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Posts Tagged ‘EIFF

Phase 7

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Coco (Daniel Hendler) and Pipi (Jazmin Stuart) are not, despite their names, a pair of Argentinean glove puppets. Rather, they are a young couple living a somnambulistic existence in their new-build city-centre apartment. Phase 7 at first appears to be a peculiarly lifelike domestic sitcom, whose tone rapidly establishes this couple as believable and sympathetic protagonists. But wait, isn’t this supposed to be another post-apocalyptic shoot-out? It’s certainly described as such in the press notes.

Phase 7

Catch my review from EIFF 2011 at The Ooh Tray.

Written by James P. Campbell

26/06/2011 at 12:49

Bobby Fischer Against The World

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The decline of Bobby Fischer, one time chess world champion, is a sad tale to tell. And so it is to the credit of director Liz Garbus that her biography of the late great delights primarily in his earlier years, without refusing to flinch from the wretchedness to come. We witness the course of his career, from first finding his obsession at age six, through to winning the world title from Soviet Boris Spassky in 1972 (an event of such gravity that it dominated global sports coverage for weeks, before making Fischer the best-selling chess writer of all time), his recession from view and final re-emergence in the grip of madness.

Bobby Fischer

Catch my review from EIFF 2011 at The Ooh Tray.

Written by James P. Campbell

26/06/2011 at 12:37

The Runaways

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“I don’t give a damn ’bout my bad reputation”. Joan Jett (Kristen Stewart) and Cherie Currie (Dakota Fanning) are provocative teenage girls in misogynist times. Both want to challenge gender norms, and idolise musicians who dispute the status quo.

Cherie introduces herself, after a menstrual mishap, with a high school talent show performance as David Bowie – an arresting and elegant routine concluded, amid jeers, with Fanning flipping the bird. Surely part of the objective in casting Dakota Fanning was to articulate the gradual corruption of her character: the progression from a famously recognisable face of innocence and purity to something crippled and despoiled is seamless; the joint is sewn up in several dreamlike scenes of performance and indulgence, sexual and narcotic. It is through musical performance that her self-assertion and, sadly, sexual commodification are fertilised. Her implicit corruptibility precipitates a spiral of self-destructive behaviours that lead ultimately to the band’s disintegration.

Runaways

Catch my review from EIFF 2010 at The Ooh Tray.

Written by James P. Campbell

26/06/2011 at 12:00

Black Dynamite ****

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Black Dynamite is my favourite kind of guilty pleasure. It is a perfect comedy, but its humour doesn’t turn on situational drama. Instead, it is joke driven, but those jokes are highly witty and expertly crafted homages to the whole gamut of Blaxploitation film. It has a mad brilliance which is wholly substantive. I would do Scott Sanders (aka DJ Suckapunch), Michael Jai White and Byron Minns a disservice to try capture its essence in a short review, particularly as I am so poorly versed in its source material. Take a peek at the youtube trailer instead (although be warned, it contains most of the best material). Not only does Black Dynamite put to shame Tarantino and other fanboys who have tried to resuscitate forgotten genres, but also leaves mainstream multiplex comedies of 2009 with significantly higher budgets trailing in its dust. I would pay for friends of mine to see Black Dynamite, and I look forward to seeing it with them. Let’s just hope that more of this sort of thing reaches a wider audience in the near future.

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Written by James P. Campbell

12/08/2010 at 15:10

Jackboots on Whitehall

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Jackboots on Whitehall posterThere are (at most) three jokes in Jackboots on Whitehall. That’s a rate of one every thirty-one minutes. None of them are funny.

Any attempt at a synopsis would appear much more enticing than the film itself – to avoid responsibility for any inflated expectations, I will just direct you to the trailer (which, as usual, reveals many of the ‘best’ bits).

It’s a script that sounds like one of two things. First, the catastrophic self-conscious abortion of a writer whose concept has unexpectedly secured funding, but who discovers too late that he can deliver neither character nor humour. Second, the vanity project of spoilt pseudo-aristocratic rugger buggers suffering from brain damage (was it the scrum or the lash, lads?) whose sole inspiration comes from reruns on Dave viewed through a groggy film of chunder.

Not one quip turns on something out of history – the complete absence of satire betrays the film’s unintentional historical illiteracy. It is not an irreverent film – it’s simply an ignorant one. Even if it is an attempt to pastiche pop-culture manipulation and mythologisation of the period, it fails to do so with more than half a brain cell.

