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Stars: Isabelle Huppert, Kathy Mulville, Mark Zanetta, Maria Isabel Lopez, Rustica Carpio, Joel Torre, Mercedes Cabral, Madeleine Nicolas and Timothy Mabalot.
Writers: Brillante Mendoza, Patrick Bancarel, Boots Agbayani Pastor and Arlyn dela Cruz.
Director: Brillante Mendoza
Running time: 120 minutes.

SYDNEY FILM FESTIVAL Screenings - Sun 10 Jun 6.30pm; Mon 11 Jun 4.15pm.

Rating: 3.5/5

The Sydney Film Festival’s love affair with the works of Brilliante Mendoza continues under the new regime with their selection of his (mostly) compelling true-story, Captive. The Phillipino-born director, who was programmed in 2008 (Foster Child) and twice in 2010 (Kinatay, Lola), presents a dramatically potent, psychologically complex staging of the year-long hostage crisis that began with the kidnapping of several internationals from an island resort in Palawan in 2001.

The film begins with the frantic, terrifying seizure of the hostages from the South-East Asian island resort. A ruthless band of Islamic separatists called The Abu Sayyaf Group, fighting for the liberation of Mindanao Island, steal away a large group of mixed nationals, amongst them social worker Theresa Bourgoine (Isabelle Huppert). It is largely through her experience that the drama of the story unfolds; increasingly pragmatic about the denied access to her life and family back home in France, Bourgoine becomes a wily intermediary between the captors and her fellow prisoners.

Captive is very much a film of two distinct halves. From the opening night-time raid to a fierce gun battle between the kidnappers and police and army (staged in a hospital and intercut with a real-time, graphic birthing drama), Mendoza first-hour is viscerally charged; he captures the dizzying confusion and growing sense of desperation that the initial weeks of the crisis represented to both captor and captive.

As the weeks merge into months, the film begins to reflect the accepted reality of the hostages – personalities emerge; relationships are formed (one hostage marries her captor; Therese all but adopts a teenage radical); random acts of violence occur that reinforce the horror of their situation (wounded hostages or those whose financial means will not cover ransom demands are considered worthless and disposed of). A stagnating resignation as to their plight sets in that the film all too convincingly portrays; after the pulsating opening hour, the film winds down considerably with perhaps too much ‘trudging through the rainforest’ footage.

It is a story of strangers in a strange land, of those whose nationalities and faiths are questioned by ruthless men possessed of a violent passion in an environment that is foreign and dangerous. Mendoza adds some lyrical flourishes as the film draws to an end, suggesting that after a year in the wilderness and feeling largely forgotten by western officials, Theresa is on the verge of becoming one with the land. Mendoza’s riff on ‘Stockholm Syndrome’ psychology indicates he is a filmmaker continually developing his filmic take on humanity.

But Captive takes a frustratingly inert stance on the politics it portrays; audiences may have appreciated knowing where the film-maker stood on the issue of island-state independence in his homeland. The film is an engaging, technically ambitious but intellectually underserved addition to Mendoza’s SFF-represented body of work.     



Writer/Director: Michael Glawogger
Running time: 110 minutes

SYDNEY FILM FESTIVAL Screenings - Wed 6 Jun 8.15pm; Fri 8 Jun 8.30pm.

Rating: 3.5/5


Glimmers of humour and hope can’t quite hide the sad desperation and air of inevitability the subjects caught on camera exude in Austrian filmmaker’s Michael Glawogger’s Whore’s Glory. The director delves deep within the sordid lives of prostitutes, those that rule over them and those that partake of them in an expose made all the remarkable for the willingness of all involved to be captured on film.

Whore’s Glory is the third film in Glawogger’s series of documentaries loosely referred to as his ‘Globilization Trilogy’; it began with 1998s Megacities and was followed by 2005s Workingman’s Death. They are stark documents that explore the marginalization of the poor, the denial of their human needs as urbanization spreads and the exploitation of their weaknesses. Arguably, Whore’s Glory is the most arduous to endure, graphically portraying as it does the daily routine of cold sexual acts (sometimes as many as 40 men, cites one third-world working girl), the strong religious faith that helps many to survive the life and the self-medicating addictions that numb their pain.

