'On the Road' Review

‘The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn...’

That quote will soon be framed on the walls of Indie kids, alongside their signed copies of Mumford and Sons lyrics, and their first pair of non-prescription glasses. In this cage, the meaning of Kerouac’s ferociously energetic attack on the repressiveness of post-war America, and his 250 page thesis on self-discovery through hedonistic acts, will be forever lost among the limitless horizons of indoor-scarves and all-things denim.

This is because Walter Salles’ film adaptation of Kerouac’s classic, possibly my favourite (half) novel, amplifies the book’s, supposed, failings. As well as exposing its plotlessness, and the sheer one-dimensional misogyny plastered onto his female characters, Kerouac’s outrageous self-indulgence on the importance of the Beats is adapted perhaps a little too faithfully. The film is hopelessly pretentious, alienating anyone who hasn’t read the book, and therefore anyone who understands that its self-importance is part of its majesty. The awkward ‘intellectual Jazz’ score doesn’t help things. It’s this factor, rather than its potential to be something genuinely inspirational, which will appeal to the ‘individualistic’ masses. This, perhaps, only furtherly emphasises what we fans already knew; that it is unadaptable.

But the film is respectably faithful to the book, and is well-made in its own right. It’s well shot, although with a tad overuse of shaky-cam, though in a post-Greengrass era this is forgiveable, the colour scheme cleverly changing according to mood; bright yellows, greens and blues when the parties are in full swing, greys and browns for the crashing-back-to-reality hangovers. The soul of each American city is captured well enough, and the scenes ‘On the Road’ identify the isolated, almost secret, beauty and barrenness of rural America. Sam Riley is excellent as Sal, as is Kristen Stewart as Marylou, giving credibility to my assertion, mocked ever since she emerged as the Vampire’s pouting sex-object, that she is a good actress. The supporting cast perform amicably, especially strong is Tom Sturridge as Carlo Marx. The man personifies Ginsberg’s writing, as Carlo is Kerouac’s pseudonym for Allen Ginsberg, arguably the most fundamental poet of the Beat era, to perfection, and in many ways steals the film. The star of the show is Garret Hedlund as Dean. Dean as a role is, in my opinion, the equivalent of playing Hamlet or Anna Karenina; one of the most challenging, complex and fascinating in fictional history. Hedlund is fantastic, flawlessly embodying the wonderfully flawed icon’s infectious charisma and endless series of contradictions.

As someone near obsessed with the adventures of Dean and Sal, it was more minor interpretative things which frustrated; the explicitness of the homoeroticism, the use of Sal as a narrator (I hate narration, I’ve always considered it lazy writing in cinema and TV. Same goes for flashbacks) the glazing over of an important scene or character, and most annoyingly, the lack of expose on the sexual contrast between Sal and Dean; Sal’s necessity to infuse sex with love and meaning, and Dean’s necessity to shag everything with at least half a sex organ.

These don’t detract from the film itself though, especially if you’re just a casual fan of the book. The biggest compliment I can pay it, is that it, even in just a small way, evokes Kerouac’s energy. That excitement for the unexpected, that desire to explore new physical, emotional and psychological realms, seeps through the screen. Minutely, but it is present. I can thereby confirm that, if do like, or love, the novel, it is worth viewing.

It’s a pretty good film, with an extremely ponderous second act, but with an effective opening, and a great ending (If you appreciate the story behind Kerouac’s actual writing of the book back in New York, you’ll get as childishly excited as I was). It never descends into boredom, nor rises to greatness. I’d qualify it as being about as good an adaptation of the novel as can be made. And, in this small way, it can be classed as a minor success. I would still love to see Sofia Coppola have a go though.

It’s now time to sit in dread anticipation for the seemingly awful adaptations of The Great Gatsby and Great Expectations...

