Saturday December 28th 2013
I’m going to Los Angeles next month. I’ll be there for a week. I return home on February 15th.
The following announcement was made this morning:
“On February 20th, Arclight Hollywood will play host to a 10th Anniversary screening of EuroTrip with a Q&A moderated by Kevin Smith.
Not only will writer-directors Alec Berg, David Mandel and Jeff Schaffer be answering questions, but the kids from the film — Scott Mechlowicz, Jacob Pitts, Michelle Trachtenberg and Travis Wester — are scheduled to attend as well. I’m also hearing that a handful of the film’s other co-stars, like the Green Fairy (Steve Hytner) and the Robot Man (J.P. Manoux), and the band Lustra, who sang the film’s iconic pop-punk song Scotty Doesn’t Know, will be there.”
I feel like I’ve not been invited to my own birthday party.
Friday December 20th 2013
Earlier this week, under cover of mild fog, I took the tube down to the Curzon Soho in Central London for a very special event, scheduled to begin at midday and run on until the streets outside would be thick with evening commuters. That’s right: Tuesday saw the UK’s first ever screening of Nymphomaniac, Lars von Trier’s wildly hyped, blogosphere straddling, hugely anticipated, gorgeously promoted new four-hour sex epic.
A special area had been cordoned off within the cinema, and inside, the great and good of Britain’s press, distribution, exhibition and PR industries had gathered, eagerly chomping down unusual pastries in preparation for the colossal task that lay ahead. I made idle chitchat in an attempt to suppress my overexcitement and then, having made the difficult and ultimately unwise decision to invest £4.75 in a large box of Curzon popcorn, I made my way into the auditorium and took a seat.
Since crossing the North Sea last week, Nymphomaniac has been stripped of the ‘Not Endorsed by Lars von Trier’ disclaimer that preceded each of its Copenhagen press screenings, but nonetheless there’s an odd sense of futility in knowing that the film you’re about to watch lacks more than a quarter of its director’s initial vision. Inevitably the unabridged cut will eventually be declared fit for public consumption (at least 50% will be shown at the Berlin Film Festival next year) in which case this shortened edition is perhaps Lars’s attempt at a practical joke — if critics are reluctant to sit through four hours of this shit, imagine how they’ll feel after a cumulative nine.
Whatever the case, this bite-size, 240-minute odyssey into one woman’s sexual identity is more or less an unqualified triumph. From the word go, Nymphomaniac is so utterly saturated with ideas — be they visual, thematic, symbolic, or unashamedly pornographic — that it’s nigh on impossible to get bored. Volume One alone features a woman masturbating with a set square, an aspect ratio shift, Shia LaBeouf’s cock, Christian Slater and a wipe transition. It’s the Movie 43 of art house sex films, complete with the requisite Uma Thurman cameo. And forget what you’ve read in every broadsheet review from here to Xan Brooks: it’s sexy as fuck.
Tuesday’s screening was interrupted at the two-hour mark by an intermission, during which I cornered someone from Artifical Eye and asked them what their plans were for the film’s release. There have been so many adjustments to Nymphomaniac‘s distribution strategy over the months and years that nobody seems entirely sure of how it’ll ultimately be seen by audiences, or whether Lars will ever get his full, unexpurgated cut into the open. Initial plans for the release of two five-and-a-half-hour films, one hardcore and one soft, have been entirely abandoned. Nonetheless, what Artificial Eye have got planned for March sounds like it’ll make the best of a situation that’s far from ideal for Von Trier diehards.
Perhaps hoping to insulate the audience against the coming onslaught, cinema staff were also giving out shots of some unknown intoxicant as guests returned to their seats. I foolhardily drank three and immediately felt impossibly wasted. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the first ten minutes of Volume Two remain a little fuzzy, although I do remember Udo Kier repeatedly saying the line, ‘were you not given any spoons?’
