Hitchcock

Let me save you the suspense (I actually came up with that before I thought about who this film is about) and tell you that this movie is for old people. Those nice women who wear those chenille-looking scarves (usually plum, with a complementary black hat), and the men they drag along if their friends can't go, who look as if they'd rather be at home. Usually at the Lido, sometimes at the Rialto. This movie was made for the Lido.

Helen Mirren is at the stage of her career where she can do absolutely anything, and it will be well received. I say this from the camp that receives her; since Calendar Girls, I've been a fan. Anthony Hopkins is at the stage in his career where people will pretend to be interested, but not really want to see the film; when I think of him now, I find myself thinking of Baudrillard (though I did very much enjoy him in The Wolfman - that film was the best kind of ridiculous). I imagine he was very grateful to see Helen Mirren cast as Hitchcock's wife.

I don't know that I need to say much more than that, but I will. The film is entirely inoffensive (though the story might offend the intellects of some, and all power to them; life is short), and easy to follow. I found myself far more interested in things briefly alluded to (Hitchcock's relationship with Vera Miles, for one) than those explored (and even then, these weren't really delved into). Some people might describe the story-telling as subtle; I thought it was somewhat superficial, and like similar movies such as My Week With Marilyn (terrible, terrible film), relied too much on styling and novelty.

Both Mirren and Hopkins turn in solid performances (this is so weird; I never use phrases like "turn in", but I guess I'm trying to be a real, live reviewer), and Scarlett Johannson is the least annoying I've found her since Lost In Translation. Jessica Biel is underused, and everybody else is fairly forgettable.

Frankly, I wouldn't bother. The friends we watched with didn't mind it; I felt bad about this, as they have a six month old baby, and this was the first movie they'd watched since her birth. I did mind. There are so many excellent movies out there, it would be preferable to remaster and rerelease them than to watch new movies that would be clever or insightful, but just aren't. My recommendations for something to watch instead of this:

1. The Remains of the Day

2. Psycho

3. Vertigo

or The Wolfman. It really was hilarious.

Le Quattro Volte

To start with, this wasn't a movie we chose. My boss is sick so she asked if we would like to take her tickets; it looked okay in the book (obviously we weren't thinking properly: "nearly every shot contains a revelation") and it meant I could leave work half an hour early. So easily bought.

Le Quattro Volte is about the passing of life. I was acutely aware of the passing of mine. Ebbing. Eeking out of me, as I waited for the old man on the screen to die his inevitable death. I noticed a lot of coughing in the cinema. I tried to see beauty, and feel the significance and insignificance of his life and his death. But I just couldn't care. There was a particularly painful scene when a person tried to pass a barking dog. Some people laughed. Somewhere around this time, Vincent spelled out This Is Shit on my leg.

It was with a sinking heart that I remembered quattro means four.

The next story was not so bad. I like goats. I like seeing gross things, like goats being born. I like watching animals grow, and play. At the end, the baby goat got lost and we didn't see it being found. A kid of about thirteen who was sitting in front of us put his head on his mother's shoulder. First I thought he was tired, and felt for him. Then his sister began to comfort him, and I thought he must be sad about the goat. Now I think he was sad that his family are imbeciles and subjected him to a terrible movie. I hope he lives a long life. I think he's more likely to grow up to be like Lutz.

The third was bad again. It was the story of a tree. I decided to try different ways of watching to see if they improved the film. First I pressed one ear against Vincent's shoulder so I could only hear out of the other. It happened to be during a scene with some kind of outdoor equipment, and reminded me of lying in the grass in summer with a lawn-mower in the distance. Then I tried shutting one eye. It was too tempting to close the other. Finally, I made a little tunnel with my hand and watched through it with one eye. This was very interesting. The hole my hand made was a tiny fraction of the screen, and I had to move it all over to find where the action was.

The fourth story was very exciting while still excruciating, a lot like when the elders used to pray over sick people at church (so close and yet so far). The end was in sight; too close to try to sleep, besides which I wasn't about to let the film rob me of a good night's slumber as well as eighty-eight minutes of my life, plus seating and leaving time. The story was mildly interesting as I had no idea what was being done, and near the conclusion wondered what I had just seen being done to wood was in aid of. Then I wondered what the entire film was in aid of. I began to think of life, and the film, and how Sartre or Camus or someone else said Life Is Absurd. Then I began to think about existentialism, and then the film ended.

