Image courtesy of Brisbane International Film Festival

Once in a while, a film comes along that has you laughing big belly laughs in one breath and weeping the next. The Orator (O Le Tulafale), the first Samoan film to be screened in Australia, is one of those special films.

This beautiful film was written and directed by Tusi Tamasese who weaves a story about love, forgiveness, and courage. It is a rare glimpse into the culture (not to say, natural beauty) of the small, traditional villages in the mountains of Upolo.

This is the story of Saili, a farmer and night watchman who is preparing to be a village chief and Vaiiga, who was banished from her village for becoming pregnant with her now 17-year-old daughter Litia.

Saili and Vaiiga are in a loving relationship; they deeply and simply understand one another. In times of struggle, Saili massages Vaiiga’s shoulders with taro leaves. When Vaiiga’s brother visits to demand she return to her village to release the family from the shame they have been carrying in her long absence, she asks Saili ‘Can you please get some leaves? My heart is hurting.’

Saili is a small man with a heart and mouth—this is what you need to be a chief. Saili is mentored by the current chief Fonsaga, who is at an age where he no longer fears death. Fonsaga asks Saili, ‘Do you have the balls to be a chief?’ and there comes a time when he needs to prove that he does.

Director Tamasese, who was at the screening of the film, said that he searched high and low for his lead actor. He put advertisements on television and radio but got no response. Finally, a woman rang and told him about her son, so they caught a boat out to meet them, but the boy was only 16. When Tusi said he was looking for a small man, she said there was a man further up the mountain so they went to the village to meet him. When Tusi came, the man (Fa’afiaula Sagote), who was working as a taro farmer and carpenter, took it as a sign from god.

Tusi hadn’t envisioned his ‘small person’ to be quite so small or to have so much difficulty with walking, so he went back to New Zealand and tweaked the script to accommodate Sagote. Tusu said he wanted to use a small person as a metaphor for limitations; to place emphasis on the stripping away of everything except courage. What happens when you don’t have the same physical strength or stature of other men? All that’s left is courage on the path to becoming chief.

This film is beautiful because it is spare. The dialogue is so minimal that every word feels important. Much is communicated through visual imagery, like the forgiveness custom isafo which happens when someone offends or murders a person. The perpetrators go and sit on the lawn of the aggrieved person until such time as they are forgiven.

Throughout the film, there are recurring symbols of mats, pigs, feet, rain washing things away. These are all things I remember from my time in Samoa in 2005. I was intrigued to learn that people bury their family members on their land and was surprised to see children playing and women drying their washing on these graves. This made more sense after seeing this movie. Director Tamasese said that since he was a child he has been fascinated with ‘how we look after our loved ones who have departed’. In the film, Vaiiga asks Saili, ‘I’m worried. Where will you bury me when I die?’ Later, Litia asks Saili, ‘Where is my mother going to be buried?’

I won’t spoil it for you.

The Orator was screened at Samoa’s only cinema in Apia on 1October and had its world premiere at the Venice Film Festival later the same month. It has already been nominated as Best Foreign Language Film at the Academy Awards.

This screening was sold out. It was brilliant to watch it with an audience of Samoan people, who laughed at many of the cultural jokes that went over my head. After the film, young people (including lots of young men) formed a very long queue with their phones to have their photos taken with the director. I haven’t been to an arts festival in Brisbane (apart from community events) that has engaged this community as strongly.

This is my festival pick from the seven BIFF films I’ve seen in 2011 and the best news is that it’s being released in Australian cinemas next week. It will be nurtured as a small film, so look out for it in your independent cinemas and take all your friends. And your tissues.

Here’s the trailer:

Image courtesy of Brisbane International Film Festival

Says one: ‘She should have just gone home. He should never have let her stay.’

Says another: ‘But they were in love. They couldn’t bear to be apart.’

Says the first: ‘But they would have only had to wait a couple of months.’

Says the second: ‘You’ve never been in love, have you?’

Let me explain.

On Thursday night, I watched Like Crazy at the Brisbane International Film Festival at the Barracks. The story, directed by Drake Doremus of Douchebag fame, goes like this: Anna (Felicity Jones) is a British student on exchange in Los Angeles. She meets and falls in love with Jacob (Anton Yelchin).

