Showing posts with label pretension. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pretension. Show all posts

Thursday, September 07, 2017

The Times' review of MOTHER! (Darren Aronofsky, 2017).

Uploading Kevin Maher's review of the polarising Mother! because The Times has a paywall. (click on the image for enlargement)



Although I've not yet seen the film, the closing paragraph sums up the pseud that is Darren Aronofsky (a man who's work I've uniformly despised, bar the decent The Wrestler) remarkably well, I feel.

Sunday, August 27, 2017

Bar review: ASK FOR JANICE (Clerkenwell)

Ask for Janice is a gin bar near the bustle of St. Paul’s. I drank here one Summer’s day. It has some space outside, where I sat : -



Thursday, August 17, 2017

Book review: THE LOST SYMBOL (Dan Brown)


Robert Langdon, the Harvard professor whose impressive cognitive abilities was put through their paces in Angels and Demons and then The Da Vinci Code, finds himself at the centre of another mystery. This time, it involves the kidnapping of his close friend, Peter Solomon, a renowned member of the Freemasons. Along with Peter’s scientist sister Katherine, Langdon must piece together the fragmented clues to get Solomon’s abductor the information he strives, if he wishes to see his friend alive again.

Monday, June 26, 2017

Product reviews: BOX OF SIX MACARONS (Ladurée) and POSH PROFITEROLES (Marks and Spencer)

"Not really your kind of place, is it?"


Friday, December 23, 2016

Bar review: BREWDOG (Soho)



Brewdog Soho epitomises why I'm filled with trepidation whenever someone suggests drinking in a bar in central London that is alien to me. It encapsulates all of the disadvantages of drinking in the capital and has none of the perks. Overpriced, an awful drink selection that flirted with the obtuse and blaring obnoxiously loud hipster music, the 2.5 hours I had to spend in this dive were some of the longest of my life.

Tuesday, November 22, 2016

Restaurant review: PIZZA PILGRIMS (Soho)

The servings at this much (over)-hyped pizza parlour didn’t taste anything out of the ordinary compared to a bog-standard oven pizza you can buy at Sainsbury’s, and compared to Sainsbury’s Taste the Difference, the meals completely paled in every department. 

Portion-wise, they left a lot to be desired; the cooks scrimped on the components of the meal that actually cost money (aka, the meat and veg, as demonstrated by the photo below), choosing to swamp you with dough instead. Big mistake: I prefer thin bases. And, ironically, they couldn’t even get the dough right; look how charred that is!


Tuesday, October 25, 2016

Bar review: McQUEEN (Old Street)

Named after an actor who is generally perceived to be one of the coolest screen presences of all time, McQueen the bar is somewhat of a misnomer. It strives to be stylish, alright, but isn’t swagger something you just effortlessly have? It’s not really je ne sais quoi if you’re trying desperately to procure the quoi in question.

I went to McQueen last night on an "Asians in London" meet-up, and the entire ground floor was rented out to us, which was a nice gesture of hospitality. I thought such a busy event was a little under-staffed, considering Asians and non-Asians came pouring in in their droves, and at one point, I asked if I could have a drink to a boy at the til and he told me ‘I don’t serve’. Why do you stand behind the bar then mate?

I wasn’t completely sold on the décor, which consisted of lots of weird and wacky statues and ornaments, but the individual pieces didn’t fit with each other to give a cohesive image of the bar, and certainly not very Steve McQueenish. This wall hanging below is a bit creepy, truth be told:



I also wasn’t too impressed with the close positioning of the sofas at the centre of the room, which meant that it was practically impossible not to bump into someone if you wanted to head towards the bar.

My Litmus test for whether or not I consider a London bar overpriced or not is the price of that first round (assuming the round is for two people). If it falls below £10, then I’m a fan. Hence why I adore so many Wetherspoons so. 

If that first round exceeds £10, that’s not the end of the world, but the bar has to have a certain élan to atone for their above-median prices of drinks. And that isn’t an excessively taxing imposition; I’ve had excellent impressions of several bars in London that charge a pretty penny for their drinks, ranging from The Escapologist to Reverend JW Simpson, because their cocktails were just on point.

After all, I don’t mind paying over the odds if the ambience and quality of service matches the price. McQueen sadly didn’t have that; the atmosphere was fairly stale and consisted purely of the  noise from conversations of the people at the event. Would it have killed the managers to play some pop music?

