The Beach (2000)

INNOCENCE NEVER LASTS FOREVER.

There exists in most people, not everyone, but most people an urge, a fundamental need to travel beyond their own borders. Specific reasons for this need can vary from person to person, ranging from the relatively low end (“I wanna try the beer of every country in that continent”) to the more high minded (“I want to experience other cultures firsthand”) to the boundary pushing (“I want to be more connected with how I live every day of my life”). However, perhaps the most common thing is a deep-seated quest for freedom, to shake off the constraints of the world in which you’ve grown up and just go, hoping to find adventure, peace, excitement, new experiences, paradise. And what if you were to actually find that paradise? A literal location of beauty and tranquility free from the hassle of the “real world”. And if you found it, what would you do to keep it? To protect it from the others looking for it, too?

Richard (Leonardo DiCaprio), a young American, travels to Thailand to experience a world that is unlike his own back home. Whilst there, he meets the possibly psychotic Daffy (Robert Carlyle), who possesses a map he claims leads to an isolated beach, a tropical paradise. Later, when Richard finds the body of Daffy, a victim of suicide, he takes the map and, inviting along a French couple he has me, sets off to find this new bliss on a secluded island.

Around the mid-90s, specifically 1994, the boys of Figment (director Danny Boyle, writer John Hodge and producer Andrew Macdonald) landed on the British film scene with a hell of a first film, Shallow Grave. Pretty much still standing up there amongst the best feature debuts ever, they then managed to outdo themselves two years later when they released Trainspotting, which gave them an instant passport to worldwide recognition. Perhaps inevitably, their next year’s follow-up, A Life Less Ordinary, saw them stumble a bit. Now, I will eventually get to all three of those films along this journey, but the effect of that third title was something of a temporary retreat for the Figment team. Part of what made A Life Less Ordinary such a flop was the erratic sense of tone and loose focus of the film, trying to make a romance, a crime story, an ethereal road movie, an anarchic comedy… it was kind of all over the place, at least as was seen at the time. Certainly ambitious, but there was no real escaping the fact it was a major departure from the laser-like focus of something like Shallow Grave. Their first flop, it sent the boys back under for three years, during which time they released only one short film in 1999 called Alien Love Triangle, starring Kenneth Branagh, Heather Graham, Courteney Cox and Alice Connor.

However, the following year, they made their return to the feature market, with an adaptation of Alex Garland’s 1996 novel The Beach, in which a disconnected young Brit travels to Thailand seeking adventure and ends up discovering a secret paradise beach on a remote island.

Some of the events that led up to the making of the film are actually quite interesting, given that they are somewhat indicative of some of the problems with the film, of which it undoubtedly has a few. One of the first regarded the casting of the lead. Director Boyle wanted to cast his regular star Ewan McGregor as the lead, however this was not to be. Some stories vary as to when it actually happened, but the primary thrust is that the decision was made over Boyle’s head. McGregor hadn’t quite fully capitalised on the rise to stardom in a major way just yet, and it certainly didn’t help that the last time McGregor and Boyle paired up was a flop. As such, the studio wanted someone much more bankable and “hot” for the lead, and they chose Leonardo DiCaprio, who was still riding the wave of popularity from his heartthrob status and the wild success of 1997’s Titanic. Though Boyle wound up holding DiCaprio in high regard, it was the first of the concessions that had to be made to deliver the product 20^th Century Fox wanted, rather than a more accurate depiction of the novel.

By the director’s own admission, The Beach would seem to be kind of an odd choice of project for Danny Boyle. Previously, his films were set in urban environments, locating themselves very much within contemporary modern society. In The Beach, the point is about actively distancing oneself from it, getting away from usual trappings of the urban construct and striking out for parts unknown. As the man said himself, “I liked the actors, we had a great time, but I didn’t like the characters. I’m an urban person. I love cities and I made that film about a load of hippies in the countryside, nothing in common with them at all. You’re there making the film and you think, ‘I can’t relate to these people at all. What are they doing here? I am so bored.’” So, given this point, you would have to ask why exactly he picked this project to return with. Well, looking beyond the “hippies in the countryside” comment, these characters do share a common link to his previous ones: a selfish pursuit of pleasure.

Now, this definition does shift slightly as you look to his previous work. In Shallow Grave, three friends compromise their own morals, and friendship, when presented with a chance for substantial financial gain. In Trainspotting, every character is engaged in a pursuit of their own thrills, be it through drugs, sex or violence. Even in A Life Less Ordinary, Robert and Celine engage in an extended crime spree through desperation and greed… yes, okay, and love. The point is that the characters Boyle has a tendency to focus on aren’t necessarily the most sympathetic or likable, though there is still the argument of how he expects to make an audience relate to these characters when he cannot do so himself. Nevertheless, I believe I can see something of an attraction for Boyle to working on this project, aside from the chance to visit a nice locale.

Richard’s whole quest for paradise is born of the same pleasure-seeking temperament as those in Boyle’s previous films. However, in The Beach, it goes beyond just that of a personal quest. The film itself is a more ambitious attempt to pursue and embrace a higher sense of paradise, one that can be reached, embraced and enjoyed by all… provided they are worthy. This idea of a religious conceit to the film is one that is hinted at here and there, though this could perhaps have been built on better were it not for an apparent need to please the studio, but I’ll get to that in a bit. Paradise as a term has its roots in a religious context, referring to a place of peace and contentment, which rests as a contrary ideal to the abject misery of human existence and, more so, to the torment of a Christian Hell. Despite being located within an Eastern territory, it’s Christianity that is the reference point, since those that come to stay on the titular beach are from the Western world (America, France, Britain, etc.). It would make some sense that the notions of what Paradise is and how one gets there spring from a more Westernised concept of spirituality, hence the fact that many of the Westerners we see in Thailand tend to ignore the beauty of that culture and either stay in watching American movies or go out and get drunk. This Western spirituality returns as an undercurrent in the character of Keaty (Paterson Joseph), the beach resident who brings Richard and his two friends, Françoise (Virginie Ledoyen) and Étienne (Guillaume Canet), to the beach after they make the literal leap of faith from atop a waterfall. Keaty, an Englishman, is said to have only two loves in the world: Christianity and cricket. And there’s a moderately recurring sentiment in Richard’s voiceover, as he makes occasional reference to Paradise and sin. Within the beach community itself, they have developed their own system of ritual and language. Every member is tattooed with three marks on their arm, performed by the last person to arrive before the new ones. They also play a game that involves learning a new language (in this case, Serbian) simply by picking it up and learning odd phrases. Richard gets much praise for his ability to pick up on this quickly.

As is unsurprising, the longer the residents spend in their tropical paradise, the more reluctant they are to return to the main land. When the group’s supply of rice needs replacing, the group’s leader, Sal (an on form Tilda Swinton), a proverbial iron hand in velvet glove, announces that someone needs to accompany her to the mainland for supplies. No one wants to go. Partially because they don’t really want to leave their beautiful idyll, but mainly because going back is now such an unpleasant experience. When you spend your time in a gorgeous paradise, the act of jumping back into normal civilisation, even temporarily, to be surrounded by the miserable wretches of the real world as they stagger and vomit and bellow… it’s not surprising that they want to stay away.

It’s on this run, having been effectively voted into going, that Richard starts to get a better understanding of the maniacal ranting of the man who led him to the beach, Daffy. When he meets Daffy, the man is unhinged. Shouting, swearing, rambling about the parasites of civilisation. At the time, Richard responded as most would: “No offence and all, but, you’re fucked in the head, right?” Now, after having seen the beach and having experienced paradise, Richard understands exactly what Daffy was talking about. Returning to the hectic, grimy, decadent morass of everyday life isn’t just upsetting, but actually kind of painful, even infuriating. Before this, Richard has always had some understanding of the cost of keeping their new home a secret, such as when he watches a fellow member plea for a dentist, but watches as Sal (looking very similar to the Buddha statue at the film’s opening) flat refuses. But Richard understands. “We have a secret here, right? Sometimes people need to take a little pain to keep it that way.” These are words that will certainly come back to haunt him. Now, having been changed by his new surroundings, he knows that there is a cost, and is becoming increasingly more comfortable with protecting paradise from those that he believes are not worthy of it.

