Fahrenheit 9/11

Fahrenheit 9/11. The first time I saw this film I loved it, especially the first half, which really nailed Bush's ineptitude and crass manipulation of his position. The second half, though impressive, made me a bit uneasy. Funny that now I feel the other way; the first half suffers from Moore's narrative overtaking events, and the second - with all it's milking of human sadness - feels much more real and complete; by now we know the facts, and it's the human story that resonates.

The Leader, his Driver and the Driver's Wife

Today I watched the incredibly entertaining and engaging The Leader, his Driver and the Driver's Wife, a documentary by Nick Broomfield which examines the deeply racist yet declining in influence AWB party which, led by the rather frightening Eugene Terreblanche, opposed the end of apartheid most vociferously in South Africa at the tail end of the 1980s and early 90s.

The pioneer of the faux-naive documentary style since adopted by Theroux, Ronson and, well, nearly everybody, Broomfield's work is both playful and serious, opting not to give Terreblanche the respect and deference afforded to him by the mainstream media, but rather to antagonise him, keep him waiting and treat him as what he is really is - a tin pot would-be dictator leading a bunch of thugs, rather than the leader of a serious political movement.

Instead of feigning sympathy and trying to be helpful in order to get the access he needs, as, say, Jon Ronson does in his excellent film about Omar Bakri Muhammad, Broomfield never once allows his guard to drop. Early on there is a wonderful scene where Terreblanche's driver (who provides much of the focus of the film) interrogates Broomfield on his racial stance. The camera, panning to Broomfield, as it does so often, shows him resolute and unwavering, unwilling to play along with his subject. Many of the film-makers who use Broomfield's template would undoubtedly make non-commital noises, change the subject, turn the conversation around. Broomfield stands his ground. Around the same time, one of his cameramen is beaten by AWB thugs. Broomfield and his team keep filming of course.

When, at last, after a convoluted game of cat and mouse, Broomfield meets Terreblanche, he deliberately sabotages the interview by arriving late and infuriating his subject so much that they are unable to hold a civil interview. "What man is more impotant than me?", Terreblanche rages, "This must be quite a man". "We stopped or a cup of tea", Broomfield blithely replies. If you look closely, you can see the Afrikaans' great leader becoming visibly smaller in front of him.

When he returned, at last, to the UK, Broomfield received death-threats from AWB sympathisers, and was told never to return to South Africa. One guess where he is right now, and what's he's doing?

Filming a follow up.

I know there's a lot of fuss about More4 at the moment, but has anyone kept up with the far less trumpeted 4Docs project? I was under the impression it existed as a commissioning tool for amateur film-makers, but the website appears to have important archived documentary films which are free to view! Can this be right? I haven't tried it yet, but the 4Docs page for Broomfield's film has a tantalising 'PLAY' button that is crying out for pressing. OK then - more to follow if this turns out to work.

John Peel Day

It's John Peel day on Radio 1. Despite how much I loved his shows, and how much I respected him, I didn't get caught up in the idea of today, and even thought I probably wouldn't bother listening in. I'm glad I did. I tuned in at 7pm and since then I've heard Status Quo, some frenzied happy hardcore, The Specials and The Smiths in session, a blinding live take on Blindness by The Fall, and am currently listening to some live stuff which New Order recorded for the BBC yesterday - all Joy Division songs. Transmission and Atmosphere were just spellbinding, Barney shouting "Move back, move back" between verses, so it's clearly getting pretty hectic. After Atmosphere he said "We don't want anyone getting hurt. Least of all me". Hooky, who wouldn't be in trouble if caught in a scrum, cut him short. "Let's do this one for Ian, lads". Gulp.

They're playing yodelling now. Five more hours to go. Fantastic.

The Missouri Breaks

I go through cycles of interest, usually piqued by some random event or article or news story. At the moment, formed out of, I suspect, recent events on the Gulf coast of America, I've become quite obsessed with the geography and history of the US. Yeah, I know, just when everyone was getting tired of me asking 'why is Blair so enthralled with America rather than Europe', I've gone and developed an interest myself.

It's an interest borne out of, I'm hesitant to admit, the realisation of my complete ignorance in the subject. Nodding knowledgeably when someone tells me about a conference they attended in Virginia and commenting, sagely, that New England is very beautiful indeed in the Autumn months only to notice the indecision in their eyes as they wonder whether to tell me where it really is. But the first settlers landed in fuckin' Virginia, I proclaim, later, when I look at a map, and they landed in New England, goddammit. So someone must have moved it about on the map and stuck it down there under Washington DC.

OK, so the first settlers did land in Virginia, but the pilgrims landed further North, yeah, yeah, I've worked it out now. And anyway, by that time the Spanish had already come up through Mexico and discovered the Gulf of California and the French travelled down from Canada and down the Mississipi to New Orleans yeah yeah yeah, I worked it out. I'm piecing things together now.

So, the new, America-friendly me did something the other night which I wouldn't have dreamed of doing at any time during the last five or ten years, which is sit down with a beer on Saturday and watch a Western. Did anyone else watch The Missouri Breaks last weekend? God, if that film is representative of cowboy films (okay, I know it's not) then I'm a convert. It was absolutely stunning, and - as I think I've written about maybe two movies in total since I started blogging - can be elevated beyond my film of the week to my film of the last six months or however long it is since I wrote something derogoratory about the acting in the last Star Wars movie.

Filmed in 1976 and starring a lively, appealing Jack Nicholson acting against a waning, wicked Marlon Brando, and set in Montana - see, they keep trying to catch me out with geography. Not in Missouri, but in Montana - it weaves a slight, stately story of cattle rustlers coming up against Brando's regulator. As often as not content to let the camera wander over the Rockies as follow a chase scene or a gunfight, it's immediately more mature and thoughtful than the typical Western, although what sets it apart is a magnificent display of competitive acting from its two leads. Nicholson pulls out plenty of stops with his portrayal of a charming, lonely outlaw who is almost ready to go straight; underplaying it to turn in a subtle, nuanced performance with just enough flashes of manic energy. But Brando is - depending on your outlook, and this film was savaged on its release - either encouraged to unleash all his wayward genius on the role or completely indulged. Tending toward the former explanation, Brando is just magnificent playing Lee Clayton, the unorthodox regulator brought in to pick off Nicholson and his gang.

When Clayton is first introduced he is a slightly creepy, effete cowboy with a pronounced Irish accent. He is immediately recognisable as Brando, and immediately imbued with the gravity of the actor. So far, so good. But as the film progresses, and Brando ups the ante, he grabs the film by the scruff of the neck and re-orders it around him as if he were a tornado. After the consistency of his opening scenes, Brando plays the character with increasing intensity until he threatens to bring the whole thing down around him.

Stealing every scene he's in, ad-libbing lines, his accent appears and disappears, he appears dressed as a cowboy, a preacher and, ultimately - with no explanation whatsoever - in a white dress and sun bonnet, cacking and calling himself 'Grandma'.

Yet the film retains it's stately pace while Brando causes chaos within. It's remarkable. Unlike, say, Norman Bates in 'Psycho', Brando's pychopath is not isolated and withdrawn from society, not the 'other' hidden away in a darkened motel. He is allowed free rein in a country that knows more lawlessness than it does justice. Somehow, against the cruel rancher that hires him, he doesn't even seem that horrifying. He's allowed to be a man of reputation, admired even. It's this distinction which somehow enables the film to reconcile the depravity of an age with its innate romanticism.

Brilliant, flawed, essential stuff.