An Anagram of Toilets

Crikey, you feel the pressure at moments like these: the characters in Cats are all queueing up for their moment in the spotlight, and in rather the same way the great and the good of criticdom all seem to be competing to deliver the most crushing dismissal of Tom Hooper’s movie. ‘Battlefield Earth with whiskers,’ was the coup de grace of one assessment; ‘a dreadful hairball of woe’ was another; ‘it’s just not finished‘ was the despairing cry of one professional viewer – one of a number of critics who made comments to the effect that there are some sights the human eye simply should not see, and Cats may well be one of them. How am I supposed to compete with that kind of thing? Of course, it is never a good look to spend one’s time feeling sorry for oneself – the charitable thing to do is to spend one’s time feeling sorry for Cats.

Things look about as bad as bad can be for Cats, as the story has become not that there is a new big-budget movie musical, but that there is a new big-budget movie musical which is really terrible.  That said, the film hasn’t exactly helped itself – Robert Wise always used to say that no movie in history ever came as close to not being ready in time for its release than Star Trek: The Motion Picture, but I think that record has been broken. Three days into its release, a new version of the movie is replacing the one that was initially distributed, in an attempt to address issues with the special effects. Various comments including words like ‘sticking plaster’, ‘on’, and ‘a shark bite’ do creep into my mind, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

The movie is set in a garish 50s version of London, from which people seem essentially absent, leaving the streets populated by bizarre human-animal hybrids (mostly cat-people, as you might expect from the title). A hideous tinny clanging presages the onset of the music, which honestly does sound out of tune in places, and we get the opening number, entitled ‘Jellicle songs for jellicle cats’. The lyrics of the song seem to largely consist of the word ‘jellicle’, which seems to me to be a bit of a cheat as TS Eliot (author of the book of light verse which has gone through various transformations before reaching the screen in this unlikely form) made it up: it doesn’t really seem to mean anything, but it seems to be a useful all-purpose lyrical filler even though there aren’t many obvious rhymes for it (‘petrochemical’, maybe, and ‘Ecumenical’; one might even suggest ‘genital’, but all of the cats in the film have had theirs digitally erased).

Well, anyway. By this point we have met the main character (or as close as the film gets), Victoria Cat (Francesca Hayward) and a bunch of other cats. Following a quick rendition of Eliot’s ‘The Naming of Cats’ (performed without music and possibly the best bit of the film), the nature of the thing heaves into view: it’s a special night for the cats, as their matriarch Old Deuteronomy Cat (Judi Dench) will be listening to them all sing songs about their lives, with the cat she names the winner being sent off to the Heaviside Layer (the E region of the ionosphere, long used to reflect MW radio transmissions) to be reincarnated. There is something very English and drolly quirky about this, which apparently was derived from Eliot’s writing, but it is still mostly gibberish.

What it basically does is facilitate a structure where a bunch of different cats come on and sing one song each about themselves, in a number of different styles (there aren’t many musical references more up to date than the late 1970s, which is when these songs were written). In technical terms, it’s all ‘I Am’ and not much ‘I Want’; what plot there is concerns a scheme by Macavity Cat (Idris Elba), an evil cat with magical powers, to rig the competition for his own benefit. So, basically, it goes: Song about a cat. Song about a cat. Song about a cat. Song about a cat. The songs don’t really refer to each other, nor do they tell a story; this is why turning collections of poetry into musicals is one of the more niche creative disciplines.

Whatever the problems are with the narrative structure the film has inherited from the musical, they are nothing compared to the consequences of the sheer visual impact of the thing. You can kind of see why they’ve got themselves into such a mess here, but the fact remains that the fatal problem with the film is that it does not appreciate the difference between presentational and representational modes of performance, particularly when it comes to cinematic and theatrical contexts. (And, yes, I did write that myself.) Or, to put it another way, in a stage show with a live audience, someone coming on dressed as a cat can be a magical and moving experience. However, Rebel Wilson with cat ears CGI’d onto her head, eating CGI cockroach people, is simply the stuff of nightmares. The characters in this film are obviously not cats. But neither are they people. So what are they? It’s just all kinds of freaky, and not a little confusing. Faced with Victoria Cat, I wasn’t sure whether to give her a piece of fish, or – well, look, I’m not a cat person, but if they all looked as Francesca Hayward does here, I could well be persuaded.

