Sweeney Todd and the spiral of violence

Tim Burton's striking and gruesome film adaptation of Stephen Sondheim's musical 'Sweeney Todd' made me feel alternately impressed by Johnny Depp's singing talent and wince at the violence. The story of a 19th century barber who avenges the loss of his wife and daughter by providing the closest shave ever to a litany of customers including the judge who caused his pain left me preoccupied by thoughts closer to home.

If the film is trying to make a serious point, it is that Sweeney's spiral of violence never ends. The previous night I had attended a meeting of the Consultative Group on the Past – a body established by the UK Government to examine methods of helping the people of Northern Ireland to address the legacy of our own violent recent history. Two things were clear from the comments made at this meeting by members of the public: first, that the levels of genuine sorrow in this society are unfathomable – families ripped apart, minds taken to the edge of destruction, small communities shattered. This is real, and not interpretation. Second, we often lack the ability to empathise with the pain of the 'other' community. It is all too easy to see 'our' pain as exclusive, and to become blind to the suffering of the community on the other side of a political divide.
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i'm not there

there's a degree to which there could be no other title for a bob dylan biopic than 'i'm not there', todd haynes' never less than intriguing take on the life of the man who either represents dedication to hiding greater than any other artist, or reveals all there is to know in his music.

it's a very smart idea to have six actors play characters inspired by the dylan myth; something feels entirely right about having a young black kid, a woman, and richard gere all stand in for different aspects/eras/stories from his life. the film's stunning design - image and sound - conceal a deceptively simple core: nobody knows the real dylan, so maybe there's no real dylan there at all, or, more likely, maybe he is everything we want him to be.

i found myself checking in and out of the movie - i felt it could do with a little tightening, but then again, perhaps its looseness is the point - though it's undeniably thrilling in places. when the 'real' bob shows up in the last moments of the film, in archive footage playing his harmonica, i had the strangest experience: i've never been that interested in bob dylan as a person, though of course some of the music is unrepeatably marvellous. but after a couple of hours of mining the potential pasts of this keystone cultural figure, seeing his 'real' face, hearing his 'real' music was an emotional grace note to compare with the films that make us all cry.

youth without youth

i'm returning to writing about film after j o'd's funeral, partly because there was nothing he and i enjoyed more than a rant about the movies. we would have had a long whiskey-fuelled argument about this one:

francis coppola has thankfully returned to actually directing films rather than simply paying other people to do so; he has finally sorted out his finances with a pretty magnificent vineyard business; and with his american zoetrope magazine gives a heck of a lot back to the kind of people whom i guess remind him of himself when he was younger - people who want to do nothing so much as tell stories in the cinema.

it's over ten years since his last film, and in that time he has tried and failed to mount an enormous film with an enormous name - 'megalopolis' - what would have probably been a sci-fi amazement; but in the past couple of years he turned his attention to the romanian philosopher and cultural theorist mircea eliade, and specifically his novella 'youth without youth', a story of a professor determined to find the original language of the human species, and who is led on a mysterious journey when being struck by lightning leads him to regress into his own youth.

some critics have suggested that this material would have made a great science fiction thriller, but thank god coppola decided to let his inner avant gardist out of the box. for his film of 'youth without youth' is more akin to a david lynch movie than the linear stories beloved by populist directors, and in that respect, has more to say. and while 'youth without youth' is a bit of a mess - it's alternately incredibly boring and capable of stunning beauty - it is also clearly the work of the man who made 'apocalypse now', 'the conversation', and particularly 'the godfather part 2' - its fractured narrative reminds me especially of the latter. of course, its story of a man ageing in the wrong direction, and too fast, also reminds me of 'jack', the nadir of coppola's career; but that's what you get when francis decides to put all his energy into something. you have to take the bloatedness along with the artistic amazements. (oh, and the best tim roth performance since 'planet of the apes'. i mean that as a compliment.)

what would the original human language sound like? what would it mean if we could hear it? is love the only force that transcends everything else? probably. i'm pretty sure francis coppola thinks so, and i'm glad he's back in the game that he plays best. 'youth without youth' is a strange film that manages to be monotonous and thrilling at the same time. it will leave you scratching your head in frustration at some scenes, and desperate to see some other parts of it again. if you care about cinema, you should see it.

John O'Donohue, 1956-2008, and continuing forever

I'm deeply saddened to report that my friend the Irish priest, poet and philosopher John O’Donohue, died suddenly on Thursday 3rd January 2008, and I'd like to share some thoughts about him.

