Life & Debt review for Rhythm Circus:
Ever since the sordid and incestuous pimping of the Western civilisation’s banking system, the third world has been morally obliged to anticipate unrelenting economic butt fucking. If your country’s a bit strapped for cash and need to be spotted a few million, you’ll soon find USA’s unforgiving hand patting your head, quietly wording, ‘it’ll all be fine…now bend over.’ This, as director Stephanie Black so visibly demonstrates in Life and Debt, is the true nature of globalisation.
‘Shooting Robert King’ review for Rhythm Circus. Seriously scope this movie out:
The year is 2007 and under the camouflage of a hunting blind sits war photographer, Robert King, perched with a loaded rifle. Quietly nestled next to a small opening, King waits silently for ill-fated deer to amble into the threshold of his crossfire. With a charming Tennessee twang, the world-acclaimed photojournalist quietly reminisces about his life on the frontline and memories past: ‘Wars didn’t fuck me up. I was fucked up before I even went. That’s why I did so well at it.’ A sentiment evidently poignant as King slowly composes himself to take aim on an approaching doe.
‘Secrets of Nature’ review for Rhythm Circus:
Before the scurries and scampers of a quietly flustered Sir David Attenborough, eagerly burrowing into the grottos of bull ant colonies or plummeting leagues down to the ocean bed in search of aquatic alien life, there was Secrets of Nature. A series of ‘pioneering’ short British films throughout the early quarter of the 20th Century that used (to cite with an evident degree of cynicism), ‘groundbreaking techniques,’ that, ‘shared the secrets of the natural world with cinema audiences.’ After shadowing Attenborough - an esteemed British treasure with the voice like a soothing swig of Tixylix and the face of wizened goblin – travelling to unknown charters, staggered by the scenes of creatures striking model-like poses into the camera lens, one is met with the question, ‘What’s the secret here and why am I not watching Life instead?’
Hoarding together a collection of 19 digitally re-mastered films, averaging 20 minutes in length, the BFI have probed around the archives to present over three hours of footage exploring the British Instructional Film’s (BIF) documents on animal, plant and insect life. The name, patented by BIF founder, Harry Bruce Woolfe, carries an air of distinction and expectation with the premise of revealing Secrets of Nature. The films, premiered between 1922-1933, deserve a mandatory mention in modern filmmaking as a metaphoric time capsule of the documentary genre and the crude charm of early camera work. Boasting a gang of enterprising directors such as Percy Smith and Mary Field, their cinematic contributions to science and nature are able to live on, if somewhat puffing and panting to keep up with its competition.
Enveloped in Victorian snobbery and awkward silences, Secrets of Nature divides itself into four specific sanctions. ‘The Techniques’, for example, characterise the progressive advancements with the camera. Methods, presently done to death, including time-lapse, microscope and underwater cinematography would have made audiences’ eyes glitter with astonishment on their preliminary screenings. Shorts such as Herbert Lomas’s Fathoms Deep Beneath the Sea utilizing the camera to seemingly swim with the underwater life accompanied with PowerPoint-style intertitles. Capturing sea-creatures in what is presented to be their natural habitat, however, is nothing less than tedious and inconsistent in comparison to today’s standards. The lack of any colour undermines the splendour of the animals, only to be dashed further in the short realisation that the so-called ‘natural habitat’ is merely a scenic staging shot behind a fish tank. A world so blatantly reinterpreted does not sit comfortably with the documentary’s manifesto.
Nonetheless, to debate whether these collected works deserve no accredited recognition would be wrong. Despite the compilation’s scrupulously prolonged snore factor, and the niche subject matter likened to one of Bear Grylls’s wet dreams, Secrets of Nature emanates chivalry and graciousness in its reporting of the animal world. The explosive nature of dispersing mould spores, the disturbing personification of The Magic Myxies, and the hilarious romanticising of newts, regarded to be ‘suspicious creatures’ by the toffee-nosed narrator conserve a vintage extract lost in the modern film’s technological playground.
Such rarely seen films possess a very specific market: historians and nature documentary enthusiasts. These cliquey conditions accordingly rule out the attention of the majority (but don’t worry nerds, it’s ok to like riotously old and outdated things sometimes). An important recording of early cinema that assisted in paving the way for today’s epic productions has been stripped of its groundbreaking allure, overshadowed by the better works of Attenborough. Figuratively, Woolfe’s nature catalogue is not so dissimilar to a child’s moral obligation to endure a grandparent’s insistence in watching their old home movies of when they went crabbing in Southend for the day. Sometimes courtesy can take up way too much of your time.
