Review: Inglorious Basterds (2009) Directed by Quentin Tarantino

Inglorious Basterds was Tarantino's Avatar, having had the script practically written by 1998, it was put on the back burner for lack of a suitable ending. Of course, in the intervening years Tarantino has produced two notable classics, namely Kill Bill 1 and 2, so the years that Inglorious has been lying in wait have not been for nothing. Inglorious's patient wait for production has also been worthwhile in the sense that it has gained a great deal from the earlier works, one senses that the scope and historical magnitude of Inglorious, a venemously stylish account of a renegade band of Jewish 'Nazi Hunters' in World War 2 occupied France, would have been simply overwhelming to a pre-Kill Bill Tarantino. The timing, it would seem, was perfect.

Ironic, then, that one of the main flaws of this film (though there are not many) is timing. At 153 minutes it isn't short, but you get the impression that Tarantino wants to make it a long 153 minutes. Scenes are presented as chapters, each one a self contained film miniature with its own individual identity. It is an interesting concept, and one that Tarantino toyed with to rather more success in the Kill Bills, for the long scenes simply don't fit the wartime context.

The opening scene witnesses the fearsome SS Colonel Landa (played brilliantly by Christoph Waltz) interrogating a French peasant as to the whereabouts of a Jewish family, which, as it transpires, are hidden underneath the Frenchman's floorboards. The scene, as a pressure pot and highly intellectual and typically stylish game of cat and mouse, does work, but one senses that the opening scene could have been a bit more explosive, audacious and shocking, especially given the wartime context. The fact that gunfire is not heard in a film of this sort for a good 30 minutes is something of an oddity.

However, the opening chapter is quickly redeemed by the introduction of the Basterds, a renegade group of American-Jewish soldiers sent to France with the sole aim of killing as many Nazis as they possibly can. Headed by Aldo Raine (played by Brad Pitt, who again illustrates his ever more impressive versatility here) the slack jawed, morally dubious, but brilliantly endearing lieutenant, the Basterds wreak havoc, ambushing Germans and subjecting them to 'scalpings' in the style of native Americans of yore. Becoming a notorious and much feared force amongst the German Troops (the jewel in the Basterd's crown is 'The Bear-Jew' who has a particularly gruesome method of dispatching his victims) they become Hitler's prime target. Little does Hitler know that the Basterds have infiltrated the Nazi organisation, and have hatched an elaborate Oceans 11 style plot to kill the parties main leaders and 'end the war'...

The Basterds inject a huge dose of comedy in the film, I will say no more than Aldo Raine's attempt at italian for those who have not seen the film, but the dense scenes of Inglorious are punctuated by much needed comic lifts in the form of the Basterds. It is somewhat surprising, and disappointing therefore, to learn that the group featured on the DVD cover, and after which the film is named, feature so sparingly.

It is at this point, one realises, that Tarantino is perhaps trying to do something quite different from what we have seen before, both in Tarantino movies and in War films. Though Inglorious is packed full of the style, innovation and all American sass that you expect from the mercurial and highly regarded director, there is an apparent sincerity and grit in the film which is a far cry from the slick, smooth 'all style, no substance' that one witnesses in Jackie Brown or Death Proof. More significantly, the film's refusal to commit to any sort of moral or historical framework is a challenging, but hugely refreshing development in the War film genre.

Tarantino, grand master in the fine art of shocking, really goes for the jugular in this film. He achieves the 'shallow shocks' a-la Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction with ease. Suffice to say that the audience, quite literally, gets their pound of flesh in the form of the fastest and most furious bar room brawl you are ever likely to see. But the real shock, and it is something that is only really felt once one is released from its fierce grip, is that Inglorious is boldly redefining the high budget World War film. The fact that it pays scant regard for accuracy of any sort is enough to make this film a revolutionary development in the genre, which is often slave to, and overwhelmed by, the historical facts upon which it is based. It needed a bold director like Tarantino to inject a good deal of vitality into the War film genre, and the marriage between kooky direction and historical context is certainly a happy one, teaching that War films do not have to be one dimensional, emotion raping tour de forces all the time, they can also be funny, sexy, most importantly, morally ambiguous.

