Mad Max: Feminist Road

"It looked like a straight-up guy flick" whines one misogynist website. "This is the vehicle by which they are guaranteed to force a lecture on feminism down your throat." Thus complain the detractors of Mad Max: Fury Road, George Miller's brilliant new post-apocalyptic action revival, which has drawn criticism from anti-feminists for, quite literally, setting the patriarchy on fire. In a world decimated by nuclear war, the collapsed remnants of civilisation are plagued by warlords who seek to control the few resources left (primarily water and women). The stark, howling desert has bred a disease of violent hyper-masculinity, the sort of fevered dream the above reviewers might fantasise about. The greatest wish of the crazed 'war boys' is to die in battle, the only purpose for women is as breeding stock.

The fact that the film itself is so enjoyable and fun, with excellent performances, special effects and writing, goes a long way to stoke the anger of those calling for its boycott; they are afraid the explosions and cars will brainwash the unwitting common man into swallowing the film's feminist message. Playwright and author of 'The Vagina Monologues' Eve Ensler was drafted in to consult on the film, and what results is a story where female characters are not defined by their relationship to the hero, where the young and vulnerable fight with equal strength alongside the elderly. It is egalitarian in every sense, and the male characters who accept this succeed, while the bloodthirsty patriarchs who refuse to accept it meet their inevitable end in flames.

The tensions of Mad Max lie not in whether humanity will survive the apocalyptic catastrophe, but whether we will survive each other. The themes of ownership of women's bodies, of society descending into chaos and environmental collapse are sadly those which extend out of fictional worlds into our own, making the film, and its promotion of equality, all the more important today. As I went to close my browser window, a pitiful pop up ad from the website promised me 'an online dating profile that gets you laid.' These men are unashamed about the fact that they want to live without women, but not without sex. One would do well to take a better message away from Mad Max: that we all must learn to live together, because survival depends upon it.

Lost River and the Difficulties with Actors-Turned-Directors

It would seem that the cruellest, most vitriolic film reviews are always reserved for the famous actors who have decided to become their own boss and take their turn in the director's chair. In 1997 it was Johnny Depp, whose sole directorial effort The Brave was labelled 'turgid and unbelievable' by Variety magazine, and currently holds a miserable 33% on Rotten Tomatoes. This year, it is the turn of heartthrob Ryan Gosling, who captured hearts in romance films such as The Notebook and Crazy Stupid Love, to be booed at the film festival for his avant-garde drama Lost River.

If it had come from a new, first-time director fresh out of film school, Lost River might have garnered more praise. Its experimental montage style is highly inventive and unusual, reminiscent of Harmony Korine or David Lynch. A fractured society is portrayed through a series of fractured images. But the sound design is the equivalent of a punch in the face, and the myriad images never quite manage to knit themselves together into a coherent narrative. Discussion among writers has focused as much on Gosling as an artist as Lost River itself. A viewing of the film is clouded by the famous name behind it, even though that name was probably used to secure funding and audiences in the first place.

So what is the superstar to do after deciding to direct a film themselves? A look back at the recent history of thespians in charge provides an interesting set of rules. Firstly, it is a good idea to shine a light on a less famous actor. Last year, Angelina Jolie's Unbroken provided an excellent role for up-and-comer Jack O'Connell, and received relatively favourable reviews. Another good idea is to adapt a book. Argo, while not earning Ben Affleck a directorial Oscar, was awarded Best Picture and critical acclaim for it's thoughtful, narrative based true story. The main mistake to avoid is narcissism. Famous actors and actresses are often called upon to play charming, charismatic Casanovas. But when they place themselves in this role, it becomes even less believable. The trend for having sex with Sofia Vergara and Scarlett Johansson in their films was shared by John Turturro, Jon Favreau, and Joseph Gordon-Levitt. This also goes for acting beyond one's age (see Kevin Spacey's 2004 debacle Beyond the Sea). Another tip would be to avoid writing the film yourself as well. Despite several exceptions to this rule, you only have to watch the opening of Tom Hank's Larry Crowne to see the entire production weakened from the outset by Hanks's writing. The safest route would be to copy Ralph Fiennes and Kenneth Branagh and have it written by Shakespeare.

