Charlize Theron
is a Vision in Red at Oscars 2016
Los Angeles, 28 february 2016
Los Angeles, 28 february 2016
Monday, February 29, 2016
The 100 best nonfiction books / No 5 / Dreams from My Father by Barack Obama (1995)
The 100 best nonfiction books
No 5
Dreams from My Father
by Barack Obama
(1995)
This remarkably candid memoir from the then junior senator of Illinois revealed not only a literary talent, but a force that would change the face of US politics for ever
Robert McCrum
Monday 29 February 2016 05.45 GMT
I
n the run-up to the 2008 US presidential election, that rollercoaster primary season in which Hillary Clinton was expected to play a starring, and possibly triumphant, role, I was commissioned by the Observer to review the campaign biographies of the principal Democratic and Republican contenders, a slate of candidates that ran the gamut of implausibility from John McCain and Mitt Romney to John Kerry, John Edwards and Joe Biden. Dismal as these politicians appeared to be on the campaign trail, their collected works made an even sorrier catalogue. All the books under review turned out to be either ghosted by party hacks, or “As told to”. Every last one of them was a farrago of wonkishness, insincerity, and cliche, polemical half-truths and bits of old stump speeches, mashed-up press releases and policy statements, reheated for popular consumption in some of the dullest American prose imaginable. Was it possible that none of the candidates had even read these books, let alone written them?
There was, however, an exception, a shaft of clarity and brilliance in the prevailing murk. One of the Democratic outsiders, the junior senator from the state of Illinois, a certain Barack Obama, had not only written his own book some years before, he had also executed an affecting personal memoir with grace and style, narrating an enthralling story with honesty, elegance and wit, as well as an instinctive gift for storytelling.
From his opening line, “A few months after my twenty-first birthday, a stranger called to give me the news…”, it was clear that Dreams from My Father was something special. It had a voice, and an unmistakable authority. Indeed, at the point at which I picked it up, Obama’s memoir had been published for about 12 years, and was belatedly becoming a US bestseller on the rising tide of support for the candidate’s winning and optimistic “Yes We Can” campaign.
Back in 2007, among many millions, I had never heard of Barack Obama, though I was vaguely aware that he had made an electrifying speech at the 2004 Democratic party convention. Now, not only did I begin to follow his campaign, I suggested in the Observer that a presidential candidate with such literary and rhetorical gifts deserved to be in the White House, and predicted that, against the odds, he might prevail. Anyway, a year later, it had all come to pass. Hillary Clinton (shades of 2016) had been passed over by the voters. “Yes We Can” had become “Yes We Did”.
The story narrated in Dreams from My Father is every bit as remarkable as Obama’s rise to power, and displays an acute sensitivity to the persistent trauma of the American political settlement: race. This is the issue that had troubled Thomas Jefferson, as he once put it, “like a fire bell in the night”, and it becomes Obama’s starting point. As an African American, Obama declares an ambition to “speak in some way to the fissures of race that have characterised the American experience”. Race, for many, remains one of the most contentious issues in contemporary America. Obama’s presidency has been haunted by race relations. His own occasionally uncertain response demonstrates how difficult a subject it remains.
Beyond this, Dreams from My Father is a remarkably candid portrait of a young man facing up to the big questions of identity and belonging. As the son of a black African father from Kenya, and a white American mother from Wichita, Kansas, the young Obama had to make a crucial psychological odyssey, fraught with many conflicting emotions. At first, he traces the movement of his mother’s family from Kansas to Hawaii, and thence to Indonesia. One of the many distinctive qualities to the book is Obama’s natural and fearless way with dialogue. He animates countless scenes between his young self, his mother and his grandparents with scraps of well-remembered, or possibly well-imagined, conversation that give the narrative a delightful informality.
