The Iron Lady

A facile history lesson, plus mighty acting

Meryl Streep won her third Oscar and much else for the leading role, but The Iron Lady attracted mild controversy on its release. An old woman struggling with dementia, Margaret Thatcher talks to her dead husband Denis, and recalls her life and work. The depiction of mental ill health was criticized as disrespectful by a smattering of Tories, including some who had even seen the film. Streep points out that this says more about our discomfort with mental frailty, and wonders whether there would have been outcry if Thatcher had, say, a problem with her lungs.

Don't panic, her lungs are fine.

What of the film? Streep gives a remarkable performance, particularly as the elderly Thatcher (in a magical feat of make-up). Mannerisms and impersonation are contained within a wonderfully convincing portrayal of a mind and body gradually failing with age. And the controversy is ill-founded. These scenes, especially those earlier in the film, are the most interesting by far. From here, the acting, structure and mildly daring concept could combine to produce an absorbing, intimate biopic.

Sadly, the interest dissipates much too quickly as we are soon shunted around snapshots of Thatcher’s career. It starts with a perfunctory glimpse of her childhood, Oxford education and early romance with Denis. There is some strong writing from Abi Morgan, which foreshadows later moments in office and in old age. But Thatcher’s ambition and aspirations are presented cosily and nostalgically, so that there is no real impact, and any insight is facile. It also seems lightweight because it all flashes by so quickly, no scene lasting more than a few minutes.

More Heseltine needed. Ouch.

This is symptomatic of the film as a whole, and ultimately what damages it most. We rattle through a unique career at high speed, striving to cover every key event. Moments that should be revealing, such as the decision to sink the Belgrano, vanish before genuine intrigue can develop. We must move on to the 1983 election; we must jump to the present day once more (if only to be reminded that Mark Thatcher is a tosser – there really is no need). Director Phyllida Lloyd lacks patience and faith, even with good writing and acting at hand.

It means we get no grasp on Thatcher beyond a basic history lesson (the stock footage is the most enlightening), and often only the merest hints at her relationships with family, colleagues and adversaries. Anthony Head and Olivia Colman, as Geoffrey Howe and Carol Thatcher, have the best interaction with Streep, but Jim Broadbent’s hectoring ghost-Denis soon becomes annoying. Meanwhile, Richard E. Grant’s circling vulture by the name of Michael Heseltine is near-ridiculous and Michael Foot is not referred to by name once. Even the mighty Meryl suffers from the scattered structure, robbed of dramatic momentum; come the Poll Tax, power-mad Thatcher just seems daft. She even momentarily reminded me of Edina Monsoon.

Margaret Thatcher was certainly never daft. She had conviction and claws. Despite the best efforts of the actors and make-up department, these are attributes lacking in Lloyd’s film. Poor Tilda notwithstanding, the award season adulation for Streep was deserved. But her generous performance serves an unworthy whole – and that's not how the Thatcher story goes.

6

Minimal Extreme

Going through to Glasgow for Einstein and dazzling Flux

For the past couple of years, Glasgow's Concert Halls have been hosting weekend-long festivals celebrating Minimalism in music, from visionary 1960s beginnings to current manifestations. Among the attractive features of these weekends are the inexpensive hour-long concerts in the afternoon. These are imaginatively programmed and feature top performing artists, and I decided to make the trip across for two of the latest. This time the festival came with a qualifier: Minimal Extreme. I had a preparatory pint.

David Lang: genial

The first concert was devoted to an interesting composer with whom I was unfamiliar, David Lang (in attendance and providing a short and genial introduction). It began with two pieces in differing moods. Ark Luggage, for soprano and string quartet, received its premiere. It lists ninety-two things Noah may have brought on the Ark, as proposed by Peter Greenaway. The Smith Quartet and Else Torp were crystalline in the gently oscillating piece, which came across as a curious but pleasing vignette. Then came Pierced, a pounding concerto for piano, cello (amplified here) and percussion, with the tremulous Smith Quartet alongside. It is an ominous and thrilling piece.

