World Trade Center

None of those I’ve spoken to about the prospect of seeing Oliver Stone’s World Trade Center have expressed much enthusiasm, the consensus being that our feelings about September 11 were articulated very well while watching the endless news coverage of the tragedy that day. What can a film offer us to improve our comprehension of it? Plus, the potential of this film to be a Hollywood confection that pillaged the all-too-real emotions of those involved was off-putting – why take the chance, especially when the trailer only reinforced that idea.

Thankfully, Stone’s film is not overtly sentimental. He has chosen to tell the story of two of the very few survivors of the World Trade Centre collapse, Port Authority police officers John McLoughlin (played by Nicholas Cage) and Will Jimeno (played by Michael Peña), who were about to contribute to the rescue of those in the towers before the buildings collapsed on top of them. Much of the film takes place as the two men are pinned beneath rubble and begin to lose hope, which is intercut with their wives Donna McLoughlin (Maria Bello, looking startlingly different merely with blue contact lenses) and Allison Jimeno (Maggie Gyllenhaal) enduring the wait for any news.

By focusing solely on these individuals, Stone has completely sidestepped the political implications and ramifications of September 11, all the more shocking given his filmography. Stone has stated that his intention was to return us to the human tragedy that precipitated the political quagmire of the last five years, and upon reading that I realised he was right. Our awareness of the myriad stories of loss and community spirit in the following days and weeks has been replaced by a focus on the broad-ranging consequences, from domestic law to foreign insurgency. But September 11 was a brutal tragedy on a shattering scale even divorced from the intercultural and political components, and this cannot be overlooked. It’s therefore fitting that both of the ‘September 11 movies’ this year (the other being Paul Greengrass’s United 93) have addressed the regular men and women affected before the medium broaches the political side. Fittingly, Oliver Stone has announced that he will soon direct a film critiquing the US response to 9/11 in Afghanistan…

The tone of World Trade Center is key to Stone’s evasion of sentimental excess. Even in his few concessions to such as movie clichés as everyday memories visualised on screen in soft light while the character waits or mourns, the immediate reality of September 11 lingers throughout and even manages to win out over the presence of recognisable stars Bello, Gyllenhaal, and most notably Cage, all of whom manage to blend into Stone’s quiet and fragile vision of this story. Silence reigns through this film despite the carnage that instigates things, as if to incorporate too much sound would shatter the illusion of there being no illusion, which contributes to its eerie clarity. While watching, one experiences a constant, ever-so-slight dread, since we are engaging with a true event that seemed the stuff of movies and that is still fresh in our memories, and we’re doing so in the seat we reserve for entertainment and thought-provoking fiction. Watching the film becomes a process of continuous disbelief rather than suspension thereof, but this strange interplay works in the film’s favour. Without this unnerving clarity, Stone’s work would become a Hollywood artifact rather than a human response to a real-life human cataclysm, and it’s what allows one of Cage’s final lines to Bello to evoke wide-eyed, sincere truth outside its cinematic confines rather than just moviemotion (hey, I just coined a word), and it’s powerful and humbling to witness.

But did this movie even need to be made? Does it give us further insight in how we should respond to September 11? I don’t think so, but only insofar as no movie on this subject simply must be made. If World Trade Center had succumbed to Hollywood sentimentality and its usual distancing from reality, then it definitely should never have been greenlit. But as it stands, it is a sensitive, well-judged consideration of a subject we don’t need to be enlightened about. However, if it reminds us of the people who died without us simultaneously contemplating the US government’s ensuing war, then it has done a good thing, as those people and their loved ones need to be thought of in purely human terms, not in those of the government that has waged war so recklessly on their behalf. 

Children of Men

Classy, sophisticated science fiction movies are a rarity these days, even in the more liberated but budgetarily limited independent sector. Thankfully, we’re lucky to be receiving at least three this year: The Fountain, A Scanner Darkly, and Children of Men. Although Alfonso Cuaron’s latest is not as SF an experience as I’d hoped, it’s a far more impressive film than I could have dreamed of.

