LFF 2011: Las Acacias (Pablo Giorgelli, 2011) Review

The road is the destination... Germán de Silva and Hebe Duarte in Las Acacias (2011)

Pablo Giorgelli's debut feature, Las Acacias, belongs to a recent movement which critics have baptized "slow cinema", defied by diegetic sound, long shots and unhurried editing. The tag is frequently a byword for tedium, attributed to films which test the patience of an audience. They bring to mind a question: are all films required to have a story? I ask because Las Acacias has a setup, and doesn't give thought to traditional narrative convention. It goes thusly: Rubén (Germán de Silva) is an enigmatic and largely mute truck driver from Argentina who has agreed to carry Jacinta (Hebe Duarte) and her eight-month-old son Anahí (Nayra Calle Mamani) across the border from Paraguay to Buenos Aries. They drive. They drive some more. They stop for food. The journey is resumed. Giorgelli structures his picture around the theme of repetition. Here "slow cinema" appears as a byword for a cinema in which nothing happens, or at least nothing of consequence. Alfred Hitchcock once said, in a dispiriting fashion I might add, that "most pictures you see are photographs of people talking", meaning that they don't necessarily require the qualities of cinema to tell their tales. But perhaps we're thinking of cinema too rigidly, which is a common mistake when faced with a technique which differs from the norm.

A recent example of slow cinema is Meek's Cutoff (Reichardt, 2010), a largely silent Western about settlers on the Oregon trail. It's a film which takes time to observe faces and landscapes, protracting time to emphasize the unbearable conditions of frontier life. It drags, and yet the film is made up of nothing but set-pieces. The narrative is driven by events, for example the capture of a Cayuse man played by Rod Rondeaux. Salon critic Andrew O. Heir described the film as "a thriller or a horror movie in extreme slow motion." He's exactly right. Even the films of Béla Tarr are driven this way. I view Werckmeister Harmonies (2000) as a monster movie. Las Acacias is a road movie. The genre's primary theme is growth, and yet this tale feels stunted, lacking any kind of hook for an audience. You could fall asleep for twenty minutes and wake up to the same sight - Anahí crying as Rubén's timber truck rumbles past the landscape. He still looks gruff. What incentive has Giorgelli given the viewer to engage with this tale? The characters' faces hold inherent mystery, but they alone cannot sustain interest.

The film is beautifully photographed by DP Diego Poleri, who captures an authentically dusty exterior from the limitations of Rubén's truck. I could discuss the framing of certain shots, and the delicacy of the lighting. The use of natural sound. All components of "slow cinema." But when one begins to notice these things a bigger problem announces itself - a complete lack of engagement with the onscreen action; the characters and their arcs. I suspect the screenplay was filled with directions and no more than ten pages of dialogue, none of which probes into backstory. For once exposition could have been forgiven. When two characters are driving across the country, characters who've never met before, would it not be natural to have them at some point discuss their lives? What the actors have to work with is the psychological implication of their journey. Where are they going, and what does it mean for them when they arrive? The performances are wonderfully naturalistic, but perhaps that's because they're not prisoners to language, which is so often contrived for the purpose of plot. A benefit of "slow cinema" I suppose.

When the ending arrives Rubén asks Jacinta if she would like to accompany him on a journey the following week. There's a glint of romance in his eyes, and we suddenly become aware that he has developed feelings for her. A reverse shot to her reaction reveals that the feeling might be mutual. The footage which unfurls this development must have been left on the cutting room floor though, because there's no trace of it in the first 75 minutes of Las Acacias, which drags on for what feels like a lifetime. It's a real shame, because there's so much potential in Giorgelli's setup. He's just not interested in story.

Las Acacias is showing at the London Film Festival on Tuesday 18th October. The film's official UK release date is December 2nd. This review can originally be found at Flickfeast.

