'Killing Them Softly'

Killing Them Softly opens in quintessential crime thriller/mobster fashion with a robbery committed by two less than bright petty criminals. Deadbeats Frankie and Russell rob a card game, organized by mobster Markie. As Markie is known to have robbed his own game years ago, they figure that they're on the safe side and no-one will come looking for them, as everyone will blame Markie. Here's the general principle of crime and capitalism though: someone always has to pay and before they know it, the two guys and their shady boss aptly named 'Squirrel' have a contract out on them. Enter Cogan, your friendly neighbourhood killer. Cogan only has one problem: He can't kill anyone he's met, so seeing that he knows Squirrel, he gives the job to Mickey, his old pal. Mickey's all washed up though and is only interested in the booze and hookers the town has to offer. Needless to say, the top dogs are unsatisfied with the run of things. One fuck-up follows another as the people who should make decisions don't and the people who shouldn't do.

The film is set in 2008 at the time of the Bush-Obama handover. As such, the characters listen to the Obama campaign on the radio or Bush defending his political choices on TV in the background. Whether mobsters really tune in to current events during a card game remains questionable, but at least the technique allows Andrew Dominik to hammer his point home. In the end, the only difference between crime and politics is in the name, as both operate according to the same economic principles or as Cogan would have it: America is a business. Set at the time when the American government asked the taxpayer to show solidarity and 'bail' the American banks out, it is hard not to see parallels to the Markie plot, as someone always takes the fall. Reality here does not exist, only the perception of it is important. And if the little man has to take the fall, so be it, even if 'Everybody loves Markie' as Cogan cynically states at the end. There might be a certain naïve simplicity to the points Dominik makes, but at the same time, it illustrates the cynicism of a society which knows perfectly well where it all goes wrong and renders itself guilty by compliance.

There's a three-level structure to the character built-up: there's the top level, the decision makers whose corporate thinking paralyses them and leads to unnecessary and expensive measures as they continuously lose their head. These guys remain anonymous, they are never named. Then there's middle management, mostly represented by Cogan, Driver, the lawyer figure (get it? As he drives the action forward) and the familiar cinematic figure of the alcoholic who's on the path to professional destruction in Mickey. Last there's the work force, the plebs so to speak, aptly represented by Frankie and Russell. So, during recession, the working class is fucked, the middle management is about to get fucked and the top management remains invisible and is looking to place the blame. There's a certain comfort in knowing that even hitmen have to take a paycut.

Corporate thinking has taken over crime and consumerism is the religion of the economically viable. As such it comes as no surprise that one of the murders is shot in a beautiful slo-mo mostly seen in perfume or car advertisements. The style here makes a direct comment on the essentially capitalist nature of this act, which has nothing to do with motive and all with appearance.

The film script is based on George V. Higgins' novel Cogan's Trade, which explains its heavy reliance on dialogue and a good thing this is too, as the strength of the film lies in the witty, fast, noir-ish quality of characters jabbing. Quite often, and hilariously so, the conversations between the criminals are in no way different from the ones had by office drones at the water cooler, including a lot, and I mean, a lot of bitching and moaning about management and bosses, over-blown stories of sexual achievements and piss takes at colleagues. This is a character-driven piece which lives through the quality of its actors. Pitt, who's already worked with Dominik on The Assassination of Jesse James, once again proves his versatility as an actor, a fact sometimes overshadowed by his celebrity status in the public opinion. Pitt renders Cogan utterly likeable and his actions understandable and we're talking about a psychotic sociopath here, but look: He takes care of is friends and can't kill anyone he knows. Pitt plays Cogan with an authority and twisted sense of fair-play one would wish for in a boss. He delivers Cogan's last speech of the film with an anger and cynicism that render the overall bleakness of this world, and indeed, our own world, even more explicit. Yes, we can? Actually, erm, you'll find that we can't.

One of the highlights of the film, of any film with him in it, and, yes, I am biased, is Richard Jenkins. Jenkins is just one of those completely underrated actors that most people kinda know, but confusedly turn to their partner to ask: What was he in again? Well, let me tell you this: As soon as you read his name on a poster, go and see the film! Jenkins has an understated style of acting which can be threatening, subdued, condescending, kind, dumb, pitiful, pathetic, empowering, all conveyed with the minutest twitch in facial muscles. Here then, he plays a middleman between Cogan and the top guys. His rhetoric wouldn't be out of place in a boardroom meeting, which renders the actions discussed even more disconcerting. As friendly and average as Cogan and Driver appear in their dealings, the last scene reveals them as the ruthless and cynic bastards that they are as a direct result of our living in times of extreme individualism. I mean, what did we expect?

Apart from these two outstanding performances, James Gandolfini makes a cringe-worthy (the character, not the performance) appearance as the washed-up Mickey. It sometimes seems as if Gandolfini acts with his eye-lids solely and here they're almost dropping to the floor which gives him the look of a beaten puppy that can snap at the same time as you try to pet it.

