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  • The f***ing Oscars

    February 28, 2011 @ 3:08 pm | by Donald Clarke

    I’m sure few of you bothered to stay up to watch the Oscars last night. That was a wise choice. Move along. Move along. There’s nothing to see here. I’ll be mouthing off in the paper tomorrow about the awards’ increasing predictability and about their unstoppable cheesiness. It says something that the highlight of the event was Melissa Leo’s careless bellowing of a certain expletive that, though common on trawlers and in rugby changing rooms, still causes attacks of the vapours in American media-watchers.

    What are you f***ing looking at!

    The King’s Speech’s win saw The Oscars returning to their middle-brow roots. The banter was cheesy. The set was puzzlingly ugly. At least, at a mere three hours, the show is now a bit shorter than it used to be.

    One question should be asked here: why is Sky’s coverage so abysmal? For the second year running, the panel included at least two guests — Edith Bowman and the befuddled Brix Smith-Start, former wife of Mark E Smith — who appeared to have little interest in film. Who would have thought that Robbie  Collin of The News of The World would end up being the voice of wisdom and reason?This is one of the jewels in Sky’s crown. Yet they seem to treat it with the same respect they would bring to a gymkhana on Sky Sports 3. The set was thrown together. The guests were uninformed. Would it kill them to get the odd half-decent boffin on board?Oh, what’s the point.

  • The Dublin Film Critics Circle hands out its gongs

    February 27, 2011 @ 1:22 pm | by Donald Clarke

    Last night, in what is fast becoming an amiable tradition, the good people from the Dublin Film Critics Circle gathered to hand out their awards for the James Dublin International Film Festival. Ms Tara Brady, president of that august body, was on hand to break a bottle of champagne (surely Irish whiskey) over the vessel and welcome Mr Gavin Burke as this year’s appointed host. The sponsors’ products were swilled back at the Irish Film Institute, while high quality jokes were delivered comparing our poll to another being counted elsewhere in the nation.

    Voting members show off their high brows. L to R: Mr Paul Lynch, Mr Gavin Burke, Ms Tara Brady.

    Brian Jennings,partner of the late Michael Dwyer, turned up to give out an award granted in our old friend’s name. The Michael Dwyer Discovery Award, instituted to acknowledge fresh new talent, went to the smart young people from Still Films. That company, a tightly run collective, has delivered a truly superb series of documentaries over the last few years. You may have seen Seaview, their picture set in the old Mosney holiday camp, or Pyjama Girls, a moving, funny study of life in Ballyfermot. Their latest film, Build Me Something Modern, doesn’t sound like an obvious idea for a doc — it’s an examination of modernist Irish architects’ experiences in Africa during the 1950s and 1960s — but it is handled with such verve that we felt no reluctance in giving them this year’s prize.

    L to R: Nicky Gogan and Maya Derrington from Still Films; Brian Jennings, the warm voice of RTE Radio News.

    The best Irish film went to Carmel Winters’s Snap. Other high quality domestic productions receiving prizes included Enda Hughes’s Men of Arlington, a touching documentary on the London Irish experience, and Juanita Wilson’s highly acclaimed As If I am Not There.

    The best film went to a terrific Austrian thriller entitled The Robber. There’s no sign of an Irish release yet, but the picture is picking up such buzz it will surely arrive in our shores before too long. If you caught it at the festival then award yourself a tot of your favourite domestic whiskey.

