Another failure, albeit a more curious and diverting failure than "The Pyramid". There is, at least, some sense of purpose here, some distant echoes of Golding's thunderous vision, even if the work falls far short of his best, both as a whole and in detail.
The problem is simply that none of these three novellas hangs together. They're listless and sketchy, lacking the physical definition and psychological potency of which he's capable. "The Scorpion God" itself feels flat and academic, even dusty, and never really thrusts you into the heart of the primitive civilisation that it describes. It's partly redeemed by a powerful ending, but even so, the reader remains on the margins, at a safe distance.
"Envoy Extraordinary" is even worse, a confused mess that can't decide what it wants to be, and spends an awful lot of time wading around in murky farce as a consequence. Again, the ending is sharp enough: it doesn't really belong to the story - a bright idea tacked on as an after-thought - but it's some reward for your effort.
In the middle, the hunter-gatherer society of "Clonk Clonk" is most successfully realised, most vivid in the mind's eye. It feels like Golding, mercifully. But then, ironically, he blows the ending completely: it just fizzles out, a half-hearted joke left behind to fill the embarrassed silence.
A great novelist. Really. But my word, his peaks are matched by some pretty testing troughs....
29 December 2005
17 December 2005
Film review: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
It is, you quickly remember, a wonderful story. Indeed, it's so bright and vivid that the mental pictures still remain from childhood reading, drifting easily into the mind's eye as the familiar tale unfolds. Such is the imaginative wealth that there's plenty of room for multiple interpretations; a great shame, therefore, that Tim Burton's version fails to live up to its obvious promise.
Even more so, because it starts so perfectly. The opening parts of the story were always among the most compelling anyway, much more human than the extravagant morality tale that takes place in the factory. And Burton's direction is just magical: brilliantly capturing the characters and their world with his unique touch, at once traditional and wildly creative, and building up tantalising anticipation. There's a vital warmth about it, about the old folk tucked up in their bed, about the dreams of the golden ticket. It is the book, brought to life.
And then it all goes a bit, er, wonky. Naturally, Burton runs riot as soon as the gates open, but it's all too fast, all too rushed. It feels as if we've barely set foot in the factory before, with some regret, we're smashing through the glass ceiling and up into the sky. The result is something that entertains well enough; Johnny Depp's distinctly Jackson-inspired, slightly melancholic turn is terrific, even if the songs get bogged down in unnecessary pastiche. But the real disappointment, rather ironically, is that it loses the magic that it conjured up outside the factory walls.
In a sense, that's the moral of the story. But it's surely not quite as either Dahl or Burton intended.
Even more so, because it starts so perfectly. The opening parts of the story were always among the most compelling anyway, much more human than the extravagant morality tale that takes place in the factory. And Burton's direction is just magical: brilliantly capturing the characters and their world with his unique touch, at once traditional and wildly creative, and building up tantalising anticipation. There's a vital warmth about it, about the old folk tucked up in their bed, about the dreams of the golden ticket. It is the book, brought to life.
And then it all goes a bit, er, wonky. Naturally, Burton runs riot as soon as the gates open, but it's all too fast, all too rushed. It feels as if we've barely set foot in the factory before, with some regret, we're smashing through the glass ceiling and up into the sky. The result is something that entertains well enough; Johnny Depp's distinctly Jackson-inspired, slightly melancholic turn is terrific, even if the songs get bogged down in unnecessary pastiche. But the real disappointment, rather ironically, is that it loses the magic that it conjured up outside the factory walls.
In a sense, that's the moral of the story. But it's surely not quite as either Dahl or Burton intended.
15 December 2005
Film review: Crash
Not David Cronenberg's somewhat controversial and, if memory serves, epically tedious "Crash" - although it begins with a sly reference to it - but a new and entirely different one. Well, nearly different: this one has many similar flaws, even if the end result is rather easier on the eye.
Thing is, it's just so bloody laboured. Given that the movie's essential premise - that racial tension threatens to pull society apart - is itself a dramatic construct, the burden of proof becomes overwhelming. For an hour, every single character in every single scene is the scriptwriter's tool, and there's absolutely nothing that doesn't eventually resolve into some kind of racial motivation.
It gives you no room to breathe, to get to know what else the characters' lives might be about; it feels as if stereotypes are merely being shuffled around for the film's own ends, that they're being used as much as examined. If there is complexity, it's in the plot - an evident debt to "Magnolia" is made explicit by a musical finale, but is present throughout - and not in the writing itself, which never gets beneath anyone's skin. Literally.
