Dunkirk

To coincide with the release of Dunkirk, Christopher Nolan curated a season of films at the BFI which influenced his WWII carnival of trauma. "Our season explores the mechanics and uses of suspense to modulate an audience's response to narrative," Nolan explained, and while he might have sounded like some kind of emotion-curious automaton, that declaration of intent - alongside the films he chose - reveals much about Dunkirk's provenance and objectives. Speed's 'Die Hard in a lift / on a bus / on a train' mission statement, for example, can be transposed to Dunkirk's 'Die Hard on the beach / in the sea / in the air' approach; the visual storytelling of silent classics Greed and Sunrise is a key tool in Nolan's dialogue-light, action-heavy movie, and the impact of the climactic plane crash in Hitchcock's tremendous Foreign Correspondent is also blindingly apparent - although for different reasons, Nolan could just as easily have picked Hitch's Lifeboat.

But despite the umbilical connections to all these cinematic progenitors, Dunkirk is first and foremost very much its own thing: a unique, bold, experimental film which - while probably not quite Nolan's greatest achievement - could only have been made by someone with his clout and ambition. And given that, for me, Christopher Nolan's ambition often outstrips his storytelling abilities (unpopular opinion: Inception, The Dark Knight Rises and Interstellar are all loaded with promise but trip over their own narrative shoelaces), it's a welcome relief that this time he's crafted more of an experience than a story. Virtually ditching characterisation and traditional notions of narrative, Dunkirk is less a movie than an ordeal. And I mean that, for the most part, in a good way.

Opening with the title in that familiar Univers Bold font and the sound of the director's own pocket watch ticking away with relentless urgency, Dunkirk is immediately and obviously a Christopher Nolan film. Tick-tick-tick mutates violently into a deafening rat-a-tat as a troop of British soldiers ambling through the deserted streets of Dunkirk are fired on by unseen German snipers, and there's no safety net in the casting to let you know who will or won't survive the attack: all these young men are anonymously similar. Most of the lead characters don't even get named - only in the end credits do we find out that one of our protagonists is wryly named Tommy, for whom ze var is most definitely not over.

That opening scene sets the tone for the next hundred minutes: tension, disorientation, a hidden enemy and extremely loud noises are very much the order of the day. A disparate bunch of unknowns spend the next week desperately trying to get the fuck out of France and back home in one piece while Nolan amusingly forces Big Names to stay in one place and do very little: Spitfire pilot Tom Hardy barely leaves the confines of his cockpit-set close-up, Cillian Murphy shivers with PTSD, Mark Rylance is stuck at the wheel of his fishing boat and Ken Branagh stands on a pier looking stoic. Even Michael Caine is relegated to a voice cameo.

The lack of complex characters might draw criticism from some, but it's a deliberate choice. Dunkirk is about the experience of survival, and Nolan strips away everything that might get in the way of us feeling on edge for the duration of the film. There are no moments of Spielbergian melodrama, no chances to get to know anyone's tragic backstory and certainly no attempts to show that hey, those guys trying to kill our boys are just flipsides of the same coin, man. We never cut to bloated generals pushing model planes around a map in Whitehall and we never see a single German face. Nolan isn't interested in war as a complex investigation of humanity, where the best and worst aspects of mankind can be found in the unlikeliest of places; for his soldiers, war is an endless, merciless death machine to be escaped from as quickly as possible, whatever the cost.

It's odd, then, that Dunkirk remains a bloodless affair. Nolan's decision to focus on suspense rather than the flying limbs and guts of, say, Saving Private Ryan's visceral opening and closing scenes lend it an incongruous air of false safety at odds with the thick seam of authenticity running through the rest of the film. It's a minor quibble, but the odd splash of claret could have upped the stakes even further. Instead, in an effort to heighten the tension, Nolan allows Hans Zimmer the freedom to carpet bomb the film with his most ludicrous, histrionic and distracting score yet. Barely a scene goes by without screaming strings or electronically enhanced horns blasting out at comically overblown volume, wilfully overlooking the dramatic effect that a well-placed moment of silence or two can bring.