The couple soon faces a dilemma in that Anna’s student visa will expire after graduation, at which time she must leave the country. The idea of leaving is so unbearable that she decides to violate her visa conditions and stay for the summer.

She enjoys the extra time with her new beau, and only leaves to attend a wedding back at home. When the wedding is over, she promptly returns to the US, but is denied re-entry because of the student visa violation…hence the back and forth above.

Of course, there wouldn’t have been much of a movie if Anna had simply left the country when she was supposed to, waited the appropriate time, and then come back for Jacob. However, when the only reason why a couple is forced apart is one irrational, selfish, foolish decision made in bed on vacation, it’s difficult to care about their case.

That they loved each other was clear enough. But I didn’t think there was enough build-up of the characters’ back stories to make me side with the young lovers. Why should the US authorities have made an exception to Anna’s violation of the law? She broke the rules; she should pay the penalty.

Why didn’t Jacob simply move to the UK to be with Anna? His new business, though doing well in Los Angeles, could easily have been relocated to another English-speaking city. I needed better reasons to back these two characters that I’d just met, and for me, this film did not provide that.

Apparently much of the film was improvised, and I think it showed. I kept wondering if something more interesting was going to happen, but unfortunately, nothing did. While Jones might have delighted in the unconventional way of filming, I felt the film suffered for it. As an actor, I’m sure that a lack of screenplay would have been challenging and exciting, but as a viewer, I was bored as I watched Anna and Jacob regret their rash decision.

However, the film was not without its merits. I thought the acting was commendable. I enjoyed watching the dynamic chemistry between Jones and Yelchin, two up-and-coming actors. Jones has been named the next It Girl, while Yelchin has several projects coming up, all with well-established names.

Anna’s parents, Jackie and Bernard (Alex Kingston and Oliver Muirhead respectively), were delightfully likeable, and deserved more screen time. Simon (Charlie Bewley) and Samantha (Jennifer Lawrence) were also believable; I was able to sympathise with them as the rejected, ‘second-best’ love interests. But this wonderful acting didn’t help the lack of narrative focus.

The ending left me wondering whether Anna and Jacob were able to make it as a couple or not. I liked that I had something to think about after the credits had finished rolling. But overall, I wasn’t that impressed. Whether or not that’s purely because I’ve never fallen that deeply in love is something you can decide in February 2012, when the film is scheduled to be released in Australia. You might think that I’m far too logical and unfeeling. Opinions welcomed below…

This is not a film On Friday evening, I saw This is Not a Film. This non-film is a day in the life of Iranian film maker Jafar Panahi, who is under house arrest at the time. No, this is not the 1980s. This is 2010 and Panahi is facing six years’ imprisonment and a 20 year ban on film-making, interviews, and leaving the country.

Panahi has achieved critical acclaim internationally for films like Offside, about female soccer fans who are not allowed to attend a game due to women being banned. Through the non-film, we see that Panahi simply cannot help but make films. All day, he films on his iPhone, shares directing techniques, or explains the script of the film he was due to make but which was not approved by the cultural ministry in Iran.

The film he wanted to make is about a girl who is offered a university place in Tehran, which her traditional father will not allow her to accept. For Panahi, film-making is like breathing. Panahi’s day is interspersed with calls with his lawyer and friends. His lawyer tells him that the outcome of his case will be politically driven, rather than evidence-based.

Interestingly, Panahi’s wife and daughter do not make an appearance, although we know they exist and are important to his story. They are in the outside world, where there is a celebration or protest taking place as fire crackers and shouting is heard from the streets. I presume the intent is for the audience to experience the tedium, frustration, and powerlessness with Panahi. It worked. I felt like I was going as mad as he was during the 75 minutes that crawled by—although I did watch this late on a Friday night after a big week. I certainly shared Panahi’s excitement and relief when a visitor—in the guise of a handsome and charming arts research student—comes to his apartment to collect the rubbish.

This is an excellent premise and an important film, but we get the point early. This film was smuggled out of the country on a memory stick, and I found myself wishing Panahi had taken the opportunity to share more about what is happening in Iran—I didn’t end up understanding much more about the context than the limited amount I already knew. For example, I was interested that governments in both Iran and Egypt closed down the internet last year; seems this is the way to oppress a people in the 21st century.

