Isabella Huppert stars in this reflective film

Villa Amalia is a film about the destruction and rebuilding of one life, that of a middle-aged French woman who decides to leave her husband. When Ann Hidden (Isabelle Huppert) sees hers husband kissing another woman, she absorbs this information silently and decides to write it off to the past, along with the marriage as a whole. From that moment on, Ann systematically leaves every external facet of her identity behind her – her career as a composer, her flat, her Steinways, her location in the world – and begins again, alone. Momentous events are portrayed as exactly what they are – mere moments and nothing more.

Taking solitude as a driving theme in a film is quite a bold move by anyone’s standards, since it is a state many people choose to avoid in life and tend not to seek out in popular culture. It also means a lot of camera-time for just one face. However, even though Huppert spends much of her time by herself, it is remarkable how well she carries the film, thanks to her captivating ability to look both fragile and strong in almost the same moment. This is her fifth collaboration with the director Benoît Jacquot and it shows; the camera portrays Ann’s gaunt appearence in a realistic yet tender light.

This film (based on Pascal Quignard’s novel All the Mornings of the World) can’t exactly boast a wildly original plot, but it still feels modern. It brings to mind the classic Trois Coleurs: Bleu, which follows a woman as she grieves for the loss of her husband (who is, like Ann, a composer) and rediscovers happiness through reconnecting with others. It is about being passively abandoned, and the subsequent search for new roots. Villa Amalia, on the other hand, completely subverts this formula. Ann leaves her husband very deliberately; she purposefully and professionally cuts all ties, all the while dry-eyed and certain of her own need to be alone. Even those who have a claim on her affections cannot divert her from her steadfast journey across Europe to an isolated Italian island. In an echo of Trois Coleurs: Bleu, classical music is a feature of the ended marriage and the film itself – but it is Ann who composes acclaimed music, not her husband. She also finds solace in the arms of new acquaintances, but in a surprisingly non-traditional manner. Villa Amalia updates the narrative of how life can go on for a woman who no longer claims the title ‘Madame’. As such, it makes for intriguing viewing.

Villa Amalia is at times quite a sad film, in that it did not shy away from the moments where the pain of acute loneliness win out over a sense of liberation. And, as one might expect from an artistically rendered French film, there wasn’t much in the way of Hollywood endings – but one wasn’t necessary. The point made is that Ann contains within herself the fortitude and confidence to exist on her own terms, and her determination to tread her own path is inspiring. The idea that independence can be won through renunciation and reflection is what lingers in the mind as the credits roll, and that is a quietly remarkable conclusion for any film to make.

Sookie (Anna Paquin), her friend Tara (Rutina Wesley) and local barman Sam (Sam Trammell)

HBO’s latest star series True Blood is a brash, extroverted and distinctly adult take on the vampire theme, complete with it’s own addictive murder mystery plotline. Whilst Twilight feels like peeking into the diary of an angst-ridden sixth-form virgin, True Blood feels like a night at the funfair – all candyfloss and rollercoasters, with, er, extra lashings of casual sex. It agrees with Twilight’s basic premise – that vampires are hot, and being bitten by one is sexual – but True Blood’s maker Alan Ball (of Six Feet Under fame) approaches this idea with schlocky abandon, describing the show as “bubblegum TV”. He’s right about that, but True Blood isn’t just about fighting and fornication (though these are the key pursuits for most characters) – the show is about the emergence of vampires as mainstream American citizens, keen to claim their place in a society that discriminates against them. This ingenious twist means that the real-life experiences of gay and black communities are neatly incorporated as a key subtext throughout the series, without being too preachy or heavy-handed.

For those of you who haven’t seen Channel 4’s broadcasts this autumn, here’s the set-up: Sookie Stackhouse is our sweet-but-strong waitress protagonist, blessed (or cursed, in her view) with the unusual power of being able to read minds. Her attraction to the mysterious vampire Bill Compton stirs controversy within her provincial Deep South community, Bon Temps. The trouble is that the average busybody finds the idea of a nice young lady stepping out with the undead more than a little distasteful, particularly since the women who seek out vampire lovers tend to end up as corpses themselves. So who is killing these women? Vampires, or local yokels with a chip on their shoulder?

