A totally alien form of sci-fi

Low budget, thoughtful and with little need for makeup - not usually the first characteristics that spring to mind when considering sci-fi. Another Earth has reworked the genre, replacing lasers with wii remotes, space duels with teary exchanges, and Sigourney Weaver with the lovely Brit Marling.
The young writer and actress has created a film of unique quality and consideration, presenting the spooky concept of a second you in a bare and human light. As mind-blowing as the premise is, it’s the earthly aspects of Another Earth that made my skin tingle. You won’t find any slimey aliens, and the one onscreen romance is far from intergalactic. The film does well to show that it only takes mopping a floor or playing a computer game to let the mundane trivialities of this earthly life unveil deeper truths on guilt, love, regret and the human condition.
Presented in stop-start, dusty, almost retro cinematic style, the film shows events as if artifacts of memory, conceptions of a world that is impossibly complex and haunted only by tragedies which are very real. This lack of Hollywood pizazz may catch the viewer off guard, allowing him or her to totally buy into the one aspect of the plot which is truly science fiction.
But even without this story of a second world, the destructive passion of protagonists Rhoda and John’s love story would make a painfully good drama in itself. The film gives us so much more than we need, exceeding standard expectations of sci-fi cinema and leaving its audience with unshakable questions to consider.
And so, hours after leaving the cinema, I’m finding myself gazing into my cup of tea, wondering: Who am I? Could I be better? Have I done things right? Would I change things if I could?
And more importantly, could this be my film of the year?

Here's the scoop - Feature Length Havana Advert Pulls in Crowds at Local Cinema

Locusts, liquor, beasts and bastards; it breathes with rum-tinged breath a gonzo vernacular that can only mean the work of one man - Hunter S. Thompson.

The writer’s only published work of fiction, The Rum Diary, has been adapted for the big screen, and will be the much appreciated drug of choice for addicts of Thompson’s work who prefer to let his wackiness wash over them in audio-visual form. Starring Hollywood’s own version of the man, ageing Cherokee dreamboat Johnny Depp, the simplest of viewers couldn’t be blamed for (like thinking that Val Kilmer is actually the real guy out the Doors) believing that Johnny and Hunter and one and the same.

Sorry, I’m being utterly cynical. It’s always tempting to be cynical when one individual has a whole genre pinned on him. Gonzo journalism is a definition only ever really given credit by the work of Thomson. He created it, after all, monopolising on his eccentricity and a vocabulary as colourful as his weekends.

Depp’s character, aspiring (but failing) novelist Paul Kemp, in many ways mirrors the life of its original creator. Thompson also spent time looking for work in Puerto Rico, and he too took on journalism as a preliminary career, hoping to later graduate to the golden realms of fiction. Depp fits the bill comfortably, with his innately kooky gait and camp demeanour. Recently, I have almost been thinking that his distinctive style would suit well a retirement to the stage, so theatrical are his expressions. It was this slapstick element that made me walk out of The Tourist barely halfway through, laughing bitterly. But here, in vibrant Puerto Rico, it works. He’s ‘artistic’, as his editor, played by Richard Jenkins, may have put it.

I doubt that the film will do the same for the field of journalism as it no doubt has for rum sales. The journalism film is a genre of its own, from His Girl Friday to Never Been Kissed, and academic literature can even be found on this representation of a professional reality in the arts (see Brian McNair’s Journalists in Film: Heroes and Villians). But perhaps ‘reality’ is not the right word. Invariably, journalists are portrayed on the silver screen as hackneyed, chain-smoking characters with no respect for their liver or deadlines. Health warning, kids: don’t trust this myth. Work on your shorthand before you start on the hard stuff.

Although, in saying that, Thompson offered a compelling argument when he said, “Does it look like drugs have fucked me up? I’m sitting here on a beautiful beach in Mexico; I’ve written three books. I’ve got a fine one-hundred acre fortress in Colorado. On that evidence, I’d have to advise the use of drugs.” So go on, if you’re brave enough, try it.

Having gone off on a tangent here, I’ll return to the film to say that it’s giggly entertainment, made charming by performances from Michael Rispoli and Giovanni Ribisi, who, combined with a pari of bloodshot contacts, makes a hilarious and startlingly believable drunk.