I saw a lot of the interior of Panahi’s apartment and noted his upper middle class status, which made me wonder about class politics in Iran, especially as the female protagonist in his new script is from a poor family. Since the film’s release, Panahi has been imprisoned and will be serving the 20-year ban. Of course, I share the moral outrage about this. I’m inspired to watch his earlier works and will be encouraging others to follow and support Panahi’s plight.

Image courtesy of Brisbane International Film Festival

It’s been a long time since I have found myself sitting in the cinema and wishing I had chosen to sit up the back. But such is the scale of director Lech Majewski’s vision for his film The Mill and the Cross that I realised within the first two minutes that this was going to  be much more to do with a bigger picture than even Pieter Brueghel the Elder’s large painting, ‘The Way to Calvary’ (1564), the inspiration for the book by Michael Francis Gibson, which inspired the film.

Indeed, the painting is the film. Every frame (in the old-fashioned celluloid sense) is like a peep show into an art gallery. The costumes, the architecture, the landscapes, and the faces are stunningly reinvented. The mixture of old and recent cinematic techniques—CGI, 2-D screen painting, for example, with actors posing as local people posing as the figures in the painting.

The conceit of the film is that Brueghel is preparing to depict on canvas the story of Christ’s terrible journey carrying the cross to Calvary, but in modern dress, i.e. as if it is happening in his own time, to people of his own community, and family. So we also see scenes, moments in the lives of these people that relate to the experiences of the people in the painting.

Thus the Roman soldiers are the truly awful Spanish soldiers who torture and oppress the Flemish citizens. Jesus is a young man who called for reform and is betrayed by a priest, who then discards his 30 pieces of silver and hangs himself.

The setting into place and posing for the picture is truly magnificently done. Brueghel’s fantastically surreal landscape is awe-inspiring. Majewski is a very clever chap. The trouble is, it all becomes too clever by half very quickly, as every time we see a sole figure, he or she has to be framed, literally, by a window frame or a stone arch, the figure looking artfully out at an angle, to remind you of all those other 16^th century paintings.

The family and community scenes become more and more irritating, as nobody but the miller (representing God—and no, that’s not my interpretation, Brueghel (Rutger Hauer) tells us so) actually does any work.

Brueghel’s wife and, presumably, mother of the seven children, has the body of an 18-year-old model. The children are nasty little bullies, perhaps mimicking the nasty soldiers. But then it doesn’t say much for the rest of the community (including their supposed father) to allow them to carry on so. It sure made me think school was a great invention.

The final insult to the Flemish people is the closing scene, in which Majewski has the whole community singing and dancing on the hill, recreating the one dance movement that Brueghel has depicted, as if that were their entire dance vocabulary.  It reduced them to a community of silliness, and was, in my opinion, disrespectful to the time, the place, the people, and the artist.

This is an epic attempt on the part of the filmmaker to create an epic depiction of an epic painting, about two epic times in history. I can appreciate that he perhaps wished to give the inhabitants of the stories the same surreal quality that exudes from the landscape.

But even surreal must have something real, with its own internal logic, underpinning it. Just as the hugely, terrifyingly absurd rock that bears the mill is grounded upon earth that people can walk upon, so the behaviour of the people who walk there must have some semblance of an internal logic, or why should we care? So they ate bread, made from the flour ground by the miller. And? Sorry, but it made me very cross.

The lack of dialogue (only Breughel and his patron, Nicholas Jonghelinck (Michael York) and Mary (Charlotte Rampling) speak) places the focus directly on the visual impact. There is no doubt this film has a powerful visual impact, but I can’t help bemoaning the fact that the bigger picture, beyond the clever cinematography, is obscured in the process, leaving many in the audience bemused and feeling just a little cheated.

What if there was another you?

An ideal you.

Another life that mimicked your own in just about every detail except for those odious memories that occasionally stalk your waking hours.

Would you want to meet them, knowing they were a better version of yourself? Could you confront the feelings of inadequacy, shame (maybe guilt), or would you wither under your own gaze?

Strip away the conceit of science from Another Earth and what remains is fiction that grapples with choice, responsibility, and agency as a young woman is forced to confront herself and come to terms with past actions.

While still a teenager, Rhoda Williams (co-writer Brit Marling) is responsible for a drink-driving accident that claims the life of John Burroughs’ (William Mapother’s) wife, son, and unborn daughter. The accident coincides with the appearance of another earth in the night sky.

