They’ve made a sequel to my favourite rom com of all time. Well, sort of…
How do you make a film about the meticulously slow, solitary work of breaking codes entertaining? That’s the question that drags at the heels of The Imitation Game, a biopic of Alan Turing, the man who invented the machine that broke the enigma code, which is largely credited for the victory of the allies over Germany in the Second World War, and was ostensibly the first ever computer. Michael Apted’s 2001 film, Enigma (based on a novel by Robert Harris) attempted (and failed) to do this by turning the story of the Bletchley Park code-breakers into a spy thriller and replacing Turing, an antisocial gay genius, with a dashing heterosexual hero who gets involved in all sorts of contrived wartime intrigue.
The truth is that Turing and his colleagues spent the entire war sequestered from intrigue and violence, painstakingly creating a machine that would break codes used by the Germans to communicate strategies of attack. Once the machine was invented, they all continued to live at Bletchley, determining which attacks to scupper or not, so that the Germans wouldn’t cop on to the fact that their radio communications were being decoded.
The drama in Graham Moore’s screenplay for The Imitation Game is smaller than that of Enigma, focusing at first on conflict between the socially inept Turing (Benedict Cumberbatch) and his debonair competitor at Bletchley, Hugh Alexander (Matthew Goode), and then with his suspicious superior, Commander Denniston (played with a suitably gimlet eye by Charles Dance). Turing wants to build his machine, his nemeses, one after the other, want to stop him. There’s not much else in the way of conflict on show, bar a failed romance with a bright colleague, Joan Clarke (Kiera Knightley) and a particularly muted run-in with the police later in Turing’s life, which is both the horrific heart of this film, and a wasted opportunity.
Turing was prosecuted for homosexuality in 1952, when homosexual acts were still illegal in the UK, and rather than go to prison for two years he accepted chemical castration. This fact is tacked on to the end of the film, which is bookended with a star-crossed teenage romance during Turing’s prep school days, and while the injustice is palpable, the idea of Turing as a persecuted gay man is not. There’s the briefest suggestion that the British government might have had a hand in his demise, but it’s never explored. Rather than even hint at Turing’s adult homosexual relationships, his final scenes involve a deepening of his quasi-heterosexual romance with a simpering (as always) Ciara Knightley, not to mention a fetishised relationship with his machine, which is called Christopher after the object of his childhood affection. There is literally no fleshing out.
Having said all this, the performance at the centre of The Imitation Game makes it soar above the film’s own limitations, self-imposed or not. Benedict Cumberbatch’s deeply expressive face is almost always in close-up throughout the proceedings, and that face embodies a character that you feel for at every turn, even when Morten Tyldum’s direction is clunky, or we’re being fed lots of obvious exposition, or Kiera Knightley is talking through her teeth. Indeed, without Cumberbatch, this film would be nothing worth writing home about.
In the closing credits we learn that Queen Elizabeth II gave Turing a posthumous royal pardon in 2013, which of course was too little too late, given the man’s contribution to winning the war and the millions of lives saved by his machine. It’s also a case of too little to late with this film, which could have really explored the deep injustice meted out against Turing, and what it meant to him as an emotional, sexual adult. As such, while celebrating Turing’s achievements, The Imitation Game castrates him again.
Watching Saving Mr Banks, it’s difficult not to imagine PL Travers literally spiraling in her grave. The film, brought to us by the Disney company, tells the story of the culmination of Walt Disney’s 20-year battle to secure the film rights to Mary Poppins, when in 1964 Pamela Travers finally travelled from London to LA, to oversee the development of the film, before agreeing to sign on the dotted line.
Travers was a notoriously controlling character, as was Disney, albeit in a very different way. While the latter, as played here by Tom Hanks, used charisma to get his way, Travers (Emma Thompson) was implacable and ruthless. Much of the film plays this conflict of character for comedy as Walt tries to charm the socks of an unbending Pamela, and with it, Saving Mr. Banks goes a long way in charming its audience’s socks off.
