FILM REVIEW: Mission: Impossible - Rogue Nation

The latest entry in the long running film series is a taut, tantalising cocktail of numerous identities, kinetic thrills and visual theatrics

At their best, the Mission: Impossible movies have slickly channelled the tone and tempo of Alfred Hitchcock and James Bond, tales of ordinary people in extraordinary situations to go with the locations, action, gadgets and girls we so often expect in the spy genre. When not drowned in directorial ego (see: the second film), style overtaking substance (the second film again) or the look of over-budgeted television (see: the all-too-Alias third film), the series spreads its wings and soars high and true with a uniquely satisfying edge.

In the fifth entry, Rogue Nation, the intimate intensity of the first movie and tongue-in-cheek excitement of the fourth movie are retained, if not enhanced. But this may be the first time the series has really flexed its visual and theatrical muscles; and it works brilliantly.

It's no coincidence, for me, that the U2 line of Vienna's underground railway plays an important part in our heroes meeting up for the traditionally effective night-at-the-opera set piece. Through transportation, both the undercover nature of spy work and the history of this film series are referenced: remember when Adam Clayton and Larry Mullen's turbulent adaptation of Lalo Schifrin's immortal theme tune re-raised the Mission: Impossible curtain in 1996, a mere year after Bono and the Edge penned the theme tune that saw Pierce Brosnan open the door on a brand new era for another famous spy?

Two decades later, James Bond and Tom Cruise's Ethan Hunt have come full circle, finding themselves in an old and new world where none can sleep: how fitting is it that Turandot's Nessun Dorma - "None Shall Sleep" - is both the operatic and thematic centrepiece of this film? To put it another way, U2 reminds us of what was then, and what is now, while Nessun Dorma is fully reflective of the film's mood. It's also pretty reflective of the state of the Impossible Missions Force in Rogue Nation.

Faced with an unexpected death and a shocking revelation, Ethan Hunt must go on the run and into hiding when he and the IMF are deemed surplus to requirements and dissolved into the CIA after one too many brushes with danger. Once relied upon, they are now viewed as a hindrance. Such is the nature of the film's bureaucrats, who disregard the need for vigilantism, and will later seek to justify using it themselves when they believe they have no other choice.

Except perhaps they do. This universally established message, that of people forever seeking to rationalise their actions for the sake of either maintaining an image of control or achieving their personal goals, runs throughout the course of the movie, and reaches its apex when the quietly yet deceptively unassuming Attlee (Simon McBurney) remarks that there are no allies in statecraft, only common interest. Is his manner, for better or worse, relating to the underestimated, enigmatic prime minister of the same name who was renowned for substance over style? Judging by his character, it's quite possible.

What's definite is that the whole IMF have no choice to be fugitives. Or at least Hunt has to be hunted down. And what happens from there on in delights both body and brain. Pace, after all, is key when your protagonist both is and is played by the perpetual “man on the run”. Ethan Hunt is the prototypical Tom Cruise role: cool, calm and collected with sporadic, well-timed quips or emotional outbursts. It's a polarizing persona, either the perfect fit or an incompetent irritation, depending on Cruise's choice of collaborator.

Fortunately, Cruise has worked with a series of high profile and top notch directors, and Christopher McQuarrie is no exception. McQuarrie's Usual Suspects screenplay set a relatively recent benchmark for talky thrillers about conning and being conned, with an indelible mistaken identity twist. That is essentially what the M:I series is about; usual suspects in unusual situations, with Ethan Hunt and the film's requisite girl or femme fatale in the most unusual situations of them all. Here, we have the none-too-subtly named Ilsa Faust, played by the alluring Rebecca Ferguson: it's not revealing much to say that a key part of her personality is unveiled in Casablanca, and she's symbolically made a deal with the devil.

But in the hands of McQuarrie and producer JJ Abrams, such on-the-nose character naming is crafty rather than clunky. Knowing his actors' strengths, Abrams gives them plenty of time and space to be expressive and effective amongst nifty visuals and tense action. Be he a slacker, policeman, overgrown child or skilled engineer, Simon Pegg's characters are often defined by energetic loyalty, and his Benji Dunn is no different, while Jeremy Renner continues to wittily and affably evolve beyond his Daniel Craig-lite image. Rogue Nation has the ideal amount of heart, soul and drive for its cast, script and even locales, being flippant, yet fierce, silly, yet suspenseful, and improbable, yet irresistible. It's deceptively simple, tantalisingly swift and - thanks to ace DP Robert Elswit - strikingly beautiful. I loved it. Read more...

FILM REVIEW: Inside Out

Pixar's latest seems like a routine animated romp, but it may well be the most important film of the summer

At its core, Inside Out is really nothing new: the Typical Pixar tale of a mismatched pair forced to bond on an adventure of inner and outer discovery, with a supporting cast of literally colourful characters. But Inside Out may also be the first Pixar film where the plot itself, appealing though it is, generally takes a back seat. By nature, the popular animated film company's features have been a mixture of postmodern neuroticisms and coming-of-age stories, and while Inside Out is no different in that regard, it offers far more than you might expect. Think of it as a story of character development inside and outside the human head packed with thrills, laughs and plenty of food for the brain.

It's not so much brain food as brain fuel that is the central focus of Inside Out. Joy (Amy Poehler), Sadness (Phyllis Smith), Disgust (Mindy Kaling), Fear (Bill Hader) and Anger (Lewis Black) are the five living, breathing parts of the emotional spectrum inside the mental "headquarters" of the soon-to-be-teenage Riley Anderson (Kaitlyn Dias). Imagine a variation on Beano's Numskulls comic except with more colour, vibrance and depth: these headquarters house Riley's core memories, which in turn constitute five “islands of personality”, including one for friendship and one for family.

When Riley is forced to relocate from her happy home in Minnesota to San Francisco after her father gets a new job, Joy begins working overtime to ensure that Riley remains happy, with neither she nor the other emotions understanding the relevance of Sadness. That lack of understanding will get both Joy and Sadness into trouble and force them to go on a Pixarian adventure of discovery throughout the entire body: an exciting, eye-opening and even horrifying quest.

For Joy, while well-intentioned, is not all that far removed from a self-help Manic Pixie Dream Girl. She primarily believes that it is solely her responsibility to keep Riley happy while unfortunately forgetting, or even ignoring, that part that conflicting emotions play in building and sustaining character.

Appealingly simple though it would seem to separate one's primary emotions into five separate colours and one's personalities into a series of islands, it would also be reductive to think it can always remain this way. You cannot pigeon hole a human being into a solitary emotion, or even five: we are far more mixed up and uncertain of ourselves, as the film eventually proves.

It is painful to learn that in striving to make others happy, we forget that what we perceive will make them happy is not what will actually make them happy. Pete Docter has grasped this, in the form of a children's adventure, and skilfully dramatised it without losing sight of the plot-driven excitement and humour that Pixar are so good at. 

Riley's "brain people" are in for a rude awakening as their host grows up fast and they are forced into circumstances beyond their control. Joy learns that her lack of pragmatism is a stumbling block, and arguably more troubling than Sadness's desire for attention. Believing that anything is possible is one thing, not being realistic is another, and Joy's inability to listen is more detrimental to her, headquarters and Riley than she thinks. Similarly, the other emotions are cursed by pigeon holed narrow mindedness: Disgust is the prototypical deadpan snarker, Fear is your average pre-punch George McFly, and Anger is the Biff, he who is only too keen to lay physical and emotional biffs through Riley's psyche until he learns the error of his ways.