We are born. We live. We die. Go eat something bad for you.

Image from cinelogue.com

Beginners

Sometimes you just have to take things as they come.

On the way to the movie I saw a guy on Queen Street in a monster mask being filmed by two other guys. When I saw him I immediately felt a bit irritated, and willed him not to do something funny to me, exhaling in relief when I got past him without incident. Then I heard Vincent's Mum behind me, chuckling at him, and thought Man, I need to Chill Out.

So I tried, and so Beginners was a pretty enjoyable time. It's a beautifully shot, non-linear story about what we have to overcome to have love; a brave old man who commits his last years to finding a love more complete than that of his marriage, and his son who wants love but fears it. The first story is my favourite; Christopher Plummer and Goran Visnjic are perfectly cast and their story simple and touching. The latter could be incredibly irritating; people in life and in movies who won't fight for what they want, especially when it is a person, frustrate me no end. (I realised during the film that my reaction to this type of person is shaped by how I love, and that examining how and why I love the way I do through the example of my parents is part of the point of the film.) However, the poignance of Ewan McGregor's character Oliver's flashbacks, his acting, and the quiet direction meant this wasn't the case. All I felt was his loss, and his fear, and the sense that he was trying.

There were a few moments where I rolled my eyes (sad people often go to parties, but people who can't speak because of laryngitis? And who have no friends because they are transient actors? How did they know to dress up?) but when I think about the film, I remember the bits that made me laugh and the bits that made me cry. I only remember looking up at the stars on the ceiling twice (and really, even in a great movie it's hard not to sneak a peek just to remind yourself you're at the Civic), and when we went to bed and picked apart the bits we didn't like, Vincent and I both agreed we liked it. And that we would very much like to have a little dog with whom we can communicate telepathically.

Image from collider.com

Somewhere (Preferably Not Here)

Every so often, the fatty man beside me would take a loud breath in and out, as if he was just so full of hot air he couldn't handle it. I certainly couldn't. Every time he emitted his high-pitched, slightly uncomfortable, too-loud giggle, I had to hold down my arm to resist slapping him. He was on a date, and dressed to slay in dark dress-jeans, favoured by men in their thirties who are ready to be in their forties (that had stretched so much during the movie that when he stood to leave they just sat on his fatty behind like badly-applied papier-mache on a deflated balloon), a navy blazer that didn't so much scream as plead self-importance, and black dress shoes, one of which he propped up over the opposite knee throughout the film, as if to increase his area (completely unnecessary; his person and his ego threatened to occupy the entire cinema).

There's really not much else to say about Somewhere. It could have been a nice short film. Instead it was an over-styled, over-reaching, under-written hour and a half of Sofia Coppola relying on her name, her reputation, and the Emperor's new clothes to make people sit still. Oh, it was pretty. Elle Fanning was lovely to watch. But for ten dollars, I could buy half a tab of acid, and then a grain of sand would be lovely to watch - plus, I wouldn't have to sit beside a guy who definitely didn't end up having sex last night. I feel as if I should tell you about a specific scene. There is one, which I had already read about, where the main character, Johhny Marco, falls asleep while having sex; specifically, while going down on a woman. The reviewer said it was a humourous, climactic example of his boredom with his lifestyle and amusements. I thought Coppola had already "demonstrated" that when he fell asleep during an embarrassing synchronised pole-dance by a set of twins (the most remarkable thing in the movie; these women were actually conjoined twins, sharing a brain, before they were miraculously separated), and that the scene was just another attempt to fill out the film... although now I also see it was to give stupid reviewers something to read meaning into. Maybe Coppola saw Exit Through The Gift Shop and was inspired to exploit crowd-mentality and general retardation.

This isn't a complete slam. If you've done all the washing, caught up with everyone you would miss if they kicked, and have finished reading all the books on Oprah's reading list, then sure, watch it. It's not that bad, and you'll definitely sleep well afterwards, unless you pass someone homeless on the way home and think of what your time and money could have done for them. But frankly, it's no Virgin Suicides. It's no Lost In Translation. It's not even Marie Antoinette. It's just Somewhere, and the morning after, I'm glad to be somewhere else.