Reviews

Embroiled, as we are, in the era of reality T.V, new bio-pic Factory Girl is a timely release charting, possibly, the genesis of our fascination with meaningless activities and the meaningless people who do them. Factory Girl is the truncated story of 'Warhol Superstar' Edie Sedgwick, whose fleeting moment in the reflected glare of Andy Warhol's media glory became the prototype of today's production line celebrity machine; where nobodies are marketed as stars then immediately consigned to the out-tray as soon as the new batch arrives.

Warhol, a prime exponent of the American angle on 60's Pop Art, created screen-prints that looked like strips of film and made films that looked like paintings; 8 hour epics of junkies sleeping off amphetamine comedowns or overnight zero-mentaries of the Empire State Building. But Warhol is, perhaps, best known for his Campbell's Soup tins and his apocalyptic prediction that "in the future everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes." Casting his frosty lens on the lunatics and hangers-on who adorned his upper East-Side studio known as The Factory, Warhol set about creating the world's first stable of manufactured stars. It was from this parade of crashed fabulousness that socialite and would be actress Edie Sedgwick's legend emerged.

The clichés of Edie's poor little rich girl background is almost textbook. The Sedgwick's were an American institution from 'old money' with all the sociopathic pyrotechnics which that implies. Her father was a manic depressive psychotic who abused her and her siblings to the point of insanity, and in one case suicide. Edie high tailed it to New York with a siege on the Manhattan art scene where she was introduced to Warhol, quickly and spectacularly becoming his first superstar. For a year she was the 'face of her generation' and the world revolved around her until her 'walk on the wild side' took its inevitable route into a cul-de-sac of rehab, relapse and death at 28.

Filmed in a freewheeling collision of primary-coloured flash and hi-contrast monochrome, Factory Girl sets a tone reminiscent of the recent Brian Jones Bio-pic Stoned; creating an authentic evocation of N.Y '65. Sienna Miller finally emerges from her own Edie-esquire tabloidia© and give us a performance worthy of the 'near genius' turns of Naomi Watts, Julianne Moore and Nicole Kidman at their best. Only time will tell if she shares their versatility.

On less steady footing however is Edie's love affair with the Dylan-esquire figure of Billy Quinn, played by post-Vader boy Hayden Christensen, who, as the film has it, precipitated her demise having rejected her to marry a bunny girl. This is based on an unsubstantiated relationship which may or may not have resulted in any number of rock classics, such as 'Just Like a Woman', 'Leopard-skin Pill Box hat' and the ground breaking 'Like a Rolling Stone' inadvertently establishing Edie's place in the pantheon of pop mythology. But the primary element of any myth or legend is the circumstances of their death. Factory Girl's fast forwarding with a title card announcing her exit via overdose in 1971 renders the rest of the film a waste of time. Why not have a title card right at the beginning telling you everything that happens thus saving two hours which could be spent watching something else? Hell, why make films at all? - Just put up title cards describing them.

It's somewhat telling that there has never been a film about Warhol directly despite having been portrayed time and time again as a secondary character in anything from Bowie's turn in 'Basquiat', Jared Leto in 'I Shot Andy Warhol' and Crispin Glover's cartoon-a-like in 'The Doors' and here we have Guy Pierce playing the role as a detached phone-a-holic; his 'Loner at the Ball' persona perfectly at home as a wan shadow haunting brighter stars. I think Warhol would have relished the concept of being a cameo in his own life story.

Based on a true story of 70's drug trafficking, American Gangster stars Denzil Washington as Frank Lucas - a driver for Bumpy Johnson - a Harlem mob boss who is also something of a father figure and mentor. When Bumpy dies suddenly of a heart attack Lucas inherits the kingdom. Dispensing with the showiness of his rivals, and inheriting corporate branding techniques to sell his dope, Lucas' rise is swift. Along with his obsessive reticence Lucas is also unique in his pioneering method of bringing heroin to America via air force planes out of South East Asia. Crap dad/honest cop Ritchie Roberts (Russell Crowe) has his sights set on bringing down the operation but Lucas' 'under the radar' profile makes him an impossible target. Roberts' campaign can go nowhere until he can identify the ringleader.