Which brings me to Inglorious Basterd's major strength, it's subversive morality. World War 2 is a moment in history that, thanks to numerous polemical books, films, and TV programmes, has been cast in a certain moral light. The allies were good, the Nazis were bad, the Jews were the victims. But this film puts a brilliant twist on all the moral expectations of this moment in history. Here is a film where Jews are going around mercilessly killing Germans with the relentless brutality we usually associate with Nazis. The allies, so prolific and righteous in the books of history, are hardly ever seen in the occupied France of Inglorious, and the Nazis, though by no means angelic, show more traces of humanity than most other accounts would permit. Tarantino creates a brilliantly unsettling world, a subversive fantasy of the war according to the gospel of St. Tarantino.

The ending, and the reason for which the film was so heavily delayed, is a really thrilling climax. The final scene, in which Hitler is smashed to a bloody pulp by one of the Basterds and in which scores of Nazis are shot like cattle in a ranch, suggests that Tarantino wants to move beyond the kind of moral and historical puritanism that has dominated the genre, and use wartime contexts to make entertaining, stylish and innovate art rather than yet another historical polemic that pushes the war film genre even further into a morally prescriptive corner. Inglorious Basterds is a very good film in its own right, but as an example of the ways in which the high budget war film can and should evolve, it is a considerably impressive achievement.

Verdict: Though the film is needlessly long, and suffers from a few superficial weaknesses; Inglorious delivers everything you would expect from a Tarantino classic. A seminal work and a brilliant example of artistic innovation, it was certainly worth the 11 year wait! 8/10

Mr Clay- A short story by Adam Sidaway

Mr Clay

In the classroom, Clay had often lapsed into daydreams, imagining himself as the cosmopolitan intellectual, strolling down London’s endless cafe-lined streets engaging in conversation with anyone who would offer an audience. He pictured how he would write his latest bestseller on a tiny state of the art laptop in the front window of a high street coffee shop, and he imagined how the chief editors of literary supplements to all the national newspapers would buzz with excitement at the prospect of ‘a new, thoroughly audacious offering from one of the greatest cult novelists of his generation.’ It was only when the general squawk of the classroom became positively deafening that he was stirred from such imaginary utopias.

Until the calamitous events of that November morning, the point from which there was really no return, Clay had found a way for his lofty literary dreams, and the rather more humble reality of life as an English teacher in a slightly below average (and, he might add, poorly managed) state school to co-exist. By day he was the average middle aged pedagogue; the kind who would have made an ideal school master in the authoritative and classically aligned grammar school of 100 years ago. But in the present dimension, he represented nothing more than another of the education system's inefficiencies. A running joke amongst the pupils he taught. Having had all enthusiasm for his profession sucked out of him by endless reams of red tape, and beaten out of him by the streetwise working class Damiens he was required to teach, he cut a rather pathetic figure. Despite the nightmarish world he was paid to inhabit, Clay dedicated all his free time to literature. Most evenings he would be either writing, or looking for an avenue through which his work might be better known. The energy and verve he had for literature made him almost unrecognisable from the Mr Clay that everybody knew. Literature was an earthly paradise, a secret garden in which Clay could indulge his fantasies and right all the wrongs of the world. To call Clay a lover of literature would be to cheapen what he felt for the books he read and wrote. Though he was by all accounts a terrible writer, nothing could dampen his spirits; literature was quite simply his life blood.