Glawogger’s camera offers a truly immersive experience, that much is certain, but there is very little about his style that offers judgement. The lives he captures are what they are, existing within the trade for sexual favours in which men of all social standings indulge. The film roams from Thailand’s plush men’s club The Fish Tank, where johns choose their girl from a selection behind a glass wall; to ‘The City of Joy’ compound in Faridpur, Bangladesh where den mothers abuse their teenage charges if set men-quotas aren’t met; to the doorway whores of Mexico. It is on the dusty streets of this township where Glawogger’s film becomes most tragic; he is permitted access to the aging prostitute’s stark living conditions, withering mental state brought on by crack dependency and, finally, the actual process by which they make their living (sensitive viewers beware).

It will be revelatory to all but those who actually perpetuate the industry. It is hard to reconcile that such exploitation of women continues to exist, or that some women have become so desperate as to depend on it. The film’s most powerful moment is when a young Bangladesh worker paints a very clear image of what life is like for ‘working girls’ and of her clinging to a belief that all this will someday disappear for her. The hopelessness of her situation sometimes infests Glawogger’s film, making it all seem pointlessly depressing at times, but it is a powerful work nevertheless.      



Features: Andrew Logan, Ruby Wax, Zandra Rhodes, Brian Eno, Derek Jarman, Richard O’Brien and Grayson Perry.
Director: Jes Benstock
Running Time: 97 mins

SYDNEY FILM FESTIVAL Screening - Sat 9 Jun 7.00pm.

Rating: 3/5

A celebration of individualistic freedom by way of hedonism, Jess Benstock’s The British Guide to Showing Off is an affectionate profile of British avant-garde icon Andrew Logan and the landmark event he created in 1972, The Alternative Miss World Show.

Popping with an infectious joie de vivre that precisely captures the passion of the low-key but driven Logan, Benstock’s film utilises Python-esque animation, archival footage and personal interviews to paint a picture of the changing social and political landscape in which the underground gathering has existed all these years (a semi-annual event entirely dependent on philanthropic largesse, as Logan points out dejectedly at one point).

The retrospection is juxtaposed with preparations for the 2009 AMW Show, which was staged at The Roundhouse in London. The competition that comes in the wake of the drama of preparation is a sumptuous parade of gaudy excess and brash, funny personalities who laugh and bitch a lot. Benstock touches on the global importance of the event as a sub-culture celebration when he focuses in on a Nigerian entrant, who has survived abuse at the hand of African oppressors to attend the event in full regalia. It is an understated moment that subtly reinforces the importance of Logan’s bad-taste, anti-establishment agenda.

This raucous, at times coarse doco doesn’t have quite enough to say to sustain close to 100 minutes of screen time. The gay abandon of the OTT event is covered extensively, to the point where one begins to feel rather wallflower-ish, like being the only one at the party not taking drugs. Logan’s relationship with his partner and co-showrunner, Michael, is not as fully fleshed-out as it could have been, nor is the status of Logan within the current underground-art scene particularly explored (no reason is given for the nearly 4 year gap between much of the footage being shot and the films emergence).

But these relatively minor concerns can be shrugged off, as The British Guide to Showing Off is all about fearless self-expression and celebrating an eccentric personality of clear vision and determination. Much like Andrew Logan himself, it will NOT be everyone’s cup-of-tea, perhaps explaining the Sydney Film Festival’s decision to screen it free-of-charge for one session only in the midtown meeting-place venue, The Hub. Regardless, it is an undeniably vibrant experience.



Featuring: Bob Marley, Ziggy Marley, Chris Blackwell, Cindy Breakespeare, Lee Perry, Danny Sims, Allan Cole, Rita Marley, Lee Jaffe and Constance Marley.
Director: Kevin McDonald
Running time : 145 minutes

SYDNEY FILM FESTIVAL Screenings - Mon 11 Jun 9.30pm; Sun 17 Jun 9.30pm.

Rating: 3/5


Taping into the details of another larger-than-life figure taken too early from this world, Kevin McDonald chills out considerably with Marley, his look at the life of the Rastafarian icon. As EP on the acclaimed documentary Senna, he held on for dear life as Asif Kapadia's vision hurtled forward, driven by the dynamic life and personality of its subject matter. Assuming the directorial reins here, his vast account of the music legends life ambles along with the laid-back vibe of a reggae king.

