PARTHURBLOG

Absurdist. Disturbing. Brilliant – review of “Dogtooth”, a family film that’s certainly not family-friendly.

The family: the hope for those who believe that Britain is broken, and that salvation will come from happy marriages providing  protection and place of safety for the next generation.

There’s much to be said for the idea.

I grew up in just such a context; an extended network of aunts and uncles, cousins and interlopers – some of whom stayed the course, many who didn’t. (There’s nothing harder to join than a genetic club). It was a truly fortunate upbringing, based on mutual support and , dare one say, love.

All tribes have foibles. Step into someone else’s rules – watch how they relate to their parents, listen to conversations in the car, witness the disciplining of their children – it’s easy to see that we are all creating micro-worlds with specific boundaries, behaviours and expectations.

Dogtooth sets out this premise, and follows it to an illogical conclusion. The film’s ‘Father’ and ‘Mother’   completely protect their (now adult) children from the dangers of the modern world. They live in a comfortable, well-to-do house, with a high fence running its entire perimeter, and have never been outside. Ever.

The film opens with the three offspring listening to a home-made language tape with common words like ‘motorway’ being redefined to fit into the mythic structure that the parents have created. “Motorway: a type of shirt. As in ‘You are wearing a bright motorway today’”.

(Dogtooth is not a great advertisement for home education.)

So from the first scene, director Giorgos Lanthimos establishes that language is the most potent weapon of control. Language and story.

For example,  given that the parents have told their children that the world is a toxic place, how to explain the aircraft that occasionally fly over the house? ‘Father’ places a small toy ‘plane in the garden, because “it has fallen out of the sky”. It is a creature, like a bird, that has died mid-flight. Look how small it is; it fits in your hand. It could not possibly carry people.

It is a bizarre, bleak, absurdist view of how the family structure can at once protect and suffocate. How the stories we create – as pass down generations – shape our view of the world.

Philip Larkin was right.

Taken at face value, Dogtooth is an extreme view of the abuse of trust in a domestic setting. Taken as an allegory of political control, it’s a much wider film.

In interview, Lanthimos has said that the film’s origin came from thinking about how people understand the world in which they live. That includes institutions. It’s not a huge leap from the Father’s explanation of why only he can leave the garden each day in his car, to the received wisdom about… well, take your pick: Weapons of Mass Destruction? The War on Terror?

Stories which become increasingly bizarre to maintain the status quo.

It’s tempting, from a liberal, democratic viewpoint, to see the Dogtooth family behind its fence as (say) Eastern Europeans, being told about Western decadence. But Lanthimos’ world isn’t about them; it’s about us. And how our stories are so pervasive and ingrained that we are not even aware that they define us.

At the climax of the film, one of the characters senses it is time to leave, yet even then the stories that have been woven are so much part of children’s understanding of ‘reality’ that extreme measures have to be taken in accordance with the rules of those stories.

Simply stepping of of the front door isn’t an option.

Dogtooth is not a film for a fun night out; it is sexually explicit (there were walk-outs from the screening I attended), has moments of genuinely shocking violence, and challenges taboos head-on. At the same time, it is a work of true originality, obsidian humour and some of the most disturbing relationships seen on screen.

A week after viewing, I still don’t know if the end is hopeful or hopeless. But 8 months into 2010, I am confident that it is my film of the year.

Popularity: 8% [?]

Will Self continues to bewitch, bewilder and beguile me with his cultural commentary.

It’s not that I especially agree with him or think that he’s any more insightful than  other  critics.

It’s his delivery.

There’s his voice (a basso-profondo monotone that is comforting to the point of  hypnotic) and his vocabulary. The man is a walking thesaurus and a one-man dictionary of ideas.

Here he is being interviewed on radio (interview, mind you; not a ‘talk’ from notes) about the German novellist W G Sebald:

“Humanism is a synchronic belief about history. It’s a belief in progress. Sebald is a writer who believes in full temporal simultaneity. He is a self-confessed metaphysician. I think he’s almost a Kantian trascendental idealist.”

Just say that last phrase aloud: ‘a Kantian transcendental idealist’. And imagine the mind that can weave it into spontaneous speech.

From Self, that doesn’t sound like showing off. It’s just the way he speaks. They are the perfect words to deliver his thought – and if we, the audience, don’t understand, well we’d better do some work for once to raise ourselves to his level.

