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Posts Tagged ‘documentary’

One of this week’s attempts at Bond counter-programming was The Alpinist, a documentary by Peter Mortimer and Nick Rosen – this is one of those films which is obscure to the point of not even having a Wikipedia page (a fairly arbitrary metric I admit), which perhaps indicates just how deep some cinemas are having to dig at the moment. Mortimer, who narrates the movie and occasionally pops up on screen, is described as a ‘veteran filmmaker’, although much of his CV comprises seven entries in the Reel Rock franchise and two First Ascent films.

Yes, we are back in the world of climbing and the Bergfilme, which is apparently experiencing something of a moment of coolness right now. I imagine that serious climbers, who are active, outdoorsy people, are not one of the demographics most likely to have a loyalty card from a major multiplex chain (or even community arts centre) and so most of the audience for climbing movies like this one is made up of somewhat sedentary types (yes, I put my hand up) looking for some vicarious vertigo.

Then again, either I am wrong or there are more of us than I would have thought, as the last climbing movie I saw, Free Solo, was playing to a packed house when I watched it. To say that The Alpinist is stuck in the shadow of Free Solo is an oversimplification, but it does have a definite sense of…

Well, you know, I get the feeling there’s a sense of one-upmanship between serious climbers (the new film touches on a ‘speed record’ rivalry between two of them) and in a similar way, rather than stick with familiar territory, Mortimer and his team seem to have been motivated by a desire to find a new and unusual subject, obscure even within the climbing world. They settled on a French-Canadian climber named Marc-Andre Leclerc, who – when they first came across him – was completing startling ascents with a minimum of publicity or social media attention. The film documents their initial meetings with Leclerc and his formative climbing years in the Canadian town of Squamish, touches on Leclerc’s history, and then gets down to what the audience is really here for, footage of Leclerc dangling above a terminally long drop, held there only by one and a half fingernails and what resembles an obscure cooking utensil. There’s a not entirely pleasant sensation that appears at these points and gasps are common in the auditorium.

Then again, this is what Alpine climbing is all about – climbing with a minimum of support, a minimum of people and a minimum of fuss. It is, to the average person, an insanely dangerous hobby – but as Reinhold Messner, the first man to climb Everest solo, points out, the threat of death is an essential part of the climbing experience. The film dwells on this at some length, which eventually turns out to be significant.

Even Alex Honnold, the subject of Free Solo, and a man whose brain does not feel fear in the same way as (most likely) yours or mine, pops up and says that some of what Leclerc is doing is ‘crazy’. The film does an excellent job of indicating the differences between Honnold and Leclerc – Honnold seems competitive, driven, hyper-focused, while Leclerc comes across as a more laid-back, almost Candide-like figure – albeit one with a past including a heroic intake of mind-altering drugs.

Documentary films these days often seem to go off on odd tangents and this one has its moment when the film crew discover that the subject of their film is a man who isn’t all that keen on actually being filmed – for Leclerc, climbing solo means just that, and having a camera crew around spoils the purity of the moment for him. He keeps clearing off to the other side of the world to climb up something without telling Mortimer where he’s gone; at one point there’s a scene consisting of the slightly exasperated film crew pointing the camera at Mortimer’s phone, through which the star of their project has finally decided to get in touch with them.

It’s a funny interlude, which is followed by Leclerc’s attempt to climb Torre Egger in Patagonia in winter (Mortimer and his team are not allowed to accompany him, but another climber is permitted to film part of the attempt). More epic scenery and defiance of death ensues.

But then, however, what has been a competent and occasionally slightly oddball documentary takes a very different turn, and whether this counts as a spoiler or not I don’t know. Technically, in standard movie terms, it certainly does; realistically, probably not. Anyway, spoilers, if spoilers they be, coming up.

The film stresses the extreme danger of free solo climbing, and run the roll call of people whose attempts to find the limits of climbing possibility extracted the heaviest price from them. What happened while the film was in its initial period of post-production was that Marc-Andre Leclerc joined their number.

Documentaries about living subjects are fairly common; so are retrospectives looking back on the life of someone who has passed on. The defining feature of The Alpinist is that Mortimer started off making the former, only to find himself, fairly late in the process, doing the latter instead. The results are very odd – the film does nothing to tip the uninitiated off about how events are going to unfold; it has no eulogistic, retrospective quality to it for the majority of its running time. Footage of Leclerc’s memorial gathering and poignant contributions from his girlfriend both appear, but it’s almost like they’ve been added to the end of a pre-existing film.

Perhaps this is intentional, because I presume it does do something to replicate the sense of shock that all involved must have felt at the time that the grim news came in (having done some of my pre-film research I sort of suspected how it was going to turn out). Or perhaps the film-makers simply couldn’t go back and rework the movie in the light of what had happened. Either way there’s still something very odd about the change in tone that occurs in the final section of the film.

This is a technically accomplished movie with some incredible imagery, both of the landscape and of the people setting themselves against it; not quite as focused or successful as Free Solo, but still impressive. However, what will stay with me is not any of those things, but the jarring reminder of what is at stake, which the film puts across in the most immediate and visceral way. Most of the film is beautiful and philosophical; the end of it is raw and unsteady. The transition between the two happens off-screen, of course, but in a very real sense it is what this film is about. I’m not sure how accomplished as a movie The Alpinist ends up as a result, but it is certainly a powerful and memorable film.

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Someone recommended Paul Solet’s documentary Tread to me last week, very enthusiastically: as it turns out, the film is available for free on t’internet (which must annoy Amazon Prime and Netflix US, both of which seem to have shelled out for the rights to it). The film concerns a curious incident in recent American history – it’s one of those things which was briefly very prominent in the news, before something bigger came along and eclipsed it (in this case, the death of Ronnie Reagan). I don’t remember the story myself, but did become aware of it later for slightly odd reasons (I plead the Fifth Amendment, except to say that I’m a member of some quite oddball Facebook groups).

The film concerns the last decade and a half or so in the life of Marv Heemeyer, an ex-military man who started a car repair business in the small town of Granby, Colorado. Various of Heemeyer’s friends and his former lover paint a generous picture of a hard-working man with a gift for welding, whose real passion was snowmobiling, and who organised his life so he could do the things he enjoyed.

Then – or so the film initially suggests – Heemeyer, an outsider in Granby, ran afoul of the town’s ‘good ol’ boy’ network, comprising several prominent local families, the mayor, the editor of the local newspaper, and so on. Heemeyer bought some land one of these people wanted, as a result of which they conspired to bankrupt him and see him run out of town. Being the kind of man he was, Heemeyer fought it every step of the way, but the level of corruption he encountered made his ultimate defeat inevitable.

Or so the film initially suggests. One of the impressive things about Tread is the way that, having established all this, it then smartly switches to let Heemeyer’s so-called persecutors have their say and give their side of what has turned into a rather compelling story of small-town politics and strong personalities at war with one another. Heemeyer’s account, which initially seemed reasonably coherent, suddenly seems to be shot through with improbabilities and other problems. The people he set himself against were not saints – this becomes very clear before the end – but neither does there really seem to have been a conspiracy against him.

