The Greatest Trick

The first thing to note about Let the Right One In is that it is the finest horror film this decade. By horror film, I don’t mean it is akin to mindlessly gruesome, offensive and frankly unscary movies like Saw or Hostel. True horror films are frightening because they create believable and/or likeable characters caught up in terrifying situations that ruthlessly, sadistically and cathartically examine our deepest fears, not because blood and gore is frightening in itself. Let the Right One In doesn’t skimp on gore, but it employs such images sparsely and selectively, complimenting rather than dominating the story.

At its heart, this is really an ultra dark fairy tale about the dangers of isolation and loneliness. Twelve year old Oskar (Kare Hedebrant) is desperate to be loved by his separated parents but neither has the time for him. He spends his time staring out across the snow-covered tenement buildings where he lives indulging in revenge fantasies against school bullies. However, his life changes forever when he meets twelve year old Eli (Lina Leandersson), a girl who moves in next door that turns out to be a vampire. Oskar falls in love with her. In the meantime, the man Eli calls father, Hakan (Per Ragnar), goes out to kill for her, but a combination of exhaustion, ineptitude and bad conscience at years of murder causes him to be end up hospitalised, which forces Eli to fend for herself. At this point, a group of malcontent middle aged people from the tenement buildings are drawn into the plot when one of them, Jocke (Mikhael Rahm), is killed by Eli. Jocke’s best friend Lacke (Ika Nord) then becomes determined to track her down.

Recently, the vampire movie has become moribund, degenerating into mindless action (the Blade films), spoof (Lesbian Vampire Killers), and worst of all, bland teenage romance (Twilight, or as I prefer to call it Twiglet, with its ridiculous “vegetarian” vampires). However, this film injects some much needed fresh blood into the genre in a number of ways.

First, the story takes place in the early 80s amid miserable high-rise tenement buildings that feel like the Swedish equivalent of a Mike Leigh or Ken Loach setting. Mixing mythology with realism proved hugely successful in Pan’s Labyrinth (fairy tale with war) and here the results are similar. The characters in the film, whether vampire or human, go about leading quietly desperate, depressing lives, in fear of Soviet incursions into Swedish waters (as overheard on the television). One is occasionally reminded not only of previous “serious” vampire films like Nosferatu and Martin but also Ingmar Bergman’s work, especially The Silence.

Second, Let the Right One In eschews much of the silliness that has sprung up around vampire mythology. There are no stakes or garlic, nor even a church to hide in, but instead the film is built around the idea not only of what happens when you knowingly invite a vampire into your house, but the consequences of what happens if you don’t and they choose to come in anyway. Yet in spite of this and the immortality issue (which is amusingly alluded to when Eli shows Oskar a priceless Faberge egg), the vampires are stripped of much of their supernatural baggage and instead are presented as amoral creatures. Like any other predator they simply need to feed.

Third, John Ajvide Lindqvist’s screenplay (adapting his own novel), and Tomas Alfredson’s brilliant direction avoids cheap, obvious tricks. There are no jump-out-of- the-skin shocks, no he’s-behind-you moments and no flashy whiplash MTV type editing to try and generate false tension. Instead, the film is a slow burn of escalating dread, with nightmarish menace oozing from every shot, even simple ones like exteriors of buildings in the darkness. Like The Wicker Man, it is also highly disturbing in retrospect. The more one thinks about it afterwards, the more horrifying one realises it is. The ending in particular, which can be read a number of ways, is bleak however it is interpreted for reasons that aren’t initially obvious. In fact, it is probably destined to be the most widely debated ending since Blade Runner. Even Lindqvist and Alfredson differ as to how it should be interpreted (the novel ends more unambiguously, but that ending is still one of the possible readings of the film). On top of this there is an already controversial blink-and-you-miss-it shot akin to the unicorn dream sequence in Blade Runner that casts the character of Eli in a whole new light, and opens up unsettling questions about her past.

Such ambiguity will no doubt be absent from the inevitable, recently announced Hollywood remake for those who can’t be bothered to read subtitles. However, in the meantime, this macabre yet beautiful, slow but gripping instant masterpiece is a must-see for anyone with a serious love of cinema. The brilliant performances, direction and screenplay are complimented by excellence on every technical level; including cinematography, editing, music and sound (always critical in a horror film).

