Call of the Wild: Where The Wild Things Are and the Spike Jonze Enigma

‘Let the wild rumpus start!’ shouts Max, the newly crowned king of the Wild Things and his imaginary world beyond. Let the anticipation cease, sigh audiences, as Spike Jonze’s long awaited adaptation of Maurice Sendak’s children’s book unfurls on cinema screens this month. Max, played by Max Records, literally wrestles with Jonze’s camera in the opening seconds of Where The Wild Things Are. With blurring speed and ferocious growls, Max and the Wild Things are the culmination of almost a decade of halted filmmaking, tireless story telling and the delicate care of one legendary children’s book in the hands of one of modern cinema’s most explosive directors. But with eloquence and trademark deviation in technique Jonze pulls it off. In fact, he goes further than that, he creates a world of fiction and obvious imagination and invites us to step inside, for just 100 minutes, and see some his wildest filmmaking of all.

The weird and wonderful back catalogue of Spike Jonze may rack up numerous music videos, commercials, short films, as well as two feature films, but his latest call of the wild is a heart-swelling display of beautiful imperfections, and highlights that Spike Jonze doesn’t bring precision to the set, but instead a fiercely jagged finesse for truthful filmmaking. For all it’s worth, counting just the preempted excitement that has surrounded this adaptation is enough to knight it as a success. Add to that the respective brilliance of writer Dave Eggers, not to mention the exuberance of Catherine Keener and Max Records, and an equally paced and placed score by Karen O; you end up with an approach that conjurers the wildest of curiosity. All part of the enigmatic Spike Jonze excellence, right?

Rewind to a time when Spike Jonze wasn’t pooling all his creative prowess into one pot. The 1990s saw Jonze produce more than fifty music videos for musicians like Beastie Boys, Weezer, Bjork and Daft Punk, not to mention later feature films like Being John Malkovich (1999) and Adaptation (2002). The images of the new skate culture infiltrating television sets, and the faces of music promos and commercials being twisted and warped, and at times thrown out of the window, signified the underground breaking through the surface. And the Jonze aesthetic was the ultimate inspiration. Here was a ferociously electric filmmaker with a mysteriously sharp edge to him. A rough characteristic that blew smoke in the face of the pedantic and vented the haze surrounding youth culture.

It is somewhat surprising to see a director like Spike Jonze, considering all he has achieved, discuss his career and the moments that projects take off as either, “yeah I just called him up”, or, “yeah he just sent me a letter”. But from exchanging a few words after his talk at the BFI last weekend, and getting a pair of horns and teeth scribbled across a picture of Carol (James Gandolfini), articulated a director that people genuinely can look up to. Unlike the Hollywood powerhouses, Jonze barely touches on being a director. Instead he prefers talking about the stories behind projects, his friend loudly talking on the phone during a play, and funnily, what his favourite on-set sandwich was. Also, it seems that being a director that cannot be tracked and tied to one landmark piece of work is Jonze’s wildest trait. From his work on the Beastie Boys video for Sabotage which saw a cop show parody meet home-video foolishness. To his work on the opening scene of Fully Flared (2007) which saw a skate park – a regular stomping ground for Jonze – explode as skaters interacted with it. It is clear to see the Jonze watermark appearing in these under the radar approaches to filmmaking. But with the myth and rumor that has orbited Where The Wild Things Are for the past few years, could this be a hurdle too hight for Jonze’s modest yet vibrant filmmaking approach? Or will the wild rumpus carry through the days and nights of filmmaking movements to come? Well personally I feel stongly about the latter.

The earliest stages of production for Where The Wild Things Are date back to the late 1980s, almost a decade before the lead Max Records was even born. These stages saw two failed attempts to produce animated adaptations of Sendak’s book, and until the late 1990s the prospect looked slim. Years later, after Jonze turned down the offer of adapting fellow screenwriter Dave Eggers’ novel A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, he re-approached Eggers asking if he would like to write an adapted screenplay for Where The Wild Things Are under Warner Brothers’ supervision.

Sendak’s original 48 page book about a mischievous boy, Max, who is sent to his room without supper and finds himself dreaming through an imagined wilderness inhabited by the Wild Things, seems like a perfect recipe for Jonze to embrace. The concept of merging the real with the fantasy with humble experimentation is undeniably present in so many of Jonze’s works. Not only did Dave Eggers collaborate on a screenplay with Jonze, he also wrote a 270-page novel to accompany it. In the acknowledging pages of The Wild Things, Eggers explains that his book drifts away from the film’s narrative in parts, and stays close in others. He explains some early thoughts of Jonze’s, those being that he wanted the story to expand on Sendak’s book, but to follow the life of a boy from a divorced upbringing. This separation in the story that Sendak explored was better illustrated by the divided relationship between Max and his off-page mother. However, in Jonze’s adaptation, this clash of understanding between Max and his mother Connie, played by Catherine Keener, is mitigated by the missing father in Max’s life.

We first see Max building an igloo in the heaps of snow opposite his house, and quickly he rushes to show his construction to his disinterested teenage sister, Claire. From the get-go we know that Max has few friends to share his creativity with, and thus introduces the inevitability of his thoughts escaping to the land of the Wild Things. As Max struggles to come to terms with his primitivity and wild attitude not sinking in with his family, he retaliates, and through a burst of fear bites his mother. After this he launches out of the front door of his house and charges through a nearby wooded area, finally arriving at his town’s waterfront. Climbing inside a small sailing boat Max drifts off from the shore and the glistening lights of civilization disappear form his view. A slightly altered take on Sendak’s morphing bedroom imagery, but equally as powerful. Jonze utilizes a hand-held and jumpy editing model for synthesizing the images of reality and daydream, so that, although Max’s world is implied to exist inside his mind, it is conceived in a believable series of edits that flow seamlessly from home to fantasy.

Sendak’s work still manages to stay present through the film. Jonze’s most prominent trend in the film is his use of objects in Max’s real life, that act as catalysts in his journey with the Wild Things. Sendak used bedposts and wallpaper to transform Max into the woods and shrubbery of his wild imagination. Jonze works with Max’s loss in his parents divorce, and uses objects given to him by his father, or moments of retaliation against his mother, to control the lives of the Wild Things and their habitat. The Wild Things (voiced by James Gandolfini, Paul Dano, Lauren Ambrose, Catherine O’Hara, Forest Whitaker and Chris Cooper) are a complex projection of how vast, colossal and powerful and child’s mind is. Max’s burst of fear and adrenaline towards his mother and her boyfriend, and his spontaneous charge towards the sea, immediately compliments Francois Truffaut’s The 400 Blows (1959), when Antoine Doinel escapes the rigor of his boarding school for a chance to glance at the ocean. And it is not just this that jumps out from Jonze’s direction; moments of chaos and destruction bring back images from as distant as Jean Vigo’s Zero de Conduite (1933), and up to the beloved antics of a young Macaulay Culkin in John Hughes’ Home Alone (1990).

The imperfections that are intrinsic to a Jonze project, no matter what scale or budget, refortify his attention to the emotional details, rather than the material. And his understanding of the natural faults in human relationships and the irrational misjudgments made in moments of anger are articulated flawlessly. However, Where The Wild Things Are uses a considerable amount of CGI, at times this works and is integrated into the organic tempo of the film, usually in the animated faces of the Wild Things. But at other times it stands out too dominantly, even amongst the Wild Things, and detracts the essence of imagination, offering a somewhat contrived aesthetic to the rumpus of Max and the Wild Things. The adaptation process too causes small fractures in the flow of the film. Jonze and Eggers show ingenuity and resourcefulness with their elaborated illustration of Sendak’s simple story; through the masterful inclusion of objects and symbols in Max’s reality transforming the nature of his personified dreams. However, this concept, one brilliantly conceived, is often overplayed leaving a sense of predictability towards the closing stages of Max’s strivings for a wild world that sympathises and understands him, contrasting that of his off-kilter home life.