The main course was The Little Match Girl Passion, Lang's Pulitzer Prize-winning choral work based on a mixture of Hans Christian Andersen's story and Bach's St Matthew Passion. Performed beautifully by four singers from Theatre of Voices, with sparse percussion, it is static and haunting. I only felt restless when the concert overran by nearly half an hour, after a late start and a fair amount of stagehand fuss throughout. I sadly forwent my inter-concert gin.

On to the second concert, another predominantly vocal offering but a rather different affair. Titled “Glass/Flux”, we reached back into Minimalism's earliest years. The five Kneeplays from Philip Glass' seminal opera Einstein on the Beach were interspersed with pieces by the composers from the Fluxus group. In the 1960s, this varied collective of artists and musicians developed forms of conceptual art and 'event' performance, extending the work of John Cage.

The rarely heard selections here were dazzling, masterfully performed by Ars Nova under the direction of Paul Hillier. The pieces favour simplicity and blur distinctions between art forms. La Monte Young's Composition 1960 #7 was in progress as we entered the hall, the singers quietly humming a perfect fifth, marked in the score “to be held for a long time”. This established a mood of hushed continuum; we moved from piece to piece largely without applause.

The Fluxus offerings were playful, Dadaistic and often fiendishly difficult. In Dick Higgins' Hank and Mary, four singers recited “Hank shot Mary dead”, each repeating every word a different number of times. It created a scattered and hilarious cascade, a kind of exploded cantus firmus. Meanwhile, Paul Hillier's solo performance of Genesis by Emmett Williams played a clever trick with broken word sounds, intoned whilst he extinguished a dozen candles in turn. Both pieces could not help but break the audience's stillness: there was spontaneous applause at their close.

The Kneeplays are choral tours de force. Glass involves the singers in complex counting patterns with added violin and fragments of poetry. Ars Nova, Hillier and violinist Jonathan Morton were again impressive and a joy to watch. How I wish I could see the revived Einstein on the Beach on its current world tour. The inspired presentation here, mingled with Fluxus, was exciting and something I would love to have shared – another success for the Glasgow's Minimal series. Philip Glass will be at the next instalment in person, and my ticket is already booked.

The Black Pirate

A silent film adventure in gala surroundings

The Hippodrome in Bo'ness is one of the most splendid venues for film in the land (let's say Empire). It is a pearl, its facade of elegant curves topped by a glowing red sign, and festooned today with a red carpet and bunting. I was also greeted by 'God Save the King' bunting, free rum and enthusiastic staff. The occasion was the closing night of the second annual Festival of Silent Cinema, capping an inspired programme shown over the weekend. The venue and the festival make such a heartening combination and I was won over instantly.

Douglas Fairbanks awaits within.

After many years of decay and dereliction following its closure in 1980, the Hippodrome has been fully restored, housing a smiling horseshoe auditorium complete with balcony and stage. It is also celebrating its centenary this year – Scotland's oldest cinema, built in the post-Edwardian, pre-Art Deco industry of 1912 Bo'ness. The brainchild of local man Louis Dickson, who produced 'topicals' and wanted to exhibit them, the building was designed by Matthew Steele.

Sadly, I missed the Festival of Silent Cinema apart from this final gala event. The evening was great fun, perfectly pitched between professional presentation and local spirit by festival director Alison Strauss and producer Shona Thomson. Speeches and presentations preceded a screening of beguiling hundred-year-old footage from the Scottish Screen Archive, depicting herring fishing at Yarmouth.

The main event was The Black Pirate, starring and produced by Douglas Fairbanks, Sr (with inventive live musical accompaniment from Jane Gardner and Hazel Morrison). This 1926 adventure was made at the height of Fairbanks' swashbuckling career, showing him off at his acrobatic and heroic best. Showing him off, in fact, in exciting two-strip Technicolor; The Black Pirate was one of the very first all-colour feature films. It was a treat to see Park Circus' restoration of this film, in its charming pinkish glow. Difficult to produce and project, Technicolor was an expensive process, and it is a measure of Fairbanks' status in 1920s Hollywood that he was able to invest so much in his film.

To swashbuckle.