That first hour is exhausting, but not for the reasons that it should be. The effort is later rewarded by a couple of superb, though convoluted, set pieces in which dramatic tension is pulled cheesewire-tight, rescuing the film as a spectacle if not as a piece of social commentary. Another of these is wrecked by over-obvious clues earlier on, but still, there's a sense of urgency and danger that makes your nerves prickle for the first time.
And then, inevitably, it's wasted by an ending so utterly trite that the film almost eats itself, reducing its own impact to a bland nothingness. It's not easy to make a good film about racial politics. It's not easy, and this ain't it.
Thing is, it's just so bloody laboured. Given that the movie's essential premise - that racial tension threatens to pull society apart - is itself a dramatic construct, the burden of proof becomes overwhelming. For an hour, every single character in every single scene is the scriptwriter's tool, and there's absolutely nothing that doesn't eventually resolve into some kind of racial motivation.
It gives you no room to breathe, to get to know what else the characters' lives might be about; it feels as if stereotypes are merely being shuffled around for the film's own ends, that they're being used as much as examined. If there is complexity, it's in the plot - an evident debt to "Magnolia" is made explicit by a musical finale, but is present throughout - and not in the writing itself, which never gets beneath anyone's skin. Literally.
That first hour is exhausting, but not for the reasons that it should be. The effort is later rewarded by a couple of superb, though convoluted, set pieces in which dramatic tension is pulled cheesewire-tight, rescuing the film as a spectacle if not as a piece of social commentary. Another of these is wrecked by over-obvious clues earlier on, but still, there's a sense of urgency and danger that makes your nerves prickle for the first time.
And then, inevitably, it's wasted by an ending so utterly trite that the film almost eats itself, reducing its own impact to a bland nothingness. It's not easy to make a good film about racial politics. It's not easy, and this ain't it.
06 December 2005
Book review: Bret Easton Ellis - The Rules Of Attraction
Someone from L.A. sent me a video tape, unmarked, and I am afraid to play it but probably will. I have lost my I.D. three times this term. I tell the person I see in psychological counselling that I feel the apocalypse is near. She asks me how my flute tutorial is progressing.
Oddly, given that it doesn't quite have the landmark status of his other work, The Rules of Attraction is perhaps Ellis' finest novel. More than that, perhaps an era-defining novel in a Kerouac kinda way, when the dust finally settles.
Maybe its modesty is the point: whereas he sometimes tries just a bit too hard, feeding hype rather than creating truly great fiction, this is a consolidation of previous efforts, and the result is simple and devastating. Here, Ellis' glassy prose has a distinctly romantic sheen: much as this is a novel dominated by the utter, nihilistic blankness of ultra-rich America, it's also a deeply affecting piece that summons up a vivid melancholy for its open conclusion.
A superficially simple work - Ellis' essential genius is to say nothing about people with nothing to say - that drags you into its hidden depths, deft and witty and mournful.
Oddly, given that it doesn't quite have the landmark status of his other work, The Rules of Attraction is perhaps Ellis' finest novel. More than that, perhaps an era-defining novel in a Kerouac kinda way, when the dust finally settles.
Maybe its modesty is the point: whereas he sometimes tries just a bit too hard, feeding hype rather than creating truly great fiction, this is a consolidation of previous efforts, and the result is simple and devastating. Here, Ellis' glassy prose has a distinctly romantic sheen: much as this is a novel dominated by the utter, nihilistic blankness of ultra-rich America, it's also a deeply affecting piece that summons up a vivid melancholy for its open conclusion.
A superficially simple work - Ellis' essential genius is to say nothing about people with nothing to say - that drags you into its hidden depths, deft and witty and mournful.
Film review: The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou
Seven, going on eight. Hard to decide; it's that kind of film, really.
"The Life Aquatic" defies classification. Completely. For anyone who says that Hollywood movies always follow a set of well-defined formulae, designed by its global marketing machine, there's this: a film about a middle-aged, once-famous oceanographer in pursuit of a "jaguar shark" along with a hotchpotch team of recruits, a reporter, a long-lost son, an unfaithful wife and two trained dolphins. Condense that lot into a trailer...
In a sense, it's actually quite old-fashioned: an adventure movie, without any rules. Or logic, often. In others, it's much more complex than that: while it is very silly in places, and that's part of its charm, its comedy has the lightness of touch that you'd expect from Wes Anderson without succumbing to cleverness, and there's always a touching understanding of the humans involved, no matter how bizarre the situation.