Loosely based on P.D. James’s rare excursion into speculative fiction, Children of Men is set in Britain in 2027, a despondent place given that women have been unable to conceive children for the last twenty years (I’m glad the trailer avoiding Mr Voice intoning “in a worrrrld… where women… can’t have babies”). Bored office worker Theo (Clive Owen) is unexpectedly recruited by his ex-wife Julian (Julianne Moore), now the leader of a terrorist group fighting against an increasingly oppressive government. Theo must escort a teenage girl, Kee (Claire-Hope Ashitey) to the coast where she can be taken to the Human Project, a near-mythical organisation devoted to the preservation of humanity. Theo soon discovers that Kee is the first woman in twenty years to become pregnant.

James should be applauded for fashioning such an ingeniously simple science fiction conceit, but Cuaron is less concerned with the ‘how’ than the ‘what next?’ Children of Men may feel so little like SF due to its spectacularly integrated futurism; this is a plausible future landscape free of pomp and circumstance, and the portrayal of near-future technology advances today’s innovations without being overblown, thus fitting in nicely with the very contemporary – albeit heightened – urban dystopia that Britain has become. The welcome lack of exposition makes this future even more credible.

Even so, the film is very coy about its SF roots, but this is forgivable given the realism and power that puts most films of any genre these days to shame. This is just a superbly made film, notably for the incredible camerawork by Emmanuel Lubezki that even a technical neophyte like myself can marvel at. His work is not only gorgeous to look at frame-by-frame, but the one-take shots that populate Children of Men are awe-inspiring in their ambition and emotional effect. The action scenes are given a punch of immediacy by the camera’s refusal to cop out and make a cut, as Lubezki moves around inside cars, jumps out of them as policemen are shot, and then gets back in again as the characters escape. The race-against-time sequences here are the most nail biting I’ve watched in a long time, largely due to the bold camerawork. Plus, the approach works for more dramatic scenes, as Michael Caine’s reclusive political cartoonist reveals some of Theo’s past to Kee while unbeknownst to them Theo stands at the foreground of the shot, listening around a corner, and we must juggle the movement at frame right and Owen’s stone-faced reaction at left.

This culminates in the film’s staggering climax during an uprising, captured in a single take of what must have bee 10-15 minutes as Theo pursues Kee amid a raging street battle. Bullets fly and embed in walls, missiles explode tanks in front of us and show us what little is left, explosions rock buildings in the foreground – it’s a stunning achievement in modern cinema that must be seen to be believed, as Cuaron revolutionises the somewhat gimmicky single take experiment by filling with such action and devastation that is so realistic that the lines between captured-on-film, miniature work, and CGI is blurred completely. See the film for this sequence if nothing else. This believability extends to an incredible simulation of childbirth, the first time I’ve seen it on screen in fiction, no doubt since no-one has been able to re-create it sufficiently until now.

Owen doesn’t strike any new notes here, but he’s such a fine Everyman that he carries this effortlessly, contributing greatly to its realism. Claire-Hope Ashitey is tremendous as Kee – she has the other major part in the film despite the publicity, and she’s more than up to the task. Michael Caine is a hoot as former political cartoonist Jasper, his long grey wig helping him disappear into a role for a change. Although he’s a laugh, one of his scenes mid-way through is utterly wrenching in its mix of tragedy and defiance, one of the most affecting scenes of its kind that I’ve seen in a while.

Where Children of Men doesn’t succeed nearly as well is its engagement with the political and social issues that the scenario sets up. The dialogue rarely gives us many avenues for discussion, which sensibly restricts Cuaron from explaining the cause of the infertility crisis, but otherwise hinders the film’s topicality. Plus, it portrays a Britain seized by xenophobia and crackdowns but is still nowhere near as politically bold as V for Vendetta, although Children of Men is more plausible and frightening in its lack of theatricality. A more credible future, yes, but not as a thought-provoking a one, sadly.

Even so, Cuaron crafts very subtle characterisation and the lack of Hollywoodism – no exposition and no characters giving sassy reactions under fire or ending scenes with a disbelieving one-liner – marks this as a film for grown-ups, and more satisfyingly, an SF film for grown-ups that serves as an excellent example for the endless naysayers of what speculative fiction can do. And the climactic single-take battle – the most visceral and astonishing of its kind since Saving Private Ryan – will almost certainly go down in history for immersing us in a war zone with unflinching intimacy.

