Broken up into several extended dialogue sequences, Inglourious Basterds ostensibly tells the story of the Basterds, a group of elite and probably psychopathic American soldiers sent to kill as many Nazis as cruelly as possible. But outside of the title and the trailer, the main threads of the film really focus on two characters: Standartenführer Hans Landa (Christoph Walz), a high-ranking Nazi nicknamed ‘The Jew Hunter’, and Shosanna Dreyfus (Mélanie Laurent), a young French-Jewish girl on the run.

It’s these familiar strains that Tarantino twists for his own ends that sets the tone of the film: it’s a caricature of the Second World War that we’re instantly familiar with via a thousand films. It’d be easy to suggest then that Inglourious Basterds is The Dirty Dozen, Where Eagles Dare, or The Guns of Navarone via the Spaghetti Western genre and Tarantino, but to list off references and influences is not to capture the true feeling of the film. It has always been the strength of Tarantino that he makes movies for a two-tiered audience: one that will get at least some of the myriad of filmic references and in-jokes (the biggest one here being that Tarantino literally kills his audience with film), and one that can simply enjoy his movie without needing a PhD in Cinema. This is especially true of Inglourious Basterds. It even stands above the Tarantino oeuvre in a way: certainly, Basterds has many films as touchstones, including Tarantino’s own, but it simply feels unique.

It comes down to this: Basterds is fun like nothing I’ve seen before.

Despite its running time – well over two hours – Basterds is so tightly structured that single scenes of dialogue receive as much love and care as entire films. Jokes – used as tension-breakers as much as for straight humour – that might have been throwaway gags in lesser films are here desperately hilarious. This delicate balance is encapsulated wonderfully in the opening scene, where a Hitchcockian bomb-under-the-table sequence is beautifully counter-played by an absurdly vaudevillian prop above it.

The use of violence is also defining: Basterds is incredibly, even gory, to the point where you might feel that by the end of the film you’ve finally lost any sensitivity to blood and death you may have held on to through a lifetime’s worth of war films and TV cop shows. Nazis are scalped, beaten with baseball bats, and innumerable soldiers are machine-gunned. But the amazing thing is that the gore will make you laugh while you cringe: it’s not a repulsive, test-the-audience use of gore like in Saw or Hostel. It’s inclusive gore.

The ensemble cast of actors are all routinely good, and many are even excellent in roles written and directed such as any actor would be scalped for. In all of Tarantino’s films – hit or miss – he has displayed an exclusive ability to turn characters into CHARACTERS, all in capitals. They’re halfway between parody and iconography, and Basterds is no exception. Waltz elevates the film as the polyglot ‘Jew Hunter’ (speaking perfect English, German, French and Italian), surely the most refined and well-written cinematic nemesis since Hannibal Lector. The archetype of the charming villain has had many incarnations, but never has the character been so surprisingly likable and hated all at once as in the performance of Waltz.

Brad Pitt again shows he is at his best in quirky roles with his performance as Aldo Raine, the leader of the Basterds, with an accent so thick you could make pavements out of it. Laurent as Shosanna is another discovery of the film: she’s empathetic, beautiful and gives a startlingly good performance. Surely she has a long career ahead of her.

Even Mike Myers, who hasn’t been in a hit film for half a decade, turns in an enchantingly bizarre appearance as a British military mastermind. His appearance, almost reaching Austin Powers but crucially restrained, is carried by the film’s sense of sheer fun and enthusiasm for its genres. It doesn’t matter that some scenes are a little long, or that some elements feel a little too much like products of our director’s ego than anything relevant. It doesn’t matter because Inglourious Basterds is an example of cinema doing what it can do better than any other medium.

The thing about Tarantino-land is that when it all comes together, it comes together like nothing else. “That’s Quentin physics for you,” said Waltz at Cannes this year. “It’ll be hard to return regular solid-body physics.”

5/5

Surprisingly, Twilight fits into a long line of ‘will he kill me or kiss me’ Gothic romances. But does that make it a good film?

It’s the same old story; girl meets boy, girl lusts after boy, boy turns out to be flesh-eating vampire. Twilight is unabashedly romantic, but the vampire spice only adds a twist to familiar desperate teenage longings and oh-so-serious lustings. What’s more surprising is that Twilight fits squarely into a long line of Gothic romances dating all the way back to Jane Eyre, but this time, the ‘will he kiss me or kill me’ menace is made all too literal. Our Mr. Rochester this time is a vampire of the most serious kind, and it is the threat of his deadly vampiric kiss that drives the film.

Twilight is clearly less about plot – half an introduction to the universe of Stephanie Meyer’s novels and half a perfunctory excuse to reach an exciting climax – than it is about the painfully brooding sexual tension between its leads. Bella (our self-hating Ms. Eyre of the piece, played by Kristen Stewart) and Edward (Rochester, played by Robert Pattinson) are star-crossed lovers of sorts; Bella is human, Edward is vampire. The central problem is, of course, that vampires generally feast on human flesh: it’s a little like falling in love with Daisy the Cow before she journeys to the abattoir.