Apart from the de rigueur 'crime doesn't pay' platitude, American Gangsters' message seems to be that there's no accounting for taste and that those with zero dress sense can triumph over those in designer wear. The campaign of Crowe's unglamorous and dowdy cop with rubbish hair appears hopeless against Washington's immaculate Brioni suited drug lord; that is until he commits a massive fashion faux par by attending a prize fight dressed as a squirrel. "The loudest man in the room is the weakest man in the room." Failing to take his own advice the demise of Frank Lucas is mere paperwork after that.

The depiction of Lucas' corporate marketing - a la Coca Cola - to sell 'quality' heroin to the 'discerning smack head' is something of a hoot. Maybe that's how it went down in 70's Harlem but most users in my experience would inject the contents of a leper's colostomy bag on the off-chance of a hit. Also Lucas's smuggling of his product into America via air force planes from Vietnam is not quite the innovation. He may have believed this was his baby but it's a fair bet that this enterprise was pioneered, marshalled and monitored by the C.I.A, partly as a means to keeping urban negroes in a state of stupor so as not to organise themselves 'Black Panther' or 'Nation of Islam' style. Whether he was aware of it or not Lucas was almost certainly working for the 'man'.

The big 'toe to toe' between Washington and Crowe falls short of the build up. For one, it's a long time coming, and by the time this keenly awaited 'final reckoning' takes place Lucas has already been arrested and on the ropes. It's a great scene, but fails to ignite in the way DeNiro and Pacino's 'two guys over a coffee' showdown in Heat does where no one has the upper hand and the prize is still to be taken.

American Gangster's DNA is impeccable; you've got a director in Ridley Scott who is probably incapable of making a bad film and two of the biggest and charismatic stars of the day in Washington and Crowe. On paper it must have been beautiful but maybe it's this fail safe 'cannot lose' combination that raises the bar of expectation to an unreachable degree which excludes American Gangster from the cigar handing out ceremony accorded the likes of The Godfather, Scarface and Goodfellas. The tone and timbre of the piece evokes the best of gritty 70's crime thrillers but there's a certain restraint about the whole affair - as if taking its cue from its antagonist - and restraint is an arm a mob movie can't afford to chance.

In 1979 a young Dutch Photographer called Anton Corbijn heard an album called 'Unknown Pleasures'. Within days he had left Holland and headed for England intent on locating the makers of the record. He found them in Macclesfield and, with a series of monochromatic images, began to forge their legend.

A scant eighteen months later the group were considered one of the most important bands of the post punk era. On the eve of the release of their second album, their biggest hit single and an American Tour, their lead singer hung himself in his kitchen. The first rock and roll suicide - he was twenty three.

Corbijn went on to have an amazing career in which his photography and video promos resulted in much of modern rock's iconography via his work with U2, Depeche Mode, The Rolling Stones and many others, and now, finally, he has come a full circle with his directorial film debut telling the story of the band which brought him to England in the first place.

The band was Joy Division. The film is Control.

Control is the biopic of Joy Division's lead singer; the charismatic but deeply troubled Ian Curtis. Joy Division had emerged from the fallout of the late 70's punk explosion. Taking the inert nihilism of that new sound and instilling it with an intellectualism far removed from the cheap shock tactics which sold it to teenagers everywhere, Joy Division, with the visionary brilliance of producer Martin Hannett, developed an oeuvre of dystopian soundscapes which continues to serve as a ground zero for new music to this day.