(Spoiler alert.) The "death" of an exceptionally colourful imaginary friend makes Inside Out richly cathartic. His "sacrifice", the epitome of letting go childish playthings and opening one's eyes to the complications of teenage years, seems to contradict the film's message in the closing credits, that we should stay children forever. That is, until you view it from Joy's perspective: while she will continue her mission of making Riley happy, she will now do so with a newly sober outlook that retains the memory of childhood lost without using it as a crutch. Everyone is shaped by their upbringing: the challenge is to reflect on it for the better and not dwell on it for the worse, as the elderly protagonist of Docter's Up finds when he eventually lets go of the past and embraces his new found future.

The grim resonance of Inside Out arises from the initial idea itself, the horror that emotions can not only be minimised but reduced to a series of systematic technicalities as opposed to the human spontaneities they ought to be. It is a frightening reflection of societal planning, how often luck and adventure appear to be forgotten because we like to believe we're in control. Everything in Inside Out is symbolic, and everything has a message, which may well make it the most thematically ambitious movie that Pixar have ever produced. Just as well, then, that it's a thoroughly enjoyable one too. Read more...

FILM REVIEW: Song Of The Sea

The price of putting the needs of the many ahead of the needs of the few is exquisitely illustrated in Tomm Moore's spectacular animated film

An intimately affecting Close Encounter beneath and above the ocean waves, Tomm Moore's spectacular Song Of The Sea is not so much about the mysterious and interesting creatures within it, but rather how people of all ages adapt, or attempt to adapt, in the presence of the unexpected. It's another undisputed triumph for Newry-born Moore, whose Kilkenny-based Cartoon Saloon earned an Oscar nomination for attuning their hand-drawn talents to the secret of the legendary Book Of Kells in the late noughties.

They are equally, if not more, at home with the look, feel and most importantly the heart of their characters in this scenario; the results, which secured another Oscar nomination, are simply astounding, touching on the real world-fantasy world parallels of a Pan's Labyrinth and the soulful, sensitive exploratory themes of a Where The Wild Things Are, while always ringing fresh and true.

It's late 1980s Ireland, and lighthouse keeper Conor (voiced by Brendan Gleeson) is still reeling from the disappearance of his wife Bronach (voiced by Lisa Hannigan) who strangely vanished after giving birth to their now mute, six-year-old daughter Saoirse. Her brother Ben (voiced by David Rawle), cannot cope with the attention his little sister is receiving, and Moore does a fine job of highlighting why Ben is unwilling and unable to accept Saoirse as part of the family. Because her arrival coincided with their mother's departure and took the focus away from Ben, he has become consumed by bitterness.

When he pushes Saoirse's face into her birthday cake before she has even had a chance to blow out the candles, it is a painful reminder of how jealousy and rigidity can damage one's childhood. And Ben's rigidity will be tested to the full when he and Saoirse are forced to move to Dublin with their not-very-fun-loving grandmother (voiced by Fionnula Flanagan) whose appearance and presence are a very clear reflection of what's to come.

For Saoirse, like her mother, is a white Selkie: a human over water but a seal under it. Her discovery of a white sealskin coat, and her initial dive into the sea, allows her to realise her true self and opens up numerous narrative and thematic strands. Prior to her find, Ben has frightened her by telling her a scary, if true, story: yet the very moment he sees how terrified Saoirse is, he immediately apologises. He must surely realise by this stage that the silent Saoirse cares for him, but he doesn't want to admit any hint of a connection, lest he be seen as weak. Because he is so young the true value of family hood has not yet dawned on him, although it will.

It already weighs heavily on Conor, and that is why he is so willing to discard the magical coat and singing shell bequeathed to his children by their mother. Never mind the excitement that these items may bring; Conor has already lost one woman in his life to the sea, and he's not going to lose another. Hence his reluctant decision to separate Ben and Saoirse from the lighthouse and the family dog, Cu. But the shell remains in Ben's hand, and it is here where the adventure truly begins.

Without going into too many specifics, Song Of The Sea follows the tried and trusted path of the best family movies, but in a unique manner. Ben learns to accept Saoirse, Conor finally lays the memory of his lost love to rest, and Granny learns not to be so set in her ways. At its core, the film centres around the restoration of a family; beyond that, it is about characters battling their inner and outer demons and accepting new cultures and challenges. It is told with grace, with skill, without melodrama, and within a beautifully animated backdrop which I haven't even mentioned yet! How powerful must a film be if story and character dwarf the visuals themselves?

And it is not as if these visuals aren't fascinating in their own right. Moore's seemingly two-dimensional strokes are full of life and invention, giving the art a Celtic and childlike lilt that is fully in line with the tone and the music of the film. When the journey from the family home to Dublin is briefly depicted on a childlike "map", the gap between the child's and the adult's perception of the real world is signified. When Saoirse puts on her little white coat, we feel the effect. It's hardly heresy to state that Moore's work feels more three-dimensional than anything recently put out by Pixar or Disney.

I still don't believe I've wholly done justice to Moore's filmmaking here. I love that he set the film during the 1980s, where technology was not so capable of intervening as a means of communication. I love that the crux of the film happens on Hallowe'en, where macabre sights, real or fake, are commonplace, allowing Ben and Saoirse's adventure to blend in with their surroundings. And then there's the metaphor of stone, both as a loss of emotion and a way of handling pain; in the wrong hands, it could feel hugely unsubtle, but here, it is exquisitely illustrated.

But it is arguably Song Of The Sea's denouement (spoiler warning) which raises the most interesting and troubling issue: is one's desire to reunite a family at the expense of another's desires selfless, or selfish? It is arguably a bit of both. How easy it is for we fantasy loving viewers to encourage little Saoirse to don her white coat and continue to swim around a magical, mystical undersea world of happy seals, dancing fairies and beautiful music. Adventure, excitement and spectacular visuals cannot help but tantalise the audience.

Yet there is a marked difference between what one wants and what must be. And with that in mind, Bronach's final course of action is both the logical and human thing to do: she remains a Selkie while choosing not to deny the no-longer-silent Saoirse the upbringing that she now wants and the rest of her on shore family have clearly earned. (No coincidence that Saoirse's first word is "Ben".) That, to me, is what Song Of The Sea truly highlights: the price of putting the needs of the many ahead of the needs of the few, regardless of who is the real "many" and who is the real "few".

The late Leonard Nimoy would be proud. Read more...

FILM REVIEW: Shooting For Socrates

This "football film" tries to be topical and timely but sells its cast terribly short

In analysing James Erskine's Shooting For Socrates, one has to look beyond what the film tries to do and ask why they even tried to do it to begin with. What we have here is a distinctly lightweight "historical" drama that strives for social relevance but ends up striking the wrong note on four accounts. It's a rags to riches, father and son, football and Troubles casserole that leaves either a bland or bad after taste, with a poorly thought through plot that does no justice to the cast's quality.

