Powell & Pressburger #3. The Life And Death Of Colonel Blimp (1943)

Roger Livesey in The Life And Death Of Colonel Blimp (1943).

Powell & Pressburger were brave, boundary-pushing filmmakers. A Matter Of Life And Death (1946) is a bold, ambitious vision of heaven, a heaven of faith equality, and contains a central debate on prejudice. Powell's Peeping Tom (1960) caused uproar upon release for putting audiences into the shoes of a perverted serial killer; an exploration of the dangers of voyeurism that is as powerful now as it was 50 years ago. But perhaps The Life And Death Of Colonel Blimp was their bravest film - after all, it was shot and released slap-bang in the middle of WWII, in Britain's darkest hours, and not only contains criticism of the military, but also has a deeply sympathetic German character, Theo Kretschmar-Schuldorff (Anton Walbrook), who befriends the central character, Brit Clive Candy (Roger Livesey). The film is full of audacious, enterprising ideas and characterization, and that's what makes it such a masterpiece...

Winston Churchill was famously opposed to the screenplay and even denied Laurence Olivier leave from Navy duty to play Clive Candy. Instead Powell & Pressburger turned to the sublime Roger Livesey, and paired him with Austrian actor Anton Walbrook, and the young up-and-comer Deborah Kerr, who turns in three astonishing performances. Churchill wanted the film banned, as he felt it was overly critical of the classical solider; the patriot. This is the type of character Clive Candy is when we first meet him, bathing in the steam room of a London house. "WAR STARTS AT MIDNIGHT!", we are told, but a young lieutenant named Spud (James McKechnie) has jumped the gun. The enemy doesn't play fair, is his thinking, but this outrages the bloated, mustached Candy. The scene has a heightened realism, and is very funny - playing up to the comic strip origins of the Candy character. He's presented as the buffoon and, at first, we laugh. A solider stuck in his ways, he fights the young lieutenant and they fall into the swimming pool. The camera glides across the pool and we are transported to 1902, and Candy's life as a young, eager man - a man much like Spud.

What follows is storytelling of the most epic and finely crafted order. Along with Lawrence Of Arabia (David Lean, 1962), The Life And Death Of Colonel Blimp is often referred to as the best British film of all time, and it's a title richly deserved. The film begins with the smart, cocky Candy traveling to Berlin against orders, to investigate the anti-British propaganda supposedly being spread by the Germans. "Leave politics to the politicians" he is told, but pays no attention. While in Berlin he accidentally offends the German army, and is challenged to a duel, which he accepts. His opponent is a man he has never met before, a man named Schuldorff. The camera observes the start of their fight but then zooms out of the location, leaving the fate of the duel unknown. Clive and Schuldorff find themselves recovering in the same nursing home and they bond over evenings of card games. Schuldorff's English is poor ("very much") but they develop a mutual respect. Schuldorff falls in love with Candy's British contact, Edith (Kerr's first role). On Candy's last day in the home Schuldorff announces his engagement to Edith, and the three of them celebrate. It is only after the train journey home that Candy realizes he loved the woman too, but must wait another 15 years to find her lookalike...

Powell & Pressburger find ingenious ways to show the passage of time, the first of which is via a series of animal heads. Candy is also a hunter, and he places he heads of his victories on his wall - under each is a plaque with the date of shooting. Quick-edits flash-forward through the years as Candy collects all sorts of prizes - including an elephant. We pass sixteen years to 1918, and Candy is in Flanders. It's here that he meets his future wife, Barbara (Kerr's second role), a dead-ringer for Edith - literally, in fact, as she's 20 years his junior. WWI comes to a close, and Candy has Schuldorff over for an evening gathering, assuring him that there will be a life for him back in Germany (he has been a prisoner of war). Time once again propels forward to 1939... Candy's wife passes away and he is retired. The next 30 minutes are some of the most unbearably sad in all of cinema history...

What's truly remarkable about The Life And Death Of Colonel Blimp is that, despite some questionable makeup (bad hairlines and no wrinkles) there's a genuine sense of aging, and world-weariness. It doesn't even feel like watching two actors, such is the dedication and honesty of Livesey and Walbrook's performances. It's just like watching two men grow old together, and respect each other all the more. The final chapter of the film opens with Schuldorff sat in an immigration office in England, at the start of WWII - noticeably greyer and paler, he now walks with a stick and speaks more slowly. He unfurls a heartbreaking story to the official questioning him of how his wife had passed away and his estranged children, two boys, had become Nazi's. With nothing left, he has returned to the place he now feels is home. Walbrook's delivery here is astonishing - spoken like a broken man, he attempts to put pride over sadness, but his tone is one of regret. Of course, Candy welcomes Schuldorff with open arms... and a confession of love for Edith, which he never got over. These are now men of honour and experience, and the conversation is handled with a masterful maturity and a nice little gag... Deborah Kerr's third appearance as Candy's driver Johnny, whom he picked from 700 women. After a BBC speech is denied, Candy is retired again, and feels deflated. Schuldorff and Johnny soon have him back on his feet with the Home Guard - shortly before Candy's house is bombed. The film eventually comes full circle as Spud is revealed to be Johnny's boyfriend.

