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Posts Tagged ‘comedy’

I don’t know what you think about the fact that all the films which were supposed to be in cinemas are now suddenly appearing on streaming sites. I had really hoped that, when we’re on the other side of this current slightly unreal-feeling situation, the cinemas would pick up where they’d left off. Clearly that’s not going to work for the smaller and mid-size films, though, so it’s understandable that they’re trying to maximise their income and make the best of whatever publicity they generated before everything shut down.

One of the films I’d been planning to see was Misbehaviour, a comedy-drama (from the look of it) about some angry feminists sabotaging a beauty contest. Although this is based on a true story, there was still something oddly familiar about the premise, and when I decided to sit down and watch some films off the internet to make up for the lack of new ones, it suddenly came to me. And so let us consider another film about angry feminists sabotaging a beauty contest, which may well be similar to Misbehaviour in other ways as well: friends, I give you Gerald Thomas’ 1973 film Carry On Girls, the twenty-fifth entry in Britain’s most numerous film series.

We find ourselves in the present day of the 1970s, in the rain-lashed seaside resort of Fircombe (the cast pronounce this in a number of interestingly different ways, possibly depending on whether they’ve noticed the attempted double entendre or not). The town council, led by Mayor Bumble (Kenneth Connor), are considering ways of attracting more people to the resort, with most of the ideas coming from amusement arcade tycoon Sid Fiddler (Sid James). The high rainfall is the problem. ‘I think an average of nine inches is good,’ declares councillor Augusta Prodworthy (June Whitfield in proto-Thatcherite mode). ‘If you think nine inches is average, you’ve been spoilt. Ha-hyah-ha,’ says Sid.

Sid’s idea is to hold a beauty contest in Fircombe, from which he naturally will make a very tidy profit. Mrs Prodworthy is outraged and leaves the meeting in a huff, but this only means Sid can bounce the others into agreeing with the idea in her absence. Soon the hotel run by Sid’s supposed fiancee, Connie Philpotts (Joan Sims), is filling up with a bevy of young lovelies, all of whom are staying rent-free (much to her annoyance). Come to think of it, Connie suspects that Sid may have an ulterior motive for volunteering to chaperone all these beautiful women. Sid does his best to placate her. ‘I don’t like beautiful women, I fancy you,’ he says.

Well, with the aid of his PR agent friend Peter (Bernard Bresslaw), Sid embarks upon a whole range of publicity stunts to drum up interest in the contest, managing at the same time to pursue outstanding contestant Hope Springs (Barbara Windsor). Meanwhile, Mrs Prodworthy and her group of Womens’ Libbers are working flat out to humiliate the mayor and stop the contest from being successful…

Monograms have probably been written on the strange linked trajectories of Hammer Horror and the Carry On comedies: both of them began within a year or so of each other, in the late 1950s, finished thirty years later, employed a virtual rep company of actors, and were a massive popular success for many years (even if not many people will now admit to watching them in the cinema). Nowadays they both have a sort of cult following, with various attempts at reviving the two brands – Hammer still release the odd film now and then, while apparently one consequence of the current crisis is that back-to-back filming on three new Carry Ons has presumably been abandoned. Hmm.

Obviously, I do enjoy a Hammer horror (vide a sizeable portion of this blog) and I must admit to a certain fondness for a good Carry On as well – they are obviously products of a different time, but the best of them are still consistently and irresistibly funny. Unfortunately, Carry On Girls is not one of the best of them – in fact, it may mark the point at which the series went into a terminal decline.

The clue may lie in the cast list. At first glance, it does look like many of the regulars have turned up – James, Sims, Windsor, Bresslaw, etc – but this was the first film in the series not to feature either Kenneth Williams or Charles Hawtrey (Connor is in the Williams role). Hawtrey had effectively been sacked from the series for alcoholism at this point. Even if they’d been there, however, the script is so flat and uninspired one wonders if it would have made any difference – the only person who seems capable of lifting the material is Sid, whom everyone else dutifully feeds lines to, but these films were never meant to be a one-man show.

Also, further down the list of participants is one Robin Askwith, on the brink of a certain kind of movie stardom in the Confessions series of sex comedies, which began the following year. It is a fairly safe rule of thumb that a British sex comedy is not going to be either sexy or amusing, and yet it is clear that this is the direction the Carry Ons were moving in when Carry On Girls was made. It’s still end-of-the-pier stuff, and most of the nudity is implied, but there’s a crass bluntness about it all which the older films just didn’t possess.

It possibly goes without saying that the gender politics on display are fairly horrific too. There are a couple of running gags about men either pursuing or groping women – the closest thing to a protagonist is Sid, who’s in his usual persona of untrustworthy lecher, while Peter Butterworth is stuck with the role of a dirty old man. The women don’t get off any easier – the younger ones are just there to be leered at, while the older ones are harpies, shrews, slatterns, or butch to the point of caricature.