Spiritually, the nihilistic worldview is obviously something Christians will be at odds with, since God is entirely absent from proceedings. Additionally, it is undeniably disturbing (yet also genius on the part of the filmmakers) the way the audience is manipulated into being sympathetic to Oskar and Eli even when they are involved in murder. Logically, viewer sympathy ought to be with Lacke on account of everything he has suffered, but therein perhaps lies a deeper, albeit not immediately obvious message that can be learnt from the ultimate fates of both Lacke and (if you think about it) Oskar: isolation feeds the desire for revenge, and revenge is a really, really bad idea.

Simon Dillon, April 2009.

Waltz with Bashir was on my to-see list late last year, but it only recently arrived at my local arts cinema, hence the lateness of this review. Anyway, it’s an extraordinarily bold, shocking and visually stunning animated documentary and further evidence that animation is not always for children. Rather amusingly, Ratatouille/The Incredibles director Brad Bird once threatened to punch the next person he met who referred to animation as a genre. It is merely a technique, and one that is employed here to phenomenally innovative effect.

Based on a true story, the film is about writer/director Ariel Forman, who fought in the Israeli/Lebanon war of 1982, but has no memory of it. Throughout the story he attempts to piece together fragments of his repressed memories by interviewing those who fought alongside him, and gradually it becomes clear that he was present at a terrible massacre which so traumatised him that he was unable to remember it.

The extraordinary animation is used to riveting, brilliant effect. Whether depicting a rain swept Tel Aviv, hallucinatory visions and dreams, fierce battles, or the stunning opening where a pack of snarling dogs charge towards the camera, it really is impossible to find a film to compare this to. On a purely visual level alone, Waltz with Bashir is a mesmerising triumph with a level of detail that really needs to be seen on a big screen to be appreciated.

It’s worth making clear that Waltz with Bashir is not a political film. There have been some misguided attempts to nail it down as both pro and anti Israeli when it is neither. This is not an attempt to whitewash the Israeli Defence Force, nor condemn them outright. Critics have said Ariel Forman failed to contextualise the Israeli/Lebanon war by explaining its origins, and as someone sympathetic to Israel who gets continually frustrated with the general level of ignorance about these events, I can understand – to a degree – this point of view. Waltz with Bashir does not detail the years of violent attacks against Christians by the PLO (they had migrated to Lebanon after King Hussein kicked them out of Jordan in the early 70s), nor does it speak of the thousands of Lebanese Christians who were forced to flee as a result of that and Syria’s involvement.

However, with this context or not, such events do not in any way justify the appalling war crimes perpetuated by the Christian Phalangist militia who killed around 800 civilians or more at Palestinian camps. It is right and proper, in my opinion, both to bring these events to light, and (in the case of the IDF) to demonstrate that standing by and allowing such atrocities is a great sin of omission. An interesting historical footnote is that Arik Sharon, who in the film is shown to have had the power to intervene and stop the atrocities, was eventually found personally responsible for not stopping it by an Israeli commission investigating the massacre.

However, as previously stated, this film is not about politics or borders but morality. Yes, it’s about the appalling damage war inflicts on those who fight in them, psychologically as well as physically, but it is even more than that. It is, above all, a profound meditation on personal responsibility and a clear demonstration that regardless of the rights or wrongs of a military cause, murder is always murder. To call oneself Christian, then shoot unarmed women and children and carve bloody crosses on their chests, is about as far from true Christianity as it is possible to get.

This astonishing animated documentary is a genuinely unique piece of cinema that offers no easy answers and really forces its audience to think. There never has been, nor, I suspect, will there ever be a film quite like it. It is therefore a great shame to have to report that in spite of the undeniable technical and artistic brilliance, there is one moment that really ought to give Christians pause as to whether or not they see this. In said sequence, an Israeli commander is watching a pornographic film which although animated and played for laughs, is nevertheless unjustified, gratuitous and leaves nothing to the imagination. There is nudity elsewhere in the film, but in a non-sexual context and unlike the afore-mentioned scene it did not seem gratuitous. Obviously there is also violence, much of it shocking, but in this post Saving Private Ryan era, the level of blood and gore actually seemed comparatively restrained.

In final analysis, on a purely artistic level, this is an absolutely outstanding achievement. However, in light of the scene mentioned above, most if not all Christian audiences really ought to avoid this, or at least exercise extreme caution if viewing. This is a great shame, as it spoils an otherwise extraordinary film.

