After This Our Exile 父子(aka The Complete Idiot's Guide to Child Abuse)

After This Our Exile is a piece of junk. I hate to be a wet blanket, but the geyserlike bursts of enthusiasm for this film, exemplified by the local media, makes my stomach turn. Those who laud this movie as a successful "comeback" of director Patrick Tam are either in awe of his fame as one of the progenitors of HK's new wave movement (which was a long time ago and why do people still care and talk about it leave me cold, especially when the HK film industry is having trouble drawing its next breath) or simply trying to identify with the mainstream critics. I guess it's still considered unfashionable to criticize a so-called cinematic maestro.

Aaron Kwok plays a gormless person and a compulsive gambler at once, who gives little regard for his family. He is such a loser that he doesn't bond with anyone, not his wife, his lover or his son. In other words, he doesn't care about anyone but himself. The same goes for Kwok's wife (Charlie Young), who leaves the scum for reasons good enough but has no intention to care for her son. Even though she's full of remorse, the only thing in her mind, when she's not self-pitying, is to sever all ties with the boy. That leaves the little boy - an extremely underdeveloped character - the only victim of this dysfunctional family. However, the director seemingly doesn't sympathize with him either, for he spent the better part of the movie describing how the boy's ill-treated and betrayed by his father, who, to my terrified eyes, has the last laugh! There's in fact little love lost between the three of them! So tell me, as an audience, how am I supposed to feel for a non-existent father-son relation when you're selling me one?

The script is so prosaic and unfocused that whatever emotional resonance it has comes out muffled, proving an egregious lack of originality. The boy reminds me of the kid in Truffaut’s 400 Blows. Maybe Tam is still living in the past. Technically, it has little to write home about as well. The sex scenes are absolutely gratuitous, out of place and distastefully put together. The direction and cinematography are as old fashion as it gets, e.g. showing Aaron Kwok face down on top of Charlie Young, who is looking sad (or trying to be sad), staring at the ceiling, tears brewing, while the camera outside the window pulls sideway from the scene on a dolly is way beyond pathetic. And all the time, there's plaintive music in the background, which brings me to the score: it is abysmal! When it's not trying too hard to be melancholy, it goes too heavy-handed on its ethnic tracks - to serve what purposes I have no bloody idea. The same story can happen in HK for all I care. Does it make any real difference it takes place in Southern Asia?

A horrid film disguised as art. I heard people praising the film for its editing (again, I bet it's because Tam is an acclaimed editor), naming all sorts of tricks, e.g. montage, parallel cutting and whatnot, as if the success of a film hinges on how many rabbits our figurative conjurer can pull out of his hat! And the funny part is that they always end their comments with a caution: the script is a bit lacking. Now, isn't that hilarious! Aren't films, first and foremost, there to tell us a story? But to many critics, they think films are boxes of assorted candies with wafer bars, cholocate kisses, jelly beans and so on, the more the merrier. When you stand up from your theatre seat and have nothing better to say or reflect than the editing techniques, regardless of whether they work for or against the story, something must be wrong. It leads me to think that movie-going, being an act of consumption, can take many forms, one of which will be a chance for one to make pompous comments using jargons that one doesn't really understand but lends the users a certain degree of authority. It's actually comparable to psychics and fortune-tellers talking about "energy" or "magnetic field". Sometimes, I find these folks quite charming, seeing them enjoying themselves this way.

Elizabeth I

Watched Elizabeth I over the weekend, an HBO two-part mini-series. Helen Mirren deserves all the accolades showered on her in the past year. She gives a definitive portray of the most popular monarch of Britain over the centuries. The indecisive and temperamental nature of Elizabeth I, as well as her legendary (or notoriously known) affairs with the Earl of Leicester and subsequently the Earl of Essex are intimately depicted on the screen, breathing life into an otherwise stern-looking Empress. I have watched more than a few shows/films/theatrical dramas about kings and queens in the last couple years and have come to realize that perhaps taking the throne is the worst profession one can imagine, unless you fancy constantly being subject to usurping plots or having a bullseye trained on you 24/7, or you simply decide to be a tyrant and have a truly great time (who can blame you?!) The direction and cinematography are excellent. The supporting cast (Jeremy Irons, Patrick Malahide & Ian McDiarmid, to name but a few) are equally brilliant.