Set in mid-1980s Belfast and Mexico - although you wouldn't think it, given the sightings of the Hilton hotel and BT tower in the film - Shooting For Socrates tells the story of nine-year-old Tommy (Art Parkinson) growing up in a troubled neighbourhood with only his burgeoning football fandom and his wise father, Arthur (Richard Dormer), to guide and enlighten him amidst violence. Meanwhile, the Northern Ireland national team, under Billy Bingham (John Hannah), have qualified for the World Cup in Mexico, and are facing the prospect of taking on the world's best, among them a Brazil side featuring the philosophical Socrates (Sergio Mur).

Arguably, Shooting For Socrates could be much about a group of football players gunning for Socrates on the pitch as a group of terrorists focusing their lives on what they perceive Socrates' words to mean. But the film never develops this theme. Instead, the strand of young David Campbell (Nico Mirallegro, just about mastering the accent) trying to make his mark in the Northern Ireland squad is thrown in, leaving us with a film that demands more than its consciously undemanding script is willing to deal with.

While I am all for films that don't suppress their actors into their plots, that don't squeeze the life out of characters for the sake of narrative advancement and give their casts time to breathe, one should not encourage stories that give the actors almost nothing to work with. Erskine's screenplay, co-written with playwright Marie Jones, is not packed with unreasonable or ridiculous developments, but as an alternative, it offers nothing that we haven't seen before, or no one that we can care about. It comes across as clichéd, platitudinous and heavy-handed (even the death of team captain Sammy McIlroy's mother feels like a Dead Relative Ex Machina rather than the poignant moment it should be), with unconvincing recreations of football matches that capture neither the intimacy of drama nor the epic spectacle of a sporting showcase.

With the human touch of a Ken Loach or a pre-Les Misérables Tom Hooper, Erskine could have given us compelling drama in the mould of Looking For Eric or The Damned United, both of which are miles better than this hodgepodge. Instead, he skims over character in a narrative that already sells its talented cast short - and that's not merely troublesome. It's fatal. The brilliant Richard Dormer is utterly wasted, as is Bronagh Gallagher as his stereotypically stressed out wife. Fine actor though John Hannah is, his Billy Bingham is a blank slate with the wrong accent, and Nico Mirallegro fares little better, despite his best efforts. Fortunately Conleth Hill (Game Of Thrones) and Paul Kennedy (Made In Belfast) are on hand to lend humour and humanity to Jackie Fullerton and Pat Jennings respectively, at least as often as the film will let them.

Shooting For Socrates wants to be about the unifying effect of The Beautiful Game in not-so-beautiful times, but doesn't feel like it's about anything. Except, that is, a cynically calculated attempt to capitalise on the goodwill emerging from Northern Ireland's almost certain qualification for a major tournament again, exactly three decades later. Read more...

CAPSULE REVIEW: Far From The Madding Crowd

When watching Thomas Vinterberg's Far From The Madding Crowd, adapted by David "Starter For 10" Nicholls from Thomas Hardy's novel, I recalled Sunday Times critic Camilla Long's term "The Downtonisation Of Period Drama" and realised the film fitted it to a tee.

For this Far From The Madding Crowd feels as stately as Downton Abbey. It's also well mannered, well shot, well acted, well plotted and sometimes funny. Which makes it worth a look. But it doesn't quite have the emotional connectivity that separates good films from very good, or great ones.

Carey Mulligan, for example, lovely though she is, is merely an actor on screen portraying Bathsheba Everdene. She does not embody her. Ditto Matthias Schoenarts as Gabriel Oak, and the generally excellent Michael Sheen as William Boldwood. The true humanity of the film rests in Juno Temple's all too brief appearances and Tom Sturridge's turn as Sergeant Troy. Sturridge, the original William Carlisle in Simon Stephens' Punk Rock, transcends Troy's playful cockiness and becomes an unexpected force of nature.

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FILM REVIEW: Night Will Fall/Electricity

Movies about capturing and being captured stand out at Derry-Londonderry's Foyle Film Festival

A Holocaust documentary about a Holocaust documentary, André Singer's Night Will Fall centres on the challenge of witnessing and experiencing atrocity from close range, and in doing so depicts the largest mass murder in history in a starkly unfamiliar manner.

Towards the end of World War II, trained cameramen amongst British, and later Russian and American, soldiers set out to capture footage of those captured for a Sidney Bernstein documentary, one that will ultimately take almost seven decades to see the light of day. They genuinely encounter sights no one should want to see, a horrifying yet enlightening sight for them back then and for us at this moment in time.

After entering the concentration camps blindfolded, for the first time, the soldiers' open their eyes on the doll-like corpses of typhus victims. To get too close would spook out any soldier to the point of insanity; it is wisely left for the interviewed survivors, among them Schindler's List producer Branko Lustig, to document the near death experiences. When one survivor says, "You spend years preparing to die and somehow you're still here", everything about their God-like view of the Allied soldiers makes perfect sense.

From such quiet, matter-of-fact testimonies, and additional interviews with historians and those involved with Bernstein's film, Night Will Fall earns an emotional numbness to compliment its soberly frightening sights. The danger of present-day audiences becoming alienated from overexposure to the horrors is averted many times over: the sight of the SS's grave digging alone, for example, recalls the mistakes made from trying to bury the past instead of dealing with it, and the German apathy of the period harshly reflects that inaction can be even more damaging than action. Night Will Fall neither glosses over its horrors nor flatters its audience: it isn't a shocking wake up call followed by a comforting resolution, but instead strongly reminds viewers of, and draws viewers into, a cold and hellish landscape. The story of the film that didn't make it, too, gives invaluable heft to the production, extra beats to the once damaged and now healing hearts of the survivors and witnesses.

The documented oppression of the Holocaust victims finds a more individualised, closer-to-home metaphor in Lily O'Connor, the central character in Bryn Higgins' excellent Electricity. Opening with a depressing image of bodies floating in mid air, the film immediately recalls the HAL-esque "eye" that opens Matt Reeves' superb Dawn Of The Planet Of The Apes: emptiness and lack of direction amidst darkness. Lily, wonderfully played by Agyness Deyn, is all those things personified – she is an epilepsy sufferer who courageously refuses to be entrapped by either her illness or the stigma against epileptics, yet she genuinely feels she has nowhere to go.

Flashing lights make Lily ill at ease. The art in her family bedroom, at one point edgy and at other times colourful, matches her state of mind. Lily is the kind who feels suffocation in excessive confinement, a point emphasized brilliantly by extremely shaky hand-held close ups: she does not want to be a prisoner but accepts that she is a prisoner of sorts. In her world it feels like almost everyone will be there for you when you're in trouble, but your dependence on others holds you back from fully growing up. Lily has trained herself to deal with the abuse she received since her youth, but is unable to cope without support. Thus, she is alternately headstrong and helpless: attributes which come wholeheartedly to the fore when the death of her mother turns the lives of Lily and brother Barry upside down.

Once their mother's house is sold, Lily suggests that the proceeds should be split equally between herself, Barry and long-lost brother Mikey (Christian Cooke), and, despite Barry's warnings, goes on a quest to track Mikey down in London. Alas, for Lily it's a London as unforgiving as another Lily's London ("When you look with your eyes, everything seems nice, but when you look twice, you can see it's all lies") - a whirlwind of mistrust and superficiality. Relief is eventually forthcoming in the form of the equally alienated and warmly friendly Mel (Being Human's Lenora Crichlow, right at home as a sympathetic ghost in this broken shell) and from here on in – save one unfortunate, heavy-handed plot strand about a street beggar – Electricity compellingly wraps themes of friendship, fear, the need for acceptance and survival around a tautly mannered narrative. It is frighteningly and disturbingly truthful both to its central illness and to its characters, making the heart-rending and heart-warming case that while superficial acceptance is common, true acceptance, much harder to find, is invaluable. If Night Will Fall is crucial as documentation, Electricity is up close and personal – a dark, despairing near-masterpiece.

