Imagine for a moment that you are Superman. It can be any version of Superman - except the one played by Dean Cain in "Lois and Clark". That, of course, goes without saying.
Now imagine that you're sitting down to eat a delightful dinner that took you all day to cook - obviously, you didn't use your heat vision to whip it up in an instant, you wanted to cook it like a normal guy. You've prepared it, served it and are now getting ready to eat it.
But you take one bite and you start choking. Somehow, there is kryptonite in the dinner. You don't know how it got there, but you've eaten it and swallowed it and now you're falling off your chair...
Writing feels like that sometimes. Here I am with this new story, that has existed in my head in one form or another for many, many years, that I've spent more or less the last three months developing in anticipation of actually writing, but now that I've spent the last two weeks actually trying to write it, what happens? The only thing that comes out is listless, uninspired rubbish. No tension, no flow, no nothing, really. I can blame a lot of it on my job, which has somewhat retrained my brain, and dulled the inspirational fire I had as a young man, but in truth... The kryptonite is me. My too-harsh deadlines, and the ease with which I'll say, "I'll leave it for 20 minutes, see if my head de-clogs."
I know everything that's meant to happen - have planned it in minute detail - but it's just not coming out. Every single paragraph - dull as they are right now - feels like a mountain climb. The krytonite is lodged deep in my chest and I'm falling off my yellow-WWF style steel chair...
That is, until this morning.
Having tried no less than SEVEN different scenes to serve as a prologue, none of which grabbed the attention, or set up any intrigue, I finally broke down and damn near cried at 5:56 am, wondering what happened to my drive. Worse, what happened to my talent? Working Partners could NOT have dulled it all. Whatever happened to the dementedly driven 19 year old wannabe writer, who didn't know the first thing about writing, but did it anyway - and somehow always did it more right than wrong? Where did he go?
Where did the arrogant creative writing university student go? The one who learned the first things about writing, adhered to the rules he liked, broke the ones he didn't, and STILL end up writing more good stuff than bad?
Where did the mad-at-the-world 21 year old newly-employed editor go? The one who couldn't get a handle on editorial process, but could still blow people away with the first two lines of a writing sample?
In short, whatever happened to Jimmy Noble?
This morning, James stepped back and got mentally ready for his job as an editor, while Jimmy took his rightful place in front of the PC. And, at last, a breakthrough was had...
For I sat down and tried to think of what I used to do, when I didn't know a thing about writing. Maybe if I broke one of the rules I now implicitly obey, I might start a fire in my mind.
Why was there no tension in this book? Well, for starters, I set up an impenetrable fantasy world, that we will only come to know through the eyes of a sceptical human character who is introduced to it. The juxtaposition of real world action and mysterious fantasy world action is currently perplexing and not in a good way. And the real world is chock full of so much misery that I KNEW no one would want to keep reading. I knew that the whole time I was writing it, but half a decade at WPL has left me unable to immediately fix it, and too stubborn to go right back to the drawing board. I mean, I put together an exhaustive synopsis, so I have to be on the right track, right?
WRONG!
At the back of my mind, a tiny voice said, "You DO know how to fix this... You DO..."
And I DID… But I would have to do something that I had not done in a book for YEARS… I would have to input an extended flashback… -gasp-
When I first decided to try writing, the two writers I modelled myself on – that is, the two who got me excited about the process of storytelling – were Stephen King and Quentin Tarantino. The latter I admired for his early brazen flouting of the linear film narrative structure – it was through QT that I learned how an author could manipulate an audience or reader’s viewing of the material by moving around through the timeline of the piece. Tension would be wrought from a reader knowing more than the characters did; Intrigue would be built up from characters acting on knowledge that readers did not have.
Likewise, Stephen King thought nothing of jumping back and forward in time, the dual narrative of “IT” for example, being a wonderful showcase for how a non-linear book can be riveting and full of mystery and wonder. In other cases, books like “The Dark Tower” use flashbacks to broaden the world of the stories, give characters depth. To do this, you have to have a good story and good characters, first and foremost – but you also have to trust your abilities. I have the first part – but I don’t have the second anymore, and I need to retrieve that if I’m ever going to have a future as a writer.
So now, I begin with what was originally going to be Chapter 7 – the first of the early chapters that I was really looking forward to writing. In a linear format, it was going to be a tense scene – because the reader didn’t have all the information. So I thought, “OK – this is the best scene in the first ten chapters, it’s going to be where people commit to the book, the story, the protagonist’s journey. Why not just start with it? Modify the beginning so that it can be the start of the book, let it play as before – both reader and character are totally bewildered by the end of it. Then begin the book proper, going back THREE DAYS before that happened, and letting the INTRIGUE slowly build as to what happened there. This will involve tightening and streamlining the first six chapters, but what I should find is that the intrigue will add flavour to these scenes and go some way to improving them anyway…”
So there’s been a breakthrough. Now I just have to write it. I’m almost looking forward to it. I’m REALLY looking forward to the Xmas break, where I get to play-act at being a full-time writer for NEARLY TWO WEEKS. But I must say, even though I haven’t done something NEW with the structure, it just feels so damn good to be doing something that’s not the ‘way’ to do it… Intellectually and artistically, I grew up on non-linear narratives, across different mediums – they were my inspiration.
