Learning to surf is easy once you know how to snowboard.
What an experience it would be to peer inside the frazzled brain of Roland Emmerich: Aliens! Monsters! Natural disasters! Danny Glover as President! The man obviously has problems.
But the director with a consistent plan to sell disaster to Hollywood and then the world is back once again – only he’s upgraded the casting department and added more memory to his Scriptomatic 64. The result is 2012 – the mother of all silver screen cataclysms.
The world is collapsing beneath us, but this time it’s not global warming or economic crises. It’s something much bigger, as the tectonic plates are shifted by – and excuse me while I Google the word ‘science’ – some funky neutrinos being emanated from the Sun, heating the Earth’s core and causing massive geological disruptions, magma flows and Hummer-swallowing crevices.
Thankfully, the US government isn’t just standing by, doing nothing. There’s a contingency plan in place to save the richest, brightest and most important, operating on a timeframe provided to President Wilson (Danny ‘I’m getting too wooden for this shit’ Glover) by government geologist, Adrian Helmsley (Chiwetel Ejiofor).
The manifest doesn’t include failed writer, middling limo driver and defunct divorcee Jackson Curtis (John Cusack), not that he’s one to follow the playbook. As disaster unfolds around him, Jackson drags his disaffected kids, ex-wife (Amanda Peet) and her new boyfriend (Thomas McCarthy) through the carnage, playing a long shot for freedom from God’s rough justice.
Cue CGI destruction, clichéd close escapes and the most remarkable set of coincidences since the creation of our own solar system. And if you’re thinking it’s quite a small cast for an Emmerich film, I’ve totally mislead you: this thing is overflowing with characters, and you’ll care for most of them like a pack of rats on a rolling barrel.
Not that 2012 is as overblown as either Independence Day or The Day After Tomorrow: there’s little in the way of embarrassing flag-waving or patriotic speeches. But you can’t quite be sure if Emmerich and co really intended for it to be that way.
John Cusack enjoys his free trial of Google Wave.
You also can’t be sure if the filmmakers intended for 2012 to be as funny as it undoubtedly is. As implausibility is thrown on top of happy coincidence and overabundant CGI, the film becomes so laughable it flips inside out, the ludicrous nature becoming a redeeming feature.
And proceedings definitely benefit from an unfairly excellent cast. Cusack is as charming as ever, even if he sleepwalks through his part for much of the film. Ejiofor too is a great presence, giving 2012 a touch more class than it would otherwise have. In the supporting roles, Peet and McCarthy are engaging, while Oliver Platt continually threatens to make every scene his own as an overly pragmatic Presidential adviser.
Indeed, Platt’s mere presence turns out to be vital: he lends proceedings a stamp of hammy authenticity, forcing audiences to not take 2012 too seriously, even as a roid-raging mother nature ruthlessly wipes out six billion people. And that’s really the beauty of the film: it may be loud, obnoxious, and frequently offensive, but it wears its stupid badge loud and proud. It’s not kidding anybody; just make sure your not either when you go to see it.
It was a momentous occasion in 1989 when the Berlin Wall finally crumbled at the hands of the people it had separated for so long. The celebrations were overwhelming as families, countries, and continents reunited.
But when the dust settled and the demolition tractors retired home, a strange and careful reckoning began. For almost 50 years the history of Communist Eastern Europe had been frozen like an ice sheet. ‘Party first’ doctrines often rubbed uncomfortably against factual acuity, and the secret police services were experts at making uncomfortable truths disappear. With the dismantling of the Wall the ice began to crack and melt, history flowing out in such a raging torrent it threatened to bowl over those who had been kept in a half century of darkness about the fate of loved ones and countrymen.
One of the most shocking stories coming out of this historical reconciliation was the murder of approximately 15,000 Polish officers at the hands of the Soviet Secret Police in 1940. Among those killed was the father of acclaimed Polish filmmaker, Andrzej Wajda, and the screenwriter/director has set out to document the massacre with his film, “Katyn”.