Will Self doesn’t “dumb down” – indeed, to even suggest such a tautological idea will have him snarl at you with contempt: Is is possible to dumb up?

It’s a common criticism of the English that we don’t like intellectuals. If Self was French, he’d be a national hero, with his own late night talk show, interviewing Derridian deconstructionists and Lacan structuralists.

Here, he goes on Vic & Bob’s “Shooting Stars”.

That probably says more about us than it does about him.

Popularity: 9% [?]

DVD OF THE MONTH

For the past two months, every week night, I have been attending therapy.

That’s to say, I have watched Dr Paul Weston explore the fears, regrets, guilt and uncertainties of five people who have their fare share of the dark side of the human condition.

I’ve been watching Season One of In Treatment, the HBO series that has broken another mould in TV scheduling: a 30-minute programme, originally broadcast Monday through Friday, each episode focusing on a client at a particular time slot in Weston’s diary.

So Monday 10:00am is Laura’s day, Tuesday Alex and so on. On Friday, Weston (played by the brilliant Gabriel Byrne) goes to see his own therapist. Even the most experienced therapists have supervisors.

It’s a very compressed drama, extremely intense, very frank and occasionally heart-aching. Laura uses sex as a way of avoiding commitment; Alex is an swaggering fighter pilot who has recently bombed a school in Iraq; Sophie is a gymnast who tried to take her own life; Amy and Jake are a couple in a marriage that’s falling apart.

Whatever your view of the therapeutic process, In Treatment is gripping, utterly compelling drama. This is partly due to the writing (adapted from an Israeli series called Be’Tipul) and partly due to the acting. Two people in a room, with camera on close-up – if acting is reacting, it’s a master class on the control of the human face.

Gabriel Byrne is present in every episode, switching from a Buddha-like non-judgment, to anger, resentment, love and understanding.

What’s most noticeable in his performance is the variety and nuance he brings to each patient – beautifully illustrating that it takes two to form a therapeutic relationship.

I was recently told that in a therapy session, “there should be two frightened people in the room” – and Weston is certainly one half of that partnership. He and his wife are becoming increasingly estranged as his world becomes more and more defined by his consulting office. So he takes this to a long-standing supervisor (a very matriarchal Dianne Wiest)to gain clarity.

But even here, there’s more baggage than at an airport terminal. Beneath the respect and affection are heaving waves of professional jealousies and personal recriminations.

It’s not a series of happy endings or easy resolutions. More than anything else, it presents a mirror in which we can examine some of our own prejudices and beliefs.

If you like great acting, superb writing, and direction that is not afraid of silence on a TV screen, you’d do well to spend a few weeks on the couch watching Dr Weston.

He’s listening.

MOVIE OF THE MONTH

By coincidence (more likely, by subconscious choice) my Movie of the Month is also about the workings of the mind. Inception is the latest offering of ideas from Christopher Nolan, the director who first made his name with Memento (the amnesia murder mystery played in reverse) who has been playing with big ideas and movie conventions ever since (The Prestige, The Dark Knight).

This time, Nolan’s premise is that in the near future it will be possible to steal ideas from inside someone’s head. Specialist consultants will invade the subject’s dreams and collect commercially sensitive infomation. Central characters Cobb and Arthur (Leonardo DiCaprio and Joseph Gordon-Levitt) are two of the finest in the business.

In the world of Inception, stealing ideas is normal. The greater challenge is to insert an idea, so that the recipient thinks it is their own.

So, at surface level, Nolan sets up a heist movie in which Cobb accepts this mission impossible.

In other hands, this would be a plodding, clichéd action movie with the star on a motor bike and a blonde on his arm.

But this is planet Nolan; they do things differently there.

Any heist needs a team: in this case it includes a pharmacist who has dozens of dreamers asleep in his cellar, the conman who’ll adopt different personas in dreams, and the architect who’ll create the worlds in worlds in which the dreams will take place.

Because this is complex stuff, beyond the “when-you-wake-up-you’ll-dance-a Highland-fling” of stage hypnosis. Cobb and his team don’t operate at a surface level; they go deep, beyond concept or notion to axiomatic belief.

So this time they’re not out to plant an idea in a dream. Like a set of subconscious Russian dolls, this is going to take place in dream in a dream in a dream.