Kieran's 50 Favourite Films; No. 45

45. Y Tu Mama Tambien

Alfonso Cuaron, best known as the director of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban and the underappreciated Children of Men, at the turn of the millenium, made the finest film about adolescence since Los Olvidados, which, interestingly enough, is also Mexican. Must be their water. While Y Tu Mama Tambien examines the psychology and physicality of that most troublesome of life’s segments with a powerfully honest eye, this not simply a John Hughes film with less Simple Minds, more complex orgies, it’s an astonishingly moving tale of discovery; self, sexual and otherwise. Recalling the decadent adventures of Kerouac, Burroughs and Ginsberg, best friends Gael Garcia Bunel and Diego Luna embark upon their road trip with Maribel Verdu’s sexy, (slightly) older women with the sole intention of getting things, namely high, and their hole. It doesn’t take a tweed-jacket wearing cinephile to grasp the concept that they ‘get more than they bargained for.’ To assume predictability at this point is understandable; so far, so American Graffiti/Motorcycle Diaries/On the Road. However, the way the relationships develop, grow and crumble between the three leads is mesmerisingly, to use a word I despise using in this context, raw. 

Their deeply human anxieties; their sexual insecurities, their pseudo-Freudian maternal and paternal issues, their relatably palpable fear of mortality, all expose the immature, misunderstanding psychosis of young adults trying to establish themselves into regular life. These are two boys, initially, eminently dislikeable, who use cocksure arrogance to mask their confusion and uncertainty about, well, everything. It’s horribly clichéd to claim, but Cuaron’s masterpiece ponders adolescence and maturity, sex and love, the relationship between archaic Mexican politics and a post-modern internet society, (The story takes place in the backdrop of a mini political revolution) and yes, you guessed it, life and death. It’s visually stunning, with a colourful vibrancy accentuating the impact every fight, every joint, every... scene of intimacy, has on the viewer. It’s exciting to watch, to be part of, but also frightening. It feels real. The performances are flawless, the soundtrack perfectly implemented and the final twenty minutes are really, really quite incredible. You will feel something by the end. What you feel is hard to determine. Only 45^th on my list just now, it’ll inevitably climb its way further up. One of the most significantly affecting cinematic experiences I’ve ever had the pleasure to enjoy.

One of my favourite one-take shots.

Kieran's 50 Favourite Films; No. 46

46. The Good, The Bad and the Ugly

That theme. You know the one I mean. Ennio Morricone’s unforgettable composition. That’s right; WOYOWOYOWAHHHH...WAH... WAH... WAUGHHHH. That one. Sergio Leone’s majestic epic, his first of three films on this list, more than stands the test of time, but not, I’m afraid, the test of tiresome, overused clichés in describing it. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly may not be the best Western of all-time, but it’s certainly the most iconic; Clint Eastwood’s Good, a calmly smouldering beacon of all things cool and macho, is the definitive Western protagonist; Lee Van Cleef’s Bad, the dastardly heartless villain of the piece, straining every ounce of contempt out of the audience with his deliciously evil sadism with a smile; Eli Wallach’s Ugly, hilariously bumbling while also sneakily cunning, and also the movie’s show-stealer, is a pitiful, back-stabbing rogue with no redeemable qualities, but he’s a laughing stock, and is therefore redeemable in our eyes. Morricone deserves yet another mention. His score corroborates Leone’s harsh, jagged imagery of delicately framed desolate landscapes and even more desolate close-ups of its inhabitants. ‘Ecstasy of Gold’, the piano-centric piece played during the film’s pants-wettingly exciting climax, is an example of the very best in film music. While the first two in the ‘Dollars’ trilogy were entertaining and gripping, they lacked the vastness in scope and ambition of TGTBATU. Leone’s final chapter is not only thrilling, funny and sad, it’s also surprisingly profound, offering a never-before-seen insight into The Good’s desperately lonely existence, and in one section, even delivers a powerful anti-war message. I do not know a single male who hasn’t adored this film. But then again, I don’t know a single female that has. I don’t know how that’s possible. There can only be one type of person who dislikes this; a son of a... WOYOWOYOWAHHHH...

The XX - 'Coexist' Review

Someone once asked me why I loved The XX so passionately, after all, it’s just a guy and girl singing over some basic distorted guitar chords and simple synth effects. I replied that that was why I loved them. This sounded far more poignant, and far less pretentious, in my head. My point still stands however. The XX pride themselves on making beautifully simple, beautifully haunting, beautifully beautiful music. They make music for your ears. Their music makes your ears happy, which in turn, makes you happy. It’s all in the maths. Their critically acclaimed 2009 debut shook the foundations of modern pop; a pleasingly ascetic 40 minute odyssey on sex, love and heartbreak. The likes of Crystallised, Islands and Shelter are now embedded in the public conscience. While the album wavered slightly towards the end, it finished spectacularly with the quiet masterpiece Stars, more than excusing the album’s minute flaws.

