Anatomy of a Fall: Movie Review

Well, this is by a distance the best movie I’ve watched this year. It actually feels more than a movie experience as it’s so writerly, almost so theatrical that it becomes much more than the sum of its parts by the time you emerge from two and a half hours of spellbinding storytelling.

It’s a French courtroom procedural at its heart.

But it’s a marriage breakdown story at its heart

But its a tragedy at its heart, as the son of our main protagonist loses his sight as a result of his father’s momentary lack of attention (in this respect it reminded me of The Child in Time by Ian McEwan in which a simple lapse of concentration leads to a lifetime of anguish).

This is to prove pivotal at the climax of a densely multilayered script that keeps you guessing from start to finish. Not that it’s a whodunnit.

Basic story is this. Mum, famous writer being interviewed by a sexy young French literature student whom she maybe fancies because she is bisexual has to abort interview because Dad (failed writer and home carer for the son he blinded) starts to drown out the interview by playing P.I.M.P at full volume on the stereo. Mum seems unconcerned; semi-sighted son takes beloved dog for a walk in the snow. When he returns dad is dead having either jumped or been pushed by his wife from the top floor of the chalet.

We now embark on a slow (reminded me of Michael Haneke direction) unravelling of a pre-trial build up with Mum’s old friend (flame?) before the trial itself shift shapes endlessly as the story unfolds.

It’s set in the French alps where French husband Samuel has forced his German wife Sandra to relocate. She speaks perfectly good French but insists they converse in English.

At the trial the court insists on French (but she drops often into English) and this ambiguity and fluidity of language is a powerful metaphor for the rules of marriage, how relationships are brokered, where the power lies.

At its core sits the simply incredible, often inscrutable, Sandra Hüller who’s barely off screen. She has a script to die for, written by the director Justin Triet and Arthur Harari . In many ways it’s the star of the show because it’s so clever, moving and labyrinthine.

Then there’s a mesmerising performance by 11 year old Milo Machado Graner, the semi sighted son who is the key to the whole story, but keeps his cards well hidden until the breathtaking denouement.

Frankly, the beautiful blue eyed pet dog deserves a mention too. You’ll need to watch it to see why.

All in all it’s a remarkable movie. The Haneke reference is deserved. The performances outstanding. perhaps too slow in the first act, but by the end you’ll be wanting more.

Don’t go for popcorn entertainment. Go for philosophical human insight and intrigue. You’ll thank me – if that floats your boat.

The Snow Queen at Royal Lyceum Theatre Review

Morna Young’s very Scottish adaptation of Hans Christian Anderson’s The Snow Queen is a delight from start to finish. We watch as if through a mirror to a beautiful rendering of the Lyceum’s Grand Circle recreated on stage into a clever two-level set crafted with much detail (we were in row A of the stalls so got a pretty close up view). The costumes are beautifully crafted too.

The tale is a pretty closely followed retelling of the classic fairy tale, but moved to Scotland which affords us a grand opportunity to mix modern and auld Scots with a fair bit of the Doric. This leads to several good one liners in what is a funny but not pantomime script.

In fact it’s not panto at all, which is the way with the Lyceum’s Christmas shows, but this, more than most, is primarily concerned with storytelling and performance than ‘she’s behind you’ and lewd innuendo, although Richard Conlon gets a chance to successfully air his comedy chops as a camp unicorn in act 2.

It’s directed by Cora Bissett but doesn’t particularly feel like a Cora show. I don’t know why I say that because she has a pretty broad repertoire. It somehow feels more constrained than I’d expected Cora to be with this. That’s not to say her work is not up to scratch because it very much is. She teases excellent performances out of the entire cast, led by a newcomer to me, Rosie Graham as Garda.

One young child sitting next to us was clearly scared to bits by Clare Dargo as the Snow Queen and had to leave after 20 minutes, but it’s not a scary show and should be good for most kids, although it is quite long. Maybe a touch too long if I’m honest.

It’s really quite a lovely performance. Touching and sentimental without being gushy and I for one would highly recommend it.

Enjoy.

The Beatles: Now and Then. The final Single.

I wonder if you share my enthusiasm for what at first seemed to me to be a gimmick release but turns out to be rather moving and beautiful. Although my Unbcle Rab declared it “a bit mushy”. And my wife Jeana said, “The trouble is I don’t like Paul McCartney’s voice.” Nicely spotted Jeana.

Me? It’ll be on my best of the year list because, quite simply, it’s one of the best of the year.

Thank you technology for giving us this.

Columba’s Bones by David Greig: Book Review

David Greig has written some of my favourite plays. I will never forget his Macbeth addendum, Dunsinane. And The Strange Undoing of Prudentia Hart is a play like no other you have ever seen. Add to that The Suppliant Women (after Aeschylus) Solaris and Yellow Moon and you have a writer of significant importance. (And that’s just the tip of the iceberg).

I bumped into him on Monday lunchtime on Lothian Road, and after chittery chattery he asked me if I was still writing this largely undiscovered colossus of writing magnificence. “Yes”, I humbly replied.

“Well, you’ll regret meeting me today” he proclaimed as he fumbled in his rucksack to fish out a copy of Columba’s Bones and thrust it into my hands. With that he disappeared into the fog.

It wasn’t foggy.

Gulping with fear I strode to Sainsbury’s for my Red Pepper and Lentil Soup, a bargain at £1.50 in these days of crippling extortion. Fear, because the thought of ploughing through a religious tale set in Iona in 825 was my idea of hell – I’d read the publicity and had abandoned the idea of purchasing this novel.

Fast forward 5.5 hours, to whence I sit on the #43 Lothian County Bus to South Queensferry. People are looking at me like I’m a leper as I guffaw at page three of this magnificent jewel.

It’s only 180 pages, it’s A5 in size, pocketable, and has big type for the hard of reading, so if it was going to be a chore it was going to be a manageable chore.

It’s not a chore.

Yes, it’s set on Iona. Yes, it’s 825AD (or whatever they call it now). Yes, it stars a monk, a viking and a widow. No, it’s not a turgid bag of fleapiss.

What David Greig does, and this cues me up to blow voluminous smoke up his beardy arse, is conjure up (based on an existing story I think) a truly great thing. Firstly, it’s hysterically funny (think Monty Python meets Mary Beard, pissed). Secondly, it’s properly engaging. In so few words Greig creates three characters that are at once unique and at the same time familiar. Thirdly it’s unputdownable.

It’s a story about revenge, love (of God, man and woman) and values. But mostly it’s just a right rollicking read. I’ll say no more because it’s easy to spoil it.

By Wednesday teatime, as I rolled off the #43, it was done. I will be extolling its virtues to all and sundry for many moons.

Not only must you read it. You must.