Jordan Harper

Sherlock Holmes

Directed by Guy Ritchie (2009)

I feel like I should be stood in a circle of people saying this but … my name is Jordan, and I enjoyed a Guy Ritchie film.

There, I said it.

Sherlock Holmes is not just good fun, but it’s actually just plain good too. Robert Downey Jr somehow pulls off Holmes as an erratic, bristly character with a charm that can only be described as ‘Holmesian’. I’ve no idea how he’s done it, but he has. I’m a big fan of Holmes — from the books, to the BBC radio plays, to Jeremy Brett’s marvellous TV characterisation — you could probably call me a traditionalist, but I’ve always thought of the (consulting) detective as an incredibly versatile character. So many actors have brought him alive in different ways (which is appropriate really, given Holmes’ penchant for dress-up) and this is simply another notch on his bedpost, so to speak.

My fears that the whole film was going to be an orgy of fist-fighting, womanising and chase sequences were largely assuaged, and while there was certainly a dash of the above, there was nothing that seemed too outrageous. Jude Law was pretty convincing as a younger Watson than is normally portrayed, and even though it’s a bit much to give Holmes a love interest, Rachel McAdams didn’t seem out of place as a rather odd interpretation of ‘The Woman’, Irene Adler. Mark Strong is, unsurprisingly, terrific as the devilish Lord Blackwood.

I’m genuinely amazed that the Guy Ritchie who made Revolver and Rock’n’Rolla had anything to do with this film, and part of me still thinks that it was really directed by an eager up-and-comer, with Ritchie’s name only on the poster to confound critics. It has to have something to do with the fact that nobody let him anywhere near the script, and that even he couldn’t squeeze a foul mouthed used car salesman into the story, and all it’s done is proven that behind the utter dross he’s gestated in the last few years lies a pretty decent director.

Coraline

Directed by Henry Selick (2009)

Magical, marvellous, and beautifully made — to say I thoroughly enjoyed Henry (The Nightmare Before Christmas, James and the Giant Peach) Selick’s adaptation of Neil Gaiman’s Coraline would be an understatement.

While the concept and story are fairly well-trodden regions of children’s fiction (from the magic of Lewis Carroll, to the darkness of Roald Dahl and Phillip Pullman) as far as I’m concerned there’s always room for more, if it’s done well, and there can be no doubt that Selick has done a wonderful job of bringing Gaiman’s dark and disturbing fairy story to life. And it is quite dark … and disturbing … in fact it’s a deliciously uncomfortable watch in parts, and the story just becomes darker the more you think about it.

If you enjoyed The Nightmare Before Christmas, and the idea of Ian McShane playing a russian mouse-circus trainer excites you, then Coraline will not disappoint. The great voice cast (from the aforementioned McShane, to French and Saunders, John Hodgman, Teri Hatcher, and of course, Dakota Fanning as Coraline herself) are the key to making it more than just a good looking, well produced movie: bringing depth, vulnerability and believability to the kind of exaggerated characters necessitated by fairy stories.

As a Sunday night movie, I can’t think of many better than Coraline, unless you’re prone to nightmares…. Consider this a hearty recommendation.

Reviews, reviews, reviews

I have so many to catch up on. Been catching up on a lot of film recently but found no time to write. Coraline (magical), Let The Right One In (haunting), Disgrace (brilliant), The Host (not the film you expect), The Forever War (the book: terrific). Full reviews to follow soon, this is just to remind myself…

Hancock

Directed by Peter Berg (2008)

It would be remiss of me to not concede that Hancock certainly has its moments: the early stages of the film offer a fun take on the traditional superhero genre. The effects are a bit ropey at times (the ‘Spiderman’ effect is in full-force) and Will Smith teeters on the edge of parody rather than playing the down-and-out Hancock totally straight (which, ironically, I think would have made him funnier).

