Tuesday, December 20, 2011

My Top Albums - 2011 (Now with notes)


 Lykke Li
Dec 22: Below I've added notes to the list I posted a few days ago. Those of you who said they hadn't heard of some of these artists - now you have no excuse...


Favourite Albums 2011

In no particular order, these are the albums that fired me up this year. I'll put up notes and clips later. Happy Christmas shopping.



1) The Low AnthemSmart Flesh 

On their second album the Rhode Island ensemble capture the kind of hushed, magical ambiance that helped make the Cowboy Junkies’ The Trinity Session a landmark recording of the late 1980s. That’s partly due to the way both recordings were made – live, in large, makeshift spaces, the Junkies’ in a church, the Anthem’s in an abandoned factory that gives the spare folk and country arrangements a very special warmth and spectral resonance. My October post on the album is here.

2) Panda Bear (Noah Lennox) - Tomboy 


Another solo album from Animal Collective's Lennox that, if anything, surpasses the experimental brilliance of 2008's Person Pitch. Lennox weaves pure melody and rhythmic persuasiveness in a wash of sonic bliss. The influence of Brian Wilson is here, of course, but there's something else warping the sound. It's like a Bizzaro World album in which Phil Spector somehow wandered into a recording session with Germany's classic minimalists Can.

3) Lindi Ortega - Little Red Boots 


Toronto based singer-songwriter  Ortega has been dubbed “alt country”, but there’s nothing particularly alternative about this magnificent debut album of contemporary country and country-rock at its very finest (other than alternative to mediocre). Ortega, who comes from a part Mexican, part Irish background, has a voice that’s immensely captivating, marrying Dolly Parton’s room-filling sweetness with the occasionally abrasive edge of a Martha Wainwright – wrapped in a pronounced vibrato that’s never overdone. Her frequently upbeat songs are spiritedly melodic and performed by one hot chilli pepper of a band. (Review first appeared in Limelight)

4) Kurt VileSmoke Ring for My Halo 


Whether with a band, where he becomes a slightly weirder Wilco, or just alone with his acoustic, Vile 's intense atmosphere comes bearing down on you as he slurs his way through his often eccentric lyrics, stretching out the syllables into some weird new folkie melisma ("society is my frie-eh-eh-nd"...."I was a peeping to-oh-oh-ohm..."). Sometimes listening to Neil Young or late-period Bob Dylan, you find yourself wondering how they manage to create such a pungent effect using so little. That's what I wonder here. I don't know how he does it.

5) Tom Waits Bad as Me 

Much as I adored 2004's Real Gone, it ploughed a narrow furrow, all barking electric blues. This ones is Wait's most satisfyingly balanced studio set of new material since 1999's sublime Mule Variations. Everything Waits can do, he does here, and he does it blindingly well. Backed by, among others, Keith Richards and Marc Ribot on guitars and Primus's Les Claypool on bass, which probably tells you all you need to know.
 

6) Paul SimonSo Beautiful or So What 

A glorious album from start to finish. If you liked Graceland, you need to hear this. Seriously. I only just found out Simon is 70 years old, which makes this  album even more miraculous, for it displays the joie-de-vivre - and the purity of voice -of a young man.

7) Anna Calvi Anna Calvi 



An extraordinary first album of theatrical drama and shadowy desire. Brian Eno has compared her with Patti Smith, which didn't occur to me but they do share a certain presence, especially if you think of the latter's Because the Night. But Smith didn't play flamenco-style electric guitar, nor flambe her songs with the musical fires of A Fistful of Dollars. Coming to Australia soon for Laneway Festival. if I were 20 I'd be hopelessly in love with her.

8) Lykke Li Wounded Rhymes 


I love the way girl-group pop of the Sixties - the Crystals, the Ronettes et al -has been revived and remodelled so smartly by this fiercely talented Swede. She really knows the value of a big drum sound. If I were 16, I'd be hopelessly in love with her.

9) Ry CooderPull up Some Dust and Sit Down

As good a Ry Cooder album as he has ever delivered, this is strewn generously with filthy blues-rock and soulful vocals and post-GFC lyrics sending up the bankers and empathising with the poor. 

10) Trio Chemirani - Invite

This virtuoso Iranian zarb drum trio deliver the best all-instrumental release I heard all year. While liking much of what goes under that label, I tend to be wary of the term 'world music', but here it means something real. This is a glorious series of duets with master musicians from different cultures, including west African kora player Ballaké Sissoko and France's Titi Robin. In each case the players find the shared language to make a meaningful and beautiful collaboration.

11) Laura Marling A Creature I Don’t Know 


The UK singer-songwriter displays a maturity that makes it hard to believe she is only 21, the same age as Dylan when he recorded Freewheelin'. Her third album contains the hushed troubadour sound we've heard from her before, matching Leonard Cohen's acoustic finger-picking style with the lyrical influence of a Dylan and the rising vocal cadences of a Joni Mitchell. The big surprise is The Beast, where she not only moves into rock but does it with a drama and commitment that suggests the world is her oyster. She's returning to Australia in the New Year. If I were 21 I'd be hopelessly in love with her.


