The White Room (1989) - Bill Butt

God I love the interweb sometimes. I'd presumed that this was something I'd never ever get to see, and now here it is in all it's unfinished glory. For those of you blissfully unaware of just what The White Room is, I'll explain. Bill Drummond and Jimmy Cauty had a huge summer hit single in 1988 under the name The Timelords. Instead of buying gold plated swimming pools with their new found wealth, they decided to make a film and accompanying soundtrack. There are worse things to do with royalties such as burning a million quid, but that's another story I guess.

Anyway at some point during the shooting the money dried up. So Bill & Jimmy decided that another summer smash was in order, so they lifted Kylie Said to Jason from the forthcoming White Room soundtrack, and sat back and waited for the cash to roll in again. Except this time it didn't, the single didn't even make it into the top 100, and both film and soundtrack were scraped. The soundtrack although finished was reworked and became one of 1991's biggest albums, it's quite different to the original version though and well worth seeking out. The White Room film itself was plundered for a couple of videos, but other than that it has always been a bit of a mystery.

So is it any good? Well that all depends on just how much you like The KLF I suppose. Not a lot happens really, the film starts off in Trancentral, Jimmy Caulty's squat where most of The KLF's music was recorded, there is a (in the parlance of the time) rave going on. I spotted Youth, Alex Paterson and Cressida Cauty all dancing away. Bill and Jimmy stroll outside and get into Jimmy's Ford Galaxie cop car. Here they meet their real life solicitor David Franks, they converse (all mumbled) and then our duo head off into the night for a spin around London. The film itself is silent, in as much as their is no heard dialogue, the soundtrack will be recognisable to anyone who would bother watching this. Although I will say that I'm not 100% certain it's the correct soundtrack since the version of Build a Fire that is on here is from the White Room album, and not the unreleased version from the White Room Soundtrack (oh do keep up and stop yawning at the back).

Anyway after going into a tunnel in London they reappear in Spain. Lots of shots of the Ford Galaxie driving through stunning but empty landscapes, Bill finds a dead eagle and Jimmy paints the car white and not a lot else. They drive up into the mountains, and eventually find and climb up to The White Room, Franks turns up again, and then it's all over.

What's it all about? Well it's all supposedly to do with a contract that The KLF signed from a group calling themselves Eternity. Apparently (and I'm thinking a pinch of salt might be best with this) if The KLF were able to show a fictional route to the White Room, then Eternity would divulge the location of the real White Room to them. All sounds a bit X-Files, but then you have to remember just how much The KLF have mythologized themselves, and also how influenced they were by The Illuminatus! Trilogy of books by Robert Shea and Robert Anton Wilson. So anything is possible with that in mind. Anyway there were stories about the film being finished, with proper actors coming in and everything, but nothing came of it and that was that. I'd honestly say that if you're a fan then you have to see this, but for the casual film fan I'd say don't bother there are better ways to waste 45 minutes of your life. Go stick on the White Room LP instead.

L'illusionniste (2010) - Sylvain Chomet

No, not some French reimagining of the Edward Norton film that finally proved beyond all doubt that he can't do tricky accents. Rather this is a gentle animated take on a previously unfilmed script by Jacques Tati. Chomet rewrote the script himself, changing the setting from Prague to Edinburgh. Like Tati's best films this could easily be classified as a silent film, what little dialogue there is, being of little consequence.

The Illusionist is a slight tale on paper. Tatischeff (Tati's real name) is the illusionist of the title, unable to find work in his native Paris he travels to London to look for it instead. Here he finds that the once popular variety circuit has been taken over by British Rock 'n' Rollers. So he's packed off to the highlands of Scotland to earn a crust instead. It's here in a small Scottish village that he meets Alice, a young local girl who quickly becomes enamoured with him, convinced that his illusions are in fact real magic. She stows away with him and they head to Edinburgh. Upon arriving it becomes obvious that what was once one of the most popular nights out is fast heading for the skids, as Tatischeff takes on a variety of non variety jobs to make ends meet. 