Poe Shadow by Matthew Pearl

Among the books I've recently finished is Poe Shadow by Matthew Pearl. His sophomore effort is again a period novel like his debut - The Dante Club, which i enjoyed a great deal and won't hestitate to recommend to anyone interested in mystery wrapped in a period setting and featured real-life literate luminaries such as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and Wendell Holems. Poe Shadow, in much the same vien, features the famous gothic writer/poet Edgar A. Poe (whose "The Purloined Letter" has been the subject of one of Jacque Lacan's critical analyses. Lacan peeled away the layers of the story to reveal something a causal reader will never see. Extremely inspiring. I would suggest anyone interested to check out "Reading Theory- An Introudction to Lacan, Derrida and Kristeva" by Michael Payne). In Poe Shadow, Matthew Pearl sets out to unravel the mystery surrounding Poe's untimely death (historically, he did die in the most suspicious circumstances). But the characters in it are so not loveable. Mr Pearl protrays a young lawyer, who has obviously caught the Sherlock-bug, desperate to unearth the truth about Poe's death that he's willing to risk it all and eventually finds himself being accused of murder as well as on the brink of losing his estate and a marriage to boot. But I've a hard time understanding his obsession and all the follies he committed in the midst of stopping my mind from wandering from a plot that drags on and on and on. The writing is no comparison to The Dante Club as well. Pearl switches registers so frequently (it doesn't help there're quite a few French characters who tend to be overly ornate and ponderous in their speeches) to the effect that the book doesn't feel whole. The story ends unceremoniously that makes you wonder if it's worth all the trouble to get there. It's a grave disappointment.

The Double life of Veronique

The Double life of Veronique is showing in cinema again, as part of a programme to commemorate the death of Polish director Krzysztof Kieslowski who died ten years ago of a heart attack. Sadly to say, the movie isn't anyting close to great. It's beautifully shot, the score is absolutely haunting, but other than that, it's empty. The void is so vast that it verges on being pretentious. Kieslowski builds this mordern fable on a weak premise and doesn't care to flesh out the loose narrative with more in-depth characterisations. There're only endless cryptic symbols that tease and taunt but never actually inspire. Ultimately, they can only be regarded as lax, meaningless musings of an artist. This film owes much of its applause to the beautuful Irene Jacob, who later teams up with Kieslowski in Red. But then again, if beauty is a message by itself, it can only be about the emptiness of it. I adore Kieslowski and my eyes were literally welled when he died in 1996. But I can't seem to live with the thought that he's remembered by the indulgently ornate style charactised his later years, instead of the many qualities of his early offerings, namely the spirit of a freedom fighter and the humanistic touch that calms the storm and ease the pain. I still remember the night I went to watch No End with a Polish friend and how he was so moved by the film that he couldn't say anything until we were back at the dorm. The Double life of Veronique is probably the movie that launches him internationally, but it also marks the fall of a great director.

Mrs Henderson Presents

Mrs Henderson's (Judy Dench) husband has recently deceased. Mourning though she is, she can't help blaming her late husband for his "inconsideration" to leave her in the boredom of widowhood. After some painful soul searching and experiments, the restless Mrs Henderson spots a desolated theatre in West End and decides to restore it to its past glory. Oblivious to the theatre business, she entrusts the operation to a Mr Van Damm (Bob Hoskins), or Mr Damn Van when she's crossed. The two then begins a successful yet torrid partnership marked with endless bickers, grudging mutual respect and unspoken love. Windmill Thearter is an instant sensation with its chirpy musical numbers. But its recipe of success is soon copied by competitors, and with the audiences' expectations ractched up, Mrs Henderson decides to put nude performers on stage to spice things up a little! She manages to convert first Mr Van Damm into a believer of all-nude revues, and then cajoles the uptight Lord Chamberlian (who is known for banning the word "erection" to be used in Samuel Beckett's renowned play "Waiting for Godot" when it was first performed in London) into greenlighting her licentious endeavour with her impish sense of humor. As WWII draws closer to home, Mrs Henderson refuses to shut down the theatre for reasons unselfishly noble and simultaneously private. Helmed by Stephen Frears, the film is a joy ride from start to finish. It's shot much like a musical with a string of beautiful songs delieverd by Windmill's resident crooner Bertie (Will Young), but since it's a film rather than a bond-a-fide musical, sometimes the pace feels a bit too brisk that tepid plot devices (especially the death of Maureen, one of the Windmill girls, played by the attractive Kelly Reilly) are thrown in to the effect of being slightly insensitive and reducing the impact of the pathos on screen. Nevertheless, these are just minor gripes. Judy Dench's rapport with Bob Hoskins is palpable and a joy to behold. Recommended.

