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Showing posts with label Dustin Hoffman. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dustin Hoffman. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 27, 2015
Wednesday, May 27, 2015
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Truly, the world was crying out for a PG-rated Whiplash. The Choir (aka Boychoir) is a tranquilliser pill with a slick and sugary coating that follows genre beats with slavish adherence and, appropriately for a film about a choir, ultimately settling for vanishing unseen into the cinematic crowd.
Working the classical a rags to riches template, our hero is tousled-hair moppet Stet (Garrett Wareing). He's literally a kid from the wrong side of the tracks - trains run right past his house. Stet is a troubled kid in that Hollywood sort of way, getting into fights at school and caring for his unconscious alcoholic mother. She's perfunctorily dispatched in a car crash about five minutes in, and Stet falls into the care of his father (Josh Lucas).
Unfortunately for Stet, it turns out he's the secret product of a one-night stand and his father absolutely does not want his 'real' family discovering his existence. So, in an unlikely twist, he's dispatched to the megaposh 'Boychoir School'. Stet has oodles of raw vocal talent, but is way behind the other children. But, under the tutelage of perfectionist Carvelle (Dustin Hoffman), snippy British teacher Drake (Eddie Izzard) and ex-student Wooly (Kevin McHale), there's a chance, a superslim chance, that just maybe, he could become the best damn choirboy they've ever seen.
The problem with The Choir isn't one of construction and technique. By and large this is a decent looking film, the school itself is an attractive location and David Franco's cinematography makes a point of finding the most interesting framing, backgrounds and shot set-ups.
I can't pick any bones with regard to the performances either. Garrett Wearing is obviously an actor to watch, brimming over with an extremely River Phoenix-esque inner tension and making the transformation from bad kid to boy angel broadly believable. Hoffman and Bates both perform precisely to spec: both effortlessly good, though neither remotely stretching themselves. Izzard also impresses, managing to find something interesting to do in practically every line (although his close-eyes-wave-hands-in-the-air musical appreciation schtick gets a bit old by the end).
Neither does it trip up on the musical front. If you're really into lots of prepubescent boys singing in absurdly high-pitched voices, The Choir more than has you covered. Even if that doesn't float your boat you can't deny the film sounds great, particularly the moments when Carvelle deconstructs the choir and shows the audience how everything fits together.
Sadly, the real crimes here are ones of extraordinarily limited ambition. From the moment Stet arrives at the school you can tell precisely where all this is going, right down to individual character beats. You might assume that a film that telegraphs what's going to happen so baldly might make a surprise swerve in the final act - no such luck. Like a freight train juddering down the tracks, The Choir is going to end up at it's intended destination right on time with a minimum of fuss.
Knackered plot device after knackered plot device is deployed: a half-assed rivalry with a posh kid, the stern teacher with a heart of gold, a training montage, the aversion of last minute disaster and so on. The effect on the audience is one of mild boredom, not helped by a script that assumes the audience are morons. "This is really hard music!" exclaims a moppet while looking at the morass of notes Stet must wring from his throat. Yeah, no shit kid, we can see that.
The Choir is even more disappointing given that this is directed by François Girard, whose daringly structured Thirty Two Short Films About Glenn Gould is one of my benchmarks of cinema about music . There, Girard was at pains to emphasise that musical virtuosity couldn't be adequately captured using traditional cinematic forms - a lesson he appears to have forgotten in churning out this sentimental doggerel.
Most obviously, the film suffers in comparison to last year's Whiplash, which tells broadly the same story but far, far, far more interestingly. Hoffman's Carvelle isn't fit to lick Simmons' Fletcher's boots, despite both being cut from the same mold and professing the same philosophy. Whiplash feels like you're drinking a triple espresso - The Choir feels like you're drinking lukewarm, unpleasantly milky tea.
Probably destined to be forgotten, The Choir could perhaps make a footnote in history as a promising role for its child star. Whatever 'it' is, Garrett Wearing has it, and his performance elevates what could have been teeth-grindingly crappy into mere safe, fuzzy mediocrity. That's not a huge improvement, but hey, I suppose it could have been worse.
★★
The Choir is released 10 July 2015.
Sunday, June 22, 2014
Sunday, June 22, 2014
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In 2010 Jon Favreau had the world at his feet. With the rapturously received Iron Man having kicked off the gargantuan Marvel movie franchise he was Hollywood's new blocksbuster golden boy. As they began preproduction on the billion dollar grossing The Avengers he was the presumptive director, ready to ascend to the heights of a Spielberg or a Nolan. Then it all went a bit wrong. The Marvel execs stuck their beak into Iron Man 2, constantly tossing Favreau last minute script revisions and crowbarring in plot elements for upcoming films. This, coupled with financial wheeling and dealing resulted in a mess of a movie, a production so frazzling Favreau openly worried whether his career as a director was kaput.
And then he made Cowboys & Aliens. Enough said.