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FILM REVIEW: Testament Of Youth

The Foyle Film Festival in Derry-Londonderry opens with a torrential tapestry of turbulent events in a World War I setting

The "based on a true story" narrative in films has been tinkered with, tempered with and downright violated with enough times for any experienced viewer to take such films with more than a pinch of salt. To that extent, such films must earn their believability by creating a plausible world of their own, via strong storytelling that captures the essence but more importantly the heart of the factual characters and setting. In that respect, James Kent's first feature film, Testament Of Youth, passes the test with flying colours, attaining its goals through atmospheric authenticity, calm visual expressionism and a lead performance for the ages.

How reliable are one's memories? That's the first question director Kent appears to be asking as he and screenwriter Juliette Towhidi delve into the "Letters From A Lost Generation" that accompany the memoirs of main character Vera Brittain, played here by Swedish actress Alicia Vikander. It's a question central to the torrential tapestry of Testament Of Youth, a series of turbulent events that will shape the physical and memorial ideologies of every single character in the piece.

And when we begin, a shadow is already cast on Vera's fearful face: on Armistice Day, in November 1918. But Vera cannot join in the celebrations; she only wants peace. And she finds refuge in a painting of the Great Flood, a sharply metaphorical image that on one hand recalls loss of life in the First World War, and on the other hand, an alienated girl drowning in a sea of suffocation.

Flash back four years and Vera is emerging from a lake into a series of light-hearted sequences that reflect the idealistic dreaminess in pre-war 1910s Britain. (Britain, Brittain - surely not a coincidence?) The banter between Vera, her cheerful friend Victor (Colin Morgan) and her brother Edward (Taron Egerton) is pleasant and unaffected, sharply countering her slightly controlling father (Dominic West), a man fearful of losing his daughter to the Oxford education she so desires and, later, his son to the war. It's a clever, unforced illustration of freedom of expression vs. the status of the pater familias, and rings true to the time.

It is Vera's future fiancé Roland (Kit Harington), a bit of a poet himself, who convinces Vera's father to let her sit the entrance exam, and the contrasting moods throughout their courtship and Vera's path to university are explored elegantly. Blatant reaction shots are eschewed in favour of free-flowing if sometimes pointed interactivity. Vera tells Roland: "(Your poem) was a little dry, as if you were holding back. I couldn’t find you in it." Criticism hurts, whether the recipient deems it necessary or not, yet Roland takes it as a challenge, a means to improve his poetry - the very gift that the war will rob from him. It's painful to look upon the film in hindsight and recall Vera admitting to Roland, "I've never known where I fit". For later on, neither will he.

The dangers of the real tragedy being superseded by the fake one, that it will be more about a couple's fortunes, or one woman's fortunes, than those of everyone else during the war, are removed by a tight, thoughtful, sure handed approach to in which we experience absolutely everyone's suffering: on both sides. Put Kaiser Wilhelm II's immortally incorrect idiom in context ("You will be home before the leaves have fallen") and everything about the emotions before logic, feelings before consequences ideology of this Testament Of Youth, opportunism without oppression, breaks down and becomes clear.

In all of this, Vera is our focal point: if Alicia Vikander may not be the most experienced or even gifted actor in a parade of stars (Dominic West, Emily Watson, Miranda Richardson), she is pivotal. Vikander is the heart, the fulcrum, the quietly intimate and determinedly deep soul that paints growing, gripping tableaux of terror before our eyes. Moments of relief are few as Vera and Roland lose sight of their dreams, the horrors of war damaging their formerly wistful hearts and minds in different ways: Roland to protect both Vera and his masculinity, Vera to protect others by becoming a nurse. If Roland's damaged head overtakes his heart, Vera's wounded heart overtakes her head. It is a staggering dichotomy with shattering outcomes for both of them, and many more.

By war's end, populations have been pierced and priorities skewed as Vera resembles the broken shell we saw at the start of a journey we have felt every single minute of. As Vera's future colleague and friend Winifred Holtby will tell her: "All of us are surrounded by ghosts. Now we have to learn how to live with them." This defines Testament Of Youth as a sort of lost paradise - a Paradise Lost, perhaps? - for the current, commemorative generation, a burden it shoulders with admirable grace and remarkable skill.

The Foyle Film Festival runs until Sunday November 23 in Derry-Londonderry. Check out www.foylefilmfestival.org for more information. Read more...

CAPSULE REVIEW: Lucy

Tradition, isn't it? Killer sci-fi concepts, sensical or nonsensical, turned into Hubba Bubba? Or simple action flicks pretending to be intelligent? Tempting though it would be to bracket Luc Besson's Lucy as the latter, there is at least some mileage to be gained from its breezy running length and its neat or ridiculous idea (take your pick). Scarlett Johansson's titular title character accidentally inhales a large quantity of (magic? might as well be) drugs and turns into a strangely fascinating breed of Wonder Woman. Morgan Freeman is no more than Freeman (TM), genuine cleverness is sacrificed for simple chases, simple emotion and even more simple exposition, the CGI is cheap, the plot holes are numerous... And yet. And yet. There is something to be said for the Scarlett Johansson effect, her penetrative pout, drooping gaze and creepily monotonous do-I-believe-you-or-not tone working extremely well in these surroundings. If you must see Lucy, see it for her... although Her would be an infinitely better bet as a whole.

 

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FILM REVIEW: Boyhood

Richard Linklater's magnum opus is a tale of loss, love and livelihood

There are two ways to look at Richard Linklater's Boyhood. You could see it as the real-time life story it promotes itself as, a unique, psychological and philosophical exploration of the ups and downs of readjustment when growing up and getting older. Alternatively, you could just shrug your shoulders and dismiss is as "another coming of age flick" with a gimmick, a showcase for pretentious, self-consciously artsy natter. It's a familiar trend in Linklater's love-hate work; you either buy his characters or you don't. And the likelihood is that in Boyhood, you will.

The mere concept for Boyhood is strong enough in itself. The idea of filming an autobiographical narrative through a child's eyes is not novel, but the method is: a twelve year shoot with the same cast. Central to the story is Mason, played by Ellar Coltrane, his sister Samantha, played by Lorelei (daughter of the filmmaker) Linklater, his mother Olivia, played by Patricia Arquette, and his natural father Mason Sr, played by Linklater regular Ethan Hawke. The parents are already divorced when the film begins; what follows is a simultaneous eye into parenthood and childhood, with the emphasis (perhaps unsurprisingly) on the males (more on this later). It's Good Spielberg minus Bad Spielberg: absent fathers, broken families, learning to be responsible (or not), coming of age, bittersweet coda and all, yet more mature and less patronising.

As children who live with their mother and regularly spend time with their father, Mason and Samantha are, understandably, driven almost entirely by self-oriented interests. Mason is the perpetual, pondering, perceptive dreamer, while Samantha, as written, is a variation on any of Chloë Moretz's child characters turned Juno; the snarky, mainstream "rebel", but thankfully more genuine than either.