Every review I’ve read/heard of Hancock bemoans the concept of the ‘turning point’, however I’m not sure whether this is why it loses it’s way. I can see how the storyline could have been handled successfully (though I wouldn’t argue against the notion that the film would have been better had it ploughed the lone-hero furrow a little longer), for me it’s just that the director did a poor job of manipulating the twist, making the closing half an hour of the film a rather tedious and predictable affair.

Enjoyable enough though, the first half of the film has enough in it to make it worth watching.

Zombieland

Directed by Ruben Fleisher (2009)

It has been a couple of weeks since I saw this, but what the hell, I’ll review it anyway.

I was all prepared to be underwhelmed by this movie: Shaun of the Dead style ‘zom-com’ with a gung-ho attitude that is the staple of such films from the other side of the Atlantic, and directed by the man who directed … err … well … not a lot. But hey, I’ve got a lot of time for Woody Harrelson — even if when he’s just riffing on Natural Born Killer Mickey Knox — and the trailers looked entertaining, if nothing else.

So it’s with an almost-uneasy dollop of surprise that I say I really enjoyed Zombieland. Yes, it’s a bit silly, but it’s clearly supposed to be, and everyone from Harrelson to (Little Miss Sunshine’s) Abigail Breslin seems to be having a riot. The direction is confident, and while it’s pretty forumulaic, it’s certainly got enough interesting ideas to keep the viewer from worrying about it.

Set in the near future, with most of the human race wiped out by a (near) deadly disease (allegedly the only ‘zombie’ film Fleisher had seen before making Zombieland is Danny Boyle’s 28 Days Later), it’s more of a buddy/road movie than any kind of horror/zombie film. Unlike Edgar Wright, it’s clear Fleisher doesn’t understand horror, or how to build tension and genuinely scare the audience, so it falls a bit flat when trying to do that, but it succeeds elsewhere in a way that I found rather charming. Devices such as Jesse Eisenberg’s rules for surviving Zombieland breaking the fourth wall and being cast into in the middle of scenes in giant letters come across as fun and charmingly over the top rather than irritating and intrusive. Which is no mean feat.

It’s not going to go down as a classic, but it’s a fun ride, and Bill Murray steals the show in a single line when asked if he has any regrets. I won’t spoil it.

The White Tiger

By Aravind Adiga

Balram Halwai, the eponymous White Tiger — or a lump of half-baked clay as he describes himself (and, indeed, all entrepreneurs) — leads us on a journey through contemporary India, from humble beginnings as a tea-shop worker to the head of a successful business enjoying a regular (one-way) dialogue with the Chinese prime minister.

I’m not sure whether it’s just that I’m getting back into my stride with regular reading again, or whether Adiga’s just done a really terrific job here, but I veritably devoured this Man Booker (2008) winner. Taking in a full spectrum of India’s now familiar vistas — the poor and oppressed inhabiting the ‘Darkness’, to the corrupt but shining lights of Delhi and the techno-haven Bangalore — Adiga weaves the tale beautifully, and his protagonist is someone you’re more than happy to travel with, but whom it is very difficult to come to a settled opinion of.

Halwai has all of the characteristics of the classic rebel: he beats the system, beats his boss, and does it all with a swagger, confidence and nonchalance that only true bastards possess. On the other hand he’s also a genuine victim of what he, and thus we, perceive to be a terminally corrupt society riddled with incomprehensible inequality: so what can a guy do but kill or be killed?

It’s this ambiguity that I found most compelling about the novel. Of course you root for him, but at no point is anyone but the Halwai himself justifying his actions and behaviour, and whether it’s read as one man’s struggle against the class-system, or the tale of self-interesied class-traitor, I still think Adiga has something interesting to say here. As a novel about modern India, I can’t really comment on whether what seems to be a rather clichéd mixture of poverty, oppression and corruption is anything more than that: but I can say that it’s a great read, and highly recommended.

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The power of dogu

The British Museum, until 22 November 2009. Admission free

Dogū are small ceramic figures made during the Jōmon period of ancient Japan (~14,000–400 BC), whose precise purpose and significance are largely unknown, and whose design while following several definable trends, also exhibit incredible diversity.

