Matt Shea

As feature length documentaries proliferate in the cinemas, filmmakers have been encouraged to find more innovative ways of telling their stories. Senna is the latest in a slew of recent examples that takes cues from its subject matter to drive home the immediacy of its tale.

Director Asif Kapadia’s rabbit in the hat is his unfettered access to the Formula One Management – or FOM – broadcasts, which every second Sunday of the northern summer, year after year, beam images of four-wheeled gladiators across the globe. It allows the filmmakers to immerse the audience in Formula 1 completely, so you never feel more than an arm’s-length away from Ayrton Senna, this film’s charismatic, passionate and ultimately tragic subject.

In 2011, 17 years after his death, Senna is often regarded as the greatest racing driver who ever lived. It was an opinion shared by many during his career too, but others weren’t so quick to praise the Brazilian, mostly because of a divisive personality that put him at odds with many in the sport. If you watched Formula 1 you were either for Senna or against him – almost never in-between. In Britain – the unofficial home of Formula 1 – he was particularly controversial, and often suffered backhanded criticism at the hands of the country’s media.

In that sense, it’s easy to feel as if Senna is out to redress an imbalance. From the film’s first shots you are plunged into the Formula 1 paddock via the FOM broadcasts and almost immediately presented with Senna’s arch-nemesis, Alain Prost. Where Senna was passionate, Prost was ‘The Professor’, the slightly older Frenchman treating the sport as a chessboard and its participants and massive coterie like a never-ending rotation of kings, queens and pawns. The film perhaps over-eggs once or twice – Prost at one point coming across as a Machiavellian calculator, manipulating other people to fight his own battles – but is generally respectful of the duel waged between the two drivers, realising that there is little need to overstate what was a titanic and frequently dangerous struggle.

While the rivalry with Prost forms the spine of the film’s story, racing fans may be disappointed to discover that little time is devoted to some of the Brazilian’s other famous competitors. The three-time champion Nelson Piquet – the older, laid-back Carioca whom Senna’s personality almost immediately eclipsed – barely registers, whilst Nigel Mansell is all but missing completely, which is a little more curious given the emotion, aggression and speed that made him a flat-cap wearing British take on the Brazilian.

But these characters are eschewed to make time for addressing Senna’s personal life. In these segments the filmmakers once again dig up some remarkable footage, drawing on family video to slowly piece together the private side of their subject. The results are eye opening, particularly if your prior knowledge of Senna has been filtered through the English-speaking media. The Brazilian is revealed in all his dichotomies – playboyish but introverted, driven but conflicted. As with the FOM material, it’s easy for the audience to sink right into the story.

It means the film gathers an undeniable propulsion as it winds its way towards its tragic ending. The decision to not include any talking heads certainly helps in this regard. Rather, the interviewees appear by voice only, even if they themselves are sometimes included in the stock footage. The collection of people who speak about Senna may to some feel a little short – there are no contemporary comments from any of those who raced against the Brazilian, or indeed those champions who came before him and at the time often deigned to judge his talent. Somebody like the Austrian driver, Gerhard Berger – Senna’s one-time team mate and closest friend in the paddock – is almost conspicuous by his absence.

But those who don’t follow the sport won’t notice these minor quibbles. And that’s the most important thing to remember about this film: it’s not aimed at racing fans or rev-heads; it’s aimed at the general public, so human and effortlessly exciting is Senna’s story. That’s not to say there aren’t plenty of heart-in-mouth moments – the cut and thrust of the races and horror of shattering carbon fibre is unnerving when seen on a cinema screen – but Senna does what it sets out to do, shining a light on a sports figure whose misunderstood nature was for many years sealed by his own tragic death.


I say: A propulsive, gripping documentary that will leave the hairs raised on the back of your neck and enlighten many as to what made Ayrton Senna tick.

See it for: Some frightening race scenes and candid home video. Antonio Pinto’s heart-pounding score is an excellent accompaniment to the visuals.

Every now and then a film or series of films comes along that shifts the cinematic paradigm. There are good ones (the Indiana Jones movies, for example) and there are, unfortunately, some bad ones (here’s looking at you Saw franchise). Unfortunately, for all of the promise shown in the first half of the first instalment, Michael Bay’s Transformers series has now well and truly skulked into the ‘bad’ category.

