Daniel Woolstencroft's Little Movie Blog Thing
ComingSoon are reporting that Johnny Depp is joining Will Smith on I Am Legend.
Now: I hate the idea of Smith playing Neville in this film, but if Johnny Depp is playing Cortman – Neville’s Vampiric neighbour – I’m interested.
I really, really, really hope this thing is done right. The presence of Smith seems to suggest that it won’t be, but I’m willing to keep an open mind at this stage.
I can’t help but marvel at how my perceptions have changed as I’ve grown older. The way I view the world, and the people in it; the way I feel about the food I eat, or the music I once enjoyed so much but now can’t bear.
And the films I once ignored.
And, if I’m honest, ignored is accurate – isn’t it? I knew this body of work existed. As I’ll come on to in a moment, it’s played an important part in my life. And yet, for example, until a few days ago the name Victor McLaglen meant nothing to me.
My Grandad – no pretentious renaming to Grandfather here, thank you very much, he was and always will be Grandad – was a huge fan of John Wayne.
When I was a child, he became utterly synonymous with the man. In my mind, he would move like John Wayne, look like John Wayne. And, yes, if I’m honest, talk like John Wayne. But he didn’t – not really – that’s all just a product of a child’s imagination and capacity for molding ideas in crazy ways. But the image persisted. I must have passed the image on to my wife, because the same thought occurred to her upon meeting him for the first time.
He had an enormous collection of books and videos featuring Wayne. His love of films, Wayne, and the western as a genre, is undoubtedly responsible for his three son’s love of film. Which, in turn, is unquestionably responsible for mine.
And so I find myself, almost 28 years old, in a position to review Warner Home Video’s new John Ford and John Wayne / John Ford boxed sets. And, I realise, I don’t actually know any of the films that either box contains.
I’m aware of them. Who isn’t? She Wore A Yellow Ribbon, The Searchers, Stagecoach – these are all iconic westerns. John Ford is an iconic director. So why am I so ignorant?
I love film. All shapes and sizes, all genres and themes. I’ve always held a preference for horror – and I think I know why, but that’s something to analyse another day – but I’ve never been monogamous. Why have I ignored Ford, and if I’m honest, the western?
The answer is: I don’t know. And I’m genuinely ashamed. I can’t excuse myself by claiming to have not had time, or for them to have been unavailable. I consider myself to be a ‘film buff’. I’d even claim to go beyond that. But how can I stake such a claim if I’m ignorant of such an important part of cinema history?
I can’t.
What follows are my reviews of 13 of John Ford’s films. Some of them may not be considered to be his greatest, but they are the films in the boxed sets. My journey may well extend further than these 13 films, but for now my planned route is: The Lost Patrol, The Informer, Mary of Scotland, Sergeant Rutledge, Cheyenne Autumn, Stagecoach, The Long Voyage Home, They Were Expendable, Fort Apache, 3 Godfathers, She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, The Searchers, and The Wings of Eagles.
I’m seeing most of these films for the first time. Those few that I have watched haven’t been viewed in my adult life, and haven’t been given the attention they deserve. My perceptions have changed: I might as well be seeing them afresh. The only Wayne films that I have watched properly are his later ones: True Grit, Big Jake, El Dorado, et al.
If my views seem to be naïve, ignorant, or are in any way offensive to you, I encourage you to comment. I’m trying to do this with an open mind, free from the preconceptions imposed by Ford’s reputation.
Ultimately, I’m doing this for my Grandad. These works aren’t something I was ever able to discuss with him while he was alive, to my shame. But at least I’ll appreciate and understand his passion as a result. I’m also doing this for his three sons – my Dad: Antony, Ian, and Andrew. Ian and Andrew have opened my eyes to many films over the years that I may have otherwise ignored (The Incredible Shrinking Man comes to mind). But it’s my Dad that has had, and continues to have, more of an impact on who I am than anything else in my life.
