On male and female Sociopaths, rejection and the importance of endings – a look at Blue Jasmine, Another Year, Scarlett Street and La Chienne
Woody Allen’s Blue Jasmine has Cate Blanchett, in the film’s final scene, sitting on a bench next to a woman and talking to herself out loud before, presumably, shuffling off to be a 'bag lady'. Mike Leigh’s most recent feature, Another Year, and in homage to Truffaut, places the camera on Lesley Manville [Mary] as she is somewhat reluctantly welcomed back into the group of friends she once so needed, but, through her own self destruction, becomes estranged from- in the film’s finale Mary is allowed to the dinner table, but all chat excludes her and she is isolated once more, the camera allowing itself to almost freeze on her poignant desolation in its final frames.
There are other contemporary films charting the tragic/comic demise of female figures in modern society [think of Terence Davies’ Deep Blue Sea and Rachel Weisz’ beautiful portrayal of an epiphanous woman who literally lets go of her lover- there are no fears in Davies’ interpretation that she will repeat a suicide attempt, as in Reisz’ and is, for this fact, modern]. But I wanted to focus on Blue Jasmine and Another Year in particular, not least because the two seem to be in conversation with each other [they are both by men, placing women at their core and watching Blue Jasmine, I immediately thought of Mary in Leigh’s film]. Blue Jasmine’s possible homage to A Streetcar Named Desire is already well documented [something Allen himself is skeptical of]- except that we now see a deluded and hysterical coat tailing Blanche/Jasmine who, rather than being thrown into an asylum by an irate Stanley, simply lies about her prospects to her sister Ginger [who either doesn’t care or is unconscious of Jasmine’s state] and storms out of the house, to wander the streets homeless and talking to herself. This measure of feminism, which in this case, is a simple ignoring of Jasmine’s helpless state by everyone concerned, is perhaps a cynical comment on the state of equality and the change to our modernized feelings of responsibility for each other.
Allen’s ending is fatalistic, resisting a journey off into the land of fantasy, the place where Jasmine herself is so imprisoned. Allen’s Jasmine is a tantrum-ess, dominated by her feelings and unresolved child conflicts, unable to prevent herself enacting that self-destructive rampage which effectively destroys her family. His film is not so much about a Park Avenue Goddess who finds that her financier husband is a con man and adulterer, than a socialite, seemingly untouched by the feminist movement [this is an ambiguity in the film] and lacking in skills, who is fatally controlled by her emotions and need for revenge [emotions, says Allen, contributes to 99.9% of our decision making].
So too with Mary in Mike Leigh’s Another Year, although she is very much aware that she is the sinner and stands condemned by those she cares about most. In a low wage job as an admin assistant, Mary’s middle-aged hopes revolve around finding that dream man, buying a car and finding freedom. She unravels [and the extent is measured against her successful Counselor friend, wife and mother Gerri [Ruth Sheen]] as she heads along a path of alcoholism and fantasy, her unrealistic long term crush on Joe, Gerri’s son, soon to be her undoing. Unable to accept his new girlfriend, she compounds the tense family meeting with insults- to the extent that Leigh focuses the rest of the film on Mary’s attempts to apologize, suffer contrition and be reaccepted into the fold.
Both Blue Jasmine and Another Year have key scenes where both characters, under the spell of their feelings, make fatal decisions. In Blue Jasmine, it is revealed at the end of the film, in Another Year, it is subtly worked up to. But what’s interesting is how we view these two characters and how our views are shaped by the films’ endings. A friend of mine, who loved Another Year, was antagonistic to the Mary character [I know plenty of those she said] but loved Cate Blanchett’s Jasmine. I wondered why this was. Perhaps because, at the end of Blue Jasmine, Blanchett is wittering away, she knows the end is nigh, but even if she’s going down she’s still firing her guns. Mike Leigh’s treatment is far more Hamlet esque, Mary is more Ophelia in her sense of powerlessness and rejection- she does not go to her fate shouting at the world, but succumbs with a teary face. If both were to commit suicide, Jasmine would surely use a gun, whereas with Mary, it would be vodka and pills.
Could these endings be products of the directors’ cultural upbringing? Yet Allen himself commented that Jasmine could easily have patched up her marriage- why not have her patch it up, or at least try? Would that be more interesting? Or is Allen tapping purposefully into this hidden fear that all women have i.e. of ending up isolated and alone and becoming a bag lady? [The Fear that Dare not speak its name, by Lisa Schwarzbaum] Why couldn’t Leigh allow Mary to pull herself together and at least try to be happy in the last scene? Rather than make her aware of the worst kind of acceptance of all- that is, an acceptance where indifference and diffidence are the metered out punishments. I’d suggest it’s because of both the directors’ needs for realism, even if Allen’s is, in the good old American way, slightly romanticized. But these needs, I’d suggest, are products of our own cultures and are not so much about portraying reality as about refusing to explore other possibilities.
Compare this with two films by Jean Renoir and Fritz Lang, - the same story- but vastly different treatments.
Renoir’s film comes first, based on a novel by George de La Fouchardière [La Chienne, or The Bitch] and tells of Maurice [Michel Simon] a married impoverished clerk and amateur painter, who soon falls in love with street walker Lulu. Aided by her boyfriend, Lulu swindles Maurice of all his finances and paintings and Maurice, when discovering this and her and the boyfriend in bed, loses his self-control and kills Lulu. Lang’s film is basically the same story, albeit with a few changed details. But what’s interesting is the ending of these two films- the parting shots as it were- made 13 years apart. Maurice is caught and loses everything- his wife, his money, his job. But Renoir [similar to his film Boudu saved from Drowning] gives the audience an ambiguously uplifting end- rather than sink into misery and mourn all that he has lost, we see a Maurice freed from what was a life of burdensome love full of financial problems, and embracing life as a homeless person. Lang’s treatment is much darker and closer to Leigh’s and Allen’s treatments of their heroines. Maurice who becomes Chris in his version, struck down by all that he has lost, is left curled up on a bench and crying out to God with the snow falling all around him, inviting certain death in the freezing conditions.
Thinking about all four of these films and how closely they seem related [the end shots of Jasmine and AY made me think of the end of both of Renoir’s and Lang’s films] I am struck by how so much value and stress is laid [intentionally or not] on the last shot. On much we as an audience, are asked to accept or cry out against in indignation at the filmmaker’s vision. On how the endings in the best of films, whilst signposting a definite pathway, still, leave it up to audience to decide how the scene after, the one after the film finishes, would work out.