Still with me?

Nolan creates a complex narrative to explain all this visually: for a film so full of ideas, it’s mercifully free from exposition. And when he is explaining, it’s usually with stunning visual tricks – as in the mirror reflecting in the mirror (where IS Nolan and his camera?).

But even then the mission would be a little pedestrian if it was just about ‘the job’. So Nolan creates an added dimension to Cobb’s own dreams. He lost his wife a few years ago, and she keeps making guest appearances in his dreams – or rather, the dreams that he’s invading in order to do his job. And she’s trying to derail his work.

It’s Marion Cotillard (last seen in La Vie en Rose) as the wife who steals the picture. While Nolan is so busy feeding us ideas, he doesn’t have time to build a three-dimensional cast of character. Cobb’s wife is the exception, thanks to the relationship she has with her husband.

Of course, that relationship is not her relationship at all – it’s Cobb’s memory of their relationships, which reminds us that even with those closest to us, we shaping them in our own image. In the same way as Paul Weston shapes his patients. And they shape him.

Even with DiCaprio topping the credits, there’s no doubt that the star of this picture is writer- director Nolan. It starts with a multi-level labyrinth, keeps the audience on its toes along the way, and ends with a question.

Indeed, the final scene and shot sent a shiver down my spine in just the same way as the moment the cops realized who they’d been interviewing the end of The Usual Suspects.

And like Suspects, Inception also a meta-movie : a film about film-making, a story about stories. Not only are we watching DiCaprio’s dream in a dream in a dream, we’re also in a dark room watching Nolan’s dream on screen. So there are four levels at work here, to which you and I are now building. You’re reading my version of Nolan’s dream, and by the end of this sentence, you’ll have created a version of mine (of Nolan’s, of Cobb’s).

Inception makes the viewer work hard to keep up, offers a visual feast of both location and effects, but most importantly, makes you think. I loved it – at least I believe I did.

Maybe Nolan planted that idea too?

Popularity: 16% [?]

A friend sent me the following round-robin email today:

What is the definition of Globalization?

Answer: Princess Diana’s death.

An English princess with an Egyptian boyfriend crashes in a French tunnel, riding in a German car with a Dutch engine, driven by a Belgian followed closely by Italian Paparazzi on Japanese motorcycles, treated by an American doctor, using Brazilian medicines.

This is sent to you by a Canadian, using American software, and you’re probably reading this on a computer that uses Taiwanese chips, and a Korean monitor, assembled by Bangladeshi workers in a Singapore plant, transported by Indian truck drivers, hijacked by Indonesians, unloaded by Sicilian longshoremen, and trucked to you by Mexican illegals…

That, my friends, is Globalization!

Some of the stereotypes will cause offence. In my case, it just saddens me:

In the entire value chain, Britain’s only contribution is the Royal family.

Popularity: 13% [?]

…in which we learned that “Gove is always having to say you’re sorry”

…in which the Dutch confirmed their reputation as cloggers

…in which Nicholas Hayek (1928-2010), the creator of the Swatch, finally called time

…in which an octopus made the World Cup interesting (thanks to its ten tackles)

…in which Snoop Dogg revealed he wants to appear in Coronation Street – into the Rovers for “Gin & Juice”?

…in which Zenna Atkins, outgoing chair of Ofsted, said that schools should tolerate ‘useless’ teachers because it helps pupils learn to deal with other people’s incompetence in later life. My teachers must have been too good – otherwise I’d be able to tolerate Ms Atkins.

Popularity: 14% [?]

It’s been a while since I’ve done a lot of international business travel; I’d forgotten just what a pleasure it can be.

In recent weeks, a pan-European project has taken me on multiple day-trips, and all my fondest memories have come flooding back.

Especially over the past 24 hours, as a French Air Traffic Control strike left me stranded in Barcelona. More specifically, in Barcelona airport.

So, while they’re fresh, here’s a collection of Rutherford’s Laws of Air Travel. Let me know your suggestions; we’ll build the definitive user guide for those foolhardy enough to follow us:

The Arrival-Departure Inverse: the earlier you are for your flight, the greater the likelihood that it will be delayed.

The Arrival-Departure Revelation: only after you have checked-in will the airline tell you that your flight has been delayed.