    Here are the awards in full:

    Best Film: The Robber

    Best Director: Aleksei Popogrebsky – How I Ended This Summer

    Best Irish Film: Snap

    Best Irish Director: Carmel Winters – Snap

    Best Cinematography: Tim Fleming – As If I Am Not There

    Best Screenplay: Medal of Honour

    Best Short: Kathy Brady – Small Change

    Best International Documentary: Cave of Forgotten Dreams

    Best Irish Documentary: Men of Arlington

    Best Debut: Philip Koch (Picco)

    Best Actor: Jacob Cadergren (Submarino)

    Best Actress: Martina Gusman (Carancho)

    Special Jury: Le Quattro Volte

    Michael Dwyer Discovery Award: Still Films

  • A Picture of Margaret Rutherford

    February 22, 2011 @ 10:57 pm | by Donald Clarke

    I’m afraid I’m very busy with the Jameson Dublin International Film festival this week. So there’s just time to post a picture of Margaret Rutherford and move on. Here it is:

  • Hitler invented 3-D

    February 18, 2011 @ 3:36 pm | by Donald Clarke

    Isn’t there some theory arguing that, after a certain number of iterations, any argument on the internet will result in a mention of Hitler? “You prefer dogs to cats? So did Hitler. What does that tell you? Huh, huh?” That sort of thing. Happily, for all those sensible people who hate 3-D, there is now a short-cut to the Hitler gambit. A recent report suggests that the Nazis did indeed devise the unlovely process.

    It seems that Phillipe Mora, an Australian film-maker, has uncovered several bumpy films shot by Nazi propagandists in the mid-1930s. The first carries the unambiguous title So Real You can Touch It. The second emerged under the more intriguing moniker Six Girls Roll Into Weekend. One imagines Aryan girls in swimsuits (or not) gamely volleying beach balls back and forwards to one another.

    “The quality of the films is fantastic,” Mora said. “The Nazis were obsessed with recording everything and every single image was controlled – it was all part of how they gained control of the country and its people.”

    Heed those words, film fans. That’s “how  they gained control of the country and its people.” Each time you don the silly glasses you are helping Megapictures dominate the universe. Before long, you will be their helpless slaves. Hitler invented 3-D. What does that tell you? Huh? Huh?

  • Could Atlas Shrugged be the defining turkey of 2011?

    February 15, 2011 @ 4:22 pm | by Donald Clarke
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    First off, before anybody else chimes in, let me confirm that, at this point, I cannot offer a fair answer to that question. The film will not emerge until April. Who knows? It could be a roaring masterpiece. But the omens are far from good.

    Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged, a novel that makes paving stones feel inadequate, is a uniquely strange cultural phenomenon. Admired by legions of half-bright American students and the odd (very odd) US boffin, the book has virtually no currency on this side of the Atlantic. Indeed, until a few years ago, when Penguin Modern Classics eliminated a few forests to produce an edition, the book wasn’t even in print in the United Kingdom. Written in prose so sluggish it often threatens to snooze its way off the page, the novel details the efforts of a libertarian Messiah to freshen up a (no really) socialistic United States. The trains soon run on time. The old are left to die on ice floes. You know the sort of thing. Alan Greenspan, former Chairman of the Federal Reserve, knew Rand when he was young and has long been a champion of the book. Unsurprisingly, given the fact that a Maoist now sits in the White House, Atlas Shrugged has enjoyed something of a revival in recent years. Rand’s atheism proves something of a problem for the new American right, but her anti-statist leanings sit very nicely with that movement’s paranoia about Big Government.

    A glance at certain shadier corners of the internet will confirm that hundreds of thousands of readers — shunning the derision of serious literary academics — still regard the ghastly thing as some sort of neglected masterpiece. In 1998, for instance, the Modern Library, after publishing a chart of best modern novels headed by Ulysses, asked the cyber-masses to compile their own list. Gathering their forces in the electronic ether, the Randinistas managed to install Atlas Shrugged at the top of the poll. This, despite the fact that the book has lower literary standing than the works of Harold Robbins.

    Unsurprisingly, there has long been talk of a film version. Equally unsurprisingly, few major investors have shown interest in financing such an unappealing production. That said, back in 1972, Albert S Ruddy, producer of The Godfather, did approach Rand with a notion of acquiring the rights. When she demanded script approval (can you imagine?) he wisely backed away. The film version has remained in development hell ever since. In the interim, there have been suggestions of a movie starring Angelina Jolie and a mini-series featuring Charlize Theron.

