Archive for Fifty Shades of Grey

Gone for a Burton

Posted in FILM, Mythology, Politics with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 18, 2015 by dcairns

vlcsnap-2015-08-18-11h17m23s202

RIP Jack Gold. In a twist of fate the protagonist of THE MEDUSA TOUCH would have mordantly approved of, the veteran director’s passing was completely drowned out by the posthumous panegyrics in praise of Uggie, the dog from THE ARTIST, whose euthanizing was announced the same day. I suspect film history will eventually balance itself and the director of THE BOFORS GUN will come to be regarded again as a more significant figure than the one-hit Jack Russell Terrier.

I was wary of approaching THE MEDUSA TOUCH as, though undeniably a piece of seventies sci-fi, I recalled it also being a piece of crap, and perhaps unsuitable viewing if I wanted to say nice things about Gold. (I met Gold, only last year, when Edinburgh Film Fest screened THE RECKONING. He was very sweet, very sharp, and seemingly in the best of health.) Fiona, on the other hand, DID deny it was science fiction (I guess because either telekinesis isn’t real, in which case it’s fantasy, or it is real, in which case it’s social realism) and at any rate its status as crap outweighed any genre attributes. She never met the lovely Mr. Gold.

BUT! I am delighted to report that the movie is a lot less crap than I remember it. It has two really weak moments that had coloured my recollections, plus another one I’d forgotten, but it also has a lot to enjoy, in a modest, unpretentious, daft way.

vlcsnap-2015-08-18-11h17m44s154

Gold co-produced the film with his editor. the great Anne V. Coates (LAWRENCE OF ARABIA, THE ELEPHANT MAN, OUT OF SIGHT, and Gold’s THE BOFORS GUN…and, at ninety, FIFTY SHADES OF GRAY if you can believe that) and it’s an editor’s film — one of its pleasures is the way it enfolds flashbacks within flashbacks, interviews within interviews. I’m imagining Gold and Coates meticulously plotting this all out in advance. French flic on exchange in London investigates the bludgeoning of Richard Burton, prophet of doom, by talking to his shrink, Lee Remick. She introduces flashbacks in which Burton tells her he can cause disasters with the power of his mind (case in point: STAIRCASE), and he thus leads into deeper flashbacks where we see this happening.

Coates sticks to the principles of Direct Cutting which serves her so well when T.H. Lawrence blew his match out and made the sun rise in the desert. frequently she cuts to a reverse angle in mid-conversation to reveal that the person looking back is a different one from who we expected, and we’ve now shifted time zones. Gold will even pan 180º back in time without a cut. For a legendary bad movie, it’s stuffed full of intelligent and elegant film storytelling.

vlcsnap-2015-08-18-11h13m30s169Lino Ventura, ace detective.

These reminiscences lead to Bad Moment Number One, the death of young Burton’s parents, nudged off a White Cliff of Dover by a runaway jalopy. This wasn’t as terribly directed as I remembered it — in fact, it’s served up fairly convincingly. The problem may be that such a scene cannot be rendered horrifying (especially when the parents are horrible caricatures out of Roald Dahl — they might as well get trundled flat by an outsize peach). To make it dramatic, Gold gives us Staring Boy, Low Angle of Car Slipping its Brakes, POV of Car pushing in on Parents, POV of Parents Staring at Looming Car… it all feels overdone, and goofy, because it’s a silly accident, without even the dignity of a FINAL DESTINATION atrocity pile-up. I tried imagining it all played in long shot over the boy’s shoulder, but that seemed comical too, like one of those AIRPLANE comedy-business-in-background routines.

vlcsnap-2015-08-18-11h19m08s222

Meanwhile the film moves on, with Burton exterminating all and sundry with his gloomy gaze, and the cast list heaps up enjoyable hams. Michael Hordern has a great bit as seedy medium, Alan Badel is a silky lawyer, Philip Stone a bashed bishop, getting punished for his poor parenting skills in Kubrick’s films. Harry Andrews and Gordon Jackson compete with Burton and Ventura for the coveted Big Face Award. Derek Jacobi turns up to report a mysterious anecdote about Burton and a tramp which is never bloody well explained. I’m quite cross about that.

But the next really bad bit is a plane crash — the film has received a fair bit of stick for Brian Johnson’s special effects, but I’m inclined to blame Gold and Coates a bit here. the key with special effects is not just to get great material, obviously, but to exercise judicious quality control so no bad material slips in to spoil the effect. With Coates’ crosscutting, the jumbo jet striking a tower block yields some very effective pyrotechnics. But the early shots simply showing the plane flying over London are pathetic. Making the toy plane fly straight across frame from screen right to screen left is a terrible bit of staging, exposing the artifice as surely as if they’d spotlit the wires holding it up. It could be argued that, with slow seventies film stock and airspace safety regulations, they couldn’t simply film a real plane. But what does a real plane at night look like? Like a blinking tail-light! A cheaper, more convincing special effect could not be imagined.

vlcsnap-2015-08-18-11h17m56s18

Oh, and this is supposed to be Burton’s POV. He must live in a very hi-rise indeed.

