(USA 1994 153m) DVD1/2

Ezekiel 25:17

p  Lawrence Bender  d  Quentin Tarantino  w  Quentin Tarantino, Roger Avary  ph  Andrzej Sekula  ed  Sally Menke  m  various  art  David Wasco 

John Travolta (Vincent Vega), Samuel L.Jackson (Jules Winnfield), Uma Thurman (Mia Wallace), Bruce Willis (Butch Coolidge), Maria de Madeiros (‘Lemon-Pie’), Harvey Keitel (Winston ‘The Wolf’), Quentin Tarantino (Jimmy), Tim Roth (‘Pumpkin’), Amanda Plummer (‘Honeybunny’), Ving Rhames (Marsellus Wallace), Peter Greene (Zed), Eric Stoltz (Lance), Rosanna Arquette (Jody), Christopher Walken (Captain Koons), Steve Buscemi (Buddy Holly waiter), Frank Whaley, Bronagh Gallacher,

Though Pulp Fiction was received to virtually universal acclaim following its Cannes festival success and instantly hailed as a masterpiece by all and sundry, some critics dared to call it shallow, pretentious and junky.  They’re right in many ways, but they are missing the point?  The title of the film is, after all, Pulp Fiction and what we have here is a cinematic version of a cheap piece of pulp throwaway literature.  Just as such stories are meant to be expendable and forgettable, Tarantino uses this as a way to make even characters disposable and dialogue deliberately ‘normal’.  This may be the same world of Reservoir Dogs, personified by Travolta playing a relative to Michael Madsen’s character in Dogs, but this is, to quote Jackson’s Jules, “not the same ballpark, not even the same sport.”  It’s a cinematic adrenaline rush (excuse the pun) of unbridled virtuosity and energy.

            The story intertwines four plot lines; two hitmen killing some small time crooks and the ensuing accidental murder of a hostage; one of them taking out his boss’ wife for dinner and a funny but potentially fatal chain of events; a boxer being paid to throw a fight, then not doing and going on the run; and two worthless robbers deciding that robbing a diner is an easy target without reckoning for two of the diner’s customers. 

            Here was a film that played with narrative in a way not really seen since Godard and that’s no coincidence, Tarantino being a major fan in particular of his Bande à Part.  Yet every twist, every coincidence and overlapping of the plot really works and it seams together beautifully.  Here is a film of extreme confidence, relishing every line, every shot and every glance.  This is not just actors striking iconic poses to look cool but straight out of cliché.  They are iconic and do strike poses, but it’s somehow real.  This confidence is best exemplified in the sequence at Jack Rabbit Slim’s, where Thurman and Travolta go to have dinner and Zorro et al serve the meals.  Thurman equal parts Louise Brooks and Hollywood gothic, Travolta trying desperately to say the right thing and not offend but finally not resisting asking what most men wouldn’t have done.  As she says, “this doesn’t sound like the usual mindless, getting to know you chit-chat.  That sounds like you actually have something to say.”  Travolta may repeat himself countless times, but he goes with it and we warm to them both.  The uncomfortable silence, the refusing to embarrass, the dancing around the obvious attraction knowing the potentially deadly result are all instantly recognisable.  It all comes together in the iconic Twist contest where Travolta (not so much Saturday Night Fever as Sunday Morning Hot Flush one critic quipped) struts his stuff with Thurman on the dance floor.  Their evening may end with Thurman taking a lethal cocktail of Oasis’ cigarettes and alcohol (oh yes, and much cocaine), but they somehow survive the evening.  It’s so exhilarating that the story with Willis’ past-it boxer who realises his kind don’t have an old timers’ day isn’t quite as interesting, though Willis gets to say “Zed’s dead, baby” and handle a katana in a way that cannot be described, only seen.

            So is Pulp Fiction great a decade on?  Maybe not quite as great, but it remains a supreme guilty pleasure, even more relishable for the performances.  Roth, Plummer, Walken (in a one scene role), Rhames (“I’m gonna get medieval on your ass”) and Keitel are all great, but Thurman is iconic a decade before becoming Tarantino’s Bride of Vengeance and Travolta and Jackson the epitome of differing styles of cool.  If Tarantino never makes another great film (and I doubt he will), he has a place in history secured.

Actor Hal Holbrook with Lucille at Cinema 1 on Friday night after screening of 'That Evening Sun'

Building line for Sunday afternoon showing of superlative Frederick Wiseman documentary 'La Danse' at Film Forum

by Sam Juliano

     Congratulations to the New York Yankees for winning their 27th World Championship, and to clutch DH Hideki Matsui for being named MVP.  Condolences to David Schleicher and the Phillies fans, but you can be sure they will be in the think of it next year again, as they are a great team, and had an outstanding playoff and World Series run.  Kudos to Dave Hicks and his Cincinnati Bengals, who are now 6-2 in NFL play, and to Joel Bocko, whose New England Pats are also 6-2.  The Giants are now 5-4, after starting the season at 5-0.

