Why Didn't Murray Win in Australia? He's officially British.

There is one, clear, obvious reason why Great Britain's Andy Murray was vanquished by Serb Novak Djokovic last Sunday in the final of the Australian open, and it has nothing to do with skill level. As it stands the world's four best players are: Rafael Nadal, Roger Federer, Novak Djokovic and Robin Soderling. The four share much common ground with Murray - they are all talented tennis players, they are all European, they are all white etc etc - but there are two key areas where these four diverge from Murray: they all come from countries that begin with the letter S, and Murray does not.

Spain, Switzerland, Serbia and Sweden - can it be a coincidence? Those four are basically all the decent countries that begin with 'S'. I don't think Somalia, Saudi Arabia or Samoa are ever going to produce players that will have the privilege of sweating, swearing and smashing their racquets in front of the Queen on the pristine lawns at Wimbledon, somehow. As for Slovakia, well, I'm not even going to go there. Since 2004 the only two nations to break the 'S' quadropoly are Russia and Argentina, with three between them. That's three out of twenty-seven, by the way, truly crushing dominance.

The tragedy for Andy Murray is, of course, that he's Scottish - yes, another country that begins with S. Why then, hasn't he won a Slam? Because he is forced to compete under the cursed flag of Great Britain. You have to go back to 1996 with Boris Becker of Germany to find a Grand Slam winner under the letter 'G'. There can be no other reason, though it most certainly is another reason for Murray to be angry with the English.

Detektivbyrån: A Hidden Gem

I've known about them for a while, but found out only recently that the wonderful Swedish electro-folk band Detektivbyrån had disbanded last year. Their anonymity means I don't expect anyone reading this to have heard of them, and their unique whimsy means I don't expect too many to be converted; a cool band Detektivbyrån are not: as this guy says, they are not a band you would show your friends (I appreciate the irony in this post). Judging by their touring schedules, they had little following outside their native Scandinavia. Detektivbyrån make music to be listened to in private, after a days hard toil. Xylophones, metalophones and accordions wash together with grace and clarity; I can't help but picture lush mountainsides in early spring, streams swollen by melt-water. Above all, the music they make is peaceful. There are no politics, no anguish or lost loves, just pure, beautifully orchestrated, quirky (but not gimmicky), music.

Both their albums, E18 Album and Wermland can be found here.

Black Swan: A Review

While searching for a word that best encapsulates Darren Aronofsky's psychological ballet horror Black Swan, I kept returning to the word bold. The concept, the art direction, the actors’ performances and camera-work are all realised with incredible confidence. The film could easily have descended into self-indulgence, and the difficult themes could have been muddied, but that is not the case. It’s a stark, striking departure from Aronofsky’s 2008 film The Wrestler, which was anchored firmly in the real; Randy Robinson suffered from recognisable, ordinary internal conflicts. Told through the lens of the original Swan Lake, Black Swan, in contrast, is a study in heightened sensory perception.

Black Swan is, co-incidentally, like last week’s 127 Hours in that it hinges on the psychological deterioration of the respective films’ protagonists. The comparisons are worth making: while 127 Hours makes it clear that Ralston’s hallucinations are in fact hallucinations, in Black Swan the boundary is not so much blurred, but invisible altogether. It is rarely clear what is real or whether characters are who they appear to be. It will likely spark the most divisive discussion, but as a means of demonstrating Nina’s (Natalie Portman) clash with her ‘black swan’ alter-ego it is effective. Nina struggles with the confidence and sexuality of her peers, especially troupe director Thomas and rival Lily, and to engage her passionate side. In one instance Thomas rhetorically asks of the frigid Nina’s dance partner (in what may be the in-joke of the year: Benjamin Millepied dumped his fiancé for Natalie Portman herself, who is now pregnant ) ‘Do you want to fuck her?’ Nina’s fragmenting psychology is also expressed through deeply thought-out set design, particularly though the use of mirrors. The mirrors are absolutely everywhere, to the extent that we see Nina from multiple angles with extreme frequency. As a technique it’s none too subtle; their ubiquity permeates the entire film and it’s one of the few flaws to be found. Mirrors are often used to show a character’s divided personality, but it becomes too obvious, and once Nina’s reflections move separately from herself it becomes a metaphor too far.