So typically Tati in as much as it's that old world clashing with new world theme that crops up again and again in his work. The hotel our couple stay in is populated with other debris from the world of music hall, there is a suicidal clown, a creepy ventriloquist and best of all a trio of acrobats. We don't get to see any of these people perform on stage, what we do see however is them doing their act in the real world instead. Throughout the film we witness the window of the local pawnbrokers (Brown and Blair, nudge nudge, wink wink), filling up with various props from these characters acts. The sad thing is that each time we return they haven't been sold and their price has been reduced still further, just like the performers themselves no one wants them. In terms of mood and themes it reminded me of a couple of other films, mainly De Sica's Umberto D. with the main character fast realising that he is a relic, and that the world has moved on without him. 

The relationship between Tatischeff and Alice is like that of a father and daughter, very innocent, very old fashioned. This is enforced with the closing shot of Tatischeff holding a photo of Tati's real life daughter, Sophie. It's this air of melancholy that hangs over the film, that makes me begin to understand why this was never made by Tati. For a Tati film it's just too sad, I can't see how he would have managed to bring his light touch to this story.

Chomet, who not only wrote and directed but wrote the music too, manages to really capture Scotland and the harsh beauty that is in abundance there. It comes as no surprise to hear that he'd relocated from his native France to Edinburgh prior to embarking upon this film. He also clearly has a love of the great man too, just the animation of Tati alone is good enough to trick you into forgetting that it isn't him up there on the screen. I'm so glad that someone with his track record (Les Triplettes de Belleville) was given this project. Imagine this being CGI style animation, or even worse live action, it just wouldn't work.

As it stands this is a worthy addition to the Tati canon. It feels old fashioned both in style and pacing, and is filled with loads of lovely little touches, such as having a station porter be played by Tati too, since Tati regularly took on multiple background roles in his films. Best of all though is Tatischeff walking into a cinema showing Mon Oncle, thus seeing himself on screen and his own role in the downfall of music hall. How very post modern.

Play Time (1967) - Jacques Tati

Tati's masterpiece. If you only ever get the chance to see one Tati film in your lifetime, then make it this one. If you get the chance to see two, then watch this twice. Play Time demands to be seen multiple times, not because of any labyrinthine plot or anything like that, but more because of the sheer volume of information up on the screen. Tati films the whole film using master shots, which he sometimes cuts into (although rarely), and avoids the use of close ups almost entirely. This means that the viewers eye is free to wander around the frame, sometimes a sound, or splash of colour will guide the audiences gaze towards a particular point. More often than not though your eyes are free to follow whatever you choose. On first viewing Play Time can appear cold or even empty, but the more time you spend with it the more it reveals it's delights. Quite often there are things happening in the background of scenes that are easily missed first or even second time round. Like the cardboard cut out figures peppered throughout the film, or characters that pop up again and again.

There's no real plot to Play Time, it all begins in an airport, we follow a group of American tourists as they weave their way out and into Paris. Not the old romantic city that usually springs to mind whenever Paris is mentioned, but rather the Paris of the then yet to be built La Défense, all glass and steel, impersonal and cold, straight lines dominating over curves. We also follow Monsieur Hulot (Tati) who crosses paths with everyone in the film, acting as a link to various set ups. First he has some kind of meeting, then he ends up at a trade fair, then a friends home and lastly at the Royal Garden restaurant. The whole film takes place over the course of one 24 hour period, and at the end we follow our coachload of tourists back to the airport.

Play Time follows on from Tati's previous film Mon Oncle both thematically (more of which later) and literally, beginning as it does where Mon Oncle ended, in an airport. Although like many things in Play Time all is not what it appears at first. Tati uses misdirection to fool the viewer into suspecting that this opening scene could in fact be taking place in a hospital. After all that's a nurse carrying a baby, isn't it? Except of course it isn't, the nurse turns out to be carrying paper towels, and with a change of camera angle the hospital becomes an airport. This happens throughout the film, initial perceptions are continually turned on their head. The trade fair section of the film features objects that look like one thing but are in fact something entirely different. Likewise the first appearance of Hulot is preceded by a series of Hulot doppelgangers. Even more so than Tati's previous films this should be considered a silent film, what little dialogue there is, is of little or no importance. With one exception, at the start of the film Hulot is told 'You don't belong here'. I think that is the key line in the whole film.