It would be completely unjustified to disregard the film’s integrity on the the slight drops it so naturally was destined to take. Jonze and Eggers, and their impeccable ensemble of co-creators, are what lifts Where The Wild Things Are high above the meek dwellings of a film too afraid to truly adapt its source material. And it further surpasses the glorified and sensationalised model of modern children’s films. Much discussion surrounds Jonze’s film, like it surrounded Sendak’s book, about whether it can actually be considered a children’s film. Well, no it can’t. And it shouldn’t try to. Jonze, now in his forties, spent the majority of his thirties trying to adapt a book he revisited in his twenties that meant so much in his childhood. It is a life’s work whichever way it’s viewed. Through the wild rumpus, the crowing of a king and the return to reality; Spike Jonze still appears to stand tall. Only this time he has a groundbreaking film that isn’t afraid to roar its terrible roar, gnash its terrible teeth and show its terrible claws – whether to its fans or its critics.

Words and Spike Jonze image by Jamie Isbell

Max Records profile by Michael Muller

This piece can also be read at Film International

Michael Haneke In Conversation

The director of the Palm d’Or winning The White Ribbon discusses the importance of actors, anti-hollywood and how he really isn’t all that cold.

Questions towards Michael Haneke seem to centre on a few key things. Firstly, that he is a cold and icy filmmaker; secondly, he is geared towards displaying a bluntly bleak world; and finally, he is fascinated by the darker side of characters. However, for a man who is perceived as slightly nihilistic, his energetic skip towards the stage at the BFI on Sunday, into an eager handshake with interviewer Geoff Andrew, projected nothing but optimism. And for those who were shivering he blamed the air-conditioning, “It’s not my inner coldness!” he jokes to the audience.

After producing several Austrian TV films for fourteen years, it was not until 1989 that his first feature, The Seventh Continent, was released. Following the demise of a middle-class family towards their somewhat enigmatic suicide, Haneke’s first feature marked a shift in representations – and sympathetic notions – towards characters. This debut, along with his 1992 release Benny’s Video and 71 Fragments of a Chronology of Chance released in 1995, are considered as the Austrian’s emotionally-dim trilogy. A presumption he disagrees with, stating that the stories came mainly from “themes I found in a German newspaper”, later adding that there was no plan for a trilogy. The real life story of a family that committed suicide inspiring a director like Haneke would surely stand as the most honest approach in filmmaking. However, in an early interview he described the story as “emotional glaciation” which subsequently led to his reputation for all things dark and chilly.

For a director to strive for “stories with no answers”, they immediately ask volumes from their audience. And perhaps what is so intriguing about Haneke’s films is his refusal to hand out the exposition, and instead provide the questions for an audience to engage with but not answer. Heneke bravely explains that he produces films and explores tragedies from the western world, “the third world has bigger and more important problems”, he adds to the slight discomfort of certain audience members. Heneke, whose films are never straightforward, explains that misunderstanding is now intrinsic to his film’s criticism. His questioning of audience sophistication through his films, a process of challenging spectators to actually think about what their watching, is all part of his desire for a sense of difficulty in watching films, or reading books for that matter.

Focussing on actors is where Haneke really becomes a director. “Even the worst asshole can be understood!”. He points out two things you need to do for an actor: develop trust, and protect them from the intimidating crew. Although Haneke’s films may boast an exclusive viewing spectrum and require strong initiative and solid emotional truthfulness, the meta-emotion that they sit on is a delicate line strung between reality and the bizarre. The Piano Teacher, which starred the magnificent Isabelle Huppert, exemplifies Haneke’s approach with casting. Using long takes and exquisite sound adds a crucial demeanor, but it is when Erika’s eyes, shoulders, microscopic twitches and occasional shrugs articulate a wordless scene, that is when Haneke’s dedication with trust flourishes. Haneke’s discomfort with films that pay little attention to the importance of casting and working with actors seeps into almost every aspect of his filmmaking approach. Even when he has film school students working with him, he insists they understand how vital the actor is. They know the technology but not the actors, he says with a hint of disappointment, implying that there is seldom a consideration for theatre in film.

If we look toward Haneke’s most notably sinister release, Funny Games, we might be led to reinforce the belief that he is an anti-Hollywood man. Without making someone superhuman in their abilities, it is hard, if not pointless, to tell the hero’s story. “Victims are the best subjects, heros are boring” he muses. Funny Games, which was later remade shot-for-shot by Haneke with an english cast, is really not much more than two young men taunting and murdering families in their wealthy lakeside retreats. Well, in fact it is an incredibly vast amount more than that, but that’s the gist of it. His approach in Funny Games encompasses everything that mainstream cinema is afraid to do. And although Haneke claims that “if you put all the violence in all my films together you still wouldn’t have as much as some of the films shown on TV at 8 o’clock”, he is still considered a director of violence. He expresses passionately that the idea is to create contrasting solutions in a film, and to express the individual and therefore show the bigger issues. Focus and specificity are paramount, “offer an example so it can be seen as an example” he says on the idea of the mainstream becoming too broad. He has been compared to Bresson and Hitchcock, but personally I see more of Krzysztof Kieslowski’s A Short Film About Killing and Three Colours: White; and with regards to contemporary stories ‘in the paper’, huge comparisons with Krzysztof Krauze’s Debt.

It took almost twenty-years for The White Ribbon to jump from the mind of Haneke and onto the reel of film in his camera. What a worthwhile wait! This year it won the Palm d’Or at Cannes and is receiving respect and admiration across the globe. But considering all that Haneke has exposed about his thought processes, there are certainly more complex issues behind this success. His attention to detail borders on the insane, but is the fuel behind quality filmmaking anecdotes. Try this one; more than 7000 children were auditioned for parts in the film, not because Haneke’s two casting teams were suffering from short term memory loss, but because of the unique look needed to convincingly portray a north-German village in 1914. “People from that area just don’t look like they did in photos from one hundred years ago” he expresses, “farmers now drive around in air conditioned tractors”. To overcome this modern problem of changing faces and lifestyles, the film’s casting teams sought farmers from Romania to fill the shoes of pre-First World War land workers. By projecting desaturated images, and ensuring that the images and aesthetics of The White Ribbon were impeccably precise, Haneke has the humble belief that he wants “people to wear their own spectacles, not his”.

“I see the audience as I too want to be seen, I make the films I want to see”. Call it direct, or call it selfless, what doesn’t diminish in that thought is Haneke’s generosity as a creator and as a director. During the screening of a clip form The Piano Teacher, Haneke took a few steps to the left of the stage and perched on the edge of an unused piano (possibly the most appropriate seating he could have chosen), asking the people a few feet behind him if they could see okay. Maybe it was a benign and honest question, but what it seemed to show about his character, as well as his jolly jog to the stage at the start of the talk, is that he makes films that incorporate discomfort and unfamiliarity through truth and real life analysis, and does not project a selfish grudge against norms and a persistence to shock.

The BFI Michael Haneke Season runs up to December 17th, so grab a mate (although I wouldn’t suggest a date), wrap up warm (for the weather, not the films) and head to the Southbank and enjoy.

Words and images by Jamie Isbell

Cinema – Recession or Progression

An eclectic panel of industry minds discuss whether the credit crunch will really take a bite out of cinema’s affluent behind.