The dance sequences are extraordinarily involving. Whether you have an interest in ballet or not – I certainly don’t (didn’t? It’s a persuasive case) – is irrelevant, such is the elegance and synchronicity of the movement of actors and cameraman. Make no mistake: the camera-work in these sequences is as highly choreographed and essential as the dancers themselves. Perhaps it is something of an illusion, but the agility and accuracy of the camera is astounding, but it is no mere gimmick.

Another of Black Swan’s strong points is the emotional response it successfully elicits from the audience. It’s touching, disturbing, tragic and most surprisingly, scary. Perhaps the most interesting character of all is Nina’s mother (Barbara Hershey). Our perception of her is the most malleable; while she initially appears relentlessly controlling gradually we can see that our view of her has been distorted by Nina’s mental breakdown, and our sympathies are deliberately left unclear.

It is unsatisfactory to write a review that – bar one instance – wholly praises the film: the feeling that something must have been overlooked is hard to shake, but films can be as near immaculate as can be expected, and the much-vaunted 10/10 should not be unattainable, and this reviewer feels that Black Swan is a rare film that is worthy of the honour. It’s a real heart-stopper, and considering the advancing years of the audience present at the showing, I’m surprised the emergency services were not called into action. Those pacemakers must have been given a torrid time.

Dead Set: Worth a Re-Watch

Originally broadcast in the Autumn of 2008, Charlie Brooker's brilliant zom-com has been made available of 4oD, and it's as brilliant now as it was upon first showing. As a television drama, it works: initially broadcast over five consecutive week days it is neither too long nor too short; it is a fantastic concept and there are enough brutal set-pieces and comedic moments to ensure slick progression. From a horror perspective it also works: the Big Brother setting, perhaps not coincidentally, is the perfect for a zombie apocalypse drama: it allows for a acute critique of the Big Brother culture, and the real-world locale and astutely observed housemates puts it on the right side of believable. Credit must go to Channel 4 for commissioning a series that skewers their (at the time) biggest show.

The first episode alone contains many memorable moments. The ex-housemates' reactions of glee at seeing the oncoming rush of the undead hordes, and their subsequent cannibalisation, is a wonderful touch. Indeed the entire initial onslaught is cheekily shot to the sarcastically joyous strains of Mika's "Love Today". Special mention must also go to Davina McCall, who makes a great zombie. It may well be the television highlight of 2008, and I'm probably not alone in preferring her as a member of the living dead. Again, credit where credit's due, it takes some level of self-depreciation to cast yourself as a rabid blood-sucker.

Dead Set must surely also be the goriest television series of all time; certainly only The Walking Dead (which I'm unfortunately yet to see) and Spartacus: Blood and Sand, come close in recent years. There are a few spectacularly grisly death, with one of the last sticking in my mind: it's horrific. In fact, Dead Set deserves praise for aiming to balance gore and laughs with scares. Its closest cousin, Shaun of the Dead is gory fun, but it's not exactly nerve jangling. In contrast, Dead Set broods ominously, the washed out palate, lack of human life and the essentially futile position of the cast creates a real sense of menace. The nationwide-catastrophe and doom is heightened by the complete self-absorption of the characters.  

Other than Screenwipe and similar shows, Charlie Brooker doesn't have a huge number of writing credits for television series, but you wouldn't have known it, such is the assuredness of characterisation and plot. Satirising Big Brother is what Brooker was born to do; it fits his abrasive, simile-heavy humour perfectly. All the lead characters are great, but he clearly had most fun writing the bastards, with program-director Patrick and philosophical arse-wipe Joplin given the best lines.

To go much further would be to ruin the plot, so I'll keep it short. Dead Set is just utterly unique in its conception and execution. The setting is what makes the show; the natural defence, the freedom to write ridiculous characters, and the basis as a national touchstone and all the cultural comment that extends forthwith. It's great: watch it.