Quite what happened to Marv Heemeyer is the question at the heart of the film, to which the only answer comes from tapes recorded by the man himself: he was sitting in his hot tub, he recalls, when he suddenly became convinced he had been appointed as the agent of divine retribution against the corrupt cowards running Granby.

At this point you would normally expect the story to involve a high-powered rifle, a rampage, and a stand-off with police marksmen – and while all these things do feature, there is another element, and the one which has earned Heemeyer a certain kind of grim celebrity in extremist libertarian circles. When he ‘became unreasonable’ (as he put it), he was sitting at the controls of a heavily modified Komatsu bulldozer, which he had spent months converting into a mobile fortress.

I suppose one of the issues when setting out to produce a feature-length documentary is how you make it properly cinematic and engaging for the audience; I suspect there’s always a danger of everything becoming quite dry and talking-heady. The Marv Heemeyer story is such a gift as source material for a film of any kind that I’m surprised it hasn’t been more heavily exploited in the US before (elements of the story, although notably not the bit with the bulldozer, formed the basis of Andrey Zyagintsev’s acclaimed 2014 film Leviathan, although this was also apparently inspired by the Book of Job). The bulldozer rampage is the bit you turn up to Tread for, and the film indeed starts with news footage of the actual events of that day; a more elaborate reconstruction of part of Heemeyer’s odyssey of destruction features in the closing section of the film.

Most of the film, however, is concerned with the events of the preceding decade or so, going into detail regarding Heemeyer’s character and grievances, and the perspectives of others involved in the story. As I’ve already suggested, this proves to be unexpectedly engrossing stuff, not least because of the almost Rashomon-like quality of the story – there is, obviously, only one set of facts, but Heemeyer’s apologists and the members of his hit list tell quite different versions of what happened.

Despite the fact that some of Heemeyer’s opponents hardly come across well – one of them expresses regret that the ‘killdozer’ was broken up and melted down, believing a museum devoted to the rampage could have been very lucrative – one is still inclined to conclude that Heemeyer was a man who, for whatever reason, simply lost it and cast loose from the anchor of reason. He may have been adopted as a totemic figure by extremist political groups, but there seems to have been very little about his actions that was motivated by a political belief – if anything, there is an almost religious zeal to the voice on the tapes, a man in exterminating angel mode.

It’s the audio tapes of Heemeyer’s own voice which are the most striking thing about Tread, the man’s own testament concerning what he was doing and why, and an extraordinary portrait of a man who was still functioning extremely cogently – planning in great detail, carrying out skilled and demanding technical tasks single-handed – while still apparently convinced he was carrying out God’s will by planning to demolish large portions of a small town with heavy machinery. It does seem incredible that nobody noticed what he was up to – Heemeyer himself took this as a sign that his actions had been divinely sanctioned – but then even after the fact the story seems incredible.

The rampage itself, when the film reaches it, is described with clarity and some decent reconstructions; it’s everything you could hope for from a modestly-budgeted documentary film. However, it’s the material leading up to this which really makes the story come to life and the result is an excellent documentary about strikingly bizarre and ultimately tragic events: a great example of insightful and effective storytelling, and well worth a look.

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It seems like that one of the perks that comes with your Successful Film Director badge is the opportunity to occasionally make a documentary about anything you like, more often than not a niche personal interest of some sort: James Cameron has done a couple about deep-sea exploration, Peter Jackson seems to have an interest in military history (particularly aviation), Shane Meadows did one about his favourite band, and so on. You can see why these sorts of projects get the green light: documentary features are usually a tricky sell and putting the name of someone popular on them helps to offset that.

Edgar Wright is the latest to have a go and the subject of his film is effectively given away by the title, The Sparks Brothers – the fact that this is a title which the siblings in question supposedly loathe gives you a reasonably good sense as to the general tenor of the piece, which is playfully deadpan and carefully absurd.

These may sound like odd choices for a documentary, but then this is a documentary about the rock band/pop group/synth duo/trio Sparks, or more specifically the Mael brothers, who have been the core of the enterprise for half a century now. Movies celebrating groups or bands or individual artists like this one usually start with a section where a selection of celebrity admirers come on and try to explain just how wonderful, accomplished, pleasing to the eye and generally deserving the subjects are. It perhaps says something about the essential nature of Sparks that even their most passionate devotees, given this opportunity for fulsome praise, still end up describing the duo as ‘an anomaly’, and offering thoughts such as ‘they would make good Muppets’ and that they look less like a band than people on day release from some kind of institution.

This seems rather unfair to younger brother Russell, who is the vocalist and front man for the band, and seems an engaging and personable chap, but may well be a fair description of elder Mael Ron, whose angular, threatening, slightly predatory stage presence – coupled to a dress sense which is interesting, to say the least – is one of the things the band is most famous for. There’s a famous, probably apocryphal story about John Lennon seeing Sparks’ first Top of the Pops appearance and phoning up Ringo Starr to tell him he’d just seen Marc Bolan performing a song with Hitler.

That song was This Town Ain’t Big Enough for the Both of Us, the 1974 single which is probably the only thing a lot of people can remember about Sparks. This was certainly the case for me: I was only vaguely aware of them beyond this one record, and was entirely in the dark about the twenty-plus albums and hundreds of songs they’ve recorded in a half-century career.

Happily, Wright and his film are here to provide some illumination into the Sparks opus, and do so at potentially exhausting length: there’s some background on the siblings (they are native Californians, hence the line that Sparks is ‘the best British band ever to come out of America’), including – courtesy of what must have been some ferocious research – footage of them as teenagers in the audience of a Beatles gig. Then the film covers the coming together of their first band Halfnelson, later renamed Sparks in a slightly perplexing marketing exercise.

From then on, every album is discussed, along with the brothers’ various peregrinations, reinventions, changes of style, and other projects. It is such an odd story – at one point they were going to make a film with Jacques Tati, at another they spent literally years working on an adaptation of a Japanese manga to be directed by a young Tim Burton – and essentially that of two men driven to follow their muse rather than any kind of commercial instinct. Former Sparks drummer (and, apparently, long-time TNG extra) Christi Haydon is reduced to tears as she recalls the brothers’ longest period in the commercial wilderness (in the late 80s and early 90s) and the fact that they continued to write and produce music on a virtually daily basis throughout this period.

One question the film doesn’t directly address is that of how a band can be so prolific and massively influential and yet remain so little known. (Wright makes the reasonable suggestion that every synth-pop duo with a flamboyant singer and a rather less demonstrative keyboard player are basically ripping off Sparks’ act, albeit usually with less wit.) The closest it comes is the suggestion that the whole essence of Sparks is an exercise in irony and the deconstruction of cliché – it’s usually impossible to tell whether the brothers are taking something deadly seriously or quietly sending it up; they may in fact be doing both at the same time. Their single Music You Can Dance To is an arch parody of vacuous commercial dance-pop, but at the same time it’s a banging example of the form at its best. Other songs reveal the same dry sense of humour or a willingness to completely tear up the usual norms of pop music – the lyrics to My Baby’s Taking Me Home are basically just the title, repeated seventy or eighty times in a row.

