get me iris murdoch: twenty-seven word reviews of films i've seen this autumn

Happy New Year!

 

Of all the films scheduled for release during the next twelve months, the one I’m most looking forward to seeing is ‘The Long 1970s’. 

Co-directed by Julien Temple and Richard Curtis – though an unusual and unexpected partnership, the professional chemistry on show at last autumn’s press conference announcing the project was palpable – the film, a mash-up between the events of the 1970s and now, stars Jim Broadbent as James Callaghan, Patricia Routledge as Andrea Leadsom, Lady Gaga as Elkie Brooks and Ricky Tomlinson as an older comrade who first persuades a reluctant Jeremy Corbyn to stand for Parliament; Richard Burgon makes a brief cameo as himself… or maybe I just dreamt all that, I don’t know.

Anyway, here are some of the real films I’ve seen during the past few months: 

Brighton Rock (1948, dir. John Boulting, starring Richard Attenborough, Hermione Baddeley, William Hartnell, Carol Marsh). Opening titles frame seediness, criminality as wholly past. Why? Because it’s 1948: war must’ve been socially redemptive. Wonderful ensemble casting, tour de force sequences (ghost train); essential.

Nostalgia (1983, dir. Andrei Tarkovsky, starring Oleg Yankovsky, Erland Josephson, Domiziana Giordano, Delia Boccardo). Boredom= “part of the designs art may have on its audience” – TLS? Don’t recall.  Fascinating, beautiful test of one’s patience; contains running water, moodiness, Beckettian micro-jokes, dogs. 

A Severed Head (1970, dir. Dick Clement, starring Claire Bloom, Lee Remick, Richard Attenborough, Ian Holm). Well, here’s a curiosity: Iris Murdoch’s stellar qualities as a novelist are undermined and her parodiable qualities enhanced by this film’s of-its-time Hennimore-style incidental music and detailing.  

See also: (1) Colin Burrow on Iris Murdoch’s parodiability (2) ‘Get Me Hennimore’, Mitchell and Webb.

Thought experiment: if Iris had returned Dick's compliment by guest-writing an episode of Whatever Happened to the Likely Lads? ...?

The Raging Moon (1971, dir. Bryan Forbes, starring Nanette Newman, Malcolm McDowell).   Two different films, spliced: first thirty minutes, hilarious kitchen sink comedy; next ninety, bold (for its time) disability ‘issues-drama’. Teddy-bear’s eye moment: brilliant trompe l’oeil observational film-making. 

The Infidel (2010, dir. Josh Appignanesi, written by David Baddiel, starring Omid Djalili). The McGuffin-like denouement and closing peroration are pure liberal wish-fulfillment. Nevertheless, this is a likeable, funny film (which borrows from ‘Annie Hall’ and swipes at Hanif Kurieshi).

Perks of Being a Wallflower (2012, dir. Stephen Chbosky, starring Logan Lerman, Emma Watson, Ezra Miller – original novel by Stephen Chbosky).  “We accept the love that we think we deserve”; love, friendship, joy, literature, grief, trauma, mixtapes, Rocky Horror, shop class: one of the best coming-of-age films.

Johnny English Strikes Again (2018, dir. David Kerr, starring Rowan Atkinson, Olga Kurylenko, Emma Thompson, Ben Miller). Tired, tiring; one almost hears creaking and juddering as jokes are lifted into place. Emma Thompson (embattled, functionally alcoholic Prime Minister) is somewhat interesting, deserves own movie. 

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (2018, dir. Mike Newell, starring Lily James, Michiel Huisman, Tom Courtenay, Penelope Wilton – original novel by Mary Ann Shaffer & Annie Barrows). Involving and relatable romantic drama, set against Germany’s Occupation of Channel Islands during WWII: happy endings (mostly), balanced with (at least) hints of moral difficulty and hardship.

 

Bohemian Rhapsody (2018, dir. Bryan Singer, Dexter Fletcher, starring Rami Malek, Lucy Boynton).       One quibble: first half lacks conflict, success feels pre-determined (because they’re Queen!!). BUT visually and aurally wonderful film, pitch-perfect central performance, do see while still at cinemas.

Mamma Mia: Here We Go Again  (2018, dir. Ol Parker, starring Lily James, Julie Walters, Pierce Brosnan, Colin Firth, Meryl Street etc).  As with Pavement (sincerely), I was into ABBA before you were (faux-ironically, i.e. also sincerely), so I’m glad they went again – perfect undemanding Christmas night entertainment. 

 

Meanwhile, in a bleak Lynchian netherworld the film Eat Pray Love plays constantly to some bacteria in a petri dish. The hero, a straight-talking FBI man, wonders how it’ll affect their evolution and how this links to the owls and Tibet – then he wakes to some damn fine coffee, a well-kept hotel room, a small logging town near the Canadian border.

 

 

 

book reviews so curt, even a sociologist wouldn’t ask them to elaborate: twenty-seven word hot takes on what I’ve read this autumn

Paul Lewis & Rob Evans’ Undercover: The True Story of Britain’s Secret Police. Remember news stories about police officers undercover for years within protest movements? This book’s fascinating on the psychology of deceit and emotional survival after being deceived.

Conor Woodman’s Around the World in 80 Trades. Car journey choice from library’s limited audiobook stock; though buying/ selling’s usually like dreams (duller when re-told), camels, elephants, wine, coffee, spices, jade etc enlivened northbound M1. 

John Updike’s Couples. Synaesthetic, troubling Kennedy-era partner-swapping novel by Great Novelist (/“penis with thesaurus” – DFW). Sociology, finance versus craft, mid-century America’s willed misunderstandings of Freud to justify/ bless misogynistic cruelty.

Stephen Johnson’s Character Styles. Requires substantive background in counselling/ psychotherapy and a tolerance for polysyllables; provided you have those, this compassionate, intelligent book draws together many threads (characterological, existential, psychodynamic, gestalt).

Zadie Smith’s Swing Time. ‘White Teeth’ was/is important for me (promised joy during tough times); ‘On Beauty’ mattered (don’t diss the ‘Judaeo-Christian sublime’); this assured, well-observed, funny, serious novel doesn’t disappoint.

J.B. Priestley’s The Shapes of Sleep. Mr Inspector Calls has, eats cake – disdaining, imitating ‘American pulps’. His hero’s at one point “so curt, even a sociologist wouldn’t care to develop the subject” – sick!   

(Talking of books and so indirectly of civilisation, this is of course the year of Brexit – one of the most extraordinary acts of wilful self-harm ever committed by a sovereign nation against itself. I’ve baked a Black Forest Gateau and dedicated it to Angela Merkel; I’ve also been reading about Trotsky and stockpiling tinned foods and paracetamol – what have you done?)