Dirty Filthy Love (2004)

It's unfortunately very rare to see a responsibly-made, informative and entertaining film about mental illness. Dirty Filthy Love, which covers obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) and Tourette's Syndrome, is just that: educational without sacrificing narrative, touching without sacrificing realism.

Mark's (Michael Sheen) life is falling apart. He just lost his job at a prominent London architecture firm and his wife (Anastasia Griffith) has filed for separation. Worse still, he seems to live in a prison of irrational tics and ostracizing habits: every day is an uphill battle with the stairs, chairs, shaving, the metro, and other people. When Mark asks his (NHS?!!) psychiatrist (John O'Mahony?) for help, the psychiatrist tells him again that it's just "clinical depression", and surely if he ups his anti-depressant dosage, he'll be fine. Mark knows that it isn't depression, he knows that the drugs aren't working, but he's not quite sure what it could be either: at the moment, he's narrowed it down to a brain tumor, meningitis or early-onset senility.

That is, of course, until Mark meets Charlotte (Shirley Henderson, "Moaning Myrtle" from the Harry Potter series) - a fellow OCD sufferer and the Beatrice to his Dante as she leads him out of the Inferno. And it is a pretty harrowing inferno indeed - be prepared for some shockingly awful stuff as Mark crashes down to the bottom.

OCD is one of those things that isn't normally presented realistically; the cinematic shorthand we have for OCD is Jack Nicholson dancing over pavement cracks in the dreamy fairy tale that is As Good As It Gets, or Tony Shalhoub's latex-glove wearing detective in Monk. That is, "pop OCD" is all about washing your hands repeatedly and being a sort of old-fashioned, Woody Alleny type of quirky urban neuroticism. It's about as helpful a representation as the "hysteria" label that women would get slapped with on their foreheads back in the day. In other words, not very helpful and basically made-up.

Dirty Filthy Love, thankfully, keeps it real. It represents. Mark's fears, compulsions and tics aren't cute and filmi - they're awkward, painful and, often, baffling. When Mark hits bottom, it's not rock star glamorous, it's ugly and uncomfortable to watch. Tragically, Mark is fully aware that he is suffering from some deep problem, but he has a terrible time pinpointing what, exactly, is wrong - a characteristic of OCD. In the sea of anxiety that Mark navigates every day, everything seems threatening. And Mark's "cure" isn't a miracle drug or a cuckoo's nest (sorry, Jack) or love (sorry, Jack) - it's not even a cure at all, but more of a management technique. Shout out for cognitive behavioral therapy!

Michael Sheen is great in these sort of modern edutainment roles, what with his Tony Blair looks and Every(British)man versatility - so we don't know why he spends his time taking loony bit parts in big-budget fantasies (Tron, Alice in Wonderland), or taking big parts in morally dodgy B-films (Beautiful Boy, Unthinkable). As a friend of ours said, Michael Sheen should be playing BP's Tony Hayward (seriously, they're identical) or Lancelot or some other modern British docudrama thing. Or a Zadie Smith film adaptation.

The Deal (2003)

Screenwriter Peter Morgan does it again for modern British history in the excellent BBC movie, The Deal. For anyone unversed in British politics, it's a brief, fascinating primer of the Labour Party's ascendancy in the 1997 elections.

We've already noted Morgan's work in The Damned United - our pick for best film of 2009 - and Frost/Nixon. As always, Michael Sheen is his preferred actor, and Sheen carries himself well as the whippet upstart Tony Blair. But the core of The Deal is really Gordon Brown (David Morrissey), and Brown's relationship with Blair. As in The Damned United, this relationship carries romantic and epic undertones - there's a Shakespearean, archetypal quality to the friendship and strains between the boorish, "saturnine" Brown and the wily Blair.


Some excellent details from Stephen Frears' direction.


Michael Sheen as whippet Tony Blair, the Early Days.


The imposing David Morrissey imposing some imposingness in one of the great Parliament scenes. I SAY!

