Sasha Baron Cohen cüts a strange swathe throügh his chosen profession. He rarely appears oüt of self-created character, which leaves his three creations to occüpy nearly all of his big and small screen time. So far Borat and Ali G have had oütings of varying formülae and süccess, and now Cohen has reünited with former Seinfeld writer türned director Larry Charles, to bring his inappropriate, gay fashionista Brüno to cinemas.
The plot is simple in its oütlandishness, büt serves well in driving the movie between set pieces. Brüno has been blackballed in the aftermath of a velcro süit incident at a Milanese fashion show. Dümped by Aüstrian TV and his pygmy lover, he travels to Hollywood in order to become famoüs stateside.
The style of the movie itself is similar to Borat; events and interviews involving ünsüspecting celebrities or members of the püblic are interspersed with contrived scenes üsed to püsh plot and Brüno into the next absürd scenario.
Üsüally the line between the two is qüite clear, büt there were times when it can feel – rightly or not - as thoügh the movie is trying to trick the aüdience into believing that staged events are happening for real.
What also lets the film down is the lack of add ons which were present in Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan (paüse, deep breath). This movie sücceeds more as envelope püshing comedy than slice of social commentary. Brüno is not as sympathetic a character as Borat, and as süch the persona isn't granted as müch leeway by his stooges. Brüno's storyline also süffers slightly for its leading man; it's not as endearing as the clüeless foreigner searching for cültüral enlightenment plot of the 2006 offering. The point of the movie remains the same thoügh; present people with a lüdicroüs character who, despite working at the fringes of what they are willing to believe, can still elicit a hümoroüs response from those aroünd him by püshing the right büttons. Thats the nücleüs, and while the bells and whistles woüld have been nice, they are not essential.
The core point to be made thoügh is that this film is side-splittingly, pant-wettingly, anal-fissüre-creatingly hilarioüs. I left the cinema with a dry moüth, aching stomach müscles and a sore jaw, and for that alone it is worth catching this before the end of its theatrical rün.
So, Cohen has reached the end of his triple threat of characters. He now seems to be presented with three options; scüttle back to the comedy drawing board to create some fresh personae, get some more work acting in movies where everyone is in on the joke – he gave a fine performance in Tim Bürton's Sweeney Todd, or take an oüroboric türn and introdüce Ali G to Larry Charles. One can't help feeling that whatever choice he makes, its decision time in terms of his career direction.
8/10
PS After finishing the review, I realised that, if recent media reports are anything to go by, Baron Cohen has a foürth choice open to him. Salman Rüshdie-like hiding.
Eric Bishop's life is in a multi-fronted funk. He's looking after two children from different marriages, neither of whom respect him, he hasn't seen or spoken to his first wife since he walked out on her and their child, and is involved in the car accident which opens the film. In other words, he is not a man who should derive a source of income from playing Russian Roulette.
The tone of the opening reel of Ken Loach's latest film is unrelentingly bleak. I settled into my seat expecting to sit through an offering similar in outlook to Nil By Mouth or Naked, a depressing tale of urban decay punctuated by acts of violence and antisocial behaviour. The eventual tone though is lighter than the first few scenes let on, and its a credit to director Ken Loach that there is little disconnect in the intervening narrative.
So, how does the film go from wrist-slitting depression to fist-pumping triumphalism? One word; EricCantona, which is actually two when your laptop doesn't suffer from a sticky space bar. Cantona appears to other Eric in a series of hallucenogenically induced late night visits in order to dole out life lessons and manly advice. This is the first English language film to star the former Manchester United midfielder in a major role and he showed a sense of humour before even setting foot in front of the camera by playing a version of himself which sometimes verges on pastiche.
Relief from the relentlessly downbeat early going also comes from other Eric's postmen colleagues. Led superbly by John Henshaw they are the other side of the comedy coin to Cantona. While the Frenchman's lines drip with subtlety, the postmen represent a Greek chorus of sorts. Both approaches work well, and stylistically the two emphasise the dissonance between other Eric's fantasy world and his crushing daily life.
Steve Evets is well cast as the emotionally worn out non-footballing Eric and turns in a performance which makes me wonder why I haven't heard of him before. He follows a long line of lay players chosen for their life experience rather than their acting credentials. Stephanie Bishop, playing Eric's ex-wife Lily is cast particularly well as the elegant vestige of a former, happier life. The rest of the cast do their jobs well, and never seem out of place.
The style is similar to earlier Loach offerings. As in Loach's last film, The Wind That Shakes the Barley, the violence is hyper real, the characters having dug themselves a shallow but meaningful hole, from which they could choose to jump or continue digging. Loach has wisely chosen not to overdo the ending. Hearts are unfrozen but not unbroken and tragedy is averted but there remains a potential for reprisal.