He is undoubtedly the sole star of The Black Pirate. Although there is the requisite comic relief, docile romance and swarthy villainy, it all pales beside Fairbanks. He leaps fearlessly about the ship, displaying trademark athleticism which had already coursed through films such as The Mask of Zorro and The Thief of Bagdad. Cutting rigging to soar to the masthead, scaling down sails by means of his sword: these are clichés of the cinematic pirate, quoted and parodied so many times. It is refreshing to see the real deal, saving the day with grins and musculature (amusingly dressed in black shorts and little else).

Orson Welles saw in Fairbanks “a kind of charm, a kind of dash, a sort of innocent arrogance that has never been since on the screen”. I was fascinated to see this legend in action for the first time. To be able to do so in the setting of the Bo'ness Hippodrome was rather special, and an adventure.

Freedom of Speech – Speech Debelle

A successful return with a hidden edge

Following Speech Therapy was not going to be easy for Speech Debelle. That album won the Mercury Prize in 2009, but its disappointing sales led to a spat with her record label. They now seem to have made amends, and Speech's second album has arrived. She sounds confident and her music has moved forward, often offering a tougher response to the intimate jazz–hip hop of before.

Having so much fun, she's a new age thespian

The singles Studio Backpack Rap and I’m with It are marvellous; both are catchy and immediate dancing tunes. The cracking drums and synths of Studio Backpack Rap provide a driving background to Speech’s excited delivery (including a hilarious lesbian/thespian rhyme). It opens the album with a blast and is the highlight of the whole record. The four-on-the-floor beat which breaks out in the final minute is an irresistible invitation to dance, a genius coda to my new favourite song.

Meanwhile, I’m with It has an upbeat disco-soul vibe. It claps and sings, bringing a welcome breath of fresh air to an often downbeat album. But while nothing else can match it for exuberance, there is plenty to embrace among the more subdued songs. In particular, Blaze Up a Fire fascinates, with its relaxed groove and changes of gear.

It features Roots Manuva and Realism, and its call-to-arms lyrics turned out to be so prescient of the riots in England last August that Debelle released the song on the internet as the news broke. She had on her hands a perfect encapsulation of that specific time, noting in her explanation of the free release, “These young people are not aliens dropped down from outer space on Friday night.”

Following this, the sweeping strings and spacious production of Elephant in the Living Room lend a nocturnal trip hop feel to its break-up story, and X Marks the Spot is spiked with electric guitar fuzz and a dub-like beat. After the power of Studio Backpack Rap, this sound is what characterizes the first half of Freedom of Speech; the mood is low-key, but there is a hidden edge, in both music and words.

The edge is dulled by Angels Wings. Its acoustic sound is reminiscent of Debelle's debut, but lacks the skittering jazz tint which lifted that album. Here, the sound is soft but doesn't move with the emotional weight the personal words deserve. More than anything, at the climax we are admiring the drumming (which is great throughout the whole album). Coming as it does after a run of slow-burning tracks, the momentum is lost.

I'm with It notwithstanding, the second half of the album is then less engaging than the first. Despite Collapse's menacing, piano-heavy backing, Speech's rhymes come off as naive, as she takes on environmental catastrophe and the evils of oil. There are some amusing barbs (“You'd better call some Ray Mears quick, son”), but what prevails is anger without heft. The sound of Eagle Eye directly continues that of Collapse, this time sticking it to the Man. It's good, but by this time things are starting to get wearing.

But at the end, the blissed-out Sun Dog lets in a ray of light. It shuffles along, with Rhodes piano and cello rising from the mist. The quick-fire verses also give Speech a liberating chance to show off her vocal skill. The cathartic and crashing ending feels unnecessary, but it's one of the most beautiful tracks on the album, leaving us with a high.

Speech Debelle has made some great music here. Hers is a promising, maturing talent, and Freedom of Speech is an exciting album. I shall be listening closely to whatever comes next.

7.5

Carnage

Venomous jibes from Roman Polanski

By the time Kate Winslet is thrashing tulips against her hosts' coffee table, she has reached the drunken nadir of a middle class nightmare. Two couples have torn themselves and each other apart, sliding from clipped politeness to sniping to screaming. There has been bickering and insult, there has been projectile vomit. The horrifying descent is the basis of Roman Polanski's enjoyable and uproarious latest, Carnage, and is acted out with zest by Winslet, Christoph Waltz, John C. Reilly and Jodie Foster.