It’s not good. I would argue the Carry On films are almost a British extension of the commedia del’arte, with the characters representing stock types in an exaggerated, non-naturalistic version of whenever and wherever the film is set – this film is clearly not meant to be taken remotely seriously, something which is cued by the absurd names of the characters (there’s also Peter Potter, Dawn Breaks and Ida Downs). But this one just isn’t funny enough; script and direction both seem obsessed by getting as much T&A on the screen as possible – any comedy, either broad or satirical, seems to have been of only secondary interest. This is many people’s idea of what a Carry On film is like, when in truth it’s just an example of the series at its coarsest and least inspired.

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At times like this, with all the cinemas closed and all new releases cancelled, the big streaming sites virtually qualify as an emergency service for those of us who normally try to watch two or three movies a week. Oddly enough, though, I find myself drawn not to all the shiny new original films these guys have been making, but those older classics (or not) which have found a place in their libraries. (I did read a piece pointing out the sheer scarcity of films from before about 1980 on Netflix, the implication being that the site eventually wants us all to become consumers solely of its own product, in much the same way that Disney Plus is trying to make people forget any other studios exist – mind you, if you look at box office returns over the last few years, this seems to be happening anyway…)

To take my mind off what’s starting to look, for some angles. a bit like the popular conception of the apocalypse, I decided to revisit a somewhat offbeat take on the post-apocalypse, in the form of Thom Eberhardt’s Night of the Comet. I don’t think I’ve seen this movie in over thirty years – the BBC used to have a regular Sunday night slot called Moviedrome, where they would show a different cult film every week, and as you can probably imagine this had a major impact on my development as a cinema bore. I saw my first Kurosawa movie through the auspices of Moviedrome, not to mention The Terminator, The Man Who Fell to Earth, the remake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, Alphaville,  Assault on Precinct 13, and many others. Classics all – but they also showed things like Night of the Comet, which appeared in the strand (a little research has just revealed) in 1989.

Night of the Comet was originally released in 1984. A knowingly portentous voice-over kicks off proceedings, describing the approach towards our planet of a mysterious comet, which made its last visit 65 million years ago, right about the time the dinosaurs died out. What a coincidence… It’s not one which most people pay much heed to, gathering in the streets and parks in anticipation of a literally stellar display.

Not watching the celestial fireworks, however, is steely eighteen-year-old girl Regina (Catherine Mary Stewart), as she has spent the night in the steel-lined projection room of a Los Angeles theatre with her kind-of boyfriend. Come the morning, he heads off on urgent business, only to be brained by a zombie with a wrench the moment he steps out of the building. Luckily, Reg’s dad is in the army and has taught her to deal with this kind of emergency, and she heads home, slowly realising something unexpected has occurred: piles of clothes filled with reddish dust litter the streets, and the sky is stained a baleful orange colour (‘Bad smog today’ is her first thought). Eventually she puts two and two together and realises that the comet’s radiation has disintegrated the vast majority of the population and turned everyone else into a homicidal zombie!

Well, not quite everybody else: in a credulity-bothering development, Reg’s sassy younger sister Samantha (Kelli Maroney) has also survived after spending the night in a steel garden shed. It takes a bit of persuading to make Sam realise the gravity of the situation, but eventually she wises up. The sound of DJ chatter on the radio gives the girls hope there are other survivors – but on arriving there, they find only automated equipment, broadcasting as usual. ‘Beam me up Scotty,’ says an impressed Sam.

Which is a decent cue for the appearance of truck driver Hector, given he is played by Robert Beltran (Beltran is best known for his stint in Star Trek, and the epically disgruntled interviews he would give about his lack of character development). Beltran gets top billing here, but doesn’t really deserve it. Hector also spent the night in a steel box (the back of his truck) and has had run-ins with the zombies. There is perhaps a little spark between Reg and Hector (rather to Sam’s chagrin), but before anything can develop, Hector announces he has to go and see if his mum has survived.

There is also a phone call to the station from a secret government installation who claim to be bringing survivors together – like you’d ever trust the government in this sort of situation. The head of the installation is played by Geoffrey Lewis, who is the closest thing to a mainstream movie star in this picture, while assisting him is Mary Woronov, who is both practical and stylish in boiler-suit and legwarmers. It turns out the boffins need to develop a cure for zombie-ism rather quickly (their shelter wasn’t completely steel-lined) and require the blood of bright young women to do so… Little realising the peril they are in, Sam and Reg decide to take things easy and do what any self-respecting California girl would do in this situation – load up with automatic weapons and hit the nearest shopping mall!

One of the main reasons for Night of the Comet‘s charm (which is considerable) is the way in which it shamelessly mashes together two notably dour pieces of SF to produce something much more tongue-in-cheek, even silly in places. The opening, with crowds gathering in anticipation of the show from the comet, and early reports of communication black-outs being ignored, is lifted almost beat-for-beat from John Wyndham’s The Day of the Triffids, while the vision of an empty Los Angeles with lurking zombie-like survivors is likewise an obvious steal from The Omega Man (vide Richard Matheson, again). There are also nods to Dawn of the Dead, although to be honest the zombies remain a fairly minor element of the story, perhaps explaining why this film only received a PG-13 rating on its release, one of the first films to do so.