John O’Donohue was my friend. We had been getting to know each other for almost four years now – a lifetime in our transient world – the very world that John’s words sought to slow down. I felt that we had in some sense adopted each other as compadres on the spiritual journey – a 50-something former priest taking into his life a 30-something former evangelical; both of us bound by our common Irish heritage, love of cinema, and fondness for sipping what he insisted on referring to as ‘firewater’. We spent many hours talking on the phone, eating together, and engaging in two of our favourite pursuits: whiskey and talking about movies.

He had a way with words that made you feel whole again – he created a space with language, both spoken and written, that felt like the home you never knew you were missing, but now never wanted to leave.

His work on retrieving the earthiness of celtic spirituality and helping make sense of it in a postmodern world is so profound that its impact has not yet been fully felt, and it represents something rare in a consumerist, post-Britart culture: a work of art that will outlast its author.

He managed also to write with the utmost seriousness and care for language, making his books the kind that you read slowly, savouring each page; meanwhile, his public talks were characterised by an indelicate Irish charm and the kind of wit that leads to laughter so deep it makes you feel like you belong.

What many may not know is that in addition to his ministry in the Catholic priesthood, and latterly as a writer and speaker, he was a serious environmental activist, helping to spearhead a small group that successfully prevented the despoilment of the Burren, one of Ireland’s most stunning natural landscapes. He put his reputation on the line to save something worth preserving, even being prepared to go to prison to do so.

In his activism, as well as his writing and speaking, and most of all, in his life, he wanted people to have shelter from the storms their lives would bring; when I once told him of my own struggles with serious depression and anxiety he clapped his hands together in a gesture of defiance and almost shouted at me: ‘May those feckin devils stay far from your door and NEVER TOUCH YOU AGAIN. You are worth far more than you think.’ His presence in my life made me believe it.

John knew that we live in the intersection of the sacred and the profane, and he wanted to nudge us in the direction of understanding that holiness has more to do with being aware of the light around us than moral puritanism. In the introduction to his most recent book ‘Benedictus’, published only a couple of months ago, he writes of how in any given day, some of us humans will experience the shock of being told of the sudden death of a friend. John wanted us to be tender to the fact that the faces of strangers we meet every day all hide secrets that are both divine and tragic. We do not always know who among us is suffering some unnameable torment, nor who is rejoicing at the blessing of a lifetime.

Last night, I became one of the people he wrote about – when I received an email (another manifestation of this world’s transience) informing me of his peaceful death, while asleep, on holiday in France. It is bewildering to note that a man who brought so much life around him is dead. But it is also vital to remember that he saw death as a path to freedom. He had spent so much time ministering with the dying – one of the greatest privileges of ministry, as far as he was concerned – that I felt he was, while totally committed to living life to the full, somehow also looking forward to his own death. Not in a morbid sense, but simply because he did believe that our own death is a step forward. He often said ‘when you enter into freedom, possibility comes to meet you’ – I imagine that he is, right now, experiencing a kind of freedom about which he would – at the very least - write some pretty marvellous poetry. It is hard to begrudge him his death when part of him was so ready for it.

I wonder how he’d describe it. For those of us left behind, well, we miss him dearly, and are grateful for the spaces he opened in our lives. I find it almost impossible to believe that he is gone; but if he was right about his own future, we will meet again.

A BLESSING FOR EQUILIBRIUM.
BY JOHN O’DONOHUE, from ‘Benedictus – A Book of Blessings’

Like the joy of the sea coming home to shore,
May the music of laughter break through your soul.

As the wind wants to make everything dance,
May your gravity be lightened by grace.

Like the freedom of the monastery bell,
May clarity of mind make your eyes smile.

As water takes whatever shape it is in,
So free may you be about who you become.

As silence smiles on the other side of what’s said,
May a sense of irony give you perspective.

As time remains free of all that it frames,
May fear or worry never put you in chains.

May your prayer of listening deepen enough
To hear in the distance the laughter of God.

Where does 'The Golden Compass' lead?

Here's the good news: The Golden Compass does not promote atheism. It isn't going to steal your children. It does not signal the end of hope for religion in the West. That's the good news. Here's the bad news: it promotes the same, shallow "don't touch my stuff or I'll kill you" message that appears in so much of popular culture. But more than this, in spite of delightful visual imagery, and a couple of performances in which it's clear the actors are having fun (an icy Nicole Kidman, and the great English theatrical knight Derek Jacobi to name two), it's simply a boring film.

At its centre there is at least an attempt at exploring interesting territory – we are in a parallel universe in which everyone is accompanied by a 'daemon' – an animal representation of their personality, and a comfort in times of trouble. Meanwhile, a shadowy authoritarian body, "the Magisterium", is abducting children and performing daemon amputations. Too much daemon, too much free will, too little for the Magisterium to do.

The religious resonances are obvious, but the film doesn't make any explicit commentary on Christianity. Rather, its enemy is the misuse of power to force people to think or act against the exercise of freedom.

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