Lincoln

The problem with many biopics – particularly the middlebrow, awards-courting ones that tend to pop up around this time of year – is that the story they’re trying to tell is simply too large.

These films succeed in recounting the biographical details of a historical or cultural figure’s life, but by trying to convey the entire sweep of a person’s existence, the lives of complicated, messy people are smoothed out into a familiar narrative: a rise, a fall, and perhaps some sort of late rebirth if the protagonist is lucky. The rest is colour – a box-ticking exercise recreating events the audience is already aware of, inevitably featuring a lead performance that is closer to impersonation than acting.

Based in part Doris Kearns Gtoodwin’s terrific biography Team of Rivals (much admired by Barack Obama, as the cover mentions four or five times), Lincoln eschews this convention, focusing solely on the final few months of Abraham Lincoln’s 56 years of life as he attempts to pass the Thirteenth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution.

Considering the extraordinary particulars of Lincoln’s life, from his poverty-stricken upbringing through to his unlikely ascension to president through to four years of civil war, it is a bold choice from screenwriter Tony Kushner and director Steven Spielberg. The pair were spoilt with options – Goodwin’s book contains enough material to fill half a dozen biopics – but by concentrating so unwaveringly on a single act of governance Kushner and Spielberg create a rich, compelling portrait of the man, the times he lived in, and what made him so important. A 19th century political drama about the passage of a single bill, Lincoln is riveting, overflowing with murky deals and behind-the-scenes manoeuvring.

Kushner and Spielberg’s efforts to wrest Lincoln into life are supported by Daniel Day-Lewis’ superlative performance, which is at once gentle, wry, gregarious, melancholy and resolute. It’s easy to imagine his portrayal becoming the definitive depiction of the 16th President. Every element of Lincoln is excellent, from screenplay to cinematography to editing, but in a film with 148 speaking parts, Day-Lewis is unforgettable.

For a man whose face is carved into the side of a mountain, it would be easy for a depiction of Lincoln to slide into easy mythologising; instead, Spielberg’s film makes great efforts to show a man whose greatness comes from the management of his own complicated personality, rather than a simplistic, overpowering eminence.

The passage of the Thirteenth Amendment is used as a synecdoche for Lincoln’s life: a man who accomplished his transformative goals against impossible odds using wily political ingenuity, compassion, great intelligence and exceptional oratorical skills. By depicting less of his story, Kushner and Spielberg get to the heart of its importance.

An interview extract with director errol morris

One of the most significant documentarians of his generation, Errol Morris has mostly spent the past 35 years making films about colourful eccentrics and outsiders. In 2003, however, the filmmaker shifted his focus from pet cemetery owners and delusional beauty queens to former U.S. Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara in his Oscar-winning documentary The Fog of War.

Morris’ latest film, The Unknown Known, is another feature-length interview with a former Secretary of Defense: Donald Rumsfeld, one of the primary architects of the Bush jason wardistration’s wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. For all of its superficial similarity, however, The Unknown Known is markedly different in tone to The Fog of War – where McNamara earnestly contemplated his legacy, Rumsfeld obfuscates and eludes.

Speaking to Jason shortly before the film’s release, Errol reflected on how he attempted to engage with a figure who had been interviewed countless times before.

"It was tricky. The first day I met him I was invited to join him whilst he answered questions from reporters on speakerphone about his new memoir. We’re sitting there and he’s asked these completely expected questions that he’s been asked hundreds, if not thousands of times. “Did you really think there were WMDs in Iraq?” “Did you think the number of troops used in the invasion were sufficient?” “Do you believe adequate preparations had been made for the aftermath of the war?”

"It had the quality of a vending machine. Same questions, same answers. I wondered: what is this about? It represents some kind of strange exchange. It’s not necessarily investigative at all. It’s kind of a version of theatre. I promised myself: I’m not gonna do this. I don’t want to ask these same questions. I wanted to tease out something different, without really knowing what that was.

"In interviewing him I found that often the most interesting stuff wasn’t the answers, it was these moments of silence, or his smile, or weird unexpected responses that aren’t really responses at all. The film pushes back on him endlessly but it’s a different kind of movie. It’s a movie about the smile, the vanity, the self-satisfaction, the cluelessness, the retreat into empty rules and principles and slogans."

The Unknown Known is now out in UK cinemas. The full interview with Errol Morris will be published in Issue 20.

An interview with caroll spinney

Impressive facts about Caroll Spinney accumulate rather quickly. 95% of all Americans have seen him perform before they reach the age of three. He's sung on dozens of albums. Five countries have featured him on postage stamps. In 1970 he appeared on the cover of TIME Magazine, while in 2012 he played an unlikely role in crystallising the U.S. presidential election. He's been a regular television presence in over 160 countries for nearly half a century. He's an 8' 2” bird, a grouch who lives in a trash can, and the puppeteer star of America's longest-running children's programme, Sesame Street. In addition to all this, Caroll is also the subject of a new documentary on his life: I Am Big Bird. Ahead of its release this week we spoke to the veteran puppeteer about the film, his long career and working with Mr. Snuffleupagus.

How did I Am Big Bird come about?

The film-makers Dave LaMattina and Chad Walker had already produced one other documentary and were deciding what to do next. Somebody suggested Caroll Spinney, and they said who's that? Eventually they approached Sesame Street, who said it was a good idea. I drove down to New York with my wife and chatted with them. We thought they were nice guys and told them to go ahead. A lot of people ask why now. Well, since I'm 81 I don't know if I'll be around when I'm 91. It's a lovely tribute, because I'm starting my 46th year of making Sesame Street.

How does it feel to watch a documentary about yourself?

It's been really nice because we've been to film festivals and have seen lots of people enjoying the film. We've been enjoying their comments. It's a nostalgic job I have. When you're a child there are all kinds of strains – I think it's easier to be a grown-up. So the film reminds them of how much Big Bird and Oscar the Grouch meant to them at that age. It's talking about the past but then I still have the job, so for me one of the joys of the film is that it ends with me still working and doing these characters.

What do you think is the appeal of Big Bird? Out of all of the Sesame Street Muppets he was the first to break out, and is still the heart of the show.

I decided about two months in that he should be a child. For the first few months he was just a goofy guy, a real yokel. He'd become fairly popular just as a novelty, but when I made him a kid he suddenly embodied something that a lot of children could identify with: the struggle to be a child in an adult world. I love the letters that I get from children. One of them said: “Big Bird you're my best friend, please come and play with me. How about next Thursday?” I've always liked doing something that children could relate to even though I was in my 30s, or now in my 80s. Big Bird is still 6 years old, of course. He never really changes all that much. Oscar is very satisfying too because I wasn't cool at school. I was pushed around, and nobody pushes Oscar around.

What's Sesame Street like as a place to work?

It's a world that seems almost real when you go in. It's quite dramatic for people to walk into the studio. It looks very much like a real street, except for all the lights coming down instead of sky. I remember one time a child was on the set watching us perform and he asked “Where's the real Sesame Street? Where's the real Big Bird?” He thought that we were just grown-ups pretending to be the actual characters.

You've been Big Bird and Oscar since the very start of the programme. Will storylines ever remind you of things that happened to them decades earlier?

I don't remember the day-to-day things. Some are simple little moments of life and so the details pass you by. I've done literally thousands of hours of the show, over 4,000 episodes. We used to make 130 shows every single year. We don't make as many now. The budget cut it down and there are more repeats. I was talking to the head writer who'd been told by accounting that in the future we'd only be able to make 25 shows a year. He said that was impossible. They asked why and he said “Well, what letter of the alphabet are you not going to use?”

Do you have any personal highlights from those thousands of hours, or do you prefer to look forward instead?

There are a few that stand out in my mind because they were so emotional. One was the story where everyone thought Big Bird's friend Snuffleupagus wasn't real. I remember a scene way back in the 70s where Gordon told Big Bird he was tired of hearing stories about his imaginary friend. “There is no such thing as a Snuffleupagus, so forget about it!” Snuffy comes shuffling along and a dejected Big Bird tells him they can't be friends: “You're imaginary and I can't be your friend any more” “I'm imaginary?” Snuffy asks for a hug to say goodbye and starts crying, and because Big Bird can feel the tears he realises that Snuffy is real and they can be friends forever. I remember doing that and being so moved. You get into the real feelings of the characters. I felt the sadness that Big Bird had. When we got out of our outfits, our faces were completely wet with tears. They were tears of joy because Big Bird and Snuffy had realised they could still be friends. That was one of the memories that stands out, but there are so many others that were just so sweet. Life on Sesame Street... it's so nice and wonderful. I love the job I have and that's why I don't want to leave. To still bring these characters to life is just too much fun.

