Django Unchained

  



   I found myself an unexpected Quentin Tarantino fan with his Inglourious Basterds (2009). It was gory, violent and hard-hitting but absolutely terrific. I was able to appreciate the ways Tarantino plays with you as a spectator and what you have come to expect from movies. He drags out dialogue, shows you things in close-up that are not necessarily relevant or important to the movie as a whole and portrays characters with such depth that you find yourself admiring even the bad guy. I approached Django Unchained with the feeling that even if I shut my eyes at the goriest bits I would still be able to appreciate Tarantino's artistry and mastery as a director.

   The opening of Django gives an excellent introduction to Jamie Foxx's character Django as we embark with him and his fellow slaves on a journey to be purchased by rich white slave owners. We don't just get suggestions of how long and difficult a journey they were forced to undertake, but we are thrust into every part of this tiresome treck. We see the men's aching, cracked and bloodied feet, see the sweat pour down their whip-scarred backs, are given close-ups of their calloused ankles ripped by the heavy shackles. We encounter their relationship with white slave owners, and witness the maltreatment, abuse and disrespect that they receive. The opening sets the film up incredibly well wtih cool music, cool scenery and poignant images, giving the impression that this film is going to offer something cool and different.

   But unfortunately, when we are introduced to some of the dialogue, the film suddenly seems a bit sluggish. The biggest piece of dialogue that we are first introduced to is from Christoph Waltz's Dr. King Schultz. This is a man who I much admired in Inglourious Basterds, his Hans Landa was chilling, unnerving, violent and funny, a complex character upon whose every word you hang in nervous suspense. In Django, though, his dialogue is long and convoluted and even a little indulgent. It is nice to see him play the good guy for a change, but I can't help but feel that his complexity of character is wasted on the good. Or perhaps simply that Tarantino has written an extremely complex dialogue for a good guy, without giving much of his history away. All we know is that he is a good guy who makes his money by killing bad guys. How complex can a good guy really be? Despite this, thanks to Waltz's natural charm, he still remains hugely likable throughout the film.

   The relationship between Schultz and Django is one of the highlights of the film. It is in parts funny, emotional and powerful, and the training montage in the snow is the best scene in the film. At this point in the film the story has been in turns emotional and entertaining. Tarantino juxtaposes the hilarity and utter ridiculousness of the Ku Klux Klan, who's masks have been hand-sewn by their wives and pose great difficulty to their vision, with moments of real seriousness. Beneath the satirical humour is a real judgement about the KKK and all the powerful white men who thought themselves superior. Here they appear belittled and ridiculed, but still capable of perpetrating great violence. This hilarity is also sandwiched between moments of real heartache and harrowing viewing, such as the whipping and abuse of Django's wife Broomhilda, played by Kerry Washington. Tarantino invites you to laugh at these stuffy white men and their silly masks, but at the same time constantly reminds you of the terrible deeds that are committed at their hands.

   Despite the graphic violence, the film is essentially a beautiful love story, like something out of a German fairytale, as Django embarks on a mission to rescue his beloved wife Broomhilda from slavery. The journey sees him assume the role of Schultz's Mandingo adviser who surveys fighters and judges which will be the strongest and most likely to win a fight. This is where we meet Leonardo DiCaprio's Calvin Candie of the Candyland estate, a man who makes his living hosting Mandingo fights and buying and selling Mandingo fighters. And he also happens to own Django's wife as a slave.

   As always, DiCaprio is a wonderful character actor, imbuing Candie with a malice teetering on the edge of an otherwise friendly outward appearance. A man who is fiercly intelligent when it comes to business but whose ego and weakness for flattery renders him a little naive. He isn't the sharpest tool in the box but he could sure as hell kill you with a blunt one anyway.