I have to say I knew nothing about Dogū before chacing on this exhibition after some afternoon tea in the museum on a day off the other week, but I’m incredibly glad I did. So glad I went back and saw it again, in fact. And I may return once more before the exhibition closes in November.

The photos on the website and in the exhibition catalogue really do very little to impart the strange, silent, brooding nature of these remarkable objects: without eerie light and shadows playing off the patterned surfaces and unnaturally proportioned features, you just can’t get a feel for the magical nature of these prehistoric lumps of clay. Most objects in the exhibition date from 2,500–1,000 BC, and they’re genuinely some of the strangest things I’ve ever seen. From triangular-masked figures with legs like tree stumps, to delicate cat-faced figures with spindly arms and three-fingered hands: what motivated the people of ancient Japan to construct them remains a steadfast mystery (to me at least).

The most remarkable figure is perhaps the ‘Goggle-eyed’ dogū, designated an ‘important cultural property’ by the Japanese government and appearing everywhere in Japanese culture from school textbooks, to Manga, to adorning the top of dogū souvenir huts. What I found most fascinating about the ‘goggle-eyed’ figure however, was a story involving the ‘father of Japanese anthropology’, Tsuboi Shogoro.

On travelling to London in the late 19th Century, Shogoro visits the British Museum and finds on display a pair of Siberian snow-goggles that look almost identical to the two and a half thousand year-old dogū’s eyewear. Could there be some link? Were the Siberian goggles Japanese inventions? Had the ancient Japanese chanced upon a Siberian traveller? There’s no evidence of either scenario, but it’s the kind of serendipity that I find incredibly alluring.

With the exhibition being on until the 22 November – and with it being free – there’s absolutely no excuse for any Londoner to miss it, and it’s a damn good excuse for a visit to London if you’re not based here.

Artisan @ The Westbury Hotel

The Westbury Hotel, Conduit Street, London, W1S 2YF

Is it crass to begin a restaurant review by talking about value for money? Because if it is, I’m about to be very crass: the three-course set menu at Artisan (at £30 a head) is to my knowledge the best value fine-dining in the capital. Maybe even the country. Because not only do diners get three delicious, and in some cases rather inventive courses, there are also canapés, an appetiser, a palate cleanser, a pre-dessert treat, and a ‘tree’ decorated with chocolate ‘leaves’ to accompany the bill.

The highlight was probably the opening salvo of canapés: tomato and basil smoothie; chicken liver pâté mini-burger; salt and vinegar meringue ‘chips’ and goats cheese with white chocolate (on a stick). It was an opening salvo that the rest of the meal (except perhaps the delicious — and unquestionably evil — rich brioche bread and butter pudding with honeycomb ice-cream, caramelised rhubarb and raspberries) didn’t quite recover from.

An appetiser of smoked mackerel with ginger mousse, carrots and cucumber tasted like a mouthful of sea-air (in the best possible way), and my ballotine of chicken starter was tastier than it looked (the sherry vinegar reduction was perfectly sharp to compliment the rich mushroom stuffing). I have to say that neon pigeon’s celeriac veloutè (served from a glass teapot no less) looked a superior starter — though maybe that’s because she was enthusing so much about it tasting like ‘springtime in South Africa’.

To whet our appetites for the main course, another rather spectacular amuse bouche in the form of a palate cleansing apple and ginger foam ‘cocktail’, rosewater jelly with popping candy and a the lightest lemon dusted marshmallow you can imagine. It’s worth saying here that the presentation of both the canapés and this cleanser are what gives the restaurant it’s name: executive chef Andrew Jones is not quite Grant Achatz, but he’s certainly inventive enough to deserve recognition.

A main of Sea Bream with carrots, fennel and potato mash (which was so fluffy that it was more like a mousse) was delicious for the quality of it’s ingredients more than for any inventiveness, and both of our desserts (the aforementioned bread and butter pudding, and a towering pavlova) must have been prepared by satan himself, because after the previous six courses only an uninhibited glutton (like me) could even consider finishing such a huge portion of deliciousness.