The film uses this as its central conflict. Both characters desperately desire and abhor the vampiric kiss in equal doses. The threat almost replaces sexual desire in the film, or at least is so tied up in it that it is impossible to disentangle the two. Bella wants Edward to bite her because it embodies her desire for him and the barriers separating the couple. Edward on the other hand wants to bite her because that’s just what boy vampires do to get their kicks. But he won’t: his vampire clan has sworn off human flesh, and he therefore swears to protect her and enforces abstinence on himself.

If this all sounds decidedly metaphoric and sexual, it’s because it is. Twilight is remarkably coy about sex and barely pays lip service (pun intended) to Bella and Edward’s physical relationship. And it’s probably what has made the film and book series so successful: the restrained and withheld love between the two means that desire is never consummated – vampiric or otherwise. This is magnified by Bella’s devotion (scarily pathological at the end, but I guess that’s young love) to Edward, her desperate, unyielding clinginess which is much more the stuff of Mills & Boon than even teen romance. Bella is adoring of Edward. She says he’s beautiful, which is more than he says of her – if memory serves, he tells her on more than one occasion to get the hell away from him. But this is adolescent romance, and the boy is uncontrollably in love with the girl, and the girl is in love with the boy precisely because he is uncontrollably in love with her.

Being teen love, it’s all very serious, straight-faced and desperate, and that’s a pity. The world of Twilight is a cold and mirthless place, which enhances the feeling of separation and the need to hold on to Edward when he finally offers himself up to Bella, but it makes for a lesser movie. The desperate, cold tone means that the love story slips on more than one occasion into hysteria and melodrama, despite what could be an interesting tension at the centre of the film.

The direction from Catherine Hardwicke also unfortunately contributes to hysterics, with camerawork and editing often exchanging a Gothic love-story tone for that of a bad pop video clip. There just doesn’t seem to have been a voice of moderation in the editing room, the one that would have questioned if it was really necessary to combine a twirling camera with a white blur to imbue a feeling of ‘romance’. It doesn’t work for MTV, and it doesn’t work on film.

The leads are cast well, with Stewart in particular giving Bella a glum, unattractive self-centeredness unusual for a mainstream Hollywood flick. Her acting does not shine, but she’s believable enough in a role that would lose impact if a starlet had been chosen. Pattinson, now certified international heartthrob, certainly has some acting ability, but is limited by the material and the director’s obvious desire to see him look strained and maudlin in every scene. Pattinson showed in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire that he can be quite likable and charismatic when allowed, so hopefully future installments in this series will give more scope.

Twilight isn’t a film that knows very much about adolescents. It knows about their lust, and it knows about how many of them lust desperately – hysterically – after love alone. But that’s all it knows. It isn’t interested in Edward being much more than a romantic ideal, and Bella is only disappointingly pathetic in her adoration of this ideal. There is none of the bite (again, pun somewhat intended) of Edward’s Gothic forebears, none of the menace embodied in his character that gave films like Jane Eyre and Rebecca such spark. When it comes down to it, Edward is a bland cypher for the film’s target audience. And it’ll work, for a time. Long enough to sustain a franchise? Probably. Long enough to stand strong after ten years? No. Twilight may have had potential to twist the Gothic genre in a contemporary way, but ultimately, we’re left without either of the consummations we’re really after.

2/5

Eric Bibb charmed and delighted at the Palais on a soulful and spiritual evening.

As part of our Elsewhere series, this review was previously posted on FasterLouder.com.au, and can be found here.

If you are the newly elected President of the World’s most powerful country and you want a musician who embodies all the hope and spirit of your campaign to play on the night of your election, who do you choose? Well, for Barack Obama, that musician was Eric Bibb. For someone who has mixed in company of artists like Dylan, Ray Charles and B.B. King, Bibb possesses a relatively low international profile. Yet, those who do know of him, truly love him. In the gorgeous surrounds of St.Kilda’s Palais Theatre, a captivated audience was treated to a beautiful and spiritual evening’s entertainment.

Having heard that impressive local three-piece Luluchad been supporting Bibb during his Get On Board Tour, it was initially somewhat disappointing to find out that they would actually be across town at the Toff opening for Augie March. That was until fellow Melburnian Liz Stringertook to the enormous Palais stage and, with only an acoustic guitar in hand, delivered a really wonderful set. Speaking in between songs with a thick Australian accent but singing in a soulful voice filled with emotion, Stringer told of her parent’s childhood love with Waifs-esque storytelling on The Summer They Slept Under The Pines. In a venue so large with, even at this stage, a fairly sizeable audience in attendance, Stringer revealed herself to be quite an outstanding vocalist. The slow burn of Ain’t No Healer was especially well received and there were more than a few who made for the merchandise table during the interval.

Wearing his trademark Panama hat, Eric Bibb was warmly applauded as he took to the stage. “Thank you and welcome to my living room” he said, beaming at his seated audience. “I know a lot of you have been affected by fire recently… this goes out to you” he said softly, leading into the positive rebuilding message of Shingle By Shingle. His following take on the debauched historical figure Stagger Lee certainly had a different feel to that of Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds but still highlighted his quick, uncomplicated guitar work. Blues classic Goin’ Down Slow was next with Bibb’s smoky voice, though softer, holding similarities to that of Muddy Waters on his version of the same song.