Based Stefan Aust’s best selling book, this is an edgy, compelling if somewhat flawed look at Germany’s radical left wing terrorist group the Red Army Faction (RAF) which organized bombings, robberies, kidnappings and assassinations in the late 1960s and 70s. Its leaders, Ulrike Meinhof and Andreas Baader, remain two of Germany’s most notorious and sometimes glamorised terrorists. It was inevitable that a film would eventually emerge about their organisation.

Thankfully, The Baader Meinhof Complex goes a long way to debunk the mythology that sprung up around the RAF, both at the time and subsequently. The hypocrisy, ignorance and in some cases ineptitude of those involved is made abundantly clear. In one amusing sequence, Andreas steals a wallet, only to then be furious as someone steals his car directly afterwards (which isn’t even his car). More seriously, when they visit a Palestinian terrorist camp for training, their motivation for robbing banks (expropriating the money in the name of the people) is exposed for the selfishness it really is, especially since the Palestinians are fighting a genuine war. On the subject of Palestine, any sympathy I might have had with the RAF cause (which wouldn’t have been much) was immediately lost early in the film when Ulrike began to spout the usual ill-informed right-on gibberish about the Palestinian cause and their fight to “get their land back” (it was never theirs, but I won’t go into that here – Google my Munich review for that axe-grind if you are so inclined). Incidentally, it is implied that the same terrorists the RAF get their training from are those that carry out the 1972 Munich Olympic massacres of the Israeli team.

On the other hand, the film is at great pains to point out through documentary footage of other turbulent political events of the time (the Vietnam War, the Kennedy/Martin Luther King assassinations, the French/Algerian conflict and so forth) that there were terrible injustices that warranted people speaking up. A short sequence at the start of the film sees a peaceful protest against a visit by the Shah turn violent when the Shah’s entourage of “supporters” turn against the German crowd and attack them. The German protesters expect the police to protect them, only for them to join in with the attack against them. I am not sure if this riot was apocryphal, but if is intended to generate a modicum of sympathy for the RAF then it doesn’t go far enough.

Director Uli Edel was no doubt attempting to create an even handed picture with the uncompromising clarity of the riveting 1967 film The Battle of Algiers, but instead it just feels messy. The screenplay is episodic in its determination to include so much history, leading to a clumsily abrupt end. By refusing to offer any easy answers, audiences end up emotionally aloof.

On the plus side, the cast are all excellent. Moritz Bliebtrau, Johana Wokalek and especially Martina Gedeck (as superb here as she was in The Lives of Others) all contribute fearless performances. The film has a restless, gritty energy and pace to match the most frenzied of Hollywood offerings in this genre (one thinks of Oliver Stone’s JFK for instance). Cinematographer Rainer Klausmann seems to actively seek the next object to hurtle his camera into, and Alexander Berner’s editing is effectively sharp.

From a moral perspective, The Baader Meinhof Complex is to be commended for one thing: exposing the folly of self-appointed revolutionaries for what it really is. Yet there is a modicum of ambivalence in this revelation in that despite their many faults, these terrorist organisations succeed in their desire to bring their political causes to the attention of the authorities. One can almost admire them for this, since they didn’t settle for the apathy of a bystander. Almost.

Then one remembers the atrocities they committed in carrying out their objectives. For instance, bombing US military bases based in Germany in retaliation for Vietnam, hijacking a Lufthansa flight and most hypocritically, bombing a right wing newspaper, undermining their own arguments about freedom of speech. Such heinous acts remain completely unjustifiable, and are rightly deserving of the strongest condemnation. Spiritually, the film offers no answers whatsoever, and it is full to the brim with sex, violence, nudity and very strong language. Such content is clearly not intended to be there for titillation but it isn’t always necessary either.

In short; a provocative, but frustratingly mixed bag.

Simon Dillon, November 2008.

If your idea of a good scary movie is something along the lines of Saw or Hostel, don’t bother seeing El Orfanato (The Orphanage). It’s an all too rare intelligent horror film that eschews copious bloodletting and relies on imagination and suspense, not violence and gore, for its many scares. True, it’s not in the same league as the classics from which it draws obvious inspiration (including Don’t Look Now, The Innocents, Ringu, The Changeling, The Sixth Sense and, bizarrely, Peter Pan), but its still a stylish and chilling tale that provides a handful of genuine jump-out-of-your-skin moments and manages to be something unique in its own right.

To say too much about the plot would spoil it, suffice to say it involves an orphan called Laura (Belen Rueda) who brings her family back to the orphanage she grew up in which has since closed. She and her husband Carlos (Fernando Cayo) have bought the orphanage and want to reopen it to house handicapped children. Unfortunately, her adopted seven year old son Simon (Roger Princep) starts speaking to a new invisible friend, and as anyone who has seen The Exorcist will know, invisible friends always mean trouble in a horror film.