LFF 2011: Nobody Else But You (Gérald Hustache-Mathieu, 2011) Review

Sophie Quinton plays a murdered cheese model in comedy noir Nobody Else But You (2011)

A stylish snow-steeped noir, Gérald Hustache-Mathieu's Nobody Else But You (re-titled from the French Poupoupidou) is one of the most purely enjoyable films of recent years, and a particular treat for cinéastes. David (Jean-Paul Rouve, last seen in Luc Besson's Adèle Blanc-Sec, 2010) is a crime novelist visiting the beautiful region of Mouthe, whose local celebrity, a saucy weathergirl and cheese model by the name of Candice Lecour (Sophie Quinton), has just been found dead. The police declare it suicide, quickly brushing off any media attention. But David, who is suffering from a severe case of writers block, suspects foul play, and sets upon solving the mystery for himself. Several characters refer to his potboilers as "implausible". So is the plot of this film, but that's just one example of how reality and fiction constantly overlap and inform each other, resulting in a smart genre pastiche which works as a compelling mystery in its own right.

Critics are often keen to divide art and entertainment as if the two could never co-exist, but here's a film which works both as an escapist fantasy and an academic case study. It's fluffier than a jet-washed poodle, yes, but Hustache-Mathieu's tale, co-written with Juliette Sales, is also a masterclass in tone. Effortlessly moving between sight gags, affecting drama and classical noir convolutions, Nobody Else But You shifts gears without the audience ever noticing; at times we could be watching Raymond Chandler done with the spirit of Chaplin, and vice versa. Continuity of tone is one of the hardest feats to accomplish in filmmaking. Consider that a film is shot out of sequence, and often edited and scored without the presence of the director. There are so many cooks attending the broth that the taste could be soured, but Hustache-Mathieu seems to have complete control, and he never misses a genre trick.

The cineliterate screenplay is also wonderfully layered, and never slips into the kind of self-congratulatory referencing that directors like Quentin Tarantino, whose name-checking of obscure samurai and blaxploitation movies serve him more than his stories, are prone to. Hustache-Mathieu works references into his plot that also have a direct impact on it, such as the scene where two characters connect over a conversation about Cecil B. DeMille ("he's a man"). Another footnote is clearly the Coens' Fargo (1996), yet the effect of that reference is subliminal and adds to the overall atmosphere. If you haven't seen the film it doesn't matter, and if you have its memory will evoke a smile. Nobody Else But You is supported by rather than reliant on its knowledge of cinema, and that's the fundamental difference.

The plot also revolves around a classic icon of the screen, as David's mystery soon begins to draw parallel with the life of Marilyn Monroe. Lecour is a dead ringer for the blonde bombshell, and the opening credits even recreate (to stunningly sexy effect) her 1962 photoshoot with Bert Stern. Her nude body protected by soft silk and linen, this famous photoshoot has come to be known as "The Last Sitting", as it was shot just six weeks before Monroe's death. Once again, reality informs fiction, and vice versa. Hustache-Mathieu also takes liberties with the JFK story to inform his own corrupt politician, about whom I shall reveal nothing. Indeed, the less you know about Nobody Else But You's plot, the better. Part of the film's enjoyment is being taken by surprise at the exact moment you think you've got a hold on it.

Indeed, no other film at this year's festival has surprised me quite as much. The performances are stunning, especially the deadpan Rouve, who wanders through the tale with a hangdog expression, constantly harassed by his publisher and a young girl named Betty, who quickly develops a soft spot for the weathered author. But this is unquestionably Quinton's show. Perfectly balancing sex appeal, humour and emotional depth (her beyond-the-grave narration is haunting), she proves herself as a performer of considerable skill and range, and one determined not to be held back by her looks. She could easily become another pinup girl but instead she's challenging the persona, approaching it with tongue firmly in cheek. Hopefully this role will bring her the acclaim she deserves, and a compelling career will follow.

Nobody Else But You is screening at the London Film Festival on Monday 17th and Thursday 20th October. This review can originally be found at Flickfeast.