Transformers: Dark of the Moon is a monstrous waste of time. I’ve never witnessed something that had so much, and yet so little, going on. For over two and a half hours this film hammers your senses – with extra precision given the 3D glasses – and you come out the other side extra pissed off.

The funny thing is, there’s a collection of great ideas in this film – a secret side to the Apollo moon missions and a showdown at the abandoned Chernobyl site are two examples – but Transformers: Dark of the Moon feels like it was written by a bunch of kids who let their imagination run wild but never actually considered how to join the dots. Besides that, there’s about four times the number of characters required in a typical screenplay, and virtually none of them get developed in any real way.

The basic plot revolves around the ever hopped-up Sam Witwicky (Shia LaBeouf, increasingly annoying) and his attempts to find a run-of-the-mill job. Tricky, when you’re resume is stamped ‘Top Secret’. Meanwhile, his old buddies, the Autobots, have been working in counterterrorism for the US government, their activities unknown to all but those at the very top. Witwicky and the Transformers are brought together again, however, when a mission to an Autobot lunar crash site turns out to be not all it seems. As usual, Megatron and his halfwitted Decepticons are behind it all.

That’s pretty much all you need to know. In fact, I may have given too much away, simply because the setup is all there is to this film – there’s hardly anything else except for a depressingly obvious twist and the reveal of the Decepticons’ big plan. So rolls two and quarter hours of the central protagonists and antagonists circling each other, before they finally meet in a quick series of under whelming battle scenes.

One of the most frustrating things about the Michael Bay Transformers films has been their neglect of what made the comic and cartoon series so special in the first place: character. The original imbued the Autbots and Decepticons with personality and their own politics – the humans in the story watched mostly from the sidelines. But director Bay, screenwriter Ehren Kruger and the large team of producers involved in these projects simply seem not to either trust the audience to get involved with the robots, or trust themselves to tell the story properly. We therefore get this multitude of humans, most of whom simply don’t make sense as proper characters, whether they’re ham-jobs or not. Optimus Prime, the real star of these films, once again goes missing for large tracts of Transformers: Dark of the Moon, and it’s a much weaker experience because of it.

Bay’s reached a point in his career where he’s obviously surrounded by yes-men, and he needs someone to pull him into line. Much like somebody once told James Cameron that he needed to lose a reel from Aliens: he managed it, and the film was much better as a result. Transformers: Dark of the Moon is a grandiose yet vague attempt at entertainment. Cameron himself copped a bit of flak for Avatar, and right so, but at least the guy’s a storyteller – he knows to go into production with the basics covered. Bay, on the other hand, is an empty stylist. Don’t see Transformers: Dark of the Moon – you’ll hate yourself afterwards.


I say: If these films were made with an eye for budget and storytelling they’d be much better. As it is, they’re a collection of good ideas strung together in the most frustrating and boorish way possible.

See it for: This actually starts reasonably well, so let’s say the first 20 minutes.

The film that single-handedly sank the teen-movie whilst introducing Gen-X cinema, Heathers’ place in pop culture seemed all but assured until the tragic events at Columbine High School in 1999. Suddenly, school kids with guns wasn’t such a groovy topic. But recent years have seen a revival of this Michael Lehmann-directed classic. Its arch irony has found a new set of admirers inside the Gen Y intelligentsia, questions such as ‘what’s your damage?’ popping up at groovy weekend parties.

In all honesty, though, Heathers hasn’t really benefited from the time it spent on the dark side of social criticism. Films such as American Beauty and Donnie Darko, in particular, came and retooled the genre in their own subtle image. The downfall of Jason Dean (Christian Slater) hit you where it hurt back in the early 90s, but now he comes across as nothing more than a loose collection of ideas, pasted together into a paper-thin character, and you end up wondering what the fuck a smart cat like Veronica (Winona Ryder) saw in him in the first place.

Still, this is Veronica’s story, and when the film is focussed on her it can be undeniably engaging. Ryder is key, her many knockers needing to re-experience Heathers to be reminded of how the actress garnered such a name for herself. Veronica’s battle with the titular Heathers (Lisanne Falk, Shannen Doherty, Kim Walker) provides plenty of opportunity for Ryder to work her intimidating talent for physical comedy. The furious diary entries remain a personal favourite.