This is itself at the heart of what The Beach tries to discuss: the exclusionary nature of Paradise. Everyone that reaches the beach, which before had only been something regarded as rumour or local legend, does so by believing enough in its existence to put themselves at great physical peril. When their faith is rewarded, one of their first thoughts is that this new place must remain a secret, protected from outsiders at all costs. Effectively, it’s the classic traveller vs. tourist dynamic. A traveller is one who seeks out new places, hoping to soak up everything it has to offer before the tourists come along and ruin it, exploiting it and making it just another place to go. However, by putting conditions and exclusions on entry into paradise, doesn’t that contradict what paradise truly is? Were it left up to whomever was the first to reach Paradise to decide who was allowed in thereafter, the exclusivity instilled would, by its nature, create disharmony. On his trip to the mainland with Sal, he does say that they are special because they know, they can live better than this, but that’s not true Paradise. It’s either open to everyone or no one. Otherwise, Heaven is no better than one of those country clubs that won’t let in minorities. And you certainly can’t protect it with violence and force. As it turns out, Paradise corrupts.

There is plenty to think about underneath everything in The Beach, however it does have more than a few problems, which does tend to devalue the whole as a viewing experience. Numerous changes were made between the book and the film and, as I mentioned earlier, these were clearly concessions made to the studio. For example, there is a romance between Richard and Françoise in the film that does not exist in the book. In the book, Richard does have feelings for Françoise, but this never goes further, with Françoise remaining with Étienne. This would rest thematically closer with the idea of something desired, but remaining out of reach that runs through the story. However, in the film, Richard and Françoise do get together, mainly because the studio can work better with a romance plot, plus it’s nice to see pretty people get down in the sand. This has something of a knock-on effect through the rest of the story, as now Étienne is cast aside, and complications arrive later on in the film as a result. It’s not a complete sell-out, as John Hodge does manage to tie it into what must be done to maintain the secret of Paradise.

One of the more regular criticisms made about the film in regards to differences from the novel is the lack of real development in Richard’s character in regard to his obsession with war movies and video games. These elements do come to play in the film, but they do seem hollower than they would if it had been built better. As it is, sequences where Richard literally transposes himself into a video game fantasy are what fill the gaps, or, on a more subtle level, moments when Richard starts to unravel in the jungle strike a very Apocalypse Now feel since Boyle and cinematographer Darius Khondji seem to be purposely trying to recreate the lighting and atmosphere of that film’s final scenes, as well as giving Richard a red head band, recalling The Deer Hunter.

The biggest problem with The Beach is that, in all of its tone-hopping, going from romance to adventure to thriller, with war motifs and religious undertones, it all feels a bit clumsy. Danny Boyle did say that if the film had a smaller budget, he would have been more likely to ignore studio directives. However, since he had been handed around $50million (easily the biggest budget he’d been given at that point), he felt more obliged to acquiesce to their demands. There was also an alternate ending not used, which may be more of a downer, but would at least have felt truer to the film's message. And because the filmmakers spent some time telling the story, and some time giving the studios what they wanted, any potential subtext gets lost in the haze.

The Beach is a beautiful looking film, with many beautiful people in it. And there isn’t really a bad show in there, though Robert Carlyle and Tilda Swinton are the clear standouts, especially since they’re served with some of the better-written roles. And it’s not like there is nothing worth talking about, either. It just falls short too often to get a real handle on what it wants to talk about.

Perhaps the real legacy of the film comes from the treatment of the island itself during the production process. In order to make the already gorgeous beach of Ko Phi Phi Lee a bit more “paradise-like”, 20th Century Fox had crews bulldoze the beaches to flatten them and ripped up some of the natural landscaping to widen the beach. They even introduced trees that were not native to the land because they looked better… yeah, I know, right? Fox did set aside money with which they could return the beach to its previous natural state, but environmentalists still sued, claiming the ecosystem had been permanently damaged. Some of the natural state of the beaches was restored by the tsunami in 2004, but that same disaster actually also caused other portions of the beach to literally collapse and break apart. In telling a story about the corruptive influence of Paradise and the terrible things people will do protect it, the filmmakers tried to improve on the look of a genuine island paradise and ruined it… bloody tourists.

Battle Royale (2000)

COULD YOU KILL YOUR BEST FRIEND?

In an interview back in 2010, Wes Craven was asked, given his experience of scaring kids in film throughout the decades, what he thought it was that scared kids today. He answered that what scared kids remained the same pretty much regardless of time: “Adults. Incompetent parents, police that don’t understand what’s really going on.” And though this question was relating more towards his film My Soul to Take (which is just… just terrible), he’s not wrong with regard to what scares kids. Everyone, regardless of age, is afraid of being subjected to a stern authority against which they have no power (look at the works of Kafka or Dostoyevsky for better ruminations on that subject), but kids (as well as the elderly) are the ones that get the rawest end of that problem. Being left to the whims of authority, which is effectively everyone above their age, they end up feeling the brunt of whatever rules are put upon them, with no say as to how fair or arbitrary they may be. And if those rules start to push them in a terrible, even dangerous direction, what can they do but get pulled along? If there is one director in the world who understood this notion better than anyone, it’s not Craven… it’s Kinji Fukasaku… and he gave us Battle Royale.

It's the beginning of the 21st Century, and the economy of Japan is near a total collapse. Employment rates have crashed, students have begun boycotting their classes and crime rates are rising. To deal with this issue, the government approves a new law: the Battle Royale Act. One class is randomly selected and the students are taken to an island, are each given a weapon and three days to kill each other off. A new class of 42 has been selected, and only one student can survive.

The choices of project that director Kinji Fukasaku’s made over his roughly 40-year film career have much to do with experiences from his youth, specifically during World War II. Barely aging in the double digits by the time the war started, Fukasaku found himself working in a munitions factory when his class was drafted into aiding the war effort in 1945. Being a munitions factory, this was, of course, a target for Allied air raids. On one of these raids, the factory was hit, with Fukasaku and his classmates getting caught in the crossfire, and many ultimately being killed. Fukasaku himself said that he and some others survived only by literally hiding under the corpses. At 15 years old, Fukasaku had to help dispose of the bodies of his classmates, some of whom he didn’t even get a chance to know. Suddenly aware of what he believed were lies told by the Japanese government, from this point on, Fukasaku held a deep distrust and hatred of authority, and this would then be reflected in his subsequent film career. He spent much of his career making period samurai films, or focusing on post-war Yakuza stories (it was he who brought us the Battles Without Honour and Humanity films), but always maintained a focus on the struggling underdog, often a former soldier or ex-con. Perhaps his most notable of films for the “underdog going against authority” tale from this period of high output is 1972’s Under the Flag of the Rising Sun, in which a widow attempts to discover the truth behind her husband’s death during the war from Japanese government officials.

Fast-forward nearly thirty years and we find ourselves at the film to be considered today, Battle Royale, the one that would act as both the film that brought renewed interest in Fukasaku as a filmmaker, as well as Japan as a serious filmic entity, but also as the last film the man would complete under his own steam, sadly dying mid-production of the sequel Battle Royale II: Requiem.

However, there is a reason that Battle Royale was key in bringing attention back to Japanese cinema with such force, and by extension the whole resurgence of interest in Asian cinema in general… Battle Royale is a goddamn masterpiece.

Instead of his usual look back into the past, Fukasaku went into a not-too-distant future by taking on the film adaptation of the novel by Koushun Takami, published in 1999. Despite (or perhaps because of) some controversy on its release, the novel became a surprise bestseller, and the next year saw its adaptation into both a manga series (by Takami himself) and the feature film we look at today. The script was written by Kenji Fukasaku’s son, Kenta, which makes some degree of sense for a couple of reasons. On a practical level, a story that follows a group of post-millennial teenagers would perhaps pose something of a challenge to a man of nearly 70 years of age to maintain a sense of verisimilitude. Though he may have held a strong spiritual connection to youth in some way, that doesn’t mean he would necessarily be able to bring that to the page. As such, having his son Kenta as the screenwriter helps to bridge the generation gap between the director and the characters. And the characters are vital in this film.

I get the feeling that it was very important to Kenji Fukasaku that the audience understand these characters, or that we at least take something from them, that they resonate somewhere with us. This should of course be of great importance to all filmmakers and storytellers, but it would be of particular importance to a man who had lost classmates under terrible circumstances without getting that chance. As such, we get a little bit from almost every character, which is something considering how many of them there are. We get something about their family life, their hopes, their relationships. You get to see how these people react when they are all given permission to kill, and the reasons why they might want to. One of my favourite aspects of the film is to see how some characters instantly go looking for their friends, or even the one from their class they really liked in the hope of protecting them, even dying with them. It’s rather affecting to see just how some of them won’t give themselves over to the darkness of their situation, choosing to be better than that. It’s almost a final act of defiance against the adults who put them there. Were I ever to be in that situation, I wonder if I'd be the same as them... I certainly hope so.