The Departed

A new Martin Scorsese film always warrants attention, particularly given his recent resurgence with Gangs of New York (his most-watched film in years despite critical ambivalence – I was against the grain in finding it tremendous) and The Aviator (also great, if a little cold). Much has already been written about his return to crime with The Departed, to a genre that has defined much of his career with Mean Streets, Taxi Driver, and Goodfellas. Despite this one actually having origins elsewhere (William Monahan adapts the hugely popular Hong Kong film Infernal Affairs), this is still indelibly Scorsese, but it lacks the class and lofty aspirations of his last two films. That’s not a bad thing – it makes The Departed his most solidly entertaining effort in years, where he puts his immense filmmaking skill to use purely in service of telling a good yarn. It’s a shame that this one is just too long, being the length of a crime epic when this is essentially a small story about a handful of people.

The dynamic premise of Infernal Affairs was of a cop undercover with the triads while his underworld boss has a mole in the police department and the two becoming gradually aware of each other’s existence. Monahan transposes that to the Irish gangs of Boston, led by Frank Costello (Jack Nicholson), who is much more prominent than his Infernal counterpart. Leonardo DiCaprio plays the undercover cop, Billy Costigan, again displaying the formidable talent that has developed to the point that he now disappears into his roles, not reminding us of his previous work despite the unfortunate boyishness that he can’t quite shake. Matt Damon plays the duplicitous Colin Sullivan, who has worked for Costello since he was a boy (which seems to be his only motivation for remaining loyal to him, a surprising underdevelopment in a film that takes its time). They’re supported by the kind of amazing cast that Scorsese attracts. Ray Winstone is typically roguish as Nicholson’s right-hand man, Mark Wahlberg wonderfully obnoxious without crossing the line into caricature, Martin Sheen compelling as DiCaprio and Wahlberg’s boss, and Vera Farmiga, who has staked out a prime role for a rising actor and does solid work (unlike most of the civilised world, I remember her from the short-lived Heath Ledger series Roar – she’s come a long way).

And of course, the pairing of Nicholson and Scorsese is a delicious prospect: two defining talents of the 1970s working together for the first time, and they mesh surprisingly well. Nicholson is impressive but doesn’t offer anything particularly new, as he did in About Schmidt. But then he’s long been an actor who can get away with presence alone. He offers a lot of arresting moments, as the film does overall, but the narrative meanders. It’s rare for me to look at my watch during a film, and even rarer to be shocked at how much time remained. If The Departed was trimmed by half an hour, the DVD would feature some of the strongest deleted scenes on the format, but they still don’t necessarily need to be in the film. Perhaps it’s a script problem, but the premise of The Departed doesn’t demand an epic length, and in affording it one the power of Scorsese’s film is diluted, which is an unusual thing to say.

Repeat viewing may reveal this to be an experience whose richness continues to entrance to the point where time concerns may vanish, but at this point, The Departed feels like an indulgent end result. But if it finally earns Scorsese that Best Director Oscar, I’ll be cheering, as it should at last be his in principle alone, and he would earn it for The Departed since it is an example of his superior craftsmanship. Shame it wasn’t for The Aviator or one of his many prior classics. And if audiences lap up the efficient work of a master as they would other mainstream fare, that’s great too. The Departed is flawed, but it’s a long, long way from 'bad'. 

Little Miss Sunshine

The dysfunctional family comedy-drama has been a very prominent subgenre over the last few years, particularly in independent cinema. Many complain about its ubiquity, that these films are now substituting new quirks for innovation. But as with any genre, execution is what marks one of these films as worthy of existence, and Little Miss Sunshine features enough quality, wit, and heart to make it very worthwhile.

The Hoovers are struggling both financially and emotionally. Aspiring motivational speaker and dad Richard (Greg Kinnear) is obsessed with winning, much to the chagrin of wife Sheryl (Toni Collette), but she needs him to seize an impending big break for the good of the family. Teenage son Dwayne (Paul Dano) has taken a vow of silence, inspired by Nietzsche, and 7-year-old Olive (Abigail Breslin) dreams of winning the 'Little Miss Sunshine' pageant. When she unexpectedly becomes eligible, the family, a little reluctantly, piles into their battered combie van and drive to California with Richard’s sex-obsessed, heroin-snorting father (Alan Arkin), who loves Olive immensely and has helped her train, and Frank (Steve Carell), Sheryl’s gay academic brother who has just tried to kill himself and is now under the Hoovers’ care.

