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The Great Gatsby (2013)
In my review of Life of Pi five months ago, I spoke about the… More
In my review of Life of Pi five months ago, I spoke about the difficulties of adaptation and the snobbery associated with film versions of celebrated works of literature. This becomes all the more magnified when we combine F. Scott Fitzgerald, one of the great American novelists, with Baz Luhrmann, one of the world's most divisive filmmakers. But while The Great Gatsby may not quite be great, it is a great deal better than many would have us believe.
Like all of Luhrmann's films, appreciating Gatsby requires at least some understanding of his style and intentions. Many of the common criticisms of his work stem from misplaced expectations, with people reprimanding him for consciously emphasising things he never intended. Many will dismiss this film as flashy, shallow or over-the-top, but to do so would greatly underestimate the unique qualities that Luhrmann brings, which set the film apart from many more conventional adaptations.
Luhrmann has always been more interested in drawing comparisons between different themes and cultures than he has ever been in historical fidelity. He never settles for realism as a substitute for storytelling, and frequently bend the rules of reality to make a point. Take Gatsby's car as an example. Any historian or mechanic will tell you that no car in the 1920s could possibly drive that fast - but it doesn't matter. Luhrmann is using it to make a point about Gatsby as a person, using it to represent his affluence, his individuality and the danger that surrounds him.
It's therefore fair to say that this film is not one for purists of period detail. While many of the novel's most famous moments are replicated (including the famous shirts scene), Luhrmann makes no attempt to ground every second in the 1920s. This is clearly seen in the soundtrack, arranged by Jay-Z and featuring a Jack White cover of U2's 'Love Is Blindness' during the car crash. Merely capturing a period is not a sign of substance, and there is a lot of substance in amongst the show-stopping fun.
As with Moulin Rouge!, Luhrmann is drawing a parallel between two different periods of Western history, illuminating similarities with the past in order to provoke discussion about the present. In Moulin Rouge! he compared the Bohemian culture of the 1890s with the rave culture of the 1990s, highlighting the similar levels of drug abuse, sexual freedom and potential levels of heartbreak. Christian's reaction at Satine's sudden death from tuberculosis reflects the anguish of anyone who lost their friend to an ecstasy overdose or other such tragedy.
In this case, Luhrmann contrasts the Roaring Twenties that Gatsby inhabits with our world before the collapse of Lehmann Brothers. The characters operate in a world in which traditional boundaries (whether moral or regulatory) no longer have any power, meaning or relevance. Hedonism and financial prosperity go hand in hand, and it doesn't matter where the money comes from so long as it ends up in the right places. This is truly akin to the world Professor Millar described in Britannia Hospital as "a tiny minority indulg[ing] themselves in absurd and extravagant luxuries!".
There's no denying that Luhrmann knows how to shoot a party. The parties at Gatsby's mansion are even more elaborate and chaotic than the dance floor antics in Moulin Rouge!, with impeccable choreography and a constant need for the next act to one-up its predecessor. Both Christian and Nick Carraway are caught in the middle of a maelstrom, and so the same principle applies with regards to the editing of these parties. Luhrmann intends to confuse and deprive you of the full picture, putting you in the shoes of impressionable young men whose minds are truly being blown.
The Great Gatsby is emphatically about money, using each of the main characters to make a point about different kinds of wealth. Tom represents landed or old money, treating his future wife like another one of his sporting trophies. Nick is technically a member of the nouveau riche, working as he does in the stock exchange, but Tom tolerates him because he seems honourable - though their friendship is based many on pity and a shared interest in certain, allowable kinds of indulgence.
Gatsby's wealth, with its mysterious and sudden origins, threatens Tom's ethic of hard work, good sportsmanship, and above all knowing one's place. Gatsby's recurring remark, "old sport", has a ring of mockery to it, which only gets louder as we discover more about his humble beginnings. In the middle of these are the two women, one a charming parasite, the other an innocent with a voice like money. Daisy may be part of Tom's world, but she allows her head to be ruled by her heart, and its many conflicting decisions make her impossibly impulsive.