In between we get two other stories: a flashback to Travers’ childhood and the tragic genesis of Mary Poppins in her imagination, and in ‘current time’ the development of the film of her book, helmed by visual scriptwriter, Don DaGradi and the Sherman Brothers, who wrote the songs, over the course of a fortnight at Disney’s Burbank studios.
As Travers battles against every tiny little decision DaGradi and the Shermans make, she increasingly ruminates on her childhood relationship with her alcoholic father (Colin Farrell). Even though the flashback segments of the film are supposed to poignantly underpin Travers adult eccentricities and isolation, they’re the weakest, possibly because of Farrell’s performance, which is so increasingly over the top, a sense of realism is sacrificed. Plus these are the parts of the film when Emma Thompson, who literally shines forth with complicated brilliance from every scene she swallows up, is not on screen.
Tom Hanks plays Disney as an inscrutable character, a man who insists on all his employees using his first name, but who is barely accessible on an emotional level. Even in the big moment, in which Walt ultimately convinces Pam to sign over her book’s rights by describing his own brutal childhood, you get the sense of a showman pulling heartstrings to his own ends.
The idea that Travers would have been convinced by such sentimentality is what might have her spinning in her grave. Yes, she did weep throughout the screening of Mary Poppins at a lavish Hollywood premiere to which she wasn’t actually invited, but it wasn’t because the film’s father-child relationships resolved her own childhood suffering. Instead she felt Disney had bowlderised the book she so identified with. She refused to give him rights to any of her other Poppins novels, and the truth is she signed over the first two, from which the Oscar winning film was adapted, because of financial difficulties.
Truth aside, Saving Mr. Banks is a rare thing, a Disney film that’s a very adult entertainment. Whether it will melt your heart will depend on how you like your adult entertainment, dolloped with a spoonful of sugar or ten in the closing reels or not. But in the meantime it’s a witty, dark and acerbic, and even though the Disneyfication of Travers triumphs, it’s not afraid to cast a cold eye over the mass consumerism at the heart of Disney’s particularly American dream. Indeed, old Walt might be spinning in his grave too, just a little bit.
The fast-paced, hyper-theatrical exuberance of Baz Lurhman’s style is like filmic Marmite. His first film, Strictly Ballroom was the perfect vehicle for his vision, a small-budget project made large with over-the-top performances and a cartoon-like quality that was funny, fresh and endearing. Since then, as Lurhman’s budgets have increased, the exuberance has grown and grown, while the endearment factor has relatively diminished, dipping to absolute zero in his last outing – the execrable epic that was Australia.
His version of The Great Gatsby crashes into our cinemas on a similar wave of hype to that which pre-empted Australia, but there’s no denying that Lurhman is the perfect director to take on a remake of F Scott Fitzgerald’s novel and maybe finally do it justice. After all, it’s a book that might have been the architectural blueprint for Lurhman’s house of cinematic cards.
In one of the director’s regular nods to the 1939 version of The Wizard of Oz, as opening credits for this Gatsby unfold they morph from black and white to colour. There’s a sepia pallour to the opening scenes too, until the action shifts to Gatsby’s parties, and the colour explodes, over-the-rainbow style. There’s the quality of a colourised black and white photograph to the film, giving it an odd retro feeling that along with some disconcerting 3D effects, bring us into the hyper-jazz age action. Fatty Arbuckle or Clara Bow might pop out from behind one of the lush shrubs on Gatsby’s grounds, and you wouldn’t blink an eye. Lurhman plays around with 3D in a painterly way too. Words and numbers are etched on the screen and then dissemble and float towards you, snowflakes fall and dance right in front of your glasses.
The Great Gatsby is a story about male consumption, whether it is of fast cars, big houses, booze, or most importantly, women. It’s about the haves and the have-nots, and at its heart is a man who once had nothing, but now has it all, and still wants more. Gatsby’s reaching for the stars, and at the zenith is Daisy Buchanan, the woman he desires above all things but can’t own, because she belongs to another man.
