Doctor Zhivago

Less a review, more a retrospective.  Fifty years on from it's release it was good to have a chance to revisit this epic on the big screen.  David Lean always had an eye for stunning images and his work benefits from being seen outside the confines of the TV.  And, at three hours in length, a bit of comfort is required too.

So much has been written about this work in the past five decades that there seems little point in attempting to relate the plot.  Based on the Boris Pasternak novel, the film concentrates largely on the romantic tale of Zhivago (Omar Sharif) and Lara (Julie Christie), largely glossing over the complex political undertones of the original.

The early dialogue seems stilted, dated, and only begins to work more effectively when the plot moves on from the Imperial world of the Tsar and into the Soviet era of Lenin.  Both geographically and socially the action travels across distance and into extremes. Where there is violence, inevitably commonplace in setting of war, revolution and counter revolution, there is little that would be considered graphic by today's standards, with suggestion playing a greater role.

However it's the Sharif/Christie pairing that dominates ones memories of the film.  She can be less than convincing at times, but they must be one of the most beautiful screen couples of all time.  The eyes have it.  His, mournful, bloodshot and brown, hers a luminous blue, the eyes of lovers.  Add in the haunting tune that is Lara's Theme and it's impossible not to swept up in the passion of the affair.  Strong performances too from Tom Courtenay, Rod Steiger and Geraldine Chaplin.

This being Lean, there are some glorious shots throughout.  Horizon seeking landscapes, a train traveling through the snow, a sunset in the mountains, the drama of Strelnikov's armoured train thundering past.  But my favourite, the image that remained, was off Zhivago slowly walking off and up the steps in a deserted field hospital while, in the foreground, the petals fall from a vase of sunflowers put in place by the recently departed Lara.

A thing of beauty, even if lightweight.  It's left me with a resolution to revisit the Pasternak original in 2016.

Carol

The 1950s was not a decade noted for tolerance.  And in the USA of McCarthyism it wasn't just any hint of left wing politics which was viewed with suspicion, but anything which might mark a person out as 'other', anyone who strayed outwith the social norms deemed to be acceptable behaviour.  To be gay in such a narrow minded society required a degree of courage and the ability to camouflage oneself within the bounds of what would be tolerated.  

Therese (Rooney Mara) is a young woman working behind the toy counter of a New York department store.  She has a boyfriend who wants her to marry him, but she's not so sure.  Enter Carol (Cate Blanchett), a glamorous older woman, clearly wealthy, who is immediately taken with the shop assistant.  She buys an expensive Xmas present for her daughter, and contrives to ensure that she and Therese will meet again.

What begins as a friendship develops into a full blown love affair, culminating in a long road trip.  This is ended by the sordid intervention of a private investigator hired by Carol's husband to garner evidence of her moral laxity, which is then to be used to give him custody of the child as part of a divorce settlement.  Carol returns to the city to defend what few rights the law affords her, and appeal to her spouse's better nature.

A bereft Therese builds a career as a photographer and gradually comes to accept that Carol will not be a part of her life.  This expectation is confounded when the older woman finally gets her divorce settlement and Therese has to decide where her future lies.

In essence this a conventional love story at heart.  But portrayed with such attention to the details of the period, both physically and morally, that it sweeps the viewer along into their world.  There's some fine cinematography, and the direction is assured, but it's the performances that dominate.  Blanchett and Rooney make for a charismatic leading duo, romantic but never overly sentimental.  There are some lovely supporting roles, notably Kyle Chandler portraying Carol's husband as a man confused by his own emotions and the social expectations he cleaves to.

Highly recommended.

Tracks of the Winter Bear, Traverse

Two acts, two authors, two very different playlets, but with common themes and references.

Act 1 tells the story of a doomed relationship in reverse.  Shula is trying to shake off the ghost of her lover, and her story winds back through significant moments in their relationship.  Along the way she receives well meant advice from strangers, who never quite hit the mark with their words, but emphasise how hard it is to communicate with someone whose reason for communicating has gone.

There are some great one liners, and several Edinburgh in-jokes, but the focus is always on Deborah Arnott's Shula, a study in pain and grief and the tragedy of being an outsider, but who lights up when the love of her life is realised, and is still able to find a form of hope and a road back from despair.