2015 in film interviews

One of the great pleasures of working for Oh Comely – aside from the baked goods that materialise in the office with delicious regularity – is that I get to watch excellent films and then speak to the people who made them. Therefore, when asked to write about 2016 in cinema, I thought that instead of rounding up my favourite films of the year* I would instead share some of the film-maker interviews that I most enjoyed doing. I've cheated by also including an interview with Big Bird performer Carroll Spinney, but given that he tells an anecdote about the time he hugged Snuffleupagus so hard they both cried with joy, I hope you'll forgive me.

(*Spoiler for the results of that hypothetical event: Carol would win, with The Lobster, 45 Years and The Look of Silence tussling for silver. Have you seen Carol yet? Go and see Carol.)

Peter Strickland – The Duke of Burgundy

“For me, the film is about consent and how that veers into compromise and eventually coercion. Everyone likes to think they don't coerce their partner. Compromise is an issue within every element of a relationship, not just the sexual parts – if a couple decides to start a family, one person will possibly have to compromise on a job they might love. I'm not an agony aunt, but you can apply the film beyond the bedroom.”

Ruben Östlund – Force Majeure

“We have a culture today where we're allowed to put 99% of our time and concern into our relationships. There's something about this lifestyle that creates existential crises. We feel like love should be a problem, and we hear it in pop music over and over again. In movies, on television, it's all relationship challenges. As long as we have that kind of focus for our lives we won't be able to look at society's problems from a proper perspective. I wanted to question that.”

Caroll Spinney – I Am Big Bird

“I decided about two months in that he should be a child. For the first few months he was just a goofy guy, a real yokel. He'd become fairly popular just as a novelty, but when I made him a kid he suddenly embodied something that a lot of children could identify with: the struggle to be a child in an adult world.”

Olivier Assayas – Clouds of Sils Maria

“Juliette and I are friends but we're not that familiar or intimate – I've never known what her everyday life is like. I know her but I also fantasise her. I imagine things about her. Some of them are true, some are totally off the mark. So when I'm writing a character like Maria Enders I know that I'm playing with my own assumptions as well as the assumptions of the audience, the way the audience imagines her. I'm playing on this border between fiction and reality.”

Alecky Blythe – London Road

“We knew about the tragedies, which was a story that was clearly told in the media, but not the fallout. There were people who weren't in the eye of the storm whose lives had been affected too. Obviously this was to a much lesser degree than the family members of the victims, but I saw there were wider repercussions in the community that seemed to resonate. I was compelled by this, and these people wanted to share their experiences with me. It seemed like a story that wasn't being told.”

Desiree Akhavan – Appropriate Behaviour

“That's the worst: when you hold on to the nostalgia for a moment you had two hours ago, hoping that the person will go back to your first impression of them. That happens quite often and I don't see it depicted in movies. Films lied to me about sex, and everything I learned about sex until a certain age I'd learned from watching a movie. It wasn't a conversation I had with my parents or something I could find out on my own. When I finally started dating I realised I'd been fed fairytale lies about simultaneous orgasms and never-ending love. ”

Django unchained

Eight films into his career, Quentin Tarantino’s methods and themes have boiled down to a single purpose: the pursuit of vengeance for the historically oppressed.

While the pictures Tarantino completed in the 1990s used his impressive cinematic techniques for no purpose other than enriching the films themselves, the writer-director now employs the nonlinear narratives, extravagant violence and relentless pop-culture sifting for which he’s known in an attempt to obtain retrospective justice on behalf of subjugated groups. Using the apostatised genres of cinema’s past (Grindhouse, Blaxploitation, Spaghetti Westerns), Tarantino has created a series of films where women (Death Proof), Jews (Inglourious Basterds) and now slaves (Django Unchained) bloodily reclaim agency from their oppressors.

This evolution in objectives has been accompanied by a shift in public perception: where once Tarantino was overrated, he is now decidedly underrated. By using the same mixture of violence, comedy, pop culture-cribbing and stylised filmmaking as he has done throughout his career, his motivations are routinely called into question – it doesn’t help that he’s from none of the groups who comprise the vengeful protagonists of his films.

However, a film like Django Unchained demonstrates the value of his approach. In making the Spaghetti Western his template, Tarantino uses the disreputable, historically subversive genre to express a raw, genuine sense of moral outrage at the subject of slavery and the accompanying myths of the antebellum period. When faced with such inhumanity, Tarantino argues that the only appropriate response he can provide is bloody retribution through the power of cinema.

As a result, while Django Unchained shares the stylistic tics that run throughout Tarantino’s work, the film it most resembles is his most recent, Inglourious Basterds – a picture, of course, in which a coalition of film projectionists, critics, and actors destroy Hitler in a cinema. Like Inglourious Basterds, Django Unchained provides its eponymous former slave hero (Jamie Foxx) with an endless supply of persecutors to exterminate, exploding in gore as selections from Spaghetti Western soundtracks play in the background. But even though the sight of Django extending brutal vengeance upon slave owners works as wish fulfilment in the same manner – a carthartic release after the many torments the film’s black character endure – the effect is less striking a second time around. There’s a sense that Tarantino isn’t quite challenging himself, content to make a retread of what worked before.

Despite being set a century earlier, on a different continent with different characters, Django Unchained feels like it could be a sequel, featuring several long, tense senses of characters undercover, trying to conceal their motives through verbal jousting. Indeed, Christoph Waltz’s dentist/bounty hunter Dr Schulz is essentially a reprise of his Oscar-winning role, except now the villain has become the hero’s sidekick, his ominous politeness used against the antagonists rather than for them.

While the relationship between Django and Dr Schulz has its basis in Spaghetti Westerns – a mentor working alongside a protégé – it mainly seems that Waltz was brought back because he was so much fun last time. He’s just as watchable, inevitably, but the character lacks the element of danger that made its predecessor so compelling. Fortunately, this deficit is made up for by Leonardo DiCaprio, who is exceptional in a similar role as the terrifying-yet-genteel Calvin Candie.

Other than the sense of familiarity, another factor that provokes weariness is the film’s sheer length. Django Unchained meanders into all sorts of interesting places, but it doesn’t really have enough plot to sustain itself for three hours, and its relatively straightforward narrative often means lengthy waits for scenes you know lie ahead. In particular, the film builds to a natural climax but doesn’t quite finish, and so has to take half an hour to return to what’s essentially the same scene again. But while Django Unchained is imperfect, the film carries itself with such vigour, flair, and righteous fury that you’re willing to forgive it.

An interview with dakota blue richards

Despite being only 19 years old, Dakota Blue Richards has already had a long and varied acting career – one which began when she memorably played the lead role in 2007’s cinematic adaptation of The Golden Compass. Whilst the remaining two parts of Phillip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy were unfortunately never made, Dakota has continued to work steadily in film and television – most notably joining the cast of Skins towards the end of its successful six-year run. In her latest film, The Fold, Dakota plays the daughter of an Anglican priest (Catherine McCormack) who is having a crisis of faith after the death of her other child. Ahead of The Fold’s release in cinemas and on VOD, we spoke to Dakota about her role in the film.

The Fold features both a first time director (John Jencks) and a first time writer (Poppy Cogan). What was it like to work on a project where you were a veteran on the set?

It’s always interesting working with people at the start of their career, because they have such an enthusiasm for what they’re doing, and that was really evident with John. It was clear that he really cared about the film, and that he wanted to make it as good as he possibly could. He just had this real excitement for the project, which is sometimes lost along the way when you’ve been doing it for a long time. It made everyone else excited as well.

What was great was that it made me think about my character and what I was bringing to the performance in a different way. John wouldn’t come in and say: “We’re going to do this, this and this”. He was always open to my ideas and Catherine’s ideas. Everybody could put what they thought out there and he’d take that, think about it, and come back with a properly formed way of going about that day’s scenes.

Has your approach to acting changed over the years you’ve been doing it?

I think you get into habits, which can be good and can be bad. Because everyone has their own method of working, it can become easy to approach everything in the same way. What’s nice is having the opportunity to think about things differently, and to be challenged by how other people approach things when they haven’t been doing it long enough to fall into patterns.

How did you build a believable mother-daughter relationship with Catherine McCormack? Did you have to get quite close?

Our relationship as a mother and daughter in the film is fairly distant. What I found hard was that I’ve never had that distance with my own mother. I’ve always been very close to her, so playing that level of discomfort was more challenging than building a relationship would have been. Catherine is lovely and brilliant at what she does, so it was great having her around. If anything, I found it difficult trying to act like I didn’t get on with her.

Your character Eloise exists primarily in relation to her mother’s journey. How do you make a supporting character compelling whilst serving the story?