But surely the question must be asked, do we want realism or idealism at the end of our films? Do we want a Renoir vision, where the characters turn every situation to their advantage and potential happiness [and teaching a vital life lesson, I feel] or a more closed but truer vision that Lang, Allen and Leigh sometimes offer? It’s a question I often ask myself as a filmmaker- do I want to cure the world or show it how it is? Or can I do both?
A comment on Nymphomaniac with reference to Steve McQueen's Shame
The Telegraph’s Jenna McCartney writes that Nymphomaniac, like Steve McQueen’s Shame, is not a ‘story of sex, but a fable of addiction’ but I’d like to argue that Nymphomaniac’s a far more intelligent dissertation on the subject than McQueen’s offering, pushing as it does, the two main characters, Joe {Charlotte Gainsbourg/Stacy Martin} and Seligman {Stellan Skarsgård} to reach various epiphanies and understandings about themselves. Whereas Shame seems like an impressionistic painting in comparison, Nymphomaniac is, as we are warned by Joe at the beginning of the 2 Volumes, ‘a moral story’, with, as McCartney rightly concludes, the pornography being merely ‘on the skin’- a signifier only to the deeper issues the film duly explores.
The Telegraph’s Jenna McCartney writes that Nymphomaniac, like Steve McQueen’s Shame, is not a ‘story of sex, but a fable of addiction’ but I’d like to argue that Nymphomaniac’s a far more intelligent dissertation on the subject than McQueen’s offering, pushing as it does, the two main characters, Joe {Charlotte Gainsbourg/Stacy Martin} and Seligman {Stellan Skarsgård} to reach various epiphanies and understandings about themselves. Whereas Shame seems like an impressionistic painting in comparison, Nymphomaniac is, as we are warned by Joe at the beginning of the 2 Volumes, ‘a moral story’, with, as McCartney rightly concludes, the pornography being merely ‘on the skin’- a signifier only to the deeper issues the film duly explores.
Many critics are unhappy with Lars von Trier’s efforts, Mark Kermode calling it ‘a cacophony of discordant excess’ but many have also passed over what seems to be the film’s real transgressive nature- not the sex but von Trier’s brutally honest and consistently compassionate exploration of dark and forbidden themes such as pedophilia [I was aware of a collective take in of breath in the audience I was sitting in at that scene], self harm, masochism and polymorphic perversion etc. The emphasis on self-acceptance, desire for change and spiritual development is an exercise in pedagogy. Everyone’s making much of the film’s lack of sense of place, inconsistent accents and melodramatic ending {essential if Joe is to continue her quest}. There are also complaints about what is seen as von Trier’s pseudo intellectualism with his references to Tarkovsky’s Andrei Rublev, Kubrick’s Eyes Wide Shut, Bach and Fibonacci etc and a soundtrack where Shostakovich and Rammstein battle it out for space, but these criticisms seem merely reductive and a convenient way of avoiding what Lars von Trier, with his rude disregard for cinematic convention, is trying to do.
Sure this is, on the surface, a portrait of a woman exploring her sexuality and who is at times, a person held prisoner to it - but this is only a glib explanation. It’s real message seems to be about transgression- moral transgression and to what extent and personal cost it is necessary, and in being so, pushes boundaries that other directors, Steve McQueen included, daren’t go near. Joe is a character who advocates agency, whose actions bring others to personal crises, who practices expression rather than repression {somewhere in Vol 2 Joe explains to Seligman that if a word is prohibited then we are further removed from a democratic state {sure von Trier is referring to that incident back in Cannes but there is a narrative meaning also}} and who, rather than wallowing in self pity and taking a masochistic pleasure in the loneliness of her life {after all she talks about walking around waiting for permission to die}, tries to do something about it- she perhaps sees behind her fantasies to the real desires behind. Because of this Nymphomaniac is a hugely positive and life affirming film {for Joe}, even if it includes a scene {a reworking of the beginning of Anti-Christ} where Joe chooses to put her own needs above that of her child, with nearly fatal consequences.
Because Shame is the most recent and well-known Western film to tackle sex addiction before Nymphomaniac, there are the inevitable comparisons. But the two directors sit on different ends of the spectrum- McQueen’s approach remains at a more visceral level, not wanting to probe into the depths of his characters’ minds, whilst von Trier constantly imbues his mise en scene and protagonists with irony and self-reflection. References to the Great Whore of Babylon and spontaneous orgasm, The Little Organ School and the like are mere Twitter Handles to deeper meanings, most of which von Trier leaves to the audience to work out.
Shortly after seeing the Vol1 & Vol2 on Saturday, I wrote on Twitter that this is what cinema is for- where characters get to analyze and debate about themselves and their experiences and challenge the social norms that give rise to most of people’s daily conformity. I still stand by this, even after a couple of day’s reflection.. we need more filmmakers like von Trier and more films like this now more than ever.
Being Gay in Cameroon- Born This Way- a documentary by Shaun Kadlec & Deb Tullmann
With the recent death of Cameroon Gay Icon Roger Jean-Claude Mbede, Born This Way comes at an opportune moment as the country’s homophobia escalates into further violence perpetuated by vigilante gangs, causing some gay activists to flee abroad; and perhaps serves as a fitting testament to the artist who was imprisoned for three years for telling a Government Official he was in love with him.
The documentary, recently shown at the newly named Flare, the BFI’s LGBT film festival, and directed by Shaun Kadlec and Deb Tullmann, gives us 84 minutes of what it is like to live in Cameroon if you are gay. Or, if you are a man and seem slightly effeminate, or, if you are a woman and seem slightly masculine- all crimes punishable by prison sentences if the police, your employers, local community or even family suspect you of practicing homosexual activities.
With a passing nod to Roger Jean-Claude Mbede [whose family are being taken to court for refusing him treatment for testicular cancer because of his sexuality], we are introduced to young gays as they struggle with all the normal trials and joys of human relationships that everyone else does, except with the added pressure that how and with whom they are choosing to ‘make love’ is illegal, and can come with a death threat attached. Focusing on Alternatives Cameroun in Doula, the only centre in the country offering a HIV/Aids prevention program, and, as the government turns a blind eye and as long as they are discrete, a ‘safe haven’ where gay people can congregate and be open, the film gives us an idea of how religion and community beliefs [it’s popular to believe that being gay is a result of witchcraft for example] uphold the country’s homophobia.