Before the vomit.

The film is based on Yasmina Reza's play, God of Carnage. Alan and Nancy Cowan (Waltz and Winslet) visit Michael and Penelope Longstreet (Reilly and Foster) after their sons have been involved in a playground fight. This apparently satisfies their immaculate, right-on parenting needs. But some ropey cobbler and a few unguarded exchanges are all that is needed to unravel the delicate veils of tolerance and decency. The inevitable decline unfolds entirely within the Longstreet apartment over the course of a brisk eighty minutes.

The film's origins on the stage are evident, and Carnage has received some critical stick as a result. The dialogue can be declamatory and the set-up is a little artificial. It is tempting to see Polanski's work as no more than a filmed play, adding little to a live theatre experience. But the film does work well on its own merits. It appeals visually and has a wonderful quartet of actors at its core. Foster and Reilly are amusing as a couple whose cultured, liberal facade is constructed by one and secretly resented by the other. Meanwhile, Winslet and Waltz are even better and even more miserable: she is uneasy and snappish, he is self-involved and wolfish.

With these four in control, deadly humour is the film's greatest strength. After some drily observed early dialogue, the best moments come in the second half, some of them very funny indeed. The actors relish the broader, wilder comedy here. As inebriation takes hold and accusations pile up (involving livelihoods, hamsters and so on), venomous jibes rip preciousness apart. Jodie Foster is hysterically laughing as she proclaims: “My husband has spent the entire afternoon drying things!”. I could not help but wish for things to take an even nastier turn, but the film refuses to become untethered from the real world and soar into total farce. On reflection (and as my co-filmgoer observed), that is a large part of its success.

"I don't have a sense of humour, and I don't want one."

The single-set device is clearly inherited from the stage play. The characters seem trapped, drawn back in whenever they try to leave. It lends a Buñuelian touch; or, as Winslet slurs, “Why are we still in this house?!”. Polanski is masterful enough not to be put off, creating an aesthetically interesting piece out of the static setting. The actors are positioned in various oppressive combinations around the screen. The camera angles are deliberately uncomfortable: a little too high or too low, in tight close-up and deep focus tableaux. Polanski is also not tempted to open up the script beyond the apartment. As Hitchcock saw it (discussing Dial M for Murder), why would you? Easy for him to say perhaps, but Polanski rises to the challenge just as keenly.

On a similar note in fact, according to ever-neckerchiefed director–cineaste Peter Bogdanovich, Hitchcock's view was simply: When the batteries are running dry, take a hit play and shoot it. Polanski is energized here, no doubt, along with his splendid and game cast. Together they have produced a cinematic scherzo, with claws. I think Hitch himself would have enjoyed it.

8

Shame

Fractured relationships and empty promiscuity

Within a few years, artist-turned-director Steve McQueen has made a strong impact. Following Hunger, Shame is his second film. It also stars Michael Fassbender, here playing Brandon, a man consumed by sexual addiction. He indulges this to an extreme degree, behind the protection of a highly controlled, successful daily existence. Things unravel following the intrusive entrance of his unstable, needy sister Sissy (Carey Mulligan) and a romantic liaison with a colleague. Shame is not a comfortable watch, and the explicit sexual material borders on the harrowing, but it is a brilliant, modern film.

Brandon is a mesmerizing character. His manner is appealing but distant, his surroundings modern and sparse. He is a lonely man, entombed by a routine of escorts and pornography. Steve McQueen captures this loneliness with carefully composed shots, Fassbender frequently alone on-screen, wandering the city streets or stalking his characterless apartment. Like Taxi Driver before it, Shame studies alienation in New York; Brandon disconnects himself, finding little solace in empty promiscuity.

The fractured relationship between Brandon and Sissy brings to the film a vibrant, sad centre. Initially, we wonder if it is, or has been, incestuous. We are even surprised to learn that they are siblings after their uncomfortably open first scene. There is a great deal of unspoken history and tension, deftly hinted at as the story progresses. Most haunting is one line spoken by Sissy on Brandon's answer machine: "We're not bad people – we just come from a bad place." It asks many questions about their past, the answers to which we can only fathom by grimly witnessing the brother and sister in the present. Does it refer to the shame of the title?