You might call Looking For Eric a film of two halves. It strains slightly to find its tonal footing, but ends up being an enjoyable waypoint on the road map of independent British film.
Well, there goes the Elvis of my generation. As all terrestrial life now knows, Michael Jackson died on Thursday 25th June 2009, aged just 50 years old. As I watched a small portion of the seemingly endless news coverage, I began to ponder the similarities between Messrs Presley and Jackson. Both were pop royalty, in the figurative and literal senses of the word (Jackson known as “The King of Pop”, Elvis simply The King”). The two would figure in most rundowns of the top ten recording artists of all time, even if not ranked by volume of records sold. Both made their names by repackaging black music for a universal audience, and had close relationships with one Lisa Marie Presley. And finally, both men appear to have died after confusing their bodies with medicine cabinets (although the passage of time may prove the latter to be one final hyper-inflated story in the life of the medias favourite barrel-dwelling fish).
There the similarities end though. I have no real emotional connection with Presley. He died before I was born, and I've never been overly enamoured with his music either. On the other sequin-gloved (sorry) hand, memories of Jackson streak my childhood like the colour chains of a partially completed Rubik's Cube. Having been born the year that Thriller was released, my more abiding memories are of the Bad and Dangerous albums, and the movie Moonwalker (also starring Joe Pesci). For me, Jackson is less zombie/werewolf, more the interloper dancing his way past gangsters in a prohibition era nightclub or transforming into a car.
I should probably point out two things. First off, this list does not include Jackson Five cuts. A duet has been included, but this is a solo list at heart. Second, being a member of the MTV generation, I will conflate appraisal of the song and music video. There is no getting around the latter. Michael Jackson is inextricably linked to this most contemporary of art forms, Thriller being widely credited as starting the craze. Plus, I saw most of Jackson's work on TV at a very impressionable age, and when I think of the songs I can't help but run the videos in my mental movie theatre. With all this in mind, try not to get too angry at my selections as I present my Top Five Michael Jackson Songs (including videos).
There is one good reason why this song is not higher up; it is severely and seriously, to the point of boredom, overplayed. I mean I adore this tune, but subconscious public opinion seems to have placed it as the quintessential Jackson single. There is no better way to ruin a songs legacy than repeated radio airplay.
That aside, the song is worthy of its mantle as the peoples favourite. From the moment the shuffling bassline hits, the listener is already mentally searching their catalogue of Michael Jackson dance moves, with hopes of attempting at least one during the near five-minute running time. It's addictive music at its best.
I was bemused to hear – on the Thriller Special Edition – that Quincy Jones was in favour of trimming down the 29 second intro. When Jones argued that nobody would sit through such a lengthy opening, Jackson reportedly said, "But that’s the jelly!... That’s what makes me want to dance". The intro stayed because, as Jones said "when Michael Jackson tells you, 'That’s what makes me want to dance', well, the rest of us just have to shut up.".
The subject of the song is a fan who claimed that Jackson had fathered one of her twins. Though quite how this factors into the – admittedly iconic – pavement stones which glow at Jackson's touch through the course of the video, is anyones guess. Already Jackson's distaste for a media which he alternately wooed and shunned is in evidence with the paparazzo tracking him for a photograph.
Whats the lasting imprint of this song? Ask anyone, from a Taiwanese businessman to a Sub Saharan schoolchild to sing the chorus, and they will most likely be able – and willing - to oblige.
This song never actually appeared on an MJ album. It was one of two duets which Jackson sang with Paul McCartney. The other song, The Girl is Mine ended up on Thriller, whilst this featured on McCartney's 1983 Pipes of Peace. In the writer's opinion this is the superior track; more upbeat than their other effort and funkier than an unwashed jogging sock.
McCartney begins each verse and his more traditional delivery provides a wonderful counterpoint for Jackson's soulful vocals. The songs high points are undoubtedly the straw hat waving choruses, which are pure pop sexiness. I've always been a fan of trumpets in pop music, and they are used to alloyed perfection here. The video doesn't fit the lyrics. The pair play a couple of travelling snake oil salemen cum vaudvillean entertainers. McCartney appears with then wife Linda, while Michael develops a worrying crush on sister LaToya.
Jackson and McCartney were later to famously fall out of friendship when Jackson took McCartneys sound financial counsel that buying music rights was a sound investment, and purchased the Beatles back catalogue. Good advice Paul.