It’s not so much about how big a role is or how many lines you have; rather it’s how interesting the character is in their own right and how they influence the plot. Quite often when you see things that are badly written there are major characters who don’t actually affect the story at all. What’s nice about The Fold is that even though it’s a smaller role, I see Eloise as being the light in the gloom of her mother’s depression and grief. She’s trying to be strong for her family and help them through it. She plays a strong role within the film regardless of how often you see her.

One of the film’s key scenes revolves around you playing the violin. Can you actually play one in real life?

I played when I was a child, very briefly, which possibly helped me a little bit. To be honest it was such a short shoot that we didn’t get a chance to learn the instruments that well. We had a couple of lessons but the violin is one of the most complicated instruments, especially if you’re not a musician. There was just no way that I was going to actually become good at it, so we had a double. Whenever you can’t see my face it’s not me. That’s a good thing because you definitely wouldn’t want to see me playing.

I was curious about your experience making The Golden Compass. With some distance from the film, what is it like looking back?

It doesn’t really feel like that long ago. It’s funny actually because if I think about college, which was a couple of years ago, that feels like ages, but The Golden Compass still seems fairly recent even though it wasn’t. It was really just the best experience I could have had as a 12 year old. It was perfect and fun and I loved every minute of it.

I guess a lot of people would have said it would be a dream come true, something they’d wanted for a really long time, but I just sort of fell into it. I’d never really wanted to act before then so I had no preconceptions, and that was a really nice way to start my career. I felt really looked after by the producers and the people I was working with, and the other actors were lovely and taught me so much. It was such a positive experience, and there was so much I could take away from it.

As an introduction to filmmaking it must have been quite overwhelming.

It was. But I think it was good that it was such a challenging job to do, with so much CGI and being produced on such a scale. It was a really long process – even though the official shoot was about six months we were still filming a month before it was released. Having that as a first experience meant that I jumped all sorts of barriers very early on, so now if I get a job that has a lot of green screen, say, I’m not going to freak out and get daunted because I’m very used to it.

It’s just a shame that you didn’t get a chance to make the second two. The books are terrific, and they only get better.

Yeah, it is a shame. It’s one of those things that I’ve come to terms with. I was very upset about it at the time. Like you say, the books are brilliant and I really wanted to see it through and do them justice, but then I can also completely understand the reasons why they didn’t make them. Looking at it positively, it means that I’ve been able to move on, and I did jobs at the time that maybe I wouldn’t have been able to otherwise. I’ve been able to move away from the character in the way that some of the people that have done big trilogies or long series haven’t. They get put in a box: the Harry Potter kids or the Narnia kids. To an extent I’ll always be the Golden Compass girl, which I don’t have a problem with, but people have been able to see me in other roles too. I feel more established in my own right than I might have done if we’d made all of them.

The Fold is released on 28th March in UK cinemas and simultaneously on VOD through iTunes and Virgin Media.

Life of pi

For a technology that spent fifty years mouldering alongside curios like Illusion-O and Smell-O-Vision, the public perception of 3D has shifted massively in the past three years.

Widely acclaimed in the billion-dollar wake of Avatar, 3D’s value was irrevocably damaged by the cheap 2D-to-3D conversion jobs that followed: as dire blockbusters like Clash of the Titans and Alice in Wonderland sought to cash in on Avatar’s success, cinemagoers paid extortionate fees for dark, muddy 3D that felt like reading a bad pop-up book. By the time influential filmmakers like Steven Spielberg (The Adventures of Tintin) and Martin Scorsese (Hugo) got a chance to use the technology, audiences were no longer interested.

At least until James Cameron gets around to making his Avatar sequels, this is probably how the situation will remain, with audiences either indifferent or hostile towards 3D. The technology is a victim of its own success: seen by studios as a balm against piracy, its omnipresence means that films using 3D in interesting ways are doomed to be ignored amidst the dozens of releases blandly employing the format.

In an ideal world—i.e., not this one—3D wouldn’t cost extra and only films that really benefited from the technology would use it. Falling into that category would be Ang Lee’s new film Life of Pi, which employs 3D not just for spectacle but as an important tool in establishing spatial relationships within shots.

An adaptation of Yann Martel’s middlebrow blockbuster, Life of Pi tells the story of a 16-year-old boy (Suraj Sharma) stranded on a boat with a Bengal tiger called Richard Parker. As reflective as it is exciting, Life of Pi is one of the year’s most beautiful films.

While the source material affords Lee many opportunities for immersive visuals, from Pi’s whimsical upbringing in an Indian zoo to a leaping, bioluminescent whale, his use of 3D is most effective during the film’s shipwrecked middle section. Lee ensures that the audience is aware at all times of the boat’s size and the tiger’s proximity. As such, he remains a constant threat, careful framing establishing that Pi is never further than a lapse in concentration away from his own death.

In large part due to its impressive CG rendering, Richard Parker is a wholly believable living creature, existing without pity and powered only by animalistic instinct. Representing the untameable danger of nature, the decision not to anthropomorphise the tiger adds tension throughout, and is crucial to depicting his association with Pi—the film concerning their ever-shifting relationship as much as Pi’s struggle to survive. Focusing on this is also essential to avoiding the quirkiness that might have engulfed the film in lesser hands. There are islands of meerkats, and strongmen uncles, yes, but at the film’s core is a desperate battle for survival.

It’s impossible for the film about a boy and a tiger trapped on a boat to feel entirely realistic, especially considering the amount of computer imagery involved, so Lee instead opts to make the struggle biblical in its size and grandness. Entwined with Pi’s practical difficulties, the film retains the spiritual dimensions of Martel’s novel, capturing Pi’s quest to hold onto his faith after everything in his life has been torn away—not just to survive but to find a reason to do so.

An exclusive playlist made by director

Adapted from a short story by David Constantine, Andrew Haigh's new film 45 Years is about a complacently happy married couple, Kate (Charlotte Rampling) and Geoff (Tom Courtenay), whose lives are thrown into disarray when the long-lost body of Geoff's first love is discovered in the Swiss Alps, frozen and unchanged after decades in a glacier.

A beautifully told, quietly moving two-hander about an unexpected marital crisis, 45 Years features wonderful, lived-in performances from its leads, and further confirms Andrew as one of Britain's most talented film-makers. Ahead of its release in cinemas and on demand from 28th August, the writer-director has put together an exclusive playlist of songs for Oh Comely, inspired by and included in the film.

Given that 45 Years doesn't feature a score, its sound design and use of music is crucial. Andrew told us about his process of selecting music: “Most of the music choices were in the script. I was trying to have songs that reflected the past and parts of their character.” He mentions a key song from the film, Smoke Gets In Your Eyes by The Platters, which Kate and Geoff had played at their wedding. “I love their choice for their first dance, because really when you listen it's unclear whether it's a happy song or a really melancholy one. I've heard it being played at wedding parties before and thought, wow, I'm not sure if that's super romantic.” Andrew relates this idea to another song the couple like in the film, Go Now by The Moody Blues: “It has the perception of being romantic but then when you listen to the lyrics you think, 'my god, really?' I find that juxtaposition in music really interesting: that something might have the sense of being a romantic song but the truth behind the lyrics mean something different.”

45 Years: A Playlist Curated by Director Andrew Haigh (available on Spotify) 

I Don't Want to Set the World on Fire - The Ink Spots

Remember (Walking in the Sand) - The Shangri-Las

Suzanne - Leonard Cohen

The Old Man's Back Again - Scott Walker

Stagger Lee - Lloyd Price

I Only Want to Be With You - Dusty Springfield

Tell It Like It Is - Aaron Neville

Happy Together - The Turtles

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes - The Platters

Go Now - The Moody Blues

45 Years is released in UK cinemas and through Curzon Home Cinema on 28th August. You can listen to the exclusive playlist here.

Photos: Agatha A. Nitecka.  

How does a dwarf walk? An interview with one of the hobbit's 13 dwarfs

After a decade of running his own theatre company, Adam Brown makes his film debut in The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey. Adam plays Ori, one of the thirteen dwarves travelling with hobbit Bilbo Baggins (Martin Freeman) and wizard Gandalf (Ian McKellen) to defeat the dragon Smaug. A shy, gentle soul who wields a slingshot and yearns for chips, Ori is one of the film’s comic highpoints, and one of the most memorable dwarves—an accomplishment considering how many there are of them.

Ahead of the release of An Unexpected Journey, we chatted with Adam about working in New Zealand and finding his inner dwarf.

You’ve been working on the film for so long. It must be great for it to actually be out in the world?

We were down in Wellington for about eighteen months, just playing around in our little costumes and now it’s finally being released. It doesn’t quite feel real. I’m excited to see what people think.