When it came to literature he was very much like a balloon, and when he wrote the process was always the same. He would read extensively, first he would be inflated by the cynical tirades of an Aldous Huxley, then inflated a little more by the saucy wit of an Oscar Wilde, yet more by the desperation of a Dostoyevsky, and by the time he had finished with the rousing, thunderous prose of a Milton he would simply burst, writing ceaselessly, emphatically and furiously for hours until the work was finished. He imagined himself as something of a Robert Louis Stevenson or a Franz Kafka, creating unconscious masterpieces overnight that seamlessly ingest all elements of human thought and experience. The reality was that his works were at best a little confusing, cluttered, with overly convoluted ideas presented in the most absurdly wordy fashion. His work would have been made tolerable by anything even remotely resembling a plot. Instead, his characters were forced to inhabit a kind of metaphorical limbo in which nothing really happened and problems went unresolved. It made for dreadfully tedious reading.

Nonetheless, at around the 19th attempt, a practically anonymous local magazine documenting current affairs in the area agreed to print a small episode from his latest offering. Sure enough, the excerpt was printed (inconveniently, one might add, between a double glazing and a ‘natural alternative to Viagra’ advertisement) in November's issue. When he first saw the magazine, Clay was positively bursting with pride. The humble dimensions of his achievement could not have mattered less, because there it was; the real beginnings of an imagined literary legacy (albeit a little late at the age of 55). Right there, in black and white. Though to most the achievement would be judged as almost non-existent, the effect that the publication had on Clay was profound. It no longer mattered that he was still living alone. It didn't matter that both his Mother and Father were at that intolerable stage of life in which they insist to exist, in spite of the numerous time consuming and expensive ailments that riddle their failing bodies. It no longer mattered that his only sexual experience was a drunken fumble with a below average girl at the first year of University...All the pestilence, disappointment and compromise he had endured no longer mattered because life had offered him a small but exquisite reprieve; Clay had the feeling that things were finally looking up.

It was like any other November morning when Clay made his way to school. Walking through the torrential rain, he was in the same high spirits as he had been ever since the publication, which had grown in his mind over the last 14 days into a colossal achievement. Not even the prospect of the dreaded year 10s could bring an end to the sense of warmth and comfort that the publication offered him. Having made his way into the classroom with an air of serenity, he took the register. Halfway through, he was required to stop, for the noise of laughter eventually grew to the point that he could not discern the calls of ‘here sir’ from the general racket. Mr Clay, briefly disturbed from the comforting cradle of his thoughts, lifted his head from the register and noticed that all the students were gathered around one desk, pointing and laughing at something that he could not see given all the bodies in the way. In the sternest manner he could muster, he demanded to know what all the fuss was about. The class fell silent, and immediately scuttled back to their respective positions. However, one of the girls could not hide her amusement, and it became apparent to Clay that she was hiding something. Clay lifted his (not inconsiderable) frame from the chair and approached the girl’s desk. Innocently, he enquired as to what was the matter. The girl protested that it was nothing. Clay noticed that in her left hand the girl was gripping something, a paper or note of some sort. He snatched the offending article and began to discern the words on the page. It read:

'‘The End of Them Both’: An Excerpt. Written By Royston Clay'.

At that moment a sharp pang of pain shot through his spine. The sensation was one of complete embarrassment swiftly succeeded by one of overwhelming fear. It was a fear that the world of his hopes and dreams had collided, in the most devastating and spectacular fashion, with the world in which he was now so hopelessly marooned. He knew from that moment, that the world of literature was forever lost; it was a joke, a laughing matter, the subject of idle gossip between school children. It was perhaps a blessed absolution that the pang in the spine was quickly succeeded by one in the heart, a sharp stabbing sensation. Clay fell to the floor and blacked out.

The post mortem revealed that a cardiac arrest was the cause of death. Mr Clay died of a broken heart.