Complimented by a large and diverse wine-list (from which we chose a rather lovely and reasonably priced South African Sauvignon Blanc) and friendly, attentive service, I really couldn’t recommend Artisan enough. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that if you live in London, love food, and don’t visit here soon, the men in white coats may come calling sooner rather than later.

Artisan @ The Westbury
Artisan @ Top Table — free glass of champagne with your three courses for £30
Andrew Jones — former Roux scholar and premier sous chef at Claridges — Executive chef at The Westbury.

Inglourious Basterds

Written and Directed by Quentin Tarantino (2009)

“You know somethin’ Uitivich, I think this just might be my masterpiece.”

And so does Aldo ‘The Apache’ close the movie that has occupied Quentin Tarantino on and off for the last decade: quite aptly, as it happens, for Basterds is undoubtedly a hugely accomplished piece of work. A wartime escapade, a revenge shlocker, a ‘European’ art-house piece … it’s sprawling, but I find it difficult to believe that anyone who loves cinema could fail to enjoy the (sometimes uneven, but always entertaining) ride.

As every other review has pointed out before mine, the show is stolen comprehensively by Christoph Waltz as the ‘Jew Hunter’ SS Colonel Hans Landa — performing with panache in German, French, English and briefly in Italian. Not content with simply providing a foil to Brad Pitt’s ‘Apache’, Landa is revealed to be just about as comprehensive a manifestation of contemptibility as you’re likely to see on screen. Not ‘evil’, per se, but amoral, colossally selfish and fiendishly clever. As a great man once said “Say what you like about the tenets of National Socialism, Dude, at least it’s an ethos.”, and it’s Landa’s pure, undiluted self-interest that makes him a more compelling villain than Hitler himself.

Despite ostensibly being a period piece, Basterds plays fast and loose with real history, and this seems to have angered some people (who I can only assume failed to get the hint at the opening title card: ‘Once upon a time … in Nazi occupied France’) — it didn’t bother me one bit. It’s also fair to say that it’s not an evenly paced film, and it does lurch somewhat at certain points, though personally I find this (recurring) aspect of Tarantino’s work one of his more charming affectations.

Like many, I approached Inglourious with more than a little trepidation. The trailers and publicity implied a Kill Bill/Death Proof style chop-em-up that (while certainly great fun) would likely prove unsatisfying to those of us wishing for the razor sharp dialogue of Pulp Fiction or the slick understated genius of Jackie Brown to make a reappearance in the director’s work. I was surprised to find a much subtler, more considered piece of work hiding underneath the comic-book sneer of Pitt & co — the opening scene is a good as anything Tarantino’s done thus far — and there’s as much evidence of how great he can be here as you’ll find in any of his other movies.

I’m going to leave it until a third or fourth viewing before I decide for sure on it’s place in his oeuvre, but suffice to say that for now, I’m not dismissing Aldo’s closing words as misplaced confidence just yet.

Medals of Dishonour

British Museum, London WC1B, until 27 September

A collection of medals probably doesn’t sound very exciting or interesting (to anyone but a exonumist, anyway), and to be honest, I was intrigued more by the clever corruption of the letter ‘i’ in the posters advertising the exhibition, but I found it so fascinating I ended up buying the excellent catalogue.

From exquisitely cast 17th Century Dutch and German ‘medals’ designed to wind up the Spanish or warn about the profligacy of financial lenders (timely, eh?) to medals cast in protest after WWI out of Iron and an award created for a repeat ASBO offender, it’s a really fascinating sideways look at satire and socio-economic comment over the past four and a half centuries.

As well as the interesting statements and contexts, there are some pieces that are worth seeing for the artwork alone: Duchamp, William Kentridge and Jake/Dinos Chapman are all present, and there is a brilliant piece from Yun-Fei Ji.

