Andrew's Address

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (Tomas Alfredson, 2011)

2012-01-29T12:30:00.026+08:00

Viewers who have seen Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy often complain that it’s very hard to follow. They say the plot is confusing, and it's peopled with so many characters who flit in and out of the screen. This complaint isn’t unfounded. The material it is based on—the seminal novel by John le Carre—is dense in itself. And the screen adaptation tries to do so much with limited time—it intends to cram the broad, complex story in a two-hour film. The result: a taut exposition, gasping for air, wanting to cover so much from the entire book. But while this is may be a regrettable flaw, you also get a sense that these events happen steadily, and with quivering suspense. The film lacks explosive action sequences—which may irk certain viewers who expect such things on a spy thriller—but to those who stick through till the end, the rewards are plenty.

Tomas Alfredson, whose debut feature Let the Right One In earned him numerous accolades, has made another winner—Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy is an elegant film in every way. Like Alfredson’s previous effort, one of its strengths is atmospherics. Set at the height of the Cold War the film conjures a very bleak mood, no small thanks to the photography and art direction. The acting is also top-notch. Gary Oldman is ingeniously cast as the laconic Smiley, a retired espionage veteran who is forced to uncover a mole inside MI6. In some of his other films, Oldman has a tendency to be over-the-top, but with this one he exercises uncommon restraint. The rest of the cast includes some of the best British talents around—Colin Firth, Tom Hardy, Toby Jones, Kathy Burke, to name a few.

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy is a type of film that demands full concentration from the viewer. In order to appreciate it you must keep up with it. Otherwise if you don’t (or can't) you’ll end up with a terminally hollow experience.

Try harder

2011-12-31T19:02:00.074+08:00

Dazzling lights over at Marina Bay Sands (Singapore 2011)

I’m sharing this to everyone so that I don’t forget, and that I’ll feel pressured to accomplish everything. Here’s my short, obligatory list of resolutions—

Read more. In 2011 I’ve read a whopping total of six books. That is such a dismal number, considering how I’m trying to turn myself into a professional writer (all writers are readers). This year I plan to double that number: 12 books for 2012. That’s not so difficult, right? Just one book a month.

Nope, not for me. With my 9-to-5 job and a raft of other distractions, I need to part with other activities that pilfer time. I have to make sacrifices: lesser TV shows, lesser hours online. Also I realize I’m finding it harder and harder to plow through novels lately—blame it on my dwindling 21st century attention span. Reading is really becoming chore, but here's my solution: add variety to my reading list. Normally the list just includes a choice selection of novels, but this year I intend to mix things up a bit, adding poetry collections, comics, and nonfiction pieces to my growing pile of books. Hope that solves my problem. I plan to sustain this reading momentum all year round.

Write more. Sadly, this is the one department I need to be more productive in. I ply words as a career. Thus I should get off my lazy butt and put my name out there in public. I should get published more often. I should start joining competitions, and win.

Watch more. I’m referring to movies. As a film addict I can't get enough of movies. In the past year I watched 72 in total. My goal was to reach a hundred—I failed. Initially I thought the task was simple and easy, knowing my rabid appetite for movies, but I was mistaken. Sometimes I’m either too tired or just not in the mood to watch.

So this year, I plan to outdo myself. I'll watch a hundred films or more. Looking at my previous list, I think I should also add more local and foreign-language films to my diet. Not that I have a slim number, no. But it’s always a good idea to broaden my cinematic perspective and taste.

Go light. First day of 2012, and here's my advice to my usually mopey self: Expel all the bad vibes and avoid the bitter, immature people in your life. They’re just excess weight, a ballast, dragging you recklessly down. The past year has been incredibly kind to you, Andrew, and you’ve gotten a chance to know and love myself even more. You don’t need pointless negativity. You need to purge it out of your system; let go. I know that sounds mean, but it'll help you feel lighter inside. You need to sift through the dirt and focus on what is essential, what is important.

2012 will be grand, I promise.

The Adventures of Tintin (Steven Spielberg, 2011)

2011-12-11T21:16:00.023+08:00

Steven Spielberg’s trademark style is unmistakable. In all of his films he displays stirring cinematic imagery and at times, easy sentimentality. The latter is often maligned by critics, and relentless haters, who consider it his flaw. And I guess they’re right—Spielberg can be cornball. He lacks emotional restraint, and is wont to pull bring-out-the-violins type of moments.