Wrapping up the series of Time Out discussions at the LFF, was a topic on the tip of most people’s lips. Something that has in most cases been lost amid the confusion of economically centered politics rather than film; the credit crunch. It swooped down like a theif’s eager hand, grabbing the attention of the economy’s key players and directing generally bleak attitudes at the heart of the public.

Film is behaving quite uniquely through this recession and its journey this year is proving to be one of its most successful in recent years, moving the focus towards progression and success, rather than grey skies and creative meltdown. Joe Swanberg – the director of LOL (2006), Hannah Takes The Stairs (2007), Nights and Weekends (2008) and Alexander The Last (2009) – has been circulating through the American independent scene for a few healthy years. The fact that credit has been drying up significantly since 2007 means that less and less finance is available for investing in cinema. Swanberg has preempted and adapted to the damage that negative funding has on filmmaking, and he strives to keep the funding of his films as close to his pocket as possible. “A lot of good work comes out of desperate times”, states Swanberg frankly. By keeping a low profile and retaining 100% creative control, he believes that when finances and markets do deplete and the tunnel of opportunity gets narrow, he can still direct and produce films under a uniquely free framework. It seems to be a popular belief that in times of financial anxiety, cinema can act as a dominant escapist industry. This adds pressure on the filmmakers and writers who work towards the smaller sectors of realism in the industry. So when a theatrical and DVD success like Mama Mia explodes onto the scene, it is easy to see why a filmmaker like Swanberg would call it a “stupid movie” that simply applauds a “horrible model for business”.

The notion of business and film certainly epitomizes something financially intrinsic about present modes of production. With distribution fighting an audience battle with the growing popularity of movies online, authorized or not, it leaves little to the imagination for what the next viewing medium might be. YouTube’s success is an allegory for just how disposable audiences expect film to be. Swanberg’s approach is utilizing these parameters, and he actually doesn’t seem knocked by beliefs that distribution and major financing rule the cinemascape. Justin Marciano, the founder of UK distributor Revolver Entertainment, takes the stance of marginal opposition to Swanberg. With 2009 being a record year for Revolver, Marciano looks positively towards the industry’s chances of survival, and with his business’ success determined by the mainstream cinema goers, he argues that the mainstream actually provides the independent filmmakers with the balance needed for the two to live and breath in the same world. Sally Caplan has extensive experience in film acquisition, producing and distribution, and when asked what she looks for primarily in filmmakers or writers, she simply highlighted that “the work must be believed in, and not conceived for financial benefit”. A hard thing to focus on if you look at the capital-orbiting scale of film globally, but without believing in a new and exciting future for cinema, then it simply wouldn’t be cinema.

Wallace and Gromit: 20th Anniversary

The modest master and humble father of the Wallace and Gromit franchise took to the stage at this year’s London Film Festival to talk openly about his twenty year journey through his tireless first feature experience, getting free plasticine and the future of the him and his plasticine friends.

In the world of plasticine manipulation and stop-motion filmmaking time rarely flies. It is actually quite difficult to believe that twenty years ago Nick Park’s first feature animation Wallace and Gromit: A Grand Day Out had its first public screening. Since then Park has gone on to win numerous awards, shape the way animated stories are told through his many other features, and re-stamp his name to some of the most visually memorable, yet structurally honest animated classics to hit our screens.

Park sought after a career in animation from a young age; reading The Beano and Tin-Tin where daily activities, as well as spending time with his tinkering dad in their shed. After his time at Sheffield Polytechnic studying communication arts, he went on to the National Film and Television School where he conceived his wide-smiled and mutely thoughtful duo. The freedom within cinematography that animation provides a filmmaker and the tireless yet dynamic advantages of a frame-by-frame production has evolved massively over the last twenty years. Shows like Creature Comforts, personal memories of Morph, and on a larger and more recent scale, Fantastic Mr. Fox, have all utilised the the simplicity that is intrinsic to animation. Although the materials and approaches remain traditional, the applications of stop-motion have diversely rocketed, and from audience reactions, it is amongst very young generations that the bulk of fascination flows from. In fact, I don’t think there was a single child who wasn’t star-struck by the guest appearance of a pair of Plasticine Wallace and Gromit models on stage.

A curious story of tight budgets and much needed stepping-stones surrounds Park’s first Wallace and Gromit endeavor. The artist explained how sourcing the vast quantities of Plasticine needed was resolved by good old fashioned bargaining, “I called up the largest supplier of Plasticine in the country and said, If I put your company name in the credits of my film, how much free Plasticine can I have?”, “As much as you can walk away with” they replied. Obviously park thought broadly and pragmatically on that offer, then he arrived at their factory in Bristol with a transit van and left with close to a ton of what would turn out to be gold dust. Although the early stages of A Grand Day Out were laboriously started at the NFTS, it was when he joined Ardman studios that his project was welcomed in and completed. At Ardman studios he also “daydreamed” the ideas for his later classics; The Wrong Trousers, A Close Shave, The Curse of the Ware-rabbit and his recent Christmas special, A Matter of Loaf and Death.

Wallace’s persistence and determination as a cunning and organically-centred inventor almost mirrors Park’s dedication to his creativity. Gromit’s discrete intelligence and infamous ‘give me strength look’ remains as a pertinent example of a classic character creation. Nick Park is an artisan who created the average man, out of the average materials he had to hand, with average hopes. However, he ended up fabricating a franchise that today rivals the most formidable animation studios and stands by a notion of friendship and hard graft. Keeping quiet about any future plans, Park didn’t spill the crackers on any exciting pun-packed titles or new adventures, but i think it’s safe to say that his respect for his beloved creations is far from over. So, with little else to say about a brand and national icon that speaks for itself, Happy 20th Birthday Wallace and Gromit.

Tea with Jacques Audiard

The BFI 53^rd London Film Festival has managed a rather impressive and eclectic gathering of the industry’s finest. Jacques Audiard, the charismatic man behind some of modern French cinema’s finest and darkest films, took to the stage with journalist Jonathan Romney on Sunday for a discussion about his extensive career as a screenwriter, his move to the directing seat and his thoughts on political cinema.

With more than twenty-years experience as a screenwriter under his belt, Jacques Audiard is clearly beyond a master of his trade. The son of French screenwriter and filmmaker Michel Audiard (who is credited to more than 130 films), he is too building a name as one of French cinema’s more formidable players. After teaming up with fellow writers who, when sat around a table, would distract their attention elsewhere just so the directorial burden was not stuck with them. ‘I was the only one left at the table’ Audiard muses. This collective of writers and filmmakers – a production company obscurely named Bloody Mary – was the creative hub that Audiard turned to when his days as a screenwriter proved too arduous and the prospect of directing seemed right.

Audiard has always shown a finesse, or passion, for articulating, visually and emotionally, the dark and shady characteristics of human nature. His ability to detract from the romanticised norms of French cinema, and follow the most despicable of people to the point of sympathy stands tall as his trait. However, his vast knowledge of writing controversial and deviant films doesn’t seem to stand side-by-side with the production of a film. Working with stories and characters as complex as the ones he creates must surely ignite on-set problems? According to the French maestro, working with actors has to be learned, just like camera work, lighting and writing a screenplay, but you cannot learn it all at once he jokes.