It’s a really terrific exhibition, and I’d encourage everyone, young and old to go and take a look.

Frizzante @ Hackney City Farm

Countless times we’ve walked past Hackney City Farm and pondered checking out their Thursday evening suppers. Despite it’s position slap bang in the middle of Hackney, there’s something almost Mediterranean about the place, and as the cafe is run by three Italian chefs (Armando, Eddy and Mauro — known collectively as Frizzante) it’s not surprising.

Having succumbed last night to it’s charms, I have to say I was hugely impressed with the food. Our antipasti: carpaccio of sweet yellow zucchini, field mushrooms, heaps of peppery wild rocket, generous shavings of parmesan, lemon juice and truffle oil on a fierce garlic toast was absolutely divine. A wonderful mixture of flavours and textures and a recipe I’m definitely stealing.

But that was nothing compared to the mouth watering (seriously, it’s watering now just thinking of it) slow-roast pork ragú with thyme and maltagliati pasta. The pork was tender, moist, generously portioned and impossibly tasty, while the ragú had just the right balance of flavour — not falling into the common trap of being too rich. Meanwhile, neon pigeon’s sweet cherry tomato with roasted ricotta and pasta looked equally delicious.

The farm ‘hall’ has a lovely atmosphere, last night’s entertainment being a three-piece band (acoustic guitar, violin and accordion) who played for the first hour we were in there — the large rustic interior giving it the definite air of a barn dance. It was very easy (with the assistance of a glass of deliciously dry, crisp Sicilian Fiano) to forget we were in the midst of the East End.

My only quibble would be with the slightly inattentive service (it took half an hour from finishing our main course to get the attention of a waitress to bring us the bill … and to get that far we had to get out of our seats to fetch someone), but it’s a minor quibble, and I’m always willing to forgive and forget when the food is that good. I’d certainly go back.

Hackney City Farm on Google Maps

Moon

Directed by Duncan Jones (2009)

I was lucky enough to not just see Moon in the lovely Screen on the Green cinema yesterday, but to also enjoy an Q&A session with director Duncan Jones, so where I can remember I’ll try and slip in a few interesting titbits.

The first thing to say, I suppose, is that Moon is a really wonderful film. Evoking the spirit of some of my favourite science fiction films from the seventies and eighties — from Solaris, to Silent Running, to Alien — and also reinvigorating techniques (including using physical models rather than CG effects) from the period: it felt both familiar and refreshing. There was a great story Jones told about the writers strike emptying the Shepperton Studios lot of big-budget hollywood movies (Angels and Demons and Robin Hood to name but two) leaving a surplus of amazing crew members that this low-budget British film could ‘borrow’ while the big-boys were out of town, including the guy who originally built the Nostromo.

It’s clearly been made with a great deal of love, and on a tiny budget (of around £2.5m). To put the budget in perspective, it’s a mere 10% of the budget of Danny Boyle’s so-called ‘low-budget’ sci-fi movie Sunshine. There’s a nod to this at one moment in the movie, when Sam Rockwell starts what can only be described as ‘crazy dancing’ to Katrina & The Waves’ Walking on Sunshine — very cheeky.

Like all low-budget movies, costs are kept down by keeping the cast down, with Sam Rockwell (and Sam Rockwell) being almost the only human(s)s on film for the duration (Kevin Spacey cameos as the voice of ‘Gerty’, the station’s benevolent computer). I can’t really remember Rockwell being in many films I enjoyed, though his recent turn in The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford was terrific, so I had absolutely no idea whether he’d be able to carry a film single-handedly. Needless to say, he does a terrific job. It’s a really commanding performance, segueing from placid and relaxed to confused, panicked, and terrified with consummate ease.

The impressively-modest Jones said yesterday that he’ll be forever in debt to Rockwell for ‘putting his career on the line’ with a first time director in a low budget sci-fi movie (when it’s put like that, it certainly sounds like a risky proposition), but Rockwell should also be grateful to Jones for giving him a platform to show what a terrific actor he clearly is.