12) June Tabor and OysterbandRagged Kingdom

With the early death of Sandy Denny, Tabor assumed the crown of England's finest living female folk singer. This second collaboration with Oysterband mostly takes her away from the dolefulness found in her solo work with a series of punchy and insanely catchy anthems, though there's no denying the glorious melancholy of their slowed-down Love Will Tear Us Apart, almost unrecognisable as the Joy Division song. If I were 64 I'd be hopelessly (etc etc)


Runners Up


JuJu (Justin Adams and Juldeh Camara) – In Trance

Other Lives – Tamer Animals

Karsh Kale – Cinema

The Unthanks – Last

Fleet Foxes – Helplessness Blues.


___________________________________________________________

Monday, December 19, 2011

Hollywood vs. Chinese cinema: Game On



"SOMETHING often missed in discussions of the Chinese economy's dramatic continued expansion is that it has the world's fastest growing film sector," I wrote this year in a piece centering on an interview with Wendi Murdoch

The wife of Rupert Murdoch has moved into film production, starting with Snow Flower and the Secret Fan, directed by Wayne Wang of Joy Luck Club fame, and has active plans to develop more Chinese co-productions. (See here for my review of the film for Limelight magazine.) 

For me the interview was a good excuse to examine the broader context, which is the extraordinary rate of growth in the Chinese cinema and film industries.  

As I observed, China's domestic movie box-office earnings of $US1.5 billion last year represented a 64% increase from 2009. If that growth continues, in four years it will have become the world's second largest movie market after the US."

Snow Flower & The Secret Fan
In November Variety reported that in the first nine months of this year,  630 new cinemas opened in China. That's an average of nearly two new cinemas every day, resulting in 2,563 new screens.

"This spectacular growth has different aspects," my September piece continued. "First there is the attempt by Hollywood to take advantage of this huge market: Avatar was a smash hit and Kung Fu Panda 2 this year broke box-office records.

"But domestic Chinese film production is also growing at a rapid speed: the country produced more than 500 films last year, compared with 754 in the US. And much of last year's bumper box office can be attributed to the popularity of local blockbusters such as Aftershock, about the 1976 Tangshan earthquake, and If You are the One 2.

Since then, however, the outlook for Chinese production has started to look far less optimistic. "Facing tough competition from Hollywood tentpoles, even bigger-budgeted local pics such as The Lost Bladesman have failed to ignite at the Chinese box office," reported Variety on November 4th.



Kung Fu Panda 2
"China's B.O. continues to storm ahead and is expected to top 13 billion yuan ($2.05 billion) this year, after exceeding $1.5 billion in 2010," it added. "But senior Chinese biz figures are fretting that domestic movies are not doing well enough to hold their own against fierce competish from Hollywood, despite quotas on overseas pics and various other hurdles facing foreign movies.


"Avatar made $210 million in China, while Inception did $69 million, and even though the studios' cut of takings in China is half what it is elsewhere in the world, the figures are appealing enough for Hollywood to take notice."


Gao Jun, vice president of the exhibition circuit New Film Association said that 90% of Chinese movies were losing money. Variety added that all cinema chain operators were complaining about falling box office. 


The manager of the Guangzhou Jinyi cinema said that during the National Day holiday, the number of people watching movies was down 30%. This has been blamed on the less-than-stellar performances of local pics"

 
Thanks to Twitter's @TLPSPodcast for drawing my attention to this piece on Chinese multiplex expansion published on Slate on November 30, titled We’re Going To Need More Popcorn - Inside China’s quickly multiplying multiplexes. 
"At nearly every theater I visited, there were an equal number of American and Chinese films on offer,": wrote the webzine's Eric Hynes in reference to Beijing. "But look closer at the schedules and a pattern emerges: While The Green Lantern or Limitless would play eight times per day, Chinese domestic product like Love On Credit would screen only twice. 
"In these instances, marquee equivalence was basically symbolic. A local film blogger alerted me to reports of a shadier tactic for protecting national pride. Earlier this year, theaters were caught printing out tickets to the propagandistic Chinese epic, Beginning of the Great Revival, when patrons had asked for Kung Fu Panda II—greatly padding the box office for a film that the Internet generation roundly mocked."

50 years of Amnesty International

Saturday, December 17, 2011

Screamin' Jay Hawkins: The Man Who Ate Nick Cave

The excellent UK website Rock's Backpages recently posted this story of mine published in the NME in 1986, based on an interview with the great Screamin' Jay Hawkins (of I Put a Spell on You fame) at his Bondi beachfront hotel. (Most of the site's huge archive of popular music writing is behind a paywall, though some material is free).

I'm grateful to website founder Barney Hoskyns and his team for reviving the piece. I lost my print copy years ago - stored inside the sleeve of my vinyl copy of Hawkins's Greatest Hits that was borrowed and never returned. Of the 100s of features and reviews I wrote for the British rock press in the 1980s, this is the one of which I'm most proud - for reasons I hope will become apparent.

