The Imposter (2012)

The real world is full of stories that are better than anyone could make up. The Olympics have shown the world copious stories of hope, struggle and sacrifice. The Paralympics are currently showing us stories of inspiration, and there are more than enough stories of horror, action and comedy out there. A good raconteur can make even the most mundane series of events a thrilling ride, so what could he do with a real story full of mystery, lies and intrigue? British director Bart Layton answers this question with his documentary The Imposter (2012). Using talking heads, archive footage and well placed reconstruction footage, Layton unravels the facts of this film as if it were a traditional narrative creating suspense from start to finish.

In 1994, a 13 year old boy went missing from San Antonio, Texas. In 1997 he turned up in Madrid, but he’s now a 23 year old Frenchman. The Imposter tells the story of how Frederic Bourdin convinced the Spanish and American authorities that he was the missing Nicholas Barclay, and how he even convinced the emotional American family of the missing child.

The key theme of the film is identity. Bourdin the fraudster is open with the film crew from the beginning. This brings the first thought of identity, is he the film’s protagonist? The answer is not clear as Nicholas Barclay’s family get equal screen time and as victims of Bourdin’s deceit, they clearly deserve the audience’s sympathy. But the sympathy doesn’t have to be given to one group alone. As a half Algerian child born into a racist family, Bourdin explains that his childhood was a loveless one. Without love, there can’t really be a childhood and without a past, you can’t build a future. His crimes seemed victimless. He would pretend to be someone else, a lost child, and in doing so would find himself put into a children’s home, where people really cared for him. The only victim in these situations was Bourdin; he had been a victim of his environment. But one home, in 1997 necessitated proof of identity. At this point, a line was crossed; Bourdin found Nicholas Barclay on a missing person’s list and claimed to be him. Barclay’s sister came immediately to pick him up. Was he still a victim of his environment, or was he now a criminal taking advantage of an emotional family? 

Despite being primarily stone-faced, Barclay’s family, especially his mother and sister, recall the emotions and events involving Nicholas’ disappearance and apparent resurfacing on another continent. When Carey Gibson, Nicholas’ sister recalls her flight to Spain to pick her brother up, she tells about pure unadulterated joy. Even when she comes face to face with the 23 year old Bourdin who looked nothing like her brother, she explains that she was un-phased. 

The family had dealt with a gaping hole for three years; Bourdin filled this hole and was shown the love he never received as a child. It could be argued that the family subconsciously knew Bourdin was not Barclay, the similarities were too narrow and the differences were too broad. However they suspended their disbelief and welcomed him into their family, if this is the case is there a problem? Is there even a story? Again the audience are faced with a crime that doesn’t seem criminal; there seem to be no victims and no antagonist. Yet Layton keeps the suspense building. New characters are introduced to counter-balance the faster paced happy music. Even if this new family are happy, the happiness is built on a lie. Bourdin builds on the lie until the point that cracks start to show and from those cracks a whole new story seems to seep out.

If it’s not the ordering of the documentary (the slow revealing of plot points) that builds the tension, it’s the incredible reconstruction footage. Bourdin stars as himself in the cinematic shots of prior events. Bart Layton has constructed a film that borders between documentary and narrative, thriller and gothic horror, reassuring and unsettling only to settle for all of them.

Is Frederic Bourdin a victim of his environment; or a fraudster taking advantage of an emotional family? Are Nicholas Barclay’s family victims of Bourdin’s lies; or just disillusioned enough to welcome a stranger into their family? The answers to these questions can only be found in the opinions of the audience, but there is certainly one victim at the heart of The Imposter; where is Nicholas Barclay?

Written by Edward L. Corrigan on 29/08/2012

The Dark Knight Trilogy

For those unaware, the 20^th of July 2012 marks the end of a four year wait since The Dark Knight (2008); the end of the trilogy. 

When the journey began in 2005 with Batman Begins there were many concerns floating around. The first had to do with the franchise. Batman had been buried and dug up before, was it worth bringing him back? He first hit the cinematic screens in 1966 in possibly the campest incarnation we have seen. Strange dances, shark-repellent bat-spray and days when you just can’t lose a bomb filled the screen time. Adam West’s Batman was a children’s film, which is fine, but as comics have developed and graphic novels have taken over, Batman’s dark surroundings and sub-plots made him the best suited to marketing at a mainstream adult audience. Tim Burton took the mantle, and despite not being a fan of comics, he made two dark and violent Batman films in 1989 and 1992. They weren’t by any means perfect, but they were good films heralding the new dawn of comic book film adaptations entering the mainstream. This new dawn had many teething problems and many adaptations failed, remained in the cult sidelines for years or simply tried to detract from the adult themes of graphic novels. Joel Schumacher made two films that fit in that third group. To mention the Bat-suit would be too obvious, but his films Batman Forever (1995) and Batman & Robin (1997) were too camp and basic and essentially buried Batman from cinema for the foreseeable future.