Cats is such a thoroughly weird experience that for a long time I was genuinely unsure if this is a bad movie or not. As a sort of surreal, hallucinogenic Arabesque fantasy, it has a certain kind of colour and energy, and the cast do seem to be trying hard. In the end it does largely boil down to extremely peculiar stagings of light verse put to music, though. It is telling that ‘Memory’, the big show-stopper of Cats, is only very loosely drawn from TS Eliot, and is not from the same source as most of the rest of the songs. Under optimal conditions it is a very pleasant and possibly even affecting little number – here, however, it is given to Jennifer Hudson, who gives it maximum Streep and maximum volume. The results made me want to hide under my seat, I’m afraid.

In the end I am going to stick with my gut instinct and agree with the consensus: Cats is a very bad movie, not because it is poorly made, but because it is fundamentally flawed. I can imagine that a fully animated version of the show might have done reasonably well, and almost certainly wouldn’t have attracted such eviscerating notices. You can certainly admire the skill, talent and nerve that has clearly gone into making such a bold and unusual film. But the film itself is a freakish mutant, and only really worth seeing because things so remarkably misconceived so rarely make it into cinemas.

Read Full Post »

I Sniggered A Snigger…

…but, oh, reader, it did not end there. Regular partakers of this nonsense may recall that occasionally I like to spice things up by changing the format of the review – doing part of it as a list, or a piece of short fiction, or something else which feels appropriate (for example). And part of me thought that the most apposite way of commenting on Tom Hooper’s inescapable Les Miserables would be to write a song about it in suitably sweeping style. But I’ve got a lot of other work on at the moment, and I couldn’t be bothered. It wouldn’t sound the same without the full orchestral backing, anyway.

Speaking of which, listening to the BBC’s flagship film programme, I caught a snippet of Hooper’s film from which the music had been snipped, giving the impression that the actors were singing a cappella. The results were, shall we say, rather amusing in the case of Russell Crowe, not someone for whom a career in musical theatre likely beckons. And so I turned up for the movie well prepared to chuckle and jeer my way through it.

Didn’t quite work out that way, though. Based on the stage show, which is based on a novel by Victor Hugo, we open on a gang of convicts working as slave labour in 1815 France. Most prominent is Jean Valjean (Hugh Jackman), whose surname rhymes with his prison number (good news for the lyricist), who almost straight away is given his parole by merciless cop Javert (Crowe). Valjean has to carry around a document revealing his criminal past or end up straight back in the clink, which makes his life almost intolerable.

However, an act of kindness from a stranger forces Valjean to reconsider his philosophy, and he sets out to become a better person, breaking his parole in the process and revealing that, in addition to possessing tremendous physical strength and a fine tenor voice, he is incapable of facing a moral dilemma without singing about it at great length.

Anyway, some years later the reinvented Valjean is now a prosperous philanthropist – but unfortunately his path crosses that of Javert once more. The policeman vaguely remembers him from somewhere, and soon events conspire to force Valjean to reveal his true identity and go on the run once more: this time in the company of little orphan girl Cosette, whom (for various reasons too lengthy to recount here) he has taken into his protection.

This is a long film with a lot of plot. Suffice to say that later on there is a lot of flag-waving, shooting, crawling through excrement, redemption, unrequited love, and exasperating cor-blimey-guv’nor Cockney accents before everything is resolved. (I’m still not sure what the chorus of hopeful spectres in the final shot are on about. Are they starting a revolution against God, or something? Good luck with that, guys.)