The murder mystery plot is fun, but the best thing about True Blood is the ensemble characters. Sookie’s brother, the dim-witted sex addict Jason, is compellingly hapless, and her best friend Tara is both ferocious and witty with it; she says of her name “isn’t that funny, a black girl named after a plantation?” (that’s for any Gone with the Wind fans out there). The star of the show is Bon Temps’ local hustler Lafayette, who mesmerises as he embodies a series of African-American stereotypes – he’s a physically monolithic drug dealer with a gangster attitude – whilst deftly subverting them (he is also flamboyantly gay, with a penchant for make-up). In fact, Lafayette transcends all of his trappings, and is simply very cool. And Sookie herself proves to be a reasonable heroine, as far as light entertainment heroines go, particularly if one compares her with Twilight’s Bella. She is bold yet sweet, and much of her appeal lies in her heartfelt commitment to living an open-minded life. Her attraction to Bill is reliant on the fact that she cannot read his mind, something that paradoxically frees her from inhibitive worrying about what he thinks of her. She chooses to be with him because he represents sanctuary from judgement, whereas Bella is attracted to Edward because he represents danger and dominance. Sookie, meanwhile, has her own kinds of power, and she gets herself out of trouble as often as she is (somewhat inevitably) saved by Bill.

Jason Stackhouse, the resident slut. True Blood features a distinctly porny physical aesthetic, despite its otherwise liberal bent

One criticism that can be levelled at True Blood is that so far it focuses on depicting exclusively hetero, pornified sex, even as it includes plots that advertise it as pro-gay and generally critical of the status quo. In the course of season one, the only graphic sex scenes included for your viewing pleasure are ones showing conventionally attractive straight couples getting it on. Even though Jason is a morally vacuous character, we see him shagging multitudes of nubile young ladies, flexing his overdeveloped muscles, and being showcased as extremely desirable. Essentially, the female audience is supposed to objectify him, to think “I’d sleep with him as long as he keeps his stupid thoughts to himself.” The trouble is that equal opportunities sexism is not particularly imaginative or stimulating, at least as far as I am concerned. To compare, Twilight’s Edward Cullen character exploits female desire with far more insight, and with far greater success.

Continuing along conventional lines, we see blonde, white, straight Sookie get some steamy screen time with Bill the vampire. Her sighs of pain and pleasure as he bites her all echo old-fashioned male fantasies of virginity – fantasies of female passivity, of her fear of/desire for penetration, of the male’s physical dominance. It’s not exactly avant-garde. Meanwhile, when an interracial sexual relationship occurs, the cameras shy away from showing it explicitly. The same applies for Lafayette’s gay hustling. For all of True Blood’s leftist politics, the show doesn’t always practise what it preaches so loudly. I think that part of the problem is that certain branches of American liberalism confuse mainstream, male-oriented pornography with empowerment for all sexually sidelined communities, which makes True Blood’s approach more symptomatic of a cultural bias. The pro-hetero male porn aesthetic seems to have been assimilated into even relatively forward-thinking entertainment, and that – to me – is a shame.

Those qualms aside, True Blood makes a good fist of showing how idiotic domineering patriarchal figures look – it’s impossible not to sympathise with Sookie as she continually fends off criticism from her over-protective peers who do not tolerate dalliances with the Other, in this case vampire Bill. Compared to some TV dramas, True Blood makes an enjoyable and convincing case for tolerance and equality. It’s secretly more conventional than it superficially seems, but that doesn’t harm its overall success as an entertainingly camp reinterpretation of classic Southern Gothic.

It’s pointless to deny it. Vampires are awesome, and watching Twilight and True Blood only reconfirms this ancient truth. I realize that by writing about this pop culture phenomena, I am contributing to the faintly orgiastic pundit’s pile-on prompted by 2009’s vampire-related entertainment boom. But it would be churlish to deny that both Twilight and True Blood offer enjoyably silly yet thought-provoking interpretations of sexuality, and as far as I am concerned that makes them worthy of the attention they have received so far, and a little more from me.