I forgot that working where I work.
I won’t ever forget it again.
Wednesday, 21 November 2007
Monday, 10 September 2007
Death Proof - an early UK review
Death Proof - written and directed by Quentin Tarantino.
Starring: Rosario Dawson, Zoe Bell, Rose McGowan and Kurt Russel as "Stuntman Mike".
------------------
Originally one part of an ambitious Double-Feature in collaboration with Robert Rodgriguez, "Death Proof" has been re-edited and extended for an international release - a move by the Weinstein company that has divided opinons among QT devotees the world over.
Having not seen the Grindhouse double-feature, I cannot comment with any authority on how the context of "Death Proof" as solo venture has been changed, thus affecting how it now plays. What follows is a 'cold' review of the film.
The story is lean to the point of anorexia - Stuntman Mike is a (presumably) out of work movie stuntman with an inexplicable misoygny, who has a lot of fun hunting down groups of young women and killing them in high-speed auto-collisions, from which he can be the only survivor - on account of his car being 'death-proofed'. Fourteen months after his last kill, he sets his sights on a group of movie set staff, but has he bitten off more than he can chew?
"Death Proof" is a film of two halves, each of them thrilling in their own right, but combined to create a curious and not-entirely coherent whole. We know we're in QT land when the first group of female characters get mired in snappy, fizzy, achingly cool pontifications of topics that neither drive the plot or have any relevance to anything. As always, though, when you're in the hands of Tarantino, the kind of aimless-dialogue that would make most movies insufferable make them comfortable and innately enjoyable. Working with an entirely new cast - save for himself in an enjoyable cameo - the first forty-odd minutes zip by, even though not much happens. Girls talk about guys they like; girl text messages crush; girls drink; sinister Kurt Russel shows up to steal the show; Kurt chats to Rose McGowan in a really dodgy blonde dye job; Kurt tries to solicit a lapdance from one of the girls; Kurt gets lapdance; bar patrons go their separate ways, with Kurt giving a lift to Rose; turns out Kurt's a smiling psychopath; cue coolest car smash-up in a while.
With a half-time interlude acting as exposition, we jump forward 14 months and Stuntman Mike is onto his next target. He isolates them, tries to run them off the road; they ain't having it; cue high-speed, back and forth car chase with NO CGI.
As you can see, the plot is an excuse for set-pieces and dialogue, and is functional almost to the point of arbitrariness. The first half is vintage QT; the second a thrilling prolonged chase sequence with the kind of cool, out of the box ideas that the filmmaker showed in both Kill Bill movies. Taken individually, the man's talents as both writer and director are thrillingly in their element.
And yet somehow, the movie as a whole is not up there with his best work. This arbitrariness is troublesome. Though "Death Proof" is an obvious artistic cousin to "Kill Bill", it comes off as the foolish cousin, for it lacks the earlier, superior movie's thematic through-lines and the security of an epic vision.
Of course, at this point, it becomes impossible to not mention the original "Grindhouse" experiment, especially its ethos. Without having seen it, it's obviously plausible that - in the context of an ambitious tribute to the old 70s exploitation genre, complete with fake trailers - in tandem with Rodriguez's "Planet Terror", "Death Proof" plays as an adequate brain-turned-off thrill-ride sending the audience home exhilirated. A European audience will just have to wonder about how good the complete experience was; standing alone, "Death Proof" is a merely enjoyable film - worth the price of admission, but without an obvious reason for being that leaves you a little cold once the euphoria of the action wears off.
That being said, everyone involved in the movie has reason to be proud. Zoe Bell - Uma Thurman's stuntdouble in the "Kill Bill" movies, given a prominent role her, essentially as herself - adds authenticity to the action scenes that make the climactic chases especially thrilling; Rosario Dawson, fresh from a foul-mouthed turn in "Clerks 2" is sure to crop up as a feisty chick in another Tarantino effort down the line; former CSI:NY star Vanessa Ferlito is exceptional among the first group of girls targeted by Stuntman Mike.
And then of course, there is Kurt Russel, Tarantino's self-assigned Resurrection Project for this movie. Having great fun without quite hamming it up, Russell turns in a memorably sinister villain. His performance is especially brave due to the decision to not make him overtly charming, perfectly playing into the second half theme (thin though it is) of female empowerment.
All in all, "Death Proof" is probably propping up the rest of QT's canon, but it is a highly entertaining movie and well worth your time. However, it may be time for QT to stop treating cinematic genres as his own personal playground and, to paraphrase the recent Empire review, "make a real film" now.
Starring: Rosario Dawson, Zoe Bell, Rose McGowan and Kurt Russel as "Stuntman Mike".
------------------
Originally one part of an ambitious Double-Feature in collaboration with Robert Rodgriguez, "Death Proof" has been re-edited and extended for an international release - a move by the Weinstein company that has divided opinons among QT devotees the world over.
