Showing posts with label Mary Poppins. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mary Poppins. Show all posts

Friday, 2 January 2015

A rag-bag of bits (not yet a review) about Tim Burton's Big Eyes (2014)

More views of - or before - Cambridge Film Festival 2014 (28 August to 7 September)
(Click here to go directly to the Festival web-site)

2 January (Tweets added, 6 and 10 January)


* * *


There's a point where the latter, maybe, over-reach themselves in their enthusiasm for their story : is it worth telling just because true ?
— THE AGENT APSLEY (@THEAGENTAPSLEY) September 18, 2015


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Actually, it's gonna stay like this - mimetic of the dead weight to which probably ~250 souls were yoked... :




Introductory : Tim Burton and MDH Keane :







guilt / eyes on stalks / supermarket / confession
-> Dalí / Spellbound / David Lynch














Yes, she is in shadow – in the dark, till she leans forward with her portfolio to force out a pitch for this unsuitably demeaning job, a feeling hammered home by drawing back to show countless others painting that image on the head of a cot : oh, but no explaining how the cots all got in and out of that big room, once each one had been finished…

 And, hey, people seemed to have staple-guns in the late 1950s, and to use them to display posters on tree-trunks, so where were the (high-quality) transfers that, in this age - endlessly stressed to be of mass production à la Warhol (it’s a wonder that his ‘fifteen minutes’ utterance was not shoe-horned in !) - would have superseded most hand decoration ? The point being that there were impossibly too many workers (i.e. painters) to sustain whatever market for hand-decorated furniture there would likely have been…

So what is it, then, to draw back to show Margaret Keane amid so many fellow workers ? A momentary Hello to Welles’ The Trial (1962), or Gilliam’s Brazil (1985), which plays unnecessarily heavily, just for a moment, the ‘one amongst many’ card, the pathos / the destitution of Margaret’s position – and to hell with (as above) it makes any sense, because it is a sort of irresistible sight-gag, best resisted ? After all (in this joke of an interview), the boss of the furniture business could just as easily have said The job’s yours, but you’re just painting motifs on bedheads like everyone else :

 Why not ? Well, the film’s writers / makers are too busy thinking that everyone will have fun with their half-hearted telling of what is based on a true story, complete with opening endorsement (no doubt, if real, written for him by someone at The Factory ?) of Walter Keane from Warhol. In the scene in the gallery with Ruben (Jason Schwartzman, trying very hard with some very slim script pickings), where Keane loses him a sale and then fatuously implausibly proceeds to try to get Margaret’s and his work taken, it is just so that the two men can have a conversation about fashions in art.



When Walter opens his own gallery, which proves to be directly opposite where Ruben is, we have another limp sight-gag – and we were supposed to keep in mind, Tim Burton, the throw-away remark that (very occasional) narrator, journalist Dick Nolan (Danny Huston), makes about the nature of his writing in relation to this ragbag of a film (to signify a doubtful reliability) ?

 nature

 Gives us a break but even Clive James, calling one volume of his Unreliable Memoirs (and known to entertain), flags up the possibility of invented content more adeptly* - or Martin Scorsese (in an overlooked speech by Jordan Belfort at the opening of The Wolf of Wall Street), drawing attention to how, as he speaks, he can change the colour of the car that we see…



At root, the argument is : should we praise Holy Motors (2012) for (the fun of) its inter-textuality and reference, or say that it is an uninspiring sequence of essentially similar impersonations, tenuously linked, with casual, picaresque-style looseness, by who cares what ? Even if the mask at the near end, as all the white limousines are parked (and wink at each other), is, as is said, that from Eyes Without a Face (19??), so what… ?

 In this film (as, in many ways, with Wolf), Leos Carax is so gratuitously flashy that one mistakes it for no sort of naturalistic presentation (of whatever it is, Kylie or no Kylie with a comatose cameo...)








