Tag Archives: Michael Fassbender

Review – The Snowman, Errol Flynn Filmhouse, Northampton, 21st November 2017

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Nothing to do with Raymond Briggs or choirboys singing Walking in the Air, this Snowman is a lot more lethal. Based on Jo Nesbø’s book of the same name, it features his detective Harry Hole as he investigates a series of murders where the killer always leaves a calling card in the form of a snowman. A real one, built from snow, with two sticky twigs as arms. Unsurprisingly, he tends to rest during the summer months.

Confession time – but I sense I might not be alone here – I’ve neither heard of Harry Hole nor of Jo Nesbø, and had no idea that he was like the Norwegian version of Inspector Morse. I only decided to book for this film because I saw the trailer at an earlier visit to the cinema and it looked gripping. I also had no idea that it had been universally panned by the critics, with reviews that include “a mystery that feels as mashed together and perishable as its title” and “a leaden, clotted, exasperating mess”. High praise indeed.

I have to say, I think they’re rather harsh comments, because, on the whole, we enjoyed the film. In its favour: first, the excellent cinematography, with those enigmatic, snowy, mountainous wastes of Norway looming gloomily in the distance. I’ve never been to Oslo, but I have had the experience of visiting Tromso and the generally depressing Norwegian urban scenes in the film largely reflected my memory of that miserable city. Second, the suspense: about fifteen minutes into the film, a lady is sitting reading in bed and you suddenly hear a snowball being thrown at her bedroom window. Mrs Chrisparkle jolted with shock so much she almost knocked the Pinot Grigio out of the man’s hand sitting next to her. That’s how suspenseful it is. Third, the opening ten minutes or so plunge you instantly into the story, ending with a very strong visual image that I think I will remember for a long time!

In its disfavour, and it very nearly ruined it completely for me: in the final reel, as it were, there’s Harry Hole, injured and unable to move, prostrate on the floor, with the killer lumbering up to him ready to deal the final blow that will send him to the land of Old Norse. Well, it’s no spoiler to tell you that Harry survives the ordeal – after all he features in another four books after this one so that’s in the public domain – but the reason the killer fails to silence him forever? Risible. And pathetic. And nonsensical. I’ll say no more.

Overall it’s a decent whodunit, but as the film progresses, the identity of the killer becomes more and more apparent (well it did to me, at least.) The killer is fairly obviously the boy in the first scenes, now grown up to be a man. There are three characters who might most likely be that person. One gets murdered halfway through, and another is seen to be somewhere else when the next murder takes place – and, lo and behold, that third person does indeed turn out to be the killer. Ah well, sometimes it’s satisfying to guess right.

I enjoyed Michael Fassbender as Harry Hole; he’s low key and somewhat dour, but then, he is playing a Norwegian. Reading up on Harry’s characteristics in the books and on a synopsis of the novel, I’d say it was a pretty good interpretation of the role; the chain-smoking and alcoholism are certainly clear. Having said that, there are huge, interesting-sounding aspects of the original book that are nowhere near touched on in the screenplay – an opportunity missed, methinks. Rebecca Ferguson is convincing as Katrine, the detective who’s been brought in alongside Hole to keep him in check; Charlotte Gainsbourg is authoritative and serious as Harry’s ex, Rakel; and there are a few surprising cameos in the supporting cast, including Toby Jones as a police investigator and Anne Reid, would you believe, as a nosey neighbour. Plus there’s a very rough looking Val Kilmer as a now dead detective, frequently returning to interrupt the flow of the investigation. He also just so happens to be Katrine’s dad. Curious.

How come no one ever saw the killer building the snowmen outside his victims’ houses? I think it must be asked. And how on earth did he manage to shape a snowman on the roof of a car? The cops need to focus their investigation on a man with his own stepladder and mittens. Despite all its shortcomings, I still found it entertaining enough to stay awake (that, gentle reader, is something one should never take for granted) and I generally enjoyed it in the way, I think, that the creative team wanted me to – in other words, taking it seriously and not taking the mick. I do sense though that this is a film that is going to sink without trace in the annals of movie history.

P. S. If you’ve always wanted to hear the Norwegian version of Cliff Richard’s Congratulations, your prayers are answered.