Buried Alive (Frank Darabont, 1990) DVD Review

Jennifer Jason Leigh stars as the world's worst housewife in Buried Alive (1990)

Taphophobia is the fear of being buried alive, something the coffin horror sub-genre (yes, I just coined that term) has ripely exploited since the tradition was established with Edgar Allan Poe's deliciously dark short story 'The Premature Burial', published 1844. In this tale a narrator details his own phobia of waking up in a casket, which he describes as "the true wretchedness." Throughout the story, adapted multiple times, most famously by Roger Corman (1962) and Jan Švankmajer (Lunacy, 2005), he recounts several incidents of premature burial, each as horrifying as the last. Rodrigo Cortés' claustrophobic thriller Buried (2010) also revolved around the theme, which remains a goldmine for authors and filmmakers. Frank Darabont's 1990 addition to the sub-genre is an interesting if flawed take, but it moves at a firecracker pace (likely because of its structuring around adverts; cliffhangers are required every fifteen minutes) and a trio of strong performances...

In Buried Alive Tim Matheson plays Clint Goodman, an ordinary working class guy with a seemingly perfect life. His stunning house is custom built, and in it he lives with his beautiful wife Joanna (Jennifer Jason Leigh). But she's having an affair with their doctor, Cort van Owen (William Atherton), who instructs his fling to kill her husband with an undetectable poison. Their motive? Insurance money. But the drug doesn't kill Clint, and he soon rises from the soil to wreak vengeance on those who wronged him. So, yeah, this one isn't so much about the fear of being buried alive, instead focusing on the evil which dictated Clint's premature laying to rest.

Unfortunately Darabont's tale loses some of its impact having been made for television, as its tight corners and choking spaces are (oddly) weakened for their rendering on the boxed-in small screen. What the film lacks is scope, and it's interesting to look back on it when considering the director's current body of work. He's no stranger to the theme of claustrophobia, having directed two prison dramas, The Shawshank Redemption (1994) and The Green Mile (1999), and 2007's terrifying The Mist, in which residents of a small town are trapped inside a supermarket by a slew of bloodthirsty monsters. The 1.33:1 aspect ratio, as opposed to the standard 2.35:1, limits the potential of Mark Patrick Carducci's teleplay, which is delectable in its setup. One would imagine that the frame reduction would enhance the feeling of enclosure, but it has a negative effect; perspective is lost.

As aforementioned, what really sells the film are its performances, especially the brittle bitch Jennifer Jason Leigh creates for Joanna. She's completely believable as a wealth-obsessed leech, whose garish lipstick and bombshell blonde hair perfectly exemplify her shallowness. The actress envelopes herself into the character, who is truly detestable. It's not one of her best performances, but then her CV is packed with greatness. Matheson crafts an equally believable character, and he's so likable that I often wondered how exactly this polar opposite couple had ended up together. It's because of his nuanced everyman that I bought into the story, even when its twists and turns became a little silly. He roots the film, and we root for him. Atherton also impresses here, adding depth to the asshole persona he perfected with Ghostbusters (Reitman, 1984) and Die Hard (McTiernan, 1988). The three actors have a great dynamic, and it's a joy to watch them together.

Tim Matheson directed a sequel in 1997, the inventively titled Buried Alive II, starring The Breakfast Club (Hughes, 1985) alumnus Ally Sheedy. It has a replica plot, revolving around the exact same themes, but the film's problem isn't unoriginality. Horror as a genre is recyclable. People will always fear being buried alive; the claustrophobia of it, the darkness and the stench. What Darabont's film offers is a vital piece of advice: buy a steel-lined coffin. Should the dead rise, they'll be looking for revenge...

The Disc/Extras

Considering that this is a two-decades-old TV movie, the image is actually pretty solid; there is some grain, but it adds to the overall feeling of the picture. Sadly there are no extras, not even a theatrical trailer. A vanilla package.

Buried Alive is released on DVD in the UK on Monday 17th October. This review can originally be found at Flickfeast.

Empire Of Passion (Nagisa Ôshima, 1978) Blu-Ray Review

Seki (Kazuko Yoshiyuki) goes quietly insane in Ôshima's Empire Of Passion (1978)

The second Franco-Japanese production between Anatole Dauman and Nagisa Ôshima, Empire Of Passion is, like 1976's In The Realm Of The Senses, a mythical tale of forbidden love, chronicling the affair between a couple whose uncontrollable desires drove them to murder. The film won Ôshima the Best Director award at Cannes, and watching this gorgeous new Blu-Ray transfer it's easy to see why. Literally translated from the Japanese Ai no borei as Love's Phantom, Ôshima's second masterwork is a compelling study of guilt, passion and retribution in 19th Century Japan...