It doesn't always hang together. But it does make for a deeply watchable film, never less than entertaining, sporadically hilarious, and sometimes rather touching too. When he finally finds his jaguar shark, the whole thing seems to make a curious kind of sense, somehow.
"The Life Aquatic" defies classification. Completely. For anyone who says that Hollywood movies always follow a set of well-defined formulae, designed by its global marketing machine, there's this: a film about a middle-aged, once-famous oceanographer in pursuit of a "jaguar shark" along with a hotchpotch team of recruits, a reporter, a long-lost son, an unfaithful wife and two trained dolphins. Condense that lot into a trailer...
In a sense, it's actually quite old-fashioned: an adventure movie, without any rules. Or logic, often. In others, it's much more complex than that: while it is very silly in places, and that's part of its charm, its comedy has the lightness of touch that you'd expect from Wes Anderson without succumbing to cleverness, and there's always a touching understanding of the humans involved, no matter how bizarre the situation.
It doesn't always hang together. But it does make for a deeply watchable film, never less than entertaining, sporadically hilarious, and sometimes rather touching too. When he finally finds his jaguar shark, the whole thing seems to make a curious kind of sense, somehow.
24 November 2005
Film review: 2046
A triumph of style of substance, in the end. Which isn't to say that there's no substance, merely that there's just too much style.
"2046" is a dazzling showcase of technique, never tiring of its own preening beauty. Wong Kar Wai uses colour, particularly bamboo green, exquisitely; he creates wonderful illusions with transitions between scenes, sometimes replaying the same action from a variety of affected perspectives. Most striking is his penchant for veiling part of the camera lens, shutting off part of the vision to create a new, reshaped screen. It's marvellous stuff.
But it gets in the way. Any emotional connection with the love stories being told by the narrator, looking back over his life with considerable regret, is continually broken by the stylistic exercises. Visually, there's just too much going on, too much to remind us that we're only watching a film. A bizarre, futuristic interlude towards the end doesn't especially help: ambitious, yet pointlessly so.
Which is a shame, as there's potential here. It's never realised, though; it's just left in a corner, forgotten by its creator. A beautiful failure.
"2046" is a dazzling showcase of technique, never tiring of its own preening beauty. Wong Kar Wai uses colour, particularly bamboo green, exquisitely; he creates wonderful illusions with transitions between scenes, sometimes replaying the same action from a variety of affected perspectives. Most striking is his penchant for veiling part of the camera lens, shutting off part of the vision to create a new, reshaped screen. It's marvellous stuff.
But it gets in the way. Any emotional connection with the love stories being told by the narrator, looking back over his life with considerable regret, is continually broken by the stylistic exercises. Visually, there's just too much going on, too much to remind us that we're only watching a film. A bizarre, futuristic interlude towards the end doesn't especially help: ambitious, yet pointlessly so.
Which is a shame, as there's potential here. It's never realised, though; it's just left in a corner, forgotten by its creator. A beautiful failure.
Book review: Emily Bronte - Wuthering Heights
If nothing else, it can't help but earn your respect. "Wuthering Heights" is many things, but it is emphatically not what you expect it to be; indeed, I've read few classics that have evaded predictability so completely.
This is a dark, nasty novel that's stalked by violence and hatred, almost to the point of being a sardonic parody of itself. At times, only the steady pace of the narrative provides a familiar reference point, something to cling onto as hard, selfish characters pointedly turn their backs on your interest. That's also its problem, of course: it spends so much energy on keeping you at arm's length that there's no possibility of emotional engagement.
Instead, you have to admire from afar, and it's only at the novel's conclusion that you fully understand what you've been admiring. Until then, the simple, effective narrative has promised a complete story; in reality, though, that's just the means to an end and Bronte stops as soon as she's accomplished her goal.
So, rather, this is a simple and rather bold portrait of one man, Heathcliff. It's an intimidating portrait too, glaring at you from the wall and following you around the room until you leave. Quite impressive, if not at all easy to love.
This is a dark, nasty novel that's stalked by violence and hatred, almost to the point of being a sardonic parody of itself. At times, only the steady pace of the narrative provides a familiar reference point, something to cling onto as hard, selfish characters pointedly turn their backs on your interest. That's also its problem, of course: it spends so much energy on keeping you at arm's length that there's no possibility of emotional engagement.
Instead, you have to admire from afar, and it's only at the novel's conclusion that you fully understand what you've been admiring. Until then, the simple, effective narrative has promised a complete story; in reality, though, that's just the means to an end and Bronte stops as soon as she's accomplished her goal.