     In New Jersey, we elected a new Governor, Republican Chris Christie.  As a liberal Democrat I backed Jon Corzine, but let’s see if the new resident of the state house can do something for the dire economy and taxes here in the Garden State.

    I am deeply saddened at the announcement by Jon Lanthier that The Powerstrip may be no more, but let’s see where he surfaces next.  He’s much too good to go anywhere.  Jon is one of the nicest guys you could ever hope to meet anywhere.

(USA 1991/2001 95m) DVD1/2

Tale as old as time

p  Don Hahn  d  Gary Trousdale, Kirk Wise  w  Linda Woolverton  story  Mme.le Prince de Beaumont  ed  John Carnochan  m/ly  Alan Menken, Howard Ashman  art  Brian McEntee

VOICES BY:- Paige O’Hara (Belle), Robby Benson (Beast), Jerry Orbach (Lumière), Angela Lansbury (Mrs Potts), Richard White (Gaston), David Ogden Stiers (Cogsworth/ Narrator), Jesse Corti (Lefou), Rex Everhart (Maurice), Bradley Michael Pierce (Chip), Jo Anne Worley (wardrobe),

When conducting the heroine round a tour of the enchanted castle, pompous clock Cogsworth attempts to make a little joke with his immortal line “if it’s not baroque, don’t fix it.”  The very line could read as a diagnosis of the problems Disney’s animation output at the time Beauty and the Beast was green-lighted.  Long gone the halcyon days of Snow White through Bambi, though Cinderella, Peter Pan, Lady and the Tramp and One Hundred and One Dalmations were good, they were far from great.  Yet they were masterworks compared to the drivel of the seventies and eighties, where they plumbed truly new depths.  By the late eighties, computer animation was coming into vogue – one recalls a magnificent shot of a chandelier and ornate staircase in Oliver and Company that was a sign of things to come – and in 1989 The Little Mermaid was released to rapturous audience and some critical acclaim.  It was the first in a new line of Disney animations, equal parts cartoon and musical.  Yet it was two years later when that combination hit the jackpot with this third classic adaptation of Mme.le Prince de Beaumont’s ‘tale as old as time.’

            I say third as, though everyone knows of Cocteau’s magisterial La Belle et la Bête forty-five years previously – not least the Disney artists, who make several homages to it in their own version – there was also a very fine gothic interpretation by Juraj Herz in 1978 which was altogether darker and, though not quite as good, more than satisfactory.  Disney’s film was not just a throwback to the glory days of 1937-1942, their sixth animated feature masterpiece, but it set new grounds in musical history, too.    Students of Broadway musicals, and indeed their Hollywood counterparts, could have a field day.  One is sucked in from the very opening number, the flamboyant, extravagant ‘Provincial Life’, which owes as much to Stephen Sondheim as to the original story, a multi-chorused audience pleaser which captures a lighter-than-air feel from the outset.  Then there’s the comedy number, ‘Gaston’, which is a joy in itself, and the almost Rodgers and Hammerstein style title number, performed as only she could by Angela Lansbury.  Piece de resistance, however, must be the magnificent, kaleidoscopic Busby Berkeley pastiche, ‘Be Our Guest’, which may well rank with the very best musical numbers caught on film and enough to send Uncle Walt into raptures in the giant screening room in the sky. 

            Though very much a throwback to the fairytales of Disney’s yore, this reincarnation is somewhat different; gone are the wet fish heroines of Snow White and Sleeping Beauty, in a new incarnation, romantic and dreamy, for sure, but also feisty, strong and wilful – a heroine very much for the modern era.  It ushered in a renaissance of Disney animation, which continued with Aladdin and The Lion King, but then ground to halt.  The reasons largely the same reasons that led to the original decline; complacency towards its audience, inferior songs (the tragic early death of lyricist Howard Ashman even before Beauty’s premiere was a big loss) and a regrettable tendency to try and modernise stories so much that they became unrecognisable from their originals.  Not to mention choosing stories few people cared about and the fact that traditional animation was becoming old hat with the new exciting CGI opportunities explored by Pixar.  Beauty represented a final flowering of traditional animation, a magic rose that eventually, like that in the film, was doomed to shrivel up for good.  Now restored to DVD – with an excellent previously excised song, ‘Human Again’ – it’s a tale for all time.  If beauty truly is found within, it’s within a DVD case.  Keep it, and savour it.