What else can be said for the film? The script is among the best ever written, the performances are Oscar worthy, the direction sublime and the music and photography unequaled. It's to the credit of Powell & Pressburger, those masters, that they end the film on an impossibly beautiful note, bettering even the excellence that has come before it. The bomb site that was once Candy's house has been turned into a water cistern. He remembers a promise he made to Barbara upon their engagement, that he would "never change" until the house is flooded and "this is a lake." He looks down at a leaf floating on the water and turns back to Schuldorff and Johnny. "Here is the lake" he says, "and I still haven't changed." Perfect.

Analysis: Loneliness

Lost In Translation and Uzak: Loneliness In The Cinema...

Scarlett Johansson in Lost In Translation (Sofia Coppola, 2003).

Remember the loneliest period of your life. Were you alone, or amongst people? The hardest thing about loneliness - especially that found through depression, is that you don't feel the presence of others around you. It's harder to cope because human contact becomes harder to reach. You're isolated.

It's for this very reason that the cinema often struggles to present loneliness - it's very hard to recreate the internal sense of total isolation and the mental sense of abandonment, even when surrounded by people, when cinema is such an encompassing, universal medium. There was one filmmaker who had it cracked in 1924 with Der letzte Mann (F.W. Murnau). Murnau, along with cinematographer Karl Freund, were way ahead of their time with this innovative masterwork. Together they developed the 'dolly' device which allowed the camera to physically move within a shot. This meant that we could now follow a character down a hallway, in order to get closer to him/her. We could also pull away, in order to belittle them, and give the sense of withdrawal and isolation. But Murnau and Freund also explored other areas with Der letzte Mann, and one stunning visual effect said all that needed to be said on the feelings of depression and loneliness. The Hotel Porter (Emil Jannings), a proud aging doorman, is fired from his job and loses all faith in himself. He imagines the shame he will have brought to his family, and the disappointment his friends and neighbors will scorn him with. When walking away from the hotel he looks back, reflecting on the past. Suddenly the building rises from the ground, escalating - almost crushing him. It was, of course, all in his mind. But it's a devastating emotional blow and proof that the cinema could create the feeling of loneliness - what was required was a visual, physical representation of mentality, and feeling. The fact that Der letzte Mann is an Expressionist film, which cast its character in framed shadow, probably helped too.

Lost In Translation (2003) sees empty movie star Bob Harris (Bill Murray) in Tokyo for a whisky commercial. Deflated and alone, he meets unsatisfied and neglected newlywed Charlotte (Scarlett Johansson), who takes to his world weary cynicism. Together, they decide to change everything...

Bob: Can you keep a secret? I'm trying to organize a prison break. I'm

looking for, like, an accomplice. We have to first get out of this bar, then

the hotel, then the city, and then the country. Are you in or you out?

After a lingering title shot Lost In Translation opens in a car. Foregrounding Bob, the camera is in a focused close-up on his glum, dissatisfied face. Tokyo is a neon-lit blur, a vibrant collage of waking life, in this scene set to the ethereal, shoegazing tone of 'Girls' by Death In Vegas. The track plays over the rest of the scene as Bob looks out to the foreign city, observing the hustle and bustle that he has grown so apart from. His wrinkled face and receding hairline are met by a reflection - a promotional poster for the whisky, hanging high above the city. Except there's a difference. Against the vivid reds and ocean blues of the Tokyo skyline, Bob's poster is in black and white. Recalling 50s Rat Pack movies, it shows Bob as he is - stuck in the past, with no colour in his life. Drink is the easiest way out ("the good news is, the whiskey works.")

On an obvious note, Bob's loneliness is increased as a result of the language barrier that Tokyo brings. In a home away from home, with no friends, he can't even communicate with his director...

Director: (in long and fast paced Japanese) What difference does

it make? Makes no difference! Don't have time for that! Got it, Bob-san?

Just psych yourself up, and quick! Look straight at the camera. At the

camera. And slowly. With passion. Straight at the camera. And in your

eyes there's... passion. Got it?

Translator: Umm. He want you to turn, looking at the camera. OK?

Bob: That's all he said?

The pace of life in Tokyo is a perfect juxtaposition to the way Bob just drifts through his own existence, not paying attention to what's going on around him ("forgetting my son's birthday"). One of the taglines to Lost In Translation is 'Everyone wants to be found.' In many ways this is the theme of the film, and what makes Charlotte so important. She is Bob's redemption, as proven in the beautiful final scene. On his way to the airport Bob sees Charlotte walking the streets. He stops the car and runs to her. No dialogue is spoken; all that needs to be said done through a simple embrace. As her eyes well up he whispers something in her ear - something that we will never hear. Tenderly, he kisses her. That moment - that totally private goodbye, amongst hundreds of people - makes up for a world of loneliness.