As the book grows in confidence, young “Barry” finally travels to Kenya to address the painful truth of “the old man”, his father’s life, and become reconciled to his inheritance as an American of African heritage. Once his parents divorced, he was on his own. “In an improbably short span,” he writes, “it seems that my father fell under the same spell as my mother and her parents; and for the first six years of my life, even as that spell was broken and the worlds that they thought they’d left behind reclaimed each of them, I occupied the place where their dreams had been.” Here he movingly evokes his “troubled heart – the mixed blood, the divided soul, the ghostly image of the tragic mulatto trapped between two worlds”.
It is, he repeats, an attempt at “an honest account of a particular province of my life”. As “a boy’s search for his father” there is inevitably less of a focus on Obama’s mother, Ann Dunham. Her absence is perhaps the most telling feature of Obama’s recollections, raising many questions about his relationship to the American component of his identity equation.
Many commentators have rhapsodised over Dreams from My Father. Toni Morrison was one of the first to recognise “his ability to reflect on this extraordinary mesh of experiences that he has had, some familiar and some not, and to really meditate on that the way he does, and to set up scenes in narrative structure, dialogue, conversation – all of these things that you don’t often see, obviously, in the routine political memoir biography....” She concludes, powerfully: “It’s unique. It’s his. There are no other ones like that.”
More prosaic, according to Time magazine, Dreams from My Father is “the best-written memoir ever produced by an American politician”. In the New York Times,Michiko Kakutani described the memoir as “the most evocative, lyrical and candid autobiography written by a future president”. At the end of his time in office, it certainly raises many expectations for the retired Barack Obama’s presidential autobiography. The Personal Memoirs of Ulysses S Grant remains a hard act to follow.
A signature line
“We hold these truths to be self-evident. In those words, I hear the spirit of Douglass and Delany, as well as Jefferson and Lincoln; the struggles of Martin and Malcolm and unheralded marchers to bring these words to life.”
Three to compare
Ulysses S Grant: The Personal Memoirs (1885)
Hillary Rodham Clinton: Living History (2003)
Barack Obama: The Audacity of Hope (2006)
Dreams from My Father by Barack Obama (Canongate , £9.99).
THE GUARDIAN
001 The Sixth Extintion by Elizabeth Kolbert (2004)
002 The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion(2005)
002 The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion(2005)
003 No Logo by Noami Klein (1999)
004 Birthday Letters by Ted Hughes (1998)
005 Dreams from My Father by Barack Obama (1995)
006 A brief History of Time by Stephen Hawking (1988)
007 The Right Stuff by Tom Wolfe (1979)
008 Orientalism by Edward Said (1978)009 Dispatches by Michael Herr (1977)
010 The Selfish Gene by Richard Dawkins
011 North by Seamus Heaney (1975)
012 Awekenings by Oliver Sacks (1973)
013 The Female Eunuch by Germaine Greer (1970)
014 Awopbopaloobop Alopbamboom by Nick Cohn (1969)
015 The Double Helix by James D Watson (1968)
016 Against Interpretation by Susan Sontag (1966)017 Ariel by Sylvia Plath (1965)
018 The Feminine Mystique by Betty Friedan (1963)
020 Silent Spring by Rachel Carson (1962)
021 The Structure of Scientific Revolutions by Thomas S Kuhn (1962)
022 A Grief Observed by CS Lewis (1961)
021 The Structure of Scientific Revolutions by Thomas S Kuhn (1962)
022 A Grief Observed by CS Lewis (1961)
026 Notes of a Native Son by James Baldwin (1955)
028 The Hedgehog and the Fox by Isaiah Berlin (1953)
029 Waiting for Godot by Samuel Beckett (1952 / 53)
036 Black Boy by Richard Wright (1945)
Saturday, February 27, 2016
Michael Haneke / The Art of Screeenwriting
 |
| Michael Haneke |
Michael Haneke
The Art of Screenwriting
No. 5
Winter 2014
The Paris Review No. 211
Michael Haneke was born in 1942 to an Austrian mother and a German father. He spent his adolescence in Wiener Neustadt in the care of his aunt and grandmother before leaving for Vienna to study psychology, philosophy, and drama. It would be some years before he made his first feature film. Der siebente Kontinent (The Seventh Continent) (1989) tells the story of a young, well-to-do family and their dreams of immigrating to Australia. Predictably—in retrospect, for viewers familiar with Haneke’s work—that never happens. They flush their money down the toilet. They kill the goldfish and, next, themselves.