* * * * *









But, if it (instead) is homage, all is forgiven… ! :






End-notes

* Let alone the quips as to textuality, historicity and authorship throughout the trilogy Molloy / Malone dies (Malone meurt) / The Unnamable (L’Innomable) by the great Samuel Beckettt…




Unless stated otherwise, all films reviewed were screened at Festival Central (Arts Picturehouse, Cambridge)
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Sunday, 15 December 2013

This person, with chaos in her wake

This is a review of Mary Poppins (1964)

More views of - or before - Cambridge Film Festival 2013
(Click here to go directly to the Festival web-site)

15 December

This is a review of Mary Poppins (1964)

It's a truism about Mary Poppins (1964) that Dick Van Dyke is meant to be a Cockney as Bert (in the extended, animated country-scene sequence, he is shown with Pearly Kings and Queens after the horse-race ?), and that his accent is dire - even if that were true, he is a great asset to the film as a performer, purveyor of home-spun truths, and jack of all trades, and would the children (as some would say, 'the demographic') for whom it was intended have cared less ? Humanity and warmth (and giving a rendition of a patter-song) count for much more !

And that is what the main message of the film is all about, or, as the Hanks / Thompson film has it, Saving Mr. Banks (though there are other, less obvious themes, which will be explored below). It probably makes as little sense to ask, outside that new Disney film, who Mary Poppins (really) is, because, if one swallows a retired admiral considering his roof-top to be H. M. S. Boom, one should not baulk at an explanation of someone who says I never explain (she may actually have said, I never give explanations) : wherever P. L. Travers and / or the film got him from, one need not look further than Wemmick's Castle in Great Expectations (or, in Laurence Sterne, Tristram Shandy's uncle)...

There is no one in this film who fails to please, with David Tomlinson as the father to Jane and Michael, who has to be so restrained in holding back his feelings (as Bert shows the children) until the close of the film, a man who wants to run when he has a sherry and smokes his pipe by the clock, and will not heed the admiral's helpful enquiries and advice; Glynis Johns as his wife, Mrs. Banks, who has found a cause rather than relate to her children (and whose difficulty in being a mother Disney has Travers defend as something that happens), and who delightfully and cheerfully dashes off to sing songs to imprisoned suffragette sisters, leaving her son and daughter in the care of an unknown chimney-sweep; the children, played by Karen Dotrice and Matthew Garber with a suitable mixture of innocence and a desire to get into scrapes; and, of course, the delightful Julie Andrews in the title-role, her diction perfect, her voice sweet and pure, and her own sense of fun (saying to wide-mouthed Michael We are not a cod-fish ! - a little different from Van Dyke's more-broad comedic one.

And, as Van Dyke can, she can dance, of course, and always moves with such grace - just a shame that, in common with less well-lit scenes such as on the ceiling at Mary Poppins' uncle's and the bird woman with her food for tuppence (both of which also suffered from indistinctness), the roof-top activity was a little dark, although I assume some technical reason relation to filming and / or restoration. Otherwise, there is delight to be had from this film's look at nearly 50, and the animated sequence that Travers objected to was enchanting (I was with her with the penguin routine, but it may have not dragged for younger viewers), entering into life from life, which Mr. Banks seems to lack. Even in Bert, when his pavement-paintings get spoilt by rain, we see him take pleasure in literally spreading the colour around.


The main people to whom songs are given are Andrews, Van Dyke, and Tomlinson, and all bring out the quality of Richard M. and Robert B. Sherman's strong words and music, making for unforced and unabashed bursting into song. As a film about what life is and is about, Mary Poppins shares territory with It's a Wonderful Life in several ways, with a run on the bank, a man alienated from whatever disturbs his sense of order (Banks) / restoring financial propriety (George Bailey), even if it is actually the lives of his family, and the intervention of a force from without with magical powers (Poppins / Clarence) and the mixing of what we take for granted with how things might be.

