In Our Name

Brian Welsh’s second feature, starring those recognisable but unnamable faces from a spectrum of Britain’s most loved/hated evening programmes, even manages all the feel and finish of some of those primetime weekday dramas, though it’s a trait that both works for and diminishes this particular low-budget production.

On the one side it works to make its subject matter all the more disturbing in its seeming familiarity of appearance, as the themes that make up this film are the opposite of what you’d usually find on a midweek 9 o’ clock slot (with the rare exception of John Pilger’s documentary The War You Don’t See last Tuesday).

Scripted as well as directed by Welsh, In Our Name tells the story of young mother of one, Suzy (Joanne Froggatt, Downton Abbey, Life on Mars), at the tail end of a long line of family servicemen and women. Even her domineering husband, Mark (Mel Raido, Red Cap), the Joe Calzaghe look-and-sound-alike, is a recent returnee from Iraq with suppressed memories. Now they and their friends are readjusting, some coping better than others, but none so cripplingly as Suzy herself, a drowning victim of post-traumatic stress and the occasional blurrily overexposed flashback.

Her struggle quickly becomes a public one as her paranoia overflows from her stressful work life in the barracks and into her cul-de-sac home life. As well as this, the already-strained relationship with her fragile daughter suffers further and Suzy’s frequent meetings with fellow soldier Paul (Andrew Knott, The History Boys, Spooks) begin to threaten the already-disintegrated sanity of her unmuzzled psychopath of a husband.

Sounds promising. Maybe. But despite the mostly decent performances, unfortunately, like those aforementioned soap operas, the dialogue is predictable, platitudinous and ungainly. The script is obvious and clichéd throughout, so much so that it jerks you out of any mode of intrigue that Welsh’s competent camera work has established. For this reason it’s uncomfortable viewing at times, but at other points the film does strike an intentionally executed chord; its portrayal of Newcastle suburbs; the paranoiac existence of the dehumanised mechanisms known as soldiers; the despair in every day before, after and during a tour of duty; and most saliently, the long-lasting effects of war on all involved.

Through the story and its telling, we begin to truly understand the impossibly difficult position soldiers (and their leaders) have put themselves into. In Our Name begins to touch on the point that servicemen are programmed into an inhuman form of existence, an ultimately unsustainable reality. But it doesn’t follow through.

Once again, the actual effect of the occupation in Iraq is seen only through the eyes of the invader. For example, the main reason for Suzy’s flashbacks is the murder of a young girl, which she feels is her fault, as the girl was forced to take supplies from Suzy personally. The local insurgents found out and murdered her, leaving her body in the street. In this, seemingly, the British are there coincidentally, and only to help.

In contrast, we have the archetypically savage Mark, who takes photographs posing with dead Iraqis, then claiming their uniform as trophy. But perhaps this is a disingenuous approach. In Our Name makes out that only psychopaths are capable of this behaviour, and only they take part, not your average soldier, therefore failing to deal with some of the more ambiguous questions raised. Welsh divides the army neatly into those that are the nutters, the hopeless lunatics like Mark and his mates, alongside the victims, like Suzy and Paul. For obvious reasons, this approach has proved a popular one in the past, not only in this country, in regards to making movies about recent invasions.

This is what makes Welsh’s latest feature a weak and dubious antidote to the pro-forces detritus that is usually found on screens. It is a passable but flawed attempt, that leaves you even more desperate for the devastatingly effective ‘Britons in Afghanistan’ tale Route Irish by Ken Loach, to be released in March 2011.

London agenda for Friday 17 December

1. See a play at the Union Theatre and Cafe [Tired of London]
2. Be hush hush at Scandalism [Le Cool]
3. Have an alternative Christmas extravaganza with Lates at the Barbican [Run Riot]
4. Go bowling with Hula-Hoop-fuelled rockabilly-beach party crew Rock A Hula team and vintage night Hellzapoppin [Run Riot]
5. Whatever with Municipal Waste [Spoonfed]

London agenda for Thursday 16 December

1. Save Zuzu’s petals from that scurvy little spider at It’s a Wonderful Life [Le Cool]
2. What’s the frequency, Wilkes & Pester & Silva? [Run Riot]
3. Have a drink at the Lord Clyde [Tired of London]

Remember those London Weekly guys? They're having a party. Maybe.

Last spring, a new publication was launched to entertain and enlighten Londoners. Eager to abandon conventional newspaper styles, they launched as a freesheet with a companion website and concentrated on the lives of urban young Londoners, rather than Colonel Blimp in Little England.

That new publication was, of course, The London Weekly. During its five-week life,* there was huge interest in the paper: who is behind it? How is it funded? And, of course, why can’t I find one anywhere at all?

So, imagine our delight to be invited to the London Weekly Awards, to be held this Saturday at the Park Inn Hotel, Russell Square. Crackers.

What will happen at the LWAs? We have no clue. Their blurb says The London Weekly Awards, is London’s first ever consumer choice awards ceremony giving customers a choice to nominate for the best in products and services on offer in London. Categories span from Mobile Network, business leaders to Restaurants giving Londoners a real opportunity to nominate and vote for the organisations and individuals who make a great difference to their everyday life. A special exclusive issue of our sister publication the London Weekly Newspaper and the London Weekender was released last week featuring all nominees in all 25 categories

Typically, as with past experience of the London Weekly, the website www.londonweeklyawards.com merely resolves to the London Weekly website.

And congratulations to the winners. Or the nominators. Or whatever it is that everyone is doing.

• The London Weekly never actually announced that they stopped publishing, but the last mention of any sort of print publication on their website mentions an issue #5. Never seen it.