The following 13 reviews – which you’ll find both on this site, and grouped together on BlogCritics under the title ‘Discovering John Ford’ – are my tribute to my Grandad. I hope he, his sons, and you, enjoy them.
In loving memory of Ernest Arthur Woolstencroft: 1929 – 2004.
I’ve never really managed to comprehend the mentality of companies like Google and Yahoo.
Google have, for quite a while, owned the Picasa desktop application. Anyone that’s used Apple’s iPhoto will appreciate the similarities between the two, but Picasa is a pretty good photo management application, that’s made all the better for being free.
Yahoo have owned Flickr for some time, which is crying out for something like Picasa. The best Flickr can come up with is their Uploadr tool – although to be fair their newly tweaked Organiser is extremely usable. Instead of focusing on improving the client side elements of Flickr, Yahoo have enhanced their own Yahoo Photo service. Why? They own Flickr, why waste time and effort on a new version of – what is essentially – a competing product.
It seems that Google have fired the first shot in a complete solution. Scratch that – Apple fired the first shot with iWeb, but I can’t comment on that as I’ve not used it. Google have launched PicasaWeb, a service that I hoped would rival Flickr but which at the moment can only be described as an also ran.
PicasaWeb is OK. It’s nothing special. It’ll allow you to put the pictures you’ve currently got in Picasa on the web. Sadly, it will also allow anyone access to them if they know the URL. I don’t like this. I want to control who can see the photos of my friends and family. Until this feature exists, PicasaWeb is useless to me.
Aside from that, Picasa disappoints in other areas. Elements of the UI feel clunky, there’s a distinct lack of the slickness present in Flickr and Yahoo’s new photo service, and it doesn’t offer any real help or assistance along the way.
PicasaWeb doesn’t compete with Flickr, Yahoo, Zoomr, Riya, and the other snazzy online photo sharing applications. I’m not entirely sure that it wants to; but if that’s the case, it’s difficult to comprehend its reason for being. I hope it’s improved soon; if some of the features offered by Flickr are implemented, I might think about moving.
Portugal.
That’s who I’ve drawn in our seemingly inevitable office World Cup sweepstakes: Portugal. Nothing against the Portuguese or Portugal itself, but it’s not exactly a team that fills me with a sense of proud certainty when it comes to winning the handsome top prize. But it doesn’t really bother me – the World Cup is about to begin, and sweepstakes are part of the fun.
England, my proud nation, will play their first match tomorrow. I’ll be watching it. Or rather, I’ll be listening to it while I work. I know, I know: How awful to have to work on a Saturday. In fact: How awful to have to work on the first Saturday of the World Cup, and during England’s first game. And I don’t even really like football.
I say like; I don’t necessarily mind football, it’s just that there seem to be so many, so much more interesting things I could be doing. That’s not to belittle those who love the sport – I can see the appeal, it’s just that it’s never really been a high priority for me. And yet, here I am, moaning about missing the first match. Why do I care?
And the only honest answer I can come up with is: I have no idea. Is it the fact that our lads are second favourite to win? No: I’ve been let down so many times – We have been let down so many times – that part of me doesn’t really believe that we’ll win. Is it because I’m fiercely proud of my country or heritage? Wrong again: Despite everything that’s going on, I still love my country, and I’m still proud that we can represent ourselves at this level in a global tournament, but I don’t really believe we’re special beyond all other nations. We don’t have any more right to win the cup just because we invented the sport…
The only reason for my interest, that I can put my finger on, is the atmosphere. The weather on our usually rainy little island has been gloriously sunny over the last few days. Every where I drive, on my route to work, or to the shops for groceries, I see England flags. They’re attached to cars, draped over back seats, hanging from the windows of houses, and even flying from flag poles in front gardens. Every time I turn on the radio, switch on the television, or load the BBC news page, I confronted with more stories about Rooney’s broken (or hopefully not so broken) foot, Sven’s plans for victory, and our national hero’s (again, hopefully) activities in Baden-Baden.