(USA 1992 131m) DVD1/2

They had it coming

p/d  Clint Eastwood  w  David Webb Peoples  ph  Jack N.Green  ed  Joel Cox  m  Lennie Niehaus  art  Henry Bumstead

Clint Eastwood (William Munny), Gene Hackman (Sheriff “Little Bill” Daggett), Morgan Freeman (Ned Logan), Richard Harris (English Bob), Saul Rubinek (W.W.Beauchamp), Jaimz Woolvett (The Schofield Kid), Frances Fisher (Strawberry Alice), Anna Thomson (Delilah Fitzgerald), David Mucci (Quick Mike),

So the jailhouse chorus sang in Chicago, but the title is even more apt for Eastwood’s stunning revenge western.  Not only does it reinvent the genre in much the same manner as Leone and Peckinpah before him, it reinvents the mythology of the west.  Unforgiven has no decent men, only real men, men aware of their capacity for both good and evil while longing for the simple pleasures retirement can afford. 

            In the Wyoming town of Big Whiskey in around 1880, two cow hands, drunk on whisky, facially disfigure a prostitute and are only fined for the crime.  Hurt by the injustice, the other ladies of the institution band together to offer a reward of $1,000 for anyone who kills the attackers.  Hearing of it, a young gunslinger tries to encourage a retired outlaw to take on the job, and the latter agrees but only if his old partner in crime – also now retired – can come with him.

            Eastwood had by the time of the film’s release long since joined the Hollywood aristocracy, and had made a few fine westerns of his own in the years following his retirement from the saddle of Sergio Leone (particularly The Outlaw Josey Wales).  Yet, though Josey is an excellent film, it just doesn’t quite have the underlying depth of Unforgiven.  Unlike in most westerns, there is no hero here.  William Munny may have never killed a man in eleven years, but that does not eradicate a man’s past, a past that haunts his older, sober self.  He was a killer, and a vicious killer.  As he admits in the final showdown “I’ve killed just about everything that walked or crawled at one time or another.”  Yet he’s only one of four central characters at the heart of this tale.  There’s Hackman’s brutal self-righteous Bill, who thinks he’s above the law and dreams of building his own house, only to be let down his poor carpentry; Harris’ cowardly bragging Bob who makes the mistake of speaking of queens on Independence Day; and Freeman’s now kindly but once vicious Ned who misses his own bed.  After his earlier beating by Hackman, Eastwood dreams of the avenging angel with snake eyes and is terrified by what awaits him.  By the finale, he has become that same avenging angel, taking out Hackman and his cronies single-handedly, before downing his first glass of whisky in over a decade.

            With such characters it would have been easy for Eastwood and Webb Peoples to rest on their laurels, but Unforgiven never rests.  It’s not only a film about revenge and rough justice, but loss, regret, love and, more than anything else, death.  As many critics have commented, this film really shows you how hard it is to kill someone.  As Munny himself says, “it’s a helluva thing, killing a man.”  Each of our protagonists knows that there’s a bullet out there with their name on it and they can only wait for it to hit home.  (A fact further symbolised by the sunset and dusk photography of Jack Green, which serves as a ravishing counterpoint to the very real violence on display.)  Yet to praise Eastwood the director is to overlook the actor, and this is arguably his greatest performance, a world-weary antihero who knows his own worth, but who has somewhat comical trouble shooting a can and mounting his horse for the first time in years.  Hackman, Freeman and Harris are all magnificent in support, too, as would one expect and, if it was too PC to allow Freeman’s colour not to be mentioned in a time when it most certainly would, it’s only a minor quibble (John Ford’s West wasn’t real either).  As Eastwood emerges from the saloon threatening those who might gun him down, one recalls Harris, when he said it was hard to shoot royalty because of the awe they inspire.  Clint may be no king, but he’s Hollywood royalty and Unforgiven is a film to strike awe.

(USA 1991 130m) not on DVD

If you can’t get respect you settle for fear

p  Sarah Green, Maggie Renzi  d/w  John Sayles  ph  Robert Richardson  ed  John Sayles  m  Mason Daring  art  Dan Bishop, Dianna Freas  cos  John Dunn

Vincent Spano (Nick Rinaldi), Joe Morton (Wynn), Tony lo Bianco (Joe Rinaldi), Barbara Williams, Stephen Mendillo (Yoyo), Angela Bassett (Reesha), Charlie Yanko (Stavros), Chris Cooper (Riggs), Jace Alexander (Bobby), Todd Graff (Zip), Scott Tiler (Vinnie), Frankie Faison (Levonne), John Sayles (Carl), Lawrence Tierney (Kerrigan), Jaime Tirelli (Fuentes), Gloria Foster (Jeanette), Tom Wright (Malik), David Strathairn (Asteroid), Anthony John Denison (Rizzo), Josh Mostel (Mad Anthony), Kevin Tighe (O’Brien), Gina Gershon (Laura Rinaldi), Bill Raymond (Les), Joe Grifasi (Pauly),

Still there’s no DVD release for City of Hope, something to be shouted about from the rooftops much like the cries for help issued by one of its characters in the closing scene.  The title itself is a cynical one, for there’s little hope on display here.  All there is are characters taking one step forward and two steps back as they fight to make life better for themselves. 

