I watched Pride and Prejudice adapted by Andrew Davies while I was living in the UK and could not quite grasp why people made such a fuss about Colin Firth and the wet shirt scene. But last year, I got the tenth anniversary edition as a birthday present and fell heads over heels for it. It was well cast (despite the ages of the leading actors/actresses) and the performance was of high standard across the board. It made me pick up the book and revisited both P & P and Sense and Sensibility. In the end, I also rewatched the film of the latter, well adapted by Emma Thompson.
And that was probably why I had not picked up the 2008 adaptation of Sense of Sensibility from the library even though it was adapted by the famed Andrew Davies. After all, when someone had done such a good job of it merely 12 years ago, what else can be added on screen to such a well read novel?
Nevertheless, I took it from the shelf the other day when I wanted a break from the challenging materials that had been playing on my DVD player lately. But familiarity is in short supply from the very beginning of this near three hour television drama. In fact its opening was of such a 'contemporary' nature that I mistook it as a trailer of some glossy Hollywood product which is by default the complete opposite in style, tone and mood of any Jane Austen works! And indeed, despite the familiar story followed immediately after the steamy intro, there were many 'strange' elements in this adaptation: such as the appearance of the son of John Dashwood, the gift given to Elinor by Edwards when they parted at Norland, the use of Byran's poem rather than Shakespeare, that of the many scenes constructed to portray a caring, music loving, and understanding Colonel Brandon... let alone to say the 'bizarre' duel between him and his rival Willougby! At points, I was seriously doubting if granny BBC has gone a bit too far in its attempt to introducing new audience to the classics. And at the end of three hours, the only thing I thought was commendable was the performance of Dan Stevens. Not only he had the look of a most eligible bachelor (unlike Colonel Brandon who looked too serious thorough), he also borne striking resemblance to Hugh Grant who played the same part in Emma Thomson's adaptation.
The dialogue between Andrew Davies and the producer in the special feature then proved rather helpful in that it did not only discuss the sort of small details a casual reader like myself would tend to forget in the book (such as the duel which I still struggle to remember reading it), but also argued rather convincingly why so much screen time had been given to the two men whom the sisters ended up marrying at the end. I still believe though that the film is more subtle and truthful to the book and perhaps it proved once again how difficult it was to accept something different once a popular version had been considered as a master adaptation.
March 18, 2009
Cleo from 5 to 7
This is an amazing film. At the beginning, it is bland and even tideous as Cleo the singer seems like a spoilt and capricious child in a woman's body. Despite her fame (her songs are on radio), she was listless, and when her composer learns that she is ill, he remarks that she just wants some attention, which seems to be the case.
Then at the middle of rehearsing, she throws temper at the composer and lyricist, gets changed, and goes out on her own to in the late afternoon street.
The mood of the film changes subtly once she leave her companions in the confined and familiar space of her doll like home. Though she has now put on a black dress, she looks more lively, real and human without her elaborate wig. As she is on her own in the Paris street, we are kept in the dark as to what exactly is going on except that from her face, she continues to be self-absorbed and unhappy. There is still a lack of plot here but a caption in the silent movie she is shown later on hinted what the film is about, and indeed, what the heroine is overwhelmed with: the dread of cancer and its impact on her future of the past two days.
The DVD at this point was damaged and by the time it plays properly again, she is dropping off her model friend, directing the taxi driver to drive through a park, then she rambles in a peaceful park, where a stranger comes to her by a mini waterfall. And my, from this moment on, Cleo the doll/dull woman begins to reveal herself gradually as an attractive young lady who is capable of genuine human interactions. Typical of the French new wave cinema of the late 50s and early 60s, the plot is still rather loose, which in itself draws our attention entirely to the dialogues or half of the time, the lack of it between the two of them as they sit on a bench by the water, catch a bus to the hospital, then sit on a bench in a beautiful park of the hospital. The acting is natural but the chemistry between the two is well captured on the black and white film. Antoine Bourseiller the soldier looks like an average young man when he is 'half in uniform', but soon he puts on his jacket and hat, and his irresistable natural charm transforms the last 15 to 20 minutes of the film: - what happens then between the protagonists as they wonder about his familiar quarter of Paris is one of the most romantic and captivating scenes in cinema, which lifts the film from an average new wave work into a memorable experience.
I checked my bible afterwards and the auther did not think much of the film or all of those except Vagaband by the Agnes Varda. But to me, although I accept the point that it is not about 'real life', it however makes a lot more sense than some of the films raved about by the author, say, Paris Belongs to Us by Jacque Riverret of the same period.
And I guess much of the credit should go to Antoine Bourseiller, who could express desire and emotions through just his eyes.
Then at the middle of rehearsing, she throws temper at the composer and lyricist, gets changed, and goes out on her own to in the late afternoon street.