Coexist, one of my most anticipated albums of the year, is different. There are no stand-outs like Crystallised or Stars. It’s one of the most consistent albums I’ve heard in a while; I dare you to try and pick out a ‘filler’ track from any of its eleven. More notably, it’s one of the most consistently excellent albums I’ve ever heard; I dare you to try and pick out a track which isn’t fantastic. The heavenly opening, Angels, sets the tone perfectly; ‘And with words unspoken, a silent devotion, I know you know what I mean, and the end is unknown.’ A hopelessly romantic beginning, no?  These musically basic, but still brilliant, slower tracks, (Try, Missing) are this album’s eulogies to the ghosts of relationships past; heart-string tugging and profoundly moving tales of pain, misunderstanding, denial and emotional redemption. My favourite of these, and my favourite lyrically in the album, is Unfold; the now iconic psychedelic guitar in top form, Oliver Sim’s vocals are even more angsty than normal, Romy Madley Croft’s, even sexier, but the lyrics are incredible, the defining form of pseudo love-poetry for our generation; ‘In my head, you tell me things you’ve never said, and I choose to forget, and take the good and leave the rest.’ It ranks up there with Radiohead’s Motion Picture Soundtrack, Okkervil River’s A Stone and Airborne Toxic Event’s Sometime Around Midnight among my favourite love songs from the past twenty years.

It’s not just stunningly pretty melodies they’ve come up with, there are some pure pop and R&B tracks also. Jamie Smith has been one of the most in-demand DJs of recent years, and the experience he's gained on his turn-tabling travels has given The XX a new dimension; many of their new songs have cracking beats to match the synths, bass and guitar. One of the build-up songs on the album, Swept Away, is almost house music; an eclectic mix of the old and new, guitar, bass and the drum machine percussion. Reunion, another build-up song, even throws steel drums into the mix, and when the song kicks in around 2 minutes, I can guarantee it’s one of the most sensational climaxes in a track you’ll hear this year. Maybe, just maybe, my favourite song off the album is Fiction, the prime beneficiary of this beat improvement. The toe-tapping guitar soon gives way to Dizzee Rascal-lite beats, and then they combine flawlessly with the occasional rhythmic intrusion of a deep piano note. It’s... perfection. My ears weep for never again will they hear anything as aesthetically pleasing. The lyrics are, again, contemporary genius, a voice for the dissatisfied late teenage/early twenties romantic. Reality disappoints the fictitious illusions of chivalric, or ‘old school’, romance; ‘come real love, why do I refuse you? Cause if my fear’s right, I risk to lose you, and if I just might wake up alone, bring on the night.’ Sensually sad.

If you held a hypothetical gun to my head and told me to state my favourite song off the album, I’d say you were an idiot as an imaginary gun isn’t particularly intimidating, but if you asked politely, I might have to say Fiction. But I don’t want to. Coexist is my album of the year so far. Even with releases from Crystal Castles and The National, it will be extremely difficult to topple it from its esteemed throne. Buy it. For your ears’ sake.

Kieran's 50 Favourite Films; No. 47

47. Casablanca

Casablanca is, not-undeservedly, regarded by many as the prime example of cinematic perfection. Flawlessly acted, written, photographed and directed, it’s perhaps aged, very slightly, if, indeed, at all. This acknowledged classic is not just an acting showcase for Bergman, America’s beloved innocent actress, that is, until she went and had sex with a man, that sinful little harlot, and Humphrey Bogart, although they do throw in two career-defining performances. Michael Curtiz also makes little attempt to overly influence the film’s structure and tone. Indeed, it’s the wonderful simplicity of its plot and characters which has caused such widespread reverence and adoration. Bogart’s lovelorn, snarky club-owner is the classic American-down-on-his-luck; Bergman’s shy, dissatisfied femme fatale is as equally iconic; the supporting characters, especially Sam the house pianist and Renault, the leader of the local law enforcement, are likably odd and friendly.

