Once

On Monday night, we saw Once, another movie that came out roughly two million years ago in the States and is probably already being remade with Josh Hartnett and Kate Beckinsale (along with those "Irish" gangsters from Heroes as their band members). It comes out on DVD there in December and we could have just bought it then and had it sent over, but we'd waited months to see it already, listening to increasingly fervent reviews all the while, and couldn't wait any longer. Any longer than Monday night, that is, because our weekend was already booked up with Guitar Hero.

It was a wonderful movie, the kind that makes you glad to be alive in a world where people make films like this, and if you haven't yet seen it, please do, and then come back here and thank me, and maybe PayPal me a little of your gratitude as well. I also accept gift certificates -- we're not picky here at Shades of Caruso.

Anyway, though it was a beautiful movie in sentiment, that wasn’t the case when it came to locations, filming style, film quality, or leading actors (sorry, Glen Hansard; you are a very talented musician and singer, but your eyes are wicked googly).


The film was obviously shot handheld on digital video, and apparently they didn’t always get permits to film and had to shoot on long lenses for public scenes and use friends’ houses for others (apparently it only cost $160,000 to make, and I’m afraid it shows, though happily it’s grossed more than $11 million). The camerawork was distractingly bad in certain scenes, especially an early one in a piano shop, which is shot as if someone’s dad is holding the camera and breathing heavily after one too many Coors Lights. I know this movie was low-budget, but guys, you couldn’t have shelled out for a tripod? They cost like twenty bucks. You could probably return it after you were done, since your movie was shot in two weeks and most places give you a month if you’ve got a receipt. I’m just saying. For Twice (the sequel, of course).

Luckily these distractions soon become unimportant, and the unprettiness of the locations was integral to the story. Hansard and Markéta Irglová’s characters both live in flats so depressing that they sent us both into bad-memory spirals as we recalled some of the unsavory places we’ve lived or visited and unfortunate characters we’ve known. No wonder they want to get out of Dublin (to go to London, which seems better until you realize that’s where Hackney is). And though the movie is a sort-of musical, the songs (especially at the beginning) are recorded quite badly — they often seemed on the verge of blowing out the camera’s mic, and even sounded rickety on the theater’s speakers. Again, though, this works for the movie — the sound is bad when Hansard is busking on the street at the beginning of the story, but by the time he and his makeshift band go into a recording studio, the songs are recorded beautifully, and are as smooth as a cat’s eyeball (sorry — as I write this, our cat Sydney is staring at me with her usual expression of insane confusion).


The story is a fairly simple one, though you may not want to read on if you haven’t seen it yet. Guy and Girl (for those are their “names” in the movie) meet, Guy is a broken-hearted hoover-fixer-sucker guy who busks at night, perpetually lugging around his worn-in guitar; Girl is a flower-seller who plays the piano. They begin to make music together, eventually recording some demo tracks so that Guy can go to London to try to make it. They both clearly begin falling for each other, but Hansard's character is dismayed to find out that Irglová is still married to the father of her child (though he is back in the Czech Republic); in truth, he himself is still pining for his ex-girlfriend, who cheated on him. The ending of the movie is bittersweet; the characters part, having never so much as kissed each other (though Irglová's character confesses at one point, in Czech, "You are the one I love"), but having changed and bettered each other immeasurably. Perhaps it's better that they don't end up together, as the time they spent together was (as the title implies) a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence (a la Lost in Translation, another sob-inducing chaste romance). Still, I can't help being cheered by the fact that Hansard and Irglová are dating in real life. Aw! Bet that wouldn't have happened if they'd cast Cillian Murphy, as they'd originally wanted to. That creepy blue-eyed replicant.