Lurhman’s cartoonish style lends itself perfectly to the tale. It’s amped up so high that the tragedy of the have-nots, Myrtle and George Wilson – who represent the dull, eternal grindstone that is the underbelly of the American dream – gets lost in broad comedy and Grand Guignol performance from Isla Fisher and Jason Clarke, respectively. But that’s okay, because this Gatsby is not about the underbelly; it’s about the surface. It’s about possessions and possessiveness, and at its heart is a character putting on one hell of a show, like a swan that’s paddling crazily beneath the water.
This film is exactly that – one hell of a show, paddling hard. And it’s a very enjoyable show too. The casting of Leonardo DiCaprio as Gatsby is Lurhman’s trump card. He’s an actor of such depth that he can bring heart and emotion to the most frivolous of scenes, and even though he has to say “old sport” about 3,000 times, he wipes the floor with everyone else on the set, bar maybe the sharp-eyed Joel Edgerton as the Gatsby’s nemesis, Tom Buchanan.
Apart from her costumes, the usually brilliant Carey Mulligan is a disappointment. But then again, Daisy is little more than a cipher for all the selfish dreams the men in this story cradle. She has little to do but look stunningly beautiful, bored, wistful, or cry tears that look like diamonds running down her perfect cheeks. The edgy Elizabeth Debicki as Daisy’s friend, Jordan Baker completely outshines Mulligan.
The one character that appears in every scene is, of course, the narrator, Nick Carraway, as played by Tobey Maguire. His performance annoyed the woman sitting next to me, but I found him to be pitch perfect, in that you completely forgot he was there, even when his face was peering out at you in 3D. Tom Buchanan says to Nick early in the film, “I know you like to watch, and that’s fine with me,” and that’s fine with us too. He’s the human filter through which this story of a crowd of vaudeville performers can somehow be grounded in reality.
In the end, although it leaves us with a message about the meaning of life and all that jazz, you forget it instantly. The Great Gatsby is about spectacle. You exit the cinema remembering the costumes and the frenetic dancing more than any underlying serious theme. Fitzgerald might be turning in his grave – The Great Gatsby is supposed to be a Great American Novel after all – but as Lurhman proves, he deserves this kind of treatment.
To celebrate the release in Ireland today of Oz The Great and Powerful, here are my five favourite Wizard of Oz spin-offs of all time!
Adapted from Gregory Maguire’s decidedly political novel (which has spawned three sequels, Son of a Witch, A Lion Among Men, and Out of Oz) the pop musicalWicked is a current global phenomenon, mixing the universal love of Oz with a music and lyrics Stephen Schwartz that hits all the right notes. It’s a prequel in which the Wicked Witch of the West is re-cast as a misunderstood protagonist, and the Good Witch of the North as her best friend, corrupted by glory. The movie version, directed by Stephen Daldry is set for release in 2014, but casting hasn’t been announced yet. Kristin Chenoweth and Idina Menzel, who played Galinda and Elphaba in the original stage production will not be reprising their roles, given that they are a bit long in the tooth now to be playing the teenage witches.
2. Return to Oz
A Disney movie in which a 10 year-old little girl is given electroshock therapy in a psychiatric hospital? It can only be the 1985 version of Return to Oz, with Fairuza Balk as Dorothy and Piper Laurie as Aunt Em, who thinks her niece has lost her marbles when, six months after the tornado has hit Kansas, the little girl can’t stop talking about an imaginary place called Oz. The faulty shock treatment catapults Dorothy back to Oz for this altogether very dark film in which the plucky Kansas girl is on a quest to find the Scarecrow so she can rescue The Lion and the Tin Man who have been turned to stone by Mumby, the Wicked Witch’s cousin. Not all of it works, but director Walter Murck’s dizzying display of creativity makes for a very satisfying watch.