At the Q&A session an audience member poignantly asked one of the activists and participants, now currently in the UK until January, what could be done to help reduce homophobia and ‘change minds’? The reply was, until the anachronistic punitive law Section 347 is revoked, there couldn’t be change.
The documentary itself is a feat of courage. In Cameroon filmmakers cannot film without a permit and upon application, Kadlec and Tallmann were told an observer would accompany them at all times. That being impossible, the filmmakers went undercover, and still managed to get first hand accounts and interviews with those affected by 347, hugely compromising their own safety. Although the piece might suffer through it’s inability to film openly or talk to those who are homophobic, it makes up for it by showing us a cross section of those opposed to and fighting the anti -gay laws, including lawyer Alice Nkom, who, during the film, moves two frightened gay women from their village where they under threat and facing a court case, to the ‘safe house’ of the Alternatives Centre.
Indeed journeys serve as an apt metaphor for the film. Cedric finds the walk back to his house every night a terrifying event, for fear of being attacked- his greater journey still, is to come out to his mother. Another young woman, Gertrude, finally makes the nerve racking trek to the nunnery where she was brought up to out herself to her Mother Superior. And the taxi journey for one of the gay women being moved by Alice Nkom, is filled with trepidation. Although there is a camera crew present, the taxi driver’s questions about being gay insinuate that had she been alone, there might have been more reason to be afraid for her safety.
Overall though, this is a film about hope and courage. It’s a portrait of a small secretive community struggling to survive and teach new ways of thinking. In a country where its inhabitant are following the actions of homophobes in Russia, taking it upon themselves to arrest or murder those suspected of being gay, it’s a document of a courageous community trying to find a voice in a deeply religious and traditional society.
At a time when the UK has finally embraced same sex marriage, it’s a pertinent reminder of how others in Cameroon, Nigeria, Russia, are still fighting for their rights. With the young of Cameroon calling for even tougher sanctions against those who are gay, we can only hope that Born This Way can at last open a dialogue between the country’s president, Paul Biya, who, having nearly absolute power, has the ability to revoke the homophobic laws, and the public. If that happens, then Born This Way can pave the way to reeducation, dispelling some of the common myths that homosexuality is a Western import, the work of the devil and contagious.
Fruitvale Station, dir Ryan Coogler, Sundance London
There’s a scene in the middle of Fruitvale Station where the protagonist, Oscar Grant [Michael B. Jordan] caresses a stray dog after it is mown down by a car at a petrol station. It echoes Carlos Reygadas’ Battle in Heaven, where the protagonist also takes momentary respite at a petrol station and observes a march against the government in Mexico City, all set to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons playing over the garage’s tannoy. But the event only serves to give more weight to the psychological pressure building in him until he finally erupts against his own frustrations later in the film. Similarly, in Fruitvale Station, as Oscar cuddles the dying dog, we are given a sense of foreboding and a hint of what we know will be Oscar’s own awful fate- and even as Oscar can only think of the dying animal, the scene is cruelly contrasted with the end of the film, where the law forbids even his mother to touch his bullet holed body as it lies motionless- and alone- in the ward at the hospital.
There’s a scene in the middle of Fruitvale Station where the protagonist, Oscar Grant [Michael B. Jordan] caresses a stray dog after it is mown down by a car at a petrol station. It echoes Carlos Reygadas’ Battle in Heaven, where the protagonist also takes momentary respite at a petrol station and observes a march against the government in Mexico City, all set to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons playing over the garage’s tannoy. But the event only serves to give more weight to the psychological pressure building in him until he finally erupts against his own frustrations later in the film. Similarly, in Fruitvale Station, as Oscar cuddles the dying dog, we are given a sense of foreboding and a hint of what we know will be Oscar’s own awful fate- and even as Oscar can only think of the dying animal, the scene is cruelly contrasted with the end of the film, where the law forbids even his mother to touch his bullet holed body as it lies motionless- and alone- in the ward at the hospital.
Fruitvale Station, writer/ director Ryan Coogler’s first feature, is based on real life events that took place at the BART Oakland metro on New Year’s Day in 2009. On that day, Oscar Grant, traveling back from watching the fireworks with his friends and girlfriend, was pulled off the train by a BART police officer and fatally shot; for seemingly no reason except that he was young, standing up for his rights and black. We learn at the end of the film that, after campaigning and public outrage, the officer to blame was charged with manslaughter, serving 11 months in a penitentiary jail.
But the wonderful achievement about this film is the sense, right from the very beginning, that Coogler gives of Oscar’s unstoppable journey towards his own death. He does this by focusing the film’s narrative through the preceeding day right up to the moment Oscar dies, and gives us a series of events, by turns progressively worse than the one before [although there are their opposite affects, to make us hope that life can be kind to him] so that we know, even as we hope against hope, that Oscar’s fate will be of tragedian proportions. The film’s opening shots are also its closing ones- mobile and documentary footage, first of the stand off between him, his friends and the police at the station and then later, the campaigners and outraged public picketing the scene of the crime. Mobile phones become an important prop - firstly used as a means of communication, then as an instrument of detriment against Oscar himself [for using the phone at work, for using it hand held whilst driving] and then, finally, as a record of evidence in his own murder, the all seeing eye that will help condemn the police officer and force the standing down of two law enforcing chiefs.
There are moments where we are reminded that this is a fictional film when we see Oscar running with his young daughter Tatiana [ Arianna Neal] down a side street, the footage slowed down, Oscar running crouching and ungainly, almost as if he’s already dodging the bullets he will face only hours later. There are also flashbacks at important decision making moments- influencing Oscar’s decision to throw a bag of weed into the sea and informing the audience of his rocky road to recovery not just free of prison, but in a world where he can have a stable relationship with his family. Refreshingly, there is no effort made to sentimentalize these moments or use music to control the feelings of the audience. Instead the music Oscar listens to in his car [diegetic] becomes the soundtrack to the film [non diegetic], a nice play on the film and character’s social and ethnic background.
