American Beauty *****

Before I get into things I wish to place a request with the cosmic ordering system that I can meet and have a chat with Alan Ball, the writer of this film......thanks.

Lester Burnham, (Kevin Spacey) is 42 and entering a bit of a mid life crisis. The wheels have come off, his job has no meaning for him, his wife Carolyn, (Annette Bening) is on the brink of an affair and his daughter Jane, (Thora Birch) has no respect for him. Now watch what happens and how it affects him and his family and his new neighbours, the Fitzs.

This is a spectacular piece of work in regards to just about any aspect of film making that you might wish to measure. But as is often the way, it comes down to a couple of amazing moments which the whole films hangs on; in this case speeches by Lester's drug toting young neighbour Ricky Fitz, and towards the end of the film by Lester himself, elements of which have been borrowed from each other. The first takes place whilst Ricky shows Jane "the most beautiful thing he has ever filmed."

"It was one of those days when it's a minute away from snowing and there's this electricity in the air, you can almost hear it. And this bag was just, dancing with me. Like a little kid begging me to play with it. For fifteen minutes. And that's the day I realized that there was this entire life behind things, and this incredibly benevolent force, that wanted me to know there was no reason to be afraid, ever. Video's a poor excuse, I know. But it helps me remember... I need to remember... Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it, like my heart's going to cave in".

There is much iconography in this movie. Hands feature a lot, as well as reflections and mirrors and confined spaces. Lester is seeking to escape from his restricted life, but not to a place of irresponsibility, to a place where he can be himself.

This is a beautifully realized film with fantastic performances, Anette Bening is scarily effective, Mena Suvari who plays Jane's friend and the subject of Lester's infatuation is mesmerising, there is great imagery and brilliantly chosen music but above all, I love this film because I once had a similar experience to the one Ricky describes and as he said himself "it helps me remember".

Collateral *****

Film 4 showed this movie last night. I am a fan of Michael Mann but whilst this is every bit as stylish as Heat, it hangs together better as a complete entity.

Tom Cruise (who I am not usually bothered about) plays a hitman, Vincent, in town for the night to do a spot of contract killing. Jamie Foxx is Max, the unwitting soul recruited to drive Vincent around for the duration. Max is a disenfranchised, nice guy, taxi driver who starts to realise that, up against Vincent and perhaps in the rest of his life he needs to take a stand. Vincent, on the other hand, is surfing along on the edge of his confidence and power, doing "what he does for a living......indifferent", causing havoc.

Sometimes aspects of a character in a film remind me of people I know and this for me is a sign of a great performance. Rarely has it happened to the extent that it does in the case of Vincent (not sure what this says about people I know).

This a black comedy; the bullying of Max by Vincent generates much tension and even amusement, odd pairings in other films like Midnight Run and Planes Trains and Automobiles come to mind. The imdb page for the film features much of Vincent's wisdom and ascerbic one-liners.

One dead body already in the boot of the car, two cops approach, "Don't let me get backed into a corner, you don't have enough trunk space", he warns Max.

Australian GP

My predictions seem to be on target post this first race of the season........(click here for more).

Nice Truck

Captured in its natural habitat in rural Alberta last year, I was pleased with how close I was able to get to this one.

Le Conseguenze dell'amore ****

I spoke to someone about this film over the weekend. They said that they couldn't understand what motivated the main character to do what he did.

In the Scritti Politti song, the Sweetest Girl, there is the line "she left because she understood the value of defiance".

In this atmospheric and stylised but handsome film we learn about Titto, an immaculately dressed, middle-aged, lonely guy who lives in a smart hotel by a lake in Switzerland and is suffering from the consequences of decisions he has made and circumstances he has found himself in, which appear to have trapped him.

Much of the interpretation is left to the viewer but whilst decisions have consequences and whilst they may have a permanent impact, defiance does have an intrinsic value as does doing things for reasons of your own.

La Dolce Vita*****

From the opening shot of the helicopter with a statue of Jesus dangling from it crossing a sunlit and optimistic Rome, it is iconic and beautiful to look at. I could watch it again without the sound. Although in black and white and made in 1960, it has avoided attaching itself to an era or even a genre.