So, rather, this is a simple and rather bold portrait of one man, Heathcliff. It's an intimidating portrait too, glaring at you from the wall and following you around the room until you leave. Quite impressive, if not at all easy to love.
21 November 2005
Book reviews: Two novels by William Golding
The Pyramid
Hard to believe, really, that a writer of Golding's intensity had such a bland, innocuous novel in him, still less that he bothered to publish it. You can see the point of this as an exercise, an attempt to make the fearsome imagination that characteristically drives his fiction confront everyday life.
But the results are quite frighteningly dull: three novellas that wander around aimlessly with no particular place to go, relying on uneven characterisation and observation that never match Orwell's lovely eye for the England of a similar era. There are some pleasing touches along the way, but no warmth, no depth, nothing to make it all come alive. Oddly, Golding seems to struggle more with commonplace mundanity than he does with the extraordinary....
The Spire
A masterpiece of quite unsurpassed power. That power, driving what is essentially an extended parable, is derived from the key elements of Golding's incredible writing: his breathtaking vision and ambition, the almost physical density of his prose, the remarkable subtlety and skill that enables him to describe emotions, thoughts, ideas as vividly as he conjures up unseen, forgotten worlds at the edge of human experience.
This is, perhaps, the most astonishing product of that artistry, a novel that burns with the insane obsessions of its central character and, magnificently, peaks and slides with his perceived failure and subsequent death. As ever, there are occasional false steps - inevitable when you push the envelope so far - but the overriding impression is of Golding's range, capable of describing the monstrous strain of a disintegrating, splintering cathedral and the tender, hushed moments at the end of a human life with equal gravity, dexterity and potency.
One of the great modern novels, even if history won't ever acknowledge it as such.
Hard to believe, really, that a writer of Golding's intensity had such a bland, innocuous novel in him, still less that he bothered to publish it. You can see the point of this as an exercise, an attempt to make the fearsome imagination that characteristically drives his fiction confront everyday life.
But the results are quite frighteningly dull: three novellas that wander around aimlessly with no particular place to go, relying on uneven characterisation and observation that never match Orwell's lovely eye for the England of a similar era. There are some pleasing touches along the way, but no warmth, no depth, nothing to make it all come alive. Oddly, Golding seems to struggle more with commonplace mundanity than he does with the extraordinary....
The Spire
A masterpiece of quite unsurpassed power. That power, driving what is essentially an extended parable, is derived from the key elements of Golding's incredible writing: his breathtaking vision and ambition, the almost physical density of his prose, the remarkable subtlety and skill that enables him to describe emotions, thoughts, ideas as vividly as he conjures up unseen, forgotten worlds at the edge of human experience.
This is, perhaps, the most astonishing product of that artistry, a novel that burns with the insane obsessions of its central character and, magnificently, peaks and slides with his perceived failure and subsequent death. As ever, there are occasional false steps - inevitable when you push the envelope so far - but the overriding impression is of Golding's range, capable of describing the monstrous strain of a disintegrating, splintering cathedral and the tender, hushed moments at the end of a human life with equal gravity, dexterity and potency.
One of the great modern novels, even if history won't ever acknowledge it as such.
20 November 2005
I've been on holiday!
'Scuse the excitement, but it really doesn't happen very often. You can share the glorious peace of Church Cove on the Lizard here.
Current listening (among quite a lot of other things)
Piana - Ephemeral (Happy LP, 2005)
Pretty much impossible, really, to write about this without using the word "sublime"...and "sublime" is merely "nice" for postmodernists, so we should avoid that if we can. It's a quite impossibly gorgeous record, though: at first listen, a saccharine mulch of coo and froth; on closer inspection, a concise collection of songs so thoroughly perfect that you have to keep checking that they still exist.
Available from Boomkat, of course.
Murcof - Remembranza (Leaf LP, 2005)
Oh, I dunno. A disappointment? But it's a fine and accomplished record, unquestionably: if this had been his debut, then it would've been raved about every bit as much as his debut was raved about. A triumph, then? Well, no: it's just a little too conservative for that, a little too obvious. So, "Remembranza" is another album of precise glitches and delicately poised classical samples, and it's perfectly fine. It really is perfectly fine. It's just not special, that's all.
Samples and stuff on Boomkat.
