The Velvet Café

I’ve been a cinema visitor for about 40 years. But I’ve never found myself to be the only person in the audience until the other night, as I watched Beginners.

“Where do you want to sit?” asked the girl in the ticket box and I shrugged at her with a faint smile. “You tell me”. And she aimed and put her cross exactly in the middle of the salon. “Here”.

I waited patiently through the commercials, but once they were over, I felt that I was no longer under any obligation to adjust to the Wittertainment’s code of conduct. So I took off my shoes, knowing that I was likely to be resistant to the possible smell that would come out, and threw up my feet on the back of the seat in front of me, making myself as comfortable as I could. This was a once-in-a-lifetime-opportunity, so I could as well make full use of it.

Tears in my eyes
And I guess I did, but in a different way than I had expected. The movie had all but started when I felt the first tears filling my eyes until they couldn’t hold anymore. Slowly the fluid surrendered to gravitation and started to fall down on my chin. And so it went on more or less through the entire movie – a silent, gentle and every so slow rain of tears, which never hold up for more than a few minutes at a time.

I didn’t sob loudly, because it wasn’t that kind of tears. But I sniffed every once in a while, without shame or fear or restraints, since I knew I was on my own. And I was grateful. If I ever was to watch a movie on my own, this was the perfect one for it.

Hopeful story
I’m not quite sure why it filled me with such a deep melancholy. Actually the story is more hopeful than depressing when I think of it.

Christopher Plummer is the father, who at the age of 75, after 44 years of marriage comes out as gay after the death of his wife.  He doesn’t let the fact that he’s got terminal cancer stop him from finally getting a lover, cherishing life and making the best he possibly could of whatever remains of it.

Ewan McGregor is his 38 years old son, who has to deal first with the shock about the true nature of his parent’s marriage, and then with the loss of his father. With a history of previously non-working relationships he meets Anna, a French actress and love starts to grow. Maybe it will be different this time?

Not much to be cry about, is there? And yet I cried, and I’d lie if I’d say that it was only because it was so beautiful and touching and uplifting, that it was the happy-end-kind-of-tears.

Some of them were, that’s for sure.  Others were previously unshed tears over my father, who I unlike in the movie really never got to know. There were also tears of sadness from the insight that deep down, we’re all essentially on our own, utterly alone. It takes courage to reach out and let others come emotionally close to us. Maybe there’s a potential for everyone to experience it, but it doesn’t come automatically and without effort.

Profound and cleansing
I think Beginners is one of those movies that don’t work for everyone. Your experience of it depends highly on your personal luggage and your mood as you see it. Watching it in a full salon with people who laugh in the wrong places, chain-chug crisps and let their fingers fly like butterflies over their cell phones definitely wouldn’t have been the same as to see it on my own.

I found it profound and cleansing. And actually – in the midst of all this sadness I’ve been going on about – quite funny and charming. I even smiled every now and then through the mist of tears, not the least at the absolutely enchanting Jack Russel Terrier who “talks” to the son through subtitles, reminding me a little bit of the commentary Snowy, Tintin’s dog.

The only reason for me not to give it the highest rating is the French girlfriend, played by Mélanie Laurent, who is a little bit “too perfect” to click with me. She looks gorgeous, quirky, smart, successful, and if she’s a little bit fucked up (she must be, it’s an indie type film), it’s in a way that makes you more interested than put off. But what do I know; maybe I’m just envious about not being her?

In any case, Beginners was a truly wonderful movie, one of the best I’ve seen this year.

It’s a little disheartening that it doesn’t manage to attract a bigger audience. It certainly deserves more.

Beginners (Mills, US, 2010). My rating: 4,5/5

PS
We have an announcement from the staff:  I’ll be away from the café over the next week going for a vacation trip to Scotland. However, since I’ve had a lot of movie thoughts on my mind lately, I’ve prewritten a few posts which will be served while I’m gone.

A friend of mine has seen the same movie 127 times since he saw it for the first time at the age of eight. The movie in question is The Third Man. He claims this is the best movie ever made, and that it’s absolutely flawless.

The idea of it is intriguing. How can a movie where you know every line by heart still be enjoyable? Perhaps it’s a different kind of enjoyment? It’s not about storytelling anymore; it’s more like a ritual or a session of meditation Instead of brooding on your breathing or the “ooohhmmmm” sound, you let your mind rest in the images of The Third Man. Maybe it’s not such a bad idea.