Stunning and beautiful imagery and players reside within a wandering and dreamlike but compelling narrative. We follow cosmopolitan Marcello, a writer, as he experiences an almost cartoon existence of partying interspersed with rediculous and sometimes horrendous events. We watch as he tries to make sense of it all.

Easy to gaze at for its two and three quarter hours, it is engaging, amazingly contemprorary and even very funny.

Rude awakenings

The head end of my bed is against a pretty Victorian (but blocked off) fireplace. I use the mantle as a shelf; typically I have my alarm clock there so I can simply reach up and turn it over to see what time it is. I have been a bit dry in the throat lately, this morning at what turned out to be 6.30 I poured a glass of water over my face, pillow and bed clothes.

p.s. For a split second I was quite shocked and actually wondered what the hell was up with the alarm clock.

The Good Soldier by Ford Maddox Ford*****

I have tried to read this book three times now and have failed to finish it every time. Yet I would have to say that it is one of my all time favourites.
Beautifully written (I always want to take notes, maybe I will one day) it tells of the complications that exist beneath the surface of the aparently perfect lives of two wealthy couples who spend their time travelling from one posh hotel in Europe to another in the early 20th Century. Everything is not what it seems. I reckon that I have been unable to finish it for the same reason that I could not eat everything I was offered at Il Caldora restaurant in Pacentro (in Abruzzo); it was absolutley delicious but there is only so much you can eat.

Dancing

He knocked gently, the door opened a little. He tapped again and after a moment called the name of the person he was expecting to meet throught the gap. Nothing. He crossed the threshold, there was a strong dank smell, stale tobacco with a note of unwashed people in prolonged confinement. A hoover stood in the hallway looking sheepish, he passed it and found himself in the living room.

He wasn't that surprised to see the mess, nothing was in its place, furniture, clothes and bed linen were strewn everywhere and there were mugs and glasses and piles of loose change on any available flat surfaces. Cigarette ends were hunched up in nooks and against chair legs like little battle victims.

In the kitchen, everything was everywhere and everywhere was filthy. A baby's bottle with a solid green lump of mould occupying the bottom half, open cartons of milk, no crockery at all in the cupboards, instead it formed precarious towers perched on odd corners. More cigarette ends and the dead bodies of some suspiciously foreign looking bugs.

He stood and allowed himself to absorb the scene. He had been aware since the beginning, nine months ago, that this guy had problems. He had been relieved when they had agreed to terminate their agreement and had talked about arrangements for making sure all the loose ends were tied up. He had seen vans come and go over recent days, taking away various things.

Tucked into a cranny in the hoover he found two sets of keys (including a bent one) and a post-it note; "truly sorry about the mess, hope the money left covers it".

Post script:

I will need to be more careful about choosing my next tenant and less willing to take the gamble that I always knew it was, to give the flat to a guy who'd just arrived in the country from Uganda with a 6 month old baby and no job. (The baby had had the good sense to return to Uganda some time ago).

Strangely I was not so much annoyed as sad (and ofcourse relieved); but escaping from one mess by fleeing to another is not escaping at all.

That morning I lent him the hoover and whilst I was confident that there would be work to do after he had left, the idea that renting a carpet cleaner for a morning would deal with it, proved to be wishful thinking.

There was nearly £20 in loose change, over £5 of which was in one and two p's, lying about the place.

When the fridge was moved, a little clutch of those international insects woke up and dashed off in all directions. I think I would have impressed Mr Flatly.

The Pianist*****

If you want harrowing, might I suggest that you look no further. That said it is a stunning and in the end life affirming thing. The performances are brilliant and I also like the dignity of the various pianos which seem unfazed by all the bad behaviour going on around them.

My DVD included a "making of" extra. Mr Polanski reminds me of someone I used to do a lot of business with, I have often wondered how come I had not encountered another Terry, so it added a little something to the experience for me to be comparing these two larger than life characters with their powerful energy, still faces and steely, sometimes intimidating demeanour. Cheeky and funny too though (certainly my friend is and I would guess so is Mr Polanski).