From the very real life of the opener, the second act moves into a playful, allegorical fantasy.  In a Highland winter theme park Jackie, a disenchanted Mother Christmas, becomes entwined with an escaped polar bear.  A bear that can talk in both it's own voice, and that of the people it has eaten.  A bear that craves love, with a woman who has turned her back on it.

Together they go on a journey, back to Jackie's home in Abbeyhill, and face up to their own fears.  When they part there is, as in Act 1, enough hope in the air for them to find their own ways in recognising their own needs.  The humour is dark, often hilarious, and the script moves at a goodly pace.  Kathryn Howden is a wonderfully world weary Jackie, full of wisecracks and cynicism.  But it's Caroline Deyga's Bear that's the star turn of the night.  Worried, worrying, companionable, terrifying, an echo chamber of human fears and heartaches, she is a powerful presence on stage.

An unusual stage at that, with audience lined up on two sides of the raised and rolling platform, yet another aspect of the duality that runs through the performance.

Both acts have strongly distinctive identities, but both feature love lost, love missed, love unclaimed.  Love accepted, enjoyed, powerful.  And polar bears.

A heartwarming way to pass a winter evening.

Bridge of Spies

A film of two halves, two worlds and two men.  Based, at times loosely, on real life events, this is the Cold War thriller for modern times.  Whilst it provides a genuine all-American hero, the ambiguities seeping from so much of the drama don't give us the simplistic distinction between the goodies and the baddies that we've so often been fed in the past.

Rudolf Abel (Mark Rylance) is a quiet New York artist who is also, as the opening scenes reveal, is a spy for Soviet Russia.  Arrested by an at times hilariously incompetent US security service, he is put on trial for espionage.  Seeking to be seen to be playing fair, experienced lawyer James Donovan (Tom Hanks) is asked to act as Abel's defence counsel.  Despite opposition from state, judiciary, media and public, Donovan tries everything he can to secure Abel a proper trial, despite the risks to himself and his family, knowing he can't possibly succeed.

In a parallel storyline the American spy plane pilot Gary Powers is shot down over Russia and held prisoner.  The US government is keen to see him returned before he spills too many secrets, and engages Donovan to act a as mediator, negotiating a deal for the exchange of Abel and Powers.  Cue switch of scene and mood as the lawyer leaves the sunny warmth and security of home for the cold, grey, war damaged streets of Berlin.  The second half of the film focuses on Donovan's interactions with Soviet Union and DDR officials, the latter competing with the former to gain greater recognition of their country as an independent state.  Leading to much tension, uncertainty and some personal danger for Donovan himself, right up to the closing scenes on the bridge of Spies where the exchange is to take place.

It's all beautifully shot, if a little over reliant on symbolism (the contrast between the shooting of East Germans attempting to get over the wall, and some kids free to climb fences back in Brooklyn, was effective but heavy handed), and there are times when the script seems headed towards comic book territory (but the Coen Brothers did have some part in the script!).  If I have a significant quibble though it's to do with times.  At two hours twenty it's a bit overlong.  And the film gives little feel for the period of time covered by the story, jumping blithely across the calendar and round the clock.  Abel was arrested in 1957, Powers in 1960, and the exchange took place in '62.  None of this would be apparent to the casual viewer.

Hanks is excellent in the legal role, very much a man you'd want on your side in court, with a strong commitment to justice and his own humanitarian instincts.  Even when that means conflicting with his own minders, whose morality is dubious.  He doesn't always look as concerned for his own safety as you think he might, but heroes don't work that way....

Rylance is simply superb, the still centre of the storm, delivering a masterclass in minutiae, of saying it all without words.   A perfect illustration of how someone who works for 'the enemy' can also be a decent human being.  A lesson that seems not to have been learned judging by some of the overreactions we've been seeing to our own recent events.  Bridge of Spies reminds us the shades of grey between the media's black and white, and in that it's a valuable film for our times.

Southern Tenant Folk Union

To the House once more to see a band I reviewed back in May.  Tonight the band were five members strong, with just the one guitarist, and Katherine Stewart now on fiddling duties.