The film opens on a shot of rickshaw wheels beating away at crumbling turf, pulled by the sake-loving Gisaburo (Takahiro Tamura), husband to the repressed Seki (Kazuko Yoshiyuki). The year in 1895, and word in this densely populated Japanese village travels fast. Seki is having an affair with the mysterious Toyoji (Tatsuya Fuji), and soon, after shaving her pubic hair, it is decided they must kill Gisaburo. That night the lovers strangle their witless victim and throw him down a deep well. Three years pass, and rumours of a ghost begin to pass through the village...

Originating from the Edo period (1603 - 1868), Kaidan is a Japanese word roughly translated as "ghost story". These stories, popular since the early 1700's, can be traced through painting, literature and cinema, right up to the recent J-Horror movement (Ju-On, Takashi Shimizu, 2002). But Empire Of Passion is not your traditional horror picture, and its ghost doesn't seek vengeance. His soul is restless, appearing to Seki as a conflicted spirit. I found myself wondering what emotions a ghost could feel, and what memories he retained. Could he still feel love for his wife, and therefore feel the cold sting of her betrayal? His appearance in this world, at his wife's side - is this purgatory? Eventually his presence drives the woman insane, and one striking sequence has her sitting, serenely, at the center of a burning house. The sequence preceding this one, in which Gisaburo takes her on a rickshaw ride through a spectral landscape, is utterly terrifying. Gisaburo's haunted features, painted a theatrically pale shade of white, speak of a man whose depression must last him an eternity.

Ôshima's compositions are really impressive here, this time lensed by master DP Yoshio Miyajima (probably hired on the basis of his work for Masaki Kobayashi's portmanteau classic Kwaidan, 1964). The ethereal mist which haunts Seki's nights is especially effective, and the camera always hovers above Gisaburo's ghost, rendering him powerless. Ôshima understands framing in a way very few directors do, and every shot seems designed to elicit an emotional response from the audience. Once again the director is aided by first-class performances. Fuji is as good here as he's ever been, turning in another complex character whose motives and passions are expressed through the enigma of his eyes. Yoshiyuki looks physically ravaged by the end of the film, and Tamura, with the least screentime, makes for an entirely convincing spirit. It's another performance relayed entirely through actions, and the actor hasn't recieved nearly enough praise for his portrayal.

Dauman's list of production credits is astonishing, finding works by Resnais (Hiroshima Mon Amour, 1959), Bresson (Mouchette, 1967) and Laloux (Fantastic Planet, 1973) before catching up with New Wave frontrunner Ôshima. Dauman suggested to the director, upon their meeting at the Venice Film Festival, that they collaborate on a project; "Let's make a porno flick!", he said. The result of this meeting was In The Realm Of The Senses, but two years later the pair would reunite on Empire Of Passion, something of a companion piece to their previous film. His influence on Ôshima's career cannot be underestimated, especially considering the depiction of sex. It was because of France's sexual liberation, when in 1975 all restrictions on the production of pornography were abolished, that the director was able to shoot such explicit material, and therefore break new ground in his home country. For Empire Of Passion he would learn restraint, using this new freedom to create an emotional epic, still wrestling with the same themes of his previous picture.

After watching both films I flicked through some old Criterion essays, and came across this quote from Ôshima, dated 1969: "Sex and crime have one thing in common - they are the most violent urges of human beings." This is the thread which ties all of his work together, but particularly those collaborations with Dauman (it surprises me that he didn't produce Max Mon Amour, 1986, a bourgeoise satire in which Charlotte Rampling takes a chimp as her lover). Empire Of Passion is perhaps a more confident film than In The Realm Of The Senses, but it is most interesting when taken together with that film; taken as a study of sex and crime, and the line inbetween, if in fact one exists at all. In Ôshima's world I think sex and crime make for compellingly strange bedfellows. It's a world unlike any other in cinema...