So like I say, I turned up to laugh at the extraordinary hats and hairpieces which pepper the movie, with my usual air of detached indulgence. But then we got to the scene where the kindly old priest (Colm Wilkinson) whom Valjean has tried to rob makes him a gift of everything he’s stolen, plus adds a bit more, saying Valjean clearly needs it more than him, and exhorts him to be a better a person… and as a gut-punch of sheer sincere human decency it really takes some beating. Oh! It’s so sweet! Cripes.

And then we had the scene where the innocent single mother Fantine (Anne Hathaway), reduced through no fault of her own to the deepest depths of debasement and despair – we get to see her degradation in some detail – sings a plaintive song about how life hasn’t quite worked out how she had hoped… and maybe it’s the context, or the song, or the way Hathaway puts it over… but suddenly I was losing it and welling up despite myself. I am ashamed to admit it but I was properly weeping in the cinema. (I haven’t cried so much since River Song died.) There is some weird power in certain sections of this film that enables it to circumvent your rational brain and interfere directly with your emotions.

Despite this remarkable faculty, there’s a lot about Les Mis that I was not particularly struck by. The plot eventually moves on to focus on a bunch of younger characters, mainly lovestruck young girls and floppy-haired student revolutionaries, all of whom were either wet or annoying or both (there’s a Cockney urchin living in 1832 Paris whom I would cheerfully have shot even before the revolution started). Amanda Seyfried, playing the female lead, sings with a curiously quavering voice, producing a vibrato effect I found very irksome. Much better, I thought, was Samantha Barks – if big musicals were still a major film genre, this girl would be a global superstar on the strength of her performance here.

I found the plot at this stage less involving and much missed the older characters. I’ve been rude about Hugh Jackman’s acting in the past but this is a part which really fits him like a glove, in terms of his persona, his range, and his singing ability. I even thought Russell Crowe brought a lot to the movie in terms of sheer presence and personality, although hitting some of the notes appears to be causing him significant discomfort. Let’s put this in perspective, though – if we’re talking about unsuitable A-list stars mooing their way through a musical, our yardstick has got to be Pierce Brosnan in Mamma Mia!, and Crowe’s nowhere near that bad.

But it does seem to go on for a terribly long time, and there’s only so much that comedy scenes from Sacha Baron Cohen and Helena Bonham Carter can do to perk it up a bit. Why is practically the entire thing sung, anyway? It just feels like a stab at opera. I suppose you either like this sort of thing or you don’t. The big songs are all great, though, even if towards the end it gets a bit repetitive: it quickly becomes apparent that no-one is this film is capable of dying without literally making a big production number out of it.

There’s the funny thing, though. I was sitting there towards the end, stirring a bit restlessly in my seat, wondering how long the damn thing had left to go, as the character in the scene was making a hell of a meal of passing away. ‘This movie is so overblown and sentimental in places, and much too long,’ I found myself thinking, even while realising at that very moment that I had gone again. The sneaky film had bypassed my rational mind once more.

All praise to Tom Hooper for that, and for the sheer look, scale, and technical achievement of the thing, for all of them are deeply impressive (why on Earth hasn’t he been Oscar nominated?). Despite all that, and the intensely powerful moments I’ve already mentioned, I still think this is a flawed movie in some ways. A monumental piece of work that will be remembered for a long time, but still – for me – easier to admire than to genuinely like.

Read Full Post »

Open All Heirs

There are a number of reasons why people might instinctively react against Tom Hooper’s film The King’s Speech. Firstly, it’s a costume drama, which the British film industry churns out in great numbers and which sometimes all seem to blur into one as a result. Secondly, it takes as its subject matter the British Royal Family (the title may give this away), a divisive topic in some quarters. And thirdly, it’s a product of the now-abolished UK Film Council, a body whose past productions I have described using such words as ‘bloody depressing’, ‘makes you want to gouge your own eyes out’ and ‘evidence of the UKFC’s unerring instinct for investing millions of pounds in complete crap’. So, not unqualified praise, there.