127 Hours: Review

127 Hours is a film about a man, stuck with one arm crushed under a rock, with only himself and a camera for company. On top of that, the audience knows the outcome; in short, it's something of an ambitious project. That said, if there's any director working today with the innovation and adaptability to pull it off, it's Danny Boyle. Never one to rest on his laurels, Boyle's output has genre-hopped immensely, with only his two first films, Shallow Grave and Trainspotting sharing any common ground; certainly the Utah desert is literally and figuratively a far-cry from the grimy Glaswegian suburbs in which Boyle made his name.

How then, to generate suspense in a film with a widely publicised outcome, namely self-amputation? By highly publicising said self-amputation of course, highlighting the grim detail of the severance. I recall Graham Norton asking of Boyle: 'Couldn't you have done it with a wide-angle?' We know it's coming, but we dread it, slowly cranking up the tension as the days grind past. It worked wonderfully, and I found myself urging him to stop chipping away at the rock with his ever-blunting knife.

A film so entirely focused on one man needs a great performance from a great actor, and James Franco almost fits that role sublimely. I say almost, because despite his instantly believable persona as a rugged canyoneerer and excellent depiction of his psychological difficulties, physically his performance isn't quite right. Now, clearly I have no concept of what it would be like to be stuck with a crushed arm for five-and-a-half days, but he just doesn't seem to be in that much pain, nor does he appear to weaken overly. Despite presumably monumental de-hydration and starvation, not to mention the missing appendage, he seems oddly okay at the end. It doesn't quite sit right.

Boyle and Franco do, however, an excellent job in creating a deteriorating mind, with the hallucinatory monsoon, his relationships now assumed to be forever passed and his coming to terms with his own lifestyle choices that led him to where he finds himself. Contrasting water- and freedom-based motifs before and after the accident work well in accentuating his lack of both, which comes across clearly in Franco's performance.

I think directors should be given credit for attempting ambitious projects, and with, perhaps, just Phone Booth and Buried as reference points, Boyle pulls it off yet again. It's not perfect, it's not always an easy watch, but it nevertheless is one you will remember.

4/5

Are Entertaining Films Always Good?

I've just finished watching the Guardian's round-up of the year's films, and it was clear that Xan Brooks and Jason Solomons are both of the unprogressive school of film critics. Solomons decried the entire comic-book adaption genre, including perhaps this year's best film Kick Ass and the rather flakier but nevertheless entertaining Scott Pilgrim, while in the 'Guilty Pleasure' category Hot Tub Time Machine and Piranha 3D were the nominees. Both were convinced that their choices were 'rubbish', and yet they both enjoyed them immensely, sidestepping the thorny issue of whether an entertaining film can be considered good even if it wallows merrily in the mud of the derivative or the self-consciously schlocky. I am going to explore whether a film that prioritises viewer pleasure over artistic substance can be judged to be good, or accurately judged at all.

Nearly every film ever made was made with the intention of being entertaining (why are there no decent synonyms for entertaining?), and nearly everyone goes to the cinema with the intention of being entertained. Even the most journalistic of genres, the political documentary, will be presented in such a way to actively engage with its viewers. Almost nobody has more than a basic knowledge of film theory with which to analyse cinematic technique, and even most film students such as myself judge a film mostly on how absorbing it is. The whole film industry is built upon making films that engage their target market, and the more successfully this is achieved the greater the box-office receipts. When critics like the aformentioned Brooks and Solomons bow under apparent critical peer-pressure it's indicative of the tendency of film writers to try and evaluate films in the manner of literary and music critics (who are both also guilty of the same tendency), when film is an entirely different medium and so should be judged after it's own fashion.

But. 'Entertainment' is impossible to quantify. It is entirely subjective. I really enjoyed, say, Cloverfield yet most of my friends were put off by the herky-jerky camera; another of my friends really hates Forrest Gump. How is a critic supposed to intrinsically judge the collective mood of not just the audience in his or her screening, but the mood of every audience in every cinema in every country? Would it not make more sense to analyse a film based on its more concrete elements such as cinematography, script, acting, themes etc? Furthermore, if a film is entertaining but contains questionable material, for instance homophobia or political insensitivity, it would be a poor critic that fails to dock marks. I think it would be fair to say that critical analysis of films with cultural and political pretentions is possible along the lines of how well it achieves this, but this group would be a minority. Likewise would an attempt to judge films by how well they achieve their primary objective fail - many films just want to be fun, which brings us back to square one.