Although there are moments where the film feels too flabby, with scenes too unstructured, [although probably in an effort to lead the audience into a false sense of security] it often illustrates the helplessness of a society where some of its members are governed by laws and attitudes passed onto them and which, for the most part, they unquestioningly obey. I say helplessness because watching it one wants to shout No, Stop, as the tragic events unfold, No to Oscar’s fits of temper, to the manager who would not give him another chance, to the man who attacks him on the train and finally to the policeman who shoots him as he lies helpless on his belly. As someone else has commented, all the perpetrators are men, almost ‘reacting’ uncontrollably to events around them, whilst it is the women, the daughter included, who provide the safe haven of warmth and love and wisdom. And there’s nothing more pertinent and ironic than the ending, where all a mother wants is to hug her dead son, and is prevented from doing so because he is a suspected ‘homicide victim’, stopped by the same authority who put him there in the first place. My lasting thought was, what law and how could any law; prevent a mother touching the still warm body of her dead child? How cruel and ridiculous is that law?
all these reviews and more appear at www.critics-associated.com
all these reviews and more appear at www.critics-associated.com
Memphis- writer/ director Tim Sutton, Sundance London
A boy sits idle on his bike, staring us down with an impassive stare. Then he rides off and our protagonist, real life blues singer and poet Willis Earl Beal, wanders down a street in Memphis and into the aisle of Peace Baptist Church, seeking inspiration for his album, something he does for much of the film; a journey that takes him to visit strip clubs and prostitutes, hang out with homeboys, and endure fierce arguments with his girlfriend and producers along the way.
Shot on location, often with a hand held camera and with cinematographer Chris Dapkins using the beautiful natural Memphis light, Tim Sutton employs an unrelenting cinema verite style, which by turns caresses and frustrates the audience into a kind of paralyzed acceptance of the film’s bewildered speechless fictional eloquence. The filmmakers shun touristy Memphis and elect to focus on its working classes, leafy overgrown streets and empty warehouses - always played out to the drone of a Memphis train, sometimes used in brilliant contrapuntal style with Beal’s own music, and sometimes as an ugly juxtaposition. The result is resounding truth telling about the reality of being a flailing musician in a world which constantly makes real demands upon someone whom we soon come to see as not a person at all, but rather as a vehicle through which his poetry and music must flow.
This struggle should grab audiences and put them on Beal’s side. From the word go we are willing for him to sing, and to sing for a long time, and at last, in the third act, we get a few minutes of Beal’s great voice and poetry, until Beal frustratingly throws himself down shouting ‘ I’m suffering Black Man’s Mississippi Blues’. Beal eventually takes himself off to the woods in true Thoreau style and lives off the land, subjugating himself in his own particular magical fantasy, trying to conjure up his dying talent, and all the while, losing touch with the people around him.
A film which would need a dedicated distributor, Memphis’ references to sorcery and mysticism are never quite explicit enough and although Beal gives a wonderful picture of a disturbed and preoccupied artist, the reasons behind that are never really explored. Some utterances like ‘I look at the trees. Sometimes I wish I was a tree’ and ‘You find glory by yourself, by being alone’ might alienate some viewers who might wish for something with a little more explanation. However, this is a film which voices itself through metaphor [think the Candelabra Beal inexplicably trails around with him to every different lodging, which however, is never hung up, but instead is propped up on a cardboard box] the film is an essay on the nature of art, how artists live entrenched within their reality and yet seem so far apart from it and dislocated that they could be mad men… and the density of the film’s images and editing makes it seem that the audience too, might never escape this dreamlike artifice.. Something we are reminded about with Beal’s opening words ‘everything is artifice’, though, against this, the film and Sutton, achieves an awful lot of authenticity.
all these reviews and more appear at www.critics-associated.com
all these reviews and more appear at www.critics-associated.com
Drunktown’s Finest- writer/ director Sydney Freeland, Sundance London
The question ‘Should film critics care about cinematic technique?’ was asked by the Guardian’s Tom Shone not so long ago, as a row emerged on both sides of the Atlantic as to the proper language, form and technique critics should employ when writing their reviews. Do critics need to know about the nuts and bolts of filmmaking? Critic-Wire asked. Who writes about lighting, camera movement, editing etc, another implored, elements “as crucial to the effect of a movie as brushstrokes and pigment are to a painting”?
Not wishing to enter the debate here, it is of course true that these elements should be touched upon. But it’s also true that some films [I am thinking of Under the Skin, dir Jonathan Glazer] whilst giving a critic much to write about in terms of style and mise en scene, might, however, at the same time lack content or universal values, whilst conversely, other films, whilst perhaps less interested in cinematic elements, still have a lot to say. Such can be said about Drunktown’s Finest, writer/ director Sydney Freeland’s debut, centring around three young Native Americans raised in a Mexican Navajo community. The script’s concerned with the themes you would expect of such a genre- drunkenness [Freeland’s main inspiration came from a news story characterising her hometown Gallup, New Mexico, as Drunktown USA] lack of employment, poverty and isolation. Sick Boy [ Jermeiah Bitsui] is challenged with lasting the weekend free of trouble until he gets the ‘privilege’ of joining the army, his only way out of Navaho, Nizhoni [Morningstar Angeline], adopted by White Americans and unable to sleep and fixated by her dreams, begins the long search for her biological family on the ‘feared’ reservation and Felixia [Carmen Moore] a promiscuous transsexual [whom, refreshingly, her Grandfather Medicine Man acceptingly refers to as a Nadleeh, the third gender in Native American tribal law ] who struggles to find her identity and a sense of belonging.
It is telling that this is Freeland’s first feature- at times the camera work smacks of a television news magazine [although this style goes some way towards not sentimentalising her story and giving a sense of realness to the environment and her characters] and there is no effort made to explore that internal hinterland that cinema does so well using sound and/ or editing. In the beginning the dialogue suffers for clumsiness, something that even Jermeiah Bitsui can’t disguise. But it’s the acting and structural thematical build up which makes this film compelling, a build up which has a satisfying climax in the film’s denouement and draws on the sound bites of wisdom characters express throughout the narrative. It’s ending is also at the beginning, as we realise at the film’s climax we are cleverly led back to think of the film’s opening lines.
There might not be much to exalt over in terms of cinematic style, but Drunktown’s Finest packs a punch that can sometimes be heartfelt too- watch out for the horror of the scene with the little boy half way through, a typical example of all the violent troubles and abuse a Native American may still face today. What’s crucial about Freeland’s film though, is that it shows a community in conflict with itself, questioning how it lives and finding solutions. It is less about leaving for Dry Lake, and more about finding a way to stay.
all these reviews and more appear at www.critics-associated.com
all these reviews and more appear at www.critics-associated.com
The One I Love- director Charlie McDowell, screenwriter Justin Lader, Sundance London
‘Happiness is something we need to recreate’ are almost the first lines of filmmakers Charlie McDowell’s and Justin Lader’s debut The One I Love, a sort of romcom sci-fi set in the idyllic mountains of Ojai, California.