Radio One DJ Chris Moyles and team have been dispatched to Germany; for the next few weeks, my daily commute to work will be heavily tinged with eau-de-football. Television programs will be rescheduled to make room for matches. The office canteen have produced a television from somewhere so employees can catch the England matches. It’s everywhere.
And I don’t mind. I should. Usually I’d be heartily sick of all this by now, and the tournament hasn’t even begun. And yet there’s something about the World Cup that just hooks me in. I’m powerless to resist.
And so I’ll watch the matches. I’ll moan about being in work for the first one. I’ll cheer our lads on and hope we achieve the ultimate victory. And if the time comes to return home empty handed, I’ll be disappointed. Again.
But life goes on. It just pleases me to see a nation united in hope and pride, and who aren’t afraid to display their national colours – a statement which sounds impossibly cheesy but is true. So come on England: Let’s see what you can do.
And good luck to the rest of you.
JK Rowling – author of the Harry Potter series of books, just in case you’ve been living under a rock for the last few years – has been voted “the greatest living British writer” in a recent poll in The Book Magazine.
Discworld author Terry Pratchett came second, but received just a third of the total number of votes bestowed upon Rowling.
Christine Kidney, editor of The Book Magazine, says this “provides a fascinating insight into what the British public thinks makes a ‘great’ writer”.
I’m can’t say I’d describe myself as fascinated, rather astonished. In fact, I might even go so far as to describe my current state as horrified.
For Rowling to be given this accolade above such talented – and accomplished – writers as Iain Banks, Philip Pullman, and Salman Rushdie is nothing short of outrageous. For her share of the votes to be three times that of Pratchett is downright appalling.
Rowling’s prose is deeply unimaginative when compared to the vast majority of the other authors on this list. Her content is unoriginal, even if she is dismissive of her peers and cites other sources as the inspiration for her work.
And she’s not exactly the most prolific author in the world.
But who am I to question to writing ability of Britain’s greatest? The public have spoken. It’s clear that the public are convinced, thanks to the popularity of her books, that she’s the best writer we’ve got.
Rowling has received this award simply because her books have achieved a far greater amount of publicity. If Iain Banks’ Culture novels had been successfully adapted into Hollywood movies, would his name be top of the list? If a wizard named Rincewind had graced our screens, instead of a wizard named Harry, would Pratchett be crowned the greatest?
It’s hard to dispute Rowling’s status as Britain’s most popular author, but she’s a long way from great.
Hard Candy begins with a instant messaging session. Thonggrrrrrl14, represented by a bright red heart, and Lensman319 – appropriately using a camera icon – are chatting flirtatiously. The entire conversation is filmed in extreme close-up; the horizontal bars of the computer screen are clearly visible, every tiny detail from the clickety-clack of typing, to the ping of a new message arriving is captured in intense detail. It’s a style which remains consistent throughout the film, and an opening that suggests you’re in for an unconventional ride.
It’s difficult to review a film like Hard Candy without straying dangerously close to spoiler territory; a harsh, unforgiving land that I always try to avoid. I don’t intend to give anything away here that isn’t apparent by looking at the film’s web site, or reading the plot synopsis. If I offend you by giving away too much, you might want to consider locking yourself in a cupboard until the next film you wanted to see is released.
The initial chat session reaches it’s resolution with Thonggrrrrrl14 suggesting she meet Lensman319 in a local diner, and it’s here that we first meet the two people we’ll be spending the next hundred minutes with. The diner encounter makes for uncomfortable viewing, but for all the right reasons. Hayley (played by Ellen Page) flirts outrageously with Jeff (Patrick Wilson) and he smoothly reacts. Watching a 30-something male charm his way around this innocent 14 year old just isn’t right. The intention is made even more obvious by Hayley’s choice of dress: A red hooded jacket (an image which has spawned its own internet campaign).
