Following our analogy of cinema with painting, outlined here, modern attitudes to film preparation and reading would benefit from similar illumination. We could imagine a tree standing in a field, or perhaps a copse as pictured. What is visible of the tree – the leaves, branches and trunk – represent the commonly acknowledged aspects of cinema and television. The leaves are the surface gloss of performance and atmosphere, the nature of which changes with the ebb and flow of seasonal public opinion or developing individual taste; the trunk represents the strong and seemingly immovable basis on which this is formed, common to all trees as all productions, in that it is indicative of that peculiar, often perverse phenomena unique to cinema (and perhaps television): the cinematic spectacle.

Most commentators and practitioners, and a large proportion of the audience, are able to discern the branches: the filmmaking structures that connect the process of exhibition with the outwardly perceived image. These structures are taught in universities and schools, discussed in magazines and journals, and there are websites devoted to the dissection of their intricacies, so it isn’t surprising to realise that the vast majority of viewers are in the same knowledgable position of technical and artistic superiority as producers and technicians. What is surprising, however, is the inability of the theorists, commentators and practitioners to discern the invisible or hidden parts of the tree, despite the paramount importance these elements have to an individual’s understanding and deployment of cinema.

Beneath the ground, the tree is anchored in the earth by strong and intertwining roots. Film is likewise rooted by certain immovable truths – psychological, personal and social truths that underpin the cinematic spectacle – and planted, as our example, in the same immediate ground as its peers; what can be suggested as a form of collective cinematic unconscious linking all works of cinema. But the ignorance many display for that in nature we would take as a given, exposes the fragile foundations of many cinematic projects: to severe the tree from the roots, isolate it from its environment, creates something inherently different that cinema – perhaps, on its own terms, as equally worthy and entertaining, but certainly not from the same naturally occurring wellspring of form.

This is the difference between Black Narcissus (1947; dir. Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger) and The Nun’s Story (1959; dir. Fred Zinnemann), between Punishment Park (1971; dir. Peter Watkins) and Green Zone (2010; dir. Paul Greengrass), or Inception (2010; dir. Christopher Nolan) and Blade Runner (1982; dir. Ridely Scott) – the difference between cinematic achievement or mastery, and the near-automated distribution of the filmed image. Only by looking deeper into the medium, on both a preparatory or receptive level, and through this examination recognising the true roots of the cinematic spectacle, can filmmakers, critics and audiences alike approach a concise and mature appreciation of the form.

The work of zero-budget auteur Adam Cooley is a provocative reminder that the career trajectory of a filmmaker should not necessarily conform to that envisaged by the majority of aspiring media professionals – and, likewise, the psychedelic potpourri of actor-director-editor Cooley’s lo-fi visions, rendered with primitive software and poor equipment, are a rejoinder to the overproduced gloss many seek to emulate. But his work (of which this is perhaps his finest achievement yet) is at once an entirely honest and personal experience, as well as a totally unprepossessing odyssey of unrivaled cinematic genius. Currently Untitled positions itself as a pseudo-documentary, charting the misadventures of a semi-fictional character who’s “making films for absolutely no-one”, and as such, through its hodgepodge of sped-up, slowed-down, pitch-shifted, colour-twisted imagery, mines much the same thematic territory as Jean-Luc Godard’s 1980s output, or even the work of Toshio Matsumoto or Shūji Terayama, both of whom Cooley cites as influences.

That the majority of film wannabes dream of becoming the next Christopher Nolan, Steven Soderbergh or even James Cameron is itself not a depressing reality, nor is it a valid cause for argument, but the prohibitive and knee-jerk attitude these same students and hobbyists – and, we must add, their educators and champions – have toward alternative cinematic sensibilities is not only shockingly fascist but socially intolerable. The more exposure given to filmmakers like Cooley by any media outlet helps to break this mindset: contrary to conventional movie wisdom, his work has garnered high praise and genuinely supportive reviews, with limited independent sell-thru releases of this and other films in the US – facts that not only offer encouragement to all alternative filmmakers, but quite rightly suggest Cooley’s films in particular deserve much more than a cursory interest. Unfortunately, modern mainstream attitudes might preclude this, which is an incredible shame, because it should not be inconceivable to see an Adam Cooley original on show in the same arthouse and multiplex theatres that promote Avatar (2009; dir. James Cameron) or Iron Man 2 (2010; dir. Jon Favreau).