Two brilliant musicians in their own right where soon welcomed to the stage; percussionist Larry Crockett and legendary double-bassist Danny Thompson (if you’re not familiar with him, do check out his CV- it’s quite incredible). Neither looked for cues from Bibb as they played, instead just appearing to feel and know the right moment to play each note in true blues and jazz style. “This is a tribute to the people who have inspired me over the years,” said Bibb before the low thud of Thompson’s bass and a light fanning of a snare from Crockett carried Still Livin’ On. Bibb payed further homage to one of his friends and idols, the great B.B. King on Tell Riley; enhanced by a slow accompanying clap from the audience that echoed throughout the Palias.

“This song’s called Connectedand that’s really what I’m feeling tonight. It’s a real thrill to play in a venue like this but mostly, it’s a thrill to play before so many of you wonderful people. ” These are the sorts of lines that, from many performers, sound insincere. Yet there is something about Bibb and his infectious smile that only serves to warm and endear him to his audience. After pushing through Kokomo (no relation to the Beach Boys song) at a great pace, he delivered what is undoubtedly one of the most beautiful pieces of music this reviewer has ever heard. Though filled with Christian imagery, I Heard The Angels Singing, a Reverend Gary Daviscover, still hold’s so much for those (like myself) who are not religious. It’s an inspiring, uplifting song that, when passionately and powerfully sung by Bibb, left sections of the audience wiping away tears.

The real simplicity of Diamond Days and Get On Boardbrought a more jovial mood back to the Palais before Bibb engaged the crowd in a soulful sing-a-long on Needed Time. One of the night’s more poignant moments occurred as Bibb spoke of recently deceased friend and folk and blues icon Odetta. Because of this tour, he had been unable to return to New York to perform at her memorial. In her memory though, Bibb recently penned River Of Song, an exquisite ode to the life of Odetta which brought a rousing ovation from the moved audience.

Then came a moment that wholeheartedly surprised and delighted the entire Palais. To this point of the evening, it had just been Bibb, Thompson and Crockett performing before an enormous curtain. “I’d like you to meet some friends of mine” said Bibb, and then the curtain began to lift. “Ladies and Gentleman, the Melbourne Mass Gospel Choir”. Standing behind the trio was now a 50-person strong choir, all wearing black and echoing the lyrics to Got To Do Better. Swaying side to side, the choir provided assistance again on Don’t Ever Let Nobody Drag Your Spirit Down, Bibb barking the lyrics of his sermon. An A-Capella version of Meeting At The Buildingfollowed and then, as the curtain fell on the waving choir, Bibb, Thompson and Crockett also departed to a standing ovation, with all in the Palais demanding more.

Bibb returned, smiling broadly before composing himself to play For You, a truly beautiful love song. In My Father’s Housewould be the last song for the evening, Bibb bouncing on the spot with Crockett and Thompson, as always, providing accomplished and enthusiastic backing. “I thank you. It’s been beautiful.”

Although he performs as a Preacher might, Eric Bibb’s songs are merely a celebration of the joy he receives from his faith and never a means to try to outwardly force his beliefs. After the show, he made himself very available, smiling and holding meaningful conversations for some time with the dozens of people who had lined-up to meet him. Evenings such as these prove that, whilst he is a highly skilled guitarist and lyricist, the true talent of Eric Bibb lies in his ability to bring that same level of joy to those around him.

Coldplay brought what is perhaps the world’s best live show to the Rod Laver Arena and put on a truly mesmerising performance  

As part of our Elsewhere series, this review was previously posted on FasterLouder.com.au, and can be found here.

It is certainly ironic that a Coldplay gig should carry a ‘once in a lifetime’ feel to it. Yet, looking across a capacity Rod Laver Arena during what may quite possibly be the best live show on earth, you do start to wonder for just how many people has a Coldplay show been one of the best nights of their life? How many have felt like they’ve shared an intimate moment with Chris Martin as his big blue’s did, by chance, stare back into theirs? A Coldplay gig does not feature or two highlights, but a series of truly special moments created by both the band and its audience. The thought that they are able to replicate that all around the world for months on end is staggering. I will, however, endeavour to describe merely one of those many spectacular nights.

Sydney-based Decoder Ring were first up in what on paper was an excellent opportunity to showcase themselves to a larger audience. The only problem was that a 7.15pm start to a very brief set meant they were predominately missed by the post-work crowd. Still, those with floor tickets who had staked out their positions at the foot of stage (and there were a few of them) certainly seemed to appreciate their heavily instrumental and somewhat experimental sounds. A forthcoming album due later this year should hopefully tip them over into playing some bigger gigs of their own, as they are producing some of the more interesting locally-made material.

