Something 4 The Weekend by
Up, left, down, triangle, triangle, circle, square
Welcome ladies, gentlemen and film
fans everywhere to entertainment manchester's weekly
feature 'Something for the Weekend'. Every Friday, we
deliver to you the best (and, in the interest of balance,
worst) of this week's new cinematic releases. If, as
Forrest Gump once might have said were he a film fan,
cinema really is like a box of chocolates, then think
of us as your mini-menu, steering you away from the
coffee creams and towards the Turkish delights of the
movie world.
The Big Picture
As someone who has loved films since I was first bewitched by them when I stepped into the hallowed halls of the now sadly closed cinema at Salford Quays when I was but a lad to take in the delights of Jurassic Park, The Lion King and, uhm, Mrs Doubtfire, it pains me to say this, but cinema is in a bit of a rut at the moment.
This may sound like the cynical ramblings of someone who’s seen far too many bad films this year and, of course, the likes of Darren Aronofsky, Paul Thomas Anderson, Spike Jonze, Sofia Coppola and David Fincher have made some startling films in the last few years, while even old hands like Steven Spielberg and Martin Scorsese are more than capable of making films today which can be ranked alongside their classics of yesteryear. But I can’t help but feel that the soul of cinema has been ripped out by a giant corporate monolith dressed in a dapper black suit.
It's not so much the people within the business, but the business as a whole that’s the problem. Since the 1970s, cinema has become too reliant on money men. No longer does quality or originality dictate whether or not a film is made, as - by and large - it had done previously. Rather it's all about the almighty dollar. Look at the amount of sequels that have been released this year: Miss Congeniality 2, Seed of Chucky, Saw 2 and The Transporter 2 to name but a few.
What do these films have in common? MONEY! None of their predecessors screamed for a sequel, being, at best, enjoyable, easy to watch romps, but crucially they all did relatively good box office. Sure, they didn't break the bank, but people went to see them, they charted high and made a respectable amount of money for the studios that made them. Sadly, though, it seems that terminal sequel-itis is the modern day plague which infects any moderately successful film these days. After all, it's a hell of a lot easier to hire a hack to drum up a barely passable script for a sequel than it is to hire someone with genuine talent to write an original film.
But it's not just sequels which are symptomatic of this horrendous disease spreading across Hollywood. It's adaptations as well. Along with the obligatory book adaptations, La-La-Land is currently enjoying a destructive infatuation with comic books (no, we really don't need to see The Sub-Mariner), TV shows (Dukes of Hazzard) and, in the last few years, video games, surely the most repugnant of all these stupid ideas.
Now, there's nothing wrong with translating a piece of art into another medium. If done well they can work brilliantly, sometimes even enhancing the original piece, such as with The Lord of the Rings. But whereas comic books, TV shows and novels are works of art which require the audience to passively experience the events within them - therefore fitting in with how an audience consumes films - video games require the audience playing them to actively take part in what is happening. You put the game in, pick up the joypad and - depending on the type of game - take control of a soldier, footballer, hyperactive hedgehog, Italian plumber etc and guide him/her/it through the game.
By forcing such active involvement entertainment through the mesh of passive involvement cinema, you render the whole raison d’etre of video games impotent. After all, as anyone who's ever had to watch their mate blast their way through level after level of Tomb Raider will tell you, there's nothing duller than watching someone else play a video game. Well, except perhaps for watching overpaid movie stars playing someone blasting their way through level after level of Tomb Raider.
The latest film to attempt such stupidity is Doom. As any geek will tell you, Doom was the computer game of the 1990s. An RPG (Role Playing Game for anyone who actually has a life), it allowed the gamer to take on the character’s point of view and stomp their way through each level, looking hard and shooting everything in sight. Fantastic, you might think. Well it is. In the game. On film, it doesn't look quite so good. On film, it looks like it’ll be a cheap rip off of Alien and Predator in which The Rock (who has built himself a surprisingly entertaining screen presence even after the risible Be Cool) picks up a BFG (let's just say, it's not used in the Roald Dahl sense) and blasts giant monsters' heads out through their backsides. If this sounds good, you're either criminally insane or a fourteen year old boy. If the latter applies, bad luck, Doom is a 15 certificate, meaning you can't go. Shame...
Also Playing...
Also unsuitable for the kids is Where the Truth Lies. But unlike Doom, this 18 certificate is not for blood and gore, but a good bit of old fashioned ‘strong sex and drug use’ according to the BBFC. The new film from The Sweet Hereafter helmer Atom Egoyan may sound like the latest polemic from Michael Moore, but is in fact the tale of reporter Karen O’Connor (Alison Lohman) investigating 1950s entertainment duo Lanny (Kevin Bacon) and Vince Collins (Colin Firth) who, at the height of their fame, become embroiled in the mysterious death of one of their many sexual conquests.
On the surface, Where The Truth Lies looks like quite a charming little mystery. Ladies favourite Colin Firth, the always watchable Kevin Bacon and a smooth 50s veneer make it look like the kind of film you'd take your Gran to see so she can gaze wistfully at the well realised nostalgia. But this film is far from family viewing, directed, as it is, by the man who also helmed the intelligently filthy Exotica.
Indeed, in the US, the film has been slapped with the dreaded NC-17 rating, just one below the X certificate, awarded for one thrust too many during a threesome scene involving Bacon, Firth and Road Trip's Rachel Blanchard. But then again, Americans have always been hopeless prudes and surely it doesn't really matter how many moves of the pelvis there are. Just one is enough for the audience to get the - ahem - thrust of the idea. Rumpy pumpy aside, if Egoyan can match an adult storyline with the adult action, Where the Truth Lies is sure to be a revealing (pun intended) film. Just don't take your Gran to see it.
Finally, a film you can take the old dear to see is Keeping Mum - although why you'd want to is beyond me. Dame Maggie Smith (who'll presumably want to make amends for her dreadfully hammy show in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire), stars as housekeeper Grace, who, in her idyllic village, starts to get suspicious of some dark goings on. So in a bid to remedy this starts killing people. As you do...
Patrick Swayze co-stars and if you can get past not only that, but also the dodgy plot, it’s sure to be the kind of enjoyable romp that the British film industry seems so content to churn out.
NEXT WEEK: The Chronicles of Jesus-sorry Narnia finally hits the big screen. It's not a Christian allegory. Repeat Not a Christian allegory. Oh no no no no. Not at all. Aslan is NOT AT ALL, IN ANY WAY, NO SIREE, a representation of Jesus.
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