Mr. Brooks (Bruce A. Evans, 2007)

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“Oh, poor Mr Costner; he tries so hard” – Lisa Simpson
Honestly, I think people are being really quite mean about Kevin Costner in this. I only believe he’s a serial killer slightly less than I believe Michael C. Hall is one and I watched, like, seven and a bit series of Dexter before finally giving up! Mr. Brooks is a strangely ambitious, if ultimately unsuccessful, film about the eponymous, admired philanthropic businessman (Costner), undergoing a relapse into his serial killing addiction, the voice and face of whom is portrayed by William Hurt. Blackmailed into allowing a tag-along, he begins to worry his daughter who may also be a killer… and then Demi Moore’s a millionaire cop, getting chased by an escaped serial killer… whilst getting divorced… honestly, there’s a lot of threads, none of them are all that satisfying.

The strange, unsuccessful, ambition mentioned above largely rests on the way Mr. (not going to lie, that unnecessary period is killing me) Brooks flip-flops stylistically between genres in a way that feels, rather than impressively postmodern, even more distracting than the way The Dark Knight Rises constantly flip-flopped between letterbox and IMAX. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the bulk of Mr. Brooks is a fairly standard David Fincher rip-off, with phlegmatic dolly shots, roaming stately homes of minimalist design, à la Panic Room and Gone Girl, but then someone will all of a sudden discover a dead body, presented as an almost carbon-copy of Se7en. Moore’s Detective Atwood at points encounters her escaped serial killer, at which point the entire film shifts uncomfortably from “psychological thriller” to pure, and frankly stupid, action film territory, not unlike one of the newer, regrettable, Die Hard sequels for a maximum of 2 minutes, before quietening down again. Her divorce, naturally, looks like what would happen if Joel Schumacher tried to direct The Squid and the Whale.

The film is not without merits – Costner and Hurt really are very good, and I do think that, much like Christine, Mr. Brooks makes a genuinely good go at using a horror/thriller format to represent the psychological and personal realities of addiction very well. What’s most interesting, though, it Mr. Brooks‘ ability somehow to be at once not very exciting at all, but still just engrossing enough to make you wonder what’s going to happen next. All in all, the film is an utter mess, but still, a slightly fun one.

 

**

Ten Great Atmospheric Soundtracks

So, in addition to reviews and the odd academic whatever, I’ve decided to start doing the occasional article, dare I say it, “listicle,” to add a little variation in my blog posts. The first recommendation has come from my good friend Ilhana, who suggested “Top Ten Moody/Atmospheric Soundtracks,” so here we go… I decided to rename it to “Ten Great,” as I’m sure I’m missing off so many stunning soundtracks and scores right now. Numbers are indicative of nothing other than the order in which they sprang to mind:

1. Under the Skin (Jonathan Glazer, 2014) – Mica Levi

I’ve always said that, were I ever to curate a music festival, I’d need to dedicate three separate slots to the Mica Levi: the first, naturally, for her incredible, danceable left-field post-no-wave band Micachu and the Shapes. The second as a DJ slot for her unbelievable noisy indie grime productions. The third, of course, would be for her to perform solo, with an orchestra, or somewhere in between, her masterpiece of an original score for Under the Skin. The subdued response to the maximalist notion of “space rock” afforded us by Spiritualized, or the overt coolness of Autolux, Mica Levi’s score encapsulates all the simultaneous oxymorons of space itself: it is at once engulfing, and sparse. It is measured, yet elusive. It is ominous, yet beautiful. It is threatening, yet vulnerable. Rarely has a soundtrack reflected the external progression and internal conflicts of a film’s protagonist so astutely and effectively. Winning 11 awards internationally, and being nominated for 7 more, that none of those were for an Academy Award is a disgusting reminder of just how artistically irrelevant the Hollywood meat parade truly is. Micachu, however, seems largely unfazed and just humbly shuffles along, seemingly embarrassed by her own genius. That we could all learn something from her.

 

2. The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo (David Fincher, 2011) – Trent Reznor & Atticus Ross

I mean, I was always going to pick something by Trent Reznor, wasn’t I? In many ways the most tragically overlooked of the Reznor & Ross / Fincher collaborations, both in terms of the soundtrack and, indeed, the film itself, this is certainly my favourite score of the three. Whilst the compositions for The Social Network and Gone Girl may be said to reflect the psychology of their protagonists (or, at least, their narrators), the score for Dragon Tattoo reflects the film’s greater preoccupation with questions of an aggressively Darwinian existence in the modern age: survival, adaptation, subterfuge, camouflage, and any level of violence deemed necessary. Thus, much like the visual motifs of the film, the score performs a balancing act between ice and fire, routinely exchanging the precision of The Social Network‘s modular synths for tremolo guitar reverb and detuned pianos. Adaptation and, indeed, evolution play a strong role in the development of sound – what is staccato routinely becomes sustained, and vice versa – aggressive percussion and the distant sound of bells compete for space and the listener may sometimes be surprised which side wins. The breaks for moments of true sentiment are few and far between but, as Dragon Tattoo at its most hopeful may suggest, are entirely worth the struggle.

