Film Review: Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps

Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps. Rated M. 133 minutes. Directed by Oliver Stone. Written by Allan Loeb and Stephen Schiff.

The allure of riches associated with a career as a corporate high-flyer on New York’s Wall Street were perfectly encapsulated in Oliver Stone’s Wall Street (1987). Michael Douglas won the Best Actor Oscar® for his performance as the unscrupulous market manipulator and corporate raider Gordon Gekko, whose motto “greed is good” was almost immediately enshrined in the global financial services vernacular.

Fast forward to 2008 – and Gordon is being released from prison where he has served time for insider trading. In a mastertroke of contextualisation, the possessions he had to hand over when he entered prison are returned – and his “gold money clip with no money in it” and “one mobile phone” say it all. The financial world (and the world at large) he re-enters are vastly different but eerily similar beasts to the ones he left behind. His daughter Winnie (the stunning Carey Mulligan) is running a “lefty website” and enjoying the beginnings of a relationship with young gun Jake Moore (Shia LaBeouf in top form), who is determined to kick some serious goals in the big money stakes. The next generation of ‘Gordon Gekkos’ is represented by the steel-framed Bretton James (Josh Brolin) who has learned nothing from history – and it is this character (and his like) who Stone holds directly to account for what we now know as the Global Financial Crisis.

As a director, Stone’s curiosity is forensic (no more exemplified than in his Vietnam War masterpiece Platoon), and it is precisely this kind of attention to detail that makes this Wall Street sequel absolutely engrossing. His passion for detail is equally-matched by the ensemble of superb performances he elicits from the outstanding cast, who all attack the urgency of the work with absolute flair, skill and dedication. Their characters’ egos, ambitions and aspirations are flawlessly realised, with Susan Sarandon shining in a small role as young Jake’s mother. Her dalliance with the real estate market that suddenly begins to collapse around her, is deeply-affecting, as is the decline and death of Jake’s old-school mentor Louis Zabel (the brilliant Frank Langella). It is in these characters, in particular, that Loeb and Schiff’s powerhouse of a screenplay delves into the real private and personal horrors resulting from the sudden and terrifying collapse of the once all-powerful American economy and the rapidly disintegrating ‘American Dream’ in all its seductive guises.

Pictured: Michael Douglas and Shia LaBeouf in Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps.

This review was commissioned by the Geraldton Newspaper Group.

Film Review: The Disappearance of Alice Creed

The Disappearance of Alice Creed. MA15+. 96 minutes. Written and Directed by J Blakeson.

Sometimes, reviewers need to display a little show of complete subjectivity, and in the case of this arch, restless little British psychological thriller, it is to declare that I am a little tired of seeing movies where women get beaten up. Actually, I’m really sick of it. The main reason I’m sick of it is because I’ve suddenly found myself in an extremely unorthodox position of having to tell you all about a film where, yes, the ‘Alice Creed’ of the title, gets kidnapped, bound and gagged, nearly suffocated and eventually handcuffed to an old oil heater in an abandoned warehouse where she is left for dead. Great!

Actually, it’s not great. The best thing about it is the performances from the only three actors in the film: Martin Compston as ‘Danny’ and Eddie Marsan as ‘Vic’, the kidnappers, and Gemma Arterton (unrecognisable from her glamour turns in Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time and Clash of the Titans) as Alice. Whether this has something to do with the fact that Ms Arterton gets the unenviable task of spending the better part of the movie handcuffed to a bed with a bag over her head might, however, be cause for serious conjecture. The characterisations of these three, morally dubious individuals are, however, incredibly strong – and it is this that manages to keep our attention. Curiously though, the end result is more like some kind of over-produced peep show at which we, rather reluctantly, perve – as opposed to have any deep and meaningful connection with or investment in. I walked out of the cinema feeling more than a little bit grimy, which can never be a good thing.

Philipp Blaubach’s grainy, rough and ready cinematography and Marc Canham’s original score are great, while Mark Eckersley’s editing keeps it all moving along swiftly – ensuring that even though there are only three actors and one primary location, it never appears as though we’re in the same place for too long. Blakeson’s script, which twists and turns like the captive Alice, wears out its welcome towards the end when the pacing slumps and, even in spite of the filmmakers’ best intentions, it all starts to seem faintly predictable.