So, the original questions is still unsettled, but how about the inverse: Are good films always entertaining? I've used it in arguments for the past several blogs but I'm using it again here: Citizen Kane (despite being flawed) is still technically decent, yet no one I've ever met has actually particularly enjoyed it. In fact it could be the epitome of the hypocritical attitude I bemoned earlier, and in the previous blog - declaring it to be less exaulted than previously thought would be seen as an attempt to undermine critical theory as a whole, such is its position as a vaunted text. Other than this, I'm struggling to think of further examples. Jackie Brown was dissapointing, as was Vertigo, Ratatouille and The Untouchables, but I think broadly speaking film critics get it right.

The Baffling Case of Videogame Nostalgia.

"We drank dandelion wine and we reminisced

About the moment when we first met that day.

(I'm trying to watch TV)
Then we reminisced about how we first reminisced
(Oh yeah? Sounds a bit gay)" 

Brett McKenzie, Rambling Through the Avenues of Time

Us humans love a good, regular dose of nostalgia. Remembering the good times brings us closer, whether you're a few old pals re-living wild parties before the knee, backs and livers gave way, or if you're that boring kid clinging desperately onto that one time when they were actually involved in something worth remembering ("see, I am funny!"). 

This classic 'rose-tinted glasses' syndrome applies not just to memories, but to more or less anything that we like - literature, films, music, wars even - and for the most part this is fine. Nostaglia comes in two forms, however: critical nostalgia and popular nostalgia. Popular is entirely harmless; it's my generation getting excited by Blink-182 - they were great when we were 14 but looking back they're basically shit (complaints in the comments section please) - but there is no arrogance around it, no air of superiority nor snooty intellectualising. No, these traits are found instead in critical nostalgia. They see classic cultural touchstones through blinkers, and while there will always be revisionist thinkers if something is perceived as great it will take a huge amount of re-evaluation to knock it off its perch.

Sense and Sensibility is unspeakably boring; Citizen Kane is far from the great character-study film that it is seen to be; the Beach Boys are excessively annoying (Good Vibrations aside). All these would presumably get five-star reviews, when one, three and three respectively, would be more appropriate. I get the impression that a large part of this nostalgia comes from the youth - or at least the critics of the future - having it drummed into them that things such as these are 'great'. 

Nevertheless, the three mainstream cultural schools can be evaluated, rightly or wrongly, in the same way today as when they were released - that is the tools with which they were made haven't changed much in the intervening years. The English language of today is much the same as when Sense and Sensibility was published in 1811; the classic cinema techniques of shot-selection, editing etc. used now were established before Citizen Kane was filmed; musicanship hasn't improved since Pet Sounds. There is one nostalgic trend that I've yet to mention, and that is of videogame nostalgia.

Videogame nostalgia toes the line between cultural and popular nostalgia. People now approaching middle-age can look back with affection, but there are videogame critics who think Space Invaders and its ilk are genuinely good games. That the hardware on which it was developed was pathetic compared to the behemoths of today doesn't change the fact that it is bad. As adorable as they are, baby steps are still less assured that an adult's stride. Like Kane et al, Space Invaders was good upon first release, but unlike Kane it can't defend itself against the test of time - the rules have utterly changed in the 32 years since. 

Bafflingly, developers are still trying to emulate that 8-bit style. Dark Void Zero, released this year, is a nominee for Gamespot.com's Platformer of the Year award, despite being shite. It runs entirely on the fumes of nostalgia: the soundtrack is made of those 8-bit bloops and blops that only the Mario theme can get away with these days, the graphics are deliberately pixellated ( read: made worse) - and the gameplay is creaky at best. 1980s emulation can be done well: 3D Dot Game Heroes is a great modernised pastiche of early Zelda titles, but it is very much the exception. When complex and challenging games like Heavy Rain and Shadow of the Colossus are being made, 8-bit gaming is just a candle in the wind.