Performances are all very good, not just from the leads but also the bit parts, including Montserrat Carulla’s creepy social worker Benigna and Geraldine Chaplin’s frankly terrifying medium Aurora. Incidentally, Chaplin provides the film with one of its most unsettling sequences: the obligatory séance which rises above the level of cliché because it’s viewed through spooky green night vision cam, (all the better for spotting menacing spooks apparently).

Of course its director Juan Antonia Bayona who should get the credit for such innovation, as should producer Guillermo Del Toro (director of Pan’s Labyrinth) who apparently had a great deal of creative input. Oscar Faura’s cinematography is also first rate, really capturing the darkness and shadow of both night and daytime scenes. Rarely have doorknobs and dolls looked so menacing, not to mention freaky sack masks. Elena Ruiz’s editing is spot on, as is the use of sound (Jordi Bosch) and music (Fernando Velasquez), two of the most vital weapons in a horror filmmaker’s arsenal.

But this isn’t just a scary story. Sergio G Sanchez’s screenplay also finds time to meditate on grief, loss, obsession and parental guilt. The nail-biting finale, which I won’t spoil, is simultaneously moving and pleasingly bleak, but to my mind not altogether unexpected, which is why I don’t think it will ever be regarded quite as highly as its contemporaries.

On a more serious note, from a Christian perspective the usual concerns apply, since the ghostly worldview presented by this film is obviously unscriptural. In case any readers are unaware of the Christian position on contacting the dead, the Bible is quite clear that we can’t because people either go to heaven or hell depending on whether they’ve accepted Jesus as saviour or not. Despite the charlatans, there are genuine mediums who are contacted by demons posing as dead relatives of those desperate for a message from the other side. What people who consult mediums fail to realise is that these demons go around collecting all kinds of information, then using that piece of truth, mix it with lies and deception. Therefore a belief in ghosts haunting the abode of the living is completely at odds with the Christian message.

In fairness, The Orphanage is doesn’t come off quite so badly in this respect since it doesn’t discuss Christianity, unlike some other films in the genre which actively set out to disprove it – The Others for instance. I’m not saying it’s wrong to enjoy a good ghost story, I’m simply pointing out that there is still potential for deception in presenting such a false worldview. With that note of caution, this is a must-see for those who love to be scared silly.

Simon Dillon, March 2008.

Abortion is a hot topic in the cinema at present, perhaps on account of the 35th anniversary of the Roe/Wade landmark case that made abortion legal in the US. At any rate a number of recent releases, including the Oscar winning Juno, have all tackled the issue, putting it centre stage in the public consciousness.

The critically praised 4 months 3 weeks 2 days is in many respects the anti-Juno; a harsh, uncompromising picture set in Romania under Ceausescu during the late 1980’s, where abortion is illegal and a student and her friend have to go to extreme measures to procure a backstreet termination. Their plan is complicated by an increasingly horrific turn of events (including rape), and the ever present threat of discovery by the authorities.

This is gripping, grisly and utterly depressing stuff. Yet from a cinematic perspective, there is much to praise. It’s well acted by the leads. Laura Vasiliu is convincingly timid and terrified as Gabita, the pregnant girl. Anamaria Marinca plays her friend Otilia, a much stronger character who is prepared to go to surprising and disturbing lengths to help Gabita. Alexandru Potocean is excellent as Otilia’s bewildered boyfriend Adi, a character I sympathised with at first, but who ultimately emerges as a symbol of the irresponsible and immoral men that cause these girls to go to such extremes. Finally, Vlad Ivanov is chilling as Bebe, the abortionist who demands a far greater price than money for his services.

Cristian Mungiu’s shakycam documentary style direction and Oleg Mutu’s drab, muted cinematography convey the depressingly squalor of Ceausescu Romania in appropriately grim fashion. Mungiu’s screenplay is well judged and gripping, but as a Christian I obviously disagree with his strongly argued case for abortion within a legal framework.