Wolfman (2010, due for release late Feb) Directed by Joe Johnston

***Sidaway's retrospective is going all futuristic for a change. I shall be reviewing Wolfman, a film scheduled for release towards the end of February. I was fortunate (?) enough to see this film at an advanced screening, so thought I would review it so that you can make an informed decision as to whether you want to see this before any of you lovely people fork out your hard earned cash. For an alternative review of this film, check out Roper's Review (I am following this blog, click on the link) as we both went to see this film, and set ourselves the challenge of reviewing it. Enough of my prattling, on with the review! ***



It would appear that we are currently in the grips of a gothic revival. Taking their lead from the success of director Tim Burton in his seminal gothic thriller Sweeney Todd (2007); Dorian Gray (2009), Sherlock Holmes (2009) and now The Wolf Man (2010) have all been released in frighteningly quick succession. The reasons for this new fangled obsession with late Victorian London are quite complex. The colossal success of the Harry Potter and Twighlight film adaptations would suggest that there has been a subtle change in taste, that we simply like gothic and want more of it. The audience's taste for gothic is more than matched by Hollywood's insistence on shoving this kind of thing down our throats, there are a wealth of gothic tales out there ready for adaptation (I hear that film adaptations of Jekyll and Hyde as well as many of Poe's short stories are swiftly forthcoming), and a wealth of top-drawer actors willing to act in these films, with A-listers such as Johnny Depp, Jude Law, Downey Jr, Anthony Hopkins and Hugo Weaving all signing up for these gothic blockbusters.

Personally, I think that the success of these films is mostly thanks to the gothic genre itself, the idea of the doppleganger and the strange and dangerous 'other' is rampant in this genre, and the centrality of the concept of duplicity and disguise transposes itself well onto contemporary society. Today, we are lead to beleive that we are surrounded by dark and dangerous malevolent forces. If 9/11 has taught us anything, it is that we need to be wary of the invisible yet mortal threat that surrounds us. So similar to the strange creatures that roam the streets of late Victorian London in gothic fiction, Terrorism is a peculiar yet palpable threat. The fear and anxiety experienced in wider society is replaced by thrill and excitement in the parallel world of cinema. Classic escapism, and boy does Hollywood know the selling power of Soma cinema.


Wolfman begins with a full moon and, predictably enough, a strange wolf like creature prowling around the local vicinity and eventually ripping a mystical band of travellers to shreds. Our man Lawrence Talbot (Del Toro), in pursuit of whoever killed his brother, gets bitten by that very same beast, and through the course of the film we witness his painful (for us as well as him) realisation of the fact that he has become infected by the creature and is in fact a werewolf; psychological strife, crises and general chaos ensue.


Universal have spent alot of money producing and promoting this film, and with the heavyweight cast (Weaving a particular favourite) and decent enough trailers, as well as my interest for gothic literature, I thought the film would deliver. In retrospect, Universal should really have given up on the ill-fated Wolfman when the lengthy and costly delays (the film was originally due for release in 2007) began to threaten this film ever coming into existence.


Wolfman attempts so much but achieves so little. Johnston's attempts at creating a full blooded cat-and-mouse action film are undermined by the poor and dated CGI, the rather repetitive nature of the werewolf's rampages and the underwhelming and forgettable transformation of Lawrence Talbot from man to wolf, which should really prove a defining moment in the film, yet just proves to be another of the film's minor inconveniences to watch. Likewise, his attempts to stir up a worthwhile romantic subplot are scuppered by a rather forced script; cue eye rolling when Lawrence's brother's widow, Glen, gives Lawrence a dough eyed look when they first clap eyes on each other. Similarly, wooden acting on the part of Del Toro, and simply lack of time to develop anything meaningful, or even mildly beleivable for that matter, in the way of romance, seriously undermine the film's ambitions to integrate a credible romance plot. Interestingly, Johnston also tries to develop a psychological thriller dimension to this film. With fathers, sons, parricide, fratricide, flash backs and repressed mothers everywhere you turn, Freud's influence is not hard to detect. However, the whole mechanics of it just don't work and remain underdeveloped. For example, Sir John Talbot (Lawrence's father) played by Anthony Hopkins, posseses a vendetta against his son that is as baffling as it is unexplained, we know next to nothing of Lawerence's deceased mother, so the lengthy conversations that ensue between father and son about said mother lack meaning or dramatic interest for the audience. Furthermore, Lawrence's admission into a mental asylum and his subsequent torture (due to him being discovered a werewolf) is difficult to watch not becuase it is in any way disturbing, but because it is so badly done and so packed full with cliche's, using the gripping asylum scene in Changeling (2008) as a benchmark, Wolfman's treatment of mental institutions is as unsubtle as it is dated, this film shows very little progression from the cliche ridden house-of-horrors mental asylum's in films like Bedlam (1945).