Since then, Haneke has maintained impressive consistency both in his choice of topics and in the stark, unflinching visual language of his films. This has earned him critics and admirers of equal ferocity. He is, depending on whom you ask, the minister of fear, a master of horrors, Europe’s greatest auteur, or simply a sadist. Although his films are considered violent, nearly all the physical violence occurs offscreen. His camera omits the brains-on-the-windshield clichés and torture porn of Hollywood. It lights, instead, on the everyday cruelties to which audiences are not yet numb: the petty acts of bullying, the failure to listen, the delusions of class and privilege.
Haneke’s early films, such as Benny’s Video (1992) and 71 Fragmente einer Chronologie des Zufalls (71 Fragments of a Chronology of Chance) (1994), largely escaped the attention of international audiences. Then, in 2001, La Pianiste, his adaptation of Elfriede Jelinek’s The Piano Teacher, was awarded the Grand Prix at Cannes, affording Haneke worldwide exposure. The next years saw the release of Caché (2005) and the American remake of Funny Games (2007), Haneke’s most severely cynical work, whose Austrian precursor had been released in 1997. For both Das weiße Band (The White Ribbon) (2009) and Amour (2012), he received the Palme d’Or at Cannes; the latter also won him the Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film. In addition to his work in cinema, Haneke occasionally directs opera and teaches at the Filmakademie Wien.
Most of this interview was conducted in Haneke’s vast study in the Vienna apartment he shares with his wife, Susi, an antiques dealer. Over
the next ten months, he patiently fielded my follow-up questions: curtly via e-mail, exuberantly on the phone. In person, Haneke was an impeccable—if occasionally strict—host. He floated vague promises of wine on the first night, only to deny me a glass: “We must work, Frau Zielinski!” On the second night, however, I arrived to a bottle of Mayer am Pfarrplatz Wiener Gemischter Satz. We finished it.
the next ten months, he patiently fielded my follow-up questions: curtly via e-mail, exuberantly on the phone. In person, Haneke was an impeccable—if occasionally strict—host. He floated vague promises of wine on the first night, only to deny me a glass: “We must work, Frau Zielinski!” On the second night, however, I arrived to a bottle of Mayer am Pfarrplatz Wiener Gemischter Satz. We finished it.
Wine or no, Haneke is a spirited conversationalist who carefully weighs his bons mots and can send himself into fits of giggles. He speaks in the drawl of the Viennese haute bourgeoisie, which to Prussian ears sounds opulent and somewhat impenetrable—necessitating, as Haneke quipped, a double translation of this interview, from Austrian into German into English.
—Luisa Zielinski
INTERVIEWER
When you were young—say, a teenager—did you ever imagine that you would become a filmmaker, or was your focus on other arts?
HANEKE
Like everyone in the throes of puberty, I started writing poems. But originally, I wanted to drop out of school to train as an actor. I’m from a family of actors—my mother was an actress and my father was an actor and director. One day I even decided to skip school and flee Wiener Neustadt for Vienna to audition at the Max Reinhardt Seminar. Everybody there knew my mother, and I considered myself amazingly gifted—it never occurred to me that they wouldn’t take me. But that’s what happened. I was livid. In the end, I did have to get my high school diploma. Then, as a student, I became more serious about writing. I also worked for radio and various magazines as a critic—I ended up reviewing literature and films although I didn’t actually know all that much.