    What we seem to have ended up with is a cut-price, thrown-together shocker starring nobody you’ve ever heard of. Reports suggest that, as the rights were due to expire in June this year, the current holders were forced into knocking the film together in double-quick time. Stephen Polk (huh?) was initially scheduled to direct, but, shortly before the project creaked into action, he was replaced by Paul Johansson (double huh?). The multi-gifted Mr Johansson also stars.

    Just look at this thing! It’s got more racing trains than a Tony Scott film. The art-direction is done by somebody drunk on cheap perfume commercials. The level of building melodrama is quite draining. The most fearsome element of the enterprise is, however, the inclusion of the words “Part 1″ in the title. Yeah. Good luck with that, chaps. This looks too nasty to appeal even to Ms Rand’s peculiar acolytes.

    In such posts I would normally end with a phrase such as “we’ll find out for ourselves when the film opens in April”. But, to be honest, I would be astonished if the thing ever makes it to these shores. We’re all state-coddled Bolsheviks here, you see.

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  • Doogie Howser TD

    February 13, 2011 @ 8:59 pm | by Donald Clarke

    As others have noted, the coming election has thrown up an unprecedented number of independent candidates. It looks as if I might actually get to vote for the Trotskyite Cat Party or Lord Bannahead. I’ve done so before and have never regretted it. The lone wolf causing the most chatter in my part of the world is, however, young Master Dylan Haskins. This is not the place to comment on his policies. The lad appears to have knocked together a comprehensive website and — looking more like Michael Cera than Neil Patrick Harris — has shot some impressively severe straight-to-camera YouTube videos.

    But there’s no way around it. He just looks so iggle-piggle young. Oddly, his apparent sincerity actually adds to the campaign’s peculiarity. Properly young folk do occasionally run for office (Haskins is 23), but they usually have the decency to advocate free Jammie Dodgers for students or  changing the national anthem to Karma Police by Radiohead. That sort of thing. The seriousness of Mr Howser’s campaign literature just contributes to the suspicion that the star of How I Met Your Mother is advancing on your gallbladder.

    It also doesn’t help that his slogan is — to dally in oxymoronic territory — the blandly provocative “It Starts Here”. Wags have already been scribbling beneath his posters. “Puberty” one reads. My colleague in this place suggests “Big School”.

    Anyway, I say again that I make no judgments on Master Haskins’s policies. My only objective has been to exercise bitter prejudices about the young and idealistic. I’m still voting for Commander Frogbiscuit.

  • What is it with Mrs Streeptcher?

    February 11, 2011 @ 1:32 pm | by Donald Clarke

    Apologies for reposting a photograph that, earlier in the week, appeared elsewhere in this corner of the website, but the ubiquity of this picture showing Meryl Sheep as Margaret Thatcher in the upcoming Iron Lady is worth commenting on. If you wandered into the newsagent on Wednesday, you could see Streeptcher on the front of the Guardian, the Daily Express and the Times. It also popped up on every second movie website. I can’t remember this ever happening before. Certainly, there was no similar blanket plastering of, say, Helen Mirren as Queen Elizabeth. The papers in Pyongyang rarely offer so many images of Kim Jong Il.

    It speaks to the continuing interest in — not to say terror of — the UK’s first female Prime Minister. With respect to La Streep, I don’t think the papers would react similarly if she was snapped playing Anthony Eden. But there is also something particularly, uniquely creepy about the image. It’s to do with the almost perfect 50/50 blending of the two famous faces. The picture suggests a digital mash-up of Thatcher and Streep. Looking closer, one gets slightly freaked out by the way Streep’s smooth Scandinavian features soften those of the grocer’s daughter. To drag out one more strained analogy to communist propaganda, you can’t help but think of those air-brushed photographs of aging Soviet leaders that attempted to downplay their growing decrepitude (this, despite the fact that Streep is a little older than Thatcher was during the film’s timeframe).