It’s a real triumph of a movie, thoroughly enjoyable, and brilliantly put together to make a truly satisfying and interesting whole — it’s amazing to think it’s the director’s first shot at a feature length film. Go see it.

Romance & Cigarettes

Directed by John Turturro (2006)

I’ve had this review in draft for a very long time. Perhaps because I find it extremely difficult to say that I really enjoyed a musical. There, I said it.

I hate musicals, in all their forms — and there’s no doubting that the narrative, along with Turturro’s direction, is a little uneven — but that couldn’t spoil a wonderfully enjoyable, affectionate, funny and riotous 105 minutes. Kate Winslet steals the show, having the time of her life as James Gandolfini’s wanton and foul-mouthed mistress Tula, and Steve Buscemi puts in a typically witty and acerbic performance as his workmate and confidant Angelo.

It’s unfair on Susan Sarandon and Gandolfini to single out their co-stars though, as they both do sterling jobs that are not by any means easy. It’s not a perfect movie, it certainly has it’s flaws, but it’s beautifully put together — a gem of a movie — that I would recommend wholeheartedly (even to those who dislike musicals).

Regina Spektor

Serpentine Sessions, Hyde Park, Monday 29 June 2009

I should start by fessing up that I hate festivals, and while Serpentine Sessions is not exactly Glastonbury, it still has warm overpriced cider, burgers that taste like regurgitated dog meat (only less flavoursome) and appallingly pungent toilets. None of which — despite the glorious weather — boded overly well for the gig, and all of which were not what I expected from what should have been a slightly classier festival than most.

Cameraphones at gigs, how much do I hate thee? There seemed to be more than the usual number hoisted into the air to take blurred, underexposed, pinprick shots of the stage here, and I would have sold my soul for a license to shatter every LCD screen with a high powered sniper rifle. There also seemed to be more than the usual number of peculiar middle aged, middle class estate agents/bankers who not only knew every word to every song, but insisted on attempting to sing along with Ms Spektor. Much to my ears’ displeasure.

This all sounds rather negative, doesn’t it? Which is unfair, as the show itself was very good indeed — though I must confess that I think Spektor is at her best as a solo performer. I think that with a band (well, a cellist, a violinist and a drummer) she tends to veer more towards the pop end of her ouvre, which I don’t believe is her best work. I think her jazzier, more avant garde (read: earlier) style is what makes Regina Spektor unique, and I’d like to have seen a little more of it, but there’s no denying she can be truly spine tingling when she wants to be.

Overall, a thumbs up for Regina, a thumbs down for the organisers, I expected much better.

United 93

Directed by Paul Greengrass (2006)

It may have taken three years, but I’m glad I finally got around to sitting through Paul Greengrass’ deeply affecting, terse and brilliant film concerning the events on the only plane hijacked on 9/11 that didn’t find it’s target.

It’s a brilliantly directed and paced docudrama, that captures the shock and subsequent slow-building panic of that day back in 2001. The actions of those on UA-93 and on the ground are depicted in an eminently believable, and heartbreaking narrative, that slowly builds in real-time to it’s devastating conclusion. What I found most interesting about the piece is that it doesn’t suggest some giant global conspiracy, or act of stupidity on behalf of the authorities that could have prevented anything on the day — it demonstrates perfectly how what now seems obvious was at the time completely inconceivable.

We can never go back to how our minds worked before 9/11. The concept of hijacked commercial airliners flying kamikaze into buildings was simply not something the average person would be able to conceive for a minute. The air-traffic controllers, and even the lower-echelons of the military could not have realised the scale — and for want of less complimentary words, brilliance and ingenuity — of the attack, and were powerless to stop anything before it was too late.

Thus the actions of those on UA-93 are thrown into even sharper relief, their tenaciousness and bravery was something truly remarkable, and it’s never too late to be reminded of it.

I couldn’t recommend United 93 enough.