Though its origins are never explained, television and radio broadcasts advance the theory that this other earth is a ‘cracked reflection’ of our own. A parallel reality that perfectly mirrors Earth’s history up until it became visible; at which point it diverges in billions of small consequential ways.

Reams of theoretical physics underpin (director) Mike Cahill and Marling’s screenplay but, fortunately, the science is there to serve the narrative and not the other way around. The other Earth is a provocation to grapple with the past, what might have been, and what still may be.

Absorbing, well plotted, and realised, Another Earth is tremendously clever storytelling. Benefiting enormously from the creative limitations of a tiny budget, the filmmakers are forced to focus on human experience, contextualising the films high-concepts, and selling the premise without ever needing special effects.

It’s the best thing I saw at BIFF this year and worth a few hours of your time.

Image courtesy of Brisbane International Film Festival

This was my first time going to a drive in and I really liked it and would most definitely watch more movies this way. It just provides and extra layer of experience on top of seeing a film. It worked particularly well for Crawl as sitting outside, watching a thriller, adds a bit more creepiness.

Crawl is set in an Australian country town. First we meet a mysterious Croatian travelling through town, but it soon becomes evident he is here on business. Local bar owner/entrepreneur, Slim, has hired him to take out an acquaintance over an unpaid debt. At first everything seems to have panned out as Slim planned, except things go awry and before you know it a barmaid, Marilyn, is taken hostage in her own home and is struggling for her survival.

The suspense in this film is incredibly well done, leaving the audience unsettled for most of it. The film is quite slow, which does help this suspense, but also annoys at some points. This slow pace is set early by Marilyn when she comes home from work to prepare for her boyfriend’s return, then hears some eerie noises in her house. She creeps around the house like something is coming to get her. Why would something be coming to get her? Does she know she is in a thriller film?

There is a fair bit of silence in this film, which superbly adds to the tension. The tension is then killed by the soundtrack. A lot of the music used throughout is stereotypical ‘something is about to get you’ music. It is sadly laughable at times.
If you get past the music, the story is solid with some enjoyable twists and turns; however, the actions of the Croatian sometimes seem a little extreme and lacking in motivation. The ending is then a bit strange and he just comes off as an asshole. It’s okay if you are an asshole; I’d just like you to have reason for it.

The film is held together though by some solid performances by George Shevstov as the nameless Croatian, Paul Holmes as Slim, and Georgina Haig as Marilyn. Haig is effortless as Marilyn, giving a beautifully natural performance. Shevstov is subtle as the killer and Holmes gives great depth to Slim who could have come off as two-dimensional in other actors’ hands. The cinematography is also great and isn’t just your typical sweeping outback shots, which is a standard of other Australian films. My only complaint with shot choice is that every possible weapon is noted; ooh look a knife, an axe, a gun. Yes we get it: people are going to die.

This film is flawed but is not without potential. It is a debut feature for writers–directors Paul and Benjamin China, and they have to be commended for that. It’s also been selected for several festivals around the country and has won awards at Screamfest LA. Clearly, it’s going well and I think supporting Australian cinema, particularly something a bit different, is important. So if you go in expecting something that’s sometimes great and sometimes naff, it will be a pleasant ride.

‘Delightful, quirky, hilarious, tender, original’

This is the memo I took while the end credits were rolling on this inspired piece of genius-kitsch cinema from Madeleine Olnek. Days later and I’m still smiling when I think of this film.

This is the first lesbian space alien film I’ve seen, at least this year, and it was an absolute delight. Stylistically paying homage to 1950s science fiction, this endearing film is sure to have universal appeal for its hilarious script, beautifully bizarre story, and that rough-around-the-edges low-budget charm that just can’t be faked.

Image courtesy of Brisbane International Film Festival

There’s a danger in hyping the comedic value of a film, as it can offset one’s expectations and potentially remove the delight in discovering what this weird little film is about for oneself.

The preview gives very little away, and I don’t want to spoil any surprises here either. That said, I would strongly urge everyone to see this film, as I personally found that I laughed more in this movie than I have in the last ten years’ worth of stock-standard Hollywood comedy films combined.

The acting, in parts, was brilliant. The special effects, overall, were fantastically atrocious. The audio was quite dodgy and may have been recorded using the built-in microphone on a home handycam. Yet somehow, the film just works on so many levels.