Photo: Adam Brown as Ori the dwarf in The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey.

Ori is mentioned in some of Tolkien’s other works. Did you do much research about him, or just work from the script?

A bit of both really. Ori is one of the only dwarves who appears in four movies, because he’s in Lords of the Rings as a skeleton. I did a little bit of research about that, but mostly I went off the script. If you read the Hobbit, the dwarves aren’t mentioned a great deal—they’re not fleshed out. It was great having conversations with Peter Jackson, Fran Walsh and Philippa Boyens about their visions for the characters.

The dwarves are each very different and I’m lucky enough to be the little nerdy one, the child dwarf. I play the innocent fish out of water that really shouldn’t be on the journey at all—he’s far too timid. That came from my audition, I guess. I don’t know what I did but I must have brought a nervous quality.

What was Peter Jackson like as a director?

He’s just lovely. For somebody so rich and powerful, he was incredibly normal. There were times where we would offer our opinions and I think you knew straight away with Pete whether it was going to land or not. If you had to take a few moments to explain your idea it never really worked. He knew straight away what he wanted—he was always two steps ahead of all of us. We’d think that we’d come up with a great idea but he’d thought of it and considered if it would work.

Did you form a bond with your fellow dwarves?

We really, really did. It’s funny, I remember watching the Lord of the Rings DVDs and on all the documentaries they say how it’s like a family and I’d think "Come on, that’s just something you say to the press", but it’s totally true. Pete and Fran and Philippa have got such a unique world down there. All of these actors, aside from the New Zealanders obviously, are miles away from home. So the only thing we could do is really bond as a team. We did lots of Dwarf boot camp training, learning how to walk as a dwarf and getting armour lessons. The process of finding our inner dwarf was ridiculous, but such fun.

How does a dwarf walk?

Our movement coach described the walk as if you’re ploughing a field and there’s a big crane on your back. The way a dwarf walks is completely different to the way an elf or a hobbit walks. Dwarves are very grounded and centred. They’re never light on their feet. It’s like a truck accelerating—it takes a while but as soon as they’ve got some power behind them dwarves can pick up some great speed.

Photo: Ian McKellen as Gandalf in The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey.

What was the strangest moment when making the films?

I guess one of the oddest was being invited around to Pete’s hanger. He has a series of them in Wellington, and he’s really interested in World War One so he’s got lots of replica aeroplanes and guns in them. After filming all the dwarves were invited for pizza and beers and we were shooting guns in a hanger. It was one of those things you can’t really say no to. We ended the evening sitting in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, the actual car from the film. That’s how random it got last year.

You’re also going to be an action figure. Have you thought about that?

I think my family are more excited about that than I am. I must admit on the last day of shooting when I received my Lego action figure I thought, well, this is it, I’ve reached the pinnacle of my career. I’m officially a piece of Lego: I can stop now.

An interview with director morgan neville

In a competitive field, 20 Feet from Stardom surprised many by winning Best Documentary at this year’s Academy Awards. A film exploring the history of backup singers, 20 Feet from Stardom is a poignant, soulful tribute to the indispensible yet unheralded performers behind some of pop music’s most electrifying moments. Speaking to us shortly before his Oscar win, the documentary’s (very tired) director Morgan Neville told us about the making of the film and the power of music documentaries.

How did you first get involved in 20 Feet from Stardom?

I got a call from Gil Friesen who used to run A&M records and later became our producer. The first time I met him, he told me that he’d gone to see Leonard Cohen under the influence of marijuana and fixed upon the backup singers during the entire concert, wondering what their story was. The experience stayed with him and he thought there could be a documentary in it. I investigated and quickly discovered there was little about backup singers in terms of books or movies, or even websites and articles. So I spent three months interviewing backup singers just to figure out what their whole world was about. I did 50 oral histories to begin with and then ultimately interviewed about 80 singers.

I realised we’d stumbled across this amazing family of artists. They all know each other, they all look out for each other, and they’re incredibly talented. I had some misconceptions going into it: perhaps they weren’t as talented as lead singers and that’s why they were in the backup world, or maybe they didn’t have personalities or character to their voice. That was completely wrong, much to my delight.

Through the interviews in the film it becomes clear that their attitude towards being backup singers has changed over time.

To me that was the breakthrough in making the film. Initially I thought it was going to be a really depressing documentary, because they’re people with such undeniable talent who didn’t get the attention or accolades that they should have, and you feel bad for them. What I came to see was that they’ve come to terms with the lives they’ve had rather than the ones they’d dreamt of having. I think the backup world was the best place for a lot of them. If you truly care just about singing, it can be more soul-nourishing than trying to be a recording artist, where you have to deal with so much that has nothing to do with music. And it’s a much more sustainable way of living: when I spoke to The Waters, they told me that they sing behind artists who have one hit and a three year career and then are gone, while they’ve been getting paid to sing for fifty years. They’ve raised families and have houses and a great life and still get to sing.

How did you decide which performers to feature? Were you looking for diversity in their stories or an overriding arc?

When I was trying to figure everything out I interviewed singers from the entire spectrum of pop music, from Beyoncé's backup singers to James Brown's, and when I stood back I saw the story was that of African American voices, largely female, coming from churches into recording studios. And so I had a very specific criteria of the type of people I was looking for. I wanted singers who fit into that continuum but from slightly different generations, who had made different decisions, who were amazing singers and great personalities, and who had intersected with interesting songs and artists throughout their career. It was quite complicated to find the right group of women whose lives harmonised enough to demonstrate that they’re all living different versions of the same story.

A few of the film's participants have seen their careers reignited by its success. What has that been like for you?

It's amazing. Perhaps the most satisfying thing about making this film is that I wanted to shine a light on people who are unappreciated, whose brilliance and talent we should recognise. To have the film do that in such a powerful way was something I never expected. I don’t think it’s overstating it to say their lives have all been changed by this film. And mine, too. It’s just been fantastic to see the outpouring of love for them that’s come from it.

You’ve been making music documentaries for twenty years. What’s the appeal of using cinema to explore music? What do you gain by bringing those two mediums together?

I’m a music lover and grew up aspiring to be a music historian. My heroes were people like Peter Guralnick and Greil Marcus. But what I realised is that music in film is a great way to tell all kinds of stories. You’re starting with an incredible toolbox. Obviously music documentaries should be about music, which means that songs should be an integral part of the storytelling and help reveal story and character – I work hard on that – but at the same time they can be about more. Most of my music films are really about some other idea, whether it’s civil rights or finding your muse, or any number of things.

In this case, the film is about the history of popular music told from a slightly different angle.

Exactly. One thing I’ve always loved is using documentary to make you hear the familiar in a new way. When you discover what went into the writing or recording of a song it can completely make you re-evaluate your relationship to that piece of music. It becomes new again.

20 Feet from Stardom is out in the UK on Friday 28th March.

An interview with peter strickland

The Duke of Burgundy operates within its own discrete, sumptuous universe: an unspecific European state seemingly without men, populated by women whose interests are limited to sadomasochism and the study of butterflies.

A complex erotic drama influenced by 1970s sexploitation cinema, Peter Strickland's third feature is ostensibly about the sexual relationship between Cynthia (Sidse Babett Knudsen) and Evelyn (Chiara D'Anna), but through deliberate repetition reveals itself to be a tender and funny look at the everyday struggles of making a relationship work. Peter sat down with us ahead of the film's release to talk about dodgy bookshops and imaginary perfumes.

Outside of the S&M window dressing, the central relationship in The Duke of Burgundy is fairly universal. What was the value of using one thing to bring out the other?

It's something I really enjoy: through something that is unrecognisable for many people in the audience, you perhaps see something familiar. I'm assuming the film's a spectacle and slightly sensational for a lot of people, but by normalising it you get into the meat of the story, which is the characters' motivation within their dynamic. For me, the film is about consent and how that veers into compromise and eventually coercion. Everyone likes to think they don't coerce their partner. Compromise is an issue within every element of a relationship, not just the sexual parts – if a couple decides to start a family, one person will possibly have to compromise on a job they might love. I'm not an agony aunt, but you can apply the film beyond the bedroom. 

What appealed to you about taking a genre like sexploitation that's generally viewed in low-standing and repurposing it?

