DJANGO

All the coolest movie heroes have legendary theme tunes. From Batman to Bond, the credentials of the slickest cinematic titans are solidified by an awesome musical motif that lets audiences know exactly who the baddest cat in the room is. And from the moment Luis Bacalov’s rousing, grandiose, string-laden score kicks in, heralding the arrival of our rugged, stetson-clad hero, it is clear that Django is The Daddy.

  Franco Nero smoulders as the mysterious stranger, swaggering  through a cold, filthy, unforgiving old west, dragging a coffin and blasting any sucker mad enough to get in his way. His spine-tingling entrance sets the tone for Sergio Corbucci’s 1966 spaghetti western, a confident, stylish explosion of macho energy that invites audiences to bask in its audacious badassery. Nero is magnetic, furnishing the gunslinger with an icy stare and a physical composure befitting a character so tough, he squares up for a scrap with two broken hands.

  Seeking vengeance for his wife’s murder, the bronco unleashes hell in a succession of colossal, overblown rucks.  It is unapologetically berserk stuff, with one exhilaratingly choreographed battle seeing Django exterminate all opponents with some gargantuan ordnance that would have Jesse Ventura in Predator (1987) drooling. Though enjoyably demented, Corbucci plays things poker-faced straight, showcasing a flair for action that includes positioning the audience right in the middle of a blistering barroom brawl.

 Eduardo Fajardo is delicious as cold-hearted, Mexican-massacring baddie Major Jackson, though Loredana Nusciak seems underused as the defiant hooker who could be Django’s salvation, but really, plot and characterisation seem almost inconsequential.  Django’s mission is to entertain and it does this in spades, blasting pretensions to smithereens with a .45 calibre bullet.

  Corbucci delivers delirious, no-nonsense thrills and bestows upon us a double-hard, iconic hero for the ages, with a theme tune so stupendous, you may wonder if Batman secretly wears Django pyjamas. 

THE KING OF COMEDY

Like being forced to listen to an over-friendly weirdo on the bus, there is little more excruciating than an orator cheerily oblivious to his captive audience’s complete indifference.   With The King of Comedy (1983), Martin Scorsese invites us into the living daydreams of one such oddball, pipe-dreaming, mediocre stand-up comic Rupert Pupkin, a man so certain of his right to fame he loses his grip on reality.

  Robert DeNiro is unnerving as the unhinged comedian,stalking his talkshow host idol (jerry Lewis), convinced this will lead to success. Disquietly believable, his relentlessly chirpy Pupkin is a restrained, creepy, but altogether different lunatic to Taxi Driver’s (1976)volatile Travis Bickle. The famous DeNiro scowl is supplanted by constant disarming nods, smiles and winks, the method actor fizzing with nervous energy, his fidgety, constant tie-fixing hinting at a dark chasm of need lurking behind the smirk.

  It is easy to spot ‘the crazies’ on the street by a strange emptiness in their eyes, and DeNiro convinces as a man lost in delusion, inviting sympathies with his friendly, courteous demeanour, that swiftly dissolve to discomfort under his unfaltering, shark-like gaze. An old flame is suckered by tall tales of Pupkin’s famous pals and when the comic slips her an autograph it should be funny, but the deftness of the performance renders the scene harrowing. We are utterly assured of his self-deception – the only one not in on the joke, he is chillingly unpredictable.  With events culminating in a reckless kidnapping, the clown tellingly never stops grinning.

  DeNiro is devastatingly effective because he never allows this mask to slip. Eminently watchable, his conviction totally sells us on a stooge who unswervingly believes he is “The King.” Frighteningly, he wouldn’t seem out of place on America’s Got Talent, a phenomenon that depressingly reminds us that there are many dauntless, desperate Pupkins living among us

GRIZZLY MAN

Some addicts go to drastic lengths to conquer their obsessions, overcoming one all-consuming fixation by replacing it with something equally risky. Many become adrenaline-junkies, turning to extreme sports like bungee-jumping to fill the void left by drugs and alcohol. Amazingly, troubled environmentalist Timothy Treadwell chose grizzly bears.

  Werner Herzog’s astonishing 2005 documentary is a jaw-dropping study of how one man, consumed by his love for nature, decided the answer to his existential crisis lay in the bear colonies of the Alaskan wilderness. Told via a patchwork of fascinating interviews with Treadwell’s associates and excerpts from the eco-warrior’s own amazing video footage, Herzog recounts the staggering tale of a man who survived amongst the beasts for thirteen summers, only for he, and girlfriend Amie Hunguengard to meet their savage end at the claws the creatures he saw as his salvation.