Yet ironically, although his argument is highly persuasive to some, there is one shot that provoked ire among those critics that praised its pro-abortion message. The shot they took exception to, claiming it was gratuitous, was that of the aborted baby with all its recognisable human features. To my mind, this single shot produces a powerful counter argument that undermines the message of the entire film: Whether through grim and nasty backstreet abortion or through clean legal termination, the result of abortion is always the same: a dead child. Therefore abortion, whatever the circumstances, is murder. Perhaps it was this argument the critics took exception to, and why they would prefer the audience not to see the dead baby. After reading interviews with Cristian Mungiu, it is clear he didn’t intend to make a pro-life statement in that shot, yet the anguish and emotion it evokes in the audience destroys the credibility of his pro-abortion argument.

At any rate, given its unremitting bleakness nothing will ever induce me to watch 4 months 3 weeks 2 days again, regardless of its undoubted cinematic merits. That it’s pro-abortion, spares you nothing, and contains swearing and nudity will no doubt be enough to put most of you off, but if you are curious, don’t eat anything beforehand. Actually, you probably won’t want to eat anything afterwards either.

All in all, a monumentally miserable experience.

Simon Dillon, March 2008.

I went into The Diving Bell and the Butterfly expecting one of those based on a true story/triumph of the human spirit/worthy but dull pictures that frequently court Oscars (although bizarrely this film wasn’t nominated in the foreign film category at this years Academy Awards).

What I didn’t expect was the innovative direction of Julian Schnabel, whose previous efforts had left me singularly unimpressed. By shooting much of the film from its protagonist’s perspective, the viewer really does start to get a feel for the frustration and horror experienced by someone with “locked-in” syndrome; paralysis as a result of a severe stroke.

Former Elle editor Jean Dominique Bauby (Mathieu Almaric) suffered just such a stroke, and was only able to move his left eye. Extraordinarily, he dictated a memoir to hospital speech therapist Henriette (Marie-Josee Croze), which described the psychological torment of being trapped inside his body. The eponymous diving bell is a symbol of his condition, and the butterfly a symbol of his imagination that provided an escape to stories and lands visited in his mind.

Mathieu Almaric conveys a great deal of emotion with just one eye, though it is his interior monologues that impress most. In particular, his caustic sense of humour – from making politically incorrect jokes about his own condition to lecherous thoughts about his therapists – tempers the self-conscious worthiness that usually swamps such performances. Although Bauby runs the expected gamut of emotions, from self-loathing and self-pity to reassessing his former selfish lifestyle and ultimately emerging a “better person”, sentimentality never swamps the piece, and although the audience is no doubt manipulated, one never feels directly conscious of this. One particularly touching scene, where Bauby “converses” over the telephone with his housebound father (an excellent Max von Sydow) is a guaranteed tearjerker. Speaking of tears, whenever Bauby cries, Schnabel chooses to show this from his point of view, and whoever he is looking at goes out of focus.

The rest of the cast are also excellent. In addition to Max von Sydow, Almaric is ably supported by Emmanuelle Seigner as his estranged partner Celine, who in one agonising scene has to translate Bauby’s blinking responses over the telephone to his lover Ines (Agathe de La Fontaine). Marie-Josee Croze is also excellent (am I the only person who thinks she looks like Naomi Watts?), bringing warmth and humanity to a potentially thankless role. Finally, Marina Hands is very good as Josephine, a representative from Bauby’s publisher who also writes down his memoir and with whom he forms an almost romantic bond.

Spielberg’s usual cinematographer Janusz Kaminski provides a unique look; frequently blurring, overexposing and using colourful filters for the flashback or imagined sequences. Editor Juliette Welfing has skilfully assembled the film in an unusual, non-linear way which is initially disconcerting yet ultimately doesn’t detract from the story. The choice of music is also excellent, from the use of pop songs to Paul Cantelon’s original score.

Yet, for all its undoubted merits, one thing annoyed me about The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. (POTENTIAL SPOILER AHEAD) In spite of Bauby’s undoubted achievement in writing his book via his left eye, he still died, as far as one can tell, un-reconciled to God. One key flashback in the film recalling a trip to Lourdes shows his (somewhat understandable) disdain for Catholic superstitions, and this is used to underscore his disbelief in God. Although he is told people are praying for him, including his own children, his response is simply to accept it because “he’ll try anything”. One of his fantasies show people in Nepal and the Middle East praying for him with their respective Buddhist and Islamic traditions, implying that Bauby thought all religions were crazy, but that they were all worth a go if it meant he could be healed.

As editor of Elle, Bauby was clearly living an immoral lifestyle. His father berates him for this, albeit in moral relativist terminology, saying that having a mistress is no excuse for abandoning the mother of his children. It is therefore a shame that in the final moments of his life there was no apparent repentance for these choices. In final analysis, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly is a well acted and innovative piece of cinema, but it is a slightly depressing film from a Christian perspective.

