Teenage: review

“Youth culture”, a bandied about term to describe everything from dancing to drugs, is generally thought to be a product of a post-war mindset, hippies, and Elvis Presley.  Not so, according to Matt Wolf, the maker of the startling “Teenage”. Based upon Jon Savage’s book, “Teenage” charts the rise of the teenager from 1904, when child labour was abolished. Faced with the promises of education and free time, the film charts the rise and rise “the third generation”. Charting two world wars, a civil rights movement and several dance crazes, “Teenage” moves at a speed that is sometimes dizzying; but it remains captivating throughout.

Starting in the twentieth century’s infancy, the film spans forty years. Flappers dance, young men drink too much and Wolf isn’t afraid to portray the downsides to the exotic lifestyle of the “Roaring Twenties”. The story of Brenda Dean Paul, a young socialite who became “the first junkie”, overshadows the glitter and glam of the 1920’s segment. It’s all very F. Scott Fitzgerald, though without seeming too preachy or condemning. Archival footage of the young and beautiful draws the audience into their world; so when they crashed, I did too. The footage of young workers during the Great Depression is heartbreaking to watch. Is it any wonder that youth movements sprung up as they did in the 1930’s? The reckless rage that is such a part of being adolescent is given an outlet here; images of protests and riots abound.

Wolf’s decision to use archival footage dubbed over by young actors is an unusual one.  Jena Malone, Julia Strummer, Ben Whishaw and Jessie Usher “become” the youths on screen – they narrate in the first person, which is more than a little grating to begin with but quickly becomes quite natural. Wolf’s structuring of the film is as frenetic as adolescence – the film cuts between years, countries and crazes quickly, occasionally allowing the audio to linger as the visuals change. This is striking, to say the least – particularly as an American scene of a young girl ordering a milkshake fades to the horrors of Nazi Germany.

War plays a huge role in “Teenage”. The film doesn’t flinch away from the horrors of World War I and II, and there are a few deeply uncomfortable shots of young men, ruined by battle. The audience gets the impression that adolescence was brought to the brink by these wars – as one narrator says “the old sent us to die. And we hated them.” By far the most striking war story was that of a young Nazi sympathiser, who quickly rose up the ranks to becoming press officer for the party during the war. Wolf does a skilful job of trying to explain why so many young people joined the Hitler Youth – “it was about idealism”, explains Strummer’s lightly-accented German character, who eventually, heartbreakingly, resigns herself to “going under with the Reich”.

By splicing shots of dancing and gaiety against burning buildings and lines of young soldiers, Wolf leaves the viewer with the feeling that youth culture spent a lot of time under attack. Two wars that sent the young to the front line; constant bad press for the debauchery of new ideas and dizzingly high arrest numbers for young people, particularly in the states. The “third generation” feels shaky in the time period Wolf covers, which is part of why it’s so fascinating. It’s easy to make a film about the hip-shaking, war-hating hippies and punks of the 1950’s onwards – the period 1904-45 is certainly not one remembered for the waves of youths. But with so many lost in war and hopeless rebellion, remembering this generation is clearly something important – the stories of the four narrators come together to portray the teenager as we know it about to be born. It’s a nuanced, original look at a group of teenagers often overlooked, but one that their modern culture owes a lot to. On my way out of the cinema, I overheard a woman ask “but what about the obnoxious teenagers, then? Where were they?” I can’t help but feel she was missing the director’s point in bringing history to joyful, vivid, lustful life. 

Gravity: review

Space is terrifying. No water, no sound,  no oxygen. Humankind’s ongoing fascination with the void above our heads has given us several monumental (and terrible) movies, but “Gravity” pushes the genre to its limits. Two astronauts spin through space, with nothing to hold on to but one another. The film’s tagline is “don’t let go” – and by god, how you won’t want to.