This brief history of Batman’s history was one concern; it had been less than a decade since the film we’d tried to forget (although you may be willing to forgive the entire film once you’ve seen the youtube video of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s lines from Batman & Robin collated), why remind us? The other concern was the new director, Christopher Nolan. To some, he was a fairly unknown but brilliant director. To those fans, was he selling out? To everyone else, who was he? Could you trust the rebirth of the Batman in his hands? 

These concerns were immediately proved to be unfounded with Batman Begins’ release. There was nothing childish or camp about it; it didn’t have Burton’s deliberately dark sheen all over it; it was new, fresh, and stood alone amongst the unfathomable amount of comic book adaptations. 

The biggest and most important change was the setting. Nolan’s Chicago-esque Gotham, reinvented, was explained and became instantly relatable and understood. Gotham was no longer just another fictional city. Gotham was, arguably, every city. We saw how Gotham was, how it wanted to be, and how it ultimately, became what it was. 

Batman was given the same treatment. Previously we had been given snippets, like the murder of Bruce Wayne’s parents and left to come up with the rest of the story ourselves. Nolan understood that if he were to reinvent Batman, he couldn’t let prior portrayals cloud the judgement of the audience. So Batman Begins opens, with how Batman began. Nolan has complete control over this story, the origin, and thankfully, the future. 

If a film does well these days, the studio will push for an immediate sequel. The studio fears that if too much time passes interest will subside and the sequel, whether a good film or not, will not make as much money. This is the studio’s number one concern. We have seen the perfect example of this earlier this year. The Hunger Games (2012) hit the screens and surprised everyone with how much it was able to take at the box office, making more than any film of the Twilight saga. Surely the makers of this critically acclaimed adaptation and clear money maker would be trusted to continue, but the studio saw the financial potential and put a deadline on the second film; a deadline that director Gary Ross felt that keeping to would ultimately mean a lesser product. His opinion wouldn’t sway the decision of the studio and he left.

Thankfully, Nolan was trusted, this trilogy has taken the better part of a decade from development to conclusion, and absence has only made the heart grow fonder.

Three years after Batman Begins thrilled audiences, Christian Bale’s Batman returned to the screens, but Nolan took a new approach with it. He had already rebuilt Gotham; the setting didn’t need as much explanation. Batman’s creation had been explained; he didn’t need as much explanation. So where could he go? The duality of man becomes a new focus. We see more about Bruce Wayne than we do Batman and we see how even the most idealistic of men can be swayed. This duality, although key, had never really been explored before; we’d seen it briefly in Begins, but not thoroughly. This is how franchises should be used. Iron Man 2 (2010) essentially follows the same formula as Iron Man (2008). The Dark Knight finds new avenues to explore; more depth to investigate. One of these avenues is villainy. Rather than retread the same path and focus on Batman/Wayne, the focus sways towards the Joker, brilliantly played by Heath Ledger, and Harvey Dent. 

(I’m going to take this opportunity to note, that if you want more depth on the Joker and how he has developed on our cinema screens, drop Jamie Reid a note on twitter @JamieReid52 and ask kindly for a copy of his brilliantly written dissertation on the topic. It’s well worth reading.)

By the end of The Dark Knight Batman has reached new depths of sacrifice and despair and we as an audience have had to wait 4 years to find out if both he, and Gotham, are going to be able to rise from it.

At the date of writing, Batman Begins is the best Batman film to have been made. This is always open for debate, and many would argue vehemently for The Dark Knight to hold this title. So an outline of why Batman Begins is better than The Dark Knight is needed. The first point has already been stated; it resuscitated Batman from his Schumacher induced coma. The second is because while The Dark Knight was brilliant, it would not have been able to have reached the depths or the sub-plots without its predecessor. The third point has little to do with either film, and more to do with Heath Ledger. His performance was undeniably brilliant, but his death surrounded his performance and the film with a cloud of respect that was given rather than earned. Both the film and the performance deserve all the critical acclaim and awards granted, but people’s respect will now forever cloud their judgement, which is not fair to the first film of the trilogy and not fair to Ledger, who deserves this respect regardless of how he died.

The four year wait since The Dark Knight has reached an end. Nolan’s proven track record has allowed him a certain aspect of control and he has decided to end the series as a trilogy. Depending on how The Dark Knight Rises (2012) does, he will either kill his series while it remains a hero, or it will have lived long enough to see itself become the villain.

