Posts Tagged ‘director’

It’s been 15 years since the cult classic Donnie Darko was first released and the world has witnessed some seismic events in between; a litany of wars and conflicts, the financial crash and, of course, the emergence of Kim Kardashian’s derriere. Director Richard Kelly has unleashed two sci fi oddities in that time, but it’s the tale of a troubled teen and a 6ft bunny rabbit that really captured the hearts and minds of a generation (including the editors of this website.) Reflections sat down with Kelly to learn about the new restoration, the perils of Hollywood and the lyricism of Tears for Fears…

What’s it been like revisiting the film after 15 years?

It’s been great. Arrow Films contacted me and they said they wanted to do a 4K restoration. That was music to my ears because the film has never been properly maintained. I was never happy with the transfer, the Blu-ray or any of it. It just never looked right. So they gave us this great resource to go back to the original negative and use all of today’s technology to present the film in a whole new way. It was a lot of work and I had a window of time available with Steven Poster (Donnie Darko’s DoP) to go and do it. It’s great.

When the film first came out it took a little while to take flight. Do you think it caught on in the zeitgeist?

I think it really caught on here (in the UK) for whatever reason. It caught on in the US but not as quickly. When it came over in 2002, I was blown away by the response. I was overwhelmed, it gave me a second wind, you know. I can’t say why it was here. I think maybe it might have something to do with the music being all UK based pop songs. It’s an American story, but it’s universal and it translates into many languages and crosses many cultures. There is something universal about being a teenager and confronting big metaphysical ideas.

You use a lot of musical scenes, was there a big inspiration behind that?

I love incorporating music into my films, and it’s always by design. It’s often planned ahead of time, written into the script, choreographed into the script. The lyrical moments for me are the most cinematic. I always want to protect the lyricism. It’s sometimes a challenge to do because, like that Tears for Fears sequence in the movie, that’s at least two minutes long and no one is speaking dialogue. There’s a lot of story, there’s a lot of narrative in that sequence and it’s completely essential to the film. But when you’re dealing with financiers and with the studio and people want the running time shorter, they’re looking at that and thinking it’s superfluous, self indulgent lyricism and I’m like, ‘That’s why I’m doing this!’ For the lyricism, right? It becomes a real fight to protect this stuff.

How did you know that sequence was particularly precious to you?

From the very beginning. It was written in the script that when they jump out of the bus and Jake’s feet hit the pavement that the piano note begins. I was like, I saw it. That was it. It had to be this way. Like in Southland Tales with Justin Timberlake lip synching to The Killers, and there are all these dancers and he’s got a Budweiser. That guy (Timberlake) saw it. Then you’ve got to convince the producers to let you take a day of filming, when you don’t have the rights to the song and the producers were like, “We don’t have the song, we don’t even know if we can get the song, the song might cost up to $200,000 and this is crazy”. You’ve got to pick your battles, and those are some that I picked.

In all of your films you really portray the dark side of humanity. What draws you to these kinds of films?

I think the first three films that I have made are obviously dealing with some big apocalyptic themes. Literally apocalyptic themes. There is definitely a disturbing confrontation with a lot of dark stuff. For these three films they almost seem like a part of a bigger story. All my films are connected in ways that people don’t completely realise yet. I think they are more compelling stories. I don’t want to only make films that are dark, so to speak. I would love to make films that are more optimistic, that have a happy ending. I am capable of doing that! (laughs). I don’t always plan on killing everyone or blowing up the world. I’m not looking to continue being ‘apocalypse boy’.

How do you feel about the theatrical cut at the moment. Is it important to you that everyone understood how the parallel universe plot worked?

I don’t favour one cut over the other. The Director’s Cut is much more novelistic, sprawling and it’s got a lot more science fiction logic to it. I think both cuts have their virtues and I’m not really satisfied with either of them completely but they are what they are. With this restoration I was really grateful that we were able to go in and make the image look better. There is a lot of people who have never seen this movie on the big screen. It’s a significant improvement.

Re-watching the film I was really intrigued by the Patrick Swayze character. In light of some of the recent high profile sex scandals I wondered if you had any thoughts about his role in the film?