Audiard’s perseverance as a filmmakers and a story teller is perhaps best displayed in his 2005 film The Beat That My Heart Skipped; a noir-style thriller that follows the sinister and unforgiving demise of a property dealer named Tom (Romain Duris). His most recent endeavor is his gritty prison expose, A Prophet, which recently won the Grand Jury Prize at this year’s Cannes film festival and got narrowly beaten by Michael Haneke to win the Festival’s prestigious Palm d’Or. It is safe to say that Audiard’s films emit a distinctly political cent when they hit the scene, but is politics something that he puts in his films? Or is it simply intrinsic to the French cinema experience? ‘20 years ago political cinema was a genre, today a film is automatically political’.

Audiard’s playful approach to daring and sometimes troublesome narratives has shaped what French cinema ultimately can represent, and perhaps, a new European aesthetic is seeping from this once pen and paper mastermind. Having only produced five feature films in fifteen years, Audiard has never been seen to dominate the scene, but by occasionally dropping pebbles of shocking brilliance in a tranquil pond he has reminded the world that he is watching, learning and advancing. Remember, ripples make waves.

Next month the BFI will be hosting a Jacques Audiard season, or as he saw it a polite ‘burial’ of him and his work, which will showcase the Parisian cinephile in all his cinematic glory. A Prophet will be released in January 2010.

Words and images by Jamie Isbell

New Iranian Cinema – Digital revolution hub or political stomping ground?

‘Iranian Cinema: Post-New Wave, Post-Election… Where Now?’ is the second of three free discussions put on by Time Out at the 53^rd London Film Festival. The discussion was centred on the current position, or rather significance, of Iran’s creative industry, it also focused on the repressive nature of Iran’s government on artistic production, and finally addressed the use of digital filmmaking and its future.

Ali Jaafar, International editor of Variety and contributor for the Guardian, Sight & Sound and Time Out, led the evening discussion. Either side of Jaafar was a highly respected panel consisting of Bahman Ghobadi, director of the 1999 film A Time for Drunken Horses and most recently No One Knows About Persian Cats; Shirin Neshat, award winning portrait and installation artist; and Sina Motalebi, award winning journalist and head of output for the recently launched BBC Persian Television station.

The atmosphere surrounding the early stages of the discussion was buzzing to say the least. However, an audience that out numbered seating seemed to be an ironic contrast with the state of Iran’s current national cinema figures. From the offset, Bahman Ghobadi’s fragmented, and at times emotional, recollection of his experiences making films in the country’s capital, Tehran – where he moved to after receiving his high school diploma – exposed a system that depended on lies and dishonesty in order to progress with permissions in film production. In a country where the military have more legal paperwork to call themselves producers than the filmmakers or productions companies, it is understandable that Ghobadi should state that ‘making the film is only 20% of the task’ the other 80% obviously being the struggle of getting the film approved and appreciated under the country’s strict policies on censorship.

Shirin Neshat, a self-proclaimed nomadic artist who rarely feels settled as a creative Iranian, brought forward the dichotomy between artists living inside and outside Iran. A social border which, knowing the ever-changing sociopolitical climate of Iran, can grow higher and more formidable, but just as quickly come crashing to the ground. This divide between creative cultures, although both possessing a national identity with Iran, displays two contrasting representational techniques; Neshat believe that since the 1990s there has been a profound depiction of sociological filmmaking and artistic outlook from the cohorts based inside Iran; and a more metaphorical gaze from likeminded professionals working and producing material from outside Iran.

Now, the recent election furore in Tehran, which saw supporters of Mir-Hossein Mousavi march in solidarity against the presumed fraudulent success of Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, has clearly had a monumental effect on the artistic activism both in and outside the country. ‘I had never considered myself an activist’, Neshat expressed as she then explained how the elections brought her to take a political stance. The elections did, and will no doubt continue to encourage younger generations, both inside and outside Iran, to document the political upheaval that is likely to surface soon due to the unresolved aftermath of the elections. Surprisingly the discussion flew past the hand that digital media played in the election protests, offering members of the protests to actually be followed on the status based social network, Twitter.

Not only were people around the globe being kept updated with snippets of information from Tehran, but the country’s government-run media stations also had no control on the reality hitting our computer and television screens. Some people might be aware of the brick wall that major television stations hit when trying to cover the protests, which highlights not only the instantaneous power of new media, but also its political and social power. This occasionally overlooked yet crucial player in global news has recently been seen as one of the only lifelines for bypassing the political grip. The artistic and humble framework of Iranian-born Majane Satrapi’s hugely successful animation Persepolis has recently been re-imagined, and shortened, to comment on the aid that Twitter provided during the Tehran Protests. Persepolis 2.0, perhaps not the most self-descriptive title, is a brief yet defiant story documenting the day-by-day development from the elections up to the post-election uprising.

BBC Persian TV’s Sina Motalebi did however discuss his thoughts on the benefits of digital media in a country like Iran. Having discovered earlier from Ghobadi that sometimes years of filmmaking work can simply be removed from history by the Government (a bit 1984 I know), digital almost seems to be the only way forward for depicting social reality. Motalebi felt that digital production allows films to have ‘lower profiles’ and therefore ‘soften the impact’ of making films, which after hearing Ghobadi’s struggles seems not expedient but intelligent. With a film industry that is generally categorised politically rather than cinematically, this could be a fascinating time for Iranian cinema. An industry that is looking towards digital filmmaking, digital distribution and online networking could bring more filmmakers and artists out from the shadows and onto the global scene, but just how far spread is this notion?

Could Iran in years to come be at the forefront of a ‘digital realism’? Or will cinema’s reliance on public popularity and at times governmental backing prove to be its downfall. From the discussion nothing is certain, sadly there are few guarantees on where Iranian cinema should be in the future. But, ‘where now?’. Personally I feel that the future of Iranian cinema should not be confined to the country itself, but instead needs the support of outsiders to remove the creative barriers and popularize the insiders, something that Persepolis 2.0 clearly implores. Ghobadi finished the discussion saying ‘In a country where you can get horses drunk, where tortoise can fly, surely a dead filmmaker like me can make films’.

Words and panel images by Jamie Isbell.

No Oyster Cards needed for this transport affair.

The BFI 53rd London Film Festival continues to open its arms to the Capital’s film lovers, and perhaps some curious commuters too. This evening saw literally hundreds of gazing and inquisitive faces swarm to Trafalgar Square for the festival’s London Moves Me screening. A collection of restored archive, and present day films documenting the fascinating, tireless and at times humorous history of London’s transport history, not to mention the fantastic accompaniment from pianist Neil Brand.

Cinema – green giant or environmental headache?

Environment Filmmaking: Can Cinema Ever Be Truly Green? Is the first of three free discussions put on by Time Out for the BFI 53^rd London Film Festival. It questions whether films can have a green future, and if so what differences will we see. The panel was lead by Lucy Siegle, environmental writer for The Guardian; Leo Hickman, author and journalist of several environmental and ethical books and features; Andy Whittaker, distribution and business strategist for Dogwoof; and Nikola Giuggioli, co-founder of Brightwide.com.

We are well into the new green movement. An era where environmental knowledge and awareness is gradually seeping into the fabric of everyday life, although to some the gradient needs to be steeper. Political parties, education institutions, large and small businesses and the creative economy are all going to have to, if not already, succumb to the green switch. Although complacency is still rife, it is clear that fragments of belief in a more responsible and sustainable world are growing. The creative economy controls a critical grasp on the welfare of the global economic future and as the environment begins to hit our news pages more and more, we must consider the changes, choices and approaches to creative output, in particular the highly demanding film industry. The environment has recently hit the big screen; An Inconvenient Truth, A Crude Awakening, The Age of Stupid and even WALL-E are a few examples of films that either focus predominantly or simply imply the damages of climate change. But aside from the fact that the environment will no doubt be covered extensively in the mainstream market, how are other areas of cinema are going to be benefitting or contributing to the their green future?