Mahmut (Muzaffer Özdemir) ponders life in Uzak (Nuri Bilge Ceylan, 2002).

Uzak, the third feature by Turkish filmmaker Nuri Bilge Ceylan, is another masterpiece of feeling, but a much more minimalist, artistically motivated one. The title, literally translated to Distant, is the key theme of the film. Uzak is about the space between people - the space between their shoes, the space between their secrets. Even the space created between us and them, by director Ceylan, who literally uses the concept of distance as a cinematic device. Wide shots of landscapes echo with a silent loneliness - lead character Yusuf (Mehmet Emin Toprak) is introduced in a five minute static shot that sees him make his way over a snowy mountain, to the centre of the frame. Ceylan frequently chooses to place the camera behind a character, in medium/close-up shots, foregrounding objects to create a literal distance between them and the audience. This forces us to look closer and invest in the relationship between two estranged cousins, who spend most of the film at a noticeable distance - even in their closest moments.

One scene sees Mahmut (Muzaffer Özdemir), a photographer, watching Andrei Tarkovsky's Stalker (1979), itself a cold essay on isolation - The Zone representing a lonely state where ones hopes and dreams may be realized. Even Mahmut's job is lonely - the easiest way for him to get close to people is to observe them through a lens; to watch their lives from a distance. Yusuf wants to work on a boat and at one point is asked, "how will you cope with the loneliness?"

There is so much loneliness in Uzak that it can sometimes be hard to bear. Mostly without dialogue, the film plays out in scenarios where Mahmut and Yusuf long for company. Ceylan takes long static shots simply observing a characters behavior. A character watches porn alone. A character observes a girl from afar - atop a ledge or from the other side of the street. The first line of the film is "are you looking for someone?" And in the world of Uzak, it's always Winter.

The ending is the polar opposite to Lost In Translation's, which is why they make such a wonderful pairing. Mahmut sits on a grey bench overlooking the ocean. Over three minutes the camera zooms in on him, observing his behavior. As we get closer his face becomes clear, as does the sad expression on it. The frame closes in on him, isolating him from the rest of the world. A close-up on his face fades to black, and we will never see him again.

The saddest thing about Uzak is that shortly after filming was completed, Toprak was killed in a car accident. This goes to show how fragile life is, and how easily it can be lost. A wonderful actor, he is lost forever, his distance from the Earth unknown...

*The analysis series has been relocated to the E-Film Blog from Multimediamouth. My first two pieces,

Analysis: Vampires and Analysis: Mike Leigh, can be found here and here, respectively.

Powell & Pressburger #2. The Red Shoes (1948)

Moira Shearer stars in Powell & Pressburger's The Red Shoes (1948)...

There's no easy way to say this. After adoring A Matter Of Life And Death (1946) I was eager to begin on another of Powell & Pressburger's acclaimed works, and The Red Shoes, frequently hailed as the duo's finest hour, came highly recommended by friends and critics alike. At first I was enraptured - Brian Easdale's evocative score swells over the pastel-coloured titles, giving way to a scene of boundless energy as a young crowd flood into the theatre and take their seats. From here the film sets us up for an epic tale of shattered dreams and spurned passions, but for all of its formal majesty, technical precision and artistic ambition, The Red Shoes left me flat. It's not a bad film, but it's certainly nowhere near as good as that weighty reputation would suggest. Let's start with the good stuff...

Obviously Powell & Pressburger were masters of their craft, and the direction here is sublime - especially during the film's hypnotic centerpiece, a production of the titular ballet. Rather than observing the performance from the front row, Powell & Pressburger open up the stage, free their camera and employ all kinds of visual trickery to allow it real scope; it's almost like watching another film - a short interjected into the main feature. The dancing, costumes, set design, lighting - they're of an impeccable standard, and I defy anyone not to get swept up in the magic. My favorite shot finds Victoria (Moira Shearer) twirling down a darkly lit corridor in slow motion, which is almost like a snapshot from winter reverie. It's a breathtaking moment, and I'll admit that, for the art and set design alone, The Red Shoes is worth a watch. But that really is all I can recommend it for.

There are many who claim that The Red Shoes presents an in-depth look at the uncompromising world of ballet, but I saw it as a fairytale of chance and there's no greater exploration of intense rehearsal, one-upmanship and jealousy here than in 42nd Street (Bacon, 1933) or The Night They Raided Minsky's (Friedkin, 1968) - although they were about Broadway musicals and burlesque theatre respectively. And both films played with the same stereotypes as The Red Shoes - the cold, steely producer and young, innocent do-gooder who gets to be the star of the show. But what 42nd Street had in rat-a-tat spectacle and Minsky's had in high-wire tomfoolery, The Red Shoes downplays into a laughably sincere melodrama.