A final rule could be to avoid indulging in any misguided experimental tendencies, bringing us back to the nonsensical Lost River. But in doing this Gosling has chosen not to just play it safe with rom-coms, but to take artistic risks. This surely comes from the actor's obvious desire to prove that he is more than just a pretty face, a fact for which he should be commended.

A Host of Disney Sequels

With the release of Kenneth Branagh's much-hyped Cinderella, an analysis of the sudden influx of live-action Disney remakes reveals the film industry's struggle between its desire for progressiveness and obsession with the safety of the past.

Last year, Robert Stromberg's Maleficent provided a strongly feminist, post-modern interpretation of one of Disney's most enduring classics. Barely passing a reverse Bechdel Test, the film reimagined Maleficent from a two-dimensional traditional villain to a complex character with a rich and affecting back story. With many praising Angelina Jolie's performance as outshining even the film's vast special effects, it became clear that Disney fairytales, despite their timeless quality and enduring appeal, could benefit from some tasteful updating.

However, it is becoming clear that not all will be able to pull it off. After the phenomenal box office success of 2010's Alice in Wonderland, it should come as no surprise that Tim Burton has once again been appointed to helm the bringing to life of another Disney classic. His interpretation of the Lewis Carroll novel turned innocent Alice into a sword-wielding action heroine among a world of eye-popping special effects, and was extremely popular among audiences. But a live-action version of Dumbo, with it's trippy dream sequences, racist caricatures and the unpopular, animal cruelty-ridden setting of the circus may not ingratiate itself so well to modern audiences. Already the thought of a CGI, anthropomorphic baby elephant soaring through the air under the volition of his own ears is causing toes to curl among film critics.

Much more hopeful, however, appears to be the fate of next year's Tarzan movie, tentatively titled Tarzan Untamed. Wisely avoiding too much vine-swinging loincloth action, Harry Potter director David Yates will reportedly have Swedish actor Alexander Skarsgård, in his first role as a Hollywood leading man, embroiled in a dangerous political conspiracy upon his return to the Congo several years after the events of the Disney classic. An extremely strong supporting cast which includes Samuel L Jackson, Christoph Waltz and John Hurt means that this Pirates of the Caribbean-style adventure will hopefully avoid the ludicrousness which other adaptations of Edgar Rice Burroughs' character have fallen victim to.

Many other Disney adaptations also lurk on the horizon in an era which, from Jurassic World to the nth Star Wars, is already saturated with sequels and remakes. Emma Watson has been confirmed to star as Belle of Beauty and the Beast, another premise which must undergo a careful reinterpretation if it is to hold up to the standards of today. Glenn Close is hoping to reproduce the success of Maleficent with the similar Cruella. Bill Murray and Scarlett Johansson will bring a subtle touch of the USA to a new version of The Jungle Book. With all this only one thing is certain: that Hollywood's drive to make money with safe, bankable products is crippling the production of anything remotely risky, innovative or original.

The Doctor's Vase

For Throwback Thursday this month I have decided to publish one of my very first short stories from a few years ago - a Doctor Who fan fiction which turned out surprisingly emotional and won the competition it was entered in. The Doctor's Vase:

Juliet -

I hummed to myself as I threw a new lump of clay onto the wheel. This would be my third attempt of the day. I knew how to make the vase, just not to decorate it with. I had tried leaves, horses and stars, but nothing fit. As the vase blossomed into shape before me, a strange kind of humming filled the air. Stopping the wheel, I stared in amazement as a blue police box materialised before me.
It pulsed, becoming more solid by the second. At last it stopped, and the door opened. A man looked out. The strangest man. He was dressed in an old fashioned suit, braces, and a bow tie. He smiled when he saw me.
"Hello!" He greeted me. "Sorry, but would you mind telling me where and when I am?" He frowned when I told him. "That's not good, not good. I shouldn't be here, something brought me here..." He started when I spoke to him.
"Would you mind telling me how you and your box got into my house?" I exclaimed.
"Sorry! How very rude of me. I'm the Doctor, this is the TARDIS and you're in terrible danger." He ran into the shed where I kept my pottery. I was shocked at this outburst, scared by the last part and angry at how he had wormed his way out of my question.
"What danger? There's nothing in there, only pots." He was examining each pot with an oddment; I suppose it was a screwdriver, which was making a high-pitched whirring noise and flashing green.
"If you only make pots, then what is that box doing there?" He pointed to a newer addition, a clay box with the inscription of a dragon on the lid.
"I didn't make that, I found it." I answered, going to pick it up.
"Don't!" He flung his arm out, forcing me to stop. "Don't touch it, don't even look at it for too long, because you didn't find it; it found you." I stared.
"But it's a box." I couldn't comprehend what he meant. The Doctor pulled me back a step.
"Maybe, but have you looked inside it?" His knowing eyes probed me.
"No I...I couldn't open it." I said.
"What's your name?" He asked.
"Juliet. Juliet Murphy" I answered.
"Juliet, lovely name. Well you may want to step back a bit Juliet, because whatever is inside that box is going to kill you, and for that reason it has to die." I retreated to the door and folded my trembling arms.
"Fine, but it better not mess up my potting shed" I threatened. His eyes crinkled in amusement as he opened the window and threw the box.
It shattered on the hard-baked earth, and a black substance poured out. Like a living shadow it rose to head height and became rounded. A freezing Arctic wind blasted from its core. I shivered, not only from the sudden cold, but from the realisation that I had been sleeping with that thing just a few inches from my face in the next room. I suddenly noticed that the Doctor had drawn a small, glowing sphere from his pocket. At the sight of it, the shadow reared back, but that wasn't enough for the Doctor. He threw it, and with remarkable accuracy it hit the shadow, exploding it in a shower of sparks and dust. He smiled at me, obviously pleased with himself. I was too shaken to smile back, and just stared at the space in the air where the monster had been.
"T-that thing...has, has it gone forever now?"
"Yes." His face was serious now. "And it won't come back, I promise." With that he turned to go.
"Hey, wait! You can't just go running off!" I ran after him. He left the door to his blue box, the TARDIS, open. I followed him inside. And stared.
The TARDIS was bigger on the inside. And I mean bigger. At the centre of the circular room was a giant, pulsing pillar. Around it was numerous lit up buttons and dials. I ran straight back out again and circled the box, just to make sure. Then I went back inside, lost for words. The Doctor looked up from the console.
"Oh, sorry I forgot, it's bigger on the inside."
"I'll say. What is this machine, what does it do?"
"It's a time machine. It takes you to any time, anywhere."
"Any time...anywhere?"
"Yes. You know, I could use some company on my travels, maybe you could come with me?" He asked, his face hopeful.
"Travel in time? With you?"
He nodded. "Come with me, Juliet Murphy. Come with me and see all of time and space, everything that ever happened or ever will, every planet and every person that that ever made history or future." I could only nod. The Doctor grinned. "Great! I'll give you a few minutes to pack, and then I'll be back." With that I left the TARDIS, and it disappeared in the same strange way it had arrived. Excitement overtook me, and I bolted for my bedroom. Throwing some clothes and shoes into my battered old suitcase, I went back to the wheel room, sat upon it and waited.

***

The Doctor -

I was happy as I set the dials on the TARDIS for five minutes later than the time I had left. I hated travelling alone, although it was best that way, so I was pleased to have a companion. As soon as the TARDIS landed I opened the door, expecting to see Juliet waiting for me. Instead I was greeted by a pile of rubble, where her house should have been. Oh no. Not again. I had made this mistake before; I should never have left her. With a sick feeling in my stomach I confronted an old man shuffling past.
"Hey!" He started, looking at me warily. "What happened to the house that was here?"
He looked at me like I was mad.
"The house that was here was empty for ages. Then it was hit by a bomb in the War." A cold hand crept its way round my hearts. The old man continued, oblivious. "The only thing they found was an old vase. It's in the museum down the road." Before he had finished speaking I was off, sprinting towards the TARDIS, desperate to find out what had happened to her.
I reached the museum and ran inside without paying, heading for the pottery section. When I got there, I headed for the largest vase in the largest cabinet where I knew, somehow, it would be. The intricate design brought a lump to my throat. The label read:

The vase above was found in an empty house near this museum. The unusual design is one of the finest works of English pottery to date. It is named "The Doctor and his TARDIS." It's maker is unknown.

