Archive for The Wolf of Wall Street

Here Comes Mr. Jordan

Posted in FILM, Politics, Television with tags , , , , , , , , , , on January 7, 2014 by dcairns

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All images, showing the characteristic Scorsese crucifixion-triumph pose (Pupkin on TV/LaMotta on the ropes) swiped from Apocalypse Now.

Maybe a tiny bit spoiler-y? Exercise your discretion.

The only problem I had with THE WOLF OF WALL STREET really is that it’s the same story as GOODFELLAS, and the earlier film is a more stylistically varied film (fast pace but also long takes) and benefits from Scorsese’s greater intimacy with the social scene depicted. (If, as Scorsese argues, nobody but an Italian-American should have been allowed to tackle that subject, arguably a WASP should’ve helmed WOLF). But that’s largely where my quibbling ends — the movie is rambunctious and loud and relentless, and I kept wondering how it could fill its running time this way, since it seemed to have reached a climax of excess before the first hour was up, but it keeps finding reasons to move forward in propulsive bulges, reminding me of the mutated Tetsuo in Katsushiro Otomo’s AKIRA, an obscene caterpillar of psychotic bloat.

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I don’t get why this movie’s attitude to its subject should be any more controversial than GOODFELLAS’ portrayal of the gangster lifestyle, awash with blood and cocaine and tacky furnishings and delicious-looking sauces. Scorsese has clearly articulated his philosophy of showing not telling, which in the stories he chooses means not editorializing or moralizing but making a moral point apparent by being truthful about the essence of something (even while frequently fictionalizing details). So you don’t have a cop make a speech like Huston was forced to do in THE ASPHALT JUNGLE — the closest to that here is the subway scene which makes a point of contrasting the lifestyle of the honest FBI agent played by Kyle Chandler, with what we’ve already seen of Jordan Belfort/Leo DiCaprio’s world, and what we’re about to see of his soft prison time. But this, like the film’s final shot, is accomplished visually, not by making speeches. The only speeches made are to represent what the characters think or pretend they think, not to allow the filmmaker a podium. This is known as treating the audience as adults.

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Like GOODFELLAS, the film’s moral standing is perhaps compromised or tainted by the fact that its subject is still at large and benefiting from his crimes, but GOODFELLAS would seem in some way the more problematic case. Henry Hill was this gangster who apparently never killed anybody, but just happened to be there when people got killed, or was involved in jobs where most of the other participants subsequently wound up killed. He’s our storyteller, so we have to take his version of events, which doesn’t exactly paint him sympathetically but does differentiate him from his more murderous buddies. Whereas, if Jordan Belfort was guilty of more outrageous abuses than are presented onscreen, it’s hard to imagine what they could be. His only possible moral edge over Ray Liotta’s character is that Belfort tries to save his best friend from the consequences of Belfort’s stool-pigeonry. But even this is portrayed as another example of his treachery (to the FBI) and stupidity. “You just learned the two most important lessons in life: never rat on your friends, and always keep your mouth shut.” I always loved that line in GOODFELLAS, it’s so dumb: the two lessons are exactly the same thing. And are disregarded as soon as it’s convenient.

Others have also pointed out the stunning physical comedy perpetrated by DiCaprio during the quaalude abuse scene — I just have to echo that because it would be criminal not to. Flailing, writhing, attempting to walk on his shoulders while flat on his belly, the actor achieves a liquid spasticity undreamt-of by the nuttiest of professors (check out his comedy dancing too). This may be the first time Scorsese has appropriated from Jerry Lewis, even though he DIRECTED Jerry Lewis. And the pay-off to this bit involves an unreliable narrator gag in which the scene is rewritten before our eyes — a joke touched on at the outset of the film when Belfort’s Ferrari changes colour in one shot from Ferris Bueller red to Don Johnson white, because it’s important to Belfort that these details are correct. And that little CGI joke seemed to come from nowhere and vanish into nowhere, until it comes back to sideswipe your brain two hours later. VERY nice work from screenwriter Terence Winter (Boardwalk Empire).

Haven’t seen AMERICAN HUSTLE yet (I will!) so can’t comment on the other hot topic, “Which is the better Martin Scorsese movie?” Though I do have my own opinion about who has the better right to make Martin Scorsese movies.

Shit Happens

Posted in Comics, FILM, literature, Mythology with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 4, 2014 by dcairns

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THE VAMPIRE HAPPENING is a late-career travesty from Freddie Francis. It was pretty obviously going to be terrible post-synched nonsense from the off, but I kept watching, lured in by two strange, pataphysical coincidences. Firstly, the vampire lady is called Clarimonde, which is the name of the vampire in a film I made, also called CLARIMONDE. The name comes from the Hanns Heinz Ewers story I was adapting, and he got it from another story, La Morte Amoreuse, by Theophile Gautier. Having discovered that one, I pilfered a speech from it, using the beautiful translation provided by Lafcadio Hearn, thus involving three masters of the supernatural in one fourteen-minute film (or four masters if you count me. OK, four masters.)

The second coincidence occurs at the airport scene near the start of the film — European seventies horror movies are addicted to airport scenes — see also THE HORRIBLE SEXY VAMPIRE, BARON BLOOD, and especially LISA AND THE DEVIL. This is odd, since airports are the least supernatural or Gothic places in existence, although they are very seventies. Even today.

(I never thought of them as spooky until I found myself at Marco Polo Aeroport coming back from Pordenone, and it was entirely deserted. And after I had a nice chat with the man working the baggage x-ray (when they airport is quiet, these people are relaxed and fun to chat to) I was proceeding into the echoing depths of the empty air-mausoleum, and his voice boomed out of the tannoy wishing me a happy flight, by name. THAT was spooky.)

The weird coincidence though was a voice on the PA announcing the next flight to “Slabovia,” which is a fictional East European country, sort of an anti-Ruritania, invented by me for a Channel 4 education programme called The KNTV Show around thirty years after Francis made his film. So how did it end up being name-checked in THE VAMPIRE HAPPENING?

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(Belatedly, I worked out that the name used was “Slobovia,” an obsolete abusive nickname for any Eastern European backwater which I’d inadvertently come very close to using myself. Al Capp seems to have invented it in Li’l Abner.)

This intrigued me. It seemed very much as if the universe wanted me to see this film. So I watched it. It was terrible. There was a torture chamber and some sexy trees. Bad jokes. Awful acting. It ended, and I seemed to hear the universe chuckling.

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Tree porn: this is genuinely presented as if it’s meant to be sexy. The “legs” part with a creak in the breeze…

Still, photographically it’s often splendid, as you’d expect from Francis — the location is magnificent and he captures it in rich, deep, dark hues. The happening itself is chaotic and ugly, though — a handheld riot of fake fangs and fake tits. The script is embarrassing, with Ferdy Mayne repeating his count bit from THE FEARLESS VAMPIRE KILLERS but with horrible material — you feel bad for him. I can’t quite work out FF’s attitude to the bucketloads of nudity he’s required to show: either he had contempt for it and just ladled it on with a weary, “You want flesh? Here you go!” approach, or else like Ken Russell he was uncritically keen on the female form and so didn’t exercise any quality control. Quantity over quality. This works in THE DEVILS — goes towards realism — but seems defective in a brainless exploitation flick.

Still, the flopping, goose-bumped nudies cavorting through Francis’s drafty castle are some kind of antidote to the cascade or airbrushed centrefolds who tumble headlong through THE WOLF OF WALL STREET, seeming strangers to body hair and even pores. Even a shit film can induce a kind of nostalgia for when sex objects were human.

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