The Disc/Extras

Another fantastic remastering job, showcasing crystal clear image and sound. It's a technically faultless release and a perfect example of what Blu-Ray can do. The extras are somewhat disappointing though, comprising a brief retrospective documentary and another panel discussion, again with Julian Ross (historian/curator), Jasper Sharp (author of 'Behind The Pink Curtain'), Roland Domenig (film scholar) and Mathieu Capel (scholar). Not as extensive as In The Realm Of The Senses, nor as interesting, but this is a recommendable package all the same.

Empire Of Passion is released on Blu-Ray in the UK on Monday 17th October. This review can originally be found at Flickfeast.

In The Realm Of The Senses (Nagisa Ôshima, 1976) Blu-Ray Review

Tatsuya Fuji and Eiko Matsuda play intoxicated lovers in Ôshima's In The Realm Of The Senses (1976)...

In The Realm Of The Senses (Ai no korîda) tells the disturbing story of Kichizo Ishida (Tatsuya Fuji) and Sada Abe (Eiko Matsuda), whose irrepressible desires acted as a catalyst for their eventual doom. The film is partially based upon an incident which occurred in 1930's Japan, in which Sada Abe asphyxiated her lover in a moment of passion and fled the crime scene with his decapitated penis. The story is true, although it has attained mythical properties through the prism of fiction; Ôshima's controversial 1976 treatment, which has never been shown uncensored in Japan, being as notorious as the case itself. Filmmakers such as Noboru Tanaka (A Woman Called Sada Abe, 1975) and Nobuhiko Obayashi (Sada, 1998) have also envisioned the tale, but New Wave director Ôshima imbued his epic with deeper criticisms of his country's culture, smashing through the barriers of what was deemed good taste. A Franco-Japanese production, the film has now been remastered for Blu-Ray, and the tale of Sada Abe looks richer than ever...

Fuji and Matsuda deliver two of the finest performances I've ever seen, using their entwining bodies to inform layers of character. The film is famous for its unsimulated sex scenes (which got it banned in several countries, including Germany, where it was confiscated as pornography), but the actors are never exploited. They boldly commit their bodies to Ôshima's vision, exploring each other's sexuality to probe deeper into the psychology of the characters. These are the most dedicated of performances, owing more to the acting style of silent cinema; purely physical expressions of humanity. Sada and Kichizo are primal creatures, regressed to a level of base indulgence, and the joy of the film comes from watching them unravel, albeit in different directions. As Sada becomes more unstable ("I desire you, and one day I'll use my knife on you") Kichizo becomes more afraid. He stays with her because he is compelled by her form, addicted to her touch, but secretly he fears her growing sexual hunger. Sada becomes quietly insane, eventually requiring acts of violence to reach climax. One could easily look at Kichizo's fate as an act of martyrdom.

The aesthetics of Ôshima's world are vital to understanding its story, and the colours inform much of the couple's behavior. Sada's colour is red, signifying danger and lust - the colour of love and blood. Kichizo wears black, indicating to me a void, or eternal nothingness. A doomed man. The interiors are green suggesting neutrality; a place where ecstatic union can be reached. DP Hideo Itoh lends the film a stunning palette, and its tones are subtle enough for their meaning to have genuine effect. The early scenes of snow falling, representing a purity that will be lost once the characters exile themselves to the dark interiors, are really striking, and provide an interesting contrast to the use of light and colour in later scenes. The final shot of the film rests above Kichizo's body, with "Sada and Kichi, just two of us together" painted across his chest in blood. The colour red has rarely been used so well in cinema.