Written by Edward L. Corrigan on 11/07/2012

Killer Joe (2011)

         Since 1975, when Jaws helped coin the term ‘blockbuster’, the summer has been the season for expensive event movies. These films will often have a marketing budget equal to the already mind-numbingly high production budgets. Competing financially with these summer blockbusters is, in a word, futile. To illustrate this point, even the James Bond movies, which have a mass fan-base spanning entire generations, will no longer compete; since the almost franchise sinking Timothy Dalton era, 007 has always reached the screens in the autumn season. Over the years, even being an event movie is often not enough, and generally (there are many notably obvious exceptions, this is a sweeping generalisation) these blockbusters have pre-existing fan-bases along with their excessive budgets. 

2012 is a shining example of this point with the key summer smashes being The Avengers (the final culmination of years of build up); The Amazing Spiderman (a reboot of a still young franchise); Total Recall (a remake); Prometheus (a linked, possible prequel to the Alien franchise) and The Dark Knight Rises (the third installment of a trilogy).

These are not necessarily bad films, some of them are enjoyable, many of them have not been released at the time of writing, and one of them has been directed by Chris Nolan, who can seemingly do no wrong. The opening paragraph has not been set out to denigrate sequels, remakes or reboots, simply to expose the rarity of originality in cinema’s summer season. With this originality in mind, Killer Joe (original in comparison) emerges quietly into the market. With it’s NC-17 rating (or financial death-sentence) it was never going to compete with the other releases. But this also means it doesn’t have the same expectations. Killer Joe won’t be judged a success on it’s box-office takings the way that every other film in this season will, but on its achievements as a film.

Killer Joe tells the story of a dysfunctionally twisted family in small town Texas. Chris (Emile Hirsch) thinks his mother has stolen drugs from him, putting him in a debt with some local mobsters that he can’t pay back. With the help of his Dad, Ansel, his step-mother Sharla and his younger sister Dottie, he plans to kill his mother and use the insurance money to pay back his debts. In order to carry out the murder, he hires Killer Joe Cooper, a Dallas police detective who kills people in his spare time. Chris’ family is dysfunctional, confused, and possibly abusive, so when Joe, a law man with his own questionable moral code, enters their lives, he makes a big impact.

Directed by William Friedkin, the director of The Exorcist (1973), arguably the greatest horror movie of all time, there might be an expectations of dark psychological horror themes. If these are your expectations, you’ll be surprised. Killer Joe is certainly dark and psychological, but it’s not a horror. It’s a tough film to put into a genre, is it a thriller with some funny moments, or is a comedy with dark undertones? It’s certainly dark and violent, but there are no shortage of laugh out loud comedy moments. Horror movies skate a fine line with comedy, as soon as the audience laughs instead of gasps, the suspension dissipates and the film has to work even harder to regain the audience’s attention. Killer Joe doesn’t have this problem. It jumps between funny and intense without losing the atmosphere. 

It was mentioned earlier that Killer Joe is only comparatively original, this is because it is an adaptation, just from a more cult piece of source material. Adapted by it’s original writer, Tracey Letts, from a stage play by the same name, it has a clear foundation in theatre. Theatrical adaptations often rely on their actors and deep performance as opposed to big cinematic set-pieces, simply because there aren’t those set-pieces in the story’s origins. While the violence, intensity and the confusing family dynamic are the stand-out points from the film, the performances make these points worth watching. Of all the performances, it is Matthew McConaughey who stands out. The man has made his career on bad performances in bad films. What made his performance so incredible was the slow build up. His character didn’t seem too imposing, he didn’t seem to justify the reputation garnered, but as the film builds towards the climax, so does his character until any prior reputation McConaughey brings is completely wiped. Joe’s power over the family is fixating and comes from so many different levels, his attention to details, his role as detective and authority figure, and his physical strength. All of these characteristics contradict the Smith family.

“Families are screwed up. They always have been, and I suppose they always will be. But it’s all we’ve got.” - Tracey Letts

Letts writes a family that need each other, but one that would ultimately be better apart. Ansel’s wife is unfaithful, but his comic ignorance to everything around him leaves him unaware, emasculating him and stopping him from being the figurehead of the family. This puts that role on the shoulders of Chris, who’s incompetence put the family in the unfortunate situation in the first place. Chris seems to move from his mother’s to his father’s residence, unable to support himself, and so continues to live his life as if he has no responsibilities, causing problems for all around him and never accepting blame. Ansel’s wife, Sharla, is conniving, but isn’t smart enough to cover her back properly. The final piece of the jigsaw is Dottie, brilliantly played by Juno Temple. Dottie is the only character who doesn’t seem guilty, while she willingly knows about and condones the plan to kill her mother, she doesn’t seem to actually participate. It isn’t clear whether she has learning difficulties that the family have remained ignorant to, or if she’s just not particularly clever. But this naivety and innocence keep her distant from the family. It’s clear that she loves both Ansel and Chris, and that they love her, but they seem to stunt her and stop her from growing up. It is this reason that Joe’s presence in her life seems like a good thing.