The story begins in Thatcherite Britain, when the Tory Party is well in power and the Labour Party struggles, seemingly endlessly, in Opposition. Brown and Blair both join in the late 80s and, sharing an office, form a friendship despite their differences. And the differences are notable: Brown is an "old Labour" type, with his working class vibe and party loyalty, whereas Blair is posh, Oxford, English and seen as something of a cultural usurper. Indeed, this tension between the old, working class (and largely northern) order and Blair's southern, posher, politically correct "New Labour" movement is directly embodied in Brown and Blair. When Thatcher resigns, the Tories begin coming apart and well-loved Labour leader, John Smith, dies unexpectedly in 1997, a vacuum of power opens up - one in which Blair ambitiously moves in.


Not unlike a similar shot from The Damned United.


In the meanwhile, within this film, great visual paralleling.

A movie about politics, with no action, assassinations or violent intrigue, may seem like a bore, but trust us - all that other stuff is just distracting fluff. This is the good stuff. The core of this film is Blair's emotional treachery of Brown in the name of politics - and it is intriguing, gut-wrenching and absolutely compelling. The actors do a great job capturing their real-life counterparts and infusing them with the Shakespearean grandeur that we mentioned before: David Morrissey's scowling, bent-over Brown, his gait and his cadence, were great, as was Michael Sheen's slightly saccharine, artificial good humor. (In fact, their juxtaposition was not unlike the Nixon-Kennedy debate!)


More visual parallels between Blair/Brown here and Blair/Brian Clough.


And Brown.


And between this film...


...and reality!
We worry that this is one of those great little films that will get lost in the miasma of time. It is, after all, a brief 80-minute BBC docudrama thing. Please rescue it from the abyss! It is too good to be forgotten so soon.

The Four Feathers (2004)

Foreshadowing happens early in Shekhar Kapur's bomb, The Four Feathers. Over the wailing "Oriental" vocals, reminiscent of India, Arabia or Persia, or even just the dystopias of near-future Los Angeles, anyway, reminiscent of the Other, we watch a good ol' boy rugby match at a military training college in late 19th century England. With each tackle and toss, the characters (and their destinies) are swiftly established: the cautious Harry Feversham (Heath Ledger), his reliable and loyal BFF, Jack (Wes Bentley, spectacularly beautiful), the child-like Castleton (Kris Marshall), and his protector, Trench (MICHAEL SHEEN!), and the guy who never listens to his mates to just pass the bloody ball, Willoughby (Rupert Penry-Jones). This juxtaposition of Eastern music set to the most stiff-upper-lip of British rituals, at the edge of Western imperialism's height, is indeed a nice moment. You can sense the blurring of boundaries, and how increasingly irrelevant Kipling's pronouncement becomes as colonies rebel and twains do, sometimes painfully, meet. It's an interesting comment on how much of British identity during the colonial period was defined elsewhere, away from the actual island.

But for a film with such a broad, epic palette, the story is much less concerned with the geopolitics of Orientalism. It barely touches these themes in any meaningful way (such a shame! Mr. Kapur, why!?), but instead it remains insular, telling its narrow story dutifully and telling it with very pretty aesthetics indeed. Mr. Kapur films some of those soul-trembling vistas with the same love and awe that dominated David Lean's "of Arabia".


The titular feathers.


The reason we watched this movie.


It's no Mr. India, but it'll do.

The story, based on a colonial-era novel by A.E.W. Mason, explores the rocky road to redemption one scion of British imperialism must endure after he gets cold feet before his first orders to war. When Harry Feversham, one of the bright young stars in officer training, is given orders to ship from his cozy British Elysium to the harsh bloodletting in the Sudan (to replace, his superiors tell him, a British regiment which was slaughtered "to the man"), he waffles for a day or two and then resigns. No, thank you, old chap. This earns him the shock and scorn of his once-admiring loved ones. He receives four feathers, symbolizing cowardice, his fiancee breaks off the engagement and his old military father disowns him. After waffling a bit more, Harry decides it's worse to live like a social zombie and so he packs up his things and heads to Sudan anyway to see if he can earn back his manly pride.

