zogz54

Christ, oh Christ... One watches stunned, incredulous, and possibly deranged, as this tawdry exercise in mirthless smut unfolds with all the wit and dexterity of a palsied Galapagos tortoise. Can such things be? Does this movie actually exist, or was I the unwitting guinea pig of some shadowy international drugs company, sipping my coffee unaware that it had been spiked with a dangerous hallucinogen? I've seen a lot of films, and a lot of bad films, but nothing prepared me for this; by the end of it I was a gibbering, snivelling wreck, tearing at the carpet with my teeth like a dog, clawing at the walls, howling till my lungs were sore. I pleaded desperately, frenziedly for mercy (to whom this appeal was made, I don't know), and longed with burning desire for the soothing balm of Ozu Yasujiro. Sweet Weeping Jesus, the memories... sometimes they come back to me. When I'm at my most vulnerable, when I'm least able to handle them. I shudder, I break down in tears, I bite my fingernails till my hands are slathered with blood, but I can't quite banish the awful flashbacks from my mind. I'm haunted. I'm damaged. I'm a shell of a man.

The other user comments here suggest that I am not alone in having undergone this terrifying experience, which can only mean one of two things: a) the film does, in fact, exist, or b) I am but one victim among legions of an international conspiracy of truly sinister proportions. What is quite mind-boggling is that some people seem to have enjoyed their ordeal, or at least have not been left traumatised by it. Perhaps they're part of the operation. God damn them, the maniacs! God damn them all to Hell!!!!!!

It must first be stated that if Ettore Scola were to remake this movie today, it would probably be very different in one regard: it would be careful to feature more fully developed African characters. As it is, the film is only really interested in its (pre-dominantly male) European characters, and can be accused of the same fault that Chinua Achebe laid at the door of Conrad's 'Heart of Darkness' (of which this film is a kind of comic variation), that of using Africa as a mere backdrop to an investigation of European problems. Nevertheless, though the film is undeniably Eurocentric in its outlook, it neither demeans nor patronises Africans; there are no bloodthirsty cannibals, noble savages or grinning simpletons here. Alberto Sordi's protagonist has his preconceptions about the continent undercut in several amusing scenes, most neatly when he first arrives, and proceeds to film the 'exotic' locals, only to be disconcerted when he realises that he himself is being filmed by an African armed with a bigger, more expensive camera; Sordi's outlandish safari gear renders him as much of an object of amazed curiosity to members of the indigenous population as they are to him.

The action takes a while to get going, with some over-extended wildlife sequences taxing one's patience a little, but once things are truly underway, a gently humorous odyssey unfolds, with false starts, mishaps, and odd little diversions impeding our two heroes' search for the enigmatic Titino. The contrast in the acting styles of Sordi and Blier is highly effective: the former is appropriately blustery and pompous, teetering at times on the edge of self-parody, whilst Blier underplays for all he's worth, and all but steals the show. They make for a genuinely engaging duo, and Manuel Zarzo and Nino Manfredi are memorable in supporting roles. The excellence of the actors is matched by that of the script, which is admirably relaxed and expansive, never overdoing its comic set-pieces (a stand-out example is some very funny business involving a confusion over cigarettes and a tape-recorder).

The accusations of escapism that were levelled at the film when it first appeared (1968, after all) seem misplaced today: what Scola presents is not an indulgent, soft-headed retreat from the maladies of European capitalism, but a final image of uncertainty, circularity and psychological conflict. The film seems more relevant today than many of the more dated simplifications, pipe dreams and inanities that abounded in its year of release, and surely deserves a DVD run here in Britain. With its faults, thoroughly recommended.

Much of the flak that this film has received has been directed at its alleged paedophilic inclinations; I think this criticism has some truth to it, but is often overplayed. What really bothers me about 'Leon' is another form of child abuse: the 'grooming' of a minor as a would-be professional assassin. Hollywood revenge flicks are a dime-a-dozen of course, and they usually end up endorsing vigilante violence in one way or another. But what makes this film so awful is the application of this trope to the realm of childhood, and, further, its blank refusal to consider the moral implications of this stance. Sure, the little girl's family has been wiped out, and she wants payback, but is the most humane response to the situation really to help satisfy her desires, and get her even more entangled in the world of brutal criminality? The criminals are simply regulation scum who deserve what they get, and a little girl is deemed as suitable an agent of vengeance as an experienced hit-man. Leon is just as much a criminal and a murderer as the bad guys, but he is strong, taciturn and endowed with a sentimental streak, so he's 'noble'. No deeper reflection is required. Dress it all up in the odious trappings of fey Gallic whimsy (ye Gods, it's worse than 'Amelie'!), and the movie's nasty little heart beats on unnoticed. Seldom has a soundtrack got on my nerves quite as much as this one did. Yuck, yuck, yuck.