The concept of Dottie’s reliance on either her family or Joe begs the question of the where the audience’s loyalties should lie. Is Chris the Protagonist? But his incompetence got the family into the trouble they’re in. If his plan works out, what will stop him from screwing up and falling back into trouble almost immediately? So is Joe more likable? Is Joe the protagonist? He provides security, a set of morals and rules and the semblance of a normal life. On the other hand, he’s a corrupt cop, how good can these morals be? Is he switched on, or just a little less messed up than the Smiths? This ambiguity of who to side with adds another level of enjoyment for the audience, why side with one over the other? Is it possible to dislike both equally? Should I be siding with this one? 

Killer Joe is an enigmatic film, both darkly funny and terrifyingly visceral. It’s filled with both brilliant performances and gratuitous nudity, sex and violence. Despite its brilliance, however, it will be smothered by the copious amounts of expensive studio films that will flood our multiplexes for the next few months.

Written by Edward L. Corrigan - 08/07/2012

Once Upon a Time in Anatolia (2011)

Once upon a time, out in the sticks outside of Istanbul, a man with a wife and child waiting for him at home, was murdered. The killer has confessed and all that is left to do in order to clear up the legal case is the find the body over the course of a night. This is, essentially, the premise for Once Upon a Time in Anatolia (2011), Turkey’s official submission to the Best Foreign Language Film award category for the 2012 Academy Awards.

Although the premise sounds straight forward, the execution is far less than simple. The audience are thrown into the fray without any explanation of what the fray actually is. What are they looking for? Is it a body? Who’s the victim? How were the criminals found? If the killers are unsure of where the body is, how can we be sure they did it? The story consistently adds more questions as others are answered. This is because the film is not a traditional story. It doesn’t attempt to fit to the normal formulas of ‘Beginning, middle and end’ or ‘Equilibrium, disequilibrium, re equilibrium’. There is room for debate as to whether it does, or doesn’t conform to these recognised formulas, but it is clear that the film is part of a bigger picture. There is definitely an exposition, even if it isn’t spelled out and there are enough questions left unanswered at the end to make it clear that the story will continue after the credits. It is more of an event that is being filmed than a narrative, which not only sets it apart from other murder investigation films, but also makes it seem more real - like life. It is also worth noting that a reason that the ambiguity of exposition and details feels real is because it is. The story is based on real events that one of the co-writers went through while training to be a doctor. He was unable to remember all the facts from the long night, but he remembered the atmosphere well, and this was translated to the screen very clearly.

Anatolia (or just outside as most of the film takes place a fair distance from the municipal limits) is a small rural area. The characters aren’t like the investigators we may be used to from other police investigation dramas where people have been desensitised to the idea of death. They all seem like people who lead simpler lives. It is unclear if there is a single leading character, or if they are all a collectively important ensemble. Three vehicles full of people on both side of the law trawl through the hillside with the same objective. However, as the prosecutor notes: the butcher’s only concern is the meat, the lamb’s only concern is the knife. Each character, although having the same collective objective of looking for the dead body has their own personal objectives and concerns and their own assigned roles within the group. The prosecutor notes this of the Army Sergeant accompanying the search party without realising that each member fits into this thought, especially himself. He is so wrapped up in his own life and pretensions, that he gives little regard for those around him, or doing his job properly. The pretensions of the prosecutor are communicated beautifully through conversations dotted throughout the film with the doctor. The script consistently provides deep and interesting conversations, but it is also the master of the opposite: banal and sometimes idiotic discussions. There are constantly conversations that don’t drive the plot anywhere, but help round out the characters and make the audience realise, that for most of the characters, they are just killing time. While the deeper aspects of the script are well written, well performed and definitely thought provoking, it is these lesser important, mundane, every day thoughts, quips and jokes that bring the film to life.

As night turns to day, the cold grey dawn sheds light on more than just the beautiful Turkish countryside that has been shrouded by the pitch-black night; it sheds light on the narrative and questions surrounding it. It becomes apparent that the protagonist is the doctor, and it is no longer about the ensemble. The daylight also allows the plot to drive forward once more after exhaustion and quick tempers had necessitated a break.