    Anyway, even if the film sucks, we can safely mark down one certain nominee for the best actress Oscar next year. Streep? Thatcher? She can buy her dress now. Will the film suck? Well, the casting is certainly intriguing. Dashing Richard E  Grant plays the dashing Michael Heseltine. Check. Duffer Jim Broadbent plays duffer Dennis Thatcher. Check. Dishevelled Michael Pennington plays dishevelled Michael Foot. Fair enough. Sleek, glamorous Anthony Head plays, erm, Geoffrey Howe.

    Lord Howe, yesterday.

    Oh, well. Casting against type can often be a crafty move. One does worry slightly about the fact that Phyllida Lloyd is directing. Lloyd’s Mamma Mia! was good fun, but nothing she did in that giddy film suggested she had the chops for this sort of drama. Don’t forget, however, that Ms Lloyd does have a distinguished record as a serious theatre director. Focussing on the run-up to the Falklands War, The Iron Lady will be, at the very least, interesting. There is currently no firm release date, but if it doesn’t emerge in the Oscar corridor (late December to early February) then I’ll eat my own head.

  • A word on the most idiotic film awards

    February 8, 2011 @ 10:42 pm | by Donald Clarke

    No, I’m not talking about the Oscars. Is there any institution less mirthsome than The Golden Raspberry Awards? Don’t get me wrong. I bow to nobody in my enthusiasm for turning wretched films into metaphorical peñatas. But the Razzies are just so deadeningly obvious. Year after year, they ignore genuinely abysmal performances and movies in favour of obvious star-laden minor misfires and — a favourite target — only modestly incompetent turns by pop stars. If you want to win one of these things just make sure to get Madonna’s agent on the phone good and early. In short, they are far more in thrall to celebrity than the Oscars.

    L ro R: Man, man, good egg, John J B Wilson.

    Instituted back in 1980 by John J B Wilson, by all accounts a charming fellow, the worst picture has, in previous years, gone to such films as Mommie Dearest (a camp classic), Rambo: First Blood II (oh, come on!), Indecent Proposal (so original), Showgirls (see Mommie Dearest), Swept Away (ha ha! Madonna) and Catwoman (see Mommie Dearest).

    The lowest moment for the Awards came, by many people’s reckoning, in that first session, when they nominated Stanley Kubrick as worst director for The Shining. Actually, I think this was one of their better choices. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t agree with the selection. Indeed, that Stephen King adaptation is one of my favourite films. But, in this instance, they, at least, showed a degree of original thinking. (Only a degree, mind. Remember that The Shining actually opened to mixed reviews.)

    Having made my feelings on the awards clear, I would have to admit that my answer to the big question — should nominees turn up to accept the award? — sounds slightly contrary.  Of course you should. Awarding worst actress to Sandra Bullock last year for All About Steve was clearly a stunt. By that stage, it seemed clear that she was going to win the Oscar for The Blind Side. Nonetheless, for all the silliness of the Razzies, you do look like a good egg if you slope along and deliver a few quips. The most notable performance was that by Paul Verhoeven in 1995. The Dutch eccentric seemed genuinely delighted to triumph for Showgirls.

    At any rate, this year, in a deliberate attempt to stir up fury on the internet (a perfectly honorable aim in itself), the organisers have handed out a staggering nine nominations to The Twilight Saga: Eclipse. Angry teenage boys will be delighted. Other multi-nomimated films include Vampires Suck, The Last Airbender and Sex and the City 2. Hey, even I think that last inclusion is too darn obvious.

  • Where the heck is True Grit?

    February 6, 2011 @ 9:07 pm | by Donald Clarke

    Well, it’s on its way. Later this week, nearly two months after it emerged in the United States, the Coen brothers’ excellent western finds its way into British and Irish cinemas. Intelligent cinemagoers will rejoice. Having stumbled a little at the start of the last decade — remember Intolerable Cruelty and The Ladykillers — the Coens defied expectations by returning with three near-masterpieces (No Country For Old Men, A Serious Man and, now, True Grit) and one hugely enjoyable romp (Burn After Reading).