The 50 best films of 2015 / Creed / No 37
The 50 best films
of 2015
in the US
No 37
Creed
Creed review – new Rocky movie is a split decision
The end is original and exciting, but whether you want to put yourself through the ponderous rest of the movie depends on how much you like punishment
Jordan Hoffman
In Rocky III, Sylvester Stallone’s Italian Stallion devises a strategy to defeat Mr T’s Clubber Lang. He endures a devastating beating in the earlier rounds, which frustrates and exhausts his opponent. Just when he can take no more, Rocky springs to action at the end, and with powerful, dextrous blows, he finally knocks the baddie on his ear. Creed, the seventh film in the Rocky series, but the first neither written nor directed by Stallone, works in a similar manner. Its opening act is staggering in its inelegance, but the film keeps pounding through the predictable set-up and storyline until finally, when you think it can fight no longer and will have to throw in the towel, it charges back with some scenes of originality, pathos and, in ever-so-swift jabs, excitement. If you want to put yourself through this punishment, it’s probable you’ll come out the other end finding some merit.
While very much a two-hander, we don’t even see legendary Philadelphia bruiser Rocky Balboa until the 20-minute mark. Our lead is Adonis Johnson, played with great confidence by Michael B Jordan, re-teaming with director Ryan Coogler, with whom he made the vastly superior Fruitvale Station (newcomer Aaron Covington shares writing duties with Coogler). Johnson, an orphan in and out of juvie and group homes, was rescued at the age of 10 by Mary Anne Creed (Phylicia Rashad), the widow of Rocky’s friend, foe and canvas soulmate, Apollo Creed. It turns out this lonely boy, prone to getting into scrapes, is the result of Creed’s marital infidelity, and is fated for greatness.
Mary Ann raises Adonis (called Donnie) in great wealth and, when he comes of age, he’s working in the financial sector in Los Angeles by day, but sneaking to a boxing circuit in Tijuana by night. Though it means breaking his adopted mother’s heart, he decides to find his destiny and look for a trainer who knows how to mould him. He comes to Philadelphia, looking for Rocky.
But Rocky has put boxing behind him, since his wife Adrian and his best pal Paulie have both died. But Donnie’s tenacity eventually wins him over, and, at the 45-minute mark, we’re treated to our first of several training montages, as Rocky agrees to take Donnie under his wing.
So much of what made the first Rocky film a success was rooting for the gentle giant who slurped raw eggs, reluctantly broke thumbs for the mob and was sweet on the socially awkward girl from the pet store. Man, that Rocky, he sure was a character. Donnie, as written, really isn’t all that interesting. He’s a kid with drive, but wrapped up in a lot of vague “I must reclaim my name” psychology. Far more interesting is neighbourhood girl Bianca (Tessa Thompson), a kind, earthy musician suffering from progressive hearing loss. (Her hearing aid is a throwback to the one Rocky’s old trainer Mickey wore.)
Bianca isn’t the only one with physical woes. It’s during a late-night spar that Rocky topples over, races to the hospital and learns that he has cancer. As a widower with all of life’s trophies behind him, Rocky declines treatment – but you know that decision isn’t going to last. “You fight, I’ll fight,” he agrees, and as Donnie hits the heavy bag, Rocky kneels over the bowl, vomiting from chemotherapy.
Donnie’s big shot is an out-of-nowhere dream, a mirror of what his father offered the unknown Italian Stallion in the first film. This time the title holder is a nasty, hot-headed Englishman (boooo!) named Ricky Conlan (Tony Bellew). Conlan can’t even be in the same room with a challenger without throwing punches, but he wants to end his career with one more big win. When word gets out that Donnie is a long-lost Creed, it makes for the perfect showdown. And what better way for an old white man and young black man to join forces in these racially troubled times than in a symbolic recreation of the American revolution? (No offence to the British ticket-buyers, I’m sure.)
The family that emerges between Donnie, Rocky (whom Donnie calls “Unc”) and Bianca is a portrait of working-class sweetness. They live humbly and eat ice cream on a worn couch under a ratty blanket. Stallone’s self-deprecating humour is better than ever now that he has achieved complete sagaciousness, with the real-life Philadelphia statue of Rocky making an in-world cameo. The script may feature numerous wobbly passages in which everyone eerily states precisely what they are thinking (an unfortunate tradition that runs throughout the series) but if anyone can sell it, it’s Stallone and Jordan.