The main problem with this film is that it never really gets going, it promises to deliver on so many levels; action, romance, psychological thriller, yet a satisfying conclusion to any of the subplots is never reached. Similarly, many of the visuals in this film are good, the Talbot's stately home is battered yet beautiful and there are many picturesque scenes in which the retina can indulge, but the visuals are undermined by CGI that is so poor that it immediately breaks the spell of the film. As such, Wolfman is like a bric-a-brac stall of ideas and concepts. The result of all these contradictory drives is that the film is rather confused, and confusing if you try to look at it on any level other than the plot that is being slowly dished out to you. Whilst films like Sweeney Todd seem to embrace the gothic spirit and add a fresh visual and artistic dimension to the classic gothic tale, Wolfman appears to be exploiting the rich vein of interest in gothic films by presenting an unoriginal and very generic rehash of the werewolf mystery, one that has been seen more tastefully and stylishly done in Harry Potter: The Prisoner of Askaban (2004), a film which creates more drama and intregue in werewolves in ten minutes than Wolfman creates in an entire film.

Despite the heavyweight cast and universal studios label, this film is a real disappointment. Wolfman does have mass appeal, and the plot is passable as 'entertaining' but it relies far too heavily on the popularity of gothic film to make it work, there is precious little beyond the incessant pandering to gothic taste, and as a standalone example of gothic cinema, removed from its current cultural context, there has been and will be better work done. There is little doubt that Universal had plans to develop Wolfman into more films, and they may well do. Whilst they will get away with it for this first effort, there is no longevity in Wolfman, and the sequel will certainly flop.

**********

Verdict: A passable gothic action thriller, but there are better examples out there, Wolfman is too dogged by cliche and too overrun with half baked ideas to have any lasting impact, or to encourage a sequel. For a decent and thought provoking gothic thriller, try the recently released Dorian Gray, a flawed film, but one in which the spirit of gothic cinema is accurately embodied, and, what is more, is British made.

The Passion of the Christ & the Miltonic Mission of Mel Gibson (2004)

The British media is thoroughly obsessed with the life and lusts of John Terry at the moment who, thanks in part to them, is England captain no more. They portray him as a demonic amoral charlatan, as the epitome of the outspoken, carefree self centred professional footballer stereotype. Whilst these (albeit rather priggish) allegations relate on some level to the facts, they seem to convenienty overlook the fact that John Terry is a footballer by trade, not a priest or some other figure of moral impecability, and it is surely by his footballing ability that he should be measured. In this respect, he deserves nothing less than our admiration.

Peeling back the alluring sensationalism of such media probes, the more inquisitive of us are left asking what on earth all this media witch-hunting has to do with John Terry the footballer. Unfortunately, it seems increasingly the case today that the word privacy has lost its meaning, and that we are stepping back into a world of Victorian puritanism in which we measure people with a purely moral yardstick. Like John Terry, Mel Gibson has had his professional life invaded by his private one. His alcohol lubricated potty-mouthed rants and general misdemeanours have earned him, like John Terry, a certain degree of media notoriety, to the point that prejudices of Mel Gibson the man infiltrate into and poison considerations of Mel Gibson the actor or Mel Gibson the director in much film criticism.



Amidst such persecution it is perhaps no wonder that Gibson turned to one of histories greatest martyrs, Jesus Christ, in a film that succeeded even Gibson's own colossal Oscar winning Braveheart in its ambition and scope. What was Gibson trying to do in this film? Well, as well as smash the world to bits with the thunderous power of the crucifiction story in all its bloody glory, he was trying to prove that he was a decent, christian, god-fearing guy just like me and you (apparently). Just as Milton in Paradise Lost was trying to 'justify the ways of god to man', The Passion of the Christ clearly represents an attempt on Gibson's part to to 'justify the ways of God, and Mel Gibson, to man'. Was the attempt successful? For all the film's supposed faults, Yes.