Wright manages to suffuse the movie with the same kind of deadpan artiness, including animated sequences and a droll section where Ron and Russell enact various metaphors – the suggestion that Sparks push the envelope of conventional pop music is accompanied by a clip of them pushing an envelope back and forth, and so on. Perhaps unsurprisingly, they are exceptionally good value as interviewees, in a film which is not short on people willing to come on camera and sing their praises – various musicians, actors, writers and fans all turn up.

The Sparks legend is largely based on the duo retaining an aura of mystique, which the film duly respects – we learn virtually nothing about their private or personal lives, beyond the fact that Russell once had a brief entanglement with Jane Wiedlin and that Ron has a large collection of snow-globes. Even so, the brothers appear at one point and admit their concerns on this front, attempting to remystify themselves by sharing some rather dubious Sparks facts – Russell is apparently a NASCAR driver in his spare time, while Ron writes spy thrillers under the pseudonym John le Carre (a joke which seems a bit tasteless now but wasn’t at the time of filming).

Two hours and twenty minutes is a long duration for this kind of film, but it trips along very enjoyably: as ever, you almost wish they stopped to play some of the songs in full. (Still, I suppose we have the internet for this sort of thing now.) It really succeeds as a funny, engaging and warm film, and also as a documentary. I went to see it on the strength of the trailer and Edgar Wright’s track record, really knowing very little about the band, and I came out actually loving them a bit. Consider me a convert.

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Who knows where anything starts anymore? Back in the old days, I went round to a friend’s house to discuss a plan to get a freaky art thing underway, which turned into the pair of us scribbling away independently. Being a good host, my friend invited me to choose some music to put on. Paralysed as usual by the prospect of making a revealing choice in a social context, I opted for the last CD I had bought, a live album recorded at a reunion concert. My friend nodded and smiled. ‘Play X-Ray Spex,’ he commanded his virtual assistant. We sat in thoughtful silence for a minute or so while Oh Bondage! Up Yours! racketed out of his speakers. ‘Stop playing X-Ray Spex,’ were the next words in the room…

Fifteen or sixteen years earlier I had been in the early stages of one of my infrequent but inevitably ill-advised excursions into online dating (or ‘the donkey ride to hell’ as I have come to refer to it) and we were at the getting-to-know-you stage in proceedings. Things were going reasonably well until I admitted to having been spending a lot of time listening to Germfree Adolescents, the 1978 debut album by (a pattern develops) X-Ray Spex. I would say it’s usually difficult to communicate unconstrained hilarity via an email, but my correspondent had no difficulty doing so. ‘I can’t believe anyone still listens to X-Ray Spex,’ came the response. Suffice to say things did not proceed very far…

…I suppose the root cause of all this, really, was the experience of having to study very intensively for my university finals back in the mid-1990s, not least because I’d spent the bulk of the preceding three years messing about in the film and media studies section of the library rather than doing much work on my own subject. This involved repeatedly listening to The Best Punk Rock Album in the World… Ever!, with the benefit of hindsight a slightly embarrassing and certainly inauthentic artefact which redeemed itself by being stuffed with banging tunes from bands I’d barely been aware of. As well as an almost Pavlovian conditioned response to Talking Heads’ Psycho Killer (the track I would unfailingly listen to immediately before an exam), it also left me with an abiding fondness for the band with the saxophones and the shouting.

Nevertheless, as you can see, most peoples’ reaction to X-Ray Spex is that they are weird and/or a novelty band (‘novelty’ in this case having the same pejorative connotation as in ‘novelty record’). So it goes, I expect. Or maybe not, for if the cinemas were open at the moment, I expect that one or two of them would be showing Paul Sng and Celeste Bell’s documentary Poly Styrene: I am a Cliché, about the life of the prime mover behind the band.

The title is ironic, or at the very least tongue-in-cheek, for there is very little about the life of Poly Styrene (real name Marianne Elliott-Said) that was entirely conventional: born in the late 1950s, of mixed English and Somali heritage, she always seems to have been one of life’s questing spirits. Perhaps the most predictable part of her story is her attendance at a Sex Pistols gig in 1976, which inspired her to have a go herself, hiring a band and changing her name. (There are variations on this story featuring New Order, Morrissey and many other musicians and bands.)

Then again, I suppose you could argue that the trajectory that followed was broadly speaking quite predictable: success, media interest, too much too young, personal and psychological problems, an unfavourably reviewed solo album, and then retreat from the music industry into a Hare Krishna community, from which she intermittently emerged until her untimely death in 2012.

There is, obviously, a great deal of potential material here, all mixed up with the social and cultural history of the UK. At first listen most of the songs on Germfree Adolescents sound the same – snarling guitars, frantic saxophones and Poly Styrene yowling over the top of it all – but the lyrics deal with topics of personal identity, feminism, the environment, and much more. One of the paradoxical things about the film is that while it reinforces Poly Styrene’s status as a punk icon, it also suggests the punk rock movement was a really a collection of disparate individuals, misfits who only really had in common the fact that they didn’t fit in anywhere else.

The general tone of the film arises from the fact that it is directed by and prominently features Celeste Bell, Poly Styrene’s daughter. Bell narrates the film, appearing on-screen throughout, and the piece is framed as her looking back on her mother’s life and significance. This gives it an undeniable resonance and impact, even if it does threaten to turn the film into a meditation on the extent to which it is possible to really know another person – for all the archive footage and material the documentary includes (Ruth Negga narrates some of Poly Styrene’s diaries), you inevitable come away realising you’re just getting tiny glimpses into what was really an extraordinary life.

On the other hand, it doesn’t have the measured thoughtfulness of Who is Poly Styrene?, a contemporary documentary made at the height of her success and popularity – the best moment of which comes when a journalist asks the singer how she sees her music developing in the future. ‘Who knows, maybe it’ll turn into the sound of a hoover,’ comes the chirpy reply. Nor is it really surprising that the film skates very lightly over some aspects of Poly Styrene’s life that might give a less positive image of her: there is a reference to her ‘cruelly sacking’ Lora Logic, the saxophonist responsible for much of the classic X-Ray Spex sound, but no elucidation of just what occurred (in one of the great karmic ironies, Poly Styrene and Lora Logic both ended up living in the same Hare Krishna community in later life).

Then again, this is standard operating procedure for most musical bio-documentaries, which are after all largely pitching to fans of their subject, who may be turned off by a warts-and-all approach. For the most part this is still a colourful and satisfying look at someone who is perhaps too little remembered these days. It doesn’t have the depth or detachment that makes for a really great documentary, but it’s still a thought-provoking and illuminating film.