As much as it captures the excess of 1920s America, the film avoids falling into the Scarface trap of accidentally celebrating it. On the contrary, Luhrmann uses the indulgence of the characters to draw out the novel's comments about deification and the pursuit of empty gods. Both Daisy and money are deified in the characters' eyes, with neither Tom nor Gatsby being able to see any fault in her. They devote their lives to satisfying both gods through material offerings, Tom by legitimate means, Gatsby by illegal ones. But of course, Daisy isn't perfect, and as both characters realise this their lives steadily crumble, with one being murdered and the other leaving his estate.
The performances in The Great Gatsby are largely excellent. Leonardo di Caprio is brilliant in the central role, exuding the intriguing confidence of Gatsby, but also doing well to highlight his obsessions and insecurities. Joel Edgerton is deeply intimidating as Tom, contrasting his aggressive physical presence with Gatsby's flamboyance and laid-back demeanour. Carey Mulligan understands that her character is meant to be unlikeable, and she holds our attention by playing Daisy's reactions with unerring honesty. Even Toby Maguire makes the best of arguably the weakest role, resisting the urge to just play gormless in every shot.
Like Luhrmann's other films, The Great Gatsby is awash with references to other heady works of cinema. Gatsby's death has a real similarity to the ending of Scarface, right down to di Caprio's fall into the swimming pool. The parties drew on the elaborate dance sequences of Busby Berkeley, which also inspired the opening of Temple of Doom. And much of the film reflects the jaded cynicism of Chinatown, though the car crash is nothing like as earth-shattering as the final four minutes of Polanski's film.
There are a couple of small problems with Gatsby, which are hard to overlook even for a die-hard Luhrmannite. The most obvious of these is that the wraparound doesn't work. Luhrmann must be given props for wanting to keep the attention focussed on Nick, and it makes sense for him to be writing his work while drying out from alcohol abuse. But while a similar device worked wonders in Moulin Rouge!, in this case it undermines some of the cinematic quality that Luhrmann was going for.
The other huge problem is the 3D. As with Life of Pi, there is no part of the film that benefits from it, and it frequently serves to alienate the audience. The opening sequence of walking through Gatsby's doors is pure showing-off, and the long tracking shot across the bay feels like it was included purely for showcase the technology. Such sequences are not impressive, nor do they contribute to the story, and the 30% colour loss works against Luhrmann's ravishing cinematography.
The Great Gatsby is an audacious new adaptation of Fitzgerald's enduring novel. The artistic liberties that Luhrmann takes with the period setting and narrative mean that it may not bring in new audiences in quite the same way as Romeo + Juliet. But despite its problems, it is still a meaty and exciting visual feast, which provides much by way of thrilling spectacle and leaves you with plenty to dwell on afterwards.
2 days ago via Rotten Tomatoes
Daniel reviewed...
The Exorcist (1973)
When something is billed as being the scariest film of all time, it's… More
When something is billed as being the scariest film of all time, it's already setting itself up for a fall. Being scared is an entirely subjective experience: what will leave one person catatonic with terror would have almost no effect on another - worse still, they might even laugh at it. The Exorcist still has much to offer in the ideas it raises, or the performances through which they are raised, but after 40 years of iconic pop culture status, it's nothing like as scary as once it was.
Much like its cult contemporary The Wicker Man, there are whole sections of The Exorcist which don't feel like a horror movie at all. It spends a lot of its running time as a mystery film or character drama, and only truly becomes a horror film in its last couple of reels. Both films seek to create unease through a series of strange events, which arouse our suspicions while also leaving the possibility that we are just being paranoid. But for all its odd diversions into musical and comedy territory, Robin Hardy's film is the more effectively unnerving.
The reason for this lies in the director's sensibility. Throughout his career William Friedkin has been a filmmaker who has confounded expectations, in ways both good and bad. He has always made the films he wants, just the way he wants them, and to be a true Friedkin fan we have to totally buy into these unusual creative decisions. But where Hardy's juxtapositions in The Wicker Man actually contribute to the unnerving atmosphere by throwing us off the scent, Friedkin's choices feel more archly choreographed, like he is toying with us often at the expense of the film's content.