From left to right; Leo Hickman, Lucy Siegle, Andy Wittaker, Nicola Giuggioli

Almost immediately Leo Hickman noted that the Los Angeles film production industry is the largest air polluter of the city, moving the discussion straight into the studio system and its future. The studio system, or more to the point Hollywood, has been at the top of the food chain for almost the entirety of cinematic history. No exaggeration, it is fucking massive. There is then no question that the studios should be leading the cohorts by setting defiant examples towards greener production ethics. One example of a studio moving forward, in some respects, is Project Pinewood. A purpose built production village with the aim of incorporating all the external components of film production and logistics (most of which consume huge amounts fuel) and containing them in one place. This move could prove fruitful, in fact it almost certainly will. As one of the world’s most esteemed studios for UK film production it is a responsible move in the right direction at least, although is it really a worthwhile example for other studios to follow? Well, yes. But studios will also need to incorporate more original strategies rather than just shifting their consumption down a notch. There are in fact several movements towards changing the consumption of studios; recycling unneeded sets, using solar power to run basic devices for filmmaking and contributing financially to the various organizations that are trying to combat climate change are just a few approaches being adopted.

It has been a busy decade for new media, in particular websites like YouTube and Vimeo, which now act as a vessel for free global distribution. Now, of course YouTube is not exactly the first choice for film distribution, but it is at least in the right place for getting creative filmmaking online. The latter, Vimeo, is a slightly more clean shaven approach to video streaming and regularly refreshes viewers creativity by launching overnight film competitions. This antithesis in competitive film production is arguably closer to a green industry than the studios are. And interestingly there is a growing bond between zero-budget filmmaking on Vimeo and green policies in the studio system. This could, in years to come, be prophetic of the changes both new media and big studios will have to make. Although, some members of the panel felt differently; arguing that instead of there being a bridging of two ends of the industry, instead, due to there still being a desire to be part the studio system, that younger filmmakers utilizing web distribution will have the responsibility of retaining their integrity and supporting the mainstream films that work towards greener production. Nicola Giuggiolo, who co-founded Bright Wide , is behind a responsible approach to film distribution and sharing, and tries to give exposure to unsung political or socially lead films, rather that the mainstream.

This new media movement is also taking shape inside the cinemas, and Digital Vs Film is the topic of much discussion. It is something that, as audiences and filmmakers, we will have to go with. There are still a large amount of filmmakers who adore and stick by the use of 35mm production, but the environmental costs, when weighed against digital, look pretty bleak. From shoot to screening, thousands of reels of heavy 35mm stock have to be flown and shipped across the globe, not to mention the reproductions to either 35mm or 70mm for cinematic purposes. This, on top of a film’s DVD release and marketing package, puts a huge added pressure on the future of a green film industry. The arguments for digital are growing and overshadowing film. With iTunes now selling high quality films, affordably, across the web, and several cinemas converting to digital projection, we can expect to see a lighter distribution and transport weight on the shoulder of the industry, but only if there is the sufficient support behind it.

The panel and audience highlighted many rarely discussed issues regarding cinema and the environment and also opened up the realities that audiences are going to have to be aware of. As a huge aspect of the global economy, one loved by literally billions, the film industry will have to be responsible and greener with the billions of pounds it spends, as well as the billions of people it sells to. So, can cinema ever be truly green? Yes, but only if its billions of contributors play by the same rules.

Words and images by Jamie Isbell

Artistic Reverb and ‘Fuck You’ Letters.

The BFI 53rd London Film Festival - Trimpin: The Sound of Invention review.

‘Don’t be afraid to laugh’ – the final words of director Peter Esmonde’s introduction to his astute, yet deeply intriguing documentary; a two year journey following a dramatically less lucid audio architect known simply as Trimpin. It is understandable that Esmonde had concerns that his film might expose Trimpin as a laughable quirk to simply be observed, however, what his film actually displays, triumphantly, is a sonic conversation with the artist. Rather than observe him, we are invited to gaze into the many facets of his creativity which he articulates through a primitive curiosity with sounds; whether they are atmospheric noises, accidental crashes, or just pauses for silence, Trimpin is a man who has deviated the appreciation of sound, and discovered an unrefined and rough-edged perfection.

Originally from a rural German village, near to where the first Cuckoo Clocks were made (which might explain something), Trimpin grew up with a fascination of life’s workings. Dismantling household gadgetry and fine-tuning his passion for sound artistry from a kitsch selection of short handbooks, he began what he calls ‘a lifetime investigation’. Although Trimpin was awarded the MacArthur Genius Grant in 1997, his search, or rather, addiction for new sounds, or new ways of creating sounds prior to this, had taken him through a long series of ‘fuck you letters’ (his words) from galleries worldwide, refusing to consider his installations. It is an enlightening turn in the film’s dialogue to actually see a man who, at first seemingly wants to discover for himself, to then move and uncover an artist who wants his installations to be questioned and re-analysed themselves.

Following Trimpin through a junkyard of towering cast iron and disfigured sheet metal sees him in drawing board mode. ‘My work is based on found objects’ he states whilst rummaging through trays and bins of scrap, eventually deciding on a handful of gear mechanisms and other seemingly benign and unwanted objects. Like a child diving through boxes of LEGO, Trimpin’s approach to producing his audio sculptures is to utilize the overlooked characteristics of the things we throw away and judge them on their sonic personality, rather than visual aesthetic. Left to his own devices – which is clearly the route Esmonde wished to take – he taps and flicks, drops and plucks, claps and listens, and with no response he gets an answer.

In the same way that Fischli and Weiss reignited kinetic catastrophe into household objects in The Way Things Go; or how Theo Jansen sculpted the dynamics of the wind in his kinetic works; Trimpin is a reverberating reflection of what artistry can, and in many cases, should be, and his never-ending scurry through the unwanted to discover the unheard is his highest octave.

Esmonde’s brief yet modest glimpse at this elusive man doesn’t exactly succeed with any technical high ground, nor does its structural approach prove to be the winning formula. Instead, It is the director’s discovery of his own that allows him, like Trimpin, to produce a rough-edged film; one that acts as a creative capsule to harbour chaos and clarity, but not define them. I asked Esmonde whether he feels more knowledgeable of Trimpin having made the film, or whether he feels left with more he doesn’t know, he simply said “There are aspects of Trimpin that I will never know, but I have a better idea of what i don’t know”.

Divided Masterpiece

The Border Film Project is a triumph to say the least. Brought to life by Rudy Adler, Victoria Criado and Brett Huneycutt, the project attempts to lift the social and political boundaries that have governed the U.S.-Mexico Border region for decades. The state of the border and position as a relentlessly re-opened wound is shockingly articulated through the six-hundred cameras distributed to both migrants and Minutemen (US volunteers who aid the Government’s Border Patrol). The defiant messages that runs through the project is eloquently complimented by modesty and reality on both sides of the border. Through a flick of images comes a sudden reality, maybe a small and distant one, but nonetheless a truth to counter the negligence that the border region suffers under every day.

BFI 53rd London Film Festival… There will be coverage

The BFI 53rd London Film Festival will open its doors on the 14th – 29th October. Watch this space for some insightful coverage of the Wallace and Gromit 20th Aniversary, a talk from artist Sam Taylor Wood as well as a series of free and educational lectures, from cinema in the recession to new Iranian cinema.