In the meanwhile, his army buddies are having a helluva time beating off the repeated guerilla attacks of a local rebel leader, Muhammad Ahmad, the self-proclaimed Mahdi. In a beautifully filmed sequence, the British forces are ambushed - just as Harry comes barelling in to warn them. He spends the rest of the film collecting his friends and shipping them home - one has been blinded, one killed, another imprisoned. Eventually, his dedication, courage and strength earn everyone's admiration again. At one point, his friend, Abou (Djimon Hounsou), laughs at him for waaay overcompensating. After Harry confesses that he is a coward, Abou starts to laugh: "When I found you, you were half-dead in the desert! Traveling alone!"

There are some clever visual parallels which run throughout the film. When Harry and his fiancee, Ethne (Kate Hudson, so cute), announce their engagement, the British soldiers form a square around them, boxing in their celebratory dance. Later, this same square is used - to disastrous effect - as a military strategy in Sudan. The destruction of the square signals the end of our fancy British character's colonial confidence. ("You British walk too proudly upon the Earth," Abou chides Harry in one scene.)


Djimon Hounsou, god of the bicep and pectorals.


Desert curvature. Not a right angle in sight!

We could probably wax theoretical about how squares and sharp edges - Harry and his buddies are all crisp uniforms and clacking heels, and the most disastrous strategist turns out to be the one who was fussiest about keeping every hair in place - are placed in contrast to the rolling, softening dunes of the desert and the curve of Djimon Hounsou's biceps (which are glorious). No right angles here, old chaps! Similarly, Harry and Trench, in the lengthy sequence which accompanies their escape from prison, undergo radical physical changes, the sharp edges of their haircuts and jawlines are replaced by unruly beards and haphazard curls. This reminded us of a brilliant bit in Michael Ondaatje's The English Patient, when the narrator marvels at the changes undergone by the Canadian thief, Caravaggio, during his time in wartorn Italy: the exact description is that he's been "softened".


British box of Britishness, part 1: the social.


Part 2, the military strategy.


Part 3, the very bad idea.

Djimon Hounsou seems perpetually stuck in the stereotypical and limited role of the noble savage. As usual, he is dignified and physically magnificent, and our (white) heroes rely on his sympathy and aid to get them through this Foreign Adventure. Okay. Sure. Fine. When will he stop being the Other? Mr. Hounsou, please fight against this type-casting! You can be Anakin -Skywalker in our Star Wars-as-neo-dystopia remake!

Heath Ledger's performance is charming and authentic, his inherent likability making even the earlier scenes, when Harry chickens out, entirely sympathetic. Wes Bentley, who disappeared from films after his smash debut in American Beauty and has now reemerged after rehab from drug addiction is almost mind-blowingly beautiful. His role is likewise built to maintain an aura of modest heroism. That said, he could have invested an interesting character with a lot more depth, but he keeps things just skin-deep. We have a soft spot for Kate Hudson, since we love Goldie Hawn, but she has absolutely nothing to do - this is a very male-only film.


Wes Bentley, looking fabulously pretty.


Michael Sheen, looking rough as hell.

We saw this in theatres back in 2002, and remembered it only for being vaguely insubstantial and unsatisfying. Now, with the sharpening of our movie feelings thanks to this blog (yay PPCC!), we can identify that airiness as coming from a lack of follow-through: Kapur had such an opportunity to inject this movie with passion - about politics, about colonialism, about machismo or about forgiveness - but he never really goes for it. Anyway, the reason we came back to it now was because of our Michael Sheen binge, and his role, as the clownish officer Trench, who later becomes a prisoner of war, is (we were surprised to realize!) one of the only things which we did remember well from 2002. Harry's discovery of Trench in the thronging mob of Omdurman prison is a moment of almost magical elation - and Trench's recognition of Harry is even better.

Indeed, while the film frittered away a nice opportunity to say something more, it did do just service to a neat story - there are some brilliant, evocative moments centered around Harry's deception and recognition, and some moments were nice enough to yoke a tear or two. All in all, the narrative drive was fabulous, and we reckon we could use this story as an example on how to build a good plot structure when we write the book that will make us millions: Movies: A Guide to Life and Watching Movies.

Underworld: Rise of the Lycans (2009)

The planets have aligned in such a way these days that the PPCC finds itself watching movie after movie featuring classical horror themes. Zombies, ghosts (and their busters), and now, vampires and werewolves seem to be our lot, and we're not entirely averse, maybe because we never really paid much attention to these strange creatures and their comical ways.