3. The Wiz
If you’re watching season two of Smash, you’ll know that its bad-lad director, Derek Wills, is in talks to direct a Broadway revival of The Wiz, starring a startlingly slimmed-down Jennifer Hudson. When Jennifer belts out numbers like Home, you understand why this soul version of The Wizard of Oz with an all-black cast won eight Tony Awards in 1975, given that the 1978 movie version, with Diana Ross as Dorothy and Michael Jackson as The Scarecrow, was such an ordeal. One critic said the creators of The Wiz, Charlie Smalls and book by William F. Brown, “found a connection between Frank L. Baum’s Kansas fantasy and the pride of urban black Americans”. You’d wonder, given how times have changed if the Smash version ofThe Wiz would be a smash at all.
4. Tin Man
When it was screened in 2007, this Sci Fi Channel three-part modernisation of Frank L. Baum’s original The Wonderful Wizard of Oz was critically panned. But like most things Oz it’s garnered a cult following. Zooey Deschanel as DG (Dorothy Gale, geddit?) led an impressive cast, which included Alan Cumming as the Scarecrow (named Glitch) and Richard Dreyfuss as a drug-addicted Wizard, and O.Z. is the Outer Zone, which bored diner waitress (in a blue gingham uniform), DG must save on discovering that she’s actually the sister of a wicked witch (well, bitch really) who owns some super-sinister flying monkeys. The effects (and much of the story) owe a lot to the Harry Potter franchise, and Beverly Hills 90210’sKathleen Robertson camps it up a storm as the wicked Azkadellia, but all in all, Tin Man is a little lacking in heart.
5. Journey Back to Oz
This animated feature has to be mentioned, if only because Dorothy is voiced by Judy’s girl, Liza Minelli (who worked on it ten years before winning her Oscar forCabaret, but because of financial difficulties the cartoon wasn’t released until 1974), and Auntie Em is brought to life by Margaret Hamilton who played the Wicked Witch of the West in the 1939 film. Dorothy returns to Oz having been knocked senseless by a gatepost in another Kansas tornado, and finds herself locked in battle with the cousin of the Wicked Witches, Mombi (voiced by an over-the-top Ethel Merman), who is trying to conquer the Emerald City and become Queen of Oz. Loosely based on Baum’s second Oz novel, The Marvellous Land of Oz, it does its best, but there’s something missing, and its not only a pair of ruby slippers.
If you want to write romantic comedy fiction or screenplays, here are five hard and fast rules you should stick to. If writings not your thing, but rom coms are, these rules will give you fun new way to look at them.
1. Different But The Same
You heard the term: opposites attract? This must always be true for the lead characters in a rom com. Yet at the same time both characters must be fundamentally the same as each other. This contradiction creates chemistry.
In When Harry Met Sally, Harry is an inveterate slob who thinks that a man and a woman can’t have a friendship without sex getting in the way. Sally, on the other hand, is a pernickety neat-freak who believes that men always make sex part of the male/female relationship because they think with their dicks. Yet despite Harry and Sally’s differences, they are both philosophers at heart. It is their shared love of talking about the fundamentals of relationships that constantly binds them together. So, while there is constant conflict, there is also the harmony of likeminded souls.
2. Circumstances Will Tear Us Apart
Not only must your rom com leads be in conflict with each other, circumstances must conspire to keep them apart until three quarters of the way into the story. These circumstances can be anything. The guy is still in love with his ex wife (Silver Linings Playbook). The girl is a major Hollywood star and the constant subject of lies and gossip that undermine her relationships (Notting Hill). The girl and the guy live so far apart they have never get the chance to actually meet (Sleepless in Seattle). The girl’s career is taking off at the expense of the guy’s (The Five Year Engagement).
3. He Wants, She Wants
In any book or movie the lead characters must desperately want something, and to create story their wants must be thwarted in escalating ways until the end. But in a rom com the characters’ wants generally follow a timeworn pattern. One half of the romantic pairing must desperately want the other, while the other half must want something different.