Based on the book 'Touching From a Distance' by Curtis' widow Deborah and starring newcomer Sam Riley in the lead role, Control does as much to dismantle the Curtis cult as it does to propagate it. The sleek futurism and Ballardian preoccupations of the music are in stark contrast to the kitchen sink dour-ocity from which it emerged. Control is a rock and roll 'L Shaped Room' or 'Look Back In Anger' with an epileptic Jimmy Porter dumping his trumpet for a Vox Phantom guitar. Terrifying evocations of Curtis' jerking, trance-fixated on-stage persona, juxtaposed with his day job at the local job centre or making cups of tea in the mannered surroundings of his small council house is as far removed from our perception of Curtis the uber-prophet of urban ennui as can be imagined. Think Bowie trying to set the video recorder or Lou Reed doing the washing up.

The musical sequences deftly convey the chaos and excitement of the band's live appearances thanks to Riley's convincing portrayal of Curtis but Tony Kebbell as Rob Gretton, whose introduction and pronunciation of himself as the band's new manager, is the highlight of a film which may be too drama-heavy for fans and, perhaps, too long for everyone else. Nevertheless, Control is a crash-course in the banality behind the bombast and the dissection of a myth. Tony Wilson, owner of Joy Division's record label Factory is often quoted as saying "if it comes to printing the truth or the legend, always print the legend". With Control, Anton Corbijn has managed a collision of both.

On the 26th of September 1983 a short dumpy 60 year old woman stood trial for the attempted murder of Leonie Haddad, a lady whose husband had recently died and had agreed to take in a lodger who came via a housing authority for the elderly. Haddad was not made aware that her new lodger had, in fact, come fresh from The Patton State Mental Hospital where she had been incarcerated for an inexplicable knife attack on a married couple three years previously. Haddad soon realised that something was 'rotten in Denmark' when the woman began to lock herself in the bathroom with a tape recorder reciting prophesies about' seven Gods'. Haddad's fears were confirmed one night when she awoke to find her lodger sitting astride her chest holding a bread knife announcing that "God has inspired me to kill you". Haddad managed to knock her assailant out with a telephone but not before she had lost a finger and suffered deep lacerations to her face and chest. It was a miracle she survived. The lodger was judged to be innocent by reason of insanity but sent, kicking and screaming, back to the laughing academy. Ten years later she was released and found that she was now a celebrity; but not for the brutal attacks on her innocent victims, but for her incarnation of 25 years earlier when she was known as the 'Queen of the Curve's, the 'Tennessee Tease' and 'Miss Pin Up Girl of the World' - the Notorious Bettie Page.

Director Mary Harron, mainly known for 'American Psycho' takes us back to the glory days of a legendary cheesecake and bondage model (played solidly enough by Gretchen Mol) who inadvertently wrote the blue print for fetish iconography and whose influence can be detected in everything from comic books to catwalks. T.N.B.P is day-glo fun ride through an evocative depiction of the 1950's where Page, with the familial help of good intentioned boyfriends and photographers, becomes the number one star of pocket sized men's glossies with titles like Wink, Tab and Parade. Her real dream of movie stardom evades her and a brush with the authorities over obscenity charges in 1957 is the inciting incident which leads her to retire from modelling and give herself to God. The overall style of the film is light and frothy and only darkens momentarily with an allusion to her father's incestuous attentions and a sexual assault which inexplicably appears to have no discernible effect on her. Mol plays Page as she seems in her photographs, happy, carefree and fun - even the bondage shots betray little more than a good humoured incomprehensibility. The film ends on the upbeat with Page cheerfully handing out bibles in a park with no indication of the real life unhappy marriages, personal tragedy and decent into murderous insanity which lay before her; avoiding what I think is the essential core of Page's story - rebirth and resurrection.

Having emerged from a decade of incarceration Page found that her cult had been in the ascendance since the mid 1980's and that she had become a huge underground icon, during which, many were asking "whatever happened to Bettie Page". Her 'mysterious' disappearance fed the fires of any number of conspiracy theories only adding to the allure of her legend. When the world's media finally caught up with her she gave no hint of her darker past and she was soon giving interviews for magazines, T.V and being photographed at Playboy parties with the likes of Pamela Anderson and the equally tragic Anna Nicole Smith. She found that she was now more famous than she ever was in her 'glory years' but in the glare of this 'resurrection' it was only a matter of time before the full story would come to light.