One of the things Tati does best is the running gag. Nowhere is that better displayed than in Play Time, each character is given some business or other to propel them through the film. So someone that we might see in the background of a scene at the start of the film, could have their story conclude in the restaurant scene towards the end of the film. It's almost like they are clockwork toys that Tati winds up, then releases with wonderful results. There is a theme of both reflections and glass running throughout the film, from the reflections of beautiful old Paris (Arc de Triomphe, La Tour Eiffel and Basilique du Sacré-Cœur) in various glass doors, to the endless jokes based around the opacity of glass, with numerous people walking into doors that were thought to be already open. One of my favourite moments is the scene where the shattered glass door of the Royal Garden restaurant is still opened and closed by the doorman, despite the fact that it doesn't exist. Glorious.

The real tour de force of Play Time is the Royal Garden restaurant sequence, which takes up almost half the running time of the film. A new trendy modern restaurant/discotheque has it's opening night and of course everything goes tits up. It's a film within a film really which builds steadily to it's chaotic end with the increasingly frantic music. It's also in this section of the film that Tati's main bugbear comes to the fore, that of the modern world increasingly forcing itself into people's lives, and the alienation of the people that this newness creates. It's something that has been there right from the start with Tati, and was developed in each successive film he wrote/directed. It's interesting to note that it is Hulot that pulls down the trellis in the restaurant, creating a restaurant within the restaurant, echoing the film within a film set up. It's Hulot that forces people to make their stamp on their environment. It's this human intervention that is a constant in Tati's work. How do people fit into architects plans, and should they?

Now most successful directors get the opportunity to realise their dream project at some point in their career. As is often the case the heart rules the budget, and things start to get out of control. Think of Scorsese with New York, New York, Coppola with Apocalypse Now or worse than either of those Cimino's Heaven's Gate which managed to sink United Artists. Play Time was to be Tati's downfall, both financially and artistically. Massive sets were built which were subsequently destroyed in a freak storm, of course it turned out Tati was uninsured, and from there on things only got worse. Filming stretched out over years instead of months, when the money ran out Tati took out loans, when that money dried up he begged his mother to invest Tati's inheritance so that he could finish the film. The film tanked at the box office in France, which made American distributors give it a miss (it would eventually receive a limited release in 1972). Tati lost everything including the rights to his own films, his home and his and his sisters inheritance. He made one more feature after this, the rather lackluster Trafic in 1971.

Time has been kind to Play Time however, and it is now rightly viewed as one of the greatest films ever made. Somewhere along the line half an hour of footage has gone missing, most likely it'll turn up long after I'm dead and buried. Until then I have this to watch over and over, each time seeing something new. If you haven't seen Play Time, you really should be asking yourself why not and when can that be rectified.

Making a Living (1914) - Henry Lehrman

There's only one real reason for anyone to watch this little scratchy 12 minute Keystone knockabout short. That reason being that this is the film debut of Charles Spencer Chaplin, other than that this film has very little going for it. As with all Keystone comedies from this era there is no real story to speak of, Chaplin plays a dodgy type who keeps running into his rival Henry Lehrman. Both end up going for a reporters job, and from then on it feels like just a question of time before some sort of chase ensues. Which of course it does, Lehrman witnesses a car crash only to have Chaplin half inch his camera and beat him to the story. Cue a rather tepid chase involving a couple of Keystone cops, a woman in bed and an angry husband (don't ask). At one point it looks like Chaplin stabs a policeman with a knife, surely that can't be right. To be honest everything happens so fast once the chase section is off and running that it's hard to tell just what is going on.

Chaplin isn't quite the Chaplin of legend in this, although it is great to have these early films available to see just how he developed. After all he made 35 films for Keystone in 1914, during which time he created and refined the character of The Little Tramp. His best moments in Making a Living involve him falling and slipping over, hardly the sort of thing you'd say to recommend a film to someone is it? Still there you go, the best was yet to come. From tiny acorns and all that.