For the next round, I ordered a soft drink in order to save some money. But a lime cordial was shockingly priced at £2.50 (it's 40p in a lot of London pubs!)

In terms of riding on the laurels of its Shoreditch location and not delivering on the rest, it’s definitely not the most guilty (that would be, hands down, Worship Street Whistling Shop, one of the worst bars in London). But McQueen was nothing earth-shattering, and certainly nothing the man it was named after would hurry to write home about.

Grade: C

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The rest of my bar reviews are all listed here. If you would like me to review your's, e-mail me at lemon_and_lime7@hotmail.com.

Monday, October 17, 2016

Restaurant review: MILDRED'S (Soho)



Mildred's doesn't take reservations, which almost instantly signals alarm bells to me. The only place that has been an exception to the 'Places which don't take bookings offer terrible service to their diners' has been the excellent On the Bab; everywhere else which doesn't take bookings has shown, quite starkly, that if they don't care about making customers stand in the freezing cold waiting to get fed, they definitely won't think twice about ignoring you if you require the waiter's attention. Mildred's, lamentably, didn't go any way towards disproving that prima facie.

Mildred's is a vegetarian restaurant in Soho, and it will feed you, but, unless you make over £100,000 a year, wear an Armani suit and stockpile the alcohol order, the waiters will look at you like a piece of trash and act like you ought to be grateful that they're gracing you with their company. It also squashes all their punters in like sardines so they can maximise revenue, meaning that the sound of other people's conversations regularly intrude on the one you're conducting.

The burger was reasonably priced at £7, but the chips, which at £3 for twice as much photographed above, felt like a bit of a con. The waiter practically sneered at me and my friend when we said we were going to share a portion of fries, which was not cool. Excuse us for having the audacity to order food of our own volition(!)

I would be lying if I were to say I didn't enjoy my burger; it was plenty tasty and the texture was on point. I liked the enterprising display of flatbread rather than a bun. What a shame then, that the snooty service I'd received from the waiter, who clearly took one look at us and decided we weren't his income level of choosing, had left some a sour taste in my mouth. When we left the restaurant, they didn't even say 'goodbye', but instead, just threw us a 'and don't come back again' look.

I also don't appreciate the presumptuous way they stick on a 12.5% service charge. The service we received at Mildred's (being eye-rolled at, having our requests for water and serviettes all but ignored) was non-existent, bordering on counterproductive to our dining experience. The only beneficial contribution our waiters made were to carry our orders from the kitchen to our table without dropping it. A bit of a stretch at 12.5%, if you ask me.

If you're looking for decent vegetarian nosh but would rather it didn't come with a side order of hauteur, I'd recommend you go to the nearby Tidbits instead. There's a much more down-to-earth, hospitable atmosphere there.

Grade: D+

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All of my restaurant and bar reviews are listed here. Email me at lemon_and_lime7@hotmail.com if you would like me to review your venue!

Monday, June 06, 2016

The Neon Demon gets rated 18 by the BBFC.



I was equal parts intrigued and horrified when I first saw the trailer for The Neon Demon before The Nice Guys last Friday. On the one hand, it features Elle Fanning, who completely won me over with her adorable turns in Somewhere and Maleficentblossoming from pretty little girl into full-bodied woman. It also has Jena Malone, who was 50 shades of fierce as Johanna in The Hunger Games; exactly as I'd imagined her from reading the books. The setup: a group of L.A. models' slow disintegration into personal hell sounds quite dark; like a more interesting, less Oscar-thirsty Black Swan set on the catwalk. Fanning truly is a very gifted actress and this juicy role of the ingénue-come-manipulator sounds like one which will allow her to showcase the full range of her acting talent.

But, on the other hand, it's directed by that Nicolas Winding Refn pseud, who's snorefest Drive was so dull and pointlessly violent that even Ryan Gosling wearing a scorpion jacket couldn't salvage it. From The Neon Demon's trailer alone, you get ample glimpse of Refn's two favourite cinematic elements: ultra-violence and pretension, of which the full-length feature will no doubt feature more of.

Today, the BBFC released their rating + short insight for The Neon Demon, and, like Refn's Drive, Bronson and Only God Forgives, it also got an 18. No surprise, given the director's overt fondness for casual hammers-to-faces, and the like. As you know, I basically stalk the BBFC's website to be up to date with their ratings and justifications. The reason for the 18 to TND is quite an eyeful...