Because of their points-of-view, they see only what they want to see in their parents; what brings out the worst in adults without contemplating what their elders must be going through. And by relying on their POV, we develop our own POV. This is alternately heartfelt and harmful film-making. Humane though the characters may be, Ethan Hawke's wise, light-hearted portrayal of the distant, idealistic father cannot help but come across as more appealing than Patricia Arquette's stressed out mother. It feels that Linklater has gone out of his way to make his "muse" look best at everyone else's expense, until you look closer and realise the appeal's more than a little superficial. The smug calculation of an American Beauty is absent. It's really not spoiling anything to say that there's no happy reunion for the mother and father.

More interesting is the issue of control. What happens to Mason when he doesn't get the car his father promised him? Or Samantha doesn't get things her way? Though the children aren't explicitly told this, that's just the way it is sometimes, and they have to deal with it. People, especially children, like to maintain control even if it's just an illusion; and for adults, the arrival of children can turn their lives upside down. Spare a thought for Olivia; do not write her off as a shrew who fails at two marriages (she does) and stops her kids from having a good time (she doesn't try to). She is as she is because having children at such a young age reshaped her life plans, denying her of the university experience so many of us take for granted. It's no surprise that when it's finally time for Mason to leave the nest, she suffers a breakdown; having reacclimatised herself to a life of motherhood she doesn't know how she will cope without it. And then there's Mason's High Fidelity-esque relationship with the tomboyish Sheena (Zoe Graham), which (and again, it's really not spoiling anything) doesn't end happily ever after. The bonding, the beauty, the break-up; we've all been there. And how raw and real it feels too, despite its limited screen time.

Accusations of misogyny levelled at Boyhood should be rubbished; it is always apparent that Olivia is genuinely trying to be a good mother while pursuing a career. And how telling is it that Mason Sr sidesteps his son's question about whether or not he has a job when they're on a camping trip together? There is a refreshing clarity here that you don't see in a lot of films about broken families. At worst, step-parents or parental figures can be seen to use their unexpectedly, slowly blossoming bond with children for their own benefit; to enhance their self-importance and help them attain their goals at the expense of paying attention to the children's lives and future. Consider Olivia's second husband, university professor Bill Welbrock (Marco Perella) and his descent into alcoholism once he realises that the children are growing up and it will no longer be so simple to order them around; clearly unable to cope with the responsibility, he runs away from it. Boyhood is about the pleasures and discomforts of pre-adulthood, and the reluctance to leave them behind: that it speaks a little to the child and adult inside every one of us solidifies Richard Linklater's strengths as a sensitive artist.

This review also appeared on the Pulp Interest website on August 7, 2014. Read more...

FILM REVIEW: Calvary

Brendan Gleeson and John Michael McDonagh reunite for a darkly comic, intimately rewarding triumph

In 2011, I attended a Q & A with Brendan Gleeson at the Foyle Film Festival following a special screening of his hit collaboration with Martin & John Michael McDonagh, The Guard. He had spoken very positively of his working relationship with the brothers, describing them as "vigorous and hard-edged film-makers who don't tolerate sloppy writing." Tellingly, Gleeson added that he and the duo were talking about making a film "featuring a good priest living in a village that vilifies him".

This idea has come to fruition nearly three years on in Calvary, a film which retains the darkly comedic tone of The Guard but tones down its admittedly appealing broadness for something more intimately rewarding: a touching, challenging, humorous and terrifically cast character piece. Anyone polarized by the work of the McDonagh brothers – some may see their comedies as tender and light-hearted, others as overly smug and knowing – will find much more to like here.

Gleeson plays Father James Lavelle, whose tired, bearded worn out face is the ideal fit for an actor of Gleeson's stature. Someone who sees himself as too old, too wise and just downright wrong for modern life, James is living out his days like one routine slog after another. (Imagine Tommy Lee Jones' very well played Sheriff Bell from No Country For Old Men, except more human and less arch, and you get the idea.) When the film opens, on a solitary shot of James's features in the darkness, he is listening to the confession of a young man, identified by voice only, who is traumatised by the sexual abuse he received from a priest at the age of seven. A typically bored James half-heartedly treats this as a routine assignment, advising the young man to cope or learn how to live with it. But he wishes to do neither. Instead, he arranges a meeting with James on a beach the following Sunday, where James will meet his end at the hands of this unknown parishioner. James' innocence, the mystery man says, solidifies him as a more satisfying target in his eyes, a stronger way of making a point.

What is this suggesting? That a prejudice has been formed against all priests because of the misdeeds of one, a point that will be illustrated again later in the movie? If so, it ties in with Gleeson's reference to vilification, albeit of the unfair kind. And so the film proceeds, as a week in the life of Father James, with an exceptionally expressive Gleeson the centrepiece of an equally expressive supporting cast. Without a Don Cheadle-esque foil to play off, Gleeson must work harder to bring his character alive, and he successfully does so in a community where few – with the exception of a couple of females – can really be trusted.

An aging writer (M. Emmet Walsh), a troubled widow (Marie-Josée Croze of Munich fame), a bored businessman (the always excellent Dylan Moran) and a butcher (the consistently improving Chris O'Dowd) are just a series of townsfolk we encounter on the interesting journey that evolves for James and, to a slightly lesser extent, his daughter Fiona, portrayed brilliantly by Kelly Reilly. The vulnerable tenderness between James and Fiona is the beating heart of a community in which James is, as Gleeson himself has said, generally vilified by people who neither want nor truly need his help. They instead wish to be left to cope in their own way, and use James to air their own frustrations. We learn here of how reassurance or self-assurance is preferred to "correction", "self-examination" or "critical inspection", and how many are too stubborn to accept change. If anyone really changes during the film, barring James and Fiona, it is forced circumstantial change, rather than voluntary change.

Suitably, the majority of McDonagh's focus is the father-daughter bond, and there is also openness to his filmmaking that you don't find in similarly "intimate" works such as those of a Sofia Coppola or a Spike Jonze. Nor, despite sadism and violence, is there the borderline crassness of a Spielberg or Tarantino; for example, the face of Isaach De Bankolé (who viewers may remember as a villain in Casino Royale '06) can be menacing enough in itself. McDonagh places great trust in his cinematographer and his actors, his directorial flourishes sparse but sparkling. And, in Calvary, both he and Gleeson have conjured up something rather special indeed, a piece of work that simultaneously mocks and pays lip service to the qualities of the relentlessly dark, "serious movies" of modern times, whilst maintaining the enjoyment quotient.

Read more...

FILM IN RETROSPECT: Schindler's List

More than two decades on, Steven Spielberg's dream nightmare project, his "serious" magnum opus, endures as a tale of luck and war in the midst of a monstrous tragedy

If the Steven Spielberg-produced Back To The Future defined me as a film lover, then the Steven Spielberg-directed Schindler's List defined me as a film critic. Prior to my long overdue viewing of Spielberg's 1993 Oscar winner for the first time, nearly a decade ago, I had already been privy to the power of the cinematic medium as entertainment. But to me, Schindler's List was something else; it was the equivalent of the medium as educational storytelling. It was both, in Spielberg's words, "a helluva story" and what you might call "a message movie". But not quite in the way he surely intended.