It’s perhaps in Heathers’ neutered ability to shock where it falls down most on a 2011 rewatch. The grim plot of Veronica and outsider Jason’s righteous yet deadly revenge against their high school bullies was earthshaking at the turn of the 90s, but is a bit blasé these days. What used to be pleasingly discombobulating now seems unlikely and perhaps out of character, even for the slightly bizarre universe in which Westerberg High exists. The stylised production design (Jon Hutman) and fuzzed out photography (Francis Kenny) have also been worked into the ground in the last 20 years.

Stripping back all these layers means that you’re left with characters, and it’s here that Heathers is really pushing its case uphill. Veronica is great, but she’s so cynical at the start of the film that it’s hard to believe how she ever became friends with the Heathers in the first place. Jason, on the other hand, is hardly ever sympathetic, to an extent where Veronica’s falling for him is unlikely at best. The audience’s lack of investment in these central characters and relationships hobbles Heathers badly, and as the film works itself into what should be a frenzied climax, you fall back on the clever set pieces and visual gags for entertainment.

It’s here that Heathers shows its worth in the new millennium. So much of the film is outdated, but the subtextual observations about teenage life supplied by screenwriter Daniel Waters are still dead-on for the most part. Likewise, Lehmann’s eye for sharp visual gags and humorous set pieces is hard to top – the shot of Veronica, hair shocked and face blackened, sucking on a cigarette in front of her school gymnasium, is still one of the classics of modern independent cinema.

Ultimately, Heathers isn’t quite the film its proponents would have you believe. It’s too expressionistic and lackadaisical with its characters for you to truly care about anything that happens onscreen. Still, two decades after its release this remains eye-opening filmmaking, featuring a great performance from Ryder and some classy set pieces. While it’s not the a-grade satire it once purported to be, Heathers is nevertheless an important milestone in the evolution of modern independent cinema.


I say: An important film, in its own way, but not necessarily a great one. Heathers is worth checking out, but the years haven’t been totally kind to it.

See it for: Winona Ryder. She is the best thing about this film by some margin.

Big screen candy rarely comes sweeter than this shameless throwback to a past era of moviemaking. Directed by JJ Abrams but produced by Steven Spielberg, it’s the latter’s cinematic DNA that ends up being smattered all over Super 8.

A head-turner at the Rome Film Festival in 2009, The Man Who Will Come finally receives a DVD release on Australian shores. Often it’s the case: films get passed from festival to festival to festival, the endless merry-go-round pushing back a proper cinematic release and therefore the home entertainment treatment.

The new decade is in danger of turning into a brilliant one for aboriginal filmmaking. Last year’s potent Samson & Delilah turned the heads of critics worldwide, and it’s been followed just this past month by the lightly-sprung Mad Bastards, which is receiving a similar reception.

People tell me Pineapple Express is great. I’m going to have to continue taking their word on it because the chances of me confirming the opinion myself have just taken a dive. That film’s follow-up, Your Highness, is a turkey – a likeable turkey, but a turkey nonetheless.

First time feature director Brendan Fletcher has been receiving plenty of praise for Mad Bastards, and rightly so. But this story about the dark side of male machismo couldn’t really be called auteur filmmaking: Fletcher co-wrote the screenplay with two of the film’s charismatic Aboriginal stars – Dean Daley Jones and Greg Tait – who drew heavily on personal experience to help mould their troubled characters.

It’s the little flick that could. Mad Bastards is small even by local standards: produced on a limited budget in the depths of the Kimberly region of Western Australia and using only amateur actors, it’s the ultimate in independent filmmaking. But that hasn’t stopped it from gathering significant critical steam across the globe – and some rapturous audience applause at Sundance – before its release in Australian cinemas this week.

Involving yourself in the work of David Mamet can be a frustrating experience. The Pulitzer-winning playwright turned filmmaker toils to produce distinctive work, but for all his talents at creating compelling dialogue, Mamet’s weaknesses as a true storyteller often shine through.