‘Let Him Have It’ review for Rhythm Circus:
The question that provoked social objection and left the British judicial system in ruin: ‘Did the boy mean shoot him or give him the gun?’
Just under a decade from its initial release, director Peter Medak’s brutal docu-drama Let Him Have It prepares itself to reacquaint the world with the viciously indignant case of Derek Bentley and the unbelievable miscarriage of justice surrounding his sentence to death.
The 1953 case of young Bentley and his disconcerted gun-toting accomplice, Christopher Craig was so besieged with devastating controversy and debate that the embittered dispute continues to gently spread a deep festering scar over the history of Britain. The sheer destructive truth of the story is enough to inspire a cinematic stir; a silent reassurance for Medak as a follow-up to his directorial masterwork, ‘The Krays’.
As far as cinematic debuts go, the casting crew must have been dumbfounded by their luck with the emotionally dizzying performance of a youthful Christopher Eccleston as the mentally challenged Derek. The actor’s deep-set eyes plunge into an infinite of expressions and moods settled over his mountainous nozzle that dominates the screen in its wondrous entirety. Innocently nosing from scene to scene with South London’s squalid post-war cityscape as his playground, Eccleston’s childlike portrayal becomes a touching sentiment to the deceased teen.
Allowing the hard facts to be the film’s shocks and spills, Madek’s compassion for Derek’s story lies not within the film’s production value, but the eye-reddening relationships swelling between Eccleston’s supporting aid. Tom Courtenay as the hard-hearted father figure, ultimately shattered by the lack of control over his son’s demise, and Clare Holman as Derek’s adorable sibling, Iris. Together, the actors generate a profound familial bond, only augmenting to the film’s heartbreaking finale.
Paradoxically, Let Him Have It is not a controversial film. It’s the story that deserves the griping mention. It’s the story that maintains its intrigue and uproar. Whereas in Madek’s previous instalment in which he was seemingly able to dress up his little London action men with comic fantasy and an air of poetic licence, nothing was needed of him here. The chronological narrative succinct with crude set designs and traditional editing techniques may dissuade some from applauding the director’s somewhat undemanding production. In rudimentary terms, Madek’s stab at auterism befalls upon deaf ears and the hanging body of an innocent Derek Bentley, softly swaying to-and-fro.
‘Django Drom’: curated by Tony Gatlif review for Rhythm Circus:
Capturing something as profound as the scale of Django Reinhardt’s omnipresence in contemporary gypsy jazz music as a ‘multimedia performance’ was inevitably going to encounter barks of abhorrent scepticism and doubt. Yet, like a punctured balloon, cynics were able to collectively exhale air of relief, safe in the knowledge that the curator of such a task was none other than established Algerian filmmaker and renowned Django groupie, Tony Gatlif.
Directors like Gatlif are special. Their contributions to cinema transcend further than merely reeling off footage stored on piling spools. They become immersed in the culture of cinema; reliving history in the present day, and delving further into stories than just what is viewed behind the camera lens. This factor alone is what brought the late guitarist, Reinhardt, back to life in Gatlif’s latest creation, ‘Django Drom,’ at the Barbican Hall on Thursday, July 15.
Incorporating live music with moving image, ‘Django Drom’ assembled together the ‘who’s who?’ of jazz music, including ferocious fiddler, Didier Lockwood, and acoustic wielding string pickers, Bireli Lagrène and Stochelo Rosenberg, for a one-night-only celebration of Django Reinhardt and the Quintette du hot Club de France.
With its violently urban aesthetic, the Barbican Hall transformed itself into an undiscovered time capsule, brimming with the sights and sounds of gypsy jazz. With a projection of a red patterned skirt draping the backdrop of the stage, a distinct glowing figure enters the open space. Piercing fluorescent lights cast around the gently breathing shape, which begins to sporadically clap and stomp on the hard-wooden floor. Like a human metronome, a woman wrapped in a white flowing gown appears in the stage’s illumined space, frantically gyrating to the beat of her body. The audience, spellbound by the woman’s deafening pounds, are at once distracted by a screeching musical scale conducted by an unknown source. As the noise begins to swell, a seemingly unhinged Lockwood advances through the audience, rapidly twanging and rapping at his violin like as if falling into a cardiac arrest. Even the slightest twitch by surrounding onlookers would have been unwillingly stabbed by Lockwood’s bow, knifing the air as he scuttled ever closer to the stage.