Disclaimer: I’m an interested observer rather than a fangirl, since I’ve only ventured as far the first season of True Blood and the first film of the Twilight franchise (so far…season two and New Moon are next on my list of guilty pleasures…). I haven’t read either book series, so I won’t pretend to have an opinion on them.

So let’s start with Twilight. It’s a teen film about sex, dressed up all fancy with a blue-cast camera lens and a vampire twist. What exactly can it say about sexuality? A lot of weird stuff, frankly. Weirdly anti-feminist, weirdly pro-chastity, weirdly hilarious stuff. I must emphasise the hilarity aspect of Twilight – you would have to be a twelve year old girl from a very sheltered background not to burst into peals of laughter at least, oh, every other scene. The sexual tension between Bella (Kirsten Stewart) and Edward (Robert Pattinson) is presented in such unabashedly clichéd, po-faced ways that watching it is like being tickled with a feather. It’s basically Teeth without the self-aware satire, which definitely makes it funnier. The pallid couple gaze at each other continually with an almost psychotic intensity; his vampire teeth sprout at the sight of her, and his golden (wtf?) eyes turn black when she goads his bloodsucking sensibilities. Edward’s desire to feed on Bella’s blood is a magnificently unsubtle metaphor for – yeah, you guessed it – his desire to have sex with her. His bloodlust puts her at risk; if he bites her, he might kill her. It’s easy to see why teenagers love Twilight, because it recasts first-timer sex as an activity fraught with OMG MORTAL DANGER rather than just a bit awkward. Of course, sex can ruin teenage reputations (having too much of it, having it in unorthodox ways, not having it at all), so this cartoonish exaggeration is not so outlandish as it seems on first inspection. However, this physical harm = sexual love metaphor problematically extends beyond the realities of sex, and domestic violence is a lurking subtext. Edward’s love for Bella is shown by his self control in not attacking her; he sets the pace of the relationship, and assumes control of Bella’s body as well as his own.

What is perhaps the weirdest thing about Twilight is that, for all its creepy undertones, its take on sexuality apparently makes perfect sense to a whole generation of teenage girls and young women (yes, young women too – I have yet to find a female peer who is utterly unmoved by Edward Cullen). Edward appeals to girls because his attraction to Bella suggests that a supposedly teenage boy can have worldly experience, can be willing to protect her and strong enough to do so, and (most importantly) be able to perceive her inner qualities even though she spends most of her time looking sulky in lumberjack shirts. When he tells Bella “you’re like a drug to me. My own personal brand of heroin”, this is barf-inducingly cheesyto adult ears. But for a teenage girl, it credits her with being dangerously addictive to the object of her affections. And that, as Paris Hilton would say, is hot. All this, and he expresses his desires for Bella with dignity – unlike the American Pie/Superbad teenage boy archetype, whose preoccupations with masturbation and getting laid means that the girls he chases end up looking more like prey (which is ironic, seeing as Bella actually is Edward’s prey). And thus Edward’s relatively respectful attitude to sex begins to seem almost sweet, if you leave the creepy “I-love-you-therefore-I’ll-hurt-you” message to one side (ha!). Naturally, feminist critics are not keen on letting that particular message go unchallenged – condemning Edward’s stalkerish characterisation is a necessary criticism to level at Twilight. However, it seems to me that most of the teenagers who now swoon over Edward watching Bella sleep unawares will find this creepy in a few years (they have to, right? Otherwise we’ll have a generation of idiots on our hands…).

"You're like my own personal brand of heroin" = actual dialogue!