 

3. Werckmeister Harmonies (Béla Tarr, 2000) – Mihály Vig

Undoubtedly a film that should have been compulsory viewing for all British citizens before the farcical referendum, with the disastrous results only beginning to ripple through this stupid, petty little island, Werckmeister Harmonies, aligned for the most part with the engagingly loquacious, if a little unsettling, protagonist János (Lars Rudolf)  bears witness to a civilisation destroying itself in mass brutality, seemingly triggered by the arrival of a “circus” – in reality, the giant, decomposing body of a blue whale, and a deformed, malignant “Prince,” of whom we only see a silhouette, who may or may not be the Devil himself. The complete antithesis of High-RiseWerckmeister Harmonies looks on with a spiritual sadness that finds faith and hope where it can, which is absolutely nowhere. Such a profundity of paradox is reflected wholly in longtime Tarr collaborator Vig’s breathtaking score. I challenge anyone and everyone not to weep with a sense of melancholy beyond their understanding as they, with János, stare into the unblinking eye of the whale and the tinkling piano notes of “Valuska” begin to play. Reassuring in its repetition, yet so sombre in its melody, so frail in its timbre, with occasional rushes of emotion in its percussive rolls, this is the music of those who survey the sins of the world and with tears streaming down their face, in the manner of Beckett’s muddied narrator in Worstword Ho!, somehow move forwards.

 

4. Marketa Lazarová (František Vláčil, 1967) – Zdeněk Liška

Considered by a great many to be the jewel in the crown that was the Czechoslovak New Wave, Marketa Lazarová is a delirious immersion into the theological, tribal and sexual politics of 11th century Czechoslovakia, as bestial Pagans war against Teutonic Christians, each side’s vindictive brutality rivalling the other’s. Zdeněk Liška’s music is the only accompaniment imaginable to such a kaleidoscopic vision of dialectics, as it pits ecstatic choral voices against primitive percussion – the grand majority of the percussion either designed via the input of historians to help Liška achieve the most legitimate sound of the era, or alternatively completely new inventions to achieve sounds not heard neither the 11th century, nor yet in the 20th. It is appropriate for a film whose very overhead narrator may be God himself to have music that may imply we are all seeing the action from the heavens, with all the glory and violence we associate with religions both organised and chaotic.

 

5. There Will Be Blood (Paul Thomas Anderson, 2007) – Jonny Greenwood

Obviously a toss-up between this and Greenwood’s equally brilliant score for the equally brilliant Inherent Vice, I elected on the earlier composition largely for the reason that, unlike Inherent Vice which also has a soundtrack of 60s and 70s pop (my personal favourite being “Les Fleurs” by Anderson’s late, great mother-in-law Minnie Riperton), There Will Be Blood‘s lack of any music other than Greenwood’s score and is thus all the more affected by it. Sergei Eisenstein, master editor for the Soviet Union, viewed not only the filmic narrative but the filmic form as reliant on conflict – certainly, my captions in this article so far have borne that out in the description of juxtaposition after juxtaposition. There Will Be Blood is preoccupied with the ungodly, primal beast lurking within a well-tailored “of the people” oil driller who manipulates, dominates and kills in his lust and quest for a success he can only understand in terms of victory or defeat. Scoring the film as it follows Daniel Plainview (Daniel Day Lewis) from a hopeful silver miner down a shaft to a violent, decrepit and alcoholic oil baron in an all-but empty mansion, Greenwood’s composition doesn’t so much explore juxtapositions between instruments as find alternative, often highly aggressive, uses in instruments – oftentimes allowing his ondes martenot to take control of some of the most legato passages, whilst giving his violinists guitar picks to turn their stringed instruments into tolls of unique and alarming percussion. Thus, the theme of ugly revelation carries on beautifully from the narrative to the music.

