I Love You Phillip Morris (2009, Dir: Glen Ficarra, John Requa)

Last Christmas I finally got around to watching Bad Santa, the festive film starring Billy Bob Thornton as a vulgar department-store Santa, assisted by an equally vulgar elf. I loved every minute of it. It represents everything that is wrong about Christmas, and for that I cherish it. So, when I heard that a new film by the writers of Bad Santa was playing at the film festival, I jumped at the chance to see it.

People have criticised I Love You Phillip Morris for its stunt casting, but I really feel that the high level of comedy that it employs warrants some big name stars. What we get is a top-notch Jim Carrey performance, in full goofy form, and a quieter Ewan McGregor, the Phillip Morris of the film’s title.

Initially, Steven Jay Russell (Carey) is a hard-working family man with a deep love for his wife (Leslie Mann). After an encounter with his long-lost birth mother and an almost-fatal car crash, Russell comes out – in a big way – and decides to stop living his life as a lie. His new extravagant life ends up costing more than he bargained for and his brief career as a con-man sends him into an endless cycle of prisons and subsequent escapes. In prison, Steven meets his soul-mate Phillip and their subsequent romance – and forced separation – provides Steven with the impetus to endlessly deceive the world around him.

Stylistically, the film plays like much of Hollywood’s fare – aside from a couple of extremely clever camera tricks – but it is the comedy that is the highlight of the film. Compared to Bad Santa, it’s a little tame – presumably to appeal to a larger audience – but the jokes really are top notch. The end result is a film that no only makes you laugh, but has the guts to tackle some of Hollywood’s extremely taboo subjects head-on, with impressive results.

Oceans (2010, Dir: Jacques Perrin)

Oceans is a real attack on the senses. What with Pierce Brosnan’s narration and the noisy family behind me in the Civic – moronic child kicking the back of my chair, talking loudly, rustling a packet of sweets, and last but not least the smell of an overflowing nappy – my senses really were bombarded.

I hate Pierce Brosnan. I hate his stupid hoarse voice. I think I might hate him because it was during his tenure that the quality of the Bond films declined like never before. I understand that the end result of the Bond films wouldn’t be his responsibility, and that my hatred is therefore unfounded and illogical, but isn’t that usually the case with hatred?

I spent the short running time (84 minutes) of Oceans trying to figure out who I hated more – Pierce Brosnan or the moronic family behind me. Fortunately we don’t have chavs in New Zealand, but they were perhaps the next best thing. Throughout the film, moronic daughter was asking moronic Daddy a whole raft of questions, to none of which moronic Daddy answered with a request to keep quiet.

At one point, a clownfish popped up onto the giant screen, and moronic daughter turns to moronic Daddy and says “Elmo!”. After giggling to myself for a few seconds, I thought that she would correct herself, or that maybe moronic Daddy would help her out. Instead she said again, “It’s Elmo!” Moronic Daddy probably thought the film was called Finding Elmo too. (You might question the motives of Disney, the studio behind this film – and coincidentally the owners of the Pixar films – of inserting a few shots of an innocuous clownfish into an otherwise remarkable visual film. Or am I just being cynical?).

I might be cynical but at least I can be considerate to other cinema patrons. As Bill Hicks would say, “A miracle is raising a kid that doesn't talk in a fucking movie theatre.” I understand that with parenting, you should encourage your child to ask questions about the world. How else are they going to learn? Well in this case, by listening to Pierce Fucking Brosnan.

Moronic Daddy must know best – who am I to question his parenting skills? – as he answered each and every one of her questions.

Maybe he hates Pierce Brosnan too.

A Prophet (2009, Dir: Jacques Audiard)

It’s easy to see why this French offering was nominated for Best Foreign Language film at the 2010 Academy Awards. It’s a nice little film which turns the Hollywood tradition of prison movies on its head and actually manages to say something new and exciting about the genre.

We awake in an almost dreamlike vision of a holding cell, and watch as Malik – guilty of assaulting a police officer and looking like Kelly Jones from The Stereophonics – is led to serve a six-year prison sentence. Inside, he swiftly falls under the protection of members of the Corsican mafia, a relationship which he struggles to maintain as external temptations threaten his way of life and his approaching release date.