Girl Shy (1924) - Fred C. Newmeyer, Sam Taylor

This is one of those Harold Lloyd films that despite being a little run of the mill to start with, pays dividends if you stick with it to the end. Lloyd plays a chronically shy stuttering around the ladies, innocent virgin type of guy. Using his imagination he writes a book about how to score with women, which he hopes to get published. On the train journey to the big smoke to meet the publisher he meets a rich socialite and they fall for each other. Ah, how sweet. Which would be fine but she's about to married off to someone she doesn't love. Boo. What will happen? Will there be loads of stunts that look like health and safety hadn't yet been thought of in Hollywood? Will Harold get the girl and live happily ever after?

Well of course he will, but not after an epic chase scene which sees HL commandeer pretty much every mode of transport you can think of, from horse draw carriage to a tram. All just so that he can make it to the church on time and stop the wedding. It's by far and away the best moment of the whole picture, and the real reason for sitting through the rather clunky first half of the film. This end scene is precisely what one expects from a Harold Lloyd film, it's chock full of enough ideas and stunts to please even the most unimpressed member of the family. What more could one ask for?

Passing Fancy (1933) - Yasujirô Ozu

 

Not the best of the silent Ozu's I've seen, that'd be the previous years I Was Born, But..., still nonetheless Passing Fancy is a cracking film. Ozu seems to have most of the foundations for what would become his signature style already in place. The famous low static camera angle is all present and correct, as is the theme of fractured families. Although unlike the wealthier families of later Ozu, the characters during the silent era all seem to be living either on or just below the breadline.

On paper the story is very simplistic, Kihachi and Jiro are neighbours, workmates and drinking buddies. Both are single, although Kihachi has a son Tomio. Throw a female (Harue) into the mix and you have a love triangle storyline, as well as the more traditional Ozu father/son fare. Stir well and leave to simmer for 100 minutes. You know what to expect if you have been privy to any of Ozu's later films. It all plays out at a nicely composed pace. It's not at all predictable either, which is always a joy when viewing a film for the first time. Kihachi obviously proved to be a creation that Ozu enjoyed since he crops up in three more Ozu films. With so many films from the silent era being lost for ever, it's a constant joy that films like this crop up on DVD so often, normally (at least when one of the better DVD companies are involved) with a picture that is perfectly acceptable. I still have so many Ozu films left to watch, but of the few I've seen so far I'm in for a treat.

An Eastern Westerner (1920) - Hal Roach

Fairly forgettable Harold Lloyd short. As per usual he plays 'The Boy', this time a rich New York preppy type who is packed off to the Wild West to stay with his uncle. Predictably Lloyd falls for a girl, rescues her and her father from the clutches of the towns local menace, has run ins with the locals, plays poker, falls over a lot and generally gurns for the camera in that way that he does. It's all a bit dull though, New York is obviously whichever L.A. suburb was right outside the studio gates, and the film never really gets going until the last five minutes. It's this end section that is the best bit of the film
as Lloyd outwits a bunch of wannabe Klansmen. Does he get the girl, does it all end happily ever after? Do you care? By the time it ended I didn't. His uncle doesn't even turn up. File under not to be watched again.

The Rink (1916) - Charles Chaplin

A full twenty years before Chaplin would wow audiences with his roller skating skills in that audacious scene in Modern Times, Chaplin wrote, directed and stared in this little gem. This two-reeler (or short film around the twenty minute mark to you and me), finds Chaplin working as a waiter who nips off to the roller rink during his lunch breaks. Like all these great comedy shorts the story is merely an excuse for the physical comedy. Chaplin causes chaos both in the dining area and kitchen of the restaurant, people being covered in food and all the typical things you'd expect. Highlight of this section of the film is Chaplin making a cocktail. The way he shakes his body instead of the cocktail shaker is the sort of gag you come to expect from him.

The main draw with this film though is seeing Chaplin up on his skates. He's a phenomenal skater but is even funnier at falling over. Watch him almost going arse over tit and tell me it didn't make you laugh. It had me in fits. The scene where he keeps bouncing off the out for the count fat woman, would be the best bit of the film if it wasn't for the end scene, which sees Chaplin skate out of the door of the rink and onto the streets of L.A., closely followed by a rollerskating mob. The best shot in The Rink is it's very last, Chaplin hanging onto the back of a car by his cane, tipping his hat to the audience and smiling like a man who knows he's just made another great film.