The plot is a familiar one, the story of Jesus' capture, trial and execution, as narrated in the New Testament. With the crucifiction story being so widely and well known, Gibson is primarily focused on exquisite styalistics in this film, with the idea being that accent and suggestion will lend gravity, depth and originality to what can only be described as the most frequently adapted story in the Bible. Right off the bat you are aware of the director's influence, having the whole film spoken in Aramaic (a variation of ancient Hebrew) is a huge gamble on Gibson's part. It could so easily have proved patience-testing for American audiences expecting the same dose of melodrama, action and classic Hollywood 1-liners that they got with the Lethal Weapon series and Braveheart. Gibson is stepping out of his comfort zone as a directorin this film, he challenges the audience to do the same.



The risk of alienating the audience was one he thought worth taking, and the risk paid off . Spoken word is used so sparingly, and spoken so emotively (Jesus's tearful reprimand to God in the garden of Gethsemone being the example in mind) that words become powerful enigmatic symbols of the people that speak them. For example, the opposition between the leaders of the Jewish church and Jesus is accentuated by the Jew's incessant ranting, and the protest of silence that Jesus maintains through much of the film by way of sharp contrast. Gibson hits on something quite profound here, he realises that the way in which something is said is more important than what is said. As such, the viewer is forced to realise a humanitarian connection that transcends the barriers of language; or culture, or time for that matter, a rare thing in Hollywood cinema, which usually panders to Western sensibilities and churns out *sigh* predictable, generic films chock a block with throwaway visuals and an incessant wall of noise throughout. Because of this, the audience has a very strong and human connection with the Jesus Christ of The Passion. We, as stunned spectators, share in Jesus' silence, we are constantly within a (sometimes uncomfortably) close proximity to him, Gibson is bringing us as close to the saviour we will ever get, in film at least. Far from alienate the audience, the use of Aramaic draws us into a metaphysical world of symbols, allegory, metaphor and most importantly silence (Jesus is a character defined by his silence, the muted martyr). It would appear, then, that for the duration of The Passion, Gibson is attempting to simulate the activity of prayer. Of course, one cannot watch a prayer, one must participate in it. For all The Passion's spectacle, Gibson doesnt want us to watch this film, he wants us to feel it, the results are extremely powerful.


I could also wax lyrical about the stunning visuals of this film, the subtle shifts in colour palettes, the quality of the camera lense to caputre the finest details(you witness Jesus' glistening blood quickly dry in the searing heat), even the barely discernable use of special effects (the fact that one physically whinces when the cat o' nine tails is planted into Jesus' side, then ripped out, revealing Jesus' rib cage is a cruel reminder of just how good the special effects are in this film) all contribute to a superb and engrossing richness in the film, far superior to Braveheart. But, as the recent Terminator: Salvation proves, excellent cinematogrophy and attention to technical matters alone are not the making of a film. And indeed, it is the portrayal of Jesus Christ that really marks this film out as a (dare I say it?) masterpiece.

In his direction of the character of Jesus, Gibson illustrates a great deal of artistic progression from his Braveheart glory days. The Passion's Jesus posseses a genuine gravity, a subtlety and emotional dexterity that Braveheart's William Wallace utterly lacks. Jesus, played by James Caviezel is every inch the Wallace-like inpenetrable fortress of strength and integrity that we expect him to be, but the progression from one dimensional Braveheart-esque hollywood heroics to rich multifaceted human is made brilliantly clear in this film. In so many ways similar to Scorsese's transgressive Jesus in The Last Temptation of Christ, Gibson's Jesus is frightened, lost, confused, stunned into silence, and the relentless bloodshed (for which Gibson has been heavily criticized) throughout really drives home the central point that Jesus is frail, weak, human. When Jesus is on the cross, he cannot muster the inspiring words that William Wallace screams on the wrack, he merely chokes, quite literally, in silence. Though the two films are in so many ways similar (both depicting the death of historical martyrs), it is hard to beleive that Braveheart and The Passion are directed by the same person. Why? because he has learned that sometimes, less is more. As such, we dont admire Jesus as a heroic archetype (as we do William Wallace), we relate to him as one relates to any other human being.