Despite several line-up changes, Mercury Rev, with over 20-years experience, were an impressive and fitting support. Brought in late to the tour at the behest of Chris Martin, they do perhaps lack the profile here in Australia that they have built elsewhere. However it was clear that, compositionally, the night’s headliners owed a certain amount to their support act. Frontman Jonathan Donahue marched around the stage enthusiastically impersonating a conductor come drummer boy despite a fairly lifeless response from what was at this stage still a half-capacity audience. A heavy wall of drums, synth and guitar built up around Snowflake In A Hot World before Holes and Opus 40, taken from the band’s critically acclaimed 1998 album Deserter’s Songs, provided a nice reference to Donahue’s work with The Flaming Lips. As each song blended into the other through a combination of distorted guitar and keys, it was initially hard to tell just how well Mercury Rev were being received. Perhaps it was to their credit that they didn’t stop for applause yet, following what admittedly wasn’t the greatest cover of Talking Heads’ Once In A Lifetime, the previously subdued crowd let then know that they were very much appreciated.

Looking resplendent in their self-designed 19^th century French soldier garb, Martin, Jonny Buckland, Guy Berryman and Will Champion received a Beatles-esque ovation when they strolled onto the stage, each waving sparklers amid the temporary darkness. Silhouetted against a thin curtain that hung before the stage, the band fittingly opened on their Viva la Vida tour with the albums first track, Life In Technicolour. The largely instrumental track built up emotions in the crowd but the atmosphere was heightened when Violet Hill provided the first crowd sing-a-long of the evening. Martin had already begun working the crowd, bouncing back and forth from either side of the stage; closing the song with the reworked lyrics: “if you’re in Melbourne, won’t you let me know”. Needless to say, it elicited an enormous response. Assuming his position at a small piano which had been quickly wheeled out, Martin then, to further hysteria, began the opening notes to Clocks. Stunning laser lights shot over the heads of the band while a now jacket-less Champion harmonised behind Martin’s unusually strained vocals. He recovered though and was soon literally sprinting across the stage, sweeping the crowd up with the chorus of In My Place.

“We’re called Coldplay and we’re one of England’s premier soft-rock bands” declared Martin before making the crowd work for the song I’m sure many Coldplay fans dream about experiencing live, Yellow. Most reading this will be familiar with the fact that at this point in a Coldplay set, it is customary for dozens of glitter-filled yellow balloons to be dropped and thrown out into the crowd. Although most at the Rod Laver Arena seemed to know it was coming, it was still an undeniably beautiful moment. Those standing at the foot of the stage looked up adoringly at Martin as he skipped around; his ability to sing and run was, at times, truly mesmerising. “Even if you’re 55 and don’t know why you’re here- try and sing along” said Martin. It was largely redundant. Everyone had already joined in. 

Once the balloons were cleared, we were back on the Viva la Vida flight-path with Buckland’s powerful riff carrying Cemeteries of London. It was certainly appreciated, but perhaps not to the same extent as the previous trio of songs. At this point, it’s worth mentioning the quality of both the sound and lighting; something you come to expect from a gig of this nature but nonetheless serves to greatly enhance the performance. Chinese Sleep Chant, with it’s soaring, uplifting guitar and brilliant light show really benefited from these aspects of the venue. Had it been written several years earlier, 42 may have provoked another sing-a-long but was instead passively enjoyed rather than actively participated in. Martin, panting and swaying on his piano stool, did his best impression of someone who was exhausted yet then proceeded to hold the final note of the song for an impressive 10 seconds. Fix You, in contrast to 42, has clearly had enough time to marinate and was one of the night’s many inspiring moments. Buckland again lifted both the crowd and indeed Martin into a state of euphoria, the latter visibly feeling every note of the song before collapsing in a heap at its conclusion. A slow clap and a little jig from a now vertical frontman accompanied Strawberry Swing before all four members made for one of the side stage ramps, which now housed a synth drum pad machine and another piano, for up-tempo remixes of God Put A Smile On Your Face and Talk. Both were interesting reworkings and warmly applauded yet it seemed the audience may have been more interested in straight replications. The Hardest Part didn’t thrill but while Martin briefly exposed his classical leanings with the piano solo on Postcards From Far Away, there was a growing sense that something big was coming. It materialised in the form of the somewhat grating iPod mega-hit Viva la Vida; a song whose anthemic qualities suggest that the band had such venues in mind during its composition. Given its radio success over the past few months, it was no surprise that it produced the loudest response from an exhilarated Rod Laver audience.

Following an impressive rendition of Lost! the entire band, without a word, hopped down off stage and climbed up several flights of stairs to perform an acoustic version of the otherwise bloated Speed of Sound and the truly beautiful Green Eyes, one of Coldplay’s best an in some ways, most underrated tracks. Through his typically self deprecating humour, Chris Martin told how 13-years ago he “pulled the short straw” and was appointed lead singer, before handing the reigns to drummer Will Champion who showed us what might have been as he more than adequately strummed an acoustic guitar while singing Death Will Never Conquer.