The camera work is just right, a handheld style making full use of the claustrophobic and cramped environments, and although the narrative does extend to a few scenes outside the prison, the majority of the film plays out within its walls.

The only drawback about the film is its length. At a running time of 150 minutes, it really does seem to be at least 30 minutes too long. Anything longer than 2 hours is okay if there is enough variety in the film, but not in this instance where the prison environment begins to get stifling.

Around an hour into the film, Malik grows a small moustache, making him look less like Kelly Jones, and more like Harry Enfield’s scouse caricatures. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get this image out of my head though the remainder of the film as I was expecting him to turn around at any moment, raise his eyebrows, and with a dumb smile say “Eh, eh, eh, eh, eh”...

American: The Bill Hicks Story (2009, Dir: Matt Harlock, Paul Thomas)

I’ve been a fan of Hicks since around 1995 – a year after his death from pancreatic cancer – and over the years I’ve amassed all of his official records, plus more than a handful of bootlegs, and devoured both biographies written on him. So there’s not a lot left to say about the great comedian that hasn’t already been said.

Harlock and Thomas’ film paints a portrait of the comedian from his childhood through to his untimely death, with a raft of archive footage and unseen photographs. Of the two books, the film tends to follow the path of Cynthia True’s original biography American Scream: The Bill Hicks Story, telling his story according to everybody who knew him. The film doesn’t get under his skin in the same way as best friend Kevin Booth’s 2006 biography Agent Of Evolution, although Booth is one of the guiding voices throughout the documentary.

Eschewing the traditional talking-head format of retrospective documentaries, the film makes full use of that newfangled computer software that seems to be very popular at the moment: photographs are turned into moving images against interactive backgrounds, to conjure up a visual image of what the interviewee happens to be saying at that moment. Although it’s nice to see this occasionally (I mean, who wants to see repeated close-ups of unfamiliar faces on a huge cinema screen for 2 hours), this gets tiresome after a while. Aside from a few short segments where we actually see the face of the speaker, the entire documentary is presented in this way.

Is the film funny? Yes, without a doubt. There are enough anecdotes relayed by Hicks’ family and friends to keep the audience amused, without even mentioning the wealth of material of Hicks performing stand-up. Although the readily available footage is represented (Sane Man, One Night Stand, Revelations, Relentless: Live In Montreal), there are numerous camcorder clips of him performing from his very early parent-centric years to his very final days obsessed with politics and the death of the American dream.

Thankfully the documentary should serve one obvious purpose – to teach those uninitiated with Hicks of the marvel of his intellect and wit. Watching Hicks perform stand-up is like a breath of fresh air – many comics simply recite jokes and mix in some observational humour. At his best, Hicks is a history lesson, a current affairs lecture and a theory of how things should be. Best not to take it all too seriously; as the man would say, “It’s only a ride.”

The Hopes And Dreams Of Gazza Snell (2010, Dir: Brendan Donovan)

I’m sorry, but after watching the world premiere of this film, a film that has been seven years in the making, I was left with only one thing to say: is this the best you can do, New Zealand? That might seem an ignorant and crass comment about a low-budget New Zealand film, but I just feel that to really make it on the world stage this country needs to step up its game and make eye-catching pieces of cinema, not mediocre works that would sit more comfortably as TV fodder.

Sure, there’s nothing terribly wrong with the film, but there’s nothing outstanding about it either. Maybe my mood was soured by watching this back to back with Sergio Leone’s Once Upon A Time In The West – which is a long time to sit in a cinema with its almost 3 hour running time. This film was set and shot in the East Auckland suburb of Howick (so Once Upon A Time In The East?), and is a melodramatic tale of a man obsessed with the racing achievements of his two sons.

And here’s where the story falls down. The script, by director Brendan Donovan and David Brechin-Smith, concerns itself far too much with the melodrama of the family unit and – probably due to the nature of the event that causes the drama of the piece – there’s very little left to laugh at. The writers have attempted to portray the father figure of the title as a lovable rogue, but his machinations leave little to empathise with, and it’s left to the minor characters to provide any level of enjoyment.