 

6. Queen of Earth (Alex Ross-Perry, 2015) – Keegan DeWitt

As a film, Queen of Earth still perplexes me. Although on a narratological level, I’m still unsure of its ultimate success, its formal brilliance was absolutely enough to keep me pretty enraptured until the end. The acting is spot on, the editing is as revealing and obscuring as it’s clearly intended to be, the cinematography is fantastic, with the lens focus being played like a violin as it masterfully captures the two protagonists’ destructive selfishness and crippling loneliness all at once. Not to mention, of course: the original score by Keegan DeWitt. Rarely straying too far from its classical influence, Queen of Earth‘s  main theme works contextually in much the same way as the music from Tristan und Isolde interacted with the simultaneously idyllic and apocalyptic visuals of Melancholia – clearly a not unreasonable filmic comparison to make. However, its chattering high notes and echoing, Chinese-water-torture-reminiscent percussion recall both the other-worldliness of Under the Skin and the paranoia of The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, expertly reflecting the dissociative truculence of, in particular, Catherine (Elisabeth Moss) and, according to DeWitt himself, is a tonal reference to Polanski’s criminally underrated psychological horror The Tenant. Add to this busily arpeggiated and scale-running woodwinds à la Philip Glass, and you have a score that reflects perfectly internal projections onto an otherwise beautiful world.

 

7. Made in USA (Ken Friedman, 1987) – Sonic Youth

Okay, I’ll admit it: I haven’t seen the film. Honestly, I’ve never met anyone who has. I notice it is on YouTube, so perhaps I shall to cure me of the shame of discussing the soundtrack to a film I have not yet seen, but all reports say that the best thing about the film is the soundtrack, and the film severely underused it at that (Sonic Youth’s music for Made in USA wasn’t even released until 8 years after the film’s release). Recorded in 1986, the soundtrack to Made in USA was made during what I always refer to as Sonic Youth’s “dusty period” – immediately following Bad Moon Rising and EVOL, Sonic Youth’s two albums that turn their attention away from the New York City no wave scene to a more expansive sound, and to more Californian topics such as the Manson murders, not to mention titular nods to Creedence Clearwater Revival. Slowly but surely, their sound transitioned towards one with more pop sensibility – something that would be confirmed by the the more conventionally palatable Sister in 1987 and their double-album magnum opus Daydream Nation in 1988. Made in USA undoubtedly expands upon the Americana implications of Bad Moon Rising and EVOL, not simply employing increased use of detuned pianos and even harmonica. The guitars, whilst remaining entirely Sonic Youth, do employ that countryfied element in their bent notes that feel not unlike pre-eminent noise rock parodies of perhaps, Hans Zimmer’s work in Thelma & Louise and, in an attitude heavy criminal road movie, why would it not?

 

8. Blade Runner (Ridley Scott, 1982) – Vangelis

In a manner not dissimilar to the panoply of editions in which Blade Runner as a film has itself been released, there is a long and messy history relating to the soundtrack’s release I shan’t go into here, but it is interesting how many hurdles at times stand between us and works of greatness. Vangelis’ unforgettable composition strikes me as owing a debt to Wendy Carlos’ masterpiece of a score to A Clockwork Orange (my heart breaks that I was unable to add a trans woman genius like Carlos to this list but, sadly my aim for as many original compositions as possible restricted me from adding the soundtrack so defined by her stunning “switched-on” reworks of the classics) but arguably diverts from her tone inasmuch as Vangelis doesn’t allow the dystopian noir to overshadow the impressive, if ecocidal, grandeur of the gargantuan urbanisation of Planet Earth. Electronics, of course, take the lead, though Vangelis does employ oneiric use of some organic instruments, not limited to saxophone, gamelan and tubular bells, in such such a way as to refer to the particular type of lounge jazz emitting from 80s radios (regularly and appropriately associated with the erotic thriller and other such bastard offspring of film noir) as a half-forgotten memory in this future Earth. The urbanity, the despair, and the sleaze are thus all readily accounted for in the soundscape, though all may still play second fiddle to the brimming crescendos that accompanied the first audience’s gasps of such oppressive beauty.

 

9. No Country For Old Men (Joel and Ethan Coen, 2007) –  Carter Burwell

Fully aware of the cheekiness of this one, I simply couldn’t not add a soundtrack of (save for the end credits) almost complete silence to the list. I initially considered adding the silence of The Act of Seeing With One’s Own Eyes, though I have unfortunately seen a naturally sub-par screening of that with musical accompaniment, so I feel a mainstream cinematic release such as this works for the best. No Country For Old Men is certainly nothing if not laconic with regard to dialogue and even the most violent and murderous of character interaction. Nearly every single character being a Vietnam vet, the act of not discussing the traumatic burdens one carries Certainly borrowing from the western and the film noir, No Country deals to a certain degree with archetypes on an individualist level, but not to such an extent that anyone’s personality can truly dominate a given situation – with the one possible exception of the nigh-Satanic antagonistic juggernaut Anton Chigurrh (Javier Bardem), whose alien and obscure moral code feels not at all un-reminiscent of “The Bad” Angel Eyes (Lee Van Cleef) from The Good, the Bad and the UglyNo Country is a film that meditates on evil within a world of negative space. Thus, the absence of any sound, save for the extremely occasional distant Tibetan singing bowl, or a piano detuned to the frequency of a refrigerator’s hum, is precisely what is required: un-embellishing, un-relieving, and un-forgiving.

