Film
Despite what the trailers and billing suggest, Seabiscuit is not a version of Black Beauty to the tune of Star Spangled Banner. It has dynamism, quality and, most surprisingly, sincerity. The true story on which the film is based is set in the Depression years as three men and a horse, all "banged up a little", find hope in their partnership. But Seabiscuit avoids blind American patriotism or pointless nostalgia and it even - shock horror - gives a reasonably sound account of true events.
This film does not brush off the Depression as an annoying distraction from a good story; it weaves the hopes of the little men into its material so that we see their hearts heave and crash just as they did at the time.
Whether it be the original stills of the one in three Americans who listened to Seabiscuit race against War Admiral or the vivid glee of the crowds, this film intelligently brings the small story and the big picture together.
The blend is made with humour and tenderness which offers a rare opportunity to laugh without cynicism or irony. Seabiscuit's true-Americanism merges seamlessly with compelling character portrayals, especially through the Bud-quaffing Tobey Maguire (who plays the jockey and looks unnervingly like Donald Sutherland).
Jeff Bridges and Chris Cooper, the capitalist and the trainer respectively, hold on to their characters' simple roots throughout their fine performances. Bridges excels as he proclaims his horse as a symbol of American hope whilst maintaining touching depth to his character.
Given that Bridges' proud display of his double-chin got a little tiring after a while, the horses must be recognised for their dazzling display. Never have so many equine emotions been so well executed on the silver screen.
Most striking of all these displays are the races which are not just dramatic, but heart-poundingly enthralling. Variety in perspective, pace, colour and light makes Days of Thunder look like Scalectrix.
There are, as you might expect, a fair few horse races in Seabiscuit but the quality of cinematography dramatically differentiates each race, yielding the kind of thrill that that hairy bloke off Channel 4 Racing just can't offer.
Seabiscuit as a whole offers a good deal more than horseracing and American back-slapping. Any film with these two elements that can still make you laugh, cry, and ask "why call it Seabiscuit?" is definitely worth seeing.
Masquerading as a who-dunnit, the surreal Swimming Pool is instead a languid study of sensuality, character, motive and imagination. But frankly, strong on plot it ain't: despite some rather Hitchcockian moves by director Francois Ozon, it's certainly more Adaptation than Dial M for Murder.
The premise is straightforward; embittered and uptight English murder mystery writer Sarah (Charlotte Rampling) has writer's block. Her editor, fearful that this might spell the demise of a lucrative series, suggests a sojourn at his French pad. Sarah's first baguette has hardly made it back from the bakers when her idyll is rudely interrupted by the arrival of Julie (Ludivine Sagnier), the editor's daughter. Julie, naturally, is everything that Sarah is not: vivacious, hedonistic, a devourer of men, and most importantly young enough to play the femme fatale. Sparks fly as they provoke the hell out of each other, as Julie lazes round the swimming pool semi-naked and Sarah surreptitiously watches.
It is the interaction between these two contrasting representations of womanhood - the whore and the puritan school mistress - that really makes this film. Their changing relationship provides far more tension than the deliberately teasing conclusion. Both actresses are superb and Ozon's camera focuses, with the exception of the titular piscine - a convenient and portentous metaphor - on little else.
Francois Ozon is curious for being an openly gay director who most recent films have been almost exclusively about women, the men sidelined as catalysts. However, Ozon walks a fine line between reverence and ridicule. Whilst Sagnier's nymph like body could set the film-stock ablaze and Rampling's dourness is gradually teased into a brittle sensuality, we are left wondering whether Ozon is merely taunting us. Farce or beautiful illusion, Swimming Pool will certainly linger with you long after the credits roll.
This term has seen an unnerving development in Oxford cinemas; the vast proliferation of the marathon blockbuster. This is no ordinary phenomenon; it doesn't merely shoot its load and then kindly make way for something new, but trundles on, taking up at least one screen five times a day for weeks on end.
Calendar Girls, buoyed by box office success, has far outstayed its welcome, continuing to strut its stuff when it should have gone into hibernation long ago, and Pirates of the Caribbean was similarly resident at the Odeon. Admittedly, these films were highly praised, but what about the resilience of Bad Boys 2, which is by all accounts rubbish? Our one star review in the first issue, one may have hoped, would speed along the process, but the film just shouted back "Fuck you! I'm here to stay!"
The success of the admittedly more palatable likes of Kill Bill, which will no doubt show until it's concluding part comes out in February, and Finding Nemo, as well as the impending conclusions to The Matrix and Lord of the Rings trilogies suggests no immediate respite. While many of these films are very good and worthy of your attention, it should not be at the cost of variety and diversity, causing many new releases to languish in obscurity.
Thank heavens then, for The Phoenix, the younger, less developed but more intelligent counterpart to the Odeon. Weekly since October 20th they've brought us French cinema on Mondays, with three left to run including Swimming Pool this week, and next week they begin a run of nine features and four shorts as part of the UK Jewish Film Festival. Shooting Conflicts includes a question and answer session with the director, and other notable inclusions are Andrej Czeczot's Eden, an adult animation taking in heaven and hell; and Think German, Martina Docker's study of youth and right-wing extremism. For this the Pheonix should be highly praised, as those drowning in the pool of monotonous crap espoused by the Odeon can at least swim to Jericho for a life jacket.
30th Oct 2003