Underworld: Rise of the Lycans fell in our To Watch list because it features Michael Sheen, who impressed us so much with his performance in The Damned United that we became ravenous for more. We were furthermore encouraged because Bill Nighy, the lovely and wonderful, also featured. Unfortunately, it wasn't really worth it. We were so bored by the end of this mindless, endless, 90-minute junk food that we felt not unlike vampire Viktor (Bill Nighy) when he meets sunlight: fizzling away into a blackened crust of our former selves.

Set in an unplaceable Gothic wonderland filmed in various shades of blue, Underworld: Rise of the Lycans tells the story of the nobly laboring Lycans (werewolves) and their evil vampire overlords. While the bastardly vampires, led by Viktor, are all icy irises and hissing lisps, the werewolves toil with oily hair and oily muscles. And everyone is in black leather. The Lycan Spartacus, Lucian (Michael Sheen), is the only character afforded any warm colors as his muscly torso glistens in various firelights while he plots the slave uprising.


Our hero! Hairy, the Nobly Naked.


Our distressed damsel! Lady Poutsalot.


Our dastardly villain! Bill Nighy, the Vampire Guy.

Yes, it's all vaguely eroticized in an S&M way, and indeed the studly Lucian is carrying on an illicit affair with Viktor's daughter, the sword-wielding, perma-pouting Sonja (Rhona Mitra). Their love, which already kinda disgusted us to begin with, is furthermore grossified by the vampire elite comparing it to the unholy love child (no pun intended) of bestiality and incest. (There's some hazy stuff about a shared heritage between the two groups, except that the werewolf side of the family, well, look like dogs.)

After interminable fight scenes, numerous escapes and re-captures, and Lucian getting (sexily?) whipped or Lucian (sexily?) transforming back into human form only to find all his clothes are missing (!), this film finally grinds to a halt. We couldn't have been happier.

Performance-wise, Michael Sheen flexes his muscles - especially the ones in his neck - and delivers some vague sparks of life. He submits a few meltdowns, which the PPCC always accepts with pleasure, but otherwise he is saddled with a cardboard hero role in a cardboard movie. Rhona Mitra likewise pouts and sulks and sometimes, refreshingly, lops people's heads off, but even this token feminism doesn't redeem an otherwise typical damsel-in-distress. Around her, characters start saying things like "My lady!" and "My love!", and she even ends up under house arrest. Only her hairy, snarling knight can save her! Bill Nighy, who is making a (great!) career out of playing slightly off-center, slightly sniffily posh old lords is his usual demented self. We amused ourselves with imagining his performance as Viktor to be a natural extension of his performance in Love, Actually.


Two-flavored meltdown: the human flavor.


And the beastly flavor.

Theme-wise, with all the bizarre sexualization that vampires must endure (and werewolves?! only one werewolf is allowed to be attractive, and that is Remus Lupin!), we wondered a bit about this film's relationship to the highly popular and highly Victorian Twilight series, with all its virginal angst. Unfortunately, we soon lost interest in that comparison, as we lost interest in this film entirely. Goodness, at least Twilight has a kickin' soundtrack! Maybe a bonus track by Thom Yorke would have woken us up, as clearly even Michael Sheen screaming enough to pop a blood vessel only barely roused us from nodding off.

Well, we can't fix the film, but we can make sure this review isn't boring anymore. Enjoy!

Make this movie, universe! (2): The Once and Future King

Oh, there is nothing as sharp as the pain of the unmade movie. While Hollywood pumps out rehashed drivel, we at the PPCC must sit in silent lamentation that so many classics - Roger Zelazny's Lord of Light! - must remain un-movied, languishing on bookshelves and in our lonely hearts.

Here's another great book that is just begging - BEGGING! - to be made into a film. Or maybe we're the ones doing the begging?



So part of it was made into a film, Disney's Sword in the Stone, which is all fine and well and very nice. But the best part of The Once and Future King, a four-part anachronistic fantasy based on the Arthurian legend, comes later in the story: in particular, The Ill-Made Knight and The Candle in the Wind. In other words, it's the adult portions of the book which are the most poignant, the most true, and the most glorious.

