Archive for December 2011

Trainspotting (Danny Boyle, 1996) [BFI #10]

13 December 2011

I’m feeling good, I’m feeling oh so fine
Until tomorrow, but that’s just some other time
[The Velvet Underground: I’m Waiting For The Man]

There are no reasons.  Who needs reasons when you’ve got heroin?
[Mark Renton]

It’s been a week now that I’ve been trying to find a handle on Trainspotting.   It’s not all that hard to say what it is, although the answer is a complex one.  What’s more elusive is saying why it is.

We’re in Edinburgh, ancient royal capital of Scotland.  But this is not the tourist Edinburgh of shortbread, kilts and pipers on the castle ramparts; nor is it cultural, erudite Festival Edinburgh.  This is an altogether grittier place, the Edinburgh that lurks in unloved suburbs like Pilton and Craigmillar.  There’s a thread in British film that recurs over and again, where the festering sores behind the facade of popular icons and locations that make up the British myth.  We’ve seen it before already, in Brighton Rock.  Trainspotting, however, makes no concessions to the shiny side in the way that Brighton Rock lingers on the families enjoying the beach oblivious to the squalour behind the seafront.  There’s something else going on, because Trainspotting isn’t just, or even at all, a British film.  It’s an essentially Scottish film, a film that asserts a uniquely Scottish identity that denies and dissassociates itself from the tartan-packaged tourist version.  There is a healthy and distinctive school of Scottish film as we shall see in time.

In this Caledonian midden lives Mark “Rent Boy” Renton, dissatified child of oppressively Morningside parents and heroin addict.  In between raising the means to satisfy his habit by fair means or foul (it’s not clear if this involves living up to his nickname) Renton spends his days in the flat of his dealer along with his friends and fellow addicts; slow, amiable Spud, petty crook Sickboy and single mother Alison, whose baby is allowed to crawl at will around the filthy floor while the gang shoot up and check out of the everyday world.  Their oblivion, while it lasts, is as Alison orgasmically puts it “better than any meat injection”.   The cost of the fleeting moment of personal ecstasy and release is a frightening depth of personal degradation illustrated graphically with Renton plunging into his own diarrhoea in a squalid public lavatory to retrieve the fix which a sadistic supplier has given him in the form of a suppository.  Also around the edges of Renton’s circle are a pair on non-addicts, the explosively violent Begbie and the clean-cut athlete Tommy.  It’s when Renton steals Tommy’s home-made porn video as part of his attempt to go clean that such plot as there is kicks in, and things go horribly wrong for everybody, bearing in mind that they are in a pretty horrible place to begin with, except for Tommy, and he has a long way to fall .

Trainspotting is a deeply unpleasant film  That’s not to say it’s a bad film.  It isn’t; far from it.  It’s simply involved with deeply unpleasant issues.  It’s not hard to imagine being made as a documentary, one which would perhaps have received much acclaim in the colour supplements but would have struggled to reach an audience that needed to hear the message.  It isn’t that though.  Danny Boyle, who began his media career in television, makes effective use of television techniques especially those that developed from advertising and grew through the short music video.  The rapid-fire cutting, distortion and sudden shifts in place and time leave the senses reeling and while it’s not possible for one who has never used heroin to know completely what it’s like but the surreal world of the junkie comes to vivid life.  A deadly dance of destructively love, summed up by Doyle’s inspired use of the Habanẽra from Carmen: si je t’aime. prend garde à toi¹.  There’s even space in the darkness for a laugh or two (mainly at Begbie’s expense).  A documentary would have given food for thought, but as entertainment it hits the viewer right where it hurts.  Inevitably, on release it attracted accusations of glamourising drug abuse, but there’s nothing glamorous about these pathetic lives.

I haven’t said what kind of film Trainspotting is yet.  Well, I have said it’s a Scottish film.  It’s a horror film in a way, but it’s not the kind of horror film which takes the viewer on a fairground white-knuckle ride to set the endorphins flowing, it’s the horror that upsets and discombobulates, it’s what Brecht would have striven for and Barthes would have labelled jouissance.  It becomes  a heist film towards the end.  It’s a love story, with Renton’s under-age girlfriend being not only more mature than he is but the source of his ultimate redemption.  It’s a quest narrative, with Renton in search of release from his biochemical bondage.  Renton is at bottom a good-hearted soul and we can even find a spark of warmth in what is a very chilly film in hoping that he finally does escape for good.  Ultimately it’s a terrific and original piece of cinema which thoroughly deserves a place in the canon.

¹ If I love you, watch your step!

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Another Year (Mike Leigh, 2010)

4 December 2011

Gerri: On a scale of one to ten, how happy would you say you are, Janet?
Janet: One.
Gerri: One. I think there’s room for improvement there, don’t you?

