Monthly Archives: July 2016

  • Tony Benn: Will and Testament

    Skip Kite (2014)

    It’s immediately clear from the melancholy, reverential music (by Michel Duvoisin) that Skip Kite’s film is a prospective eulogy of its subject.  It’s sad that, by the time Will and Testament premiered at this year’s Edinburgh International Film Festival, the nature of the eulogy was no longer prospective:  Tony Benn died in March 2014, a few weeks before his eighty-ninth birthday.   Benn is the narrator of his own life story here.  He’s is filmed mostly in the kitchen and one of the other rooms of the Holland Park house he shared for many years with his wife Caroline, who died in 2000 (a plaque on the front of the house commemorates her residence there), and where the couple’s four children grew up.  Skip Kite has also constructed a set which extends domestic reality into metaphorical landscape:  a fire burns in the hearth; autumn leaves are falling; giant tabloid front pages illustrate the kind of press vilification to which Tony Benn was subjected, especially during the 1980s.  If you look further to the left (oddly enough), there’s barbed wire and a giant golden dollar sign, suspended in darkness.  The set is offensively crude and sentimental, as a representation of both Benn’s personal circumstances and his political views, and it does him a disservice.

    Benn is virtually the sole talking head in the film.  Kite has conducted no interviews with others to get their views although the voice of Harold Wilson is heard early on, delivering his famous comment that ‘Tony immatures with age’.  It’s fortunate that Benn is a greatly engaging guide.  His description of his first meeting with his future wife in Oxford in August 1949 (he proposed nine days later and they were married before the end of the year) and of her death, fifty-one years later, is moving.  He’s funny when, after wryly lamenting his media transformation from ‘most dangerous man in Britain’ to national treasure and the harmlessness that implies, he expresses pleasure at recently receiving a death threat:  ‘I hadn’t had one for ages …’  I had only a sketchy idea of the events around Benn’s renunciation of the peerage that he inherited on his father’s death in 1960, and this part of Will and Testament is particularly interesting.  (Benn’s elder brother, Michael, who should have inherited the peerage, was killed in World War II.)  The coverage of the 1984-85 miners’ strike is often predictable (and leads to a clip from Brassed Off – introduced as ‘Tony’s favourite film’).  It’s hard not to be impressed, though, by Benn’s predictions, recorded in television interviews of the time, of the longer-term effects of the Thatcher government’s industrial policies, on the social fabric of mining and other communities.

    Because of his latterday reputation as the principled scourge of British governments, Labour as well as Conservative, I’d wondered how much coverage would be given in Will and Testament to Benn’s own time in government:   as Postmaster-General, then Minister of Technology, in the two Wilson administrations of 1964-70; as Secretary of State for Industry, then for Energy, in the Wilson and Callaghan cabinets of 1974-79.  In fact, there’s plenty and Benn is very clear about what caused his shift to the left during the 1970s.  He was increasingly dismayed to discover that the Labour governments of which he was part accepted their role as trying to improve things within a system that they could not change – rather than legislating to reform the system itself.  He recalls putting a paper to his colleagues in cabinet, around the time of the IMF bailout in late 1976, proposing a more left-wing agenda than the one the Callaghan government chose to follow.  He attributes the loss of the 1979 General Election to what he sees as this loss of left-wing nerve.  He doesn’t mention that the Callaghan administration was already virtually a minority government and would have lost heavily had Callaghan gone to the country, instead of negotiating the ‘Lib-Lab Pact’, in 1977.

    Benn is, for the most part, long on assertion and short on substantiation, and this is true from the very start of Will and Testament.  He immediately assures us that he’s not afraid of death, that his late wife taught him how to live and how to die, that Caroline regarded death as a ‘tremendous adventure’.  There’s no explanation of what she meant by this.  (Did she expect a post-mortem existence?  It’s hard to see how annihilation could be an adventure but perhaps Caroline was referring to dying rather than death?)  Tony Benn’s own religious beliefs continue to be somewhat uncertain.  He explains eloquently in Will and Testament his inheritance of socialist ideals from his father and Christian ones from his mother (in case we forget this, a bible and, below it, a book with ‘Keir Hardie’ lettered on the spine are repeatedly picked up by the camera).  In an interview Benn gave to the Daily Mirror in August 2013, his answer to the question of whether he thought he would be reunited with his wife was, ‘Well, you just don’t know … [but] you hope so, yes’.  According to the churchman Giles Fraser’s obituary of Benn in the Independent, he ‘wasn’t a believer, although he was surprisingly reluctant to admit it’.