I knew what ideological flaws to expect when I watched Twilight, but I came away with a rosier interpretation of the film than most feminist critics. I dutifully noted that Edward did not always represent an ideal romantic interest for impressionable girls, but ultimately I was far more intrigued by the intelligent portrayal of Bella. To me, her accommodation of Edward’s controlling tendencies reflects that the average teenage girl  finds it easier to trust her boyfriend’s judgement than to trust her own sexual desire – a desire that society struggles to accept as harmless, even in best case vampire-free scenarios. Despite her active desire Bella is too deferential to Edward to be an ideal character – but she does have basis in reality, and this is why teenagers relate to her character. It’s also to the credit of the filmmakers that her sexuality isn’t remotely pornified, even if it’s kind of sad that this feels like a bold move in modern-day teen cinema. Twilight was directed by Catherine Hardwicke (of Thirteen fame) and her nuanced depiction of the world through the eyes of  malcontent Bella is one of the film’s main strengths. The other main strength is, of course, that R.Patz is preternaturally fit. Evidently, these two strengths combined is a potent cocktail for any girl – teenage or otherwise…

Sources

Twilight author Stephanie Meyer defends against accusations of anti-feminsim

New York Times’ critique

Sarah Seltzer at Huffington Post offers a feminist reveiw

Coming soon: my take on Channel 4′s new American import, True Blood

A classic of the MPDG genre: Kate Husdon as Penny Lane in Almost Famous

A year ago, The Onion’s film blog The AV Club featured an article describing a particular type of film character: the Manic Pixie Dream Girl. “Who’s she? Tinkerbell?” you may or may not be wondering. It’s pretty straightforward to explain the concept, because she’s simply…That Girl. You know, that archetypal charming free spirit who periodically wisps soulfully across the silver screen, captivating the hearts of gawky male leads and audience members alike. Nathan Rabin coined the term to describe “that bubbly, shallow cinematic creature that exists solely in the fevered imaginations of sensitive writer-directors to teach broodingly soulful young men to embrace life and its infinite mysteries and adventures.”

The trouble with the Manic Pixie Dream Girl (MPDG) is that repetition has made her into something that any MPDG worth their salt would revile: a cliché. When a film shows us a lonely and frustrated young man looking wistful, we can guess that a beautiful girl will change all that by simply encouraging him to let go, live a little, be happy. It’s quite possible that she will ask him to run away to Morocco with her (Penny Lane in Almost Famous), dance, sing or scream spontaneously (cult favourite Harold & Maude, Garden State, Cabaret), and be somehow seductively fragile (Factory Girl, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, pretty much any film mentioned in this post, etc.). Quite a lot of the time the girl will have no particular reason for taking an interest in these sad-sacks, beyond the fact that their very unconventionality is supposedly what allows them to really “get” the sensitive poet-soul lurking beneath the grey suit of their lover. Such slight motivation tends to make the MPDG more of an event than a convincing character. She is what happens to our hero, as refreshing and insubstantial as a summer breeze. The classic MPDG has subsequently earned scorn from feminist-minded film critics for managing to be both overwritten and underwritten at the same time. She will either be idealised without being understood, or – even worse – eventually be understood ‘all too well’ and so reviled by our hero for trifling with his feelings as lightly as she trifles with social mores.

Having said all of this, however, I have to admit: I love the Manic Pixie Dream Girl. Sure, some of the films that feature her truly suck. The Jude Law version of Alfie (2004) beautifully illustrates how outdated and misogynistic the whole concept can be: Alfie’s hollow, montaged relationship with Sienna Miller’s hedonistic character feels positively stone age in its unreconstructed disgust for a woman unable to live up to unrealistic expectations. But not every film about an MPDG is so unreflective. In fact, several films that play with the MPDG trope are some of the most emotionally intelligent and entertaining I can think of. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004) is essentially a deconstruction of the idea of That Girl, the one who will save you from your own personality. Clementine warns that “too many guys think I’m a concept, or I complete them, or I’m gonna make them alive. But I’m just a fucked-up girl who’s lookin’ for my own peace of mind; don’t assign me yours.”  To which hapless Joel confesses “I still thought you were gonna save my life… even after that.”