The New World

Malick is a past master of celluloid poetry. Whoever tries to argue the otherwise should go back to watch The Fast and the Furious. What perfect imagery in this poem of love! His lens bring us claustrophobically close to Mother Nature that our pabulum and quotidian existences seem awfully trifling in comparison. The New World reminds me of Wender's Wings of Desire, only this time the narrators aren't drawling some turgid deep thoughts and the lyrical musings are administered in more manageable doses. Malick's artistic power goes beyond the quality of eyecandy as he touches on the nature of love and the love for nature. I was left speechless by Malick's magic loom as the credit rolled. Seriously though, those who find The Thin Red Line hard to swallow should excuse themselves from this one as the pace is even slower, and with a scarcity of dialogues, i can already hear people snoring.

North Country

North Country is based on a true event in which a group of female miners filed a sexual harrasment class action and won. It's THE lawsuit that gets the whole world busy at plugging holes in company regulations. North Country has all the trappings one can expect from a courtroom drama - the oppressors plunge their claws into the oppressed and the great injustice is not righted until the very end of the 2-hr running time (albeit in reality, it takes a full decade to reach the ruling). Maybe melodrama is the most effective way to rid the insouciance over the perils of others ever so typical of modern people.

But where it lacks in innovation, it more than makes up for with a formidable cast, especially Charlize Theron as Josey. She lives the character, almost effortlessly. The supporting cast is equally brilliant, including Frances McDormand, Woody Harrelson and Sean Bean. Richard Jenkins, as Josey's father, is also remarkable. The scene in which he stands up for his daughter in a hall packed to the rafters with male chauvinist pigs is powerful and effecting. Emotional but not setimental. The one thing I don't like is that it protrays Josey and her co-workers as all-round victims of the patriarch. The arguement for female empowerment should not be buttressed by the fact that some of them are sufferers; it's basic human rights, plain and simple. It's what makes the whole feminist movement go awry at times. But I digress. Anyway, a well made feel-good movie without ideas or statements of real significance.

Munich

Munich is inspired by the notorious Munich massacre at the 1972 Olympics and the ensuing aftermath. Avner, deftly played by Eric Bana, was appointed by Golda Meir, the Iron Lady of Israel, the grave task of leading an unofficial death squad on a mission to take out 11 Palestinians condemned by the Mossad as the architects of Munich. Avner started off as an inexperienced assassin who had a hard time firing his handgun. Instead of growing into a surefire executor, he remained jittery and showed a glaring lack of puritanical gusto. By the end of the film, we're told he's being haunted by his deeds, probably for the rest of his life.

Munich doesn't mean to be 100% faithful to history (there're serious doubts about whether the Palestinians assassinated are really the perpetrators), but it manages to re-enact with painful precision the kidnap and rescue debacles. The film is also visually compelling with a robust sense of aesthetic. The assassination sequences are great Hitchcock-esque moments and provide the required narrative urgency. However, with the Oscar looming in the horizon, the film has been showered with extensive critical accolades not for its technical excellence, but for its courage in tackling a matter of great delicacy. But is it worthy of these praises? I doubt it.

Although the story is told from the point of view of Avner, an Israeli, Spielberg has taken painstaking care to make sure the causes of both Israel and Palestine are given fair airtime. Hence Golda's defense for the unspeakable act the Israel government was about to sanction; the awkward conversations between Avner and Ali in the safe house's landing; a constant display of reluctance by Avner and his team, save Steve (played by Daniel Craig; yet another attempt to maintain the balance of ideologies, this time within the death squad); and the rationalization of terrorism by Avner's mother and his boss, Ephraim (Geoffrey Rush). The result is a very confused idea about the nature of violence, or at best, a reiteration of its futility.

Sure, violence is a self-breeding monster that eventually is going to take the avenger and the avenged nose-diving in a downward spiral to complete destruction. And it's also true that both sides in this bloody conflict have reasons strong enough to fly the flag for their own prejudices, and their violent acts have indeed put a price tag on peace. But in the course of ensuring even-handedness, violence as a means to an end is never categorically denied (expectedly, it's not reassured as well). If Spielberg hasn't meandered and wallowed like a self-doubting whiner, sweating and panting, but instead charged headlong into making a critique of violence, Munich might pack a stronger punch than it is now. In its current form, it's merely a well shot, griping thriller soaked in wimpy idealism and manufactured sentimentality (speaking of which, having Avner to bang his wife as he relives the horror of Munich is a very lousy try at that - I swear I heard people laughing in the auditorium!).

Maybe I'm overly harsh, but making a film about a conflict known for the brutalities on both sides by applauding and condemning violence at once is hardly exemplary. The filmmaker doesn't go beyond standing on the sidelines, wringing his hands, shaking his heads in regrets and dismay and telling us how ugly this world is. Thank you very much, but Mr Spielberg, what should we do about it? The scene in which Steve and one of the PLO members vied for the control of the radio and finally found middle ground in a channel broadcasting Western music, perhaps, echoes the mentality of the filmmaker - Let's give up violence and start humming candy pop-tunes like the contestants of American Idol so that the world can be one and whole again!

