Katalin Varga

This was an experiment. I didn’t really expect to enjoy it, but that’s what film festivals are for. In fact this is a very strong story, a tragedy which, as it unfolds, slowly reveals its inevitability. Classic stuff.

The tragedy plays out against the beauty of rural Romania which the cameraman clearly relishes. The soundtrack is particularly inventive without being intrusive and adds a lot to the experience. Dark and unflinching, but well worth seeing.

44 Inch Chest

The opening scene is promising, the soundtrack a delicious contrast with the action. The cast could hardly be better, though if, like me, you last saw two of them playing together as Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Jefferson in John Adams, it will take a while to adjust to the two East End villains you see here. And they enjoy themselves hugely, so we do too.

Unfortunately, while a torrent of obscenity can be funny – and I laughed loud enough - it can’t stay funny for long. Similarly the use of one set for almost all the action is a challenge. Combining that with the ironic opening music strongly suggests Reservoir Dogs, but there just isn’t Tarantino’s flair for using music to point up the darkness of the action here. The fact that they got Badalamente (Twin Peaks) to do the soundtrack suggests that they were trying, but it just doesn’t succeed.

Fatally, there is a loss of momentum well before the end, and even the irony of Ray Winstone’s paean to love and marriage, fine in itself, leaves it looking like a stage play that didn’t survive translation into film.

The White Ribbon

Anyone can tell you that what a successful thriller needs most of all is tension. And, appropriately enough for a rural-set film, The White Ribbon has it in spades.

Right from the off, I was unsettled. It’s likely that this stemmed from what I knew of the film’s plot (focusing on a series of sinister incidents in a German village), and my previous encounters with the work of Michael Haneke (specifically Hidden and Funny Games, both of which should be on your must-see list if you enjoyed this). Anyway, it is this tension that elevates certain scenes from being a black-and-white Lark Rise to Candleford.

Speaking of black-and-white, the film is beautifully shot. Every frame is a perfect photograph, and Christian Berger (the film’s cinematographer) deserves every award available for his efforts. Haneke also deserves plaudits for his scriptwriting ability, particularly for raising sympathy for a character that turns out to be an utter bastard.

Without giving too much away, the conclusion of the plot may be too open-ended for some, especially considering the film’s running time of 144 minutes (I agree that this may be 30 or so minutes too many) Considering the script was originally envisioned as a three-part television series, this may explain the rigid three-act structure and slow (but no less gripping) pace.

A truly great thriller then, but one that may be more comfortable viewing on DVD.

The Limits of Control (or, Two Espressos in Separate Cups)

Having seen a number of Jim Jarmusch’s films before, I thought I knew what I was letting myself into with The Limits of Control. I was wrong.

Previous Jarmusch films have always used a slow build-up of around 30 minutes or so, and then segue into (and I realise this isn’t the right phrase, but you’ll understand what I mean) non-stop action for the remainder of the film. Limits isn’t like that. Here, around 99% of the film’s running time is devoted to the build-up, resulting in a short climax that has a requirement to be entertaining, or shocking enough to compensate for the constant calm of the previous hour and a half. And it doesn’t quite manage that.

Let me clarify. The Limits of Control is an art film. It sacrifices plot for cinematography, dialogue for imagery, and substance for style. And that’s absolutely fine, if that’s what you are expecting. I wasn’t, and judging by the reactions of the audience around me, neither were they. Perhaps they were hoping for a more colourful, modern-day version of Dead Man, a film about an ordinary man thrust into extraordinary, psychedelic scenarios in the Wild West. Or, like me, they were expecting a European-flavoured companion piece to Ghost Dog, Jarmusch’s other film concerning a hired killer.

Limits will test the patience of the average cinema-goer, there’s no doubt about it. The audience is required to think, to analyse the images on-screen and consider their meaning. Like David Lynch’s recent Inland Empire, it is a film that will stay with you and a film you will feel stronger for having finished watching it. You may even sigh in relief. I did.

The lead character in Limits of Control explains that he achieves certain feats by “using my imagination”. The film asks that you do the same. The question is: Is that what you want from a cinematic experience? I’m perfectly happy to do that. I just appreciate a warning before I have to.

Anvil!, or Na na nana na nana na, thumb tacks!