  Enticingly raw and revealing, Treadwell’s videos must have been an absolute gift to Herzog. Some of his wildlife photography, particularly one ferocious brawl between two grizzlies, is quite breath-taking. Crossing a line few would even dare approach, Timothy gets so close to these creatures that he begins to consider them his “friends”. He talks to them. He confesses he feels like one of them. His footage is both beautiful and terrifying and behaviour veers towards the troubling.

  Treadwell enthusiastically confesses that he “loves” these animals and would die for them and this is, at times, irrefutably comical.  His boundless enthusiasm is sweet and his dedication admirable, but his obliviousness to his own ridiculousness makes for entertaining, if uncomfortable viewing. The idea Timothy clearly has of himself as a camouflaged, Rambo-style badass, is at complete odds with his fiercely effeminate inflection that is as camp as Christmas. Giving them cutesy names like “Mr Chocolate” and “The Grinch,” he often harangues the bears, squealing like a shrill, angry mother. Guilty chuckles are to be had, as interviewees express concern that Treadwell had lost his mind, “acting like he was working with people wearing bear costumes”.

 As events unfold, Timothy appears increasingly delusional and paranoid, distrusting of humans. Ignoring federal laws that restrict human interaction with wildlife, he reveals a darker, problematic side, frequently loses his cool in frequent candid, unintentionally hilarious revelations to the camera.  Whether boasting of his sexual prowess or screaming to the heavens for rain, he is compellingly watchable, often disturbingly so.  As interviews with nature experts hint that Treadwell’s efforts could be have done more harm than good, a portrait of a complicated man emerges. 

 Timothy’s story warns against the dangers of infatuation. With delicate handling of the subject matter, Herzog’s message seems to be that the great outdoors is not the sentimental, healing place Treadwell wanted it to be. Like his subject, Herzog goes deeper than the average researcher, earning the trust of the players in this story, while being respectful and indiscriminate in his use the footage Treadwell left behind. The result is a tragic, whimsical, enlightening picture, fascinating in its depiction of man’s search for answers in a wild land that doesn’t do happy endings.

AGUIRRE, THE WRATH OF GOD

Aguirre, the Wrath of God (1972)

SYNOPSIS

1560, Peru.  A Spanish expedition led by Gonzalo Pizzaro descends from the Andes into the jungle, in search of El Dorado. Encountering difficulty crossing the river, Pizzaro orders a party of forty to forage onwards on makeshift rafts.

  Commanding this expedition is Don Pedro de Ursua, with Don Lope de Aguirre as second-in-command, joined by nobleman Don Fernando de Guzman, Gaspar de Carvajal,  a monk chronicling the journey, Ursua’s mistress Dona Inez and Aguirre’s daughter, Flores.

  Setting off, one of the rafts becomes trapped in a whirlpool, its crew turning up dead before they can be reached. Though Ursua wants the bodies returned for a proper burial, Aguirre orders for a cannon to fire and sink the raft.

  Overnight, rising tides sweep away the remaining rafts and Ursua orders the convoy to turn back. Aguirre rebels, promising fortune for those who follow him. A mutiny follows where Ursua and a disciple are shot.  While Inez cares for them, Aguirre convinces the mutineers to elect Guzman their new leader. The new regime finds Ursua guilty of treason, sentencing him to death, though Guzman shows clemency.

  Setting off on a new, larger raft, the explorers encounter a native couple who are accused of blasphemy and killed when they don’t recognise Gaspar’s bible.

  Guzman has the expedition’s only horse jettisoned overboard as it annoys him. Guzman is later found dead outside the raft’s outhouse, prompting Aguirre to take control. Ursua is taken away and killed.

  Indians attack with arrows and during the battle Inez disappears into the jungle. Aguirre then beheads a would-be traitor.

  Starving and hallucinating, the crew believe they see a sailboat in a tree’s branches. Indians attack again, killing everyone but Aguirre, whose daughter dies in his arms. Aguirre becomes surrounded by dozens of monkeys who he addresses, claiming he will endure and rule all of New Spain.

REVIEW

  At the climax of Werner Herzog’s impressive imagining of a doomed sixteenth century Spanish expedition to El Dorado, the fabled ‘City of Gold,’ Klaus Kinski’s fantastically unhinged commander Aguirre delivers a passionate, frenzied speech to an oblivious tribe of monkeys. Though it is evident the conquistador has finally taken leave of his senses, Aguirre poses some intriguing questions about the correlation between mental illness and strong leadership.