But then, in Hawkins, who went on to appear as the hotel receptionist in Jim Jarmusch's Mystery Train, I had a gift of a subject. With interview material as colourfully hilarious as this, the writing was an absolute pleasure.

The delight Hawkins took in belittling Nick Cave ("I'm looking to drive the great Nick Cave CRAZY!") after finding the Australian had top billing on the tour they were sharing certainly puts into context Cave's later claim to have had contempt at the time for Hawkins as an artist. 

In the ABC documentary on the making of Cave's Murder Ballads album, Cave claims he and the Bad Seeds were unhappy to find they were sharing the bill with a figure they considered but a cheesy vaudeville artist. The piece below is a reminder some history was busily being rewritten, since at the time of the tour Cave had been singing Hawkins's I Put a Spell on You on stage. Performing the most famous song of an artist he had no time for - in what universe does that even begin to make any sense? 

Screamin' Jay Hawkins: The Man Who Ate Nick Cave






Lynden Barber NME

The bats screech, and inside a rockin' coffin, something stirs...up fly the nails and out pops SCREAMIN' JAY HAWKINS, longtime voodoo swamp beast back to roost. Fresh from, in his own words, "teaching that Nick Cave a lesson" on tour in Australia, he picks a few bones with LYNDEN BARBER. 

 
THE MAN IS just about getting into his story-telling stride when the maid, committing the gravest error of her previously uneventful career, sticks her key in the lock, swings the door open and enters the hotel bedroom uninvited.

"NO, MAAAM!!!! And Pleeeeeeeeeeaaaaaase, maam, pur-leeaase in the name of The Dear Lord In Heaven Aburve, I coulda bin standin' here nekkid. KNOCK on the door!"

Slightly bemused, the woman objects. "You were speaking too loud, I thought you were the TV."

The man is not looking pleased. The man is becoming angry. The man is furious...
"*@*@*@*%*+1/3???&!&I&V8****!!!!"

Sweet Screamin' Jesus! Who'd be a housemaid for a living?

TO ENTER the realm of one Jalacey Hawkins Esquire is to mix with the very same demons who were present at the birth of rock'n'roll itself. This man – Screamin' Jay Hawkins, to give him his full and honourable title – possesses a voice that is Beyond Thunderdome, beyond Sound itself.

When the mouth of this mighty figure opens, the walls of the universe begin to shake, rattle and roll. The owner of a set of stentorian pipes that seem tapped into the earth's very core, Screamin' Jay is the man who put his signature on the whackball blues classic 'I Put A Spell On You' over two decades ago and instantly entered the annals of the legendary. Believe this, kiddy cats: Screamin' Jay is the Grandfather Of Groove, the Guru Of Voodoo, and if that ain't your hoodoo, prepare to DIE.


But this isn't yet another crusty old-timer, dug up from history so that a few past-it hacks can pay their respects. Right now SJH is in the middle of a well-deserved revival.



The person to thank is Jim Jarmusch, formerly a member of the most unfairly neglected New York group of the'80s, the Del-Byzanteens, and now better known as the director of the widely-acclaimed cult movie Stranger Than Paradise. One of the delights of this wryly observed film is the attempt of an East European emigree to turn on her spectacularly disinterested US relative to the sound of "Screamin' Jay 'awkins", inadvertently turning on a new audience in the process.


Has Hawkins seen the movie, I enquire innocently?


"Twelve times," comes the reply, without a microsecond of hesitation. The soundtrack, he reckons, got his music across "to the young kids who weren't even a gleam in their Daddy's eye when I started all those years ago, they weren't even a smile on a man's face when he knows he's gonna get involved in horizontal recreation."


"I look at Nick Cave the same way," he says, referring to the man he's recently supported on a tour of Australia. "This man should have payed his dues to be on the same show as me. He wasn't even born when I was paying dues. And this is why I said I'm gonna make him suffer."


Sat here in the Bondi Continental, Screamin' Jay Hawkins isn't just doing an interview, he's conducting a performance, and having the time of his life in the process. The idea of pairing Hawkins and Cave came from a local promoter after the young whippersnapper had begun to include a version of 'Spell' in his stage act. Trouble is, Hawkins says, his agent didn't tell him anything about this Cave character. Imagine arriving in a new country expecting to top the bill and finding your name in small print beneath some upstart you've never heard of. Why, the insult.


Very soon it becomes obvious that the only person to feel sorry for was Cave.


"Yes, I've had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting Nick Cave," intones Jay, with all the mischief his gruff Howlin' Wolf voice can muster. "Now, if it sounds like I dislike the man, let me make it clear to you and to all who hear my voice. I do NOT dislike Nick Cave. I have no bones to pick with the man. I RESENT youngsters, barely in the business long enough to get their own fingers dry or to develop any kind of knowledge of showbusiness, being put before me in the headline position in the show. BUT, as I said, it's a new day, it's a young world, it's an atomic age...Jay Hawkins is an olllldddd table, been around for YEARS."