Once Upon a Time in Anatolia is not an easy film to summarise. It’s not quite an investigation, as the audience aren’t supplied with enough facts. It’s not quite a murder-mystery because we know who did it from the start. It’s not quite an insight into rural Turkish life, as it’s only a single, isolated event. It’s not quite a road-movie, because despite most of the film being on the road, they’re not going anywhere.

Despite the struggle to label the film, it is a great success. The slow pace allows the thoughts provoked to simmer and remain with the audience allowing them to debate it for longer, this is important as the film, in fact, seems to get better the more the audience think about it. Nuri Bilge Ceylan, the film’s director stated in an interview with timeout:

“The films that bored me the most in the past became my favourite movies later on, so I don’t care about boring the audience. Sometimes, I really want to bore them because out of boredom might come a miracle, maybe days later, maybe years, when they see the film again.”

- Nuri Bilge Ceylan

It hasn’t taken years, but mere days for the lengthy, drawn out Turkish film, which admittedly, didn’t bore, to increase in reputation in my mind. The realism, it is also worth noting, doesn’t rule out the chance for dreams or epiphanies which appear a few times and give the audience more to dwell on outside of the search. The film combines an interesting story with a great script and beautiful landscape. It combines true events with a style of realism and is a masterpiece well worth the 158 minutes it takes to watch this film.

Written by Edward L. Corrigan on 19/03/2012

Rampart (2011)

On March the 3^rd 1991, police in Los Angeles excessively beat Rodney King with batons for resisting arrest after a car chase. The beating was caught on camera and caused a media storm and later (after the police officers in question were acquitted) caused the LA riots of 1992. This incident has been referenced numerous times in cinema, most notably in National Lampoon’s Loaded Weapon 1(1993) and American History X (1998). But it is not only this specific incident, or even cinema alone that has highlighted police brutality or inherent racism within the American Police Department (and the LAPD in particular). N.W.A released their album ‘Straight Outta Compton’ in 1988 which featured the protest song ‘Fuck Tha Police’. While it was never released as a single it garnered great notoriety and is evidence of the feelings felt towards the Los Angeles Police Department. Over 20 years have passed since this prolific time of bad blood between the LAPD and common opinion, but is it still an issue? The Oscar winning Crash (2004) questioned racism throughout LA, not just its law enforcers and now Rampart (2011) questions the corruption and how it’s been tackled. The word ‘question’ is used loosely here, as no real answers are provided and no real evidence is brought forward; these are, after all fictional films. But films often reflect the culture they are released to, or at least the opinion of certain group of society they are aimed at.

Set in 1999, James Ellroy’s story watches as the LAPD, along with the rest of the world, attempts to make changes as the millennium approaches. The actual narrative seems almost inconsequential in comparison to the lead character and the situation he finds himself in. The film is a character study and the character in question is Woody Harrelson’s ‘Date-Rape’ Dave Brown. The nickname was earned because he “may or may not have killed a man” who was well known serial rapist. This incident implies that Brown is man of moral stature who can’t abide those that mistreat others and will stop them by any means necessary, even by stepping outside of the law he upholds. The reality is quite the opposite. He’s the past that the LAPD is trying to sweep under the carpet; he’s corrupt, violent, chauvinistic and racist. It would appear that his biggest downfall, however, is his refusal to adapt when the world around him is changing. It seems that if he had been willing to change, his past discretions would have remained in the past; if he had used some subtlety he would have been able to continue his career and life without adding disciplinary action from the police, politicians or media. This didn’t happen, and after having his squad car hit in a road collision, Brown mercilessly beat the other driver and when caught on camera he tried to argue that it was self-defense after being attacked with a deadly weapon. This collision is the catalyst of the film. It brings Brown’s consistent wrong-doings out from behind closed doors and into the media spot-light which is something that the LAPD can’t afford. Brown’s corruption jumps to the foreground and forces issues with his family to the surface and slowly draws out his paranoia, alcohol and drug abuse and his insecurities such as an apparent eating disorder.

Brown’s paranoia blames everybody around him for his situation for himself but doesn’t allow any of the blame to fall on him. His paranoia not only implies, but constantly shouts, that he has been set-up, that the camera was planted and that the top brass in Rampart were trying to use him as a scapegoat. There is no evidence supplied in the film to back up Brown’s accusation, however it raises the possibility: did the police really make the necessary changes? Or did they simply remove the most notorious offenders, pulling out the weeds but leaving in the roots? The film doesn’t answer the question; it doesn’t even give any credence to it and as a character study it doesn’t allow for other information to enter the debate, it simply floats the idea through the ramblings of a drunk and paranoid man as his misdeeds slowly catch up to him.