Little Miss Sunshine is mostly about seizing moments, finding life’s value in spontaneity and strange new paths. Arkin’s character embodies this philosophy, and Kinnear’s spends the film discovering it, finding that being determined to win is no guarantee of success, and that ‘success’ can be found in other avenues, which leads to the delightfully subversive climax at the pageant. Most of the characters are forced into a revelation that they will not meet their goals or they have fallen from the top, most painfully with Dwayne. But this is more nuanced than a simple ‘winning isn’t everything’ message, more informed and triumphant. And directors Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris and screenwriter Michael Arndt explore their message in hysterically funny ways that are both sweet and undermining of social norms. What the Little Miss Sunshine pageant actually turns out to be is the prime example of this, and it’s freakish.

The film has been a big success at the box office, and it’s easy to see why: it bridges the gap between mainstream and independent beautifully, shrugging off the excesses and pretensions of both to offer a gorgeous, accomplished movie, and it’s assisted by fine performances. Steve Carell gives a gentle but droll turn that further marks him as a major talent, crafting a funny, endearing character without the aid of comedic diatribes. Kinnear and Collette do their usual great work, although Sheryl is perhaps the least developed character of all, lacking her own subplot and largely just reacting to the others. Arkin is tremendous, as is Paul Dano in a performance powered by body language. And Abigail Breslin is just gorgeous as Olive, very driven despite adversity and the impact of her dad’s obsessive beliefs. Plus, the score is blissful using instrumental versions of poignant and exhilarating Devotchka songs that fit the tone of the story perfectly. It’s been trendy since Sundance to fall in love with Little Miss Sunshine, but it really deserves your affection. 

Battlestar Galactica 301-02 - Occupation/Precipice (Mild Spoilers)

With this third season premiere, Battlestar Galactica has ascended to a new level. Never before has its vital political insight and broadly relevant allegory been more dominant and daring. And on a purely narrative level, it’s the most engrossing stuff on TV today, and the most unpredictable.

The end of last season’s finale, following the ballsy one-year time jump, was pretty bleak. The feature-length third season premiere, set three months after the Cylons’ arrival, is markedly bleaker. It’s hard to recall a TV series that put its characters through such all-encompassing misery without it being a dream or alternate timeline episode. The decision to throw us into the midst of key developments only heightens our alienation. Tigh is in Cylon detention, a bandage over one eye. Starbuck is imprisoned in a twisted facsimile of her Caprica apartment by Leoben, the Cylon she interrogated and became drawn to in a first season episode, who now reciprocates her former fondness with freakish intensity. Gaius Baltar is now president in name only, ruling under the thumb of the Cylon leaders. Galactica, Pegasus, and the remaining civilian fleet are far away, haphazardly planning a rescue despite having made no contact with New Caprica. The resistance, led by Tigh, Tyrol, and Anders, is about to plan a major strike. The pre-occupation world of Battlestar genuinely feels like a pleasant memory, which demonstrates the enormity of the current situation.

To the uninitiated, the above will hardly resonate emotionally, and that’s actually a strength of this premiere: it draws so intensely on the investment that we’ve made in the characters, ratcheting up the tension or subverting relationships, that it’s gripping and wrenching to watch because so much has been earned. When the two Adamas’ first scene sees the Admiral (who now looks eerily like Deadwood’s Al Swearengen) callously attacking Lee for not getting off his “fat ass”, it’s hard to watch because Ron Moore and the writers are so dedicated to their characters changing in profound and irrevocable yet credible ways. Battlestar may not yet be achieving the kind of masterfully understated characterisation of its cable cousins on HBO, but this season, it’s clearly on its way. And it was already one of the best shows on TV anyway.

But to the uninitiated, the above plot points hopefully sounded tantalising, since this show is foremost rock-solid drama and character work (Sci Fi are making huge efforts to welcome new viewers – check out a 3 min or 45 min recap called “The Story So Far” on the official website). And note that if one doesn’t know what a Cylon is, the above sentences are not necessarily describing a science fiction show. But Battlestar is in no way ashamed of its genre; the concept of downloading is so prevalent in the premiere, as are the Cylon centurions, that Battlestar is clearly SF (unlike Lost, which dances between genres and can often disguise itself as realism). Where Battlestar triumphs is a balance that prohibits its high-concept SF tropes from defining the look, direction, and format of the show like so many of its predecessors. Print SF is wildly varied in style, and the best stuff weds resonant characters with otherworldly and technological ideas, usually in a fashion where the latter affords a unique and broad insight into the nature of the former.