Then there's Scoot MacNairy and Ben Mendelson as the downbeats Frankie and Russell. Both of them ooze shadiness and Mendelson's sweaty, unwashed appearance just makes you vividly imagine what he must smell like and it really does make your stomach churn. MacNairy's character is a long way off from the clever US government employee in Argo as he physically turns into this nervous, weasely guy who knows he is losing control. One of the best scenes of the film definitely has to be the 'conversation' Frankie and a very stoned Russell have, in which Russell keeps drifting off and Frankie gets more and more panicky, realising that Russell just signed their death sentence. Those two young actors certainly have the most visceral and physical performances of the film, in which their body language tells you just as much about their disenfranchised status as their actions.

Even Ray Liotta is surprisingly good as Markie 'the scapegoat' Trattman, even though I have to say I am not a big fan of his. However, he does hold up well and especially his performance in the beating scene stands out as one of the best in his career.

This world is indeed the bleakness of a senseless noir universe in which motive plays no role and sense is a futile concept. Once the events are initiated by a stupid idea, there's no end to the spiralling into a mindless violence. This world is stifling and arbitrary, there is little or no hope and in this, the atmosphere of the film can almost be called coen-esque. No wonder then that the finishing monologue by Pitt bears an uncanny resemblance to the opening monologue of the Visser character in Blood Simple: In America, respectively Texas for Visser, you're on your own. This is the underside of the American pursuit of freedom and personal gain, not so much the liberty of the pioneer spirit as the pettiness of the criminal mind and the corruption of political acting.

Dominik is known for his neat, tight mise-en-scene and this film is no different. The colour scheme is one of subdued greys and blues, with an iconography of rainy streets, urban warehouses, empty roads and a general atmosphere of hopelessness. I'm not selling it to you? The thing about Dominik's style is that it catches you by its serene roughness, yes, I know, that's an oxymoron, but I really can't explain it any better. There's beauty in these essentialist and ordered visuals. It's clean and unemotional which might or might not be your cup of tea, as a matter of fact, the whole film will divide the audience, that much can be seen coming. Following our current obsession with cultural similes, think HBO, more specifically The Sopranos, rather than Scorcese, with a little bit of Winding Refn thrown in visually for good measure. As it is, for me, this is one of the most surprising features of this season, cynical to the point of down right apocalyptic, beautifully subdued in which the visuals enhance the overall bleakness, cleverly written, well adapted and incredibly funny when it comes to the dialogue, even if the play with radio interviews and TV comments borders on the blunt sometimes. This is film noir in spirit, without the melodrama and theatrics and makes for the perfect anti-Christmas viewing.

'End of Watch'

David Ayer is by far no stranger to cop fiction, not with the likes of Training Day and Street Kings under his belt. In End of Watch he goes about things differently though. This is no portrayal of police corruption reaching to the highest level in the force, but a depiction of two street cops and the friendship that binds them together. Officer Taylor and Officer Zavala are partners in South Central , one of the roughest neighbourhood in LA and that is saying something. They patrol these ganglands on a day-to-day basis and their experiences range from domestic disputes to finding bodies, guns and drugs. More often than not they get shot at before the day is over.

When Taylor has detective aspirations and decides to investigate beyond his duty call, things start to get out of hand as the two manage to get on the radar of the South Central's Mexican drug cartel, run by a gentleman with the very telling name 'Big Evil'.

Presumably to add to the authenticity, Ayer lets his characters shoot half the movie. Taylor, under the pretext of filming for a college application project, films most of the proceedings on their watch. The gang members film their drive-bys and some of the footage is captured by the cameras on the police officer's uniforms. As a result of this found footage aesthetics, the visuals remain shaky, unstable, often disconcerting and fragmented, mimicking the general confusion of these sometimes extreme situations the two cops find themselves in. Ayer throws the spectator in the thick of things, peeping around hallway corners, never knowing what might expect one on the other side. It's a video game gimmick, but it does work as it adds to the nerve-racking intensity of this job in which one might very well get killed. At the same time, the imagery works by contrast, the wide sun-drenched LA streets contend with the crammed, claustrophobic interiors in a set-up in which houses and homes become crime scenes. The gritty feel of the hand-held camera might not necessarily be the most original directorial choice, the visual feel of the film does however help underline the emotional background that comes with the police territory.

The first half of the film thus consists of these images captured by the characters themselves and it is only in the second act of the film that a further perspective becomes clearly noticeable and thus somewhat distracting. This third camera, neither handled by either of the cops nor by the criminals introduces questions of authorship as it is never clear who is wielding the device. It's the intrusion of an outsider to the diegetic universe which results in a spectatorial disruption and opens this closed world of extreme realism to one of fictional drama, a transgression which does not sit well. As the visuals remind of a reality TV cop shows so popular in the US of the 90's, this third camera bears reference to the presence of an outsider to the LAPD, a TV person recording events for entertainment thus putting in question the very authenticity of the latter.