    Whatever kind of Christian he might have been, Tony Benn was primarily a political idealist.  Aided by Skip Kite’s choice of film clips, he deftly skirts tricky moral territory in Will and Testament.  He admits that ‘I’ve made a million and one mistakes in my life’ but gives only one example:  he was seduced by President Eisenhower’s comments about the potential uses of nuclear energy into believing it could be a good thing (‘swords into ploughshares’, Benn thought), before changing his mind in the 1970s.  At one point, Benn says that what’s crucial is to fight for what you believe in – that winning or losing is less important than fighting.   You hope this may lead to an admission that Benn has been more comfortable speaking from a socialist pulpit than on behalf of a Labour government – and that he recognises a tension between socialism and electability.  Instead, he goes on to say that its leaders, from Neil Kinnock onwards, have been obsessed by the need to present Labour as a party of the centre rather than the left.  Benn suggests that it’s the Labour right wing, rather than the left wing of the party, which has always been the cause of problems.  (Cheap shot cut to Kinnock falling over on the beach at Brighton.)  ‘Problems’ in this context appears to mean dilution of Labour values to an extent that disappoints the left wing:  to that extent, it’s hard to argue with what Benn says.  He insists that a left-wing agenda doesn’t make it more difficult for Labour to be elected – that all that counts is ‘that people believe what you say’.  He doesn’t discuss the implications of people not believing, or disagreeing with, what you say.

    Since the 1945 General Election, which was fought in wholly exceptional circumstances, the evidence of British electoral history – from what I know of it, the modern electoral history of other advanced Western democracies too – strongly contradicts Benn’s claim that Labour can win power on a socialist manifesto.  If you didn’t know otherwise before seeing Will and Testament, you might assume that Neil Kinnock was elected Labour leader following the 1979 General Election rather than the 1983 one, when the Labour manifesto was perceived to be leftist, the party suffered its worst result of the post-war era and Tony Benn lost to the Conservative candidate.   There’s no mention of any of these things unless you infer the last from the coverage given to Benn’s returning to parliament in the Chesterfield by-election of the following year.  (Skip Kite has a generally very odd idea of what the cinema audience does and doesn’t need to be told.  Until it appears at the start of the closing credits, you’re never informed when Benn was born nor are there dates attached to footage of the Bristol South-East by-elections he contested, before and after the enactment of the 1963 Peerage Act.  Several famous figures are deemed to need no introduction but a clip of the Queen informs us that this person is ‘Constitutional Monarch, 1952-present’.)

    Ed Miliband, when he loses the 2015 General Election, will fuel the kind of argument that Benn makes here but Miliband is an unfortunate new phenomenon in Labour Party history, combining centrist policies with personal unelectability to a greater degree (in both respects) than Neil Kinnock.   Benn is, needless to say, tough on Blair, tough on the causes of Blair.  We see a clip of Tony Blair speaking, shortly after Labour was returned to power in 1997, in which he stresses the responsibility placed on him and his new government not to disappoint expectations.   Slip Kite then cuts to footage of Iraq and ‘Stop the War’ demonstrations – rather than evidence of the effects of New Labour’s disappointing domestic political agenda.  Even though it wouldn’t seem too difficult to find examples of the latter, they can’t compete with Iraq for instant condemnatory impact.  Kite has assembled a remarkable collection of newsreel film, photographs and what I assumed were genuine home movies of Tony Benn’s life before he entered government in 1964 although Peter Bradshaw notes in his Guardian review that ‘a final acting credit for “young Tony Benn” appears to indicate that reconstructions have been used’.  If so, they’re skilfully done.  Once the story moves on to the 1980s, the archive illustrations of Thatcher’s Britain are standard issue.  So is the library film in most of what chronologically follows.

    When he stood down as an MP before the 2001 General Election, Tony Benn famously said that he was leaving the Commons ‘to devote more time to politics’.   Those witty words – suggested, he says, by his wife – aren’t fully explored in Will and Testament.  Benn was a clever, admirable and lovable man but it’s entirely fitting, for a more problematic reason, that he’s a hero to many traditional Labour supporters.  (The audience in Curzon Soho was modest but there was plenty of applause at the end of the film.)  He epitomises a quality that I partly envy and partly despise:  a commitment to what are seen as inalienable political values and a belief that these are far more important than mere political power.  The Blair years were extraordinary, not only in that Labour had found the knack of winning big parliamentary majorities but also in that the Conservatives, for the only time in my lifetime anyway, became more concerned, as evidenced by their choice of leaders, with asserting their ‘values’ than with regaining power.  I think many Labour supporters (as well as many Tories) were deeply uncomfortable with that arrangement.  It’s right that Tony Blair and other New Labour figures should be held to account for their preoccupation with getting elected and re-elected and, as a consequence, for virtually ignoring traditional Labour tenets and constituencies.  But Tony Benn also had a responsibility to grapple with the morality of political compromise.  You feel he must have discussed it with his son, Hilary, who served in the Blair and Brown cabinets, but there’s no acknowledgement by Benn in this film of how difficult an issue it is, of the possibility that it might – given the alternative – be ethically right to position yourself in such a way as to gain power and to make changes for the better that fall far short of what you’d like to change.  Early in Will and Testament, Benn notes the influence on him of his mother’s theology:

    ‘The stories in the Bible were based around the struggle between the kings, who had power, and the prophets, who taught righteousness.’