Another reason it works nicely to have Fukasaku Sr. and Jr. working on this film together is that it also serves as a nice undercurrent to a major theme of the film: that of parental relationships. Several characters have an interesting, even defining relationship with a parent, or parental figure, such as Nanahara’s emotional baggage from his mother’s abandonment and his father’s suicide; Mimura’s relationship with his soldier uncle; and Kawada’s repeated, if conflicting references to his father being the reason he’s so good at medical care and cooking. Which rather brings us to the most visible parent in the film… Kitano.

Former teacher to the class, now the instructor of the program and the man overseeing this horrific ordeal, Kitano, played by the almighty Takeshi Kitano in some sort of twisted version of himself (you know Takeshi's Castle? Yeah, same guy). He is really the only adult we spend any time with over the course of the film. A former teacher, abused and belittled by his students, as well as his own child, he is effectively our model of authority in the film. And, despite what he becomes, there are times when he does garner our sympathy. He shows up to teach the children, only to be greeted by a message on the board informing him his students took the day off because they wanted to. On leaving the classroom, he is attacked by one of the students, slashed on his behind with a knife. It’s hard to not feel something for the guy, to consider that all he may have wanted was to help educate and guide the youth of Japan, only to be rejected in a manner most callous. Indeed, that’s how Nakagawa sees him, a man cast aside for no reason other than wanting to help. At one time, as we see in flashback, it would seem that they look to have been friends of a sort – Nakagawa seeing a lonely man in need of company; Kitano seeing a compassionate girl, and a hope for the future. However, Kitano ultimately goes too far in his disconnection and revulsion with the others of Nakagawa’s generation. It doesn’t help that his relationship with his own daughter, whom we know only as a voice who also clearly hates him, has compounded his loathing of the younger generation. He’s like Lee J. Cobb’s Juror no.12 in 12 Angry Men, disgusted and angry with his own child, desperate to take it out on someone else, only taken to a horrifying extreme. The most visible authority figure in the film is ultimately shown to be a full-blown sadist, one of who gleefully sends children he knows off to slaughter each other, and who even has no compunction about killing them himself. He is a monster, but rather unsettlingly a monster that you can understand where he came from.

It’s very important that we understand, to some degree at least, the one who sends these children to die. In the preamble to the film, we are told that by the point of the film’s temporal setting, Japan’s status as a financial superpower in the world has, effectively, come to an end. The bubble has burst, and the future of the nation’s inhabitants is no longer secure. Jobs are becoming scarce, money is becoming short, and the hope that may have been held by those growing up in this climate has now all but dried up. Despondent and angry at a seemingly clear indication that there is nothing left for them, the young abandon their education and career prospects for the simple nihilistic thrill of enjoying what they can while it still exists. As it is, this is a situation that was pretty much directly influenced by reality in Japan. From the mid-1980s to the early 1990s, Japan’s economic growth was sustained by the asset price bubble, where stock prices and real estate value was inflated to such a point that it ultimately burst, plunging Japan into a recession that it took over a decade to finish dropping into (look into Japan’s so-called “Lost Decade” for more on that). Jobs were lost, money was lost, hope for the future was diminished. It’s exactly this kind of post-Lost Decade world where the world of Battle Royale takes place. This fits well into Fukasaku’s overall body of work as he has had a preoccupation with what kind of future can be formed in the ashes of a faltering, apparently hopeless governing authority.

This not only offers a very bleak vision of a very dark future, but it also offers an interesting take on politics, specifically the value of a proportional response to a given problem (and yes, I basically just lifted a line from The West Wing there). Within the world of Battle Royale, the government was faced with a particular problem: the revolt of a disaffected, dissatisfied youth. Their futures were squandered, so they responded by rejecting what future was left for them. Obviously, this would create a great sense fear amongst the older generations, since they now no longer had anyone to whom they can hand over the reigns. Along with that fear, there would be no small amount of indignation, that these young people would be so cavalier in their lack of foresight, that they would have such apparent disrespect as to give their elders the finger and invite them to spin. The response of the authorities was not a proportional one. They passed a law that allowed them to randomly select groups of children that would then be forced to murder each other, and thus solve their problem. It’s an ugly decision born of a brutal and heartless bureaucracy made way out of proportion to the problem it tries to solve. It may seem like a harsh indictment of Japanese authorities, which is perhaps why they sought to have the book, manga and film banned, not to mention the difficult transition beyond its borders. However, I’m sure Fukasaku, who you’ll remember had no love of his government during WWII, wouldn’t care too much if they took offence to that. I’m sure that was part of his point.

The influence of Battle Royale can’t really be underestimated. As previously stated, Fukasaku’s film turned a great deal of attention to the resurgence of film coming from Asia in general, wetting the world’s appetite for what it would come to get from Japan, China, South Korea, Thailand, Taiwan… you get the idea. However, more specifically, the film has a profound effect on many individuals, too. Fukasaku’s son, Kenta, made his debut in the film world as writer on this film, and he would go on to make his way as a filmmaker in his own right, following with Battle Royale II: Requiem in 2003 (taking over directing duties after the death of his father), as well as several other films, like X-Cross, Black Rat and We Can’t Change the World. But, We Wanna Build a School in Cambodia. Many of the young actors in Battle Royale would go on to have further careers as actors, too. In fact, one of them would cross paths with another filmmaker who has taken a great amount of influence from Kinji Fukasaku recently… Quentin Tarantino.

After Jackie Brown’s release in 1997, it would be six years before Tarantino would return to our screens, which he ultimately did with the first part of his highly stylised samurai revenge epic, Kill Bill Vol. 1. Amongst the many now iconic aspects of that film, several things jump out immediately as being direct lines to Fukasaku. Generically, there is much drawing upon the world of samurai and Yakuza flicks, where Fukasaku spent his early career. Then, there is the casting of Sonny Chiba, a Fukasaku regular with whom he made many features (Chiba even repeats his line from Samurai Reincarnation - “If you encounter God, God will be cut.”). Further to casting, Chiaki Kuriyama, who played Chigusa in Battle Royale, also appears in Kill Bill Vol. 1 as Gogo Yubari, the psychotic bodyguard dressed in the schoolgirl’s uniform. And lest we forget, the music from the trailer that was played freaking everywhere… Battle Without Honour and Humanity by Tomoyasu Hotei, a piece which gained its title from Fukasaku’s Yakuza film series mentioned earlier. It’s worth noting at this point that, in 2009, Tarantino made a video list for Sky Movies in which he listed his favourite movies to come out since he became a filmmaker in 1992. Although most of the list is simply given alphabetically, the first film he names is his outright number 1, the film he most wishes that he had made... can you guess what that movie is? Have a watch of that video here, and definitely check out the other films on his list, too.

I’m not kidding when I say how good Battle Royale is. It works on many levels, as a horror, an actioner, science fiction, drama, thriller, even romance. Generically, it manages to run the gamut, but does so in a way that I don’t think ever feels clunky or awkward. Fukasaku keeps a firm hand on the film and, with a running time of around the two-hour mark, the film positively gallops along. The stakes are never in question, and everyone in this film sells it brilliantly.

I’m going to stop writing now, because you need to run and go watch this movie now… go… Run!

Baise-moi (2000)

In the movie Dodgeball, when Peter LaFleur is trying to come up with ways of making money to save his gym, a friend suggests that they sell blood and semen. After receiving some disgusted looks from the group, the friend clarifies: “What? Not mixed together.” Indeed, selling blood and semen separately can probably make you some money. However, if you try selling them mixed together, all you’ll get is shocked expressions and a heavy dose of controversy. Such was the experience of filmmakers Virginie Despentes and Coralie Trinh Thi, who released a thriller in 2000, based on Despentes’ novel, that courted near worldwide controversy and criticism for its use of pretty graphic violence and real sex. See, blood and semen, I wasn’t just talking nonsense.

Two women, occasional porn star Manu (Raffaëla Anderson) and part-time prostitute Nadine (Karen Lancaume), go on a spree of sex and murder after they each lose their last links with society when Manu gets raped and Nadine’s only friend is shot and killed. Meeting by chance, they get in Manu’s car and take off in a nihilistic voyage, robbing, killing and seducing all manner of people that they meet and trying to stay ahead of the law.