Sounds lovely(!) I think it's fair to say that I won't be enjoying this 18-rated release quite as much as the last one who's certificate I extensively analysed.

Tuesday, January 19, 2016

Film review: THE REVENANT (Alejandro González Iñárritu, 2015)

if this review reads a little awkward, it's because I've shoe-horned Taylor Swift references throughout. just so you get the same feeling of unnecessary bits of indulgence feels like when you read the review of a film that featured plenty of unnecessary indulgence.

A group of fur trappers, including the fearless and distinguished Hugh Glass (Leonardo DiCaprio) have just fled from attack by the Native American Arikara Indians from which who’s land they had been occupying. Due to his extensive experience in fur trapping, Glass has influence over the route the hunting party will take to get home, which is resented by a fellow member of his group, John Fitzgerald (Tom Hardy), who taunts Glass about his son, who is half Indian, cruelly naming him a ‘halfbreed’. 

One morning, when he’s out hunting alone, Glass is brutally attacked by a bear. She tosses him about, scratches her claws into him and presses her entire body weight against his skull, then saunters off. Just as you think Glass is out of the woods, however, the bear comes back, goes in harder, and leaves him on the edge of death. Never in your wildest dreams would you expect anyone to survive such a vicious mauling.



The rest of Glass’ group find him and try their best to piece him back together with their limited resources, but there’s no denying that on a journey in treacherous terrain, he’s slowing them down. The decent captain of the group, Andrew Henry (Domhnall Gleeson), finding himself incapable of committing a mercy-killing, offers a monetary reward to any of the team who will stay by Glass’ side until he passes away. Glass’ son, Hawk, and a soft-hearted young man named Jim Bridger (Will Poulter) who during the siege at the start of the film had almost been killed by the Native Indians, and Fitzgerald himself volunteer.

Unsurprisingly, give the bad blood between Glass and Fitzgerald and Fitz's disdain for Glass’ son which he hasn’t bothered to hide, this doesn’t lead to a happily ever after. Fitzgerald kills Hawk in front of Glass’ own eyes and then tricks Bridger into leaving Glass for dead. But, through sheer force of will, Glass survives, with the sole raison d’être of hunting Fitzgerald down and making him pay for the murder of his son.

Alejandro González Iñárritu won the Oscar for Best Director last year at the Oscars, as well as picking up Best Picture for Birdman, his cheeky satire on actors and their craft, which pretty much crowned him Hollywood’s Golden Boy and allowed him carte blanche with which to do whatever he fancied for his next picture. Unfortunately, The Revenant isn’t half as fun to watch as Birdman. It isn’t even 0.0000001%.

This is certainly through no fault of the performers. Much has been made of how much Leonardo DiCaprio suffered to play Hugh Glass (we could wryly note that this is because the cast and crew don’t miss an opportunity to tell us so at any possible opportunity), but even if you were to strip away all of the mud, blood and physical unpleasantness he had to endure, it is still a masterclass in physical theatre.

DiCaprio isn’t given many lines in The Revenant, and when so much is conveyed through his body language, it is of paramount important he gets it right. As he lies on his makeshift deathbed, refusing to give in, determined to survive, we feel the same. When the bear attacks Glass, we flinch as if the attack is happening to us. DiCaprio (and the very convincing makeup staff) are that credible.

Tom Hardy also excels in the villainous role. With a sneer and sarcastic mumble mouth, you know he is trouble when he walks in. John Fitzgerald has regard for nobody but himself, and with that, no conscience. Of course, this isn’t the first time Tom Hardy has played a baddie who’s speech you struggle to comprehend, being cast as Bane in 2012’s The Dark Knight Rises. But here he is far less cartoonish. Fitzgerald is the antagonist, but with his wild, darting eyes, Hardy injects pathos into this dislikable character. It is because Fitzgerald is so pitiable that he is so terrifying.

Other standout performers include Domhnall Gleeson, aka Bill Weasley. The red-haired Irishman seemed to be ubiquitous in 2015, appearing in Brooklyn, Ex Machina and Star Wars: The Force Awakens. Those three movies and The Revenant, have all been Oscar-nominated, although the man himself hasn’t been. I’d argue that his performance as the honest Captain in The Revenant is deserving of a nomination. He excels at depicting Captain Henry’s balancing act between being an authoritative figure who is also compassionate, but will bar his teeth when needs be. Incidentally, the raw display of masculinity from Gleeson when the Captain furiously discovers Fitzgerald lied to him about Glass is a thing to behold; Domhnall has never been sexier. Finally, English actor Will Poulter delivers a poetic, sweet performance, acting as a perfect foil to Hardy’s mercenary.