However, let all memories of Sex Lives of the Potato Men be banished (if only it were so easy…). You would be unwise to let such prejudices turn you against what will probably turn out to be one of the films of the year. This film transports us back to a pivotal moment in time, when the destiny of the world hinged on a clash between two countries, one ruled by a man famed for his ferocious oratorical magnetism, the other by a man barely capable of speaking a word in public. There have been many films made about the former, Adolf Hitler, but to my knowledge this is the first to focus on the latter, King George VI of Britain.

George VI never wanted to be king and it’s perhaps the misfortune of his posterity that he was surrounded by so many legendary and larger-than-life people, reducing him to a somewhat vague and colourless figure in the popular imagination. This film should go some way to rectify that situation.

Colin Firth plays the future King, who is a martyr to his stammer – a serious problem for a man required to make so many public speeches. As his father ails and his duties increase, his wife (Helena Bonham-Carter) arranges for him to be treated by the somewhat informal speech therapist Lionel Logue (Geoffrey Rush). But the greatest crisis in the history of the British crown is approaching, with the dissolute heir apparent more interested in his own happiness than his duty, and war with Germany rapidly becoming inevitable. Does the stammering younger brother have the makings of a King inside him?

Not many car chases in this one, then, and I needn’t have bothered taking my 3D glasses with me, either. Nevertheless this is an excellent movie, managing to find a genuinely new angle on the abdication crisis. It’s more than simply a slab of dramatised history, however, informative though it is, and while it’s sympathetic to the King as a man it’s not some Royalist tract either. It stands up perfectly well as a story on its own terms – a very human portrait of a man desperately trying to do his duty, struggling towards a very unlikely friendship with someone who’s his complete opposite.

Firth gives a technically brilliant performance as the afflicted King, but goes beyond this to make him a believeable person as well – unintentionally or not, he gives George some of the mannerisms of his eldest grandson, which helps to sell the character. Geoffrey Rush is just as good as the therapist, giving one of the most restrained performances I’ve seen from him (then again I’ve not seen him do much outside of Pirates of the Caribbean). Bonham-Carter, stuck with the task of embodying someone extraordinarily well-known but whose personality remained unknown throughout her lifetime, is also very strong, hitting a very plausible note of brisk cheeriness masking a core of pure steel.

The King shows his mettle. Sorry, that should read ‘medals’.

Oh, let’s not muck about. Everyone in this movie is good: Timothy Spall plays Churchill in the accepted style (gruff old warrior awaiting his country’s call), Guy Pearce plays Edward VIII in accordance with the modern view of him as a selfish hedonist and possible Nazi-sympathiser, Michael Gambon has a cameo as George V, and the little girl from Outnumbered pops up, rather startlingly, as Princess Margaret. Derek Jacobi, purveyor himself of surely the greatest speech-impedimented performance in modern history, plays the Archbishop of Canterbury, while Her Royal Maj herself is portrayed by Freya Wilson (who isn’t given very many lines).

I was interested to see Jennifer Ehle some way down the cast list as Logue’s wife – given she and Firth hit the big time off the back of the same TV show, it’s interesting that he’s become a bona fide movie star while she appears to have done most of her work on stage over the last ten years. Hmm.

Some commentators have been a little surprised that this film has received only a 12A certificate, given there’s an extended sequence where Firth doesn’t do much more than repeatedly shout ****, ****, ****, and ***** (not to mention ******* and ******). (He doesn’t use s*mpr*n*, you’ll be relieved to hear.) Well, in context it comes across as sweet rather than offensive and drew gentle laughter at the viewing I attended. I must confess to being astonished that this whole area is still so contentious – this is possibly a discussion for another venue, of course.

Well, if you are a dyed-in-the-wool republican this film isn’t going to change your mind about that – though it may increase your sympathy for the inmates of royalty somewhat. But this is a film without a real political message, at least not one that I could discern. It’s a story about people, not royals and commoners, and a very well made one. Funnily enough, the Queen’s Speech every Christmas lasts ten minutes and is usually utterly tedious – while The King’s Speech lasts for two hours and is completely enthralling throughout. Highly recommended.

 

Read Full Post »