As the main stage brightened, a small collection of acoustic guitars materialized in the muscular hands of four aging men suited from head to toe in black, bearing a bush of chest hair from their unbuttoned shirts. The men coolly wait in silent patience as Lockwood completes his outer-body experience with his now detuned violin. Paradoxically, the energy is electric, having the crowd drooling in awe and expectation, only intensified by Lockwood’s final note and return to reality, followed by an almighty cheer and applause. These whoops and roars of excitement set the tone for the event in its entirety.
Astounded by the fervour of an already entrancing performance, Gatlif’s homage to Reinhardt takes flight as the projected backdrop gradually dissolves into archival images of Django and unseen depictions of his Romany community life. Gatlif’s lens dips and weaves around pinnacle characters in Django’s life, technically restored to their original splendour.
As the photographic annals of Django’s past forecast themselves onscreen, six string players usher one by one onstage, smoothly augmenting the sounds of Hot Club jazz. A stupefied crowd fall into submission to the musician’s interpretations of Django classics including, ‘Minor Swing’, ‘Daphné’, ‘Sweet Georgia Brown’ and ‘I Got Rhythm.’ With the accompaniment of accordion, double bass, clarinet and a second violinist, the eight guitarists race over their fret boards faster than a loaded Speedy Gonzales, making the most supreme racket inspired by Django’s trademark sound.
Following the event’s astounding finale of an extended set version of Ravel’s ‘Bolero,’ Gatlif modestly steps on to stage to graciously accept a much-anticipated standing innovation. As a focussed close-up of Django’s familiar tired eyes is cast overhead, it seems evident that Gatlif has acquired the humanly impossible by reviving someone long dead back to life. The director’s unadulterated worship for gypsy culture becomes paramount in ‘Django Drom’. A multimedia performance such as this unifies history with concert curation. With ‘Django Drom,’ Gatlif has proven that one must look to the past in order to see the future; and the future is Django Reinhardt.
First draft review of ‘Pandora and the Flying Dutchman’ for Rhythm Circus:
Bushy-browed ‘movie brat’ Martin Scorsese described Pandora and the Flying Dutchman as ‘like entering a strange and wonderful dream.’ Such gracious words from one of Hollywood’s most respected luminaries would have made the late writer, director and producer, Albert Lewin, blush reddish tones of gratitude. And at long last, 59 years after its initial release, the film has now been beautifully restored, bringing the dream to life on DVD from August 9.
Lewin’s visually lush romantic fantasy returned to the silver screen earlier this year after a much-needed, 21st Century, studio spruce-up. Now, thanks to the artistic assistance of inspired cameraman, Jack Cardiff, this bizarre fairytale is more beguiling and weepy than ever.
Part sea-faring legend come classic fictional romance come cinematic homage to the 1930’s Spanish Flamenco movement, the film flippantly transcends between reality and mythical reverie. An astoundingly beautiful Ava Gardner looks all the more luscious with a touch of Technicolor to her face as the roguish and untamed temptress, Pandora. Situated in a quaint little fishing village on the coastal shores of La Esperanza, Pandora spends her years as the irresistible sexpot, playfully toying with naïve money-drunk men whom are like sun-kissed putty in her hands.
Pandora, however, dismisses the doting gawps of her admirers with a simple flutter of her webbed eyelashes and turns her gaze outwards to the ocean, where the ludicrously tanned James Mason as the Dutch seaman Hendrik van der Zee awaits. The once promiscuous Pandora falls head over clogs for Hendrik whom has been eternally condemned to sail the seas until true love can lift his curse and lay his soul to rest. The only minor inconvenience is that the love that he seeks must be so undying the lucky chosen one must be willing to die for him (a 17th Century, toothless, Dutch-babbling James Mason…line up and no pushing).
Taking on the task of refurbishing this unknown classic for a modern audience is an arduous one. Lewin’s characters swoon over lengthy dialogue caked in Olde English poetry and self-indulgent narrative. Capricious editing techniques interjected with abnormal camera shots only heighten the bewilderment of the broken storyline. Extensive racing and bullfighting scenes accompanied with snooty punditry from an ageing Geoffrey Fielding. It certainly will not attract the same level of squeals from sexually immature adolescents yearning for pirate action in the form of Captain Jack Sparrow et al.
Nonetheless, what Jack Cardiff and the BFI have achieved with the reissue is the reformation of the traditional family ghost story. Time and technology has honoured Pandora and the Flying Dutchman’s air of haughtiness and whimsical perplexity with a new breath of life- and this time in colour. The film’s mystical landscapes, draped in crumbling Greek monuments, and Gardner’s immaculate loveliness on the screen ensnares one into a distant lulled dreamlike state. One in which you will not want to wake up from.