The Arrival-Departure Corollary: the later you are for your flight, the greater the chance that:

A) it will be on time;

B) the person in front of you, when asked if they have been given anything to include in their luggage, will answer ‘yes – duelling pistols’;

C) you’ll choose the security queue in which everyone ahead of you has a pin in their leg.

Doc Marten’s Inspection Relationship: the longer the laces on your shoes, the more likely you will be asked to take them off at security.

The Exposed Toe Multiplier: raises the Doc Marten Inspection Relationship to 1:1 when you have a hole in your sock.

The Intel 20: the number of signs, pictures, videos, leaflets and verbal instructions needed to ensure that the man with six frequent flyer gold cards takes his laptop out of his case for x-ray.

M C Escher’s First Law of Airport Design: the destination sign-posted at the bottom of a staircase is never sign-posted at the top.

M C Escher’s Second Law of Airport Design: never give customers in Terminal coffee shops  line of sight of the information display boards.

The “Are We Having Fun?” Rule: the longer you wait for your cancelled flight, the more people you will see on their way to their holiday destinations.

The No-Turning-Back Probability Calculation: the longer the escalator, the greater the chance that you are on the wrong one headed to the wrong gate. The probability gets closer to 1.0 the closer you are to departure time.

The Scargill Power Union: all batteries run down at the same rate, whether or not each device is in use. At the moment your mobile cuts out – aka the moment you are trying to call you office / Client / home –  your Blackberry, laptop and mp3 player will shut down in sympathy.

Tic Tac Toe Paradigm: when the plane is half empty, the seat allocation system will always put you with two other people to complete a row of three.

The Law of Temporary Innumeracy: all people are rendered number blind when entering a plane; if you have seat 19C, you will sit in 18C or 20C, because for the duration of you journey 19 will cease to exist as an intellectual construct.

The Sound-Distance Constant: one screaming child for every 250 miles flown in Economy.

The Travis Bickle ‘Looking at Me’ Calculation: distance from airport to destination (miles) x duration spent in taxi (minutes) = number of times you will see the driver glare at you in his rear-view with bloodshot eyes .

The Travis Bickle Conversion Rate: 1 ‘Looking at Me’ glare = 1 unit of local currency ($, £, €). The total ‘Looking at Me’ payment is made as a gratuity for letting you out of the car without physical harm.

The Hour-Minute Co-efficient: the hour in which you arrive at your hotel (based on the 24 hour clock) determines the number of minutes you must walk to your room. Arrivals on or after 00h00 usually sleep in reception.

The Sweaty Collar Certainty: when you have an enforced overnight stay – and you need your only shirt laundered – you will discover that you have arrived on a little known public holiday, and that the laundress has taken the evening off. Along with the kitchen staff.

KEY TERMS FOR FUTURE REFERENCE

Boarding: we’d like you to stand in a queue and watch passengers disembark from the flight you’ll be getting on when we’ve cleaned it in about 20 minutes

Estimated Time of Departure: we really have no idea, but the system won’t accept a blank field

Gate Closes: gate will still be open (unless you’re 10 seconds late, when it means ‘the gate has already closed, and no amount of negotiation or charm will get you on the flight. Have a nice day.’)

Popularity: 24% [?]

So now we all know what a ‘vuvuzela’ is. And if you’ve heard the sound of the mass paper-and-comb orchestra monotonously tuning-up at World Cup matches, you know what it does.

A new word has entered the common currency (1.7m hits on Google), and – whatever your response to the sound – we are a little richer for it.

South Africa hasn’t been my only source of new language this week. I heard an interview with Australian poet Les Murray, sharing his enthusiasm for the way language evolves, especially his own native variant.

He is one of a group of linguaphiles who describe themselves as ‘word catchers’ and contribute to their country’s Macquarie Dictionary. Word catcher – so much more vivid than lexicographer.

Indeed, it’s the vivid colour of Australian vocabulary that makes it so attractive, so energetic. Not the use of profanity, but the pictures they conjure, even with proper nouns. Here are a few new terms to add to your vocabulary:

Ranga – that’s a red-head. Comes from orang-utan.

Papped – to be photographed by the paparazzi. “She was papped coming out of the night club.”