  Historically, some of the greatest leaders, from Churchill to Ghandi, suffered from emotional disorders, yet managed to be astonishingly determined and inspirational in times of despair. Likewise, last man standing Aguirre defies his inner torment, exhibiting the unflappable resilience that convinced so many to follow. So certain of his deserved place in history, the deluded commander is completely uncompromising, inviting interesting comparisons with Herzog himself, a committed, resilient director, rumoured to be mad, who seemingly revels in doing things the hard way.

  This is the auteur who, on Fitzcarraldo (1982), decided that the best way to portray a ship being moved over a mountain, deep in the rainforest, was to actually move a real ship over a mountain and film it, and this absurd resoluteness can be traced right through the bold venture that is Aguirre. Shot in the hazardous jungles of Peru, there is a sense of genuine intense peril in the raft-bound scenes. Cast and crew seemingly risk life and limb in treacherous, choppy conditions to conjure a real feeling of vulnerable isolation, man versus nature in the inhospitable wilderness. Many scenes, such as when a raft becomes stranded in a deadly whirlpool, are downright terrifying, a result of Herzog’s determination to film everything on location. This is real menace, as authentic as it gets, the director showing shades of the film’s titular commander, more than willing to push his performers to the edge.

  You would expect this level of conviction from a man who once ate his own shoe to settle a bet, and the resulting film is fascinating. At times Herzog can be deliberately oblique, often frustrating, such as when he presents a patience testing fifty second sustained close-up of  a roaring river, but the film consistently intrigues. Dialogue is sparse and there are prolonged scenes where little transpires, but with the sustenance of progressive Krautrock band Popol Vuh’s minimalistic score of haunting strings and desolate synths, the effect is often soothingly hypnotic. In fact, Aguirre is often most effective when completely silent, crafting a mood of ominous seclusion, a sense that these travellers are truly lost in the unknown at the behest of a madman.

  In his portrayal of the sneering despot, Kinski is extraordinary, controlling scenes with frightening intensity, intimidating potential usurpers with a smouldering glare. The actor and Herzog shared a famously volatile relationship, but here he displays a remarkably restrained, chilling physicality which would lead the director to cast him a further four times. Kinski deftly depicts Aguirre’s escalating madness, compounding the grisly sense of dread to the point where it is clear that his crew’s fate is sealed long before they drift into a salvo of native’s arrows.

  Based on the Herzog’s conviction and the evident hardships involved in making the film, Aguirre is easy to admire, though it is difficult to totally enjoy. The film sags in places with many supporting players portraying conquistadors and slaves giving static performances, lacking urgency and expression, making them difficult to care for. However the gradual build-up of a supremely brooding atmosphere makes amends. Quiet, contemplative moments are punctuated by sudden bursts of extreme violence and horror and there are wonderful instances of beauty and vision, like Aguirre’s aforementioned demented discourse with his simian counsel, that will live long in the memory.

  As much an exploration of insane perseverance, as a meditation on the folly of delusional, self-righteous colonial invaders, Herzog and Kinski’s first collaboration is an engaging, haunting achievement. It is a film about dogged perseverance that manages to reach places cinema rarely goes, because its architect was crazy enough to push that bit further. Like Aguirre himself, Herzog’s desire to achieve something significant leaves a legacy that won’t be easily forgotten.

TEARS OF THE BLACK TIGER

My mother likes to put jam on her cheese on toast. In many ways Wisit Sasanatieng’s Thai western- melodrama oddity reminds me of my progenitor’s fondness for curious culinary combinations – it is an undeniably weird amalgam of elements that may work for some, but will inevitably alienate other palates.

  Walking a tightrope between parody and homage, Sasanatieng’s 2000 paean to classic Westerns chronicles the journey of peasant boy Dum (Chartchai Ngamsan), transformed by tragedy into outlaw gunslinger the Black Tiger, and his doomed romance with childhood beau, wealthy Rumpoey (Stella Malucchi), now lamentably betrothed to another. Sounds conventional, but Tears… is far from typical melodrama, thanks to the hyper-stylised, borderline insane manner of its telling.

  Poetic, maudlin, musical moments gleefully give way to breathtaking scenes of surreal Grindhouse ultra-violence that could easily have escaped from the mental, druggy dreams of The Mighty Boosh. Packed with provocative, pastel-hued visuals, the film has the look and production values of a Christmas pantomime, with camp, caricatured performances to match. Ridiculous, eye-patch wearing, moustached villains cackle excessively against vibrant painted backdrops, while cowboys fire bazookas, causing heads to explode invigoratingly like showers of strawberry jam, but the pervading air of cheap naffness is hard to ignore.