The writing is brilliant, so do listen closely. The lesbian love story is also quite touching, though this film has universal appeal and isn’t a ‘gay film’ for a niche market by any means. Take the whole family—this movie is a lot of fun.

Four stars.

Over the passage of time, revolutionaries have distinguished themselves by exhibiting traits like an unswerving pursuit of, and passion for, justice.

Investigative journalist Anna Politkovskaya, known internationally for her work in Russia over the span of 20 years, is one such woman and the character study of A Bitter Taste of Freedom.

This film is made by Anna’s close friend, Marina Goldovskaya, herself an accomplished and dedicated documentary filmmaker and craftswoman. Intimate conversations and confessions flow. Through the handycam as well as historical and television footage, we meet the human being behind the ‘iron lady’ as well as her children, grand-daughter, mother, friends, and beloved dogs.

This film is a rework of Goldovskaya’s 1991 film A Taste of Freedom. In the recent film, we see that ‘there are many of the same faces from the 1990s, only older and sadder’. We see that life has not improved for many people in Moscow; gains made have been lost under Putin. As Anna herself says, ‘When the revolution comes, it is going to be bloody. It will not be easy’.

In 2002, Politkovskaya received a prestigious award in Los Angeles for her reporting of the Second Chechen War (1999–2006). When accepting the award, she said the job of the journalist is to go where there is war and conflict so the world can hear the truth. Goldovskaya’s film is intimate in this sense too—we see footage of atrocities and brutality and its impact. Politkovskaya talks to women whose loved ones have been murdered. One woman comes to talk, telling a story ‘a priest couldn’t handle’.

Politkovskaya attempts to reveal the corruption in Russia ultimately lead to her murder. On 7 October 2006, Politkovskaya was killed out the front of her apartment. She was no stranger to attempts on her life. Early in her married life, she and her then husband—a presenter of a high profile television show that criticised the government—received regular death threats. On a flight to help negotiate in Beslan, Anna is poisoned. In 2006, the Deputy Ambassador in the US tells her ‘we fear for you’. They tell her that Putin’s cover-up of the seizure of a Moscow theatre in 2002 where 130 people were killed is the same type of state secret as Kennedy. They ask her, ‘Why do you need to get it?’

Soon after she died, Anna’s book was published in the UK. Anna wanted to write about what she had witnessed, and in this book she writes ‘all of us are responsible for what has been going on in Russia’. At her funeral, one dignity describes Anna as ‘our conscience’.

This film reminded me of Australian journalist Michael Ware, who reported on the wars and lived in Afghanistan and Iraq. He was forced to return to Brisbane in 2006 because he was suffering severe Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Like Anna, he was absolutely determined to reveal what is happening to people who are in living in conflict zones. He too has paid for this with his life.

Politkovskaya’s adult son Ilya says that when it comes to injustice, Anna couldn’t remain indifferent. He said she simply couldn’t live otherwise. This was something he did not understand. One friend said ‘she has that gene’.

In her 40s, Anna met and fell in love with a wealthy Norwegian publisher. Several friends urged her to ‘leave the war’ and to write books. How could she resist some years for herself? The final unanswered question that the film raises is this: could Anna have had an easier life? A different life? Or was she born to walk this path?

If you can, I urge you to catch this brilliant film when it screens again today, the 93^rd anniversary of the end of the First World War. This is essential viewing because Anna is one of these amazing, courageous people who allowed the world to learn about the war that was raging in Chechnya.

Upside Down is the authorised story of Creation Records and it seems bent on self mythologising the label, Allan McGee, and to a lesser extent the bands they signed (and they signed some great ones and released some incredible albums). From their improbable success hosting a proto-indie night in a function room above a pub, McGee and his inner circle set about emulating the tales of excess they’d read about in ’70s rock biographies. That was the template for how rockstars should behave and so they became drug monkeys (as Noel Gallagher put it). I’m sure it was fun for all involved, but it’s not particularly revealing and a disproportionate amount of on-screen time is given to vaguely humorous drug stories.

For all the tales of bacchanalia the film offers limited insight into the success of the label—perhaps because everyone involved really was too stoned to remember, but more likely because it wouldn’t serve the narrative. Drugs and the profligacy of the label are the dullest part of the story, but essential to the myth of being in the right place at the right time then snorting a trainload of drugs to higher and higher success.