Metropolis (1927) - Fritz Lang

I'd been itching to see this almost complete version of Metropolis ever since the announcement that a copy had turned up in Buenos Aires back in 2008. This Argentinian footage was heavily scratched and in an awful state, and proved impossible to clean up since it was transferred from the original negative complete with all of it's imperfections. Doh! So by stitching lost footage from the new found print into the gorgeous looking restored version, we've ended up with a Frankenstein's monster type of affair. It's easy to spot just what is new footage and what isn't, since the newer scenes have not only what appears to be a barcode running through them (well lots of black lines at any rate), but are also in a smaller aspect ratio. This newer footage is kind of like scars on a body, or wrinkles on a face inasmuch as each scratchy frame reminds the viewer of the ongoing saga of this silent masterpiece. There are still portions of the film that are missing, although hopefully they'll turn up in some box in someones garage at some point before I snuff it.

So what is added to this version of Metropolis then? Well there are a fair few small trims (reaction shots and the like, some just a few seconds long), they don't add much but of course it's always good to have things back to how they were supposed to be. The real find are the scenes that show what the Thin Man gets up to, and quite a bit of extra footage from the end of the film. This adds so much to the film, The Thin Man section is a whole subplot that was chopped out, the extra stuff at the end makes the ending so much more expansive, it's just more of everything, from the riots to the floods and the eventual saving of the children. It's all there in it's scratchy slightly smaller aspect ratio glory.

Metropolis is the most expensive silent film ever made in Germany, costing 5,000,000 Reichsmarks. Lang as was his wont was meticulous with everything to do with the film, taking forever to get it into the cinema. Unfortunately upon release it was a massive flop, taking a mere 75,000 Reichsmarks in Germany. This is why the film was hacked apart in the first place, it was shortened and fucked about with right the way up to the first version I ever saw, the 1984 Giorgio Moroder version. Now when it comes to proto house disco anthems Giorgio is your man. However when it came to rejigging a silent epic he proved to be a bit of a fuckwit. Colourising it and bolting on a jarring eighties soundtrack became the last nail in Metropolis's coffin. Cheers Moroder. After this the restoration process began, and that brings us bang up to where we are now.

Now I'm sure you don't need me to go through what the storyline of Metropolis is, do you? Okay deep breath here goes, dystopian future world, the rich lording it up, while in the depths of the city the workers kill themselves to keep the cogs of society moving. There is no bridge between the two, the central message of the film is the need for the workers to unite with those that run their world. Into this are weaved biblical allegories, effects galore, some of the hammiest silent screen acting ever, mad scientists, revolution, epic sets, a touch of that famous German expressionism, and a (wo)man machine. Metropolis is a beautiful film to watch, but it feeds the brain as well as the eyes. There are ideas galore, and it's a great way to waste a few hours of your life. Lang was at the peak of his powers and it shows, his next four features would be the last of this golden age for him. After 1933's Das Testament des Dr. Mabuse Lang would flee Germany for America, where he would struggle to make anything approaching his German masterpieces. To say that Metropolis has had an effect on the world we live in would be an understatement, films, music, books and so many other things have been touched by this flop of a film, and the funny thing is that despite being the obvious masterpiece it is, it's not even Lang's best film, which of course is 1931's M.

Häxan (1922) - Benjamin Christensen

Strange to think that Denmark and to a lesser extent Sweden were once the big boys of the silent film industry in Europe. But they were, of course a huge war is all it takes to shift the balance a little, but for a while this is where the best films were being made. Benjamin Christensen was not only one of the top directors of his day but he was also a fine actor too. In this strange documentary/feature hybrid he did both, excellently.

Now I'm going to be honest here, this is the only film of Christensen's that I've seen, so I'm not really able to judge how it sits with the rest of his work. Look it up on line and you'll see it's universally hailed as his masterpiece. But that could just be that people have seen naff all else by him too, but can't bring themselves to 'fess up. Anyway the word masterpiece is an appropriate one to use to describe this treat of a film.

Now after spending the day traveling home from England yesterday, all I could think about was what would I watch when I finally got a chance to sit down alone and sink into a film. Slouching around the airport seeing fellow travelers (no not the type that juggle and have dreadlocked kids), dealing badly with the news that their flights were cancelled, it was this film that I kept popping into my head.