Currently Untitled is not at the IMDb

Visit Adam Cooley’s official site

What begins as an overworked relationship drama reveals itself to have more in common thematically with the likes of Z for Zachariah (1984; dir. Anthony Garner) or the work of Alan Garner, particularly The Owl Service (1969-68) or his novel Red Shift (London: Collins, 1973), than it does any mainstream prime-time drama, and retains the essence of those juvenilia albeit in a modern adult sense, despatching some sublime pop-culture references along the way. The film drags through some wordy, actor-orientated segments that perhaps condemn modern cinematic concepts more than any of the personnel involved here, but these are admittedly well handled by the minimal off-beat cast, and ultimately help to elevate the more unassuming and impressive elements of the film.

In contrast to contemporary sci-fi offerings like Inception (2010; dir. Christopher Nolan) – reviewed here – Framework manages to convey complex themes without patronising its audience, and, even though its trajectory is as conventional as any blockbuster, what remains beyond the narrative is visually stunning and technically assured – properties largely absent from mainstream British cinema. Films like this disprove the myth perpetuated by many modern media practitioners and commentators, and supported by film education in this country and abroad, that successful feature length film production can only be achieved at an absurdly high cost, but helmer Mckenna and his creative team have crafted a fascinating and confident riposte to that misguided belief, joining the growing ranks of intelligent, entertaining and beautiful films made on low-to-zero budgets by UK filmmakers.

Visit the official Framework blog here

Watch the film online at Vimeo

“I hate that shitty office job in IT,” says this film’s main character, modestly played by helmer Armstrong, “I’d rather work in the media.” This blank-faced confession, wrought by the fictionalised Armstrong during the filming of this semi-fictionalised documentary, reveals the heart of Captain Wardrobe Must Die, and the nature of many conversations, images and scenarios explored throughout its length. The silent desperation of its characters – so eager to become part of an accepted success path that they forget who they are, adopting alter egos or paranoid fixations to cover their apathy – mirrors the aspirations and disappointments of a million wannabe filmmakers, musicians and artists of all kinds. So it’s fitting that Armstrong adopts a style and technique that distances himself and his film from its subject.

Displaying an uncanny knack for associational editing, Armstrong cuts-up and tumble-drys his footage – creating flash-forwards that never pay-off, and a staccato rhythm that forces the viewer to question the reality of what they’re seeing. Similarly, the North East locations – many of which were coincidentally employed in our Act2Cam feature Beanz – are rendered in a haunting, almost futuristic way, and seem, despite title cards that concrete both month and year, to be ghosts from the future, echoing the chronological nervousness of the film.

There’s always the danger that any independent project becomes marred by the inflated egos of its originators. Here, Armstrong manages to sidestep that issue by embracing liberating improvisational techniques loathed by the majority of media professionals – eschewing pre-written scenes in favour of on-location ad-libbing – and by allowing the machismo inherent in many male filmmakers’ understanding of the cinematic spectacle to be cruelly but justly invalidated in several key scenes, suggesting, like All This Time (2009; dir. Kris N.) or It’s Nick’s Birthday (2009; dir. Graeme Cole) – reviewed here and here – that successful, alternative film projects must employ not only alternative cinematic practices but an honest process of self-exploration within the filmmaker.

Captain Wardrobe Must Die is not at the IMDb

Visit Roger Armstrong’s official website

This superlative Super 8mm musical proves there are still opportunities for (and reasons to get excited about) the crippled British film industry, and that filmmakers in this country can only succeed when they forgo the artistically redundant processes of Hollywood and its imitators in favour of much more personal expressions. Helmer Cole seems to have an instinctive grasp of cinema’s basic principles, and as such is reluctant to follow the path that too many of his contemporaries willingly tread: perpetuating the narrative-centric, realist bullshit they are spoon-fed by universities, magazines and mainstream film criticism. As a result, this has more in common with Jean Cocteau or Vincente Minnelli than it does with Rob Marshall or, indeed, anything else currently on offer at the multiplexes.

Through a series of musical sketches, each growing in lo-fi surrealism to a frankly beautiful pizza topping finale, Cole and his collaborators lovingly delineate the desires and fears of a small group of recognisably British characters – the portrayals of whom are as honest and unassuming as the songs they sing – against a semi-magical backdrop of take-aways, inner-city parks and shuttered shop-fronts.  The film may have recognisable antecedents in early European cinema, but, in employing locations and scenarios that are unique to their immediate surroundings, the filmmakers reinforce the suggestion that a unique national cinematic identity in this country can only come about by turning our lenses away from subject we think will perform well at the box office, and study ourselves and the world around us. Like the equally brilliant All This Time (2009; dir. Kris N.) – reviewed here – this is one of the most interesting films of the last few years, and deserves to be seen by anyone who thinks British films should, like The Disappearance of Alice Creed (2009; dir. J Blakeson) or Three Lions (2010; dir. Christopher Morris), ape a model which reflects neither our social, cultural or political outlooks, nor what we should aspire to as a nation of potential filmmakers.