These are, however, only minor hiccups which do not hinder the greater purpose of the film. If you're looking for an action-fuelled cop thriller, you won't get your money's worth with this one. End of Watch is a character study, a Bildungsroman so to speak, more interested in how the average cop thinks, feels and often justifies in order to handle this job and the constant pressure and risk-taking. These cops legitimise each other and affirm each others choices and action. Only in living this existence as police officer rather than seeing it as a mere job, can these characters make sense of the horrors they see and deeds they commit in the name of the law. It thus comes as no wonder that the characters of the wives seem to be nothing more than supporting roles in the bromance of the police partnership.

Taylor and Zavala are your quintessential 'boys will be boys' figures who spent their time between calls taking the piss out of each other and their respective ethnic backgrounds. This environment oozes Machismo no matter what the sex of either cop or gangster. The verbal 'Fuck' count goes through the roof, indeed, Fuck is used as verb, noun, adjective, substitute...it might be authentic, but most of the characters just sound incredibly stupid and the whole respect through violence goes back to a primitivism one would have hoped society as such had passed beyond. I heard the pubescent boys behind me whisper : Fuck Yeah! when Zavala beats Mr Tre up, who sees the beating as a mark of respect and thus Zavala with the soul of an original gangster. It's not the authenticity of this world I question, it's the depiction of this attitude as something to be aspired to. Sometimes the film sits within the uncomfortable likeness to a recruitment video for the LAPD. In fact it hits the tone of adolescence perfectly with its black and white virtues of honesty, honour, male friendship, the making sense of an incomprehensible world and the unquestionable integrity of the rules of the street.

Jake Gyllenhaal and Michael Pena both deliver straight forward and honest performances, but where they excel is in the depiction of their friendship. The banter and conversations they hold feel incredibly natural to the point of seeming improvised. Without question these characters represent the very core of the film and neither their performance nor the character development can be faulted. All the while they present the red herring of the plot. The structure of the film tends to be categorized into episodic sequences rather than representing a homogeneous whole again tying in with the cop show concept. Ayer takes his time, there seem to be no clearly defined goals and aims to this narrative, rather the film is an observation and description, accompanying the characters for a certain amount of time before releasing them back to their lives. This, of course, never means that there are no action scenes, violence or car chases, in short any typical iconography we've come to associate with cop movies, but they are not of the first priority.

The banal day-to-day conversations in the car, the private glimpses into the lives of these cops is what makes the film well worth seeing and raises it from a mental wank for the pre-adolescent to a strong realist drama which despite of a few hiccups manages to make good on its promises.

'Argo'

Ben Affleck's Argo takes us back to 1979, more precisely to the Iranian revolution, the overthrow of the shah and the consequential taking hostage of the body of staff of the American embassy in Tehran. Out of these, six manage to escape and seek refuge in the house of the Canadian ambassador and his wife.

Meanwhile, in the US, authorities are helpless as to how to, not only free the hostages, but furthermore get those six out of the country with Iranian revolutionaries scanning every corner of the streets for Americans. A battle against time ensues and CIA agent Tony Mendez is enlisted as the top go-to-extrication-guy.

After some ludicrous suggestions as to how to get them out, ranging from posing as teachers when all the schools have been closed by the Ayatollah, to getting them bikes to cycle a mere 300 miles, Merndez comes up with 'the best of the bad ideas'. Based on the simple question: Who's crazy and self-indulgent enough to travel to a country in the throes of a revolution? Only one answer presents itself: Hollywood. A plan is born. Mendez sets up a a fake movie, complete with producer and film production office, in order for the six refugees to pose as a Canadian film crew (presumably because Canadians are more likeable, even in the Middle East, note, however, how the production itself is still from Hollywood). Mendez convinces the Iranian authorities that they're looking to shoot a ludicrous Science Fiction film called 'Argo' in the Iranian desert and mountains.

Based on true events as related by Tony Mendez himself in a magazine feature, Argo presents a solid, unflashy portrayal of the exfil mission, even if the real Mendez still found Affleck's take on the events to be slightly over-dramatic, but that's Hollywood for you. The feel of the film is one of 70's crime thriller, however, not in a aesthetically self-indulgent manner, but authentically so, as if one was watching a film from the 70's rather than watching a post-modern homage to the 70's, if you get my drift. The iconography is one of dirty beige and greys, smoky without being glamorous. Think Tesco on a Monday night in 1978, tinned baked beans and yellow moustaches rather than Sean Connery having a fondue in Aspen, on New Year's Day, with a blonde, playing the flute, in a red jump suit...atmospherically speaking, of course.