Ethan and Sophie are in therapy- or at least their relationship is- after a hinted at infidelity committed by Ethan, and as a last chance saloon, they are offered the perfect weekend retreat away by their guru [Ted Danson] where they are supposed to ‘reset the reset button’, in choice pop psychotherapy vernacular and return to that ‘recreated’ happiness mentioned in the film’s voice over. But all at the retreat is not as it seems, and in a surreal Charlie Brooker kind of farce, Ethan and Sophie come face to face with their more conscientious and wiser doubles- and whilst Ethan remains skeptical of the more attractive Sophie, Sophie [the real one] immediately falls in love with Ethan’s alter ego, who, it has to be admitted, is distinctly nicer, sexier and more intelligent than the real thing- a construct of happiness. So far so good, in what promises to be an Ingmar Bergman meets Woody Allen meets Charlie Kaufman film fantasy- except that one suspects that the filmmakers suddenly become much more interested in the film’s conceit, than in the characters themselves. Unfortunately this too is the affect on the audience. Early in Act One I thought I was in for an interesting discussion on cosmic occurrences and aberrations, I hoped that the doubling idea would shed more light on the troubled couple’s reflections on themselves and what their relationship could be if only they let it, and what and who each other could be for each other, if only they had faith, hinting at creations of happiness and perception along the way. However, somewhere this focus was lost and instead the remaining two acts centered on mainly Ethan’s attempts to get to the bottom of the real identities of the doubles. ‘This isn’t Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf ‘ says Ethan at one point, although I found myself wishing it was. However, some satisfying resolution is reached at the film’s end, with real Ethan and real Sophie experiencing dawning epiphanies and the audience does not go away feeling too empty handed.
Cinematically, there are some choice shots to take note of- look out for a confrontation between the real Ethan and Sophie, who, whilst sitting opposite each other in conversation, are filmed in entirely different set ups and never, in the editing at least, shown to be in a master two shot- hence implicating their separation further. Some Tarkovsky lovers might find themselves idly fantasizing about Stalker for brief moments, but that’s more about what the retreat comes to symbolize rather than any borrowed style. There’s also some nice metaphor imagery involving Matryoshka Dolls, although one can’t help thinking that if only the characters had got the symbolism earlier then the film needn’t have been so long.
Saying that the directing and pace is assured from Charlie McDowell and as a first feature for both him and Justin Lader, it is pretty impressive. Mark Duplass as Ethan and Elisabeth Moss as Sophie also give intricate and well-paced performances.
all these reviews and more appear at www.critics-associated.com
all these reviews and more appear at www.critics-associated.com
The Case Against 8- dir Ben Cotner, Ryan White at Sundance
The Case Against 8 is an important film because of its subject matter, so it’s as difficult to find fault with it, as it is easy to be caught up in the emotional rollercoaster ride its participants are swept up on.
Just 6 months after California legalized same sex marriage, the ruling was over turned by Proposition 8, a motion brought about by out of state campaigns and advertising, which warned that homosexuality would be taught in schools and that churches would be forced to marry same sex couples. Inflammatory accusations were also raised, namely that same sex marriage would encourage pedophilia and threaten procreation [the main argument being that this is the sole purpose for marriage].
Chad Griffin and the Foundation for Equal Rights decided to challenge this ruling in the federal courts, choosing as their counsels, David Boise and Ted Olson, Democrat and Republican respectively and famous for opposing each other in the Bush vs. Gore presidential election. As plaintiffs the counsel select two gay couples, Kris Perry and Sandy Stier, [who had their marriage annulled, via letter, as a result of prop 8] and Jeffrey Zarillo and Paul Katami, who chose to delay raising children until they could get legally married.
The documentary then acts as a fly on the wall as the fight is taken to the federal courts, part won, taken again and again to appeal by the defense until, many months later, prop 8 is finally declared ‘unconstitutional’ along with DOMA [Defense of Marriage Act], which states that marriage is only between a man and a woman, effectively barring same sex couples from receiving marriage benefits in some states.
As it documents appeals and the see sawing between different courts, the film is a bit long in the tooth and plays out to some seriously sentimental music, which is a little unnecessary. But besides all the highs and lows and the investment the audience will make in the protagonists, there are some intellectual issues that steal the show. Little bits of wisdom fly out from Boise and Olson [‘in the end, over the Bush vs. Gore thing, we became friends because we shared the same passion, despite being on opposing sides’ [paraphrased]] Olson makes some terrific and rousing speeches and it’s his relationship with Boise which provides structure to the film. There’s also a nice moment when a witness for the defense is led gently by David Boise to become an advocate for their own counsel, and admits quite readily, he has changed his mind on same sex marriage. There’s also some serious talk on marriage and its purpose, which some may find engaging.
But as I was watching the end credits I had a few questions for the documentary filmmakers. What happened to hearing from the other side? Surely needed, for a balanced objective documentary. And I couldn’t help wondering, what about those same sex couples that are not middle class and can’t quite give voice to themselves in the same way the very safe plaintiffs could? I was already feeling that there was some exclusivity going on.
Despite these misgivings though, and the filmmakers intention to wring every last drop out of this subject matter, the film is highly enlightening, lucid and empowering. Not least because it sets the bar for all minorities who are rejected by any society that does not and will not accept them. And not least because, as Kris Perry suddenly realized on the witness stand, that ‘putting up’ and getting through [daily judgment and discrimination] was not good enough for her anymore. If other people’s bars in life were fulfillment or happiness, then why couldn’t hers? Why should she, like so many others, be prevented from something more than just ‘coping’ because of her sexual orientation?
Bypass- Review at London Film Festival ★★★★
Where might Duane Hopkins’ Bypass, his second feature after Better Things (2008) sit in the British social realist film canon? It is a picture of modern society whose considered lowest citizens are nearly invisible except to their own social group- unless they serve as human punch bags. But its lyricism and poetical camera is as melancholy as any of Kieslowski’s Three Colours trilogy.