That’s Battlestar in a nutshell, and what marks it as the finest science fiction series ever to grace television. The bar has been raised so high that even the science fiction literary world is buzzing about it, and some could still learn a thing or two from its wide range of naturalistic characters rather than the chronically unsurprised and emotionally vacant figures that populate some genre fiction. Plus, the political and moral discussion of this show is second to none on television. The West Wing gave us immense detail, but could never present us with the elaborate thought experiments and ethical dilemmas that quality science fiction is capable of. The superb ambiguity of the genocidal Cylons now occupying the human settlement (observe the real-world parallels for yourself) allows issues like suicide bombing and collaboration to be engaged in startlingly slippery ways. And just in terms of the show’s success in depicting these issues at all, I’ve rarely felt so emotionally charged by the practice of collaboration while watching a film or show as I have with these episodes of Battlestar, as the paradigm shift coerces established characters, not guest stars, into doing so. Yet it isn’t demonised: the confused former deck-hand Jammer is hardly amoral, and Gaeta is informing the resistance from within Baltar’s camp, yet Tyrol still deplores him as much as the other ‘traitors’.

Ron Moore and co. are firing on all cylinders, so it is little surprise that this episode lives up completely to the lofty expectations of that courageous cliffhanger. The Starbuck/Leoben storyline does seem a little incongruous with the occupation though, perhaps because it seems at odds with the Cylon’s apparent new agenda. But it could be fundamental – who knows? That’s the other terrific thing about this show, which only the new season of Lost is coming close to (next entry will be on that one, btw): it’s virtually impossible to predict where this is going. The innovation and risk is so substantial that the normal parameters of television storytelling cannot be relied upon. If Battlestar, Deadwood, Lost, and The Wire (or the majority thereof) are overlooked at next year’s Emmys in favour of yet more 24 or Grey’s Anatomy, I will officially give up on that doddering anachronism and its innate but nearly deceased potential to promote and reward quality product. Those open-minded enough to look past the Battlestar Galactica title should be satisfied that they are progressive viewers enjoying the best that American entertainment has to offer – screw everyone else, quite frankly, as long as it stays on the air. Fingers firmly knotted that Sci Fi doesn’t pull a Farscape on this one. 

Veronica Mars 301 - Welcome Wagon (No Spoilers)

Veronica Mars’s survival for the last two seasons despite middling ratings has been a triumph for quality escapism. Not only did UPN support the acclaimed show, but it even made the cut for that network’s merger with the WB over higher-rating contenders like Everwood. Now beginning its third season on the brand new CW, Veronica Mars is as joyfully entertaining as ever, and still wittily lambasts social cliques while never denying them their humanity.

Veronica (Kristen Bell), Logan (Jason Dohring), Wallace (Percy Daggs III), and Mac’s (Tina Majorino) arrival at Hearst College coincides with a change in the season’s format. Instead of a season-long mystery with numerous component threads, creator Rob Thomas has opted for three 7-8 episode arcs, the first of which will continue last season’s unsolved standalone mystery of a serial rapist at Hearst who shaves his victims’ heads, which prompts the premiere’s quite chilling final scene. That dark scenario is representative of this show’s secretion of a worm inside the American teen show apple. Despite a glossy, funny, and pulpy veneer, Veronica Mars has always had a more serious social agenda lurking inside, inverting the typical high school drama by portraying the rich kids as not just arrogant and self-serving, but having become that way as products of an American upper class that disregards those beneath it. Tellingly, the show’s prominent rich characters – particularly Logan – have endured distant and uncaring parents who they initially emulate but reject when their moral compass finally forms, usually following devastating events. Granted, melodrama again rears its head since Logan’s father is a murderous movie star rather than just a deadbeat dad, but it works on an allegorical level. With the premiere, it appears that we can add Dick Casablancas (Ryan Hansen) to that crowd, as he finally shows a spark of humanity and fragility following his brother’s actions last season, which no doubt compounded his father fleeing the country upon being exposed for fraud. Dick was an odd choice for series regular last season, never moving beyond the sex and beer-obsessed jock stereotype. His depths and morality are finally being uncovered as, like Logan, we get explicit confirmation that the posturing has been concealing something deeper.