I had forgotten the plane, but I vividly remembered the crumbling of Westminster Cathedral. As a boy, I laughed hysterically as a church bell bounced off a church official. Not because I was naturally evil-minded, although that is a possibility, but because I knew even then that the physics were all wrong. A bell that size wouldn’t be remotely deflected by a chap standing under it, even if he were Lino Ventura. The chap would simply fold up and the bell would continue on into the flagstones and then maybe a bit further.

It’s a real shame, because that one shot spoils a thoroughly convincing housequake, seamlessly blending location, set and miniature. Admittedly, it’s the worst kind of movie disaster, the kind you CHEER ON, rather that saying “Oh the humanity!” (as in A NIGHT TO REMEMBER and even bits of TITANIC). We were sincerely regretful that Harry Andrews managed to stop the Queen entering the Abbey in time to get a bell dropped on her. This nihilistic glee is made OK by Burton’s philosophising, a bunch of anti-establishment rants which are all, broadly speaking, on the money, if a little jejeune.

vlcsnap-2015-08-18-11h16m03s146

The script is by Jack Briley who also penned CHILDREN OF THE DAMNED and thus knew a thing or two about giving someone a very hard stare indeed — the plot is all business, with little time for characterisation but the starry cast seize any moments they can.

who

Jack Gold directed another 70s sci-fi opus, WHO? in which a scientist loses his face and fingerprints in an accident in Russia, and when he’s returned with a new, cybernetic face, the US authorities can’t decide if it’s really him. But, on the plus side, he can store food in his cheeks.

I’d like to see WHO? again sometime — it’s based on a proper sci-fi book by Algis Budrys (great name!) and has an affecting performance from Joe Bova as Chubby-Cheeks the Tin Woodsman.

Advertisements

Breathing Life Into A Turd.

Posted in FILM, literature with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 22, 2015 by dcairns

Fiona went to see FIFTY SHADES OF GREY. Here is her report, which contains language. From the outset.

 ***

As I staggered, stupefied, out of a screening of Fifty Shades Of Grey, accompanied by the ‘monstrous regiment of women’ a friend of mine had organized into this group activity , which I’d convinced myself was an anthropological experiment, the slightly confused words falling from my lips were, “Dakota Johnson really breathed life into that turd.” Pausing to think about that statement, I realized I was mixing my metaphors like crazy, except only the first part of the sentence was a metaphor and the second part was…a word. A strange coincidence, bearing in mind the fact that EL Wisty James can barely construct a sentence at the best of times. And, is breathing life into a turd something you really want to achieve? According to attendance figures and box office for this fecal behemoth lumbering through the world’s multiplexes, it’s well worth it, but this reanimated jobby is very different from South Park‘s happy little bowl-lurker, Mr Hankey The Christmas Poo.

Mrhankey

Mr. Hankey in his red room of pain

I’m usually cheered to see Mr Hankey, with his toothsome smile, inviting wave and cry of “Hi-Di-Ho!” This example of human waste, excreted from the mind of EL James/Erica Mitchell on to a Blackberry, and hence, into the homes of most people around the world, instead fills me with a creeping dread much like that experienced by characters in an HP Lovecraft story.

Writing erotic fiction. A guide.

“But what of the film adaptation you started talking about at the beginning of the opening paragraph?” I hear you mewl. Well, it’s glossy. Very glossy. Many years ago I used to regularly purchase a magazine called, hilariously, Living etc, centering on interior design. That’s exactly what this film is like, with the ‘etc’ meaning, watered down, misunderstood, vanilla BDSM for people who don’t read books. I’d like to amend John Waters’ advice about not fucking people who don’t read books. Don’t fuck people who read EL James. I’m deadly serious here, because her message is not sexy, it’s toxic. Back to the film.

Sam Taylor-Johnson directs this tosh extremely well, with a self-awareness of its inherent ridiculousness that it doesn’t deserve. She regularly dips a toe into parody with a tv commercial style of shooting and grabs the comedic moments to her bosom. And there ARE deliberately funny moments. Notably the contract negotiation scene, (props to cinematographer Seamus McGarvey for the sumptuous look of the whole thing) but even that can’t be saved from Mitchell’s tiresome insistence on her dreadful dialogue being included as much as possible. When Ana expresses an interest in winding up the meeting, Christian tells her that her body is saying something different. “There is a blush on your cheek.” But how can he tell when everything’s orange?

grey2

Taylor-Johnson apparently wanted to approach this as a dark fairy tale, while Mitchell saw it as an epic bonk-buster. Taylor-Johnson and adaptor Kelly Marcel’s sensibility creeps in with the inclusion of a scene with a hung over Ana waking up at Christian’s place with a painkiller, a glass of water, and a note that reads. ‘Eat Me. Drink Me.’ I don’t believe Mitchell has the imagination to write that, so I’m assuming it’s down to Marcel. Not exactly subtle, but it’s there. (Correct me if I’m wrong and it is in the book, but I’d bet my eye teeth it isn’t.) They try to take the curse off it in other areas too. “Laters baby,” has been turned into a recurring joke, a phrase first uttered by Christian’s brother, which he then uses ironically. There is no Inner Goddess and there are no “Holy craps!” although there is a breathy “Holy shit,” as Ana exits Christian’s office building in a downpour, holding her face up into the rain, bowled over by his money charisma. Why do we keep coming back to excrement? Don’t answer that.

fifty-shades-grey

To paraphrase Sarah Miles in White Mischief, “Not another fucking beautifully composed and lit shot.”