In a way, Schindler's List is the Star Wars of "serious", "artistic" film-making; it is universally appreciated and transcendent in the hearts and minds of the general public not solely on merit, but also because of what it means to them. To judge it objectively would be extremely difficult, and would surely ruffle more than a few feathers; yet that is exactly what I will try to do in this retrospective piece.

The line between film "lover" and "critic" perhaps isn't as great as many of us would like to think. Critiques that Schindler’s List is basically "Jaws with Jews" or "ET in the Holocaust", while unfair, are not entirely unfounded. Were one to strip away the subject matter, the stark, black & white cinematography, the skilful, theatrical acting and the European "feel" of the film, you could be left with a typically Spielbergian drama of absent fathers & lost boys, or vice versa. But in doing so, one would also strip away what makes Schindler's List both unique and staggering; its powerful intimacy and endurance as a character study. It is a compelling tale of luck and war that is as resonant today as it was at the time of its release.

Our initial meeting with Czech-born Nazi businessman Oskar Schindler, played by Ballymena's own Liam Neeson, takes place in wartime Poland, in 1939. We are rather awed at the character's sly indifference to everything and everyone around him. He seems to take great pride in the mysterious image of superiority he's created for himself (an image delectably highlighted in one of the best introductions I've ever seen on film - see above). Jewish accountant Itzhak Stern (Ben Kingsley), is equally stunned at Schindler's apathy when Schindler hires him, explaining his plan to make a fortune through an enamelware factory. For Nazis like Schindler, the war is a great entrepreneurial opportunity. For Jews like Stern, it's a struggle to survive. That Schindler cannot at first see this baffles Stern, although really it only emphasizes how extreme self-focus can be in times of opportunity and crisis; a key cornerstone of this production.

In a narrative time period spanning all six years of World War II, Schindler's gradual transformation from war profiteer to saviour in the eyes of more than 1,100 Jewish people is chronicled, in possibly Spielberg's most theatrical approach to filmmaking. Selective close-ups, skilled camerawork and excellent cinematography place us in the shoes of every character, however significant, as the film unveils commendable richness in a prevalent "every man for himself" theme. Despite superficial appearances and repeated reminders of the violence & brutality of the era, character really is king here.

Schindler's List is a story of how people fight, struggle and sometimes succeed, albeit temporarily, in striving for their goals and in retaining their sanity in a zone of chaos, in this case World War II and the Holocaust. At one point, Schindler’s estranged wife, Emilie (Caroline Goodall) remarks that it is "luck" that makes all the difference between success and failure. Schindler himself says it's "war". Really, it's both. Even though a pre-enlightened Schindler can't bring himself to admit it, he knows that he is lucky to have the opportunity of capitalizing on being in the right place at the right time. Therefore, in context, the Jews' barely possible escapes over the course of the film make sense, hence Schindler's "thank yourselves" gesture to the survivors near the end of the film. It is apparent that this particular Frank Abagnale Jr. is not the White Saviour he seems to be; survival, as history has repeatedly told us, was more of a collaborative effort. The White Man's Burden is both centralized and deconstructed here.

A common criticism of Schindler's List is that the motives of the title character are never really revealed. But this is actually crucial to the film's success; for all the obvious lack of stimuli, there is plenty of food for thought here. By keeping Schindler relatively enigmatic, the viewer must work harder to understand him. And in this Schindler, I consistently see, through both Steven Zaillian's screenplay and Liam Neeson's performance, an attempt to mask any confusion, fear and doubt he may feel beneath a sturdy façade. Schindler positions himself as a "God" in both his Auschwitz and Brinnlitz factories, someone who knows that he cannot mingle too often or too openly with who he socializes with or who he "looks after" – otherwise, people might not find reason to believe him, or believe in him. It is telling that the final step in Schindler's conversion happens to be around the time of Valkyrie, in 1944, when a group of leading German army generals deemed the war to be unwinnable for their country. He knows he needs a safety net, a way out – and, as such, the famous list appears to be the answer to all his problems.

Yes, it is, as Schindler himself puts it, all about the "presentation" and not the "work". Recall Ronald Reagan and Bill Clinton, and how a bulk of their popularity stemmed not necessarily from their achievements, but their projection of the Great Leader image to the American people. The world is a stage, especially if you're a politician, and, like Reagan in the 1980s, Schindler is the actor playing the part. The idea that the film should have further acknowledged the likes of Itzhak Stern, Marcel Goldberg and their real-life contributions to the list, rather than treat them so fleetingly, is a valid one. But Spielberg is smart enough to know that were Schindler not the film's leading man, the list's "official" author, then the film would be deprived of its fulcrum, its vital centrepiece. This Schindler may not be a great man, but, to the people he saves, he is a great figurehead.

No less pivotal is Nazi commandant Amon Goeth, portrayed by a never better Ralph Fiennes. Like every dictatorial figure, or designated villain, he relishes his power over people, corruption be damned. Yet, like many Spielbergian central figures, even "good guys" like Indiana Jones, Roy Neary and John Anderton, he is a man forever in over his head. He cannot grasp the need for restraint and forgiveness even when Schindler tries to spell it out to him. To Goeth, the only way to prove his power is make others suffer; and his kills give him the illusion that he is becoming a better person, when he really isn't. How ironic that this man believes that "control is power" when he cannot even control himself. And how; if he looks merely concerned when he meets Jewish maid and future object of his affection Helen Hirsch (Embeth Davidtz), he looks truly beat up on the inside when Helen files his nails for him, aware that he should not be enjoying himself even though he actually is. This contrast of logic vs. emotion is visually expressive film-making at its finest, and comes to a head in a memorable and disturbing basement encounter where Goeth really unveils his frustration on Helen. It is melodramatic, but effective, adding extra weight to the moment where Goeth finally realizes that he must let Helen go.

It's evident from the start that Goeth, like Schindler, cannot bring himself to show an inkling of weakness in his environment; hence his decision to order the murder of construction foreman Diana Reiter (Elina Lowensohn) in a key scene. To him, whether she is right or not about the foundations of a building needing to be torn down (she is) is irrelevant; in his eyes, she, an "educated Jew" and a dissenter, is a threat to his authority. But even Schindler is not immune to breakdown on the inside - and this is long before the film's infamous climax. Recall when a young Jewish woman attempts to entrap his good nature through flattery, and also when he gets an unexpected visit from his wife.

Clearly, Schindler and Goeth are, in Nick Hornby's words, life's visitors; they don't want to be visited. They are men who don't know what they want, but only think they know what they want. The difference being that one stands up to be counted because he literally plays his hand correctly at the most opportune moments, intentionally or not. Goeth's respect and admiration for Schindler are never in doubt; he is just incapable of being the same person. He fails to realise that feeling powerful is not the same as being powerful.

Note that I have not for one second focused on the much-maligned "iconic" moments featuring the gun that won't fire, Stern on the train, the hose, the girl in red, the shower scene and so on. To criticise these scenes for their "offensive", "exploitative" and "Hitchcockian" intensity, as many have done, would be to miss the point, in my opinion. For to me, the value of the sequences, and indeed the entire movie, come not from what happens, but how it happens, and how the numerous characters behave according to the circumstances. The true lasting power of Schindler's List comes not from action, but from reaction.