It’s Nick’s Birthday at the IMDb

Visit the filmmakers’ official website

With the recent death of actor-director Dennis Hopper, some critics and obituarists have dimly remembered that, between his breakthrough success with Easy Rider (1969) and personality-defining roles in Blue Velvet (1986; dir. David Lynch) or Speed (1994; dir. Jan de Bont), he helmed this sprawling gem of a film that, more than his hippie biker epic, defines and develops the cinematic spectacle through freehand association and symbolic compositions. Inspired in part by Hopper’s own experiences as an actor and wannabe filmmaker, specifically on films like Giant (1956; dir. George Stevens) or The Sons of Katie Edler (1965; dir. Henry Hathaway), and with considerable influence from the works of Alejandro Jodorowsky, with whom he was friendly at the time, Hopper takes the much-loved Western style (which he rightly recognises as one of the two main archetypes of cinema) and uses its mythic framework to hang a rumination on North American cinematic imperialism, the nature of fiction compared with reality, and a number of other topics that modern filmmakers conveniently forget are important.

With some media theorists and critics – most recently the BBC’s resident film idiot Mark Kermode in these blog entries here and here – behaving in an openly hostile manner toward any filmmakers who attempt something more than the commonly-accepted narrative-centric processes of the MAVM, it comes as no surprise to read obituaries and tributes to Hopper that mention this staggeringly fresh and thought-provoking achievement only in passing, preferring to concentrate on his fabled drug abuse and how that reflects on his portrayal of Frank Booth in David Lynch’s intriguing but ultimately conventional nightmare. It’s certainly true that every age gets the Hamlet it deserves, and, in an atmosphere of inconvenient post-9/11 paranoia, and unquestionably awkward big city alienation, today’s film-fun commentators prefer to see things in a simplistic, black-and-white manner, allowing cinematic shit to wash over them without question or affront, rather than look beyond the superficial and confront those uncomfortable truths: compared with the confused and confusing interpretation he delivers as wandering stunt-man Kansas in this film, the easy-to-read psycho Hopper doubles for in Blue Velvet is much more digestible to those who think their local multiplex offers the alpha and omega of cinema.

The Last Movie demands attentive viewing, refusing itself and its audience the same easy answers that modern media professionals actively seek on both sides of the camera. As many would argue, cinema does indeed have the power to entertain and incite, but only through concise intellectual argument and the essential tool of critical debate – the true essence of cinema isn’t “good story well told” but the suggestion and exploration of ideas presented by the movement of people, places and objects through four dimensional space – the presentation of which before a viewing audience, and their interaction with the filmed subject, constituting the cinematic spectacle. At an early part of his career, Hopper found himself encouraged to explore this truth, and sought artistic and political expression through this film – which should remain his testament above countless superfluous madman or hoodlum roles – but met with the then growing resistance to alternative cinematic practices, resulting in his brief self-imposed exile from Hollywood. Today, that camp has almost ultimate control over western cinema and television, forcing all new filmmakers and students to kneel before its hierarchical structures and hugely detrimental beliefs. With Hopper’s death, we have the chance not just to applaud his (sometimes lazy) performances in conventional or substandard films, but to reflect upon and take inspiration from the individualism of spirit he once strove for, and overcome those who refuse to look beyond the surface.

The Last Movie at the IMDb

Jean Pierre Melville saw this “magisterial” effort as establishing the standard for cinema, and it’s easy to see why: Houston here encapsulates his cruel vision of the world into a simple, almost unpalatable nugget that stares you in the face as it hits you in the gut. With simple and unobtrusive compositions, eschewing the puerile and showy cinematic techniques that modern theorists and practitioners swear by, and allowing his perfectly chosen cast to explore and flesh-out roles at their own unhurried pace, rather than toying with and ruining them in the editing room, Houston gives credibility and honesty to the film by the absence of the director’s hand – the quiet confidence of which makes the film his own, rather than just an adaptation of its pulpy source material.