Having not seen the Grindhouse double-feature, I cannot comment with any authority on how the context of "Death Proof" as solo venture has been changed, thus affecting how it now plays. What follows is a 'cold' review of the film.
The story is lean to the point of anorexia - Stuntman Mike is a (presumably) out of work movie stuntman with an inexplicable misoygny, who has a lot of fun hunting down groups of young women and killing them in high-speed auto-collisions, from which he can be the only survivor - on account of his car being 'death-proofed'. Fourteen months after his last kill, he sets his sights on a group of movie set staff, but has he bitten off more than he can chew?
"Death Proof" is a film of two halves, each of them thrilling in their own right, but combined to create a curious and not-entirely coherent whole. We know we're in QT land when the first group of female characters get mired in snappy, fizzy, achingly cool pontifications of topics that neither drive the plot or have any relevance to anything. As always, though, when you're in the hands of Tarantino, the kind of aimless-dialogue that would make most movies insufferable make them comfortable and innately enjoyable. Working with an entirely new cast - save for himself in an enjoyable cameo - the first forty-odd minutes zip by, even though not much happens. Girls talk about guys they like; girl text messages crush; girls drink; sinister Kurt Russel shows up to steal the show; Kurt chats to Rose McGowan in a really dodgy blonde dye job; Kurt tries to solicit a lapdance from one of the girls; Kurt gets lapdance; bar patrons go their separate ways, with Kurt giving a lift to Rose; turns out Kurt's a smiling psychopath; cue coolest car smash-up in a while.
With a half-time interlude acting as exposition, we jump forward 14 months and Stuntman Mike is onto his next target. He isolates them, tries to run them off the road; they ain't having it; cue high-speed, back and forth car chase with NO CGI.
As you can see, the plot is an excuse for set-pieces and dialogue, and is functional almost to the point of arbitrariness. The first half is vintage QT; the second a thrilling prolonged chase sequence with the kind of cool, out of the box ideas that the filmmaker showed in both Kill Bill movies. Taken individually, the man's talents as both writer and director are thrillingly in their element.
And yet somehow, the movie as a whole is not up there with his best work. This arbitrariness is troublesome. Though "Death Proof" is an obvious artistic cousin to "Kill Bill", it comes off as the foolish cousin, for it lacks the earlier, superior movie's thematic through-lines and the security of an epic vision.
Of course, at this point, it becomes impossible to not mention the original "Grindhouse" experiment, especially its ethos. Without having seen it, it's obviously plausible that - in the context of an ambitious tribute to the old 70s exploitation genre, complete with fake trailers - in tandem with Rodriguez's "Planet Terror", "Death Proof" plays as an adequate brain-turned-off thrill-ride sending the audience home exhilirated. A European audience will just have to wonder about how good the complete experience was; standing alone, "Death Proof" is a merely enjoyable film - worth the price of admission, but without an obvious reason for being that leaves you a little cold once the euphoria of the action wears off.
That being said, everyone involved in the movie has reason to be proud. Zoe Bell - Uma Thurman's stuntdouble in the "Kill Bill" movies, given a prominent role her, essentially as herself - adds authenticity to the action scenes that make the climactic chases especially thrilling; Rosario Dawson, fresh from a foul-mouthed turn in "Clerks 2" is sure to crop up as a feisty chick in another Tarantino effort down the line; former CSI:NY star Vanessa Ferlito is exceptional among the first group of girls targeted by Stuntman Mike.
And then of course, there is Kurt Russel, Tarantino's self-assigned Resurrection Project for this movie. Having great fun without quite hamming it up, Russell turns in a memorably sinister villain. His performance is especially brave due to the decision to not make him overtly charming, perfectly playing into the second half theme (thin though it is) of female empowerment.
All in all, "Death Proof" is probably propping up the rest of QT's canon, but it is a highly entertaining movie and well worth your time. However, it may be time for QT to stop treating cinematic genres as his own personal playground and, to paraphrase the recent Empire review, "make a real film" now.
Tuesday, 24 July 2007
Archive transfer - Day one
FILM REVIEW
OUTLAW - written and directed by Nick Love, 2007
As a big fan of Nick Love, I'm always looking forward to new films of his. And I looked forward even more to the idea that the film was going to serve as an indictment of the dire state of the British justice system. So it was quite a let down to see that the resulting film descends into half-formed, slightly-incoherent statements - almost as if the director himself doesn't truly believe in the subject matter, but is assuming his core audience does. Maybe they do, but what we have here is a potentially very important film (and I would argue on some level that it still is) becoming like a whisper in a thunderstorm. Rather than show the vigilantes cleaning up the streets, they are instead set upon underlings of a mute local gangster, with mere lip-service paid to the pre-release hype. It's all very well to moan about the state of the country, but for characters who make big noise about 'standing up and fighting' to instead go through (what feels like) rushed story motions, there is a deflating sense that neither character nor writer is really walking the walk.
That being said, the individual sequences are very good. Nick Love's visual flair is present and correct, and the film is shot through with the kind of energy that only he can muster. It is oddly structured - a curious dream/premonition sequence opens things up, and only the talent of his cast - in particular Sean Bean, Danny Dyer and Lenny James - holds it together in the early stages. Bean's intensity is great, and he really should have been the focus of the film, to give the narrative better drive.What might have also helped is if the director acquired himself a writing partner, someone to rein in his disparate, brilliant ideas into a coherent stories about characters in whom the audience can invest.