Ultimately, however, it’s got nothing on the benchmark of this genre – Extremities – which starred the late, great Farrah Fawcett in a career-defining performance as the woman who turns the tables on her assailant. Lacking any real sense of dread or fear – The Disappearance of Alice Creed ends up being a little bit too clever for its own good. Approach with extreme caution.

Theatre Review: Bare Witness

Bare Witness. Written by Mari Lourey. Directed by Nadja Kostich. Performed by Isaac Drandic, Daniela Farinacci, Adam McConvell, Todd MacDonald and Maria Theodorakis. A La Mama Theatre presentation at fortyfivedownstairs, Melbourne until September 26.

The cultural influence of photojournalism on the battlefield has resulted in some life-changing images. Some, like the Associated Press’s Nick Ut’s Pulitzer Prize-winning photograph of a naked little girl running along a road immediately after a napalm attack during the Vietnam War – are defining images of a generation.

Controversy, too, has challenged the reputation for authenticity of both written and photographic journalism that has emerged from places to which few of us would dare travel – especially given the life and death stakes that exist in constantly unpredictable war zones. Renowned war photographer Robert Capa’s iconic “The Falling Solider” – a photograph of a ‘soldier at the moment of death’ – has long been the subject of controversy, with a Spanish newspaper declaring it a fake in 2009. Capa, who most memorably (and miraculously) photographed World War II’s D-Day Landings in 1944, also once wrote: “If your pictures aren't good enough, you're not close enough.” Ironically, Capa was killed by a landmine in 1954 while on assignment for Time-Life magazine covering the first Indochina War. He died, it has been reported, “with his camera in his hand”.

Mari Lourey’s epic Bare Witness script (with dramaturgy from Julian Meyrick, Michael Carmody and Ms Kostich) is an extraordinarily layered, insightful and passionate testament to the monumental dedication and primal survival instincts of the people behind the lens. It is also, initially, coloured with an affecting optimism and engaging sense of ribald (if circumstantial) camaraderie amongst the correspondents, who meet the demanding negotiations for safety, translation, proximity, information, infrastructure and technology with determination, efficiency and an unhealthy cynicism.

Ms Kostich’s direction is busy early on – mistaking lots of activity for action. In spite of every best intention to create some memorable movement-inspired vignettes, the cast (who uniformly lack physical literacy, fluidity and powers of elevation) seem ill-at-ease with what unfortunately begins to resemble something more like vaudeville than a revelatory physical vocabulary complicit with the text. The ‘squaring the shot’ motif and the twee ‘clapping of the hands to signify the shutter in action’ just become repetitive, while leaping, twirling actors’ bodies achieve nothing like the exhilarating potential of leaping, twirling dancers’. Ultimately, the issue of how movement informs this determinedly stage-bound piece of theatre remains a considerable dilemma.

This is quite obviously an ensemble deeply connected to the material and the performance of it – and their memorising of this Herculean text is never less than outstanding. But while such clear and present subjectivity and intention does wonders to increase the worthiness of a piece, it does little to increase its powers of effective communication. The overall result is a piece of theatre that teeters uncomfortably on the precipice of self-reverential indulgence.

What hauls it back from the edge of that slippery precipice, are the moments when Ms Kostich trusts her ‘big picture’ instincts and everyone stops wandering and/or running around and flinging themselves all over the place. These moments of rare, potent stillness and introspection reveal a heightened level of engagement and focus with and on the characters and the subject. These fantastic moments of breath, space and stillness are when Bare Witness really comes into its own as an epic piece of theatre – while also revealing the true powers of a finely-tuned ensemble. This ‘air’ is no more beautifully incorporated than in the ‘telephone home’ sequences – the only moments we have to connect with the characters on a level and in a circumstance we implicitly relate to.