Anyway, Affleck plays Mendez himself, he seems to be attracted to the 'decent guy' variety, world-weary and melancholic, but with an ever-so-firm belief in what is right. There's a whiff of the self-righteous about him, but the performance is beautifully understated and humanly grounded. Affleck manages to infuse the character with some real depth, a character which otherwise might have been in great danger of succumbing to yet another vessel for patriotic exclamations and unequivocal motivations. There's a few of those what I like to call 'Oh, Come On!' moments, as when Mendez decides to give his real name and history to two of the six embassy employees in order to convince them to escape with the rest of them. Really? What agent would risk it? And couldn't he have made up a fake 'real' name and history? Apart from these minor motivational hiccups, every character is well drawn, especially for the limited space every figure is granted. I was especially impressed by Scoot McNairy whose performance is of one much older than his actual age.

The atmosphere is tense and decidedly level-headed, at times even claustrophobic. Enter the counter balance: The Hollywood connection. It is an absolute delight to watch John Goodman and Alan Arkin play off each other, a bit like watching a game of table tennis. Here's to comic relief. Affleck even allows a few stabs at himself in, for example, having Arkin declare that 'You could teach a rhesus monkey to direct a film in a day'. At the same time, even if they're cynic about the Hollywood industry or poke fun at the business, it is done with an affectionate regard of one who belongs to the inner circle. As if to say: Look: In Hollywood we're big enough to laugh at ourselves, Haw, haw, haw. Both Goodman and Arkin play the Hollywood types with obvious glee, only to become serious in times of national crisis as if to show that, in the end, they're Americans first and Hollywoodians second. Nevertheless these Hollywood sequences are well integrated within the overall structure and save the film from being overly matter-of-fact and pronounced.

The Iranian revolutionaries coincide with the Hollywood stereotype of the dirty, loud, fanatic, uncultured Middle Eastern. The only redeeming Iranian character is the housemaid of the Canadian ambassador. Now, it is always tricky to portray an anti-Western revolutionary from a Western perspective, but one has to ask: Was the Iranian people in its entirety exactly on the same page as the revolutionaries taking the hostages in the embassy, or might there be the slight possibility that not the entire Iran is of a fundamentalist frame of mind? I am not attacking Affleck as he does a decent job of an immensely difficult portrayal, nevertheless I would have welcomed an introduction of some representatives of the Iranian people within the overall plot structure as well as the terror this regime instilled within the natives.

With the Bond franchise well and alive and the latest instalment in the cinemas at the same time as Argo, it proves almost impossible not to draw parallels, or rather state differences. I have to say, Bond does feel awfully gimmicky after Mendez' self-effacing realism. One does tend to forget that the highest virtue of an agent is invisibility, not flashy cockiness. As such, Mendez is not the guy to get the girls, no, he's average Joe on the verge of a divorce, although, as a concession to film aesthetics, with slightly better abs.

The overall feel of the film is one of taking its audience seriously, which is a relief. Affleck manages to tell a rather unbelievable series of events in a calm and surprisingly uncomplicated manner, without ever descending into banality. It does not bare thinking about what someone like Emmerich would have made of this script. All the while, one of the most distinguishing features of the film, and indeed, Affleck as a film-maker, is the playful handling of the suspense element. Both in 'The Town' and his first feature 'Gone Baby Gone', Affleck is most skilful in having his audience sit on the edge of their seat. Most of the nail-biting tension is induced by crafty editing and the solid sobriety of the mise-en-scène, which makes the imagery ever more powerful. The extrication scene at the end will have your stomach in a knot, that I promise you and the only slight reproach I have is that Affleck never left it there. In all his previous films as well as this one, one major hindrance to truly great work crystallises: namely the inability to end his film at the right time and on the right tone. As such, the end drags on for too long as if Affleck is reluctant to let his characters go and also to 'explain' what the film wanted to 'say' in the first place. This is a real shame, as the spectator was treated with obvious respect to his/her own capabilities throughout the text, only to be slightly patronised at the end. Also the tone descends from one of intelligent commentary to one of emotional patriotism. Still, even the last ten minutes cannot spoil the experience of an affecting and astute thriller, skilfully handled and firmly setting Affleck on the plan of politically motivated and intelligent film-making. (Yes, yes, mention of Clooney dutifully included right here, who, by the way, functioned as executive producer on this film. Now go away and don't bore me!)

Attention to detail, dark humour, grown-up plot and character treatment, understated realism, simple thus believable plot structure, 70's thriller iconography, and nail-biting suspense, make Argo one of the unexpected highlights of the autumn releases.

'Savages'

You ever just really wanna go to the cinema, no matter what's on? More often than not, afterwards, you know you just wasted 106 minutes of your life that could have been invested in, oh, I dunno, your tax return or a root canal at he dentist.