With modern film education ignoring the role of the film director to a negative degree, elevating the writer (per David Yipen’s Schrieber theory) to a level of near-godlike status, many film and media students are left without the most basic concept of what it means to helm a production, never mind the personal artistry and exploration that a true cineaste can bring to a project, and, unsurprisingly, believe the role entails nothing more than fulfilling that of slave to the narrative. If the truth be told, cinema does not need screenwriters, but, unfortunately, screenwriters need cinema – thus the egotism of the author rebels, replacing organic collaboration with inhibiting structures that detract from the filmmakers’ input into a production, and help to perpetuate the criminal values of the mass audio-visual media from one generation to the next. Faced with such institutionalised opposition to original thought, what other option does the emasculated helmer have but to masturbate the over-written screenplay and over-paid actors by jigging things along with visceral and pointless effects?

The Kremlin Letter, amongst a substanial amount of pre-digital productions, suggests an alternative to the misdirection of filmmakers from the true nature of cinema: a loose and unrefined scenario, more than the facile concept of story – represented by the ubiquitous and totally detrimental self-contained narrative – is the crux around which the filmmakers can build or even improvise the cinematic spectacle. Hitchock suggested as much in his conversations with Francois Truffaut, and filmmakers as diverse as Watkins, Herzog and Godard actively demonstrate it time and again; here Houston achieves that standard for cinema with an almost absent craftsmanship, invisibly turning a hokey spy plot into the definition of his random and cruel universe, making the end result a timely reminder to anyone who thinks the filmmaker’s role is to transfer, blindly and unambitiously, the pathetic scribblings of some overreaching bore onto the cinema screen.

The Kremlin Letter at the IMDb

Italian filmmaker Dario Argento here cements his reputation as the “Italian Hitchcock” with this variation on the Psycho (1960; dir. Alfred Hitchcock) scenario. Showily lensed and featuring sequences of technical bravura that bely its simplistic aspirations, Profondo rosso is a film that mocks those who conform to the myth of narrative. There isn’t a story here, not as modern media professionals would recognise and approve it; only a sequence of events that Argento uses to menace, hypnotise and disgust in equal measure. The full gamut of his mise-en-scène is employed, not to underline any facile surface narrative, but to reinforce the symbolic, psychological and allegorical aspects of the scenarios the audience find themselves watching.

Argento, like Hitchcock, Polanski, Lang or his fellow countrymen Mario Bava and Pupi Avati, understands the cinematic spectacle and the principles that govern it. Unfortunately, his recent work has been mediocre at best, self-parodic at worst, never achieving the cinematic delirium of this or Suspiria (1997). Here, before the fatuous reality of success set in, he shows himself perfectly capable at constructing a nightmarish, lethal world of shadows and knives, where nothing can be trusted, especially our own perspectives.

Profondo rosso at the IMDb

This zero-budgeted, home-produced web serial highlights the gulf between mainstream film and television and those of us involved with film-making outside of the mass audio-visual media’s elitist and restrictive processes, and draws attention to the inability of some working at this level to accept their alternative, revolutionary status. A bravely personal mix of documentary-style footage and dreamy introspection, the series chronicles the tense but necessarily routine journey of a soldier trapped behind enemy lines, with helmer Saunders and creative collaborator Alex Brown utilising their meagre resources on and off screen to occasionally powerful effect, this avoids the political band-standing of high-profile productions like Strike Back (2010), The Hurt Locker (2008; dir. Kathryn Bigelow) or The Unit (2006-2009), in favour of a gentle, almost mystical suspense.

Though somewhat hampered by the youthfulness of  its cast, and containing some awkward, superfluous effects work – again, as in this review here, suggesting that more tactile solutions to these problems must be found – this nevertheless stands apart from the majority of military-themed productions thanks to Saunder’s existential approach: hardly anything happens for a very long time, and, when it does, we’re surprised by its downbeat relevance. This, coupled with Saunders’ symbolic use of elements within the mise-en-scène, reinforced by Brown’s quasi-religious voice-over, remind us that a serial like Combat Diaries would be impossible in the eyes of mainstream theorists and practitioners, many of whom are taught that ‘cinematic’ equates fast-cutting and pointless close-ups, and that the self-contained narrative is an irreplaceable god, instead of the melancholic plotless chaos Saunders creates here.