  Any film that replays gnarly action sequences for those who missed them first time round deserves respect, but sadly, when teeth aren’t bursting from skulls in fountains of crimson gristle, laboured, syrupy scenes between the romantic leads drag like a ball and chain. Ngamsan is a peculiarly dull leading man, his monotone delivery, lack of charisma, or indeed chemistry with Malucchi, making him difficult to root for.

  Tears… is fun, but so compellingly strange, it is difficult to guess the director’s intentions. Sasanatieng has simmered a bizarre fusion of ingredients into an unconventional stir-fry, bursting with flavour, but overcooks it, leaving a bitter taste of saccharine. My mother might enjoy it.

Xala

With the finest political satire, for the bungling powers that be, whatever can go wrong will go wrong, birthing surefire hilarity from tragic misfortune. Certainly, with 1975's Xala, the tale of a middle-aged official's struggles with the onset of horribly-timed impotence, eventually resulting in his professional ruination, legendary Senegalese filmmaker Ousmane Sembene appears to have devised an indubitable formula for caustic hilarity.
 As cocksure, polygamous El Hadji, embezzling funds for the needy in order to take a third wife, only to fail to rise to the occasion,  Thierno Leye is delightfully amusing and self-effacing. Suspecting himself the victim of a 'xala' infertility curse, the dignitary plumbs suprising depths to lift the spell, cavorting in various states of undress at the behest of 'marabout' witchdoctors, providing some memorable, amusing moments.
 The luminary's desperate exertions, coupled with several titillating run-ins with his dysfunctional extended family, provide a humorous counterpoint to constant, vivid reminders of the grim poverty of the neglected post-colonial Senegalese underclasses. With rich imagery, bureaucrats wash their cars with Evian, while deformed beggars forage in the street, Sembene's camera commendably reminding us of the cadaverous squalor of the gutter. Preoccupied with his own ultimately insignificant woes, El Hadji's complete emasculation is an apt metaphor for his complete political inadequacy.
  However, though fertile with potent satirical comment, this allegory of corruption and retribution comes up short. Though enlivened by an eclectic musical score, furnished with rich, intoxicating African beats and instrumentation, the film becomes a frustratingly laborious experience, chiefly due to its phlegmatic pace. Although demonstrating early promise, particularly in scenes between Leye and Younouss Seye as his thoroughly acerbic, griping second wife Oumi, Sembene, like his protagonist, can't keep it up. Despite scoring a disturbingly striking, memorable climax, Xala takes far too long to get there and is far too limp and lethargic to have enough lead in its pencil.

Glasgow Film Festival 2012

A dynamic line-up of screenings and events has been unveiled for 2012’s Glasgow Film Festival. Opening February 16 with the UK premiere of Your Sister’s Sister, starring Emily Blunt and Mark Duplass in a “painfully funny and utterly captivating tale of bad timing, broken hearts and the healing power of love,” according to the festival, Humpday director Lynn Shelton’s offering will be the first of 239 films screening in 16 venues across the city. Running from 16 to 26 February, this year’s event includes a record number of UK and European premieres including Rob Heydon’s much-anticipated adaptation of Irvine Welsh’s Ecstasy, and heartthrob Robert Pattinson’s latest turn in sensual period drama Bel Ami.

 Growing steadily in popularity since its 2005 inception, with more than 34,000 visitors last year, festival co-director Allan Hunter has promised “an amazing week for Scottish film.” Notable highlights include a Gene Kelly retrospective, promising “all of the Kelly classics,” including 1952’s Singin’ in the Rain. The celebration culminates on February 25 with the intriguing Gene Kelly Ceilidh, where attendees are encouraged to put on their dancing shoes following a special screening of 1954’s Brigadoon.

  Billed as a “festival of festivals,” 2012’s event will incorporate Film4’s Frightfest, showcasing eleven horror-fantasy exclusives, including Gareth Evan’s Indonesian martial-arts action picture The Raid and the UK premiere of William Brent Bell’s exorcism chiller The Devil Inside. Additional strands of 2012’s programme include Kapow!@GFF, dedicated to all things comic and superhero, and the Glasgow Music and Film Festival, presenting compelling music documentaries and exciting live performance from the likes of sonic pioneers Silver Apples.

  Supporting what promises to be a lively period, Scott Taylor, Chief Executive of Glasgow City Marketing Bureau enthused about Glasgow’s “reputation as a first-class filming destination,” observing that the festival “plays an integral role in that success, positioning the city on the global film festival stage and highlighting our passion and expertise in the broadcast industry.”

As a taster, the festival is preceded by the Short film Festival (9-12 February) and the Youth Film Festival (5-12), including an advanced family gala screening of The Muppets.

 Tickets are available now from www.glasgowfilm.org/festival.