If anything harms the film, it's a desire to have it both ways: something I'll call The Spielberg Complex. The director wants to create a documentation of the Holocaust along with telling a good story, and at times, the film is at odds with itself. I don't believe this is Spielberg's fault so much as his cultural influence, the kind that ensures he cannot tread too heavily on people's toes. When the film becomes less about the people and more about the director trying to prove a point – that he can be "serious" after all –  it runs into trouble. The filmmaker's "complex" has affected much of his work following ET, which, to this day remains the best and worst of Spielberg: joyously entertaining though it is, it shoved the Spielberg formula so firmly in place that only a handful of his films have really tinkered with it, and even then the job only gets partly done. Pre-ET, he didn't seem to let things get to him (witness the liberating, enthralling filmmaking in Duel, Jaws, Close Encounters and Raiders); post-ET, he began to care too much. If any of his post-ET films are to succeed, they must be character-driven and not plot-driven. Luckily, for both Spielberg and us, Schindler's List is the former.

Furthermore, the much disparaged "could have done more" farewell and colour epilogue, while indeed sentimental, do not offer the false sense of reassuring closure that many critics believe they do. It's admittedly common knowledge that "should have", "could have" and "would have" are overused words, and some may think that the film is telling us that it is alright to fail or underachieve, so long as we feel guilty about it afterwards. The message behind the melodrama is actually more complex and sobering.

We always aspire towards reaching a goal; but suppose you get there, and you're hit by the sudden realisation that it's not only nowhere near enough, but that the consequences - for you, your new found friends, everything and everyone around you - could be enormous. Everything has a price. The mantras of "one man making a difference" and "the family sticking together and surviving against the odds" are damaged. It wouldn't be the first, nor last, time, that Spielberg would handle such an issue: recall young Jim Graham's broken face near the end of Empire Of The Sun, or Avner Kauffman's realisation that the homeland he sacrificed everything for has rebuked him completely in Munich. The "could have done more" scene, fictional though it is, speaks to the human need for reassurance, yet, like Jim and Avner, for all the reassurance Schindler receives, he is not convinced. Nor are the Jews. Where now for them, except an Israel that will be torn by strife in the future? And where now for Schindler, except failing at his marriage and at several more businesses?

It's almost an auto-critical commentary on Spielberg's own work; like Schindler, Spielberg has achieved, to a point, spectacular things, but has the cost been worth it? It is the question on which both the moral dilemmas and critical attitudes of the film rest.

What should be in no doubt is the film's legacy as a Holocaust document. To many, Jewish names including, but not limited to, Poldek & Mila Pfefferberg, Chaja & Danka Dresner, Adam Levy and Marcel Goldberg have all become household names, encouraging research on the time period that possibly stretches beyond even what Spielberg's Shoah Foundation has achieved. If there is not enough time within the film's three hour length to fully flesh the Jews out, they feel real; as does the influence of the project they have featured in. As Alan Stone, author of "Movies And The Moral Adventure Of Life", writes: "by celebrating the few who survived, Spielberg has put unforgettable human faces on the nameless dead." Spielberg may not be a historian, but he's surely inspired generations of historians.

I like to think EMPIRE's Colin Kennedy said it best when he stated that while no film, in Itzhak Stern's words, could be an "absolute good", then by the early 1990s a popular film about the Holocaust had become "an absolute necessity". And, in Kennedy’s words, that such a film was Schindler's List is "enough to restore your faith in not just the (cinematic) medium, but also the human race itself." Read more...

We've Made It Happen: Our City Of Culture 2013

A message from the editor on the final night of a momentous year for Derry-Londonderry

My fellow City-Of-Culturistas...

This is the 92nd time I'm going to be posting to you from this website in 2013, and the last. The end of this Legenderry year, as we've liked to call it, is almost upon us. It has been a pleasure, a privilege, and a downright honour to be one of your "correspondents" in writing and photography in this city, this year. Many of you have spoken to me and said, "well done", but I could say as much to you, if not more. But before the year ends, I'd like to share some thoughts with all of you in relation to this lovely city we live in.

I can still recall when, as a slightly younger man who didn't quite know where his career was going, I first heard when Derry-Londonderry was up for this inaugural cultural honour. It was there when I realised, like no doubt many of you did at the time, that I could make a difference, and passions for both writing and photography that I once thought were on the verge of dying were reawakened.

We won the honour. We had our moment. And now, two and a half years later, the city's cultural landscape shines strong and tall in a Silver City Risen from darkness to light. A new vision and a new legacy, created by the fittingly titled Sons And Daughters of Derry-Londonderry, so many of whom swept us up in a tidal wave of musical glory near the start of this remarkable year.

That, of course, was only the beginning of a series of standout events that defined Derry-Londonderry, so good they named it twice, as a thriving arts and cultural landscape. But it was, and is, more than that, of course.

When watching Finding Nemo for what seemed like the umpteenth time recently, seven words in the screenplay truly resonated with me: "When I see you, I see home." Seven words that are worth a thousand in the context of Derry-Londonderry, for it might not have been, and still might not be, the best place in the world to everyone, but it is our place. We created it. We are in tune with absolutely everything about it: people, landscapes, landmarks and opportunities.

And to my pleasant surprise, that was exactly how Derry-Londonderry felt to just about every tourist and traveller I’ve met on my travels around the city throughout 2013. We are a City Of Culture, but we are also a City Of Community and Great Company.

During these last twelve months, I've made it my aim, in some way or another, to both develop as a cultural writer and bring you the best from the City Of Culture 2013. Last year, Si's Sights And Sounds was born, and continues to thrive today. But it never belonged to me. It belonged to you, the people who provided me with the material to write about. I spread the word, but you made the words. I was just the messenger, someone who was lucky enough to be in the right places at the right times. The real heroes of Derry-Londonderry 2013 are the people as a whole, the technicians, artists, actors, directors, writers, photographers, musicians, spectators and so on who made it happen, men and women who relayed a continuous cavalcade of sights and sounds to a global audience. Without the people, the cultural "delights" we praised would not have had the heart and soul that they undeniably did.

No doubt, you will ask me if I have regrets, and I do. The economy is one of them. As much as Derry-Londonderry has flourished on the surface, there is the clear and present fear that the city is, in reality, dancing on a volcano, and that the lack of job opportunities may force many of our great talents, be they newly found or established, to look elsewhere. Tonight is no night for dwelling on that, but another significant matter ought to be addressed: what will we do now our year in the spotlight is over?

With that in mind, I refer to what was done with the famous Crystal Palace after the Great Exhibition of 1851: remove the building blocks of a short-term success and relay it for the long term. Even with both Ebrington's Venue and the Turner Prize Exhibition on their way down and out, respectively, there remains the chance to cement the whole of Derry-Londonderry as a cultural city by the people, for the people. Because that is what it should be, if it isn't already. Our newly found momentum must be carried well into the future, for there remains the danger of living in the moment and not considering the long-term consequences. Even if a feeling of "could do better" exists in the Derry-Londonderry air, what also exists is a genuinely warm, winning and welcoming spirit that will surely endure.

It has also been asked that, as big as a certain Big Weekend was, was there really a need for it? And the answer, in my view, is a resounding Yes. Not everyone was fortunate enough to live the experience at the Prehen Playing Fields nearly a decade ago, and this truly was Big. Even the music, to me, was almost irrelevant; what we saw during those nights were unprecedented levels of confidence, light and unity spreading around the city. All may not really be hunky dory in this current climate, but for the audience on those days, all was. They wanted big moments, and we delivered. Sons and Daughters. The spectacular Political Mother. CHIC, so good he came twice. The Fabulous Fleadh. Music City, especially the Sky Orchestra. The inaugural Walled City Tattoo. The Return Of Colmcille. Lumiere. And many more. Events that told the tale of a city both in touch with what made it what it is, and the wider artistic world.