Clocking in at a sprawling, occasionally saggy 145 minutes, McDonald has masterfully collated archival footage and still photos to provide insight into a life that began in the mountain village of St Ann in the Jamaican hinterland, conquered the world of music, and ended sadly in the US. Unlike Senna, which was entirely comprised of found-footage, McDonald has peopled Marley with a great many friends, family and colleagues.

Some of the recounting runs the emotional gamut; Marley’s daughter Cedella remembering how she could not be alone with her father as he passed because of his followers is gruelling on her and the audience. But too many talking heads also serves to blur any strong defining portrait, casting a wide net over opinion ultimately strengthening his enigmatic legend rather who the man was when alive.

There is a valid concern that several persons interviewed are also the film’s producers, notably son Ziggy and ex-producer Chris Blackwell. There is a nagging sense that the film was never intended to be a tell-all but rather a thinly-veiled monument to the man; his estate still pulls in millions of dollars a year.

McDonald also fails to create any real drama in the telling of Marley’s life. Senna clashed with everybody and that film pulsed with conflict; Marley danced and sang with presidents, was shot at and bedded many women, but the film coasts past key events, seemingly content to reflect the musician’s ambivalence to the events of his life and how they impacted those around him.

Perhaps fittingly, the film becomes all about the music. Its inspired creation, passionate playing and global reach indicates his artistry and spirituality transcended his chosen sound, even his talent. Marley’s best moments come from it touching upon the essence of a man whose life-long commitment to optimism and faith resonated with millions.



Stars: Ladya Cheryl, Nicholas Saputra, Adjie Nur Ahmad and Klarysa Aurelia Raditya.
Writer: Edwin, Daud Sumolang and Titien Wattimena.
Director: Edwin
Running time: 96 mins.

MELBOURNE INTERNATIONAL FILM FESTIVAL Screenings - Sat 4 Aug, 11.00am; Sat 18 Aug, 9.00pm.

Rating: 3/5

Precisely the type of rarely-glimpsed international work that serious festival goers should seek out if only because it will never see the inside of an Australian cinema ever again, SFF patrons will be divided over Indonesian auteur Edwin’s sophomore effort, the often engaging yet head-scratchingly oblique Postcards from The Zoo.

The first half of the young filmmaker’s beautifully shot follow-up to his 2008 debut, Blind Pig Who Wants to Fly, is steeped in a dream-like, spiritual ethereality that proves to be somewhat overstated in the overall structure of Postcards from The Zoo but entrancing to watch nonetheless. The first 10 minutes of this challenging but haunting film consists of the innocent child-form of our heroine Lana (Klarysa Aurelia Raditya) wandering through woodlands calling for her father, before settling into the magical world that will soon become her home inside the animal park.

Growing into womanhood (played by the gentle and lovely Ladya Cheryl) wholly within the walled environment of the zoo, Lana becomes steeped in both the scientific and cultural significance of many of the animals, none more so than the majestic giraffe with whom she shares a profound connection. But when a charismatic cowboy-magician (Nicholas Saputra) sweeps her off her feet, she is transplanted into the dark and unpleasantly dirty world of Jakarta’s brothels, robbing the film of much of its essential charm and lyrical non-linear narrative momentum.

The first two-acts are almost entirely plot-free, instead relying upon man-animal interaction and interstitial cards with scientific facts about creature behaviour to engage the audience. But it is exactly the unencumbered pacing of glimpsed moments in the life of Lana and her zoo friends that are missed most as the story broadens. Crude language and happy-ending parlour pleasures, and a slimy street-thug caricature that is entirely out-of-place, takes Postcards from The Zoo into unwelcome, overly-familiar, not-very-interesting territory.

Much of this tawdry excess could have been trimmed and no impact would have been lost, helping with some pacing problems that make the entirely reasonable 96 minute running time seem significantly longer. It is not until the film relocates back to the animal park (all scenes were shot at the Ragunan Zoo in South Jakarta) and reverts to the gentle wanderings of Lana amongst her special animal friends does the film come to life again.