The mood of the film changes subtly once she leave her companions in the confined and familiar space of her doll like home. Though she has now put on a black dress, she looks more lively, real and human without her elaborate wig. As she is on her own in the Paris street, we are kept in the dark as to what exactly is going on except that from her face, she continues to be self-absorbed and unhappy. There is still a lack of plot here but a caption in the silent movie she is shown later on hinted what the film is about, and indeed, what the heroine is overwhelmed with: the dread of cancer and its impact on her future of the past two days.
The DVD at this point was damaged and by the time it plays properly again, she is dropping off her model friend, directing the taxi driver to drive through a park, then she rambles in a peaceful park, where a stranger comes to her by a mini waterfall. And my, from this moment on, Cleo the doll/dull woman begins to reveal herself gradually as an attractive young lady who is capable of genuine human interactions. Typical of the French new wave cinema of the late 50s and early 60s, the plot is still rather loose, which in itself draws our attention entirely to the dialogues or half of the time, the lack of it between the two of them as they sit on a bench by the water, catch a bus to the hospital, then sit on a bench in a beautiful park of the hospital. The acting is natural but the chemistry between the two is well captured on the black and white film. Antoine Bourseiller the soldier looks like an average young man when he is 'half in uniform', but soon he puts on his jacket and hat, and his irresistable natural charm transforms the last 15 to 20 minutes of the film: - what happens then between the protagonists as they wonder about his familiar quarter of Paris is one of the most romantic and captivating scenes in cinema, which lifts the film from an average new wave work into a memorable experience.
I checked my bible afterwards and the auther did not think much of the film or all of those except Vagaband by the Agnes Varda. But to me, although I accept the point that it is not about 'real life', it however makes a lot more sense than some of the films raved about by the author, say, Paris Belongs to Us by Jacque Riverret of the same period.
And I guess much of the credit should go to Antoine Bourseiller, who could express desire and emotions through just his eyes.
March 04, 2009
Le Samourai
Ever since becoming a freemale, I have been watching films nearly every night. There are many good ones, the trouble is, my memory is failing me faster than I dare to admit, and there are many a time, especially when the titles are not in English, the DVD on the player is something I have watched not too long ago.
After watching Second Breath by Jean-Pierre Melville, I checked my 'bible' (getting old quickly)' and learnt that the best one from the director was one in his last period with Alain Denon. Since I had no recollection of any of them, I picked up the film from the library and played it last night.
The credit sequence reminded me some of the earlier films by Wong Kai, especially The Days of Being Wild: in a dim room, nothing seems to be happening, except a ray of smoke rising from, a bed, in the centre of a room, on which there seems to be lying a body. The camera reminds static during the whole sequence, and the decor of the room becomes increasingly, as significant as the smoke: though its walls is green, it is not a colour that symbolises life and energy, but more that of decadence and resignation, as if the life of it has been sucked away by time, nature's and paper.
I started to wonder if I might have watched it when I heard the bird chirping, and indeed, once the credit sequence was over and a face was shown, my memory returned.
Like those early films by Sergio Leone that feature a young Clint Eastwood, or Hombre, featuring Paul Newman playing a white man raised by Indians, the film is scarce in dialogues (except when the police chief is on), and the settings, except that in the night club rather rustic, realistic and gritty. It is a film that has its heart set in its character and with a strong sense of style. Or shall we say, a man's film?
Interestingly, the colour of the wall in the opening sequence appears to change its tone with the change of light: for when the curtain is drawn, or the lights are switched on, the greenish wall turns grey, which makes the spartan apartment look even more bare and haunted. And in such a setting, the bird in the cage looks like an illicit orphan deserted by a well-off family. But of course, by the way it is being cared for, it is hinted early on that it is not there just for companionship. It is a security device for its owner.
I cannot place where I saw the actor who plays the policy chief, he is, like those typical French actors, handsome and eloquent. His endless talks and the elaborate manipulation to tail the protagonist though serves only to highlight the contrast between them: a policeman with a 'safe' job who can tred on the line of legal and illegal, and a 'lone wolf' who is on the wrong side of the law. The protagonist who barely speaks, act professionally, guided apparently by instinct. The night club pianist player is also impressive, she looks cool and has an unforgettable face.
But the cream of it all, regardless of his disclosed status of being thief and later, a cold blooded professional killer, is Alain Denon. I have seen him in L'eclisse with Monica Vitte, he is competent there, but it is in this film he looks in his element: a cool handsome face that you just want to put in your own hands, and wouldn't mind risking your life for the sake of its owner. When we saw him at the opening sequence leaving his unglamorous place, he did little with his body, but his eyes say all: the consciousness of being constantly in danger and under surveillance (it turns out both by police and his employers), his calculation whether it is a good time to strike (to steal a car parking by the road) are all written in that turn of his eyes without moving his head. And besides, the trench coat looks great on him!