The film boasts an impressive cast with the likes of Steve Buscemi, Ice Cube (formerly of the previously mentioned NWA) and Sigourney Weaver appearing. Each supporting actor supplies an impressive performance, but they all, are simply support. It is Harrelson, appeariong in every scene, who carries the film with his arrogant, and yet pained and lonely portrayal of the sort of cop that was almost globally hated throughout the 1980s and 1990s. On top of the great cast, the film has a screenplay written by James Ellroy - whose LA crime/noir novels such as L.A Confidential and The Black Dahlia (the novels as opposed to the films) are enough of a reason to draw audiences to any of his work - and was directed by Oren Moverman, who gained critical respect with his directorial debut The Messenger (2009).

The style of the film suits the story, the camera moving about as regularly as Brown does, spinning and often swaying, almost like one of the rogue cameras catching the police brutality to forward on to the media later, but there is one sore thumb sticking out. Midway through the film Brown enters a club, and the scene takes on an almost style over substance feel. The scene clearly uses symbolism to add a bit of depth to Brown (solidifying the addictions he holds and the eating disorder he masks with constant chain smoking) but the style of this scene, along with many other aspects of it draw the audience out before it comes to an end and returns to normalcy regaining the attention of the audience. The scene is not necessarily pointless, but was simply approached in the wrong way.

With that sore thumb taken into consideration, the film is still a triumph that states, despite the failed screen adaptations of Ellroy’s work, there is still a way for his writing to connect with film audiences and is worth catching while it is still in cinemas.


Written by Edward L. Corrigan on 08/03/2012

Michael (2011)

“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH EVERYONE IN AUSTRIA. SERIOUSLY.”

                            - Mike D’Angelo

D’Angelo’s above tweet after watching Michael (2011) at Cannes Festival, although not quite politically correct, conveys the difficult to describe feeling that makes you question why you would torture yourself by voluntarily watching something with this sort of subject matter.

Markus Schleinzer is better known as a casting director, however he has now tried his hand at directing and his debut, Michael premiered at Cannes to mixed reviews. 

Michael is about a man, unsurprisingly, called Michael. He wakes up every morning and drives to work selling insurance. He drives home and cooks dinner. His day seems to generally follow a routine. His routine differs from the norm, however, because he keeps a young boy locked in his basement. The relationship with the boy at times appears to be almost paternal, but there are serious implications of sexual abuse throughout, and the boy, Wolfgang, fights, kicks and screams at almost any opportunity he has. The situation appears to have been inspired by the famous Fritzel and Kampusch cases, which only serves to make the narrative more disturbing. The fact that this fictional film has its roots firmly in reality is also established in its plain, almost voyeuristic film style. There are only diegetic sounds, the only time we hear a song that isn’t being played from within the film is over the credits. The shots are generally all mid-shots, avoiding close-ups or establishing shots. There is no fast paced editing, no dissolves of image or sound making the transition from shots and scenes incredibly obvious. Nothing is clarified for the audience through cinematic trickery which supplements the idea of voyeurism.

Although he has little to no social skills, Michael is able to blend into his surroundings, he’s able to hold down a job and even be considered for a promotion, and he’s clearly known in and around his neighbourhood, enough to have short conversations with people in the neighbourhood. Michael, while not obviously attempting to fear-monger, points out that a paedophile could be living behind any door in your neighbourhood, unknown to you, or even their family.

One of the key aspects of the film is the relationship between Michael and Wolfgang, his young captive. The reason that this key aspect is so interesting is because if you put aside the locked doors and the molestation, the relationship is almost paternal, with day trips, Christmas spent together, dinner eaten together, washing up and despite all of Wolfgang’s attempts of kicking and screaming behind closed doors, he acts docile and causes no scenes outside of the house, when he has the best opportunity of escape. This is not to say that Wolfgang has Stockholm syndrome, because it’s clear that he feels no love for his captor, but the relationship is certainly an interesting one.

Despite the opening statements of this review and the subject matter, the film achieves an appearance of banality. The bland routine that Michael has (not including his fetish of imprisoned children), mixed with the unexciting film’s style make for an almost forgettable film. The audience are unable to relate to either character, although we can sympathise with the young Wolfgang, we know nothing of his past; all we see is his current suffering, which makes empathy almost impossible. Even if we ignore the child molestation that seems to be the driving force for Michael, he seems to have very few social skills, and with the exception of his family, has little to talk about past the small talk of short encounters. However there are constant implications that remind the audience of horrific situations going on behind the mundane exterior. These are not just implications of the molestation (because thankfully this is never really shown explicitly), but also implications to time, subtle words in conversations that imply that this has been going on for years. 

