London Film Festival: Teenage Kicks

Having done my LFF preview for The Quietus via preview DVDs and press screenings, it was a relief to get to the festival proper and lo! Friday turned up not one but two girl-girl dramas in the shape of Pariah and She-Monkeys.

Pariah, a debut feature from Dee Rees, started life as a feature-length screenplay, reached the screen as a short and has now been realised in its original form. 17-year-old African-American Alike, aka Lee, is taking the first steps into baby dykedom, trying out a street butch style and pondering whether strap-ons are her thing. It's all a bit hypothetical, as she's a virgin and looking to her butch pal Laura for advice. But, she's still in the closet around her family, including her strict and religious Mom, and her always-at-work police officer Dad.

Having drawn on her own life, Rees has crafted the film with honesty and artistry in abundance. The early club scenes in which the characters riff and bluff in street speak may be difficult for outsiders, but the emotions felt by Lee, which she can only really express in her writing, are easily relatable. At the screening, one audience member asked how black American audiences had responded to the film, and my head turned, as I thought I recognised the voice of the questioner. Blow me down! It was only Diane Abbott MP, taking a day off from her political duties to take in some cinema. She told me she thought the film was lovely and only wished more people had turned out.

Later that evening, I returned to the VUE to see the hotly tipped She-Monkeys, nominated for the Sutherland Award for most notable debut feature. To my eyes this film was less than the sum of its parts, with an excellent premise--the rivalry and power struggle between two young equestrian acrobats--let down by too much internalising.

I really had no idea at the end of the film whether the central relationship between Emma and Cassandra was one of love, hate, lust, manipulation or other. In fact, the most expressive character in the film was the six-year-old sister of Emma. She had the best lines. The post-film Q&A with director Lisa Aschan also rates as one of the least informative I've seen. I don't know whether she was nervous, tired or tired and emotional, but her answers were largely monosyllabic and punctuated by giggles.

London Film Festival: weekend one

Five days into the festival, I can't yet say how it is shaping up. But the standout for me so far is definitely The Taqwacores. Adapted from Michael Muhammad Knight's novel about a group of punky Muslims living in a shabby group house in Buffalo, the film is a multifaceted look at how people negotiate "mismatching disenfranchised subcultures", as Mohawked punk visionary Jehangir (Dominic Rains in an astonishing performance) puts it. As naive student Yusuf moves into this house, he encounters many stripes of Islam, from strict adherents to the rather startling character of Rabeya, a burqa-clad Riot Grrl-ish character. Quite the eye opener for him and the audience. What is most interesting is that an actual taqwacore scene has emerged as a result of Knight's imaginings, and some of the bands that appear in this work of fiction are actually real performers.

Somewhat less rebellious is the doc on Creation Records, Upside Down. While I was quite looking forward to seeing the now-dead indie label recounted, I was not really looking forward to seeing footage of Oasis. Or Boo Radleys. Or indeed 18 Wheeler or Arnold. And, actually, there was no mention of either of the latter two bands touted by label co-founder Alan McGee, long since mythologised as a tastemaker of the highest order. Even though he signed Oasis. The film is largely a hagiography of McGee, featuring endless shots of him sporting a ridiculous fedora, the most ill-advised piece of baldness-hiding headgear since The Edge discovered his beanie. While truly visionary bands such as My Bloody Valentine are given short shrift, McGee's chum Bobby Gillespie is lionised as some kind of genius. Nonsense.

Also viewed were Howl, the rather limp docudrama on Allen Ginsberg's groundbreaking poem. The film can't decide if it's a courtroom drama depicting an obscenity case or a stream of consciousness riff on artistic inspiration. And it works as neither, despite the striking animation that backdrops the rather dull recitations of Ginsberg's poem by actor James Franco. Most disappointing.

Considerably upping the nailbiting stakes is The Orion, a tense guerrilla-shot drama depicting the consequences of a sexual encounter between two unmarried people in modern Iran. As the couple struggle to "undo" the damage to their reputations via backroom surgery, they come up against the very restrictive law at work in the country. Truly disturbing.

LFF: week two

While not what I would call a vintage festival, the 53rd LFF ended on a high note for me, as I made it to the last filmmakers tea, a series of which had been held throughout the festival.

An opportunity for press to meet one-to-one (or, as happened, in clusters) with filmmakers, they are a form of journalistic speed dating, one parking oneself awkwardly at a table with a keen or jaded filmmaker and hoping to come away five minutes later with some insights or at least good quotes.

