The hype over this entirely inconsequential and frankly self-indulgent biopic is entirely unjustified.
Kenneth Branagh was brought up in Belfast at the start of The Troubles and nothing happened to either him or his family. Absolutely nothing. But Branagh thinks the world should pay to see his story.
Well I did, more fool me.
This redefines averageness.
An average script with average acting (the fairly stellar- in UK terms- cast never get out of second gear).
An average child actor who is averagely cute plays Branagh.
There is no fear, no jeopardy, nothing.
It’s shot, indulgently, in black and white (sparkling black and white that removes any notion of Belfast grit) and, believe me, Belfast was gritty, I was there regularly in the 80’s when The Troubles were pretty much done.
We have an anodyne Van Morrison soundtrack to accompany the proceedings and the whole thing is done and dusted in an average time length – 90 minutes.
It’s not terrible, but it most certainly is not even remotely great.
Give it a wide berth folks.
I’ve just read Anna Burns’ Milkman. If you want Belfast grit read that instead.
Having watched the first two instalments of this majestic TV series (last year had in tears of laughter and empathy time and again) I thought I’d conduct an experiment. Not a particularly Nobel Prize level experiment, but a notable one nonetheless.
So I made a tally of all the times my wife and I concurrently laughed out loud in the 1 hour show, less ad breaks makes it probably 50 minutes.
Now, to put this in context, the only other show that we guffaw at, rather than smile or snigger or nod admiringly at, is Succession.
The result. 24 times. That’s a belly laugh approximately every two minutes. This is Billy Connolly standard of hilarity.
The laughs were, at a guess, spread about 14:10 for Harry Hill:Kids.
This show was made for Harry Hill. His effortless ease with every child that has ever been on the show is breathtaking to watch. The standard of his time-calling gags is consistently excellent. His cuckoo clock being a rich seam.
But the kids too, with their lack of ego and show offishness leads to many, many innocent moments of sheer hilarity.
Add to that the pathos when one is evicted, the tears, the genuine hugs, the offers of help. The lack of overt competitiveness makes me fill up from time to time.
One last thing, Liam and Ravneet were born for this show and the added bonus of Paul Hollywood filling in this week for a sick Liam, and doling out a handshake to Quique, was just magical.
Hats off to the producers who cast, yet again, such a wonderful bunch of young human beings. How could you choose a winner?
My favourite lighting in a beautifully lit production.
The chills, they’re multiplying, and I’m losing contro-o-ol.
Many, many times in this epic homage to Sondheim and Bernstein and Robbins’ and Wise’s inarguable classic the tears filled my eyes, and not even at the sad numbers. Because this interpretation was so modest, so reverential and yet added a layer of beauty that only modern cinematography can achieve.
I just couldn’t cope.
Spielberg could have Jurassic Parked this to death but he chose, instead, to stay true to Jerome Robbins’ vision and to cast the Sharks fully Hispanic (not so in the original) and to use unsubtitled Spanish dialogue throughout. It mattered not if you speak Spanish because enough English is thrown into the mix, and enough acting skill is on show, that the storytelling point in each scene is made at each and every turn.
The overture takes the breath away and sets the scene for what I knew was going to be triumphant, epic, beautiful, sentimental and just bloody brilliant.
The key to the entire movie is that the orchestral arrangements seem (to me) entirely faithful to Bernstien’s original, even though they were recorded specifically for the new version.
Another, great aspect of this version is that Spielberg’s storytelling, aided by crystal clear diction, makes it very easy to follow and adds depth to the story.
The production design is also breathtaking. Right from the opening pan down a wrecking ball chain into a half ruined Upper West Side (making way for the gentrified Lincoln Centre. I wonder if Spielberg was having a go at gentrification by this reference?)
Justin Peck’s choreography often borrows from Jerome Robbins’ signature style – all finger clicks and half cartwheels. The Gee, Officer Krupsky scene is particularly memorable but the highlight is The Dance at The Gym (Mambo), an exhilarating swoosh of colour: the Jets in greens, The Sharks in browns and golds: subtle but stunning. The scene where Tony sets eyes on Maria is breathtaking as Spielberg prowls through the chorus with dancers flashing in front of the two (Janusz Kaminski, Spielberg’s go to guy, is surely in with a chance of his third Oscar after Saving Private Ryan and Schindler’s List). It’s far more subtle than the original and the better for it, I’d say.