Of course, making a film that cuts so close to the personal and patriotic bone is always a risk for a filmmaker. A reverence for the material can dominate the screenplay, interfering with narrative structure and crippling the final product. It’s unfortunate that such is the case with “Katyn”: this is a film full of importance, but in an effort to provide the scope, Wajda has lost his way with the story.
And that’s a shame, because things start out very well.
It’s 1939 and Poland is being crushed by the Hitler-Stalin pact. As the Red Army occupies the east they round up Polish officers, placing them in interminable custody. Determined to remain loyal to the army despite his fears for their fate, Polish cavalry captain, Andrzej (Artur Zmijewski) refuses to flee with his wife, Anna (Maja Ostaszewska) to the relative safety of the German-occupied west.
These early scenes are quickly set up and expertly filmed, Wajda bringing his considerable experience to bear as the heart-stricken Anna – the closest the film ever comes to a protagonist – begs her resolute husband to leave the loosely secured area where he and his fellow officers are being detained. It’s powerful, focussed stuff and has the audience onboard immediately.
Quickly, the film skips forward through the years. 1939 becomes 1940 and then 1943. The Nazis have broken their pact with the Soviets and, as they advance into Russia, stumble across the mass graves containing thousands of Polish officers. The men’s families in Krakow endure a terrifying wait as German public broadcasts announce the names of the dead.
It’s here that the film starts to lose its way. Anna is sidelined in favour of a dead general’s wife (Danuta Stenka) and it turns out to be a slightly discombobulating switch, deadening “Katyn”’s narrative drive.
Things only get worse as the film skips forward again to 1945. The Soviets have reclaimed Poland and are in the process of rewriting history; this time it will last for 45 years. The truth of what happened in “Katyn” is plainly obvious to the Polish public, but they are browbeaten by Soviet propaganda and anybody who disagrees with the official version is quickly spirited away.
Wajda once again switches up his characters, introducing new players to the centre of the frame who barely last five minutes before they’re disposed of by the secret police. By this stage it becomes obvious what the filmmakers up to, driving home with awkward thrusts the fact that the Katyn tragedy affected just about every Pole whether they were young or old.
And there’s no denying this truth, but the fashion in which it is displayed onscreen is frustratingly schizophrenic. Surely Wajda and his fellow screenwriters – Andrzej Mularczyk, Przemyslaw Nowakowski and Wladyslaw Pasikowski – would have been better to stick with Anna, the character whose plight they so compellingly set up in the early scenes. As it is, the film lacks impact, the audience disenfranchised from the onscreen action.
It might simply be a case of a troublesome adaptation: “Katyn” is based on Mularczyk’s own book, “Post Mortem” (which I haven’t read), and seems to give away its literary origins with its over ambitious scope and weight of different characters.
It’s a shame, because the film has some great attributes. Fine performances often hide the lack of character, while Pawel Edelman’s shimmering photography is frequently fantastic, his use of light giving the entire film a burnished feel in league with the tiresome grief that many of the central figures endure. Krzysztof Penderecki’s score is also impressive, taking the subtle, mournful path to the emotions.
In the end, Wajda probably cares very little for outside opinions of his film: he’s stated that his purpose with “Katyn” has always been to give catharsis to the Polish people. One would hope it does that, particularly given the massive reception it received in its homeland. But for those outside Poland, “Katyn” stumbles on some of the most basic of filmmaking principles, leaving it lacking in impact and in danger of remaining a too often forgotten footnote in modern history.
It sometimes seems a monumental risk for a first-time feature-maker to tackle a subject too close to his or her own personal experience. A reverence for the material can dominate the screenplay, muddying the narrative and crippling the final product.
But given the benefit of hindsight provided by Fred Schepisi's impressive body of work, perhaps it's no surprise he used his time spent in Catholic seminary as an early teenager to inform his first feature rather than driving it into the ground. Indeed, one of the great strengths of The Devil’s Playground turns out to be a careful accuracy driven by obvious familiarity, but a young Schepisi knew his stuff and built a film first and memento to his childhood second, the ordered grounds of the seminary providing an opportunity to investigate community, Catholicism, and the importance of truly choosing your own oath in life.