I have found another title by the same director which also features Alain Denon. I am looking forward to it.
P.S.
Watched 'A cop' last night, an anti-climax to Le Samourai. Yes, Alain Denon played the title role, but the film's focus, as in Second Breath and Le Samourai from the same director, is actually the gangster, the cop's friend Simon with whom they are also rivals in love. The film starts with a seaside town bank robbery, and in the middle of it, a train robbery with detailed portraits of how meticulous and daring the gangster is, who also happens to be knowledgable, decisive and glamourous, while the cop in comparison looks sheer bored, and shallow.
A commentator remarks that the young Alain Denon has a rare and contradictory combination of 'saintly grace' and 'the elegance of a modern young man', but added that 'by 40', his look begins to blur. Le Samourai was made in his mid-30s, and his looks fit that description perfectly. But 'A cop' was made before he turned 40, and his look has already 'blurred'. I wonder why? Is it because he is more suitable for playing characters from the underworld than that represents the law? Or is it more to do with Jean-Pierre Melville? I cannot recall if I have watched his other works, but the three I have are all gangster ones and that the underworld usually features more heavily and in a sense 'positively' by either being loyal to their pals or unusually 'heroic' in their acts. Indeed, not only they have admirers in attractive young ladies, but also in the police chief/superintendant who want to get on top of their criminal acts.
After watching Second Breath by Jean-Pierre Melville, I checked my 'bible' (getting old quickly)' and learnt that the best one from the director was one in his last period with Alain Denon. Since I had no recollection of any of them, I picked up the film from the library and played it last night.
The credit sequence reminded me some of the earlier films by Wong Kai, especially The Days of Being Wild: in a dim room, nothing seems to be happening, except a ray of smoke rising from, a bed, in the centre of a room, on which there seems to be lying a body. The camera reminds static during the whole sequence, and the decor of the room becomes increasingly, as significant as the smoke: though its walls is green, it is not a colour that symbolises life and energy, but more that of decadence and resignation, as if the life of it has been sucked away by time, nature's and paper.
I started to wonder if I might have watched it when I heard the bird chirping, and indeed, once the credit sequence was over and a face was shown, my memory returned.
Like those early films by Sergio Leone that feature a young Clint Eastwood, or Hombre, featuring Paul Newman playing a white man raised by Indians, the film is scarce in dialogues (except when the police chief is on), and the settings, except that in the night club rather rustic, realistic and gritty. It is a film that has its heart set in its character and with a strong sense of style. Or shall we say, a man's film?
Interestingly, the colour of the wall in the opening sequence appears to change its tone with the change of light: for when the curtain is drawn, or the lights are switched on, the greenish wall turns grey, which makes the spartan apartment look even more bare and haunted. And in such a setting, the bird in the cage looks like an illicit orphan deserted by a well-off family. But of course, by the way it is being cared for, it is hinted early on that it is not there just for companionship. It is a security device for its owner.
I cannot place where I saw the actor who plays the policy chief, he is, like those typical French actors, handsome and eloquent. His endless talks and the elaborate manipulation to tail the protagonist though serves only to highlight the contrast between them: a policeman with a 'safe' job who can tred on the line of legal and illegal, and a 'lone wolf' who is on the wrong side of the law. The protagonist who barely speaks, act professionally, guided apparently by instinct. The night club pianist player is also impressive, she looks cool and has an unforgettable face.
But the cream of it all, regardless of his disclosed status of being thief and later, a cold blooded professional killer, is Alain Denon. I have seen him in L'eclisse with Monica Vitte, he is competent there, but it is in this film he looks in his element: a cool handsome face that you just want to put in your own hands, and wouldn't mind risking your life for the sake of its owner. When we saw him at the opening sequence leaving his unglamorous place, he did little with his body, but his eyes say all: the consciousness of being constantly in danger and under surveillance (it turns out both by police and his employers), his calculation whether it is a good time to strike (to steal a car parking by the road) are all written in that turn of his eyes without moving his head. And besides, the trench coat looks great on him!
I have found another title by the same director which also features Alain Denon. I am looking forward to it.
P.S.
Watched 'A cop' last night, an anti-climax to Le Samourai. Yes, Alain Denon played the title role, but the film's focus, as in Second Breath and Le Samourai from the same director, is actually the gangster, the cop's friend Simon with whom they are also rivals in love. The film starts with a seaside town bank robbery, and in the middle of it, a train robbery with detailed portraits of how meticulous and daring the gangster is, who also happens to be knowledgable, decisive and glamourous, while the cop in comparison looks sheer bored, and shallow.