The one downside is the woman-shaped hole in the plot. There is a fluffy romance, with Amber Heard playing the lucky lady who gets to snog Depp. But her character is disappointingly hollow.

It seems that portrayal of the female in cinema suffers the same sort of 2D misrepresentation as that of the ubiquitous journalist.

A Plea

I’VE HAD ENOUGH!

I can’t take this anymore! Just give me it baaaaaack! Take everything else and give me it BACK!

Someone has taken my cine-pass. It’s a small plastic rectangle of wonderment, having given me much cinematic pleasure over the years. I turn to it in times of need. I think of it as a friend. And now it’s gone.

Some thoughtless idiot stole my purse last weekend, and in it was my cine-pass. I pay monthly for my cinema, you see, in order that I can grace the theatre seats of my local picture house whenever I please. I also lost my bank cards, driver’s license, student and library cards, all of which have to be replaced. But none of that matters. I’ve lost my cine-pass.

In this time of despair, I turn to fond memories; Showing up impromptu and ending up watching The Troll Hunter, only to sit perplexed and mildly astounded, thinking, ‘What the hell is this?’; Heading straight to the dark warmth of the cinema after one too many gins the night before to let the mindless sentiment of It’s Complicated wash over my pounding headache (thank you, Meryl.); Reluctantly opting for the cheesily titled Going the Distance, and then ending up grinning with joy in a complete u-turn while Charlie Day makes me giggle and Drew Barrymore redeems herself following the utterly awful Whip It.

The point is - there is absolutely no way that I would have seen these films if it hadn’t have been for my cine-pass. Granted, I’ve also seen a lot of crap. But the joy of being a cinema regular is in challenging your trailer-influenced impressions. Posters on the sides of busses can only reveal so much.

So PLEASE - ! - Just give me it back.

Pssssst...

I have a crush.

He’s smart, almost geeky, but in not to the extent that he’s wearing mega thick glasses and using nasal spray. No, he’s intelligent. Mature and articulate, he’s a family man, the rock for a group of flawed people.

Sometimes, he makes me laugh. He works in a big company but also has this banana stand business on the go. Sweet, eh? And he cycles. Something cute about a man that cycles.

Talk, dark and handsome, but not in an obvious way, he has a face that looks warm. Does that make sense? Oh, I can’t describe it. You wouldn’t understand anyway. He’s not your average guy.

He’s fictional.

He’s Michael Bluth.

I love Arrested Development.

Don't judge a book by its colour.

Evil has a new face; it’s powdered, blushed, preened and void of cold sores (well, mostly), auburn hair swings at a totally non-accidental angle around its milk-white jaw and it speaks at you from tastefully painted lips: ‘There are some real racists in this town.’

A snigger is heard from the film theatre. The ubiquitous hypocrisy of cushty suburban life reaches racial-political heights in Tate Taylor’s The Help, a screen adaptation of the novel by Kathryn Stockett.

The evil in question is personified by the inherently racist town bitch, Hilly Holbrook. In between the sop-induced tears and sniffles in the film theatre, you’ll hear almost equal amounts of tuts and sighs of disapproval, most of which will be aimed at Miss Hilly. Played by the stoney-faced Bryce Dallas Howard, she is the focal point of our moral indignation, which the audience is encouraged to relish from its relatively fair and right-thinking historical stance. Heads quietly shake and popcorn falls from mouth as the entirely nonfictional injustices of the 1960‘s are revealed.

Emma Stone plays the young aspiring writer in The Help who secretly assists the local black maids of her PC-backward town to tell their story - something which seems to come naturally to a character brought up among rife gossip and telltales. Finally, this gossip has a just cause.

So far, we have the baddy, the goody and the down-trodden socially disadvantaged. Sounds like a pretty black and white tearjecker so far (please excuse the pun).

Enter Celia Foote. Played by Jessica Chastain, Celia plays the role of thwarting our prejudices; a two-dimensional bimbo to begin with, her heart-breaking story becomes the unlikely one to give the film its real warmth.

Kids can be cruel...

