28 Weeks Later

There won't be many big films this summer inspired by Aristotle. Juan Carlos Fresnadillo, director 28 Weeks Later, says his is. The philosopher wrote that "rage occurs when a person gives back their own suffering". Whether you think that's mildly pretentious for a film of this nature is not the point; you like it or not, survivor guilt is all over this film in spades.

The sequel to Danny Boyle's 2002 hit 28 Days Later, this picks up the story in a Britain being slowly reconstructed after the deadly Rage virus has wiped out life in the country. The American army leads the operation, and inevitably it all goes wrong. Such things sequels are made of. This one, though, was made at the encouragement of the British director, suggesting his successor on the basis of what Boyle felt to be a unique vision. He was right. Wanting to shoot London 'as an outsider', Fresnadillo riffs creatively on the first film's now famous images of a deserted central London - particularly in the haunting aerial shots of a DLR train carrying refugees to the 'safe' zone of the Isle of Dogs. Survivor guilt is everywhere; not least in Robert Carlyle, who failed to save his wife the first time around. This all leads to a disturbing route back for the mutating virus, whereby some victims take their rage out on those who they perceive to have cause their suffering. (I'll leave out the details for the sake of saving a plot spoiler).

If it's not surprising, then, to discover that the director has felt guilt since the day as a child in Tenerife he witnessed a fatal plane crash, neither is it a shock to learn the parallels with Iraq were deliberate. Arrogant self-assurance of the military? A situation out of control? A people who feel like foreigners in their own land? All there, and more - you may say it's a rather trite parallel, but then Iraq has rapidly become the lens through which we view so much. It may not be entirely convincing, but did we really expect anything else?

We should be grateful. There will be precious few more big films this summer that seek to treat an audience like adults, and look like they have been made with this flair. It's brutally effective, utterly compelling and stays true to it's pessimistic convictions. It's in the nature of such things that I left this film glad to be alive and reflecting that the world is a better, more grace-infected place than I often allow a glance at the news to let me think. This isn't quite the achievement of the original, but it comes close and deserves to stand alone. If you have the required strong stomach and nerves, then you may find it a strangely lightening experience.

Grindhouse Review

Movies can achieve many things – they can wrap a warm blanket of comfort around you, they can help you escape, they can enable you to see things you would never have dreamt of seeing, they can open up large vistas of new ideas and experiences, they can take you back to a time when life was better and more simple, they can recreate the feelings of a happier time of life….

They do different things for different people, and in some cases such experiences and feelings lead an individual into a career in the cinema. Quentin Tarantino is one such person – the Pulp Fiction director’s heritage is now the stuff of legend; his time working in a video store, his encyclopaedic knowledge of films, his obsessive referencing of other films throughout his work. For myself, there are a few films I remember and rather less films that I remember how I feel when I first saw them – and in the case of both Resevoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction, I can still remember, years later, the unique sensation of cinematic shock that I left the cinema with having seen the films on their original release. Morally questionable, undeniably gripping and audacious, technically astounding; they were nothing if not unforgettable.

It’s fair to say that Tarantino’s career has been inconsistent since then, which has meant the stakes on his next film were always going to be huge. Never one to shy away from a challenge, he hasn’t exactly played safe with Grindhouse (released in June in the UK, and experiencing a lukewarm box-office reception in the USA). Clocking in over 3 hours, it’s a ‘tribute’ to the experience of watching over the top B-movies in the ‘grindhouse’ cinemas of 70s New York, where seedy exploitation was the purpose and sum of the films’ experiences. There was no real British equivalent, but think B-move sensibility with a building to watch them in to match.

The first thing to say about Grindhouse is that, as you would expect, it’s technically brilliant. There are actually 2 films here, one directed by Tarantino, one by his friend and Sin City creator Robert Rodriguez, as well as trailers for films that don’t exist directed by other guests. As any practioner of any art form will tell you, it’s one thing to be bad, it’s quite another to be deliberately bad. There can be little doubt that the deliberate tackiness and the unbelievable tenor of the piece are the signs of those who are masters of their crafts. The performances are just about all perfect as well – just the right side of self-parody, they are note-perfect for the context. Of the two halves, Rodriguez’s is the weaker – a mutant/zombie action movie given a contemporary war-on-terror twist, there’s just too much happening for anyone to get really involved with it. Tarantino’s segment comes across like an updating of Spielberg’s Duel, with the tables being turned and turned again on viewers and characters alike. Here, at least, the characters are what you remember.