“Gravity” is nothing short of filmmaking mastery. For such a simple premise (Sandra Bullock! Space!), the film gets surprisingly deep over the course of 90 minutes. Teeming with images of birth and isolation, director Alfonso Cuarón grapples with these very human issues in an inhuman atmosphere. The first thing the audience learns from “gravity” is that life in space is impossible. For Dr. Ryan Stone and Matt Kowalski, being left adrift is not only about survival – it’s about isolation. The loss of communication with planet Earth gives the film an edge on other thrillers: no one is there to save the heroes now. Repeated communication to “Houston in the blind” only serves to further our fears that Kowalski and Stone are totally and completely alone.

Part of the film’s mastery is the sound of silence. In space, there is no air, no sound, and Cuarón plays up to this wonderfully. Often, only Steven Price’s excellent score can be heard: even more often, there is no sound at all. The magnificent first scene of destruction is played out in silence, making the film all the more unnerving. The dialogue adheres to this rule too – often we can only hear Bullock’s laboured breathing through her suit. The range in Bullock’s breathing takes the audience into the film – the audience finds themselves sipping her disappearing oxygen supply just as she does.

I can’t praise Sandra Bullock’s performance enough – it’s utterly faultless. While George Clooney seems to be on (sorry) autopilot here, she handles her character’s story arc with a kind of power rarely given to a woman in a thriller. She is totally in command of this difficult role, from her dry sense of humour to her utter terror at the loneliness of space. It’s interesting that this role could so easily have been given to a man – but by risking Hollywood’s expectations, “Gravity” has given us one of the most powerful female performances in years.   Bullock said herself in interviews that the director took a risk by casting a woman as the lead in a sci-fi blockbuster – “there’s nothing about my character that screams female”. Yet Dr. Ryan Stone never falls into the clichéd traps of weeping woman or ham fisted, cold hearted woman. She’s a sensitive, well drawn character faced with a terrible situation and ultimately becomes a symbol of hope.

Symbolism is big in “Gravity”. It’s the kind of symbolism that’s easy to dismiss as quasi-philosophical nonsense and enjoy the film anyway, but the images of rebirth are the ones you can’t escape. The film teems with foetal imagery, from the cords connecting Kowalski and Stone, curled up in zero gravity while light streams in from behind her. By connecting space to gestation, Cuarón has created a story of rebirth and new beginnings as well as a sci-fi thriller. Ryan Stone comes full circle over the film’s ninety minutes and is “reborn” at the end of the film. This is Alfonso Cuarón – we expect symbolism – but it doesn’t detract from enjoying Gravity as a thriller that actually thrills. Stunning visuals and a tightly focussed plot make “Gravity” a tense, forceful masterpiece. Believe the hype.

Carrie: review

A review of “Carrie”, released in October 2013 and published on Scannain.com

“Carrie” is going to suffer hugely from comparisons with Brian De Palma’s 1979 masterpiece, that’s inevitable. Directorially, ”Carrie” is almost shot-for-shot an homage to Brian De Palma’s 1979 original, which I promised myself I wouldn’t mention. Kimberly Peirce has taken an “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” attitude to directing – she offers very little new in terms of direction, with the exception of a few half-assed references to modern technology. It’s technically great – the CGI levitation is fun and the climactic gymnasium scene brings the blood, just as the audience wants it. What makes this reboot different to its predecessor is the two central characters, Margaret and Carrie White, and how they are portrayed on screen.  By choosing two strong actresses for these roles, Peirce saves “Carrie” from becoming a floundering, boring mess of a film.

Chloe Moretz has long been an actress to watch and she does a fine job balancing Carrie White’s social awkwardness with her superpower-esque discovery of her powers. Less spaced out than Sissy Spacek’s performance, Moretz’ Carrie is a clever if naïve girl who doesn’t meet her mother’s abuse with cowardice but knowledge. There’s a very interesting take on the scene where Margeret reads the bible to Carrie – she pushes her away, yelling “that’s not in the Bible, Momma!” By making Carrie clever, we give her a little more spine and the audience feels much more sympathetic for her throughout. She’s less submissive, less pathetic; when she brings hell down on her Prom, we’re almost rooting for her. The main criticism of Moretz is that she’s simply too cute to play Carrie – for a start, she looks about five years younger than her made up, short skirted peers. This makes the bullying all the more horrifying – Carrie looks like a little girl, and an absolutely adorable one. The classic image of a creepy-looking Sissy Spacek is totally refuted by the wide-eyed, curly haired Moretz. Her homemade clothes look hip – Carrie looks like the girl you want to be friends with, not the girl who’s horribly bullied. Where is Carrie’s John Bender? She looks as though she’d be scooped up by the hipsters as soon as she could say “Oh, telekinesis? You’ve probably never heard of it.”