Peripatetic

Two or three weeks ago on a Tuesday, I headed off for Scotland. As I left Brighton I slotted my recently purchased Simple Minds Greatest Hits CD into the player and "Don't you forget about me" sprang into the car. I was immediately transported to the Odeon in Leeds. You may know that that song features in the film The Breakfast Club, it always reminds me of going to see it and knowing throughout that I was going to be dumped by my girlfriend of the time, on the way home. I wasn't that depressed about it and could see that there was a certain art in the whole thing; I reckon the film inspired her to ditch me and it helped me to understand why.

By early evening I was sitting in the reception of a BT building in the centre of Leeds. From there Dominic and I drove to Harrogate, passing the previously mentioned cinema on the way, for a rendez-vous with Guy and his 42 inch TV which (until Dominic changed a setting) produced a picture in which everything and everyone had a green hue. The following morning after having enjoyed a very amusing evening in the Hotel du Vin and the Drum and Monkey, I had a poached egg on smoked haddock at the increasingly Stepford Wives Betty's. They have aparently refurbished again, the designer incorporating a mildly discomforting level of perfection. I felt out of place next to a table of two elderly couples; both the men wore matching silver hair and blue v necks and both the old ladies could have been confused for each other except that one was slightly more stooped. My mobile rang and this exacerbated the situation, an employee was immediately dispatched with a "no mobile phone policy" message for me. Their Full English Breakfast is £9.95.

I had some errands to run in Glasgow before I checked into the airport Travelodge. It was not busy but most of the rest of the guests seemed to be teenagers with plastic bags full of bottles of booze; whilst I checked-in the receptionist was telling a girl that she had had her vodka delivered to her room. That evening I had haggis at the bar in Rogano's.

Next morning I thought I'd just drive about a bit and see where I ended up. Entirely without intention, I found my self at the Kelvin Hall and so parked up and wandered about, ultimately reaching the recently refurbished Kelvin Gallery and Museum. I enjoyed a half hour in there, it made me realise that when I miss London sometimes, it is actually cities that I need a fix of, not neccessarily that particular one. Glasgow is quite unusual. The grid pattern streets, the handsom architecture, the optimism and grit and the culture define it quite distinctly. I didn't like the look of the cafe in the Gallery and went across the road for a brew before continuing my tour and then heading through the dark and the rain to Lochgilphead to stay at my mum's for a couple of nights.














A highly dangerous room in the Kelvin Museum & Gallery

All that driving can leave space in your head which is readily filled up by all sorts of notions. I find it a bit surreal that all these roads are occupied by people sliding along, their bottoms just above the surface, at ninety miles an hour. In order for me to get about I have arranged for myself to be accompanied by a tonne and a half of metal, leather, glass, rubber and carpet. This and many other similar devices hurtling about, in the control of variously affected beings seems inefficient at least and probably quite funny to the children of three or four generations from now; if they can forgive our profligacy.

Speeding along the A74, bright sky, occasional fluffy cloud, lines of pylons threading across those ancient hills, I couldn't help feeling that the days of enjoying Scotch Pie, baked beans and Scooby Doo are not just gone from my life due to the passage of time, but I felt like I'd rubbed my eyes and the reality of what it has and will all cost was starting to reveal itself to my imagination. I wondered about the liklihood of us all looking a bit like we were on Guy's TV quite soon.

Then last week I had a good couple of busy days at work and I have aparently drifted quite happily back into worrying about things like whether to go to my usual Indian or to try something different. (They gave us free drinks at the Indian; so feeling good about that one).

Bare faced cheek

For some time I have been in the market for a manual beard trimming type device. On Jermyn Street this week, after a certain amount of traipsing around, I procured one of those old fashioned clipper/scissor hybrid things that used to be evident in barber shops when I was young. I was concerned that they wouldn't work well when the operator was trying to cut his own hairs but that concern proved to be unfounded. This morning, Gemma commented that my facial hair appeared to be much longer than yesterday, (when I had used the machine that looks a bit like a prop from a film about Victorian surgery, for the first time). "Yes,I think it's stubbled in length", I replied. Sharp would seem to be the word of the moment.