Window licker – a voyeur

Fibro – by origin, Fibro is a building material, like asbestos. But it’s morphed, and now means someone who comes from a poor suburb. “You could tell he was a Fibro by the state of his ute”

Ute – short-form for ‘utility vehicle’, which has now become so accepted that it appears on Australian Government paperwork for car registration. “Is the vehicle a car or ute?”

Informal – voting is compulsory in Australia, but you don’t have to vote for any of the official candidates. Instead, there’s a box in which to write the name of your dog or best friend or world dictator. That’s your informal candidate. “Kevin isn’t really in line for promotion. He’s just an informal.”

Puck – the semi-solid disk of compressed coffee grounds found in a coffee machine

Belly leggings – specially-tailored tights for pregnant women

and my favourite:

Budgie smugglers – the generic term for Speedo swimming trunks.

Surely, you can weave that into your conversation today?

Popularity: 35% [?]

“So are you English or British?”

My questioner was an American who lives in Switzerland. We were talking about the notion of  identity, nationality and belonging. (He’d given up on his ‘homeland’ 20 years ago).

“Actually, Paul,” he continued, sensing good sport to be had at the expense of a limey, “what does it  mean to be British?”

It is a touchy subject; start picking at that thread and soon you’re unravelling an entire cardigan of immigration, race, devolution, Anglo-Saxons, Normans, Vikings, Jutes, Picts, Celts, Bretons, third-generation Asians,  and the fact that St George was Turkish.

I couldn’t give him a pre-packed, well-delineated answer. I don’t know what membership rules for ‘Club Britain’ say. I’ve never looked – but then again, if they do exist, they’ll be as dry and uninspiring a late train announcement.

Rules don’t make things come to life; it’s the interpretation and creativity within rules that matter. So I gave my Swiss-American friend a list of 10 things that would give him a rounded experience of the British “brand”.

It’s not a list of top tourist attractions or the usual historic monuments. It’s neither politically correct nor hankering for a Britain that no longer exists.

Rather, it’s a taster of the (almost) everyday; the common-place that is so close, we almost don’t notice it. But to a foreigner…

BBC Radio 4: some of the best comedy, most of the best talk, great drama (every day of the week), long-running threads that link back to a bygone age… each of the individual items is a litmus test of the British psyche. As a whole, the very fact that it exists at all is a wonder;

Car Boot Sales: who needs new-fangled-internet-nonsense like eBay, when you can get rid of unwanted bric-a-brac in a field, out the back of your pride and joy? Combining two great British passions – cars and the accumulation of stuff – the car boot is now one of the main retail segments of the economy. All human life is here, from the stupid (“I like your dress. Do you have it in a size 16?”) to the sublime (“Emily is selling all her dolls and crayons to raise money for Haiti”). A unique cultural institution.

Cheeses: we have no monopoly on fine cheese (the French have a fair claim to at least 2 spots in the World Top 10), but we are bloody good at it. And the range so much defines the nation. Cheddar, Cheshire, Derby, Double Gloucester, Lancashire, Leicester, Stilton, Wensleydale – almost a dairy atlas;

Curry Houses: 30 years ago, it would have been fish & chips, but that’s been replaced by the ‘cuzza’, and its ubiquity says much about Britain’s colonial past, post-war immigration, and our diversity today. The curry house is such a democratic place: all strands and layers of society will rub shoulders in the same venue;

Evening Classes: American writers may dominate the self-improvement shelves, but that’s all talk and wishful thinking. Rather than just believing things will get better, Brits get down to the local institute or college to actually learn. From genealogy to pot-throwing, first aid to astronomy, the evening class is the source of enlightenment, social contact, and the occasionally thrilling still life;

Friday Night Bingeing: I did say this was a rounded experience of the British brand, which means warts-and-all. While others will include the great British pint in the Top Ten, there’s an underside to our relationship with alcohol that singles us out, not for the better. I can explain the roots of everything else on this list. Friday Nights remain a mystery;

Gardens: there’s no other country in the world quite so in love with gardening as the British. Not at the even-if-I-only-have-a-window-box-I’m-going-to-grow-something level. From the Chelsea Show to the well-maintained front lawn, gardening is part of our warp and weft;

Newspapers: I know this is my second slice from the media pie, but there’s no escaping that our national and regional press help define our culture – not only by their content, just by their presence. In the scheme of things, we’re a tiny island, and yet every day we produce and consume The Courier, The Daily Express, The Daily Mail, The Financial Times, The Guardian, The Herald, The Mirror, The Star, The Sun, The Telegraph, The Times, The Western Mail. This roster – supported by hundreds of  local titles – is struggling to adapt to the free, online world. Enjoy it while you can;