One of the most haunting scenes in the film is the moment Tim (George Mackay), now the man of the house after the disappearance and death of his parents and jailing of his elder brother, sits in front of a GP and is told he needs immediate hospital treatment, otherwise he might be facing a life of long term serious ailment, even disability. The problem, which Tim can’t communicate, is that he can’t go to hospital because he is the prime carer for his teenage sister, the bailiffs are on his back and daily battering down his front door but more importantly, he has to shift some gear for his petty crime boss- or else.
Perhaps it’s haunting because of the sheer unconcern of the consultant who is a picture of middle class silence and indifference- in other films in other eras, the indifference would have voiced itself through scorn and disapproval (Terence Davies’ Trilogy perhaps) but now, as we live in an age where silence is the authority and judgment, this is today’s bureaucratic answer. Perhaps it’s also haunting because of the spider’s web of negativity Duane Hopkins’s has spun around his unlucky and too sensitive main protagonist. And it’s also frustrating because at this moment the audience- or at least my self anyway- wanted to shout out at the screen and say ‘go on, tell him why you can’t stay in hospital’ in the hope that the help Tim so badly needs, will be found.
None of that happens though, and Tim, keeping it all together because he has to, spends his days perilously riding through the back streets of his city keeping the drug dealers and petty thieves happy, as well as making sure his sister actually goes to school, never mind gets there on time.
We’ve seen these kinds of films before- the artistic subversion of the social realist drama. Lynne Ramsey has already been in these sorts of territories with Ratcatcher and her short Gasman. To a certain extent so has Andrea Arnold with the more gritty and less subjective lens in Fish Tank and also the semi thriller Red Road. It could be that Bypass is more a true descendent of Ken Loach’s Kes than anything like these more recent trailblazers- or even Mike Leigh- his camera is as roving and as subjective as Hopkins’ but without the need for the occasional centre framing or fracturing of time and internal visual portraits. Mike Leigh and Ken Loach and Duane Hopkins are also uninterested in capitalist materialistic decay and don’t romanticize it, whereas it could be argued that Lynne Ramsey and Andrea Arnold both do.
The beginning of Bypass is slow but it gives us a chance to get to know this world of generational contrasts- Hopkins’ main thematic concern. He opens his film with montage like scenes in a workingmen’s club; mostly full of old men sitting around chatting and drinking. He then focuses on Tim’s elder brother, Greg (Benjamin Dilloway), and his relationship with their grandfather as the old man is put into care.
All the way through the film Hopkins constantly returns to this generational theme and its place in our modern world. Tim’s inner life is taken up with dreams and visions of his absent father and loving mother. The effect is to remind us, or make us aware, of a splintering society which, never mind losing its threadlike connections to an industrious past, is now also losing its connection with those descendents who were part of that age. Although they don’t know it, and there’s barely an ipad or Apple Mac in sight, Tim and his rather naïve girlfriend Lily (Charlotte Spencer), are products of the age of now and the vast internet industries, and without the nuclear family cluster to provide support, are in freefall, seemingly rootless and, a little like Billy in Kes, or Johnny in Naked (Mike Leigh) slip from tragic event to even more tragic event, albeit minus Billy’s sense of social status (he knows he must go down the mines like his brother Judd) and Johnny’s transhumanism. The emptiness of this society is that there are no hierarchies within reach for Tim so that he can pull rank and locate himself- here we don’t have the innocent bullied alienated school boy (Kes, Ratcatcher) but their descendent, the just turned barely adult male, uneducated, at the mercy of a guilty powerful world disconnected from himself in just about every way- someone who is unable to live, made real by Tim’s actual physical illness.
The answer Hopkins gives the tragedy of Tim and Lily’s lives, is to make her pregnant. This solution is both frustrating because of its intended sentimentality and nod to Hollywood ‘walking off into the sunset’ dramas and yet it is oddly realistic and fatalistic. Like modern characters out of a Zola novel, what can Tim and Lily do except retreat into their love for each other and start their own family, in the hope that they will be able to provide for their child in a way that they were not? It’s classic tribalism – even if Lily’s optimism, in the face of everything happening around her, is unrealistic.
Not receiving the greatest of reviews since its premiere at this year’s Venice festival, I think Bypass is worth a second look. It may yet become a considered gem in the social realist canon.
Bypass screens at LFF from Oct 11th, to book click here
this review can also be seen, amongst others, at www.critics-associated. com
Pasolini Review ★★★★
Pier Paolo Pasolini the poet, filmmaker, and visionary in left-wing fascist Italy gets 86 minutes screen time with Willem Dafoe as the outspoken gay communist in Abel Ferrara’s tribute, which charts the last 24 hours of the film maker’s life before that fateful ending on a beach outside Rome, where the artist was repeatedly run over by his own car.
On the one hand the film might be seen as a conventional bio-pic, if it weren’t for some irregularities and odd narrative forms along the way. Willem Dafoe, a brilliant casting choice, speaks in English and without a hint of Italian, whilst all those around him are English-speaking with heavy Italian accents- any moments of that language we do hear are not subtitled, unless they form parts of Pasolini’s films. These slight incongruities are a little irritating, as is the precondition that audiences must know and have read Pasolini’s Petrolio, a seemingly obtuse and impenetrable novel, the character of which seems to wander the streets in the beginning sequences of this film indulging in a little rough fellatio - it is possible to mix up Petrolio’s character Carlos with Pasolini and perhaps this is Ferrara’s intention, a play on Pasolini’s own statement that ‘narrative art is dead’.
Certainly some of the film’s more pleasing sequences play with this idea as Ferrara juxtaposes scenes from a film Pasolini was just about to start work on before his death, “Porno-Teo-Kolossal”, where its main character travels to the gay city of Sodom to witness a gay and lesbian orgy night, whose participants come together to propagate the human race before returning to their previous sexual practices, with scenes from Pasolini’s own regimented and compartmentalized life- living in a lush apartment, eating well, being cared for by his mother and, more importantly, cruising the streets at night for male prostitutes. It’s this juxtaposition that brings meaning to the film and points to the disparity and unhappy gap between the world that is conjured up in art and parables (and in Pasolini’s films) and reality. Any sex that Pasolini encounters is rough and ready and awkward, in his films it is erotic, it is how he would like it to be, and embodying (most certainly in the few scenes we see of 120 Days of Sodom) his profound belief that one must be able to scandalise and be scandalised, otherwise one is a moralist- and what’s the point of that?