Julianne Moore is suitably crazed and religious as overbearing mother Margaret. Being both abusive and loving is a hard line for an actor to walk, and though Moore’s performance feels over the top at times, it’s ultimately what the role calls for.  While Margaret White is often portrayed as evil, Moore’s performance suggests a more mentally ill woman - what could be a sad reality. Similarly to Moretz’ clever Carrie, Moore’s mentally unstable Margaret is undoubtedly a horrible figure, but also one that inspires an odd sort of sympathy.  It’s unfortunate for “Carrie” that the rest of the cast feel as though they are going through the motions – Portia Doubleday is over-evil in her role as Chris, and Judy Greer just can’t shake Kitty from Arrested Development for me. Carrie is, essentially, about those two central characters – but it’s a shame the two solid central performances are matched against poor supporting ones.

My main problem with “Carrie” was simply that it’s a film that, like it’s central character, doesn’t quite fit in. It’s scary at times, but not scary enough to even consider alongside the utterly terrifying 1979 version. It feels like a teen movie at times – graduation, prom, the cute boys and the sinister YouTube clips – but the blood-soaked final third puts paid to that. “Carrie” doesn’t quite succeed in mixing genres the way it wants to, which makes it much harder to enjoy. During the scenes when Carrie lets her telekinesis loose on the town, even Moretz looks slightly confused by proceedings, staring at her hands in a weird mixture of bewilderment and rage. That’s not quite what I felt after watching, but “Carrie” could have been so much better. A little streamlining of the subject matter and more focus on genre would have gone a long way with this one. That said, “Carrie” never tried to be Oscar bait and it’s an immensely enjoyable film – not too scary, not to cheesey and with stellar lead performances.

Austenland: Review

On paper, a romantic comedy about Jane Austen’s novels and finding true love, produced by the author of Twilight and directed by a first timer Jerusha Hess, sounds like a recipe for absolute disaster. It has to be said that “Austenland” is muddled, over the top, simplistic and occasionally quite dull, but it somehow manages to wind up oddly sweet.

The plot follows unlucky-in-love Keri Russell, a woman so fixated on Austen’s winsome Mr. Darcy that no “real” man could ever compare. At one point in the film, her character bemoans that “all the good men are fictional!” yet the viewer has to wonder what sane man would tolerate Jane’s levels of obsession. Her bedroom is plastered with photos of him; a life-size cardboard cut-out stands in her hall. Jane’s Austen obsession eventually leads her to Austenland, a regency-era style holiday resort that promises immersion in Austen’s world.

In Austenland, Jane finds passion, danger, and herself – amongst so many other things I couldn’t help wondering if Sharon Hale’s script was edited at all.  The film suffers from an overlong, over-complicated story – Jane’s various suitors become less and less interesting until the viewer doesn’t give a damn who she ends up with. On top of the love story, we have a vague look at class divisions with Jane’s “copper package” leaving her clad in dull brown next to the richer guests’ jewels, a seemingly randomplot to shut the place down, all while immersed in ritzy Regency era England. The period element of the film is by far the most enjoyable - the guests sew, hunt, dance and enter Austen’s nineteenth  century world almost entirely. In this respect, the audience is swallowed up by the over the top carnival atmosphere, all pink and diamond. Over the top is clearly what Austenland is going for – it’s just unfortunate that it’s more sugar and less, well, sensibility. Her various men, played by JJ Fields (The cool, reserved Mr. Darcy type), Bret McKenzie (Flight of The Concords musician meets stable boy) and Henry Whittle (Pirate soap star) are amusing in their one-dimensionality for the first hour, but after that the love square gets duller and duller. The supporting cast are much better - Jennifer Coolige’s performance may revolve around mocking British customs, but it’s still funny, and Georgia King is great as a totally OTT repeat guest at Austenland.