Image courtesy of Brisbane International Film Festival

More than celebrating decadence, however, these stories are about reifying the authenticity of Creation Records and its acts. Creation is set in stark opposition to the ‘majors’ the (five) labels that ran the international music industry. It’s a simple dichotomy that, as with many things, reveals complexity when examined closer. Far more interesting (and largely glossed over by the film) is how Creation necessarily became an extension of the system they loathed in a parasitical relationship that that could only ever end one way.

Ruminating on Oasis’ transition to mainstream, and the final turning point for Creation—symbolised by Oasis’ gig at Wembley Stadium—Bobby Gillespie mumbles something to the effect of ‘that’s when independence died’. As if Creation Records were a paragon or proxy for ‘indie’ music or the broader independent music industries. Gillespie appears completely sincere, but the film fails to contextualise the close of Creation within the broader shifting hegemony taking place in the music industry at that time, with Napster nearing its peak.

Creation Records didn’t soundtrack my adolescence and, aside from the juggernaut that was Oasis, the music they released doesn’t hold any particular personal significance for me. I’m removed, wasn’t there, and without that context Upside Down felt like eavesdropping on someone else’s conversation—though entirely worth it for McGee doing his best impersonation of an MC-303.

‘geaaghaw geaaghaw geaagh gaeahhgh’

‘Well, I guess it’s about magic and nature, nature and magic’, Sarah turns to her friend to explain the Caliban’s drunken promises to Stephano in the second act of the Tempest:

I prithee, let me bring bring thee where crabs grow;
And I with my long nails will dig thee pignuts;
Show thee a jay’s nest and instruct thee how
To snare the nimble marmoset; I’ll bring thee
To clustering filberts and sometimes I’ll get thee
Young scamels from the rock.

The play within a play is an allegory for, or more accurately synecdoche of, Letters From the Big Man.

Sarah Smith (Lily Rabe) is a US forestry contractor trekking deep in the Klamath-Siskiyou Ecoregion, shadowed by a mysterious figure forever at the edges of her peripheral vision. The terrain is stunningly captured by cinematographer Rob Sweeney, conveying in vivid, sweeping gestures the awe inspiring beauty of the forests and plains.

Image courtesy of Brisbane International Film Festival

The first hour or so of Christopher Munch’s film is deeply affecting, as Sarah communes and revels in the landscape she slowly draws closer to the creature trailing her. The presence of a sustainable logging crew in the heart of the wilderness frames the film as a struggle between sustainability, livelihoods, commerce, and protection.

To his credit Munch doesn’t abdicate to caricatures or pat answers—Sarah is close friends with the loggers, who are portrayed as deeply sympathetic to, and in wonder of, the natural world.

It’s magic film-making, but as one of the aforementioned loggers opines in the latter half of the movie: ‘there’s magical, and then there’s magical’.

All too quickly the film tips from subtle treatise on the allure of Sarah’s environs to dimension-hopping sub-sonic blasting Big Feet and a government plot to weaponise them. Sarah is ‘chosen’ for her ‘open heart’ to receive the wisdom of the Sasquatch—a sotto-vocce hash of eastern-mysticism and counter-cultural platitudes—and to act as their advocate against the forces threatening their homeland—’they never needed any of ‘this”.

Through some awful dialogue-as-exposition the film squanders the cachet it builds in the its first half and fails to credit the audience with the intelligence to figure things out for themselves—to infer motives; to empathise with the majesty of the Klamath-Siskiyou. It’s a horrible sleight-of-hand, instead of revelling in enchantment and mystery the film delivers an Oz moment—Munch intent on pulling the curtain back to reveal grainy photos of a guy in a monkey suit.

Image courtesy of Brisbane International Film Festival

Elmo is one of my favourite characters from Sesame Street, and his massive popularity worldwide is testament to the enduring appeal of this lovable little red monster. I was definitely excited to see this film and get to know more about Elmo’s creator, though after seeing it, I don’t think I will be adding this to any ‘must see’ lists.