So it’s a mixed bag, lit with technical brilliance. It’s not meant to be taken seriously. It’s also an insulting waste. Is all that’s left of Tarantino’s undoubted talent to hark-bark to something that will never be fully revisited? It seems that he’s yearning for a time when – like standing on the terraces at British football games – comfort wasn’t everything in the viewer’s experience. He wants something vital and visceral, in contrast to the anti-sceptic experience of current-day multiplex viewing; in that there may be something to hearken to. But Grindhouse isn’t it; gripping and impressive as the second-half may be, the whole thing little more than three hours of one potential genius and a less-gifted friend disappearing down a blind alley while showing stunning contempt for the audience. The films may have ‘missing reels’ and ‘authentic’ scratches, but the film’s lack of success in America seems to show that audiences want entertainment and stimulation, not the self-indulgent fantasies of the clever kids in the corner.

All this, and we haven’t even touched on the film’s non-existent moral compass and context. That may again be the point, but at least in his early films and, to a lesser extent the Kill Bill saga, it was possible to construct an argument for moral interpretation. Here that’s probably out of reach.

I have a memory – possibly a false one, but it’s mine and I’m sticking to it – of an early interview with Tarantino where he talks of his wish to make a film about the way the break-up of a romantic relationship seems to those involved like the centre of the world, the only thing worth talking or thinking about, while for everyone else life carries on as normal. That interview may never have happened, or he may not have meant it, but all the same that is a film I would like to see. I want to see Tarantino prove beyond doubt that he is the consummate film-maker many know him to be but struggle to convince his detractors to believe. For now, we are left with Grindhouse; occasionally entertaining, frequently disgusting, technically brilliant and utterly empty.

Yes, that’s the point; but it’s not good enough.

Sunshine

It shouldn't have to be said that science-fiction isn't solely the preserve of role-playing games enthusiasts and anoraks; but to many that's still the case. At it's best science-fiction asks deep questions about what it means to be human and the search for the transcendence. It may be that the genre allows more of these questions to be asked openly; something to do with the perceived unreality of the setting allowing some questions in 'under the radar'. Films like The Forbidden Planet, Bladerunner and Alien all, in their own ways tackle foundational issues.

Which brings us to Sunshine, the latest from British director Danny Boyle; the man responsible for Trainspotting and 28 Days Later. Set almost exclusively on board a spaceship, it's tells a story 50 years in the future when the sun is dying and a crew has been sent out to launch a bomb at the sun in order to restart it. So far, so Armageddon.

This, however, is an ambitious and symbolism-laden film. The atmosphere is claustrophobic and sections of dialogue spend time debating the nature of existence. Much of the first hour is more akin to the slow, considered complexities of Solaris than an effects-laden blockbuster. Even though the film looks fantastic, this didn't have an unlimited budget. It's a $40 million picture that looks much more than that.

As the director has stated in publicising the film, the constrained budget encouraged rather than limited creativity, and it shows. The first bulk of it is never less than gripping - even, or especially, when characters are sitting around a table talking. The scene where two characters go out to repair the damaged ship against the encroaching tide of unbearable sunlight is frightening, gripping and awe-inspiringly beautiful all at the same time. The symbolism is neatly ironic too; the ship's sun-shields are consist of the major portion of the world's gold reserves melted together. The wealth of the nations boiled down in a last ditch survival attempt, to protect a ship named Icarus 2. More could have been made of this, but such restraint allows the point to hibernate in the viewers mind and come back to haunt like virus in hibernation.

In the final act the film takes a turn into Alien territory, while still trying to talk about God. This comes as something of a surprise, and the plot development feels forced. I heard more than one or two confused comments as we left the cinema, all saying that they weren't entirely sure what had happened and why. The British director is clearly in thrall to Ridley Scott's masterpiece, and while he clearly thinks the transition to more traditional - if stylish - thrills is of a piece with what has gone before, it still jars.