Jack Cardiff's flushed Technicolor photography is, technically speaking, perfect. Every colour is so rich and absorbing, so filled with feeling - but when combined with the strained operatics of the story it just feels far too... well, instructive. Melodrama is designed to hit the highest notes and draw out a physical reaction from the audience, but I've never seen one that felt so precisely judged as to come off as cold; withdrawn into its own emotional mapping. The performances in the film are parodically high-strung, best exemplified by the final scene between Victoria, Lermontov (Anton Walbrook) and Craster (Marius Goring), which finds Craster falling on his knees begging for love, Lermontov bellowing about the choice between a life on the stage and life as a housewife, and Vicky, inbetween, sobbing her little heart out.

The tragic denouement is where I finally parted company with, well... the company. Powell & Pressburger are gifted storytellers, but the art-imitating-life (and vice versa) plot has no depth, and follows a predictable arc. Lermontov is the shoemaker of Victoria's story, but the path getting us to that setup is too labored and unrealistic as to have the desired effect - to make us feel trapped in their destructive relationship. A scene where Lermontov stares himself down in a mirror, boiling with anger before smashing it with his fist, is laughably histrionic. I just didn't find anybody to really care about in the film, which seemed far too wrapped up in its own theatrical grandeur to really hit the right emotional beats. It's exquisitely designed, but I just felt unconnected from what was going on, and if you're not interested in the story or characters then The Red Shoes is just an overlong, albeit pretty, ballet picture.

Salt (Phillip Noyce, 2010) DVD Review

Angelina Jolie as Evelyn Salt, a possible Russian Spy, in Salt.

Review contains spoilers.

There's a lesson to be learned here, not to judge a book by its cover. When I watched the trailer for Salt early last Summer I was struck by how blindingly unoriginal and average it looked - Angelina Jolie in yet another unchallenging action role, unconvincingly stunning as a CIA agent who would seem more at home on a catwalk. As she runs to clear her name ("somebody's setting me up!") plot twist after plot twist will surely ensue until she kills the real spy and saves the day. Right? Well, actually, the answer is no. Screenwriter Kurt Wimmer is well known for writing films that are as dumb as a bag of hammers - Ultraviolet (Wimmer, 2006) and Law Abiding Citizen (F. Gary Gray, 2009) among them - but this time he's really taken an idea and run to the end of the world with it. There are plot holes you could drive a convoy through, muddled plot devices that are lost with no explanation, awkward exposition and characters that change motivation with the same casualness that they would take with an evening in and a bottle of wine. Salt, right down to it's ridiculous name, is utter tosh. But it's not the same tosh that the wonderfully misleading trailer would have you believe - it's something a little braver, a little more unconventional, and a little more exciting.

The first thirty minutes of Salt are post-Bourne mechanics in the slowest motion possible. After an all-too-brief prologue we are introduced to Evelyn Salt - a sturdy career woman enjoying a relationship with arachnid expert Mike Krause (August Diehl). But it's not long until she's called out as a Russian spy and goes on the run to clear her name. This part of the film is a clunkily routine action thriller that has tremendous actors such as Liev Schreiber and Chiwetel Ejiofor spouting dialogue such as "seal the security doors" and "lock down the elevator" like we're in a mid-90s Van Damme vehicle. As is now the norm we follow her through a couple of glossy, over-cut action sequences, doing impossible things while retaining every hair in place - and generally being impossibly beautiful. There are peppered references to other movies - a flick-knife shoe from From Russia With Love (Terence Young, 1963) and a wall-maneuvering sequence straight out of The Bourne Identity (Doug Liman, 2002), and all in all, it adds up to nothing. Cheesy, brightly-lit flashbacks bathe Evelyn in a caring, loving light - and ordinarily these would be the scenes that lazily attempt to add emotion to a characters plight. But in around ten minutes time Evelyn Salt will dye her hair black and become Natasha Chenkov, a Russian spy who was trained from childhood to complete a mission that would eventually destabilize the United States. She also extracts venom from a spider she specifically selected from her house, before the CIA blew the door down - but that's never mentioned again...

This is where the movie really comes into it's own. Despite remaining utterly ridiculous, it's actually a very interesting move to turn convention on its head and turn Angelina Jolie, the luscious long-haired action babe, into a largely silent, brooding villain, who assassinates the Russian President in an extended action sequence where she should have been killed about five times. If you're able to suspend disbelief then the next forty-five minutes may hold some rewards. If you don't, it's probably not worth a rental. After she escapes a high-speed pursuit with a taser (she literally just walks away) Salt/Chenkov meets her mentor and ringleader Orlov (Daniel Olbrychski) as they engage in some Russian stereotyping. She wears a big woolly hat while they both speak in silly accents and drink vodka - aboard a rusty ship. Yes, it's that kind of movie. But there are two twists in store here too - firstly the assassination of husband Mike (who we are told for no reason is an arachnid expert every five minutes), and secondly Salt's dispatch of the entire crew - including Orlov. From here, she sets out to assassinate the President Of The United States.