Persepolis Calling

Marjane Satrapi’s beautiful and monumentally successful graphic novel Persepolis has one more chapter. Not written by Satrapi, but rather two native Iranians who have adopted Satrapi’s iconic formula to tell the shocking story of the the recent Iranian election furore. It is essential viewing and comments on the remarkable hand that social networking gave in bypassing the overly-governed Iranian media during the chaos.

Get me the Producer! Which One?

The 1 Second Film is an experimental film project devised by Nirvan Mullick and backed by more than 11,000 global producers, basically people willing to pay $1 or more to have their name appear in a list of credits and also to bypass the studios and actually support a film. The 1 Second Film aims to raise not only one million dollars for selected charities from its producers’ donations, but also awareness for the Collaboration Foundation (http://www.collaborationfoundation.org/); which hopes to indulge in future projects of a similar collective nature. The final film – which will comprise twelve frames (http://www.the1secondfilm.com/animation) of what appears to be a woman having a ‘crisis’ – will be followed by more than ninety minutes of rolling credits as well as an accompanying documentary, where we will no doubt see the shiny faces of the project’s celebrity investors such as Kiefer Sutherland, Tom Green, Bret Ratner, Nia Vardalos and Spike Jonze.

Now, as it stands, The 1 Second Film is still ‘ongoing’ which is a sign that they are either reluctant to move on or simply trying to outweigh the briefness of the actual film. But what this extreme and experimental approach to film production really highlights is something external to the final product. As the creative economy tries to float on through ropey times, it is in the smaller facets of the industry where likeminded zero-budget filmmakers can thrive. Par example, back in May this year students and enthusiasts took to YouTube to wait eagerly for their instructions from Cannes Young Lions (http://www.canneslions.com/young_lions/48hrs.cfm); the orders given were to produce a 1-minute short in 48 hours that would comment in some way on climate change, on behalf of Oxfam. The Young Lions competition brought thousands of people to the web, all with the same task but with the responsibility of producing individual work from it. And by allowing each participant to vote and share with their fellow competitors it seemed that Young Lions had achieved a similar collaborative community as The 1 Second Film.

Another important player in this growing overnight film industry is the, quite frankly, super-awesome Vimeo (http://www.vimeo.com/). Vimeo launched in 2004 and today stands as a considerably higher-end alternative to YouTube. With its unsurpassed user friendly approach, HD compatibility and a database of actual filmmakers and artists (rather than indiscrete self indulgent gamers and Rick Astley video highjackers), it is fair to say that Vimeo is becoming the first choice as a clean-cut outlet for vibrant and exciting creativity. Vimeo regularly touches base with its users through the Staff Blog and announce short filmmaking competitions (http://www.vimeo.com/blog:236) just a few days before the deadlines. This not only ups the site’s activity but also gets filmmakers warming to the virtual challenge of being creatively pragmatic. This trend in competitive, yet communal, filmmaking is becoming increasingly attractive to numerous festivals and video sharing sites. And it’s no surprise! Clearly this is a sure fire way to eliminate complacency and re-balance the scales of filmmaking competitions; to get people with very limited filmmaking means to go head-to-head with those who are used to spending weeks on the visual aesthetics of their films; to break the class differences in the industry and one day, change the world… well the maybe not, but it is a positive start.

So what is the verdict? Will overnight competitions produce overnight successes? Or will we simply see this sector destitute in the coming years?

Kinetic Catastrophe

A look back at one of the most unsung, yet explosively inspirational pieces of avant garde cinema.

In 1987 a warehouse in Switzerland played host to 100 feet of mechanical imagination that would ignite life and presence into bin bags, tyres, ladders, corrosive liquids, wooden planks and cohorts of other household objects. The Way Things Go (Der Lauf der Dinge, 1987) was the first major project of Switzerland based artists Peter Fischli and David Weiss, who first collaborated in 1979 after brief solo careers as artists. Their style is variable, but consistently imaginative, using everyday objects and images and confining them into situations of forced reinterpretation. The Way Things Go takes this premise and spars with it, resulting in the eruption of independent and organic movement. Fischli and Weiss’s work, in particular The Way Things Go, has been repeatedly been exhibited in the Tate Modern and the Guggenheim New York. The Way Things Go has been criticised for not being one continuously seamless shot as the creators claimed it was. Many arguments have defended this accusation claiming that it is part of the film’s aesthetic, however it appears more likely that the points of cutting come as a result of the film being shot on small magazines of 16mm film stock that could not capture 30 minutes of footage in one loading.

Removing an object from its assumed position and placing it amongst a new world has often been a theme amongst video artists, Roman Signer is famed for taking mundane objects such as briefcases, chairs and Wellington boots, and fusing their static existence with something explosively energetic. So how does The Way Things Go position itself among the [moving image] art world? Perhaps it does not, as the parameters of the setting and the form of the objects are as undefined as their relationship with the medium of film. But this striking contrast of content and the medium on which it is displayed is the highest contributor to the unsettling, yet fascinating lure of the film. Fischli and Weiss present us with hundreds of objects, all familiar and precariously placed atop systematic towers of other objects. A bloated black bin bag, twisted at the neck begins to unravel with the crisp sound of the bag’s wrinkling texture relaxing, it gradually strokes a tyre below until it sluggishly rolls towards a work bench and intervenes the balance of a cylindrical piece of steel which over weighs the board it sits on; this board backhands the tire further onward toward a ladder on the verge of toppling, as it collides, the ladder rapidly loses and regains balance and waddles down a slope towards a proud standing detergent bottle. The opening image of movement implies that we are not being shown the full scale of this vast construction and that we are left, within our bafflement, to decide where the invisible yet highly present movement began.

The subtle element of fascination acts only as a façade to the evolving sense of voyeurism we gain from watching all these objects come to life and die in seconds. To see a small ball bearing cause the spilling of gallons of acid, which anticlimactically concludes with the release of a cord to then cause more progress in the timeline of energy, glues our attention to every flip, drop, splash and splice in the film. Suspense followed by anticipation is the behaviour of these objects; nothing crashes or explodes to cause an erratically swift domino effect, instead every hinges, flows, glides and only just prompts the other objects to react like the mouse that sank the boat. It is half way through The Way Things Go that we uncover a human nature to what we are watching. To have small and large inanimate objects brought to life insights energy and excitement, but it is when we see a surreal children’s mobile contraption that replicates a spiralling group of airborne trains that we begin to relate to the rise and fall of a ‘shock and awe’ world, and see these objects as the rebuilding of the filmic practice itself.

The Way Things Go was received to high acclaim when it was released in 1987, however this was predominantly to an artistic audience and was never exposed to the masses until 2003 when the London based advertising firm Wieden & Kennedy produced the commercial entitled ‘Cog’ for Japanese car manufacturer Honda. This commercial along with numerous parodies and pastiches to the Swiss artists’ work has produced a swarm of like-minded filmmakers to think ambitiously and bravely, stretching away from tradition and constraints the same way that Fischli and Weiss did.

Simply RED (Camera)

There are numerous arguments that surround the battle between celluloid and its digital younger brother. But the only thing that anyone considering the production of a film thinks or even cares about (besides the content) is the cost. So whether you’re a frantically active student filmmaker or a Hollywood powerhouse, it is safe to say that every calibre of filmmaker will be fascinated and no doubt affected by the blow that the geek gods at RED have struck in the sparring between old and new.

When digital video was introduced in the mid ’90s it was seen as a vital jump from analogue video cameras and increasingly obsolete formats like Super 8. Lowering costs and increasing access, it created a new wave of independence and activity among aspiring film buffs. But there were drawbacks to DV despite the benefits, most obviously in the picture quality. Digital simply lacked some of the soul of celluloid.

