Parky at the Pictures (In Cinemas 2/2/2012) (From The Oxford Times)

Parky at the Pictures (In Cinemas 2/2/2012)

7:35am Thursday 2nd February 2012 in Parky at the Pictures By Parky at the Pictures

There's no surprise that Roman Polanski finds drama in confined spaces. During the Second World War, he hid under the stairs to escape a Nazi round-up in Krakow and, after his parents were dispatched to concentration camps, he sought refuge with kindly Catholic families when not roaming the city sewers in a desperate search for food (an experience he relived as a young actor in Andrzej Wajda's 1954 masterpiece, Kanal). The action in many of his finest films takes place on small sets - a boat in Knife in the Water (1962), a London flat in Repulsion (1965), a New York apartment in Rosemary's Baby (1968), a Parisian tenement in The Tenant (1976), a beach house in Death and the Maiden (1994) and an island hideaway in The Ghost (2010) - and in Carnage, Polanski ensures that the quartet caught up in a petty dispute remains cooped up in a claustrophobic Brooklyn condominium so that the serio-comic tensions can simmer nicely until they eventually reach boiling point.

He is assisted in his circumscription by the stage origins of a scenario he has tailored for the screen with Yasmina Reza, whose play, God of Carnage, was a hit in Paris before transferring to Broadway, where the squabbling foursome was played by James Gandolfini, Marcia Gay Hardin, Jeff Daniels and Hope Davis. As is often the case, however, none of this capable cabal was deemed sufficiently stellar to make the movie version and John C. Reilly, Jodie Foster, Christoph Waltz and Kate Winslet were selected in their stead. Admittedly, it can do no harm to a picture's box-office prospects to have a couple of Oscar winners in the cast. But something doesn't quite gel here and, while the performances are equally capable and there are plenty of amusing moments, this never feels as daring and dangerously engrossing as it must have done in the theatre.

Following a short credit sequence, in which a confrontation between some tweenage boys in a waterside park culminates in Elvis Polanski beating Eliot Berger with a stick, the scene shifts to a cramped computer alcove in the upper-storey home of the victim's parents (Foster and Reilly), as they try to compose a mutually acceptable account of the incident with the mother and father of the attacker (Winslet and Waltz). Despite the civilised veneer of the conversation, Foster is furious that her son lost teeth in the assault and wants to ensure that her guests appreciate how decent she is being in letting the matter rest at a stern admonition and an apology.

However, her efforts to gain the moral high ground are constantly deflected by Reilly's jovial assertion that boys will be boys, Winslet's well-mannered disinterest in what she clearly considers a storm in a teacup and lawyer Waltz's frequent need to hold furtive phone conversations with a client whose wonder drug has attracted adverse publicity after some calamitous tests. Nettled by their casual attitude to the situation, Foster struggles to contain a resentment rooted in the fact that her visitors have high-powered jobs (Winslet is an investment broker), while Reilly sells bathroom appliances and she works in a bookshop when not researching a book on the conflict in Darfur.

Waltz seizes on this inferiority complex and exploits it in suggesting that Foster has lost perspective on what is essentially a spat between a couple of kids. Much to his wife's annoyance, Reilly concurs and invites the visitors to have some coffee and cobbler while they get to know each other better. This act of hospitality quickly has unfortunate consequences, however, as Winslet vomits violently over Foster's treasured art books and the bickering becomes increasingly personal after Reilly realises that not only is Waltz mocking his blue-collar trade, but he is also putting a positive spin on the pills that have had adverse side-effects on his own mother (Tanya Lopert), whose calls keep punctuating proceedings.

After a heated round of accusations and insults, a semblance of calm is restored and Reilly invites Waltz to sample a rare 18 year-old single malt. Winslet and Foster protest at such boorish behaviour and do their bit in rapidly emptying the bottle. However, the alcohol loosens tongues and the contretemps between the kids is again forgotten as a mix of marital discontent and class contempt bubbles to the surface.