I'm a bit of dumpster diver. I like going through things that people overlook and disregard, and I'm very aware that this genre is one of the few in cinema that's never really been propped up or defended. Grindhouse had a light shone on it, and Italian giallo horror for sure, but not sexploitation. Anything to do with sex is just seen as a bit embarrassing. Even to to get a hold of these films you used to have to go into dirty bookshops on Charring Cross Road. There are some very bad ones of course, with no redeeming qualities, but there are also ones which are brilliant all the way through. I remember a film I saw at the Scala Cinema 24 years ago called Mano Destra, by Cleo Übelmann. It's this bizarre black and white film, like Chris Marker doing a bondage film, almost a still life. So I'm not trying to look down on them. I think in general these films embodied a fantasy, like the stern prison warden and the poor prisoner being sexually humiliated and so on. What propelled me was the sleazier elements, not that female lovers are sleazy, but the intention was sleazy because it was made for a male heterosexual audience. The idea was to take some of the fantastical imagery and puncture it, or turn it inside out. 

Your previous film Berberian Sound Studio was a film ostensibly about horror and violence that didn't have either of those things, and this is a film ostensibly about a sexual relationship that doesn't show the actual sexual component of it. Why did you choose to imply rather than depict?

I toyed with showing sex. The script was quite explicit, but I didn't want to compete with other things. I knew Nymphomaniac was getting made at the time, and there was Blue is the Warmest Colour. Even if you don't want to, it can end up as this kind of sexual one-upmanship. I thought the best approach was to just hold back. I was also very aware of being a man, and thought it was important to not be too directional with the way the camera was looking. I was really conscious of the pitfalls of that. If I'd made the film with two men I probably would have done it differently, and it would have been quite graphic. Ultimately I chose two women because that's the genre staple.

The setting and era of the film is purposefully vague. What was your thinking behind that? It could be the 1970s, it could be now...

It could be the future! Sometimes it's hard to say why you do things. I liked the idea of this middle Europe. Practically it makes sense when you have actors with different accents, so the mix doesn't feel too disruptive. The first draft had men, the characters had jobs, they lived in the city. I thought let's actually make this kind of preposterous: a world where they have a house no-one can afford, and there are no men, and everyone is doing the same activity. It's not realistic at all. By that, perhaps, you focus on the dynamics of the relationship. For me the fact that there are no men makes it not a classic lesbian story because there is no other gender to have a counterpoint. There's no other sexuality to have a counterpoint, because there aren't even heterosexual women. I didn't want to make it about that, because then you get into the idea of social acceptance, rather than the things I was interested in.

Listed among the opening credits is “Perfume by Je Suis Gizella”. Did you actually use perfume on set?

That perfume didn't exist. It does now. We didn't know we'd have such a strong reaction so we've actually produced a limited edition perfume. I stole the idea from an Audrey Hepburn film, Paris When It Sizzles, which lists her perfume as being by Givenchy. Nobody's seen that film so I thought I could get away with it. My job is to get the audience in the world of the film as quickly as possible. Credits are not just functional, informational space – you can play with them to create mood, and perfume makes you think this is a heady, sensual, decadent world.

The Duke of Burgundy is out now.

An interview with director phillip warnell

This February, Tate Modern is launching a strand of monthly artists' film premieres called Artist Cinema, starting with the U.K. premiere of Ming of Harlem: Twenty One Storeys in the Air. Devised by artist, film-maker, and academic Phillip Warnell, Ming of Harlem looks at a 2003 incident in which a man called Antoine Yates was arrested for keeping a 425lb Bengal tiger and a seven-foot alligator for several years in his apartment in Harlem. As well as taking Antoine back to his former neighbourhood and showing news footage of his dramatic arrest, the film depicts an imagined version of his apartment built within a tiger enclosure at the Isle of Wight Zoo, with the footage set to a poem by the philosopher Jean-Luc Nancy.

Ahead of its upcoming Tate screening, Phillip spoke with us about his work on the film.

How did you become interested in the story of Antoine Yates?

It goes back quite a way. I saw it on the news in 2003, and it was just a very extraordinary thing to witness: a policeman rappelling down the side of a building being attacked by a tiger that's inside. It all seemed so improbable that it just stayed in my mind, but at the time there was no way I could do anything with it. I like thinking beyond the news story: about former news, forgotten news. Ten years later I realised that it was possible to make approaches to people like Antoine.

What was he like in person?

People who have unexpectedly been part of the news, they're often haunted by the moment at which their story became public. In Antoine's case, there was outcry and public disbelief. Even the mayor of New York commented on it. Meeting him a decade after that, his recollection was still caught up in when it all happened, in an almost post-traumatic way.

Was there any resistance on his part to talk about it, or was he quite willing to be the subject of your film?

To his credit he was only interested in participating in something that was non-commercial, if I can put it that way. I think he would have been much more reluctant if the film were a commercially-driven proposition, but I told him that it was an artists' project. I wasn't making something on behalf of someone, and he was very open to the idea because of that.

Where's the boundary between an artists' film and a documentary? You use archival footage to provide exposition and you follow Antoine around, but then the heart of the film is a long sequence showing a tiger move around a specially-built flat at a zoo.

I don't think there's much to distinguish an artist's film from a documentary, but I don't worry about those definitions. I try to avoid thinking in terms of genre. Perhaps if one were looking for something that distinguished one from the other it might be that a documentary would be looking at reconstruction whereas this film slips into another domain, so it's not a replica of the flat. It bears no resemblance whatsoever apart from one window. The rest of the flat I avoided becoming knowledgeable about. I wanted to imagine it, which drew out something that has very little to do with documentary.

Did that make you feel like you had a free hand to let Antoine speak on camera, instead of feeling an impulse to challenge him on his point of view or what he did?

Well, my view is that it's not the role of a documentarian to simply challenge anyway. Sometimes in the presumption of challenging someone we simply get the perspective of the film-maker, so it's not that I was avoiding challenging him, but rather that it would have been problematic in the first instance. I'm very interested in ambiguity and things that you can't prove, things that are forever unknown. Unverifiable things. When someone says they did something and you can't disprove it, there's a wonder to that. Actually it's something we all do in our own ways. When we look back we emphasise things and exercise preference. I love that we do that.

The film includes a poem by the philosopher Jean-Luc Nancy. How did that collaboration come about?

We've worked on several projects together. It's our second film in terms of his involvement, but we've also collaborated on texts and some photo works. I've always been fascinated by Jean-Luc's writing. It exists in the context of the reconfiguration of his own body. He's a heart transplant recipient, and that has affected and contextualised his work. For this film I set him the challenge to write a poem about the bringing together of these rather at-odds species.

Had he seen any of the footage you'd shot?

No, he just knew the concept. If you show someone too much they can start illustrating it instead. I told him about the living circumstances of Antoine and the animals. I didn't want him to write relative to the material, but relative to the idea of dangerous predators in limited space.

Cycling solo

First published in Oh Comely Issue 26. Subscribe or a buy the issue here.

With apologies to Ben Matthew, my bicycle is probably my best friend. It’s rare for me to arrive at any engagement without a pannier awkwardly wedged under an arm, yet I prefer to use it for pleasure over purpose, regularly spending weekends cycling up and down my local canal like I’m conducting a haphazard topographical survey.

Last year, I arranged to undertake a solo bike ride from Glasgow to Inverness. The journey, my route map promised, would carry me through ancient pine forests, open heather moorland and two national parks. I would traverse a mountain range, cross divine Victorian bridges, visit Rob Roy’s grave and see the millennia-old Fortingall Yew. In the weeks leading up to my departure I was barely present in my daily life. It was as if I was already in the Highlands; I’d get to sleep by imagining I was in my sleeping bag, under a sky ablush with stars.

An afternoon, an evening, a can of Irn-Bru and a fistful of sweets into my adventure, I realised something was awry. I was being eaten alive. Despite the relatively low top speed of the Highland midge, outrunning them had ceased to be an option. A cloud of winged creatures hung around me like a cartoon bad mood, my flesh a siren song for their plodding, fevered hunger. The holiday wasn’t going well. With the last of the day sinking beneath Loch Venachar, I had scant minutes to arrange canvas, poles, pegs and guy ropes in the vague configuration of a tent. When I finally made it inside my refuge, arrhythmic insectile drumming announcing my success on the flysheet, I looked through the mesh triangle and wondered what had brought me there. A sensible person might have told me that camping next to a loch at the height of summer was a mistake. But there was no one to say anything.

As my body released a torturous rush of histamine in a misguided attempt to be helpful, I realised that I was telling myself that I was having a good time rather than actually having one. The truth is there’s no such thing as travelling alone: you always end up taking yourself along too. Even as I pedalled through some of the most dazzling landscapes I’d ever seen, my thoughts, unbridled from the demands of work, daily activities and other people, were free to tumble into fathomless depths. Strenuous physical exertion and solitude conspired to exhume everything I’d wrapped in bin liners and buried under the patio of my mind. As an enthusiastic amateur, I had trained my body to cycle from morning until night. Spending a week stuck inside my own head was another matter.