The principal message is that living by consumerism* blinds one to what matters in life. There is no suggestion that Mr. Banks resorts significantly to alcohol (a theme in Saving Mr. Banks (2013)), but the admiral's calls from the roof, and the idea that he cannot see what is front of his nose (with the woman selling bird-food), suggest that he has found other ways to adjust to working for the bank (shown, at the end, to have a human face), and Mary Poppins briefly staying helps him see things anew. His liberation, his rediscovering his children's love and their interests, will no doubt say much even to modern youngsters.

As to the covert themes, there is this curious business of Mary Poppins' uncle on the ceiling, and what a crisis this is treated as - a tentative interpretation might relate this to the experience of bi-polar disorder, with, when they have tea in the air, literally being high, for what 'brings them down' is thinking of something sad, and Bert says that he will stay and look over Mary Poppins' uncle when she and the girls leave, and he tries to raise spirits with his 'down in the mouth' joke about eating a feather pillow. (Against that, when Van Dyke, as Mr. Dawes Senior, is told the joke about 'a man with a wooden leg called Smith', he, too, levitates, and his death is said to have been a happy one.)

Still with the bank, being summoned to return at 9.00 has a distinctly masonic air about it - The City is dark as Mr. Banks crosses to it, is let in, and is accompanied to the door by top-hatted men, who almost frog-march him there. The debunking, although comic, suggests a sort of serious ritual, deflated by Banks, when asked if he has anything to say (before he has retorted that he always knows what to say, a self-assurance with which he maybe only fools himself and Mrs. Banks), finds himself saying Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious and even, to his surprise, feeling better for it.

Finally, the care for spending (as Michael wishes to do) tuppence on feeding the birds could translate to not hoarding, but using, the wealth given to us (The Parable of The Talents ?), or even to the invocation to Peter, Feed my sheep...



End-notes

* Often enough wrongly thought of as 'materialism', or 'capitalism', although making money and owning the means of production are best not confused.




Unless stated otherwise, all films reviewed were screened at Festival Central (Arts Picturehouse, Cambridge)
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Saturday, 14 December 2013

It's a jolly holiday with Disney

This is a review of Mary Poppins (1964)

More views of - or before - Cambridge Film Festival 2013
(Click here to go directly to the Festival web-site)

14 December

This is a review of Mary Poppins (1964)


When a company celebrates an anniversary, you can be almost certain that it does so to sell you something – in extreme cases, the complete works of J. S. Bach on CD (151 CDs, to be precise, which, if truthful to yourself, you know that you will never all play, even just once).

In this case, it is two cinema-tickets for everyone in your family, not only to Mary Poppins (1964) (as restored), but to the making-of film, Saving Mr. Banks (2013) - even if it does sound rather like that Spielberg one.

If anyone can be as brisk and British as Julie Andrews, surely Emma Thompson can, even if the plot has – as it is said to have – a licence to make Tom Hanks, as Uncle Walt, more cuddly than he really was (and what, one wonders, did Miss Andrews know of the tussles about authorship and artistic integrity).

So far so good, apart from the question whether a spoonful of sugar (or some larger confection) is going to be necessary to make the [Disney] medicine go down…


Now continued as a review


83 = S : 13 / A : 16 / C : 11 / M : 14 / P : 15 / F : 14


A rating and review of Saving Mr. Banks (2013)



S = script

A = acting

C = cinematography

M = music

P = pacing

F = feel

9 = mid-point of scale (all scored out of 17, 17 x 6 = 102)



This is a film that, for many reasons, should not succeed in being touching – and one cannot quite untease whether what is touching is that it is showing (a version of) the cinematic genesis of a loved childhood film, i.e. working off one’s emotional attachment to the film within the film onto the latter.

Initially, the soundtrack is just too obvious and overpowering, reaching a low with a jazz version of Heigh-ho on Travers’ arrival at Disney HQ (which, according to the loud assertion of a fellow audience member, had been Dave Brubeck’s). Maybe one became accustomed to it, maybe it became more subtle, but it did not work against drawing out emotion from scenes in the way that it had before. (It did not really help that the disturbing, percussive bass notes of the trailer for All is Lost (2013) had created pounding in the heart.)