Stylish, then, and never boring, but the faux-passion is too much to get past. I don't believe Mr. Love was truly invested in the 'message' of this film, and as such the experience is much more hollow than Charlie Bright or The Football Factory. I read an interview with Mr. Love around the time of The Business' cinematic release, where he said he had an idea centred around a screwed up, rich family. This is the kind of film I'd like to see from him now, for - on the evidence of this - he has truly exhausted the inner-city urban milieu.
** 1/2 out of 5.
The Departed - written by William Monahan, directed by Martin Scorsese. 2006
First things first: this new film by Martin Scorsese is not going to stand up to the scrutiny of time the way his classics such as Mean Streets, Taxi Driver, Raging Bull, Goodfellas and Casino have and will continue to do. This is not to say that Scorsese has delivered an artistic disappointment, far from it - The Departed fuses Scorsese's cineliterate panache with a gleeful lack of pretension that is certain to give him the most commercially-succesful film of his career. But where the earlier efforts were films, weighed down with spiritual and/or thematic concerns, concerns which bled onto the storytelling methods and visual technique, The Departed is a movie - the most full-on, story-driven film that Scorsese has made since his last re-make, Cape Fear, in 1991. Does this signal a dumbing down of the sensibilities of a director now so finally expasperated at his inexplicable inability to garner a Best Director Oscar?
Absolutely not, for Scorsese tells stories better than any director in Hollywood. And while the expaseration may be true, this is not a dumbed-down movie. In fact, it may well be the smartest and most engaging film you'll see all year. That it manages to be so while still containing all of Scorsese's staple themes - guilt, redemption, the precariousness of modern masculinity, and the bonds between men - makes it damn near a miraculous piece of work.
As we all know, it borrows its premise from the wonderful 2002 Hong Kong thriller Infernal Affairs (and I'll wax lyrical about the comparisons in another blog entry, I'm sure). The Departed follows two young men in the Massecheusetts (sic) State Police - fast-rising, cocky Colin Sullivan (Damon), and wrong-side-of-the-tracks Billy Costigan (DiCaprio). Each is picked to be a covert spy, but for opposite sides of the law. Billy is recruited to be an undercover cop with a mission to infiltrate the ring of Boston kingpin Frank Costello (Nicholson); meanwhile, Costello himself has earmarked Sullivan to be his eyes and eyes in the PD since childhood.
The film spans two tumultuous years in their lives as both begin to wilt and crack under the weight of their daily deceptions. When each side is made aware of the other's existence, the race is on for both young men to find the other first...
Such a flimsy summary of the film's premise really doesn't do justice to William Monahan's script, which has taken a taut Cantonese film, drowning in tension, and beefed it up so that every character (save the muddle that is Vera Farmiga's police psychiatrist, dating Sullivan, counselling Billy) has quirks, mannerisms, and the suggestion of a third dimension so lacking in most Hollywood films. By adding the element of an ingrained Catholicism of the Boston Irish, Monahan promotes The Departed from the 'competent thriller' that was its source material, to something approaching a modern tragedy. Indeed, issues of morality abound, and while not every decision a character makes has clear-cut reasoning, you never doubt the authenticity of the moments.
This is as much to do with the acting as it is the writing. Damon plays superbly against type as a cocky, near-weasel-like detective who is slwoly realising he has been in over his head since the day Jack Nicholson's crime lord first picked him out in a convenience store. Nicholson has never been more enjoyable as a completely racist, misogynistic, thoroughly evil gangland kingpin - such is the glee with which he spouts his (presumably oft-improvised) dialogue that he recalls his performance in such signature films as One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, or The Shining. (Indeed, the film is so dismissive of the current constraints of Hollywood's liberal, PC brigade, that it at times seems a harkback to the glorious decade in which directors like Scorsese, Coppola, DePalma, Friedkin and Cimino thought big, shot bigger and didn't give a damn about studios or box office).
The supporting cast is, by and large, superb - special mention must go to Alec Baldwin, who - while clearly resurrecting his Glengarry Glen Ross persona - nevertheless continues to prove that he is still one of the most reliable of supporting players in America. British acting living legend Ray Winstone also cuts a memorably fearsome figure as Costello's right hand man, Mr French; although his accent is a little hit and miss, Winstone's gruff delivery and undoubted natural hardness make you believe him. As mentioned, Vera Farmiga is a bit lost in the field of Y chromosomes (not uncommon for a Scorsese film), but I'll chose to blame one of two flaws in the script - that being that Monahan has amalgamated, essentially, THREE female characters from the original film into one, multi-functional, and very questionable female presence in the film. As noted, Scorsese doesn't often get women right in his films, and one of the ways he tries to compensate for this is to make them the sort of 'moral anchor' in the film. Farmiga serves this role, but at times you do get the feeling that she is there to dampen any fears of homoeroticism.