Type the words ‘every parents nightmare’ into the movie blogosphere right now and guaranteed you’ll end up staring Tilda Swinton in the face, this time - in her pendular swings between glam and gaunt - resembling more the latter. Lynne Ramsay’s screen adaptation of Lionel Shriver’s We Need to Talk About Kevin, about the mother of a teenage boy who commits a high school massacre, is an absolutely terrifying film, and the baddy isn’t the obvious. Forget the sinister murdering son - the real horror is suburban life, with its eternal clutches and sleekit facade, as it tricks wanderlust protagonist Eva into thinking that having a family and settling down won’t ruin her life.

Family is binding. Many young people, just back from their gap year and planning to hug a chimpanzee in Thailand next summer, have that thought at the back of their head that one day they’ll do the parent thing; fulfill their lives conventionally. We Need to Talk About Kevin isn’t going to let you do this. You’ll be too damn scared that the bundle of joy you give birth too will actively and persistently ruin your life.

Just why we find children so terrifying is open to speculation. For me, it is the potential; that lovely little princess niece of yours might go on to become a doctor! Yeah, a Haroldette Shipman maybe... You just don’t know. It reminds me of a short story called ‘Genesis and Catastrophe’ in Roald Dahl’s Kiss Kiss, a collection of short stories for adults. The story tells of a mother’s difficult birth, and both she and baby pull through. How lovely. Plot spoiler alert: the baby’s name is Adolf Hitler.

Visually, the film is obviously a book adaption. The whole thing reads like prose from a page shoved up on the screen. Much of the mood and discomfort is told in aesthetics. Packed with repulsive imagery, food is repeatedly shown spilling and festering, giving an air of decay and unease, and also providing a symbol for the ubiquitous everyday consumerism that forces us to choose tame, materialistic, suburban life.

The consumerism that so often grates moody teenagers up the wrong way.

Meadows and Considine, the real stars

Hot off the brain-cell-killing press, the Sun has reported that the 2011 Stone Roses reunion is to be accompanied by a movie made by Shane Meadows. It’s all looking good according to the newspaper that never ever lies.

At first, I read this feeling pessimistic as to what sort of value a rockumentary reunion movie would actually offer your average movie fan, or Stone Roses fan, or like me, movie and Stone Roses fan. I’ve been to an Ian Brown solo gig, and, still today, the only bits that people care about are Waterfall and I am the Resurrection. I skeptically await any descent new material. So all this can really be is another money-milking pump on the sore-nippled cow that rock reunions have become, no?

No. I have every faith in Shane Meadows. Obviously he’s perfect for this working class, gruff sort of ‘elizabeth-my-dear’ stuff. I mean, of course they wouldn’t get Disney Pixar to do it. This could be quite exciting.

More importantly, the Meadows/Considine synergy that keeps churning out such awesome kitchen sink dramas is the British film industry’s most exciting working relationship today, and by default, I find myself watching one film of theirs and reestablishing my appreciation of them both relatively.

Paddy Considine’s directorial debut in Tyrannosaur is astounding. He reportedly kept in close contact with Meadows, friend and collaborator, throughout the making of the film. It’s been a while since I last left a film theatre so dumbstruck. Of course, it’s nasty and full of cruelty and violence and poverty and it’s hard to watch; but the real bits that make you want to wail and insanely embrace the nearest human being are moments of heart-breaking kindness in the face of resistance. This is symbolised through the protagonists’ relationship - Joseph (Peter Mullan, an actor who never struggles to play a part at the bottom of the council tax band) and Hannah (Olivia Colman).

Aw aye, that’s that bird fae Peepshow, eh?

She is absolutely perfect, horrifyingly so. I want to run round to her house right now and make sure that she isn’t actually a real-life victim of domestic torment. Dialogue never falls below spot-on. She is so utterly convincing and real.

It was this real-ness that kept us fixed while Considine’s enraged character sought bloody revenge in Meadows’ Dead Man’s Shoes, and instilled endearment in Meadows’ This is England, and, in a break from tradition, caused a smirk at Considine as rapper twat in Meadows’ Le Donk and Scor-zay-zee.

With any luck, Meadows’ take on the Stone Roses won’t give the band members the same laughable qualities as the mock-rockstars in Le Donk. But who knows - maybe Mani’s dug will end up mauling Brown on a council estate between gigs.