Ivanhoe
I can’t tell for sure which movie I’ve seen most times. I reckon it’s one of my children’s old favorites, probably a Disney movie or one of the screen adaptions of the the books by the children author Astrid LIndgren.

If we restrict ourselves to movies intended for adults, I guess Ivanhoe from 1982 starring Anthony Andrews would be a good candidate. They show it on the Swedish television every year around New Year and I’ve ended up watching it quite a few times by now (still getting annoyed since he always picks the wrong girl, even after all those years, ditching Olivia Hussey for a blond bimbo princess).

However the reason why I’ve seen it repeatedly has very little to do with quality. It isn’t a particularly good movie; it just happens to be around at the right time, when people are a little bored, recovering from the excesses of drinking, eating and socializing with the family. But I would rather have seen It’s a Wonderful Life every year, as they do in other places. A way better choice.

Another movie I’ve seen several times is Groundhog Day, which is kind of ironic considering its plot about a man who is reliving the same day over and over and over again. Unlike the case of The Third Man I can’t claim it’s the Best Movie Ever Made. However it’s one of those movies that feel “OK” to watch one more time if you’re mindlessly swapping between the TV-channels and it happens to be on or when you’re on an airplane and the film supply is limited.

My conclusion is that not all movies which are suitable for several views are masterpieces. But it goes the other way round: Not all masterpieces are the kind of movies you want to see over and over again.

Pan’s Labyrinth
For instance I recently found Naked by Mike Leigh quite remarkable, not like anything I’d seen before, but at the same time I had a horrible watching it and I definitely don’t want to go through that again, ever.

The same goes with Pan’s Labyrinth. It’s a fantastic movie in many ways – imaginative and engaging, – but it’s also something of the worst, the most brutal and scary I’ve seen on a screen.  I closed my eyes from time to time, covering my face with my hands because it was so unbearable (not to speak of how awful I felt after the movie, since my 15 year daughter was even more devastated than I was, crying all the way home, making me feel like a BAD mother. How could I know? I thought it was more or less an ordinary fantasy movie!). If you ask me to rate it, it’s brilliant, but I wouldn’t give it a second time. And most certainly not a 128th.

Rather than rewatching good but unpleasant movies I think I should try find some time to see The Third Man.

I’ve never had the heart to tell my friend who is obsessing over it, but the sad truth is that I’ve never seen it. Not even once.

It feels a bit weird to go back to talking about what’s going on on the film screen, while still in shock after what happened in Norway a few days ago.

And yet, I’ll do it.

The world hasn’t stopped, movies are still made, people are still seeing them, if only to escape the harsh reality for a couple of hours. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Life is a wonderful and precious thing and the films are there to remind us about it.

So here we go, with a review of a movie I saw last week, before it all happened.

Prejudices
Do you have prejudices about movies, depending on where they come from? I do.

Swedish movies will have a hard time to capture my heart; there’s something about them that triggers my critical eye. French movies on the other hand… Anything will pass. Almost.

As long as they speak the most beautiful language in the world and as long as the streets are picturesque and the cafés are cosy, I will suddenly consider a movie I would have labelled as thin, illogical and stupid coming from any country a charming gem. With a French stamp on it, nothing can go wrong.

A wake-up
The only problem is that it actually can. Even with Audrey Tautou in the main character, (the star from the unforgettable Amélie), things can go very wrong, if the idea and the script is bad enough.

My viewing of Beautiful Lies turned into a sobering wake-up from the spell that normally clouds my judgement.

The story is quite simple: A somewhat quirky hairdresser (there’s something about Audrey that makes her look quirky, regardless of what role she does) gets an anonymous love letter. She decides to give it away to her mother, who is depressed and in desperate need for some appreciation. Her mother is immensely cheered up by it, but also makes it clear that she expects more letters. Audrey starts to write them, but not with the results she was hoping for.

Intrigues will follow, where the main “joke” is a lot of misunderstandings about who wrote which letter and what people believe that the other participants in the triangle drama know about the truth.

No sympathy

The biggest problem, apart from that it’s a farce, and I’m basically not a huge fan of farces, was that I couldn’t sympathise with any of the characters. And if you ask me, that’s a requirement if it’s a romantic comedy. You’re supposed to if not love, at least like the involved people, you’re supposed to want them well and get a few happy tears in your eyes as everything is put in order. Mine were absolutely dry.