The big fight (and a shorter one beforehand) is indeed quite intense, mixing brutal hits and elegantly choreographed long takes. No, it’s not Raging Bull, but boxing once again proves to be the most cinematic of sports. It’s just unfortunate that so much of the lead-up is painfully hackneyed and overwritten. There are numerous cuts to television talking heads, awkward freeze-frames with printed stats, and endless chatter during the bout. The acting is good enough on its own and the material is hardly that complex. We do not need the yammering voice of God to express what Donnie and Rocky must be feeling with each landed blow.
Even more embarrassing is when the drama screeches to a halt after the match, as an interviewer shoves a microphone in our duo’s faces so they can tidy up their character arcs. In the original, this exact moment led to Rocky ignoring public spectacle for private drama, bellowing “Adrian!!!” from deep within his heart. With this one it sounds as if he’s telegraphing studio notes.
There’s an interesting theme in the film, in which Donnie puts aside his desire to do everything on his own as a Johnson and accepts the legacy of being a Creed. It’s as if Coogler realises there’s only so much he can accomplish with this story without settling into the groove established back in 1976. It’s not a knock against him; it’s when he’s harmonising with the past that the film works best. But Coogler is selective with his memories. Art museum steps – yes; slabs of frozen beef – no. Does Bill Conti’s triumphant theme make it onto the score? I’ll leave it to you to make the wager. My overall assessment of Creed is something of a split-decision, but there are a few instances where it’s a knockout.
The 50 best films of 2015 / Room / No 36
The 50 best films
of 2015
in the US
No 36
Room
Room review: Brie Larson and Jacob Tremblay escape confining adaptation
Director Lenny Abrahamson seems uncertain of how to translate Emma Donoghue’s novel to the big screen – but his cast appear more confident
***
Nigel M Smith
Saturday 5 September 2015 07.58 BST
Saturday 5 September 2015 07.58 BST
E
mma Donoghue’s novel Room was a literary sensation soon after its publication in 2010 – and rightfully so. Told from the perspective of Jack, a five-year-old boy who knows nothing outside of the small room he and his mother have lived in for his whole life, it’s an unsettling story of survival that’s life-affirming without being overtly manipulative. The triumph of the novel lies in how deftly Donoghue enters the psyche of a sheltered young boy – no easy feat.
Lenny Abrahamson is the man behind the inevitable big screen adaption, and while the film boasts exemplary performances, it fails to register on a level as profound as its source due to its director’s sometimes shaky grip on the material. The script, meanwhile – courtesy of Donoghue herself – distills the essence of the book without foregoing its elemental power.
Relative newcomer Jacob Tremblay is a startling revelation as Jack, a long-haired boy completely oblivious to the everyday struggle his mother goes through to find the will to live. In the lead role, Brie Larson registers as numb to the pain she’s been forced to endure since being kidnapped and held captive by a menacing man Jack only knows as Old Nick.
There’s no way around it: on paper, the subject material is grim and unforgiving. But seen through’s Jack’s eyes, their shared everyday existence is oddly whimsical and intimate. After all, it’s all he knows.
That factor is what made Donoghue’s novel a pleasure not a chore. But on film, the overall effect can be cloying, largely thanks to a superfluous voiceover, as well as an overwrought score that’s more annoying than affecting.
Abrahamson also unwisely cheats the child’s perspective to allow more breathing room for Larson’s character and their captor, Old Nick. In doing so, he removes the wonder and dread that made Donoghue’s story so compelling and unique.
 |
| Brie Larson and Lenny Abrahamson attend a screening of 'Room' during the BFI London |
He exhibits more confidence behind the lens in Room’s second, more involving, act, when the action shifts to outside the shack that Joy and Jack call home. Jack’s inability to connect with his new environment is devastatingly rendered, aided tremendously by Tremblay’s remarkably credible performance, and Larson’s palpable pain. Joan Allen and William H Macy lend stellar support as Larson’s bereaved parents.
If anything, Room proves Abrahamson as a master actor’s director. The overall vision, however, is muddled.
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