The hitman and her
Casino Royale is a great film apart from that interminable stuff at an airport while you’re waiting for Eva Green to show up, although I’m not sure even its fans were asking for the entire James Bond series to operate in that film’s shadow for the next 15 years. I’m not sure that modernising male characters has to be about loading them up with The Strong Man’s Burdens either, but burdened strong men litter the landscape from Mission:Impossible to Rambo Last Blood to Sicario 2, a bulk cultural shorthand for all sorts of things that are more nuanced than the average blockbuster can contain. Bond has spent three whole films suppressing a mournful sigh of regret in every scene, even the ones where he’s relieving some Spectre schmuck of his spleen. In return for this he gets Vesper Lynd’s mausoleum exploding in his face at the start of No Time to Die, simultaneously as absurd a final insult as possible and the only thing left to happen in their relationship.
No Time to Die has been built in the workshop to have something for everyone, or at least everyone acclimatised to the way that the Bond films strike a serious pose and a goofy self-conscious smirk at the same time. So 007’s very serious emotional rescue takes place while ludicrous nanobots dissolve people’s faces and a henchman carries Ernst Stavro Blofeld’s bionic eye around on a plush little cushion like he’s bringing in the Ferrero Rocher. Hans Zimmer does the music and quotes not just John Barry directly but his own Batman Begins music too; compared to the moments of deep jazz brass in Thomas Newman’s last two scores, the music is just a rhythm track. The film’s dialogue is entirely made of polyester, but Daniel Craig spins some of it into gold. I’ve forgotten who the villain is already. M should get the sack. The luxury brand tie-ins roll on as if the world wasn’t sinking beneath the waters, should anyone fancy Moneypenny’s white MKC x 007 Bond Bancroft handbag for £1,350.
And Bond meets a couple of competent female co-workers, one of whom in particular was apparently built to the original blueprint after a few decades of social change and geopolitical shift. He gets on with her so famously that it probably counts as self-love; one look at her and he knows the game is up, nothing left but the weeping string synth patches of the Hans Zimmer keyboard. This and several other things about No Time to Die reviewed for Critic’s Notebook.
See also: Skyfall in which the bad guy plays a John Lee Hooker song for no earthly reason and Spectre in which the master criminal prints out pictures of other characters from the MGM website and sticks them up with Blu Tack.
Two from the Edinburgh International Film Festival at Critic’s Notebook:
Mandibles is the deadpan one with the big giant fly and Adèle Exarchopolus shouting at everyone, both of which probably made director Quentin Dupieux chuckle heartily when he wrote them down. Dupieux is on one long Dada trip, and someone always should be so it might as well be him. There’s an article to be written about how this monstrous fly and King Shark and Weasel in The Suicide Squad are a trend, the unbearable strangeness of nature made Acceptably Horrible in some new SFX uncanny valley, environmental collapse with giggles.
Mad God is the one with a universe of senseless mayhem played out by cosmic forces in a parable of capitalist desolation—but funny. Phil Tippett has spent three decades getting this animated film into shape, pausing only to go and earn a crust working for other people as one of the greatest model animators around. Those crusts included directing Starship Troopers 2: Hero of the Federation, a film with puppets onscreen in more senses than one and which at the time looked like just a calamitous insult to Paul Verhoeven. But its retreat from Verhoeven’s sunlight and space and aerial views into cheaper danker darker quarters and insectoid things charging around at ground level in the gloom looks a lot like one thread of Tippett’s preferred puppetry style. Mad God tips its crud-filled combat helmet to several of Tippett’s peers, in the case of Terry Gilliam via a sight gag primed and waiting since 1979.
Feel the hand of history
At The Comics Journal a review of a new book of critical essays on the subject of Judge Dredd, which can’t really be tackled without a pop at the whole criticism gig-economy grinder out of which the book comes. Marc Singer’s survey of the state of pop-culture analysis name-dropped on here endlessly already is pressed into service once again to say why enthusiastic promotion instead of actual critique might not do readers or writers much good, although in the case of 2000AD there are the business practices and mannerisms of the publisher to weigh up as well. Quite why any marketing department would not push back strenuously against the claim that a publication’s best work was thirty years ago has never been very clear, but in this case it’s the marketing department that keeps repeating it.
All roads lead back to the strip’s past partly because that’s where original writer John Wagner looms on the landscape like a benevolent god. The annual couple of stories that Wagner contributes to Judge Dredd these days consistently make the other writers look like they’re taking a different strip down a different path. Or at least a path less likely to make the comic “a snarling grimy banner of action and outrage,” as the publishing staff said in 2019, another PR statement that flew by without any critical analysis of what it might mean.
In timely fashion, the book arrives just as John Wagner concludes a ten-week stint writing Judge Dredd in 2000AD, two stories that prove the point. In one of them Dredd trails the world’s unluckiest hitman, efficiently and without tripping over. But the second is Wagner Ascendant, putting the strip’s own history into motion by twinning the actual plot with an unrelated Mega-City One TV show which keeps chipping in, a Greek chorus with an unlimited SFX budget, broadcasting images like that one up there in a manner which leaves the reader to work out who is speaking to whom. It turns out to be Wagner speaking, and reminding anyone who needs to hear that his co-creation is a society built on corpses.
For the September issue of Sight and Sound magazine a review of Security, an Italian film set in Tuscany directed by an Englishman adapted from a novel by an American that was about Massachusetts and available on Netflix.