Simon Dillon, March 2008.

German cinema has had something of a golden era this decade, with several terrific films including Goodbye Lenin, The Edukators and Downfall. The Lives of Others is the latest in this trend, and Oscar voters thought it better than Pan’s Labyrinth, awarding it best foreign film. At the time, I was immensely irritated, given how impressed I had been by Pan’s Labyrinth. Therefore, I came to this film determined to conclude that it wasn’t as good. I had planned a spectacular rant venting against this terrible Oscar injustice, and was looking forward to writing it.

Alas, I am unable to do so. Comparisons between two such radically different masterpieces is impossible and pointless. Yes, I did use the word masterpiece, though here it feels strangely redundant. The Lives of Others is one of those rare pictures that seem beyond mere superlatives. It is affecting on every conceivable level; at once historically fascinating yet relevant, dramatically gripping, blackly comical, thought- provoking and quietly touching.

Set in 1984 (a nice nod to George Orwell), East Berlin secret police Captain Wiesler is assigned to put playwright Georg Dreyman under surveillance. Dreyman is loyal to the State, but his girlfriend Christa is having an affair with corrupt government minister Hempf because he is blackmailing her. Hempf wants Dreyman out of the way, clearing the way to make his relationship with Christa more permanent, so he puts pressure on Wiesler’s boss Grubitz to find evidence that Dreyman is a traitor.

At the start Wiesler is a ruthless interrogator with an absolute belief in the State, but as he listens to Dreyman, he develops a respect and admiration for the man he is watching. Slowly cracks begin to appear in Wiesler’s harsh, cold exterior, and he starts to unravel – reading Brecht, listening to Beethoven and becoming sympathetic to Dreyman and Christa. Eventually Wiesler feels compelled to intervene and persuades Christa to stop seeing Hempf when Dreyman discovers the affair. Unfortunately, this act causes Dreyman to re-think his loyalty to the State. He plans to publish an article in West Germany about East German suicides after his blacklisted stage director friend Jerska kills himself. Wiesler discovers this plot, but feels dangerously compelled to keep looking the other way, even though Grubitz is becoming convinced that he is hiding something.

Wiesler is an extraordinary and hugely memorable character, played brilliantly by Ulrich Mühe. The supporting roles are also excellent – from Sebastian Koch as Dreyman to Martina Gedeck’s Christa and Ulrich Tukur as Grubitz. Thomas Thieme is terrific as the odious Hempf, Volkmar Kleinert is compellingly tragic as Jerska, and Hans-Uwe Bauer also deserves a special mention as Dreyman’s malcontent friend Hauser.

Director Florian Henckel von Donnermarck (quite a mouthful) paints an appropriately drab and grim portrait of East Germany, and cinematographer Hagen Bogdanski makes great use of space to characterise his subjects. For example Wiesler’s large but depressingly sparse apartment reflects his own emptiness, whilst Jerska has a small room surrounded with books, reflecting how his own learning has trapped him. Every other aspect of the production is superb, from Patricia Rommel’s crisp editing to Gabriel Yared’s quietly haunting music score.

Not only is The Lives of Others a first-rate story in its own right, it is also a timely reminder of the evils of authoritarian dictatorships (whether extreme left or right wing), especially given the current UK political climate. Having New Labour’s ID card scheme, not to mention their endless “nanny state” legislation in the back of one’s mind makes this uncomfortably prescient viewing. The message is understated but clear, and I for one wish Tony Blair and Gordon Brown would listen to it: State interference in private matters and collecting information unnecessarily leads to a society that treats every citizen as a potential enemy and innocent lives are inevitably destroyed.

But even more important than the political message is its moral/spiritual undertone. This is an understated but deeply moving story of redemption, about a cold, cruel but desperately lonely man rediscovering his humanity, and eventually doing the right thing in spite of the cost.

If I had to pick nits, I ought to throw in the regulation warnings about sexual content, though to my mind there was nothing gratuitous. The film also loses pace slightly in the final act, but the emotional pay-off more than makes up for this, and lingers in the mind for a long, long time. In fact, I have an inkling that I might just have seen the best film of the year. I therefore urge everyone to make the effort to go and do likewise.

Simon Dillon, April 2007.