There is a temptation to apply theories as to greater meaning in a film such as Postcards From the Edge. Given Edwin’s stature as a Chinese director living in Indonesia, several analysts have mused over the film’s metaphorical underpinnings; is Lana’s cloistered existence and exploitation in the larger world synonymous with the plight of the enclaved Chinese population in the greater Muslim nation? Such thematic interpretations are open to debate but certainly add an element of understanding to the often bizarre scenarios Edwin stages.

Postcards from the Zoo works sufficiently well as a humanistic artwork, driven by a spiritual clarity and romantic hopefulness. Detractors of zoological park methodologies, who believe animals should not be caged, may not be swayed by some of the ‘happy animal’ scenes, but they play well into Edwin’s intent which, in the simplest terms, seems to be that home is where the heart is for all God’s creatures.



Writer/Director: Paul Gallasch

SYDNEY FILM FESTIVAL Screenings - Thur 7 Jun 6.00pm

Rating: 2.5/5


That most grating aspect of the modern documentary - the ‘artist as the subject’ device - infuses much of Paul Gallasch’s film-school project, Killing Anna, with the feel of a one-man performance piece rather than a fact-based film. But that makes the accomplishment of this young Aussie abroad no less impressive; though it is ultimately a bit of a lark that plays better as a concept than a film, it does what I believe its sets out to do – position Gallasch for a career post-graduation.

Despite the grungy design template that the film employs, the idea for Killing Anna is kinda cute and one that will lend itself just nicely to a bitter-sweet Hollywood re-versioning. Deep in a funk after being dumped by the girl of his dreams, Gallasch documents his decision to officially bury her forever with a mock-funeral. He’ll stage it grandly, with friends, flowers and invitations, and hope that her memory will be forever erased. In doing so, he is also drawn into an exploration on the larger themes of what love is, what makes love work, how do you stay in love, etc.

There is a little too much contrivance in the methods Gallasch employs to create intimacy with his audience. Accompanied by the droning monotone of the detached, urban 20-something, we watch Gallasch roll a joint, veg-out on his unmade bed in his underpants and exude a sullen coolness. There’s some fun irony in his choice of ‘depressed-guy’ viewing – Ken Burn’s 680 minute recounting of The Civil War – but it also feels all glibly convenient; it’s the sort of mood-defining ploy a seasoned screenwriter might use.

Inconsistencies abound that undermine the film’s reality – Gallasch is forced into a dilapidated share-house with 5 women, but can afford flowers and a tux for the funeral. We conveniently meet Anna, who swears she will never sign a waiver to allow use of her image, we are. And Gallasch himself is a strange construct; he seeks openness from those around him, but catching himself in a moment of deep sadness, he dramatically smacks the camera (and, by extension, his audience) away.

Flourishes such as slow-motion running through city streets (a motif he introduces with an equally arty opening shot) and a rather pointless visit to the Coachella music festival to get laid (wouldn’t that have been easier at some NYC nite-club?) don’t add much in the way of profundity. Some of the more believable moments are Gallasch’s interactions with older, wiser souls, in particular his father’s ruminations on getting over love gone bad.



Stars: Noomi Rapace, Michael Fassbender, Charlize Theron, Idris Elba, Logan Marshall-Green, Guy Pearce, Rafe Spall, Sean Harris, Benedict Wong, Emun Elliott and Kate Dickie.
Writers: Jon Spaihts and Damon Lindelof.
Director: Ridley Scott
Running time: 124 minutes

Rating: 2.5/5

For his return to the science-fiction genre, Ridley Scott has pinned his hopes upon a freshly-conceptualized retooling of the franchise he inadvertently began with a keen eye on launching another one. Prometheus, his prequel-of-sorts to the 1979 classic Alien, honours the mythology of the series and convincingly replicates key beats in the over-arching narrative of the four films.

As hinted at by the interminable series of trailers, the story follows two scientists, Elizabeth Shaw (Noomi Rapace) and Charlie Holloway (Logan Marshall-Green) on a journey to a distant planet, the co-ordinates of which have been deduced by symbols discovered amongst the ruins of ancient civilizations on Earth. Meredith Vickers (Charlize Theron) is overseeing the expedition on behalf of its benefactor, Peter Weyland (Guy Pearce); the vessel is captained by Janek (Idris Elba) and administered by an android, David (Michael Fassbender).