Cue the new Oliver Stone film 'Savages'. Set mostly in California, the film follows two drug dealers, but they're good ones, you know, they're really handsome and do charity stuff in, like Africa, and last but not least, they're American. When they refuse a deal with a Mexican drug cartel, who want in on their business, coz their stuff is really crap, shit hits the fan, plot-wise and, I'm afraid cinematographically as well. Disguised as gardeners (!) those Mexicans are a murdering bunch, who, more often than not wear dirty clothes. Benicio Del Toro is particularly bad, dressed in T-Shirts that carry the greasy remnants of the last lunch-burrito. Racial stereotypes, anyone? But, no, assures us Stone, this is all in the name of depicting the war on drugs and the savagery that is inherent in the business.

As if aware of this stereotyping shenanigans, Stone desperately wants to introduce some redeeming features. Salma Hayek, as the reina of the cartel, really is a big softie once her mother-instinct kicks in. Yes, she murders people for a living, but look, she really doesn't want her daughter involved. AAWWWW, it's all good!

Then there's the love interest, or blonde plot-device as I like to call her, in the form of Blake Lively, yes, yes, the one from Gossip Girl, who really is a bit of a greedy bastard as she not only sleeps with one of the guys, but both of them. But it's all really lovey-dovey, but you know how people are: They don't understand these bohemian youngsters. Don't get me wrong, faced with the numerous shots in which the two hunks have their top off, I don't blame her one bit, if I didn't have the over-bearing voice-over shoved in my face constantly: 'Chon is cold like metal, Ben is warm like wood'. COME ON!!! and it's all like really deep, right?

Anyway, Barbie is kidnapped by the evil Mexicans and kept as a continued guarantee for Chon and Ben's cooperation. Good thing Chon is an Iraq veteran who knows shit about building bombs and the like, whereas Ben is the smart one, who, unfortunately has to give up his decency in favour of lighting people on fire. Well, you really can't have it all! Otherwise we'd all be going into the drug business willy-nilly and, then, where would we be? Someone needs to keep making Cappuccinos.

So, waiting to be rescued, Barbie is kinda tortured by Benicio Del Toro, who must have really thought at the film première: Fuck! How did I go from 'Traffic' to this? She then forms a weird relationship with Elena, the queen, and explains to her how her rich mother never really had any time for her. Elena, being the ruthless drug-bitch that she is, really sympathises. 'I could be your daughter' Ophelia brokenly whispers into the CCTV camera in her prison cell and, Bob's your uncle, she's out of prison and in the guest-house in the Tijuana mansion.

Then there's John Travolta, a corrupt cop who's playing all the angles. So, he's switching sides quicker than a naïve country girl in a gay bar in London, and it all works out. You don't mess with the Travolta. Pay attention! Coz this is the really controversial bit Stone subtly shoves in your face with a sledge hammer! In the American war on drugs, corruption often keeps the upper hand. Of course, all the Mexicans end up dead or in prison, while the Californian excuse for a ménage-à-trois heads off to a beautiful beach in Indonesia. What? I'm spoiling the ending for you? You never got the point of this review then, which is: Do not, under any circumstances, even under the threat of Benicio Del Toro coming to your house, disguised as a gardener and force-feeding you Tacos, go and see this film!

Don't even get me started on Stone's mise-en-scène! If I see another colour-tinted or black-and-white shot of clouds racing across the sky, I will personally swim to L.A. and beat Stone up. The whole film is interspersed with shots of wild animals in the sun-drenched desert, yes, exactly, like in Natural Born Killers, but its all to do with the savagery in human nature, you see. It's kind of a big deal in this film, but in the name of the whole human race, I'd like to apologise for the symbolic abuse that all those coyotes had to suffer at the hands of Oliver Stone!

Stone was never a brilliant film-maker, let's face it. But, here, his obsession with the media really goes through the roof. As such, the gangsters Skype, text and probably update their Facebook status in the lines off: just taking this guy's eye out, then off to have a ham sandwich!

At least, the title's appropriate: This film really does bring out your savage side! As such, as soon as a release date comes out for a new Oliver Stone film, call your dentist! Coz you just found the date for your next appointment.

'Holy Motors'

Leos Carax's first feature in thirteen years has been long awaited by critics and world cinema lovers all over the world and what a cinematic ride it was. From the moment the lights went out, this film managed to grip the audience in a way the likes of which I have, so far, not experienced. If you are only seeing one film this year, make it this one.

A plot is a plot is a plot is, em, not a plot. Denis Levant plays no less than eleven different roles all combined within the overall character of Monsieur Oscar, a professional, well, let's just say, a professional full stop. He is driven through an barely recognisable version of Paris, an urban Metropolis, by his suave driver Céline. Is she real? Is she a robot? An alien? An air plane? The audience is told that he has nine 'appointments' that day. Starting off as a beggar woman, Monsieur Oscar then moves on to portray a series of characters which the so-called upstanding members of civilised society would, more often than not, like to ignore, from a Quasimodo-like imp-man, to a weirdly sexualised human machine, to a murderer, to a passive aggressive father-figure. In between appointments, he drives around in a post-modern version of the river Styx ferry, with Céline an uncanny and ambiguous Charon, while the changing masks become emblematic of the eternally fragmented notion of human identity. There appears to be an all-pervading emptiness running through the film, it is the emptiness at the core of our times in which the only reality available to modern being is a mediated one. As such, it comes as no surprise that Oscar is an actor, everything is a performance, even death, the other predominant image of the film. With each performance, life seems to be draining from Oscar and brings him always a step closer to Death, which is not so much a terrifying possibility as a welcomed relief. The only thing that keeps him going is the beauty of the gesture. The notion of beauty is the only thing that cannot be negated in the film, and, indeed in post-moderntiy, in which a mediated copy of experience might be devoid of a traditional core of reality, but is infused with beauty nonetheless.