This new release fascinates me for one reason in particular. In 1989 BBFC Chief Censor James Ferman fought hard for In The Realm Of The Senses to be released uncut in the UK. But one scene, in which Sada grabs the genitals of a young boy, squeezes them and seemingly causes him great pain, was in direct violation of the Protection Of Children Act. So, Ferman took it upon himself to oversee the optical reframing of that scene, resulting in a sequence which zoomed in to study the faces of the characters, expressing the emotion of what wasn't allowed to be shown by law. The film was subsequently passed uncut with an 18 certificate. A few months ago the BBFC reassessed the film and have decided, finally, that the complete work - with that troublesome scene intact - is suitable for UK audiences. This Blu-Ray represents the first time anyone in this country will be able to sit down and watch the film in its full, uncensored form, exactly the way Ôshima would have wanted. For that reason alone it's an essential purchase, and an invaluable edition to any film fans collection.

The Disc/Extras

Stunning transfer, with Ôshima's compositions looking sharper than ever. Optimum have been doing some great work recently, most of which has fallen under the radar, but maybe this one will catch attention. The extras are equally impressive, especially a fascinating documentary, directed by David Thompson, about the history of In The Realm Of The Senses, focusing on its impact in 1976. There are also retrospectives, a panel discussion with Julian Ross (historian/curator), Jasper Sharp (author of 'Behind The Pink Curtain'), Roland Domenig (film scholar) and Mathieu Capel (scholar), and six deleted scenes. This is one of the strongest releases I've seen all year, and fans of the film will be captivated by these all-new extras.

In The Realm Of The Senses is released on Blu-Ray in the UK on Monday 17th October. This review can originally be found at Flickfeast.

LFF 2011: The Machine That Kills Bad People (Roberto Rossellini, 1952) Review

Celestino (Gennaro Pisano) is bestowed with an unusual power in Rossellini's comical farce...

Previously considered a lost work, fabled by the hundreds of cinéastes teased by its genius plotline, Roberto Rossellini's obscure 1952 satire The Machine That Kills Bad People (La macchina ammazzacattivi) is receiving a rare screening at the London Film Festival this week, and, as the strand title would suggest, it's a true treasure from the archive.

The opening scene is wondrously inventive. A calm ocean is interrupted by a hand from the heavens, which proceeds to set the scene of a politically corrupt seaport town in the South of Naples. This hand magically conjures the town's miniature landmarks, represented by cardboard cutouts; it's a lot like shoebox theatre. Through the gentle narration a divide is established between the proletariats and bureaucrats, who may turn out to be just as troublesome as each other for small-town photographer Celestino (Gennaro Pisano). Once the scene has been set we are welcomed into Rossellini's tale of greedy officials and well-intentioned half-wits, which also acts as a fascinating commentary on cinema itself...

A naive individual, Celestino is one night visited by a vagrant old man claiming himself to be the town's patron saint, St. Andrea. This grubby gentleman bestows upon Celestino the power to kill through his camera. All the lensman must do is select a picture of his target, snapshot the item, and across town that person will die. Comically, upon expiration, they will also strike the same pose as in Celestino's elected photograph ("that idiot died with his arm in the air"). Firmly anti-establishment in his views, Celestino then endeavors to rid the town of its evil, starting with a local cop causing a star-crossed couple (the film's own Romeo & Juliet) trouble. Add into this mix a group of American tourists (who, with their top-range fashions and stylish car, represent modernity) who believe they are cursed, and Rossellini has established a wonderful farce...

Though best known for his contribution to the neo-realist movement of the 1950's, Rossellini never actually settled on one style, crafting a remarkably distinctive (and unpredictable) body of work over his 41-year career. The Machine That Kills Bad People, based on a story by Eduardo De Filippo and Fabrizio Sarazani, is his only out-and-out comedy, and it's a surprisingly broad affair, heavily reliant on sight gags involving donkeys, coffins and devil horns. That said, it is very funny, and it's a shame that the director never returned to the genre. Details are sketchy but it appears that Rossellini wasn't pleased with the final film, which was shot in 1948, finished by another director and then shelved until its release in '52, when it was greeted by sub-par reviews. The director called this film, which was released without his consent, an "isolated experiment", and as such is remains utterly fascinating.