Fortunately, Nolan's eye for a shot more or less makes up for his cloth ears. There are images in Dunkirk of such aching wonder - especially if witnessed on the appropriately majestic scale of an IMAX screen - that blow the mind. Dogfights between the RAF and the Luftwaffe are reminiscent of George Lucas' best X-wing moments (ironically, since Lucas shoved footage of WWII films into Star Wars before aerial sequences were finished), the beaches of Dunkirk stretch off into infinite bleakness and the scale of everything is brain-boggling. Tiny figures of men dot the vast expanses of sand, ridiculously tiddly fishing boats pootle across miles of unforgiving English Channel to aid the rescue, and even those Spitfires and Messerschmitts find themselves almost lost against the beauty of a clear, bright sky. The idea that all this is somehow cosmically futile is expressed with elegant awe.

Nolan lays all this out in typically tangled fashion, cutting between the week-long experience of the stranded soldiers, the day-long mission of the "little ships" that stepped in when the Navy was found lacking, and the hour-long airborne skirmish with a deliberate disregard for temporal sense. It's a technique that boosts the tension, but on a first viewing it's also unnecessarily confusing for too long, distracting attention from the story while your brain tries to hop between timelines. And while I'm nitpicking, I have no idea what the mechanics of Dunkirk's ostensibly climactic moment were: Nolan spends most of the film avoiding cliché, but then inserts a late flourish of heroic action which is unexpectedly directorially bungled.

Nevertheless, Dunkirk is quite an achievement even by Christopher Nolan's standards. It's a commendably original, ruthlessly effective sensory assault that pushes mainstream cinema further than anything else has for a long time, and that's not to be underestimated. It's also subtly patriotic without being jingoistic, especially in its treatment of the ordinary folks back home who risked their lives sailing their rickety tugboats across the Channel to pick up complete strangers in dire need. The Dunkirk spirit soaks through every frame, and it's a timely reminder that if we're so desperate to get away from Europe then we're going to need every drop of it.

That's Rogertainment! Rogisode 9: Bullseye!

It may have been over a year since Rogisode 8 of this ill-fated venture, but that's because I needed time to build up to this entry. Bullseye! is not a film that should be approached lightly or without training, for it is unforgiving and takes no prisoners. It's the Mount Everest of Rogertainment if Mount Everest were made almost entirely of poo, and many have fallen negotiating its shitty slopes. Those brave, hardy fools who have reached the summit, though, know that there is more to it than painfully inept comedy and incoherent action; not much more, I grant you, but now that I have accomplished my mission I am prepared to share my findings with you so that your hiking boots may remain faeces-free.

"Ow now Rog, we've been bladdy rambled!"

"A woman?"

"Wrong film Rog"

Bullseye! sees Greatest Living Englishman Roger Moore teaming up with his chum Michael Caine, who just four years earlier won an Oscar for his role in Woody Allen's Hannah And Her Sisters. Caine, sadly, would not win an Oscar for Bullseye!, despite at one point flawlessly conveying the innermost emotions of a man in a kilt who has stepped over a tug-o'-war rope, only for sixteen burly Scotsmen to suddenly propel that rope swiftly and decisively upwards and into the Caine scrotum. If proof of the Academy Awards' insanity were further required, you will find it in that baffling injustice.

Rog 'n' Mike play dual roles in Bullseye!: Moore simultaneously essays the parts of untrustworthy conman Gerald Bradley-Smith and nuclear physicist (lol) Sir John Bavistock, while Caine tackles both of those characters' partners, crook Sidney Lipton and scientist Daniel Hicklar. It is, of course, a staggering coincidence that two friends and colleagues should have exact doubles who are also friends and colleagues, but you should probably get used to that kind of plot improbability early on because there's quite a lot of it. In fact without it, Bullseye! wouldn't exist, and what kind of a world would that be? Just you think about that.