But all that is set to change as RED arrives on the scene. And not just arrives, but reinvents. The RED Epic and RED Scarlet, which will be released later this year, are so customisable that you can shoot onto a 10.1 x 5.35mm sensor (that’s the size of a fingernail) and upgrade with an unclip-replace-click to a ridiculous 168 x 56mm sensor (the size of a postcard). However, until these are released the camera that RED is focussing its energy on the RED ONE, which you can buy for around £10,000, along with various SLR lens mounts and attachments to complete you unique set-up. Once you’re ready to go you’ll be about £15,000 out of pocket but left with a camera that possesses the same depth of field abilities of 35mm, the lightweight advantages of small DV cameras and a picture quality not yet achieved on any digital format.

For the time being, the biggest backers of this new digital technology are affluent studio-backed American indie filmmakers like Steven Soderbergh. However, there is another sector of filmmaking that stands to benefit enormously, one that is the starting ground for many of the world’s most successful directors. That is the student filmmaking scene, in its absolute broadest sense. Whether you make films on your phone or using a college’s DV camera, there is no doubt that there is an energy and passion among students that has been made all the more abundant recently by the affordability of digital. Now, to your average Joe, £15,000 is far from affordable, but more so for students. So the responsibility and investment will have to come down to the Universities, Colleges and maybe even Schools and their willingness to take a risk and embrace this technological movement.

Movies are a visual medium, and no matter what device you use to make one, it is something that people, at least the people I know, want to get right. So the lure of the RED ONE is understandable, and as much as we want to see formidable directors take them to their limits, just imagine how exiting film festivals would be if they had gallons of films shot using RED cameras by the youth of today.

I was in awe of two short films I saw at a competition screening recently, both produced by the Cornwall-based Dog Bite Film Crew. Both were, visually, absolutely impeccable. Despite feeling a little overshadowed when comparing the camera I used to shoot my short film and the RED ONE (which I later discovered that they had used), it got me thinking about the lead they had given themselves against the demands of worldwide competitions. They had eradicated the troublesome acquisition of film stock and its processing, and still produced a film (although just 1-minute in length) that won them first prize and several dropped jaws.

So really, what is this going to do for the film industry we know? We’ve seen Steven Soderbergh maximise the RED ONE’s capabilities in Che, and can count on other big dogs to prove their dexterity with them. But is this really a new page in the library of technology revolutions? Will RED do to film what DVD did to VHS, or what the combustion engine did to steam? It’s got all the attitude and colour of a strong revolution, but will it evolve cinema itself?

Detention Zeros to Boarding School Heroes

The Kids Were Alright – The anti-glam guide to seventy-five years of celluloid adolescence.

It is sad that in recent years adolescent mischief on film has become a super-fad rulebook exposing how desperately young, naive and conventionally beautiful girls will sleep with you, just as long as you drink plenty of booze and give an apple pie a good buggering. But can anyone really relate to inflated Americanisations of non-existent factory made bullshit? Well I don’t think so, and although I have seen a lot of these ‘teen movies’, I firmly refuse to acknowledge them, and instead favour the humbly beautiful and truthfully exquisite films that pick up on the common experiences of being young. Casting back more than seventy-five years is a list of the five films that tell our adolescent stories the best.

Safety in Numbers in Zero de Conduite (1933) – Jean Vigo

To call Vigo’s semi-biographical film a masterpiece is beyond an understatement, in fact I’m not sure there is a single word that can explain this film’s brilliance. But one scene in particular stands defiantly, representing childish rebellion in numbers. The infamous slow-motion pillow-fight between the young boys at their French boarding school was shot by Vigo at a high frame-rate to expose the energy of the moment. There is something so natural about the scene that completely loses me and I cannot think of a more powerful few minutes in early cinema.

Bunking Off in The 400 Blows (1959) – Francois Truffaut

Bunking off P.E. at school was never seen as a danger for my friends and I. There was a benign freedom to it in fact, an addictive strategy that enthused us every week. When Antoine Doinel emancipates himself from the harsh institution that misunderstands him, we see him out-whit the desperate teachers who hunt him down and begin charging for the one place that he has always wanted to embrace, for us it was the bakery for some cheese sticks, for Antoine it is the sea, and it is here that his life becomes his, and, being completely alone, he cherishes a moment that he might never experience again.

Playground Politics in Killer of Sheep (1977) – Charles Burnett

School’s out… of the picture in Burnett’s UCLA thesis film, Killer of Sheep. Swarms of young children are scurrying throughout the wreckage of old factory buildings and pelting rocks at passing trains; other children are perched on high walls, musing over Watts, L.A. and the distant world beyond that they know little about. It is Burnett’s implications of a weak educational system that sees these young kids exploring and ruling a desolate expanse of dry dirt and cast iron and transforming it in to an industrial playground. “They were like birds in the trees”, Burnett jokes nostalgically; and with Killer of Sheep’s observation of children in the ghetto we transfer a bond with the their lives that resonates the most tranquil rebellion and solidarity.

Detention in The Breakfast Club (1985) – John Hughes

We’ve all been there, detention, fucking shit wasn’t it? However it did make you feel surprisingly normal and marginally smug; almost as if you had experienced ‘real’ suffering, only at the hands of your 60 year-old geography teacher. Although The Breakfast Club is an 80s class of stereotypes, it does humorously deal with that enslaving feeling of detention and the irony of seeing your school’s thickest piece of shit sat next to its brainiest little brats.

Adventure and Naivety in Hope and Glory (1987) – John Borman

Children growing up during World War II would surely be riddled with fear and confusion. Well, the ironic thing is that a lot of them saw it as an adventure, an instinctual return to their most primitive survival techniques, well at least that is what cinema has attempted to tell us over the decades. Following the journey of a boy named Bill and his family during the Blitz in London, we see small gangs of children attempting to take control of the blown-out skeletal structures of the local buildings. The children’s naivety is encompassed by a line of pure comic-genius, delivered when a bomb strikes the local school, a friend of Bill’s runs to him screaming, “Bill! It was a stray bomb! Thank you Hitler!”.

Words by Jamie Isbell

An interview with Ed Zwick

Ed Zwick discusses his work in television, the daring adaptation of Nechama Tec’s Defiance and how filmmaking will never be easy.

Ed Zwick sits comfortably, talks eloquently and unequivocally, and doesn’t allow complacency anywhere near his films. But you might expect this from a man with roots in a Harvard education and filmmaking prowess tweaked and fine-tuned at the American Film Institute. But Even so, Zwick’s arsenal of films haven’t always grabbed audiences, in fact, his most recent and arguably most successful films, Blood Diamond and Defiance, conjured fury among victims of the African diamond trade and activists for the Israeli / Palestine conflicts respectively.

Let’s rewind nearly forty-years. The 1970s, Zwick is growing up in an era when, as he puts it, “Film culture wasn’t disposable culture, it was essential culture. We would see films without any guarantee of ever being able to see them again, so the experience of going to a movie was very imminent”. Zwick is a man of many fascinations, with an early indulgence, who indulged himself in numerous revival theatres across America, nurturing passions for early American powerhouses. “I has always loved John Ford and Howard Hawkes and George Stevens and some of the great narrative American filmmakers,” he muses.

It’s been a long journey for Zwick, one that began with his initial work in television. “I went to film school, to the American Film Institute, and made a short film and it became very clear to me that no one was about to give me a film based on half-an-hour,” he explains. “It wasn’t that it was that bad or that good, it just didn’t have that kind of allure, so I began writing. I had been a writer, I was able to begin writing for the television show that mike Nichols had produced, it was called Family”.