Upon arrival, the crew (aided by state-of-the-art ‘mo-mapping’ technology) set about exploring the cavernous underground tunnels. A series of discoveries follow – holographic images that show the fate of the planet’s inhabitants (7-foot humanoids that resemble the beings in Rene Laloux’s seminal 1973 animation, La Planète Sauvage); a chamber of vase-like containers; a giant head. Dr Shaw discovers the preserved remains of one planet native; tests indicate a genetic miracle pertaining to the dawn of man. The findings bring the film to life (not a moment too soon); agendas emerge, lives are lost and the past, present and future of mankind comes into focus.  

Scott is no longer the director he was when he shredded audience nerves 33 years ago. The British ex-ad-man has conquered the film world and now stands above the industry, or at least above the kind of bloody monster B-movie that made him who he is; he was never going to return to his Alien world just to recreate purely visceral thrills and chills. At the core of Prometheus is a creator-vs-creation duality, a vexing study of The God Complex, and these elements appear to be what has drawn Ridley Scott into the project (just as they did, one might assume, with Blade Runner).

But it is the handling of those themes that makes Prometheus such an irrevocably flawed work. Scott is working from a script by self-confessed fanboys John Spaihts and Damon Lindelof, two relative newcomers with worrying track records (duds The Darkest Hour and Cowboys and Aliens, respectively). Scott utilises the framework of the script to tell his origins story; Spaight and Lindelof’s words suggest they are telling another. Their dialogue is often banal (“If we don’t stop it, there won’t be any home to go back to!”); the type of interaction that perfectly defined characters in the original film and James Cameron’s sequel are poorly-judged and badly-staged here (one awful exchange between Elba and Theron seems to be from another movie entirely). The collaboration of a grand old master with philosophic pretensions and two young guys who want to make an outer-space monster movie is a failed one.  

There are also technical drawbacks that undermine the potency of Prometheus. The hardware and interiors, as captured on the 3D digital format by cinematographer Dariusz Wolski, have a tinny sheen that more closely resembles the pristine confines of Kubrick’s 2001 A Space Odyssey than the grimy, real-world surfaces of the Nostromo, the Sulaco or Fiorina 'Fury' 161. The deep, dark shadows that played such a crucial role in the shot-on-film Alien and its sequels are gone in Prometheus. Those films were triumphs of set design, creating vivid geographies in which to stage the action; the deck and corridors of the Prometheus look like an exercise is science-fiction artwork writ large, unreal and unconvincing.

The symbolism and mythology of the series that scholars like to riff on is intact; the horrors of birthing and reproduction, oral fixations (including some overstated vagina dentate imagery) and the terror of the monster within have been ongoing motifs in the Alien universe. No bloody stone is left unturned in Prometheus, but nothing particularly new is explored. The tonal shift from the film’s sense of discovery to outright horror is immediate and jarring but undeniably impactful. Visual effects are, as expected, of the highest order; though one of Scott’s inner-circle since 2006’s A Good Year, the orchestrations of Marc Streitenfeld are grandiose, intrusive and too often not in sync with his director’s vision.

Although the character’s appearance is largely left until late in the film, it is in his portrayal of Guy Pearce’s Peter Weyland that Ridley Scott finds the most affinity. Weyland is an old man, seemingly on a mission to define his beginnings, but equally determined to use his wealth and influence to inject new life into his current existence. Scott and Weyland have undertaken immense journeys, simply because they can, to define and further exploit that which had made them powerful as young men. As the rise of the Xenomorphs in the subsequent films attests, it may have been an ill-advised venture for both.



Stars: Cameron Diaz, Elizabeth Banks, Anna Kendrick, Jennifer Lopez, Brooklyn Decker, Dennis Quaid, Matthew Morrison, Rodrigo Santoro, Chris Rock, Ben Falcone, Chase Crawford, Rob Huebel, Rebel Wilson and Thomas Lennon.
Writers: Shauna Cross and Heather Hach (based upon the book by Heidi Murkoff).
Director: Kirk Jones
Running time: 109 minutes

Rating: 2.5/5

As a parent of two, I am familiar with Heidi Murkoff’s handbook-for-the-recently-fertilised, having (mostly) read and re-read it as my world around me changed. I don’t recall thinking “This would make a great film!” In fact, I took comfort knowing that some of the more graphic passages would remain on the page. I also missed the bit about golf-cart races and old Nascar drivers that director Kirk Jones integrates into his very, very loose adaptation.