Gerald and Sidney, along with fellow con artist Willie (Sally Kirkland, who replaced a mysteriously unavailable Shirley Maclaine), use their convenient likeness to the science boffins to steal a pile of diamonds from them in a first act heist which is actually quite fun, despite being scripted and acted as if it were a school play produced by hormone-addled teenagers. Rog gets to dress up as a blind Austrian piano tuner for some reason, while both men execute a sophisticated plan to remove a key from a vicious dog's collar by forcing it into a canine orgy with a harem of six unsuspecting lady dogs, thereby tiring it out so they can steal the key safely. In a tender moment, this allows the two lead actors (both of whom would later become Commanders of the Order of the British Empire) to reflect on the tragedy of their own waning masculinity and sexual prowess while watching a Staffordhire Bull Terrier vigorously fucking a Poodle.

"Nothing in the world is single; All things by a law divine

in one spirit meet and mingle. Why not I with thine?"

- Shelley, 1820

From this romantic interlude on, sadly, Bullseye! becomes less refined. In the grubby hands of restaurant critic (and, according to the credits, director) Michael Winner, the dual-identity thread of the narrative is allowed to tie itself into such chaotic knots that it's frequently impossible to tell which of the Caines and Moores we're watching. The plot, such as it is, makes almost no sense; comedic scenes that have no bearing on anything are wedged in with the unfulfilled promise that a punchline may one day arrive to justify their presence; important information seems to have been left on the cutting room floor - or, more likely, never shot or even written - and in its undignified dying moments there's a cameo from John Cleese which is absolutely baffling in its execution, as if it were only shot because he happened to be in Barbados at the time of filming. Which, of course, is exactly the case.

But Rogertainment is a celebration of His Rogerness, rather than a chance to berate some of the worst films ever made; it just happens that the two are often easily dealt with simultaneously. And while Bullseye! is undoubtedly an unedifying piece of cinematic wreckage, it allows Sir Rog to have what is obviously the time of his life dicking about with his chums, and that results in an unexpectedly and improbably enjoyable experience for the Rogerwatchers among us. His attempt at a cockney accent is laughably terrible (although not as bad as Caine's American accent), he plays twice as many borderline sex pests as usual, and he is - let's not mince words here - an atrocious actor in this film. But none of that matters: for once he hasn't been miscast, because the film is as juvenile as he is, and neither make any attempts to be otherwise.

It is under 24 hours since I watched this scene, 

yet I cannot recall how or why it comes about

So while this may not be the film for which Roger Moore should be remembered in years to come (even the press release for the DVD reissue quotes the 2014 Radio Times Guide to Films' review: "this appallingly unfunny comedy is a career low for all concerned"), it does at least capture a genuine national treasure (two, arguably) making an absolute berk of himself and point blank refusing to give a shit. And for that I salute Bullseye!, but only very quietly and at the end of this unjustifiably long blog post that nobody will read.

Rogerating:

If you've only joined us in the past twelve months you may be wondering why I am wanging on with comical infrequency about Roger Moore films. You won't find the answer here, but it's as good a place to start as any.

Bullseye! is re-released on DVD by Fabulous Films on April 4th 2016. Use this information as you see fit.

Nine Things About The Italian Job For No Particular Reason

In perhaps one of The Incredible Suit's most pointless exercises, I thought I'd highlight some of the things that make "knockabout caper" The Italian Job a highly enjoyable experience for anyone with the capacity for the enjoyment of things. If all this seems a bit redundant just imagine it's 1969 and it'll instantly become new, original and groovy.