Another factor that makes it seem bland is the plain style, almost making the audience a distanced voyeur, watching from a distance and also keeping an emotional distance from the characters, which doesn’t tap into anything out of the ordinary. Recently, films about human monsters (murderers, rapists, paedophiles) create even more feelings of disgust by humanising these characters. This allows the audience to be lulled into relating to them, sympathising with them, or even liking them, only to be even more horrified later on when they commit their horrible acts. Michael stays away from this technique, it appears that the aim of the film is not to create the feeling of disgust within the audience; it is not to make the audience feel uncomfortable. The aim is also not to simply raise awareness of situations such as this one, because the film was clearly made with a fairly low budget and is not the classic idea of a commercially successful film. If the idea was to bring an important issue that people don’t want to openly discuss to the mainstream it would have been better to follow the path of Taken (2008) which used the very real problem of kidnapping and forced prostitution in Europe as a sub-plot for an action-packed thriller. So if the aims aren’t to horrify or raise awareness, what is the aim of Michael? Here lies the issue with the film. Why? It doesn’t entertain, it doesn’t educate, and it doesn’t show a new angle to a familiar story. The reason why the film was made is just another aspect of the film that remains unexplained; it is there, but like the details inside the frame, but there are no close-ups to clarify this for the questioning audience. It is almost the textbook definition of Roland Barthes literary concept ‘The Death of the Author’ and ergo the birth of the reader – taking the power away from the filmmaker and giving it to the audience to draw their own conclusions. 

The subject matter of the film means that it is not a fun film. The banality of the film’s style means that it is not an interesting film to watch. However, the putting the two together was a shrewd move by Schleinzer and makes the film, not only a very respectable film, but almost respectful of the situation it portrays. It doesn’t belittle the plight of the families of missing children, it doesn’t belittle the suffering of the children, and yet it doesn’t demonise the paedophiles. It simply places it all on the screen, announcing that is continues to happen, and then allows the audience, the watchers who are unable to intervene, the unfortunate voyeurs, to draw their own conclusions.

Written by Edward L. Corrigan on 28/02/2012

How does on-screen loneliness differ from being alone?

“The prospect of loneliness is probably one of the biggest fears that humans have to contend with. More often than not, this is reinforced by the state of actually being alone, but it’s not automatically synonymous with it.” – Robert Zak

Robert Zak’s blog-post for The Independent: 'Tyrannosaur and Drive: The difference between loneliness and being alone' touches on something interesting, but doesn’t fully develop the theory. After watching Drive (2011) and Tyrannosaur (2011) back to back, he began to ponder the difference between loneliness and being alone. While it was an interesting thesis, Zak only touched the surface of the differences leaving the reader to either think about it more, or to want more. Hopefully this piece will finish where Zak left off.

Drive and Tyrannosaur are from different worlds. They were made in different nations, in different genres, with different narratives and different target audiences. Despite these differences both films have some essential, common themes: rage, protection and being alone. Of course, through the immense differences of the two films, these themes are explored completely differently.

Drive follows the protagonist, Driver (Ryan Gosling), a loner who fills his time with cars, whether it’s fixing them, driving them for races, driving them for petty crooks or for films and in his spare time, he studies car parts. He  builds a relationship with a young mother who moves into his apartment building, but the relationship still manages to maintain a certain isolation for him. This is similar to the film itself, which although has many Hollywood stars, is set in Los Angeles and has a narrative that would not be out of place in most Hollywood studios, the director, Nicholas Winding Refn manages to use a certain stylization to give the film a more ‘independent’ atmosphere, maintaining a certain isolation from Hollywood.

Tyrannosaur drops all pretenses about being slick, glamorous film and adopts a social-realist style well known to British filmmakers. The lead character Joseph (Peter Mullan) isn’t totally alone; he has a couple of friends: his dog Bluey, a racist pub local, Tommy, who doesn’t really know him, and a friend who is dying of cancer. Joseph very quickly drops that number down by kicking Bluey to death in the opening scene.

The key themes of both films, rage and protection run through the lead characters, it is the concept of being alone that makes them so different, and this is due to the difference between being introverted or extroverted. Many people believe that to be extroverted you have to be a happy, charismatic people person. This would rule out Joseph, but the reality is that to be extroverted means that you draw your power from the people around you, in the same vein being introverted means to draw your power from within. Through these definitions Joseph is definitely an extrovert. His power is drawn from his relationships, no matter how small or shallow they appear to be. His power is not the standard idea of strength, but of self-control. When left by himself, Joseph can’t stop his rage from destroying things, whether those things are his dog, a shop window, his shed or a group of youths in the pub. His crippling loneliness allows, or even encourages, his rage and anger to build to the point that it can’t be contained. When faced with another human being though, Joseph is calmed. For example, the constant presence of a young boy across the street stops Joseph from engaging in conflict with the man dating the young boy’s mother. It is this need for a connection that makes Joseph’s first encounter with Hannah (Olivia Colman) so strange. 