Being Elmo is a rather slow and meandering film and, while thorough in exploring the life and times of Kevin Clash, there’s very little compelling footage with Elmo that hasn’t already been seen on TV or YouTube, and the overall feel of the movie was rather detached, safe, and seemed to lack purpose. Part biography, part ‘follow your dreams’ propaganda, and part behind-the-scenes special, it was hard to find a strong thread holding this film together to make it any more than a run-of-the-mill documentary.

Unless you get a kick out of Muppet Trivia and want to know the names of all the puppeteers from the 70s and 80s, this movie won’t give you an awful lot. Yes Kevin Clash is a wonderful human being, and so was Jim Henson, but this didn’t feel like a feature film—it was more like a behind-the-scenes special that could easily have been cut down to half its length without losing anything very important.

To be fair, there were certainly some heartwarming moments in the film. Clash’s personal journey from humble beginnings, to his collaboration and friendship with Jim Henson, his work with terminally sick children with the Starlight Foundation, and Clash’s struggle to balance work with family are all compelling threads to a life story worth telling.

The way they were presented, though, with Whoopi Goldberg’s sentimental narration made this feel like a very arm’s length overview with no solid purpose. It would make a great obituary film for Kevin Clash, but he’s not dead, and I wanted to see more classic Elmo moments and outtakes, and really explore more of how Elmo came to be, and what his story is.

We scarcely even saw Elmo until halfway through the movie.

The audience was silent for the majority of the film, which I think speaks for itself. While full of facts, history, and occasional touching moments, it seemed there was little content to actually engage an audience.

Two and a half stars.

Spudis the story of a small boy growing into manhood.

It is unsurprising that this coming-of-age tale is set in an all-boys boarding school, where Spud dreams of performing in the school musical to a rapturous audience and securing the affections of the lovely ‘mermaid’.

Image courtesy of Brisbane International Film Festival

These dreams help him survive the misery of senseless violence by other boys and receiving the cane as punishment for night swimming. It seems the only way to get through is to heed another boy’s advice to ‘just think of the best thing in your life’.

For Spud, home life is fairly dysfunctional too. His dad has finally gone mad and converted the family home into Fort Knox, convinced Russia is invading. Innocence, the family’s domestic worker, successfully takes Spud’s dad to court for unfair dismissal. Some days, Spud feels like the Hobbit: ‘small and lonely, just not as hairy’.

After Spud does well in an English exam that most boys have failed, the school governor (played by John Cleese) recognises Spud’s potential and takes him under wing. Through ‘the Guv’, Spud is introduced to a world of writing that includes Beckett, Shakespeare, Tolkien, and his own namesake, John Milton. Spud discusses life, love, and literature with the Guv, who is struggling with his own relationship woes and alcoholism.

Set in 1990 at the end of the 50 years of Apartheid in South Africa, the film mirrors the hope that characterised the era. The most famous South African freedom fighter was about to be released from prison and there a new world order emerging that we all watched from far flung corners of the world.

In second term, Spud joins the African Affairs Society and declares: ‘I am embarrassed to be white; when I finish school, I want to be a freedom fighter’, to which his friend replies: ‘By the time you finish school, the struggle will be over’. I lived in Johannesburg last year and there were different views on whether this struggle was over, even in 2010. Nevertheless, in the early ’90s, a spirit of change and possibility was palpable.

Although set against this backdrop, Spud is not a political offering, but rather a story about rites of passage for young men. While not ordinarily a fan of the coming-of-age genre, I was interested in a depiction of male friendship characterised by empathy and kindness.

Spud is befriended by Gecko, a kid with 42 different diseases, seven of which are known to medical science. One of the rare diseases is too much for his small body and Gecko dies, but not before telling Spud that his singing voice is a true gift and that he doesn’t need to impress the pack.

Yet, despite the sadness, there is hope. Spud stands up to the mean kids. The Guv weans himself off the booze. His estranged and long-suffering wife returns. He writes in the front cover of the Selected Prose and Poetry of John Milton: ‘To all new beginnings; and the possibilities they bring’.

Dreams do come true. As with many feel-good movies, the climax is—spoiler alert—the school musical, where Spud defies endless taunts to perform as Oliver Twist for Gecko. I don’t think there was a dry eye in the cinema. After his successful stage debut, Spud is pursued by both the beautiful mermaid and his popular co-star and has to make his decision…Spud is now a stud and finally accepted by his peers.