Austenland is ultimately quite a watchable, fun film, with a few laughs thrown in for good measure. It looks ridiculous, but in a good way – in the same vein as Baz Luhrmann, Hess has gone for intentional gaudiness and worked it. Jennifer Coolige and JJ Fiels provide some of the best performances, and the always decent Keri Russell centres the piece. What’s unfortunate, however, is that the plot just doesn’t match the pretty – a film about a literary hero should perhaps have worked out its story a little more clearly.

Why can't I just have a dance?: collegetimes and misogyny

Two things that are very, very important to the Irish student are nightclubbing and social media. No matter how big a wallflower you are, odds are at some point of your degree you'll find yourself in a darkened, sweaty box, knocking back rum and Coke and avoiding creepy boys. Social media drives the Dublin nightclub scene, giving away "guestlist" spots to fans and generally whipping up a bizz for a place.Clicking "attending", going out and cringing over the photos the next morning is something of a ritual for many Irish students, whether they like it or not. Nightclubs are blurring the lines between fun and scary, as proved by a CollegeTimes.ie article posted yesterday. The article itself - which I could write a thousand words condemning - not only showed rape culture and patriarchy at work, but also showed the deep-rooted problems with Ireland's ~club culture~. My feminist hackles are up, my lipstick (Smash The Patriarchy #2) is on, and I am ready to rant. What is wrong with Irish nightclubs - and more to the point, Irish students?

It's difficult to decipher what came first: sexist students or sexist promotional companies. Last year, we all discovered Midnight Promotions' dirty doings - as someone on Twitter put it, "degrading women as a marketing ploy". Midnight have been involved in a "knickers for liquor" debacle, the infamous "if you're  not up for it, don't cum" posters and, most recently, a night called "TIT Thursdays." The night promised guestlist spots to women who posted their breasts on their (public) Facebook page - to be rated by other members. TIT was quickly taken down after it was picked up by Twitter this morning, but the shock waves remain. Furthermore, it transpired that CollegeTimes.ie was run by Midnight - more misogyny for money. The borderline-rape-how-to article has since been pulled by the site - and an apology issued - but you can still read what it's plagiarized from here and the apology seems half-assed at best. To paraphrase Amanda Palmer:

 "It's 2013, it's supposed to be the future...what happened?"

Hate-filled articles and posters are one thing, but this doesn't turn 20something males into rapists. Just because an article uses phrases like "[a man's] target/prey" doesn't mean that he'll act on them. Surely I think better of men than that? Of course I do - I don't suspect every single guy I know of being a rapist. That is...a little extreme, at best. However, when we enter a nighclub, we enter a world of smoke and mirrors, where suddenly the language of misogyny translates into action. Our culture makes the black-and-white issue of consent into 50 Shades of Grey - and no matter how beingn these may seem, rape culture is rape culture. Over the past few years, I've been followed around clubs, insulted, yelled at, lied about having a boyfriend (numerous times - food for thought: the only thing that will prevent a man coveting a woman is the knowledge that another man has coveted them, not their consent), been felt up despite protest and - perhaps most memorably - being hit with the amazing line "want to come back to mine and make me a sandwich?" It's these incidents  that make me worry about articles like the CT one being published. The fact that women put up with this on a night out shows how deeply the problem runs. We almost expect to be mistreated in a nightclub, because that's How It's Always Been.The systematic slapping of arses, drunken shifts, one night stands and spiking of drinks are routine in nightclubs in Dublin City Centre - it's just part and parcel of a night out.