Along with writers Shauna Cross and Heather Hach and the visionary people who market Lionsgate movies, Jones had no such trouble seeing where the potential lay in adapting the self-help bestseller. The template they would use – starry ensemble casts acting out self-contained vignettes in the cutest way possible - had proved popular with audiences, if not critics, in recent years (He’s Just Not That Into You; Valentine’s Day; New Year’s Eve).

So we get a barren J.Lo heading to Africa to adopt; accidently-impregnated fitness guru Cameron Diaz losing control of her most prized possession – her body; prim suburbanite Elizabeth Banks (the film’s biggest asset) suffering through all the worst aspects of being knocked up; and Brooklyn Decker as the ridiculously perfect mum-to-be (in the most ridiculously silly sub-plot). Anna Kendrick adds weight (no pun intended) as the accidental-mum who must cope with a terrible loss and a floundering romantic entanglement; Jones seems to enjoy the gravitas of Kendrick’s scenes, as they are the film’s best. Interspersed is a Greek chorus of pram-pushing young fathers, lead by Chris Rock (making the best of a pay-check role), offering the emasculated-and-loving-it perspective of the new-age dad.

What To Expect When You’re Expecting is by no means a poorly-crafted hack-job like those genre sisters mentioned above. But it is very much of the style that makes the rom-com of today look like TV shows. Everything is garishly bright; old people are full o’ beans and have sex a lot (here it is Dennis Quaid who, mirroring reality, father’s twins); everybody lives life at an accelerated pace and react to their environment with broad grins, smart quips and by buying things. The young Hollywood executives of today were weaned on television’s last golden era – the heady days of ‘Friends’ and ‘Ally McBeal’ and ‘Seinfeld’ – and the films now being greenlit seem to come with a mandate for a small-screen mindset and aesthetic.  

Fortunately, Jones and seasoned producer Mike Medavoy know their audience to a fault. An opening montage-like set-up paints a picture of the modern thirty-something woman that might enrage some (nights in, on the couch, watching dance contests; food indulgences; yearnings for middle-class bliss), but will prove endearing to those settling into new-motherhood; scene-stealers Rebel Wilson and Wendi McLendon-Covey are strategically cast to woo the patrons who enjoyed their last film together, Brides Maids.

In that regard, What To Expect When You’re Expecting achieves its meagre goals – to provide a pretty, crisply-told fantasy for those eating for two that centres on nine life-changing months. Perhaps best watched at home, where it can be paused during those endless trips to the toilet, it is a dippy, disposable but likably enjoyable diversion.    



Features: Woody Allen, Letty Aronson, Robert Greenhut, Diane Keaton, Louise Lasser, Tony Roberts, Dick Cavett, John Cusack, Sean Penn, Dianne Wiest, Leonard Maltin, Owen Wilson, Scarlett Johanssen, FX Feeney, Richard Schickel and Mariel Hemingway.
Writer/Director: Robert B. Weide
Running time: 113 minutes

SYDNEY FILM FESTIVAL Screenings - Wed 6 Jun 6.00pm; Mon 11 Jun 9.30am.

Rating: 4/5

Originally screened on US television as part of PBS’s American Masters series, Robert Weide’s portrait of the artist and the man, Woody Allen, is a comprehensive document made no less captivating by its conventional approach. Fresh from its Cannes premiere where the French went understandably crazy for this love letter to one of their favourite sons, this theatrical version runs a scant 113 minutes, having been reduced from the mammoth 192 minute cut that aired in late 2011.

Weide’s camera masterfully captures the great comic’s working methods and the correlation between the Brooklyn boy that Allen was, the ground-breaking stand-up star he became and the auteur that now stands as one of American cinema’s treasures.  The warmth felt for Allen across the entertainment sector is evident in the willingness of past collaborators to dress up for the doco and reminisce about being on an Allen set. By all accounts, it is an actor’s dream job, in which Allen gives them free-range to shape their characters – as long as they do it quickly (as John Cusack notes, Allen’s driven work ethic seems to be oddly aligned with the game schedule of his beloved New York Knicks).