There was a brief intermission as the band made its way back to stage but normal service quickly resumed through the powerful drums on Politik, a pleasing addition to the set-list. The lyrics to Lovers of Japan were flawlessly synced with a sequence of cleverly edited images projected on a screen behind the stage while thousands upon thousands of multi-coloured paper butterflies were released onto the crowd. Reign of Love and the immense climax to Death And All His Friends provided a stirring finale to the main set. Though they bowed together and walked across the stage thanking the crowd in a manner which suggested they were done, Coldplay did return to rapturous applause dressed in the brightly colourful jackets they recently paraded at the Grammys. A slightly underwhelming performance of The Scientist and Life In Technicolour ii followed but by this point, we had already been treated to an incredible evening’s entertainment.

For Coldplay themselves, it may have only been night one of stop two-of-four on a 100+ date world tour. For the thousands who were present though, it was a truly memorable evening. Where some of their songs become too cluttered and lack potency on record, the unifying experience of their live show serves to elevate them to really mean something to those present. As for Chris Martin; well, despite what Bono has to say, he is without doubt one of the most charismatic, talented and entertaining musicians alive. Before you next dismiss Coldplay as being “boring”, do please see them live. It may be one of the best gigs you ever go to.

Though W features many strong performances, you can’t help but get the feeling that Oliver Stone was holding himself back.

It is to both Oliver Stone’s credit and discredit that W, his snapshot biography of the former POTUS George W. Bush, is a very mild film. When the film was first announced and revealed to be releasing during the final moments of the recent United States electoral campaign, it was difficult for anyone to predict that Stone, no stranger to political controversy, would make anything other than a reminder not to vote Republican.

True, Stone may have been in the past a propagandist of sorts, but there are very few traces of manifesto evident in W. For the most part, at least, the film shies away from the Bush-isms and cartoonish satire that it could very easily have been and instead focuses on the inner workings of Bush the man. That is not to say that W does not have its moments; indeed, one war briefing late on in the film lets out the caricature of Bush that Josh Brolin (otherwise superb) could have been.

No, W is more considered drama than cheap shot; more a cinematic portrait than character assassination. This approach means the film both succeeds and fails: while a Dead Ringers-like send up of Bush and his associates would certainly have made for a film less approachable, the surprisingly mild manner with which Stone approaches his subject/nemesis leaves W cold, less human, and certainly less moving than it could have been.

Interestingly, because of the delayed Australian release (W was staggered so that the US domestic release captured the focus of election season), the film now seems less a cautionary tale and timely reminder than obituary. W does not lament the state of the nation, or mourn the dead of the Iraqi war, so much as it tries to examine how both the man and the country reached this point. It paints George W. as trajectory forming narrative; of the black sheep of the family, outcast, drunken, and violent, pulling himself together to defy everyone’s expectations to no great applause. It places the conflict between Jr and Sr Bush at the heart of the film; the driving desire of W to make good by his folks equally fighting his borderline hatred of his successful father.

And although their screentime is limited, it’s the supporting cast that steal W. Jeffery Wright as Colin Powell gets the best lines, though Powell’s unconvincing placement as the humanitarian, questioning voice in the Bush administration means his performance doesn’t quite strike home. Powell’s transition from supporting a peaceful solution and being the only member of the war cabinet to ask ‘why?’, to the man we all remember laying out the mistruths about the justification for war at the UN is striking but unfocussed. It is instead Richard Dreyfuss as the smirking, moral compass-less Dick Cheney and Thandie Newton as the deliberate and nervy Condoleezza Rice who make the most memorable appearances.

In his admirable attempt to paint a fair and non-judgmental portrait of George W. Bush, Oliver Stone seems to have held himself back one step too far. By instead attempting to portray Bush as the product of bad parenting and upbringing, Stone almost gives Bush the ultimate insult: of the excruciatingly average man unfortunately given the most extraordinarily important job in the world. If only the film had a little more blood running through its veins.

2/5

Often forgotten between the original Bond flick, Dr. No, and the landmark Goldfinger, From Russia With Love is a touchstone that the 007 franchise needs.

Dr. No is not a film to inspire twenty-one sequels. Now that 007 is assured his place in cinematic history, it’s easy to forget this: Dr. No in hindsight becomes the first point on a long and inevitable timeline. But in 1962, no-one could have guessed that the films would far outgrow the successful Ian Fleming books on which they were based and create a British Empire of the silver screen. Certainly, no-one would have predicted it based on Dr. No; despite the feeling even now that the film represents a fresh, stylish and exciting type of thriller, it is decidedly low-key, with long, slow periods of nothingness and a minor finale.

This is where most turn to number three for an explanation of the series’ success.  Goldfinger is a film whose iconography has given the series enough velocity to roll through another five actors as Bond and almost half a century of film, certainly. But if Goldfinger, with its laser death traps and murderous bowler hats, simultaneously cemented Bond in the cultural canon and set the template for the silliest Bond elements, then it was number two, From Russia With Love, that forged the best of Bond.

