Just in case anyone is wondering why there has been a bit of silence for a while, then it’s because I’m in India researching a book.
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Thanks,
Monisha
The Men who Stare at Goats
You’d be forgiven for coming out of this film and wondering if the Coen brothers wrote and directed it and then pretended they hadn’t – y’know, just for shits and giggles. The story is based on a book by Jon Ronson and opens with Bob Wilton (Ewan McGregor), a bored journalist desperate to find his big story and simultaneously prove himself to his wife – who’s now boffing his editor. Well actually, the latter is his real goal, but we won’t tell if you won’t.
Bob takes himself off to Iraq to report from the front line and finds himself with no friends as the elitist group of foreign correspondents keeps him firmly out of their clique. Enter his new best friend, Lyn Cassady (George Clooney), a former secret agent who once worked as part of the Jedi – a group of psychic soldiers trained to defend with their minds, including being able to kill goats just by staring into their eyes.
So far, so Coen Brothers. Only this supertroop of soldiers led by Bill Django (Jeff Bridges) is an orange trouser-wearing, peace-loving group of happy hippies. Discovering Cassady has been called to service again, Wilton asks if he can join on the mission and finds himself teetering on the biggest story of his life.
Phew! If that’s a lot to stomach, throw a villainous Kevin Spacey into the mix along with a holding full of de-bleated goats, and sit back for the fireworks. For such a kooky cast and a plot that lends itself to plenty of laughs, there are more damp squibs than rockets. Despite many a mocking finger waggled at the U.S military, and gags aplenty, it’s a shame that the film errs on the side of being weird, rather than funny. And once again, if you’ve seen Burn After Reading, there will be a fleeting moment, where you wonder if it’s better to Forget After Watching.
But not when it comes to Up In The Air…
Ryan Bingham (George Clooney again) is probably one of the most hated men. He jets around the world firing people for a living, meeting them for little more than five minutes, offering a well-rehearsed pep-talk and a twinkly smile and is gone before you can say “redundancy package.” Ryan has the warmth and compassion of a broken radiator and loves his first-class high-flying lifestyle, which before he realises, has become his life.
And then one evening in a hotel bar he meets Alex, a pretty middle-aged blonde who tells him, “think of me as you, but with a vagina”. They share a penchant for loyalty cards, bonus points and gold memberships, and are heavily turned on by elitism, which pushes them to meet again and again, turning Ryan’s nomadic ideals on their head.
Before you even think it, don’t. This isn’t a linear, follow-the-recipe film. None of that fluffy, Aniston-ending crap. Up In The Air is a sharp look at our prejudices, our goals and our ideals and lays bare the fragility and vulnerability of relationships. And it really helps that it’s one of the funniest and most beautifully-acted films that has graced the screen this year. Clooney plays Ryan like only Clooney could. Detached, reluctant to settle, smooth as silk and oozing with charm. But it’s a different charm, a hapless and sorrowful charm that makes this one of his most memorable roles. His gradual softening and his chocolate box of eye-watering one-liners make this an absolute delight.
Ryan: Why do kids admire athletes?
Bob: Because they get to screw lingerie models.
Ryan: No, that’s why we admire them.
Even though Clooney has hogged the limelight this festival, he’s justified his presence.
So last week the BFI 53rd London Film Festival kicked off in Leicester Square with the world premiere of Wes Anderson’s Fantastic Mr Fox. For a sneaky preview I slunk into an early morning screening and then popped by the Dorchester to hear what George Clooney, Wes Anderson, Bill Murray, Jason Schwartzman and Jarvis Cocker – who collectively voice the animal kingdom – had to say about rolling around in English barns, hiding behind bushes and stealing…
Given that the LFF is already shaping up as a Clooneyfest – screening three of his films over the coming fortnight – it’s only fitting that the opening night started as it meant to go on.
Roald Dahl’s beloved tale of the debonair Mr Fox embroiled in a ruthless war against farmers Boggis, Bunce and Bean is brought to life by Anderson in a stop-motion animation marked out for its warmth, spirit and brilliant attention to detail. What Dahl would have thought of an estate agent weasel in a slim-fitted pink T-shirt, Fox’s cape-wearing son, Ash, dressed like a vulpine Evel Knievel, and Kristofferson, his yoga-practising nephew, is anyone’s guess, but at least the additional scenes and new dimensions lend themselves to a fun, rip-roaring adventure that keeps its feral tongue firmly in cheek.
Yes, the book was so wonderfully British as only cider farmers and those who pick their noses delicately with a long finger can be, but Anderson argued his choice for Americanising the film. “We were better writing American voices, so we decided to make all the animals American and the humans British.” “Cos they’re the bad guys,” quipped Bill Murray.
Asked if he shared any of the attributes of Mr Fox, Clooney smirked that they had similar voices and flashed a winning a smile to taper off ungainly questions. But as the session went on and interest in his personal life persisted, it seemed that like Mr Fox, dodging bullets is also a Clooney skill. Unlike his counterpart, he didn’t want to take one in the ass. “Am I broody? Now that’s a word that Americans don’t understand. Kids, do I want kids? You know, just having Jason (Schwartzman) here next to me makes me want to.” He later added, “I might just borrow some of Brad Pitt’s. He owes me.”