Skream - Midnight Request Line (Tempa 12", 2005)
Skream is a bloody genius. Of all the presents that the dubstep scene has delivered onto my virtual doorstep this year, his August mix is the greatest, an absolutely towering collection of tunes that combines thunderous bass with exquisite melody and thereby thrusts a still-adolescent style of music into adulthood without sacrificing any of its vital innocence. You should stop reading this rubbish and download it now. Then, buy a copy of "Midnight Request Line", his completely magnificent, world-conquering dubstep-grime hybrid. Or ignore me, and never know such glories.
Boomkat.
Toasty Boy - Angel (Hotflush 12", 2005)
An oldie, by common standards. But Distance is still playing it on his Rinse FM show and he's right to: it's about the most perfect distillation of modern break-driven dance music that you'll ever hear. A great looping whale of a bassline, topped with just the right shuffle of beats...and it makes my heart sing every time I hear it. Which is quite often.
Boomkat.
Pretty much impossible, really, to write about this without using the word "sublime"...and "sublime" is merely "nice" for postmodernists, so we should avoid that if we can. It's a quite impossibly gorgeous record, though: at first listen, a saccharine mulch of coo and froth; on closer inspection, a concise collection of songs so thoroughly perfect that you have to keep checking that they still exist.
Available from Boomkat, of course.
Murcof - Remembranza (Leaf LP, 2005)
Oh, I dunno. A disappointment? But it's a fine and accomplished record, unquestionably: if this had been his debut, then it would've been raved about every bit as much as his debut was raved about. A triumph, then? Well, no: it's just a little too conservative for that, a little too obvious. So, "Remembranza" is another album of precise glitches and delicately poised classical samples, and it's perfectly fine. It really is perfectly fine. It's just not special, that's all.
Samples and stuff on Boomkat.
Skream - Midnight Request Line (Tempa 12", 2005)
Skream is a bloody genius. Of all the presents that the dubstep scene has delivered onto my virtual doorstep this year, his August mix is the greatest, an absolutely towering collection of tunes that combines thunderous bass with exquisite melody and thereby thrusts a still-adolescent style of music into adulthood without sacrificing any of its vital innocence. You should stop reading this rubbish and download it now. Then, buy a copy of "Midnight Request Line", his completely magnificent, world-conquering dubstep-grime hybrid. Or ignore me, and never know such glories.
Boomkat.
Toasty Boy - Angel (Hotflush 12", 2005)
An oldie, by common standards. But Distance is still playing it on his Rinse FM show and he's right to: it's about the most perfect distillation of modern break-driven dance music that you'll ever hear. A great looping whale of a bassline, topped with just the right shuffle of beats...and it makes my heart sing every time I hear it. Which is quite often.
Boomkat.
Film review: The Descent
There's a moment, two thirds of the way through "The Descent", when we're told that the once-human creatures gradually eating our party of terrified cavers alive has evolved "perfectly" to live in darkness. Until that point, it's been a distinctly smart horror film, careful and deliberate in its attempts to build up a fiercely claustrophobic atmosphere and to draw portraits of its characters rather than merely send them to their inevitable doom.
But that moment tests your belief. Because these creatures haven't evolved perfectly. At all. They can't see, for a start. Or smell, apparently. And while we're told that they hear like bats, the scriptwriter should probably be grateful that bats don't have lawyers. In short, they're stupid enough to make this a fight that lasts longer than ten seconds.
So, what remains is much less sensible. But it's terrific nonetheless: a gruesome slaughter that barely gives you time, in the murky cavelight, to work out who's still alive. Crucially, though, some of that earlier groundwork pays off too: the conclusion has an emotional kick that makes it linger, and the entirety has a morbid, haunting quality beyond the undeniable dumb thrills.
Not a masterpiece, then. But "The Descent" succeeds where horror often fails: its essential coherence, even when it gets silly, pulls you through, drags you along. Makes you watch, even when you don't want to.
But that moment tests your belief. Because these creatures haven't evolved perfectly. At all. They can't see, for a start. Or smell, apparently. And while we're told that they hear like bats, the scriptwriter should probably be grateful that bats don't have lawyers. In short, they're stupid enough to make this a fight that lasts longer than ten seconds.
So, what remains is much less sensible. But it's terrific nonetheless: a gruesome slaughter that barely gives you time, in the murky cavelight, to work out who's still alive. Crucially, though, some of that earlier groundwork pays off too: the conclusion has an emotional kick that makes it linger, and the entirety has a morbid, haunting quality beyond the undeniable dumb thrills.
Not a masterpiece, then. But "The Descent" succeeds where horror often fails: its essential coherence, even when it gets silly, pulls you through, drags you along. Makes you watch, even when you don't want to.
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