From Russia With Love is Bond at his meanest, most physical, and real. The film takes many cues from Hitchcock to good effect: primarily, comparisons with North By Northwest must be drawn, especially given the ‘inspired by’ train and helicopter sequences, and From Russia With Love’s textbook use of the MacGuffin. Though the film doesn’t quite have the narrative economy or curled-up set piece tension of a Hitchcock, it nonetheless takes as its lead an eloquence that the series has long benefited from. As a result, From Russia With Love becomes a film not-too-dissimilar from its protagonist: sleek, stylish, and brutal. A quietly suspenseful sequence at a train station, where Bond is silently shadowed by his adversary is a case-in-point. The threat of violence, even of sexually charged violence, is never too far away, of which the hard body of Red Grant (played wonderfully by the great Robert Shaw, a taciturn hitman with chilling, lifeless eyes) serves as a constant reminder.

The 007 on display here is the closest to Fleming’s that Connery ever reached; in many senses, he embodies a prototype of the Bond that Daniel Craig picked up again forty years later. Importantly, the film paints Bond as human; as a fallible, egotistical blunt instrument with just enough luck and smarts to knock his way through a narrative. This Bond is arrogant enough to knowingly walk into a trap because he half-believes that a girl has fallen in love with his portrait. One half of him knows it is stupid. The other half knows he can seduce the girl anyway.

That’s not to say that From Russia With Love is James Bond without the camp or silliness that often demarcates the series from regular action flicks. The film features the first Bond gadget, an exploding attaché case – modest by Brosnan’s invisible car antics (in Die Another Day), but a gadget nonetheless – and poison-tipped retractible blades in the fronts of evil-doer’s loafers. Also amusing is the very British suggestion that someone can plainly be considered suspicious if they order red wine with fish.

As with all Bond films though, it’s worth placing historically. Only one film later, 007 would be effortlessly ‘converting’ a coded-lesbian Pussy Galore with a literal roll in the hay and a good one-liner, so for From Russia With Love to take a starkly darker line with Bond’s sexuality is fascinating. Crucially, the tone of the film is foundational for the series: it is here that the more mature elements of 007 take their cinematic root – a root that is returned to time and time again whenever Bond’s sillier elements get out of hand and the series requires rebooting. Indeed, there’s a reason why Tatiana and Bond’s first encounter in the Istanbul hotel room has been used to audition all subsequent 007s and their female counterparts. Despite our love of gallows-humour punning, ludicrously named supermodels and outlandish gadgets, every now and then we need Bond to shape up, trim down, and face reality again. We need him to return to Russia, with love.

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On a night when grief, doubt and despair still permeated throughout the state, José González and Luluc put on a truly beautiful evening’s entertainment at The Athenaeum Theatre in Melbourne.

As part of our Elsewhere series, this review was previously posted on FasterLouder.com.au, and can be found here.

On a night when grief, doubt and despair still permeated throughout the state, there was tinge of guilt in enjoying an intimate and delightful performance by Swedish troubadour José González. Set in the charmingly archaic surrounds of the Athenaeum Theatre, González treated his seated-audience to an 18-song set with both Veneer and the more recent In Our Nature played almost in their entirety.

Opening act Luluc proved somewhat of a surprise. Not because their sumptuous brand of locally-produced cotemporary folk was at odds with the evening’s headliner. Or that their debut release, Dear Hamlyn, translated extremely well in a live environment. Simply, it was the fact that neither Tickemaster or even the Athenaeum’s box-office chose to advertise their presence in the slightest, resulting in many punters missing most of what was a truly lovely, albeit relatively brief set.

Lead vocalist Zoe Randell stood largely motionless as she sang, playing an acoustic guitar that she claimed to be over a century old. Her slow, deep, voice carried a slight hint of pain to it as she sung about relationships made and lost and “finding a place where you feel you belong.” Backed by Double Bassist Pete Cohen and guitarist Steve Hassett who harmonised on backing vocals, the band, having supported Fleet Foxes earlier last month, looked humbled but not overawed in playing at such a venue. Warm One, Black Umbrella and Body On the Water were personal favourites in a set that was extremely well received by those fortunate enough to be present. I look forward to seeing them again soon.

Dressed all in black, José González strode onto the stage, sat down, plugged himself in and promptly began. Illuminated by a single overhead light, González, hunched over his guitar opened with Storm, a track that has only ever featured on two EP’s. It may have been a strange decision but it was one that served nonetheless to highlight his proficiency as a guitarist. Hints from his debut release Veneer was next; the Swede’s tapping foot clearly audible to a silent and captivated audience. The warmer, gentler Fold then followed, González’s guitar work this time less severe and aggressive.

‘We saw the smoke today coming in on the plane. Our hearts go out to those affected by the fires’ he said simply but genuinely, something appreciated by the sold-out crowd. The rising and falling tempo of All You Deliver was next before being joined by Little Dragon’s Yukimi Nagano and Erik Boden for backing vocals and very basic hand-percussion. After In Our Nature and How Low, the gentle strumming on The Nest provided a window to what it perhaps may have been like to see Nick Drake perform; an early highlight for the evening.