            It’s set in a New Jersey city.  Building contractor’s son Nick Rinaldi is a waste of space who only has a job through his dad’s clout and who even quits that.  It turns out, he’s resentful of his dad for his sending his elder brother Tony to war years earlier from which he didn’t return.  He hangs around with losers and gets himself caught up in a robbery which goes awry.  His father tries to sort it out for him, but he has his own problems when an arson attack on a local block which he helped give the orders for goes wrong and two people are killed inside.  On the other side of the tracks, the mayor is already campaigning for funds for re-election, and black councillor Wynn has a crisis of conscience when he’s forced to represent his community when two black teens accuse a white professor they attack of making indecent propositions.  Wynn knows they’re lying, but he can’t say so without falling foul of the black community. 

            There are no stars here, and those who know Sayles world would expect nothing else.  He’s not the first to master the ensemble film, of course – Robert Altman preceded him by over a decade – but no film-maker has come closer to making their films like tapestries of modern day life.  David Thomson has said that his true vocation could be the novel and one can see where he’s coming from, for his works are complex enough to be novels on film.  There are numerous quotes that speak volumes about contemporary society.  One recalls the two white women who are never heard and who decry about the police that “you’ve got to be gang raped and roasted at the stake before they lift a finger.”  The cops themselves are happy to be racist, misogynistic bigots who instil fear in the ethnic communities who are to be beaten first and questioned later.  One cop bemoans that another “ain’t a detective, he’s a fuckin’ politician.”  And that sums up the problem of a community and a nation founded on doing everything to maintain the status quo; politicians seeking re-election, cops looking for promotion through the ranks and toeing the party line, retirees retiring to the golf course and businessmen slipping backhanders in exchange for favours to be granted in the future. 

            The only gripe one could possibly have with the film is that two hours is scarcely time to get to know the characters beyond their merely vocalising Sayles’ beliefs and concerns (though special mention for David Strathairn’s repetitious street-wandering loon).  It would take the 60 hours of TV’s monumental The Wire to do that, but for an all-encompassing study of the corruption at the heart of American municipal authority and the blurred line between good and evil, it’s a pretty stunning achievement.  It’s like a giant monopoly game where some are happy to merely sit on Free Parking and wait for handouts from the Community Chest while crooked developers and politicos fight for more hotels on the purple of Mayfair or Boardwalk.  Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the land of the free, if you’re prepared to pay through the nose for it.

Hi! Sam Juliano, Allan, and Wonders in the Dark readers…
WitD readers, I’ am so happy that Sam Juliano, so graciously, let me use his blog Wonders in the Dark as a platform to announce the give away of two autograph copies of authors Eric Beetner’s and J.B.Kohl’s just released mystery novel…“One Too Many Blows To The Head.”

I hope to return to Wonders in the Dark and post information about the contest shortly, but in the meantime, I was very fortunate to discuss with author Eric Beetner, which boxing films are his favorite(s) and which ones were most forgettable.

Therefore, Wonders in the Dark readers, as you wait for details about the contest…Please let author Eric Beetner, author J.B. Kohl, Sam Juliano, and Allan Fish know which boxing films are your favorites and which ones were forgettable.

One Too Many Blows to the Head Was Written by Authors Eric Beetner and J.B. Kohl… …And is a Mystery Novel and is published by Second Wind publishing’s Dagger Books series.
In order to view the book trailer just click on the words…BookScreening…Authors Eric Beetner and J.B. Kohl’s book…“One Too Many Blows To The Head” BOOKSCREENING…Author Eric Beetner and J.B.Kohl’s book “One Too Many Blows To The Head.”
Synopsis:Kansas City, 1939…… One story from two points of view: the hunter and the hunted. Ray Ward – seeking revenge for his brother’s death in the boxing ring. Detective Dean Fokoli – hot on a killer’s trail. Ray’s hunt takes him underground into Kansas City’s criminal nightlife. Dean Fokoli lives there full time but he’s on the run from his own troubles. Two men racing forward to collide like a knockout punch.A razor-edged story of revenge, redemption and what happens when you confront the ghosts of the past.

About the Authors: Author Eric Beetner Author Eric Beetner’s Hometown:Los Angeles About Me:I am a writer and film maker in Los Angeles. I have several short stories currently published on the web and two novels that I am shopping. I am also a staff writer for the Noir City Sentinel – the news letter of the Film Noir Foundation. I also administrate their myspace page so come on by.  

Please Check out author Eric Beetner’s blog if you want to find out how to pick up several copies of his just released book “One Too Many Blows To The Head.”