The story of choosing between, as referred to by one of the characters, ‘love and virtue’, is one more frequently over-used than ‘keep calm and carry on’ jokes, but never has it been so poignant, and so touching, than in Casablanca. Rick gives up his lost love, and very probably his last chance at happiness, but, in turn, this is because he refuses to give up the good in him, the good in mankind. While love acts as his temptation to give up his good nature, it is also the incentive for Rick to stick to his moral principles; it’s love which enables him to let Ilsa go. 

However, while the story and acting are strong, it’s the screenplay which stands out. Possibly the finest piece of writing to ever emerge from Hollywood, it’s flawlessly paced, structured and characterised; you can see the layout of each individual act tear through the seams of the fourth wall. It’s just perfect, there’s no other way to describe it. Pouring over it online, it becomes abundantly clear why it’s the textbook script choice for film schools. It understands its story and characters to an absolute tee, and it’s one of the most quoted (and misquoted) scripts in history. Like It’s a Wonderful Life, Casablanca was ‘just another Hollywood production’ with little expectation warranted at the time of its release. In spite of its three Academy Awards, it’s taken decades for its reputation to grow in stature. It remains at the top of many ‘Best of’ lists, and more importantly, it is easily one of my favourite films.

Cinderella - A Twisted Fairytale

Basically, I've been busy with other writing stuff recently, and so haven't had much time to update this blog, so to keep you good people entertained, I've got a short-story I wrote during my final school year for my English class. The class was tasked with twisting a common, popular fairytale, and this is my end-product. I hope it proves worth reading. I'll try and continue my 'Top 50 Films' list before I leave on holiday again. AS ever, enjoy!

Cinderella left Mawking Manor on July 18^th at precisely 5 o’clock of the pm. Of course, Cinderella wasn’t her real name. It was an affectionate title indebted to her by her close friends. She was granted this nickname due to her profession and personality; cleaner for the wealthy members of society, with big hopes and ambitions for her life. She was a daydreamer, and was frequently punished by her employers because of her tendency to escape into fantasy while on the job.

July 18^th was no different. While in the downstairs bathroom of the empty manor, she gently stroked her duster along the cold marble surfaces, her heart barely in her task. She had an audition for a soap opera the next day. She dreamed of fame; the echoing clicks of paparazzi cameras following her every move; the toy boys, or hopefully dream husband, trailing in her wake as she gracefully strides up the stairs of her very own manor. Maybe even this one. It would be like that movie Sunset Boulevard, which she vaguely remembers seeing when she was younger.

As she was about to leave, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Standing perfectly still, she stared. Her stained tracksuit bottoms, crop-top and apron were not particularly enticing, nor was her mussed hair and fading make-up. She screamed dramatically at the figure before her, and then started giggling. Humming optimistically, she locked the manor’s front door and left for the train station.

She returned to her flat in the city centre. It was Friday night, and she was going clubbing with her girlies. After applying her make-up, clambering into her glass heels, and changing into something less comfortable, she then caught herself in the mirror. ‘You’re drop-dead gorgeous’, she thought to herself. ‘You’re going to find your Prince Charming tonight. I can feel it’. She confidently pouted to herself, then left to meet her friends at the train station.

Suzanna and Megan were already there. They exchanged warped screams of joy at the sight of one another, and hugs made awkward by 7 inch heels.   ‘Hey honeys’,’ she declared enthusiastically, ‘how are you? Where we going tonight?’ ‘Megan’s found this great place that does 2 for 1 voddie shots on a Friday. I thought we could give that a go. I know how you like your voddie shots...’ replied Suzanna. There was an eruption of incessant giggling. ‘Just stop me if I have one too many like last time, girlies.’

In the taxi, their conversation turned to more serious matters. ‘Did you hear that John cheated on Emma?’ ‘No?’ ‘I know!’ ‘I always said that he was a dick. I never even knew he had a girlfriend when I went home with him. Though, in my defence, I was very drunk, and he is soooooo hot.’ ‘Megan, I warned you about him. Jesus, I’m like the godmother to you two. I will admit that he is pretty much fairytale-handsome.’ Megan leaned her head, while giggling, on Suzanna’s shoulder; ‘We love having you as our godmother though.’ Cinderella smiled. She asked ‘what’s this club called anyway?’ ‘The Ball.’