Thinking about the film I am reminded of Nietzsche’s truism that only in art can one momentarily transcend the grimness of every day life. Marxist intellectual Pasolini seems to agree with this ideal although Ferrara plays up to Pasolini’s despair over modern consumerism. Whilst in a diatribe against the failure of the socialist system, the selfishness and ugliness of society’s need to ‘have’ at all costs, and declaring that there are no more humans, only machines, Ferrara nevertheless dresses his man as Vogue pin up- the pin up Pasolini actually was, all dark sunglasses, designer shirts and a fast car- which all the poor prostitutes he picks up naturally want to drive and eventually becomes, ironically, the object with which he is killed.
‘We are all in danger’ transgressive Pasolini comments, referring not just to himself but also to consumerism, something he saw as just another strand of fascist Italy. It is perhaps something the director would reiterate today if he were alive, perhaps sickened at the increasing blind consumerism of the Western world coupled with the extremism of the Middle East and the clamp down against gay rights in Russia and some African countries. If anything, this film should be a wake up call to those who consider art as a vehicle to advocate change, even in the face of personal danger, and as a means by which to exert the right to scandalise - and should also encourage those less knowledgeable about Pasolini to find out more.
Inspiring and a little controversial, you can book for Pasolini here
Second Coming- London Film Festival Review
Second Coming is British playwright debbie tucker green's debut feature about black British woman Jackie (beautifully played by Nadine Marshall) and her impending pregnancy, the trauma and psychological impact this incites (haunting nightmares and visions) and her relationship with her nature-loving son Jerome (Kai Francis Lewis) and her brusque husband and rail worker Mark (Idris Elba).
At the core is the 'second coming' - Jackie is pregnant after being told she can not conceive again after the birth of Jerome- the problem is confounded in that she has not been near her husband for months and neither does she have a lover. The film then takes a look at how this impacts on her family and herself.
debbie tucker green is best known for her plays about black British characters with Caribbean heritage. Random her 2012 play, was adapted for TV and Dirty Butterfly, a look at domestic violence and its affects on those witnessing it, recently finished a short run at the Young Vic. Often her work includes characters repeating lines of dialogue to try and exert different meanings, usually providing a sharp narrative contrast with more naturalistic exchanges- similar techniques are used in this film. Verbal Jamaican patois sparring and sometimes fast exchanges where character's lines repeatedly overlap each other, provide relief against scenes that are more naturalistic, confounding our initial expectations that we are in for a social realist drama. It does what it does for theatre, and hints at the inner lives of the characters and their turmoils- the sequences are very enjoyable to watch.
However sometimes its meaning is a little opaque. It is nearly 3/4 of the way into the film before Mark is told about the baby by Jerome, who has miraculously found out- an event that is not given screen time. Jackie is not religious- and although she suffers nightmares and visions that include her bathroom being turned into a monsoon, there is no hint that this is a biblical related event. Thus we are left asking, is the pregnancy a divine intervention or is Jackie mad? Yet none of these ideas are given serious screen time.
The film has some well observed and detailed domestic scenes, especially a long take focusing on Jerome as he witnesses his parents arguing and tussling with each other to gain favour with him. But some of the initial set up scenes, whilst nicely expositional, are too much so and feel superfluous. There comes a moment where the audience 'gets it' and does not need more information- I was longing to get to the nitty gritty and grapple with the issues and ideas behind the film that were just waiting to be let out.
A promising debut, Second Coming is a hint of a talent that with film maturity, will have a lot to offer. Certainly it is refreshing to see a British film about a black British family that does not involve the usual gangland or crime problems. It also introduces some fine talent to the screen, not least with child actor Kai Francis Lewis who gives a marvellously mature and heart felt performance.
Second Coming screens tomorrow at the London Film Festival, book here
Korean Film Festival- Moebius- Review
Kim Ki-duk’s recent feature, completed in 2013, originally banned in South Korea before being reassessed and then released with cuts, is a 90 minute dialogue free piece seemingly on the nature of sex, desire, and father, mother and son relationships.
It’s title refers to the Mobius Strip, a surface with only one side and only one boundary, it is curved and has homeomorphic qualities- it can continually stretch and bend into new shapes whilst returning to where it has started from. The poster for Ki-duk’s film reads "I am the father, the mother is I, and the mother is the father", the narrative of the film itself returns to the beginning- and gives us the ending the director sets up in the film’s first scenes but takes over 90 minutes to fulfill.
These in between minutes are filled with the ingestion of body parts, masturbation, mutilation for sexual pleasure and gang rape. The story is simple, Oedipal, though not in the way you might think, it is carnal, touches on Freudian and Lacanian theories of object fetish and object relation and the experiences that belong to it- and in this film the object is unrelentlessly and unashamedly the penis (we are so often used to films centering on object fascination in the shape of the vagina and in the most covert of ways, so this is actually a relief).
But to the story. In simple terms, somewhere in South Korea, perhaps it is Seoul, a father, mother and teenage son live together. The film begins with the father taking a call from his mistress, who lives just down the road and works in a shop. An argument (a physical one, seeing as there are no words) ensues between father (Cho Jae-hyun) and mother (Lee Eun-woo). Later the father is caught making love to the woman and the revengeful mother attempts to cut off his phallus whilst he sleeps. She fails and instead and by proxy, mutilates her son (Seo Young-ju) and ingests his member. The mad woman she is and like Rochester’s madwoman in the attic, she flees into the night, at the same time as her son is rushed to hospital. Then for a moment, in the next ensuing minutes and second act, we think we are in for an interesting study on what it means, especially as a teenager, to have such sexually intense feelings with no outlet for relief- we start to question and realize how important and dominant sex is in our lives and especially when those feelings cannot find release. How do they find relief? The answer comes from the guilty father, who spends his time researching the Internet for how a man can achieve orgasm without a penis. In the mean time, the son, released from hospital, is enticed into a gang rape by a group of men who save him from school bullies. But in a strange twist, they choose the woman who is the father’s mistress and played by the same actress who plays the mother. This is where complications come into play. Arrested for partaking in the rape where he can only ‘dry hump’, the son is introduced into how to achieve orgasm by inflicting intense pain on himself- in this case, by pummeling the skin with a rough stone. Meanwhile, the father donates his own penis to his son in a transplant operation. At the same time the mother makes a reappearance back into their lives and Kim Ki-duk introduces his final comic and horrific plot twist. There is also a sub plot involving the head of the gang and the woman he raped and an outrageous sequence that had the audience in the screening I attended, laugh loudly with extreme nervousness- two men chasing a penis down a street and seeing it flattened under the wheels of a truck vehicle.