For all of the outstanding performances from the committed cast, they are let down by the sheer narcissism of the director, who evidently let that Best Director Oscar get to his head. The Revenant was a difficult shoot and a difficult picture to make. Of this I have no illusions. And to the film’s credit, it contains some handsome scenes.

The scene at the beginning where the fur hunters come under attack is beautifully shot, with the hyperkinetic camera busily trying to capture flying spears hitting their targets from every angle. But at some point, and this will vary depending on the attention span of the viewer, but for me it was just before the hour mark, it becomes blatantly clear that Iñárritu has made a film for himself rather than the audience.

Long, needless shots punctuate dramatic scenes to bloat up the running time in a manner so laborious that it makes Terrence Malick look like Michael Bay. In one late combative scene, blood flies from a character onto the camera and rather than shake it off to make the scene look more polished, AGI leaves it there, as a reminder of what an EXCELLENT director he is and how AUTHENTIC the shoot was. 

With a running time of 2 hours and 36 minutes, The Revenant is the longest of the eight Best Picture nominees this year, and boy do those 156 minutes drag on. As the screen was lathered with brazen Oscar-begging misery porn in the form of Leo’s cracked skin, gory detail of his bear wounds or an unsavoury sexual assault on one of the Pawnee women, I was reminded of Ricky Gervais’ comment to Steve Carrell about The Office US v UK: it’s quality, not quantity.

Other aspects of the film don’t sit well with me either. The score, by Ryuichi Sakamoto, Alva Noto and Bryce Dessner, sound like a bizarre melange of noises rather than anything mellifluous. Proponents of The Revenant will argue that they contribute to the frosty frontier setting of the film, but I know these sparse atonal sounds all too well, and rarely do the signify a film that I’ll enjoy.

And sadly, due to the pretentious direction, The Revenant ends up being, lamentably, much less than the sum of its parts. Leo will finally take home the Oscar at the end of February, and in addition to it being long overdue, he deserves it on the strength of his wonderful work. It’s just a shame that film itself, which plays out to be a clunkier, less emotionally engaging, more Oscar-thirsty version of Gladiator, doesn’t match the quality of his performance.

6/10

Tuesday, November 24, 2015

Restaurant review: 10 GREEK STREET (Soho)

Just on the fringes of Soho, a thriving hub of nightlife on all evenings on the week but in particular Fridays, is 10 Greek Street. It’s one of these curious restaurants that seems to be making a renaissance in London which neither has a fixed menu (instead, the food itinerary changes on a day-to-day basis depending on the whim of the chefs), nor takes bookings. 

Whilst I’m fine with the former – it’s good to keep things fresh and allow cooks their free rein, I’m much less fond of the latter. I can understand why not taking reservations works from a point of view of revenue for the restaurant, as it avoids annoying punters who flake out, I like to plan my evenings in advance and am genuinely a bit thrown when you have to go away for an unforeseeable amount of time until a table becomes free, especially as, in order to stay within proximity of the restaurant, you choices of drinking holes are basically restricted to a bunch of over-priced Soho places which charge for the pleasure of being in the location rather than the quality of the drinks they’re serving.

As for the food, the menu that day (chalked up on the wall in handwriting that could stand to be more legible) featured a dainty seafood thing which I ordered. It was well-presented and appetising to eat, but for £9, there really wasn’t anywhere near enough of it and I consumed the whole dish within three bites (admittedly, I was hungry from the enforced trip to a nearby bar that this restaurant’s no booking policy forced me to endure… see how it works? Don’t allow us to take bookings, suffer the brunt of this critic’s foul mood). 

The meagre quantity of the starter filled me with trepidation for the main course…



…And perhaps this had been a calculated move on the part of the chefs, in a wacky ‘expectation management’ move, because the main met my expectation of what a good restaurant should offer and then some. We ordered the duck dish to share, and I think you’ll agree from the photo, that the quantity was very generous.