Confused? Here are some examples. In my book The Forced Redundancy Film Club, Katherine, having lost her job, desperately wants to get back on her feet again so she can keep the status quo. Martin, having also lost his job, desperately wants Katherine. In Pretty Woman, Vivian desperately wants to get out of a life of prostitution so she can earn self-respect. Edward desperately wants Vivian. In Bridget Jones Diary, Bridget desperately wants the selfish Daniel Cleaver. Mark Darcy desperately wants Bridget. In Breakfast at Tiffany’s Lula Mae desperately wants to forget her miserable, poverty-stricken past by reinventing herself as the sophisticated and invulnerable Holly Golightly. Paul desperately wants Holly.
The protagonist must desperately want something other than his or her romantic interest. The romantic interest must desperately want the protagonist.
4. Turmoil At Three Quarters
Two thirds the way through a rom com novel or screenplay the leads must realise together that they are each other’s perfect soulmates. Then emotional turmoil must tear them apart again. Three quarters the way thorugh Pride and Prejudice Elizabeth and Mr Darcy have put their differences aside and fallen in love. Then they learn that Elizabeth’s sister has eloped with Mr Wickham, which will certainly lead to Elizabeth’s downfall in society, making it impossible for Darcy to marry her. On an emotional turmoil point, her pride is gone, and his prejudices have been confirmed. Three quarters the way through When Harry Met Sally, Harry and Sally discover they are in love and have sex. The next morning Harry freaks out and disappears, leading Sally to conclude that she was right about his inability to commit all along. She gives up on him. Elizabeth and Darcy, Sally and Harry – each couple must find a way to overcome this final separation before finally falling into each other’s arms. This encompasses the last act of the story, and by this point both characters want the same thing – each other.
5. The Learning Curve
By the time the leads in a rom com fall into each others arms at the very end, either one of both of them will have learned some fundamental truth about themselves and changed for the better to secure their own happiness. Meg Ryan’s characters often have to learn the same thing about themselves in her rom coms: idealistic expectations of perfection do not lead to true happiness. Sally learns this by accepting Harry as he is. In You’ve Got Mail, Kathleen learns this by overcoming her prejudices about Joe. In Silver Linings Playbook, Pat learns that clinging on to the past is killing his chances for happiness. In Pride and Prejudice both Elizabeth and Mr Darcy learn respectively that excessive pride does not lead to happiness, and neither does pointless prejudice. They learn to accept each other as they are, and in doing so to accept themselves.
In Breakfast At Tiffany’s Holly Golightly learns to accept the vulnerable, frightened part of herself she let go off when she took on a different identity. Only in learning to love Lula Mae can she find true happiness, and therefore true love.
If you want to write romantic comedy, it’s a good exercise to sit down with a rom com novel or film and see how these golden rules always play out before setting out your own plot. Enjoy!
There’s a bit of difficulty in figuring out what genre to market my novels in, given that I’m a man writing books with principally female leads and a romantic underpinning. But the books are also told from the male character’s point of view, have multiple narrative strands, and so far they also have strong storylines that address LGBT (lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender) issues.
A brief from my editor to the cover designer for my next book, ‘Knowing Me, Knowing You’ says: “Genre: Hard to categorise strictly. In the main, contemporary women’s fiction (as the title suggests) but there are strong male characters, always a gay character, so it nods to crossover too.”
Chick Lit? Contemporary Women’s Fiction? Although I have no issues with either category, and greatly admire writers like Marion Keyes, Sheila O’Flanagan, Roisín Meaney, and Sophie Kinsella, I don’t see myself as a Chick Lit writer. I also believe that Chick Lit is a reductive term. There is a snobbery around it that dismisses ‘Chick Lit’ writers, and it puts certain readers off.