Website:http://ericbeetner.blogspot.com/ Books And Authors I Like:Raymond Chandler, J.B. Kohl, Cornell Woolrich, Joe R. Lansdale, Eddie Muller, Megan Abbott, pretty much anything by Hard Case Crime, Jason Starr, Richard Powell, Scott Smith, Steve Brewer, Victor Gischler, Sara Gran, Donald Westlake, Ken Bruen, Elmore Leonard, Allan Guthrie so many more… Movies And TV Shows I Like:Film Noir.Visit the Film Noir Foundation myspace page which I run… myspace.com/filmnoirfoundation
Where to find my writing… All my online stories can be linked to from my website ericbeetner.blogspot.com and my novel One Too Many Blows To The Head (co-written with JB Kohl) can be found after October 1st at Amazon or any online book retailer or please, please order it from your local mom n’ pop bookstore.

To get it directly from the publisher go to secondwindpublishing.com Eric Beetner’s Blog Release party & signing!

—Release date for the novel! We have a due date for this little baby. On October 1st One Too Many Blows To The Head will be available for you to get your grubby little hands on.
Jennifer (my co-author) and I are SO excited to finally release the book on the world. We’ve already gotten some great feedback including this amazing blurb from the always fantastic Megan Abbott:“One Too Many Blows to the Head feels like… Continue

Author J.B.Kohl Kohl is an avid reader of all fiction, especially noir. She began writing professionally in 2006. Her first book, The Deputy’s Widow, is available at all online bookstores. In October of this year, she completed her first co-written novel, an urban crime story set in 1939 Kansas City. The book, entitled One Too Many Blows To The Head, was co-written with writer/producer, Eric Beetner, who lives and works in L.A. The sequel to The Deputy’s Widow, entitled A Finger Too Few, is near completion.

Official WebsiteJ. B. Kohl on Myspace Film Noir Foundation.

by Allan Fish

(UK 1998 350m) DVD1/2

It just keeps rolling along

p  Catherine Wearing  d  Julian Faring  w  Sandy Welch  novel  Charles Dickens  ph  David Odd  ed  Frances Parker  m  Adrian Johnston  art  Malcolm Thornton  cos  Mike O’Neill

Steven Mackintosh (John Rokesmith), Anna Friel (Bella Wilfer), Keeley Hawes (Lizzie Hexam), Paul McGann (Eugene Wrayburn), David Morrissey (Bradley Headstone), Peter Vaughan (Mr Boffin), Pam Ferris (Mrs Boffin), Timothy Spall (Mr Venus), Kenneth Cranham (Silas Wegg), Katy Murphy (Jenny Wren), Dominic Mafham (Mortimer Lightwood), David Schofield (Gaffer Hexam), David Bradley (Rogue Riderhood), Edna Dore (Betty Higden), Margaret Tyzack (Lady Tippins), Robert Lang (Mr Tremlow), Paul Bailey (Charlie Hexam), Anthony Calf (Alfred Lammle), Peter Wight (Mr Wilfer), Catrina Yuill (Lavinia Wilfer), Michael Culkin (Mr Veneering), Martin Hancock (Sloppy), Linda Bassett (Abby Paterson), Rachel Power (Pleasant Riderhood), Willie Ross (Mr Dolls),

Admittedly the allusion to a great Broadway musical may not at first seem appropriate when discussing a classic nineteenth century novel, until you remember that the song in question alludes to the mystique of the Mississippi.  And for the Mississippi read the Thames, for that is, to all intents and purposes, what Dickens’ masterpiece is about.  Indeed, it’s fair enough to say that, though cinematically speaking David Lean stands tall to cineastes, this may well be the greatest adaptation of Dickens, strictly as an adaptation, ever seen.  It even does Edzard’s Little Dorrit one better.

            Unlike many such drama serials, it was told in four feature length ninety minute episodes, which in many ways alludes to classic cinematic adaptations of Les Misérables and War and Peace also included in this list.  Not to mention the fact that, among many BBC costume drama classics, it towers over the admitted excellence of Clarissa, Middlemarch, Martin Chuzzlewit, Vanity Fair, Gormenghast, Daniel Deronda. North & South and arguably edges the recent exquisite Bleak House (though that was pure TV, fifteen soap opera like episodes in homage to Dickens’ own newspaper instalments rather than four feature length episodes, which makes Friend seem so much like the epic cinematic adaptations of Bernard and Bondarchuk).  Here we at last had not just a brilliant series of superb performances and settings, but a magisterial recreation of an era, the author’s ethos and arguably the most intricate plot of Dickens’ entire canon.  It has all the usual ingredients of a superb visual feel, from Odd’s gorgeous camerawork to the sumptuous and otherwise trappings of O’Neill’s costumes and Thornton’s sets – particularly those of the poor quarters on the Thames embankment.  All undercut by a delicate score from Johnston which may be the best of its type committed to the small screen. 