When you experience solitude alongside ordinary interactions you’re able to appreciate both states more keenly: getting away for ten minutes to buy milk can be like a cooling breeze on a sweltering afternoon. This only works, however, when isolation exists in isolation. As the spectacular trudge of my first day had neared its conclusion, I felt overwhelmed by the likelihood of a whole week without talking to anyone outside the hospitality industry. Between travel companions the difficult parts of a journey become something you share: an in-joke, an elaborate story you tell later, a secret. What joy could I find in flat tyres, midge onslaughts or disappointing pies? When faced alone, they were just hassles. That night I lay in my besieged tent in the dark, listening to the insects hum. I felt guilty. Why did I need another person in my life to be happy? Why didn’t things feel the same by myself? I’ve been fiercely independent since my mid-teens, and yet the idea of cycling hundreds of miles across mountains daunted me less than the prospect of doing it without anyone to make terrible puns with.

There wasn’t a triumphant breakthrough coming. Loneliness is like a heavy coat that you’re unable to take off; the sight of Ben Macdui or a dotterel or the Glen Ogle viaduct could only be so helpful. I struggled on. The good and the bad rode along with me, bulging panniers on either side of my emotional bike rack. I learned to live on small comforts: a wave from a man on a tractor, a barmaid in Pitlochry who told me about her brother, the cerulean signposts of the National Cycle Network informing me someone had been there before me. I realised—and there was plenty of time to reflect upon this—that all I could do was give myself over to the experience wholeheartedly, regardless of how I felt inside.

So that’s what I did. I swam in every loch I saw, cycled in torrential rain, flew down mountains; ditched my bike to bound up hillocks, yelled from summits, sang to the birds, recited mountain poetry to nonplussed sheep, awoke to see a deer idling outside my tent, ordered four side dishes in an incongruous Australian theme restaurant, camped in a field of heather, camped on the side of a hill, camped anywhere the midges wouldn’t get me, drank Glenfiddich as the sun went down, stood waist deep in Loch Moy and read Nan Shepherd, stumbled across a Bronze Age cairn and walked among the passage graves and thought about the still living and the long dead. And then it was over. On my final night I wriggled out of my tent to sleep under the stars, even though it was overcast and I couldn’t see them.

Rather than being a break from my regular life, the trip became that life in microcosm: trying to make the good things outweigh the bad ones, offsetting struggles with wonders, yearning to connect. I love spending time alone, but I understood as clearly as I ever had that I don’t want to be alone, because life is best when shared with other people: family, friends, maybe even someone who’d be willing to occasionally spend a week swimming in lochs and enduring the bombardments of the Highland midge. I haven’t met them yet.

First published in Oh Comely Issue 26. Subscribe or a buy the issue here.

An interview with director alain guiraudie

This interview explains the film's premise, so it's not one for hardcore spoiler-haters.

Stranger by the Lake takes place in that late, languid stretch of summer where every day feels like every other day. Set entirely at a gay cruising spot in rural France, the film follows Franck (Pierre de Ladonchamps), whose daily excursions to swim, sunbathe and have sex with strangers are complicated when he witnesses a murder and subsequently falls for the killer. A complex film that is by turns funny, sad, erotic and suspenseful, Stranger by the Lake is notable for its measured tempo and its unselfconscious and frank portrayal of sex. Ahead of the film’s unseasonable February release, we spoke to director Alain Guiraudie about the production.

The film has a murder at its centre and is peppered with casual sex, and yet it feels loving, affectionate even.

It has a softness, definitely. A gentleness. The other day I was talking with friends who worked on the project from the beginning and they said when they initially read the script they thought it was going to be much harsher.

Was it a deliberate intention to avoid a sensationalist tone?

Yes, it’s a film I made without any desire to be provocative or wanting to shock at all. I wanted things to happen quietly, for events to unfold in an obvious but gentle way.

Even the actual murder is shot from a distance. You don’t really see or hear it properly.

That's the image of the film for me. I like the idea of the drowning scene because it starts quite playfully and then turns into tragedy. It was important that it took place at a distance from the eyes of Franck and his perspective, so that his point of view becomes our point of view and we can identify with him.

Franck is a passive, reactive character, and accordingly Pierre de Ladonchamps’ performance is very subtle. How did you bring that out?

I directed Pierre a fair bit but at the same time not that much. There's something in him that's very complex. He has a lot of layers. An interesting thing I noticed on set is that as an actor, if he does nothing he appears to be worried. There's just something dark that's in him at rest. And so I had to fight his natural appearance of anxiety.

The film's pacing is quite deliberate. Events build slowly and steadily over time, and you repeatedly return to shots like the one of the car park, its number of cars rising and falling. What were your intentions in structuring the film the way you did?

Pacing is something you discover at the editing stage between the editor and the director. It comes quite intuitively. But what we knew we were working with was this laidback, lazy summer atmosphere. The lake is always the same but it’s not the same, because of what happened the day before. We also wanted the days to be structured by the light changing, and to arrange the film geographically: you have the parking lot, the pathway, and then the beach, and little by little things are simplified. You don't see the parking lot any more, and then you don't see the pathway, and then you only have the beach.

You shot the entire film outside. Was that difficult? How did you respond to the weather and the variable sunlight?

I really enjoy filming in the open air, and I thought that by going to that particular region I would have better weather than we did. In the end I think it worked well, though: the fact that we didn't always have fabulous weather contributed to the images. The real challenge when you use natural daylight is to be absolutely ready for specific shots in that specific light. You have to shoot very quickly in a limited number of takes. Generally you want to be ready with your actors when the light is ready, but if you're not ready with your actors you have to just go for it anyway.

The lake is essential to the film. What were you looking for in a location? How did you find it?

What determined the choice was simplicity: the size of the human side, a location where the other side of the lake wasn’t too far away. Actually, the first time we found the lake there wasn't a beach at all, because the initial location scouting happened in the spring, in the rainy season, and we were filming at the end of August when it was completely different. Luckily we saw it again on the day when the lake's water level went down sufficiently, and nature had changed it.

Stranger by the Lake is very sexually explicit, and the characters spend most of the film naked, but you don't draw attention to this at all. Why was it important to you to depict sex and the human body in a natural, almost casual way?

I generally try to show things in movies without the aspect of fabrication. I don't want to create the impression of doing things especially for the audience. Of course, when you're dealing with scenes of intimacy such as sexual acts it's difficult for the actors to perform whilst facing the eyes of others. And I also think you could fall very easily into cliché or outrageousness. But there was an interview I read with Bruce Dern where he said that someone who can't be intimate in public can't be an actor. It's interesting because I was talking to the actors when we were working and they said that there's not much difference between pretending to make love and actually making love, apart from the sexual organs and one thing going into another. Physically the mechanics are different, but it's the same emotionally. It's still sex.

Stranger by the Lake is out in the UK on Friday 21st February. 

Short films by women filmmakers

Being an up-and-coming film festival in London is a distinct challenge. The festival has to form a strong identity and yet be inclusive enough to attract people who don’t immediately associate with that identity, whilst also competing against a few dozen other London-based festivals and that week’s latest releases.

UnderWire Festival, now in its third year, distinguishes itself by being the U.K’s only short film festival for women filmmakers. As so many shorts are made by filmmakers in the early part of their career, the festival serves as a way to support female practitioners as they develop their craft. Based at the Ritzy Cinema in Brixton and run by a team of volunteers, UnderWire Festival features a mix of short film screenings, industry workshops and awards for emerging female filmmakers.

Photo: Still from Dream Drafters, screening on November 23rd as part of the festival.

The proportion of women in the film industry is woefully small, not just in writing and directing but also technical areas like cinematography, editing and sound, so a festival like UnderWire Festival provides a valuable platform for their work, as well as opportunities to network and see the work of peers. Bolstered by a strong, varied programme, there’s not a single night that wouldn’t be worth attending.

UnderWire Festival 2012 begins today and runs until Saturday 24th November at the Ritzy Cinema, Brixton.

Photo: A still from the Centrefold Project, an animated documentary about labia surgery, which is screening on November 21st. 

An interview with director david gordon green

David Gordon Green has made so many left turns as a film-maker that he's found himself back where he started. After drawing repeated comparisons to Terrence Malick for his stunning debut George Washington and becoming a reliable source of underseen but critically admired dramas, David surprised many by directing the stoner action comedy Pineapple Express. A sizeable sleeper hit, the film heralded the unlikely second phase of his career. However, just as big, broad comedies like Your Highness seemed to define his work, the film-maker shifted direction again and moved into deliberately unassuming character studies. The latest of these is Manglehorn, a lovely, low-key story about a brooding locksmith with little time for anyone except his sickly pet cat. As the eponymous near-hermit Al Pacino gives his best performance in too many years, matching the understated charm that the film exudes. Ahead of its upcoming release, we spoke to David about his exploratory creative process.