Who is this cruel spectator, this inhuman consumer, spurring Oscar on to perform ever more deviant tasks for, what we can assume, pure entertainment value? It's not a far stretch to imagine it being us, the cinema audience from the mirror shot in the beginning in which Carax himself is observed by us observing a cinema audience. Could there be a more revealing image of consuming a mediated reality?

Carax does allow for moments of dark humour, such as the sequence in which Monsieur Merde jumps over tombstones bearing the inscription: 'Visitez le site' or 'visit the website'. Nowadays media promotion does not halt before death.

It is only when the spectator gives up the desire for coherent narrative that the film unfolds its true power. This is, indeed, the beauty of the gesture, as Carax takes pure delight in the human body and the very physicality of it. There's beauty or at least fascination in repulsion. Carax plays with the spectatorial senses, quite often, through the means of visual shock and thus blurs the boundaries of pre-conceived notions of beauty and ugliness as the latter can be found in the former and vice versa. He makes us question any 'natural' reactions we might have in stripping away the mantle of socially constructed vision. He lays bare a raw concept of humanity which is as characterised by a rough animalism as it is by almost ethereal beauty.

All the while, Carax plays with textures which range from the sleek smoothness of the limousine and the machine in general to the rough in, for example, the dirty fingernails of Monsieur Merde. Carax is of the opinion that everything belongs in film, just as everything just is, in life and in this, Holy Motors becomes near all-encompassing.

Casting the queen of pop, Kylie Minogue, as the long lost love proves a stroke of genius. In a beautiful musical pastiche, Minogue resembles Jean Seberg in an almost uncanny way, naturally, emphasised by the fact that Carax names her Jean. There is something sublime in this sequence. The post-modern self-reflexivity of this sequence only enhances the beauty of the gesture and the melancholia culminates in a death which is almost poetic in its performance.

I don't even know how to begin talking about Denis Lavant. This is what Daniel Day Lewis wishes he could do! Lavant doesn't portray characters, he becomes them. The control and precision Lavant has over his physicality can only be found in dancers in their meticulous striving for perfection. Innocence, tenderness, brutality, maliciousness, love, Lavant goes through the whole spectrum of human emotional capability and manages never to succumb to banality. He uses his body like a contortionist. Expression through gestures can quite often seem contrived and unnatural. Lavant, however, infuses the roles with life. If this isn't the performance of the decade, I don't know what is.

Ironically, in light of the theme of mediated reality and post-modern pastiche conveyed by the film, critics, in their eternal desire to compare and link, likened Holy Motors to Mulholland Drive. Whenever a film opens which celebrates the narrative nonsensical, poor Lynch must again function as a critical tool. Of course, Holy Motors strives through its filmic references, from its gleeful incorporation of the musical genre, to its keeping-alive of the nouvelle Vague tradition. It even incorporates elements of music video aesthetics. These visual references are woven together to, literally, paint a picture of a mind living in the cultural confusion of an eternally simulacrum-experience. So, let's leave poor Lynch alone, he's probably still busy finding the key to that damned box anyway.

The best thing about Holy Motors is its very existence, meaning the fact that cinema on this artistic scale is still being made. This cinematic experience can be likened to a visit in a turn-of-the-century circus; an eclectic, sensual and bodily journey before the notion of ugliness became the one social taboo. Holy Motors is a feast for the eyes, an assault on the senses. It's strange, it's weird, it's wonderful...it's cinema.

'Summer Nights'

Long gone are the times when Catholics monopolized the notion of guilt. Don't get me wrong, having been raised as a Catholic myself, I still get invaded by oh, the shame, the shame in having a second piece of chocolate mud pie. However, in late modern times, there seems to be a universalizing tendency, a true democracy of guilt. As such, don't ever, ever admit to:

-reading the Sun on a Sunday,

-eating an egg that isn't free-range

-being anything other than a social smoker

-ignoring a queue

-Miso soup tasting like dishwater

-not ever having seen Three Colours Blue

The contemporary moving through a societal nexus presents numerous pitfalls and being a film critic the general rules seem to be as follows:

-Obscure is always better: someone made a film with a home camera from the back of their tractor in Uzbekistan? Hit that shit! Here's the formula: Modern alienation meets heart-warming portrayal of unusual friendship!