   DiCaprio's otherwise brilliant portrayal of Candie is hugely undermined by Samuel L. Jackson's Stephen, Candie's long-serving and senior slave. His character serves as the comical respite in the otherwise tense and foreboding relationship between Candie and Django, but at times he was simply overbearing and quite simply not funny. DiCaprio's intensely complex performance was always underpinned by an unnecessarily stereotypical sassy diva remark from Stephen. Everything was followed by a "mhmm", "daym right" that I wouldn't have been suprised to hear a "oh no he didn't" thrown in there as well. I understand that Tarantino probably did this as a deliberate method of usurping what you have come to expect from movies and adding humour where it doesn't normally seem appropriate. This stops you from falling so deeply into DiCaprio's performance, constantly jerks you out of the make-believe of the story and keeps you focussed on the morale of the film as a whole. Nevertheless it was frustrating and did an injustice to the emotion of this scene.

   As this part of the film follows through, of course we know that the rescue mission going smoothly is too good to be true and there's going to be a show-down between Django and Candie. If the film had been brought to a conclusion in this scene I might have been more favourable of it. But Tarantino would not let you think it was over that easily. Instead we essentially watch the whole plot of the film again in the last half hour, by which time you care far less if Django manages to free his wife or seek revenge on those who have hurt him most.

   The film reaches its peak very early on and drags from there on in.  Overall the film just doesn't quite hit the mark. Other than the luxurious and catchy Django song in the opening sequence, the music is disappointing; the dialogue is cluttered and fussy; the film a half hour too long and just a little too much slapstick flying guts. However, there are some brilliant performances, from Foxx and DiCaprio especially, as well as from Kerry Washington, and Waltz is as charming and watchable as ever despite being loaded with such lengthy dialogue. Foxx is one cool guy, and that is one constant throughout the film. DiCaprio's performance at the dinner table when he cuts his own hand is one of the most intense I have ever seen, as he literally trembles with anger, pumped up with such adrenaline that he doesn't even feel the pain. He leaves you frightened and unsure of what evil he might be capable of.The film has its moments, and it treats slavery with such integrity that it is refreshing when most movies would rather brush over the grittier details of what really happened behind the grand doors of the white landowners estates. It makes a lot of social and moral comments, and at the very base is actually a rather sweet love story, but there's just something that isn't engaging enough to make it an instant classic.

Les Miserables

The Beautiful Misery of Les Miserables

   Les Miserables begins with the powerful image of a ship being wrenched into its concrete port by hundreds of overworked and desperate prisoners using nothing but their bare hands, brute strength and yards of coarse rope. The prisoners heave and ho, battered by sea water, belting out the deep and chilling notes of "Look Down" in angry unison. This opening scene is one of the most impacting of any movie, instantly setting the mood and the theme of struggle, providing a gloomy prophesy of the trials and tribulations that are still to come.

   The music of the stage version of Les Miserables has always been one of it's strongest and most powerful assets, and this filmic adaptation does not disappoint. One of the aspects of a movie musical that audiences can often find frustrating is the uneasy transition from spoken dialogue to the characters bursting into song. For some, on stage it just works, a shared live experience between the audience and the performer. On stage it seems spontaneous and heartfelt, while on film it can often come across a little jarring and contrived. This is something that director Tom Hooper attempts to address in this version of Les Miserables, as the actors provide us with a live rendition of their songs. The songs have not been pre-recorded in a studio for the actor to mime to, but recorded live on set. What the songs might lose in pitch-perfection and faultless singing they more than make up for in raw emotion. The singing is heartfelt and is an incredible outlet of the pent up miseries and frustrations of the characters. The songs include every croak, every tear-strained note, every pause for breath and passion of the actor. While it might make for a less-enjoyable soundtrack to listen to on your CD player or iPod, it produces an utterly gut-wrenching experience for the spectator.

   This is felt none more so than during Anne Hathaway's rendition of "I Dreamed a Dream". This was not about judging whether Hathaway could do justice to such an iconic song, but instead being completely and utterly lost in her performance. Hathaway's Fantine stirs up emotions far deeper than anything I have ever experienced before. She made me more than just a bit weepy, she made me downright hysterical, calling forth emotions that seemed to come from the very depths of my soul. You didn't just sympathise with Fantine, you simply ached for her and the pain she suffered.