As I mentioned, Once is a semi-musical; there are no flights of fancy where the characters suddenly break out into song, but musical conventions are cleverly sneaked into the fabric of reality -- Hansard and Irglová begin falling for each other when they play a song together for the first time; Hansard reveals his troubled romantic past with an impromptu song on a bus (an especially nice character touch, as it's easier for him to evade a real answer by singing instead of talking); Irglová sings along to a track she's listening to on a CD player while the camera follows her. And the music itself is absolutely lovely -- beautiful folk-pop songs that come alive when Hansard and Irglová croon to each other. The fact that both of them are professional singers, not actors, was an excellent choice -- they both have amazing voices, can handle difficult songs easily, and most importantly, infuse the songs with gallons of emotion. Their naturalistic acting styles fit the tone of the movie perfectly, though obviously Josh Harnett would have been my first choice.

I think my favorite thing about the movie, though, was that it was a low-budget indie that avoided all the usual indie cliches. No wacky dysfunctional families, no tweeness, no overly coincidental plot contrivances, no miserably "real" couples (tangentially, Tell Me You'll Procreate With Me is getting a bit better on this front, though nowhere near where it should be. Once basically kicks its ass in this arena). In fact, the only indie movie it reminded me of was Before Sunrise (and its sequel, Before Sunset), and that's no bad thing, as both of those movies are quite possibly my favorite movies ever, and the only reason I think Ethan Hawke shouldn't be squashed like the little rat-faced terrier he is. Both stories show us a heart-burstingly beautiful story of two people beginning to fall in love, and the movies ring so true that it's hard to believe they're fiction.

Now I'm off to watch 40 Days and 40 Nights.

Remy the Rat PWNs Puppet Angel and Cleveland Heep

Pull that fine thick hair of his, Remy, you adorable rodent, you! Make him dance! And cook! Preferably something without garlic. The smell of burning vampire flesh can put off the diners.

On Saturday we caught Ratatouille, a movie released in the US so long ago that the Region 1 DVD release is in a couple of weeks. That this made my summer movie viewing a bittersweet experience is a statement as accurate as it is devoid of the shouty fury I unleashed upon learning about the outrageously long wait I had ahead of me. Even if Disney's reason for delaying the release that much was that an orphanage was saved from being pulled down, I'd still be pissed beyond reason. How many ratless months? How much suffering Chez Canyoneck? And why, so some megacorp can make a few extra bucks? Don't care! Orphans saved from begging on the streets? Don't care! Me want rat movie pronto. Stupid Buena Vista. Me smash megacorp for tardy release, and hold grudge for rest of year. That show them!

Thankfully, it was worth the wait. Actually, that doesn't even cover our reaction. My eyelids were peeled back for the length of the movie, blinking only when tears poured forth, which they did with increasing frequency as the movie progressed. As a result, I have a bone to pick with genius director Brad Bird. I was already pointlessly annoyed that I would not be able to pick my favourite film of the year from the double whammy of excellence that was Zodiac and The Bourne Ultimatum, and now this comes along. Three totally different movies, but all of them absolutely perfect. Ratatouille is the pinnacle of computer animation, filled with remarkably fluid movement, beautiful colours, believable textures, and to top it all, it provides more food for thought than almost every other movie I've seen this year.


Damn, I'm so late to the party. All of this has already been said, but I have to chime in, because my love for this movie is so overwhelming. Technically, it is as good as movies get. I felt like the silver screen was kissing my eyeballs, and just to rub it in, the pitch-perfect voicework and Michael Giacchino's adorable soundtrack were nuzzling my ears. If a movie could hug you, that's what Ratatouille would do from the first frame to the last.

If that was all the movie did, it would be enough to put it high up on any self-respecting film watcher's top ten list for the year (if list-making is your bag; certain other contributors to this site are not so keen), but Brad Bird expands and clarifies some of the themes introduced in his masterpiece, The Incredibles. Though I'm more than a little unsure about some of the potential Objectivist, Ayn-Randian philosophies suggested by that film, I find the idea of celebrating excellence very appealing. When I heard that Ratatouille featured a similarly controversial message to that of The Incredibles, I was worried that a trend was developing that might retrospectively make the lesson of the earlier movie seem less endearing. Was Bird going to use all of his movies to espouse some awful, selfish, right-wing nonsense I would find it hard to get behind?