            And then let’s herald that cast.  One expects delicious things from such scene-stealers as Cranham, Spall and Bradley, all straight from the pages of Dickens if ever actors could be (and the late Willie Ross giving us another of his legendary rolling inebriates).  Throw in the delightful Ferris and magnificent Vaughan as the unforgettable Boffins, McGann’s idle Wrayburn, Doré’s haunted Betty Higden and two strong but truly real heroines from Friel and, sporting unflattering hair and deliberately not half as sexy as usual, Hawes.  Finally, however, it’s two actors who really burn themselves into the subconscious; Morrissey as the unfortunately dislikeable Bradley Headstone, whose inherent anger and bitterness brings upon his tragedy, forever moping like his idea of fun would be to find a nice damp, cold grave and sit in it.  And then there’s Mackintosh, magnificently brooding, simmering like a dormant volcano, skulking in the wings like a miserable masochist, finally exploding into heartfelt joy at his beloved’s admittance of her feelings and truly fantastic verbal violence in the relished defeat of the vile, grasping Wegg.  And though the temptation is to salute them above all, I’m sure the cast would rather salute Dickens and writer Welch, whose adaptation truly is a miracle.  So all raise your glasses, please, and salute a work better than we deserve.

by Sam Juliano

      Few classical or opera afficionados have even heard of British ”Queen of Early Music” Emma Kirkby, much less have been aware that she is considered one of the ten greatest sopranos of all-time according to BBC Music magazine.  A former classics student at Oxford and English teacher, Kirkby made her mark as a soloist with little-known renaissance and baroque repetory, and in 2007 was appointed “Dame Commander” of the British Empire in the Queen’s birthday honor’s list.

     Declaring the lute as the biggest inspiration of her career, she has in recent years collaborated in concert with renowned lutist Jakob Lindberg, with whom she appeared on Sunday, Nov. 1 at the Madison Avenue Presbyterian Church in an afternoon “Orpheus in England” venue that featured music by John Dowland and Henry Purcell on the occasion of the 350th anniversary of the latter’s death.  The soothing timbre and controlled vibrato of Kirkby’s expressive voice was magnificently complemented by the seductive tone of the lute, which Lindberg strummed with his fingertips on an instrument several hundred years old.  Between Kirkby’s solos, which he underscored with his gentle accompaniment known in the baroque period as basso continuo, Lindberg offered some exquisite solo work of his own, including Dowland’s “Prelude and Fantasia” by a sixteenth-century composer known for his own glorious lute playing.  Unquestionably the most sublimely beautiful moment in this nearly two-hour concert occured right before the intermission when Kirby sent shivers down the spine of those in attendance with a faultlessly modulated, piercing delivery of Dowland’s electrifying In Darkness let me dwell, where the singer lingered over the predominantly one-syllable phrases that comprised one of Western music’s most shattering compositions:

“The ground shall sorrow be; The roof despair, to bar/All cheerful light from me.  The walls of marble black That moistened still shall weep; My music hellish jarring sounds To banish friendly sleep.  Thus wedded to my woes And bedded to my tomb, O, let me living die, till Death do come.  In darkness. (Anon.)  The lyrical beauty and dexterity of the passage is conveyed powerfully by the melancholy progression, especially the unresolved harmony that ends the song, which sounded all the more trenchant as it echoed through the church.

     Dowland can easily be seen as an ancestor of Leonard Cohen, Elliott Smith or Nick Drake in the saturation of melancholy that pervades his work, including the one Ms. Kirkby ushered in at the outset, Come Heavy Sleep, which includes “The image of true death” and “Come, shadow of my end and shape of rest.”  The plaintive serenity and measured accentuation of Kirkby’s voice managed to control the lachrymose essence of Dowland’s lyrics, which otherwise would translate an oppressively moribund tone.

     After a 15 minute break, Kirkby and Lindberg returned with the Purcell part of the program.  Born in 1659, nearly four decades after Dowland’s death, Purcell was a far more accessible and popular composer, who stylistically employed a hypnotically repetitive ground bass, which in the first three songs joyfully and triumphantly celebrate courtly love.  The first of these, She loves and she confesses too is an exquisite composition which some may recall was the lyrical basis of Michael Nyman’s “The Disposition of the Lines” from Peter Greenaway’s The Draughtsman’s Contract.  Continuing with What a sad fate is mine and Bess of Bedlam, Kirkby was more animated and sung standing up for dramatic effect in delivering in the former a tunefully mournful lament where it is realized that the man must love his lady less or she must love him more.  The latter song is a well-known melancholic piece concerning madness, (made famous by the soprano Barbara Bonney) and Kirkby is at her supreme finest in upping the ante in vocal splendor in conveying the heartfelt lament and deft description.