What saved my night was that I saw the movie in company with a French friend who lives in exile and has quite bad cravings for her home country.

I listened to her happy laughter throughout the movie, I saw the sparkles in her eyes at the sight of her favorite french actors, and when it was over, we went to a pub, had a glass of wine and talked about French film, speculating on what on Earth has made Gérard Depardieu grow into double his size and how he can get away with it.

But if I didn’t have a French friend around, this wouldn’t be my first choice. There are plenty of charming, moving romantic movies from France which are well worth watching. This just isn’t one of them. If you long for a light hearted romance – rewatch Amélie and you’ll be far happier.

Beautiful Lies (Original title: De vrais mensonges, Salvadori, FR, 2010) My rating: 2,5/5

It was late Friday afternoon and I had just arrived at home when I got the first fragments of news from Norway about the terror attack. Whatever remained of my illusion of Scandinavia being a safe spot in a chaotic world, the real life version of The Shire, was shattered.

The first reports were bad and disturbing.  “A bomb went off in Oslo, WTF? Hopefully something like the suicide bomber in Stockholm who killed himself but nobody else”. Then it turned into shock: “The government quarters look like Beirut during the war, seven people dead, is this for real?” But when we finally realized the extent and the cruelness of the following killing of teenagers at a summer camp, I ran out of words. It was just too horrible to grasp.

All of the weekend, I’ve tried to think of something different. I went to a training class, but when it ended I realized that I had been so absentminded that I couldn’t   recall what kind of exercises we had done. Had there been push-ups and sit-ups? I had no idea.

I buried my head into the Harry Potter series I’m currently reading a second time, my love for Hogwarts reignited by the latest movie. But time after another I found myself lost, unable to tell what had been going on the last few pages I’d read.

“It’s like a movie”

What passes through my mind right now is far from coherent. There are no conclusions, no resolutions, only images. And the nagging thought: “it’s like a movie”.

Somehow this idea disturbs be because it feels as if I’m reducing the real pain, the real suffering by making this connection. This is reality and it can’t be shut down.

But as I see hear the testimonies from the survivors who got away, it all plays up in my head like scenes in the movie I guess will be made about those events at some point. (I wouldn’t be surprised if someone already is on the project, but maybe it’s just me being a cynic.)

The 15 year old girl hiding under the stone where the murderer was standing, executing her friends. Cut. Another girl who got away by playing dead, lying for an hour on a dead body, two corpses on top of her. Her cell phone calling and calling, while she couldn’t answer, not to be discovered. Cut. The guy who was trying to hide with 30 of his friends on a beach. Only five get away from it alive. Cut. The deeds of heroism. People coming to their rescue, going with boats back and forward to the island, picking up as many as they could from the water while the bullets were passing over their heads. Cut. The helpless parents in a different part of the country, terrified, unable to call their children since it could give away their hiding spot. Praying and praying that their daughter or son was one of those who got away. Cut. The monster who did it, standing in his police uniform, shouting to the children that it’s safe, that they should come to him, just to execute them the next second.

All those images. The movie keeps running in my head. I really don’t want to think of it as a film and still I can’t help doing it, just like I did at the time of 9/11. I ask myself why. Maybe it’s an act of self defense, my mind figuring out a way to cope and to escape.

The emergency exit
When I see a movie where there’s too much violence for me to stomach, there’s always an option for me to break the illusion. I can think of what it looks like at the place where they’re shooting the scene, I can think of the microphones, the lights, the cameraman, the director, all those people assembled on the spot. I can think of what the actor who plays the murderer does after the scene is ended, how he puts on a different face and turns into a nice chap. And I can think of a different score. Put the Benny Hill signature into your head and there’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s not what I normally do as I’m watching movies, but it’s always an available alternative, like an emergency exit.

There is no emergency exit from the terror attacks in Norway. But if you see it like a film, you can pretend there is.

And I suppose telling the story over and over again, from different angles and – yes, even making movies about it eventually – is the only way we can deal with a public trauma of this scale. I remember seeing United 93. For how sad it was, it was always somehow soothing, helping me to grasp what has happened. Making movies about tragic events doesn’t necessarily have to be about making a profit on the grief and disaster of other human beings. It can also be a part of the healing process.