A few days ago, I was due to review a particular film in this journey through all I own. Unfortunately, when I went to watch it, I found the DVD had been damaged, likely done in a house-move a few years ago, rendering it unusable. As such, I was forced to move on through the list, and re-buy the broken film. Now, this would all simply be something of an annoyance at the best of times, but there was an extra point that made this especially galling… I don’t like Baise-moi. I watched it for the first time some years ago, aware of the controversy surrounding it (it was banned... a lot) and wanting to see it for myself. Good times when I found it for very cheap. However, those good times turned bad when it turned out I hated it. Until today, that had been the one and only viewing I had ever given it, hence the reason I was unaware that it had been sitting on my shelf with an almighty crack in it. However, since beginning this endeavour to give some sort of critique or review to all the films I own, Baise-moi was one that I rather looked forward to watching again, if only to try and engage with it more critically than I did the first time around. When you see a film that you seriously don’t like, there is always the temptation to completely destroy it on every level, which is only compounded when the film shows so much sex and violence, which some don't care for. The severe emotionality of such a reaction can occasionally get in the way of offering fair criticism, although it shouldn’t be ignored entirely, either. As such, I shall attempt to consider the film as fairly as I can… so here we go.

First off, I’ll consider the visuals of the film, which is perhaps the least contentious facet of the production. Baise-moi had a very low budget, being filmed on digital video with no extra or artificial lighting, and all on location. This, coupled with camerawork that’s clumsy and amateurish, does make the film look pretty bad, but it does rather add to what seems to be the overall effect. The world of Baise-moi is a pretty awful place, filled with low-down bars and unpleasant hotels, and the characters are equally awful. There is almost no one who is without some sort of guilt or objectionable personality. These are disagreeable people moving through an indifferent and fairly cruel world. That the visuals are so crummy does help to convey this sense that it’s a very crude world we are in. It’s nasty to look at, but I think that’s part of the point.

 

The characters… what am I meant to make of them? Neither of them is particular pleasant, really. Taking Nadine first, she’s pretty lazy, kind of a pothead, a bit of a drinker, and something of a user of people. She’s a pain in her roommate’s ass, who complains about Nadine watching porn and masturbating all day in the living area instead of her bedroom. Nadine says she’s tired of having to do it there. From these points, you’d guess that she is someone who doesn’t like hassle, likes the freedom to do what she wants without people annoying her about it. She’s also a part-time prostitute, which isn’t really a big deal, although the filmmakers would perhaps seem to suggest that there is some connection between sex with a prostitute and rape (during a session with a client, Nadine watches a movie on TV that shows a violent sexual encounter), as if the man is assaulting Nadine by using her sexuality for his own gratification. Nadine has one friend, a junkie (or drug dealer, I’m not sure) for whom she writes out fake prescriptions to be filled at his convenience. I would say that this is not a reason to like her any more, since she’s still committing a crime, regardless of how okay she seems to be with her friend. Especially since she has not long strangled her roommate and ran off with the rent money. So, she’s a lazy, unpleasant, thieving murderer and a hooker (though it’s the film that has the problem with that part). I fail to see why I should care about her, then.

What about Manu? She actually does have a bit more to be angry about. She’s kind of a slacker, not really wanting to get a real job, and so makes some money by doing work in porn films or borrowing from her brother. Her brother is a dick, overbearing and abusive for no real reason. And, although she doesn’t back really back down, she does take some abuse from random people in the street who are looking for her… friend? Again, I’m not really sure on that one. Manu also does experience a genuine assault, when three men take her and her junkie friend to a warehouse, where they are both raped. Whilst the friend screams and writhes, getting her a severe beating for her trouble, Manu takes it without sound, movement or complaint. One of the attackers says that having sex with her is “like fucking a zombie”. Afterwards, she tells her clearly traumatised friend that they didn’t take anything from her because she removed everything of value from her sexual self, so there was nothing to take. It rather does sound like she’s dead inside, and voluntarily so. Shortly after, when at her brother’s house, he realises what happened (although his automatic leap to rape is a bit flimsy) and, finding his gun, asks her who did it. When she refuses to tell him, he implies she enjoyed it. Manu takes the gun and kills him, and then steals his savings. I am more inclined to feel sympathy with Manu than Nadine through all of this, although she’s still not an entirely a nice person. That said, she doesn’t really have to be entirely nice. In fact, her character is drawn fairly well in the beginning. It’s only as things go on that you care less about her.

You can pretty much pinpoint the exact moment things start to go off the rails, and it’s about the time that Nadine and Manu meet. Walking in opposite directions at the train station, post-murders, Manu stops Nadine and almost right away asks her if she knows how to drive because she has a car and they could drive away. This scene just feels odd, too simply done. Later Nadine remarks how strange it was that the two met the way they did, to which Manu replies that it wasn’t, that it was then or never… what does that even mean? It’s not an affirmation of pre-ordained fate bringing them together, because it acknowledges the possibility that they might not have met. So, it was just coincidence, so it was strange for them to meet in that way, so it is illogical nonsense. It would have made more sense if they had met as they were independently on the run, bumping into each other as they try to escape or lay low, instead of just on the street, where clumsy dialogue forces them into an initially unnatural union for the purposes of story progressing.

It’s interesting to note that, in some places like the US, the title of the film was translated as Rape Me, although the filmmakers and many people who liked the film hated this title. Rape is, for those who don’t know, a crime driven not by lust or physical attraction, but by power. The whole point is for the aggressor to force themselves on the victim, taking from them the power to stop it from happening. Now, Nadine and Manu are often said to be, for lack of a better word, “agents” of a feminist spirit, out to reclaim their own identity and sexuality from the male populace, who have subjugated and oppressed the female populace for so long. Effectively, the pair is out to take back the power that was stolen from them, even completely turning the tables on others. Theirs is a thrill-ride, with both parties drunk on freedom.

Personally, this is why I think things crumble after the pair meet and go on their spree. After they get together, the film exists in a world where they just go around doing whatever they feel like, regardless of what that may be or why. I suppose that we’re meant to take this as both women enjoying the full reign of freedom that they never had before, but it just becomes tedious. At one point, both Manu and Nadine say that everything they did was somewhat pointless because they don’t really feel any different. Now, I’d be willing to accept this as a statement that, after adopting the mindlessly violent characteristics of their male oppressors, they feel ultimately unfulfilled by their actions because it did nothing to erase the pain they have felt all along… but this doesn’t really hold up too much because they’ve clearly been having a great time with themselves, having sex and stomping faces. For them to suddenly say that it was all for nought rather comes out of nowhere. If there was a hint of desperation in their activities, with them trying to reclaim their initial thrill at their first taste of freedom (which was killing a woman), then I’d be able to accept it more. However, the whiplash-inducing shift in their feelings smacks of an attitude that we should really start trying to end this thing. Once again, it’s this crummy leap of logic stuff that gets in the way of telling the story effectively, so it’s tough to take it seriously.

What is incredibly interesting, though absolutely typical of the internet, is the fierce conflict of opinion of those who have seen the film. Many decry the film as sick, perverse, immoral, stupid, badly made crap; others call it a masterpiece, a brave and courageous work shining a light on aspects of society that others are afraid to talk about. Many people who like the film often employ the argument that those who don’t like the film are prudish, reactionary, or simply too stupid to engage with the themes and events of the film. I will agree that some of the negative opinions do come from a particular knee-jerk sensibility, causing the speaker to voice an opinion before mulling things over appropriately, but many people don’t like it because they simply don’t like it. The people that love the film are generally possessed of a rather smug sensibility that I actually find even more distasteful. A regular comment I find somewhat perplexing and kind of funny is when they say that people who don’t like the film probably just want films with great lighting and good camerawork and effects and Oscar-winning acting and for things to be explained. It’s odd because, aside from admitting the poor quality of Baise-moi’s lighting, camerawork, effects, acting and ability to make sense, it tries to make some sort of virtue of them. Just because something looks like crap and doesn’t have big names in it, doesn’t mean it’s any good.

“Why did they make this film?”… it’s a question that is asked regularly of the most controversial films to be released. Ones deemed to be too violent or graphic or offensive or any number of other crimes that people throw around in such circumstances. More so than any of the other accusations of immorality on film, this is the question to which it ultimately breaks down. Why would the filmmakers unleash such a nightmarish work upon the world, filled with such inflammatory and offensive material? Shock value is often suggested as a reason, since using seditious images is a virtual guarantee of much publicity. Really, they would have to release it because they have something to say. Rarely is something so contentious released without reason. There is also the school of thought that would suggest that, if a piece of art can inspire such a vast amount of discussion and criticism, then it does hold some sort of worthy place in society, even if the piece is deemed “bad” and the discussions are on topics that most find uncomfortable. Indeed, Baise-moi hits on virtually all of the taboo subjects like it’s ticking them off a checklist. It’s use of violence and sex and blood, and the apparent enjoyment in such nefarious acts as murder and rape, does force the viewer to confront some pretty nasty things. However, does it really try to offer any sort of comment or observation on these things? Is it enough to simply show something terrible happening, and then place the onus on the audience to discuss what they see? If it were, then there’s no need to attempt any kind of storytelling, or concern yourself with how things may be perceived or considered. You could just show a rape and see where the feelings land.