Remember the days when they made movies with kid actors that were compelling rather than cute and unconvincing? Australian Troye Sivan brings back craft as Spud in this film which is beautifully shot, genuinely funny, and heart-warming, if a little predictable.

A morally conflicted hero rides into a lawless western town to liberate the local populace from the machinations of a local gangster…oh, you’ve heard this one before?

Well, maybe not quite like this…

The hero (director Jiang Wen) is a highwayman in 1920s China who’s chanced upon a conman (Ge You) riding in a horse-drawn rail carriage with a hotpot for a chimney. In exchange for his life, the conman gives up a scheme to impersonate the governor of nearby Goose Town and extract a small fortune in ‘taxes’. When they arrive at the town they are greeted by the local gangster’s hat (standing in for Chow Yun Fat), setting in motion a contest of subterfuge and brinkmanship involving disguises, body doubles, a fortune in silver, and dual-gun-toting shootouts.

As the bullets fly, and bodies pile, pantomime descends into comedic farce.

Image courtesy of Brisbane International Film Festival

The townsfolk’s liberation writhes and bucks under Jiang Wen’s direction, burdened by poorly exposited narrative and an ensemble cast that grows with each plot development. It’s as if budget or editing forced the removal of key scenes (or perhaps weren’t tight enough), and the audience is required to intuit gaps in the on-screen action.

A central plot device relating to the identity of the main characters is rendered opaque by the (washed out) sub-titles that lack the ability (in this instance) to translate sublety, irony, or cultural references. Even an extremely limited grasp of Mandarin was enough to suggest the English subtitles weren’t conveying the wordplay—some of the jokes and much of the dialogue may have lost its ‘zing’.

The narrative finally beds down in the final act after several ‘reveals’ that frame the conflict between Jiang Wen and Chow Yun Fat’s characters as a struggle of integrity in the face of rampant indifference and self-interest. The impossible showdown is, of course, won by the townsfolk themselves, tricked into placing their selfishness above their instincts for self-preservation.

If you can overlook/do without the poor subtitling, or are familiar with the conventions of Westerns, samurai films, and Chinese cinema, you’ll have a good time with Let The Bullets Fly. The action set-pieces and gory physical humour are entertaining and Jiang Wen’s on-screen persona is wonderfully calculating, reserved, and wry.

I spent much of the running time waiting for the bullets to hit their target, and left not quite sure whether they’d missed or if they were still in the air.

Image courtesy of Brisbane International Film Festival

I can’t remember ever going to the movies and seeing a film start straight off without adds and previews of new films. In fact, I was quite surprised when this happened at the screening of Kes, which is showing at the Brisbane International Film Festival (BIFF).

Kes is a UK film set in a semi-rural Yorkshire mining town in the late 1960s. The plot is about a teenage boy named Billy Casper who forms a close relationship with a wild kestrel falcon that he names Kes.

Billy has been in trouble with the law in the past, but is now doing his best to keep out of it. He gets little help from those around him. He lives in a fatherless home with his older brother, who is a controlling, thoughtless bully, and his mother who gives little thought to her two sons.

Much of the action takes place at the local school that Billy attends where he faces more bullying from his fellow students as well as his teachers. It is only when he takes possession of a wild bird, which he cares for and trains, that he finds real purpose and meaning in his life. It also leads to a meaningful relationship with a sympathetic teacher who he can connect with and express his true feelings.

Kes is a film that depicts a harsh life and school system that has little in common with our Australian education system, then and now 40 years later. I went to see this film with a friend who grew up in Scotland and remembered fondly being taken to see Kes by her school when she was a teenager. She said it was much like the school she attended.

Directed by Ken Loach, this film has a realism rarely seen on the screen. Billy is played by David Bradley, who was outstanding as the troubled teenager. At times it was hard to believe he was acting as he seemed so real. The film was also shot in a real school with actual school students appearing as extras.

Kes is a powerful unforgettable film that is like a time capsule of the late ’60s. It shows a life unknown to the youth of the 21st century, although many would recognise the bullying that still goes on today. I should note that I found the accent difficult to understand and often missed what was being said, which was a pity as I didn’t want to miss a word of this engaging movie.

(Spoiler alert) Kes doesn’t have a happy ending, although I felt it was through his love for the wild free spirited bird that Billy gained compassion, strength, and a sense of his own worth that allowed him to move forward in his life with a new sense of purpose.