There is a member of the AANP Towers clan who likes his films straightforward, a scholar of the Bruce-Willies-Versus-The-Baddies-One-At-A-Time school of All Action No Plot cinema. Alas, said inhabitant of these four walls would find himself completely stranded if he tried to negotiate the vaguely labyrinthine new Leonardo DiCaprio film Inception. Rather a shame, because in terms of action, originality, acting and script the film is a cracking effort that neatly fits within the “Summer Blockbuster” template.
To try explaining the plot on paper would be like trying to provide written instructions on how to navigate a maze – hardly compelling reading, and a little pointless unless you happen to be slap bang in the middle of the ruddy thing. Suffice to say the plot keeps viewers on their toes without straying completely off course. Inception uses the pretty darned unique plot-device of a dream within a dream to go bending the laws of physics somewhat, with the result that a decent fist-fight can be interrupted by a sudden ninety degree shifts in gravity. All manner of mighty impressive action sequences duly follow, and in fact even the non-action sequences are fairly mind-blowing, as the powers-that-be have some fun with the various possible scenarios on offer.
All these bells and whistles are complemented by a cracking storyline and slick group of characters. Leonardo DiCaprio assembles his team Mission Impossible style, a likeable bunch -and a jolly well-dressed bunch too, if I may say so, whose sartorial elegance helps to give the whole film a polished film. This lot- including Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Ellen Page, Tom Hardy, Ken Watanabe and Cillian Murphy - partake in some nice understated dry wit and banter, which helps keep the film ticking along nicely. It’s a cracking cast, as befits a film which slips in cameos from Michael Caine and Pete Posthelthwaite without breaking stride.
The action is unashamedly Matrix-esque, while the storyline could perhaps be classed in the Minority Report category of futuristic thrillers. To its credit the film does not seem overlong, even though it apparently lasts comfortably over two hours. As long as you’re well aware that The A-Team this ain’t, and sharpen your wits accordingly, you ought to emerge from Inception nodding in approval, while perhaps bracing yourself for sudden shifts in gravity.
Monday 2 August 2010
Sunday 25 July 2010
Predators Review - Doing Justice To The Good Name Of Predator
In a nutshell, it’s a cross between Predator and Aliens – and let’s face it, irrespective of how well or badly a film is made, if this is the principle it adopts it has the building blocks in place to be one ruddy masterpiece of a cinematic event (at least for the All Action No Plot generation).
The film does not waste any time with such boring and slow-paced elements as preamble and scene-setting, opening instead with the protagonists literally dropping into the jungle and loading their weapons for a fight. I honestly don’t think they even bothered with names, or established who they ought to shoot – they simply aimed their weapons and waited for a chance to mow down various parts of the Amazon with their uzis and what-not.
(By this stage my readership ought to be swiftly separating into those who realise they are on the wrong page of the interweb, and those true All-Action-No-Plot devotees who have presumably already seen the film.)
That line about it being a cross between Predator and Aliens is no exaggeration by the way. The plot really can be defined thus. A bunch of pretty hardened commandoes in the jungle (admittedly minus the bulging biceps of Schwarzenegger’s merry men), hunted by an unseen beast? So far, so Predator. Throw in the fact that they are actually on the beasts’ home turf, and that there is more than one of said beast, and you have a healthy dose of Aliens. The characters are also lifted straight out of Aliens, without so much a as a cursory rub-down. Alice Braga plays a Ripley-Vazquez hybrid; Adrien Brody the quiet, wiry Hicks-style group leader; Walton Goggins the Hudson-style comic relief; while as a silent-but-deadly type who removes his shirt and decides to take on a predator with just one enormous sword, Louis Ozawa Changchien is a reincarnation of Predator’s Billy.
None of which should be thought of as pejorative, for just as these were winning elements to Predator and Aliens, so they provide fistfuls of goodness to Predators.
MANP does not mind admitting that it was with a strong degree of suspicion that it braced itself for Adrien Brody’s attempt to play tough-guy. Merrily enough, we grant him a Gladiator-style thumbs up. Just about. He does rather overdo it initially, doing everything short of carrying a sign saying “I’m bad-ass (and intense). Honest!” No time to stop and breathe, Brody does not use four words if three and a moody stare will suffice. He moodily declares himself leader, before examining the grass and moodily declaring they head yonder, then examining the sky and moodily declaring they hunt their captors or whatever. But it’s not a bad effort at all.
The pace is fast, and the suspense, hunter-hunted dynamic, violence and explosions are up there alongside the original. Predators may have benefited from more quotable lines, but this is pretty harsh criticism. It is a worthy sequel to the original, 1987 Predator. Whereas, say Terminator Salvation, seemed simply to be a summer blockbuster which almost sacrilegiously adopted the good name of the Terminator franchise to attract rear-ends to seats, Predators has the feel of a film lovingly hand-crafted by an aficionado of that original Schwarzenegger movie, an effort basically to replicate the original and give another 90 minutes’ worth to those who enjoy working “Get to da choppaaaa” into their everyday parlance.
Tuesday 16 March 2010
The Shadow of the Wind (Zafon) - All hail Fermin Romero de Torres
I have no problem admitting that having borrowed The Shadow of the Wind from the library, I was inclined to return it immediately – and rinse my hands of it with lashings of disinfectant – for the blurb on the back cover hinted at all that I abhor most in the literary world. Said the Guardian note on the back cover, “What makes this novel so irresistibly readiable is the emotional energy generate...” Excuse me? “Emotional energy”? Good grief...