In 1989, with a tailwind of television success, Zwick released Glory to major award-winning kudos. This marked his first endeavour with the volatility of history, in this case the American Civil War, and exposing it to the treacherous medium of film. In January 2009 we saw his latest, and possibly most courageous return to form with Defiance. “What could I possibly add and how dare I presume to add?”, he questions retrospectively on the thought of adapting Nechama Tec’s book, Defiance: The Bielski Partisans. As far as adaptations go, and I am sceptical towards a lot of them, Defiance succeeded, that is if you can forgive the eastern-European accents occasionally going from gruff James Bond villain to brawny west-end grocer.

Zwick’s attention to detail was instead focused on the journey of the Jewish refugees and the things they sacrificed and abandoned: “part of which is love, marriage, brotherhood, faith, humour and community”. These are all things that could be attached to Zwick like replacement limbs; here is a man with serious passion, and a knowledge and understanding of what it means to embark on a film, with all the (admittedly benign) conflict that comes with it.

His eclectic understanding of the humble position a director must take is obvious, but this doesn’t stop him dropping us in at the deep end. “Audiences have become so sophisticated in film language, that they can pick up the exposition on the fly and I am perfectly content with that”, he says, exhaling, almost as if to pass on the lightest of compliments to his industry. Could directing be getting easier? “It’s never easier, I guarantee you. Every time it feels like a one-off.”

Words by Jamie Isbell

Image by Christopher McLallen

An exclusive interview with Charles Burnett.

“Like birds in the trees” – Director Charles Burnett talks about life in Watts, the abattoir and… brain surgery?

Charles Burnett’s journey as a filmmaker has not been one of equidistant success after success. Starting out with untracked intentions of becoming an electrical engineer and grasping no desire to become a man with a movie camera, he was in a strange position of observation in his neighbourhood of Watts, Los Angeles. Through his late childhood he experienced, both first and second hand, the beating heart of this black community during a time of social shifting and racial upheaval, which resulted in one of the most astute yet unseen panoramas of southern Los Angeles working class living and adolescent energy, Killer of Sheep (1977).

You started your MFA in Film at UCLA during a time of huge change in the political status and consciousness of America. How did this affect your views towards filmmaking? Well, there were a lot of social issues being debated and discussed, everyone felt as though they had a chance to do something. A lot of people in the community were using arts to express these issues. Hollywood was responsible for a lot of the negative images of the conditions in the community. Initially I got into film to talk about local issues and things like that.

I understand that you started out training as an electrician? Yeah, um, it was expedient in a way, I had just got out of high school and I had no idea about filmmaking, I had no idea it was possible. I started taking creative writing and drifted towards filmmaking from there.

What was the catalyst for Killer of Sheep? At UCLA there were a group of people making political films about the working class and poor people being exploited by management. That wasn’t the situation I knew, and the people I knew. I wanted to do a film that reflected reality, but also because UCLA was sorta’ anti-Hollywood.

The music in Killer of Sheep works on various levels, sometimes subtly and other times powerfully. Is music something that you are always conscious about whilst writing and shooting a film? Well, then I was. I used to play trumpet and music was very big in the community. My mother used to play a lot of pieces and I think it was from her and listening to her music over and over that made me aware of the potential of music

Was it your intention to use the music to settle and humanise the strong images of the slaughterhouse? I was looking for pieces that sort of complimented what was going on in the scenes.

The slaughterhouse comes across as a benign place for Stan to work, compared to his home life, which appears more stressful and complex. Was this juxtaposition intentional? I wanted them both to have the same effect. The slaughterhouse, ironically, is a place where you have to kill to survive. It’s a cruel profession and I think it alienates you. But in reality it doesn’t bother them, they could eat sandwiches right in front of an animal being slaughtered. But the community was negative force on Stan and he was trying to navigate through that, and I think it was the attention of all those things that was his problem.

How did you go about selecting the locations for the film? I grew up in that area and knew those places. The slaughterhouse was difficult, there was a meat packing plant and a slaughterhouse, and they used to allow people to shoot there. But there was a time in the 60s and 70s when vegetarians started to make these anti-meat films under the disguise of a different movie. I had to go way up beyond San Francisco to find a privately owned slaughterhouse and the guy was nice enough to let me use it.

The characters in the film have an impressive screen presence, how did you approach the casting for the film? Most of them were friends of mine. Henry Gale Sanders I met in an elevator at UCLA, I said “have you ever acted?” he sort of smiled and said “yeah I’ve worked on a student film”, but most of them were people I knew in the community.

Can you talk explain the representation of children in Killer of Sheep? It’s from their perspective, partly anyway. It’s kids in the neighbourhood that see everything. You’re taught things to survive, and in doing so you learn that you’re part of humanity. The opening scene is about this kid being told the facts of life, you know, if your brother’s in a fight, I don’t care you help him out. The kids are so much a part of life, when you’re in the community that’s all you hear and see, they’re like birds in the trees, all you hear is this chatter. Kids are much easier to work with than adults, the kids have that memory, it’s just amazing how they can remember everything from the script.

Community is a recurring theme in your films. How did the community ethic change from the time you started at UCLA up to the time Killer of Sheep was first released? Well two things happened. When I made Killer of Sheep there was a certain innocence around that period, there wasn’t the drugs and dope you find in the 80s, where it became vicious. When I did My Brothers Wedding there was this sense of the community totally changing, dispersing. There was this point where you could make a job without an education, you know, it didn’t take much to fix a car, but now you look at a car, it takes an education. It’s a different ball game.

Your first short film Several Friends shows similar themes to those seen in Killer of Sheep, for example, the slaughtering of animals and the two friends repairing the car. Do these subtle themes appear naturally within the fabric of the film or do you weave them in intentionally? I mean you start of with an abstract element, a theme, but you’re trying to find it in what people do in the community; you find a narrative there. UCLA’s philosophy at the time was that you have to go out and do your thing and come back with something we haven’t seen before. This whole idea of becoming a black filmmaker and the responsibilities was also something that was affecting how you looked at things.

How do you feel about the opportunity that University students are given today? Does the advancement of technology and the easiness of producing films excite you? It does, it makes it possible for anyone who wants to make a film to try and make a film. I think film teaches you discipline, because the film costs so much you really have to use your imagination, you have to really know the film stock and there are a lot of things delayed by working with film. There’s a sort of magic in the old way of doing it, you can’t shoot and shoot and shoot. Whereas in video you can get it instantaneously, I shot a documentary on digital and it’s tiring because you can sit behind the camera and it never ends, and you have so much material you can’t even use it all. You see the impact of film and the impact of storytelling, digital just blows it up.

When did you first feel like a filmmaker? (Laughs), It’s something that a bunch of us are talking about now, can we call ourselves filmmakers having made a few films? Say for example you say “what do you do?”, “I’m a brain surgeon”, “well when was the last time you operated?”, “uuuuum maybe a couple years ago”, “well I don’t want you operating on me”, (laughs). We’re working at being filmmakers I think. When we made films at UCLA we tried to put everything in including the kitchen sink because we thought we would never make a film again. You don’t know when you’re gonna’ do another film, so it’s going to be harder.

So how about the future? Well you wanna’ sorta’ look around and grow, there’s so many different stories to tell. You don’t wanna’ tell the same story over and over again. You want to go and show you’re a filmmaker, you really have to include all the stories you can because there are so many, ones that you can be satisfied and happy with, and not just anything. Right now I’m just trying to get the job.

Words by Jamie Isbell

Image by Curtis Knapp