Liza Minnelli as Sally Bowles

In Cabaret (1972), the “divine decadence” of nightclub performer Sally Bowles initially holds a similar power over relatively buttoned-up English tutor Brian. Instead of feeling trite, the flighty MPDG dynamic between the two is realistic, likely due to the film’s autobiographical source material (Christopher Isherwood’s autobiographical Goodbye Berlin). Even though Sally’s vivacity charms Brian, he never loses sight of the fact that she is “about as [femme] fatale as an after-dinner mint!” It gradually becomes clear that Sally’s seductive front is as much an attempt to deceive herself as it is to enchant those around her. In the end, it’s self-delusional Sally, not sensible Brian, who has the guts and the wisdom to point out that attention-seeking narcissists and bookish types are usually incompatible. That honesty has a bittersweet consequence, earning her both liberty and loneliness; it also makes her loveable again. You wouldn’t think from reading the definition of a MPDG that they make Oscar winning roles for actresses, but watching Liza Minelli sing ‘Cabaret’ with desperate bravado is proof that in this case, they do. Purists would argue that Sally Bowles isn’t actually a MPDG (she’s too well-written, for a start) but really, what is Sally Bowles if not manic and pixie-esque? She’s the taboo-breaker that sexually experimental Brian dreams of, so is she not a dream girl?

Very similar things can be said about Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s (1961). Holly doesn’t exist solely to stroke the ego of Paul, her admirer; it’s made clear why she chose to be a call girl rather than a domestic doormat. Like Sally, she can be grating and self-absorbed. As every realist knows, in real life, this is pretty difficult to find endearing. But for some reason those flaws don’t much bother me when they’re contained within a film. In a way, the MPDG is the perfect character; she’s always there to captivate your attention with her wit, her beauty, her ephemeral quality – but she will never outstay her welcome.

So yeah, she is my cinematic guilty pleasure. I know that, by and large, such female characters pander to the male gaze, and that their brief presence is part of their allure to men who dread commitment, and that they perpetuate the sexist male artist/female muse dynamic solidified over centuries of art. The MPDG is often lazily written and prone to spouting cringy lines like “I can tap-dance. You wanna see me tap-dance?” (and that’s courtesy of a relatively good MPDG film, Garden State! Best not to dwell upon what lesser films offer up as quirky cuteness…). Sure, MPDGs kind of suck in theory, and sometimes, even I can admit, in practice. See the aforementioned Alfie/ Factory Girl for further evidence of recent offenders. All that aside, though, which from this list of films is truly rubbish? None of ‘em, I say!

Jeanne Moureau as Catherine in Jules et Jim

Jules et Jim (1962)

Breakfast at Tiffany’s

Harold & Maude (1971)

Cabaret

Annie Hall (1977)

Almost Famous

Garden State

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

(500) Days of Summer (2009) (this one just about carried it off by making Summer into such a blank slate it felt almost like a meta-MPDG narrative intending to show us just how soppy and deluded an MPDG suitor can be. Or so I like to tell myself. Anyway, I liked it.)

Whilst every single one of these films takes the male character as the de facto protagonist, he rarely goes beyond being a sympathetic prop. Having said that, he will probably be curious, caring and thoughtful. He will like books and music instead of homo-erotic male bonding and fart jokes, which instantly makes him infinitely preferable to any male romantic leads in films produced, directed, written and possibly even watched by Judd Apatow. So the male leads aren’t as terrible as some feminist critics make them out to be, in my humble opinion. But the true virtue of these films is simple: the best of the Manic Pixie Dream Girls are stars. I’d rather watch any of these films multiple times, rather than one more ‘female-friendly’ romantic comedy that labours under the delusion that Mr Big is my dream date. As if! At the risk of straying beyond the claustrophobic corral of hetero-normative preference, I say give me a heartfelt performance of ‘Cabaret’ any day.

Sources: The AV Club; Jezebel; Youtube

Newcomer Katie Jarvis as Mia in Fish Tank

This review was originallywritten for and published by Pure Movies.