    Many Labour supporters love their prophets – especially their prophets in the wilderness.  It’s no coincidence that, among Tories too, Tony Benn inspires greater affection than Tony Blair.

    8 October 2014

  • Wild Tales

    Relatos salvajes

    Damián Szifrón (2014)

    The trailer for Wild Tales in Curzon cinemas last month was unusual, and unusually long.  With a ‘Pedro Almodóvar presents’ heading (he and his brother Agustín are among the several producers), the trailer comprised what appeared to be a virtually complete short film.  The passengers on an aeroplane discover that they all have connections to a man called Gabriel Pasternak.  From Pasternak’s point of view, each of the passengers has done him wrong.  They learn to their horror that he is piloting the plane and the trailer ends as it swoops down to crash into a suburban garden and the elderly couple seated there.  We assume they are Pasternak’s parents; his analyst, who has tried unavailingly to dissuade Pasternak from his act of kamikaze-mass murder, has told him that it’s his mother and father, rather than any of the passengers on the plane, whom Pasternak really has to blame.  (The passengers are played by, among others, Darío Grandinetti and María Marull.)  By the time the Argentinian writer-director Damián Szifrón’s film opened in Britain, truth had proved more horrifying than fiction.  Wild Tales was released in London three days after the crash in the French Alps of the Germanwings plane that killed all 150 people on board, and that black box evidence indicates was a deliberate act on the part of the co-pilot Andreas Lubitz.   There are warnings to filmgoers in Curzon foyers that ‘Following the Germanwings flight incident on Tuesday 24th March, please be aware that Wild Tales features a sequence that some customers might find disturbing’.

    Although I’d seen the distinctive trailer at least twice, it was still a shock to be reminded quite how specifically it resonates with the Germanwings crash, especially the moment when the analyst is banging on the door of the cabin, in which Pasternak has locked himself.  Wild Tales is a portmanteau film and each of the six tales that Szifrón tells has a theme of vengeance.  ‘Pasternak’ is the first of these tales and the trailer was close to being the whole story, which precedes the opening titles of Wild Tales.  These are shown against still photographs of various wild animals – images that are meant to presage the violently aggressive behaviour of human beings that Szifrón describes throughout the six stories – and accompanied by Gustavo Santoalalla’s jauntily sinister music, which supplies an amusing contrast.  It will be difficult, in the immediate future anyway, to dissociate ‘Pasternak’ from Andreas Lubitz; because this is the curtain-raiser to Wild Tales, it may well, for many viewers, colour the whole of what follows. This is tough on Damián Szifrón but I don’t think I would have liked his movie even without what BFI, in its disclaimer, terms the ‘unintentional and regrettable coincidence’ of the Germanwings disaster.  (Come across any intentional coincidences lately?)  I understand why the flashy Wild Tales, nominated for Best Foreign Language film at this year’s Oscars, has been an international hit but I found it garishly unimaginative.

    The film’s faults are epitomised by the second of the six tales, The Rats.  A late middle-aged man (César Bordón) comes into a poky roadside restaurant.  ‘Table for one?’ asks the waitress (Julieta Zylberberg).  ‘I can see your arithmetic’s good’, he replies, and the sarcasm is just the beginning of his obnoxious rudeness towards her.  In the restaurant kitchen, the waitress reveals to the cook (Rita Cortese) that she recognises the customer as the man who was responsible for her father’s death and who then kept trying to seduce her mother, causing the family to up sticks and move to another town.  (It’s not made clear how long ago this happened but the man doesn’t appear to recognise the thirty-something waitress.)  ‘I’ve often imagined what I would say to him if I saw him again’, the waitress says.  The cook suggests that actions speak louder than words and that the waitress should avenge her family by putting rat poison in the meal the man has ordered.  (The restaurant has a problem with rats in the kitchen.)  ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’ asks the cook, who’s been in prison before and thinks there’s something to be said for it – a roof over your head, the security of knowing where your next meal is coming from.  She thinks her present life, in comparison, ‘is shit’.  The waitress can’t bring herself to agree with her colleague’s proposal but the cook poisons the food anyway.