This practice of counterpointing the serious and the frivolous can be seen at the beginning of The French Connection. We are introduced to Popeye Doyle, one of the roughest, toughest, hardest detectives in film history - and one of his first scenes involves him busting a drug dealer while wearing a Santa outfit. Likewise, in The Exorcist, Friedkin shoots one of the main conversations about the ethics of exorcism in front of some nubile young ladies playing tennis. In both cases the juxtaposition makes the film memorable, but it also offsets and compromises the intended mood; we might remember it, but there's no guarantee that we'll remember it fondly.
Because of its iconic status, it's very hard to judge The Exorcist impartially. Most new viewers will be aware of some aspect of its legacy, whether it's the infamous spider-walk (cut from the original version), Regan's head spinning all the way round, the levitating bed, or the opening theme of Tubular Bells (which barely appears at all). There is a real danger of judging the film by its reputation, rather than actually seeing if it works plain and simple as a film. The only way to do this is to look at its different components in turn, assessing its technical strengths and the ideas it seeks to raise.
Whatever Friedkin chooses to fill his scenes with, The Exorcist is a good-looking film, at least for the time. Owen Roizman collaborated with Friedkin on The French Connection, and would later shoot The Stepford Wives, Network and Tootsie - in short, he knows what he's doing. His use of shadows is very effective, particularly in the exterior scenes around the Georgetown steps and the corners of Chris and Regan's house. Some shots are overly static, lending the film a creaky feel, but it never feels like the cinematographer is trying to impose himself or a given genre onto the story.
The film also has a very good cast, many of whom have become icons of the horror genre. Linda Blair is magnificent in her most famous role, drawing us in with the sweetness and innocence of Regan, and then freaking us out as this part of her is steadily drained and corrupted, before finally being rediscovered. Jason Miller is great as Father Karras, using his slumped shoulders and the lower part of his face to convey the burden on the troubled priest. Max von Sydow has a good amount of gravitas as Father Marin, and Ellen Burstyn rounds the cast out nicely as Chris McNeil, though she can be annoying at times.
The ideas raised in The Exorcist remain hugely controversial, particularly in this age of increased public scepticism and a heightened awareness of church scandal and corruption. Its main idea is that there can be discernible, physical proof of the existence of good and evil, and that faith is a powerful and important means of combatting the latter. While many film villains are built around and ultimately explained through trauma and psychology, Pazuzu is far more intangible, and the film offers few answers about his origins, motivations or eventual fate.
The four main characters are arranged on a spectrum according to the extent of their faith, and in what force they chose to believe. Chris has no faith, referring to priests as "witch-doctors" when the idea of an exorcism is first floated. She spends the film is a state of desperation, barely clinging on, and arguably the only reason she survives is because the demon did not target her initially.
Karras wears the cloth but is troubled by the death of his mother; the demon exploits his insecurity, and only when faced with the reality of his own death does he fully commit, and in doing so save Regan. Marin's faith is rock-solid: previous experiences with exorcism, coupled with a life spent in the service of God, have completely removed his fear of death. In the middle of all this is Regan, the unfortunate innocent who is not yet capable of understanding the forces warring over her soul. We could spend an age discussing the role and purpose of her suffering in a theological context, but the debates are perhaps too nuanced and complex for such a brief review.
The film also uses Chris' scepticism as a means of exploring the position accorded to medicine in Western society. So much of the discourse around science concerns its place in a grand narrative, moving humanity out of superstition and into a place where we know all the answers. But Chris is ultimately just as shaky and insecure in the doctors' keeping as she is with the priests. The fear of the unknown still dogs her, and the emphasis we place on science and reason is not proof that evil doesn't exist, nor an effective means to combat it when it manifests itself.