Review – 12 Years a Slave, Errol Flynn Filmhouse, Northampton, 5th February 2014

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I’m not sure I’ve ever really seriously thought about slavery before. In an abstract sense, yes of course, one knows that it is a terrible thing and that Wilberforce was a good man, but that merely scratches a tiny part of the surface. If I thought about it all, I would come up with the fact that you have no freedom, you work hard hours every day and probably have little to eat and drink and no real place to live. If I thought of slave traders, I would think of some fictional character like that in Le Corsaire, or 1001 Nights, something out of Kismet, or Up Pompeii. If I thought of their masters, I would probably envisage some mean ogre of a swine towering above a bunch of workers, threatening them with (but maybe not using) a whip. If I thought of the slaves themselves, I’m not sure what I would envisage; probably nothing more horrific than Paul Robeson singing Ol’ Man River. But having now seen 12 Years a Slave, I am ashamed of that ignorance.

This film paints a very different picture. I could not have imagined the sadistic relish with which the slave handlers whip and torture their slaves within an inch of their life – or if they went an inch too far, who cares. I could not have imagined the slave purchasing process, taking the wife and kids out dressed in their smart suits and crinolines, to inspect, prod, slap and humiliate naked men and women in someone’s fancy drawing room. I could not have imagined the sense of fear that meant that when your fellow slaves were being beaten, whipped or hanged you had no choice but simply to look away with no outward emotion. I could not have imagined that a slave would be required to whip another slave whilst their master and mistress ogled the process with glee. I could not have imagined the association of these vile landowner slave-owning families with adherence to their Christian God. I could not have imagined that the women were as happy to abuse their slaves as the men. I could not have imagined that you could buy a slave with a mortgage. I could go on.

This is not an easy film to watch. I underestimated the grit and determination that Mrs Chrisparkle and I would need to see it to the end. We are not used to watching violence, but the violence in this film is shocking, sadistic, visceral, graphic; yet perfectly justified. The personal tragedies that unfold on the screen split husband from wife and family, mother from children; and if these victims show too much emotion, or challenge an injustice, they die; disposed of as a no longer needed commodity, like a worn-out pair of pants; but not just slung away in a bin, ripped to shreds first.

I think one of the things that subtly emphasises the horror of this true story of a free black man in 1840s Saratoga, New York, who was tricked into being drugged and overpowered to be sold as a slave, is the fact that it is a very beautiful film. That irony is clear throughout – stunning cinematography, great acting, great costumes, beautiful sets, and a marvellous soundtrack. Those gorgeous captures of sunsets over the Mississippi are to die for; trouble is, uncountable thousands (millions?) of slaves did just that. It’s so striking that all this beauty is based on such ugliness; the immaculate and expensive Sunday-best clothes of the families, the stately residences and outhouses that the slaves build, are all at an inestimable cost of life and humanity. It made me want to go over to America, find some of those beautiful houses and torch them. Mrs C tried to pacify me by saying that previous generations have probably already done it.

Chiwetel Ejiofor puts in an immense performance as the formerly free Solomon, full of dignity and despair at injustice, perpetually hanging on to some distant hope that life remains worth living. Lupita Nyong’o is incredibly moving as the devastatingly abused Patsey, raped by her master, assaulted by her mistress in return, and almost flayed alive as a punishment for absenteeism to procure a small bar of soap, to which she pathetically hangs on during her torture. Michael Fassbender is very strong (in more ways than one) as the Biblically unstable landowner Epps and Sarah Paulson unnervingly brilliant as the vile Mrs Epps, of whom I could only say at the end, taking the words of Willy Russell’s Rita, “wasn’t his wife a cow”.

If you survive the 134 minutes of unrelenting misery (Mrs C’s description), at the end you feel flat, wasted, despairing of humanity, and guilty about your own freedom; well we did. Never has quaffing a superb Argentinian Malbec during a film, whilst luxuriating in the Errol Flynn’s fantastic leather seats, felt quite so shallow. For me, I accepted the film for what I take it was meant to be – a no-punches-pulled drama about the inhumanity of slavery. But Mrs C’s reaction was far more morose. The violence was just too much for her, and even if the film had decent motives, she couldn’t help think, what’s the point; there is still people-trafficking and slavery, there is still discrimination, prejudice and brutality against our fellow men; as a planet we have learned nothing about how to live as one. I could barely get another word out of her all night. So take note chaps, this is not a good movie for a date.

A very fine film, yes, and no doubt an important one too. But check your tick boxes before committing to it – it can make you feel desperately sad, much more than you would expect; with side effects of high-level anxiety, guilt and worthlessness that take between twelve and twenty-four hours before starting to pass out of your system.