The movie about July 22, the day that Scandinavia never will forget, is playing in my head. More fractured, chaotic and terrifying than anything I’ve seen on the cinema screen.

It’s a small world these days, isn’t it? There isn’t a corner of the world that is so far distant that Harry Potter doesn’t find his way to it. The logo of the H&M store looks the same in London and San Francisco as it does in my hometown and it makes me a little sad. It takes something away from the joy of travelling.

But even if the repertoire sometimes is close to identical, the cinemas aren’t. And that’s why I love to include a visit to a theatre when I’m abroad. Not so much to enjoy the movie as such – I could as well watch it at home – but to inhale the atmosphere and see the differences.

The Cook Island Experience

In the end of the 80s I turned up spending three weeks on the Cook Islands in the Pacific Ocean, which wasn’t anywhere near as enjoyable as it sounds. Not if you were a budget traveller and spent the entire visit fighting creepy insects in a shelter that was cut off from the less-than-impressive beach by the airstrip on the island. When we weren’t suffering from strange jungle flues, one after another, we were bored out of our minds, having a way too small travelling budget to experience anything that was close to what we had dreamed about. It was a sobering experience, forever curing me from having romantic ideas about paradise islands.

There were two things that brightened our days though. One was the local beer, which was cheap and tasty.

The other source of comfort was the local theatre, which was situated in a simple hall with simple wooden chairs to sit on. I think they showed movies either in a 16 mm format or using a video projector that could as well be something you had in your home. The ticket price was laughably low and always included two movies, one after each other with a break in the middle, where everyone, old as young, went out to buy locally produced ice-cream in an effort to cool down in the dense, black tropical night under a starry sky before heading for the next show.

As I remember it, it was always crowded, – which really wasn’t strange, considering what a small choice of entertainment there was. And best of all – there wasn’t a single tourist around, apart from us. Going to the theatre it suddenly felt as if we came a little bit closer to the real inhabitants of the island and had a look into their everyday life.

US – a heaven for movie lovers

It’s been over 20 years since I last visited the theatre at Rarotonga and I don’t know what happened to it. I suppose this island too, however remote, has been included in the digital revolution in one way or another. Do they even need a cinema anymore or is everyone located to their own homes, watching their own big-screen television? I don’t know, but I hope not. I hope there’s still a cinema around to add some local flavour to the latest Harry Potter movie, fighting the heat with ice-cream.

Over the years I’ve examined a few more theatres during my travels.

So far I’m by far most impressed by what I saw in the US. The chairs were huge and comfortable, with plenty of space to stretch your feet, and a wonderful inclination. Even a short person like me could see the entire screen without having to peak between the heads of the giants sitting on the next row. Compared to what I’m used to, it’s a heaven.

My next trip goes to Scotland and and will mostly consist of hiking. But I wouldn’t be surprised if I’ll manage to slip into a theatre as I’m spending a couple of days inEdinburgh.

I don’t know what approach the Scots have to movies, but I’m sure there will be something that will remind me of that I’m still far away from home, even in this era of a shrunken world.

It was one of those days of despair. The cancer was raging uncontrolled in the stomach of my 56 year old father and I can only imagine the agony he felt as he approached death, even though he never showed much of it. It was unspeakable, unmentionable, like Voldemort.

It was one of those days when another part in the Harry Potter book series arrived, unexpectedly. A muggler probably would claim it was the mailman who brought it, even if it was odd, since he already had delivered the post earlier in the morning, and this was in the afternoon. But as my mother told me about it on the phone, I could hear it in her voice. That book was an owl delivery, and it saved that day.

Ten years have passed since my father died. The potions offered by Madam Pomfrey’s colleagues in the muggler world weren’t potent enough to defeat the enemy.

My father was the one who got me started on the Harry Potter series, the one who pointed me to it before it become The Phenomenon. I was in my 30s, and strictly not a child anymore, but he continued a tradition of introducing me to imaginative and capturing books. Just like he convinced me of the magic of Asimov, Tolkien and Carl Barks so many years ago.

He never came to see how the series ended. And somehow this makes it as if he’s still inside it. Still there in a world of magic of wonders, a world that will never cease to exist.