At the time we were trying to satirise the self help (gurus). When we made the film in 2000 there was never really any big high profile sex scandal involving big celebrity or whatever. I think we were just thinking, ‘OK we’re going to deconstruct this self help guy who sort of shows up in the town and is sort of a snake oil salesman’. He’s clearly full of shit and we kind of thought, ‘what could be the worst possible secret or sinister back story for this character?’. OK, well if he’s a child pornographer, let’s go with that. Then it really became just a twist in the movie and he became one of the multiple villains.

In regards to Jake Gyllenhaal’s performance, what were you looking for in Donnie?

I think that you know that a film is connecting if you can’t imagine anyone else in the lead role. It had to be Jake. We both spent a lot of time with the script going through every scene and he would ask me to make adjustments to the dialogue. It was a really delicate, emotional balancing act trying to modulate Donnie’s arc. So yesterday Donnie yelled at his gym teacher, tomorrow he’s going to be burning down a house. We had to map out the timeline to figure out where he was emotionally on every day of shooting and where he would be in the calendar of 28 days. So it was a big undertaking. We had to be very meticulous with mapping it all out.

If you had control over the timeline of your film career would you have liked the success of Donnie Darko to have come a few films later?

Hindsight is always 20/20, you know? I think the order was what it was meant to be. It was not a success until it came to the UK. It was actually a disaster at Sundance, it was a flop in the US. So all the movies take time. You can’t really control the wind. A movie, when it gets released, the wind is either blowing at your front or it’s blowing at your back. You can’t control the wind. I just try to follow my instincts. On the next film we’ve been really careful to make sure all the elements are going to be in place. I hope the wind will be at our back.

Are you going to change to another genre in future?

Yeah. I’m working on a lot of new stuff and I’m going to be moving in a lot of new directions. I don’t ever just want to be repeating myself. I don’t ever want to get complacent or surrender to the marketplace or become cynical. I just want to keep moving forward and exploring new kinds of stories and new ideas. You’re going to see me move in a lot of new directions.

DONNIE DARKO 15th Anniversary 4K Restoration will screen at the BFI from 17th December and in cinemas nationwide from 23rd December. BFI Tickets are on sale now: http://bit.ly/2eww8r3

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Leonardo Goi sat down to talk to Mexican director Michel Franco about his powerful set of films, since his directing debut in 2009 with Daniel y Ana.

Michel Franco is a 36 year-old Mexican screenplay writer, producer and director. After his 2009 directing debut, Daniel y Ana, he won Cannes’ 2012 Un Certain Regard award for his second work, Después de Lucía and went on to win best screenplay for his 2015 Chronic, starring Tim Roth. A few weeks ago another one of Franco’s works, A Los Ojos, was finally screened for the first time across Mexico’s cinemas, a belated celebration for a movie he had presented in 2013 at Morelia’s Film Festival and co-directed with his sister Victoria.

Why did you choose to share your camera with someone else, and how was it working with your sister?

I liked the idea of combining my sister’s documentarist vision with my own, which is much more oriented towards fiction. To be sure, the idea came with a number of challenges attached, both on an aesthetic and on a content point of view. We had the privilege of working with a great actress, Mónica del Carmen, as well as with several homeless kids who had never acted before, and our goal was to make sure they would feel just as spontaneous in front of the camera as Mónica. My sister and I have a very similar film taste, and this allowed us, after long chats, to reach an agreement over how we wanted the story to be filmed. Merging together fiction with reality, so to speak.

How did you find working with non-professional actors, especially kids suffering from dire poverty as those you chose as part of A Los Ojos’ cast?

We were helped by a local organisation, Casa Alianza, with years of experience working with street kids. Casa Alianza was there to help us establish a connection with the kids, and we ended up following the social worker’s approach: we would begin talking with the kids, explain them our story and our goals, and eventually got them to be relaxed and spontaneous around the camera. This was a very long process which my sister oversaw, whilst I worked on the story’s more fictitious elements. Mónica del Carmen herself played a key role in these early stages, earning the kids’ trust and fostering the legitimacy and meaning of our presence around them

Elsewhere you mentioned that A Los Ojos’ screenplay was “created” on the spot, meaning that you did not have a set text upon which you based your scenes. Those familiar with your work and the attention you put into writing might find this a puzzling choice. Why did you choose to work with a seemingly improvised script?