My Ten Favourite Films of 2014

1. Boyhood (Richard Linklater, USA)

I could go on and on about this wonderful film, but for the full review see my post from last year.

2. I Origins (Mike Cahill, USA)

By far the saddest and most underrated film of the year, I Origins is Mike Cahill's second gift to us after his brilliant debut Another Earth.

3. Snowpiercer (Bong Joon-ho, South Korea)

Unfortunately, unless you attended the Edinburgh Film Festival, it is unlikely that this science-fiction masterpiece graced your cinema screen. Due to editing conflicts, Snowpiercer has struggled to be released in many countries, but if you take the time to find it you will be well rewarded.

4. Interstellar (Christopher Nolan, UK/USA)

It is unlikely that this film has escaped your notice, and for good reason. Christopher Nolan's space odyssey is Americana-oriented but a tour-de-force of special effects and scientific thinking.

5. Force Majeur (Ruben Östlund, Sweden)

Sweden produces many incredible films each year, and Force Majeur is one of the best; a tense family drama of epic proportions.

6. Only Lovers Left Alive (Jim Jarmusch, UK/Germany)

Jim Jarmusch's understated hipster bloodsuckers are the best vampires of the year, a difficult task within a genre which can be so easily ridiculed.

7. Birdman (Alejandro González Iñárritu, USA)

From one of Mexico's most skilled directors comes a darkly comic look at the fading of Hollywood stars and the power of the mind.

8. Gone Girl (David Fincher, USA)

Another dark and menacing novel adaptation from the master of unsaturated lighting and characters with psychopathic tendencies, David Fincher. Rosamund Pike is more evil than she looks.

9. The Giver (Phillip Noyce, USA)

A young-adult novel from before they were cool, Lois Lowry's The Giver translates excellently to the big screen, even after Jeff Bridges waited twenty years to produce it.

10. 300: Rise of an Empire (Noam Murro, USA)

Though not quite as thrilling as it's predecessor, 300: Rise of an Empire is a fitting exhibition of Zack Snyder's trademark style and the best sword-and-sandals epic of the year.

My recently published essay on gender performativity in Allen Ginsberg's 'Howl' and Angela Carter's The Magic Toyshop can be found on page 57 of this journal:

The Problem with The Riot Club

When the Labour party next receives a five-minute slot on prime time television, they could do worse than to show a selection of clips from The Riot Club, Lone Scherfig's thriller about the darker side of the ten-bird roasts and Latin drinking games enjoyed by the Oxford elite which will surely have ex-Bullingdon club members squirming in their hunting boots. Pedigree progeny Max Irons and Freddie Fox join Douglas Booth and Sam Claflin to polish their cheekbones and sneer at the poor in a series of excellent performances. Most of the cast is comprised of privately educated up-and-comers, but this entirely fits the characters and the message of the film.

Interestingly, the film deals with an aspect of gang culture which is often overlooked; that is, pressures to fit in among the upper classes rather than in areas of poverty. This time, however, the threatening hijinks which ensue among the club members have the added menace of the fact that, should any real trouble arise, daddy and the old boys network will surely bail one out. It's an intoxicating mix.

Yet with a script that lacks any really vicious political satire, what is left is that these young men wind up playing the worst stereotypes of themselves. And all are capable of far better performances. From Booth's understated roles in the BBC adaptations Christopher and His Kind and Great Expectations to Irons' blustering Edward IV and Fox's playful, doomed Edwin Drood, the cast have asserted their acting credentials long before this film. However, despite this comes the reviews containing the ever-present whine which accompanies the success of actor from a higher class; that acting is becoming a career only for the rich, that aspiring thespians from a more modest background are put off by the high financial risk of the industry. This is a problem, but not one which should be addressed whilst discussing a film adapted from a play named Posh.