So what on earth are we to do about a way of having fun (YES. AT THE ROOT OF IT ALL, WOMEN ARE SUPPOSED TO HAVE FUN AT A CLUB, REMEMBER?) that perpetuates "a system...which privileges, inter alia, the interests of boys and men over the bodily integrity, autonomy, and dignity of girls and women. It is subtle, insidious, and never more dangerous than when women passionately deny that they themselves are engaging in it" ? Particaurly when it's there, right in our faces, when we want to go out for a dance? It's often just not practical to scream "YOU'RE PERPETUATING THE PATRIARCHY" at some scumbag in Dicey's, though it often does the trick. The terrifying truth is that I'm not sure what we, as bra-burning, man-hating feminists, can do other than give out on Twitter.  Because this goes so much deeper than a single article or even a promotional company - and it scares the living daylights out of me. So I'll keep shouting and writing and maybe, just maybe, we'll see a nightclub where women "shyly drinking their vodka cranberry" won't stand around waiting to pounced on by your local misogynistic scumbag. 

Review - Amanda Palmer, The Academy and EVERYWHERE

When you attend three concerts in ten days there's a definite period of "burnout", where the idea of standing in a crowded area under the hot sun has absolutely zero appeal. After two massive Phoenix Park gigs last week, I had a touch of the gig blues. And then, of course, I went to see Amanda Palmer, ferocious punk-cabaret artist and Kickstarter pioneer. Amongst other things.

In typical Palmer fashion, the singer began her gig not at 7pm but at 3, outside The Academy, armed with homous, orange juice and a ukelele. The singer's "ninja gig" took place beside The Hags With the Bags on Liffey Street, giving newcomers to her concerts a taste of what was in store. A chirpy beginning from support band Bitter Ruin quickly gave way to the feminist-pop-punk anthem, Map of Tasmania. As the hundred-strong crowd belted out the chorus of "Oh. My. God. Fuck it!" stragglers began to wonder what on earth was going on - Palmer is certainly a spectacle. Standing on the statue armed with only a ukelele, she powered through a quick little setlist that served to pique the interest of newcomers and send die-hards into a spiral of excitement.

Things I am not: a photographer. Pic one of two I took...

Come seven pm, it was time for the support acts - two of which were made up of the Grand Theft Orchestra, Palmer's backing band. Jherek Bishoff and The Simple Pleasure are quirky, classical and discoish all at once - both sets are storming. The real magic occurs when the truly bonkers Palmer takes to the stage, again armed with only her ukelele, and plays a totally unrehearsed, banter-filled set of covers and classics. NWA feature, as do The Beatles and (once again) the infamous Map of Tasmania. Things crank up a notch when her vassist, guitarist and, er, string quartet take to the stage, and Palmer ploughs through a stream of punky, shiny, catchy numbers from her last two albums, "Theatre is Evil" and "Who Killed Amanda Palmer?". Highlights include "Lost", a bouncy song about loss and love, dedicated to a crowd member who recently lost her mother. It's an amazing tune - and even more amazing that Palmer dedicated it to what most artists would look upon as an anonymous fan. Shout out also to Dresden Dolls classic "Missed Me" - sung, in a terrifying, shrieky, cabaret way - while crowdsurfing around the Academy.

Love her or hate her, Palmer is an astonishing live act. I've never seen a set less polished - it seems as though she's letting the crowd dictate what happens. The band chat, and Amanda takes a toilet break halfway through the set. That's not to say the set wasn't electric - just downright bonkers. Songs like "The Killing Type" and "The Bed Song" really benefit from the string quartet, but her rockier songs suffer a little. That goes unnoticed, however, because Palmer is just astonishing live. The raw power of the woman as a performer is enough to take the crowd's breath away, all on her own. Her stories, giggles and intensity totally captivated the crowd, and when she played a new (and remarkably intense) song, you could have heard a pin drop in the Academy.

Palmer is rapidly becoming known for her contreversies, crowdfunding and...well everything but her music. Her set of half covers ("no one can cover Tom Waits!"), covers and stormers from her new album prove that this woman is first and foremost a musician, one that I was privileged to see not once, but twice, in one day.