We had a very clear storyline we wanted to follow, but we did not want to somehow “impose” a set of dialogues to our actors, professional or non professional. That was especially the case for Benjamin, the young drug-addict whom Mónica will take care of in the film. We did not want the boy to feel constrained when he would tell his story, we did not want his tale to follow a trajectory we had previously defined. So whenever he speaks about his own experiences and his own past he does so freely, and the same happened with the exchanges between him and Mónica’s son, Omar. The friendship that the audience sees building between the two on the screen is real – all we did was just film the chemistry which soon developed between the kids. That’s what I mean when I say we did not work with a fixed screenplay: we had four written pages, a clearly defined storyline, and nothing else.

A trade mark of your directing style is the choice to keep the camera fixed, which allows you to blur even further the boundary between documentary and fiction…

I like the technique because it allows me to leave it up to the viewer which elements of the scenes he can concentrate on. I don’t want to tell him what to focus on, I don’t want to guide his attention by constantly changing frames. Which is more or less the same reason why you’ll never hear music in my films, and very few dialogues. I look for the purest and most direct way to generate emotions in the audience, without manipulating their reactions in order to achieve this. My aim is to elicit an emotional response from the viewer in the most transparent way possible.

There’s a leitmotiv which spans from your first film, Daniel y Ana (2009) to your 2012 Cannes triumph, Después de Lucía: public shame. What is it about it that fascinates you?

I like to focus on human relations, on the intimate connections that emerge and die in our families and outside of them, the way people relate with the outside world and how they project themselves into it, especially when this is something performed by adolescents. I think these are dilemmas which concern their age group more than any other. I like to talk about the difficulties we face when we try to establish a connection with other people, regardless of our educational background or culture. Sometimes the easiest things are the most difficult ones.

In 2012 you won Cannes’ Un Certain Regard award, and it was there that you first met Tim Roth. How did you find working with him in Chronic and how did the film’s production come along?

We were very lucky to be able to work with people we were already familiar with – the Mexican crew of Lucia Films, other Mexicans in the States, and my New York-based casting director – and people we soon established a great chemistry with – Tim Roth’s own entourage. We made a movie that was co-produced between France and Mexico and spoken entirely in English, which of course presented its own challenges. And Tim Roth too was key in these first, pre-production stages.

In Chronic you show the last days of several terminally ill patients. How did you find it working on such a delicate theme, and what is it that piques your curiosity about the idea of illness and death?

I must warn you that the only actor with a real medical condition was the teenager in a wheelchair who makes his appearance towards the end of the movie, one of Roth’s last patients. Except for him, the other members of the cast were all actors, including the first terminally ill girl Roth will take care of, who accepted to lose a lot of weight just to take part in the movie. As for the theme itself, I am fascinated by the vulnerability of our human nature, and the fragility which illnesses unveil as a somewhat inescapable fate. As a director I find it impossible to escape the topic of death, and I like the idea of being able to talk about how much it can teach us about life. I believe cinema is a great means to convey these messages.

Your stories develop as icebergs, of which the audience can only see the top, and the rest is up for us to imagine and intuit, so that one must concentrate on silences as much as words. How do you go about choosing the stories that you then turn into movies, and how does your writing stage unfold?

More than a story, what really interests me is a big theme. In the case of Chronic, I wanted to come up with a character as psychologically complex as possible. And that is how I go about writing my screenplays: I first start with a theme, or a character, trying to say a great deal of things with very few words to establish a dialogue with my audience. After all, cinema is first and foremost a constant interaction between a director and his public. The most difficult part of making a film is writing it, and knowing what to do with one’s story. I normally write, direct and ultimately produce my own movies, so a screenplay is the backbone of my work. But whenever I need to decide whether or not to embark on a new project the question I must ask myself is whether or not the topic will still interest me in two or three years’ time, and whether the public too will find it a theme worth knowing more about. That’s why the stories I film are almost all universal tales – things that ultimately concern us all.