The central problem with The Exorcist is that it fails to manifest these fascinating ideas in a way which can genuinely terrify an audience. Giving evil physicality is an interesting idea, and it's easy to appreciate the craft that went into Dick Smith's make-up. But the film becomes reliant on these physical effects to such an extent that the atmosphere built up in its early sections is compromised. It's not a shock-fest, but it isn't as intimidating as it should be.
When he made Rosemary's Baby five years previously, Roman Polanski very consciously played on the characters' surroundings to increase the tension. By emphasising the intimidating architecture of Rosemary's flat and the apartment complex as a whole, he created a sense of the whole world being against her even before the devil worshippers were introduced.
The Exorcist has moments where it becomes visceral and very scary - one of the main ones being where Regan is under medical examination. But these moments are interspersed with long sections of rudderless calm, so that when the scares intrude, they seem like more of a gimmick than was ever intended. You will be scared at some point watching the film, but Friedkin never quite achieves the level of unrelenting terror that Polanski created. There's something not quite right when a story driven by the Devil's influence isn't constantly intimidating.
The Exorcist is an intelligent and interesting horror movie which is more successful as a series of theological problems than as a means to be constantly scared. The cast and production values are very solid, and its ideas are well-formed without being neatly resolved - it just isn't scary enough to match the standard laid down by Polanski or his predecessors. In the end, the film is a must-see but not a must-love, and is by no means Friedkin's finest hour.
7 days ago via Rotten Tomatoes
Daniel reviewed...
The Shawshank Redemption (1994)
Before we can critically assess The Shawshank Redemption, we first… More
Before we can critically assess The Shawshank Redemption, we first have to deal with The Shawshank Reputation. In addition to its Oscar nominations and huge critical acclaim, the film has topped the IMDb Top 250 for years and shows no signs of dropping off any time soon. Any attempt to criticise it could come across as churlish or contrarian, the work of someone attempting to be above what is popular for their own self-righteous sake. Fortunately, there is little need to criticise - for Shawshank really is as great as people make it out to be.
It's easy to forget how much of a slow-burning success Shawshank was. Despite favourable reviews and its many nominations, the film barely broke even on first release. It was only with the VHS release that word began to spread like wildfire, so that by the turn of the century it had garnered a reputation as a modern American great. In an age where films are dead in the water if they don't perform on opening weekend, it is hard to imagine a situation in which another Shawshank could emerge (although Slumdog Millionaire is a reasonable candidate).
It's equally easy to forget how brutal the film is, particularly in its first 20 minutes. Shawshank's reputation as a popular favourite might lead the uninitiated to thinking that it's an uplifting, feel-good film - and it is true that these later moments are the ones which have most entered into popular consciousness. But any film about hope needs a source of despair to provide conflict, and Shawshank has more than enough violence and emotional trauma to justify its 15 certificate. As Mark Kermode famously remarked, there's a whole lot of Shawshank before the Redemption.
Even without its reputation, Shawshank is one of the best adaptations of Stephen King's work. Indeed, among King's dramatic stories, it is outshone only by its successor The Green Mile. Frank Darabont has a greater understanding of King than almost any other filmmaker: he gets the tone spot on and recreates the period setting brilliantly with the help of Roger Deakins' cinematography. Despite the much-parodied narration that punctuates the film, the drama unfolds naturally and believably throughout, with the characters always being at the forefront and naked exposition being kept to a bare minimum.
Shawshank is a good example of how adaptation works - or more specifically, how changes made to the original story in translation often benefit the finished product. The best example of this is the character of Red, who in the original novel is a red-headed Irishman. This is referred to jokingly by Morgan Freeman in one of his first conversations with Tim Robbins; when Andy asks why people call him Red, Red responds: "Maybe it's because I'm Irish.".
On top of Freeman's obvious ability, the casting decision makes sense because it adds an extra layer of meaning to the character. Red is one of the few black characters we come across; while he applies himself in different ways, he is as much of an outsider as Andy DuFresne. This is borne out by his remarks about institutionalisation, which are laughed off by his fellow inmates. Red may be well-connected when it comes to smuggling things in, but otherwise he is just as lonely as Andy.