Thankfully, I'm convinced the movie is less about promoting devotion to the all-powerful uber-mensch, and more about celebrating excellence and intelligence. I took from it a message about having faith in yourself and doing everything you can to do what you do best, even in the face of indifference or lack of support. Early on in the film Remy's talent and curiosity and yearning for knowledge are treated by his family as a waste of time and energy. His rat brethren might come around by the end of the film (without ever being able to see the big picture the way Remy does), but at the start of the movie they are an ignorant mob who distrust intelligence. I could hate the movie for making them step into line at the end, but it's not presented as the actions of an automaton army governed by the confidence of a Objectivist right-wing control-freak, but as an expression of trust in a natural leader. Arguments can rage for years about whether Disney just funded a fun, vibrant, colourful, kid-friendly adaptation of The Fountainhead, but I thought it was about trusting someone you love to do what they need to do to be happy, and encouraging and helping them in achieving their goal. It's one of the most uplifting endings I've been lucky enough to see.


Even better than that is the arc of Anton Ego, the curmudgeonly critic who haunts the movie as a passive antagonist until the final few minutes of the movie. I don't wish to ruin the end of the movie for those of you who have yet to see it (and if you read this and have any sense, you will rush to a cinema immediately), but there is a scene involving him that is filled with such simple, honest beauty that I blarted hot tears all over Canyon, who was in a similar situation, from what she told me later. My heart, it melted.

The see-sawing negative and positive treatment of Anton Ego and the art of criticism sadly reminded me of M. Night Shyamalan's Lady in the Water, which is one of the bitterest films I've ever seen. Stung by the reviews of The Village, Shyamalan and his very thin skin went all out to get his own back on critics. In the middle of his preposterous, badly-thought out, dreary tale of Scrunts (dog/lawn hybrids), Narfs (Bryce Dallas Howard after an injection of creepy), Tartutics (angry monkey warriors, and no, they're not as cool as that sounds), and Great Eatlons (just a really big eagle), Shyamalan introduces Harry Farber, a film critic (played by Bob Balaban), who thinks there is no originality left, and as a result is incapable of joy or empathy or anything. He treats everyone like dirt (including adorable semi-hero Cleveland Heep, played with typical intensity and commitment by Paul Giamatti), and his confidence in his own ability to parse the mechanics of story-telling nearly dooms Bryce Dallas Howard to death by LawnDog when he inaccurately interprets some unnecessarily complex rules of Narfdom conveyed in obnoxiously grandiose and slow-moving scenes of ear-tugging and, and, and... Ugh! It's too complicated, contrived, and stupid to go into in full detail. Just believe me, it's horrible horrible storytelling.

If anyone here has the DVD and has seen the deleted scenes, please tell me if there are any featuring Farber throwing kittens off his balcony, or making baby stew. He's practically that villainous and unpleasant in the movie. It's an even worse directorial decision than basing the plot around a writer who will save the world by writing the most important book ever, and then deciding that the only person qualified to play that part is, well, M. Night Shyamalan himself. Actually, it's a toss-up. Both decisions are monumentally wrongheaded.


The worst scene in the film (or in any film that year except for certain unsavoury scenes in Neil LaBute's ode to woman-hating, The Wicker Man) comes when Farber gets killed by Shyamalan's instrument of justice, the Rogue Scrunt. Farber is cornered as in the photo above, and has watched so many dull and uninspiring movies (unlike Shyamalan's, of course), that he now see everything through a Robert-McKee-Story prism. This is his external monologue prior to being eaten:

Farber: Hello? Is the bathroom on this level working? [Scrunt walks into view and menaces Farber] A dog inside the building! Go! Shoo! Why you're not a dog at all. My god, this is like a moment from a horror movie. This is precisely the moment where the mutation or beast will attempt to kill an unlikable side character. But, in stories where there has been no prior cursing, violence, nudity or death, such as in a family film, the unlikable character will escape his encounter, and be referenced later in the story, having learned valuable lessons. He may even be given a humorous moment to allow the audience to feel good about him. This is where I turn to run. You will leap for me, I will shut the door, and you will land a fraction of a second too late. [turns to walk away]
Scrunt: [Leaps onto Farber and starts eating him] Growl! This is for saying the twist in The Village was obvious! Rend! Tear! Signs was a masterpiece, you nasty hurtful meanies, and not an hour and a half of genius followed by twenty minutes of potentially career-killing stupidity! Chomp! I'm the best director in the world, and not the patron saint of arrogance and hubris like what you said! Slurp! You taste like poo, you poo man! And you smell like poo! Glurp! Who's laughing now? I just made a movie about how poo you are! [finishes eating, runs off into the night, sobbing]

It's literally jaw-dropping. I know executives told him he would never get away with filming that scene, but to still go ahead with it takes brass balls. (Confession; I might have added the Scrunt dialogue. Or I might not. You'll have to rent the movie and find out, won't you?) In case I come across as someone harbouring a grudge against Shyamalan, I will add a disclaimer. His style is one of the most distinctive in Hollywood, and though he could stand to speed his movies up just a bit, that style can work amazingly well. He has a directorial eye that is second to none. The Farber death scene might be monumentally dumb, but it's framed in such an original way and shot with such ravishing style and precision that the stupidity of it seems even worse in comparison. As for his other films, I liked The Sixth Sense a lot, and absolutely adored Unbreakable, which I think is his best movie. Even his dreck hasn't put me off his next movie, The Happening, which sounds fantastic.

Sadly, Signs was good, up to a point, and after that, he's disappointed me repeatedly. His style may be distinctive and his films may be beautiful, but only when he reins himself in. As soon as he goes too far with his stylistic tics, it falls apart. Critics who said The Village was nothing more than a Twilight Zone episode were not wrong. It's a 45 minute story padded out to over twice that length with lots of slow walking and ponderous dialogue scenes, albeit shot with typical beauty by the wondrous Roger Deakins, and performed with immense conviction by a talented cast.

Lady in the Water too has glorious, award-worthy photography by Christopher Doyle, and features some great performances, but takes forever to tell an absurd and badly worked out story, featuring fantasy characters forced to adhere to nonsensical behavioural rules that serve only to drag a thin story out to feature length. Why can't Narfs talk about their world and their relationship with Scrunts? Because Shyamalan says fairy tales are like that, so shut up and deal with the fact that that little arbitrary rule just added 20 very slow scenes to a movie that otherwise would have been over in half an hour. Why do all the Korean and Italian characters spend the movie shrieking and freaking out like a bunch of lazily written caricatures? Just say no to racial stereotyping, Shyamalan. And what was with Freddy Rodriquez's pointless rubber arm?


That just made me laugh every time it turned up. Small comfort, though. It broke my heart to see Lady in the Water, not just because it's an overlong and dreary vanity piece that's as technically perfect and beautiful as it is moronic, but because it's so so nasty, and confirmed reports of Shyamalan losing the plot while pitching the movie to Disney production president Nina Jacobson. I mean, I can kind of see why he reacted so badly. I've got a thin skin too, and I know if I got reviews that are half as severe as those received by Shyamalan (a notoriously criticism averse perfectionist), I'd cry for months. What I wouldn't do, though, is build an entire movie around that anger and upset. That's a hell of a complicated and expensive rattle to throw out of the pram.