     Lindberg has his moment in the sun with six short pieces for lute: Cebell, Ritornell’s ‘The Grove,’ A New Irish Measure, A New Ground, Hornpipe, and A New Scottish Measure which earned the sustained applause of all in the ornate gothic structure (erected in 1899) including an appreciative Ms Kirkby.  The singer finished the scheduled program with a searing recitative, Fly Swift, ye hours, which again features a tormented, poet trapped in his love that recalls Purcell’s great work Dido and Aeneas in its sense of despair; and with one of the composer’s most popular and beloved lyrics, Music for a while, adapted by Purcell for Nathaniel Lee and John Dryden’s Oedipus (1678), which extolls the virtues of music as an eternal panacea.

    Repeated clapping summoned both Kirkby and Lindberg to the altar to deliver two encores, including Purcell’s ravishing Evening Hymn, which was followed by thunderous applause.  Music lovers on Sunday were transported by gorgeous voice and sublime instrument to a time when thoughts and emotions was given their most sophisticated expression, and an immediate re-evaluation of Dowland and Purcell is very much in order.

Note:  I attended the Kirkby-Lindberg concert at the Madison Ave. Presbyterian Church on Sunday, Nov. 1 at 3:00 P.M. on a day when Manhattan was almost grid-locked due to the annual NYC marathon.  The program was well worth the inconvinience, and I would like to thank my friend, project director David Carleton of ‘Schwabe and partners’ for the free ticket to this fantastic concert that introduced me to a great voice, perhaps the greatest voice still not known to many.

(Belgium/France 1999 94m) DVD2

Why me?

p  Luc Dardenne, Jean-Pierre Dardenne  d/w  Luc Dardenne, Jean-Pierre Dardenne  ph  Alain Marcoen  ed  Marie-Hélène Dozo  m  Jean-Pierre Coco  art  Igor Gabriel

Émilie Dequenne (Rosetta), Fabrizio Rongione (Riquet), Anne Yernaux (Mother), Olivier Gourmet (Boss), Bernard Marbaix (camp manager), Frédéric Bodson (head of personnel), Florian Delain, Christiane Dorval,

The cry of desperation from our eponymous heroine comes in the opening scene, an extended sequence where we see her march along the various corridors and warehouses of a factory where she has just been told she has been let go.  She cannot understand why they are letting her go, she’s a good worker.  The thing is, it’s the end of her trial, and she just cannot accept that she is returning to the ranks of the unemployed.  Finally, manhandled off site by security, we next see her by the roadside eating, wearing the same jacket and unflattering stockings that we will see her in for the rest of the film.  Welcome to the grim world of the Dardenne brothers.

            Rosetta is a teenager who lives in a caravan site with her alcoholic mother, and her only concerns are trying to keep her mother away from the booze and her slime-ball boyfriend, while trying to get herself a job that lasts and get a bit of security.  At every turn, it seems, her aspirations seem to fall flat, and her anger and frustration intensifies.

            Our heroine is undoubtedly one of life’s unfortunate, a very angry, aggressive, resentful teen too grown up beyond her years, her optimism, hope and sentiment crushed mercilessly underfoot by circumstance.  Her life comes to resemble a living hell, and each scene sears with brutal honesty.  Everywhere she goes, everything she does, it’s with a purpose, like she’s perpetually on a mission.  The mission is simply to get a job, but at every turn she is turned away, and one cannot help but feel sympathy for her.

There have been accusations made towards the Dardenne brothers that they have an obsession with modern urban poverty.  It certainly cannot be argued that all their major works have been set in such squalor, detailing lives where every Euro was to be counted and the bottom of the barrel was only a scene away.  Another accusation levelled at them is of making films too similar, not just in setting but in tone.  Certainly there’s nothing cheerful in a Dardenne film, but in such a setting, one must ask, should there be?  While it’s true that one could just as easily have picked La Promesse, Le Fils or L’Enfant, their other three seminal works, I go for this, chronologically the second of the four.  There are several reasons why I might favour Rosetta over the others.  Perhaps because it’s the antithesis of those endless American studies of trailer park trash teens, in that it doesn’t end happily and there’s not an atom of sentiment to be seen.  Or maybe that it so closely resembles in tone Bresson’s earlier masterpiece Mouchette, as anyone whose film is compared to Bresson is worthy indeed.  Or might it be another reason entirely?