But, thesping wise, this film belongs to Leonardo DiCaprio, who has finally found a Scorsese role that plays perfectly to his physical appearance and acting strengths. In Gangs of New York he lacked the requisite presence to hang in there with the might of Daniel Day-Lewis; and while I found his performance in The Aviator completely worthy of the Oscar he didn't win (damn you, Jamie Foxx), I can see why some took issue with his portraying of Howard Hughes. Here, DiCaprio gets to make use of his natural, near-infuriating boyishness, and he has just the right amount of presence now to play young buck in the crime outfit, dominated by heavyweights like Nicholson and Winstone. And, throughout the film, his Billy Costigan is on a downward slope to paranoia and breakdown, a decline that DiCaprio charts with a subtlety that so few of his contemporaries can manage. If this wasn't such a pulpy, commercially-minded film, he would be a shoo-in for many, many nominations, and might yet surprise me by acquiring them.
But, as with any Scorsese film, the discussion will always centre around him. Not even Steven Spielberg works under the weight of expectation that Scorsese does; and it's a testament to the fact that Coppola has made nothing by rubbish for the last twenty-odd years, and DePalma too, has lost his way, that film lovers still get passionate about his work. I can't imagine too many devotees being disappointed by this film. After two Oscar hunting films, he has finally said, F*** it, and threw his considerable talents behind a balls-to-the-wall thriller that is by turns, Scrosese-esque and Hitchockian, with bags of mass appeal. Spielberg could have made a 4-star movie of this; David Fincher could have done the script proud. But only Scorsese could walk the commercial and artistic line so deftly, so brilliantly, and leave his peers and pretenders standing.
The Departed is the film of the year, no question. And film lovers everywhere should rejoice at having Martin Scorsese back at the top of his game.
*****
OUTLAW - written and directed by Nick Love, 2007
As a big fan of Nick Love, I'm always looking forward to new films of his. And I looked forward even more to the idea that the film was going to serve as an indictment of the dire state of the British justice system. So it was quite a let down to see that the resulting film descends into half-formed, slightly-incoherent statements - almost as if the director himself doesn't truly believe in the subject matter, but is assuming his core audience does. Maybe they do, but what we have here is a potentially very important film (and I would argue on some level that it still is) becoming like a whisper in a thunderstorm. Rather than show the vigilantes cleaning up the streets, they are instead set upon underlings of a mute local gangster, with mere lip-service paid to the pre-release hype. It's all very well to moan about the state of the country, but for characters who make big noise about 'standing up and fighting' to instead go through (what feels like) rushed story motions, there is a deflating sense that neither character nor writer is really walking the walk.
That being said, the individual sequences are very good. Nick Love's visual flair is present and correct, and the film is shot through with the kind of energy that only he can muster. It is oddly structured - a curious dream/premonition sequence opens things up, and only the talent of his cast - in particular Sean Bean, Danny Dyer and Lenny James - holds it together in the early stages. Bean's intensity is great, and he really should have been the focus of the film, to give the narrative better drive.What might have also helped is if the director acquired himself a writing partner, someone to rein in his disparate, brilliant ideas into a coherent stories about characters in whom the audience can invest.
Stylish, then, and never boring, but the faux-passion is too much to get past. I don't believe Mr. Love was truly invested in the 'message' of this film, and as such the experience is much more hollow than Charlie Bright or The Football Factory. I read an interview with Mr. Love around the time of The Business' cinematic release, where he said he had an idea centred around a screwed up, rich family. This is the kind of film I'd like to see from him now, for - on the evidence of this - he has truly exhausted the inner-city urban milieu.
** 1/2 out of 5.
The Departed - written by William Monahan, directed by Martin Scorsese. 2006
First things first: this new film by Martin Scorsese is not going to stand up to the scrutiny of time the way his classics such as Mean Streets, Taxi Driver, Raging Bull, Goodfellas and Casino have and will continue to do. This is not to say that Scorsese has delivered an artistic disappointment, far from it - The Departed fuses Scorsese's cineliterate panache with a gleeful lack of pretension that is certain to give him the most commercially-succesful film of his career. But where the earlier efforts were films, weighed down with spiritual and/or thematic concerns, concerns which bled onto the storytelling methods and visual technique, The Departed is a movie - the most full-on, story-driven film that Scorsese has made since his last re-make, Cape Fear, in 1991. Does this signal a dumbing down of the sensibilities of a director now so finally expasperated at his inexplicable inability to garner a Best Director Oscar?
Absolutely not, for Scorsese tells stories better than any director in Hollywood. And while the expaseration may be true, this is not a dumbed-down movie. In fact, it may well be the smartest and most engaging film you'll see all year. That it manages to be so while still containing all of Scorsese's staple themes - guilt, redemption, the precariousness of modern masculinity, and the bonds between men - makes it damn near a miraculous piece of work.