Drolly finding ways to sideline the central issue and prevent the visitors from leaving, Reza and Polanski keep the exchanges brisk and barbed in a manner more befitting a farce than a satire. However, the compactness of the action dictates that everybody gets drunk rather too readily and the calculated nature of the dialogue eventually becomes as apparent as the fact that the audience is often being manipulated as easily as the characters.

Nevertheless, this remains highly entertaining and there is much to admire in the deft way in which Polanski moves Pawel Edelman's camera around Dean Tavoularis's pitch perfect interiors. Herve de Luze's editing is also admirable, as he uses close-ups and two-shots to isolate characters or form them into shifting alliances that expose the fissures between the antagonists and within their relationships.

The performances, however, are less impressive. Reilly resorts to his trademark schlubby bonhomie, while Foster over-relies on a peevish passive-aggressive expression that reinforces the suspicion she has been miscast. Waltz relishes his sneering asides, but his subdued despicability is still somewhat clichéd, while Winslet similarly drifts towards caricature in focusing on an accent that is actually unnecessary, as there is no reason why she or Waltz should be American. Indeed, it would bolster the antithetical subtext if they were foreigners.

Polanski's well-documented travails prevent him from shooting in the United States and some nifty digital tweaking is required to capture the New York daylight changing outside the windows of a room constructed in a Parisian studio. Yet, even this subtle craftsmanship forces one to conclude that, for all its corrosive wit and slick polish, this is essentially a variation of Mike Nichols's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966) being played out on the set of Alfred Hitchcock's Rope (1948).

The comparisons are also impossible to ignore in the case of Pavel Lungin's Tsar, an examination of the moral conflict between Ivan the Terrible and Metropolitan Filipp that is the latest offering of the KinoKlub based at the Apollo Piccadilly in London. However, in venturing into territory explored by Sergei Eisenstein in a two-part epic at the height of the Great Patriotic War, Lungin also has an eye on both the Stalinist era and the uncertain present, for, as he points out: `Russia lives by myths - one of them is that brutal tyrants are what's best for Russia and that progress can only be achieved through the spilling of a great deal of blood...Fortunately in our history for every Ivan the Terrible there chanced to be a Fillipp, representing Russia's spiritual life and allowing it to survive.'

Lungin divides the action into four chapters. The first, `The Tsar's Prayer', opens in 1565, as Ivan IV (Pyotr Mamonov) is becoming increasingly paranoid about the threat posed to his realm by the bellicose Poles and his throne by the boyar nobles he is convinced are plotting against him. In order to strike fear into their hearts, he has established a secret `oprichnina' police force under chief torturer Malyuta Skuratov (Yuri Kuzetsov) that has acquired the nickname, `The Tsar's Dogs'. Yet, even though he is supported by sadistic tsarina Maria Temryukovna (Ramilya Iskander), Ivan is tormented by doubts and fears of eternal recrimination for his crimes.

Such is his inexorable slide from mysticism into madness that Ivan feuds with the Metropolitan of Moscow, who resigns in dismay at the ruler's growing insistence that there is `no greater sin than disobeying the will of the tsar'. Determined to exert a firmer grip on the Orthodox Church and enlist its support against the Muslim forces threatening his western borders and the domestic enemies out to curtail his power, Ivan convinces his childhood friend Filipp (Oleg Yankovsky) to become the new metropolitan.

Despite misgivings at swearing allegiance to Russia and the tsar over God, Filipp agrees to leave the monastery at Solovetsk and accepts the post. However, as `The Tsar's War' reveals, the pair are soon at odds when Ivan orders the punishment of the generals who allowed the city of Polotsk to fall into Polish hands. Enraged by Filipp offering sanctuary to men he wishes to impale, Ivan tortures them into confessions of cowardice and has them publicly torn to pieces by wild bears.

The gulf widens in `The Tsar's Sacrifice', as Filipp refuses to recognise Ivan's divine right to authority and is subsequently imprisoned for treason, impiety and sorcery. Yet, even as Ivan's dangerous dementia increases in `The Tsar's Fairground', Filipp refuses to be intimidated by the indignities endured during his incarceration and faces a Yuletide visit from Malyuta Skuratov in 1569 with the courage that resulted in him being hailed a martyr and a saint.

