's syndrome. As such Benedict Cumberbatche's Holmes is a much darker character than Robert Downey Jr's character. This is a man who does not choose to be socially detached, as does Ritchie's version in a gimmicky sort of way, this character is unable to connect to other human beings. He does not see victims, he sees clues, motivations and criminal intent. In Holmes' deductive mind, people function as part of an equation, they are all deductible until said equation is broken down to a point which cannot be but the truth. Watson serves as the emotional barometer in this equation. He takes interest in the people involved in this criminal equation.

Watson's admiration for Holmes borders on hero worship, an idealisation Holmes' consequently refuses. He points out to Watson, keep in mind that this is a man who returned from war, but still believes in Queen and Country, that he will not be turned into an abstract object of worship, a fact that greatly disappoints Watson, which does, however, not break his devotion to him. Moffat and Gatiss' Holmes is ruthless, cold, but what redeems the character is his complete and utter honesty as he, for example, tells the morgue attendant that her new boyfriend is gay. He is then chided by Watson for not being kind, but with his complete disdain for what he would call irrationality, but what other people might call emotions, Holmes points out that she might be better off knowing now than later.

Even though there might have been variations on Holmes' character over the years, one characteristic is associated with Holmes like no other and this is the trait of arrogance. If at all possible, the Gatiss-Moffat duo reinforces this distinctive Holmesian attribute. The characters around Holmes are clever, they are, evidently not as adept as Holmes, in fact, the secondary characters represent the spectator. The questions they ask are the spectator's question; everyone is looking to Holmes for answers. Here lies the crux of the series: the plot lines and, to a certain extent, the cinematography not only mirror, they coincide with Holmes' train of thoughts.

The plot evolves around the assumptions Holmes makes; the camera lingers on his face as he lies on the sofa, thinking, only to jump to the next scene or shot once Holmes has come to a conclusion. The rhythm of the series, the pace of events is, as such, completely dependent on the main protagonist which gives the series a somewhat erratic pace, nevertheless suiting its content as the spectator follows Holmes on his journey through the criminal underworld of London, while he indignantly explains his introspection into the cases to his colleagues and most importantly to the spectator.

Holmes also dominates the tone of the series as it is funny without being ridiculous, fast-paced without being hectic, clever without being overwhelming, arrogant, but strangely enough, never aloof. The imagery does not spare the spectator representations of bodies, a depiction that, however, never descends to a sensationalist level of Exhibitionism. The rendering of the victims remains clinical, detached, never trying to aggregate cheap thrills with gory details. Rather than an ordinary crime series with its plot twisting and turning, introducing elements of surprise which 'happen' to the protagonist, Sherlock takes its spectator on a journey through Holmes' mind.

Cumberbatch plays Holmes with an outlandishness which reminded me of Richard E. Grants 'Withnail' with his gangly movements and a sense of British eccentricity taken to extreme. Like Grant, Cumberbatch portrays Holmes with a social disdain which borders on the recluse. Cumberbatch struts through the frame in an overly confident and aloof manner while his very physique sometimes displays reptilian attributes with unnaturally bright eyes, emphasised by the cinematography's lighting. Freeman counteracts Cumberbatch's physical expression of superiority with a wonderfully understated, occasionally slightly awkward, lingering in the frame. Freeman holds his own next to Cumberbatch in introducing a quiet presence on screen which is never undermined or overpowered by the extreme nature of his screen partner.

As such the wonderful characters and the performances make Sherlock a diverse and original crime drama which is not afraid to tackle Britain's most famous detective from a different angle, thus giving new life to a much-loved classic. Sherlock might not be everyone's cup of tea, but then Ritchie's latest instalment of the Conan Doyle novels is about to make another appearance on our screens and we can once again observe a Holmes and Watson with whitened teeth and fashionably dishevelled hair. This spectator, for once, cannot wait for the second series to come out in September.

'Cave of Forgotten Dreams'

Fascinating is an adjective overused in any form of criticism, it seems, however, to have been adopted into the discourse of film criticism with even more vehemence and enthusiasm than any other field.