The script continues to pander and underestimate audience intelligence, while Noyce does a reasonable job of keeping up a brisk pace - although the lean 90 minute running time probably helps too. The plot twist revealed here is too silly for words, so I shan't bother discussing it. Instead, it's interesting to note the transformation of Jolie. There's an absurd plot development that requires her to disguise herself as a man (awful prosthetics ensue) but she also has to cut her hair short. This means that for the remainder of the film the normally strongly-feminine Jolie (even an action role like Tomb Raider, Simon West, 2001, saw her jiggling for the amusement of pre-pubescent fanboys) kills with a cropped, obsidian-black haircut, and a white shirt and trousers that conceal her curves in a way that, say, Wanted (Timur Bekmambetov, 2008) did not. It's a radically different look that instantly alters our perception of the star, her image becomes so violently warped. Barely speaking a word she storms through corridors assassinating the good guys, and doesn't blink an eye when the president actually is killed (not by her however). As she's being led away from the final crime scene, she executes a fellow comrade in a shockingly violent scene - as she hangs over a bannister with blood splattered across her face, the film feels surprisingly more confident and engaging - something darker than I had any right to expect upon viewing that first trailer.

The ending is equally silly, with an entire character seemingly abandoned for the sake of opening up for a sequel, but sat here now, writing this review, I'm pretty open to the idea. The first half is nonsense but by the time the conclusion came I was left with a stronger, bolder film than the opening suggests. It's a shame that first third is so shoddily retrograde because, despite the cliched exposition (text messaging is a poor device), rubbish CGI and muddled plot mechanics, the thrillingly brooding ending was one I'm totally onboard with, and a sequel could prove an interesting prospect...

Powell & Pressburger #1. A Matter Of Life And Death (1946)

David Niven and Kim Hunter in A Matter Of Life And Death (1946).

Last March I began the E-Film Blog with a review of Peter Jackson's The Lovely Bones (2009), an adaptation of Alice Sebold's novel about a young girl who is murdered and goes to heaven. In that review I initiated a claim that no film based on the concept of heaven could be perfect, because it's such a divisive subject - what does it look like, if it exists at all? Creative freedom is assured, but so is an undeniable flaw - suspension of disbelief takes on different levels when applied to religious concepts. What this claim didn't take into account, however, was a case in which the specific depiction of heaven did meet a viewers criteria - and matched the image of heaven they had in their mind. I'm not saying that you have to be religious to appreciate films with heaven as a topic - but perception and engagement with the story must surely be tainted by ones beliefs? The reason The Lovely Bones didn't work for me (despite some initial praise) was because its depiction of heaven was fantastical as opposed to celestial - neither film actually acknowledges a God, but Jackson's unto-itself universe seemed more in-tune with The NeverEnding Story (Wolfgang Petersen, 1984) than a place of spiritual settlement. Put succinctly, Jackson may as well have labeled his vision Narnia, such was the non-implicative nature of that heaven, which upon subsequent viewings I would describe as cowardly. A Matter Of Life And Death, however, is a profoundly celestial vision - as proven in an unforgettable shot in which the camera pulls out of heaven's grand court and observes heaven sitting upon a bed of stars; a system much resembling the Milky Way. The heaven of this film exists within a definite universe - the opening even makes the boldly dry observation; "big, isn't it."

The artistic ambition and design of this Powell/Pressburger epic is what has ensured it's timelessness - as thematically brave and visually astonishing now as the day it was premiered, in the presence of King George VI and Queen Elizabeth, making it the first Royal Film Performance. Curiously, this heaven is shot in black and white and Earth in rich technicolour - one would think the obvious choice would be the other way around, to reflect the dullness of everyday life and the luxurious eternity and dreamlike beauty of heaven. Not so with Powell and Pressburger, who knew that love is the colour of life and in order for Peter (David Niven) and June's (Kim Hunter) relationship to have weight, Earth - and their life together - had to look like the more appealing prospect. It's also notable that not much of heaven is shown - just the waiting room and grand hall - and they are shot with structural similarities to Earth, with much of the framing based around character rather than location. One might even call it restrictive. It might be expected of the film to slavishly adorn it's celestial setting but there are no wide establishing shots, nor panning shots. It's not that heaven is unattractive - it's just a smaller, more formal place than one would expect - and not one that embraces passion.

The centerpiece of the film is the appeal for Peters life, and within that spectacle is a cunningly crafted debate on prejudice. As smartly scripted as that finale is, however, my favorite scene - a simple joke with no relevance to the plot - has much more to say on the matter. The first time we see heaven, Bob Trubshawe (Peter Coote) is waiting for Peter to arrive, certain that his friend must have bit the dust. While he's waiting, two pilots arrive, one French and one British. The French pilot rambles ecstatically, making great gestures. The Brit doesn't have a clue what he's saying but responds "oh, bad luck old boy." It's a simple joke, and an effective one, but it also has something deeper to say - that this heaven is non-judgmental and non-prejudicial toward other peoples and their faith. The Brit and the Frenchman likely share a different faith, yet they have been allowed into the same heaven. This is further explored in the grand court, where people of all races, religions and historical backgrounds are present. Whichever God or greater being is running this place, he/she seems pretty fair. The greater implication is, of course, one of good and evil. We're often told that if you're good you'll go to heaven and if you're bad you'll go to hell. What's fantastic is the heaven in A Matter Of Life And Death accepts all, universally - ones character is not deemed good or bad based upon their belief system. God, Allah, Krishna... it doesn't matter, because they're all the same thing. The greatest message of the film (apart from one of love)? Everybody is connected, and we're all equal. All that from a simple joke. No wonder Powell/Pressburger are so well regarded...