You conceived of Manglehorn after meeting Al Pacino about another project. What quality did you want him to bring out of him with this film?

Al does a lot of larger than life characters and Manglehorn is smaller than life. I was really looking to do an intimate, very vulnerable character study, inspired by the meeting I'd had with him where he was laughing and soft spoken and had this wonderful modest quality. It was something that I hadn't seen in a movie of his in a long time. I was thinking about his old films like The Panic in Needle Park and Scarecrow, early Pacino work that I've always admired. As a big fan I wanted to find a good reason to get in the ring with him. I thought one way might be generating a great character for him first.

I found it quite telling that both Manglehorn and your previous film Joe are named after their protagonists. What's the value of focusing on just one character?

A couple of years ago I'd just had kids and wanted to live in a place and make movies in that place, so I moved to Austin, Texas and started thinking less conceptually about big budget explosive content and more intimately about the area I was walking around in. The locksmith shop in the film is just two blocks from my house. I could walk to the set every day. When you have kids you have this epic mindset – the universe around you explodes, in a way – and I wanted to focus on something that was less extraordinary and look at it through a microscope.

Do you think you'll ever have the urge to make films again on a larger scale?

Actually just last week I finished a movie that's like that. There's a bus chase on a cliff and big name actors and set pieces and everything. It's fun to have money and toys, and there are a lot of Hollywood things that appeal to me, but it's nice to strip all the conversation away too. On the movie I just completed there were hundreds of people I needed to refer to in order to discuss visual effects and action sequences and safety and set design and construction. For a film like Manglehorn it's just three or four people walking around looking at the light and moving some set dressing from one side of the room to the other. There's something really calm and peacefully collaborative about that. It's more meditative. I think I have the type of mentality that needs to bounce back and forth between things.

How did that calmer approach apply to your working relationship with Al Pacino?

For many months before we shot I would fly to California and sit in his back yard and eat strawberries and talk about the character. We'd invite friends over and just read the script aloud, start to hear it and evolve it. There were some characters in early drafts that we decided not to incorporate. We wanted it to be organic, so we shot mostly in order and I didn't want to know how it ended necessarily. There was a screenplay, a roadmap for what we were doing financially and logistically but the film became very different because we found detours.

How did you come up with the name Manglehorn? It's evocative of folk stories.

That was part of the goal, to make something that felt like a fairytale. In an early conversation we said that we wanted to make a children's film. We got a little too melancholy for that, but still there's no profanity or violence or drug use. We tried to refrain from anything objectionable as a subconscious reference to the idea of a magical craftsman. I've always seen the locksmith profession in that light, like woodcarvers or the toymaker Geppetto or other things that might exist in a fairytale.

Were you interested in the symbolic idea of a man who can unlock any door but can't open up parts of himself?

Once you take anybody and start looking at what they do you invoke a world of metaphors. This was a situation where we weren't resistant to that. None of it was conscious but we started smiling our way through when we realised the fable that was unfolding had that little nod to symbolism. It was a very casual production process. It wasn't one of those calculated, storyboarded, pre-conceived type of movies. It was really just getting a creative, collaborative group of artists together and convincing Al Pacino to show up and then everybody felt their way through filming. That's a fun way for me to work, to carve time to do some unique weird shit during the day.

Have you always been that way, or did you have to establish your own voice to be confident enough to explore and experiment?

I think any film-maker evolves in their enthusiasm and their process. For me it's always changing and I wake up every morning with different interests. Sometimes that means to do a big movie or a little movie or a television show or  a TV commercial. I try not to think about the end result too much but I follow things that appeal to me, narratives that appeal to me, people that appeal to me. I just go with my intuition and instinct and sometimes everybody's happy and other times it takes me to strange and questionable places.

Manglehorn is released in U.K. cinemas and through Curzon Home Cinema on 7th August.

The hobbit - the desolation of smaug

If An Unexpected Journey--the first entry in Peter Jackson’s three-film adaptation of J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit--was disappointing, part of the reason may have been because of how long it spent in the Shire. The settlement serves the same function in both The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings: an untroubled, bucolic ideal that its hobbit protagonists yearn for whilst travelling on their respective quests. With its absence of danger or surprise, the Shire is differentiated from the rest of Middle-earth, which makes it a problematic location to set more than a few opening or closing scenes--the very constancy that makes the naturally-unadventurous hobbits want to return to it is the antithesis of the drama Jackson wishes to depict. With so much space to fill, however, the filmmaker was in no hurry to leave, and his dawdling in the Shire and elsewhere contributed to An Unexpected Journey feeling like a three-hour-long first act.

Fortunately, The Desolation of Smaug finds Bilbo Baggins and his dwarf cohorts having left the serenity of Hobbiton far behind. Now solidly within the middle part of the story, Jackson doesn’t need to concern himself with beginnings or endings, and is free instead to focus on entertaining the audience.

While the film suffers from many of the same problems that afflicted An Unexpected Journey--Jackson has never met a CGI bridge that he hasn’t wanted lots of people to cross--it is still a notable improvement. The lack of a long-winded introduction plays to the book’s strengths: where The Lord of the Rings is an enormous, solemn epic, The Hobbit is an adventure story, typically introducing a new creature each chapter. The Desolation of Smaug accordingly bounds from encounter to encounter, with little need to linger on any of them.

Making a deliberate attempt to emulate the epic sweep of The Lord of the Rings, Jackson’s adaptation is far darker than its source material. But whilst he still strains towards the portentousness of his sequel trilogy, The Desolation of Smaug is nonetheless suffused with wit and energy: the scene in which Bilbo and the dwarves use barrels to escape down a river is amongst the most propulsive, purely exciting sequences in any of his Middle-earth films, shot with a fluidity reminiscent of the lengthy single-shot chase in the Jackson-produced The Adventures of Tintin. Similarly, Bilbo’s climactic parley with the dragon Smaug is wonderfully tense, the hobbit skittering evasively among cascading piles of gold, alternately attempting to flatter and manipulate his predator as coins landslide beneath him.

Even though The Desolation of Smaug contains many excellent set-pieces, their existence is further proof that the expansion of the story to three pictures was ill-advised. The film’s standout sequences all come directly from the book, whilst its least necessary ones all do not. The trilogy remains like a bloated double album that should have been squeezed onto a single CD, its filler tracks discarded. Whilst The Desolation of Smaug definitely fares better from inflation than An Unexpected Journey, which filled out its running time with dull, endless fights with orcs and wargs, it still runs into problems whenever it strays too far from Tolkien.

The series’ bright spot continues to be Martin Freeman’s depiction of Bilbo. A fine actor who found himself typecast in everyman roles following The Office, Freeman is so successful in the films precisely because of how innately relatable he is. It’s through Bilbo that we understand Middle-earth: a land that’s scary, wondrous and a little silly as well. Decent and courageous and yet with a natural aptitude for deceit, his inherent contradictions make him more compelling than the staidly noble protagonists of The Lord of the Rings. It’s telling that while the quest of his nephew Frodo was to dispose of a precious object, Bilbo’s is to steal one.

As the One Ring extends its sway over Bilbo, Freeman’s portrayal evolves subtly. In one of the film’s darkest moments, Bilbo fights a horde of giant arachnids trying to eat the dwarves. Battling heroically, he suddenly sees the spiders as a threat to the ring and loses sight of his initial objective, turning barbarous in an instant. Bilbo’s subsequent disgust at his own murderous potential is a fascinating depiction of the ring’s seductive power; by contrast, Frodo mostly responded to its burden by looking pallid and falling down a lot.

Where The Desolation of Smaug expands upon The Lord of the Rings is the notion that the One Ring’s insidious qualities aren’t unique, that greed and ruthlessness can be inspired by anything of particular value, from precious objects to power. Uneasy dwarf leader Thorin Oakenshield, who sets out on the quest in order to reclaim the Lonely Mountain and restore the standing of his people, is implicated by the notion that he is just as entranced by the mountain’s stockpiled riches as Smaug.

The Desolation of Smaug’s strong characterisation is only let down by its secondary antagonist, Azog, an orc chieftain already long dead in the book. For a literary universe where villainy derives from the corruption of good people as much as it does from ancient monsters, the omnipresence of such an uninteresting enemy is disappointing. Constantly chasing the dwarves to little effect, Azog exists only to give a sense of urgency to their quest, despatching yet another wave of easily-bested orcs at the group whenever the momentum sags.