Compare that to Brad Bird and Jan Pinkava's creation, Anton Ego. At first I thought Bird was also demonising critics with many unsubtle directorial choices: making Ego look like a cross between a vampire and an undertaker; hinting that he is somehow accidentally responsible for the death of Gusteau; designing a study for him that is shaped like a coffin; making his motivation a desire to destroy the restaurant for no other reason than that he enjoys giving bad reviews. I was seriously beginning to flash back to Harry Farber being mauled by a Rogue ShyamaScrunt. If Bird had gone that way for the entire film, it would have ruined Ratatouille for me completely. Remember I said I didn't want to ruin the film if you haven't seen it? Let's just leave it like this; bearing in mind what I think the worst finale of the film could have been, and how unsubtly the character was set up earlier, I was surprised at the direction Bird went in. Deliriously, joyously, tear-inducingly surprised. Shyamalan should be dragged from the set of The Happening and made to watch Ratatouille. Hopefully he will learn something about what criticism is, or can be. You never know, his heart might even melt.

The new TV season is making me sweat

Ain't It Cool has printed a list of the new shows for late 2007, and it's insane how many shows we're watching. Try 18 for now, with The Sarah Connor Chronicles, Lost, and Battlestar Galactica turning up later (as well as Big Love and Flight of the Conchords, though they're months away). It's just insane. How will we get through them all?

The interesting thing is that the UK buys TV shows from the US and hardly ever makes a big deal about it. Unless they become hits in the US, of course. When Heroes exploded the Beeb could hardly contain itself, bragging about their acquisition even though it took 9 months to get on BBC2, and that was after Sci-Fi milked it to death. I can understand the usual caution. For every Lost there's a Deadwood (a failure on Sky) or Boomtown (a failure in general). This year, however, Sandro Monetti of the Sunday Express (in their first interesting article ever) has revealed which show is going where. I'd link to the article, but it's the Express. Their website is, like, totally medieval. You'll have to make do with my interpretations and take my word for it.

C4 is getting Dirty Stupid Monkey (I swear to God, I made that stupid joke weeks ago and now I think it really is called that) and Back To You, the seemingly unwatchable archaic sitcom with Kelsey "Not Hank McCoy" Grammer and an actress I don't recognise. If DSM is even half as bad as is rumoured, that's not really a safe investment for C4, but I'll wager they're hoping it will be this year's Brothers and Sisters. As for Back To You, it shows a staggering lack of imagination on the part of the channel. It's blatantly obvious they're trying to chase the Frasier fans with another show that will feature jokes about high culture and wine as a veneer of sophistication while the majority of the comedy comes from laboured, smutty puns and hi-larious farcical misunderstandings, this time without the saving grace of David Hyde Pierce. Or Eddie the Dog. Cheers re-runs would be more welcome. ::grumble grumble::

The Beeb has splashed out for Damages, when it should have paid for Mad Men, which might be a tad overrated but still has a better shot at lasting more than one season. Five is buying the Duchovny sex-a-thon Californication, which seems shrewd, especially now Sky has pilfered Prison Break (at enormous expense; £500,000 an episode! For that shit?). Sky also has Journeyman, i.e. Quantum Leap with that junkie from Trainspotting, which sounds like this year's Standoff in terms of longevity. At least they didn't option the similarly named but actually completely different Traveler, which didn't actually go that far. ::pats self on back::

ITV1 has got Pushing Daisies, and would be well advised to make a huge deal about it. That's a brilliant move, landing a critical darling starring the fragrant Anna Friel, and will pay huge dividends. And oh, they've got Bionic Woman too, and have stuck that on ITV2. At first glance I thought that was a terrible mistake. It's not like ITV2 is the BBC2 to ITV1's BBC1 (oh God, what did I just write?). ITV2 is as much a ghetto channel as ITV3 or ITV4, which is where they shove good or great shows (ahem Friday Night Lights ahem) to die a terrible death, at least in the past. However, with the digital switchover right around the corner, and ITV2 being a free-to-air channel, it could work out. There's a chance it will bury the show, but it also might prove to be a stroke of genius. There must be millions of UK TV watchers who are fascinated to see how Michelle Ryan deals with the new show and her brand new cheekbones, so this could go well. It's rare that ITV do something smart, so kudos to them.