Shawshank approaches the theme of institutionalisation with great grace and dexterity. Because the story takes place over three decades, the temptation would be to canter through the plot points and cut straight to Andy's escape - you could even stage the entire story in flashback. Instead, Darabont allows the film to unfold at a gentle, gradual pace, reflecting the mind-set of the characters. They don't realise how trapped they are until it's too late, just as we don't realise that two-and-a-half hours has passed until the credits have begun to roll.
The characters reflect the different extents and effects of institutionalisation. Brooks has built his entire identity around his books and role in the prison; he is so afraid of this being taken away that he attempts to kill William Sadler's character so he can stay inside. Red is aware of how trapped he is, and shares Brooks' fears, being unsure that he could get things for Andy on the outside. But at the same time, he refuses to let himself be vulnerable, trying to play the system and constantly getting turned down for parole. Andy allows himself to be vulnerable and endures all the pain that it brings him, sustained by the knowledge of his innocence and the hope that he will escape.
Shawshank is perhaps the most powerful depiction of hope in all of cinema. The original short story, Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption, was subtitled 'Hope Springs Eternal'. The film returns to hope and the celebration of the human spirit like a leitmotif, and succeeds because it retains Andy's humanity in all its many shades. While he is very different to the other prisoners, he is never presented as a saint or goody-goody, smiling gormlessly in the face of maddening torment. This makes his endurance all the more powerful: we recognise our faults in his moments of weakness, and aspire to his inner moral strength.
The film has attracted many Christian interpretations - in fact, in my review of John Carpenter's The Thing, I called it "a poster child for Christianity". It's not hard to see why, considering its celebration of inner strength and devotion, and its overall arc of good triumph over evil against the greatest odds. While Andy has been called a Christ figure, he's just as close to the character of Daniel in the Old Testament: he finds himself in a strange land against his will, and in order to survive he applies his natural talents to the service of his temporal masters. Through his labours the people around him benefit and the system is eventually changed for the better - albeit through pain, suffering and several deaths.
An equally intriguing interpretation comes from Mark Kermode, who authored a BFI Modern Classic on the film in 2003. In a video discussing cinematic depictions of Richard Nixon, Kermode made the argument that Warden Norton (played brilliantly by Bob Gunton) is an allegory for Nixon, with Andy's prison term matching Nixon's political career. Norton begins reaching out for friendship (Nixon seeking to be elected), then becomes the corrupt leader (beginning in the year that Kennedy was shot), and finally descends into paranoia and disgrace, culminating in a more literal suicide than Nixon offered us.
Whether you believe these interpretations or not, Shawshank is a terrific piece of dramatic film-making which soars on the strengths of its main performers. Tim Robbins perfectly captures Andy's distant, ethereal quality while retaining his wry and infectious sense of humour. Morgan Freeman's performance may well be responsible for his subsequent type-casting, but he matches Robbins beat for beat, offsetting hope with world-weariness and guilt. There's also great support from two actors who would subsequently work with Darabont again - William Sadler (who appears in The Green Mile) and James Whitmore (The Majestic).
The only fly in the ointment with Shawshank is its ending. The film is about hope as a value in and of itself, emphasising the importance of having it even if it is not rewarded. Red's transition to embracing hope is far more important than his reunion with Andy, and this reunion shifts the film's message from celebrating hope to justifying the characters' pain on the basis of a happy ending. It's also clear that this ending was put together at the last minute, with subtle shifts in the cinematography and a far more rushed pacing to it.
The Shawshank Redemption may not be entirely worthy of its number one ranking on IMDb, but it remains a really terrific piece of drama let down only by its final scene. In every other aspect it's a masterpiece, as a character piece, a treatise on hope and a beautifully paced and mounted Stephen King adaptation. It remains a must-see for all film fans of penchant or persuasion, earning its status as a modern classic and securing a warm place in our hearts.
14 days ago via Rotten Tomatoes