"By the way. You remember that argument we were having about aggression? Well, I have thought of a good reason for starting a war."

Merlyn froze.

"I would like to hear it."

"A good reason for starting a war is simply to have a good reason! For instance, there might be a king who had discovered a new way of life for human beings — you know, something which would be good for them. It might even be the only way from saving them from destruction. Well, if the human beings were too wicked or too stupid to accept his way, he might have to force it on them, in their own interests by the sword."

The magician clenched his fists, twisted his gown into screws, and began to shake all over.

"Very interesting," he said in a trembling voice. "Very interesting. There was just such a man when I was young — an Austrian who invented a new way of life and convinced himself that he was the chap to make it work. He tried to impose his reformation by the sword, and plunged the civilized world into misery and chaos. But the thing which this fellow had overlooked, my friend, was that he had had a predecessor in the reformation business, called Jesus Christ. Perhaps we may assume that Jesus knew as much as the Austrian did about saving people. But the odd thing is that Jesus did not turn the disciples into storm troopers, burn down the Temple at Jerusalem, and fix the blame on Pontius Pilate. On the contrary, he made it clear that the business of the philosopher was to make ideas available, and not to impose them on people."

Plot: King Arthur, with the aid of the wizard Merlin and his Knights of the Round Table, works hard to eradicate Rule by Might and promote Rule by Right in the violent, rough lands of proto-England. Meanwhile, Arthur's best knight, Sir Lancelot, a self-consciously ugly over-achiever, falls in love with Queen Guenever, who finds him sweet (well, he is!). In addition to this usual soap opera, there is the rise of Mordred, Arthur's alienated, unhappy and incest-begat son, who eventually makes war on the kingdom.

This is all textured with some overt and covert allusions to a Europe freshly out of World War II and the unveiling of Nazi concentration camps. Merlin, in particular, lives backwards and so educates Arthur on the importance of ethical rulers and establishing democracies. Arthur's all, "Yeah, right on!", except that his noble intentions - emphasizing the equality of people when it comes to justice - are often tested when things strike close to home (for example, when he discovers Guenever's totally illegal affair).

The story is, much like Lord of Light, told with a gentle air of deeply passionate humanism. Even the most tragic of situations - Lancelot and Guenever's betrayal of Arthur, Mordred's bile - are portrayed with sensitive humor. And there's a lot of time for musing about justice, family and responsibility. This is much less gory swords-and-armor spectacle, and much more J.L. Carr. We at the PPCC did a lot of laughing, crying and sighing.

If people reach perfection they vanish, you know.

The film: First of all, we need a director whose vision would match the dreamy, whimsical quality of the story - we imagine lots of shots of rolling Cotswold hills, soft breezes, modest Camelots and such.

Director

One option is Terrence Malick, who specializes in making that particular breed of thoughtful, impressionistic films closely wedded to expressive shots of nature. Very Emersonian! And a very good choice for balancing the scenes of Elysium (i.e. the quiet times in Camelot) with low-key, pensive violence (à la The Thin Red Line).

Another option would be Ettore Scola, whose grasp of intricately-layered humanity is unmatched! The heart-sticky bittersweetness of Arthur, Lancelot and Guenever would be well-served by the guy who made the funny-sad love quadrangle in C'eravamo tanto amati.

Cast

Now, from about page 1 or so, when Arthur is introduced as a meek "hero-worshipper", a kind of well-intentioned, kinda clumsy, stand-up guy, we thought Kenneth Branagh would be perfect! And indeed Branagh, apart from his Henry V pedigree, has aged into a sort of doughy likability which would suit the adult Arthur well. And who else can capture that vibe of tearful joy than Mr. We few! We happy few! himself?! Or Sir I am Welsh, you know, good countryman?!



Then there's Guenever - "She was pretty Jenny, who could think and feel." Now, we were wracking our brain for a British actress who would fit the bill - Kate Winslet, Helena Bonham Carter, Emma Thompson (the last two would certainly lend a meta air to things!) - but screw it. Hilary Swank or Laura Linney, two highly intelligent actresses who we just love, would be perfect.