            Rosetta isn’t an easy film to watch, indeed no Dardenne film is, as it’s very easy to adopt a self-righteous attitude to proceedings due to a lack of empathy for our protagonist.  I found myself endlessly moved by her predicament, and found myself hoping for an upturn in luck, even though I knew it wouldn’t happen and realised it would ruin the cumulative effect if it happened.  The Dardennes’ narrative control is as sharp as ever, while the camerawork of Alain Marcoen is vibrantly raw and edgy.  At its centre, meanwhile, we have a performance of astonishing, soulful power from its sixteen year old debutante, Émilie Dequenne, who thoroughly deserved her surprise Best Actress award at Cannes.  Since this success, she has confirmed her quality with touching portrayals of other mixed-up – but rather more cuddly – youngsters in Oui, mais… and La Femme du Menage, so that, while the Dardennes remain film-makers to watch, I think in retrospect that reason I was searching for to justify its selection might well be purely down to her.  As Peter Bradshaw said, this is “a film whose grace and lyricism has earned it, simply, the status of classic, something of real greatness.”

by Sam Juliano

     While I have never warmed to the cinema of Spike Jonze, whose mind puzzles have developed more than a cult following over the years, I must say this latest failure was somewhat of a surprise, since the source material here is perhaps the most beloved Caldecott Medal winner in history.  Maurice Sendak’s expressionistic story centering around the fantasies of an eight-year-old boy named Max, who has a disinterested sister, an occupied mother, and an often-MIA father.  The book is comprised of 37 pages and nine sentences, and would immediately provide a huge challenge for any filmmaker hoping to go further than the cinematic ‘tone poem’ that this film at least in some measure tries to achieve.

     Sendak’s story, which spurs the dark recesses of the imagination like few picture books have makes equally creative use of the English language and alliteration.  Max’s anger in fact makes him believe he is all-powerful and can rule the world, until reality sets in and he realizes he’s in a faraway place, where he can never earn th etrue love he left behind.  Dressed up in a ubiquitous wolf-suit, Max chases the dog with a fork and growls at his Mom, who irate herself calls him a “Wild Thing” to which Max shouts back “I’ll eat you up!” a statement that wins him supperless banishment to his room.  There Max fantasizes that his bedroom turns into a magical setting with a wild forest and a little boat in the ocean.

     Jonze and his co-screenwriter the novelist Dave Eggers have changed that opening around a bit, intimating at first that his parents are in the midst of a divorce, exaserbating the boy’s own emotional issues.  He attempts to have his sister engage in a snowball fight with her friends, but they instead detroy the igloo he built.  The boy breaks down, and it’s an affecting sequence that hits home with the audience.  The young actor Max Records delivers an arresting performance throughout the film, successfully conveying wide-eyed innocence and earthiness with dazzling charisma.  Shortly after this Max runs out the front door after his mother brings home her latest date, and he embarks on the wonderous journey, which comprises the entire duration of Sendak’s landmark picture book.  Max crests on a distant island, which is home of the ‘Wild Things’ a band of peculiar, rather hideous creatures, whose leader’s name is “Carol.” (voiced by James Gandolfini)  Carol cannot accept that one member is leaving the pack, and he later decides to promote the young boy Max to king after hearing the wild stories the boy tells about being ‘king of the vikings.’ Before this change of heart the creatures were planning to eat Max.  Almost typically and inevitably, the arsenal of monsters, all embodying to one degree or another ‘human’ characteristics, contain one that seeks attention, one who never says anything, another who always plays devil’s advocate, another who is calm and rational, and yet another who always thinks the worst.  Some distingusihed voices are supplied here by Forest Whitaker, Chris Cooper, Catherine O’Hara, Michael Berry Jr. and Paul Dano.

     From a visual standpoint the film scores some points, especially with Lance Acord’s cinematography.  Acord, a Jonze alumni, who worked with the director on Being John Malkovich and Adaptation takes full advantage of Australian locations, creating other-worldly locations from the striking seashore and sand dune settings, and the visual tapestry is enhanced greatly by Jim Henson’s Creatures Shop, which succeeds in replicating the simultaneously menacing and witty illustrations of Sendak, who purportedly supervised the page-to-screen transciption in large measure.  I rather liked the pop/rock score by Karen and Carter Burwell, especially the engaging use of the children’s chorus who make one infectious number come to life twice during the film’s duration.

      But with a marked dearth of any mission to propel the story narratively and a mundane, repetitive screenplay, Where the Wild Things Are falls far short of establishing itself as a memorable Caldecott picture book transference to screen, much less a children’s film to rank with the best in this genre.  It’s not without some impressive components, but it’s clearly a case where the whole isn’t nearly as successful as some of the parts.

Final Rating:  ** 1/2  (of five)

Note:  I saw ‘Where the Wild Things Are’ weeks ago, but until now was unable to complete the brief review on display here due to a number of circumstances.  Lucille thought the film was OK, but of the five kids, only seven-year-old Jeremy seemed to enjoy it.  We watched the film twice over successive days at the brand new multiplex in Secaucus, New Jersey, where admission for the first week was free.