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Lots of positive press in the media this week about Sir David Attenborough’s latest film, which – obviously – is the perfect way of starting a review of something completely different. Well, mostly different. (The wildlife documentary genre has diversified a bit in recent years.) One of the most vivid TV memories of my youth was watching Attenborough’s Life on Earth in 1979, the show which really began his ascension to the position of global icon which he now occupies. This was not inevitable, however: the American networks which helped to fund that first series were a bit uneasy about the fact it was fronted by a then-obscure British TV executive and suggested that, for the US transmission, Attenborough’s on-screen appearances be cut back to an absolute minimum and his inimitable voice-over be replaced by those of someone more familiar to the good people of Boise, Idaho – Robert Redford, maybe? Attenborough checked the contract and refused. Nevertheless, the influence of the US backers on the blockbuster series persists, and has – if you ask me – become rather more pernicious.

The first few big Attenborough series had all the big images and breathtaking photography you would expect – but coupled to this you actually learned something, about ecology, animal behaviour, deep time and how evolution functions. The world being as it is, you won’t hear much talk about evolution in the new, blockbuster shows. Lots of beautiful images, stirring music, and powerful narratives about animal lives – but actual science? Not so much of that. The emotional response has supplanted the intellectual.

It’s a trend fully on display in Pippa Ehrlich and James Reed’s documentary My Octopus Teacher, available on that big old market-leader streaming site. Now, you might just possibly be drawn in to watching this film by the thought that it is about some wealthy eccentric who hires another person to teach his collection of cephalopods something. (Is this the time or place to get into that knotty ‘what is the correct plural for octopus?’ question? Apparently, it’s octopuses, but I’m not expecting it to come up that much.) There’s actually some potential there – another good title gone to waste. Or it could be about someone who is educated by an octopus, which likewise invites the potential viewer to engage in some productive speculation.

(Foster is the one at the bottom.)

Well, it turns out to be the latter, sort of, but I do suspect most people will conclude the title of the film is a bit of a chiz. It concerns the activities of one Craig Foster (apparently some sort of documentary film-maker, m’lud, and also the producer of this film), who seems like an intelligent and intense fellow, though perhaps not a man one would wish to be trapped in a lift with. The story as the film tells it – and the only voice you will hear throughout the film is Foster’s – is that Foster was having some kind of existential crisis, many years ago, when he decided to start swimming every day in a kelp forest off the coast of South Africa. It was during his daily briny sojourn that he first made the acquaintance of, um, a little octopus. (At the time of writing this film’s Wikipedia page lists the cast as ‘Craig Foster’ and ‘Little Octopus’.)

Foster says he was gripped by a sudden idea: what if he spent time every day swimming with Little Octopus and really got to know her and the kelp forest? Which is what he obviously did, as it’s the subject of the film. The documentary goes on to recount the growing bond between Foster and Little Octopus, their increasing fascination with each other, Foster’s grief and trauma when Little Octopus is partially-eaten by a pyjama shark (not as cute as it sounds), his joy at her recovery, and his gradual acceptance that the two of them are just not destined to be together. (I think there’s scope here for a companion piece – maybe The Man with the Octopus Teacher’s Wife – in which Mrs Foster’s feelings about her husband’s activities are made clear.) 

At least, that’s what we’re told. Recently, though, the issue of just how extensively the narrative of this sort of documentary film has been massaged has become a live one, and it seems to me that there’s something fishy about this octopus. The whole thing is framed as Foster looking back on his time with Little Octopus and her impact on his life – and vice versa, I suppose – and yet it is accompanied by suspiciously high-quality footage of the events he’s talking about. Was he filming it all at the time? If so, who’s doing all the second-unit stuff showing him swimming around? Are we actually seeing reconstructions of what happened, using a different octopus? If so, does the octopus know it’s just participating in a reconstruction? It seems unlikely.

Frankly, it all comes across as a bit one-sided, too, and would be greatly improved by some input from Little Octopus herself, giving her side of the story. ‘I was just overwhelmed by my feelings for her,’ confesses Foster at one point. Was this a reciprocal situation, or was he just the latest in a long line of men to have their heads turned by a much younger and impressively flexible female? Sadly the technology is not there yet for Little Octopus to make a proper contribution concerning how she felt about this whole situation.

(One of the odder things I’ve been involved in recently was a protracted and slightly combative discussion over the philosophical issues involved in translating communications between human beings and intelligent cephalopods – we weren’t even talking about that film in which Amy Adams teaches alien squid to speak English rather badly – particularly when it comes to proper nouns. But it has been that sort of year overall, I suppose.)

In short, I found the whole thing to be rather suspect simply on a conceptual level, but then it’s pretty clear that the film is not intended to be especially rigorous when it comes to objective fact. The nature of cephalopod cognition and the possible inner lives of octopuses is a fascinating topic, on which books have been written, but it’s one which is barely touched on here – although Foster does mention that one of the differences between Little Octopus and him is that her brain is largely distributed throughout her body – this film is only really educational in a ‘look at these wonders of nature!’ sort of way. The real focus of the thing is on Foster talking about Little Octopus in a brazenly anthropomorphic way, often accompanied by stirring violin or piano music. As previously mentioned, the whole film is intended to work on a sentimental rather than an intellectual level.

If you were to design a documentary intended to leave me cold, I think you would find it hard to do a better job than My Octopus Teacher – although I must confess to deriving a sort of pleasure from shouting at the screen, which I did on a regular basis throughout. The camerawork and images of the sea life in the kelp forest are, needless to say, very beautiful to look at – but most of the rest of it is borderline irritating. It might actually be a bit less annoying if they released an alternative version with all of Craig Foster’s pieces to camera edited out, along with his voice-over. It would be nice to look at and still emotionally fairly stirring, I expect, and the most egregiously questionable bits would be excised, so I think that might be a great improvement for everyone.

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As anyone who’s dug through the archives of the blog will know, a lot of my earliest reviews were written for the online newspaper of a very early social media/open-source collaborative encyclopedia website, and I still do a piece for them every week. Usually this is a topical review, which has obviously been tricky for the last couple of months, but at least this frees me up somewhat to contribute to the themed issues the paper occasionally runs. They recently did an ornithological number, which I treated with due respect by submitting an update of my 2012 review of The Giant Claw, and I have just been informed they’re following this up with a bug-themed issue, and would appreciate something appropriate.

Well, as you know, if I have a genuine passion in my life, it is science fiction, and there does seem to be an implicit link between insects on film and the SF genre. You can start the line with Them!, and then trace a path through the years, taking in such treats as Tarantula! (not actually about an insect, of course, but as we shall see taxonomic precision is not the strong suit of arthropod-related cinema), The Deadly Mantis, The Fly and its sequels,  and so on, down through Phase IV and on to the present day (personally I’ve always felt that Aliens in particular owes a huge debt to Them!). This doesn’t even touch on the Japanese contribution to the tradition – how can one not mention Mothra? (There are also the giant caterpillars which appear in Rodan and, much later, Godzilla Vs Megaguirus.) It’s actually a lot harder to think of insect-related movies which aren’t SF – the only ones I can think of are The Naked Jungle and The Swarm, in which Charlton Heston and Michael Caine contend with large numbers of our exoskeletal friends.