   A further way in which Hooper attempts to redress the sometmes jarring combination of dialogue and singing in movie musicals was the decision to have the dialogue entirely sung by all the characters. Each line was delivered in spoken song which was interesting, if divisive. On the one hand it helped form the film into one coherent melody that continuously underpinned the action without seeming cheesy. It took a while to adjust to this convention, but over time it felt more natural and the songs led themselves more naturally to the story. However it also had the negative effect of causing the songs to lose their impact. With one song blending into the next, the overall impact of songs like "Bring Him Home" and "On My Own" was slightly reduced and left me craving spoken dialogue and relishing the few spoken words the film did contain.

   Despite this, every single word was uttered with such integrity that it was impossible not to feel deeply for all the characters involved. This is not a happy movie. The setting of Les Miserables is bleak, the divide between rich and poor is extreme and the people of France strictly governed by a merciless military. The movie depicts the grim reality of French civilian life as the streets are infested with poor families riddled with lepracy, malnourished and angry, huddled in dirty streets full of crime and prostitution. The people lament that at the end of the day you are just another day older, sinking into an apathy of miserable acceptance. You can understand why these people believe there is such little hope for them, frightened as they are into submission by the military. However, a small band of revolutionists are forming who will attempt to overthrow the government. Although some support the revolution, many are fearful of the repurcussions. This is perfectly exemplified in the movie through the tragic moments of warfare between the goverment and revolutionists when the people shut their doors and windows to the frantic rebels, refusing to offer shelter lest they be punished for aiding this valiant yet doomed revolution.

   Nevertheless, the band of young revolutionists fronted brilliantly by Eddie Redmayne and Aaron Tveit as Marius and Enjolras, are so passionate and valiant that you cannot help but hope for their victory despite the odds stacked against them. They are outnumbered and under-armed, but remain stoic and brave and determined to stay true to their fight for justice. Towards the end of the movie as this group confront their fate, the image of the rebels trapped into a corner in the room they once used to voice their liberal ideals and freedoms is nothing short of heart-breaking. The men resign themselves to their fate, remaining brave and loyal to the bitter end despite the doomed certainty of their fate.

   One of the most incongruous aspects of the film is how vast and yet how limited the locations of the film feel. On one hand we see a vast concrete expanse where the convicts heave the warship into port; a towering precipice where Russel Crowe stands and looks out upon a wonderfully dark and Gothic Paris skyline and the huge sanctuary where Hugh Jackman's Valjean takes refuge. Yet on the other the set feels tiny and stage-like, such as the small corner where the rebels have barricaded themselves that has the theatrical dimensions of a set-piece and the look of a painted back-drop. There are surely many arguments for this staging convention but upon first viewing is slightly disorientating and breaks up the immersive flow of the film.

   Another lower point in the film is the rendition of Master of the House. With no disrespect to Helena Bohnam-Carter and Sascha Baron Cohen's performances, which are both highly entertaining and a welcome distraction from the misery of the other songs, I cannot help but feel that I have watched them play these characters in this situation before in Tim Burton's Sweeny Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street (2007).

   Despite this, I always judge a good film on its power to play on your mind even days after first viewing it. This film did exactly that. The songs were powerful and the story and performances so emotional that you cannot help but question how you would feel if it was you or your brother, your son, your father, your mother, your child in this situation. It produced in me a feeling of despair that seem to come from the very depths of my heart. Empty Chairs At Empty Tables was my highlight of the film, exemplifying the fleetingness of life; how quickly all the passions of those young men who fought for justice have been wiped away; the importance of seizing life and happiness while we can, and remaining hopeful that at the end of the day life is more than just another day over. 

   Emotional from start to finish, not faultless, but gut-wrenching and haunting and the beginning of a new era in movie musicals.