Of course, the film is not without its faults, and its critics. The historical accuracy of the film is heavily criticized. However, the crucifiction story is itself one of the most contentscious events in History there has ever been, and is constantly scrutinized and challenged in mainstream theological debates, so criticism on grounds of historical accuracy seems to be as ignorant as they are petty. Hand in hand with such criticism are allegations of racism in Gibson's portrayal of Jews in the film. This is a cheap shot indeed on the part of critics, especially given Gibson's high profile drunken racist slurs, for which he has on numerous occasions apologised. Gibson's portrayal of Jews is faithful to the biblical text in that he depicts their central impact in Jesus' death sentence, how else is Gibson meant to interpret the text? did the Jews tickle Jesus with feathers and beg Pontius Pilate not to crucify Jesus in the New Testament? I think not. Gibson is only as anti-semetic in this film as the New Testament is, critics seem to conveniently overlook the nature of the text from which this film originates, as if the crucifiction story was apparently a product of Gibson's anti-semetic imagination. To read such criticism is as infuriating as reading the philistine news reports about John Terry to which I earlier alluded.



In conclusion, Gibson attempted to do justice to one of the Bible's greatest and most controversial narratives, and succeeded by creating an unrelenting, dramatic film that was not overcome by the gravity and historical legacy of the story it adapted, yet remained profoundly true to the text's sentiment and spirit. The film's greatest achievement, which Gibson was instrumental in, was the rendering of Jesus Christ as a human, when so many other Biblical epics seem to glorify and eulogise to the point that we do not recognise Jesus as one of us, but as a heroic archetype or worse still chariceture. The Bible goes to great lengths to explain that Jesus was human, and only as a human could he bear the sins of humanity, by grasping this central concept Gibson has shown himself, in this seminal moment in his career as a director, to be an astute director of sound judgment and inspiring vision. Creating a film so dignified and magnanimous that critics were reduced to making philistine and petty criticism of the most superficial details in the film.



So the Miltonic mission was a huge success. Gibson, quite literally silenced his critics, and whilst we are enveloped in controversies about the man, time will prove a healer and like other famously controversial figures from history such as Malory, the Marquis de Sade and Oscar Wilde, we will eventually remember Mel Gibson for the right reasons. In this respect, it is perhaps no coincidence that Gibson created The Passion. In the face of relenless criticism, like Jesus he still had it in him to give something quite brilliant back to the people that jeered and berrated him. Despite the fact that Braveheart won him an Oscar, The Passion of the Christ will go down as Gibson's finest hour as an artistic director, and let us admire him all the more for it, given the adversities he faced.



Verdict: A masterpiece that will surely go down as one of film's great biblical epics. Long after the Oscar winning Braveheart has faded into obscurity, we will remember The Passion of the Christ; a remarkable interpretational achievement made all the more remarkable when we consider the jaded and all too fallible man that created it.

Transformers: Seriously? (Transformers, 2007. Directed by Michael Bay)

Right, i'm going to lay my cards on the table and admit that I was really impressed with the first Transformers film, and love it to this day. Coming from a 22 year old who has seen many 'serious' 'avant-garde' and 'high-brow' films probably makes this comment all the more surprising, as Michael Bay's intentions of appealing to the critic are far outweighed by his desire to appeal to the box office, and to the film's shareholders. Nonetheless, it appears to me that Bay (perhaps unwittingly), has hit on something pretty special in this film.