None of this stops Sunshine from being one of the likely films of the year. Danny Boyle is one of the most stimulating directors around, and every film of his shows a new dimension and a willingness to take risks. Here, though, it's hard to shake the feeling that the confusion of the final third is an attempt to play-it-safe and lure in the popcorn munchers. Of course there's nothing wrong with that wish; but his other films like 28 Days Later and Trainspotting have proved that sticking to your principles can mean both artistic and commercial success. As a result, Sunshine is merely excellent rather than dazzling.

Walking Slowly Through The Crowd

At moments like this he needed little persuasion that his plans were the right ones. He wouldn’t miss the cold, the crowds, the creeping claustriophobia, the inescapable ubiquity of strangers’ body odour or any of the other myriad frustrations which characterised his morning commute. There would be nothing in this for which he would pine.

Of course, there were some people – a few colleagues, the friends from other contexts he met up with occasionally. However Nick had held relationships at something of a distance since the split with Jane; while that policy had its down sides, at times like this it was easier to stay the course. Over the past three years that relationship had faded into the background, but the regrets were still keen. He knew it was all to predictable to attempt to save himself from being hurt by keeping others at arms’ length, but that didn’t make it any less successful. Better the dull ache of regret and frustration than the sharp stabs of let down and disappointment.

He knew the business opportunities were good where he was going – property on the west coast was booming, the economy was more stable than in the past and a new President was bringing the expectation of that stability lasting into years ahead. Optimism was at last running free, and Nick was planning to make the most of it. An old-fashioned American dream, without starting in the gutter.

There had been little in the way of attempts to make him stay at work – the standard good-natured jokes, the predictable collection he wasn’t supposed to know about, but in truth this was the sort of company that would cope perfectly well without him or most others.

He had a week left, and this week would mainly be putting his house in order. 17 emails waited for him. One from the manager.

“Come and see me ASAP. John”

Nick pondered for a moment – this could only be some last minute clarification of pending deals for his successor. He went straight upstairs; John’s door was open.

“Come in, Nick. Good to see you”

Nick had never been close to John; nor was he suspicious of his motives like others were. Like many others, he just kept stayed his distance.

“I’ll get straight to it Nick. Caz is leaving. Wants to be a full time mum. Don’t get it myself – she’s wasted at home. With a body and a brain like hers, she’d be a millionaire in 5 years. Anyway, you’re perfect for her job. We’ll put you on 60K, 5 more than she was and beef up the bonuses. Interested?”

Nick had no answer. This was unexpected, unasked for and more than he would make for at least 5 years abroad. Silence while he studied the calendar.

“Well?”

“S-S-Sorry”, he stammered. Surprise always bought this on, cruelly reminding him of childhood embarrassment at the very moment he needed to be most focussed. “I just wasn’t expecting this. Can I let you know?”

John looked surprised too. “I thought you’d jump at it. You have until before team meeting tomorrow.”

“Thank you.

He left on autopilot; to where, he didn’t know. Coffee-machine, drink, wander down hallway. Pay more attention than necessary to the notice-board. Anything to kill time.

After eight hours of what passed for work, the dilemma was down to this: there was no personal reason to stay, no financial reason to go. The journey home had seemed longer, the to-do list ahead of the move substantially more out of control faced with this decision. Whenever he was usually faced with a decision, it would come down to lists. Here there was one item on each list, each item of equal weight.

The answer came down to a simple choice – stay or go, money or opportunity, familiar or new. He saw no reason for one or the other; nothing screaming at him that it was obvious. So he decided simply to let it be decided for him; when he left the station at the end of his journey, he would wall slowly home past the shops, allowing the busy commuters brush him, bump him, overtake him. Whatever he heard or saw first in the shop windows, overheard phone calls and conversations, would decide for him – stay or go, money or move, home or abroad.

The train pulled in, he climbed the stairs, keeping pace with the middle of the crowd; he took the card from his pocket, pressing it to the reader and through the gate. And he started to listen.