OR


And finally Lancelot! Now Lancelot is tricky, as he's very specifically described to be ugly, but actors, by their definition, usually meet some socially-designated minimum of looking good. Steve Buscemi and John C. Reilly seem to have made careers of the distincteness of their features, but we're actually leaning more and more towards Michael Sheen. Blame it on The Damned United, which was so frickin' amazing. And if he can act odiously obnoxious, he can do Lancelot, in all his self-pitying, sadistic, sensitive complexity.



And the soundtrack? Well, how about hiring those history-minded Decemberists to compose some ballads!? OMG NEW ALBUM!

The Damned United (2009)

The Damned United looks and smells and sounds like a sports film, but it is ultimately a Shakespearean tragedy imbued with deep romance. That the tragic hero at its center, Brian Clough (Michael Sheen, brilliant), is wearing soccer shorts instead of a crown doesn't minimize the grandeur and pathos, indeed, the epic quality of his fall from grace. That the similarly epic love is between two middle-aged men likewise doesn't diminish it. This is one of the sweetest, most heart-breaking stories of hubris and, ultimately, the redemption of love we have seen in a long while. (Really!)

The setting is 1970s England, where - much as it remains today - soccer rivalries are fierce, and matches are cause for national celebration or mourning. In this heady world of winners and losers, of glamour and legends, a young, cocky manager, Brian Clough, is newly promoted to Leeds United. Leeds United was, in 1974, the top English team, and Clough has big shoes to fill - Leeds' former manager, the beloved Don Revie (Colm Meaney), has left to manage the national English team, and he leaves behind him a wake of trophies and a team of fiercely loyal players. Clough, odiously arrogant, swoops in on the very wrong foot, with complaints about Leeds' weather ("Wish I was still back in Majorca!" he exclaims obnoxiously) and radical rules - such as that former manager Revie's name must never be mentioned - quickly alienating the players, the owners, and the fans. Clough's tenure at Leeds, indeed, was a complete failure: under him, Leeds lost games, fell to the bottom of the division, and he was quickly sacked after 44 days.

The film underpins this tale of torturous disaster with a flashback to when Brian Clough, together with his partner, Peter Taylor (Timothy Spall), managed the unknown Division II team, Derby United, to unknown heights of glory. Spurred on by insatiable ambition, as well as his hurt pride at losing to Leeds without even an acknowledgement of a handshake by Revie, Clough drags the team up from the Division II nether regions, eventually catapulting it to the top of the Division I. It is here that England begins to take notice, and Clough's ego begins to swell.


A great shot of the looming, spectral Revie.


My kingdom for a cup!

The story is beautifully told. It manages to project this classical weight of tragic flaws and doomed anti-heroes without ever becoming bogged down by it. Some sequences - such as Derby United's rematch against Leeds, as experienced privately by Clough, locked in his office - are incredibly sweeping. Indeed, it is in scenes like this - as well as the media interview Clough gives with Revie - where typically "British" filmmaking is used to great effect. That is, by opting for subtlety and the quiet roar, i.e. less is more, the power of these moments in Clough's life is greatly felt. Michael Sheen's acting is likewise brilliant; the look on his face when Revie, on live television, explains why he failed with Leeds was gut-wrenching.


You know, back in the day, Zeus would have just thunderbolted that smirk off his face.


The sweetest. <3

Similarly, the love between Clough and Peter Taylor is palpable from the beginning - their shared joy, boyish tackles and Taylor's loyalty and unacknowledged importance are obvious to the viewer, if not to Clough himself. Indeed, as Clough powers ahead on - per Taylor's words, and per the usual classical drama - his doomed, misguided quest, it becomes more and more obvious how important Taylor is to Clough. There's a great scene when Taylor chastises Clough for being too ambitious, describing it like a sleeping monster that, when awoken, manages to swallow everything up - even the beautiful. The later falling out between Clough and Taylor on the sunny shores of Majorca underscores this wonderfully.

By the end of the movie, we were dying to see the two men, the "damned united" of Derby, finally reconciled, and the film - for all its wallowing in defeat and destruction and vengeance and tragic flaws - does have a slightly more upbeat coda. Overall, an absolute joy.

!!!