But when he forgets emotions altogether, that’s when he shines. It’s Spielberg at the top of his moviemaking powers. Once he introduced the term blockbuster with classics like Jaws and Raiders of the Lost Ark, and they are all great stylistic exercises. No question, the blockbuster style he pioneered early in his career is already vanilla by today’s standards. We viewers have gotten so used to it, it no longer grips us in excitement and awe. But with his recent effort, The Adventures of Tintin, Spielberg shows us why he’s in league of his own.

Spielberg is a master of visual storytelling. And motion-capture animation has helped him push his talent to even greater heights. For this film he has created the grandest set pieces, coupled with soaring camerawork. In the Moroccan sequence alone, he strings together scenes of immense fluidity and creativity. It begins from a walled palace perched on the mountainside, tumbling down the tranquil harbor. Clearly, no other filmmaker can surpass that. Or even come close.

The film is based on a series of Tintin comic books by Herge. Tintin, played by the fine Jamie Bell, is an intrepid boy reporter who goes on an adventure with Captain Haddock (Andy Serkis, who is excellent as always). Together with canine sidekick Snowy they search for an ancestral family treasure, and are chased by the evil Sakharine (Daniel Craig) and his crew. The action is nonstop—with the characters journeying over land, sea, and air—but as a viewer I never felt exhausted. Instead, I was smiling cheerfully the entire time.

The only drawback is perhaps the clunky movements and waxy expression of characters, but that is a limitation of the animation. This is still recommendable Spielberg through and through.

Attack the Block (Joe Cornish, 2011)

2011-12-03T19:35:00.047+08:00

Every once in a while, there’s a film comes along and completely blows you away without warning. Attack of the Block is one such movie. This British import delivers a truckload of surprises. This is not just standard horror/sci-fi flick—it offers a lot more than its surface qualities. What sets it apart is that it reinvents hackneyed conventions. There is genre-mashing going on here, even adding implicit social satire into the mix.

Attack of the Block begins with, well, an attack. A female nurse is mugged by a group of young thugs, and luckily escapes when a fireball falls from the sky and destroys a nearby car. From the wreckage emerges a vicious alien creature and lunges at the group’s leader, Moses. I expected the creature to tear him to pieces, but no dice—Moses kills it instead. Soon I realized I’m stuck with this lawless bunch of nobodies and therefore got frustrated. In the end, though, I noticed a remarkable turnaround on my part. I was cheering for the youths’ survival as they slay the alien invaders.

That change is testament to film’s emphasis on characterization; I ended up caring for the characters and their joint cause—defending the block. The young actors also lend incredible charisma and believability to their roles, particularly John Boyega (as Moses) and Alex Esmail (as Pest).

The film easily trumps many crowd-pleasers churned out by Hollywood today. Stylistically it’s a real pulse-raiser, yes, but it also breaks the mold. One of the year's best.

(image via)

Norwegian Wood (Tran Anh Hung, 2010)

2011-11-20T21:00:00.046+08:00

Japanese films swing between two extremes, either wildly crazy or painfully quiet. Tran Anh Hung’s Norwegian Wood belongs to the latter. It’s sluggishly paced, punctuated with lingering moments of sadness and calm. This is the type of storytelling that can lull viewers into coma, especially those who haven’t read the book, but avid fans of Haruki Murakami will surely lap it up. The film is adapted from the novel with the same title and remains faithful, tracing the main story arc. Toru Watanabe recalls his life in the '60s and the suicide of his best friend Kizuki. As Toru picks up the pieces he grows close to Kizuki’s ex-girlfriend, Naoko. Meanwhile, another girl tiptoes into his life, offering freedom from the past.

The film lacks some of the more tender moments from the novel, and I do miss them because they break the tedium of the narrative. But Tran has to work under certain constraints, too. Remember that film is a different creature, with a different language. And what he translated quite eloquently is the feeling of loss and loneliness onscreen. In the long silences I can almost hear the characters’ grief and muffled yearning. The landscape photography is also breathtaking and builds the mood—still pond, snow-covered field, tall grass trembling in the wind.

More than just a loyal film adaptation it’s visual poetry in action.