    The average film fan in these territories will, however, reasonably wonder why it has taken so long for True Grit to emerge. This sort of thing doesn’t happen much any more.

    Back in the 1970s and 1980s a whole series of insulting hierarchies governed release strategies for American films. The most tortuous pattern went like this. Firstly, the distinguished burghers of New York and Los Angeles would get to see the film. If it was a hit then the picture would gradually expand to other American cities. Then, a few weeks after that, prints might sneak into provincial corners of the US. A gap of many months would set in. Eventually, after the prints were gathered back from Tuna Fish, Iowa and Bottle Top, Wyoming, they would be polished up in preparation for the Rest-of-World release. (A sobering example: Star Wars was released in the US during May 1977, but didn’t arrive in the UK until late December.)

    So, now, finally, the citizen of Birmingham or Ballybrophy would get to see this exciting release? Hold on to your, horses. The film could still spends weeks playing solely in London’s Leicester Square before moving out to remoter parts of the UK and — Jesus, do I still want to see this bleeding thing? — poor old Ireland.

    The pattern above details the most cautious strategy, but it was far from uncommon for an Irish filmgoer to finally encounter a film close to a year after its US release. Several innovations changed this practice. Firstly, the success of Jaws’ US-wide release proved the virtues of making the initial launch a major national event. The arrival of video — and threats of piracy — furthered inclinations towards narrowing the gap between limited and wide release. Now, with downloading gaining epidemic status, the worldwide “day and date” release has become commonplace.

    It should be said that the old system had its virtues. More eccentric films had the chance to grow via word of mouth. Now, a widely released movie stands or falls on its opening weekend. Happily, smaller, independent movies, unleashed initially on smallish print runs, do still profit from this dynamic. It’s hardly fair to expect the distributors of My Camel is No Longer at the Yam Yam Tree to get a print into every country on the day of release. But there is little excuse for a major studio — Paramount, in this case — to delay the release of a much anticipated picture by two months.

    So, what’s going on? Well, firstly, we have the business of Oscar season. All those films that look like Oscar-bait are rushed into US cinemas before New Years Day in order to qualify for the awards. On occasion, the studio will sneak just one print into an LA cinema. The proper release must wait until the New Year. Hence, Black Swan, The King’s Speech and The Fighter all opened here in January and early February.

    True Grit was, however, knocked back another few weeks because the studio accepted an offer to have the film open the looming Berlin Film Festival. This is all a bit mad. Berlin now opens with a picture that, far from being a premiere, has been seen by hundreds of thousands of people in the US. Meanwhile, in order to allow the Germans a bit of red-carpet action, Paramount has denied an entire continent the right to see the film for an indecently lengthy period.

    Good grief. Imagine if, after all that, the film turned out to be a turkey. Happily, it is worth the wait.

  • Quiz Correction and top Pop Trivia Question

    February 4, 2011 @ 7:22 pm | by Donald Clarke

    As several of you have pointed out, there is an appalling howler in this week’s quiz. The seventh question runs as follows: What’s missing: Spanking the Monkey, Requiem for a Dream, The Damned United, Alien 3? As you may not have solved it, I won’t give you the answer, but Requiem for a Dream should, of course, be replaced by (or “Pi” if you have an inflexible keyboard). Gosh, this sounds like a correction to a mathematics exam rather than a movie trivia quiz. At any rate, the correction probably constitutes a clue in itself.

    As compensation, I offer you a pop trivia question. There is no generous cash prize — but a round of applause — for anyone who gets the correct answer. Annoyingly, despite being quite obscure, the solution does appear to be available via Google. So, I am trusting you not to use that service (or any similar search engine).

    What connects the following albums: World Shut Your Mouth by Julian Cope, Almost Blue by Elvis Costello, Houses of the Holy by Led Zeppelin, Born Sandy Devotional by The Triffids and Sheer Heart Attack by Queen?


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