Director: Andrea Arnold, 2009

On paper, Fish Tank looks as if it will be one of those worthy British films that critics fawn over whilst also leaving the majority of the film-viewing public somewhat cold. Andrea Arnold, who wrote and directed this feature, has said that she finds the work of Ken Loach inspiring; she even borrowed one of his casting tactics in employing a non-actor in a lead role. Perhaps I’m wary as a result of watching Loach’s horribly depressing 2002 social awareness film Sweet Sixteen, in which a Scottish teenager living on a council estate is predictably unable to escape a miserable fate. Since Fish Tank can be described as a film about an Essex teenager living on a council estate in only marginally merrier circumstances, I don’t think my apprehension prior to seeing it was too misplaced.

Happily, Fish Tank is not your usual relentlessly ‘gritty’ fare. In it, teenagers are allowed to be funny as well as obnoxious, and foul-mouthed tweens are almost as endearing as they are symbolic of a morally bankrupt society. We follow Mia (played by Katie Jarvis, the teen plucked from obscurity), a moody fifteen year old who prefers Glaswegian kisses to the French kind and spends her time trying to steal off the local travellers. At home on the estate, Mia spars with her reluctant mother Joanna, who gives her two daughters little more than an encyclopaedic knowledge of swearing and a palpable sense of being in the way.

Mia’s hostility to the world in general is interrupted unexpectedly by the arrival of her mother’s latest boyfriend, Connor (Michael Fassbender). From the minute he strolls shirtless into the kitchen, Connor exudes a charismatic self-confidence that piques insecure Mia’s curiosity. He quickly integrates himself into the family, adopting a quasi-fatherly role towards Joanna’s daughters that both girls evidently crave. The clash between Connor’s happy-go-lucky ways and the family’s cynical negativity results in comic scenes which win the audience’s attention, as well as Mia’s affection. Amid all the laughter and sunshine, however, tensions begin to develop. Just how fatherly/daughterly is the relationship between Mia and Connor? At what point does a thirty-something man go from being paternal to being…less admirable? The film is always shot from Mia’s perspective, and the audience remains as clueless as she does throughout the narrative. I found myself wondering, is it unfair to assume the worst of a man simply because of an apparently innocent tendency to mix intimacy in with kindly solicitude?

To answer such questions would mar Fish Tank’s strongest feature: the insistent build-up of tension throughout the story. This tension only breaks in the final third of the film, by which point I felt that slightly tighter editing of shots intended to establish atmosphere would have been a wise move. As it is, Fish Tank runs to a full two hours and the final minutes are not quite as gripping as what preceded them. However, this minor criticism is the only one I can offer. The acting was uniformly brilliant, and Fassbender in particular stood out, due to his deft handling of a morally ambiguous character. I came away from Fish Tank feeling that Arnold had succeeded in bringing warmth and complexity to the traditionally harrowing template that films made in Britain often adhere to. Fish Tank is proof that British films can address serious issues and offer laugh-out-loud moments, all without resorting to Richard Curtis’s tried-‘n’-tired posh dimwits formulae. As such, it is a revelation. Andrea Arnold’s skill at producing such a satisfyingly tragic-comic work makes her, in my eyes, perhaps the only peer to Danny Boyle in the UK film industry. And having seen just how well Boyle’s style of filmmaking translates across the world, I can think of no higher accolade!

This is an old favourite of mine, and I thought I’d write about it because I could probably count all the friends who’ve seen it on one hand. It’s worth watching, and the whole thing is up on YouTube if you’re inclined to check it out.

Scarlett Johansson and Thora Birch as Rebecca and Enid

Ghost World is taken from the short graphic novel by Daniel Clowse (1997), and the transfer to the big screen only emphasises the smallness of the story, in which almost nothing happens. Whilst the film’s scope may be miniaturised, it is also perfectly formed, and the minimal plot neatly shows us the ennui of disenfranchised youth. When a lonely figure is shown walking along a darkening street, looking for something to do, somewhere to go, the lassitude and frustration that permeate the scene reaches out to the audience. If this film has a message, it is simply that you are not alone in any frustrations that you may have, both the world and with yourself. It manages that peculiar feat of making boredom its subject matter without ever being boring itself.