Despite the subject matter, Lungin's brooding allegory has less in common with Eisenstein's Ivan the Terrible (1944-58) than with such Hollywood studies of monarchs falling out with once trusted ecclesiastical cronies as Peter Glenville's Becket (1964) and Fred Zinnemann's A Man for All Seasons (1966). However, it also shares their tendency to bend historical fact to dramatic purpose and, while this is an undeniably handsome picture, it is also occasionally heavy-handed in its depiction of both 16th-century savagery and the showdowns between Ivan and Filipp.

Nevertheless, Mamonov imposes himself on a role that will forever be associated with Nikolai Cherkasov. Moreover, he shares memorable moments with Iskander and Ivan Okhlobystin (as his cackling jester Vassian), as well as Yankovsky, who invests Filipp with a defiance and determination to match his dignity and devotion. The production values are also impressive, with Clint Eastwood's regular cinematographer Tom Stern capturing the mood of Sergei Ivanov's sets and the majesty of Natalia Dzudenko and Yekaterina Dyminskaya's costumes, which carries over into Yuri Krassazin's sombre score. Thus, although Lungin never quite strikes the right balance between conspiracy, psychology, fanaticism and spectacle, this will prompt many not only to revisit Eisenstein's compelling duology and draw favourable comparisons.

Sadly, the same can't be said about David Blair's Best Laid Plans, which is a pale imitation of the masterpiece that inspired it. There's nothing essentially wrong with screenwriter Chris Green's bid to transfer John Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men from Depression California to the recessional East Midlands. But he executes it so clumsily that this falls way below the standards of Nottingham realism set by Karel Reisz's Saturday Night and Sunday Morning (1960) and continued by the film and television outings of Shane Meadows and Andrew Haigh's Weekend (2010).

Ex-con Danny Graham has kept an eye out for gentle giant Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje ever since he saved him from a beating at a halfway house. But while they share poky digs and early morning fishing trips, Graham is quite prepared to exploit the trusting Akinnuoye-Agbaje. Thus, when a scheme backfires to renege on his debts to local lowlife David O'Hara by disappearing to Ireland on a job for rival mobster Lee Ingleby, Graham lines up his pal for a bare-knuckle cage fight that O'Hara is promoting in a downtown venue.

Distraught at being put on display and forced to use his brute strength to hurt another person, Akinnuoye-Agbaje because he hopes they can use the money they earn to purchase a camper van and leave their urban troubles behind. However, he becomes even more reluctant to fight after falling for kindred spirit Maxine Peake and beginning a tentative relationship with the approval of her protective middle-class parents, Peter Wight and Sarah Parks.

Stricken with guilt for subjecting Akinnuoye-Agbaje to such savage physical punishment and feeling a touch resentful at no longer being at the centre of his universe, Graham seeks solace in vodka and cocaine. But an unexpected relationship with golden-hearted call girl Emma Stansfield seems to offer him redemption and he makes plans to flee across the Irish Sea before O'Hara can force Akinnuoye-Agbaje to compete in a winner-takes-all turf showdown with Ingleby's gargantuan contender.

Graham and Akinnuoye-Agbaje could not be more sincere in playing this latterday George and Lennie. But they fail to match even the awkward chemistry managed by Gary Sinise and John Malkovich in the former's 1992 colour take on Steinbeck's semi-autobiographical novella, let alone the poignant partnership achieved by Burgess Meredith and Lon Chaney, Jr.in Lewis Milestone's monochrome 1939 original. They are not helped by some indifferent dialogue and Blair's inability to depict authentic intellectual and emotional limitation. But even though Blair makes gritty use of his inner-city locations, he cannot overcome the contrivance and sentimentality of the storyline and the shiftlessly stereotypical nature of the secondary characters.