Still, the sheer number of bug movies in the SF-horror vein suggests there has always been money to be made here. This may explain the nature (no pun intended) of the distinctly odd movie The Hellstrom Chronicle, made in 1971 and directed by Ed Spiegel and Walon Green. The Hellstrom Chronicle was advertised in the style of those SF-horror projects, on the strength of its various baleful pronouncements on the future of the human race, which seems to me to be rather disingenous considering it is actually a wildlife documentary (albeit one including brief clips from Them! and The Naked Jungle). Nevertheless, the film was a financial success and won an Oscar and a BAFTA, so it clearly didn’t do anyone any harm.

After some striking opening footage representing the formation of the Earth and the origins of life itself, and then some nice footage of carnivorous plants doing their thing, we meet the radical scientist Dr Nils Hellstrom himself. Hellstrom has a PhD (Doctor of Philosophy), an MS (Master of Science), and is WF (wholly fictitious). He is played by Lawrence Pressman, who basically hosts and narrates the entire movie. Hellstrom is, by his own admission, a fanatic, a heretic, and a lunatic, and has fallen out of favour with the scientific establishment due to his unpopular Big Idea: this is that, in the ongoing struggle between the human race and the insect world, there can only be one victor, and it’s not going to be the big soft pink fleshy things.

The rest of the movie is basically Hellstrom trying to convince the audience that we’re all doomed, and supporting his argument with various pieces of state-of-the-art footage of insects in their everyday lives. We are treated to segments showing battles between red and black harvester ants, more ants attacking a termite colony, the curious sex lives of spiders, a startling sequence showing what it’s like to be inside a plane flying through a locust swarm, driver ants on the march, and so on.

The photography still looks good even nearly fifty years on, with many striking images; no doubt it seemed even more impressive back in the early seventies. It is quite fascinating and absorbing, even before one considers the contributions made by Hellstrom himself. These add a lot to the tone of the movie and the impression it leaves, but viewed objectively they are frankly a bit of a mixed bag. Hellstrom’s thesis was apparently synthesised from the work of a range of contemporary entomologists, approved by two advisors from the Los Angeles County Museum of Natural History, and then turned into a script by David Seltzer (later to have a decent career as a writer-director, most notably as scriptwriter of both versions of The Omen). I’m guessing the advisors didn’t get a look at the final script, or if they did their notes were ignored.

There are some interesting philosophical ideas here: insects have no capacity for intelligence or abstract reasoning, but – argues Hellstrom – this also means they are incapable of stupidity or irrationality. Their lack of individuality likewise gives them a competitive advantage. (And so on: there are some ecological ideas here too.) But on the other hand, you can imagine the advisors seething every time Hellstrom refers to the entire class of insects (eight million species, more or less) as a single creature, analogous to humans (one species – extant, anyway).

In the end, though, one kind of gets the impression that Dr Hellstrom and his theories are basically here to provide a bit of colour and atmosphere to link together bits of (very impressive) footage showing insects and their cousins up close. And this they do successfully. I suppose it’s always a question of how you find an audience for this kind of film, which isn’t typical cinema fare – twenty-five years later, a European movie called Microcosmos was released, which took a much more lyrical-pastoral approach to the same sort of material, largely eschewed narration, and once again did very well for itself.

The Hellstrom Chronicle turned out to have a curious afterlife as well – apart from winning various big documentary awards, it also inspired an actual SF novel by Frank Herbert: Hellstrom’s Hive, portraying a human society run along the same lines as a nest of social insects and its conflict with ‘wild’ humanity. Perhaps more significant, though, is the way the film presents wildlife footage with a strong element of narrative, including the use of incidental music to heighten the drama and impact of what is being shown. I’ve no idea if this was an innovation of the film, or something which was widespread in nature films at the time. Certainly, The Hellstrom Chronicle does this well, and the technique has become ubiquitous in wildlife documentary series today: one of the reasons I’ve more or less stopped watching this sort of programme is that any kind of scientific or educational underpinning has been dropped in favour of simple spectacle, very often sentimental. But it would be excessively harsh to hold The Hellstrom Chronicle responsible for this. This is obviously quite an odd movie, and in some ways it feels quite dated now, but the quality of the microphotography and Pressman’s well-pitched performance keep it engaging even today.

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Lauren Greenfield’s The Kingmaker is another one of those documentaries taking advantage of the lull in mainstream releases which regularly happens around this time of year. Greenfield herself is not one of those directors who is constantly popping up in the corner of the frame or butting in on the soundtrack, on this occasion at least. She is quite content to let her subject dominate the film. Her subject is also quite content to dominate the film, for she is Imelda Trinidad Romualdez Marcos, former First Lady of the Philippines and poster girl for obscene corruption and bad-taste excess.

The film first finds Mrs Marcos cruising around Manila in her usual stately fashion. When the car stops at a junction, a breathless cry of ‘It’s Imelda!’ goes up amongst the street children hanging around there, for they know they have had a stroke of luck. A forest of small open hands fills the window of Mrs Marcos’ car, and she serenely scatters money in their direction. ‘For the children! For the children!’ declares Mrs Marcos, as a number of short adults attempt to muscle in on her beneficience. ‘Those who have received money, move along!’ barks a stern voice out of frame. It is an edifying spectacle.

Mrs Marcos continues her progress, reflecting on the fact that, actually, being First Lady of the Philippines wasn’t all that much fun at the time. ‘The presidential palace, it was a very uncomfortable place to live,’ she recalls, sadly. She does not appear to notice that, even as she is speaking, the car is passing compatriots of hers who are living in bins and under bits of cardboard, which are possibly even less comfortable residences than the presidential palace (as well as presenting far fewer opportunities for lucrative graft).

She eventually arrives at a clinic for children suffering from cancer. Prior to this point, Mrs Marcos’ eyes have resembled two chips of coal shot into a side of ham, but now she wells up with emotion and responds in the empathetic and humble way that only someone with her common touch can. ‘Quick,’ she whispers to an aide, ‘give me some money to hand out.’ All across the city, poor families scrimp and save to get their youngest started on full-strength cigarettes just so they can be in the cancer ward the next time Mrs Marcos makes a visit.

The film is only a few minutes old but already questions are piling up like diamante slingbacks in Mrs Marcos’ famous shoe collection. Is all this just being staged for the camera? Has Imelda Marcos really got no idea of just how she is coming across? Is it possible for anyone to have such little grasp of reality? The director is smart enough to recognise this, but also to realise that the best response is to just let Mrs Marcos speak. All duly becomes clear.