'The Shadow Line' is about an able, intelligent young seaman who resigns his position, only to receive unexpectedly the command of another ship after the death of its captain. This early, land-set section is perhaps a little plodding. The interaction of the narrator with various other characters, and the details of how he comes to assume his captaincy, serve in Conrad's novel to deepen our understanding of him, to see both his strengths and weaknesses, and observe how he was both ill- and well-prepared for leadership. Wajda tends to err on the side of mere scene-setting, failing to invest scenes that could easily have been reduced without affecting the essential narrative with the thematic and psychological significance achieved by Conrad. An additional, mild annoyance is the over-the-top mugging by John Bennett as the supine keeper of a boarding-house; fortunately, it's a small part, and compensation is provided by Martin Wyldeck (an actor quite unknown to me), who is very enjoyable as a wily old mariner with a rather donnish demeanour.

Once the story takes to the seas, all reservations fade, for what follows is superb cinema. It manages to capture the sense of being at sea as well as any movie I know, including the excellent 'Master and Commander'. What makes the difference here, however, is that whereas most ocean-set films either depict the ship's struggle against the awesome, hostile elements of storms and towering waves, or delight in the bracing freshness and freedom of having a fair wind at the sails, 'The Shadow Line' tells the story of a becalmed ship, barely drifting through the water, its crew sweltering in the oppressive heat and laid low by illness, their fate possibly in the hands of the malevolent spirit of their late captain. It's an unusual proposition for a cinematic entertainment: stillness, silence and accumulating claustrophobia. In lesser hands, the result could easily have been dull. But the fine performances (including that of a young Tom Wilkinson - although he looks middle-aged even here) and the sharp cinematography (sometimes vivid to the point of unreality) enable the power of Conrad's tale to be conveyed surprisingly successfully.

The performance of Marek Kondrat in the main role is extremely impressive: authoritative, yet retaining the sense of doubt and inexperience so crucial to Conrad's (self-)portrayal. Taking the form of a retrospective 'confession' the book deals with the emotional development of the protagonist, his traversing of the 'shadow line' between youth and maturity – a change that entails both loss and gain. Conrad's narrator is significantly anonymous; this gesture towards universality is strengthened by the frequent use of impersonal 'one', as in 'one thinks', 'one does', etc. At the same time, the author allows us to the read the tale as a coded autobiography, with the figure of the young, sea-struck Pole a version of his own younger self – and the older, wiser narrator looking back on his rite of passage as a version of the 60-year-old novelist. The story's significance is thus simultaneously general and particular, both universal and individual. The film adaptation pushes the autobiographical element further by naming the hero 'Joseph Conrad' (and I wonder if the lead actor's name is entirely coincidental); the youthful captain's conduct in command is a presage of the literary genius to come. Conrad's entire oeuvre (including the other books, such as 'Heart of Darkness', that Wajda considered filming) is thus in part a product of these early experiences; the passage into leadership and maturity (though not necessarily wisdom), the passing of the shadow line, is the crucial development that enables great literature - and great cinema - to be created. If only more literary adaptations displayed such intelligent engagement with their source texts instead of being content merely to illustrate them according to the genteel standards of decorum and respectability.

This is a truly repellent film, and one that is all too representative of the deeply pernicious influence that John Grisham has wielded over cultural life in America. It attempts to paper over its rabidly right-wing approach to justice with the usual flabby soft-liberal posturings over race. Ironically, however, its racial attitudes are almost as objectionable as its unabashed endorsement of vigilante violence; here, patronising smugness is taken to new lows. This film is in the not-so-proud Hollywood tradition of stories about heroic white men riding to the rescue of noble but ineffectual black men, and seldom has this tradition been affirmed as explicitly as it is here. In the form of representatives of the N.A.A.C.P., black people do indeed offer their support to Jackson's character, but this is rejected in favour of Matthew McConaughey's bland young lawyer. In place of the political clout and legal expertise the N.A.A.C.P. are able to supply, Carl Lee Hailey (Jackson) instead sticks to the inexperienced idealism of the crusading Caucasian protagonist. Know your place, black folks! Don't you know there's a dashing, photogenic white hero in the building? Move along now, and leave the rescuing to this poor man's Atticus Finch. Good white people do battle with bad white people, and the only appropriate place for black people in all of this is at the sidelines, looking stoical and dignified.