Much to the bemusement of the panel, the world’s press wanted to analyse, probe and strip apart in earnest what is essentially a film about a tweed-wearing fox who steals chickens. When one journalist asked, “Did you intentionally embrace the cultural history of that form and specifically Czech filmmakers like Yan Spankmyer and use it for politically subversive ends, and does it have any link to the anarchic stereotypical novels in your choice of animation?” Murray replied, “That’s the kind of question we’ve been hoping for. That’s what we flew all the way over here.”
Despite much gnashing of teeth and musing over the moral lesson that the film is a celebration of stealing and being true to your animal nature, Clooney’s initial response to why he did the film, “Look, I just showed up for the paycheck as I heard it was a big one.”– was probably the truest statement he made.
If you’ve never been to Abercrombie and Fitch in London, linger around the bottom end of Regent Street and then follow your nose. No, really. It’s impossible not to notice the sexy smell of self-love that starts swirling around the top of Savile Row, meandering menacingly towards the mother ship.
Like Pepé le Pew wafting his malodorous pheromones in the direction of any female, the owners have brewed an industrial strength scent that causes hormonal teens to drift mindlessly towards the pearly-toothed gates, where, rather than being greeted by a horny French skunk, Brad the male model awaits with no top on and a pair of jeans sitting so low you can see the sheen of his freshly waxed groin. That is, if he isn’t surrounded by a bunch of male Spanish exchange students with backpacks on their fronts taking pictures with him to test his tolerance threshold. A thrilling sight if you have a few minutes to spare.
At Christmas my brother and his fiancée bought me a pair of jogging bottoms and a T-shirt that would have fitted a two-year-old and it took three washes and a healthy splattering of bacon fat to get rid of the smell. Allegedly being a medium– and my being quite small at a 29-inch chest – yanking the T-shirt on shouldn’t have been an issue, but apparently it’s easier to roll a condom over a guitar. I don’t dislike their clothes, but they have a bizarre idea of what fits normal human beings and since when has anyone beyond 1994 worn checked shirts – the standard uniform of the shop “assistants.”
Anyway, a close friend was down for the weekend and fancied a new gilet, so we took a trip into the weirdness. Once through the doors, I had to wait until my eyes adjusted to the darkness. It was like being in a nightclub. The music, albeit very cool, was so loud I couldn’t hear my pal shouting at me and within two minutes I had lost her. Wandering aimlessly from room to room, squeezing between beautiful people, I felt like I was in the West End on a Friday night, only with much better-looking people. A&F certifies that their staff must embody the all-American look, so why they aren’t all clinically obese, walking around with a family bucket of chicken under one arm and clutching a milkshake is a little misleading.
My pal picked up a pink top she quite liked and while she tried on the gilet I wandered off to ask for the top in a different size. A girl with long blonde hair and a tan to match the wooden floors was literally too busy looking at herself in a mirror to notice me tugging at her sleeve. One 6ft 6 fool didn’t notice me lurking around his waistline and fell over me in his hurry to get to his position – dancing on a podium – and a few moments later, the same guy stepped on the back of my flip flops sending me flying – and then shoved me to one side. Blonde hair, blue eyes and a six-pack might be in the job-spec, but clearly “assisting” is not. I wanted to ask where the loos were but I’m probably not pretty enough to piss on their premises.
My friend joined the queue, which began halfway up the staircase, and weaved around the corner towards another room. While she huffed and scowled in the darkness, I wandered off to see just how many tills there were. Lo and behold, once you reached the end of the queue, you were then directed across the floor into another room (apparently it takes another blonde to point out the doorway) which then held another tightly woven maze of bored customers. Flashbacks of being six years old at Disneyland hit me. It was like queuing for Space Mountain, minus the thrill and impending satisfaction.
Fed up and desperate for a wee, we dumped everything and fought through the crowd to the exits. Another waiflike teen bopped in the doorway, grinning from ear to ear, and on our way out, the alarm went off. “Oh that’s ok, don’t worry about it,” beamed the Colgate Kid.
On the pavement my friend grabbed my elbow and held up what was actually a rather horrid bubblegum pink top – which had by mistake stayed in a bundle with our shed clothing. It had also looked much less sticky and putrid in the dim lighting. We turned back into the shop and the Colgate Kid exclaimed: “No, I said it was ok, you can go,” while smacking his delicate hands together and bopping to the beat in his head.
My friend came within a centimetre of his matte complexion and yelled, “It’s beeping, because I’ve not paid for something!” and pushed back inside while he carried on clapping and shouting, “let’s dance.”
A&F, your clothes might be overpriced and your staff undeniably stupid, but at least you know how to put on a damn good party. And unlike the rest of the West End it doesn’t cost £20 to get in.