As we all know, it borrows its premise from the wonderful 2002 Hong Kong thriller Infernal Affairs (and I'll wax lyrical about the comparisons in another blog entry, I'm sure). The Departed follows two young men in the Massecheusetts (sic) State Police - fast-rising, cocky Colin Sullivan (Damon), and wrong-side-of-the-tracks Billy Costigan (DiCaprio). Each is picked to be a covert spy, but for opposite sides of the law. Billy is recruited to be an undercover cop with a mission to infiltrate the ring of Boston kingpin Frank Costello (Nicholson); meanwhile, Costello himself has earmarked Sullivan to be his eyes and eyes in the PD since childhood.
The film spans two tumultuous years in their lives as both begin to wilt and crack under the weight of their daily deceptions. When each side is made aware of the other's existence, the race is on for both young men to find the other first...
Such a flimsy summary of the film's premise really doesn't do justice to William Monahan's script, which has taken a taut Cantonese film, drowning in tension, and beefed it up so that every character (save the muddle that is Vera Farmiga's police psychiatrist, dating Sullivan, counselling Billy) has quirks, mannerisms, and the suggestion of a third dimension so lacking in most Hollywood films. By adding the element of an ingrained Catholicism of the Boston Irish, Monahan promotes The Departed from the 'competent thriller' that was its source material, to something approaching a modern tragedy. Indeed, issues of morality abound, and while not every decision a character makes has clear-cut reasoning, you never doubt the authenticity of the moments.
This is as much to do with the acting as it is the writing. Damon plays superbly against type as a cocky, near-weasel-like detective who is slwoly realising he has been in over his head since the day Jack Nicholson's crime lord first picked him out in a convenience store. Nicholson has never been more enjoyable as a completely racist, misogynistic, thoroughly evil gangland kingpin - such is the glee with which he spouts his (presumably oft-improvised) dialogue that he recalls his performance in such signature films as One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, or The Shining. (Indeed, the film is so dismissive of the current constraints of Hollywood's liberal, PC brigade, that it at times seems a harkback to the glorious decade in which directors like Scorsese, Coppola, DePalma, Friedkin and Cimino thought big, shot bigger and didn't give a damn about studios or box office).
The supporting cast is, by and large, superb - special mention must go to Alec Baldwin, who - while clearly resurrecting his Glengarry Glen Ross persona - nevertheless continues to prove that he is still one of the most reliable of supporting players in America. British acting living legend Ray Winstone also cuts a memorably fearsome figure as Costello's right hand man, Mr French; although his accent is a little hit and miss, Winstone's gruff delivery and undoubted natural hardness make you believe him. As mentioned, Vera Farmiga is a bit lost in the field of Y chromosomes (not uncommon for a Scorsese film), but I'll chose to blame one of two flaws in the script - that being that Monahan has amalgamated, essentially, THREE female characters from the original film into one, multi-functional, and very questionable female presence in the film. As noted, Scorsese doesn't often get women right in his films, and one of the ways he tries to compensate for this is to make them the sort of 'moral anchor' in the film. Farmiga serves this role, but at times you do get the feeling that she is there to dampen any fears of homoeroticism.
But, thesping wise, this film belongs to Leonardo DiCaprio, who has finally found a Scorsese role that plays perfectly to his physical appearance and acting strengths. In Gangs of New York he lacked the requisite presence to hang in there with the might of Daniel Day-Lewis; and while I found his performance in The Aviator completely worthy of the Oscar he didn't win (damn you, Jamie Foxx), I can see why some took issue with his portraying of Howard Hughes. Here, DiCaprio gets to make use of his natural, near-infuriating boyishness, and he has just the right amount of presence now to play young buck in the crime outfit, dominated by heavyweights like Nicholson and Winstone. And, throughout the film, his Billy Costigan is on a downward slope to paranoia and breakdown, a decline that DiCaprio charts with a subtlety that so few of his contemporaries can manage. If this wasn't such a pulpy, commercially-minded film, he would be a shoo-in for many, many nominations, and might yet surprise me by acquiring them.
But, as with any Scorsese film, the discussion will always centre around him. Not even Steven Spielberg works under the weight of expectation that Scorsese does; and it's a testament to the fact that Coppola has made nothing by rubbish for the last twenty-odd years, and DePalma too, has lost his way, that film lovers still get passionate about his work. I can't imagine too many devotees being disappointed by this film. After two Oscar hunting films, he has finally said, F*** it, and threw his considerable talents behind a balls-to-the-wall thriller that is by turns, Scrosese-esque and Hitchockian, with bags of mass appeal. Spielberg could have made a 4-star movie of this; David Fincher could have done the script proud. But only Scorsese could walk the commercial and artistic line so deftly, so brilliantly, and leave his peers and pretenders standing.
The Departed is the film of the year, no question. And film lovers everywhere should rejoice at having Martin Scorsese back at the top of his game.
*****
Friday, 13 July 2007
More 'Grrr...'
For most people, the time they move out of their family home is the watershed moment in their life, where they grow and mature and all that stuff. It's something on which they look back and say it was, at that stage of their life, the best decision they ever made.
So why, three months after making that decision myself, has it genuinely proved to be the absolute worst decision I ever made? Here I am in this disharmonious house, where people don't get along, they just co-exist; they don't consider anyone else's feelings, until they're told, Hey, out of line or whatever - and even then...