Another point to make against this odious trash is that the assertion of the individual's right to seek violent retribution is not so different from the basic assumptions of the Ku Klux Klan, the villains of the piece. But such subtleties are hardly the type of stuff that the likes of Grisham and Schumacher can be expected to trifle with. It beggars belief how the former can have had the audacity to accuse Oliver Stone of encouraging violence when that is precisely what this dangerous rubbish does. Films like 'A Time to Kill', which champion personal vengeance, no matter how bloody, contribute to the kind of political climate in which leading politicians can express sympathy with crazed loons who murder judges. Apart from its warped values, the film is shoddily written, lamely paced and atrociously acted, with one of the worst collections of hammy 'Southern' accents ever assembled. The cinematography is nice.

The remarkably low rating that this film has so far received (4.1 as of Thursday 8th of June) is indicative of its ability to raise the hackles of people who haven't even seen it. How can it be otherwise when the film has not yet been released? 135 people have voted; have all of these 135 people actually watched the film? Of course not. They're just voting on the basis of their perceptions or assumptions concerning its political agenda. IMDb voters are not alone in this; already Simon Heffer in The Daily Telegraph, Dominic Lawson in The Independent, Ruth Dudley-Edwards in The Daily Mail and Michael Gove in The Times are attacking a film they haven't seen (by their own admission). These attacks are the predictable reaction of empire apologists unable to abide the depiction of the dark and brutal underside of that imperial machine, or the suggestion that anyone on the receiving end of that brutality might be justified in rebelling against it. The title of Dudley-Edward's lazy hack-job says it all, really: 'Why does Ken Loach loathe his country?' Loach is a traitor, and must be punished, the rotter.

It's a pity that this political controversy seems poised to overwhelm discussion of the film, because it's an extremely able piece of cinema and deserves to be seen as such. Barry Ackroyd's cinematography is superb, ably capturing the beauty of the Irish countryside without indulging in it. We are rooted in a locale without being lavished with pretty pictures. The acting is also excellent. The charismatic Cillian Murphy carries the movie, but the support from Liam Cunningham, Orla Fitzgerald, Aidan O'Hare and Padraic Delaney is also commendable.

But it's the collaboration between Loach and his scriptwriter Paul Laverty that makes the film something like a masterpiece. The grim progress from the murder of an Irish youth to the growth of an armed I.R.A. campaign, with its attendant violence (shown in stark and horrifying detail) is expertly managed; the only let-up comes not far from the end, after the signing of the 1921 peace treaty. Loach tries to show the brief jubilation and relief that ensues, but in terms of momentum almost drops the ball. The pace is re-established in time for the inexorable tragic denouement, and the film's final emotional impact is considerable. The load is occasionally lightened by the odd touch of Loach's characteristic wry comedy, such as the belligerence of the opening hurling game, the teenage message-boy who loses his message, the melodramatic pianist accompanying the newsreel announcing the momentous news of the creation of the Free State.

One of the most disturbing scenes occurs when a group of I.R.A. men return from a successful battle and discover a farmhouse being attacked and destroyed by a group of British soldiers. The rebels, who have no ammunition left, are forced to look on, concealed in the bushes; they watch powerless as the farmhouse's inhabitants are abused. We watch along with the characters, just as helpless as they are. Why do we watch? Do we want to intervene, to play the hero and save the day? Do we perhaps enjoy it? The trouble with many so-called anti-war films, as Loach has said, is that they outwardly condemn the violence while at the same time encouraging (intentionally or not) a vicarious pleasure in the thrill of it all. We want to take part, we imagine how we would behave in such circumstances (of course, we usually imagine ourselves behaving with impeccable bravery and surviving to fight another day). This scene, rather than placing us in the thick of the action, forces us to occupy the position of impotent bystander. Perhaps this is what being a film-goer is all about: powerless voyeurism. As we watch the country tear itself apart in civil war, manipulated by a devious and callous colonial master, this point becomes all the more pertinent. A quietly devastating film.