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After the accolades earned for Chronic – winner of Cannes best screenplay award last year – Michel Franco is currently busy promoting a film he co-directed with his sister Victoria, which is finally being released in Mexico: A Los Ojos. Presented at the 2013 Morelia Film Festival, A Los Ojos seems to follow the path Franco had undertaken with his first great international success and 2012 Cannes Caméra d’Or winner, Después de Lucia.

Once again, the 37-year old Mexican director draws from a widespread social malaise to conjure up a moving and crude depiction of contemporary Mexico. If bullying had been the catalyst of Después de Lucia’s drama, here the camera focuses on another, equally terrifying plague: organ trafficking.

Michel and Victoria Franco guide us through the lives of Mónica, a single mother working for a foundation helping street kids, her only child Omar, affected by a degenerative eye disease, and Benjamin, a homeless and drug addict teenager whom Mónica seeks to rescue from the streets.

Mónica is dedicated and thoroughly committed to her patients, at times even to the detriment of her own safety. Those fluent with Franco’s filmography may recognise the zealous, almost excessive dedication that would characterise Tim Roth’s character in Chronic. But Mónica’s care only goes up to a point, and that is when her son’s disease worsens and forces her to take a decision that will change their lives forever.

The Francos’ directing style is sober and minimalistic, so much so that at times the film feels more like a documentary than a work of fiction. And indeed it is, or at least partly so, for while Michel worked on the story’s fictitious elements, his sister Victoria worked closely with the street kids who turned into the drama’s protagonists, in order to focus on the reality the film sought to address. The camera stands still for most of the film, as if camouflaged in between the furniture or the slums’ debris, and the lens lingers on the scene even after the characters have gone out of frame.

The blurring of fiction and reality is a purposeful (and remarkably effective) move. The merging of the two styles manages to paint Benjamin’s universe as a crude and credible wasteland, populated by kids who simply can’t get over their past and are condemned to endlessly try to escape it – to no avail. It is telling that when Benjamin and Omar’s sight begins to deteriorate and the doctors try to cure the two, only Omar begins to show any progress. Benjamin will never truly “see” a life away from the streets.

A Los Ojos does not follow the same brutal rhythm of Después de Lucia, nor is the terrifying truth underpinning the plot as explicit as it is in other works by Franco. But if the drama develops more slowly, it does so in a way that is no less haunting. The combination of fiction and realism which permeates A Los Ojos makes it stand out as a powerful and moving cry against one of Mexico’s enduring malaises. The overarching question one is left with is not whether the two kids will ever be able to see again, but whether society will stop turning a blind eye on its horrific plagues.

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New Zealand-born composer Hanan Townshend was plucked from relative obscurity in a Texas university when an unnamed director got in touch to request his involvement in his new film. That director turned out to be the notoriously elusive Terrence Malick, and Townshend joined The Tree of Life project as an intern. He became the main composer for Malick’s next film To the Wonder and collaborated on his latest film, Knight of Cups. We spoke to him about his latest project and working with Malick.

You’ve recently finished working on Knight of Cups, how was it working with Terrence Malick this time around? Was it a different relationship?

It was and it wasn’t. I’m pretty familiar now with Terry’s process and we have our own way of working, collaborating together so a lot of it was an extension of what we’d already been doing with To the Wonder. Tree of Life was a little bit different because I was more of an intern and working in the capacity of an intern, I wasn’t the composer of course. I did write some music for it but I wasn’t the composer. But with this project I’m pretty sure that Knight of Cups was shot without a script. Obviously there was a vision for it and Terry would have the anchors, the pages of the script, but it wasn’t anything set in stone. So I feel like there was a bit more freedom in this project, in particular during the editing process, to just experiment and see the directions in which the film might take. So in many ways it was very similar and in other ways it was a little bit different. I wasn’t working in the office on To the Wonder. I was actually in an office building right next to the editing house so I was kinda creating things, sending it through every day, talking with Terry every day, or every second day. Whereas on this film I was working from my own studio and I was a little bit more separated from it, which has its advantages and disadvantages.

How did you communicate on this film?  Did he give you directives?