Not that I'm saying I want to still be in a small house as part of a family of five, noisy and crowded. I realise I should have held off and tried to make it work so that I could have lived alone. Had my own space, worked according to my own schedule. I really just don't like people enough to live with them every single day. I'm homesick for a family home that I cannot live in anymore; I'm frustrated and I'm angry all the time. I'm stressed because I have to depend on too many people, something I always had a rule about not doing...
I have to get out of this place. I have to follow up this writing opportunity I have with both hands, and grab it for all it's worth.
I can't stand this anymore.
So why, three months after making that decision myself, has it genuinely proved to be the absolute worst decision I ever made? Here I am in this disharmonious house, where people don't get along, they just co-exist; they don't consider anyone else's feelings, until they're told, Hey, out of line or whatever - and even then...
Not that I'm saying I want to still be in a small house as part of a family of five, noisy and crowded. I realise I should have held off and tried to make it work so that I could have lived alone. Had my own space, worked according to my own schedule. I really just don't like people enough to live with them every single day. I'm homesick for a family home that I cannot live in anymore; I'm frustrated and I'm angry all the time. I'm stressed because I have to depend on too many people, something I always had a rule about not doing...
I have to get out of this place. I have to follow up this writing opportunity I have with both hands, and grab it for all it's worth.
I can't stand this anymore.
Sunday, 1 July 2007
Grrr...
It's 5.30 am and I've been up for 57 minutes. I've made the worst cup of tea ever made, and almost accidentally brushed my teeth with my housemate's thrush cream instead of toothpaste.
Somehow, I have a feeling the 'work' is going to be a bit tough this morning. :(
It's just outlines today, thank Bruce. Page outlines. Not as easy as they may sound, but easier than trying to get into a particular voice when you're not in the mood. I'm worried - I haven't actually *been* in the mood for a while, not to the degree that I need to really make something fly. I'm hoping it's just my usual summer malaise, though.
On the (way)upside, I'm occupied and motivated, with something to accomplish and somewhere to go. And on that note, I should get to it. It's 5.34.
I just didn't want the sole entry here to be a really depressing one.
Somehow, I have a feeling the 'work' is going to be a bit tough this morning. :(
It's just outlines today, thank Bruce. Page outlines. Not as easy as they may sound, but easier than trying to get into a particular voice when you're not in the mood. I'm worried - I haven't actually *been* in the mood for a while, not to the degree that I need to really make something fly. I'm hoping it's just my usual summer malaise, though.
On the (way)upside, I'm occupied and motivated, with something to accomplish and somewhere to go. And on that note, I should get to it. It's 5.34.
I just didn't want the sole entry here to be a really depressing one.
Friday, 29 June 2007
Thoughts on Chris Benoit...
The tragedy that happened in Georgia this past weekend probably shouldn't affect me as much as it has. Unfortunately, murders - even of children - happen all the time all over the world. Not to say I'm ambivalent, but it takes a lot for something to bother me. The murders of Nancy and Daniel Benoit did, in many ways.
The details are readily available on any online news outlet, and really don't bear repeating here. Suffice to say, the evidence suggests that Chris Benoit - beloved and respected professional wrestler, Chris Benoit - committed not one, but two acts of the most heinous evil. He murdered his wife; then he took the life of his seven year old son, who suffered from Fragile X syndrome (and who the police are suggesting Benoit was pumping with growth hormones) a day later. A further day after that, Chris Benoit committed suicide. In between, however, he is said to have sent text messages to co-workers, crying off a PPV appearance that night, Sunday, on account of his wife and child being "sick".
I'm an avid fan of pro wrestling - I follow it, I blog about it, I argue on messageboards and with my real life friends about it. As such, I have an inkling of the darkness that lurks in the hearts and minds of some of the performers - the stress and drug dependencies that come with a 300-day-a-year road schedule; the inability to distinguish between self and character that seems to affect so many of the top-tier performers. If you had asked me a week ago today, who would I never suspect to be embroiled in any kind of scandal, the first name out of my mouth would have been Chris Benoit.
The man had an old school air about him - he was the man of the people. He didn't have the Hollywood look, he didn't have the charisma, he didn't have the size - but he had the talent, he had the work rate, he had the respect for the traditions of the business. But - and this has latter become a chilling detail - he always seemed as if he was FOR REAL. As if, in a real situation, Benoit could forego the tricks that made his wrestling performance 'safe' and really hurt someone if he had to. He was the man to cheer for - the perpetual underdog in the ring and in the WWF/E locker room. Regardless of what happened this past week, I make no secret of the fact that Chris Benoit was a man I respected above almost any other in the pro wrestling business, and a performer who could get me excited about pre-determined matches...
And now that's all meaningless.
It sounds ridiculous to even think, but this horrific event has taught me that you can never truly know what a person is capable of. I never knew Chris Benoit, never met him, and only ever saw him perform live once. My relationship with him was with his 'character' - variously referred to as The Canadian Crippler or The Rabid Wolverine - whom I saw every week on RAW or SmackDown. But I feel let down, and almost embarrassed, and it's a strange feeling.