Split into seven segments all connected, but not necessarily by plot (of which there is none really) the film moves along at a rapid pace (for a silent film from the 20's). It's not quite McG, but then you wouldn't want it to be would you? Christensen spent years researching the various tales of witchcraft in Europe, and it shows. The first 15 minutes or so sets the scene by going through a series of prints/paintings/texts about witches. Taking it's time to explain just what is going on within the frame, sometimes with the use of a handy pencil being directed at the image in question so that we don't miss a thing. After this Christensen recreates certain scenes such as the trial of a witch, the Devil seducing womenfolk all the usual malarkey you'd expect from a film whose title translates as The Witch.

Christensen himself plays the Devil, and his portrayal of Old Nick is possibly the greatest I have ever seen. Yep even better than Pacino in The Devil's Advocate, cough cough. Christensen has the same knack for finding faces as his fellow countryman Carl Dreyer. Dreyer of course would make what could be argued as possibly the greatest silent film ever, The Passion of Joan of Arc just six years after this. Both films share a common theme, that of women being accused of witchcraft. Unlike Dreyer's film though most of the camera set ups are static in this film. However it does do some things that are extremely out of place for a film from this era, and is in fact quite post modern in a Godard sort of way. One of the actress's in the film is shown trying out a thumb screw as herself and not as a charater, while in another scene we are told a story about another of the actresses. Hardly racy by todays standards but very weird for the 20s.

Then there is the gore, a finger being pulled off of an already dismembered hand, and a baby being drained over a boiling pot are just two of the images that will stay with me long after the rest of the film has faded from memory. But I think the thing that impressed me most of all was the final segment of the film. It's set in modern times (1920s), and tries to address just what it was that made people consider others to be witches, and how the same things would be dealt with now. It works really well, and concurs with something I was thinking about myself whilst watching the film. Which was just how awful life was back in the middle ages, that basically someone totally innocent could be dragged from their home, tortured until they confess to whatever they are being asked to confess to and then executed. Those were harsh old fucking times, but then I thought about the poor sods at Guantánamo Bay and realised things haven't changed that much really.

Steamboat Bill, Jr. (1928) - Charles Reisner

They say a week's a long time in politics, now I couldn't give two hoots about all that but for me a week is a long time to go without seeing a film. In fact this is the first film I've had time to see since Monday (and that was just a Carry On film). That is by far the worst thing about having a tough week at work - lack of film time. Anyway it's no secret that I like me a bit of Buster Keaton, add to the mix the fact that I saw this at the cinema today and you should already know this isn't going to be a negative review. The story is simple enough, think Romeo and Juliet in the deep south of America, with paddle steamers and buckets of slapstick. This is just two years after Keaton's high watermark - The General. It's also pretty much the last of the great films he made.

Now as everyone knows, Keaton films tend to stand or fall by their set pieces, as do most all silent era slapstick films. This has some classics, such as the hat scene or the attempted jail break. But everything pales in comparison to the last reel of the film, which has some of the most legendary footage of the little fella. Basically a hurricane hits town and Buster is let loose to do what he does best. Watching this today made me realise just how much Buster is the grandfather of free running. The way he bounces around the boat is just insane. Now even if you haven't seen this (or any of BK's films), you've seen clips from it. I'm sure they still trot out the scene where a house falls forward onto an oblivious Keaton, only for him to step free thanks to an open window on the top floor. Genius, pure genius.

I've always been of the opinion that both comedy and horror films should be seen in a crowd, preferably at the cinema. There's nothing like shared fear or laughter. If I had watched this at home no doubt I would have chuckled at it, at the cinema I found myself laughing along with the other 16 punters. I love silent cinema at the cinema, you know a bloke tinkling away at the piano and all that. Looking around at the others that had decided that the best thing to do on a Saturday afternoon was to go and see a 90 year old film, I all of a sudden felt very elitist and thought that we must be the only 17 people out of my towns 300,000 population, that could possibly appreciate this film. After all we were the only ones there. However that feeling soon passed when it hit me that we are the only people there because everyone else had far better things to do with their lives. Oh well I can deal with that. But only just.