Bands since the Beatles had teamed their songs with musician footage to create promotional videos. In the era of MTV though, a paradigm shift was needed, and in stepped the big budget Thriller video to fill the gap. Directed by John Landis, whose exalted reputation I have never understood (for everyAnimal House or Blues Brothers he's directed there's a Beverly Hills Cop 3 or Blues Brothers 2000 on his CV), the 14 minute mini-movie became not just a success, but a cultural event (one which has featured ad nauseum on nostalgia TV shows).
The track itself features creepy soliloquys by Vincent Price, culminating with his coffin splitting cackle. On the musical side, the toe tapping bass line is augmented with a fitting Calypso-fringed melody. Again, Thriller's real strength lies in the fact that as I'm writing this, with the song in the background, my head is subconsciously bobbing to the beat.
Hands up, who doesn't know the zombie dance moves? Anyone? Didn't think so. An ability to pull off the stomping quarter turns, shoulder shimmies and overhead hand claps performed by the undead dance troupe makes any proponent a hit at social occasions[1]. Jackson is known to have requested take after take in order to achieve true synchronisation with his menagerie of backing dancers, and it shows in spades (no gravedigging pun intended).
Besides spawning an entire industry, the video has produced several copycats and homages, this being my personal favourite. Where this cut falls down is that the music video has overshadowed the song, which is by no means Jackson's best, and wouldn't be remembered as fondly if it weren't for a group of dancers in greasepaint and a black and red leather jacket.
Thriller launched Jackson, a celebrity already, into global hyperstardom. Not unsurprisingly he was hounded by the media during his pre-Bad hiatus, which he at times apparently encouraged by planting false stories. His experiences, self inflicted or not, inspired Leave Me Alone (and especially the bloodhounds wearing reporter regalia featured in the video).
The full length music video was packaged with the pre-Moonwalker retrospective of Jackson's musical career. This definitely goes part way to explaining its somewhat incongruous place on this list, nestled in amongst more well known hits. It includes the aforementioned canines literally hounding Jackson, as he rides an amusement park amidst tabloid headlines with a chimpanzee (presumably Bubbles) slung around his shoulders.
Childhood memories aside though, this song musically pays its way into this top five. The bouncy, hard edged piano chords which underline this songs beat persuade repeated listening, but its Jackson harmonising with himself which is the jelly, as it were. There's also something about the visual of Michael Jackson busting a move with the Elephant man whilst wearing a ball and chain which is curiously arresting.
Even before the music begins, this production exudes cool. As the besuited and bespatted Jackson whirls in the door of a 1940's nightclub, the collection of shady personages which loiter its darkened halls fall silent. He reaches into his pocket, which they mistake for him accessing a gun, but instead he pulls out a quarter. With a deft flick of his wrist, he launches the coin into the air. It travels the full length of the cavernous room before falling neatly into the coin slot on the juke box. BOW! Still sends shivers down my spine.
Even without visual aids, this is my favourite Jackson song. Rhythmically, its impossible to best, and MJ perfectly alternates between his word blurring funk-vocal (I found out post adolescence that the lyric which I thought was “Agashindo” was actually “A crescendo”) and his later overused falsetto.
This video and song were included as the centrepiece of the movie Moonwalker, which I watched repeatedly as a child. My first memory of Smooth Criminal is watching and listening to it on a Saturday morning. Such was the strength of the audiovisual package that I felt I was doing it a disservice by observing in my pyjamas.
A personal favourite of this or any other dance routine involves Jackson and his posse performing a series of moves culminating in a 45 degree-plus lean. Well, I almost broke the family video recorder rewinding this, watching every conceivable detail in an attempt to find out the trick behind this defiance of gravity. As with most magic tricks, its better not to know. Years later I discovered, to my disillusionment, that Jackson had lodged a Patent for a set of shoes with a special attachment in the sole capable of joining a bolt in the floor. This system enabled the wearer to go beyond the bounds at which an ordinary man would topple.
What really makes this song special is that its the antithesis of Billie Jean. Its as overlooked as a Michael Jackson hit can be, receiving substantially less air play, and no mention by most cultural commentators. It feels like my music video, made for me to watch on a Saturday morning. And if I want to do so while wearing my communion suit, thats my choice.
Conclusion
No doubt efforts will be made to posthumously publish at least a portion of the 200-plus unreleased songs which Jackson allegedly had at his pre-death disposal, but I doubt it will change this list. It may however, complete a circle. Michael Jackson, like Tupac Shakur, could post mortem become an even bigger musical zombie than he was during his Thriller days.
[1]note: despite the videos setting, care should be taken to never perform these moves in a cemetery, especially when your grandfather is being laid to rest. For some reason the setting will detract from the audiences overall enjoyment of your performance