Hannah is equally lonely, stuck in an oppressive and violent marriage, her only form of release is religion, but even that is used against her by her husband, James (Eddie Marsan). Joseph first meets Hannah when he has a break-down and finds his way into her charity shop. He shuns all of her beliefs using location and money as a way of distancing himself, but the most interesting way he keeps his emotional distance is with his name. In an attempt to help the man hiding behind a rail of clothes, Hannah asks his name, to which he replies “Robert DeNiro.” He doesn’t want her to know who he is, even down to very basics. Names are the basis to our identities. We are defined by who we are and what we do, but in order to communicate those things every relationship has to begin with introductions and those start with names. It takes both characters’ fears of being alone to bring them together. Although their relationship is built on the foundation of loneliness, it is a co-operative relationship where they both put in as much as they receive and that makes it both genuine and touching.

“Whoever is delighted in solitude, is either a wild beast or a god.”

- Aristotle

The theory of anonymity helping to isolate characters has been well used in cinema. In Layer Cake (2004), Daniel Craig’s character is not named to prove that he is more intelligent, and therefore at an intellectual distance to the audience. But it doesn’t have to create distance. In literature, Truman Capote’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s had an unnamed protagonist, but this only allows for a greater connection with the reader. ‘George’ as he’s referred to, is a blank canvas, a person in a situation, almost vague enough to for anyone to project themselves onto.

So what makes The Driver an introvert (as opposed to Joseph’s extrovert) and what makes him different to Craig’s ‘X’ and Capote’s ‘George’? While Joseph acts completely differently when alone as opposed to with people, the introverted Driver tries to spend as little time with other people as possible and when he does work with others, there is little to no personal connection or effort made on Driver’s part.

Along with having no name, The Driver has no exposition. The audience doesn’t know where he came from, the sort of friends he had growing up or any information similarly needed to judge somebody. He constantly keeps himself busy, and yet doesn’t have any relationships made from what he does. His only real relationship is with his boss Shannon, but even that is a very one-sided conversation.

Whereas Joseph and Hannah’s relationship is genuine, Driver’s relationship with Irene (Carey Mulligan) – the young mother who recently moved into his apartment building seems almost one-sided and shallow. Driver seems happy when with her and clearly goes out of his way to help and protect her and her son, but there is no depth to their relationship. Apart from the apparent happiness he gains from it, Driver puts all the effort in to protect Irene and Benicio, putting himself in constant danger. Or maybe it is the satisfaction of this protection that he strives for, that drives his character, not rage. The blank character allows the audience to conjure as many possible back-stories or possible motivations that they want to, without either confirming or denying them. Unlike Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Drive is too vague, not giving enough of a canvas to project onto, creating not only a distance with the other characters, but with the audience as well.

It is worth noting that there are many other ways to represent loneliness and being alone on the screen. Steve McQueen, for example, creates an incredible world for Michael Fassbender’s Brandon in Shame (2011) to find solidarity. It is not so much that he likes being alone, or that he has nobody, but he is forced into closed off lifestyle by his shame of his sexual addiction. However, returning to the two case studies that Robert Zak originally begun with, it is fair to summarise that both characters despite similarities, deal with the issue of being alone completely differently, but this is as much due to the genres the films as it is to the introverted and extroverted personalities of the protagonists. The British ‘Kitchen Sink, social-realist’ dark and gritty film needs to be open and upsetting to provoke the intended feelings and to fairly represent the issue of domestic violence. Loneliness, as Zak noted, Loneliness is a big fear in our society, and Paddy Considine (Tyrannosaur’s director) manipulates that fear to draw sympathy for an almost unsympathetic character. On the other hand, Drive is almost as much about style as it is about content; it’s about standing out and being different. In an industry full of escapist films, Drive succeeds in not only being different and being escapist, but having a completely unsympathetic and yet utterly compelling and interesting lead character. To summarise their differences in a sentence: Joseph hides his loneliness with aggression, while the Driver hides his aggression by being alone.

Written by Edward L. Corrigan on 17/02/2012

For Robert Zak’s original blog post, see: http://blogs.independent.co.uk/2012/02/10/tyrannosaur-and-drive-the-difference-between-loneliness-and-being-alone/