'Astonishing' says the Times, 'fascinating' says the Guardian, 'must-see film of the year' says the daily mail are all too familiar log-lines on film posters all around the tube in London. Fascination: The state of being intensely interested or attracted. One cannot talk about the new Werner Herzog documentary without evoking this sense of fascination or this sense of being intensively attracted to its images.

Herzog takes his audience on a journey back in time, 32000 years back in time to be more precise, to the Chauvet cave in the south of France and its pre-historic gallery of paintings which bear witness to a time so completely estranged from ours that at times the film feels surreal and staged.

As soon as we leave the daylight behind, the mysticism of the cave starts to draw us in as Herzog's voice-over gently directs our thoughts back to early man in his/her (?) vision of the world. As such the pictures of animals are drawn with extreme care, some of them even have the signature of a hand print from a man with a crooked finger, a singled out individual speaking to us from the dawn of time. As Herzog furthermore points out, the fact that some of the animals are drawn with a double set of legs points to an almost pre-historic form of cinema as they would have seemed moving in the flickering lights of the torches, which is why most of these images would have been drawn in the darkness of the cave rather than the entrance filled with sunlight.

These and other moments in the film leave the audience in wonder and sheer amazement at a forgotten life which up until now, at least in my mind has only been linked to the first use of rudimentary tools and an animalistic fight for survival. Herzog manages to show the many facets of a society which clearly had an indication for the concept of culture, in that it linked the element of Art into something higher, abstract, even religious. The fascination I felt in seeing those images, however, somewhat diverged from Herzog's fascination with them. Ever the Romantic, Herzog interprets these images with the romantic concept of dreams and the images of the mind which serve as imprints of Nature, with a capital N. Thus Herzog presents us with a world-view in which mind imprints, or dreams merge with whatever reality surrounded early man, constituting a whole which as such manages to place man in sync with Nature and his surroundings through imagination. It sometimes seems as Herzog forcefully imposes his own romantic desires in this interpretation of the life of early man.

The fascination I felt in observing the dexterity and vitality of the images is perhaps of a baser nature. It is exactly the factor of life which remains so mysterious and ordinary at the same time. It is the fact that early man wasn't so much pre-historic as a-historic, as some of the images are painted within 5000 years of each other while still completely tying in with each other. This is what makes this documentary so compelling, the thought that man was at one point outside of history. This idea seems almost indecent to us modern beings whose doctrine of historic progress borders on the religious. Herzog, cleverly, weaves in images of the experts that accompany him. He leaves space for those shots in that the men he films stare at the camera, do so for a good 30 seconds, immobile and without any facial expressions. They are equipped with helmets and torches and should seem out of sync with their surrounding. Here lies the most surprising observation of the film, while the helmets and safety equipment clearly seem out of place, the human faces don't. They seem to belong in this mysterious realm of non-time. Beware, audience, this film will make you feel incredibly small, an unimaginable concept in our time of extreme individualism.

There is something strangely comforting in the idea that time does not necessarily move forward in a straight line as we imagine nowadays, but rather here, time seems like an infinite bubble, for lack of a better word. History does not exist. It soon becomes clear that History is humanly constructed, we impose it on time, as such, we appropriate it. Although this idea is not new to Herzog's films, see Heart of Glass, never has it been this clear and unimposing, rather an observation than an abstract message. The film itself, as such does not move forward as it loops back on itself, shots keep being repeated, even though Herzog loosely follows the order of the paintings in the caves.

In a typical Herzog manner, the Cave of forgotten dreams is much longer than your average documentary or feature film, but there is something strangely hypnotic about its rhythm. Instead of becoming impatient, one gets draw in by the timeless quality of the images and paintings, the calm and stillness of the cave, the eeriness of the silence only interrupted by the occasional sound of a drop of water falling to the ground. By the end of the film, one cannot help but wonder what it would be like to live outside the realm of history, in the peaceful space of non-time in which an individual 5000 years removed from your existence still understands your thoughts just by the mere fact of him/her also being human.

At the same time we realise that the difference is minimal in that 32000 years ago, Art was foremost used as a means of expression of the surrounding world whose mysterious quality turns into a thing of beauty. One cannot help but applaud Herzog for giving us back a small moment of the essential sense of what it means to be a human.