It's testament to the power of music that a band like Anvil (specifically founding members Steve "Lips" Kudlow and Robb Reiner) has stuck together through thick and thin. Relationships may have been strained at times, but there's no better healer of mental or physical wounds (with the possible exception of time) than music.

Now, it's hard to talk about the film without mentioning This is Spinal Tap, so I'll get that out the way. The similarities (references?) between the two films are striking. There's an early scene where the cover of every album the band has made is shown, along with titles. At one point, Kudlow and Reiner talk about the first song they wrote together, and even give an inpromptu performance. Their tour manager is also the girlfriend of one of the band members. There's a visit to Stonehenge, and a finale in Japan. Robb Reiner even shares the same name of the director of Spinal Tap (plus an extra 'b')! The crucial difference is, right from the off, you know this is real. And maybe the reason there are so many similarities is because Spinal Tap was more accurate than first assumed at presenting the experience of being in a metal band. If anything, Anvil! The Story of Anvil fleshes out these comedic fall guys into rich characters, and becomes an infinitely more human experience. It's funny in parts, naturally, but there's more to it than that. This is a film about friendship, faith, love and never giving up in what you believe in, despite how old you are, and despite how your older sister might feel. Surely that appeals to everyone?

Like Metallica: Some Kind of Monster, minus all the pretension, the film works simply because it takes that most indomitable thing on Earth, the human spirit, and shows off what it can do. There are laughs along the way, but also tears, and you really start to feel for the guys when continue playing shows for venues that can hold 10,000, but less than 200 show up. Anvil haven't seen the success they desire, or even deserve, but they keep journeying on regardless, keeping an eye open for the next opportunity to make it big. And maybe, just maybe, this film might finally be the key to open that gate.

A hell of a film, and a hell of a closer to this year's festival. It's been a blast!

Two thumbs!

As I flashed my ticket for Gonzo: The Life and Work of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson to the attendant and entered the auditorium, I was determined. Regardless of how much scrabbling around I had to do, nothing would stand in my way. My heart was full of joy. Come hell or high water, I was sitting on the balcony. Take THAT conformist members of society! You, who settle for sitting in the dank pit at the bottom of this magnificent structure, you can give me as many dirty looks as you like, but I'll simply laugh them away, casting off the dull shackles of self-consciousness, yelling at the top of my voice "LOOK AT ME!" I felt like a monster reincarnation of Horatio Alger... a Man on the Move, and just sick enough to be totally confident.

So, anyway, I couldn't find the door upstairs. So I considered my mission a glorious failure, and sat back down.

In two minutes, I was back on my feet again. A goatee'd gentleman, seeming to be doing his utmost to fit the cliche of 'Aging Hipster' walked up to me and proclaimed his congratulations.
"That's all very well," I said, "but what, may I ask, is the occasion?"
"You're sitting in my seat," he replied.
I looked around. There were roughly seven people in the theater, including us. I stared back blankly at the man and the shaven lemur hanging off his right arm, and quickly considered the outcome of this scenario of I were to say "No." I could probably take him in a fight, I thought, before noticing the oh-so-slightly menacing boots he was wearing. There was no part of my body that survive an impact created either of those things. And even if he wasn't a kicking person, he could still chase me outside, chucking roll-up cigarettes, Moleskine notebooks and copies of the Guardian at me.
I conceded. A good ninja always knows when to retreat. And then often just poisons his enemies late at night, but that would have to wait for another time. After the film was finished.

And after I'd had some dinner.

Oh, and the film was okay. It covered just about every aspect of Hunter S. Thompson's life and got interviews with all the right people (save Richard Nixon, but he's dead, so I'll let that slide), but is completely uncritical of the man, even claiming his suicide (spoiler!) as some sort of heroic act.
My question, however, is this: does this film serve any purpose? As a journalist, you could argue that Thompson always led his life in full view, so surely the best way to understand the man and learn more about him is to simply read his work? Indeed, the only truly entertaining parts of the film (with the grand exception of his funeral) were the quotes from Hunter himself, as read by Johnny Depp. Director Alex Gibney clearly has a talent for making confrontational documentaries (i.e. Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room, Taxi to the Dark Side), but doesn't seem to have anything to add to what is more or less a standard biography.