Well, one of my dates stood me up, one was jetlagged and the other had such a full dance card, she conducted group interviews and then legged it to a screening. But, it was certainly an eye opener. Good scones, too, even if I was not as impressed by them as a colleague who piled her plate high and praised the quality of English food! One certainly doesn't hear that compliment paid often.

Anyway, I was very pleased to get an audience with Shirin Neshat, whose debut feature, Women Without Men, played at LFF. Given events in Iran over the summer, the film, which is set in 1953 as the elected Iranian government was replaced by that of the Shah, is timely and, in some quarters, controversial. Originally several installations, the film draws together the stories of four women, as the country is on the brink of the coup that brings the Shah to power. Despite their varying social positions, they all gravitate to a magical orchard, attempting to find a place for themselves in the face of oppression. An allegory for the state of Iran itself, Neshat's vision is confidently realised.

Wearing the green wrist bands of the opposition movement, Neshat confidently handled questions from six or seven journalists, explaining her position as both artist and activist. At some point, I will elaborate on her comments. But, it was an impressive appearance.

I also spoke to Ana Kokkinos, who had just flown in from Australia as a last-minute addition to the festival. Sadly, I was not able to catch her new film, Blessed, but I well remember her debut, Only the Brave, a tough-minded depiction of Greek-Australian teens. She admitted she was something of a teenaged tearaway and is drawn to these kinds of stories, and the new film returns to this terrain, as it follows teenagers and their parents throughout one eventful evening.

Of the films I saw in the second week, standouts are Precious and Ander, two depictions of home life in very different circumstances.

LFF: French Fancies

When it comes to whimsy and visual imagery, Jean-Pierre Jeunet pretty much has it wrapped up, after Delicatessen, Amelie and, um, Alien Resurrection. Now, in Micmacs à tire-larigot, he's tackling the very real-world subject of arms manufacturers. After naive video store worker Bazil is shot in the head by an errant bullet during a shootout, he finds himself homeless, friendless and jobless wandering the streets of Paris.

But, this is no ordinary quotidien Paris, but a sepia-tinted city of Jeunet's imagining, populated by circus performers and lovable rogues who adopt the down-on-his luck Bazil and assist him in his quest to bring down the two munitions companies responsible for his injuries, his father's death and untold miseries in foreign conflicts. This is a man with a dream, and the means to realise it. There follow ridiculous plot twists and implausible set pieces, executed with Jeunet's attention to detail and cinematic references. There is even a bit of romance between Bazil and a contortionist. And, save for some rather creepy voyeurism involving a security guard, it works.

Mia Hansen-Løve's family drama The Father of My Children is also steeped in cinema but of the business kind, as workaholic film producer Gregoire finds his production company under financial pressures, despite his best efforts. Neglecting his family in Paris, he spends all of his time on the phone, attempting to cut deals all over the globe in pursuit of his vision of the purity of arthouse cinema. The film references feel a bit in-joke, with Gregoire locked in a battle with a Swedish auteur over rising production costs. When it all crumbles, the focus shifts to his wife and three daughters, who find themselves stepping into the breach.

In truth, Gregoire is not a very sympathetic character and the film spends far too much time on his endless phone calls and not enough time developing the female characters who, rather belatedly, emerge. It is only revealed toward the end of the film, for instance, that the wife is Italian, hence her desire to move the family to Italy, against the eldest daughter's wishes. The division into two halves feels a bit awkward, negating the emotional power of the film.

London Film Festival

14-29 October, London

Today sees the opening of the London Film Festival, aka Clooney Fest, as dear George has THREE films on display, including tonight's premiere of Fantastic Mr. Fox. Apparently, the queues have been building all day.

George aside, the attractions of the festival include Sam Taylor-Wood's depiction of the youth of John Lennon, Nowhere Boy, which closes the festival, as well as Jane Campion's latest, Bright Star, a biopic of John Keats and Fanny Brawne.

As usual, though, I am more drawn to the small, obscure films and so am looking forward to the dramas Cracks, Tales from the Golden Age, and Leaving. Blank City was announced, but this doc on CBGBs has now been replaced by another, Burning Down the House. Not sure why.

Jane Campion and Julianne Moore are featured speakers, but I am especially keen to see what transpires at the panel on female directors called Snipping Away at the Celluloid Ceiling, the panellists for which have yet to be announced.

I hope to try out some new methods of coverage, so may be popping up in unexpected places.