Film
Ben Affleck pulls on the latex in a bid for cinematic immortality.
Move over Supergran: here comes Daredevil, Hollywood's latest comic book adaptation and a pretty definitive sign that the superhero tree is running out of film-worthy fruits.
This time round, the dispenser of justice is played by Ben Affleck, who has decided to achieve cinematic immortality by pulling on the latex. As the cat, bat, spider and other sixth-sense creatures were all taken, Daredevil is left with a bland, non-descript persona: his only distinguishing feature is that he's blind and, as he insists repeatedly, he's 'Not The Bad Guy'. Upon this mouth-wateringly gritty premise, we embark on the latest twist on the theme of 'masked avenger with childhood trauma dresses up in skin-tight rubber and fights for justice in NYC'.
Sadly, Daredevil fails to carve out a niche for himself in the overcrowded world of Technicolor-suited heroes, and ends up stuck in a kind of definitional wasteland. The red-clad crusader seems a bit light-hearted for a guy who was orphaned and blinded by hazardous chemicals as a kid. He's not even really that blind, which defeats the whole purpose of the character. The only interesting thing about Daredevil is that he sleeps in a coffin full of water, a bizarre habit that, if elaborated upon, would have made for a much more compelling storyline than anything in the movie.
So the odds are stacked against poor Ben. How's a man to work in these conditions? Affleck, unfortunately, is no Tobey Maguire: where Maguire gave Spiderman real soul by transcending his nerdiness through the rage and thirst for victory of the eternal loser, Affleck stares blankly at the camera with crossed eyes and a hesitant smile.
And so although all the ingredients are there - gritty NYC, cynical cops, chain-smoking journalists and the masked avenger on a crusade to free the city from Evil - the mayonnaise never takes, and the result is a soupy mess.
The film closes on the most blatantly sequel-oriented plot twist in recent history. 'You know I'll come back, Daredevil', sneers the big baddie after Affleck inexplicably decides to spare him. 'Oh, I know. And I'll be there', promises Daredevil. Not if the paying public has anything to do with it, Ben.
Peter Mullan exposes the horror of an Irish convent for fallen women.
In the opening scenes of The Magdalene Sisters, a young woman is raped by her cousin as a merry wedding takes place downstairs. The birth of a baby is shown in an equally joyless light as the young mother, Rose, is unmarried, and is thereby coerced into giving her child up for adoption. All these women's 'sins' condemn them to a horrifying existence in the Magdalene convent. The ironies the film depicts are here from the outset: nothing is sacred, neither rites of passage nor supposedly sacred institutions.
This is the Ireland of the 1960s. For the 'wayward' women in the Magdalene convents it is a hellish existence of harsh manual labour, strict routine, physical abuse, psychological torture and ritual humiliation. Crispina, mercilessly abused by the sadistic, heartless Sisters of the convent, represents all the women irrevocably destroyed in the convent - it is her demise that lingers in the memory.
Mullan has made a very worthy film with faultless performances from the relatively unknown leads. Having said that, be prepared to be sledge hammered by the shocking cruelty and sadness of all the religious repression - here the film would have benefited from a bit of subtlety. Yes, we see that Sister Bridget is mean and hypocritical, sitting at her desk and preaching virtue - does she really have to be counting money at the same time?
The black and white depiction of the Sisters is unfairly simplistic, and Mullan never bothers to explore the deeper social context whose skewed uncompromising lead to such behaviour.
The Magdalene Sisters is by no means light viewing but it is a fascinating story, compellingly told. By the end you are firmly rooting for the girls who dare to make a break for it, and that part is rather fun. Although I can't help feeling that this strong empathy comes from the audience wanting to get away from the convent, just as much as the characters.
pSeymour Hoffman confirms his briliance as a man coming to terms with his wife's suicide.
If I had my way there would be no Best Supporting Actor category at the Oscars; every year the award would be given to Philip Seymour Hoffman by default for his repeatedly brilliant scene-stealing performances. His turns in Happiness, Almost Famous, Punch-Drunk Love and The Big Lebowski, to name but a few, showcase his versatility as well as his ability to make the smallest of roles eye-catching.
Love Liza, then, represents something of a rarity, with Seymour Hoffman taking on a leading role, and he's exceptional as ever. The picture itself is quite possibly the most depressing piece of cinema ever committed to film, following his character Wilson's struggle to cope with the suicide of his wife. This toil entails so much misery that if you watched an episode of EastEnders afterwards, it would probably cheer you up.
Wilson is dogged by his inability to open the suicide note from his late wife, and faces pressure to do so from his concerned mother-in-law, played excellently by Kathy Bates, who is in search of some kind of reasoning for her daughter's suicide. Meanwhile, he slowly loses his grip on his sanity, developing a serious dependency on the inhalation of gasoline fumes in order to escape his mental torture.
Seymour Hoffman portrays this fucked-up individual with particular proficiency. The film concludes with Wilson reading the note from Liza. Frustratingly for both the character and the audience this does not provide any kind of closure on the matter, which causes the film to peter out slightly rather than climax, but on the whole it does not fail to intrigue. Love Liza is essentially a good, well-crafted film; it's just not one that proves particularly enjoyable viewing.
13th Feb 2003