Tea: ahhh, the Empire. When the sun never set, and the atlas was pink. The further away we get, the more we revise the revisions of a revisionist history. We were worse than we thought; we were better than we feared. No matter – at least it left us with the cuppa. Universal placebo, fuel for the labouring man (“tea with two”), oil for the mechanism of polite society;

War Memorials: almost without exception, every village, town or city has memorial to its fallen. The fact that they exist says much about the national character; the fact that they are cared for and are the focal point across the nation at least one day a year says much more. Even as I type this, I have a lump in my throat.

* * *

So that’s my list. It’s not wholly arbitrary (I gave it more than a few minutes thought), but it will probably change if you ask me again tomorrow.

Your list may well be completely different, but I have the notion that through collective wisdom, we can create the definitive Top 10 (perhaps 20) things that a visitor must experience if s/he is going to really have a taste of Britain today.

Over to you…

Popularity: 51% [?]

Yesterday lunchtime I went to the Post Office. I had a small parcel to send.

My mistake in that first sentence is obvious: combining ‘Post Office’ and ‘lunchtime’ .

As I joined the end of the queue, I heard a digitized voice say “Cashier Number 6 please” and made the stupid assumption that there were six windows open.

I couldn’t confirm this, because I was standing outside on the pavement at the time.

At least it was sunny.

GONE TO LUNCH?

We shuffled forward, with the urgency of a bank offering a refund for over-charging on an overdraft that you’ve never taken.

Once I made it through the doorway, I could see that there were only three people on duty. And ‘ Cashier Number Six’ was reserved for foreign currency. So in reality, there were two desk staff serving.

Twenty-five minutes after joining the queue, I posted my parcel. The member of staff was cheery, helpful and courteous – surprising, given that everyone who stood in front of her must have been really grumpy.

(If there’s one thing worse than dealing with the Great British Public, it’s dealing with the GBP who have been kept waiting.)

During my wait, I wondered about the cause of the delay. Someone called in sick? Absence for training? Early lunch?

I didn’t ask: by the time I reached the service window, it didn’t seem fair to take any more time than absolutely necessary to complete the transaction.I didn’t want to cause a riot.

I left it – an unsolved puzzle.

So imagine my delight today when I found out the answer.

Why did I have to queue for almost half-an-hour?

Adam Crozier’s bonus.

The Royal Mail Group has just announced its results. And despite the fact that the CEO left at the end of March (released four months early from his contract, to go and run ITV), Mr Crozier received total remuneration of £2.5m, including £1.5m as part of his ‘long-term incentive plan’.

He made his performance targets.

THE BOTTOM LINE

And what were they? Well, a big one was profit – and the letters business, Parcelforce and Post Office stores all increased profit in 2009-10. Well done to the executive team.

But wait! While the bottom line was growing (albeit delivering wafer-thin margins) the top line decreased, down from £9.6 bn to £9.3bn.

Now, I’m no accountant, but if the bottom line on a P&L statement goes up while the top line is coming down, there’s only one variable left.

Costs.

Which in the case of Royal Mail Group is the reduction of service from two deliveries to one per day, a closure of rural post offices and a reduction of staff available to serve customers at  lunchtime.

Mr Crozier got paid an enormous sum of money for cutting off  bits of a state-owned, partial monopoly.

A very wise Finance Director once told me that, in business, “You can’t cut your way to heaven.” Obviously, he’d never benefitted from a Royal Mail executive compensation package.

Popularity: 37% [?]

GRAN TORINO

Jim Broadbent once said that it is not possible to make a film better than its script. No amount of direction, editing or on-screen presence is going to lift a mediocre screenplay above, well, mediocrity.

Gran Torino has a perfect script.

Clint Eastwood plays a retired auto-worker / Korean veteran who has just lost his wife. His core values and ingrained discipline means that he keeps his lawn neat and his body in shape.

He is old school, and mourns the passing of core American values.

This is no more obvious to him than the fact that his neighbourhood has been taken over by Asian immigrants, for whom he has no time. But they respect him, and – despite his resistance – they start to show him shared values about family and belonging.