The format was much as described in my previous post, right down to the audience singing along to a gospel number in the encore.  Always a great way to end a gig.  With a deep well of songs from their six albums to draw from, and some new songs from the seventh, which will be out next year, Southern Tenant cover a gamut of styles through country, bluegrass, folk and balladry.  Their lyrics tackle a wide variety of subject, but it's the more political numbers that stand out for their imagery.  Pat McGarvey never shies away from wearing his left wing heart on his political sleeve, and the band is all the better for that.  He also ensures that everyone gets a chance to show off their individual talents, and newcomer Stewart delivered a fine and lively set of Scots tunes for her party piece.

As enjoyable as ever and not to be missed if you get the chance.

The Jellyman's Daughter, The Roxy Assembly

Dowally, a young fiddle and guitar duo (although they did say there was often an accordionist as well), provided support.  A selection of their own tunes, and a cover of Sandy Wright's great song, Wild Hurricane.  Plenty of variation in tempo, style and influences, produced a set that was never predictable and always of interest.  There was one whistle tune, only just composed, for which they sought a title, but I never got to tell them of my suggestion, Jelly and Ice Cream, as it only occurred to me some time later!

The delivery of the vocals came as a surprise, Rachel's voice sounding far more mature than her youth suggested, and she did a good job of making such a familiar number her own.  They do need to develop their stage craft a bit, with the links between songs sounding hesitant and unconvincing, but that will no doubt come with time.  A very enjoyable set.

The Jellyman's Daughter we'd seen only once before, more than a year ago, as a support act.  Their CD has had many plays at home, but this was our first opportunity to see them live again, and we were looking forward to seeing how they had developed.  The duo, Emily Kelly on guitar and Graham Coe on cello, were joined for a couple of numbers by Emily's dad (the actual Jellyman himself we were informed) on banjo, and a double bass player for much of the set.

Mostly they sing their own songs, plus a few heavily rearranged covers.  There are some striking tunes, and plenty of variety of pace and tone both between and within their compositions.  Emily has an interesting voice, managing to be both breathless and bluesy.  Graham's is less distinctive, but provides contrast and harmonies, and together they are extremely effective.  There is a strong musical intelligence at work behind the arrangements and they are clear about the sound they are aiming for.

Kelly's guitar work is of decent quality, but the sound that makes The Jellyman's Daughter unique, and so fascinating to watch, is down to Coe's mastery of his instrument.  If you think of the cello as somewhat staid, only to be seen in chamber music quartets, watching this man play will convince you otherwise.  His solos, both bowed and pizzicato, are as exciting as anything you'll hear from an electric guitar.  He has developed his own chopping style, aggressively slashing at the strings with his bow, which adds both sonic and visual drama.

Amongst the songs there are some, like Anna and Carolina, that stay in the brain long after the show has ended.  I am also happy to commit the sacrilege of saying that their dynamic reinterpretation of the Beatles' Can't Buy Me Love is one that makes the original sound like a commercial jingle.

The bassist provided a nicely understated backbeat for much of the set.  For their final encore the duo were joined by five members of the Tinderbox Orchestra, and their sound engineer on drums, and gave some indication of the richer sounds they may develop in future.  They have matured nicely over the twelve months since we first saw them, with a much stronger stage presence and ability to build a relationship with their audience.  There is every indication that they are just going to get better and better with time.

A class act.

If you'd like to see what I'm talking about....

Here they are delivering Anna with the help of the superb Cera Impala and Dirk Ronnenburg.

And this is Honey.

Finally, that magnificent Beatles cover.

Enjoy.

Brooklyn

It's so noice when everyone's noice, isn't it?

Eilis (Saoirse Ronan) is a young woman living a claustrophobic life in a small town in the Ireland of 1950.  Her elder sister, wanting more of a life for her sister than she has managed to find, arranges for Eilis to travel to New York where a job has been arranged for her through Father Flood, the local Irish priest.  

Naive, fearful and severely homesick, Eilis initially hates her new life, but slowly adapts to her new surroundings.  It helps that so many people - her landlady, her boss and Father Flood - are being so noice to her.  Life improves dramatically when she meets a noice Italian boy and they fall in love.  Suddenly Brooklyn is home and her future is there to be taken.