Spielberg is in the habit of dispensing instant catharsis (remember the ridiculous happy ending of War of the Worlds?), so people love him. Many will leave the theatre grinding their teeth at the horrors of violence, vowing their sturdy stance against bloodshed and terrorism. But they'll not lose sleep over it and will merrily go on with their lives, contented that they've already played a small part in condemning the evil. There's a saying: being a pacifist between wars is as easy as being a vegetarian between meals - It's easy because we're not keen deep in blood and guts. But no one describes the apathy and hypocrisy of our generation in a more direct and pithy manner than Jack (Joaquin Phoenix) in Terry George's excellent Hotel Rwanda, "I think if people see this footage [the ethnic cleansing of Tutsis by Hutu militia in Rwanda], they'll say Oh, my God, that's horrible. And then they'll go on eating their dinners."

Is this film daring? No, it's safer than your four-wheel drive. Does it serve the cause of weaning off bloodshed and violence? Hell no. Is it good entertainment? You bet.

Small Crimes, Saturday, Sticklers

Matthew Kneale's Small Crimes in an Age of Abundance is a collection of 12 short stories about ordinary people like you and me drifting in a morally-ambiguous world while being tormented by senses of paranoid, despondency and defeat. The pace of these stories is crisp but never haste, the narrative straightforward but never simple. If you like Kneale's English Passenger, you probably would enjoy Small Crimes.

Ian McEwain's Saturday is a totally different beast. It gives a very initamte look at the post-911 world through the eys of a middle-class Londoner who wakes up one Saturday to a sudden revelation of how close violence actually lurks, and how the repercussions of global events have come to tear his contented life apart. His observations are at times acute and funny, at times sarcastic and insenstive, while always poignant. This is my first Ian McEwan book, and the aftertaste is rather delightful. He'll be on my watchlist.

Lynne Truss's Eats, Shoots & Leaves is next. To say this book is funny as hell is an understatement. Sticklers of the World, Unite!

Perhaps Love 如果．愛

《如果．愛》寫情真摯，試問多少人真的明白愛情的底蘊？愛是方是圓，是悲是喜，沒人可以說個肯定，充其量只能是明心見性。片中三角戀的契機，開場不久便由聶文向監製說的一番話透露了端倪：三人之間的關係，算是一般定義下的愛情嗎？

孫納之於聶文，是一種感情的附庸和寄託，但久而久之， 卻窒礙了他的藝術創作，聶文放手是因為太愛孫納，還是不想再被變成了包袱的愛情所支配？對聶文來說，或許愛情既是一種存放和提取情感的器皿，也是靈感的泉源和墓地－他以戲劇手法終結與孫納的關係，創造力亦隨之從墓地中翻土而出，吃酸辣麵去了。

聶文之於孫納，最初是以情感投資達至互利互用的商業瓜葛，帳面回報一如所料隨時間消逝逐漸見底，本是一單操作純熟的交易，但這次她赫然發覺自己難於抽身，時間長了，共生關係竟派生出真感情來。對孫納來說，或許愛情不只是一種投資；或許愛情，真的存在過，活在那拍不成的青海戀曲中。

林見東之於孫納，是一個大大的心結－這個被自己出賣了一次又一次，利用了一次又一次的男人，始終並非心中所愛，但對他又有一份情感道義上的虧欠。

孫納之於林見東，是最純粹的無添加愛情，融合了熱愛、寬恕、仇恨、堅執等複雜情緒。對林見東來說，或許愛情，最終也應該包括放手，只懇求對方記住北京的往事。

陳可辛善於抓住細膩的情感脈動，戲中三個人物的互動掌握得很到位，惟獨個別場口太刻意經營，以至於犧牲了應有的subtlety (陳可辛就是有種傾向，Love Letter最後一個鏡頭刻意送上床上一枝碩大的vibrator，有如在生日蛋糕上插一枝神檯上的大紅燭，突兀得叫人倒胃)。美指奚仲文主導了影片的視覺風格（馬戲班的設計和人物，靈感顯然來自奚仲文執導的《安娜馬德蓮娜》）；北京部份的攝影亦得力於杜可風恰到好處的發揮。歌舞真的不如理想，首段由池珍熙擔崗的大型歌舞明顯力不從心，太過花巧夢幻，以致觀眾對影片產生錯誤的期望。編排得賞心悅目的大概只有“十字街頭”一段。陳可辛未清楚自己的定位同能力，但最大的敗筆在於以歌舞片的角度做推廣！