The film charts a journey to redemption; forgiveness for past sins, seeing others for who they really are, and repaying debts of honour. It’s a stirring piece of work, that says much about aging, societal shift, the need for redemption…

…and ultimately, finding peace in the world.

Highly recommended

BROKEN FLOWERS

Bill Murray reprises his existential, my-life-is-empty ‘Lost in Translation’ act in this portrait of a man looking for meaning through his past relationships.

No-one does empty quite like Murray. Like dead air on radio, doing nothing on screen is a sure-fire route to losing an audience, but Murray’s nothing is interesting. There is so much regret behind his eyes that to see him sitting, looking straight at camera but straight through you is like looking at a great portrait.

Murray’s nothing tells a story.

In ‘Broken Flowers’ he’s materially comfortable (he made a pile ‘in computers’) but emotionally bankrupt. A series of relationships have come and gone, but he’s never committed or settled.

So when an anonymous letter turns up, telling his he has a son, it’s a chance to reprieve extinguished flames.

Not that he grabs the opportunity with gusto. He embarks on his trip almost as a favour to his next-door neighbour, a would-be private eye and whodunit enthusiast.

The cast is top-drawer and Jim Jarmush’s direction is suitably sparing and pared-down. But unlike Lost in Translation, there is no redemption here.

In LiT, Murray gets the chance to be the hero by not taking advantage of Scarlett Johansson.

In BF, the message is downbeat. Murray has failed to grasp his opportunities in life, and this has left him bereft of attachment or joy. But he is also condemned to repeat his future in the same vein. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks because old dogs don’t know how to learn.

Worth a watch, but not if you’re looking for a lift.

LOOKING FOR ERIC

When you’re a Manchester postman, down on your luck, at the tail end of two broken marriages, being run ragged by two stepsons and their no-respect mates, who do you turn to for help?

Eric Cantona. Of course.

That’s the premise of the most uplifting film in director Ken Loach’s entire catalogue. While the world that postman Eric (he shares his name with his hero) inhabits is grim, the tone of ‘Looking for Eric’ is light, upbeat and feel good.

It’s a comedy about friendship and hope.

It’s also – appropriately enough – a game of two halves, which is a slight flaw.

The first half is beautifully played by Steve Evets as the haggard Everyman, and establishes the relationships in his life with great skill: his first wife, his daughter, his workmates, and Cantona himself – suitably enigmatic in pronouncement and pronunciation.

(Apparently, when shooting the scene in which Cantona steps ‘out of the poster’ and into the postman’s bedroom, Evets had not been told that the footballing icon would actually be in the room. His expression in that moment is wonderful).

Yet having established all this, the second half sees Loach and his writer  struggle a little with finding a place to take the idea. The test that’s presented to the lead character stretches disbelief a little, while the resolution takes it to breaking point.

But that is a niggardly complaint given that the fantasy tone of the film. Overall it’s a fun, highly enjoyable fairy tale for grown-ups – and you certainly don’t need to be a fan of Cantona, Manchester United or even football to enjoy it.

Recommended.

FOUR LIONS

If you’re a fan of The Day Today or Brass Eye or Blue Jam, then you’ll know Chris Morris’s world: dark humour, biting satire, and an instinct for really irritating the readers of The Daily Mail.

He doesn’t disappoint with ‘Four Lions’, his first feature film. It’s a comedy about Islamic suicide bombers.

More accurately, it’s about five Muslims in the North of England who think that they have been called as part of the jihad against Western materialism.

In truth, they are incompetent half-wits with a sense of grievance.

The film follows them as they plot their attack, bicker amongst themselves, get angrier with the world, and try to make sense of what is happening to them.

First and foremost, ‘Four Lions’ is a comedy, and it is very, very funny. The visual joke about avoiding surveillance cameras would be worth the price of admission on its own.

But like all Morris’s work, it is an uncomfortable comedy, which is its great strength.

While a couple of the group are a little two-dimensional and only in the story as a source of laughs, the lead character – Omar – is fully drawn, with a wife and child, a job, a house, a mortgage: All signs of a ‘normal life’ which makes his commitment to the cause the chilling thread that runs through the film.

And deepens the question ‘Why?’

Must see (at home on DVD – unless you want to feel very self-conscious about laughing in public)

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