Thus, while this means well and conveys something of the difficulty those on the margins of society face in hanging on to the few pleasures they can snatch from a hardscrabble existence, not even the director's extensive small-screen experience can disguise the fact that it always feels like the work of a first-time writer. And good intentions similarly prove insufficient to keep the debuting Alma Har'el's quirkily poetic documentary Bombay Beach from lapsing into patronising self-indulgence.

The Salton Sea was formed in 1905 when the Colorado River burst its banks and created a 385 square-mile saline oasis in the Californian desert. As Chris Metzler and Jeff Springer revealed in their 2004 snapshot Plagues and Pleasures on the Salton Sea, the resort situated some 50 miles south of Palm Springs became a boom town in the 1960s. However, it soon ceased to be the destination of choice for celebrities and tourists and the derelict landscape captured by Har'el during her year-long sojourn betrays its current status as a refuge for eccentrics, outsiders and those with nowhere else to go.

Falling very much into the first category, octogenarian Dorran `Red' Forgy still fancies himself as something of a ladies' man and regularly tootles between Bombay Beach and Slab City on his four-wheeler to flirt with new friends and old flames. He also makes a few coppers on the side by buying cigarettes in bulk from the local Indian reservation and selling them as singles to his neighbours. Otherwise, the former oil worker leads a lonely existence, having not seen his children (now aged 55 and 48) since they were small. Consequently, when he suffers a mini-stroke, Red has to convalesce with nodding acquaintances in Fresno, where boredom quickly sets in.

By contrast, teenager CeeJay Thompson appreciates backwater tranquility, having voluntarily come to live with his father after witnessing his cousin being gunned down during a gang feud in South Central Los Angeles. Now a key member of the gridiron team at Calipatria High School, CeeJay is desperate to improve his grades so he can go to Eastern Oregon University on a football scholarship. However, he has recently become distracted by a crush on best buddy Blaine's sister Jessie and eagerly offers a shoulder to cry on when she begins having problems with her older, possessive beau, Brantley.

Six year-old Benny Parrish is no stranger to adversity himself. When only a couple of months old, he was placed in care after parents Mike and Pamela were jailed for supposedly forming an illegal militia in the wake of 9/11 (they insist they were merely detonating munitions on what was akin to an adult playground). Subsequently, diagnosed as bipolar and hyperactive, Benny has to take a cocktail of drugs daily and frequently endures interminable journeys to meet with consultants who confess to being unable conclusively to identify his condition. He knows he can be a scamp. But siblings Sarah and Michael indulge him as much as his folks, who have a fourth child on the way.

There's nothing particularly remarkable about the people Har'el profiles. If anything, they're rather resistible, with Red denouncing miscegenation with a casual bigotry that finds echo in Mike's drunken attempt to pick a fight with a buddy and then lament that he should be beaten for bringing such misfortune upon his loved ones. Yet there's a touching decency about Pamela's determination to make amends for past mistakes and do the best for her offspring, while CeeJay's ambition to become the first member of his family to get to college has a nobility that also informs his charming romance with Jessie.

But Har'el seems unwilling to trust the simple fascination of stories that would not be out of place in the fictional features of David Gordon Green or Matthew Porterfield. Consequently, she inserts dance routines choreographed by Paula Present at various points throughout the narrative, which initially seem spontaneous and sweet, but become increasingly convoluted and intrusive. CeeJay and Jessie's white-masked dream sequence is particularly gauche, while Benny's reverie about being a fireman feels tacked on at the end.

Scripted reality is all the rage at the moment, but passages as self-consciously manufactured as these debase genuinely authentic incidents and belittle the people who have invited the film-maker into their lives. The Tel Aviv-born Har'el made her name as a video artist and her stylised interpretation of tracks by Bob Dylan and Beirut was probably designed to have the same distancing effect on the viewer as the lip-synching in Clio Barnard's Andrea Dunbar memoir, The Arbor (2009). But it merely has the unfortunate effect of trivialising wretchedness by reducing it to a series of pop promos.