Deep within Tolkien’s exhausting mythopoeia The Silmarillion, the author remarks that the elves of Middle-earth define the passing of their age as starting at the moment of its creation. The concept of something’s end being present within its beginning is a miserably beautiful one, and this melancholic perspective hangs heavily over both Tolkien’s writings and Jackson’s cinematic interpretations. Essentially functioning as Middle-earth travelogues, both trilogies find their protagonists journeying from one exotic location to another, and each new forest, mountain or kingdom is rarely encountered in full bloom. A disease of some description has often taken hold: in The Desolation of Smaug decay is present everywhere from the hallucinatory forest of Mirkwood to the corruptly-governed Lake-town.

Late in the film, the dwarves attempt to insult Smaug by accusing him of being “in his dotage”, but the same holds true for all of Middle-earth. Even when the characters ultimately triumph against evil, their actions are recognised as contributing to the end of the “Færie” age and the start of “the Dominion of Men”.  More so than similarly outsized blockbusters or other fantasy adaptations, The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings are defined by a sense of waning glory, an ever-present autumn.

Future shorts x edge of arabia

By being brief, short films offer an opportunity for filmmakers to try new things and make mistakes. With a limited budget and production cycle a misfire isn’t the end of a career, but a chance to scratch a creative itch before moving on.

Music videos and advertisements fulfil a similar role in the development of emerging filmmakers, but they lack the purity of a short: even at their finest, they’re still trying to sell you something. For an audience, too, the concise length is a blessing, as even the worst short film in the world is only a few minutes away from its wretched and merciful end.

Photo: Edge of Arabia was hosting an exhibition, #COMETOGETHER, alongside the Future Shorts screenings, that showcased the work of over 25 Arab and Islamic artists.

Whilst it is rare for a short to screen in front of a non-animated feature anymore, the rise of short film programmers such as Future Shorts have ensured that they find an audience. A pop-up short film festival specialising in site-specific events across the world, Future Shorts has built an admirable platform for filmmakers to distribute their work. Its ever-changing nature mirrors the variety of the short films they screen, finding new venues and curating programmes inspired by those venues.

Future Shorts’ most recent event took place last week as a collaboration with Edge of Arabia, an Arab art collective currently occupying the Old Truman Brewery in Shoreditch.

Alongside the art works and live performances by oud player Yazid Fentazi and others, the event screened nine short films that reflected on the Middle East. From the overtly political (Sigalit Liphshitz’s excellent border-drama Cockfight), to the humorous (Ritesh Batra’s relationship-negotiation comedy Cairo, Café Regular), the event reflected an impressive range of voices and experiences from the region.

The event’s only false note arrived towards the end, where MIA’s music video Bad Girls was interrupted by niqab-wearing dancers doing a dance routine in front of the screen. Clearly influenced by Future Shorts’ sister company Secret Cinema, the dance only managed to awkwardly reproduce what was happening on screen and distract the audience from watching one of the more provocative films of the night.

This minor lapse is forgivable, of course: if short films are allowed the freedom to experiment and get things wrong occasionally then so should the event’s organisers. For the most part the performances, regional food and art work all contributed to a reflective, engaging evening. Most importantly, the good films outweighed the poorer ones by a fair degree, which is about as much as you can want from a short film programme.

More on Future Shorts here.

An interview with co-founder james bradley

Staged throughout the year in London, Tokyo, Liverpool, Los Angeles, Las Vegas and Amsterdam, the not-for-profit Lift-Off International Film Festivals are unique in the film festival calendar in that they're free for audiences to attend and focus on supporting emerging film-makers. Ahead of their upcoming Liverpool festival, taking place from 12-14th March, we spoke to Lift-Off's co-founder James Bradley about the initiative.

What's the objective behind Lift Off?

Life Off is trying to be a distribution network for independent cinema – for shorts, features, documentaries, animations, all different types of films from across the spectrum of creative film-making. We strive towards giving film-makers the best possible exposure and opportunity in front of live audiences in really decent and exciting venues around the world.

Is there a regional difference between the sorts of films that are submitted to each festival?

They're each programmed with a loose sense of theme. We've noticed that it happens naturally: year after year and city after city film-makers seem to stick to particular ideas. I think that's partially down to the collective consciousness of a place but also that people are observing the same things in culture at that moment in time.

How do film-makers submit to the festival and how do you choose what to show?

We invite film-makers to submit via our website. We take a nominal fee that increases as the submission deadline get closer. What we do in return for that is we give them partnership marketing, exclusive content, filmmaking tutorials and feedback. The films then go through a three-stage judging procedure that starts with myself and my co-founder, goes on to a group of industry professionals, and from that we programme a mixture of local film-makers and international films. It's a broad range that gives a good idea of what independent grassroots film-makers are actually producing right now.

In what way does Lift-Off's independent focus affect its programming criteria?

Our ethos is very much catered towards the artistic merits of the work, to put talent ahead of technology. Especially at this level, in the independent film world there's a snobbery about what camera equipment you're using, or what editing software. These unnecessary expenditures get in the way of film-making. I feel the priority should be the cast and crew – instead of renting an expensive camera you could pay three actors a decent day rate to do your work, and the respect for their professionalism would add a lot more than what you would get from a Red Epic or an Arri Alexa

What sort of relationship does each festival have with its respective city?

We work closely with each city individually. Liverpool especially has a really great independent atmosphere. For the past few years we've used venues that are associated with the cultural community, and have worked with film clubs and educational institutions like Liverpool Hope University and the Liverpool Institute for Performing Arts. We invite as many people as possible to come with their groups and chat to us and get involved.

The Liverpool Lift-Off Film Festival runs from 12th to 14th March. Film-makers can still apply at this link, and Oh Comely readers can use the submission code LiverpoolIndie for a 25% discount. The final deadline for submissions is 20th February.

The scar on my elbow

The relationship had become like a favourite jumper; it was wearing thin at the elbows and didn’t really fit any more, but neither of us had the heart to throw it out. Four years of Saturday nights and Wednesday evenings and Sunday mornings had built up a level of comfortableness which was wonderful until we realised we’d somehow become friends who shared a bed. “Look how superior we are to other couples,” we’d think. “We don’t fight anymore!”

When we finally did gather the courage to give up, it was the bike I turned to for comfort. I’d spend evenings and weekends going up and down the river, as far and as fast as I could. I knew that I was trying to escape from things that I was carrying along with me, but that didn’t matter, just as it didn’t matter that I knew we were doing the right thing by breaking up. I had no plans and no one to see, so I’d ride until I ended up in a different county or until the river started to turn back on itself. I was trying to not think or feel, attempting to replace emotion with the thrum in my legs and a breathless void in my chest.

My bike—brand new, thanks to a government scheme—was better at being a bike than I was at being a person. It had a suspension fork and disc brakes and didn’t lie awake at night wondering if it had made a mistake. Despite the bike’s comfort and technological superiority to my old one, the main reason I bought it was because of a single phrase on its online blurb which said it was “most at home on the canal towpath.” It was marketing patter, of course, but that was alright. I’d found my soulmate, and it had 21 gears and quick release wheels.

There wasn’t anything special about the day I crashed. Maybe if we’d still been together we would have met up with friends, or gone for a walk, but instead it was just me and the bike and as much distance as I could put behind me. I saw the torn-up concrete as it came towards the front wheel, and in the instant between the realisation and the crash I understood that it was inevitable, that every furious pedal had brought me to that moment. 

The bike went to the left and I went to the right. Neither myself nor the bicycle broke, but my right leg and arm were nastily grazed—skin replaced by blood, grit and a small island of plasma just above my elbow. The feelings which I’d been racing from came flooding back, and joining them was fear that someone would come by and see me, maybe even try to help. 

The idea that someone would see me so thoroughly felled was embarrassing, but a little comforting in its horribleness. I was consciously aware that the moment was a low. It was difficult to imagine that I could feel any worse, which at least meant things might get easier: a long trudge uphill to somewhere better.

After I’d wallowed for a sufficient amount of time I got back up, righted the bicycle and headed towards home. I was only able to use one arm effectively, and was about an hour away, but I was moving again. I stopped off at a supermarket to buy medical supplies and gin, both of which seemed necessary. For the first time in a few years the cashier asked me for proof of age. I offered my right arm, and she seemed satisfied by the response. Once I was home my flatmates cleaned up the wound, and the three of us drank until everything seemed better. 

The injuries were painful for a while, and faded one by one. The body can be overly symbolic sometimes. All that’s left of that day is a patch of disturbed skin near my elbow that looks like a dark pink thumbprint. It doesn’t hurt anymore, and when I look at it now it’s hard to remember a time when it did. But it’s still there, regardless: a part of me.