The only notorious thing about The Notorious Bettie Page is they left out the part when she became truly notorious.

Let's face it; Reservoir Dogs wasn't so much a movie about a diamond heist gone wrong as it was about a gang of actors that wanted to be Lee Marvin. Rise of the Footsoldier (Released 7th of September) is nothing more or less than a bunch of Scorsese fanatics who wished they'd been in Goodfellas - and be fair, who wouldn't? 'Footsoldier' is a gangster film - pure and simple. "Professional" Football hooligans the I.C.F (Inner City Firm) have met their nemesis with a spate of high profile arrests. With the emergence of the 'rave' scene of the late 80's they recognise the lucre generating possibilities of the new counter culture; get 'loved up', 'steam' the groovy train and swap their Stanley knives and knuckle dusters for smiley T. Shirts, Kickers and eh... shotguns. Quickly establishing themselves as major 'faces' in the Essex underworld, it isn't long before these Knights of the glass table are running their cocaine Camelot through a gamut of girls, guns and high friends in dangerous places.

Based on a real life1995 'hit' which rendered three of those 'face's blown off at a secluded dirt track in Retterdon, the cinematic possibilities of what is now known as 'The Range Rover Killings' has not been lost on movie land. The semi fictional Essex Boys (2000) took its cue from this pivotal event in gangland history but 'Footsoldier' is a more authentic account, retaining the facts and the actual characters as recounted in 'Muscle', the book written by one of the surviving members of the gang Carlton Leach, played here by a shark eyed Ricci Harnett.

'Footsoldier' also boasts an impressive array of T.V tough guys including Ex-Eastender's Bill Murray and Craig Fairbrass, whose soap appearances had hitherto had me scrambling for the off switch. Both are excellent here, with Murray exuding menace from every pore and Fairbrass chillingly convincing as the 'roid' crazed Pat Tate. Mover and shaker Terry Stone has a face that suggests all the members of the Clash at once and follows his impressive turn in Gilby's last movie, the very excellent 'Rollin' With The Nines' as Tony Tucker; a one man swear-a-thon sporting a syrup that looked liked it could have been a stunt double for Dougal in the Magic Roundabout.

Brandishing its Scorsese-isms loudly and proudly (sweeping crane shots, freeze frame voice overs etc) 'Footsoldier' is no 'feel good' film by any stretch. But there is much to enjoy from watching these guys 'go ta woik' in a similar, but darker fashion to ensemble piece 'Love, Honour & Obey' (Was I the only one that liked that film?!) or the aforementioned Reservoir Dogs. Perhaps not quite dislodging any of the unholy trinity of Get Carter, Brighton Rock and The Long Good Friday from their lofty throne, Rise of the Foot Soldier doesn't let up for a second and holds its own as a 'balls out', 'in yer face' thrill ride, and certainly a worthy addition to the 'Grit Brit' gangster pantheon.

Carla works for a property developer's where she excels in being unattractive, unappreciated and desperate. She is also deaf.

Her boss offers to hire in somebody to alleviate her heavy workload so she uses the opportunity to secure herself some male company. Help arrives in the form of Paul, a tattooed hoodlum fresh out of prison and clearly unsuited to the mannered routine of an office environment.

An implicit sexual tension develops between the two of them and Carla is determined to keep him on despite his reluctance to embrace the working week. When Carla is edged out of an important contract she was negotiating by a slimy colleague she exploits Paul's criminality by having him steal the contract back. The colleague quickly realises that she's behind the robbery, but when he confronts her, Paul's readiness to punch people in the face comes in handy too - but this thuggery comes at a price.

Paul is given a 'going over' by some mob acquaintances as a reminder about an unpaid debt. He formulates a plan which utilises Carla's unique lip reading abilities to rip-off a gang of violent bank robbers. It's now Carla's turn to enter a frightening new world.

