Cinema Catala Hollywood Movie Review

Posts Tagged ‘government’

Despite arriving on North American screens mid-way through the month of November with a cast that features three previous Academy Award nominees (Philip Seymour Hoffman, Kenneth Branagh, Emma Thompson) and a similarly honored writer/director (Richard Curtis), Pirate Radio is not being touted as Oscar bait. In fact, it comes to the U.S. with a less-than-stellar pedigree, having received lukewarm reviews during its U.K. theatrical run earlier this year and having subsequently been re-cut at Focus Features’ request. The result, although uneven, is generally enjoyable, especially for those who attend with the right mindset. Character and narrative are secondary concerns for a movie primarily driven to provide a Valentine to ’60s rock-and-roll.

It’s 1966 and the young people of Great Britain are less-than-happy with the domestic radio situation, which is almost all talk and news (with a little jazz thrown in for good measure). Into this breach come the offshore pirate radio stations, the most infamous of which is “Radio Rock,” a 24/7 rock-and-roll operation that saturates the airwaves from a ship anchored in international waters and boasts a listening audience north of 20 million. Radio Rock is the brainchild of Quentin (Bill Nighy) and features some of the best known disc jockeys, including an American known only as The Count (Philip Seymour Hoffman); the world-renowned Gavin (Rhys Ifans); Bob (Ralph Brown), the 3-6 a.m. guy whom almost no one has seen; and Simon (Chris O’Dowd), who’s convinced no one likes him. Into this setting comes Carl (Tom Sturridge). After being kicked out of school, Carl’s mom (Emma Thompson) sends him to spend some time on the Radio Rock ship under the watchful eye of his godfather, Quentin. Life aboard the ship is all sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll (although the sex only arrives once every two weeks when a boatload of women arrive for overnight stays). Carl, a virgin, is at something of a disadvantage when it comes to the opposite sex, but various members of the crew set out to help him remedy the situation. Meanwhile, on land, cabinet member Sir Alistair Dormandy (Kenneth Branagh), announces his determination to shut down Radio Rock. Since what they’re doing is breaking no current laws, he hires the unfortunately named Twatt (Jack Davenport) to find a loophole that he can turn into a noose.

For the most part, Pirate Radio, called The Boat that Rocked during its U.K. run, is a series of poorly connected vignettes about life aboard the ship during a time when the social views of the government were at odds with those of its younger citizens. As Dormandy and Twatt seek to stifle Radio Rock, we are shown a cross-section of British people enjoying the music in different settings. Some of the episodes work (such as the visit to the ship by Carl’s mother); others exhibit forced comedy that really isn’t funny (Carl’s attempts to lose his virginity, the “duel” between The Count and Gavin). The characters are mostly likable but none exhibits much depth. The best comedic elements derive from Kenneth Branagh’s satirization of ’60s stuffed shirt politicians. At times, it’s as if he’s channeling John Cleese in the way he sends them up. He also has some great lines about the role of government.

Ultimately, however, Pirate Radio is more about the music than it is about anything else. Hardly a scene goes by without at least one classic rock song being played. There are reportedly about 60 clips (ranging from a few bars to full singles) in the movie, which makes it a pretty comprehensive survey of the music of the era, with artists ranging as far and wide as Dusty Springfield, Herb Alpert, Cream, The Who, Cat Stevens, The Beach Boys, and The Moody Blues. Without such a rich and diverse soundtrack, there’s little doubt that Pirate Radio would have been considerably less endearing and enjoyable. Of the features on Richard Curtis’ resume (he wrote Four Weddings and a Funeral and Bridget Jones’ Diary and wrote and directed Love, Actually), this is arguably the least substantive.

Some of the marketing material is hyping the “based on a true story” aspect of the movie although, in fact, this was always intended to tell the tale of a fictional pirate radio boat. Some aspects are loosely based on historical events and some of the characters are composites of real people, but Pirate Radio should not be mistaken for anything other than a creation of a writer’s imagination. The distributors apparently would like us to believe these people actually existed and Radio Rock occupies an almost mythical position in recent British pop history.

Films with large ensemble casts rarely afford opportunities for individual standout performances, and this is no exception. Bill Nighy is amusing but hardly reaches the heights he scaled for his small role in Love, Actually. Philip Seymour Hoffman is very good in what may be his most limited non-cameo since Twister. Tom Sturridge, who is the closest Pirate Radio has to a lead, is a little on the limp side. Those who appreciate trivia will note that this is the first movie in which both Kenneth Branagh and Emma Thompson have both appeared since the dissolution of their marriage (although they do not share any scenes).