Now, after three years away from the directors chair, he's returned with Chef. Gone is the CG bombast, in its place a small-scale indie film about a talented artist stymied by thoughtless suits who want him to keep on putting out the same old schlock. There's more than a whiff of autobiography here, especially as Favreau, writes, directs and stars. Getting back to basics with a tightly crafted personal movie like this is a kind of personal exorcism, taking ones demons and moulding them into art.
Favreau plays Carl Caspers, Head Chef at a prestigious restaurant. This is a man entirely committed to food, devoting his entire day to sourcing ingredients, preparing menus and actually cooking it. A few years ago he was the hot new chef in town, doyenne of the food critics and achingly fashionable. But now, through little fault of his own, he's become complacent. The owner of the restaurant is eager not to mess with a winning formula, meaning that Casper's been serving the same menu for what feels like forever - every time he attempts to mix things up a bit he's immediately shot down.
Things all come to a head when he gets a snooty review from an online critic (hmm...). Casper blows his top, ending up as a much-mocked viral video. Sacked from the restaurant and hiding in reclusive disgrace he eventually concludes that he should run a travelling food van where he can have total control over what he serves. And so we learn that the path to redemption is paved with ham and cheese toasties.
In a bit of a perverse twist, much of what makes Chef enjoyable is also the reason why it gets a little tedious. For example, the practically pornographic fascination with food preparation is obviously borne of Favreau's actual passion for food. In the opening scenes of the film you watch him slice an onion up, his skill with a kitchen knife telling us all we need to know about both the character and the actor's skill. But injecting so much of yourself into a film makes it feel Favreau cleaning out his closet, and the main subplot of connecting with his precocious son is served up with a few too many spoonfuls of sugar.
That said, Chef is such a breezy, optimistic and modest film that it's difficult to dislike. Favreau is a solid (though not exceptional) actor, but this role plays to his matey, intelligently masculine traits. Fortunately he's ably supported by an excellent supporting cast including Scarlett Johansson, Dustin Hoffman Oliver Platt and an all too brief appearance from his real life best bud, Robert Downey Jr. I guess when you're a Hollywood bigshot it's easy to corral A-listers for a day's shooting here and there. That said, they're stars for a reason, and this stable of charismatic characters goes a long way to buoying up the film. Heck, even the cute kid, Emjay Anthony, is tolerable enough.
Decently handled though it is, the bonding with his son element of the story is riddled with cliche. What felt far more relevant to me was the way online critics are treated. I saw this at a press screening, surrounded by others of my ilk, and as Favreau righteously rages against those that smugly sit behind a keyboard and dissect what others have poured their soul into there was a ripple of uncomfortableness across the room. Favreau isn't so gauche as to broadside against all critics, but there is the definite sensation that the Oliver Platt character is a punching bag against which he can beat out his frustrations. Maybe in future I will reflect before I dish out some particular cruelty... (nah).
Anyway, Chef is unlikely to attract too much opprobrium as it's pretty good. It's slight and inconsequential, but the tale of a man discovering inner peace through hocking toasted sandwiches to hipsters just about works. The passion for cooking burns from the screen; lending it the credibility that's a large part of why it works. The film is undoubtedly some form of therapy for Favreau, but it's a pleasant and interesting enough therapy to eavesdrop on.
★★★
Chef is on general release from June 25th
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Saturday, December 29, 2012
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You'll know the cloth from which 'Quartet' is cut pretty fast. The film is almost entirely set in a friendly retirement home full of opera singers and classical musicians that are past their prime. But it's in financial trouble! The only way it can be saved is for four once world famous opera singers is to band together and perform their signature piece, thus raising enough money to keep the place going. But they've all got problems and little bits of personal development that they have to get through before they can get back on stage, prove that age is no barrier to success and give the best damn performance of their lives.
'Quartet' winds a familiar path through a setup that's as creaky as its characters, who are played by the cream of British establishment acting. Our quartet is composed of Jean (Maggie Smith), Wilf (Billy Connolly), Reginald (Tom Courtenay) and Cissy (Pauline Collins). In supporting roles are a mixture of established theatrical performers, notably Michael Gambon and Andrew Sachs and a smattering of actual retired classical performers, none of whom I recognised, but all of whom get a nice shout-out to their careers in the credits.
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| Left to Right: Billy Connolly, Tom Courtenay, Andrew Sachs and Pauline Collins |
These leads are about as safe a set of hands you could hope to hire for a film like this. There is no conceivable way that Billy Connolly is going to misfire in a role that primarily requires him to say quasi-sexual inneundos to pretty young nurses. Likewise, Maggie Smith plays the role of a slightly depressed elderly opera singer struggling to regain her confidence brilliantly. In one sorrowful stare through a pane of glass she conveys everything you need to know about her misery at ageing and having to move into a retirement home. it's impressive, but then, it's Maggie Smith. Of course she's going to be good. The highlight for me is Michael Gambon as 'Cedric', the overbearing bumbling musical director. As a minor character he's not burdened with the serious, sad scenes that the central quartet are, and gets to cut free a bit, overacting in what seems to be his Dumbledore costume minus the beard.