The Opening

How is it possible to make a leisurely drive through the Alps in a Lamborghini Miura even more enjoyable? Simple: get Quincy Jones and Don Black to write a lovely song and have Matt Monro drizzle it into your ear like honey but without the irritating clean-up operation that the aural drizzling of actual honey would necessitate. 'On Days Like These' immediately sets up the breezy, unaffordably stylish nature of The Italian Job before slamming it into a bulldozer and exploding in a ball of fire.

Michael Fucking Caine

Michael F. Caine's entrance in The Italian Job is cinema gold. As if his very presence wasn't so effortlessly magnetic in the first place, he magnifies the effect by leering right up to the lens and looking like - well, like some kind of lovable cheeky cockney geezer on the cusp of a "knockabout caper".

He's also uniformly amazing for the rest of the film, working wonders with an already great script. Forget "You're only supposed to blow the bloody doors off" - I frequently find myself quoting lines like "This car belongs to the Pakistani ambassador!", "B-I-G. Big," and "You wouldn't hit a man with no trousers on, would you?" in circumstances as appropriate as you can imagine.

The Bit Parts

Benny Hill! John Le Mesurier! Irene Handl! It's like some kind of dream dinner party. It's easy to drop a bunch of famous faces into a film for almost no reason; it's another thing entirely to get away with it. But then The Italian Job is all about getting away with it.

The Clobber

Until Caine pulls on the blue jumpsuit that he wears for the duration of the heist, he wears a different outfit in almost every single scene. That's over fifteen costume changes in the first hour of the film. Even Anne Hathaway didn't have that many on Oscar night. And what's more, he looks utterly godlike in every single one, even the ludicrous flowery shirt he gets measured for and NEVER WEARS AGAIN.

Sir Noël Peirce Coward

He was born in 1899 you know. EIGHTEEN NINETY-NINE!

The Self Preservation Society

Has there ever been a more jubilant musical celebration of lovable cheeky cockney geezers enjoying a "knockabout caper" than this song? I've thought long and hard about it, and I've come to the conclusion that probably not. AND it's not even called 'The Self Preservation Society', it's called 'Getta Bloomin' Move On!' Mental.

The Motors

Everyone bangs on about the Mini Coopers, and quite rightly. They're lovely. And although there are 412 separate mentions of the word "Mini" on The Italian Job's IMDb trivia page, at no point does it mention the fact that the crew had to cut holes in the bottom of each one for the actors to put their feet through and run like in The Flintstones because Italian petrol was so expensive. Unbelievable.

The Waltz Of The Mini Coopers

Speaking of the Mini Coopers, this deleted scene fulfills all the requirements of great deleted scenes in that a) it has absolutely no place in the film, and b) it works brilliantly as a standalone piece of nonsense.

The End

Genius. But, like everything else I've mentioned here, you know that.

Inception

I could tell you what I thought about Inception, but I don't think you want me to spoil anything before you go and see it for yourself. Which, obviously, you would be absolutely Crackers Patel not to do. So instead, here are some thoughts about a piece of promotional material I was given when I went to see it:

It looks absolutely beautiful; it's expensively glossy and the colour palette is gorgeous.

But it's not just about looks. It's also substantial and weighty, thanks to the way it folds in on itself. As you delve into its inner layers, it expands perfectly to reveal goggle-boggling images, a plot which reads like Dreamscape plus The Matrix but infinitely better than both of those films, and a bunch of people in some absolutely Incredible Suits.

Inside are some amazing actors. Leonardo DiCaprio doesn't look like he's holding in a window-shattering fart for once, Joseph Gordon-Levitt looks dashing but a bit silly with a massive shooter and there are too few shots of Tom Hardy and Michael Caine.

If you press your ear to it very hard you can hear Hans Zimmer having the time of his life inside a terrifying nightmare.

I can't describe the final page to you. It's the perfect way to finish but you need to see it for yourself to truly appreciate it.

It's not flawless; there are some parts of it that I need to look at again to work out whether or not they make any sense. Also from end to end it's about 62cm long, and if I'm being honest it could do with being about thirteen percent shorter.