They managed to get in with minimum fuss. It was quite dark, an unnatural blue light acting as the only illumination; glass tables were distributed along the walls of the club, with a large dance-floor at its centre. The night was still young at this point, and the girls decided to pass the time by occupying a table and taking advantage of the Vodka Shots Friday Deal. An hour or two later, when the club was reasonably full, the girls, after putting on their less inverted shoes, took to the dance-floor. The club opted for underground drum-and-bass, rather than chart hits, which suited the girls, and Cinderella in particular, perfectly.

Feeling the rhythm circulate their tendons and muscles, they danced, the regular thump-thumps of the bass composing their decadent impulses. The LED lighting began. The song reached its climax; laughing and screaming with every hedonistic impulse, they gazed into each other’s crazed faces every millisecond the club vanished from light to darkness and back. It was at this moment, at the climax, that Cinderella caught a man staring at her. When the song ended, she laughed characteristically, and drew her hair away from her face. She perceptively noticed that he was still looking. She noticed that it was the ‘fairytale-handsome’ John. He looks especially ‘fairytale-handsome’ tonight, she thought to herself. In a schoolgirl gesture, she drew her finger to her mouth in accompaniment to a sly smirk in a half-intoxicated attempt at seduction. This telepathic flirtation continued for a few minutes until Megan became aware of what was happening. ‘Cindy, no. Please don’t.’ ‘What?’ Suzanna inquired. ‘Cindy and John are having eye-sex.’ ‘Oh for God’s sake, Cindy. Please promise me you won’t get mixed up with that?’ ‘Oh come on, it’s nothing.’ ‘Please, Cindy. You’ll only get hurt.’ ‘Fine, if it makes you feel better, I promise. Okay?’ John glanced at her again, and putting down his pint, licked the foam from his lips slowly, and contemplatively.

Megan and Suzanna ventured to the toilet to reapply their make-up. Cinderella checked her phone, changed into her glass heels, and pretended to be busy as John inevitably sat down, grinning. ‘Alright?’ Cinderella returned the grin, ‘yeah.’ ‘Cool, cool. Do you... wanna dance?’ Every word was uttered with a terrible bluntness masquerading as charm. ‘Sure.’ She took John’s offered hand and, together, they danced. Like peacocks attracting a mate, they showed their colours at a distance, but after a few minutes they crept closer together. She became immersed in his deep brown eyes, and she stroked his chest. She turned away and backed into him, his hands clutching her waist as she lifted her own onto his shoulders behind her. His hands moved over her body, grabbing everything, and she let him do so. He started to kiss her neck; she giggled and playfully drew away. He pulled her back and whispered sweet nothings in her ear; ‘you look well fit’. She smiled and grabbed her prince’s hand, dragging him through the crowded room towards the fire exit. She quickly glanced back to her table in time to see Megan shake her head in disbelief. They exited into the alleyway outside.

John immediately began to kiss her and, grabbing everything he could, gently pushed her against the wall opposite the door. Cinderella wallowed in sheer lust and allowed him. She started to slip her hand into his trousers, and drew him closer. John responded in kind, and slowly climbed her thigh with his hand until it was under her mini-skirt, and hard at work removing the final obstacle. She had descended into illusion, and being so enamoured, had no mind to stop him. His eyes told her that she loved him. He stopped suddenly, and drew back; hideous confusion and bewilderment etched on his face, followed by horrified realisation. ‘The Fuck...the fuck...? You’re one of...oh my god. That’s fucking sick. Get...get the fuck away from me. You...you fucking sick fuck.’ ‘Please.’ He grasped onto his arm as he tried to retreat. ‘Please don’t leave, I’ll do anything to you, I’ll...’ Reality hit Cinderella the same moment that John did. He spat on her collapsed body and, shaking his head and murmuring in shock, left the alleyway. Cinderella coughed up blood, and began to cry. She saw her reflection in one of the tops of the glass tables, which had been left outside. The  drop-dead gorgeous girl pitied her. She screamed as she threw one of her glass heels at that condescending figure, shattering the image. She lay in the alleyway, weeping, as a clock-tower somewhere in the city struck for midnight.