Their first meeting is recalled by Jay, warming to the theme; "I rolled the car window down and I said, HEY, NICK!!!!" A titanic bark fills the air.


"I said, C'MERE... C'MERE!!!! and he came over to the car. And I said, I JUST WANNA GET A GOOOOOOD LOOK AT THE MAN I HAVE TO WORK WITH FOR THE NEXT COUPLE OF MONTHS. And he said in his accent, part-Australian, British or whatever he is, 'Ah, wha, who, uhh, duurrr, who are you, wha, durr, ugh?'


"I said, what other black man would you be working with for the next month?" A perfect impersonation of an inarticulate, wallyish voice rolls from Jay's wickedly satirical tongue: 'Oh! You must be...I shoulda known, Screamin' Jay, oh yeah!"



Looking at this commanding presence, shoulders as big as his voice, it's hard to believe that any body could fail to recognise that this is a personage of impeccable pedigree.


Atop eyes that could hypnotise a frog balances the kind of coif that Teddy Boys would kill for. It's kind of shiny and wet-looking, stacked up like an oil slick breaking in waves over a stony beach. Down below. Jay wears a bootlace tie, knotted at the neck with a brooch made from a scorpion in perspex ("My wife gave me this instead of a wedding ring," he later confides. "If she caught me without this thing on, she'd kill me"). Somewhere between this lot lies a most dapper pencil moustache, and it's moving rapidly up and down.



"I was given a tape cassette, which I played of Nick Cave. I HEARD a man trying to sound like Muddy Waters. I said, I'm going to have to teach this little youngster a lesson. A lesson in showbusiness. The lesson is. You don't put youth against experience, it just don't work.
 


Before the tour started, he had said: "I'm looking to have a good time, I'm looking to upset the Australian people, I'm looking to change a lot of people's minds – and I'm looking to drive the great Nick Cave CRAZY."

One night Cave was spotted peering down from a catwalk into the hordes that Hawkins has managed to whip up into an orgy of maniacal pleasure. Jay transcended the mundanity of his rock'n'roll pick-up band by employing a combination of rip-roaring voice, white Cab Calloway suit, Henry the skull on a stick, the zaniest personality this side of Mars and a general mastery of vaudevillian trickery. Cave looked troubled. The ovation Jay received was so loud, it was painful to the ear-drums.

HAWKINS STANDS loosely among company that includes Calloway and Louis Jordan – he has performed with both – and the great master of Vouterounie, Slim Gaillard. These are the loose marbles of the black music tradition (Sun Ra, beneath that placid exterior, probably shares their goofy sense of humour too), the terminally flipped lids of jazz and the big band era.


Born in Cleveland, Ohio, in 1929, Jalacey Hawkins shares a similar background. A pianist and former saxophonist, he's played with the likes of James Moody, Lionel Hampton, Earl Bostic, Sonny Stitt, Gene Ammons, Milt Buckner and Nat King Cole. Like Louis Jordan – who's widely credited for inventing the backbeat (though Hawkins claims it was due to Alan Freed) – he's one of the progenitors or rock'n'roll, one of the people who stirred up the music and made it happen before whitey put up a young hillbilly called Elvis to front the show.



What made Screamin' Jay different – apart from a voice that owed something to Big Joe Turner, only more akin to the Red Sea parting in stereo – was his gimmick: the macabre. If the idea of climbing out of coffins, letting off smoke bombs and setting up joke-shop props on stage now appears mildly old-hat, that's because it's been done to death by people who've ripped off Hawkins' act. Jay reels off names like a shopping list: David Bowie (?), Rod Stewart, Alice Cooper, Nick Cave, Funkadelic, the Isley Brothers, the appalling Screaming Lord Sutch...


"If it wasn't the coffin they stole, it was the smoke. Everybody has stolen part of me one way or another. Kiss stole the make-up I used to use, when I used to come on stage dressed as an African with a bone through my nose. I feel MARVELLOUS. It's a COMPLIMENT. What they're doin', they're remindin' people about Screamin 'Jay Hawkins. I HATE it, because I feel sorry for 'em – should I drop dead, they ain't got nobody to do their thinkin'."


What prevents Jay from being just some ham my vaudevillian with a good croak, it has to be said, is a stomach-tightening sense of humour. His stage craft is to start weird, stay weird and upset 'em.


"I do a lot of songs by other artists and I do 'em Screamin' Jay Hawkins' way," he confides. "I don't sing 'em – l DESTROY 'em."


The coffin is now relegated to his kitchen in LA, "which my wife don't like, 'cos it stops her from getting to the ice-box." The reason? The Drifters once decided to play a jolly jape and lock the coffin lid with our Jay inside. He managed to get out – with only three minutes of air in total – by rocking it off its stand onto the stage floor.

"I tried to kill 'em for that, I tried to commit murder," he says, recalling the five years of sleepless nights that followed. "MURDER!!! I wanted to break all the Ten Commandments, right on their head."