Legs and the patriarchy

Now that it's what passes for summer, it seems as though you can’t open a magazine without seeing an article about “beach bodies”, “summer pins” and whatnot. I have merrily ignored such articles for the last twenty summers (I said that mostly for dramatic effect. The first eight years don’t really count) but for some reason, this time around I felt a strange guilt creeping in. Not so much regarding the “beach body” – show me a diet that can get rid of my stomach in ten days flat, and I’ll show you a diet that will have me hospitalised – but definitely my legs. I’m not normally self-conscious about them, but then again, they’re usually covered up by gloriously thick black tights. However, I’m terrible in the heat, so the less clothes the better, really. I’d prefer to look ridiculous than to overheat. Or even worse, have to spend our rare lovely days curled up in a pair of thick black tights, overheating.

Gramatically incorrect

Without sounding like a moany self-deprecator, my legs are potentially the worst part of me. I can recognise that without feeling bad about it, but lately I’ve been analysing ‘em and wondering just what I can do to make them look better. I blame the heat, but also the sheer volume of legs that have been on show lately. Skinny legs, fat legs, tanned to perfection. Legs riddled with cellulite shoved into tiny denim shorts. One particular leg that it looked like a shark had attacked. Tattooed legs. Most of all, pale legs – though none, I would argue, so pale as mine. I am milk-bottle. I am computer tan. If you showed a coroner my legs, he’d probably tag me and notify my family. I am paler than pale, scarred with shaving bumps and lumps, and plagued by weird spots that refuse to go away no matter how much I moisturise. Which brings me (sort of) to my next issue.

Shaving is a big deal. Caitlin Moran, somewhat memorably, wrote about it in “How To Be A Woman” (“Take your furry minge to Dublin, I say!”) and it’s something that feminists get slightly up in arms about. To shave or not to shave, that is the question.  Nobody can deny that it’s an absolute bitch to have to do. No matter how expensive my razors are, I always end up lacerated in several places. What’s more, some outcrops of hair simply refuse to be mown down, and I notice them in the middle of Stephen’s Green six hours later. “Damn you, hair!” I think, wondering if Sellotape would take them off. My leg hair is super dark, so believe me, you notice it. But back to feminism…I’ve actually been asked why I shave my legs if I’m a feminist, if you can believe it. I do it because I want to. Because right now, my slightly bleedy legs feel like dolphins.  Who doesn’t want that?! If you don’t, more power to you, you’re not spending a fiver on razors every six weeks.

“But…Áine. Your legs don’t look that much better shaved. They’re still bumpy and now they’ve got cuts all over them!” This brings me to my final argument, the argument that started the blog post: I don’t really care. The previously mentioned magazines very much typify the “typical” woman, assuming she wants beautifully tanned, toned legs. Assuming she wouldn’t look like two-tone chocolate spread if she did use tan. Or worse, freckled.  Because women’s magazines can be such a useful tool for the patriarchy, it’sbetter to ignore them, I find. Newsflash, kids: if anything is telling a woman how her body should be (browner, skinner, more muscular, blonder, sexier…you get the picture) it’s an instrument of the patriarchy, which is there, of course, to PUT US ALL INTO OUR PLACES AS WOMEN. “Woman should look like this!” grunts the patriarchy. “Woman no look like this. This no reachable standard for woman. But trying to look like this keep woman busy and stop her getting into trouble. Fake tan and 5:2 diet keep woman quiet”. It bloody worked, too.

So, I propose a backlash – a proper one.  It is this: we stop buying fake tan. We stop shaving. We let our gorgeous – genuinely, because no matter how pale, freckly, scarred or fat your are, you are inherently sexy – women’s bodies run free. God knows I do. My forays into fake tan have been scary for most, and 9/10 times my legs are not a bottlenose dolphin, but a forest. But when I do shave or tan, or do anything to change my beautiful self, I do it for myself. My legs are mine, in all their awful glory,and I love them. I’m going to show them off, tan-free and just a little bit unevenly shaved. I haven’t done this for Heat! or Marie Claire, and I definitely haven’t done it for the Goddamn Sexist Marketing Campaigns. I’ve done it  because I like dolphins and because I can use my beautifully silky legs to entice men (and ladies) and then teach them all about smashing the patriarchy.