Even something as simple as a tweet or a Facebook status update could reach out and touch thousands, millions even. My own City Of Culture status updates were inspired by legendary American actor Stan Freberg, but who, or what, inspired you? You may have found such things as the cobblestones on London Street, and the views from the walls, as inspirational as anything you could read. That's a cultural strength for you; inspirations, assets, success, from the least likely of places. And there have been many of those.

It's been a year of contrasts, a year of history. And one night, as I looked across the River Foyle at the illuminated STITCH IN TIME sign, an endeavour of industrial light and magic that stands proud and tall over everything around it, I found it hard not to contrast the numerous aspects of the city. The big and the small, the past and the future, the understated and the grand.  It is not merely, as Ronald Reagan put it, a "shining city upon a hill", but a city at sixes and sevens, as skilfully illustrated on one memorable summer night at The Guildhall.

A Stitch In Time may symbolise several of the things in this city, be they factories, craft or camaraderie. But we must not allow this year to remain a mere stitch in time, a footnote to be cast away into the forgotten annals of history. Better, instead, to think of what At Sixes And Sevens, and indeed every single cultural endeavour in 2013 illustrated: we have made history, and we have history, still, to make.

There isn't one aspect of this city that I take for granted today, from the wide open space in Ebrington Square, to the numerous art galleries, to the walls, to venues both indoor and open air, to the spectacular foot and cycle bridge that has symbolised our city for more than two years. We've made it happen. We, the sons and daughters of Derry-Londonderry, have made the city what it is.

And here's to carrying our spirit and soulfulness through to 2014 and beyond.

Happy New Year to all of you. Read more...

Boyle 'n' Boyce At The Foyle Film Festival

The Oscar-winning director and local screenwriter open up to the Derry-Londonderry public in a warm and genial chat

By the time they take their seats in Derry-Londonderry's St. Columb's Hall, Danny Boyle and Frank Cottrell Boyce have been walking around the City Of Culture 2013 all day. It is believed that Boyce was asked for his photo more often than Boyle; either way, this duo seem tailor made for one another.

Having collaborated successfully in 2004's Millions and, more notably, the opening ceremony for the 2012 Olympic Games, the high-profile pair are delighted to spill the beans in front of a simultaneously relaxed and expectant audience. Boyle, he of Trainspotting and the Oscar-winning Slumdog Millionaire, forms a warm and genial rapport with the crowd that spreads around the old hall and regularly inspires laughter and cheers.

"I've been in Derry(-Londonderry) many times", Boyle admits, "but the Peace Bridge has sort of passed me by!" What doesn't pass us by is his revelation that Trainspotting (watch a scene below) - in this writer's opinion, Boyle's best film and still an undoubted must watch - had its first ever public screening in Derry-Londonderry!

Allegedly, the audience was baffled, for as Boyle points out, sequels always score highest in test screenings. That, and it was deemed "a lost cause" to make a drug movie at the time, although the subsequent reviews ("Hollywood, come in please: your time is up" – Ian Nathan, EMPIRE) and box office surely quelled Boyle's fears.

The Lancashire-born director does not think that film is a reflective media, but that "its origin stems through working class culture". Hence action movies, to him, are the purest, for they "connect with the origins of film". But Boyle's 2002 zombie flick 28 Days Later went beyond that, for reasons unknown to even Boyle himself before filming.

"We thought it would be about social rage and loss of temperament”, he says. “But 9/11 transformed the film into a parable about the vulnerability of cities. Tangentially and entertainingly, it illustrates that the big cities aren't safe."

Frank Cottrell Boyce then recalls Tony Wilson, the late co-founder of Factory Records, and the inspiration he drew from both Wilson and news reports while writing his screenplay for 24 Hour Party People, in which Steve Coogan plays Wilson. Boyce says, “Wilson’s vision reeked of freedom. He said that you could either go away and make a great career for yourself, or stay at home and make it a better place.” Something that no doubt many who live in the City Of Culture 2013 would relate to.

While Boyle regrets not being able to attend the momentous Return Of Colmcille, conceived by Boyce, both men are delighted to discuss what Boyle considers his crowning achievement: the opening ceremony at London 2012. (Watch my favourite moment from said ceremony below, featuring Daniel "007" Craig and HM The Queen.)

"When devising London 2012, we thought: what is it that defines us, represents us? We're not that good at films, but we're great at music. And reproducing that kind of music (in front of everyone) is the defining representation of a nation. Everywhere has its own music."

"We could have got anyone to help us", Boyce adds, "but we kept loyal to our friends and to people we had worked with before."

But how on earth did Boyle, Boyce and their crew all raise their game for such a ceremony?

"You have to believe", says Boyle. "You have to believe that on some level, the work you do and the people you work with truly are the best there is. You take the job not because of the money, but because you believe in it. Look at Stevie Wonder and John Lennon; Wonder may have been a better musician, but Paul McCartney didn't do his best music with Wonder."

Of course, response was divisive. Giles Coren initially described the whole show as "Punk Rock Teletubbies", yet within a matter of minutes, according to Boyle, Coren believed it was the "greatest night of his life." Perhaps he acknowledged that Boyle had recognised what the event meant to people as a symbol, as a means of bringing people together.

Boyce backs Boyle up. "The footballer motivated by money ends up on the bench at Real Madrid, but the footballer who actually wants to play football ends up doing so much more." Some things are so much better for what they do than what they are; here, Boyce cites both London 2012 and David Shrigley's mechanical model at the Turner Prize.

As the Q & A begins, Boyle moves on to the intriguing topics of Millions (a "moving and fantastic" script that he only regrets not making as a musical) the sequel to Trainspotting (which he’ll consider doing with a “Whatever Happened To The Likely Lads?” tone) and his upcoming seven-part series for television, Babylon.

But the very mention of Millions has piqued my interest. Boyle is a director, after all, who was compared to Hitchcock and the Coen Brothers near the start of his career, and made a name for himself with quirky, grimy, “independent” work such as Shallow Grave and Trainspotting. What on earth caused the shift in tone in his filmography that led to more "family-friendly" and middlebrow fare like Millions and Slumdog Millionaire (watch the trailer above), I ask him?

"I saw Slumdog as another version of Millions. They were both films about a boy who loved money and a boy who understood it. Also, when we made The Beach, in Thailand, we were given everything we needed, and it didn't suit me. It made us behave very imperialistically. I couldn't profit from such a set up.

"So I thought that, when we were doing Slumdog, we'd make the film with a smaller cast in Mumbai. I learned that being beholden to where you're working is more important to you than money. Trust the city and it gives you back a sea of prosperity at the end."

He parts with some valuable words of wisdom for young filmmakers: "Cinema is about fresh, new blood. It needs you more than it needs us. Work with your peers, and you will find everything you need."

Which, in turn, leads us to think. Of what Lennon & McCartney, and what Boyle & Boyce, have achieved. And who would bet against the next truly significant filmic partnership emerging from this very city? Read more...