And yet the finished film feels like it really wants to be a comedy or spoof – a line of dialogue retains the original working title for the movie, Teenage Comet Zombies, which does feel like it would have been a better fit than the one they finished up with. I’ve always felt there was a largely-unrecognised movement of low-budget SF movies made in California in the early to mid 80s, and this is part of it – I’m thinking of movies like Trancers and Cherry 2000, as well, with The Terminator undoubtedly the most significant film to come out of this scene. As a rule they are clever, inventive, and witty, and to begin with this film is no exception, playing with its genre conventions with a knowing deftness and treating the viewer with intelligence.

The first act, until the point at which Reg and Sam meet up with Hector, barely puts a foot wrong, with the revelation of the aftereffects of the comet and the presentation of the silenced city being particularly well-done. It kind of loses focus and runs out of steam after this, though: the plot sort of ambles around for a bit, with various set-pieces going on, before pulling itself back together for a half-decent finale. The good lines are further apart and the contrivances of the plot somehow more obvious; Stewart and Maroney are good enough to make you wonder why they ended up becalmed in TV, but there are some very iffy performances further down the cast list.

The problem with the movie is that it’s just not funny enough to work as a full-on comedy or spoof, but the fact that it wants to be one means it is fatally lacking in heft in its dramatic moments – Eberhardt may have based his script on interviews with actual California teenagers, asking what they would do in the event of an apocalyptic crisis (‘go shopping’ was apparently the result – they only became concerned when he pointed out the problems involved in getting a date), but there’s still something very absurd about the sisters’ untroubled response to the catastrophe that has befallen the world. This is a fundamentally superficial film, and intentionally so, but that doesn’t mean there is not a considerable amount of entertainment value to be derived along the way.

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I first started writing about films on the internet back in 2001, and at the end of that first year announced the list of films I was particularly looking forward to – one of them was Terry Gilliam’s The Man Who Killed Don Quixote. Well, it has taken somewhat longer than anticipated, but I am finally in a position to write about this movie. I must express my gratitude to Terry Gilliam for finally finishing it and getting it into cinemas, even with the disgracefully limited UK release it has eventually received – I could have ended up looking quite silly otherwise.

The travails of Gilliam’s Don Quixote have become legendary, helped by the release of Lost in La Mancha in 2002 – intended as a making-of film to go on the DVD, it ended up as the chronicle of a collapsing film shoot, as an already-chaotic production was sent into a terminal spin by scheduling problems, terrible weather, injured stars, and much more. It would have been enough to win The Man Who Killed Don Quixote a spot in the book The Greatest Movies Never Made – but, as I have previously noted, ‘never’ is a bold choice of words, and just as a few of these projects have finally crept out into the world, so Gilliam has finally finished this movie.

You can’t accuse The Man Who Killed Don Quixote of a lack of self-awareness, as the opening credits ruefully acknowledge the long and troubled history of the production (‘and now, after 25 years in the making, and unmaking’). This kind of playfulness continues on into the movie itself, where we encounter Toby (Adam Driver), a pretentious director surrounded by obsequious hangers-on, engaged in what looks like a troubled and chaotic production of a film of Don Quixote on location in Spain. Things are not going well, with abrasive crew-members, endless hold-ups, and a distinct lack of inspiration. The situation is not helped when Toby’s boss (Stellan Skarsgard) leaves his trophy wife (Olga Kurylenko) in his care: she turns out to be much taken with Toby, and the director finds his amorous instincts over-riding his better judgement.

It all takes an odd turn, however, when a chance encounter with a gypsy selling various wares reunites Toby with a copy of the student film that made his name, The Man Who Killed Don Quixote. He realises he made the movie in the same area, a decade or so earlier, using local people in the key roles – an old shoemaker, Javier (Jonathan Pryce) as Quixote, and a bar-owner’s teenage daughter, Angelica (Joana Ribeiro), as Dulcinea. But a brief visit to the locations of the movie reveal that it has had a less positive effect on the other participants: Angelica became fixated on becoming a famous film star, which led to her being sucked into a netherworld of crime and degradation, while Javier became convinced he really was Don Quixote and abandoned his old life entirely.

Various misunderstandings from Toby’s chaotic life lead to him being arrested by the police, but he is less than entirely delighted when the old man appears on horseback and ‘rescues’ him. The self-styled Quixote addresses Toby as Sancho Panza and declares that great deeds and adventures await the pair of them…

Don Quixote defeated Orson Welles long before Terry Gilliam ever attempted to film it, and entire films have been made recounting the tortuous progress of Gilliam’s version to the screen: two of the director’s choices to play Quixote died while the film was trapped in development hell, while other cast members have shifted roles in the meantime (Jonathan Pryce was originally supposed to be playing an entirely different part). Perhaps most significantly of all, the script of the movie has been significantly rewritten since Lost in La Mancha came out: I was expecting there to be an explicitly fantastical, time-travel element to this movie, but it has been removed.