The Dark Knight Rises, but falls below my expectations

There remains nothing left to be said about Heath Ledger's performance in The Dark Knight. His extraordinary portrayal of Batman's most iconic enemy catapulted The Joker into the most esteemed circles of cinematic villainy. His nakedly evil charisma and pragmatism drives the film, which, even in hindsight, remains one of the best Hollywood blockbusters of all-time, the most exciting of its kind since Aliens. Batman Begins, my personal favourite of the trilogy, was unexpectedly political and relevant, almost, if you excuse the slang, 'artsy'. It's highly entertaining, and the most narratively coherent of the three, but it stands as a bold metaphor of the dangers of Capitalism and currency's chokehold on human existence. It's also very moving, exploiting the obvious humanity which makes Batman so much more relatable and appealling than most other Super Heroes. It's one of my favourite films of the Noughties, along with Nolan's second film, Memento. Nolan had a difficult task on his hands to match the quality of these movies with his third, and last, Batman film. Expectations were that he should exceed them; a near-impossible task, especially given the 'Third Part Curse', which seemingly plagues every trilogy save for Toy Story, and maybe Bourne. He fails.

The Dark Knight Rises is extremely disappointing, both as a filmic finale and as a film in its own right.

Nolan uses cheap plotting tricks and twists, and it quickly becomes clear that he ran out of ideas following the first two. The storyline is predictable; if you have even the most limited knowledge of the Batman universe, you should be able to realise what's around the corner. Each twist feels forced, surprising considering Nolan's previous successes with them; the warehouse explosion scene in The Dark Knight, the final reveal in The Prestige, and, basically, the entirety of Memento. The film trundles along confusedly, unsure of what it actually is. The transition between slower moments of (sadly cliched and now overly familiar) profundity concerning self-sacrifice, vigilante-ism and grief, and (the still compelling) action sequences is awkward and jolty, with obviously important scenes being ended abruptly, and edited for the sake of ramming-speed pacing.

The dialogue, although having never been Nolan's strongest suit, is particularly dreadful, hideously contrived and warped to move the story along as quickly as possible. There is no real flow, wit or intrigue in the script, just painful one-liners and boring monologues. The new characters are one-dimensional; Bane, with so much potential, is nothing more than a stereotypical anarchist-communist, who believes chaos is good for the common man, that the rich should be pay for being rich while others are poor, and so on and so forth. Blake, the beat-cop, is too perfect, too shiny. He is the modern, and actual, personification of the Harvey Dent White Knight of Gotham myth, except Nolan chooses this flawless hero trait as the character's sole backstory, rather than manipulating and twisting it like he did in the previous film in the creation of Two Face to symbolise man's natural corruption. Catwoman, although eh... aesthetically pleasing, is completely redundant and pointless in the plot's progression. Marion Cotillard's character cannot be adequately explained without mentioning spoilers, so I'll just say this; it's rubbish.

The film has its highlights; Caine, Bale and Oldman are as excellent as ever, and Tom Hardy, despite the cumbersome dialogue, is fantastic as Bane; his unique posh-Gypsy English accent and sad distant eyes inspires fascination, while his brooding hulk of a figure provokes fear and menace. As mentioned previously, the action scenes are still exciting, although not as clever as before.

The Dark Knight Rises is by no means a terrible movie, it's certainly above average when compared with your generic contemporary action film. It just feels as if it's trying too hard; too hard to be epic, too hard to be funny, too hard to be poetic, too hard to be emotional. It all too often descends into using monotonous, by-the-book narrative pressing, corny sentiments of patriotism/heroism or heavy-handed thematic exposition. In the end it's a confused, muddled mess, with some great set pieces, and some fantastic shots of Anne Hathaway's body parts in a tight, latex costume. At least we'll always have them. The film remains a complete cop-out, pandering to the box-office's unquenchable thirst for all things bigger but not necessarily better. Maybe Nolan made it as he did to appease Warner Brothers. Maybe it's the Batman film the public needed, not the Batman film the public deserved.