So, I’ve decided that I am not a Chick Lit writer. Nor am I a writer of Contemporary Women’s Fiction. I am a writer of Literary Rom Coms.
More than one interviewer during the publicity round for my last novel The Forced Redundancy Film Club, suggested that it would make a great movie. To my mind that’s not only because the book features lots of beloved classic movies, but also because I have a great love for rom com movies, particularly those written by Richard Curtis, who uses multiple narrative in Four Weddings and a Funeral, Love Actually and to a lesser extent in one of my favourite rom coms of all time, Notting Hill.
The inspiration for the romance in The Forded Redundancy Film Club is my favourite rom com of all time, When Harry Met Sally (which features as one of the movies in the book too). When writing the book I structured it like a screenplay, I used short scenes throughout the novel that had the function of moving the story along. The book also has an underlying soundtrack, with mentions of certain songs in almost every chapter to underpin the atmosphere.
At the end my two main characters share this moment of dialogue:
“Do you know what I’d like to do?” said Katherine.
“Walk off into the sunset?” asked Martin.
A little bubble of joy exploded in Katherine’s belly. “Maybe later,” she said. “But right now I’d like to dance.”
So, can men write Chick Lit? They certainly can write rom coms, as the Richard Curtis films prove. So, yes, of course we can. But just don’t call it Chick Lit!
The “walk off into the sunset” line is a deliberate cinematic reference. At the end of every rom com, our heroes walk off into the sunset. We know at the beginning of the film that this will happen, but the joy of a good rom com is seeing how they get there, despite their differences.
Formerly one half of the reclusive Wachowski Brothers, the writers and directors behind cult hits, The Matrix Trilogy and V For Vendetta, Lana Wachowski decided to come out to the world as transgender as she worked on the latest Wachowski movie, an adaptation of David Mitchell’s literary epic, Cloud Atlas. Her decision is intricately linked to the book’s underlying themes, says Brian Finnegan.
During her sophomore year at High School, Lana Wachowski made a decision to commit suicide. One evening, after an extra-curricular drama class, she went to her local Burger King and wrote a suicide note. Then she walked to the station where she usually got the train home. She waited alone on the platform for the A Train, which she knew would not stop as it sped through the station.
Lana takes up the story: “I try not to think of anything but jumping as the train comes. Just as the platform starts to rumble suddenly I notice someone walking down the ramp. It is a skinny older man wearing overly large, 1970s, square-style glasses that remind me of the ones my grandma wears. He stares at me the way animals stare at each other. I don’t know why he looked away, all I know is because he didn’t I am still here.”
Lana told this story in a speech last October, when accepting a Human Rights Campaign (HRC) Visibility Award. The award was given to her for being the first Hollywood director to come out as transgender.
Lana was formerly known as Larry, one half of the Wachowski Brothers, who came to cult global prominence with the film The Matrix in 1999. Famously, as The Matrix Trilogy evolved into one of the biggest grossing box office franchises of all time, the Wachowski’s eschewed public appearances and media interviews, preferring to stay anonymous, not because of Larry’s gender identity, but because they both became “acutely aware of the preciousness of anonymity”, which allowed them access to an “egalitarian invisibility that neither of us was willing to give up”.
12 years down the line, in anticipation of their adaptation of David Mitchell’s sprawling literary bestseller, Cloud Atlas, the Wachowski’s reversed this decision and gave The New Yorker magazine an access all areas invitation, which resulted in Lana coming out on the global stage.
In her HRC speech, Lana referred to an epiphany she had during a meeting with her brother and their co-director on Cloud Atlas, Tom Tykwer, trying to figure out what to do when Tom Hanks became unavailable to shoot a promo for the film, in which he plays several different parts.
“I found myself repeating a line from a character [in the film] I was very attached to, who speaks about her own decision to kind of come out,” Lana said. “She says, ‘If I had remained invisible the truth would stay hidden and I couldn’t allow that’.”