Enduring time

2011-11-13T14:05:00.036+08:00

I am drawn to anything old and nostalgic. I guess I’m sentimental that way, a romantic deep down. In my room I tend to accumulate things like handwritten notes, rusty key chains, folded maps—even vintage gadgets.

One of them is this bulky WWII camera. It conked out years ago and it's probably beyond repair, but I really dig its antique design. The item belonged to my lolo, and was almost discarded and sold. Luckily, my reaction was swift and I had firm resolve: I dissuaded him from selling it. Since then I've stored it in my room as heirloom, as souvenir of another era, gathering dust. A confession: I don’t know the colorful history behind it. I still have to prod and ask my relatives for that one, but if it could talk, I bet it would've nattered away for hours, telling one big story after another.

A story from recent memory: Once, in 2009, tropical storm Ondoy inundated our home. The floodwater rose at a swift rate and drenched nearly everything we own, including the camera. Overnight the water receded, and we emerged from the disaster alive and unhurt (maybe with gashes here and there, but no serious physical harm). What it left, instead, was an unbelievable heap of mess and part of it was that camera. I found it lying on the floor like a slain soldier. It was caked with mud, almost unrecognizable. I frowned, picked it up and soaped it clean.

Actually I didn't do a flawless job at cleaning, as you can still see small traces of mud on it. But no matter. I like dirt and dust—they show a bit of character. Today, the camera silently sits on my shelf. I use it as a bookend. That is its fate, after long years of abuse and nonuse. It lives on anyway.

Midnight in Paris (Woody Allen, 2011)

2011-11-07T09:58:00.018+08:00

The glowing reviews of Midnight in Paris baffle me. I’ve seen the film twice and I don’t get why most critics are ecstatic. I feel they’re overreacting. Those who proclaim Midnight in Paris as a top-notch Woody Allen have left me gritting my teeth.

No, it’s not terrible; to be honest, I found the film sprightly and enchanting. Owen Wilson plays Gil, a Hollywood screenwriter and aspiring novelist who’s visiting Paris with his fiancé Inez and Inez’s snooty parents. Gil is besotted by the place and wants to stay for good, but Inez scoffs at the idea. One night, as Gil’s strolling outside, a vintage car drives by and whisks him off to Paris 1920s. He lives his dream as he meets bygone artists and writers.

Every scene glows with romanticism, what with the soft, champagne color palette—never has the City of Lights looked so dazzling. There are also protracted wish-fulfillment sequences. Seeing Hemmingway, Dali and Picasso come to life and comingle in well-lit bar is utter delight. But I also have complaints and they easily outweigh the film’s finer points. Allen’s verbal pyrotechnics is noticeably pared down, and many characters are underdeveloped. When Gil meets the pretty salesgirl in the rain, I feel indifferent. No fist-pumping exuberance, at all.

Allen is talented and has made many superior films, but for the most part Midnight in Paris just falls short of greatness.

Black Book (Paul Verhoeven, 2006)

2011-03-15T17:15:00.141+08:00

When I read the synopsis of Black Book I expected it to be like most period dramas—dull and portentous.

But what a joyous surprise, this one bowled me over. Black Book had a lively tone and sidestepped the usual tropes. The film upturned all my ideas about the genre. Set in the Netherlands during the end of WWII, it follows the journey of a Jewish singer who joins the resistance and later, burrows her way into the enemy's lair: the Nazi headquarters. The plot is long and convoluted, but it's told in a manner that is unlikely to trigger boredom.

I applaud director Paul Verhoeven—he made an epic film with a deft touch. As a viewer I knew from the get-go, from the opening scenes alone, that I was in sure hands. I just let myself scamper along for the ride. His stint as Hollywood director also came in handy. With Black Book, Verhoeven merged hands-on Hollywood experience with his innate European flair (he’s Dutch). I detected a keen attention to character development, as well as plot and pace. The marriage of these two worlds is in itself rare, but he unified them seamlessly, and with great ease.

Its narrative strand—about a female spy falling for the enemy—reminded me of another sweeping epic, Ang Lee’s Lust, Caution. But apart from plot the similarity ends there. Lee's is moody and elegant, while Verhoeven’s is vibrant, light-footed, and has a chain of twists.