And the story about him punching out Atlantic supremo Ahmet Ertegun for trying to make him sound like Fats Domino during a recording session is only partly true, he says. It wasn't Ertegun, but producer Jerry Wexler who received the fury of the former 1947 Golden Gloves boxing champ. The record, Screaming Blues, was never released. Now, ain't life full of surprises?

IN PERSON he lives up to his legend as a man who doesn't expect contradiction. Given a hostile question, the high-energy showmanship could tilt over into a more forceful expression of intent, the interviewer often feels – with one eye on the medication Jay has to take during the conversation to ease his high blood pressure.

"There are some artists who don't realise their own worth and they'll go anywhere for peanuts," he thunders, hurling down another hefty declamation for the world to chew on. "And I despise them – the John Lee Hookers, the Champion Jack Duprees, in case you wanna know who I'm talking about. I'll name them, they're there. I call 'em Uncle Tom niggers. That's my word for 'em, y'understand. I like people like Tiny Tim."

Whaaa???

"I like people like Boy George, Boy George ain't got nooo talent whatsoever, but Boy George dares to be different. AND IF YOU DARE TO BE DIFFERENT IN SHOWBUSINESS, YOU CAN MAKE IT. 
Liberace ain't that great a piano player, but he's flamboyant, and I like that. Singers are a dime a dozen; anybody can stand up in front of a microphone and sing their hit record, but if you don't have anything to offer after that, it's kind of a let-down."

Far be it for me to suggest that Hawkins' biographical anecdotes should be treated with caution, but let it be said that his life has been a tapestry embroidered with wild colours. His craziness, he says, comes from the days when his mother used to beat him with a strap. "I was screamin' to make sure everybody in the neighbourhood could hear it when I got beaten. Figured maybe they'd come and bust her for child cruelty. DON'T HIT ME, DON'T HIT ME! In the end I found out I was preparin' myself for Screamin' Jay Hawkins – unbeknowin' to myself."

An inquiry about his taste for sorcery yields the information that he was taken out of an orphanage at the age of 18 months and raised by spirit-worshipping Red Indians. Hence the books at his bedside: Curses, Hexes And Spells and Witchcraft, Past And Present.
 

"Those books are almost my bibles. I just about know every page by heart. I got about 50 or 60 other books even worse than that."

Coming from Cleveland, Ohio, turned out to be fortuitous for the young Jalacey Hawkins. It was also the town where Alan Freed came to notice, playing black R&B to white kids on a radio slot called The Moondog Rock'n'Roll Show. Freed got to know Hawkins and told him to bring in any record he made anytime; first he broke I Put A Spell On You in Cleveland, then did the same thing all over again when he moved his show to New York.

The association is commemorated in a brief appearance in the 1978 film American Hot Wax, a moment of glory that Jay isn't about to let us forget.

"What brief appearance?" he demands. "I had three brief appearances and I cut six." Okay, so the scenes were small ones, he admits, "but the money I received was FAAAAAN-TASTIC."

Arthur Brown

Money is something he doesn't have to worry himself with too much these days. The man may act cuckoo, but when it comes to greenbacks he's strictly on the ball. Thanks to an astute business sense he manages to live very nicely off the royalties of the 28 cover versions of 'Spell' (including Creedence Clearwater Revival, The Crazy World Of Arthur Brown, Nina Simone, Alice Cooper, Manfred Mann and Alan Price, he says, reciting the names as if they were grandchildren, "and Nick Cave... Heh heh! Heh, heh, heh!!!").

If this engrossing fruitcake has one major regret in life, it's that he never got into the world of opera, never became as great as Caruso or Mario Lanza.

"The records I make, I've got to make macabre, metaphysics, cult science. I'm like a prisoner in this world, 'cos no matter where I go, on my back or my front it says, I Put A Spell On You. It's not a curse, it pays the rent, it makes my wife happy. But I still have dreams of being able to do just one opera. I'd like to go to Carnegie Hall and do Figaro."


Roll over Beethoven and tell Rossini the news!



© Lynden Barber, 1986

Sunday, December 11, 2011

Great start - but where next for Garai and Cotillard?

Romola Garai in The Hour
 Thanks to Guardian contributor Anne Billson for her Multiglom blog post on 10 actresses she has girl crushes on. I was delighted to see someone else shares my enthusiasm for Romola Garai.

The mention of the UK actress prompted me to dig out the piece I wrote below for The Australian four years ago on a new generation of European screen actresses then emerging. Garai was one of them.

She's gone on to greatly impress opposite Ben Wishaw and Dominic West in the British teleseries The Hour, currently screening on ABC1, but has yet to land the kind of killer lead film role that would push her into the same elevated sphere as Cate Blanchett - her most obvious soul-peer in the generation immediately above.

Garai and Wishaw in The Hour
Marion Cotillard has continued to make an impact (most recently in Little White Lies) yet has lacked a follow-up role to her Oscar-winning  Edith Piaf turn in La Vie en rose that's equally worthy of her gifts. 


Disappointingly, Carice van Houten has largely disappeared off the radar, though she has continued to work. This quote from her Wikipedia is germane: "I have seen Hollywood, and although I have nothing against it, it's not my kind of life. My agent is shocked that I want to stay in Europe. If Hollywood offers me a great part, of course I'll take it, but I just don't want to live there."