 

10. Performance (Donald Cammell and Nicholas Roeg, 1970) – Various

My favourite feature-length film of all time, Performance  – much like my favourite musician, Keiji Haino – fundamentally represents for rock ‘n’ roll both its apex, and its annihilation. Sublime as it is nasty, femme as it is macho,  Performance‘s soundtrack accesses rock ‘n’ roll’s roots, and its future, and then surpasses it. Thus, Jack Nitzsche, Randy Newman, Merry Clayton, Buffy Saint-Marie, Merry Clayton, Bernie Krause and, naturally, Mick Jagger himself (with his greatest song of all time) contribute music both diegetic and non-diegetic that nods to gospel and the blues, makes use of one of the first moog synthesizers to create foreboding, Schaefer-esque pulsations, not to mention play the inimitable Black nationalist spoken word artists The Last Poets – rapping astute and powerful politics ten years before the Sugarhill Gang would form. Naturally, the centrepiece of Performance is the proto-music video for “Memo From Turner” (yes, my namesake) by Jagger, which makes the most thinly of veiled Ronnie Kray references throughout, as it delights in sending the casually racist butch world of London thuggery and queer Surrealism in head-on collision with one another inside a washed-up genderqueer rockstar’s daydream:

 

 

 

We are the Flesh (Emiliano Rocha Minter, 2016)

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Okay, now this is something very special. Tenemos la carne / We are the Flesh is one of those feature films for which the concept of the 5-star rating was invented: it is a film I feel, on some level, truly grateful for. I hesitate to give any real synopsis as part of this review as it is a delirious enough experience to make it unclear what would be a spoiler and what would not. Suffice to say, my assumption of the premise on the basis of the (still very good) trailer with regard to narrative events and character dynamics was pretty much erroneous, though for all the better, as my anxieties about this simply being a Mexican answer to The Texas Chainsaw Massacre were quickly allayed.

Instead, We are the Flesh appears to be the brainchild of Alejandro Jodorowsky and Apichatpong Weerasethakul, not to mention Jean-Luc Godard, the late playwright Sarah Kane and a whole host of video artists, devised theatre groups and installationists. In fact, what The Revenant may positively be described as being to European Art Cinema (a not-inappropriate link to make, considering Iñarritu’s backing of this film, alongside Carlos Reygadas and Alfonso Cuarón), I feel We are the Flesh may be said to be to a contemporary Artist’s Film & Video. The premise meanwhile combines what appears to be Catholicism, folklore and fairy tales, with a central figure whose name may be Mariano who appears and acts all at once akin to Charles Manson, Rumpelstiltskin and the Devil incarnate (no pun intended). The first act, amongst other things, details the transformation of an abandoned floor on an abandoned office building in an unexplained post-apocalyptic landscape into a womb-cave that may act as venue to each character’s Id to fully express itself. The film’s themes of sexuality, violence and cannibalism all have direct connections to psychoanalysis, as much as they do to the concepts of sin, and both are exploited to full symbolic effect in the film. Meanwhile, We are the Flesh rallies between states of modernism and post-modernism as the “film itself” struggles and seemingly fails to contain the jouissance within – visuals break to singe photographic frames as someone foams at the mouth; a sex scene turns into a music video shot in heat-cam and, later, another sex scene reaches a level of volatile intensity that the film distorts and colour-shifts into oldschool anaglyphic stereoscopic vision.

At pivotal moments (though I may not intend the pun, I’m not so sure the filmmakers don’t) throughout the film, the camera appears to spin 360⁰ in a style highly reminiscent of other recent Satanic Mexican art film Lucifer (interestingly enough, I believe the titular character’s actor, Gabino Rodriguez, may make a cameo in We are the Flesh though I’ll have to check when IMDb is more accommodating)’s use of “tondovision.” At others, it exploits a fantastic score, masterful editing, and psychedelic post-production values to elicit anything from empathetic lustmord to kolpophobia (at these points, one may detect faint echoes of William S. Burroughs’ writings in Central and South America, above my personal favourite, all Cities of the Red Night).

If We are the Flesh may be understood as a response to anything, I feel inclined to view it as a response to Ben Wheatley’s infinitely disappointing adaptation of High-Rise, whose ironic detachment from the narratologiccal grisliness was far too distant in the former and far too “stylish” in the latter – certainly a word of which all film-goers should be wary, due to its typical indication of little more than plenty of shiny things in the mise-en-scène. In the papier-mâché catacombs of We are the Flesh, nothing shines, though the entire film glows with an intoxicating, evil beauty of which I cannot wait for my next fix.

 

*****