    The customer – a loan shark who is also standing for election to political office – is too big a rat to succumb to the poison but, when his son joins him in the restaurant and has a nibble of his father’s meal, the youngster starts to cough and vomit.  The waitress makes desperate attempts to get the food off the table, infuriating the older man, who sets about her physically.  The cook then appears and stabs him to death with a kitchen knife.  The story ends with her being driven away in a police car, presumably looking forward to a better life in jail. ‘The Rats’ foreshadows the penchant for gore and excretion that Damián Szifrón expresses wherever possible throughout Wild Tales and the death by stabbing is something of a disappointment in itself:  whereas the need for rat poison tells us something about the kind of eatery this is, the murder weapon would be available in even the best-appointed restaurant kitchen.  Worse, there’s no twist in the tale.  I was hoping the waitress might admit to the cook, too late, that her account of what the customer did to her parents was an invention – that she’d wanted to get her own back simply because her professional self-esteem had been injured by the man’s snide remarks and arrogant behaviour.

    The third and fourth stories, ‘The Strongest’ and ‘Little Bomb’ respectively, are, conceptually at least, rather more satisfying.  Each is a bizarre exaggeration of a familiar form or cause of anger in modern life:  road rage in ‘The Strongest’, the towing away of cars by municipal authorities in ‘Little Bomb’.  In ‘The Strongest’, each of the two protagonists – one (Leonardo Sbaraglia) driving a fast, expensive new car and the other (Walter Donado) a slower, very used vehicle – avenges himself on the other.  Their violent confrontation is gruesomely extended.   ‘Little Bomb’ has a lighter tone and a more satisfying structure.  We know from the start that the main character, Simón (Ricardo Darín), is a building demolition expert.  Driven crazy by what he sees as persecution by the petty bureaucracy that keeps depriving him of his car and the unravelling of his professional and personal life that ensues, he becomes a terrorist – filling his car with explosives and detonating them as it’s once more pulled away.  No one gets hurt and, although Simón goes to jail, he becomes an urban hero – to fellow inmates and the prison staff, his young daughter and even his wife, who walked out on ‘Dynamite’, as he’s now known, before he got his revenge.

    In the fifth story, ‘The Proposal’, the son of a rich man kills a pregnant woman in a hit and run accident.  The father (Oscar Martínez), with his lawyer (Osmar Núñez), devises a plan to pin the crime on his gardener, who’ll be well paid for his trouble and time in prison.  This piece has an effectively abrupt albeit obvious ending, when the gardener emerges from the house with his face covered and the dead woman’s husband (Ramiro Vayo), who, in a tearful television interview, has sworn vengeance on the car driver, attacks him with hammer blows to the head.   The last tale, ‘Until Death Us Do Part’, is much too long:  at a Jewish wedding reception, the bride (Erica Rivas) realises her new husband (Diego Gentile) has been cheating on her, with another of the female guests.   The bride first contemplates suicide and then, after being dissuaded by a kindly hotel kitchen worker (Marcelo Pozzi), has sex with him on the roof from which she’d been about to jump.  She announces to the groom that she’ll sleep with any other man who offers and will take her husband for all he’s worth if he tries to divorce her.  After several outbursts of mayhem, with Szifrón’s now trademark emphasis on blood and vomit, the newlyweds decide they’re better off with each other and start to have tabletop sex beside their wedding cake, as their remaining guests drift away.

    Wild Tales has a superficial political slant – against the powerful (the city authorities in ‘Little Bomb’), the moneyed-and-corrupt (the murderee in ‘The Rats’, the would-be perverters of the course of justice in ‘The Proposal’), the pampered (the man with the flash car in ‘The Strongest’, the bride in ‘Until Death Us Do Part’).   It scarcely seems worth remarking on this ‘anti-capitalist’ position:  the film would be much more daring (even if more dislikeable too) if it had good things to say about the privileged.  Yet Mar Diestro-Dópido, for example, in Sight & Sound, commends Szifrón’s ‘potent political anger directed against inequality and abuse, be it emotional, physical or economic’.  What’s more striking about the enthusiasm for Wild Tales is how easily enjoyable people find it – illustrated by the ‘critics’ consensus’ note on Rotten Tomatoes (‘Wickedly hilarious and delightfully deranged …’) and by the reactions of the two women sitting just behind me at Curzon Richmond.  Until halfway through ‘The Strongest’, when the man driving the beat-out car shat and pissed on the bonnet of the smooth man’s motor, my neighbours laughed pretty continuously.  They voiced disgust at the defecation, as if Szifrón had spoiled everything, but laughed again with relief when, at the end of ‘The Strongest’, the film recovered what they clearly regarded as its witty poise.  (The police discover the two drivers’ skulls – all that remains of their incinerated bodies – in the wreckage of their cars.  One cop says to another, ‘Crime of passion, do you think?’)  Although several of the situations in the film are essentially recognisable rather than ‘surreal’, those who enjoy the outrageousness of the behaviour in Szifrón’s stories must surely do so because they feel superior to the people on screen – they’re not recognising themselves in what goes on.  It’s not only because ‘Pasternak’ has turned out to be much less far-fetched than anyone would have believed that I find this depressing and a bit scary.

    1 April 2015

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