Jethro Woodward’s soundscape is marvellous – not only its pure inventiveness, but also in its complicity with the text. It’s just a real shame it all took place up in the corner where it became an absolute strain to watch him at work. It was frustrating to be denied the opportunity to become absorbed in the myriad of significant aural possibilities he was contributing.

Mr Carmody’s video, too, is far too conspicuously contained to realise any of its potential to influence the physical environment and is all rather too neatly incorporated and accounted for (as opposed to Mr Woodward’s random aural interjections and under-scoring) to be really effective. Emma Valente’s lighting, on the other hand, is intricately incorporated into the action, and the use of various different light sources throughout the performance are particularly arresting.

Ultimately, one might say the angles are all strange – which may well make for an interesting photograph, but not necessarily a great one.

Pictured: Maria Theodorakis, Daniela Farinacci and Todd MacDonald in Bare Witness. Photographed by Marg Horwell.

This review was commissioned by Stage Whispers magazine @ www.stagewhispers.com.au

Theatre Review: If, as … and Stranger in the Corridor

If, as … and Stranger in the Corridor. Two short plays by Mammad Aidani. Directed and Designed by Lloyd Jones. La Mama Theatre, Melbourne until September 19.

For people who like their theatre about refugees making new lives for themselves in Australia to be mostly variations on the theme of how ‘they’ can be more like ‘us’, then Mr Aidani’s powerfully brutal ode to the despair associated with a disintegrating mind desperate for comfortingly familiar reference points is not going to be your chai latté.

The mandatory detainment of asylum seekers is a controversial and internationally-criticised ‘policy’ of consecutive Australian Governments (from every philosophical spectrum) and in our reckless and self-serving political climate, it is difficult to separate these acts of governmental-ordained discrimination from the act of theatre-making. In a country that steadfastly and blindly refuses to acknowledge the essence of humanity and difference, the cultural relevance of the act of theatre-making assumes a profoundly necessary responsibility.

Consider this statement: “A boat-load of Sri Lankan Asylum-seekers”. Eerily familiar, isn’t it. Why? Because somewhere, in the favoured national fortress-like psyche, and a lazy, time- and resource-poor media, it is simply too complex to even begin to address the truth of the issues regarding refugees: which is that every person onboard that boat is a human being – a human being who has witnessed and experienced acts of torture, horror and destruction, to the extent that their only choice is to board a leaky boat and sail across the sea to a faraway island where, they hope, their lives will be better. There is a point, one might imagine, where the issues of refugees must become less about some kind of abstract scorecard (in the same way in which one year’s road toll competes with another’s) and more concerned with humanity.

The act of making theatre, especially as a result of its very close proximity to us at La Mama (and in Mr Jones’s ‘V-shaped corridor’), has the power to engage specifically with explorations of humanity – the psychological aspects of curiosity and fear we all share. And these two short plays currently on at La Mama are, make no mistake, powerfully illuminating theatre.

Mr Aidani’s two short extraordinary plays make immensely powerful statements about what is at stake for the human condition and the act of mental and emotional endurance. Directed by La Mama Elder, Lloyd Jones (who can trust a text to flower like few directors I know), our senses are starved of visual feeders, and instead, it is Mr Aldani’s words that take us through the stark reverie of a shell-shocked mind, and a once-abundant imagination struggling to filter and finally determine the truth and newfound relevance of haunting memories of colour, people, music and familiar sounds: the “invisible story”.

Every word is sacred, highlighting the fascinating juxtaposition of the first (If, as …) to the second (Stranger in the Corridor), where we are left contemplating which of the two male characters in the second play might be the male character in the first. Unless, of course, 'he' is 'us'.

In the first play, Mr Jones also makes a typically pertinent design statement about the occasional futility of language and effective communication with a clever and strategically placed sign which potently highlights the pointlessness of it all and begs the question “who tells us what we should do and why?”. In the second play, the projector that never works – and, in fact, is not even assembled – is another jewel of design detail of great significance.

In spite of the text’s references to “melody”, Mr Aldani’s text and Mr Jones’s direction of it, are determinedly anti-melody – with the exception of Shahin Shafaei’s haunting singing.