In its place is something more subtle and unexpected, and rather more in keeping with Cervantes: the novel was published in two parts, many years apart, and the second volume opens with Quixote and Sancho rather nonplussed by the fame they have acquired as notable literary figures (not to mention outraged by an unauthorised sequel penned by other hands). The Man Who Killed Don Quixote manages a degree of the same kind of witty self-referentiality – nearly all the characters in it are aware of the book, and intent upon acting various bits of it out for different reasons. Despite (or perhaps because of) this, it is also a remarkably faithful adaptation of a novel which doesn’t easily lend itself to other media.

You could argue this is a double-edged sword, for Don Quixote is a sprawling, episodic, picaresque, apparently undisciplined book, and Gilliam’s film is arguably many of these things too. The first act in particular feels slow and rambling, the story unsure of which way to go. But once Toby and Quixote set off on their peculiar exploits, it lifts enormously, and it slowly becomes clear that in addition to being an adaptation of Cervantes, this is also an engaging and affecting comedy-drama about Toby’s own personal redemption and discovery of his own inner knight-errant.

Adam Driver wouldn’t necessarily have been my first choice for this particular role, but he carries it off well: this is a proper leading role, which he does full justice too. While I would deeply love the chance to peep into the parallel quantum realms where this film was made five or ten years ago and John Hurt or Michael Palin played Quixote, I honestly can’t imagine either of them doing a better job in the role than Jonathan Pryce does here – Pryce is enjoying one of those periods of late bloom that actors sometimes have, and this is one of his best performances.

Of course, Pryce and Gilliam have worked together a number of times in the past, and I first became aware of the actor following his lead performance in Brazil. His presence here isn’t the only thing that recalls some of the classic Gilliam movies of the past: there is the way in which the present day and the medieval collide with each other (mostly figuratively, here), and also the film’s focus on the conflict between imagination and dreams on the one hand, and dreary old reality on the other. You’re never in doubt as to which side the director is on; you could probably argue that Terry Gilliam’s whole career has been building up to doing a film of Don Quixote.

I’m not sure this is quite as consistent or as impressive as some of Gilliam’s other feats of cinematic legerdemain, but neither is it far from the standard of his best films, and there are moments which are as accomplished as anything he’s done in the past. It feels like a minor miracle that The Man Who Killed Don Quixote has been finished at all; the fact it is as good as it is simply adds to the sense that it is something we should be grateful for. (It’s just a shame that – true to form – the film is still entangled in legal difficulties affecting its release and distribution, which is presumably why it has barely appeared in British cinemas.) A heart-warming achievement for Terry Gilliam, anyway, and a treat for those of us who’ve loved his films for years.

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Michael Winterbottom’s Greed does not get off to the smoothest of starts, although this is really the product of circumstances beyond the film-makers’ control: the film opens with an added-very-late-on caption dedicating it to the memory of the late TV presenter Caroline Flack, then transitions from this into a quote from E.M. Forster. I was still too busy wondering why the film-makers had felt the need to open with the dedication to really focus on the other things that were going on, but it clears up somewhat very soon: Flack is the first person on screen, appearing as herself in the opening sequence. The film includes various other examples of other celebrities doing the same thing.

The movie is clearly being positioned as very close to reality, which I would imagine has occasioned fun times for some lawyers – representatives of Greed are very clear that the film, which concerns the life of a ruthless high-street mogul vilified for his tax avoidance and use of sweatshops in the developing world, particularly after a peevish appearance in front of a British parliamentary committee, is not directly based on the life of Sir Philip Green, a ruthless high-street mogul vilified for his tax avoidance and alleged use of sweatshops in the developing world, particularly after a peevish appearance in front of a British parliamentary committee. Of course it’s not. But you would have to be completely unfamiliar with all concerned not to see a certain resemblance.

The central character of Green – sorry, Greed – is Sir Richard McCreadie, played by Winterbottom’s frequent collaborator Steve Coogan. The bulk of the film is set immediately before and during McCreadie’s sixtieth birthday party, which is taking place on the Greek island of Mykonos. McCreadie is on the defensive and looking to make a big statement following the bad publicity ensuing from his appearance in front of the MP, and a disgustingly lavish and decadent shindig is on the cards: Roman-themed, it is to feature gladiator fights as well as the traditional disco and fireworks. Present for the occasion are various family members and other hangers-on as well as employees – Isla Fisher, Sophie Cookson and Asa Butterfield play McCreadie’s ex-wife and children, Shirley Henderson his mother, while looking on with increasing horror are his official biographer (David Mitchell) and one of the party planners (Dinita Gohil), whose family history has long been entwined with that of the McCreadie business empire. Needless to say, party preparations do not go well: cheap labour to build the gladiator arena proves hard to source, the lion they’ve hired is out-of-sorts, and there is a mob of Syrian refugees on the beach spoiling the view.