A commentator remarks that the young Alain Denon has a rare and contradictory combination of 'saintly grace' and 'the elegance of a modern young man', but added that 'by 40', his look begins to blur. Le Samourai was made in his mid-30s, and his looks fit that description perfectly. But 'A cop' was made before he turned 40, and his look has already 'blurred'. I wonder why? Is it because he is more suitable for playing characters from the underworld than that represents the law? Or is it more to do with Jean-Pierre Melville? I cannot recall if I have watched his other works, but the three I have are all gangster ones and that the underworld usually features more heavily and in a sense 'positively' by either being loyal to their pals or unusually 'heroic' in their acts. Indeed, not only they have admirers in attractive young ladies, but also in the police chief/superintendant who want to get on top of their criminal acts.
March 03, 2009
This mess we're in
Pool can be a social spot.
Some while ago, I met someone who built sports jets in his garage, those cute ones that take no more than one passenger. I used to know a man whose father was a shipwright in the navy who was most versatile and could handle nearly any household maintenance tasks in a British house. And indeed, I had seen him doing marvellous jobs at his spare time, including laying cork tiles in the kitchen, buidling a deck in the garden, preparing soil for a new garden, and assembling all of Ikea furniture. But building a jet as a hobby is a different matter.
We had a lovely chat and when I told him that I had cycled twice all the way to Changi Village Park, he asked who did I cycle with. 'My iPod', I said. 'I take it everywhere I go'.
Around that time though, cycling was no longer an activity in order to spend time with someone, and besides, I was starting to feel more confident in the pool and cycling was reduced to a secondary option. The journey I take with my bike along the east coast, though pleasant and breezy, is getting shorter. My iPod is more of a daily company while I am commuting to work.
Such a wonderful device it is: once it is on, you are in your own world no matter where and who your fellow passengers are, and as long as the music is loud enough, you can shut your eyes and be carried far away to a secret island of music and imagination.
Because of the relative lack of distraction though, the choice of music, or the mood of it, becomes ever more crucial than when you are playing at home on a hi-fi, because it kind of hits you more intimately. I have found to my happy surprise some long direlicted albums which sound better than I could remember, though there are also equal numbers of good ones which do not seem to play well on iPod.
Every now and then, my iPod will be playing the same tune or album, again and again. Sometimes it is because of the beautiful tune, sometimes it is one particular line, or just the mood. But most of the time, it is combination of all of those: the mood, and the story. Lately, the following have been played rather frequently:
1 One of us cannot be wrong (Leonard Cohen, in fact all of his first three albums), Leonard presents a case that can never be solved in human history
2 Adieu, alma (Dominique A), I have returned nearly all of my French to my teacher, but his voice tells all
3 Strange melody (Jane Birkin)
4 The mess we're in (PJ Harvey and Thom Yorke), a sad song with a sexy performance by Thom. He had never sounded so human, fragile and helpless.
Surprisingly, they are all about the love that should not have been ignited.
Some while ago, I met someone who built sports jets in his garage, those cute ones that take no more than one passenger. I used to know a man whose father was a shipwright in the navy who was most versatile and could handle nearly any household maintenance tasks in a British house. And indeed, I had seen him doing marvellous jobs at his spare time, including laying cork tiles in the kitchen, buidling a deck in the garden, preparing soil for a new garden, and assembling all of Ikea furniture. But building a jet as a hobby is a different matter.
We had a lovely chat and when I told him that I had cycled twice all the way to Changi Village Park, he asked who did I cycle with. 'My iPod', I said. 'I take it everywhere I go'.
Around that time though, cycling was no longer an activity in order to spend time with someone, and besides, I was starting to feel more confident in the pool and cycling was reduced to a secondary option. The journey I take with my bike along the east coast, though pleasant and breezy, is getting shorter. My iPod is more of a daily company while I am commuting to work.
Such a wonderful device it is: once it is on, you are in your own world no matter where and who your fellow passengers are, and as long as the music is loud enough, you can shut your eyes and be carried far away to a secret island of music and imagination.
Because of the relative lack of distraction though, the choice of music, or the mood of it, becomes ever more crucial than when you are playing at home on a hi-fi, because it kind of hits you more intimately. I have found to my happy surprise some long direlicted albums which sound better than I could remember, though there are also equal numbers of good ones which do not seem to play well on iPod.
Every now and then, my iPod will be playing the same tune or album, again and again. Sometimes it is because of the beautiful tune, sometimes it is one particular line, or just the mood. But most of the time, it is combination of all of those: the mood, and the story. Lately, the following have been played rather frequently:
1 One of us cannot be wrong (Leonard Cohen, in fact all of his first three albums), Leonard presents a case that can never be solved in human history
2 Adieu, alma (Dominique A), I have returned nearly all of my French to my teacher, but his voice tells all
3 Strange melody (Jane Birkin)
4 The mess we're in (PJ Harvey and Thom Yorke), a sad song with a sexy performance by Thom. He had never sounded so human, fragile and helpless.
Surprisingly, they are all about the love that should not have been ignited.
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