Elnaz Sheshgelani and Mr Shafaei (both originally from Iran) and Majid Shokor (pictured, who was born in Iraq and who was a member of the Iraqi National Theatre Company) deliver superb, committed performances. Their undeniable unity with the text lends this performance a rare authority and an invigorating authenticity. Mr Shafaei inhabits La Mama’s tiny staircase in a way that becomes almost too painful to watch, and the analogies with the character’s situation come hard and fast. In its complicity to the text and the study of enforced inaction, it is a beautiful performance. Mr Shokor’s ‘reading’ of the text is an inspired directorial choice, and Mr Shokor rises to meet the challenge with an almost innate level of respect and wonder that becomes increasingly difficult to endure.

The text is laced with sharp, penetrating observations about the toll being trapped or enclosed in a limiting physical space takes on our imagination and will to survive it, but perhaps the most telling is this one: “I don’t have anything to prove”. Or this one: “Silence”.

Some years ago in Sydney I met an Iraqi refugee who, while in detention, had sewn his lips together. Today, I am a little closer to understanding why. That is the power of theatre.

This review was commissioned by Stage Whispers magazine @ www.stagewhispers.com.au

Film Review: Tomorrow, When The War Began

Tomorrow, When The War Began. 104 minutes. Rated M. Written and Directed by Stuart Beattie. Based on the novel by John Marsden.

Writer Stuart Beattie (Pirates of the Caribbean: the Curse of the Black Pearl, Collateral, Australia) makes his directorial debut with this slippery account of John Marsden’s best-seller about the impact of a hostile invasion of Australia on a group of fun-loving teens on the cusp of adulthood. While it’s certainly no masterpiece (great slabs of dreary and repetitious romantically-inclined exposition should have ended up on the cutting-room floor), the talented young cast work hard to engage us and the big action set-pieces are expertly handled and hugely effective.

Ellie (Neighbours’ Caitlin Stasey) and her best friend Corrie (Rachel Hurd-Wood) invite their friends Lee (Christopher Pang), Homer (Deniz Akdeniz), Kevin (Lincoln Lewis), Fiona (Phoebe Tonkin) and Robyn (Ashleigh Cummings) on a weekend camping trip to ‘Hell’ – a beautiful, isolated grotto in the nearby mountains. One night, asleep under the stars, the group are awoken by the ominous roar of fighter planes overhead. Unable to even contemplate that these are enemy aircraft beginning an invasion of their country, the group continue to relax and enjoy their time away together. When they return home, they find that everything about their world has changed for the worst – and together they must find the strength and resolve to do their bit to fight for the freedom they have, until now, taken for granted.

Beattie’s inconsistent script provides little real insight into the minds of Marsden’s resourceful warriors and focuses too heavily (and far too literally) on what becomes tedious romantic angst. Ms Cummings gives the best performance as a young girl having to resolve the conflict between her strongly-held religious beliefs and the ultimate price she must pay to protect the safety and wellbeing of her friends, while Ms Tonkin, too, is great as the innocent city girl who finds herself more than capable of rising to meet the enemy when faced with no other choice.

Beattie’s direction, Ben Nott’s (Daybreakers) cinematography, Marcus D’Arcy’s (Sea Patrol, Babe, Lorenzo's Oil) editing and Robert Webb’s (Rogue, The Caterpillar Wish) production design are at their best in the war and resistance sequences (particularly an amazing night-time sequence when the house the teenagers are hiding in is visited by an enemy helicopter). The scenes of a previously vibrant Australian country town and its population decimated by the horrors of occupation are extremely well done and confronting – and it is these sequences that mark Tomorrow … as an occasionally arresting experience. Overall, it’s a well-intentioned but frustratingly patchy affair, even if the pay-off is certainly worth the wait.

This review was commissioned by the Geraldton Newspaper Group.

Theatre Review: The City

The City by Martin Crimp. Directed by Adena Jacobs. Red Stitch Actors Theatre, Melbourne until 25 September.