Enid Coleslaw (American Beauty’s Thora Birch) has just graduated from high school in a suburb of an  American city. She has little interest in her own future, and passively drifts between art class retakes and flat-hunting with her best – and only – friend Becky (Scarlett Johansson, in an early role), who is keen to embrace adulthood. To amuse herself, Enid plays a thoughtless practical joke on the author of an exceptionally pathetic Lonely Hearts ad, and the guilt the prank induces leads her to initiate friendship with him. It transpires that this middle-aged bachelor, Seymour (played by Steve Buscemi), has more in common with Enid than she first supposed.

Even though she only graduated high school rather than university, Enid’s aimlessness feels weirdly relevant to the experiences of thousands of students who graduated this summer with few prospects and a future full of debt. What do you actually do with yourself if even you aren’t sure about what you want from life? (Answers on a postcard please, I’m really quite curious!) Watching Enid negotiate her way through the summer is absorbing, largely because she is that rare female film character: a fully-formed, realistic individual. She is difficult to love at times – too deadpan, too abrasive, too unreliable – yet despite/because of this, she is also easy to relate to. Her imperfections are of the kind any self-aware person can identify in themselves: the petty, annoying reflexes that are somehow ingrained within everyone, even when they try to change for the better. Enid learns as she goes, but this learning process is fraught with  everyday difficulties; she can be funny and smart, but she also makes mistakes and lets people down. Because of this, the character Enid never feels like a cipher dreamt up by a hack eager to cash in on teenage alienation. In some ways, she fits various ‘outsider’ stereotypes – she dallies with art and punk style, and exhibits a healthy suspicion of conformity – but these clichés are not assembled for the convenience of the audience – instead, they feel like a natural combination of elements which highlight her uncertainty at how to proceed in life. Unlike most films about being a teenager, it feels honest rather than nostalgic for something that never really was.

A frame from the graphic novel

This film has that familiar American-indie tone, what with the occasional appearance of batty characters and a reflective mood, but it’s worth noting that Ghost World has been much-copied in recent years. I don’t think, however, that it has been bettered. Unlike many of its imitators, the film doesn’t need to rely upon an overdone folky, twee soundtrack to deliver its emotional punch, and it doesn’t bother with a cutesy love story at its centre. Whether the ending is happy or sad will depend on where you fall on the optimist/pessimist spectrum. Ghost World ingeniously manages to be about growing up without focusing on the usual rites of passage – losing virginity, being made over courtesy of the popular kids, getting a Good Job and Doing Well.

So, to sum up: Ghost World is about trying to make a world in your likeness, and about trying to connect with other people. It’s about sometimes failing in those attempts. What could be more teenage human?

A glimpse at punk

Despite their influence on the British music scene over the last few decades, the Sex Pistols remain a fairly niche interest from what I can tell of modern British culture. Their latter-day exploits (shilling butter, being old fogies) tend to peeve only those who were once invested in the punk movement, which was, let’s face it, fairly esoteric from the word go. Young people who care about guitar music these days also care about musicianship, a preoccupation that the punks purposefully refused to trouble themselves with. To reject punk on these grounds, however, misses the point of the scene; in England’s Dreaming, Savage explains why the punks didn’t care about skill; it was their way of democratising performance, their way of saying “fuck off” to the aging hippie purists that dominated the UK music charts.

Jon Savage uses the bare bones of punk – the lyrics, the gigs, the manifestos – to illustrate the wider social trends of the late 1970s. It is this careful evocation of a bygone era that is the primary achievement of England’s Dreaming. By giving details on the impetus behind the opening of Malcolm MacLaren and Vivienne Westwood’s infamous SEX shop on the Kings Road, Savage leaves the reader to marvel at just how much the socio-economic landscape of London has changed since 1975. The account of the Sex Pistols botching their 1977 signing to A&M Records by misbehaving for one week solid managed to make me long for similarly entertaining episodes in today’s music industry. Savage conveys what it was like to be on the outskirts of society in late 70s England by showing how punks occupied an uneasy mid-point between the National Front and the burgeoning west London reggae scene described in The Clash’s ‘White Riot.’ This socio-cultural bent of England’s Dreaming gives this account of a slight, ephemeral music scene a touch of educational heft. As a child I always enjoyed listening to my dad’s punk records without ever pondering their meaning; now, thanks to Savage’s commentary, it is easy to pick up on the blending of naively right-wing libertarian sentiments into all those catchy tunes. Knowing the context of the words makes all the difference, as usual.