First draft review of ‘Baseline’ for Rhythm Circus:
The contemporary British gangster movie is a troublesome affair. Ever since the immortal typecasting of the cockney geezer, lionised in Guy Ritchie’s recent filmic fiascos, the genre has been catapulted into the realm of banality. This factor alone puts first-time screenwriter and actor, Freddie Connor, in an awkward position for his debut offering, Baseline, set for DVD release July 12 2010. Nevertheless, nothing could prepare you for such a disastrously tedious onslaught that would have even boisterous London actor and well-established prat, Danny Dyer, rolling his eyes with dissatisfaction.
Filling his boots as Baseline’s leading role, Connor follows his dramatically uninspired script into the gritty underbelly of the East End club scene. Here, we meet his two-dimensional protagonist, Danny, the club bouncer with a heart of gold and an alarmingly puffy puffer jacket. While dealing with the everyday hardships of breaking up fights and acting all bloke-ish, Danny becomes throttled into gangland territory after gallantly saving his boss and local gang leader, Terry (Jamie Foreman, Layer Cake, Nil By Mouth) from an overweight hit man.
Danny’s loyalty to Terry earns him a rapid promotion to manager of The Baseline club. However, what with constant gang rivalry and Terry’s condolence for dodgy dealings on the grimy dance floor, Danny’s good conscience overrides his desire for success as he attempts to break free from the East End’s criminal underworld.
Hopes to escape are thwarted after Danny’s best friend Paul (Gordon Alexander) is released from prison with an almighty debt to Terry he cannot possibly repay. It is now up to cautious Danny to make the ultimate sacrifice when he has to choose between his loyalty, morality and his last chance for freedom.
Baseline’s director, Brendon O’Loughlin, has certainly exploited his overriding inability to deliver anything innovative or original to the gangster genre. Not even a powerful supporting cast, including the likes of Dexter Fletcher (Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels) and Zoe Tapper, are able to provide convincing performances to help drag the storyline through its tiresome dialogue. Only the film’s budget is able to stoop lower than the abysmal acting standard.
The plot is laughable at the worst of times and hideously laborious at best. Even Connor’s lad-ish attempts at humour are about as inept as a four-hour stand up of Alan Ford impersonating Basil Brush.
Despite the film’s cinematography deserving a forced, lacklustre handclap and an admittedly exciting soundtrack, Baseline is an overly predictable farce highlighted by long-winded scenes lacking in any substance or knack for building tension. Consequently, Baseline makes Connor’s stab at the gritty gangster genre look more like Bugsy Malone than Al Capone.
Hybrids for ‘the urbanist’…apparently
Style is a romantic concept based upon subjectivity and a general social awareness of the interchanging nature of ‘culture’. It’s a chosen mode of living that separates one personality from the next. It’s all about one’s own interpretation of ‘cool,’ which is then marketed and sold on a multinational scale. That’s what happens: start from the underground and work your way in to everything, repeat, and repeat…and repeat…
Style has now become a product…and, half the time, it looks fucking ugly.
With this rhetoric in mind, Puma and Biomega launched their new line of urban bikes last week that ‘stand out from city traffic with style and function while carrying a distinct level of cool to reflect PUMA’s DNA.’
The line of bikes boast some fancy features including the Disko’s anti-theft locking system built into the frame, while the Funk allows riders to effortlessly switch between a single-gear to fixed. However, by splicing together the European design with American style, the bikes resemble a junkyard of different parts and pieces that have been assembled by a juvenile Scrapheap Challenge enthusiast. They look clumsy and oafish.
By attempting to appeal to all variants of a rider’s preferred style, the products have stolen the simplicity of cruising. Why couldn’t they keep it minimal?
The next generation of Puma bikes are currently up on sale on the website. Check out what these companies regard as ‘urban style’.
My (public) Space- Pilar Haile-Damato
Documentary maker, Pilar Haile-Damato, follows the protest of local street artist, Jordan Selier, against the pollution of illegal advertising in public spaces. The short documentary spans over the duration of a year, covering the progressive success of Seiler’s PublicAdCampaign in retaliation to the suffocating nature of capitalist branding. Selier is employed as a political ambassador voicing street artist’s deep-seated animosity between the right to freedom of expression and the hypocrisy of bureaucracy. Damato delivers an expertly shot short, ultimately illustrating an artist’s potential to loosen the tight belt of totalitarianism and demonstrates the fundamental power of peaceful protest.