Another Year

Joe (Oliver Maltman), Mary (Lesley Manville) and Gerri (Ruth Sheen)

What was the best British film of 2010?  The King’s Speech swept the board at all the glitzy awards ceremonies, and those who measure quality in financial terms will probably point out that Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows took far more than any other British film at the box office.  In another year, perhaps, Another Year would have been allowed room to shine between the laments for the dire state of British cinema, a reminder that Mike Leigh is a consistent creator of high-quality.

Leigh, along with Peter Greenaway and Ken Loach (both of whom this blog will surely be visiting in time), is one of the few genuine British auteur directors, and of the three perhaps the most quintessentially British.  The British, it always seems to me, have a deep suspicion of the auteur, the creative genius craftsman.  Perhaps they are just too Continental for comfort, don’t you know.  But perhaps in Leigh’s case they are wary because he gets too near to the truth, his slices of lower-middle class life too close to the bone for comfort.  And Another Year isn’t a comfortable or comforting film.  It’s all about happiness, and survey after survey shows the British to be unhappiest people in Europe.

At its still centre is a sublimely happy middle-aged married couple called Tom and Gerri.  Yes, really, and it’s so deliberate the script draws attention to it at one point.  Like their anthropomorphic cartoon namesakes they may enjoy sparring with each other but at bottom their devotion to and dependence on each other is so deep that each would defend the other to the death.  Actually it’s not as dramatic as that; there is little sign of conflict between them and they are as solid and dependable as the seasons whose progress is marked by their work on the allotment, planting, harvesting, digging as the year progresses.   Things don’t happen to Tom and Gerri; people do.  People who are so desperately unhappy that they have become self-destructive.  People like Tom’s old friend Ken, drinking and eating himself to certain early death.  Or Tom’s brother Ronnie, shrunken into taciturn withdrawal from a world he no longer comprehends., or Ronnie’s estranged son Carl, door-slammingly angry and bitter at everyone and everything.

And then there’s Mary, right there at the centre of such action as there is.  Mary, long-standing friend and colleague of Gerri’s, who seems so bright and lively and charming at the beginning.  One feels that Mary should have everything going for her if he weren’t so chronically in denial about her own failings.  When she gets maudlin drunk and wallows in self-pity on the shoulders of the unflappable Tom and Gerri, or engages with outrageous flirting with their placid son Joe it’s tooth-achingly painful to watch.  When jealousy propels her into outright rudeness to Joe’s effervescent new girlfriend Katie it’s too much even for Gerri; a rift develops between them and Mary’s subsequent sharp decline is nothing less than agonising.  I said it wasn’t comfortable, and the source of the discomfort is that we’ve all known a Mary and maybe, just maybe, some of us older women have been in danger of being Mary.  Gerri, who tries hard to keep her day job as a counsellor out of her social life, is finally prompted in her upset with Mary to suggest she seeks professional help.  I’d like to thinks that she does;  for all the agony Lesley Manville makes the character so believable that I care about her and want her to find the redemption redemption and self-knowledge that she seems on the edge of accepting at the end.  But we aren’t given the easy answer, as the curtain comes down on the inner torment in Mary’s eyes.

I say “the curtain comes down” as a metaphor.  What actually happens is a cut to black;  a long, lingering black before the credits begin to roll.  Let the metaphor serve as a reminder that if there is a mark of a distinctively British style of film-making and television it is theatricality – it’s a mark I’ll be revisiting again and again.  There’s a reason why Hollywood, which likes its all-American leading men and women, so often turns to the likes of Anthony Hopkins or Alan Rickman for its villains; they have a stage training American film actors can seldom match.  Mike Leigh is, more than any other British director, rooted in the theatre and it’s 1960s offspring, the television play.  Another Year could have been a Play for Today from thirty years ago.  Leigh is also noted for his style of working, a style which goes back to Shakespeare and beyond.  He surrounds himself with a joint stock company of seasoned actors who are also skilled improvisers, and between them all they build a characterisation and script that is thoroughly coherent and believable.

Leigh isn’t unique in this respect, nor is the technique absent from big name American cinema.  Perhaps Mike Leigh’s nearest equivalent in creating films light on plot but rich in character is Woody Allen; Orson Welles worked in much the same way and the Coen bothers too in our own generation, but none are close to the Hollywood cash machine.  When the obituaries are written for British film, as they are at regular intervals, the notices are for the ability to make the big-budget blockbuster.  Well, let Hollywood do what it does best since it has the money to do so.  So long as Mike Leigh is turning out films like Another Day, British cinema would seem to be in rude health.