Dick’s progression will no doubt be one of the many character arcs and subplots that the show handily juggles, such as the inexplicable partnership of Keith (Enrico Colantoni) and Kendall (Charisma Carpenter), which takes an abrupt turn in the premiere. Sadly, it doesn't improve matters for this storyline following this episode's bland response to last season's briefcase cliffhanger. Hopefully Thomas will speed past this now-unsatisfactory storyline to fully engage with the Hearst mystery while avoiding the incomprehensibility that the show was mired in for a while last season before capably emerging with a conclusive and cathartic finale.

Some new characters are also introduced, including Parker (Julie Gonzalo), who initially seems a baffling choice for a series regular since she’s a carbon copy of the valley girls that the show has lampooned before, but an unexpected role in the larger mystery looks to ensure that her character is much more than one-note. There’s also Wallace’s roommate, Piz (Chris Lowell), who is being touted as a rival to Logan for Veronica’s affections. He’s a pleasantly dorky guy, and thus a much more interesting and credible alternative for Veronica than the cardboard Duncan Kane: his down-to-earth nature should prove a tempting counterpoint for her to Logan’s brooding complexities.

Mac and Sheriff Lamb (Michael Muhney) thankfully aren’t going anywhere though as they’re now included in the radically transformed opening credits – these things have gotten weird! The theme song is now much slower, and the cast are showcased in some quite avant-garde still images (the first image above is one of them). It doesn’t really suit the show, but is no doubt a statement about its new direction. It’ll take some getting used to, but the show itself won’t: this is the Veronica Mars that those in-the-know have come to love despite the format upheaval: a teenage comedy-drama that uses its high concept to offer a broad perspective on class division and the complexities of any individual. Plus, it’s just damn entertaining, the kind of superior escapist fare that doesn’t make you feel like an idiot afterwards. Support this show – it could use the help. 

Battlestar Galactica - Pegasus Extended Cut

The recent Battlestar Galactica Season 2.5 DVD collection features the much-discussed extended cut of last year’s mid-season cliffhanger, Pegasus. The broadcast episode did seem overstuffed, so the news of substantial cut footage was unsurprising. Instead of offering the footage as an extra, the producers have returned to director Michael Rymer’s original cut and delivered a much more satisfying and nuanced episode.

The most discussed change for the broadcast cut was revealed by Ron Moore last year: originally, the brutal attempted sexual assault of Sharon by the Pegasus’s Cylon interrogator actually took place before Helo and the Chief rescued her. This was a broadcast standards concern rather than a time factor, which Moore and David Eick tried to avoid by requesting a special 90-minute episode (which they eventually received, thankfully, for the season finale). I assumed that this would significantly alter the narrative, that reshoots of subsequent scenes took place. Not to belittle the bravery of the content, but the change is actually quite small, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment, but one that undoubtedly ratchets up the sinister danger that the Pegasus poses and more courageously confronts the shocking subject matter, firmly contributing to Galactica’s ongoing willingness to engage with dark but very real issues. It’s a camera shot that puts the Pegasus saga’s money where its mouth is, delineating the differences between Galactica and Pegasus, Adama and Cain, all the more clearly, and I’m glad that it’s there despite naturally being distressing to watch.

The other additional footage is separate to this change, and it’s all solid material that adds a great deal of texture to what was a highly plot-driven episode. The arrival of the Pegasus is now more insidious with a greater sense of dread as the discovery of their transgressions is delayed a little more (for the record, there is 15 minutes extra footage, but it feels like more, in a great way). Key additions include a new opening where Starbuck tries to convince Adama and Roslin to send a rescue mission to Caprica that enhances Cain’s impact on her in the Resurrection Ship two-parter, and a scene between Baltar, Cain, and Sharon, where Cain’s loathing of the Cylons becomes apparent. Nearly every other scene features new dialogue and minor extensions, restoring Galactica’s usual subtlety and richness to Pegasus. While watching this cut, the word ‘texture’ came to me as an appropriate encapsulation of what differentiates this show from all other science fiction programmes: a determination to dwell in the quiet moments and silent implications between characters. So it was a nice surprise to listen to Moore and Eick’s audio commentary and their description of the ‘texture’ that has been returned to the episode. It’s a hallmark of Battlestar Galactica, and thus means that this extended version is no fanwank indulgence, but a significant improvement that makes the conflict between battlestars more organic and gripping.

[Side note: the most bizarre inclusion is Cally saying “bullshit” – why was this even filmed? It would never get on the air. What a fun bonus though.]  