Reading this it might seem that the film is lewd and vulgar but it is no such thing. Kim Ki-duk’s lack of use of dialogue saves him from having to invent what would surely be absurd dialogue sequences. Neither though is it particularly visual story telling, in that it constantly tells the audience what is going to happen next, it doesn’t, it surprises. There is a distinct lack of music to direct the audience how to feel. One also feels that in some scenes the director has said action just after the characters might have had a conversation. This makes the film highly emotive. In fact it the only way to achieve emotion- it’s almost as though there were a lot of words, and these were said, but all Kim Ki-duk shows us is the emotional detritus left over by those words. The result is some powerful physical performances, it is not like anything I have seen before in film and in theatre, the nearest I can get to in relation to it, is a recent performance of Ubu Roi by Cheek by Jowl, where all the theatrical stage conventions and cultural rules are overturned and where physical movement is used to express the unconscious and its language.
In fact the whole film might be seen as a comment on the unconscious and how its language is not separated from the everyday but is actually part of it, and part of our egotistical and conscious linguistic selves. But one way of reading this film is to take it as a Buddhist parable- although this would be in simplistic terms- i.e. that the penis and pleasure/ pain principle are just effects of our egotistical desires and primal forces, and that the husband acts unconsciously to prevent this and enforce punishment is taken out on him to appease his guilt- this backfires of course when his conscious self cannot go through with the castration and the punishment is taken out on his son. But the twist at the end of the film also has a valid and less crude meaning than it originally appears to have, and is a comment on the nature of sexuality.
The film has come in for some criticism on its treatment of women. They are the punishment takers and givers. But at least its sophistication lies in the nature of object fetishism and its honesty about it- the object of fascination is not really the woman and her vagina, as we might see in Catherine Breillat’s films for instance and especially in Romance. Nor is it the fascination of the other through an object (i.e. the unquantifiable vagina, where pleasure is to be found yet where the person?). It is a tale of primal instincts, and a satire on bourgeois values at the same time but has a Buddhist spiritual ending. It’s so complex you’ll still be trying to figure it out days later.
Moebius has been recently released on VOD markets and was seen for this review at the Korean Film Festival in London.
Korean Film Festival- The Dinner- Review
The opening shot of Kim Dong-hyun’s third feature, The Dinner, set in Seoul, announces the film’s subtle emotional undertones and character studies quietly, setting the scene for almost 2 hours of human struggle in the face of fateful circumstances.
On the face of it, the narrative seems extreme. Daughter Gyeong-jin (Lee Eun-joo) abandoned by her lover, has just given birth to their baby son Jay-hyeon. Her brothers, older In-cheol (Jung Eui-gap) and younger In-ho (Jeon Kwang-jin) debate whether to put the child up for adoption or not. Cut to years later and we are with the elderly grandparents, who look after Jay-hyeon whilst Gyeong-jin goes out to work. Older In-cheol is made redundant, but, having a sick wife Hye-jeong (Park Se-jin) to support, soon finds himself evening work as a ‘chauffeur’ for city workers too drunk to drive themselves home. It also happens to be younger In-ho’s job too and it is he, accidentally making himself responsible for the death of a client, who eventually brings final tragedy upon the family- coming as it does after Gyeong-jin dies from a heart condition.
Some critics have found fault with the rather hyperbolic and fateful narrative but, given the time cuts, I find it realistic. I found myself enjoying watching a film daring to focus on its characters over a number of years and, as realistically as possible, chart their ups and downs. And whilst it’s true that perhaps the wide scope of Kim Dong-hyun’s lens has an adverse effect on the depth of character, I think it is made up for by the narrative ambition of the film, which is almost Bildungsroman in structure.
In fact I found myself thinking of Chekhov and making comparisons with Mike Leigh’s Life is Sweet, Ang Lee’s Eat Drink Man Woman and even Vojtech Jasny’s All My Good Country Men, although this is a much longer film and is the focus of Czechoslovakia during a time of political upheaval and spanning at least ten years. And surely the closing shot is a passing nod to Abbas Kiarostami’s Through the Olive Trees, as, as in that film, we can only guess at the outcome of the last scene, which, by proceeding events, we know can only be resolved in a particular way. However, like Kiarostami, Kim Dong-hyun’s genius is to play with the passing of time through the use of a static camera, so that we become hypnotized by its paradoxical stillness and therefore maintain the hope that we, the director and the actors can change the course of events that must surely take place. And although there is nothing Pirandellian about The Dinner, or any suggestion that art mirrors life, the occasional long static shot, the time allowed for the camera to record the passing of the seasons, is itself a reflection of how time passes for our characters- and how their dreams and prospects change in a cyclical movement. It had me thinking of Tokyo Sonata by Kiyoshi Kurosawa.
It might be said that there are some narrative inconsistencies. For example, young In-ho has a break down and ends up in a mental hospital. Cut to a year later or more, and he is suddenly well and in the interim, his girlfriend has mysteriously disappeared from our screens with no narrative explanation- we are left to assume she has dumped him. The previously uncaring father reclaims Jay-hyeon after his mother’s death, only to be inexplicably returned by him to In-cheol in the third act. These can either be taken as character inconsistencies and narrative flaws, or as an attempt to portray the little anomalies and incomprehensibilities that frequent our every day lives. I prefer to think of it as the latter.
Because this film seems to be more a chronicler of every day life, albeit with a slightly melodramatic narrative, Kim Dong-hyun seems more a documenter than a fiction film director. There are times when the camera seems to have that meditative quality that can be found in the documentary work of Gideon Koppel (Sleep Furiously) and there is an attempt to depict the everyday through mundane conversation and activities- the elderly father’s daily trek into the mountains for example, or his wife’s visits to the temple. At times this makes for an uneasy style- the editing in the opening shots is quick, as if the director does not want us to linger on ‘setting the scene’ cityscapes. But at other times the camera is allowed to run and we forget about the hand of the filmmaker. What this does is provide an uneasy relationship between fiction and an attempt at a kind of documentary truth behind that fiction.
To this end, memorable performances are given by Jung Eui-gap especially.
The film recently premiered in the UK at the Korean Film Festival and was the Busan International Film Festival closing film. There are no plans for a UK release, but the Korean Film Festival will tour more cities in Britain soon after its London run.