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| Maybe this is just Gambon's style now? |
You very quickly realise here that the film is set on an course, and is inexorably plodding towards a big concert finale. As soon as they mention this, it's just a matter of when, not how we're going to get there. Whether a conscious choice or not, this drains a lot of dynamism from a film that is content to spend the majority of its run time meandering through low-stakes emotional conflict.
I guess you have to work out who exactly the film is aimed at: the elderly. This seems primed to ride the wave that stuff like 'The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel' (which I haven't seen) have generated. 'Quartet' is a film that plays it safe at every opportunity, and treats its target audience with a faint, unconscious contempt for their critical faculties. Humourwise there's nothing original here; all the jokes in here are straight out of the 'old age' cliche book; ha, they have to piss a lot! Ha-ha look he's old and still horny! Hey look, she's a bit dotty and forgetful! Hilarious. It seems a bit insulting to assume that older audiences want the film equivalent of a cup of weak tea.
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| Maggie Smith as Jean, and Sheridan Smith as Dr Lucy Cogan |
Worse, the world of the retirement home is sinisterly sugar-coated. Beecham House is more of a luxury spa than a retirement home, staffed full of cheeky and cheery empathetic characters who are more than happy to indulge their elderly patients. This is a fairly light-hearted comedy and I didn't exactly want the film go all Haneke on me, but maybe a few quick acknowledgements life in an extremely plush hospital isn't all happy fun times wouldn't have gone amiss. A prime example is a light-hearted scene where Wilf (Connolly) negotiates with the Doctor that runs the place about going out to a restaurant for dinner. It's presented in a fun, flirty and friendly way, but there's a sinister undertone of enforced confinement.
'Quartet's message is inarguably a noble one: old age shouldn't be a barrier to achievement and that a new chapter in our lives can come along right when you least expect it. But all of the personal growth that happens in the film is the result of our leads surrendering their independence and trotting off to live in seclusion in the countryside with other old people. Beecham House may be kind, opulent and friendly, but it is a cage. The film feels like the kind of thing that a cold hearted son or daughter with their eye on their old Mum's house might show her to try and convince to her move out of the place. "Oh look all your friends will be there! And the nurses are so friendly! There's even zumba!"
But 'Quartet' doesn't only stumble in delivering its uplifting message, it's a structurally flawed film and, like an ill-made souffle, completely collapses towards the end. Dustin Hoffman, in his directorial debut, has made a film that's sickly sweet in it's imagery. It's hard to gauge just how much time passes between scenes as it feels like damn near every outside shot is taken on a hazy summer evening as the sun is about to set. I get it Hoffman. The sun is setting but it is still beautiful. Perhaps this isn't quite as clever and subtle as you think. The film shamelessly exploits an overly twee rural England aesthetic, characters traipse through compositions that look like they've been ripped from the front of a tin of shortbread. These aren't the fastest moving characters in film either, so you're going to drink in this cloying countryside postcardiness whether you like it or not.
Despite all this, I am still a bit of a sucker for films that end in a big concert scene. You know deep down that everything's going to work out alright, but there's behind the scenes trouble, last minute panics, sudden losses of confidence and so on. It's manipulative and cliched, but does a workman like job of ratcheting up the tension. But then two things happen in quick sequence that sucked out whatever goodwill I had left remaining for the film. They're spoiled below, but frankly it's better you know about them now rather than waste your money.
The central pressure on our leads is to raise enough money by putting on a concert to save the luxurious, friendly retirement community that they live in. This means there is a certain pressure of responsibility on our leads, they must each risk their own dignity for the community that supports them. This gives them a heroic nobility that is vital in getting us to sympathise with them. But this structure means that the real triumph isn't them actually performing, it's just that they will appear on the bill. The film actually calls attention to this, saying "we've saved the home!" before the climax. Doing this pulls the plug on the wider drama going on around the characters.
That's a problem, but there is a far, far worse one that dawns on you in the closing seconds. This is a film about opera singers discovering that they've still got it. We hear all about how our leads were amazing in their time, but we never actually get to hear them sing prior to the finale. We see a montage set to music of them rehearsing, showing their frustrations and joy as they obviously begin to get the hang on it. The tension builds as their spot at the top of the bill draws closer, and by the time they step on stage we're as racked with nerves as they are. Will Wilf keep his balance? Will Jean hit those high notes like she used to? Will Cissy's dress stay in one piece? It's the final round in 'Rocky'. It's the choir performing for the Pope in 'Sister Act'. Hell, it's the battle of the bands in 'Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey'. The band starts up, we lean forward and...
Fade to black. Credits.
WHAT?! All that and we don't even get to hear them sing? Hey 'Quartet', in the words of Maggie Smith's Jean I'm about to say a very rude thing:
"Fuck you!"
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| This doesn't happen. Boooooooooo! |
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