P. L. Travers, seemingly portrayed effortlessly by Emma Thompson, just cannot, we know continue as she first presents herself, fussing, dismissing, disapproving. (Thompson is perfect for the part, as is Hanks for Disney – he seems to have had his eyes modified to heighten the resemblance, unless he just always looks that way.) And can Disney really do everything nicely to get her to sign her rights to him (which, on her agent’s advice, she has not done) and let him make the film ?

In between, something happens, whereas it could have more closely resembled the confrontation in, say, Frost / Nixon (2008), onto which, at some level, it may be seen to map : what will the breakthrough be that changes the dynamic of declining to sign ? (In fact, the film is a better contender for that category, for, on the face of it, Frost does nothing whatever to elicit an apology from Nixon, just lets him bluster time and time over.)

In this film, a natural star is Annie Rose Buckley, as Ginty, the young Travers, who exudes faith and trust (not least hugged to his arms on horseback) very naturally as well as looking very pretty. Colin Farrell, in the role of her father, seems initially to have been allowed a longer leash, but he is not playing against type, and it does not take us long to be shown that he is as tortured, in his way, as Ray in In Bruges (2008), save that this is a PG, not an 18.

One sees his wife Margaret (suitably quietly played by Ruth Wilson) struggling to relate to his way of loving his daughter, so different from how she is, for they are really quite a way apart, which both pains and paralyses her. One beautiful use of cinematography takes us above a maze of sheets on the line, children, chickens, and parents, momentarily symbolic of how tortuous the relations have become. And then there is Thompson as a grown-up, with an army of pill-boxes at her deployment.

That shot alone tells us that things are not, in conventional terms, going to be simple. It is indicative maybe just of hypochondria, although (seeing Travers) that seems unlikely, and here we come to the nub of the film : why Mary Poppins means something to her to such an extent that she will not bear her character just being called Mary.

She will not have herself called anything other than Mrs Travers (which her driver, played with real humour and humanity by Paul Giamatti*, as a sort of look-alike cross between Bilko and Eric Morecambe, confuses, and keeps calling her just Missus). She just insists on certain things, being or not being, as if just for the sake of it. And this is where my regret lies, that we are in a type of Marnie (1964), but with no Connery to her Hedren to help her open up her mind to psychodynamic change (and explain why she chucks pears into a swimming-pool).

It is just that we have come a little beyond the way in which the earlier decades** showed these matters, and this seems some sort of implausible spontaneous process (though it may have been what happened, or how it was interpreted at the time) that someone should go into what, in effect, is a disasssociative state at the impulse of working on a piece of writing with close, personal meaning.

For me, Disney talking about his childhood and how he relates to it seems a little more likely to have conveyed a message. And, for me, I cannot separate from this film what Andrews and Mary Poppins (1964) meant to my childhood, so it was especially nice both to see contemporaneous stills of Disney, Travers, Andrews and of the storyboards, as well as hear a little of these tapes that Travers insisted being made.


By the way, one goof :

Anyone used to weather-vanes will know that they point in the direction from which the wind is coming, the reason being that the latter part of what rotates resists the wind, and so gets pushed until there is no longer any resistance, when the front, needle part points into the wind (also offering least resistance) and, if the markings around the edge are correctly oriented, at the letter 'E', if the wind is from the east.

This is how the admiral's weather-vane works in Mary Poppins (1964), turning to point to W when the wind has changed and is no longer from the east. This was lost on someone, for, when Ginty is being told that the wind has changed and is coming from the east, W is being pointed at.



End-notes

* Excellent in Sideways (2004) and The Last Station (2009).

** There are some anachronisms : in the 1960s, it was de rigueur for saucer to stay with cup, there were no chains to keep trace of glasses, and no British person was casually diagnosing ADHD (least of all in an adult). (And the rendering of the steam train's progress against the landscape did not quite work.)




Unless stated otherwise, all films reviewed were screened at Festival Central (Arts Picturehouse, Cambridge)
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