Stirring up memories
The latest Harry Potter movie (or rather the two latest, since I saw both in one night, which is highly recommended; it’s basically one movie cut in half), stirred up the surface of  my own pensieve, the basin of memories. I hadn’t quite expected it to be such an emotional experience.

I was prepared for some eye-candy, astonishing battle sequences, a final, grandiose fight between Harry and you-know-who. And I thought I would feel a little bit sentimental as I was going to take farewell of those characters and actors I’ve been following for so many years.

But I didn’t expect those movies to reach out the way they did, to hit me emotionally, touching on issues about love and hate, life and death. I had never thought that Snape would bring me into tears, but he did. And the dancing scene with Harry and Hermione, an invention by the film maker, was mesmerizing.

It was a wonderful ending of a wonderful series. Sure, there are flaws in the books as well as in the movies, parts and characters that aren’t quite as enchanting as the rest. But as a whole it’s a wonderful work, both of Rowling and of all those who had the quite challenging task to try to transfer the magic to the screen.

Nick-picking
Film geeks tend to nitpick a lot, with the result that it sometimes sounds as if they more or less hate a movie they actually love. So I’ll do that a little, just for the sake of it.

One thing that wasn’t convincing to me was the relationship between Harry and Ginny. There’s absolutely no chemistry going on between them as far as I can tell. But it might not be the fault of the actors; it probably originates from the movies. I never thought they were that much of a romantic couple. It was more something that was there, just because it “had to”, in order to make us understand that they actually were getting older.

And I didn’t like the epilogue particularly much. Actually there were quite a few people in the audience (consisting mostly of people who were at least 25 years old as far as I could see, those who grew up with Harry Potter) who started to laugh out loud and I couldn’t really blame them. The actors weren’t entirely believable in their new appearances and it felt just wrong. Until that moment I hadn’t reflected on that HP probably has a target audience that is far younger than me. That felt as a reminder.

At the same time I must admit that there is a certain beauty in the image of the closing circle, finishing at the same point as it all began.

Kings Cross Station, platform 9 3/4. I picture my father standing there, ready to take off to a journey to a far distant place I can’t reach. He was a sworn atheist, but I’m sure he doesn’t mind me thinking it. And if he does – well, he could always send me a howler.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 1 & 2 (Yates, UK, 2010/2011) My rating: 4,5/5

So, here’s the deal:

I was 11 years old in 1979, when this movie takes place. Blondie, Walkman players and the nuclear accident in Harrisburg isn’t just something from the history;  It’s a part of my childhood. I saw and loved Close Encounter of the Third Grade and E.T. when they were new – not years afterwards as a part of my film education. I suppose this makes me a little bit biased seeing Super 8. They’re aiming for me.

Deep inside I know it’s sort of a cheap trick they’re doing, but with eyes wide open, I must admit that I enjoyed all the nostalgia Super 8 offered. I’m not the only audience though. Apart from me and my generation fellows, it probably appeals to our children. Even if the 12 year olds won’t have a clue about the references, there’s enough of a simple, straightforward save-us-from-the-monster-story to keep them entertained.

Apart from the nostalgia I also fell for the shameless nudges to people who love to see and to make film. The scenes where the kids were shooting their Super 8 movie were totally adorable.

I’ve seen some complaints about the ending, and in one way I can agree that it’s a bit overly sentimental without actually managing to bring out any tears from me, but that might have to do with the sad fact that I’m old and jaded. However, weren’t Spielberg movies always like that? Actually I think it’s quite appropriate, the kind of ending you would expect from a movie that is all about nostalgia and references to previous films.

All in all Super 8 felt a bit like one of the sparklers the kids used. It burned brightly but ended quickly. It brought me a few smiles and a little bit of excitement for a couple of hours, but as soon as it was over, it was all gone. There was nothing that lingered within me; it didn’t leave any trace since it was basically feeding on whatever traces I’ve had from other movies.

Or wait, I lied. I did notice one effect it had on me: it sparked a sudden longing for me to revisit Stand by Me. As far as I can recall it had the same wonderful magic children-on-a-summer-adventure feeling (just more and better), but without the long stretches of endless explosions that are fun for a little while but gets a bit old eventually and makes you wonder if they somehow have mixed up the tapes with the latest Transformer movie.

Super 8 (Abrams,US, 2011) My rating: 3,5/5