I’m sure Donovan can go on to do bigger and better things. He just needs to start off with a stronger script next time. Still, if his career as a film director does start to wane, he could always fall back on to stand-up comedy. After a very funny introduction to the film, Donovan was joined by the rest of the principle cast after the screening for a Q&A session. Around 3 or 4 questions in, an elderly lady in the audience stepped up and creaked something along the lines of “I thought the racing scenes were far too loud, and probably beyond the legally allowed limits...” Butting in, Donovan stepped up to the mike and said “Excuse me, could you please speak up, I think I’ve gone deaf.”

Once Upon A Time In The West (1968, Dir: Sergio Leone)

I really wanted to like this film. I really, really wanted to like this film. I love its predecessor, The Good, The Bad And The Ugly, really just for its sheer enjoyability. It’s a very simple joyride from start to finish, and easily the best – probably due to the size of the budget – of Clint Eastwood’s three spaghetti westerns.

So when I heard that a restored print of Once Upon A Time In The West was to be playing on the Civic’s big screen as part of the 2010 New Zealand International film festival, I couldn’t wait. Unfortunately it looks as though I was the victim of my own anticipation. As much as I wanted to like the film, I left the cinema disappointed. I don’t really know why. I was looking forward to the slow, steady-handed pacing that informs all of Leone’s work, but it just didn’t work for me. Mrs. Popcorn Logic, on the other hand, loved it from start to finish, which baffles me even more than my own discontentment.

The film opens on a deserted train station in the middle of nowhere, as three gunslingers await the train of the man they have been sent to kill. Charles Bronson, in fine form, turns up as the with his harmonica as the Man In White, and, with a few classic one-liners and three shots, swiftly dispatches his welcoming party.

After this great sequence, the film dips as it fills in the back story of the four main characters. Aside from a few interesting moments, the pace never really gets back on track, and Bronson’s final showdown with Henry Fonda’s Man In Black is just anti-climactic after such a long build up.

It’s great to see a western in the cinema, especially on a cold Sunday afternoon in Auckland, and although it’s been cleaned up, the film still retains that grainy quality and looks like it was shot over forty years ago. Although I won’t be rushing to see the film again, I’m glad I gave it a shot on the big screen – I get the impression that I would have liked the film even less if I was watching it at home. Despite my misgivings however, I’d queue up over and over in the rain to see the female lead Claudia Cardinale in action again.

The Man With the Golden Gun (1974, Dir: Guy Hamilton)

Roger Moore’s second outing as 007 is a strong film, but doesn’t dazzle as its successor The Spy Who Loved Me would eventually do. The film follows the now-standard Bond formula, firmly in place since 1964’s Goldfinger, and marks Moore’s first real outing in this fashion, with 1973’s Live And Let Die being little more than an entertaining chase movie.

The pre-credit sequence introduces us to the titular character of Fransciso Scramanaga (played by Ian Fleming’s real life cousin, Christopher Lee), sunbathing on his private island in Thailand. The villain is accompanied by his dwarf servant, Nick Nack, and his mistress Andrea Anders (Maud Adams, later to return to take the title role of 1983’s Octopussy). Visited by a fellow assassin eager for his pay, the sequence sets up the main running theme of the film: doubles and duality.

Although Lulu’s title theme is very of its time, I must admit I have a fondness for its energy, although I can see why John Barry views it as one of his lesser works. A running mate in the battle to provide the title song was an entry by Alice Cooper. Listening to that song, it’s easy to see that they picked the better of the two.

Unfortunately Roger Moore doesn’t quite hit his stride in the role, with too much reliance on Sean Connery’s portrayal of Bond. His manhandling of Andrea Anders smacks of late-era Connery, and it wasn’t until The Spy Who Loved Me that Moore would really make the role his own.

As far as set-pieces go, the film has more than a few, with Bond’s trial and subsequent escape from a Kung Fu school being an early highlight. However, the real star of the film is the car chase through Bangkok, culminating in the famed ‘astro-spiral-jump’ over a broken and twisted bridge. Unfortunately, the stunt is accompanied by a slide-whistle sound effect that cheapens its magnificence, and Clifton James’ reprisal of the Sheriff J. W. Pepper role in the scene further helps to hinder the sequence.