Mixed in with the build-up to the party are selected highlights of McReadie’s life up to that point: starting out as basically a con man and gambler, before going into budget fashion, launching a string of shops, and hitting upon a uniquely inventive and ruthless model of doing business (the film explains this in exemplary fashion, but basically it involves buying large companies using money borrowed from the companies themselves, selling off their assets and giving the proceeds to non-dom family members). The exploitation of workers in the developing world is also key.

Greed sounds like a slightly uneasy mixture of elements – knockabout farce mixed with angry, socially-committed agitprop. One of the impressive things about it is the way that it does manage to maintain a consistent tone where these things don’t appreciably jar with one another. Coogan, it must be said, delivers another horrendous comic grotesque, the type of performance he can do without breaking a sweat, and if David Mitchell is genuinely acting it is only to give a minimal variation on his standard public persona, but there is considerably more naturalism further down the cast list, with a particularly good performance from the largely unknown Dinita Gohil. But this is a movie with a notably strong cast, even in some of the relatively minor roles.

You do get a sense in the end that the loud, audience-pleasing elements of the film are there as a delivery mechanism for the more serious ideas which Michael Winterbottom is particularly interested in putting across: the first half is lighter in tone and more comic, focusing more on how awful McReadie is – the second explores how the system facilitates his behaviour, and is notably more serious. Perhaps the film-makers are correct to suggest this isn’t just a thinly-disguised hatchet job on a distasteful public figure, but a critique of an entire ideology. In this sense the film becomes one about people who are unable or unwilling to recognise the consequences of their actions. This applies to the McReadies, of course, who are either too stupid or too morally corrupt to admit they have a personal responsibility towards any of their employers or subcontractors. But many of us who are not multi-millionaires also engage in deeply questionable acts of all kinds – buying big label fashion, eating meat, voting Conservative – and still justify it to ourselves in just the same way. Genius, according to one definition, lies in putting together apparently disparate bits of information. The film suggests there is also a kind of genius in the ability to ignore the obvious connections between closely linked facts.

That said, it does almost feel in places that the film can’t pass by an issue without wanting to take a stand on it. The reality of the fashion industry (perhaps even capitalism in general) is appalling enough without the film also having to suggest this is also a feminist issue, and there’s another subplot about the refugees that feels just a little bit over-cooked. Winterbottom even manages to squeeze in a few breezy swipes at ‘scripted reality’ TV shows – something which now feels slightly less jolly than it once did, given Caroline Flack’s prominence at the top of the movie.

I suggested to a friend that we go and see Greed (he initially wanted to watch Parasite, but I’d already seen it) and he was a bit dubious to begin with: he thought the film looked a bit on the nose, and also that he didn’t need the movie industry to tell him that sexism and capitalism were Bad Things. In the end, though, he rather enjoyed it, as did I: I imagine that most people in Greed‘s target audience will not learn anything strikingly new from the movie, but it should do a good job of making them care more about things they are already intellectually aware of.

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Every now and then I do like to go to the cinema with my parents, partly because I think it’s nice to share one’s interests, also because I imagine it’s a bracing experience for them to watch the latest Fast and Furious or whatever. Of course, we also go to see things that they are genuinely looking forward to: last autumn we went to see the Downton Abbey movie, and just recently we saw Autumn de Wilde’s new adaptation of Jane Austen’s Emma. (This movie has been slightly irksomely styled as Emma. in some places, with the final . apparently indicating that this is a – wait for it – period piece. I think we should put a stop to this sort of thing.)

I don’t want to engage in lazy generalisations any more than is absolutely necessary, but watching the new Emma I found myself sort of flashing back to the last time I was out with them. Maybe films aimed at – how can I put this delicately? – a more seasoned audience have this much in common, by which I mean that both Downton and Emma seemed to me to have a definite ‘comfort viewing’ quality to them. It is almost obligatory for the makers of new films based on famous, well-loved books to announce they have found a bold, exciting new approach to the material resulting in a movie the like of which has never been seen before. Not only does this generally turn out to be palpably untrue, but it would be a bad idea even if they could somehow manage it: the kind of person who goes to see a movie based on a Jane Austen novel is not, I would suggest, looking to have a startling, world-upending experience. They want to see something with pleasant-looking people attending balls, riding around in carriages, and swanking about in top hats and Empire-line frocks, a wedding at the end and no bad language.

Autumn de Wilde’s Emma is unlikely to outrage the sensibilities of its target audience, regardless of what the marketing department has come up with. Anya Taylor-Joy, who up to now has mainly distinguished herself by appearing in horror movies, plays Austen’s heroine on this occasion. Emma Woodhouse is the wealthy, comely, and brainy daughter of an eccentric country gentleman (Bill Nighy), who – finding herself spared most of the usual imperatives compelling young women to seek an advantageous marriage – is quite content to stay single and amuse herself. This usually takes the form of trying to organise suitable matches and otherwise orchestrate the lives of her friends and neighbours. Most of them, such as her new friend Harriet (Mia Goth), are sufficiently dazzled by Emma’s beauty and wit to go along with this, even when it causes them some personal inconvenience. The only person who seems to be less than entirely thrilled by Emma is her neighbour and close acquaintance Mr Knightley (Johnny Flynn).