With little embellishment or added interpretation to any of his songs, the set moved along quickly. A steady handclap drove Time To Send Someone Awaywhile the anti-religious sentiment of Abram served to underpin the depth of In Our Nature as a well-rounded recorded. The reception given to Lovestain andRemain, merely album tracks from Veneer, did however suggest that his first release remains the public’s favourite. Feeding off their support, González strummed quickly into the earnest Down the Line. Touching on the ‘comprise’ and ‘darkness’ in relationships, Down the Line sits, without doubt, as one of the standout tracks from ION. The set by this point was really reaching its peak so it was somewhat disappointing that Crosses, the song this reviewer had most been looking forward to, lacked González’s usual vocal power and fell someway short of the mark. Much to his own embarrassment, the challenging opening note to Broken Arrows then saw the Swede’s voice break ever so slightly. ‘Urgh. Sorry,’ he said over polite laughter before starting from the top. On Cycling Trivialities, González and his band afforded themselves a lengthy instrumental; the audience, for the first time, bathed in the stage lighting. Following what really was a nice moment, the strong percussive beat that backed radio hit and Massive Attack cover Teardrop served to reflect the original classic slightly more than González’s album version. The uplifting harmonies provided by his backing section really elevated the song with an enormous applause greeting the song’s conclusion.

It would have been a fitting way to end the evening but, as González and his band waved goodbye, the absence of that song meant that we knew he’d be back. After a minute or two of really thunderous applause (impressive, given how respectful they’d been during songs), the three returned and, smiling and waving, reassumed their seats. First to come was indeed Heartbeats, the beautiful cover of The Knifes’s minimalist electro track that took over the world following Sony’s decision to release 10,000 bouncing balls down the hills of San Francisco and play José González behind the slow-motion footage. Although appearing somewhat weary of the song, it was, nonetheless, delivered perfectly to a huge ovation. ‘This is a Kylie Minogue song. It’s called Hand On Your Heart. Thank you and good night,’ were González’s final spoken words before enthusiastically tapping both feet to yet another masterful cover. A simple bow and he was gone, this time for good.

There may be something in the fact that José González’s three final songs for the evening, probably his three most popular, were all covers. He is a talented songwriter and an excellent guitarist so this, in some respects, is a bit of a shame. Future albums will hopefully see him stick to producing strictly original material as he is very capable of succeeding with that alone. Either way, though, the moving experience of his live show is always likely to leave him in extremely high demand.

This video interview with Fleet Foxes was taken as part of Jeremy Story Carter’s tenure with Falls TV earlier this year. It was filmed and edited by Jonathan Lim, Andrew Smith and Steven Notaro. More footage from the Falls Festival can be found at http://www.youtube.com/user/fallsfestivaltv. The complete, uncut interview will be viewable on Empty Pocket Media soon.

Experience and expectations battle in Slumdog Millionaire‘s brutal fairytale of life in India.

It’s fitting that a film about exceeding expectations is currently doing just that. Slumdog Millionaire, from perennial small-scale success director Danny Boyle (Trainspotting, Sunshine), recently cleaned up at the Golden Globes, and is priming for a repeat performance at this year’s Oscars. All this after the spectre of ‘straight-to-DVD’ was raised over Slumdog’s head with the closure of Warner Independent Pictures early last year. Certainly, no observers would have then predicted that it would end up contending with the cream of Hollywood for the Oscars, come 2009. And yet, here we are.

Slumdog Millionaire has elsewhere been described as a romp. It is not. It is a film that bombards the viewer rather than caressing them. Breathlessly edited, the film assaults you in a Bolly-Holly way, taking elements of both cultures and merging them into a perfectly sutured mold. Slumdog has also been described elsewhere as a fairytale. This description holds more water; but only in its true and original sense. This fairytale exists in a world where the wolf is not hand-drawn with cartoon-devil eyes, but is instead fully realised with blood-matted hair and rotting breath. Slumdog purposefully does not hold back on its vision of Indian slum life. Whether it is accurate or not is for others to debate; suffice to say that it may have as much to do with Indian reality as that other great English film about India – Richard Attenborough’s Gandhi.

At its heart, Slumdog Millionaire is about expectations. Jamal (played by Tanay Chheda, Ayush Mahesh Khedekar, and Dev Patel, who continues his excellent lines in ‘shocked’ and ‘glum’ that he did so well in TV’s Skins) is a slum dweller who also happens to be in the hot-seat of the Indian edition of Who Wants to be a Millionaire? Even more surprising than that minor miracle, however, is that Jamal seems to know the answers. All of them. This fundamental undoing of expectations of what a slum dweller is supposed to know forms Slumdog’s starting point. However, the questions asked by the gameshow’s host (played to snarling, tiger-like perfection by Anil Kapoor) merely forms the framework for the retelling of Jamal’s remarkable life: it is his own personal journey of defeating expectations placed on him that is the core of the film.