Britt Ekland looks great as the typical dumb-blonde-in-bikini Bond girl, and the film ends with the death of Scaramanga and destruction of the villain’s lair that had become almost commonplace since Dr. No.

Overall, The Man With The Golden Gun is an entertaining entry into the series, with its only real flaw being perhaps its overly serious, stifling atmosphere. Moore’s Bond is usually regarded as the ‘lightweight’ Bond, after Connery set the standard; and bookended by more lightweight films, this film really gives us an indication of the tone that might have permeated the series if Moore had been cast into the series to begin with back in 1962.

Dr. No (1962, Dir: Terence Young)

Watching the first of James Bond’s adventures is an odd experience. The film is so far removed from the Bond of today – or even the Bond of the 70s, 80s and 90s- that it doesn’t even seem to be part of the same series. Sure, the same elements are there – M, Moneypenny, Universal Exports, and a raft of catchphrases and mannerisms introduced to an unsuspecting pre-Beatlemania, early 60s cinema-going audience – but the film just seems tame in comparison.

I’m writing this after watching the film in high-definition, and thankfully it looks superb. MGM Home Entertainment have spent some real money, investing time and effort into cleaning up the picture and sound, turning it into something that looks – in its external sequences at least – as though it was filmed yesterday.

The plot is pretty simple. Bond is sent to Jamaica to investigate the disappearance of a British Intelligence Station Chief, and the trail leads him to Crab Key and the reclusive Dr. No. Along the way, we meet Honey Ryder (Ursula Andress) emerging from the sea in a white bikini and we’re introduced to Ken Adam’s jaw-dropping sets.

Sean Connery plays the role with a determination we don’t really see again until the Dalton years, and there’s nothing of the humour that was injected into the series from Goldfinger onwards. Taking its cue from Hitchcock’s North By Northwest, the films sets up the formula of event–briefing–investigation that remained the blueprint for many years, and it’s nice to see Bond relying on his wits and actually operating as a spy, rather than resorting to gadgets and smart quips to solve his problems.

Bizarrely, in Japan the translators first interpreted the title as "Dr.? No!" and produced posters with a translation that meant "We don't want a doctor". However the most interesting fact about the release of Dr. No into the cinemas was that on the same day, Friday October 5th 1962, the debut 7” single of a certain quartet from Liverpool was introduced to record stores. What an exciting time – two pillars of popular culture sharing the same birthday.

I Am Love (2009, Dir: Luca Guadagnino)

So the 2010 New Zealand International Film Festival kicks off with a bang, or more accurately a whimper, with this Italian oddity. Of the 3 opening night films I have been to during my time in New Zealand, this ranks as the worst by a long way. I’m sure there’s an audience for this film at the festival, but not as the inaugural presentation.

Tilda Swinton (impressively in flawless Italian) plays the wife of a wealthy textile manufacturer, finding herself forgotten by her husband and pushed aside by priorities over the family business. When her son introduces her to his business partner, the chef Antonio, she finds the attention and spirit so lacking in her marriage. As with most films dealing with infidelity, I Am Love offers little in the way of surprises, and tells us what we have been told many times before: infidelity has its consequences.

My main issue with this film is its general Italianness. We get a solid 2 hours of art-for-arts sake filmmaking, with the focus puller presumably asleep. Add a score that on its own merit is sublime, but overlaid onto this film is purely out of place, and we’re left with a very uncomfortable experience. Several moments were greeted by exasperated titters from the audience, and the abrupt finale and closing credits were received with a mixture of relief, confusion and disappointment.

I initially thought that I’d like this film – I’ve enjoyed everything I’ve seen in Italian prior to this – but it seems that times have changed. In 2007, Tarantino said "New Italian cinema is just depressing. Recent films I've seen are all the same. They talk about boys growing up, or girls growing up, or couples having a crisis, or vacations of the mentally impaired." I’m inclined to agree with him. It seems like Guadagnino’s film is trying so very hard to be reminiscent of classic Italian cinema that it forgets to entertain, or even to *shock * offer us something new and exciting.

I’m sure this film will be seen by a wider audience in the English-speaking world due to the inclusion of Swinton at the head of the cast list, but I fear that instead of turning people on to foreign-language films, I Am Love has the power to do quite the opposite.