I generally don’t see too much evidence for any kind of engagement from the filmmakers’ side about what it is they want to achieve from the film. Is it a porno? Absolutely not, since it’s in no way arousing, and it was clearly never the intention. Is it an effective thriller? Not really, because it quickly becomes kind of boring since the storytelling and characterisation goes all to hell from the minute the pair get together. Is it a good feminist text? I just don’t know about that. Certainly, it shows two women striking out on some sort of march of freedom that happens to include murder and theft, apparently taking power from a society that victimises them, but it’s hardly a positive one. Besides, it seems to be angry with everyone in general, occasionally glancing in the general direction of feminist principles as a sort of theoretical alibi.

… well, I sure seem to have talked myself in all manner of directions on this one. To a degree, I think that this is what most people would do when trying to engage with Baise-moi, though smarter people than I would do a much better job of things. After all of that, talking about it as much as you think you can as an intellectual property, there is still one last thing to consider, the thing that I said from the beginning couldn’t be entirely ignored from the process: the emotional reaction.

Honestly, when all is said and done, I still don’t like Baise-moi. For my money, as a film, the script is clunky and a complete stranger to logical storytelling, the direction regularly loses focus on what’s meant to be happening, and the acting is of a standard that mostly lands only on passable. I don’t think it’s brave, just a bit more willing to exploit things others would know better not to. I also get the feeling that I’ll end up putting much more effort into getting any meaning than the filmmakers did in conveying them. More than anything, though, I just get the feeling that this film doesn’t like me very much, and its reasons for that are pretty scattergun.

Animal Factory (2000)

ON THE INSIDE THE RULES ARE BRUTAL AND THE STAKES ARE HIGH

If there’s one place that I don’t know about, it’s prison. And if there’s one place that Eddie Bunker does know about, it’s prison. Bunker used to be a criminal, a seriously bad egg convicted of vandalism, armed robbery, numerous assaults, including jamming a fork in another boy’s eye at age 15 and stabbing a prison guard at 17. He was, for a while, the youngest inmate in the California penal system. However, on the inside, he became a novelist, writing No Beast So Fierce (about armed robbery) and Animal Factory (about life in prison). He also became friends with people in the business, including James Ellroy, Michael Mann and Danny Trejo. He’s also appeared in many films, most notably as Mr. Blue in Reservoir Dogs. As can be expected, some of his books, those mentioned above, were eventually turned into films.

Ron (Edward Furlong) is privileged young man, sentenced to a stretch in prison on marijuana charges. On the inside, he is taken under the wing of 18-year prison veteran, Earl Copen (Willem Dafoe). As Ron serves his time, he becomes part of Earl’s gang, so Earl can keep him out of trouble. However, with prison being the place that it is, filled with violence, drugs and the constant threat of assault, it might not take long before Ron succumbs to his environment.

I’ve actually got the novel for Animal Factory, although I’ve never got round to reading it. No real reason as to why, I’ve just been busy reading other things. I will say, though, that if the novel is anything like the script for Animal Factory, which Bunker co-wrote with John Steppling, a sporadic writer of crime films and TV, then I hold out less hope for the book than when I first acquired it. The script is quite poor. Although it is filled with some nice details of prison life that could only have come from someone with firsthand experience, the script that it produced is remarkably clumsy. The major problem is that Bunker and Steppling seem to have confused gritty brutality with a lack of subtlety. Often characters, particularly Ron, say what’s on their minds in an awkward attempt to convey information. You can understand the necessity for it, of course. The prison system is a complex thing, and the rules of conduct are as important as the rules of basic survival. Like Ron, we are a stranger to these walls, so we need someone to tell us what’s happening, who’s who, how to behave if you want to stay alive and… well, intact. Ron isn’t alone in this. Some of Earl’s conversations have the distinct air of mere exposition and explanation, so the feeling of being spoon-fed is hard to ignore. There are also quite a few plot holes, such as Ron’s father’s attempts to get him out and the film’s open-ended and weak denouement.

Some of our principle characters are rather poorly drawn, too. Ron’s relationship with Earl is meant to be something akin to a father-son dynamic, but neither character is sufficiently built to explain the reason for this. The only scene we have to think that there may be a problem between Ron and his real father, played by John Heard, is that his dad missed Ron’s court date, so he got sentenced on his own. However, every other time we see him, Ron’s father is attentive and loving and incredibly self-sacrificing. It’s also never properly determined why Earl would care one bit about Ron. Does he remind of him of himself when he was young? Does Earl have a son that won’t speak to him, and so Ron becomes a surrogate? Is he doing someone other than Ron a favour? It’s never really addressed in a way that offers a satisfactory explanation for his actions. Given that this is the central relationship of the film on which the film rests, it’s just not good enough to warrant any kind of investment from the viewer.

Sadly, the direction does little to rectify this situation, which is a real shame because it’s directed by Steve Buscemi. There is just no atmosphere to this prison. Given the title of the film and its very clear thesis (that prison is a place for breeding criminals, not rehabilitating them), there should be a palpable air of threat behind these bars. Scenes of violence seem to have such a distance to them, even when they involve our main protagonist. And everything just seems so blocky. There’s no sense of nuance or delicacy to the visuals. Just because we’re in a harsh place, doesn’t mean the images have to be so rudimentary. The environment isn’t even that harsh. One of the major obstacles to this lack of atmosphere is the cinematography from Phil Parmet, and the general lack of grit on everything. The lighting is so pleasant that the surroundings actually look quite comfortable. Hell, say what you want about Prison Break, at least that place looked grim and the characters were defined and somewhat threatening.

One of the more frustrating things about the film are the occasional hints at something interesting, a story that may be worth picking up on, or a character that clearly has some depth just waiting to be explored, but they never get picked up. At best, it’s a glimpse and a single line of dialogue and then we move on. For example, near the beginning of the film, Ron briefly talks to a black kid, another young man going to the same prison for the first time. They occasionally spot each other as they serve their sentence, but there’s one instance where we see the different positions they find themselves in. Passing each other in the hallway, it’s clear that the other young man has had to become the property of a much larger prisoner for protection; he’s become a “punk”. Thanks to Earl, Ron has not been broken down by the place in the same way, so he’s remained free of violation. This opens up an interesting notion, whereby we could much better see the kind of toll prison takes on a young man new to the system, compared to the relatively easy road Ron has. However, we so rarely see this other kid, and when we do he’s actually in decent shape, so the whole point is rather moot.

There are some things that are good. John Lurie’s music has an interesting edge to it, a bluesy feel streaked by metallic grindings that offset the surroundings better than the lighting or direction. There’s also a surprising and welcome cameo from Antony Hegarty, from Antony and the Johnsons, as a prisoner singing for other inmates at a performance night. The performances are okay for the most part, many trying their best to cope with such poor character development, Furlong and Dafoe included. Two performances stand out, however, as being the closest thing to having actual depth or presence, something tangible. Typically, they are both bit parts. The first is Mickey Rourke’s Jan, an effeminate transvestite prisoner who has taken to modelling himself after Liza Minelli, albeit a very butch Liza Minelli. Ron’s original cellmate, Jan talks incessantly, and very amusingly, about what he wants to do when he gets out, where he’ll go and how hard he finds it being so pretty in such a nasty place. It becomes clear that he is very lonely, and needs a sympathetic ear to listen to him because he feels so alone. It’s simply from how well Rourke plays Jan that we get a sense of the character’s place in prison and the world. It’s also absolutely typical that we never see or hear about him again after Ron is moved to another cell. He's just abandoned. The other good show comes from Tom Arnold, who plays Buck Rowan, a regular of the prison system, new to these parts and a thoroughly nasty individual. Arnold is a big, imposing guy, so Buck is actually the only person in this whole prison who makes any kind of impression as a threat, and Arnold does it with little more than a hard stare. Every time he’s onscreen, he’s very menacing, making no secret of his desire to rape Ron, despite his supposed protection. Once again, the film dispatches Buck quickly and, though we hear about him afterwards, it’s a very unsatisfying conclusion and leaves the film feeling hollow once again.

Animal Factory should really be much better than it is, but it simply isn’t. The script is weak, the direction is short-sighted, the cinematography is wholly inappropriate and most of the actors spend their time trying make up for the weakness in the writing. Plus, in this film, prison just seems so inconsequential. There’s no real feeling of lasting threat, from guards or other prisoners, or that this is the kind of place that can change a person forever. This isn’t an animal factory… it’s a Build-A-Bear Workshop.

Amores Perros (2000)

LOVE. BETRAYAL. DEATH.