Both Michael Fassbender and Carey Mulligan give genuinely brave, nuanced performances. The result is not draining, but enthralling, notwithstanding the bleak material. Sissy is desperately vulnerable, but Mulligan does not portray a one-note victim. We sympathise with her, despite her wayward dependence. Meanwhile, Fassbender is magnetic as a man who keeps lust and rage barely contained behind an anonymous facade. As Brandon is increasingly provoked, theses urges become dangerously exposed. The effects build steadily, and Fassbender's control is captivating.

Brandon's affair with a colleague, Marianne, expands the character further. They go on a date, a beautifully acted scene which stands out as perhaps the best in the film. It is amusing and charming, but nervous; in a wry touch, the awkward atmosphere is punctured by a waiter's interjections. We feel Brandon is connecting with Marianne, the lust and the rage evaporating. Intimacy, however, is something he ultimately cannot handle. Nicole Beharie is wonderful as Marianne, and with only two key scenes, she is underused.

Shame is marvellously put together. The screenplay (by McQueen and Abi Morgan) is well paced, the photography gleams and Harry Escott's music chills, built on slowly climbing melodic lines. It is a meditative film, made entrancing by the work of the actors, and its strengths are never overwhelmed by the ugly human story it tells. It will stay with me.

8.5

We Were Here/A Useful Life

It was a week of intense cinema-going, including award season catch-ups and some hidden gems. Here are two of the gems, courtesy of the dizzyingly rich current Filmhouse programme.

We Were Here

This documentary by David Weissman chronicles the impact of HIV/Aids in San Francisco, following its outbreak in the early 1980s. The story of Aids at that time is familiar, but the scale and suddenness of the disaster still shocks; around 15,000 people had died of Aids in San Francisco by the mid-1990s. The phenomenal response of the gay community of the city is the central focus of We Were Here. As love and hedonism plummeted headlong into fear, the reaction was one of compassion and activism.

The film is a well constructed look at this “San Francisco model” throughout the worst years of the epidemic, placing the personal experiences of just five interviewees within a wider picture of political debate and changing attitudes. The speakers describe a painful, inspiring history of care, research, campaigning and loss. In general, they are engaging, able to lift the sober mood. The accounts are absorbingly honest; recollections of weariness, feeling overwhelmed and unable to continue to help, resonate just as much as those of community and pride.

Most eloquent and affecting of all is artist Daniel Goldstein. His story (among the thousands) is tragic – he is the sole survivor of his entire circle of friends and lovers from the start of the epidemic. Emotional but clear-eyed, Goldstein gives us the strongest feel for the time and place. His is a well-rounded insight, taking in his deep connections with the San Francisco gay scene and involvement in early clinical trials. And his personal grief is balanced by his human response and reflection, which he offers without ego or sentiment. I was pleased that he had the final word in this film; the rays of hope at the close are powerful, breaking through the darkest imaginable clouds.

8.5

A Useful Life

Jorge's independent cinema is in severe financial straits. Its projection systems are decrepit and support is dwindling. Jorge must fix things. He must also get Paola, the university lecturer, to join him for a coffee. It is a delicate problem for a quiet man, and makes for a rather fun little film. There is not much depth, but there are enough surprises and wry smiles to sustain the short running time. And it is the first Uruguayan film I have ever seen. Tick.

The look is pleasingly low-key. It is a grainy, off-the-cuff vignette, but it still has moments of elegance. Shots of Jorge ambling up and down in front of prints of Muybridge's galloping horse are beautifully lit, as are those of him strolling through the university quads. Meanwhile, the interiors of the cinema's projection rooms and offices are appealing in their run-down, sagging aspect. This black-and-white film is noticeably grey.

The key attraction is undoubtedly optimistic cineaste Jorge, a likeable schlump with a Hitchcockian jowl. Portly, shambling, and accompanied by rather eccentric music selections on the soundtrack, he sometimes wanders aimlessly and sometimes dances on staircases. He also gets an expensive haircut on a whim. Without actor Jorge Jellinek's splendid countenance and misshapen gait, there would be something sorely missing from the film. But instead we give a little cheer every time he heaves into the frame. Let's hope he gets the girl.

7