One notable no-show is ex-partner Mia Farrow (their creative partnership and her muse-like effect on his mid-career output is well documented, however). Weide tackles the still-divisive incident of Allen’s affair with his adopted daughter Soon-Yi Previn with depth and sensitivity. Allen speaks more of the public perception and coverage of the event instead of its impact upon him. It is left to producer Robert Greenhut to recall a time on the set of Husbands and Wives (and later again, on Bullets over Broadway) when reality and film-fantasy clashed with heart-breaking intensity.

Fans will be fascinated by his childhood recollections; Allen meanders through the old neighbourhood, recounting moments that infused works such as Annie Hall, Radio Days and Broadway Danny Rose. A sequence in which we watch the man work at his 50 year-old typewriter is instantly iconic.  Having profiled American comedy giants Mort Sahl and Lenny Bruce in past works, and served as producer to the eccentric Larry David on over 60 episodes of Curb Your Enthusiasm, Weide has a proven affinity for what drives the comedic mind.

In Allen, he has a willing participant who openly discusses his past works, though he tends to self-deprecate at the expense of truly personal introspection. The overall impression is that Allen, lively as an interview subject even at 77, does not take his art as seriously as those that adore his culturally-significant oeuvre. Weide’s even-handed film, however, treats the man and his work with the love and respect they fully deserve.



Stars: Jason Statham, Catherine Chan, Robert John Burke, James Hong, Anson Mount, Chris Sarandon and Sándor Técsy.
Writer / Director: Boaz Yakin

Rating: 2.5/5

The motif that runs through Boaz Yakin’s Safe is ‘old school’. A NYC actioner about a rebel/survivor who takes on all that is rotten about The Big Apple and emerges morally triumphant, it is a hoary old concept that would have starred Robert Mitchum in the ‘50s, James Coburn in the 60s, James Caan in the 70s and Bruce Willis in the 80s. The villains are broad stereotypes, the likes of which we don’t usually see today; the crime lords are fat Russians or inscrutable Asians and the crooked cops are greasy thugs. The MacGuffin is positively ancient – a safe combination!

Leading man Jason Statham knows it is a film cut from a mouldy old cloth. In one exposition-heavy scene, his hero-figure Luke Wright twice mutters ‘old-school’, as if reminding the audience that Safe is how things used to be before action movies went all Ryan Reynolds on us. Statham, an actor comfortable letting his scowl, stubble and bald noggin take over thsping duties, is the only film star at present committing his entire oeuvre to the memory of action’s last golden era; he is like Willis’ angrier, meaner younger sibling, always trying to outdo what his big brother did best.

So much so, in fact, that he has taken to remaking Willis’ movies. Safe is essentially a reworking of Mercury Rising, the one in which Bruce protects the brilliant autistic boy. Here, Statham warms to and chooses to play protector for a mathematically gifted Chinese girl, Mei (Catherine Chan), who has been abducted to help the Triads run their extortion racket. Triads don’t use computers; the profit margins of every downtown business paying protection money are kept in the little girls head. Of course, the Russians want her; the top tier of New York’s finest, all taking bribes, know her value as a bargaining tool. Only Wright stands alone to defy them….

Given the peril that everyone finds themselves in, it is ironic that Safe remains exactly that. An energetic but entirely perfunctory grinding of genre gears, it is a film that gives a fresh coat of paint to such staple as the nightclub shootout, the ruthlessly ambitious, dirty Police Chief (Robert John Burke, so angular he looks like Skeletor) and the hardboiled hero with a heart of gold. It adheres to its ‘old-school’ agenda with some splattery gun violence and (wait for it…) a car chase that goes the wrong way up a one way street.

Safe and its leading man are clearly not trying win any new fans, contentedly playing to the expectations of patrons who come to see a film whose poster points a gun in their face (pictured, right). Had the product (and Safe is, above all else, Hollywood product) reached a little higher, its title might have seemed coolly ironic. Instead, it inadvertently represents truth in advertising.