26/10/2011

Another Bloody LFF Round-Up: The Descendants & The Art Of Love


The Descendants

Since the likes Michael Fassbender, John C. Reilly and Rachel Weisz decided to try and take over The London Clooney Carnival and have several films at the festival, the pressure was on Rosemary's nephew to make sure both his films were worthy of all the sexual favours paid to Sandra Hebron over the years and luckily for him, both The Ides Of March and The Descendants are good'uns.

Clooney gives lazy journalists ammunition to ask about his choice to not get married and have children by playing a married man with children in Alexander Payne's adaptation of Kaui Hart Hemmings' novel. He's a middle-aged loser in control of a profitable bit of land in Hawaii with a knack for dodgy shirts, limited knowledge about his own kids and the worst on-screen run I've ever seen. Tom Cruise he is not. After his wife's boating accident lands her in a coma, he's forced to re-connect with his kids while learning about himself and his wife. Sounds awful, right? It probably would be if it weren't Payne's film but since he's so good at dark humour, even the hugging and learning portions of the film include unexpected humour and moments of real joy. It also co-stars that guy from Scream. Y'know, this guy:


There's no greater reminder that we're all older then we were in 1996 then looking at the middle-aged faces of one of the stars. :( So yeah, it's good.

The Art Of Love



Since the French talking about love and sex for 90 minutes was a more exciting prospect then Roland Emmerich's new film which does not feature the end of the world, I attempted to look cultured by watching writer/director/actor Emmanuel Mouret's series of vignettes about love and all the little complications that arise from entertaining the emotion. Like a French version of Love, Actually or Valentine's Day that doesn't make you want to hang yourself with your own intestines, it tells the story of several couples (lovers, friends, partners, neighbours) and their various twisted tales and instead of forcing them all the interact, Mouret only links characters who'd plausibly be connected and leaves the stand alone characters in their own world. Similarly, no message about love conquering all is rammed down our throats and when the stories are told, they end. No hoopla, no big song and dance and no fucking montage. It also stars that hot guy from the Martin Scorsese Chanel ad. Y'know, this guy:



Phwoar, *wolf whistles*, etc.