Lets begin with a hard, simple fact. The film's budget was $150 Million, it grossed worldwide at a staggering $800 Million. The profit margins dont lie, and indeed, few will deny that the first Transformers film is successful in that it proved commercially lucrative. But these figures, however impressive they may appear, only tell half the story. It could easily be contended that the long-running Transformers brand did most of the legwork for that colossal gross revenue figure, but the subsequent release of Revenge of the Fallen and plans to create another (...and another...and another, as is now custom in Hollywood) film would suggest that Bay is doing something right in these films, that he is keeping both the hyper-critical Transformer lover and average, slightly disinterested cinema goer alike happy. Pretty impressive, when you think about it.

But now I am coming towards the real crux of the matter. Yes, the film was a commercial success, yes public interest in the film was as big as its revenue, but does the film work beyond its Transformers label, its jaw-dropping CGI, its deafening explosions, and break-neck-speed plot twists? Well, no, according to the critics.

The first Transformers film received generally positive reviews, but none really do much credit to the film and most are of the slightly underwhelmed 'damned by faint praise' sort. It quickly becomes apparent that most critics are writing positive things about this film merely to satisfy the editors board sat upstairs as no-one wants to totally slate a film so blatantly central to the wellbeing of the entertainment industry economy, although i'm sure many were tempted. Quite simply, the sheer ecenomic might of the Transformers legacy had critics by the balls, and they dont like that, or the film for that matter.

One such review came from Empire Magazine. The film was rated 4 stars, which is 'Excellent' according to their rating system. The content of the actual review could not have contradicted the 4 star excellent rating more. Ian Nathan, the reviewer, delivers his damning and laughable (pardon the pun) verdict: 'treat as a comedy for best results'. It seems that Nathan felt more inclined to laugh at the film itself, rather than its comic content. Whilst I would agree that the film has comic elements, and it does have a general lightness of touch, to 'treat this film as a comedy' is perhaps one of the worst pieces of movie going advice I have ever recieved. Let me get one thing straight, this film is NOT trying to be a comedy. It is trying to be funny, yes, but its prime dramatic drive is that of action thriller of the Die Hard or Batman kind. I mean, what's funny about the opening scene, in which an entire airbase is wiped out with brisk authority by some testosterone charged apache helicopter hyperbot? What is funny about the Guantanamo bay-esque torturing of Bumblebee? What is funny about the overarching concept of mass destruction in a real world in which there are enough nuclear bombs to destroy planet earth ten times over? 'Not a great deal!' I hear you cry.

And this is where I make my main point. Yes this film is perhaps aimed at the younger audience, but it is not just a laughable example of Michael Bay melodrama. As much as this film excercises the imagination of children, it also challenges the older, wiser audience to in a sense surrender themselves to the fantasy that this film is offering, and to engage with a parallel world from which we can learn so much. As the archangel Gabriel aka Optimus Prime asks his autobot comrades 'were we so different?'. And indeed, throughout the film, there is a dark voice (Bay's voice?) which asks us to see this fantastic, out of proportion 'death means nothing' world as one which may well become our own. As I said before, it may not have been intentional, and it is a simple enough trick to put out there, but given the magnitude of the whole film, and the pitch that it sets for the audience, the mood of this film, as it progresses, can become extremely infecitous and consuming, predominantly thanks to the Superman meets Iron Giant figure of Optimus Prime, whose dignified philosopher cum last action hero proves fiercely attractive. One cant help but beam from ear to ear watching Prime (and all the other autobots) transform for the very first time.

Perhaps in this review I have grown rather romantic, but that is testament to the power of this film to really hit hard at your critical pressure points. Like Neo in The Matrix , as cliche as this sounds, the best results watching this film only come when you 'open your mind' to the fantasy in which this film is enshrined. Like Nathan, you may well feel tempted to laugh, and if you do, you wont be the first or the last. But before you watch this film again, think of yourself in a room with Morpheus, in one hand the blue pill, the other is the red. Please, take the red one, you may well be pleasantly surprised.