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Written by James P. Campbell

22/06/2010 at 00:16

Alamar

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Alamar still‘To The Sea’ – Alamar. An extraordinarily beautiful film. A slice-of-life drama – fictive yet with quite remarkable verisimilitude – it’s the most exotic, aesthetic and fragile life that’s sectioned. Back-story is told in pre-credit photographs. A beautiful child with his Hispanic father. Each is equally arresting, gorgeous brown, one dashing, the other miniscule. White Italian mother, whose voiceover details their romance, their separation, her return to Rome with child.

After a long, tiresome journey with little Natan – boats, trains – we discover his father Jorge’s home. He lives by a tiny, remote island to the east of Yucatan, in a wooden house on stilts. They live literally on the water. Father and son work together. Jorge teaches his boy about everything, showing him by example. Soft and hard lessons in painting, joinery, fishing, by line or by pole, diving, the sea, the sea. Always so warm, they need only wear trunks.

These are the people of Banco Chincorro, the world’s second largest coral barrier reef. Its wildlife discloses itself at once as living being and resource. Natan discovers the means of feeding oneself. The food – grilled snapper, stewed barracuda, spiny lobster tails. Caught on hand-pulled lines, with the spear gun, or captured in their coral caves.

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Written by James P. Campbell

21/06/2010 at 16:10

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Mundane History

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Mundane History stillWhat do I think about Mundane History?

I left the cinema feeling truly elated, endorphins coursing through my veins.

I sat in the cinema for 75 odd minutes, comatose with boredom.

We watch a live-in nurse, Pun, care for newly paralysed upper-middle class youth, Ake.

Ake is unhappy with his lot, and rotten to his family, though eventually reaches out to Pun.

Pun is just about satisfied with life, and epitomises the kind of recognisably human character with whom I am likely to identify – who has had dreams but rarely chased them, or had the opportunity, and makes do with what is ready to hand.

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Written by James P. Campbell

19/06/2010 at 01:31

Cherry Tree Lane

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Cherry Tree Lane posterPatrick Stewart, Mike Hodges, Britt Ekland, Rafi Pitts, Laurence Kardish and I were just forced to sit through Cherry Tree Lane. Having rocked up at the press screening, I was obliged to stay and produce some kind of coverage. As the Michael Powell award jury for the EIFF, the others were somewhat more obliged to stick it out and – to do justice to the other entrants – were probably expected not to hide behind their hands, singing nursery rhymes for sweet release.

This might not sound surprising, if you recall that Paul Andrew Williams was the writer/director responsible for acclaimed debut, London to Brighton. Then again, if you were one of the many fans of that work, you might be surprised by my apparent exaggeration. I kid you not – this was the most gruelling cinema experience I’ve yet had. I was intrigued by The Killer Inside Me, touched by Irreversible, thrilled and overwhelmed by Antichrist,; I am simply sickened by Cherry Tree Lane. Williams seems to think he has something to say about contemporary society. It’s really the most inexcusable species of exploitation. It perverts the form and is everything a film ought not to be.

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Written by James P. Campbell

18/06/2010 at 01:28

My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done?

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“My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done?”. A substitute for the pronouncement made by Mark Yavorsky’s mother as he ran her through with an antique katana. A quote both from the Bible and a Euripedes play – Herakles. Nothing could be more fitting. It is a quote ringing out of Brad’s bad dream.

My Son My Son

Catch my review from EIFF 2010 at The Ooh Tray.

Written by James P. Campbell

17/06/2010 at 11:08

Only When I Dance ***

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Only When I Dance

Press notes describe Only When I Dance as an uplifting documentary, set against the well established image of the inherently violent and starkly deprived Rio Favelas. That isn’t quite accurate. We follow two teenagers from Complexo do Alemao, only one of whose dreams get a chance to flourish. The quietly determined Isabela and confident, colourful Irlan both aspire to high-flying careers in ballet. An odd choice, it would seem, for kids coming from one of the toughest areas of Brazil. It would be unfair to claim that both face great obstacles to success, since in the shallow world of classical dance, only first place counts, and Irlan has the talent and the looks to secure prize wins, full financial backing and the devoted attention of his trainer. Whereas Isabela – who suffers all the (sometimes desperately) cruel turns of fate, whose family place their hopes and financial destiny on her delicate shoulders, and who through ignorance and miscommunication is made to feel overweight and inadequate – Isabela, with neither the expected figure or track record, cannot afford to fail, financially or emotionally. She faces an uphill struggle from the start, as a black girl in a country where the colour of her skin will make it impossible to secure tenure with a dance company.

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Written by James P. Campbell

05/12/2009 at 09:57