We were certainly speaking on the phone a lot and he would usually call every couple of days, usually during the times when the music was having a really important part to play in a certain section of the film.  I usually go into the office where they’re editing the film and we just talk about the vision of the music and Terry’s vision for the film musically speaking. Then I usually just go away to my studio and we just start experimenting with a whole handful of different ideas. Terry has a lot of ideas and there is never any lack of ideas there (laughs). He has things that he wants to experiment with, so a lot of it is creating some music and then he might call and we’ll refine it further. But obviously I’m not creating music to picture so it’s a bit of a different thing, just kind of creating, y’know. Terry talks about it being like he’s the carpenter and I’m providing him with the wood and the nails to be able to kind of build the structure. Other than me building it, I’m allowing myself to just create this music and Terry and the editors will work to fit it to the film.

What kind of language does he use when he’s talking about the music? I’ve heard he uses particular kinds of words, like ‘river’ or ‘dance’ for the type of music he wants…

He does. Pretty much. He uses a lot of metaphors when he’s talking about music. He can be very specific and at times he can be very vague. I don’t mean vague in a way that he seems like he doesn’t know (what he’s doing). He has a very clear idea of what he’s doing. Sometimes I think as a composer and a creator in general if someone tells you too much you end up doing exactly what they tell you to do. Terry is very aware of that and he’ll talk a lot in metaphors. He speaks a lot about water. Water is a really important symbol in a lot of his films and it represents the river of life, this eternal kind of thing that continues on and on.

There is other things, like he is very interested in the tritone (an interval often referred to as “the devil’s music”). He likes to use intervals, simple intervals to kind of represent something in his film. For Terry it could be something as simple as a melody that he likes which really distinguishes his films. In this film there is a Ralph Vaughn Williams piece called Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis, which is based on an Episcopal hymn. So we take that theme and kind of try to find ways to create a score that isn’t just original music but is also taking some of the big themes that Terry uses in the film, creating a sense of continuity between them. So it’s not just this big piece of music. We have a reappearance of it in the film.  He can often be quite vague in what he wants but at the same time he’s not vague, he’s allowing some freedom to experiment and I really enjoy it.

Is it intimidating to be put up against these revered composers or quite flattering? He uses a lot of different types of music in his films…

Yeah it can be, but the thing working with Terry is that it’s a constant, morphing changing thing. Often I’ll go off and watch a scene from the film and it’ll be completely different. I guess I don’t really think about it as much because I’m not constantly watching it through. You know, the pre-existing licensed music, I feel quite separated from that. But there is a little bit of everything in there, I do at times feel like, y’know seeing Ralph Vaughn Williams, Debussy…there’s a lot of heavy hitters. Being part of it is kinda cool, it’s exciting.

Were there any times when you were particularly surprised how your music was used?

I don’t tend to feel shocked in the sense ‘Oh my goodness this music has been used in a certan way and it shouldn’t’. I think that’s part of it really, when I put my name down to work on the film I’m agreeing to ‘OK, I’m going to be sending this music to these guys and you guys should feel free to find the right places’. If I’m being honest there are a couple of editors in particular who work with Terry who I think are real music spotters, who can really place (the music), because it can make a massive impact you know, how the music comes into and whether it ties two scenes together, whether it changes the whole meaning or the symbolism. So yeah,  I trust them and I never feel like ‘Oh they’ve used this in the wrong way’ or anything, I’m usually pleasantly surprised.

Do you have any favourite composers working today that you admire?

Yeah, yeah definitely. I like actually a lot of UK/British composers. I really like Clint Mansell, think he’s doing some really cool stuff. I always enjoy his scores. His score for The Fountain is probably the first score that ever got me really interested, and there’s something about that score that for me, the ways in which he uses the orchestra as just part of the ensemble and then he’s got guitars and voice. I realised film scoring can be more than just an orchestra. It can be anything you want.I also really like Jonny Greenwood. Just once again, as a guitarist he can do the orchestral or conventional stuff but he can also do this hybrid classical which is really cool. Probably one other name would be Max Richter. Really, really cool take on orchestral music. I love tons of composers, but those three in particular. I don’t know, there’s something in their sound that just resonates. Maybe something in their education sets them apart.

When you’re watching other films are there any bugbears you have in listening to the soundtracks?