Remember what Huey Lewis said about love? “It’s strong and it’s sudden and it can be cruel sometimes.” Well, Alejandro González Iñárritu would certainly seem to agree with that last bit. For his first feature film, Iñárritu would consider the stories of several different people, told along three interconnected storylines, and look at just how cruel love can be, particularly when some of those involved seem to be completely ignorant of how cruel they are actually being. Surely it works out that for one person to find happiness, another must find sadness and misery. How cruel can you really be to someone or something that you profess to love, and for what reasons would you really do that? That’s some pretty messed up power that love’s got, Huey.

The lives of three disparate individuals, each from a different social stance in society, become interconnected by a horrific car accident. Octavio (Gael García Bernal) wants to raise enough money so he can run away with his sister-in-law, and decides to enter his dog into dogfighting contests. After a fight goes bad, Octavio flees in his car, causing an accident in the process. Valeria (Goya Toledo)’s career as a model is destroyed when the accident costs her dearly. El Chivo (Emilio Echevarría) is a homeless man who cares for stray dogs and witnesses the collision.

The translation of this film’s title, Amores Perros, is ‘love’s a bitch’. For the characters in this world, it really is. The idea that love is a transcendent drive in a person, making them do bold and crazy things for the one they love, is a pretty common thing in films, particularly the aspirational fare of Hollywood. However, in this film, we look at the bad things people will do for those the supposedly love. Octavio is in love with Susana, the young wife of his brother, Ramiro. Susana already has a child by Ramiro, which is why they got married in the first place, and soon finds out that she’s pregnant again. Susana is also still in school, so relies on Ramiro and Octavio’s mother for help in raising her child. It’s clear that Susana does not get along with her mother-in-law, who rather looks down on Susana for ending up in this situation in the first place. Ramiro himself is also a rather nasty piece of work, an abusive philanderer and an armed robber. Susana can’t even rely on her own mother because she’s a drunk. The only person she can rely on, and has any kind of positive relationship with that we can see, is Octavio. The only times the either one of them seem to smile is when it’s at each other. It’s clear that Octavio likes Susana, and not just because he tells her. The question is whether or not Susana likes Octavio back. When he asks her to run away with him, she seems understandably hesitant. What about Ramiro? Where would they go? Neither of them have any money with which to do so. Octavio has a plan…

Daniel is a man with a family, wife and two young daughters. They seem happy. However, they do occasionally get phone calls from someone who hangs up when anyone answers. Well, not anyone. If Daniel answers, they stay on. We hear from one phone call that he has a mistress – Valeria. Valeria is a model, beautiful and successful, having just become the new spokesperson for a big fashion company’s ad campaign. On television shows and the like, she’s dating a famous actor, but really she’s with Daniel. After one show, Valeria is surprised with a new apartment, which she shall be sharing with Daniel, who tells her that he has now separated from his wife. The apartment could use a little work (a big hole breaks in the floorboards shortly after Valeria enters), but it’s okay because now they are together. Things are really looking up for the couple when Valeria is broadsided in a car wreck. Seriously injured, Valeria is confined to a wheelchair for a while, unable to work and in a declining physical condition, and the tension quickly begins to have a detrimental effect her relationship with Daniel, who is quietly becoming convinced of his mistake in leaving his family.

El Chivo is a homeless man who wanders the streets of Mexico City, where all of our action takes place. From our first viewing of the man, brandishing a machete, he is clearly quite dangerous. Such a view is cemented when we see him shoot a man through a restaurant window. It turns out that this is how he survives, as a killer for hire. We then watch him on two endeavours: he his hired by a business man to kill his partner; and he starts to follow a young woman that we first see at a funeral. We see El Chivo several times throughout the film before we even arrive at his story, but details are always light. We are furnished with more information about his past later on, but he remains, for the most part, a figure of some mystery.

Aside from the bone-shattering car crash we see at the film’s opening (and three more times as the film progresses), there is something else that connects our characters that I have not mentioned – they all have dogs. Indeed, how they treat their dogs tells you a lot about the characters, since the dogs are the most loving creatures in the film. Indeed, what can a dog do but love its master? Octavio’s plan to get money for himself and Susana is to enter his dog Cofi (technically his brother’s dog) into the world of dogfighting, a world in which Cofi becomes very successful. This is where some of the more difficult to watch aspects of the film come in. Indeed, it should say a lot that, like Address Unknown, the film actually opens with the disclaimer that normally comes at the end of the credits, stating that no animals were harmed in the making of this film. These contests aren’t exactly shown in as damning a light as many would like. Now, they never shy away from the aggressive, violent and bloody nature of such events, but Octavio certainly holds no moral pains in winning so much money from such cruelty. No one does. Valeria’s dog, Richie, is never near such horrors, but does suffer somewhat, too. When Valerie is recuperating in her new apartment, Richie chases a ball down the hole in the floor that Daniel doesn’t have the money to fix. The dog becomes lost down there for days, whimpering and scratching and being occasionally utterly silent, at the mercy of the darkness and the rats. Valeria wants him back, but Daniel wants her to rest, saying that Richie will be fine and he’ll come out when he’s ready. The longer Richie stays lost, the more frantic and desperate Valeria becomes. El Chivo is a keeper of several dogs, taking in one more when he finds the severely injured body of Cofi by the roadside after the car crash. Taking him and nursing him back to health, El Chivo is horrified and heartbroken when he comes back one day to see that the behaviour that has been drilled into Cofi has reared up again and been taken out on his other dogs. The dogs themselves essentially becomes direct reflections of each character by film’s end, but I’ll let you see how for yourself if you watch it.

Ultimately, this is what really comes across Amores Perros – love is a weakness, and weakness in a harsh place can get you killed. Octavio’s weakness for Susana brings him into direct conflict with Ramiro, as well as some other owners in the dogfighting circles, which costs him dearly. Valeria comes to question her love for Daniel, and his love for her, as she slowly begins to suspect him of having an eye on the door. After all, it’s not such a crazy notion to think he may be looking elsewhere since that’s exactly how they got together. El Chivo, whom you would almost think is beyond weakness, is hurt deeply when he takes in a dog that has been turned vicious by its previous owner. Consider the city in which the film is set – Mexico City. By the film’s telling, it’s a city of brutality, crime, mistrust, violence… of course weakness could kill you in a place like the one this film shows you. Hell, look back up at the film’s tagline – Love. Betrayal. Death. You get the feeling that there really should be an equals sign between each word.

Although, it is a very bleak and unsettling film, it’s some incredibly brave and vibrant filmmaking. It’s bold, ballsy, raw, shot through with ambition and held together with real power and dexterity. The scope is superb, making three stories feel so layered and rich. The acting is flawless, too. It may be a tough watch, but it’s worth it just for the sheer capability on show.

Amores Perros is a harsh film, sad, brutal and rather cynical, too. Plus, at two-and-a-half hours, it is a bit longer than some people will really be willing to give it. That said, it is also an excellent film, with involving stories and characters and a firm sense of direction from Iñárritu. I will say that, much like Address Unknown, if you’re particularly squeamish about violence to dogs (or any animal, really), you may wish to think twice before sitting down to this one. If you are willing to take it on, though, it is a worthy watch.

American Psycho (2000)

... NO INTRODUCTION NECESSARY

What can you really tell about a person from the image they project of themselves? If someone appears to be good, caring, and socially conscious, does it necessarily follow that they are? What if this is just a persona that they put on for other people? What if the reality of that person is much darker and more dangerous than you think? In the 1991 novel American Psycho, Bret Easton Ellis conceived of such a person, a murderous psychotic that everyone believes to be harmless, so good that he’s actually kind of a simp. Setting it the 80s, the decade of the "Me Generation", it was also a satire on the drug-fuelled vacuity and self-absorbed nature of the upper-class elite having their heyday at the time. Nine years later, the highly controversial novel was finally brought to the big screen.