A family tragedy takes her back to her home town.  Intending to stay for only a month, pressures from her mother, oldest friend and the wider community she left behind conspire to make that time stretch out.  She finds herself, almost by accident, with a good job, a circle of friends and a noice Irish boy who wants her to stay.

And therein lies the dilemma which frames the story.  Who does she choose to make a life with?  Her noice Italian plumber in Brooklyn, or the noice, wealthy Irishman back home?  Where is her real home now?

No spoilers here - she makes her choice and the film ends with that decision.  

The cinematography is beautiful and the feel for the period suberb, with the social mores of the two contrasting societies laid bare.  Ronan is pitch perfect in the lead role, the character developing with her experiences and laying her emotions bare.  She has ability to convey a variety of emotions with her facail expressions that marks out all great screen actors.  The supporting cast has been well chosen, not a dud amongst them.  Standing out from the pack was the always reliable Jim Broadbent as the avuncular Flood, and Eva Birthistle as the experienced fellow passenger who takes Eilis in hand on the boat across the Atlantic.  

With such ingredients the dish should have been a satisfying one.  But I left still hungry for a bit of genuine drama.  Everyone in the Eilis universe is just so damn noice, with conflict and anger absent from the world.  (There is one enjoyably bitchy character back in Ireland, but she's put in her place by somebody noice.  And the worst crime in Brooklyn seems to be 'giddiness'.)  I kept on waiting for something to happen, something to test Eilis' mettle, but it never arrived.

On Coney Island Eilis and Tony walk hand in hand, eating candyfloss.  Which is how I felt when the (very sudden) end came - pretty, sugary, and nothing to bite on.

But at least everyone's noice.

Merry Hell, Atkinson, Southport

stage presence

noun

the ability to command an audience with impressive style or manner  (Dictionary.com)

Two support acts to open the evening, with Nottingham singer/songwriter Luke Whitmore up first.  Initially nervous, he relaxed as his set unfolded and became much chattier with the crowd.  Culminating in his taking a photo of us, to show his wife the size of his largest ever audience!  He has a pleasant voice and some nice phrasing, but the songs lacked any distinctive qualities and his lyrics were too often predictable and banal.  It felt like a work in progress.

The evening was being held under the banner of Grateful Fred's, who hold monthly events at this venue, and before the interval we got a trio drawn from their resident house band.  An unusual line up, instrumentally.  What I took to be a tenor guitar turned out to be bass, the expected lead guitar was mostly on rhythm duties, and solos were provided by an electrified ukulele.  Add in a bit of harmonica and you have a surprising sound.  There was the odd bum note, the guitarist had by far the better voice of the two lead vocalists, and too many jokes were aimed at the in-crowd of regulars.  But the songs were good, arrangements imaginative and they provided plenty of entertainment.  What more do you want from a house band?

I opened this review with a dictionary definition, and it came into play immediately after the interval.  The arrival of Merry Hell on stage changed the whole dynamic of the room.  There's no glamour or pizzazz or flashing lights or dry ice, just an immediate connection with the people they are there to entertain.  And that's the key word for their set.

There's no virtuosity, but solid, professional musicianship.  No sparkling musical imagination, but well crafted, well written and lyrically clever songs.  They cover a wide range of subjects, including politics, death, consumerism, violence and love, with wit, humanity and an innate sense of decency.  Wrapped up in some stonkingly catch tunes.

On this occasion performing as a six piece outfit, with bass, guitar, fiddle and mandolin/bouzouki, fronted by their two excellent vocalists.  It is the contrasting and complementary voices of Andrew and Virginia Kettle that encapsulate the MH sound, his rasping and raucous, hers sweet and soaring.  Both are natural stage performers with mime, dance and comedy as integral parts of their appeal.  Meanwhile the facial expressions and physical antics of Bob, on mandolin, and Nick, on bass, add their own visual xxxxx to the show.

Stage presence.  So often forgotten as an essential ingredient of live music, but served up with all the trimmings by Merry Hell.

For a finale the Hell were joined by the opening acts, and whole audience, in a rendition of the Monkees' Daydream Believer, one of the great singalong numbers (well, it was for a crowd where most of us could remember the sixties....).

And all I could think as I left was .... please come up to Scotland, and soon.  Merry Hell are a great live act.