Scott Pilgrim vs. The World (Edgar Wright, 2010) DVD Review

Michael Cera as Scott Pilgrim in Scott Pilgrim vs. The World

After an 8-bit rendition of the Universal logo Scott Pilgrim vs. The World explodes into a sonic crash of pure nerd-mania. That's a sentence I never imagined myself writing, but then, Edgar Wright's third directorial outing is a film I never thought I'd find myself watching. How best to describe it without sounding lavishly hyperbolic? A living comic book? A videogame movie not based on a videogame? It's both of those things, simultaneously, but also a sensitive coming-of-age drama and a dryly witty essay on the complications of young love. It's unfussy, totally focused, and more fun than most films released in cinemas last year.

By now everyone has written about Wright's innovative aesthetic, and it's true - this gifted auteur has transferred his fast-cutting, one-liner strewn Brit-com style into a multi-million dollar comic book movie, and not only has he retained every sense of artistic integrity, he's also built on it to create something totally unique; visually astonishing and a melting sensory experience. The visuals are lovingly in-touch with the source material, by Bryan Lee O'Malley, but they also exist within the world of videogame culture. Sound-bites are included from Sonic the Hedgehog (SEGA, 1991) and The Legend Of Zelda (Nintendo, 1991) - characters recreate dress from beat 'em ups such as Soulcalibur (Namco, 1999) and the sprawling fight sequences, right down to the lingering vs. sign that electronically appears to signal each one, are straight out of Tekken (Namco, 1994). There are references and in-jokes peppered through every aspect of production - Pakkuman (Namco, 1980) is mentioned in dialogue, Scott plays the bassline from Final Fantasy IV (Square Company, 1991) and the score, by Radiohead collaborator Nigel Godrich, is layered with computer and console effects, and generally sounds like a rave between a Sega, Nintendo and a Playstation. The sequence that sees Scott fighting the Katayanagi twins is a stunner, with computer generated dragons, seemingly made from neon-lit pixels, facing off with a giant gorilla, over a stadium of people rocking out - the song that complements the showdown is by Godrich and genuis-of-the-moment Beck. Essays could, and will, be written on the aesthetic and artistry of this movie, but I wish to focus on three elements that have been sadly overshadowed by the cultish charm on Scott Pilgrim's surface.

Firstly, it's the aforementioned score by Godrich who has, in the past, also collaborated with Ultrasound, Charlotte Gainsbourg, Air and R.E.M. - so he has musical talent to spare. The soundtrack alone would be good enough - Scott's band Sex Bob-Omb are terrific and their song 'Garbage Truck' a genuinely great track. Elsewhere songs by The Black Lips, Blood Red Shoes, Metric and Broken Social Scene underscore key moments, and Beck provides character track 'Ramona'. But Godrich's score is a genuinely absorbing and moving piece of work. A majority of the tracks are high-tempo, videogame-inflected fight songs - 'Chau Down' and 'Katayanagi Twins vs. Sex Bob-Omb' being two highlights - the former a techo groove that throws punches of its own and plays with synth and drums to pulse-pounding effect, the latter a more structured battle-of-the-bands with sonic guitars and distortion going up against mysterious synth beats. Best of all, however, is 'Rumble', inspired by the song 'Fight!' from The Warriors (Walter Hill, 1979), which underscores the battle between Scott and egomaniacal Lucas Lee (Chris Evans). But there are surprising layers too - 'Love Me Some Walking' is an ambient dream - an intoxicating four minutes that just recalls the sensation of love, and the falling of snow at midnight. 'Sorry I Guess' is a beautiful melody and 'Bye And Stuff' a mellow moment of awakening. It's a diverse, highly energetic and equally relaxing piece of work, and one of the best scores of the year. It's also worth noting the track 'Love' by Osymyso, one of several 'trailer remixes' which takes lines of dialogue from the movie, worked around a specific theme, and plays them over a simple and beautiful melody. It's captivating.