WOMEN ON A ROLE - By Lynden Barber, The Australian, September 01, 2007

IF 2007 is destined to be remembered for anything in the cinema, it is for great female acting. This year a clutch of lead performances by relatively little known women has made this viewer, at least, leave the cinema feeling drunk with the excitement of a new discovery.

I'm not talking about merely bright turns from promising newcomers, but the kind of tour de force performances from which significant decades-long careers are forged. Intriguingly, they're all from Europeans.

First came France's Marion Cotillard, incandescent as singing legend Edith Piaf in La Vie en rose, followed closely by Dutch actor Carice van Houten, who effortlessly dominates virtually every scene of Paul Verhoeven's Black Book as a Jewish undercover agent for the anti-Nazi resistance in The Netherlands during WorldWarII.

The third, Britain's wonderfully named Romola Garai, takes the title role as a best-selling, early-20th-century English novelist in French filmmaker Francois Ozon's Angel (to be released on November 1), where she turns in the kind of feisty, a-star-is-born performance that makes you wonder whether Vivien Leigh would have had such a sure chance of bagging the Scarlett O'Hara role in Gone with the Wind had Garai been around at the time.

All these performers have racked up several previous film and television appearances but this year's roles amount to the kind of surprising breakthroughs that give those of us who love cinema reason to keep returning in optimism. Despite the best efforts of Hollywood to drag us into a maelstrom of increasingly tired sequels and comic-book adaptations, European writers and directors are giving women the chances of alifetime.

For further evidence see Angelina Jolie's eye-opening performance as Mariane Pearl, the widow of slain journalist Daniel Pearl, in Michael Winterbottom's A Mighty Heart (to be released here on October 18); Penelope Cruz in Pedro Almodovar's Volver; Helen Mirren's Queen Elizabeth in Stephen Frears's The Queen; Judi Dench facing off against Cate Blanchett in Notes on a Scandal for British director Richard Eyre.

Monica Vitti in L'Avventura
The recent deaths of Ingmar Bergman and Michelangelo Antonioni should remind us that this is nothing new: think of Monica Vitti in the latter's early 1960s films and the haunting performances of Bibi Andersson, Harriet Andersson and Liv Ullmann in the work of the Swedish director.

Hollywood, meanwhile, seems largely to have closed down its possibilities for telling powerful women's stories, corralling actresses into the occasional romantic comedy or, in a shallow nod towards sexual equality, making them one of the boys as action heroines.

Women wanting fulfilling roles usually have to turn to the independent sector or look to non-American filmmakers: Charlize Theron in Monster, for example, or Blanchett and Nicole Kidman in countless titles. It's 33 years since feminist film critic Molly Haskell first bemoaned the decline in the quality of Hollywood's women's roles since the '30s and '40s, and nothing much seems to have changed.

But back to our newcomers. Notable about this trio is that they're each able to take difficult, unruly or compromised characters -- people who on the page may have threatened to turn off audiences -- and make them, if not always likable, then compelling.

Van Houten's undercover agent is a Mata Hari figure whose work requires an extraordinary degree of duplicity and sangfroid. In Verhoeven's revisionist take on the Dutch resistance, few -- including van Houten's character -- are without moral compromise, but the actor has the viewer on side throughout. Certainly van Houten is strikingly attractive, but she lends her character not only beauty but extraordinary strength of character, making the plot's many implausibilities easier to overlook.

Garai displays a similar strength as the title character of Angel, but does something quite different with the role. She somehow finds the warmth, humour and high spirits that make an egotistical, impetuous woman into something of a proto-feminist heroine whose rudeness and cheek is fascinating and often amusing.

Ozon, here working entirely in English for the first time, observes that Garai "wasn't afraid of the more grotesque aspects of Angel's character, and she brought naivety and charm to the part, with her big, dreamy, childlike eyes. Plus, she really liked Angel. Not all the actresses (who auditioned for the role) did. Many of them found her monstrous and mean, an anti-heroine, a liar, a failure; she frightened them. Whereas Romola played it straight, she approached Angel with no disdain whatsoever."

Like van Houten, Garai has striking looks, but there's something mysterious and intriguing about them, a quality that makes us wonder about the woman to whom they belong. She looked completely different in the title role of the ABC miniseries Mary Bryant (for which she won an AFI award) and was transformed into a magnificently orange-coiffed beauty in this year's Amazing Grace, about anti-slavery campaigner William Wilberforce. She's equally hard to recognise from the stills of her next project, an adaptation of Ian McEwan's novel Atonement.

Marion Cotillard as Piaf
Cotillard also has a chameleon quality; she is, in real life, an attractive woman with little resemblance to the plain and tiny Piaf, who became increasingly bizarre-looking as she aged. Cotillard's Piaf is on a short fuse: often demanding, arrogant, coarse, noisy and self-centred. Yet she provides human complexity by blending these traits with vulnerability, passion and determination to rise above her difficult everyday surroundings.