Further horror was to follow some five lines further down, when I noted, by now aghast, that the last review on the back cover was posted by no less a publication of testosterone-fuelled sage judgement than Elle magazine. Chilling portents you will no doubt concur, but having pledged to begin the book I bit the bullet, held my breath and dived in.
It is not difficult to see from where such pointless gubbins as “emotional energy” arises, for the book is littered with Mills and Boon-esque romantic clenches and paternal embraces, all too reminiscent of the overly-sensitive types at University who would destroy a good al fresco barbecue by unsheathing a guitar and strumming some rancid ballad. Indeed, the very name of the book is enough to prompt a raised eyebrow of scepticism.
Mercifully however, such Elle-friendly fare is offset by some truly corking moments of written genius. In Fermín Romero de Torres the author senor Zafón has created one of the great literary characters of our time, a hilarious, irresistible, verbose tramp-cum-philosopher, whose pearls of wisdom on the fairer sex manage to coat the most sordid sentiments in gloriously ornate vernacular. A man who makes the crudest animal instincts seem like Wilde at his most flourishing, Fermín’s every line is an absolute gem. I for one would quite happily have dispensed with the principal storyline of The Shadow of the Wind, and simply gorged myself on 400 pages of exchanges between Fermín and the young chief protagonist, Daniel, who himself dealt a neat line in rapier-like, slightly exasperated ripostes.
To what extent Zafón himself deserves credit is actually unclear, for the translation into English is provided by Lucia Graves, and so rich is the language used that it is difficult to know how much has been added by a translator with a twinkle in her eye – or indeed, how much lost by the transition from the native tongue to a potentially more leaden English. Personally I doff my cap in both directions, but I do wish I knew Spanish sufficiently well to appreciate The Shadow of the Wind as intended by its maker.
The plot is enjoyable enough nonsense, a literary history that turns out to have its roots in reality, linked inextricably to a violent and occasionally murderous game of cat-and-mouse. Although beginning from a flimsy and fairly incredible initial few premises, it proceeds along at a pleasant pace - punctuated by quirky characters, a likeably bumbling rites-of-passage journey for the central character, a couple of attention-grabbing plot twists and, of course, carried by the interjections of the magnificent Fermín. Zafón makes full use of his 400 pages, fleshing out his plot and sub-plots, without ever getting bogged down in detail, and painting mid-twentieth century Barcelona without dwelling unnecessarily on aesthetics.
The pedants amongst us may quibble that there is not much beneath the surface – but when the surface is as ornately and sumptuously presented as by Zafón this proves an eminently bearable flaw. The Shadow of the Wind has enough about it to keep the reader satisfied.
Further horror was to follow some five lines further down, when I noted, by now aghast, that the last review on the back cover was posted by no less a publication of testosterone-fuelled sage judgement than Elle magazine. Chilling portents you will no doubt concur, but having pledged to begin the book I bit the bullet, held my breath and dived in.
It is not difficult to see from where such pointless gubbins as “emotional energy” arises, for the book is littered with Mills and Boon-esque romantic clenches and paternal embraces, all too reminiscent of the overly-sensitive types at University who would destroy a good al fresco barbecue by unsheathing a guitar and strumming some rancid ballad. Indeed, the very name of the book is enough to prompt a raised eyebrow of scepticism.
Mercifully however, such Elle-friendly fare is offset by some truly corking moments of written genius. In Fermín Romero de Torres the author senor Zafón has created one of the great literary characters of our time, a hilarious, irresistible, verbose tramp-cum-philosopher, whose pearls of wisdom on the fairer sex manage to coat the most sordid sentiments in gloriously ornate vernacular. A man who makes the crudest animal instincts seem like Wilde at his most flourishing, Fermín’s every line is an absolute gem. I for one would quite happily have dispensed with the principal storyline of The Shadow of the Wind, and simply gorged myself on 400 pages of exchanges between Fermín and the young chief protagonist, Daniel, who himself dealt a neat line in rapier-like, slightly exasperated ripostes.
To what extent Zafón himself deserves credit is actually unclear, for the translation into English is provided by Lucia Graves, and so rich is the language used that it is difficult to know how much has been added by a translator with a twinkle in her eye – or indeed, how much lost by the transition from the native tongue to a potentially more leaden English. Personally I doff my cap in both directions, but I do wish I knew Spanish sufficiently well to appreciate The Shadow of the Wind as intended by its maker.
The plot is enjoyable enough nonsense, a literary history that turns out to have its roots in reality, linked inextricably to a violent and occasionally murderous game of cat-and-mouse. Although beginning from a flimsy and fairly incredible initial few premises, it proceeds along at a pleasant pace - punctuated by quirky characters, a likeably bumbling rites-of-passage journey for the central character, a couple of attention-grabbing plot twists and, of course, carried by the interjections of the magnificent Fermín. Zafón makes full use of his 400 pages, fleshing out his plot and sub-plots, without ever getting bogged down in detail, and painting mid-twentieth century Barcelona without dwelling unnecessarily on aesthetics.
The pedants amongst us may quibble that there is not much beneath the surface – but when the surface is as ornately and sumptuously presented as by Zafón this proves an eminently bearable flaw. The Shadow of the Wind has enough about it to keep the reader satisfied.
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