Secondly, the pitch-perfect casting. Obviously Michael Cera fits like a glove for Scott - playing another awkwardly lovelorn musician, his look hasn't changed anymore than his comic timing (and nervous silences). But there is a sense that he's building a character here, and it's certainly his most confidently mature grasp on that shtick, and he mixes it up with some intense rocking-out sessions and fight sequences. Watching him take down an army of Lucas Lee stunt-doubles is a treat I never expected from the actor, and he lends surprising weight to the showdowns - he's no Bruce Willis, and he'll never lead an action movie - but Cera can throw a convincing punch and wows with some of the athleticism on show in the final battle, against Gideon Graves (Jason Schwartzman) - a Star Wars (George Lucas, 1977) themed fight scored by Sex Bob-Omb. But there are star turns everywhere that prove to be much funnier than expected. Alison Pill is hysterically deadpan as Kim, every line a stingingly sarcastic remark, she spends the whole film wittily scene-stealing. Also on-form is Kieran Culkin, the strongest of the Culkin's who also excelled in the underrated Igby Goes Down (Burr Steers, 2002) - the closest we'll ever come to a Catcher In The Rye adaptation. His character, Wallace, is always on-hand for advice but he mostly gets all the best put-downs and dry observations, charismatically working his way through Scott's nightmare. Chris Evans and Brandon Routh also impress as two of the seven evil ex's, but it's Routh especially who surprises with his comic stylings. He received a fair amount of flack for his turn as The Man Of Steel, but he displays quite a knack for comic timing as vegan Todd Ingram, whose dedication to the no-animals cause has given him X-Men-like powers. They've had fight training before but what's great is seeing actors, like Cera, that you wouldn't expect in these scenarios - kicking ass! This is largely thanks to Bradley James Allan and Peng Zhang, stunt and fight choreographer respectively. They bring a rawness to the fights that grounds them as Wright employs his technical wizardry, and despite the presence of flaming swords, they make Jason Schwartzman a believable cool tough-guy.

Last of all is the frankness of the sexual politics. It's so refreshing to see a movie that displays no prejudice or discomfort in portraying homo or bi-sexual relationships. They just exist, as in the real world. Wallace sleeps with three guys during the movie, and makes an explicitly clear reference to gay sex in the latter third. It's also taken for granted that Ramona had a lesbian experience ("I was curious") with Roxy (Mae Whitman), and that's perfectly fine. Everybody is allowed to think and feel however they want in the world of Scott Pilgrim - there's even the delicately handled matter of Scott's relationship with the lovely Knives Chau (Ellen Wong), a 17-year-old, five years his junior. But the relationships are handled maturely and with consequence; Scott and Ramona talk about past love experiences with all the world-weariness of people twice their age. It's this complete openness that really won me over, and makes the film so unique. Technically it's a marvel - the camerawork, special effects and editing (especially the 'THONK', 'WHUMP', 'POW' style) are spot-on, and the perfect cast ensure that every joke and emotional cue works. But a simply frank attitude towards contemporary relationships and dating; the actual acknowledgement of homosexuality in a mainstream comic-book blockbuster, and the fact that it doesn't exist in stereotype or ridicule - that's the biggest achievement of all.

Magnolia (P.T. Anderson, 1999) Review

John C. Reilly as Officer Jim Kurring in Magnolia.

"And the book says we may be through with the past, but the past ain't through with us" - Jimmy Gator.

It begins with a recounting of coincidence. The narrator (Ricky Jay) tells us of the hanging of three men for the murder of Sir Edmund William Godfrey, resident of Greenberry Hill. The hanged assailants were named Joseph Green, Stanley Berry and Daniel Hill. Another incident tells of a fire and the scuba diver caught up in the plane carrying water to contain it - the diver was a blackjack dealer at the casino where the planes pilot, estranged father Craig Hanson, attacked him two nights previous - the weight of the guilt was likely a deciding factor in his following suicide. A final incident tells of Sydney Barringer, a depressed young man who decided to take his own life by jumping from the rooftop of an apartment complex where, at the same time, his parents were having an argument three stories below. Faye Barringer, threatening Arthur Barringer with a shotgun, let off a round as Sydney passed by the living room window - turning a declared suicide into an accidental homicide. In the opinion of the narrator, this was not just "something that happened." These matters were not of chance, nor where they just "one of those things." No. "These strange things happen all the time."

P.T. Anderson's swelling masterpiece is set over one day and a square mile in the San Fernando Valley, Southern California. Although the prologue may purport Magnolia to be a tale of coincidence and chance, it's actually nothing of the sort. It is, in fact, best summed up by its tagline: 'Things Fall Down. People Look Up. And When It Rains, It Pours'. The interlocking, mosaic-like narrative places central focus on the patriarchs of two families. Jimmy Gator (Philip Baker Hall) is the presenter of a game-show called 'What Do Kids Know?', and his estranged, drug-addled daughter Claudia Wilson Gator (Melora Walters) becomes romantically entangled with lonely cop Jim Kurring (John C. Reilly). Earl Partridge (Jason Robards) is the other father - dying of cancer under the care of nurse Phil Parma (Philip Seymour Hoffman), he requests contact with his long-lost son, sex guru Frank T.J Mackey (Tom Cruise, in an Oscar-nominated role). Earl's wife Linda (Julianne Moore), years his junior, is sick from anxiety and regret. Meanwhile, on 'What Do Kids Know?', pressured genuis Stanley Spector (Jeremy Blackman) lives in the present what Donnie Smith (William H. Macy) faced in the past - the gift of knowledge cursed by the spectacle of freakshow. Now deeply in debt Donnie Smith is desperately in love with barman Brad, and faces a life dilemma.