Patrick Bateman (Christian Bale) is handsome, wealthy and intelligent. He’s twenty-seven years old and living the good life. He’s also a homicidal lunatic whose obsession with murder and nightly escapades see him cut a bloody swathe through the streets of New York. Lately, though, he feels like his careful mask of sanity is starting to slip…

American Psycho is a tough read. Not even really because of the incredibly graphic depictions of sex and murder, often one leading to the other, but because of the sheer density of the material. The book is told, mostly, from the perspective of its main character, Patrick Bateman, whose mind works in a very interesting way. Sure, he’s a vicious maniac, but he’s also obsessed with making sure he fits in with those around him. As such, he’s highly concerned with details. So much of his concentration is taken up with noting exactly what people are wearing that it’s almost a psychosis in itself. There’s one instance in the novel when Bateman, on seeing someone he knows enter a bar, mentally notes everything they are wearing, what the label is for each item and runs through the alphabet four times before they’ve crossed the room to meet him. This rather concisely illustrates his level of obsession with the exterior, the frankly terrifying speed at which his mind works and his pathological need to keep his mind distracted, occupied by some meaningless task. It’s this last aspect that means a great deal. What is it he needs to distract himself from? Bateman answers this in an anecdote to his friends about infamous serial killer Ed Gein. Bateman asks, “Do you know what Ed Gein said about women?… ‘When I see a pretty girl walking down the street, I think two things. One part wants me to take her out, talk to her, be real nice and sweet and treat her right.’ Bateman’s friend asks, “And what did the other part think?” His reply, “What her head would look like on a stick.” Bateman finds this very amusing, but it’s a rather telling insight into the way he himself thinks, why he needs to distract himself by noting Armani suits and Rolex watches and luggage from Dolce & Gabbana. He needs to try to fit in because, if he doesn’t, his horrifying bloodlust will completely take over.

One of the weird things about the book is that, despite all of the murders and the sex and full chapters about Phil Collins and Whitney Houston, it’s actually very funny. Bateman may be a maniac, but he’s such a goofy sonofabitch, such a pantomimic character, such a complete and utter dork that you often completely forget about his desire to mutilate and kill. In fact, many of these scenes, shocking as they may be, are so ridiculously over-the-top that they come off as darkly comic anyway. The book itself is also a very sharp and witty satire on the rampaging egotism and self-obsessed vanity of the Wall Street elite. A moment of great humour comes when Bateman and his peers compare their business cards, seeing who has the best one. Never mind the fact that they all say Vice President (echoing a theme of near God-like power, but without the full weight of responsibility). Just notice the colouring, the font stylisation, the texture, the thickness… they’re all pretty much the exact same card, but for the little details that denote the subtle shades of superiority in their circle. Others may be able to shake this off easier, but Bateman is instantly plunged into meltdown, a world of self-doubt and rage. He must kill because the guy that he hates has a business card with a watermark.

It says a lot for the film that these various details and ideas are kept gleefully intact in the transition from page to screen. Writers Mary Harron (also the director) and Guinevere Turner (also with a small role) do a fine job of locating these moments and bringing them to life onscreen. They also do an excellent job of condensing some of the denser passages of the novel down to some choice sequences. As I previously mentioned, there are some moments in the book where entire chapters are dedicated to Huey Lewis, Phil Collins, Whitney Houston or the intricate technical detail of Bateman’s new stereo (that was a tough one). They have maintained this sense of absurd detail that concerns their protagonist’s mind, but they’ve also nicely captured the tone of the piece. Yes, it’s often quite unnerving, but it’s more frequently very amusing. Like the novel, it invites you to laugh at someone that you should be scared of, mainly because he’s actually a complete tool. Christ, he wears a tuxedo and rides in a limousine to pick up a hooker. The guy actually seems to think he's James Bond. They’ve also maintained the constant play of mistaken identity very well, though it’s too much a part of the story to be left ignored. There really isn’t a wasted moment or opportunity in the script... sort of... I'll get to that later.

Harron’s direction is interesting. It’s not that it’s bad, it’s actually really very good. I just get the occasional feeling that there’s a missed opportunity here and there, moments that would have been more resonant if tweeked just slightly. One such example is near the beginning of the film, when Bateman is in a club buying some drinks. He tries to use drink tickets, but is informed that they’re no good anymore and he’ll have to pay with cash. He happily does so, but as soon as the bartender’s back is turned, he tells her “You’re a fucking ugly bitch. I want to stab you to death, and then play around with your blood,” most of which we can only see if the mirror above the bar. She doesn’t hear him because the music is so loud (along with some degree of the self-absorbed nature of all of the characters), so when she turns back, he’s smiling again and goes on his way. I just feel like this would have carried more weight if all of his vicious threatening were seen only in the mirror, thus better echoing the theme of duality in the piece. However, this is only a small point. I’m certainly not going to crack down on her for her work. There’s actually a scene that has only one word of dialogue, but wonderfully sums up exactly how Bateman gets away with being what he is. He sees a woman walking down the street (the streets are always virtually deserted) and follows her a little. She stops at a pedestrian crossing, he stops right beside her. From looking forward, he looks to her, smiles and says “Hello.” She curtly says hello back and they both look forward again… and then she looks back at the nice handsome polite gentleman standing next to her. The light changes and the two start walking together, wordlessly, away from us and towards the darkness. It’s subtle and elegant and tells us just how easy it is for Bateman to snare a victim. Classic territory of people like Ted Bundy, who was so nice and calm that he once managed to talk himself out of a speeding ticket, despite having the bagged remains of a cheerleader in his backseat at the time. It’s positively chilling. And the title sequence does exactly what the titles of Dexter would do six years later, finding the vicious in the mundane. Harron really has done some excellent work.

There are strong performances throughout the film, but Christian Bale dominates all of them. It’s a superb act, layered and solid. Bale is, regardless of what he may be like in his regular life, a damn good actor, approaching every role with a fierce commitment. On first note, Bale certainly captures Bateman’s physicality. Bateman is as obsessed with maintaining his physique as he is with covering it with the best clothes money can buy, and Bale fully embraces this regimen and looks every inch the muscular fitness freak that’s needed. More than this, though, Bale captures the entire raging torrent inside Bateman. Two scenes stand out on this front. The first scene is when Bateman murders a colleague in his apartment whilst giving his critique on the career of Huey Lewis. It’s important to consider that, for serial killers like Bateman, murder is a substitute for the sex act, and this scene corresponds, in a very twisted manner, to a sex scene. An equivalent moment in another film would probably see the guy giddily prepare for the evening by pouring the girl a drink, putting on some romantic music (Marvin Gaye, classic), ensuring protection and making his move. Now, look at this one… Bateman giddiliy prepares for the evening by getting his victim drunk, putting on some music (Huey Lewis, because Bateman probably has no conception of what’s romantic), ensuring protection (he’s laid down some paper and donned a plastic raincoat) and making his move (swinging an axe into his victim’s forehead). Bale is hysterical in this scene, amping up the absurdity of the piece (he even moonwalks into the room, for God’s sake) and acting like a complete cheeseball before turning on a penny, and becoming an utter monster. That is superb control. The second scene to consider is Bateman’s cackling, sobbing, unsettling confession to his lawyer. It’s mostly in a single take and runs the complete gamut of frayed emotional intensity of a quickly devolving killer, and it’s very impressive. Bale even delivers the little moments expertly, such as his regular excuse that he has to “return some videotapes.” It’s always delivered with a weird kind of self-righteous force, as if he’s making a firm and resolute declaration of status that requires his utmost attention. Bale is on absolute fire in this film.

There is one thing that is something of a cause for concern in the movie, which it turns out is something from the book as well. I’ve already said that Harron’s direction is very good and that the script from herself and Turner does a fine job of transposing the novel to the screen. However, there is something of a debate regarding how it all ends, both in the book and the film. Ellis’ books often rest on a degree of ambiguity (In Less Than Zero, it was a few chapters in before I could pin down the gender of the main character), with some lack of certainty as to whether or not the crimes of American Psycho even took place. From my understanding of the novel, and the film, I believed it to be pretty clear that all of Bateman’s murders did not happen and existed only in his head. I’m certainly not alone on this one. In fact, I have only ever met one person who thought that Bateman really did kill all those people. Since that time, though, I have come to learn that Ellis, Harron and Turner all share the same perspective… of course he did it. I find this rather disquieting. I’m not exactly stupid, and I know some very smart people, so how can we have got things so clearly wrong? It would seem that there is plenty of evidence to support our case. For the sake of simplicity, I’ll stick to the film for this bit. There is one sequence that is so often offered as evidence of the “all in his head” school, which is towards the end and begins with Bateman trying to feed a cat into an ATM. He’s at the machine, taking out some money, as he regularly does. A stray cat starts to rub against his leg, so he picks it up. The ATM screen then reads ‘FEED ME A STRAY CAT’, which he tries to do. An old woman sees him and asks him what he’s doing, so he shoots her dead. This kicks off a short police chase, which sees him kill several other people, become involved in a typical Hollywood style shootout with the cops, blowing up a car with a single shot (which surprises even him), before ducking into his office building to evade the helicopter. This all smacks of the kind of juvenile fantasy that a dork who watches too many 80s action movies would cook up to feel important and noticed (there’s actually way more to it in the book). Are we to take it that these moments actually happened? That an ATM really did tell Bateman to feed it a cat? That he really did blow up a cop car with a single shot?