Having said that, as promotional material goes, it is without doubt THE BEST I'VE SEEN THIS YEAR. Especially in comparison to certain others.

You can read what you like into any of the above.

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The Jameson Empire Awards 2010

So the nominations are in for the Empire Awards, which The Incredible Suit is not legally obliged to call the Jameson Empire Awards as this blog is not funded by Jameson. It is, however, powered largely by 7-year-old Cuban Legendario Rum, and I would be more than happy to rename it The Legendario Suit if a crate were to mysteriously plop through my letterbox one day.

Anyway, it's customary for us all to fly into an apopleptic rage upon the announcement of award winners because, for some reason, our favourites didn't win. This is one of the many reasons why The Incredible Suit hates award ceremonies. However they do say you can't complain if you didn't vote, so pausing briefly to say DAMN YOUR EYES BORIS JOHNSON, I can safely say that I shall be voting in the Empire Awards in order to allow myself ample spleen-venting opportunities come back-slapping night.

Last year I dutifully voted, then forgot what I'd voted for, so I didn't know whether to be cross or not at the results. This year I'm going to write them down in blogular format so they're there for all to see and I can know for definite whether to be fumingly incandescent or smugly superior.

So:

Best Newcomer

Sharlto Copley (District 9)

Utterly convincing as annoying wazzock turned tragic loser.
Would therefore play me in a film of my life.

Best Thriller

Harry Brown

There had better be a bloody good reason
why Mesrine wasn't nominated.

Best Horror

Let The Right One In

The only one on the list I've seen. Horror films scare me.

Best Comedy

In The Loop

Surely Up was a comedy?

Best Sci Fi / Fantasy

Star Trek

For some reason Avatar is on this list.

Best Actor

Michael Caine (Harry Brown)

There is no point nominating anyone else in this category.

Best Actress

Melanie Laurent (Inglourious Basterds)

I suppose.

Best Director

Neill Blomkamp (District 9)

You could make ten District 9s for the
amount it cost to make Avatar. Think on.

Best British Film

Harry Brown

Although the second half was daft.

Best Film

Star Trek

Let The Right One In, Empire's best film of 2009,
not nominated. Explain please.

I realise this makes it look like I thought Harry Brown was the best thing since ladies' jumper bumpers, but I can assure you that's not the case. Although the first half of it was 100% Cainetacular.

So roll on whenever it is the winners are announced, I'm jiggered if I can find the date anywhere on the internets. Bit of an oversight on Empire's part there I suggest.

Mmmmmm.

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A Wheezing Rampage Of Revenge

It’s official. This chap Michael Caine, who has for so long gone overlooked in the movie world, is surely the planet’s greatest actor. I mean he’s just chuffing marvelous, there are no two ways about it, or if there are the other way is that he is fricking amazing.

In Harry Brown, Caine plays an old geezer, which isn’t much of a stretch to be fair, who gets increasingly Harry Browned off with the local scumbags on his estate. When his best mate, who happens to be the caretaker of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, is murdered by the aforementioned scumbags, Harry takes it upon himself to go postal on their asses in a wheezing rampage of revenge.

The first half of the film is almost kitchen sink drama, in which Caine is utterly compelling in every frame. Even The Incredible Suit got something in its eye in the scene where Harry was informed of his friend’s death.

Unfortunately the second half, which is kick started – albeit very slowly – by an overlong and slightly freaky visit to a local gun dealer, loses the plot a bit as it heads toward a big finale which the budget can’t support. Ten hoodies and a handful of coppers do not a riot make. Also the police, bless ‘em, are portrayed as ineffectual plods the whole way through, and although this prompts Harry to take up arms himself, it comes across as lazy characterization. Having said that, Ben Drew is remarkably believable as the worst person in the world ever, which is saying something when you’re sharing screentime with Sir Maurice of Micklewhite.