I think there were doubters about the casting of Ansel Elgort (so magical in Baby Driver) as Tony, and Maria is a newcomer (Rachel Zegler) but Elgort is mouthwatering and Zegler simply beautiful, transfixing at times, they make a lovely and totally believable couple regardless of height and age difference.
Put it this way, they can both hold a tune (Elgort remarkably so, given that so much of Tony’s tunes are high tenor verging at times on falsetto). Neither puts a foot wrong throughout.
If there are criticisms they would be that Riff doesn’t quite cut the mustard, too fey for my liking, Rita Moreno is a charming addition to the cast (and a nod to the original in which she played Anita) but, you know, just seemed like a sentimental choice in the casting, although she Executive Produced, so maybe that was a contract clause. Her solo of Somewhere is lovely, but a bit on the thin side, so I wasn’t entirely convinced.
The gang ‘wars’ are given a real heightened sense of jeopardy by Spielberg – the Rumble, in particular, really adds another dimension, it’s electrifying and white knuckle throughout, led by the excellent Bernardo (David Alvarez). Anita (Ariana deBose) is equally compelling in her performance.
Other real stand outs are America – so theatrical, so La La Land and A Boy Like That with Maria and Anita.
The other negative aspect of the movie (it’s a problem with the play too) is that the final act runs out of steam. There are no musical numbers in the last 25 minutes and I think Robbins made Anita’s rape scene more shocking and believable than Spielberg did. But this is a musical without a musical finale and that’s a problem, especially when we know how Romeo dies.
So, it has flaws, but not enough to wipe the stupid grin from my face or the tears from my eyes.
I mean, if I’d had to £100 to see this I would not have felt short-changed. I’m emotionally wrecked, frankly.
Thank you Steven Spielberg for just being, you know, Steven Spielberg. But mostly for respecting arguably the greatest musical ever written and not trying to Hollywood it. Unquestionably he is in the top five movie directors of all time, and I’d happily lose an argument that says he is the best.
Yup. 17 years. 2,700+ posts (I culled a tonne of really rude ones when I went for a job at Creative Scotland too as I thought I would be excommunicated.)
Anyway, since 2006 I’ve been writing this shite. I hope you like it still.
In the past year I have consumed (absorbed) three Ishiguros. Grown up because he won the Nobel Prize for his craft. A fact that I find entirely worthy. I hope the £1m that went with that will be put to good use.
Meanwhile I, an Ishiguro novice, continue to be spellbound by his abilities.
What amazes me in one sense is that he is a happily married man and father because the characters that I have read so far are lonely, isolated emotional cripples. In Remains of The Day, Stevens is so stifled by his sense of duty that he sees the love of his life walk away from him to enter a loveless marriage. In this equally magnificent novel the central protagonist, Christoper Banks, also misses out on love and relationships so consumed is he, like Stevens, in being the best he can be in his chosen profession, detective work.
Both are conceited fools that present the reader with a mix of antipathy and sympathy dependent on the page one is glorifying in. But antipathy always wins out.
In this magnificent novel Ishiguro sets up a central metaphor of colonialism, that is, ownership. Of countries, of emotions, of relationships.
Largely set in the International quarter of Shanghai in the 1930’s at the height of the second Sino-Japanese war (although he never cites it as this) an English colonial boy and his Japanese colonial friend grow up together (although this precedes the war and is told in flashback). Shanghai itself is a no-go zone but this doesn’t bother these two until circumstances unfold that see Banks lose both his parents in quick succession, presumably kidnapped by bandits. Banks is quickly shipped ‘home’ (not home) to England where his education occurs and he rises through pre-war society to become a feted figure in London circles for his remarkable detectiveness.
He returns to China in the second half of the book to attempt to solve the case of his missing parents and this leads to a series of events that are both gripping and symbolic of Britain’s (I prefer England’s) total disregard for anyone but herself.
The arrogance of Banks as he revisits the colony is remarkable and Ishiguro tells of it in almost throwaway fashion, such that few writers could achieve so effortlessly.
His storytelling is phenomenal and his characterisation of both Banks and to a slightly lesser degree his female attraction (the hideous social climber Sarah) is so on-point as to wonder which of them one loathes the most.
It’s a gloriously readable tale with many levels of depth to try to navigate. I very much doubt I got deeper than two. But the language, the evocation of a bygone age, the imagination of his brain is just divine. Simply divine.
I cannot recommend this highly enough.
(Post Script. I did wonder if Christopher Banks and Wang Ku – another key character – were deliberate masturbatory word plays)
gibberish 