However, the social scene in the area becomes rather more complicated, with the arrival of a startling number of eligible young bachelors and nubile young ladies, and Emma begins to find herself on the verge of actually doubting her own cleverness and understanding of everything that’s going on around her. Could an opportunity for learning and personal growth, and maybe even romance, be on the cards?

Well, whatever else you might want to say about Emma, it is certainly a very agreeable film to look upon: the compositions are lovely, and the costumes and sets are also of a very high standard. Given all this and the period setting, I found myself thinking ‘There’s almost something of Barry Lyndon about this’ – the crucial difference being that there is no sense of the film’s visual style being part of a thought-through creative vision.

My understanding is that Autumn de Wilde has come to film directing quite late in life, and that prior to this (her debut film) she has paid the bills by working as a photographer. She certainly does seem to have that facility with the visual image that I mentioned earlier, but hasn’t quite yet acquired an accompanying sense of how to establish character and tell a story. There is a fair deal of plot to contend with here, and various Messrs. Knightley, Elton, Churchill and Martin to keep track of: I would suggest it is sometimes not always as easy to follow the story as it ideally could be. Nor does the story really to spring to life: it just sort of ambles along, not disagreeably, for a couple of hours.

That said, it should still probably do quite well for itself, as it does contain the appropriate quotients of top hats, Empire-line dresses, balls, carriages, etc. It is absolutely ticks all the boxes when it comes to being a standard-issue Jane Austen movie, and whether or not that is a problem is really up to the individual viewer to decide. The only surprising creative choice I could discern is the use of traditional folk music on the soundtrack – I liked this a lot, but it has an earthy, genuine quality entirely at odds with the carefully-managed visual style of the rest of the movie. If nothing else it does present Johnny Flynn, a brilliant musician in addition to being an able actor, with an opportunity to sing as well as play the lead. (Flynn gives a very decent performance, along with most of the rest of the cast, but if you ask me he would be a slightly more obvious choice to play Heathcliff than a polished Austen love interest. Still, I suppose this is a bit of a step up for him.)

I found it very hard to warm up to Emma – it’s an agreeable film, obviously, and decently made, and no doubt it should do very well with the audience it has been made for. But it feels strangely inert and unengaging; it’s not particularly funny, nor is it lushly and sweepingly romantic – it honestly does feel like the story was very secondary to the look of the thing. It does look good, but a satisfying movie needs more.

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I used to get a little bit exercised by people choosing inappropriate titles for their movies. I don’t just mean bad movies using good names, just titles which seem… not quite right for the movie. Back in 2011, Paddy Considine released a film called Tyrannosaur, which is a perfectly good title for a film featuring a carnivorous theropod on the rampage. Attaching it to an (admittedly very good) downbeat naturalistic drama about the corrosive effects of male rage struck me as a bit of a waste, to be honest.

When I first started hearing people talking about a movie called Parasite, I was pretty sure I knew what they were on about: I have vague memories of the film in question, which was directed by low-budget maestro Charles Band, released in 1982 and features Demi Moore in an early role. Suffice to say there is a lot of icky body horror and slimy things with teeth infesting various secondary members of the cast. This is exactly what I would expect from a movie called Parasite.

Of course, we now live in a world where – as is occasionally the case with films with mononymic titles – anyone wanting to watch Demi Moore just starting out had best take care, as there is now another, rather better-known film called Parasite. Not that confusion is particularly likely, of course: the 1982 movie has an 11% rating on a solanaceous review aggregation site, and won no awards whatsover, while the new one, directed by Bong Joon Ho, is currently scoring 99%, in addition to winning the Palme D’Or at Cannes and Best Picture at the Academy Awards – the first film to win both in 65 years, and the first film made in a foreign language to win the big prize at the Oscars.

This is the kind of acclaim that often leads to impossibly high expectations, but on the other hand it does work a treat in getting a slightly arty-looking subtitled film a major release – I note that, in the UK at least, Parasite didn’t start to appear in some multiplexes until after it won the Oscar. Certainly, to begin with it bears a passing resemblance to Hirokazu Kore-eda’s Shoplifters, another acclaimed Asian movie which didn’t get a major UK release.

To begin with, we are in the company of the Kim family, a penurious Seoul family reduced to living in a basement and folding disposable pizza boxes to scrape a living. Patriarch of this unprepossessing mob is Ki-taek (Song Kang-ho), a moderately successful hammer thrower now gone to seed, his wife Chung-sook (Jang Hye-jin), and their children Ki-woo (Choi Woo-shik) and Ki-jeong (Park So-dam). The Kims are living so close to the edge that their neighbour putting a password on her wifi constitutes a significant problem for them.