Harry Brown is depressing, brutal and much better than its American cousin Gran Torino, but perhaps the best reason to see it is to watch a legend doing what he does better than what other people what do it does it. Yeah? As some indication of how convincing he was, the only other people in the cinema were four old ladies who I had to avoid eye contact with on the way out because I thought they were going to beat the living crap out of me.

Back by popular demand (i.e. I forgot all about it until now):

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Fountain Of Cobblers

It’s Wednesday. At a loss for something interesting to write about the fact that it’s Wednesday, I turned to the fountain of cobblers that is Wikipedia, and learned this:

“According to international standard ISO 8601, it is the third day of the week. This day is between Tuesday and Thursday.”

I genuinely had no idea that the days of the week were numbered according to international standards. I did know, however, that Wednesday is named after the god Woden (Odin to his mates), but I didn’t know he looked like Gandalf:

So as it’s the third day of the week, here are three things to look at over lunch:

1. A trailer for Michael Caine’s new film Harry Brown, released on November 13th and a new addition to The Official Register Of Films You Must See Before Christmas. Not to be confused with Gran Torino, which this seems worryingly similar to, only better.

2. A video for Adam Buxton’s tribute to Pixar’s Ratatouille, which is both funny and clever. Not something we get much of round here.

3. A clip from Charlie Chaplin’s The Rink, possibly his best short film, from 1916. The music’s rubbish on this clip but I would be happy to lend you my copy* which has a much better score.

If you can’t find something in there that tickles your pickle then I’m afraid there’s no hope for you. Perhaps you’d be better off here.

*No chance

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Bum-Chinned Corpses

Not entirely unpredictably, you lot have voted for Pulp Fiction as The Greatest Quentin Tarantino Film, Like, Ever. Now Pulp Fiction's OK, but let's not forget that one of its biggest contributions to cinema was the re-activation of John Travolta. Is that something to be proud of? The success of Pulp Fiction gave Travolta the power to do this:

2.3 out of 10 on the Internet Movie Database. That's Tarantino's legacy. Not such a messiah now, is he?

Anyway, this week's poll is about a much more deserving director who's in the news this week (i.e. he was mentioned in The Incredible Suit) and hasn't re-animated any bum-chinned corpses as far as I know; Christopher Nolan. In fact Nolan is in no small part responsible for some of Michael Caine's finest work since the 1960s, so he should at least get an Oscar or a Nobel prize or be made Prime Minister for that. So tell me: What's The Greatest Christopher Nolan Film, Like, Ever?

Now I realise I've been banging on about trailers a lot lately so I thought I'd leave you over the Bank Holiday weekend with a few of my own. They're trailers for forthcoming posts which I've written in advance but haven't got round to posting yet. In the spirit of all trailers I've chopped the posts up into nibble-sized chunklets and strung them together in a haphazard and incomprehensible fashion to make them appear far better than they actually are. I hope they lubricate your juice glands to the point where you're bursting out of your underpants to read the full posts even though you know they'll be crushingly disappointing. So…

Coming soon to The Incredible Suit...

Reconstituted Pork Content
Time and time again I’m asked the same question. Costas the Greek in Shirley Valentine. There was a noisy sex scene in it. Painfully unlistenable. Window washer, nude model and sperm donor. Semi-digested meat expulsions. If Roger Moore had his way.

Playing Havoc With My Midichlorians
An endeavour riddled with an infinity of possibilities. One of those undertakings, the success of which continues to elude mankind. So bad it had Shia Labeouf in it. “Mummy, am I adopted?” TEN BILLION DOLLARS. I don’t even know what to say about these. We’ll draw blood if we have to.

An Incomprehensible Robot And A Massive Hairdo
If I had a time machine I’d go back and do blah blah blah. A load of slushy old chickery flickery. Having her drool all over you like a rabid mastiff. To explain it would be like turning your brain into spaghetti and noodles. A naked woman in the woods. A hammer, some nails and a map of the stars’ homes.

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