Still, the music was nice.

99 minutes of near-perfection

A warning: A Man Escaped is not a film for the impatient. It's slow, lacking in dialogue, unbearably tense and ends abruptly.

And it's utterly fantastic.

As Kaz has commented on, it's refreshing to see that the smaller films and the pictures from overseas are the ones gathering the larger audiences. A Man Escaped was no exception, the studio full to the brim, exposing the slight shortcomings of the seating (to the two people directly in front of me, whom I accidentally poked in the back, I apologise). It also made a nice change to briefly discuss the film with members of the audience afterward, all of whom enjoyed the film and even seemed to understand the director's intentions. This is the polar opposite of every experience I've had with a multiplex cinema (the sole exception being...sigh...Mamma Mia), so maybe it's time people considered a trip to the theatre to get their next motion picture fix? It doesn't improve things that you can count the number of screens at Hereford's Odeon on one finger.

So, back to the film, which I'm immediately listing as a must-see to anyone with intentions to make their own feature (regardless of professional level) or any film student for that matter. Not only does the film represent how much can be done with a relatively slim plot, but it also represents how much can be done with a relatively slim budget. The technical ability director Robert Bresson displays is nothing short of inspiring.

And same can be said for the plot. Throughout his incarceration, the protagonist never backs down, never gives up, always quietly toiling away at his escape plan. It may well be the only thing keeping him sane. Naturally, I won't give away whether he succeeds or fails. At the end of it all, it isn't very important. What matters is the journey to that particular conclusion. All quite profound, and all very human.

The prison-drama genre doesn't get many installments these days, probably because there's only so many paths for the plot to follow. The Escapist is a recent (and British) example of how things can be done differently but, ultimately, isn't as satisfying as A Man Escaped. But how does Bresson's film measure to that sacred cow of the prison drama genre: The Shawshank Redemption? It can't be better, surely?

It's damn close, I'll tell you that much.

A Glass Of Watered Down Milk

Howdy folks, Jolene here again, this time with a spoiler free review of Milk.

On arriving to see Milk I was in two minds about what to expect and upon leaving I realise that the 2 hour run time still hasn't been enough for me to coherently organise my thoughts.

Some hours have passed since I left The Courtyard, and yet, here I sit, still slightly puzzled about whether or not the film was a success. On the one hand the story is compelling, the performances outstanding (though in my opinion it is relative newcomer Emile Hirsch, not Sean Penn who is the best of the bunch) and the message undeniably important. However, when one watches Milk as a piece of narative cinema, I am afraid to say that it just doesn't work.

Throughout the first hour of the film I found myself feeling virtually abandoned by both script writer and director alike. The narrative rockets along at break neck speed, so much so that in the space of the opening 10 minutes, Harvey has already met his lover, opened a shop and decided to go into politics. The emphasis seems to be upon setting up his political career and ideals as an early plot hook, a way of convincing us to love the character because of what he stands for, but it's done so at the expense of convincing us to love him for who he is. However much one may naturally sympathise with Milk the idea, this disregard of characterisation so early in the film leaves very little room for any empathy with Milk the man. Rather my sympathy lies with anybody unfortunate enough to choose these early scenes for a bathroom break, blink before the first 40 minutes and you are in danger of missing half of Milk's career.

However, it's not just the narrative that has problems, the visual style too seems intent upon disturbing any sort of connection you may feel with the film, it's characters, or it's story. I am thinking in particular of the puzzling choice to splice in historical footage from the real campaign. The effect is jarring to say the least, just as one begins to settle down into the accepted artifice of a Hollywood film, you are suddenly confronted with grainy, flickering footage of real events, yanking you out of the story and reminding you quite forcefully that you are in a cinema, watching a film. It is an effect which does not just break the fourth wall, it kicks it down and batters you to death with the bricks.

Which is a shame considering that once the first awkward hour is out of the way, the second half of the film is really rather good. It features some beautiful cinematography and, (an hour too late mind) finally gives you some insight into the nature of Harvey Milk himself. However, it still suffers from the schizophrenic vibe that haunts the first half, desperately asking us to believe in Penn as Milk whilst simultaneously reminding us that he isn't. This is not helped by the disjointed way the film is narrated, one forgets that this is all a reading of Milk's own words only to be reminded again at seemingly random intervals, as and when the director chooses to throw us forward in time.