Clint Eastwood’s Letters from Iwo Jima was originally conceived as a companion piece to Flags of our Fathers, designed to show the battle from the point of view of the Japanese. It was expected to be a relatively minor work, and that Flags of our Fathers would overshadow it. But it was Letters from Iwo Jima that got the unanimous critical acclaim and Best Picture nomination. Not only is it the superior picture by far, but it also has the potential to be regarded by future generations as highly as All Quiet on the Western Front, Paths of Glory, Das Boot and other classic war films.

Where Flags of our Fathers was sprawling and incoherent, Letters from Iwo Jima is tight and focused. Unlike its predecessor’s insights into the nature of heroism which weren’t all that remarkable, Iwo Jima is by contrast profound, understated, meditative, melancholy and moving. Its unique strength is in the way it doesn’t conform to war film cliché, and refuses to paint the Japanese as the stereotypes viewers have seen in countless other works.

It is this very strength that has been attacked by some sections of the US right-wing press (some of them unfortunately Christians), accusing the film of being historically revisionist and anti-American. But the point made by Letters from Iwo Jima and less effectively by Flags of our Fathers, is that there is good and bad on both sides in any war, and regardless of how noble the cause may be war is always hell. Scenes of Americans shooting surrendering Japanese because they are too inconvenient to guard may have ruffled a few feathers across the pond, but sometimes this was what happened.

The performances are all beautifully understated. Ken Watanabe in particular is splendid as the essentially decent General Kuribayashi, whose unorthodox strategy to dig tunnels deep within the island meant the Japanese were able to hold out far longer than they would had they dug their trenches on the beach. Kuribayashi is vilified by some of his men as an American sympathiser, because he had spent time in the US prior to the war, and because he refuses to order his men to kill themselves when all is lost.

Equally good if not better is Kazunari Ninomiya as Saigo, a baker who has been conscripted but desperately wants return to his wife and the daughter he has never seen. Ryo Kase also provides fine support as ex-military policeman Shimizu, as does Tsuyoshi Ihara in his role as Baron Nishi, a former champion at the 1932 Los Angeles Olympics. Ihara has a key scene where he treats a wounded American soldier, the outcome of which is both heartbreaking and morally profound in the way it underlines the entire point of the film. Both Japanese and American soldiers have mothers who write letters encouraging their sons to “do what is right, because it is right” and that is what both sides believed they were doing.

However, despite showing their humanity, Eastwood does not flinch from depicting the patriotic code of honour that caused countless Japanese to commit suicide rather than surrender. One particularly grisly sequence where soldiers in a cave blow themselves up with hand grenades neatly links in with a scene from Flags of our Fathers where the remains of the same soldiers are discovered by American troops. Speaking of which, it hardly needs to be said that this is a graphically violent film, but none of the blood and gore is gratuitous.

Clint Eastwood once again demonstrates his superlative old-school skills as a director. His straightforward, no-nonsense approach is always a breath of fresh air in a market saturated by “attention-span-of-a-goldfish” pacing and whiplash MTV 18-frame cut editing. By allowing the audience time to get to know the characters in the leisurely opening section, the subsequent tragic vignettes within the battle are all the more poignant. The battle scenes themselves, although effective, are relatively brief and the film is all the better for it. Instead of opting for endless spectacular visuals, Eastwood concentrates on his character’s individual stories, punctuated by the occasional brief but well-deployed flashback.

Iris Yamashita and Crash writer/director Paul Haggis provide an excellent spare screenplay, based on Tadamichi Kuribayashi’s book of transcripts from a cache of letters written by Japanese soldiers that was recently found buried on Iwo Jima. Cinematographer Tom Stern gives the film a dark, stylish look with appropriately muted colours (a war film convention ever since Saving Private Ryan). Kyle Eastwood and Michael Stevens provide the film’s minimal but effective music score.

Ultimately, this is a superb, dramatically satisfying but quietly devastating film. The humanity of the characters resonates deeply as they joke, tell stories, and fight what they know is a hopeless battle. There is a profound sense of loss as each goes to his inevitable death and as I’ve already said, this is a war film that could one day be regarded as a classic. Please don’t be put off by the Japanese subtitles, go and see it.

Simon Dillon, March 2007.