That said, England’s Dreaming can be a frustrating read at times. Savage does what he can to give an account of each major player in the punk scene, but even the central figures – Sid Vicious, Joe Strummer etc – felt elusive. Whilst full biographies would take up too much space, the occasional aside about Glen Matlock being “a mummy’s boy” is insufficient. Malcolm MacLaren and John Lydon are presented with more detail and insight, but then, they still felt like caricatures. Who knows, though – maybe they are. Maybe that was the secret to their success…but I doubt it.

Another example of this biographical skimpiness can be seen in Savage’s portrayal of Nancy Spungen.Beyond supplying the occasional quote describing her “vileness” (courtesy of Lydon) Spungen was apparently rather uninteresting to the author, at least until her squalid death. I, however, was intrigued by her motivations and background. A quick look at a memorial website informed me of her eventful life. Apparently she was a gifted child who rejected both home and school, spent time in mental institutions from adolescence onwards, enrolled and dropped out of university by the age of 16, and ran away to be a NYC stripper at 17. Her life was ended violently at the age of 20. Whilst Spungen was not  an admirable character, I can’t help but feel that Savage’s tight focus on the nebulous atmosphere of punk occasionally shot itself in the proverbial foot: after all, Spungen’s biography tells us a great deal about the accelerated rise and fall of the punk scene itself. Of course, as an American, she doesn’t belong to an account describing England. And yet English women, like Siouxsie Sioux and Westwood herself, remain similarly peripheral to the narrative despite their vital roles in the punk scene.

Anyway, I quibble. I can always read about Nancy in her mother’s apologia And I Don’t Want to Live This Life; Sioux and Westwood are accounted for elsewhere. Savage’s overall perspective on the late 70s punk movement is fascinatingly detailed whilst also preserving a necessary emotional distance from the events themselves, even though the author was clearly deeply involved in the scene at the time. It is to his credit that Savage never glamourises punk, and avoids excusing its worst excesses. Even so, I am a susceptible soul and after reading England’s Dreaming I felt envious of the people who were around to witness punk, who had a chance to channel their energies into a common aim, even though that aim was ultimately nihilistic. Our generation seems sadly unable to create momentum of this kind. On the bright side, I am relieved that the punters at rock gigs today refrain from hocking great chunks of phlegm at whoever dares to venture onstage. While punk was clearly exciting at the time, the social pressures that have developed in the intervening years have at least managed to reinstate a pleasing level of hygiene in even the most alternative of music scenes. I must be thankful for the little things!

Links: Nancy Spungen

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An example of literature I may not get round to reviewing...

Welcome to Obtuse Angles, a blog set up to give vent to my idle thoughts on pop culture.* Having just spent a few years at university learning how to over-analyse every little aspect of English literature, I figure that putting this skill into practise will hopefully amuse me and anyone who shares my tastes.

One of my intentions for this blog is to offer a feminist perspective on films, music, books and so forth. I want to showcase the good stuff – the creative output that presents female experience with empathy, fairness and intelligence. It seems that there is so much in modern pop culture that fails to meet this basic criteria that documenting the work that does meet it will be a far less demanding task!

Of course, I don’t plan on limiting myself to writing exclusively from a politicized perspective. I can ramble on any given subject with enough encouragement.

* The name Obtuse Angles may suggest an interest in maths, but I can promise there will be no maths-related content. Promise. This name is only one of many I came up with, and has the grand distinction of being a domain available for use…evidently there are far too many like-minded bloggers out there…