The fourth feature from director Jacques Audiard, 'READ MY LIPS' begins as a thoroughly engaging romantic drama between two marginalised losers only to shift gears halfway through into an edgy thriller where their symbiotic shortcomings turn them into winners. The leads are excellent; effortlessly convincing us that this odd couple could really connect. Carla's first meeting with Paul is an enjoyable farce in which she attempts to circumnavigate his surly reticence and jailbird manners only to discover that he was, until very recently, a jailbird. Emmanuelle Devos, who plays Carla, has that almost exclusive ability to go from dowdy to gorgeous and back again within a frame. Vincent Cassel plays Paul as a cornered dog who only really seems at home when he's receiving a beating or concocting the rip-off that is likely to get him killed.

Like many French films, 'READ MY LIPS' appears, at first, to be about nothing in particular until you scratch beneath the surface and find that it's probably about everything. The only bum note is a subplot concerning the missing wife of Paul's parole officer; a device that seems contrived only to help steer the main thrust of the story into a neat little feelgood cul-de-sac.

It was the French 'New Wave' of the 60's that first introduced the concept of 'genre' to film making and I've always felt that any medium is somewhat compromised when you have to use a system of labels to help define it; so it's always a pleasure to discover a film that seems to transcend genre, or better still, defy it.

The third in Director Andrej Wadja's war trilogy, Ashes and Diamonds is set in Poland on the last day of WW2. The German High Command have issued their unconditional surrender and the Communists quickly fill the vacuum left by Hitler's goose-steppers and set up shop. Warsaw is lousy with rats and not all of them are of the rodent variety as power hungry bureaucrats jostle for position in the new order.

Having spent the last half a decade under the Nazi junta; the prospect of a future under Stalin's jackboot is met with keen opposition. Maciek, a resistance fighter, is ordered to kill a local Socialist party official, which he is more than happy to do, but soon discovers he has killed two innocent civilians instead.

Maciek books a room at a rundown hotel where his quarry is staying. While he waits for the right moment to make amends he meets and falls in love with the barmaid Krystyna. His connection to the girl leads him to rethink his part in the endless cycle of violence.

The central role of Maciek was played by the brilliant Zybigniew Cybulski who came to be known as the 'Polish James Dean.' Dean's death in a highway smash in 1955 meant he would never fulfil his promise and so would forever be frozen in movie goer's minds as a deeply troubled boy. Cybulski was 30 when he played the role that made him and gives us a glimpse of what his western counterpart could have achieved. Cybulski's Maciek is a worldly wise, vodka fuelled skirt chaser, (not a million miles away from his real life persona allegedly) and far from being made twisted and bitter by his war experiences, Cybulski plays the character as a man who laughs at the cruel joke of life that his been played on all of us and is determined to "have fun and not be swindled" even in the face of imminent annihilation.

It was a conscious decision on Wadja and Cybulski's part that despite their story taking place in 1945, ASHES AND DIAMONDS' central character was going to be 'all out' 50's cool. Parts Brando, Dean and Clift – Maciek, in his army fatigues and 'sun-glasses after dark' became a symbol for Polish teenagers who would emulate his style for years to come; and his Anna Karenna-esquire death beneath the wheels of a late night train in 1967 only exacerbated his legendary status. Even now we see shades of him in any number of Hong Kong 'glock operas' and John Cusack's 'assassin in Raybans' from Grosse Point Blank is a clearly a direct ancestor.

Often charged with being overloaded with symbolism as scenes are obscured by upside down crucifixes; characters rendered almost invisible in morning light whilst unfurling flags or inexplicably joined by white horses as they ponder the possibilities of a brighter future, ASHES AND DIAMONDS makes no secret of its Expressionist credentials. The youthful hero dying on a mountainous rubbish dump to the accompaniment of screeching crows is an image lifted almost directly from Van Gogh's apocalyptic 'Crows over Wheatfield's'.

Two years after Cybulski met his destiny on the snowy platform of Wroclaw station Wadja made EVERYTHING FOR SALE about an actor missing from the set of a film. The missing actor was clearly meant to be Cybulski who even in death dominated every scene. It still stands as probably the best film an actor never made.