A former beauty queen who became the wife of the Filipino president and sometime dictator Ferdinand Marcos, it is clear that Mrs Marcos took to politics like a particularly resplendent duck to water. One of her roles was to travel the world as a sort of proxy president (a slide-show of horrors ensues, showing her meetings with Chairman Mao, Fidel Castro, Colonel Gaddafi, Saddam Hussein, Prince Charles and a pre-politics Donald Trump), although the exact reason for this is disputed. One school of thought has it that Marcos himself was afraid that if he left the country he would instantly be overthrown, so he sent the wife instead. Another suggests that her foreign missions were basically a pretext for Ferdy to get her out of the way so he could sleep around with other women.

Nevertheless, Mrs Marcos still regards herself as mother of her nation (possibly the world), bringer of world peace, ender of the cold war, and so on. Brain-meltingly tasteless artworks scattered around the Marcos home commemorate her various achievements, although not her role in embezzling hundreds of billions of dollars from the Filipino people. In a way she is an ideal subject for this kind of film: she is perfectly happy to talk at length about her life, and seemingly almost completely oblivious to her own public image or the impression she is making. All Lauren Greenfield needs to do is occasionally intercut a contribution from another interviewee with more of a grip on reality (which is to say, any kind of grip on reality). One of the topics the film keeps returning to is Mrs Marcos’ typically unhinged scheme to start a safari park in the Philippines, complete with imported zebras and giraffes. ‘We found a place with no people and put the animals there,’ she informs the audience, solemnly. On comes a villager to relate how she and her family were forcibly uprooted to make way for this particular folie de grandeur. ‘I hate giraffes,’ adds the woman, sadly.

Initially it all seems like a black comedy mixed up with a reminder of the perverse politics of the cold war period – a time when many US policy makers subscribed to the palpably foolish idea that the only way to preserve democracy was by propping up dictators. Inevitably, though, it all came crashing down, although Mrs Marcos seems assured of her innocence: ‘I was too kind to him,’ she says of Benigno Aquino, an opposition leader who was assassinated, while later, we finally get a reference to that famous shoe collection – ‘When they searched my closet, they did not find skeletons, only beautiful shoes,’ she smirks.

It’s a half-decent line, and Mrs Marcos seems quite happy to trade on her shoe-loving reputation, but it neglects the fact that there are genuine skeletons in the closet where her family is concerned. The way in which the film shifts gear and tone to incorporate testimonies from some of those who were incarcerated, tortured and abused during the eight-year period of martial law instituted by Marcos is impressively done, but is part of a more general change as the film continues.

You might consider Imelda Marcos to be a grotesque joke from history, her family irretrievably disgraced. You would be wrong. This movie is called The Kingmaker for a reason, for it increasingly concerns Mrs Marcos’ attempts to get her son Bongbong into power, not least so he can restore the family reputation. Bongbong is running for vice-president of the Philippines, but the family history seems to be causing him a few issues. If I were the president of the Philippines, this would probably be a source of relief, for I would really not want my heartbeat to be the one keeping a Marcos from genuine power. However, the actual president is a man called Duterte, another of those populist strongmen the world is currently plagued by, and it transpires some of those Marcos billions played a part in getting him elected. By the end of the film, it is clear there are forces in play who are not about to let a simple thing like democracy stand between Bongbong and his rightful place.

It is a sombre, ominous conclusion, and turns what at one point felt like a somewhat gonzo piece of historical biography, with inconvenient facts pinging off Imelda Marcos’ gargantuan self-regard like pea-shooter pellets off a zeppelin, into a genuinely disturbing cautionary tale. God knows that we in the west have no right to criticise citizens of other countries for being conned by grotesque egotists whose sense of entitlement is matched only by their flexible attitude to the truth, but if a mob like the Marcos family can make a comeback then we really are in trouble as a species. However, that’s hardly Lauren Greenfield’s fault: she has made an outstanding documentary, funny, powerful, moving, infuriating and disturbing. This is possibly a very important film: it is a shame most people will be barely aware of it.

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One thing I have noticed in recent years is that early to mid December has quietly become a very good time to find a decent documentary at the local cinema, often enjoying a wider release than you might expect. When you think about it, the reason for this is obvious: hardly anybody wants their movie to only be on release for a single week (this does happen, but only when a movie tanks fairly spectacularly), but at the same time everyone in the industry is fully cognisant of the fact that come the end of the month, the Mouse House will have exerted its usual leverage and the latest stellar conflict movie will be playing seventeen times a day, filling up nearly every screen in town. So nobody wants to release their movies the week before such a major release, opening up a gap in the schedule which documentary makers happily fill.

Of course, it isn’t always a terribly big gap, which is why Max Lewkowicz’s Fiddler: A Miracle of Miracles is only showing once a day, usually at lunchtimes, in Oxford’s leading purveyor of snack foods and occasional screener of the odd film. Normally I am slightly relieved to find myself the sole punter at the showing of a movie – it means the standard of behaviour in the auditorium has a better chance of being acceptable, if nothing else – but on this occasion I was just a little saddened to find myself the only person present, if only because it indicated that not enough people near where I live love Fiddler on the Roof.

I mean, it seems very straightforward to me – if you have a functional soul and set of emotions, and you don’t love Fiddler on the Roof, then it basically means you must not be familiar with it yet. It’s that sort of show. As the title might suggest, the makers of Fiddler: A Miracle of Miracles are on more or less the same page as me (the fact that one of the contributors to the film has previously produced a book called Wonder of Wonders: A Cultural History of Fiddler on the Roof further suggests that people’s minds tend to run along the same sorts of lines when it comes to thinking up names for these things). They are here to first and foremost celebrate the show, not critique it.

I wrote about the 1971 movie version of Fiddler on the Roof a few years ago. The show is one of the great musicals, massively and enduringly popular – one of the many fascinating factoids the documentary serves up is that, since it originally opened in 1964, there has been at least one performance of the show somewhere in the world every single day.  It concerns the various travails of Tevye, a Jewish milkman blessed with more daughters than he really knows what to do with, living in a shtetl in Russia at some point near the start of the 20th century. There’s a bit more to it than just being a musical about anti-Semitic prejudice, but this is still a fundamental element of this beautiful, bittersweet show.

The documentary, naturally, assumes the audience will already be familiar with this, and focuses on the story behind the story. It initially looks like there’s been some kind of miscommunication, as the film opens with a series of aerial shots of Manhattan, which inevitably put one in mind of how the movie of West Side Story begins. Before things get too confusing, the camera closes in on the roof of one apartment building, upon which sits – you guessed it – a man with a violin. Soon enough he is picking out the opening phrases of the show’s score. Whether you think opening a film about Fiddler on the Roof with a sequence with an actual fiddler on an actual roof is witty or cheesy is probably a question of personal taste, but it’s a reasonable opening for a film which ends up digressing down some unexpected byways over the course of its 97 minutes.

One of the things that does become apparent is that Fiddler on the Roof and West Side Story have a good deal in common – obviously, both are products of the New York musical theatre culture of the late 1950s and early 1960s, and both were originally directed by Jerome Robbins. Any documentary about his work basically says the same thing about Robbins: he was a difficult, conflicted man, and yes, he was brilliant, but yes, he could also be horrible to everyone around him. This film doesn’t really have much time to dig deeper than that, mainly because it has so many other things it wants to cover.