And yet director David Slade relishes the opportunity to show us every intimate nuance of Hayley’s expression. Every amorous lick of the lips, or embarrassed head movement is depicted in such close-up detail that much of the subjects face extends beyond the visible frame. And as Hayley decides to go home with Jeff, the viewer can’t help but feel concerned for her well being. It’s apparent that Jeff has carefully manipulated the encounter, and isn’t just the charming photographer he claims to be.
It continues. More flirting. More close-ups. More tension. The actors deliver their lines with an utterly convincing level of charisma, and the audience is swept unwittingly along. We’re enthralled by this disturbing dance, just as Hayley is. And yet, as this unfolds, we’re all too aware that convention dictates things will end up in a bad place. And we’re certain that we don’t want to be there when it happens. For a moment, it appears that Hayley has bitten off far more than she can chew.
But Hard Candy isn’t about convention. It’s about two phenomenal performances, and a magnificent piece of direction and cinematography. In many ways, Hard Candy is like watching an incredibly well produced play – which is perhaps unsurprising given writer Brian Nelson’s stage work. It’s just that instead of sitting several rows back, you’re sitting inches from the cast’s face.
Just as with the opening scenes, even as Hayley turns the tables on Jeff, we’re shown every minute expression on their faces. But now we’re seeing disgust, contempt, outrage, fear.
Pain.
And just like that, in the time it takes to transition from one scene to the next, we are completely disorientated. We thought we knew where this was going. And now this innocent, dare to say defenseless girl has the upper hand. She’s calling the shots. We had our suspicions about Jeff, but we don’t actually know that he’s done anything wrong. Maybe Hayley isn’t as adorable as she seems…
What follows – and the vast majority of the film’s duration is devoted to this – is a sort of moral tennis; each character tries their best to prove that the other is a troubled, almost inhuman creature. They try to convince each other that they’re sick, and dangle cures in an attempt to gain the upper hand. But just as one side seems to be winning, the tables flip again. It’s a close-quarters psychological game of cat and mouse, taking place entirely in and around a single house, and unfolding in, essentially, real time.
Despite containing one of the most hideous torture scenes in recent memory (forget Hostel) the film contains a surprising amount of humour. There are some very funny lines – I’ll never be able to think the same way about the phrase “Preventative Maintenance” – even during said unpleasantness. This particular scene depicts perhaps the most extreme, personal violence one gender can exact on another, but as with the best horror it’s all in the mind. In more ways than one.
Ellen Page is a revelation. I hope she has a very bright career ahead of her. She’s captivating, for the most part utterly convincing, and manages to convey a range of emotions with very subtle facial expressions. Wilson is more than capable of matching her, and even though his performance requires a very different range of emotions it’s still a convincing portrayal. It’s telling that, despite Page’s appearance in X-Men: The Last Stand (as Kitty Pryde), a film I saw only a few days ago, I completely failed to recognise her.
That said, David Slade’s direction is an important part of the film’s success. The performances he’s managed to achieve, the camera movements (one of which might just be a Sam Raimi homage), and the use of light and colour is astonishing. Slade also has an impressive sense of restraint; for a man who’s cut his teeth directing music videos, Slade has his A.D.H.D firmly under control. He doesn’t over-use unstable shakey-cam moments, he slides the camera in and out of focus with subtle ease, and knows just what angles he wants to use to best capture his actors.
Slade’s next project is the film adaptation of Steven Niles’ 30 Days of Night. On the strength of Hard Candy, I genuinely cannot wait. It’s superb source material, and with Slade attached I think we could be in for something special. It’ll be interesting to see if Page or Wilson make an appearance.
Hard Candy does a good job of sustaining the tension throughout its duration, only stumbling in the last few minutes thanks to a disruptive appearance by Sandra Oh. It slows down what should be a full-throttle descent into the film’s climax and would benefit from a little trimming. It’s a minor quibble though: Hard Candy is an impressive exercise in film-making. It’s thought provoking, incredible to look at, and curiously entertaining. I’m genuinely pleased that, for once, a film I’ve heard so much about has lived up to my expectations. Highly recommended.