In the moment, Lana says that her whole life flashed before her eyes. Lana, who had been out for ten years to her family, understood the time had come for her to tell the world. “We’re giving up anonymity for personal reasons, for the responsibility I feel to the LGBT community,” she subsequently said.
David Mitchell’s original novel has a theme of personal responsibility at its heart. The character Lana was speaking about is Luisa Rey (played by Halle Berry in the film). She says her line in the knowledge that telling the truth will likely lead to her own death, and the message that underpins both Mitchell’s book and the Wachowski’s adaptation of it, is about the responsibilities human beings have towards one another.
It is perhaps no coincidence that Lana’s social conscience in terms of her gender identity began to emerge while working on Cloud Atlas. A quick look at the Wachowski’s output gives a trajectory towards her coming out. “It seems that you’ve been living two lives,” Agent Smith says to Orpheus in The Matrix. It’s a film about a man is searching for a way to fuse the world he lives in, which is entirely planted in his brain by machines, with the real world. Orpheus (Keanu Reeves) constantly finds himself in between, never part of one world or the other, in search of the oracle, which will reveal to him what his destiny is.
Similarly Lana told The New Yorker a story of finding herself in a new Catholic School as a child, where girls were divided from boys in two lines. She found herself between those lines, not belonging in either, and not understanding why.
After The Matrix Trilogy, the Wachowski’s turned their attention to writing a script for and co-producing an adaptation of the Alan Moore graphic novel V For Vendetta. Another dystopian film, the original inspiration for Moore’s novel came from the introduction of Section 28, which banned the “promotion of homosexuality” by local councils in Margaret Thatcher’s Britian. It is about the oppression of diversity, with a specific reference to brutal discrimination against sexual minorities. Humanity triumphs in the Wachowski’s dark film adaptation of V For Vendetta, because its hero opens society’s eyes to the price to be paid for buying into homogeneity.
“To deny our own impulses is to deny the very thing that makes us human,” the character Robert Frobisher (Ben Wishaw) says in the Wachowski’s version of Cloud Atlas. Mitchell’s original novel tells multiple stories, distributed over centuries and encompasses several genres. Each story has a central character who somehow links to the central characters from the other stories, and in the film version the same actors play several roles, providing extra underpinning to the linkage. Frobisher, is a feckless but talented, bisexual English composer of the Cloud Atlas Suite. In another story, set 30 years later, we meet his first love, Rufus Sixsmith (James D’Arcy). As theirs and other’s stories progress, the film becomes a treatise on humanity, on how a simple good deed can reverberate through history.
The man in the 1970s glasses on the train station platform of Lana’s youth is part of the Cloud Atlas equation. “Every person you meet has the potential to have a major impact on the direction of your life,” Lana said in her HRC speech last October. With her decision, no only to to come out so publicly, but to address the complex politics of gender and her discomfort with a “binary gender narrative”, she wishes to have an impact on many lives.
“I am here… because there are some things you do for yourself but there are some things you do for others,” she added. “I am here because when I was young I wanted very badly to be a writer, I wanted to be a filmmaker, but I couldn’t find anyone like me in the world, and it felt that my dreams were foreclosed simply because my gender was less typical than others. If I can be that person for someone else, then the sacrifice of my private civic life may have value.”
About to watch Douglas Sirk’s All That Heaven Allows, with it’s gay undertones in a story about a woman in a scandalous relationship with a younger man, and then Todd Haynes’ Far From Heaven, which brings the gay undertones out of the closet, while still tackling the 1950s race issue that Sirk was so interested in, particularly in his film Imitation of Life.
I love the way Hayne’s updates the panoramic technicolor of Sirk’s style, plus the outbursts of melodrama amid stifling repression.
These are two films I highly recommend watching. Sirk’s style has been a huge influence on my writing.
I’m a Christmas song-aholic. This one is my favourite. It features in the very last paragraph of The Forced Redundancy Film Club. Melancholic, nostalgic, heaven!