To be honest, Fiddler: A Miracle of Miracles has so much on its to-do list it ends up feeling a bit rushed and disjointed. There’s the story of how the original production reached the stage, then a little bit on the making of the movie, and it touches on a few other distinguished revivals and productions too. Actors reflect on what the show means to them. There is some insight into the life of Sholem Aleichem, writer of the original stories, and the historical setting of the piece. The film’s credentials as a piece of emancipatory feminist theatre are discussed. And so on, and so on.

It doesn’t feel like there’s any real structure, just a grab-bag of material – if they had to raid the show’s lyrics for a title, ‘a little bit of this, a little bit of that’ would have been equally appropriate – but the film stays very watchable simply because the interviewees are engaging, the stories they tell are enlightening and funny, and the film-makers have found some fascinating clips to include: in addition to bits of performances from various productions (from Broadway, the Chichester Festival Theatre, Tokyo – in Japanese – and a university show in Thailand, amongst others), they find the Temptations doing a very funky cover of ‘If I Were A Rich Man’, a hardcore punk version of the same song by the band Yidcore, Topol and Danny Kaye singing together in Hebrew on US TV in the 1960s, and home video of Lin-Manuel Miranda leading a production number from the show at his own wedding reception. (This has done more to make me understand why he has become such a big star than any of his other movies or performances, but it does leave one with the impression that Lin-Manuel Miranda is one of those people who believes they are always on stage, even when they are not actually on stage.)

You do get a very strong sense of just how universal the appeal of this show is, along with its capacity to grab and move an audience. (Personally I think that, in terms of the movies at least, West Side Story has a tiny edge when it comes to the brilliance of the songs and staging, but Fiddler on the Roof is the one that will really break your heart.) What’s also notable is that it’s impossible to change the setting and context of the story in more than the most superficial of ways – it may look very weird to see a Japanese actor in a fake beard and a prayer shawl biddy-biddy-bumming away on stage, but this most widely-loved of shows is also intensely specific. The film does not address this apparent contradiction, but this is probably quite a wise thing to do – the paradox of how the personal becomes the universal is one of the mysteries of great art, and isn’t something you can quickly or easily explore.

Any second-order film of this kind is basically setting itself a challenge: a documentary about Fiddler on the Roof is never going to be as satisfying to watch as Fiddler on the Roof itself, so if you’re interested in Fiddler on the Roof, why not just go direct to the source? You should certainly watch Fiddler on the Roof before you see this movie. Then again, you should watch Fiddler on the Roof even if you have no plans to see this movie. (I think a theme develops.) The documentary is very engaging, though, and warm, and offers enough information and insight to be more than worthwhile viewing. I did come out of it wanting to watch the movie again, though. And the full Japanese stage show. And the Chichester production. And if Lin-Manuel Miranda ever gets married again, I would quite like an invitation to the reception. One of the things the show suggests is that a man can always dream (daidle deedle daidle daidle dum).

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This one could be a bit different from usual. I am not sure I have ever lifted the curtain, or gone behind the lid on the thinking behind this undertaking before, but I do think if you’re going to write about films in a long-form sort of way – as opposed to something along the lines of ‘This rocked! Totes amazeballs! 10/10!’, and so on – you really do need to embrace that. Even when it seems difficult to find anything particularly pertinent, insightful, or interesting to say about a movie I do try to ensure the review clocks in at no fewer than a thousand words; the only exception I can think of in recent years was the review for Victoria, and that was because writing a single sentence of more than 600 words seemed incredibly difficult at the time.

But this one could be shorter, because the film in question is one which it is difficult to talk about in any detail without spoiling it: the surprises and twists involved are not just a key part of the story, in a very real sense they are the story. So let’s have a go and see how far we get. I apologise for the slightly self-regarding tone of the review so far, but this is not at all inappropriate for Ben Berman’s The Amazing Johnathan Documentary, which ends up being a bit self-regarding too. Unfortunately this is not a movie which appears to have landed a proper cinema release (despite the involvement of various heavyweight backers), instead getting one of those special ‘one night only’ screenings, accompanied by a live Q&A hosted by Louis Theroux (I strongly suspect those heavyweight backers may have called in a few favours). I’m not sure how successful this has been, as there were only about six people at the screening I attended. This strikes me as a shame, but then I suspect this is a film pitching for a limited audience, and one which will prove very difficult to market.

So, then: who is the Amazing Johnathan and why has Berman opted to do a documentary on him? Well, I just about knew who he was, but this owes more to my freakish mutant memory powers than anything else – John Szeles is a comedy magician, much more famous in the US than the UK (although I do recall him doing some TV shows over here in the early 1990s). To describe him as a kind of punk rock/heavy metal fusion of Penn and Teller and Tommy Cooper is not, perhaps, an especially helpful analogy, but on the other hand it does help bolster the word count. Various luminaries including Penn Jillette, Weird Al Yankovich and Carrot Top appear at the start of the film and talk about what an important and inspiring performer he was.

The starting point of the film is that, in 2014, Szeles effectively announced his retirement: he had been diagnosed with cardiomyopathy (a heart condition) and the doctor had given him only a year to live. The documentary catches up with a still-very-much-with-us Johnathan, sitting around his rather substantial mansion with a somewhat long-suffering wife, reflecting on his situation, his past, and his future (such as it is). Then, Szeles decides he is going to go back on the road for one last tour, feeling that anything is better than just sitting around waiting for the inevitable. Obviously, this seems like a very risky venture, and Szeles’ wife is obviously very uneasy about it all – hanging over the whole venture is the memory of what happened to Tommy Cooper (a much-loved British magician and comedian who not only literally died on stage, but did so in the middle of a live TV broadcast – footage of which is included here).

And then something happens. This is the point at which the film starts to depart from the path it has seemed likely to stay on. I am, to be honest, really unsure as to how much detail to give about this. I should probably make it clear that the Amazing Johnathan does not die while being filmed, and (at the time of writing) still seems to be with us. Okay: what happens is this. What appears to be a second documentary crew turns up, also intent on making a film about Szeles’ comeback tour, this particular project apparently backed by the makers of Man on Wire and Searching for Sugar Man. (Simon Chinn, producer of these films, also eventually becomes mixed up in it all.)

Needless to say this has a profound impact on Ben Berman, who has to confront the possibility of a project he has invested serious time and money in being squashed by big-name competitors. But then things get weirder and weirder, and strangely intimate and personal. The increasingly hapless Berman effectively becomes the lead character of his own film, which rather than a documentary about a terminally-ill magician transforms into an exploration of the reality of life as a documentary film-maker and a deconstruction of how these things get made. The director manages to fend off incipient paranoia in order to consider some serious questions – why are so many people so interested in making films about Szeles at this point? What is his own motivation for making this film? Just how does he anticipate his film will end?