However, this all changes when Ki-woo’s friend Min finds him a job giving English lessons to the daughter of the wealthy Park family – Min has a mind to woo her once he gets back from a trip abroad, and has thus recommended Ki-woo as someone from such a poverty-stricken background can’t possibly be a romantic rival to him. He also gives the Kims a lucky rock, which will supposedly bring them good fortune. ‘Wow, it’s so metaphorical!’ cries a delighted Ki-woo, in one of the script’s many droll touches. Ki-woo duly passes muster with the slightly dippy mother (Cho Yeo-jeong) of the Park family.

What rapidly becomes apparent is that this is the sort of opportunity the Kims have clearly been waiting for for quite some time. With the speed and ferocity of a burrowing maggot, they waste no time in inserting themselves into the Parks’ lovely home: Ki-woo spots that his new employers’ hyperactive younger child likes drawing, and thus introduces Ki-jeong as a potential art therapist for the lad. The sacking of the family servants is ingeniously contrived, creating vacancies that the two senior Kims can fill. Soon the whole family is cheerfully soaking the Parks for whatever they can get, with their hosts blissfully unaware even of the fact they are unwittingly employing four members of the same family. The Kims begin to have dreams of a better life and a better future – because what could possibly go wrong…?

Needless to say, something goes wrong, but the volta that occurs halfway through Parasite is so startling and genuinely unpredictable that one would have to be a real cad to give more than a few hints as to what goes on in the second half of the film. Needless to say, class tensions bubble to the surface, there’s an epically unsuccessful birthday party, the issue of body odour proves unexpectedly significant to the plot and the lucky rock proves to be quite unlucky, for one character at least.

So, this isn’t really a horror movie, but if it is an art-house movie it’s only because of the subtitles (‘the one-inch-tall barrier’, as the director so aptly put it). This is really no more ‘arty’ than a film by Christopher Nolan or Stanley Kubrick, unless by arty you mean made with tremendous imagination and skill. I didn’t see Snowpiercer (someone gave it to me on a hard drive, which then went pop before I could watch it) and my admiration for his giant pig film was qualified at best, but this is a terrific movie.

Obviously, this is a film with things to say about serious and universal themes: the awkward relationship between wealth and power, and class consciousness, most obviously (you could draw a definite thematic parallel between Parasite and The Time Machine, if you really wanted to). Not that the title is without a degree of ambiguity – it’s clear that both families need each other in order to function (so perhaps Symbiosis would be just as apt a title). You could also argue that the film takes the fact that servants and lower-class people often seem to be invisible to the rich and powerful and makes it one of the central metaphors of the movie. There is a lot going on here.

Nevertheless, the denseness of the film’s ideas never get in the way of its entertainment value, or its achievement as a piece of cinema. Almost from the start you are swept along, as the Kims put their plan into motion with a gleeful ruthlessness – they are such an agreeable bunch, and Mrs Park in particular is so useless, that you can’t help but want them to get away with it, even though what they are up to is deeply morally questionable. Towards the end of the film the comedic elements inevitably fall away, however, and the film becomes darker and more complex, but the shift is as impeccably handled as the rest of it.

Parasite has pretty much everything one could hope for from a movie, and it is fully deserving of all its praise and accollades. Hopefully the one-inch-tall barrier will not keep too many people from watching it, for this is a film which balances serious themes with superb storytelling skill and the result is a film which is compellingly watchable from start to finish. Proof that the Academy Awards do sometimes get things right.

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I did not get into music as a teenager – not until my late teens, anyway. I’m not sure why this was, possibly because we just weren’t that kind of a family. It was always Radio 4 that was on in the kitchen, not Radio 2. And I suspect liking music was just not my thing. With hindsight, I can see I took a kind of perverse, masochistic satisfaction from being into stuff which was incredibly obscure and peculiar – which is why I became a kind of comedy geek. Not even the present day stuff: I suspect I was the only 13-year-old at my school who knew the names and birth dates of the cast of Beyond the Fringe. Lots of people could quote all the usual Monty Python sketches: I was the only who’d heard of The Frost Report, At Last the 1948 Show and Do Not Adjust Your Set, and could trace the lineage leading up to Python itself. Yes, it is a strange place, inside my brain; I have learned how to hide it much better in the last thirty-odd years.

The strange thing is that I’d committed all this information to memory before even seeing or hearing most of the shows and performers concerned – a lot of it came from Roger Wilmut’s book From Fringe to Flying Circus, an exhaustive history of the generation of Oxbridge comics who rose to prominence in the late 1950s and 1960s. Strange to recount, but when the BBC actually repeated the second and third series of Monty Python’s Flying Circus in the summer of 1987 (inconsiderately scheduled to regularly clash with their thirtieth-anniversary season of Hammer horror movies on the other side), I was not entirely sure who was who amongst the team. I knew John Cleese from Fawlty Towers, of course, and I knew the American one who didn’t get many lines was Terry Gilliam; I was also pretty sure which one was Michael Palin, too. But for quite a long while I was under the impression Eric Idle was Graham Chapman, and vice versa. Which just left Terry Jones, who – and this is the reason we are here, of course – has just left us.