The central theme of Magnolia is sins of the father. Although it is never explicitly addressed what Earl and Jimmy did to their children to push them so far away, it is clear that these dying men hold a burden of guilt, and recognise the chance to rectify their past mistakes. The children, meanwhile, are having their fathers sins visited upon them in forms of addiction and deception. Claudia sleeps with scumbag dealers to fuel her cocaine habit, which she abuses in the cloaked darkness of her living room - blankets put up around the windows to block out the sun. Frank, meanwhile, is a liar and a cheat, financially prospering from giving men the false hope that they can be anything like him. The way these stories play out, in parallel, form the crux of the film, but it's ambition spans far wider than the Altman-esque setup (the films closest companion, aside from Boogie Nights (Anderson, 1996) is Altman's Short Cuts, 1993).

For one, it's technical audacity and brio is awe inspiring. Anderson wrote the screenplay over a two week period, partly inspired by the songs of Aimee Mann, whose lyric "now that I've met you, would you object to never seeing me again?", from the album Dreamy, is adapted as dialogue for a key scene between Claudia and Jim in the films final third. The score is by Jon Brion, whose work for Anderson is possibly the best director/composer collaboration of all time. This is because the music tells as much of the story as the screenplay and the direction. As in Punch-Drunk Love (2002) there isn't a single scene without music, unless the silence is being played very intentionally. Mann's songs are also played at vital points in the film, not least in the amazing scene where, one-by-one, the characters start singing along to her beautiful track 'Wise Up'. But Brion's work underscores every minute of the film, backing - never informing - emotion with complete ease. As we move through each character and story arc the tempo and pitch changes slightly. It works around dialogue beats and swells when the camera makes a great gesture - a quick pan, unexpected zoom or extended tracking shot (employed beautifully in Stanley's walk from the entrance of the television studio to Jimmy Gator's office). In Punch-Drunk Love the score worked as if we were listening to the internal mind of the lead character, Barry Egan (Adam Sandler) - clunking and clanging, it's equally dreamy and nightmarish, and almost as dangerously nervous as Barry himself. The fascinating instrumentation created an almost Lynchian effect on the track 'Tabla', which proved a compelling juxtaposition with the utterly lovely 'Punch Drunk Melody', which would be at home in the finale of a musical. Here Brion takes a wider look at the material, expressing theme and motivation, as well as mood, through the music. It's almost as if the music is the pulse of the film. In quietly intimate moments you can hear a persons heart beating. Magnolia, a film of quiet intimacy, has music as it's heart - everything that happens over the course of this devastating day is expressed via Brion's instrumentation.

Tom Cruise as Frank T.J. Mackey.

Secondly, it's the direction. Even if he hasn't quite matched the consistent quality and innovation of the directors best work, the filmmaker Anderson most reminds me of is Orson Welles. Think of the opening crane/tracking shot in Touch Of Evil (1958), which moves from the setting and placing of a bomb on a car, and then - over the rooftops and down the road of half of a city - follows a couple until the car passes them and, out of shot, explodes. This three and a half minute sequence is one of the most impressive ever put on film, and the only director to touch such storytelling ability and class, through simple mise-en-scène, is Anderson. Originally the screenplay was written with a complex explanation of how closely-entwined the events were, making clear to the audience that all the characters lived or worked within close proximity of each other. Instead, the idea was abandoned, and the final third culminates in a shower of biblical proportions that ties all of the characters together without pandering. There are other subtle hints littered throughout the film - Jimmy's visit to Claudia and return to the studio, and Frank's visit to Earl from his seminar, are both conducted within a short space of time - and a panning shot on an intersection reveals that two unconnected characters are also in close proximity. But the raining frogs sequence is so utterly perfect that it alone should have guaranteed Anderson his first directing Oscar. Instead of adding ten minutes to an already bloated running time with unnecessary explanation, he crafts a denouement that, as well as working as an expository device, reveals something hopeful in the bleakness of this existence - even though these characters lives are spiraling out of control, plummeting further into loneliness and depression, they somehow connect through a moment of pure chance. A simple human connection, and faith, is rekindled through something that just... happened.

But best of all is the ending. I could go on for evermore about the profound, poetic dialogue ("no, it is not dangerous to confuse children with angels") and the pitch-perfect performances from every cast member - career bests for Walters, Reilly, Cruise, Macy and Blackman. I could discuss the exemplary editing and the stunning photography. But everything else that need be said about Magnolia is said in its closing moment - a moment of whispered dialogue that sees two eternally lost and lonely souls find each other. After three hours of tortured repression, lies and loss, Aimee Mann's 'Save Me' begins to play. Jim sits on the edge of Claudia's bed and expresses his love and admiration - the camera slowly closes in to her face and despite the fact we can't hear Jim, we know exactly what he's saying. As Mann bursts into a chorus Claudia looks directly to camera and cracks a smile. And my hurt just bursts, as I weep to the sweet sound of the greatest movie ever made...