-lament the selling out of brilliant European director in moving to Hollywood, formula: glimpses of former edge in close-cut editing, softened by the compromised Hollywood ending.

-Hollywood goes political: the one niche where it's alright to like something coming out of Tinsel-town, formula: praise the modern aware beings; Philip Seymour Hoffman, Robert Redford and until the 'empty-chair'-incident, Clint Eastwood. Here, be careful about George Clooney, it's advisable to stay vague, in the lines of, and I quote: 'Not quite there yet! Promising Beginning! Raising awareness while slightly flawed structure' La-Di-Da...

Here's the thing though: It's summer! The one time where it's alright to have a glass, alright, alright, half a bottle, of wine every night (hey, if the Italians can do it, we can). It's not alcoholism, it's Fellini in a bottle. While most people enjoy the balmy summer nights, barbecues, swimming pools, intermezzos with the neighbour, I hit the cinema.

A well-loved classic under the fairy-lit skies of the open-air cinema? - not interested. A slow, beautiful portrayal of a middle-aged woman going through a divorce under the Tuscan sun? - get a grip. Another French pseudo-intellectual bromance? Fuck it.

No, give me the empty, air-conditioned, intellectual tumble weed of the Cinemaxx any time! I'll say it loudly and proudly: in the summer, I'm a Blockbuster-bitch!

The Avengers? Like a buy-one-get-four-for-free voucher! The consumer in me can't resist.

The Dark Knight rises? Man, let him rise! And take me along on the ride!

The Expendables? Switch off those politically correct tendencies in favour of Chuck Norris jokes! ( Ever notice how Word Spell Checker underlines the name Fellini as faulty, while perfectly knowing Chuck Norris?)

The Bourne Legacy? Jeremy Renner – What a revelation!

Don't get me wrong; I have seen more Antonioni films than I can remember, I have developed a near-obsession with Jarmusch and cannot remember what my life was like before seeing '400 coups'. - In spring, autumn and winter, that is! But, the reason we all get into film in the first instance? : Star Wars, pure and simple.

In summer, I want simple moral fables. I want action-fuelled car chases. I want to gorge myself on chocolates while watching handsome people do awesome things. It's shameful, really, but someone needs to take a stand for all those out there who sneak into the cinema to see Arnie blow things up, only to avoid looking into the mirror by the time they get home, tucking the experience away in that mental box named guilty pleasure. Here's the thing though: you wouldn't eat a grilled, fair-trade Halloumi wrap with organic rocket at Alton Towers, now, would you? The summer blockbuster has the same effect: it's mental chips and cheese, you wouldn't admit to it being your favourite, but, oh, it makes you deliciously happy!

By the way: if you see me in autumn, I have never written this article!

'Les Fameux Gars'

Chicken in the classroom, a stolen hot-air balloon, a makeshift Stephen Hawkins, wieners in a gun belt and some VIP's, very important português: you better hold on tight, because here comes the cinematic ride of the year. 

Adolf El Assal's Les Fameux Gars follows the adventure of three friends who embark on a school-trip to Portugal. When their friend Guy Désirée is barred from the school-trip on account of never having handed in one single paper, Stephen and his friends attempt to stage a sort of protest, which includes Stephen going on Léa Linster's cooking-show to make crèpes, in order to get permission for Guy Désirée to come along. Naturally, all fails and their friend must stay at home. Guy Désirée, on the other hand, has an enormous crush on their young teacher Miss Meyer (played by the fabulous Caty Baccega) and hires a shady private investigator to keep an eye on her, all the while planning on driving to Portugal himself.

In Portugal, and it must be said that this country seems to resemble Luxembourg in an almost uncanny way, things go from weird to absolutely absurd, as Stephen seems to carry 26 million Euros in his luggage, a teacher is shot with a rubber arrow, a building explodes in the most random fashion, a cat-and-mouse game with the police ensues and the friends steal a hot-air balloon only to plunge into a dream-like voyage which contains a less than subtle nod towards Méliès.

The plot contains more holes than a Swiss cheese. Clearly devised in a pub after several pints, the sequential build-up is of the most random nature and you can just imagine the writers having fun and shouting: 'Yeah, and you know what? Then they should steal a balloon and go on a Portuguese game-show...in a chicken suit!' Here's the thing about Les Famuex Gars, though: It shouldn't work, yet, it inexplicably does! 

What firmly holds this tapestry of absurdities together is the joyful hilarity of its genuinely funny moments. The tongue-in-cheek attitude towards its plot, its characters, the notion of national identity and last, but not least the self-reflexive awareness of film-making itself, infuse the film with a rare kind of raw energy, the likes of which Luxembourg cinema has not yet seen. The voice-over has the characters comment on their own actions on screen and take the piss out of each other. The film never pretends to be anything else than what it is, an accumulation of hilarious moments which, even if they make no sense whatsoever in an overall plot-related definition, nevertheless illustrate some truthful notions of what it means to live and be 'educated' in Luxembourg, Delvaux beware!