I don't mean to sound overly negative, as there were parts of the film which were incredibly enjoyable, but I cannot help but feel that Milk is something of a wasted opportunity. With the seeming reams of historical footage (arguably the most interesting part of the film) one gets the impression that, with the compelling story of Harvey himself, this could have been an outstanding documentary. Instead, Milk is a rather confused fiction, never quite engaging the audience with its characters, or giving enough context to make it truly arresting. Watching it left me hungry to find out more, something which a biopic really ought not to do.

I won't argue that Harvey Milk's story isn't one worth telling, I just think it's one worth telling well.

The Wrestler

Hi Everyone.

I'm Kaz, and I'm a student on The Hereford College of Arts and I have been asked to blog for the Borderlines Film festival.

First of all, I would like to thank everyone there at The Courtyard, and everyone running Borderlines Film Festival for allowing myself and my colleagues to show our work in the form of the Small Stories, Big Ideas showcase. And let me tell you, it sure is weird seeing your work up on a big screen for the first time. Especially when you have to talk about it afterwards in front of a room full of strangers. That aside, I think the whole thing was a success, I hope you enjoyed it if you saw it then I'd love to hear any feedback, just comment below, and if you didn't see it then the college is soon to be setting up a YouTube page where you will be able to view most of the films featured. I'll post the address next blog. Also, if anyone can tell me what blog stands for, please leave a comment.

Anyways. This being a film festival blog and all, I figure that I should be talking about the films. So that's what I'll do. Today, I saw my first film of the festival, The Wrestler starring Mickey Rourke. Ever since first seeing the trailers for this film, I've been Intrigued, with a healthy dose of scepticism. The film truly looked to be an personal, gritty, and heart breaking account of one mans struggle against the real world, coupled with blissfully epic nostalgia and a lust for professional American wrestling action, without being as bad as Home Boy... and I was not disappointed. The Wrestler, exquisitely directed by Darren Aronofsky, must surely be one of the highlights of the festival. I don't want to speak to soon, but I genuinely cant see many films topping it. And don't let the title trick you. This isn't just some action flick for fans of WWF's heyday. This film gives one of the most human performances i have seen committed to celluloid (and I watched Last Resort twice, if you haven't seen it, check it out, its directed by Pawel Pawlikowski) and really explores the ideas of what people really want to a new level. Even so far as to start exploring what they need.

Discard your doubts about enjoying a wrestling flick, and especially discard your doubts about not being able to take it seriously. This is a film anyone can love, from the elderly couple sat to my left, right through to the business bankers sat behind me, not one person in the room failed to laugh, and cry, in the right places. And I can guarantee you won't either.

Thanks again everyone, and hopefully I'll post more soon.

Kaz Szostak

Visceral thrills - North Face and The Wrestler

Seeing films one up against the other is one of the great pleasures of a festival. It's a random process which can throw up some interesting juxtapositions.

Living near Ludlow, I've seen North Face followed by The Wrestler in the space of a couple of days. They're both in their very different ways about extreme physical exertion - competitiveness pushed to the limits - about display and technique. I know nothing about mountain-climbing but the sequence in North Face in which the German climbing team accomplishes the traverse is truly breath-taking.

Achievement is measured by physical marks. In North Face it's a case of making marks on the mountain, hammering in pitons for the ropes in order to claw a few feet higher. And the climbers are dwarfed by it. As one of the wise old guides points out, it's not called Eiger (Ogre) for nothing. It looms above the hotel where the spectators wait, cruelly and randomly transformed by weather conditions and light.

Turning to the The Wrestler it's the fighters themselves - and Mickey Rourke's Randy 'The Ram' in particular - who provide the presence. He is colossal with his gleaming, steroid-pumped body and flowing mane and its his scars, carefully displayed and catalogued to young fans, that bear witness to a life in the ring.

As we see, many of the cuts are self-inflicted, the stunts theatrical, just as the young climbers choose to subject themselves to indescribable hardship in order to attain their goal; it doesn't diminish the pain or reduce the spectacle. Gripping stuff.