As for the taste, wowzers. The sauce was a brilliant type of gravy that I haven’t tasted before, and the potatos were delicious (and there was a perfect amount of them, not too much, not too little). Even the greens tasted good, and you could tell they had been cooked, as opposed to just stuck on the side as a way of token healthiness. 

Overall, it was a treat and one of the best mains I’ve had in a restaurant in 2015. Which I was not expecting at all given the lah-dee-dah nature of the place when I first walked in.

So, the restaurant began in a deficit with me for its unhelpful ‘no booking’ rule, but by the time I had finished their delicious duck meal, I realised it was worth the wait. The starters are extremely overpriced but the main was damn near culinary perfection, so I’ll be kind with my score.

Grade: B+

Sunday, December 07, 2014

Bar review: ORIOLE BAR (Farringdon)

My favourite TV show of all time, Sex and the City, has a lot to answer for. Of the four lead females, the one I recognise myself in the most is definitely Carrie Bradshaw (played by Sarah Jessica Parker with considerable wit and flair). Carrie doesn’t take break-ups well, tends to fall hard in love with men who are no good for her, and is a writer. (Admittedly, I write for a blog, she writes for a state-wide newspaper, but still).

Furthermore, it was only because Carrie loved Cosmopolitans so much that I began drinking Cosmopolitans, and if I am ever in a cocktail bar, that’s my go-to drink. At Oriole bar, ordering a Cosmo would be failing to make the most of your opulent surroundings. The bar offers weird and wonderful concoctions featuring the most out there ingredients, including egg yolk, tobacco liquor and, er… dust.

The menu, which is divided by parts of the world (which inspired the various cocktails), is in itself, longer than most children’s books. I’m not being funny, but at 8pm when you just wanna get drunk with your girlfriends so you can trash-talk the clown men in your life (couldfillabook.jpg), who’s got time to read a whole MSc project-length??

That’s not to say that the drinks, and the food, sparse in quality as it was, wasn’t well presented.  Looks-wise, it certainly turned my head:-


That being said, the ostentatious presentation comes at a cost in terms of practicality. As the night progressed and I lost control of my motor neurones, I tipped over my awkwardly-shaped glass. Thankfully this was at the end and only ice cube spilt, but some of them went on the poor lady sat next to me. Hardly ideal.

The barfood was equally impractical. The chorizo, photographed below, whilst delicious, was I wolfed it up in about three bites. I've been curious about what exactly quinoa is since I saw Gone Girl  two months ago and Ben Affleck was mocked for thinking it was kind of fish. Turns out that what it actually is is some bland-ass flavourless pseudo-cereal concoction. Boring, and the pittance of salsa sauce put on it hardly merited the £7.50 price. That's £2.50 per fritter. Would you pay £2.50 for something you can barely see?!



Overall, I found Oriole too pretentious, and if I’m complaining about something being too pretentious, you know you’ve got problems. I guess I’m just too direct a person. I love cocktails, but I like to have two or three different alcoholic ingredients, a few mixers, and boom. And I’d rather my mixer didn’t include something that could give me an allergy!

Oriole bar is more of a status symbol than it is a viable drinking hole. People would bring guests here just to show that they can; that they can afford to throw away £14 on a cocktail with about 3 alcohol units in, tops.

I’d rather have Cosmopolitan, thanks.

Grade: C

Sunday, January 19, 2014

Bar review: WORSHIP STREET WHISTLING SHOP (Shoreditch)



Not too far off the Finsbury Square main road and just 10 minutes walk away from Liverpool Street Station is the Worship Street Whistling Shop, a bar which epitomises Shoreditch “edginess”.

The cocktails were all extremely steep (£10+, no Happy Hour), but that was expected given the location. What was not expected, however, was that there was no such thing as getting served at the bar, which is pretty standard of all other bars and pubs I’ve been to. 

I wondered why they would make their life so much more difficult for themselves with this needless bit of bureaucracy, but then I saw the answer: by serving us in our seats, they could heap on an extra 12.5% tip. For bringing the drink from the long length of the front to 10 yards away. There’s your service charge. (to add insult to injury, when I asked a simple question, "can I pay for each drink before I receive it?", the waitress gave me a long, needless rant about how much she hated tabs. Me too! That's why I asked that question, duhh!)



I’m not really a big fan of hipsters, so I didn’t really like the vibe of the place either, and the lighting was so dim it’d make Hollister look like Disneyland. The drink itself was impeccably presented, but the taste itself was lacking, and the quantity, for £11.25, was nothing short of shocking. 