At the centre of the story is the 13-year old Tom (Simon Burke), a serious, likable young boy training for the priesthood at a Catholic seminary. It's 1953, Vatican II is still ten years away, and the small community of brothers and students are caught on the cusp of the brave new world. Tom's calling for the Church seems more genuine than many of his classmates, but it's also complicated by his battle to rationalise the sinful thoughts that pry their way into a young and active mind.
Tom's personal battle isn't the only one taking place on the seminary's grounds, though. The film's secondary focus is on the brothers themselves and while each to a certain extent grapples with the complications of their calling, at opposite ends of the spectrum sit Brothers Francine and Victor. Francine (Arthur Dingham) is severe in his pursuit to eradicate the undisciplined mind, walking the halls like a harbinger of old-fashioned Catholic fire and brimstone. Victor (Nick Tate) on the other hand is the impending voice of the Second Vatican Council, disagreeing with the harsh treatment inflicted against the boys' bodies and minds, encouraging them when he can to seek their own path in life.
It's here that the film quaintly shows its age. The brothers who run the seminary aren't cardboard cut out nasties, nor are they demented abusers looking to inflict pain on the boys for their own gratification. The brothers in Schepisi's screenplay are instead delicately human, a microcosm of the faith itself, full of internal conflict just like their young pupils.
How Brothers Francine and Victor deal with their repressed weaknesses is vastly different and makes up the majority of both characters’ development, their ultimate fates saying plenty about Schepisi’s views regarding the 20th century direction of the faith.
With the negative press the Catholic Church endures in modern times its refreshing to see such a careful rendering of robbed authority figures, and it’s the flowing scenes in the brothers’ common room that make up a large part of the film’s enjoyment.
Next to this sterling material, Tom’s story can’t help but feel a little undercooked at times, as if Schepisi is operating too much on internal information. Still, there are some great scenes, particularly those with fellow student and confidant, Fitz (John Diedrich), and others where a special friendship is mapped with the elderly and cheekily subversive Brother Sebastian (beautifully played by Charles McCallum).
Nick Tate is excellent as Brother Victor in The Devil's Playground
They’re weighed against the visits of Father Marshall (Tom Keneally), who is the demented authority of the old Church personified: kind-hearted and full of dad jokes in private, he cascades with outrageous, guilt-stirring homilies once on the pulpit. It’s a turn of character that quietly shocks both the pupils and their teachers.
Technically, The Devil’s Playground is a minor masterpiece, considering its budget of $300,000. Largely shot on location, Ian Baker’s cinematography is crisply captured and beautifully lit, the long, moving single takes telling in their subtlety. Brian Kavanagh’s editing is likewise spot-on, a scene where two young pupils are discussing the ins and outs of puberty being a great example, their embarrassment highlighted by a frequent cutting to and from their squirming limbs.
At the centre though is Schepisi, and every setup displays his typical thoughtfulness. His influence also shines through in the performance of Simon Burke: the young actor is exceptional as Tom, his performance barely seeming an act at all. And the older players offer plenty of support, with the nuanced Tate and mournfully expressive Digham being particularly excellent.
Schepisi would go on to make better films – his next effort, The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith securing his international reputation – but its in the focussed frames of The Devil’s Playground that you see the origins of this considered yet supremely talented filmmaker. Maybe not quite the Australian classic that it’s often purported to be, The Devil’s Playground is nevertheless well worth checking out.
There were more than a few peculiar looks when Departures won the Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film at this years Academy Awards. In a category stacked with fine nominees, including Waltz With Bashir and The Class, Departures was almost seen as making up the numbers.
Watching “The Long Good Friday” it’s easy to imagine Guy Ritchie and his friends – circa 1995 – sitting on a crisp-scattered velour couch, smoking joints, drinking lager and furiously taking notes.