The screening itself had the odd atmosphere of a Hen Night. And beforehand I’d mused that this film might be a first. A commercial piece of cinema about sexuality, written by women, directed by a woman and appealing to a core audience of women. I was assured by the other attendees that there were plenty of people lapping this stuff up, talking excitedly amongst themselves and generally having a great time. We weren’t among them. When Dornan does his tedious, sad, nude piano playing schtick I muttered, “For god’s sake. He’s like The Phantom Of The fucking Opera without the organ.”

Montydone_1443906c

Jamie Dornan

(Thanks to Kim for pointing out this connection.)

He really is organless, because although wide-eyed, lip-biting ingenue Dakota Johnson gets everything out,  Jamie Dornan is restricted to a naked, cigarette-burned chest and buttocks.  Now, it’s not like I want the screen to be awash with cocks (Or do I? A question for another day) but I would like some parity. At one point there’s an utterly bizarre flash frame of ‘someone’s’ pubic area (not Dornan’s, because he signed a ‘no complete nudity’ clause) reminding me of the insert of a nob (“Ooh err!”) in Fight Club.

Fight-Club-Hidden-Frames1

And so to the actors. Dakota Johnson has been on the receiving end of universal praise for her expressive naturalness and I’m in agreement. She brings believability to the unbelievable. Not conventionally beautiful, she has adorable little bags under her eyes, a slightly wonky nose and a sensual mouth. The camera loves her. The camera’s a bit unsure about Jamie Dornan but it might give him a call next weekend if it doesn’t have anything on.  Now, I’m aware that Dornan is the Psycho Du Jour due to The Fall, but not having seen that, or indeed, anything he’s been in, I was completely bemused by his flat, lifeless performance. To be fair, the script is mainly atrocious. Who is Christian Grey? According to this film he’s a super-rich fetus in a suit with a flying license and a predilection for kinky sex. Not much to base a performance on. BUT, and now we get to the important stuff. He has a ‘back story’, it’s what’s made him into the cypher he is today, and it’s not pretty. “I’m fifty shades of fucked up.” he complains. But do you really have to be fucked up to be into BDSM? The truth is you don’t. It’s a desire, probably hard wired into the brain and reinforced by environment, and when practiced by consenting adults, is not a mental illness to be cured by having a ‘normal’ romantic relationship, and the insinuation by Mitchell that it is, is downright insulting. In fact everything she does is insulting. Her utter contempt for her readership. Her congratulatory self-aggrandizement and her complete absence of self-awareness. No wonder Taylor-Johnson doesn’t want to work with her again. The news yesterday that she will be adapting her own work for the sequels must have the execs at Universal and Focus shitting their little panties, because she can’t write a sentence let alone a screenplay and she’s never had an original thought in her life.

Fifty Shades Of Grey started life as Twilight fan fiction, but there’s an even earlier film it draws upon heavily, Steven Shainberg’s Secretary (2002), based on a short story by Mary Gaitskill and adapted by Erin Cressida Wilson.

spader

The original Mr Grey

Secretary is also the story of a BDSM relationship but unlike Fifty Shades, our female protagonist, Lee, genuinely ENJOYS the games she plays with Mr Grey/Spader, while Ana seems to put up with Christian’s ‘singular tastes’ in order to keep her man. When she reaches her limit, she storms out of his house in tears. This should be the end of the story, but there are a further two books/films in which she partially ‘cures’ him and they live happily ever after in a socially sanctioned marriage with children. Pardon me while I have a strange interlude in which I imagine Mitchell drowning in a vat of Nutella, her favorite snack. Now Lee and Mr Grey also get married, but the wonderfully unconventional coda (SPOILER ALERT) finds her tied to a tree in her wedding dress being rogered senseless by Grey and loving every second of it! This is true consent. Ana doesn’t consent to Christian selling her car behind her back or having him stalk her, turning up at places and events he hasn’t been invited to. This is obsessive nonsense. In fact it’s abuse. Mitchell, even when she knew her witterings were turning into a money-making concern, wasn’t the least bit interested in properly researching the BDSM lifestyle. What she peddles is Harlequin Blaze like romantic fiction with rough sex, pop psychology and a writing style that makes Dan Brown look like Dostoyevsky. These are quite simply the worst books ever published, in any medium, aside from possibly, the Cum For Bigfoot series, (Yes. They’re exactly what they sound like) which also makes a bloody fortune, but film studios didn’t engage in a bidding war for them. She’s the kind of woman who makes me ashamed to be female. I’m all for women making successful careers. I have a lot of respect for Taylor-Johnson. She has talent and she’s worked for her now elevated position, all while navigating extreme illness and personal crises. Mitchell on the other hand, wrote a load of old rubbish on her phone on the underground on her way to and from work and has created an empire. An empire of ‘holy crap’.

And now, something for the ladies.