I don’t know about other people in Shoreditch, but when I go to a bar, its with an aim to get drunk and have a good time. I fulfilled neither criteria yesterday at this bloated, quirky-for-quirky’s-sake place, and thus, I really could not recommend it.

 Grade: E

Thursday, June 28, 2012

Restaurant review: LADURÉE (Knightsbridge)


This year, for my birthday, I decided to try somewhere a bit more upmarket than my usual junk food haunts. So my best friend and I got our gladrags on and went to Ladurée, having seen it frequently heard it being spoken highly of, and wondering what the fuss was all about. 

Not a whole lot, as it turned out.

Tuesday, November 01, 2011

Film review: THE TREE OF LIFE (Terrence Malick, 2011)

Pretension. It’s a funny thing. I prescribe to the Monica Bing school of thought, that a little bit of pretension never hurt anyone. It is definitely a thing of which, however, too much of can kill. 

Cannes winners have, in the past, gone into one set column or the other for me. Pretty much half of them, I appreciated their artistry, but, even more than that, connected with them on an emotional level, and thus really adored them. The others, I have found frustrating and to be perfectly honest, far too clever for their own good. The Tree of Life is one which firmly falls in the latter camp.

Brad Pitt and Jessica Chastain head a good ol’ Christian style family in Texas. Pitt's character is the epitome of graft as he trains his songs to fight, build things and generally toughen them up against the big bad world, which he believes will take advantage of you if give it the chance. 

Sunday, October 09, 2011

Film review: MELANCHOLIA (Lars von Trier, 2011)

Film stars rarely let us into their own private worlds. So it was a great surprise, then, when Kirsten Dunst recently admitted to suffering from depression. In her Cannes-winning performances in Melancholia, she plays Justine, a woman who also suffers from depression. The film, set a few nights before the apocalypse, centres around Justine’s wedding night and her trepidation regarding it, as well as her sister Claire, who is struggling to hold everything together.

The film is divided into two acts, one centring around each sister, but not before we are “treated” to a montage of the world ending, set, rather portentously, to Wagner’s Tristan And Isolde. Those who are bigger von Trier loyalists than myself would say the choice of music is appropriate for the weightiness of such scenes. 

I, on the other hand, found myself struggling not to laugh as the audience are forced to sit through a truly tedious 10-minute overture, which featured some footage of Charlotte Gainsbourg running in slow-motion on a golf course, and Kirsten Dunst floating in her wedding dress in a pond full of green lily pads, ala the portrait of Ophelia. The whole vignette just reeks Kubrick at his self-serving worst; it’s just so awfully self-important that only those who have pretentiousness for breakfast (and, truth be told, I am fairly pretentious as it is) could take it seriously, however gorgeously it is shot.

When the actual film begins, however, things pick up. In Part I: Justine, we are thrown into a sort of wedding-from-hell scenario; Dunst and her tycoon husband-to-be (Alexander Skarsgaard, cute as a button) arrive late to their own wedding reception. Her sister Claire (Charlotte Gainsbourg) is already fretting as it is, Claire’s husband, John, is resentful at having to pay for the whole thing. As that dog/fox in von Trier’s equally pretentious film from last year, AntiChrist might say, “chaos reigns.” Justine and Claire’s estranged mother (played by Charlotte Rampling, epitomizing froideur in a way that only she can) carelessly drops waspish comments throughout, whereas their fun-loving father, played by John Hurt, brings two mistresses and has the time of his life swiping spoons. 

There is a claustrophobic sense of foreboding throughout, not helped by Justine’s predilection for sneaking off to be alone with her own thoughts. As the night unravels, she becomes increasingly fraught and depressed, despite the best efforts of her husband to cheer her up. Only Claire comes close to understanding her sister’s plight, but even then, she can’t prevent it. It is a self-fulfilling, self-destructive cycle to which no happy ending can be found.

In the second half of the film, Part II: Claire news has spread about Melancholia, a planet several times the size of earth, on a collision course, which may or may not take it straight where the earth is. Now it is Claire who is slowly losing her mind, as Justine finds a strange sense of consolation in knowing that life will soon end. The dynamic between the sisters change, and both Dunst and Gainsbourg give terrifically nuanced performances throughout to demonstrate thus. 