Like Kill Bill (again, Uma Thurman provides a handy bridge between Nymphomaniac and each of its pop cultural forebears) the film divides its volumes both chronologically and tonally. If the first part is the raucous house party, the second part is the strangely satisfying discomfort of the hangover. If Volume One is the one night stand, Volume Two is the odd dichotomy of the morning after. It’s after the intermission, for instance, that we see Shia LaBeouf grow into this guy:
Luckily, Volume Two is also where the film comes completely into its own. Nymphomaniac expresses a countless number of ideas that have hitherto felt almost entirely unrepresented in popular culture, and does so with an effortlessness that seems to chide other, lesser films for not getting there first. Everything from the practicalities of double penetration, to the unlikely heroism of pedophilia, to the inherent slut shaming of so-called sex addiction treatment, is given due consideration here, and in a week that’s also seen the release of Beyoncé’s spectacular new feminist opus BEYONCÉ, Christmas has come early for women who like having sex and dislike being thought of as the devil’s spawn for doing so.
At the same time, Nymphomaniac is far from an exercise in easy liberal validation. For every moment I spent mentally deifying Lars von Trier for his artistic bravery, I spent another wriggling uncomfortably in my seat. For every instance I felt my hands spontaneously drawn together as if to applaud, there was another in which I felt physically queasy.
When the film finally came to an end, survivors gathered in the lobby, huddled around mugs of mulled wine and locked in fierce debate. Such a scene will no doubt be replicated in foyers across the UK come March, as cinema managers struggle to get audiences in and out of their seats in time for each mammoth showing, and audience members who’ve already witnessed the spectacle struggle to make sense of life after Nymphomaniac.
Monday December 9th 2013
Fawning, puff-piece pop star documentaries like Justin Bieber’s Believe (by the way Justin, ‘believe’ called, it wants its status as a verb back) rarely touch on the more troubled aspects of their subjects’ life stories, unless they can be easily milked for pathos like Katy Perry’s divorce from Russell Brand was in Part of Me. So I was surprised to see Bieber’s infamous ‘I’ll fucking beat the fuck out of you’ outburst from March of this year (see above) pop up in the trailer for Believe.
The relevant portion is at 1:08 if you can’t stomach the whole thing…
Personally, finding out how on Earth the producers of Believe are going to cast the footage (in which Justin limply threatens to beat the fuck out of a huge burly man from behind two large bodyguards) in a positive light, is reason enough for me to buy a ticket for the film when it bops its way into UK cinemas next year. Presumably they’ll bleep out the expletives (‘fuck off back to America’ has already become ‘[mumble] back to America’) but what are they going to do about the general embarrassment and awkwardness of the whole spectacle?
So many questions remain unanswered. What painfully glib life lesson will be tacked onto the end of the sequence? What will Justin learn from it?
And perhaps more importantly, where will Justin learn from it?
Oh right, in his head. Thanks for clearing that up, Justin.
Tuesday December 3rd 2013
Much to my detriment, I’ve never seen a single film in Universal’s (The) Fast (and / the) Furious franchise, but over the last twelve months I have seen most of the other films listed on the resume of Paul Walker, who died in a car accident this weekend at the age of 40. Since January I’ve been working on a documentary about teen movies, specifically those released during the 1990s and early 2000s, and where that particular subset of movies is concerned, few stars left as indelible a mark as Paul Walker did.
I’ve watched the incredible opening scene from Varsity Blues — in which Walker’s superstar quarterback Lance Harbor emerges triumphant from his rickety Texan home — nearly 100 times, almost as often as I’ve seen Walker lead Freddie Prinze, Jr. through the jungle of high school singledom in the first act of She’s All That. As long as I live, his character’s immortal description of mean girl Taylor Vaughn in that film — ‘an institution in this place’ — will remind me of Walker, and sum up his contribution to the genre I love so dearly.
While he also clocked up star-making turns in The Skulls and Pleasantville, Walker’s greatest performance came in the film whose title most obituary writers have been awkwardly skirting around since Saturday. Joy Ride (known in the UK by the even more unfortunate moniker Roadkill) was an early big-screen offering from J. J. Abrams, which saw Walker on a cross-country road trip with Steve Zahn, pursued by a sinister, death-dealing trucker known only as Rusty Nail. Shot like a Jonathan Demme movie and paced like an episode of Lost, the film was a commercial failure but an unexpected critical favourite. Throw £8.75 at the Blu-ray — you won’t regret it.