Using samples too much. I remember Hans Zimmer saying this and don’t quote me exactly (laughs) but he said something along the lines of ‘the composer with the best sample wins’. When I say sample I mean sample libraries, orchestral synths. I’m just amazed, time and time again, I hear these scores it’s like not good synth, it’s fake synth. There are a lot of composers out there who do a pretty good job but I kind of learned early on if you want to get work and you want to do this job for real, you’ve got to know how to work a sample library and make it as realistic as you can. Because at the end of the day, if there’s no emotion in it, just strings going NEEE-NEEE-NEEE, no one’s going to get anything out of it.  Just bringing in a single player can really help, bringing in a violin and putting it on top. It doesn’t cost you, it’s economic, but having that one element of realism can take your mind away from all of the fakeness that you’re hearing in the samples. That’s probably my biggest bugbear because there’s no excuse for it.

When you’re working with the musicians do you always go in with a plan of what you want to hear or is there room for improvisation?

Well there are times where l’ll do both you know. There are times when I’ll be recording with an orchestra and there’s a very specific amount of time that we have to get through however much music. So I’ll work with an orchestrator and it’s completely planned out and there’s not going to be curveballs thrown in or anything. You get there, you record, you get the best takes you can get and then you mix it. But there are times where I’ll go into the studio and maybe there might be an extra 30 minutes left over with the players so I’ll use that chance in real time just to experiment. It all depends on the players, some players feel more comfortable. One piece in particular, Awareness, was used in To the Wonder and the Apple iPad ad, that was an improvisation with some woodwind players and it turned into this thing. So I love doing those sessions, you just don’t know what’s going to come out of it, you know?

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There’s a scene in Panahi’s 2015 Golden Bear winner Taxi when the director meets a young fan looking for stories to film. The youngster asks Panahi which movies he should watch and which books he should read, and Panahi replies that no books that have already been written or movies already directed could ever provide the inspiration the boy is after. “One should look elsewhere”.

And elsewhere, or to be more precise, inside a taxi, is where Panahi stages his latest work. Officially banned by his country’s regime from making films and traveling for at least the next decade after being convicted on propaganda charges in 2010, Panahi must yet again resort to unconventional techniques to direct his thirteenth film. After This is Not a Movie, shot entirely with a home video camera and an iPhone, Panahi acts as a taxi driver and fills his cab with cameras to record his conversations with Tehran’s inhabitants who jump in and out of the car after sharing their thoughts on the country’s state, cinema and life itself.

We do not know whether the passengers are professional actors or whether all scenes are entirely improvised (though the latter is hardly the case). Early in the film a movie-smuggler (arguably one of Taxi’s most interesting characters) asks whether everyone else is just an actor, and reproaches Panahi for not warning him it was all fiction. Panahi, however, says nothing.

This unresolved question and constant jumping in between fiction and reality is, however, a hit-and-miss. There are moments in which it is hard not to see Taxi as a self-referential, self-aggrandizing effort: Panahi magnanimously rejects the money he is offered by his passengers and smiles happily when some of them recognise his face as that of the great movie director.

Where the dynamic does work is when Taxi gives in to his profound cinefile essence and turns into a means to deconstruct Iran’s present. At some fundamental level, Taxi is a love declaration to cinema itself. It is hard for a cinefile not to smile when the movie-smuggler invites a client inside Panahi’s cab and deals with art-house cinema as if it were class A drugs, with Pahani nodding at the names of Kurosawa, Kim Ki-duk and Woody Allen. But there are moments when cinema turns into an explicitly political instrument and the smile turns into a much more chilling sensation, as when Panahi and his passengers clash against the regime’s oppression and its coercive apparatus.

Are these moments improvised too? Panahi does not say, but the doubt here is probably even more powerful than a clear-cut answer. By the end, as the real seemingly merges with fiction and the drama reaches its climax, Taxi turns into a vehement, albeit somehow self-congratulatory, cry against a regime’s totalitarianism.

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“This film is about my late mother, about that woman who came to Belgium in 1938, fleeing the pogroms and violence of Poland. This woman who has only ever seen the inside of her apartment in Brussels. It’s a film about a changing world my mother doesn’t see”. There are some movies whose poetry and complexity can only be fully appreciated if one knows the history behind them. No Home Movie is one of them.