It was Dunst who picked up the gong at Cannes but personally, I was more taken by Gainsbourg in the film. Unlike in mysogyndrama AntiChrist, where she had some full on gynacological scenes, she doesn’t subject herself to such humiliations in this film, and her balancing act between being the caring sister trying to stop everything from falling apart and the worried mother fearing for that it all might fall apart anyway, lends to a terrifically layered performance.

Indeed, I would say it was the only thing about Melancholia which had any true layers, for I found other parts of the film horrifically caricaturist, bordering on farcical. The absurd opening, the over-usage of Wagner bordered on nauseating (note to the director: Terrence Malick’s used Wagner in the past, and done it much, much better than you could ever hope to, just truthin’). Long passages of the film are empty and downright uninteresting, the 130 minutes running time is nothing if not generous, and von Trier’s treatment of mental illness is done with a careless flick of the hand when it deserves much more.

On balance, Melancholia is a beautifully shot and excellently acted drama, but, for me, impossible to view as anything other than a comedy. Either Lars von Trier is having a gigantic laugh at our expense, or arthouse fans try far too hard to read deeply into things; but this film was not anywhere near as deep as it liked to think it was. 

Played out half as a fairly amusing satire on social airs and graces, half disaster movie, I could have accepted Melancholia. But if it thinks it has anything profound to say about depression, or the bigger picture in life, than the film, then Lars von Trier, can make like Keifer Sutherland at the end of the film, and get stuffed.

5/10

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Two Terrible Movies.

Now that I'm a University student, I don’t get as much time for watching movies as I used to. So when I do watch a movie, I expect it to be good. Sadly, the last two that I wasted my time with were anything but good.

Bung

The Quatermass Experiment
I went along to the Sci-fi’s society screening of The Quatermass Experiment with three of my friends yesterday, in complete blindness about the film and its plot. Which just goes to show that I should consult IMDb more frequently, because if I had, I would have had two hours of my life back, to have done some of the thick stack of Maths homework I have, to read a novel, or even, say, watching paint dry. Because any of those things would have been exponentially more exciting than The Quatermass Experiment.

The plot revolves around a failed space experiment (or something or other), resulting with, out of the three astronauts that had gone into space, two are missingng and the remaining one in a stage of crazed coma.

This was a remake of the 1953 film, and director Sam Miller must have felt a burning desire to the maintain the campness of 50s B-movies, because everything about it - from the stodgy script, to the actors who performances make Keira Knightley look expressive – was below par. The finale brought the lulz in the biggest way; my friends and I were just sat there blankly, and overall, nothing made sense, except that the BBC were really bored one day and couldn’t be arsed to make a proper movie. TQC has done little to sweeten my already tempestuous relationship with fantasy movies. As one of my friends said, “the only good thing about it was that it had David Tennant”, but for all his endeavours, no amount of Doctor Who impressions could redeem this “film”, a load of absolute bollocks. E.

Good Time Max
I downloaded this in time for the “Franco Revolution” (the non-Spanish civil war type) what with his performance in Pineapple Express being touted as one of the finest comedic turns of the year (I’m still yet to see it, but I will – any film that plays M.I.A.’s Paper Planes in the trailer has my interest as I bunging love that song). Anyway, this film was incredibly. Directed, co-written and starring James Franco, it’s about two brothers, Adam and Max, both born geniuses, but, whilst Adam purses a career as a surgeon, Max falls down on the slippery slope of drug addiction. After a drug deal gone wrong, Max convinces his brother to go far away and start a new life with him, but it’s not long before his rehabilitation process falls flat on his face and life gets worse than ever.

Shit film. Seriously, shit.

The only thing of interest in this entire film was probably the sight of James Franco in glasses, for everything else was just an indulgent, sprawling mess. Some of the acting was so poor that it wouldn’t have been out of place in my Sixth Form’s High School Musical-style-play, with Franco himself failing to shine, drooping back into his annoying Spiderman days; he came across as just a whiny, lazy little bastard who invoked no sympathy from me whatsoever despite being so aesthetically pleasing. I usually like to wax lyrical about independent films and their inner beauty, but this has to site alongside Lost in Translation and 40 Shades of Blue as one of the dullest indies I’ve ever seen. Bung, and not in a good way. E.

On the bright side, however, I’m going to the adorable Little Theatre Cinema with my friend Luke today to see the Coen brothers’ Burn After Reading. Am excited!

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