Nacho Libre

Jack Black as a Mexican wrestler is undoubtedly an audacious and funny idea. The potential is ripe, and Black works with director Jared Hess (Napoleon Dynamite) and screenwriter Mike White (School of Rock, Freaks and Geeks, The Good Girl) to craft a gentle, feelgood comedy about big guys in masks beating each other up. But while they hit a delicious and touching tone, Nacho Libre doesn’t have enough laughs or good characters to fully succeed.

Nacho is a lifelong member of a rural Mexican monastery, cooking breakfast for the orphans while harbouring dreams of becoming a wrestler. The arrival of a beautiful nun (Ana de la Reguera) prompts him to pursue his goal, partnered with a scrawny street dweller, Esqueleto (Hector Jimenez), who has been attacking Nacho and stealing his cooking supplies. In typical but forgivable movie fashion, Nacho and Esqueleto gradually prosper until they have the chance to fight the top wrestler in the city, all in the hope of making some money to give the orphans a better lifestyle.

Surprisingly for a Jack Black vehicle about wrestling, the tone is akin to a Wes Anderson (Rushmore, The Royal Tenenbaums) movie, showcasing silently bemused characters witnessing the main character’s often-oblivious ambition in an oddly timeless setting. But when the movie sidesteps awkwardly into fart jokes and a horny fat woman doggedly pursuing Esqueleto, consistency is clearly in peril. Unable to devise belly laughs from its character-based wit, the film sadly resorts to over-the-top staples of lesser films. Sadly, this one just isn’t that memorable, despite an adorable ending, a lovely soundtrack, and Black’s typically entertaining work, this time delivered with a hilarious Mexican accent. Nacho Libre passes the time, but it just made me long for a Jack Black/Wes Anderson collaboration. 

An Inconvenient Truth

The rise of theatrically released documentaries has clearly reached a self-sustaining point, since what is essentially a filmed lecture has been released to rave reviews and strong box office. While it spices up proceedings with biographical interludes, the material is riveting enough in its own right: it’s Al Gore, global warming, and An Inconvenient Truth.

Gore has been a passionate global warming campaigner since college, giving slideshows and working within politics to try and foster environmental change. But since his ‘defeat’ in the 2000 US presidential election, Gore has reinvented himself by devoting himself wholeheartedly to the issue, giving an increasingly sophisticated and continuously updated slideshow lecture around the world in the intervening years (he estimates he has presented it over a thousand times). Now, Gore and director Davis Guggenheim have brought the material to a wider audience using cinema distribution, given that time is of the essence for the planet’s wellbeing.

The film should be addressed on two fronts: the quality of the lecture and its content, and the documentary itself. The lecture is engaging and easy to follow. Gore tackles the details without pandering, using Powerpoint animation very impressively to convey his points and the fruits of his research. As Gore presents them, they prove the prognosis for Earth to be bleak. He draws on numerous testing methods, including drilled ice samples from Antarctica and carbon dioxide emission calculations, to prove that the current warming is very real and not cyclical. A medieval warming did indeed take place, but it was minute compared to the staggering temperature increase of the last two decades – as he amusingly shows, the levels are literally off the charts. He has amassed this knowledge by going around the world (including Antarctica and the Arctic) and developed many prominent acquaintances – Gore isn’t messing about. And to ensure that he doesn’t appear to be standing on an ideological platform, he openly acknowledges the criticisms and scepticisms of global warming and takes time to refute common concerns. He (or at least the film’s coverage) does slip up by only marginally addressing George Bush and John Howard’s economic objections, as his ultimate point in this area – that the entire planet surely outweighs economic gain since it would ultimately be for nought – is sadly not pragmatic enough for some critics.

Your own politics will naturally influence how you view An Inconvenient Truth, but Gore counters this by insisting that this is hardly a political issue. Gore sensibly avoids attacking the Bush administration, as to do so would eliminate this apolitical plea as well as exposing himself to accusations of a bruised ego. Gore focuses on what is required rather than where we have failed. Despite scepticism from the highest levels of government, the consequences of global warming are irrefutably in our future unless we try and stem the tide. This is not a partisan concern, but an ethical one – to do nothing about this is to betray the next generation.