Jad Capelja as Sue and Nell Schofield as Debbie in Puberty Blues.
Perhaps more than any of their other collaborations, Puberty Blues illustrates the supreme skill of director Bruce Beresford and cinematographer Don McAlpine. It’s not their best film together, but Puberty Blues’ ability to shake off a disappointing script and one of the most irritating theme songs in history speaks volumes about their exacting craftsmanship.
Sam Waterson and Haing S. Ngor star in The Killing Fields
Stumbling out of Balibo recently, suitably enraged, my movie-going buddy for the night commented on how the film is almost Australia’s very own version of The Killing Fields. It was a cogent comparison, tapping into the themes of integrity and Western geopolitical ignorance that run through both films.
We’ve known ever since Helen Mirren bawled her eyes out over a dainty stag that the Queen of England is a bit of an existential sort. Lucky for her then, given Peter Jackson’s “The lovely Bones” has been selected for the Royal Film Performance 2009. The World Charity Premiere will take place in late November in Leicester Square and feature members of both the Royal Family and the film’s all-star cast. Jackson said he is “honoured” the film has been selected for the event, adding that the filmmakers “are thrilled Their Royal Highnesses and the CTBF [The Cinema & Television Benevolent Fund] audience will be amongst the first people in the world to see it.” Of course, if Prince Phillip is attending, the film will no doubt be switched for his personal Peter Jackson favourite, “Bad Taste
Nice little review, Fog. I must admit that I'm not quite as taken with this as most people, although that might be down to my mild dislike for Tautou. A long time since I've seen it, though, so will have to revisit at some stage - Anon is definitely right: great soundtrack.
Thanks for reading, Dave. It's not nearly as bad as Independence Day or The Day After Tomorrow. It will keep you awake, although it is about an hour too long - didn't mention that!
Hi Michelle - great write-up of a book I can only just remember from my childhood. I'm really looking forward to checking this out. On a different note, a guy in the music scene I was interviewing recently had some rather impressive Where the Wild Things Are tattoos on his arms - the book definitely has its fans!
Absolutely Michelle - a bunch of redrafts were definitely needed. Am I'm a fan of the novel, but don't be afraid to move away from it - using the concept to write a solid screenplay should be the first concern, not trying to shoehorn different bits and pieces of the book into the film. Once again, they're different mediums that require different approaches when writing for them. Thanks for stopping by.
Nice review, Dave, of a film I never quite got around to seeing. I think the familiarity of its genre stylings perhaps put me off a bit. It certainly had some good looks, though.
Great review, JD. People seem to forget that Coppola made this. I haven't seen it in years - since I was a kid,really (so I didn't know who Tom Waits was) - but your write-up reminds me to take another look. Of course, won't be on your fancy-pancy blu ray player...
No, that's fine Fog. I've got something for the next couple of days but just a small one so I'll work around you.
Yep, it's extremely important that these lessons in history aren't forgotten. There's supposedly evidence that the Western powers initially supported the Soviets' rewriting of Katyn because they didn't want to upset the allied alliance - if true, it's an awful example of history being written by the victors.
Nice one Bryn. A bunch of friends and I were discussing the lack of the anthology movie. Creep Show freaked me out as a youngster and I've dug them ever since. This sounds promising indeed.
And Paquin certainly has grown up! Re: True Blood - it starts off sluggishly but stick with it: Season 2 in particular is good stuff.
Cheers Dave - thanks for reading. Yeah, it's just structured very poorly. But it's one of those films that is obviously so important to its makers that it makes you feel a little ill to suggest it's anything less than stellar.
Thanks for reading Dave - glad you enjoyed it. Will check out your review. Yeah, it's great stuff - just a small, thoughtful, carefully layered film. Ha - yes, Keneally is a bit ropey, isn't he? IMO It mostly works though - his now infamous giddiness bent into demented fire and brimstone homily.
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