You see, from 2000-2006, if any non-wrestling fan would have asked why I watched pro wrestling, I would have directed them to the efforts of several performers. Chris Benoit would have been at the top of the list. Here was a man who lived for a business that so many reviled, but in his love for it and commitment to it, he somehow legitimised it. It was through Benoit that, sometimes, you could see what it was all about, why people loved it and became obsessed with it - why they wanted to be wrestlers. And now that man, who so many people vouched for as the man who justified this profession that is, actually, inherently silly, goes and does something like this...
I don't know what was going through Chris Benoit's mind when he murdered his wife and son. To be honest, I don't care. At the end of the day, I'm a wrestling fan, and my feelings on the matter mean nothing. I won't pretend this hasn't thrown me for a loop, but I recognise that I feel more than I perhaps should. Bear in mind, the man has two older children from a prior relationship - what must they be going through, trying to contemplate what kind of man their father revealed himself to be with his last actions? There's been an outpouring of opinions and debate among the IWC, but I truly think it's time for everyone to shut up and let the surviving members of the Benoit family salvage something from their life. This is not a wrestling issue, so far as I can see - I completely reject the theory that Benoit was in the throes of a weekend-long steroid rage - and wrestling fans shouldn't let it become one. For, in death, Chris Benoit removed himself from the business completely. The wrestler and performer may have been a supremely talented individual, but the man behind it - whom we so supported - was a monster. And there's no getting away from that...
Eric Bischoff said in his blog, "God bless Nancy and Daniel. God forgive Chris Benoit."
I agree with the first part.
The details are readily available on any online news outlet, and really don't bear repeating here. Suffice to say, the evidence suggests that Chris Benoit - beloved and respected professional wrestler, Chris Benoit - committed not one, but two acts of the most heinous evil. He murdered his wife; then he took the life of his seven year old son, who suffered from Fragile X syndrome (and who the police are suggesting Benoit was pumping with growth hormones) a day later. A further day after that, Chris Benoit committed suicide. In between, however, he is said to have sent text messages to co-workers, crying off a PPV appearance that night, Sunday, on account of his wife and child being "sick".
I'm an avid fan of pro wrestling - I follow it, I blog about it, I argue on messageboards and with my real life friends about it. As such, I have an inkling of the darkness that lurks in the hearts and minds of some of the performers - the stress and drug dependencies that come with a 300-day-a-year road schedule; the inability to distinguish between self and character that seems to affect so many of the top-tier performers. If you had asked me a week ago today, who would I never suspect to be embroiled in any kind of scandal, the first name out of my mouth would have been Chris Benoit.
The man had an old school air about him - he was the man of the people. He didn't have the Hollywood look, he didn't have the charisma, he didn't have the size - but he had the talent, he had the work rate, he had the respect for the traditions of the business. But - and this has latter become a chilling detail - he always seemed as if he was FOR REAL. As if, in a real situation, Benoit could forego the tricks that made his wrestling performance 'safe' and really hurt someone if he had to. He was the man to cheer for - the perpetual underdog in the ring and in the WWF/E locker room. Regardless of what happened this past week, I make no secret of the fact that Chris Benoit was a man I respected above almost any other in the pro wrestling business, and a performer who could get me excited about pre-determined matches...
And now that's all meaningless.
It sounds ridiculous to even think, but this horrific event has taught me that you can never truly know what a person is capable of. I never knew Chris Benoit, never met him, and only ever saw him perform live once. My relationship with him was with his 'character' - variously referred to as The Canadian Crippler or The Rabid Wolverine - whom I saw every week on RAW or SmackDown. But I feel let down, and almost embarrassed, and it's a strange feeling.
You see, from 2000-2006, if any non-wrestling fan would have asked why I watched pro wrestling, I would have directed them to the efforts of several performers. Chris Benoit would have been at the top of the list. Here was a man who lived for a business that so many reviled, but in his love for it and commitment to it, he somehow legitimised it. It was through Benoit that, sometimes, you could see what it was all about, why people loved it and became obsessed with it - why they wanted to be wrestlers. And now that man, who so many people vouched for as the man who justified this profession that is, actually, inherently silly, goes and does something like this...
I don't know what was going through Chris Benoit's mind when he murdered his wife and son. To be honest, I don't care. At the end of the day, I'm a wrestling fan, and my feelings on the matter mean nothing. I won't pretend this hasn't thrown me for a loop, but I recognise that I feel more than I perhaps should. Bear in mind, the man has two older children from a prior relationship - what must they be going through, trying to contemplate what kind of man their father revealed himself to be with his last actions? There's been an outpouring of opinions and debate among the IWC, but I truly think it's time for everyone to shut up and let the surviving members of the Benoit family salvage something from their life. This is not a wrestling issue, so far as I can see - I completely reject the theory that Benoit was in the throes of a weekend-long steroid rage - and wrestling fans shouldn't let it become one. For, in death, Chris Benoit removed himself from the business completely. The wrestler and performer may have been a supremely talented individual, but the man behind it - whom we so supported - was a monster. And there's no getting away from that...
Eric Bischoff said in his blog, "God bless Nancy and Daniel. God forgive Chris Benoit."
I agree with the first part.
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