I’m sure my own feelings on the issue are bleeding through in a torrent despite any attempts at impartiality, but it’s hard not to do so, especially since Gore has worked so tirelessly for a sidelined issue that will hardly score him political points. The lecture is intercut either with fly-on-the-wall footage of Gore giving the lecture elsewhere and his travels around the globe, set to voiceovers explaining his rationale for this crusade, or glimpses into Gore’s childhood and the defining events for his cause throughout his adult life. These sections give the film a context that brings it closer to the documentary realm. We get an insight into his motivations, but not too much – this isn’t a Gore lovefest. The issue remains paramount, and Gore is explored in order to humanise this man educating us from the front of the room (the framing of certain shots sometimes feels like Gore is really there in the cinema). Global warming is such a massive concept that Guggenheim sensibly narrows the focus intermittently to remind us of the individuals that this will affect, both through Gore’s history and a poignant sequence about the victims of Hurricane Katrina.

That tragedy is positioned as a possible consequence for the damage done thus far, and Gore concludes the film by explaining that we know what needs to be done. Five types of emissions need to be reduced, not even eliminated, and we will return to levels circa 1970. Gore shows, or reminds us, that this masochistic descent can be reversed; we just need to fight to ensure that those in power lead us into doing so. This is perhaps the most important film of the year.  

Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby

Argh - bad consistency with these daily reviews. I've been out of town for a few days, so forgive my laxness. Back on schedule now.

Anchorman was a gleeful example of a Hollywood comedy that was not only funny, but featured a stupid and laughable character in the lead instead of a successful middle-class yuppie whose only travails are not getting laid or rich enough. Part of this aversion is taste, sure, and not all comedy must wallow in idiocy as the best British comedy does. But mainstream American comedy films have lately been so determined to be glossy and glamourous that we have ‘comedies’ starring Kate Hudson or Jennifer Lopez as characters in high-powered but sexy jobs with everything going for them delivering awkward one-liners about needing a man and not getting laid enough. Absurdity is a rare commodity in American films, and it’s great that Will Ferrell and Adam McKay are diving into it headfirst, starting with Anchorman and now with Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby.

Ferrell and McKay’s concession to conventional tastes does pay a price, as it’s harder to get absurdist gags from NASCAR than it is from a pompous TV news presenter, but Talladega Nights is still a lot funnier and more adventurous than most Hollywood comedies. There are no fart jokes or smug WASP witticisms. Ferrell’s fairly dumb and ridiculously confident racing driver, who falls into the business by accident after a lifetime of chanting “I wanna go fast”, drives the film instead. The obstacles (although narrative integrity is hardly essential) are the French racing maestro Jacques Giraud (Sacha Baron Cohen, best known as Ali G and Borat), Ricky’s loss of confidence following a horrendous crash, and his best friend (John C. Reilly) stealing his golddigger wife after years of playing second fiddle to Ricky. These plotlines make Talladega more linear and unified than the wonderfully sketchy and episodic Anchorman, but the absurdity is a little reined in (except for a scene involving a cougar and the interlude where Ricky is convinced that he is paralysed, despite all evidence to the contrary).

But like Anchorman, this features a stellar supporting cast. Cohen is tremendous as the openly gay driver with the ridiculous French accent – the film really comes alive when he enters and suffers a little when he’s off screen. Gary Cole channels pure redneck power as Ricky’s deadbeat Dad, and Reilly sells Cal’s approval complex handily and has great chemistry with Ferrell despite his inexperience at slapstick comedy. There aren’t any major female characters though, which is a shame. Talladega is a bit of a boy’s own affair, although that certainly hasn’t hurt the film’s box office. It’s nice to see America embracing a comedy like this even a few months after similarly rewarding Click…

Looking back, Talladega is actually something of a rewrite of Anchorman, even as the more restrained humour and wildly different setting deflect attention while watching it. The pompous professional is upstaged by a rival, has a major comedown into a degrading new life, and then finds it in himself to succeed again. Ricky himself is even a Southern version of Ron Burgundy, minus the staggering delusion regarding his sex appeal and talent (Ricky is actually a good driver, Ron has just been lucky). But Ferrell and McKay’s films are so unabashedly fun and good-spirited that such observations are moot (the matching initials of Ferrell’s characters and the two films’ similar subtitles are probably an open acknowledgement of their matching plot and style). They embrace genuine comedy that leaves no-one looking good, and while the new film lacks the cultish absurdity of Anchorman (which probably explains its difficulty getting greenlit), Talladega is a lot of fun, although its willing diplomacy towards the mainstream do hamstring some of the comedy’s full potential.