Chantal Akerman’s mother Natalia had a huge influence on the director’s life and work. She encouraged her daughter not to marry young and supported her passion for film-making ever since a 15-year-old Akerman fell in love with Godard’s Pierrot Le Fou and decided to devote her life to cinema.

No Home Movie is the portrait of this relationship, of the love between a mother and her daughter, which Akerman paints with a compassionate and delicate gaze. The 115 minutes show the life of her elderly mother in her Brussels apartment. It’s a minimalist painting, a still life where the flat turns into a character in its own right. Akerman documents her mother’s gestures and sees herself through her eyes. Very little is said: the conversations flow unscripted as Natalia recalls her daughter’s youth and Chantal asks about her mother’s time during World War II, her escape from Poland and search for a new home.

The camera stands still for most of the film, as if camouflaged in between the furniture, to catch glimpses of the women’s lives and their conversations. There are moments in which chats and actions take place outside the frame, and one feels somewhat constrained, as Akerman turns the viewer and the camera into a single thing and the spectator becomes a silent observer of the drama’s unfolding.

Natalia Akerman’s agoraphobia and her post-Auschwitz anxiety are themes that run through much of Akerman’s oeuvre. At times we hear the director asking her mother to leave the house and go out for a walk. But Natalia almost never does.

Yet the movie opens with the camera looking out towards an arid area, with some trees bending down for the ferocious wind that shakes them. It is not an isolated case. Akerman scatters these outside shots throughout the film: a man sitting on a bench with his back towards the camera, the sight of a desert passing through the window, water splashing against the director’s feet. If Natalia won’t leave her house then it is up to her daughter to show her the beauty and the ordinary life of the outside world. The vast immensity of a desert and the brutal cries of the wind are juxtaposed to the still, almost soundless life of the apartment.

Chantal Akerman committed suicide on October 5 2015, a year and a half after her mother passed away at 86. As Natalia’s health deteriorates the film slowly turns into a daughter’s desperate call for her mother not to leave her, and for her history to survive. No Home Movie is a daughter’s love declaration to her mother, to her memory, and to the invaluable help cinema can offer to the preservation of one’s history and past.

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Following on from the 2014 summer tour of the same name, Where You’re Meant to Be details Scottish indie-rock legend Aidan Moffat – formerly of Arab Strap – as he takes a trip around the various communities of Scotland, re-working traditional Scottish folk songs with a modernist bent.

Moffat’s narration explains early on that he is “ignorant of his roots, but that’s because [he’s] more interested in the present, and the uncertainty of tomorrow”, which is a good example of Moffat’s typically Scottish poeticism which runs throughout the film. Moffat has made a name for his dark wit and apt observations of modern Scottish living, so his appropriation of the traditional folk song, which is based on similar themes, is not at all surprising.

Moffat and the film’s director, Paul Fegen, make strong use of the singer-songwriter’s deep voice, which largely drives the documentary, not just in the performances of these songs but also his narration; this plays a key part in the film’s narrative, as he addresses it to Sheila Stewart, the film’s other main component.

Stewart is a musical legend in her own right. As the last surviving member of her family, she was the living embodiment of a strand of famous traditional folk songs, which had been passed down through her family generation-by-generation. As a result she became a TV and Radio personality, as well as a performer during the 70’s.

This is how Moffat, in researching songs to use for this tour, discovers Stewart, whom he goes to meet due to his desire to use her family’s songs. The pair’s interaction is particularly amusing, as captured in a conversation had while driving around Stewart’s countryside home, as she sees Moffat’s re-workings as an encroachment on her family’s songs and tradition – especially as he takes the lyrics “too literally”.

What is fascinating however is as we follow Moffat & Co’s tour around the beautifully scenic corners of Scotland, the songs become Moffat’s own. Passed down from Stewart – regardless of her protestations – as well as others, she becomes a surrogate mother to Moffat, who represents the next generation to perform these songs.

The film, therefore, opens up an interesting question as to whether it is right to, in the eyes of Stewart, “abuse these ballads and melodies when the traditional versions are still relevant” or whether Moffat’s (and I expect the majority of his audience’s) generation are in fact merely continuing this tradition, in their own terms.