To achieve this, a performer has to stop worrying about whether the audience will love her and concentrate on what the character needs to become fully human. It requires, in other words, a lack of vanity.
Are there young European men capable of matching these women's achievements? Perhaps Romain Duris (Inside Paris and The Beat that My Heart Skipped).

As for the young Brits, Ben Whishaw (Perfume) and James McAvoy (The Last King of Scotland): the jury is still out. For now, it's the women who are dazzling. Will Hollywood guzzle them up? Unlikely. Van Houten is filming opposite Tom Cruise in the plot-against-Hitler movie, Valkyrie.

But Cotillard's role as Russell Crowe's French love interest in Ridley Scott's A Good Year was hardly a career highlight. Further high-profile US roles may come these women's way, but when it comes to big acting opportunities, they'll continue to look to European filmmakers for some time to come.

Friday, December 9, 2011

How the Swedes tried to bury Let The Right One In

There's a terrific interview with Swedish director Tomas Alfredson on Rotten Tomatoes I urge everyone to read in full. Two extracts are worth sharing here.

Director Tomas Alfredson
The first concerns his startlingly good vampire film Let The Right One In, the veteran filmmaker's first international hit after it became a succes d'estime on the global film festival circuit. I can't think of a better illustration of screenwriter William Goldman's catchphrase about the industry side of the  biz: Nobody Knows Anything. Nor a more vivid tribute to the important role still played by film festivals.

"The making of Let the Right One In was very demanding, and in many ways very unhappy, because back home it was a film that nobody would touch when it was finalised," says Alfredson. "The distributor wasn't interested; the theatre owners didn't believe in it; the financiers disappeared. It was sort of put away in a cupboard for 10 months, so it was like... I thought I did a flop. And I loved it; I had invested so much time and love into it, so I was so disappointed about that. And then it started -- before it actually opened in Sweden -- it was shown in festivals here and there, and the success story of it started."

(See here for the piece I wrote the film for the SBS website ahead of its screening on the channel earlier this year.)

The second quote concerns Alfredson's follow-up to that success, a new adaptation of John le Carre's espionage novel, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, set mainly in a spectacularly drab Britain in the 1970s (it's to be released in Australia on January 19).

Alfredson's comments on how to capture the essence of a period in a way that makes it look lived in should be pinned on the fridge door of every director and production designer planning to make a screen drama set in an earlier era: 

Benedict Cumberbatch in Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy
 "It's too easy to put sideburns on everyone and play hit records, you know -- all those cheap ways into the hearts of people," says the director. "I think the period was so much about, not '73, as this is set in, it's about the '60s and '50s and '40s -- all the periods before that. Because if you would visit someone in a home in 1973 there would be one chair that was bought last year and the rest would be stuff from the '40s or the '50s. Too often people always sort of push the volume to 10 when they're doing period stuff."

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

Why Dylan was right on Obama

Looking back through posts I put up here a couple of years back, I was intrigued to find this comment by Bob Dylan dating from April 2009. 
Asked by Newsweek's Bill Flanagan for his thoughts on Barack Obama, Dylan came up with this reserved response: "He'll be the best president he can be. Most of those guys come into office with the best of intentions and leave as beaten men. Johnson would be a good example of that … Nixon, Clinton in a way, Truman, all the rest of them going back. You know, it's like they all fly too close to the sun and get burned."
The thing to remember is that at this point Obama had been inaugurated as US President only three months earlier and was still the blank screen upon which all progressive, small-'l' liberal and George W. Bush-hating Americans were projecting their wildest hopes and dreams. 
It seemed clear to relatively few at the time that all this Obama-mania - encouraged by the man's own soaring rhetoric - was bound to result in chronic disillusion. That's not to disparage the man, who I'm sure has had good intentions all along. But after promising the Sun, there was no other place top go other than back down to Earth, as Dylan so perceptively noted.
Conclusion: sometimes the most perceptive statements about politics come from artists, whose field of expertise is outside of the political system. Having begun as a protest singer, Dylan started to question his youthful certainty as early as 1964 with the song My Back Pages, with its "I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now" refrain - as memorable and profound as anything found in Shakespeare.
It should be no surprise that Dylan related more to Obama as a writer than as a politician. "His writing style hits you on more than one level," he told Flanagan re. Obama's autobiography, Dreams From My Father. "It makes you feel and think at the same time, and that is hard to do. He says profoundly outrageous things. He's looking at a shrunken head inside of a glass case in some museum with a bunch of other people, and he's wondering if any of these people realize that they could be looking at one of their ancestors."
Asked by Flanagan what in the book would make Dylan think Obama would be a good politician, he replied: "Well, nothing really. In some sense, you would think being in the business of politics would be the last thing that this man would want to do. I think he had a job as an investment banker on Wall Street for a second, selling German bonds. But he probably could've done anything. If you read his book, you'll know that the political world came to him. It was there to be had." (see here for more of the interview).
Dylan's reluctance to jump aboard the Obama-is-God bandwagon at the time would have appeared suspiciously apolitical to many Americans at the time. In retrospect, his assessment, while supportive of Obama's intentions, seems not only realistic but uncommonly wise - a note of pragmatic sense at a time of jubilation verging on hysteria. 
Who now recalls that Obama, whose drone-targeting of Taliban operatives has resulted in the deaths of 100s of innocent Afghanis and Pakistanis, was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize on 9 October, 2009 - only two years ago?  
None of this is to condemn Obama so much as to draw attention to the limits of presidential power in a liberal democratic system. Real power resides elsewhere. As Dylan implicitly recognised.