Some of the funniest instances present the characters imitating the pigeon French of the Luxembourger, the Portuguese and the African, all bound together in this language which none can claim as their own, thus symbolising the very life and cultural differences in the multiculturalism of Luxembourg life which a lot of its natives might choose to ignore. Even if the film does not preach tolerance and in fact stays away from all political statement, one might hope that the sheer absurd hilarity of it all might bring people from different cultural backgrounds closer, if only bound together in the hilarity of the frères Speck and '2 boule Mocca'.

Apart from presenting a crazed comedy of the nonsensical, Les Gars Fameux simultaneously works on a different level. Through its ironic and reflexive nods towards cinematic conventions, the film is out to show the middle-finger to the general stiffness of the filmic canon in Luxembourg and Europe in general. Through the introduction of cameos, such as Andy Bausch trying to steal El Assal's comedians and the aforementioned cinematic nod to Méliès, it almost seems as if this young film-maker allows us to see that he knows what he is doing, as if to show that he is aware of cinematic conventions and deliberately chooses to ignore them. This ironic filmic self-reflexivity culminates in the last scene, it might not quite be Truffaud's glance of the main protagonist towards the camera and by definition the audience, but it certainly brings awareness to the artificiality of story-telling and the comments of the characters about the film itself bring refusal to integrate the audience in a diegetic film-universe in which the illusion of the story must be maintained by all means. 

After the screening, one can imagine more than one spectator being a bit at a loss as to what to make of the film. Les Fameux Gars should and, indeed, must not be judged by conventional critical tools as, in the end, it is a hilariously absurd tour de force in which humour stands above all meaning and in this regard the film succeeds without a doubt!

'Carnage'

Polanski's latest release Carnage returns to themes, one cannot help but imagine being predominant in Polanski's mind, namely the themes of social confinement and an underlying brutality to a self-congratulatory notion of civility self-imposed by a modern society which proves itself to be more Hobbesian in nature than it would care to admit.

What starts as a somewhat stiff, but nevertheless polite settlement of a dispute of a children's fight, soon turns into a veritable battle of all against all. From the beginning the artificiality of civilization as a discourse is exposed over the petty quibble of the word 'armed' and the negative connotations it might involve. Things turn from bad to worse as the self-proclaimed liberal writer Penelope and her salesman husband Michael face the somewhat ritzier well-to-doers Nancy and Allen. Deliciously slow and with obvious glee, Polanski strips away layer after layer of his characters' personalities, a bit like evil onions, exposing a raw brutality inherent in this bourgeois way of life. As such, in this post-modern societal drama, culture is displayed in the form of coffee-table books, originality takes the form of adding pears to an apple cobbler and the ethically charged Gretchen-question reverts into a hamster-question as the unfortunate rodent is left to its own devices in the neighborhood of Brooklyn.

Hypocrisy rules the day and a breaking point is reached when Nancy has a very corporeal reaction to the Martha Stewart-like culinary efforts of Penelope. Throw in a bit of booze and some very phallic cigars and the bourgeois krakken is released. Between the four characters alliances are formed only to be broken and the viewer has the pleasure of seeing things degenerate from an 'we're all decent people' to a vehement 'Fuck you all'.

Carnage does at times feel fairly staged, being based on the play 'the god of carnage' by Yasmin Reza, however, the real time action and confinement to four walls only help to emphasize the claustrophobic set-up. The camera taking the point of view of a detached observer, almost like a perverse scientist dissecting the behavior of a species within its natural habitat. As such the camera becomes equivalent to the emotional tensions either isolating the characters in harsh close-ups smoothly binding them within the same frame. Even though masterfully done, one cannot help but feel that the smooth controlled cinematography stands in direct contrast to the depiction of carnage as a theme.

Being a character-study par excellence, Carnage's real asset lies in its performances as Foster plays Penelope with an up-tightness in which the strained veins on her forehead deserve at least as much acclaim as her acting skills, Reilly turns Michael from a loving parent into a raging Republican, Winslet plays Nancy with a beautiful shallowness which admittedly is literally turned inside out and Waltz delivers the best lines of the dialogue with a dry wit and honesty which are a delight to watch.

Ironically, Carnage has been acclaimed by exactly the middle-class bourgeois audience it exposes as fake. An audience which discusses the film in a civilized manner over a nice glass of Merlot and a bit of home-made hummus with fair-trade flat bread, all the while not realizing that it watched slightly distorted caricatures of itself for the last eighty minutes. All in all, while being hugely entertaining, the film ultimately presents half-developed truths while never bringing any theme to its conclusion. As such it presents nothing original, thus being a true product of the very thing it attacks, namely post-modern emptiness pervading all modern discourse. True Carnage this is not, an entertaining bicker for a pre-dinner audience more like it.