Interestingly, with a second series reportedly in the works, and the lukewarm reception given to the show by some viewers, it will be interesting to see if Saunders remains true to this vision or bows to outside pressure. As a series released on a public platform like YouTube, Combat Diaries is open to criticism from a number of opinions; perhaps the most damaging of which is that from similar amateur or semi-professional filmmakers who, even though they are outside of the MAVM and free from its inhibiting power structures, have been likewise taught – and, more dangerously, grown to honestly believe – that its hierarchical, manipulative practices are the only methods employable on film and television production. Saunders would do well to think twice about implementing any advice that persuades him to conform to accepted but misguided narrative and stylistic choices: only by example can we see the success of alternative styles within the form, and only through success can we begin to break the stranglehold that the MAVM has tightened around creative thought. Saunders has shown himself more than capable of achieving this, and should stay true to his and Brown’s personal, inventive vision with any further installments of this slow-burning but ultimately rewarding web-based drama.

Watch Combat Diaries on YouTube

Combat Diaries is not on the IMDb

This the film that won a record eight awards at the 28th Golden Raspberry Awards – the film awards ceremony that recognises failure and not success, which in North American terms amounts to box office takings rather than artistic or technical ideals – so it comes as no surprise to find the film isn’t as terrible as its reputation suggests; in fact, it’s one of the most interesting mainstream films of the last twenty years. Helmer Siverston understands the basic principles of cinema more instinctively than the vast majority of his peers, and, whilst some of his symbolism is heavy handed and he admittedly fails to explore the cinematic spectacle beyond mere construction, he should be applauded for at least trying to address cinema on a cinematic level. Especially when every other putz in Hollywood is happy to CGI the hell out of themselves or, worse still, indulge pompous and overblown artists and actors to the point that cinema hardly matters anymore.

Compare this to shite like The Dark Knight (2008; dir. Christopher Nolan) or Sherlock Holmes (2009; dir. Guy Ritchie), and it’s glaringly obvious that Siverston’s film has a much deeper knowledge of cinema and the perverse phenomena which surrounds and empowers it. The sleazy strip-shows, lecherous interludes and surfeit of reflected, distorted images only reinforce the film’s superiority over more readily-accepted fare,  whilst its scenes of clinical torture give a much needed human and emotional aspect to the compassion-deficit of similarly-themed films like Saw (2004; dir. James Wan), Hostel (2005; dir. Eli Roth) or Grindhouse (2007; dirs. Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez) – embellishing our point that there are violent, repellent films waiting to be made, but only with an understanding of the causes and consequences of their content.

So why the open hostility toward such an efficient, thought-provoking film – one that ultimately bears more comparison to Hitchock, Argento and Bava than Tarantino, Roth or Spielberg? Part of the blame must be laid at the tabloid media’s fascination and repulsion at the hedonistic lifestyle of leading lady Lindsay Lohan: the hypocrisy that publishes and damns fast-living celebrities underlines a bitter hatred of successful people, one that’s all too ready to stick the knife in when it can. The criticism of I Know Who Killed Me, therefore, can be seen as a criticism of Lohan and her lifestyle rather than the film itself; it wouldn’t matter what film project she embarks upon, the gutter press will always destroy it simply because of her presence.

But there’s something more to the almost universal panning of this film than just the unapproved life of it’s star: so-called respectable theorists and critics, who should have recognised Siverston’s attempts, label it “distasteful and ludicrously plotted” and amongst the worst films of the early 21st century. They’re wrong of course – but why? The answer is simple but remains largely unapproachable in today’s climate. Modern critics, theorists and practitioners alike aren’t taught the basics of cinema at a fundamental level of media education. They are unable to recognise an insightful, experimental commercial film because they are spoon-fed detrimental garbage about genre, narrative and composition. Film and media education has gone so far down this narrow-minded cul-de-sac that its proponents and participants fail to realise they are perpetuating negative assumptions and outmoded theories generation after generation.

Siverston displays a modest cinematic intelligence totally alien to many modern media professionals – one that utilises notions of unity and abstraction, whilst recognising the subjective power of the cinematic spectacle. This film does not conform to facile regulations concerning character development, story progression or truth with a capital T, and it’s precisely because true cinema forgoes such conceited bourgeois ideals that the critics dismiss this film. It offends their rigidly taught and vehemently protected belief structure to a degree that makes them foam at the mouth with misguided loathing. They should turn that venom on their educators and masters, on their text books and magazines, on the stream of pointless, idiotic films they brand as masterpieces and classics of the form, and demand that they be taught cinema as it really is.

I Know Who Killed Me at the IMDB