London agenda for Wednesday 15 December

1. Do the Lindy Hop at Dancing the Decade [Le Cool]
2. Sing carols around the Trafalgar Square Christmas Tree [Tired of London]
3. Be a modern-day suffragette at Climate Rush [Run Riot]
4. Lampoon totalitarianism with Laibach [London Gigs]

Cage Against the Machine Music Video with London's finest musicians

Indie London came out to Soho 6 Dec to record a charity single that organisers hope will top the charts for Christmas Day. The song: John Cage’s 4’33’‘.

The piece, which features four minutes and 33 seconds of silence, is presented as the antidote to the manufactured and manipulated product gets promoted as music.

Taking part in the recording was Adam F, Aeroplane, Alexander Wolfe, Alice Russell, Anne Pigalle, Barry Ashworth, Billy Bragg, Bishi, Bo Ningen, Chas Smash, Crystal Fighters, Dane Le Sac, Does It Offend You Yeah?, Dub Pistols, Enter Shikari, Fenech Soler, Fyfe Dangerfield, Gallows, Guillemots, Heaven 17, Imogen Heap, Infadels, Japanese Popstars, Jarra York, John Foxx, John McLure, Kilford the Music Painter, Kooks, Loose Cannons, Man Like Me, Riz MC, Monarchy, Mr Hudson, Napolean IIIrd, Olly Wride, Oribital, Ou Est Le Swimming Pool, Penguin Prison, Scroobius Pip, South Central, Suggs, Teeth!!!, Tom Alison, Tom Milsom, Unkle, Venus In Furs, and Whitey. (Hat tip to Skiddle for the full list)

Visit Cage Against the Machine here. and purchase your song from Fair Share Music or, if you must, iTunes

Somewhere

“Let’s open with one of those long, audience-testing shots, yeah, yeah, keep him driving around. Make about ten laps then we’ll cut.”

I imagine this is how Sofia Coppola speaks and I imagine this is how she sets up her anchored camera, after watching some 70s European arthouse cinema and listening to some French indie pop, before mumbling instructions to her Ray-Ban-wearing crew. She silently pats herself on the back with a studied expression of seriousness.

Wait. That’s a bit harsh. To be fair she has done some worthwhile work (Lost in Translation) then again, some bordering on disgraceful (Marie Antoinette), with the rest in between (The Virgin Suicides). But it’s this next one, starring Stephen Dorff and Elle (sister-of-Dakota) Fanning, that turns out to be simultaneously intriguing and self-satisfied, dropping in somewhere around the middle of Coppola’s so-far tolerable filmography.

Dorff plays Johnny Marco, an actor whose very name even sounds like a cliché. He has lived in the well-worn fast lane like many of his kind before, blitzing circuits in his Ferrari, habitually bed hopping in the Chateau Marmont, probably chunking his nose but certainly draining exorbitantly priced bottles. But (you guessed it) there is something desperate nagging at him. Do you see now? Miss Coppola wants to poke her golden stick at despair and existential angst again. Joyous day.

Plot? Easy. We have Johnny going from place to place, day to day, not knowing when or what, regularly booking the same blonde twin pole-dancers to perform for his amusement. He parties now and then, breaks an arm, cracks a smile occasionally (but only for the twins), not finding what he’s looking for anywhere, oh but his daughter, Cleo (Fanning), she appears and isn’t she so down-to-earth? Surely, their love for each other can help him find that somewhere. Right, right.

So, familiar territory and safe ground for Coppola, picking apart that theme again, allowing a repeat of those possible interpretations (from her own experience growing up in a similar position to Cleo, or from the perspective of Johnny, a reflection of Coppola in her own career), a subject that allows her to sharpen her already-cut teeth on the fluffily fake glamour of the movie business.

Being a bit too repetitive for anyone that saw Lost in Translation, there is nothing said here that wasn’t said last time round. Perhaps this is the only life that Coppola has ever known, or can ever depict. So just as in her Tokyo story, the press and PR incompetents again receive the same treatment as before; they are evermore insincere, moronic and ridiculous. Sometimes laughably so, yet mostly it’s single-chuckle material at best.

Nevertheless, it’s subject matter with plenty of meat for the audience to chew over. We’re presented with the hollow man, a mould (literally, in one scene), who is neatly given purpose and meaning in his on-camera moments, by a script or a director. Outside of that, Johnny is the empty vessel that is filled only during the hours when he embodies someone else. When he is off-set, there is no dictated purpose or meaning or lines to deliver; he is vacated. He realises this, saying: “I’m nothing. I’m not even a real person”. This is where Coppola strikes the right notes. Even a character that has everything is still reduced to nothing, evoking the sympathy of the audience. There are moments when we can ourselves taste the bitter nothing, subdued performances allow these moments to poke through, but often the camera technique is what gets in its way, becoming a film never allowed to realise its considerable potential.

All of this works as a distraction to what could be something real, a message though heard before, still worth listening to. But instead we’re faced with the smugness that seems to underline it all. It’s hard to ignore the self-aware camera work that draws attention to itself with every static shot, every long take, topped with the conspicuously drawn symbolism. It also doesn’t help that the ending is a lazy one.

London agenda for Tuesday 14 December

1. Jasper and Harry’s Tate Modern located in a dry cleaners [Le Cool]
2. Dance at the The Dalston Darlings Women’s Institute not quite Christmas [Run Riot]
3. Investigate the Malt Whisky Room at the Vintage House [Tired of London]
4. Asia! Really. At the Forum. [London Gigs]

London agenda for Monday 13 December

1. Sell a kidney to see The Drums [Le Cool]
2. Be inspired by Sara Shamsavari’s Britain – Retold, at City Hall [Run Riot]
3. Laugh at a Georgie [Spoonfed]

The Epstein

A nice bit of impassioned indie here in the mould of Meursault or Frightened Rabbit. A bit more folksy than either of those, mind.

The Epstein – I Held You Once by Sainted PR