With all that said, it's not entirely successful. This could be put down to the production history, but I suspect the greater problem lies in the fact that, with his feet still in the realist pond, Rossellini is attempting to bellyflop into the realm of absurdism here, and the cocktail of dark political satire, cinematic allegory and character piece doesn't quite come together. The film works best when it adopts a kind of slapdash tone, finding Celestino exasperatedly running across town in pursuit of a will, bumping off all the greedy so-and-so's that manage to get their hands on it before he does. In a hilarious extended set-piece he runs back and forth between the officials and his development lab, pleading with them for the benefit of the town's economy, and casually resorting to murder when they can't see past their own wealth. Rossellini smartly exploits this hypocrisy, but often in an overly sincere manner.

When the comedy works, it really works, and my audience - surprisingly packed with all ages - were howling from beginning to end. There are some really nice one liners, and the visual gags are working on a very sophisticated level, despite how broad they appear (we can see the donkey joke coming a mile off, but the execution ensures a giggle). The film ends exactly as it begins, with that heavenly hand (possibly Rossellini's) dissolving our little shoebox performance, narrating the audience out of Celestino's plight. It's perhaps a little too neat, but that matters little. By this time the laughs have been had. I really hope The Machine That Kills Bad People gets a release sometime over the next 12 months. It richly deserves the audience who so eagerly await it.

The Machine That Kills Bad People is screening at the London Film Festival this evening.

LFF 2011: A Trip To The Moon (Georges Méliès, 1902) Review

A rare chance to see Georges Méliès 1902 classic in its intended form... A Trip To The Moon.

Contrary to popular belief, cinematic magician Georges Méliès had always intended his classic 1902 short to be in colour, and it's only now, with the discovery of old prints, that we have been able to see the film the way its creator had intended. There's a rare opportunity to see a restored and re-coloured version of the film at this year's London Film Festival, as the short precedes the equally rare showing of Roberto Rossellini's The Machine That Kills Bad People (1952). A brief discussion by cinema historian Ian Christie was held before my screening, in which he revealed that Méliès' films were the most expensive of their time, not only for their lavish sets and visuals, but also because he demanded on them being hand-coloured. Fortunately Méliès' films were also guaranteed box office hits, and they raked in returns across the world.

This restoration is accompanied by a brand new score, composed and performed by French electronic duo AIR, who also provided the soundtrack to Sofia Coppola's The Virgin Suicides (1999). This anachronistic orchestration drones, glitches and soars over the 16-minute running time, recalling the controversial re-scoring of Metropolis (Lang, 1927) in 1984, by artists such as Adam Ant, Freddie Mercury and Pat Benatar. I could sense that my audience was divided over this new accompaniment, but personally I loved it.

Projected in its original 1.33:1 aspect ratio, the film has never looked better, and it's clear why Méliès' vision has become so influential, referenced in everything from Godard's La chinoise (1967) to the video for The Smashing Pumpkins' 1996 single 'Tonight, Tonight'. The spectacle of the film is still what surprises me most; the fact that a film 109 years old can take my breath away with its daring ambition. Even beyond that classic shot of a bullet ship lodged in the moon's eye, Méliès crafted a fascinating world for his bearded astronomers to explore, rocky and sandy on the surface, and inhabited by a green insectoid race, who explode into a puff of smoke when attacked. The director also manages to create an astonishing amount of depth with flat backgrounds, largely because of the detailed sets and the magical tone he establishes through costume and lighting. The argument against 3D stretches all the way back to the premiere of this film.

As well as being one of the most groundbreaking films of its time (argued as the first sci-fi, certainly a step into the avant-garde), A Trip To The Moon is still most awe-inspiring for its ability to hold an audience's attention a century after its creation. The NFT1 was packed with audience members old and young yesterday afternoon, and we all gasped with excitement during the film's final set-piece, where the protagonists escape from the planet, plummeting off a cliff into the earths crystal oceans. Even if the Rossellini film weren't so brilliant, it would be worth paying full price just to see Méliès' finest hour back on the silver screen once more. Exactly the way he dreamed it would be.

A Trip To The Moon will be playing before The Machine That Kills Bad People on Sunday 16th October. This review is also part of Cinema Strange and the Aurum Sci-Fi Quest.