Two obvious cinematic references came to mind while I was watching Pirate Radio. The first, Pump up the Volume, also deals with issues of censorship and free speech over the public airwaves and, as is the case here, it sets up a radio pirate as the champion of a group of individuals whose voices and opinions are often ignored by those in power. The second and more unfortunate reference is Titanic. The scenes with a boat sinking in the North Sea are simply too familiar for the association not to be made.

One of the biggest complaints about the U.K. release of the film was that it’s too long and, even though the American version is shorter by 15 minutes, it still seems like there’s too little content for such a robust running time. Nevertheless, the music is great, the comedy provides occasional laughs, and there’s nothing fundamentally wrong with the movie. Distilled to its essence, it represents a respectable diversion.

Feelings of déjà vu while watching The Box are understandable (perhaps inevitable), with the movie evoking memories of a Twilight Zone or Outer Limits TV episode. Such similarities are not coincidental; the author of the source material, Richard Matheson, a prolific horror/science fiction scribe during the ’50s, ’60s, and ’70s, wrote for both series. (In fact, “Button, Button” – the inspiration for The Box – was adapted for the 1986 version of The Twilight Zone.) The problem is that, in order to extend the movie to an acceptable length, writer/director Richard Kelly was forced to append unnecessary, contradictory, and confusing material onto Matheson’s simple, elegant short story. Although the central parable remains intriguing, there’s so much other stuff going on that it threatens to become lost in the noise.

Consider this dilemma: What if you could gain $1 million in cold cash by pushing a button. The only drawback is that someone you don’t know will die as a result of your action. Do you do it? And, if you do it, is it because you want the money, don’t care about the mysterious victim, or simply don’t believe that the button has the ability to kill anyone or provide the promised riches? It’s a fascinating idea – something to be mulled over in quiet moments of contemplation or talked about in philosophy classes. Whether it makes for effective drama is another matter. Kelly gets some mileage out of it, but not enough to propel The Box through its entire 116 minute course.

Norma and Arthur Lewis (Cameron Diaz and James Marsden) are faced with a decision when the ghoulish Arlington Steward (Frank Langella) arrives at their suburban Virginia home early one morning in December 1976. Steward leaves a mysterious box in their custody. It is topped with a button protected by a glass dome. He gives them 24 hours to choose between taking the moral high ground by keeping the dome closed or embracing a financial windfall by pressing the button (and damning the consequences). After a short period of deliberation, a path is selected, but that’s where the story begins, not ends. When Steward arrives to begin the next phase of his relationship with the couple, things get ugly. Arthur plays detective and learns that Steward’s horrifying facial deformity comes from his having been struck by lightning and that he is working in concert with the CIA. And a surprising number of people in Norma and Arthur’s circle of friends and acquaintances are experiencing nosebleeds…

Paradoxically, the more The Box tries to explain, the less credible it becomes. The exposition builds at a dizzying rate, incorporating government conspiracy and alien invasion subplots into the overall structure. The simple moral conundrum remains at the center, but it is surrounded by so much narrative debris that it’s easy to lose track of what’s really important. Kelly seems desperate to rationalize everything that’s going on, and that’s a mistake. Acts of God or the Devil are better left as such. The more one tries to explain the Monkey’s Paw, the more preposterous it sounds. Kelly isn’t content simply to have Steward represent a supernatural power; he wants to posit a plausible explanation, and it doesn’t work.

The Box is set in 1976 (close to the date when the original 1970 short story was written), a fact that Kelly emphasizes by having the Lewis’ dream house wallpapered with the garish colors and patterns. Attitudes occasionally seem anachronistic- it’s hard to believe a high school boy could get away with the rudeness he exhibits in the class taught by Norma. There’s a practical reason why Kelly chooses to anchor his movie in this time period – many of the elements wouldn’t work in a computer/Internet/cell phone era. The Box demands a “simpler” time but one that is still recognizably modern, and the ’70s qualify.

The leads, Cameron Diaz and James Marsden, are effective choices from a likeability standpoint. Both are attractive and earnest and it’s hard not to be sympathetic with their characters’ financial struggles, especially in light of the current economic climate. Their son, played by a bland Sam Oz Stone, is something of a nonentity. Frank Langella brings a dose of Nixonian seriousness to a role that, as written, could easily be laughable. The actor’s gravitas may be The Box’s single most important asset. A campy Steward would have doomed the production to the purgatory of self-parody.

Kelly is known for favoring obtuse material. His Donnie Darko was a cult hit, but the follow-up, Southland Tales, was an overambitious disaster. The Box, although arguably more accessible than either of those titles, remains enough off the beaten path that it will alienate those portions of the audience expecting something more straightforward or less narratively dense. Despite its flaws, The Box remains intriguing; however, as its mysteries are solved, the prevailing sense is one of frustration rather than satisfaction. That makes The Box worthy of the dubious label of “an interesting failure.”