The plot has rich people being paranoid and horrible, which could be set anywhere; but the hints of Fortress Europe and locals scowling at incomers approaching from a southerly direction presumably came in during the translation to Italy. And like a lot of current Italian art, the oncoming threat could be read as something more viral in nature; I reviewed Manuele Fior’s comic Celestia recently, also a pre-Covid work and also now hard to separate from post-Covid malaise.
Peter Chelsom, who turns out to live in Italy and made Security just down the road, has been sticking to his romantic-comedy guns in the English language for thirty years. Having marshalled players as far apart in the cosmos as Miley Cyrus and Warren Beatty—the latter flattening the director like a slow steamroller—Chelsom probably saw Security as a chance to be more serious, although the woes of a worn out male tempted to get romantico with someone other than his wife do figure again. Valeria Bilello, whose version of romantico playing Sense8’s scheming telepath was molto furioso, straps herself into garden-centre dungarees ready to hand the unhappy blue-collar electrician a pot plant, looking like an arrival from Milan Fashion Week with a Saturday job.
For Tripwire a review of Manuele Fior’s Celestia, a major work by an artist with a few of those already on the shelf.
Some of them contain bits of business that crop up again in Celestia, but Fior nudges his magic-realism mood into a slightly new niche in the process. Even less surprise in Celestia than usual to remember that Fior is an architect, since the comic’s built environment is all walls and floors and furniture, calmness conjured by blissful Adriatic sunlight in a version of Venice where they apparently did build Frank Lloyd Wright’s Masieri Memorial. Calm on the surface anyway: all art of change and struggle now arrives through the lens of Covid, but in an Italian context the citizens of Celestia beating a retreat from an unseen invader and barricading in a lagoon has many parallels to ponder. No one actually says that art might save the day, but the visuals work with Wright and Mark Rothko and Igor Stravinsky so it goes without saying.
You could ponder how the story’s politics decodes into something that isn’t necessarily very Left, although the message that the older generation needs to get out of the road so that the young can get on with it is barely revolutionary at this point.
Somewhere very different:
Authentic revolution in Zig Zag, the new chromatic cavalcade from Will Sweeney.
Reviewing Sweeney’s last art book Grok for The Comics Journal I said that urgency wasn’t really the artist’s thing, but this time the political message gallops in at a rapid clip.
Zig Zag’s 24 wordless pages are a fractal sequence of actions, any one of which can’t happen before its predecessor; a preset sequence of contingency plans that could have been laid last month or last millennium. Characters are called forth by other characters and emerge from within still other characters and then consult different characters and then merge into yet further larger ones, eventually coalescing into a large multi-part multi-pilot humanoid robot that tackles some armoured dictator in another plane of reality somewhere.
Exactly what’s what hardly matters, but the thrust of some revolutionary collective action is hard to miss, as is the circularity of the events. Another cycle of all this seems assured at some point, a semi-permanent revolution, even as the giant body of the previous dictator lays in another of Sweeney’s state funeral images. The original instigator appears to be an old soldier with medals, from whom smaller (younger?) activists emerge as he melts away. Having entered the dictator’s citadel, the unified collective converts soldiers to its cause with one blast of illumination from a gun; and in the end it’s an illuminated citizen, not one of the outside insurgents, who concludes things.
At one point a group of characters catch a double-decker bus out of whatever urban city they seem to be in so as to reach a more isolated location, and later the giant dictator holds an umbrella against the rain of yellow paralyzing jism that the good guys have called forth with a firework. So it’s not without a certain British character. On black glossy paper the colour work in Zig Zag surges with voltage but it’s an adult fable, an organised revolution against something visually coded as El Presidente carried out by small cogs in a larger collective who take public transport to get where they need to be.
First Cow arrives in the UK a fairly bemusing five months after being labelled the third best film of 2020 by a UK magazine, a situation which works to the advantage of no one and has the aroma of bovine byproduct.
Kelly Reichardt’s slow cinema story of frontier opportunism and cookery repeats the very solid observation that the American Dream is built on theft and unfairness; on unhappiness (for someone else). There was some muttering when the film came out in the US about it telegraphing this goal, but you might idly ponder how much of this complaint is sparked by the carefully inconclusive view of the characters doing the thieving, two sort-of sympathetic males from different cultures who want the best for each other but don’t show an exorbitant amount of concern for everyone else. One is persuaded by the other to leave a baby unsupervised; but straight afterwards when left at a loose end in his new friend’s shack just starts idly tidying the place up. (Elsewhere two ladies of equally different cultures chat amiably as soon as their menfolk leave the room.) A sullen youth holding the pettiest of grievances loiters around, looking a lot like nemesis. What could be more America than taking on the smelly men of the Oregon Territory and getting clobbered by a stranger’s wounded male pride?
Reichardt’s style always raises some questions about realism while also being as mannered and manufactured as a quartz watch. But the least you could say is that she’s interested in form as well as content, and in this case the form comes directly out of American visual rather than verbal traditions. Signs of that drift by from time to time, river traffic and trappers’ boats with dogs on the prow.
Cue Robert Hughes in American Visions on the everyday oddity of George Caleb Bingham’s painting of the same trade on a different river, Fur Traders Descending the Missouri:
The carrier of American identity had been Nature; Bingham brought in a much more specific documentary interest in distinctively American social life. By locking his observations into a formal architecture with its highly determined poses and theatrical range of expression, Bingham sought to name America.”
You could put Kelly Reichardt in there and not be wrong.