There’s an entertaining detour when Berman genuinely starts to question what he’s found himself in the middle of, and even begins to wonder if the whole situation is actually some kind of an extraordinary slow-burning prank executed by Szeles himself, who is after all an illusionist with a very twisted sense of humour (a friend of Szeles’ takes Berman aside and quietly lets him know the magician has looked into the practicalities of faking his own death). By this time the film has come to resemble a confounding puzzle-box, or a mirrored labyrinth, and you do find yourself questioning everything you see on the screen. Could it be that the whole thing is in fact a scripted black comedy passing itself off as a documentary?

1000 words so far and I don’t think I have blown the gaffe too badly. I should also make clear that while the film may sound very self-regarding, it is thoroughly watchable and humane throughout – it is often very funny, too. In the end it offers a significant, if oblique, insight into what goes into the making of the brilliant documentaries we have seen so many of recently – the competition to find a good subject, the extent to which these are artificial narratives, and so on. (It goes without saying that getting people to question ‘facts’ presented to them by the media is an unqualified good, especially given the current state of the world.) I can see why a film with such niche concerns struggled to find even a limited cinema release, but it is still an intelligent and entertaining movie, well worth watching if documentaries are your thing.

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It is surely a coincidence that recent developments in British current affairs took place on the same day that temperatures in the country rose to something close to what you would expect to encounter in the proverbial fiery pits of the underworld. I was half-expecting to see news reports of fish falling from the sky, the Thames turning to blood, and horses eating each other, but these may not arrive until after the customary visit to see the Queen (yet to occur as I write). If nothing else it made for an appropriately hellish atmosphere in a poorly air-conditioned cinema as we sat and watched Alison Klayman’s new documentary, The Brink, as this film concerns the recent doings of Steve Bannon. It would of course be unfair to suggest that Bannon is the Devil; but, to paraphrase The West Wing, I would not be at all surprised to learn that he is the one who is sent out to buy the Devil’s cigarettes.

Who, you may possibly be asking, is Steve Bannon, and why does he deserve such opprobrium (even maybe odium)? Well, if you actually are wondering this, I sort of envy you. Where do you start with describing Bannon? Former US Navy officer, former investment banker at Goldman Sachs, sometime film producer and director (most likely nothing you have ever seen – if you’re lucky, anyway), at one point director of the closed-system experiment Biosphere 2, Bannon eventually rose to significance after founding the far-right news network Breitbart and becoming involved in the election campaign of Donald Trump.

Bannon ended up as Chief Strategist in the grotesque circus of the Trump White House, famously having all the chairs taken out of his office in order to create a more dynamic atmosphere about the place. This role ended after the Charlottesville protests and Trump’s response to them, and it is at this point, in the late summer of 2017, that the film opens, with Bannon having fallen from grace (if that word is even applicable in the context)

Most of it consists of Klayman quietly handing Bannon metaphorical rope as he goes about his self-appointed task as… what? It seems to be vague at the best of times. To begin with there is a sense of quiet optimism, with Bannon spinning things so that leaving the White House is really a positive step for him, as he can now go out and about as a roving envoy and cheerleader for the Trump administration without any of the fetters of actually being involved with it. Hopeful young Republicans seek him out in search of his endorsement, and he leaves his customary behind-the-scenes role to make various personal appearances.

Showing the same unerringly keen instincts that led him to back Trump, one of the first recipients of Bannon’s magic touch is Roy Moore, a far-right Alabama judge who was accused of sex crimes in the midst of his campaign to become a senator, resulting in the first Democrat being sent to Washington from the state in a quarter of century. There is then something of a tiff with Trump, after Bannon suggests some of the campaign’s meetings with Russians were unpatriotic.

And so Bannon clears off to Europe where a whole new menagerie of horrors await his attempts to organise a far-right populist movement there, as well, up to and including an appearance by Nigel Farage (here caught between his time with UKIP and his latest scheme). He hangs out with various wealthy white men who still manage to sincerely believe they are somehow rebels against the elite, is left reeling by an encounter with the notoriously tough political interviewer Susannah Reid (NB to foreign readers: this review contains irony), and hosts a series of dinners for people who are often described in the media as neo-fascists. Oddly enough, Klayman always seems to be being sent out of the room whenever Bannon meets up with one of the billionaires who finance his various activities.

Then it’s back to the USA, with Bannon cranking out another of his propaganda films (‘you say that as if propaganda’s a bad thing,’ he observes) in support of Trump ahead of the mid-term elections. It is hard not to detect some trace of Bannon wanting to achieve some kind of rapprochement with his former boss and get back into favour, for all that he declares on camera he’s not bothered about having a close personal relationship with the man. It goes on and on and on: smirking, dog-whistle politics and a wall-to-wall sense of entitlement. There is at least some schadenfreude to be had as Bannon grows increasingly embattled as the film goes on: he loses all patience with one particularly self-regarding underling and appoints his nephew (whose previous role has apparently been to make him snacks) as effective overseer of the entire European project, while another choice moment sees a frustrated Bannon literally banging his head against the furniture in mid-phone.

But on the whole this is thoroughly grim stuff. You can understand Klayman’s decision to step well back as an artist and let Bannon and his associates speak for themselves – they do as good a job of indicting themselves as any journalist could – but it is still pretty dispiriting and unpalatable. The film is, at best, a trip into a world of complete moral bankruptcy and deeply skewed perspectives. Practically the first thing you see in the film is Bannon enthusing over the efficiency of the design and engineering that went into the Birkenau extermination camp, not even seeming to consider that doing this might be considered a touch provocative by many people (he is repeatedly taken to task for using anti-Semitic tropes later in the film, especially with regard to George Soros). We also see him marvelling after his first encounter with a mainstream audience (as opposed to the Trump base he usually appears before). ‘They hate [Trump]!’ Bannon says, practically shaking his head in amazement. ‘Those aren’t even screaming liberals, they’re decent folks.’

On the whole this is documentary film-making stripped back to the barest of bones – the odd caption, and a very occasional intervention on-camera from Klayman herself, but most of the rest of it is Bannon talking – smooth, more than a bit self-regarding, a polished (perhaps glib) media performer. The cracks still show over the course of the movie. But why should someone who isn’t a right-wing acolyte subject themselves to ninety minutes of this stuff? If nothing else it is an important reminder of the forces of division at work in the world today, of exactly who these people are, what they represent and how they operate. You turn your back and look away from all this at your peril.

It is difficult to be particularly hopeful at the moment if you are not a right-wing nationalist of some stripe, and to be honest watching The Brink is unlikely engender much optimism. But it is a film of some importance for the same reason that it is important to watch the news and read the papers. Do we get much sense of who Steve Bannon really is as a man? Actually, I think we do, and for all that he comes across fairly amiably in the film, it is ultimately not that pretty. But it is the forces he represents and is attempting marshal that really matter, and which give the film a demand on the attention of anyone interested in the future of the world.

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