There’s a stunning moment in Ms Jacobs’ adventurous, counter-intuitive direction of Mr Crimp’s edgy, tense, efficient if unremarkable elegy to inner-urban, fringe-dwelling fatalism for the Red Stitch Actors Theatre. When Clair (the captivating Fiona Macleod) has returned from a conference in Lisbon, she has gone straight upstairs to bed. A bright red alarm clock rings incessantly, bringing her downstairs to resume her tranquillised existence of manufactured empathy with her world and, particularly, her husband Christopher (a fearless Dion Mills). All of the elements – Ms Jacob’s razor-sharp direction, Danny Pettingill’s lighting design, Dayna Morrisey’s set design and Jared Lewis’s sound design – converge to make this a singularly riveting moment. And how I hoped it was all going to end there.

In the impossibly dense, concrete-laced, inner-urban sprawls of London (where this play is set), one constantly struggles with claustrophobia – a certain sky-lessness – which leads to a heightened awareness of how our spirit-sucking proximity to others in the high-density world of semi-detached fortresses exists in London like nowhere else I have experienced. (This is not to say that my experience is vast, but London’s inner-urban environments are pinched and cramped to the point of occasional bouts of immense paranoia.) Perhaps unsurprisingly, paranoia and neurosis are the constant feeders to Mr Crimp’s characters who are all really just in desperate need of a weekend by the sea. Or in the country.

Playwrights who fashion their plays as structure to action (or in Ms Jacob’s adventurous interpretation, inaction) run the risk of being found to be suddenly transparent – which on this occasion is no more clearly articulated than in the long-overdue appearance of the ‘Girl’ (Georgie Hawkins on this occasion). The young girl’s arrival opens a Pandora’s Box of, now, truly horrific possibilities. Regrettably, no sooner have the demons been released, than they are back in their box with the lid firmly closed. It is just one of the many points in this performance at where the calibre of what was happening on stage departed from the reason they were there. The trend of British playwrights exploring their quasi-autonomous habitational quagmires might well be interesting for them (or anyone who has ever lived in Islington), but the lack of universiality in the themes at play results almost immediately in an outstanding production in conflict with its source and, ultimately, superior to it on nearly every level.

Ms Morrisey’s set design which, while perfectly functional and cleverly multi-dimensional, is all too easy-on-the-eye to connect us to the environment in which Mr Crimp’s tortured characters might exist. More East Malvern than Eastgate Estate. But Clair and Christopher’s home is made of sterner stuff – blood, sweat and tears – as was cleverly articulated in the artfully contained and beautifully studied and composed performances from Ms Macleod and Mr Mills as the uptight couple in need of some serious marriage guidance counselling sessions.

Meredith Penman is superb as the next-door neighbour ‘Jenny’, and escorts the role to well beyond the pinnacle of its potential – particularly in her ‘this is how you act a monologue’ moment, downstage centre and delivered with the full force of an actress possessed. This is how good the acting is at Red Stitch – but the point at where the actors leave the characters behind says two things: yes, the writers give the actors their permission, but ultimately, the play itself is found to be wanting.

Curiously, one of the plays many structural flaws fails to reward the fascinating ‘Jenny’, Ms Penman (or us) with any kind of meaningful denoument. Strangely (and it may have all become a little too obscure for me by this stage), the essence of ‘Jenny’ is assumed by the ‘Girl’ (they wear identical costumes) and ‘Jenny’ is reduced to anesthetised wallpaper. So, you assume, ‘Jenny’ is the grown-up daughter. Or something.

Spoiler alert: The final scene, which plays with the deadening weight of a self-conscious epilogue, is incredibly anti-climactic and leans heavily (and deflatingly one-dimensionally) on the “then I woke up and realised it was all a dream” analogy. Playwrights ‘writing about their characters in their play talking about how the play came to be written’ might, some years ago, been considered marvellously illuminating post-modern de-constructionism. Today, it’s just pretentious – and in this case particularly, only serves to whip the rug out from under everything and everyone, including us.

So to all those playwrights out there beavering away on their inner-urban, Global Financial Crisis-infused, pre-apocalyptic nightmare piece: please know how to finish.

This review was commissioned by Stage Whispers magazine @ www.stagewhispers.com.au