Keep in mind that Bateman narrates this film, so it is all being told from his perspective, which he willingly admits is rather skewed. Given the somewhat compromised nature of this telling, can we really trust anything that we see? The only time we leave Bateman as a narrative anchor is when we see his secretary, Jean (Chloë Sevigny), discover his diary in his desk drawer, which is filled with detailed and disturbing drawings of what we have, until now, seen to be his genuine nightly activities. Is it not perfectly reasonable to think that perhaps these drawings are the beginning and end of his homicidal desires? Also, the points when one of his victims seems to still be alive, although we never seem them again, adds more to this. On the other hand, the constant points of mistaken identity throughout could just as easily cover this. Ellis has said that the reason Bateman finds it so difficult to confess or be caught is because that is part of the satire. Precisely because everyone is so self-involved and concerned with the pursuit of profit, each person a hideous personification of corporate America’s greed, that they genuinely couldn’t care less if one of their own is hacking up a bunch of whores and winos. Ellis makes the point that if Bateman didn’t kill people, this satirical point is rendered moot and the purpose of the novel made irrelevant… I’m not sure I agree with this, even if it means I’m apparently wrong. The satire does still exist within the piece, even if you disregard the “fact” that Bateman is killing people. The characters are still self-obsessed, vain, drug-crazed, profit-fuelled bastards. And whether he committed the crimes or not, the fact that they don’t even entertain Bateman’s confessions and apparent lunacy speak to this regard too. The point isn’t that Bateman has killed people. The point is that no one cares either way.

The only thing that I can really see coming mainly from this idea that he did kill these people is perhaps that the reason no one cares is because they are all the same. They are all equally possessed of the same drives and urges that Bateman feels, it’s just that they seem to handle it better than he does. This would give a degree of credence to the picture that everyone seems to have of Bateman, that he’s a wimp, a dweeb, “a lightweight.” The idea that Bateman believes that he is alone in these killer urges, whereas the “truth” is that he’s really not, seems to fly in the face of what would seem to be the popular notion amongst real serial killers and mass murderers. People like Charles Manson often make the point that they only thing that separates them from us is the final act itself. They say that inside we’re all just like them, we just haven’t got that far yet. In this case, it isn’t Bateman that’s the psycho; it’s the book, it's society. He’s the abnormal one because he seems to be the only one who thinks someone should care. The darkness of this implication is almost overwhelming, and is actually so huge that it’s difficult to believe that this is the correct reading from what we have on show. I really like the book, and the movie, but I feel somewhat unsettled by the final product not because of its message, but because of the disconnect that seems to exist between the intention and the reality. It rather says a lot that both Harron and Turner have said that they feel they failed in adequately expressing what they wanted to with the film, that their attempts to echo the ambiguity of the source rendered the film lacking in the final statement intended. For what it’s worth, the fact that, at the end of both the film and the book, I came away with the exact same conclusion surely speaks to how well they adapted the book. But then, what do I know, I thought it was all in his head…

Putting aside the disquieting ambiguity of the whole product, American Psycho is still a fine film, built around an absolutely searing performance by Christian Bale. It’s troubling, it’s funny, it’s thoroughly interesting and it really is something that can be debated endlessly. Maybe some of you can figure it out.

Almost Famous (2000)

EXPERIENCE IT. ENJOY IT. JUST DON'T FALL FOR IT.

Cameron Crowe is someone whose teenage years should be envied by everyone. When he was young, still in school, he became a music journalist for Rolling Stone magazine, and went on tour with The Allman Brothers Band. He was almost in a plane crash with The Who. He wrote the liner notes for Lynyrd Skynyrd’s live One for the Road album. And for all of this, he was still only about 15. Eventually becoming a filmmaker, Crowe would make many a film that concerned itself with the lives of teenagers, but it wasn’t until 2000 that he tackled his own. As such, he made his story into the film Almost Famous.

It’s 1973 and 15-year-old William Miller, a high-school boy and aspiring music writer, is given the chance to write a story for Rolling Stone Magazine, joining up with Stillwater, an up-and-coming rock band on their concert tour. Along the way, he tries to be a professional, but gets caught up in the world of the band and band aides, led by Penny Lane (Kate Hudson).

There are two things that shine through Crowe’s script for Almost Famous, and the subsequent film he shot. The first is an unbelievably rich and detailed account of the events as remembered by a young writer in a world others could only dream of. There are so many small moments, looks and minutiae throughout the film. The specific albums that William’s sister gives him, the band’s leader singer using shaving cream as hair gel, the pre-show rituals. This gives things a sense of authenticity to the moment, a rich feeling of legitimacy. The second thing that comes through is the sheer love of the people that made it possible for him to be involved in it. She may be over-bearing and severe, but there is nothing but love for William’s mother. He may be distrustful and rather self-centred, but there is such awe for Russell Hammond. He may be blunt and have a taste that borders on the oppressive, but there is deep respect for Lester Bangs. And she may be spacey and lonely, but you can still feel the pangs for Penny Lane. Crowe’s script is, at its heart, a road movie, and road movies are about self-discovery and change. You really can see and feel the change in William because of his journey, and you know it’s the same change that Crowe felt in his. As a man looking back on his younger years, Crowe has the wisdom to know that without these people, he would not be the same person. It's actually rather touching just for the sheer gratitude that comes through. The script is occasionally so personal that it would feel uncomfortable if it weren’t for the fact that it’s told with such affection and joy.

There is no one else that could have directed this film but Crowe. Not even just because of its personal nature, but because another director may have missed out on the small things that make it so wonderfully textured, or even because they may have changed things to reflect their own personal feelings on the subject or the time or the characters. Only Crowe would have remembered to show the tape on the floor used to mark a pathway to the stage, or known the simple power of having the band reconcile on the bus by singing Tiny Dancer. And he has such a great ear for the music of the period, so the film is positively soaked through with such great stuff. As much as the film is a love letter to his youth and the people that made him who he is, it’s a love letter to the music that inspired him to want to become who he is. The soundtrack is awash with greatness, from Sabbath to Zeppelin to Elton John to Joni Mitchell to Cat Stevens to Yes to Jimi Hendrix to the Beach Boys… even the stuff from the film’s fictitious band, Stillwater, is great.

The cast for the film are superb, and done with a great sense of stature. William is played by newcomer Patrick Fugit. This was really his first feature role and he does great. With his boyish looks and his mildly self-conscious air, he totally sells that he is new to this world of egos and hedonistic fun. Frances McDormand is excellent as William’s intellectual mother, a firm presence of authority, but not so domineering that she smothers her son in something he truly wants to do. It’s kind of a tightrope walk, but McDormand can certainly handle this kind of thing. Philip Seymour Hoffman is, as expected, great as Lester Bangs, William’s writing mentor. Bangs exudes the snobbishness of a real music lover, but also the sincere and firm belief that to be good at what both he and William do is to be “honest and unmerciful.” Jeff Bebe is played with great passion by Jason Lee, who brings Jeff’s swagger and frustration to life beautifully. Billy Crudup is equally great as Russell Hammond, a role that also something of a tightrope, since one slip and he would lose that spark that makes him so compelling. The casting of these two is superb, since Lee is the one people may be more familiar with, that we recognise more, thus being the band’s front man. However, Crudup is the one people, including William, seem to lock on, partially because we don’t know him as well. He really is the guitarist with mystique. The real triumph is Kate Hudson. She may have spent her career since wandering aimlessly through the world of mediocre romantic comedy, but here she is a gem. There are many times where she seems like a girl playing dress-up and hanging with the grown ups, but that’s precisely what rests at the heart of Penny Lane. Rock stars are the friends she plays with, and she has such a great connection with their music, but at the same time she is looking for a deeper connection to them. She constantly refers to some other place, somewhere else, “the real world.” Her world is a place of fantasy, of constant playtime with fun people. So when she gets reminded of the artifice of it all, or the lack of solidity in her relationships, it hurts. When William tells her how she was literally lost to another band in a poker game, along with a case of beer, her reaction is heartbreaking. The smile disappears, there’s a slight confusion, some tears, and then she puts on a brave face and asks, “What kind of beer?” She tries to make it fun again, but you can see the damage is done. Hudson really is the best thing on show.

Almost Famous is a great movie, and exudes such a genuine affection, and gratitude, for the people and the world it looks at. There is such warmth from the film, such great detail from the script, and such superb performances throughout that it’s almost impossible not to be taken by the spirit of the whole. The love of the time and the music is so infectious that I suppose the real test of how much the film succeeds is down to whether or not, after watching it, you feel the need to listen to some music of that era… in my case, success. And in case you wanted to know, I listened to Focus’ Moving Waves whilst writing this.