No information on when the shows will appear on our screens, but don't expect any of them in 2007. We can't have that now, can we? It's a particular bugbear of mine, and something I hope to find out more about in the near future. I'm sure there's a reason. I just doubt it will be a satisfying one.

The Bourne Perfection

(Warning: Bourne spoilers ahead.)

This week the UK finally got a chance to see the final installment of the Bourne trilogy, and Orc hordes couldn't keep me from seeing it at the first available opportunity. If you're thinking of seeing it, and have access to the first two movies, I advise you make a big deal of it and watch those first, as Paul Greengrass and Tony Gilroy (along with Scott Z. Burns and George Nolfi) have added several visual and narrative cues to make it all feel like a very intense 6 hour movie. That is, scenes from the first two movies that acted as payoffs now in fact seem like set ups for payoffs in this movie. Certainly the cleverly expanded role for Julia Stiles makes the viewer reappraise her character (and her ability as an actress. She does a lot here by doing what seems like very little).

Apologies for any spoilers, but it's hard to gush about the movie without giving something away. The final few moments of the film are immensely satisfying, with Bourne's story coming full circle at last with the revelation of the terrible act he committed in order to end his previous life as David Webb, and the passive act he makes to end "Bourne"'s life. His final mini-speech on the roof to his would-be killer is somewhat heartbreaking and moving; now that he has found a way to move on, perhaps now he has the chance to help others do the same. He's like the Spy Messiah, cleansing the souls of those who followed in his footsteps. That the movie ends the same way the first starts is not just clever storytelling, it's also a way to include that hoary old visual metaphor of immersion in water as rebirth and baptism in a way that makes it fresh. And, at the risk of sounding confrontational, I defy you not to feel the urge to cheer as Bourne springs back to life, with that Moby track bleeping away in the background. I know I did a pathetic little air-punch. What? WHAT?

At some point I'm sure I'll whitter on about how glad I am that storytelling trends are favouring the longform (TV as visual novel, film franchises that require the viewer to have knowledge of the previous installments instead of being able to drop in and out a la old skool Bond), but for now I will say that Bourne Ultimatum represents the best example I can remember of using the resources of the previous installments to create an emotional resonance. As has been noted elsewhere, Julia Stiles' scene in the bathroom, dying her hair in a deliberate echo of the scenes with Franka Potente in The Bourne Identity, worked beautifully.

Also pleasing was the final car chase that seemed about to reverse the outcome of the chase at the end of Supremacy, with Bourne trapped at the business end of an imminently crashing car in the same way as Karl Urban, only to prevail through his quick wits. Not only that, but it proves he is learning not to kill. His involvement in the chase is a consequence of him trying to get away, which may have also been the situation in Supremacy, but in that case he aggressively destroys Karl Urban's SUV and kills him. Here, he allows the chase to end in a crash (or is forced to; I couldn't tell as I was chewing my knuckles with terror), and then spares the life of his pursuer. By this point, he's no longer the assassin he was turned into, but a victim, albeit a victim who will break your bones if you mess with him.

The movie has been well received by the UK critics, but their bias against any kind of genre movies has come through. James Christopher of the Times, Peter Bradshaw of the Guardian, and Anthony Quinn of the Independent all seemed to love it but only gave four stars. I can imagine the use of the Guardian as a plot-point would irritate the other papers, but Bradshaw had no excuse. Funnily enough, he has fun pretending that all Guardian journalists are as tough and glamourous as Paddy Considine's character, which is in direct conflict with what I saw. Greengrass is obviously making fun of his own journalistic background, as well as the reputation of the Guardian. Considine is useless, ignoring Bourne's advice, continually getting himself into trouble, and seeing danger where there is none. Compared to all of the CIA agents, even the less capable ones, he looks like a hapless idiot. Plus, how does Considine elude capture? By hiding in an off-licence. Very nicely played, Mr. Greengrass.