Things were different back in the early 1980s, of course. Things popped up in strange places. I distinctly recall an episode of Python being shown long before the watershed when I was about eight. Similarly, I remember possibly the first time I saw Terry Jones on TV: he was being interviewed on a Saturday morning kids’ TV show, Lord knows why – possibly to publicise one of his childrens’ books, I don’t know – and this was accompanied by a clip from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Monty Python and the Holy Grail! On Saturday morning TV! It was a different world, I tell you. (It may be that someone on the editorial team was an avid Python fan, for they ran an equally inappropriate promo for Brazil in the same slot a year or two later.)

I get the impression that Terry Jones was quite proud of the fact that his films tended to be controversial – his first three solo projects as a director were all banned in Ireland – and this may be why they dragged their feet a bit in reaching the TV screen. These days we’re used to films arriving less than year after their cinema debut, but part of me is quite sure it was eighteen years before Holy Grail was eventually shown in full on British TV: it was at Christmas 1993 that I finally got to see the whole thing. (I should of course make it clear that this particular Python extravaganza was directed by Terry Jones in tandem with Terry Gilliam.)

Here is where I traditionally describe the plot, but this being a Monty Python movie, various gags and conceits keep rocketing off at right-angles to the actual story (which is still reasonably cohesive, all things considered). Ostensibly set in the Dark Ages, the film concerns King Arthur of Camelot (a silly place) and his Knights of the Round Table. (Graham Chapman plays Arthur with his usual, worryingly plausible glassy-eyed authority; the rest of the team play Lancelot and the others.) God, or possibly W.G. Grace, commands them to find the Holy Grail, that their efforts should inspire the rest of the populace.

This is basically just a simple but wonderful framework on which to hang a selection of skits and sketches. It’s almost a cliche to describe the Pythons as comedy’s answer to the Beatles, but there is some truth to that, and their range of styles is fully on display here. Some of the humour is brutal (most obviously the encounter with the Black Knight), some of it is cleverer than it looks, much of it is gleefully silly, and some of it is knowingly puerile. The practiced viewer can often figure out who wrote a particular sketch based on its style – ‘Anything that opened with rolling countryside and music was Mike and Terry, anything with really heavy abuse in it was John and Graham, and anything that got totally obsessed with words and vanished up its own backside was Eric,’ according to Gilliam (if memory serves) – but personally I don’t really feel the need to pick it apart in quite such detail.

Even so, one does note that they are generating some of the gags here by giving mediaeval characters twentieth-century attitudes and outlooks (for instance, the anarcho-syndicalist peasants Arthur encounters near the start of the film), something which would go on to be one of the main drivers of Life of Brian, and also that some of the more anarchic assaults on the structure of the film itself have obviously developed from jokes in the TV show. The opening gag (of the DVD release, if not the theatrical version) where the wrong film – Bob Monkhouse in Dentist on the Job – is shown by mistake is a close cousin to a joke where an episode of Flying Circus is introduced by a continuity announcer from the commercial network, while the subversion of the opening credits by the Swedish tourist board does recall the way in which Njorl’s Saga was infiltrated by a group seeking to promote North Malden.

I know that Life of Brian is the Python movie one is supposed to like best of all, and I do think it has some very good moments. But this one is honestly still my favourite, and that’s partly because it is still very much in the style of the TV series at its best: there is kind of a plot, but this still feels very much like a revue movie, and it does have the kind of formal daring one expects from Python – particularly in the total lack of a conventional climax, or indeed an ending. Plus, on top of this, it does look remarkably good for what was clearly quite a low-budget movie: the surreal grotesqueries of the dark ages are clearly right up Gilliam and Jones’ street (not really surprising, when you consider Gilliam would go on to make several historical fantasy films while Jones would do some substantial historical documentaries). Was it this film or Jabberwocky that earned Gilliam a complimentary phone call from Stanley Kubrick, telling him it looked more authentic than Barry Lyndon? I can’t remember.

Still, you don’t argue with Kubrick. History does not recall what Stanley’s favourite Python movie was, but this is mine. Watching it again is a reminder of just how good these boys were, all those years ago. No wonder the Black Knight and the Knights Who Say ‘Ni’ and the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch have all infiltrated popular culture to some extent. Terry Jones had one of the more diverse and eclectic careers of any of the Pythons – rather than just writing and performing comedy, he was also a brewer, a historian, a poet and a film director – which may be why he never seemed to get quite the recognition and plaudits of some of the other members of the team. Certainly he deserved them, because he was very good at all these things. Possibly that may be rectified now; better late than never. The Pythons were the closest thing I had to a favourite band as a teenager. I hope we will cherish the remaining quartet appropriately while we still have them.

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