The film, and tour, culminates in Glasgow’s famous Barrowlands Ballroom (where this premiere screening takes place), which Moffat argues is as crucial to this generation of Scotland’s musical identity, as were the various town halls and countryside farms – both of Stewart’s traveller heritage – and the myriad other locations Moffat visits.

In a truly beautiful scene, the various people that Moffat and his band have encountered during the tour are all present at this final performance; this includes Sheila Stewart herself, who eventually becomes so disgraced by Moffat’s “butchering” of her family’s song, that she gets on stage and performs it herself with Moffat’s band and audience participating. It is a very moving moment, as Fegen carefully splices the younger Stewart’s TV performances – along with Moffat’s earlier shows – all building towards this climactic, last performance from the great Stewart, who sadly passed away shortly afterwards.

Where You’re Meant to Be is an awe-inspiring film, tapping into both Scottish and folk music identity, which Stewart argues “is one of the most important aspects of Scottish culture.” A warm, affecting, beautifully constructed piece of documentary filmmaking, which I would encourage anyone (Scottish or otherwise) to discover for themselves.

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Screen Shot 2015-11-29 at 16.34.25Late in the day it may be, but one of the most visually sumptuous films to arrive in 2015 is surely Bajirao Mastani, by legendary Bollywood director Sanjay Leela Bhansali (Devdas, Goliyon Ki Raasleela Ram-Leela.)

The film features stunning visual work by Cinematographer Sudeep Chatterjee and three Production Designers: Saloni Dhatrak, Sriram Iyengar and Sujeet Sawant. It certainly looks like a herculean cinematic effort and is expected to break box office records this Christmas.

Set in Mughal India and based on the true story of Peshwa Baji Rao (Ranveer Singh), one of India’s greatest warriors, the film follows the fortunes of the ‘Warrior Prince’, his first wife Kashibai (Priyanka Chopra) and the love of his life, his second wife Mastani (Deepika Padukone).

For a look at the film, check out the trailer below:

And for more see the song Deewani Mastani:

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The forty plus films of Rainer Werner Fassbinder are among the most honest, ruthless and personal of any director. With near sadomasochistic force, Fassbinder dealt relentlessly with social problems and taboos that he encountered throughout his short 37 years, up until his untimely death in 1982.

In Fassbinder: To Love Without Demands Christian Braad Thomsen – a friend of Fassbinder – attempts to tell us more about the troubled German auteur, but this is a difficult task. In his films Fassbinder told us much about himself, and simultaneously he was a master critic: he was able to use drama to dissect, critique and examine his own nature and the wider social conditioning of German society. What might another filmmaker be able to tell us about Fassbinder that the man himself couldn’t?

The results of Thomsen’s film are mixed, but not without value. For those uninitiated in Fassbinder’s work, the film provides a solid introduction to the way in which RWF’s films dealt with human relationships as a web of oppression. Fassbinder saw love as a near fascistic form of dependency, whereby one weaker individual would be at the mercy of their stronger partner. Almost all of his films attest to this in some form, from the gay class drama Fox and his Friends to the disturbing Weimar era epic Berlin Alexanderplatz.

In newly uncovered interviews – shot by Thomsen at the Cannes Film Festival during the latter stages of Fassbinder’s life – the exhausted, workaholic director talks bluntly, but eloquently about his concerns and we gain a sense of the sadness that informed much of Fassbinder’s existence. This was a man who suffered for his art and – even at Cannes – there is very little glamour on show.

It is Thomsen’s own relationship with Fassbinder that is the most interesting aspect of To Love Without Demands, along with the recent insights of actress Irm Hermann and actor/production manager Harry Baer. The admiration of these individuals for RWF naturally shines through and although they have now aged into more mature perspectives (being almost double the age of Fassbinder when he died) it is clear that their former director continues to impress them with his talents and unique perspective on the world.

The documentary does feel, in some ways, rather old fashioned for a film released in 2015. Formally speaking, it is very much a film of the 1960’s, and its cultural benchmarks – such as Sigmund Freud – feel key to that time too. However, while the film may appear less accessible to the younger generation, the visceral energy of Fassbinder does remain and it is still as vital to cinema as ever.

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