We see the formative moments of Jamal’s life through his eyes, from calamitous events in his very early days, all the way up until the Millionaire episode. Boyle shows Jamal the worst of India, from racial tensions (Jamal is, of course, a Muslim) to a hellish encounter with a Fagin-like evildoer. This is Jamal’s life experience; the lesson being taught is how it can shape us all. The narrative is held together by Jamal’s encounters with a girl, Latika (Rubiana Ali, Tanvi Ganesh Lonkar and Frieda Pinto), and his volatile relationship with his brother, Salim (Madhur Mittal, Azharuddin Mohammed Ismail, and Ashutosh Lobo Gajiwala). It is these two intersecting relationships that mold him into the young man that sits in front of the Millionaire quizmaster, and in front of the questioning authorities. In a lesser film, this life story would smack of audience manipulation and of unlikely falsehoods, so it is to Slumdog’s credit that it never allows the audience a moment to do anything other than be swept along. It is, to quote one character’s assessment of Jamal’s life, bizarrely plausible.

Slumdog Millionaire shows us that our life experience shapes us in ways we do not realise. Our own conceptions of what our life means can drastically change from moment to moment; indeed, we can even exceed our own expectations. It is also attacking the very basis of knowledge, and our preconceptions about who should know what. We expect Jamal to know about life and hardship, but we do not expect him to know the answers to a quiz that thwarts doctors, lawyers and more. Yes, it’s about the self-regulation of class, but Slumdog Millionaire is also attacking our expectations about the importance of knowledge, how it is formed and why.

No-one could have expected that Jamal might pull himself out of hellish poverty to become richer than most people he ever met. No-one, not even Jamal, could have expected that he would know any of Who Wants to be a Millionaire’s answers. And in early 2008, no-one expected Slumdog Millionaire to be a real chance for film of the year. Fitting? Perhaps it was written.

4/5

At first glance, Sam Mendes’ Revolutionary Road appears to be treading a well worn path. It deserves a deeper look.

Perfect worlds fall apart. This seems to be the glum and hackneyed message to be taken from Sam Mendes’ adaptation of the classic Richard Yates novel, Revolutionary Road. But for all the film’s heavy-handedness, there is something intriguing that remains unstated, below the dark veneer of the film, rescuing what could have been frustrating and instead rendering it provocative.

After an excruciating opening salvo, all immediate signs point Revolutionary Road towards being nothing more than two hours of relationship drudgery: a needless retreading of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? via The Stepford Wives. First, there’s the 1950s setting, now culturally ingrained as an implicit time of fake perfectness. Even the latest Indiana Jones got in on the act, so common is it to take the ‘50s to task – and when matinee idols are doing it, we certainly don’t need an entire feature dedicated to the cause. Second, there’s the director – Sam Mendes already successfully visited the glossy, broken suburbs in 1999’s American Beauty; one does not build a career out of broken homes. And third, there is the unromantic recoupling of Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet for the first time since icebergs and Celine Dion. Though never implied, it isn’t difficult to read an amount of subversion in the casting; as perfect as the wonder duo were in Titanic, this is how it could have turned out in reality, suggests the film.

It’s unsurprising, then, that Revolutionary Road takes some time to find its rhythm. The perfect world of Frank (DiCaprio) and April Wheeler (Winslet) is established through a handful of shots in a loose tone-setting sequence, while the first chunk of dialogue is dedicated to its downfall. Perfect worlds fall apart. We get it. Frank and April have gone through the bliss of early love and now hate each other despite their appearance as a perfect suburban couple: another 100 minutes of this and we’ll have truly established that the 1950s were bad. This, the real worry of the film, is that Revolutionary Road is nothing but a teachy film; one armed with a single message and prepared to beat the audience about the head with it for its duration.

Nonetheless, if the film were just this, then it might still be bearable, as a number of factors sit in its favor. Michael Shannon is wonderful as the bluntly truthful John Givings, an Alan Turing or John Nash-like mathematician declared insane. Shannon brings the truest life to the film, and even alongside Ledger’s Joker he should stand a serious chance as Best Supporting Actor. Veteran composer Thomas Newman must also take a large amount of credit for humanising Revolutionary Road, as his probing score brings weight to scenes otherwise agonising. Winslet is of course wonderfully involved as April, and much of the film feels as though it were told through her eyes simply due to her investment in the character. DiCaprio surprisingly fails to find more than a reworking of previous modes seen in The Aviator, Catch Me If You Can and The Departed, though his performance is fine.

But Revolutionary Road is more than a basic theme skillfully made (or re-made). Somewhere, at some point, Mendes shifts gears imperceptibly. On its surface, Revolutionary Road might be making the listed shallow and cliched points, but underneath, a deeper, darker beast lurks. Revolutionary Road points not to period tropes but to cyclic issues present in all the film’s relationships: the eventual process of tuning out of love and life altogether. Although the repressive 1950s serves as more than a backdrop, Revolutionary Road could be set in the present or the middle-ages and still be as effective.

It is the dark process of giving up on the hope that you indelibly link with your partner that the film is really interested in. Through this slow revolution (of the Wheelers?), the film finds its heart; the terrifying, shattering realisation that you are not the protagonist of life. In this sense it is depressing and involving in a way that a film solely about perfect worlds falling apart wishes it was. It is more than unsettling; the final scenes of the film are sequences so effective that they will haunt for days.

Revolutionary Road comes too close to failure to be truly moving. It is a flawed idea of a film, redeemed by execution and a handful of astounding scenes. 

3/5