Sunday, December 4, 2011

Four troubadours - the new female wave

The new generation of British folk and neo-folk singers makes the fuss made about the pleasant but slightly prissy Kate Rusby a decade or so ago look rather silly.

While below I've embedded clips of two of the highest profile younger acts, I'm kicking off with Emily Portman, who was born in Glastonbury and raised for the most part in the North East and whose utterly bewitching voice deserves to become far better known:



Laura Marling, below, rejects the "folk" label, perhaps because she hasn't come up through the folk circuit, but clearly she has worked her way through piles of early Joni Mitchell and Leonard Cohen albums and absorbed what it is about them that made them great.




If you need a label - and labels can be useful - then to properly contextualise Marling I'd reach for neo-folk, a handy way of gathering all the contemporary troubadours, regardless of where they stand on the "are you a dyed-in-the-wool folkie or a contemporary singer-songwriter with an acoustic guitar?" question. Marling, who won the best female artist title at the Brit awards this year,  is coming to Melbourne and Sydney in February (see here for details). Obviously attendance is mandatory.



The Unthanks are distinguished by the gorgeously complementary voices of Northumbrian sisters Rachel and Becky Unthank, and a knack for transforming material that ranges from the unlikely (the above track, Starless, is filched from 70s prog-rockers King Crimson) to the folk music of their North eastern corner of England, the same area as Portman was raised.

As Robert Wyatt, whose songs the sisters cover along with those of Antony and The Johnsons in their upcoming live album, so aptly puts it, "they are like the morning dew that hasn't steamed off yet, they are fresh and new and I really don't think they know how good they are."

In January I wrote a feature for The Australian on the group: "Becky, the younger of the two sisters, explains, 'It's hard to pinpoint when people ask me, What kind of music do you play? But for me, I sing folk songs, and I always have, so I would call it folk music just for that reason. I guess it's presented in not strictly folk fashion.

"Our parents love music and they got into it in the 60s, when they were teenagers, so we've always been surrounded by it. But we also love different types of music. So I think that just naturally seeps in and influences our music and our arranging. We don't think, Lets arrange this in the style of this or that band, we just try to focus on the story of the song and think what instruments we need to bring out the story."

The final clip, below, showcases Derbyshire-raised singer and fiddle player Bella Hardy. Perhaps not blessed with quite the same crossover potential as the acts above, she has an appealing voice and is obviously a fine performer:

Thursday, December 1, 2011

We Need to Talk About Kevin's Problems as a Film



British director Lynne Ramsay has had a relatively easy ride from the critics for We Need to Talk About Kevin. Based on an epistolary novel by Lionel Shriver, the film stars Tilda Swinton as an American mother trying to raise a hateful and evil child with her husband (John C. Reilly), who gets favoured treatment from the boy and therefore displays a more upbeat attitude to his behavioural issues.

Apart from Swinton, whose presence invariably lifts any film (see Erick Zonka's Julia for a mess she makes kind of interesting) I found the film immensely disappointing. I liked her first two films a great deal - Ratcatcher was extraordinary, and Morvern Callar only marginally less impressive. The new film's chief problem is that it's about the workings of fate, and therefore gives the audience nothing to do other than watch a series of preordained events spin to their ugly conclusion. 

We Need to Talk has no role for its protagonist to play other than a passive one. Swinton walks around in a daze for the entire film, loving her unlovable son because, as a mother, she has been biologically programmed. 

Kevin is not so much a character as an evil stick figure from a horror movie but without the supporting genre thrills to compensate. (Compare Ezra Miller as the teenage Kevin to Daniel Henshall's terrifyingly believable performance as John Bunting, the sadistic leader of a gang of South Australian serial killers, in Justin Kurzel's Snowtown and you instantly see the depth of the problem.)


Kevin is fated to commit terrible acts. His mother is fated to be unable to stop him yet to continue loving him nonetheless. Dramatically, that's flat. Ramsay's attempts at jazzing it all up with dream sequences, montage sequences, and endless impressionistic passages are there to distract the audience. Intriguing at first, quickly they outstay their welcome.

Some commentators have pointed to an apparent suggestion in the novel that Swinton is an unreliable narrator, and that the story being spun is therefore not to be taken at face value. Any attempt at achieving a similar effect in the film is, sadly, lost.


One thing I will credit Ramsay for, though, is her choosing three actors to play Kevin at different ages that actually look like they're the same person - as assured an example of casting as Jane Campion's three choices to play author Janet Frame in An Angel at my Table