In this day and age most of us are not used to black and white. Some of us are not used to watching films in another language, or documentaries in the cinema. There are almost none who are used to seeing bare-faced propaganda, and this film is a combination of all four, which was clearly designed to impress the German cinema-going public of 1935. And while jarring and disturbing to watch what would become one of the most evil regimes of the 20th Century promote itself so openly, I must confess to falling slightly asleep at certain points…

Hitler appointed director Leni Riefenstahl (personally, apparently) to document the Nazi party rally of 1934, so it is unsurprising that the film has a distinct political bent. What you get to see goes as follows: ranks and ranks of the amassed, newly-fortified German army, displaying both numerical and technological readiness for the years ahead (of course, watching this in hindsight must be a very different experience to how the original viewers saw it); speeches from the Nazi top brass - Hitler, Himmler, Goering, Goebbels, Hess and several you won’t have heard of unless you’re a historian all get their time in the limelight; endless shots of marching and motorcades (the afore-mentioned napping opportunities); Hitler, specifically, being treated like a superstar by all and sundry (which, of course, he was - viewers must remember that this was the man who had been vital in the re-building of Germany, and that the people he was leading had no reason at this point to suspect him of tendencies towards dictatorship - he had only been Chancellor a year in 1934) - you start to think “if only they knew” over and over again; swastikas hung liberally over every possible building; and most troubling, the Hitler Youth being instructed in the ways of the party and intoning a kind of call-and-response liturgy detailing their unwavering loyalty to country and Fuhrer.

Most reviewers give the film very high ratings, because it is done beautifully - hence its power and terrifying nature. But among the glorious overhead shots and sweeping vistas of the German army in all its glory, there were moments of boredom for me. The IMDb review says that the film defies a star rating; I can agree with this, but not for quite the same reason - what you are watching is history playing itself out, and yes, it’s been shot and edited in a certain way to make the audience feel or think a certain thing, but nothing here is fake. And if nothing else, the film is important because if we ever see a regime displaying this kind of self-promotion again, we know to be extremely mistrustful. From a Christian point of view, there are none of the usual things that would upset viewers (sex, violence, language) - but don’t expect to watch this film and not be disturbed by it to some extent.

Over a year ago we rented a movie called ‘Lagaan’, for no reason other than we were curious about Indian cinema, had seen its name/the DVD fairly well-advertised, read a couple of reviews and thought it would be interesting. Little did we know it would spark off a whole new world of cinema for us. We might be slow on the uptake on this, or just weird for getting into it at all, not being in the slightest bit Indian ourselves, but we’re coming to love these movies as we watch more.

So, for those readers for whom Bollywood means very little, here are the basics: Indian films, mostly in Hindi but with smatterings of English, with lavish colours, big musical numbers, cliched plots, very long running times, intermissions, stereotyped characters, often poetic-looking subtitles (but we’re never sure how much that’s down to translation or not - I love this aspect, especially during the songs, because the English translations don’t rhyme, so they remind me of reading Psalms or Song of Songs, particularly the love songs, naturally). I suppose the closest crossover reference points recently have been Bride & Prejudice and Monsoon Wedding, only the latter of which we’ve seen, but it was a watered down version of the real thing. I will VERY swiftly review the 3 movies we’ve seen so far, and do all subsequent ones properly…

Lagaan (Tax): down-trodden villagers in the Raj days rebel against local British cads who are imposing stringent taxes on them by challenging the Brits to a game of cricket - the Indian underdogs must gather a very inexperienced team, train and win to keep their livelihoods, basically. Wonderful, brilliant, really glad this was the first one we saw. Very charismatic leading man in Aamir Khan, and genuine tension at the end.

Kuch Kuch Hota Hai (Something’s happened to my heart): Rahul and Anjali are best friends at college, but she is a tomboy and he doesn’t realise she loves him. Rahul gets married to pretty girl Tina who bears him a daughter but dies in childbirth - they name the girl Anjali, and she, 8 years later, becomes determined to reunite her father with the love of his former life. Again, 3 great leads, especially Shahrukh Khan as idiotic charmer Rahul, but the 2 women are also very good in their roles. It looks dated at first, but that’s because A) it was released in 1998 and B) it’s to do with events taking place at the end of the 80s, at least in the first half.

Dil to Pagal Hai (The Heart is Crazy): same actor, same character name, more or less the same character. Khan is this time a theatre director whose leading dancer (who’s in love with him) breaks her heel, and he must search for a replacement. He finds the perfect girl, and they begin to fall in love, even though she is engaged to her childhood sweetheart. Jealousy and dancing abound, in a slightly weaker film, and yet the great numbers are GREAT. Khan seems to play the same character each time, but is still worth watching.

We love these films cos they’re fun, lively, predictable, amusing, innocent, gorgeous-looking, tuneful and, above all, different to what we normally watch.