Sad With What I Have

Some people shoot out the womb to a fanfare of YMCA, played by pink thonged muscle men. Rufus Wainwright is one of these lucky souls. He used to express this intrinsic camp with highly orchestral, over-produced classical pop. But now he's getting the orchestra to talk to the hand with Songs for Lulu. It's a naked record. It comprises of songs performed on a single piano and voice. And it's not just musically stark.

The record is being released in the wake of his mother's death. She had been ill for a while, and Rufus clearly believes in working his way through grief through music. It's most explicit, and devastating, in 'Martha', when Rufus sings 'Martha, it's your brother calling, it's time to go up north to see mother, things are harder for her now' and Zebulon ('My mother's in the hospital... there's so much to tell you').

But, being Rufus, things are more complex than the surface may betray. Martha is also about sibling solidarity in the times of troubles. Zebulon is about putting aside your own issues and reaching out to others. Both are a million miles away from 'Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk'; a song recorded less than ten years ago where he sings about his legal - and illegal - cravings. This new Rufus is more complicated, mature and, in these moments, world class in his songwriting.

Elsewhere success is more mixed. His trio of Shakesperian sonnets set to music are a little hard going, if admirable. 'Give Me What I Want...' is ambitious in its attempt to capture a stress-induced tantrum in two minutes, but ultimately as trying as the thing it portrays. Thankfully for every one of these there are two more tracks like 'The Dream', which come to the rescue by injecting some heart.

So while not as complete or as consistent as other albums such as the glorious 'Want One', 'Songs for Lulu' is an important album for Rufus. It shows the maturing of an artist whose glory days are clearly still to come. And I can't wait to see him perform it live.

Fatal Attraction: The Magnetic Fields live at the Barbican, 22nd March 2010

If The Magnetic Fields released a ‘Best of’ album, it would almost certainly be called ‘Fatal Attraction’. For in the songs of their main creative force Stephen Merritt, love is never easy. After all, at their Barbican show on Monday night, he introduces the head-swimmingly romantic ‘I Don’t Want to Get Over You’ with a short epithet. ‘It’s a total lie’, he deadpans.

And so it goes. The band’s new album Realism is the final instalment of their ‘no synths trilogy’, a response to the band previously being known for their knob-twiddling, and the Barbican is an ideal venue for the record’s mostly acoustic songs. Sonically, every one of their five pieces (authoharp, an acoustic guitar, a cello and a ukulele and keyboard), are pin sharp. But, together, an overriding impression is harder to pin down; the sound devastates and uplifts in equal measure. It’s beautiful, though.

And, according to the audience’s reaction, the album has already spawned its first classics. ‘Always Already Gone’ is one, leaking melancholy until its punch of an ending. ‘You Must Be Out of Your Mind’, is filled with the withering put-downs of a scorned lover, proclaiming –savagely- ‘I no longer drink enough, to think you’re witty’.

The set covers substantial distance and length. Material by other Merritt projects (The 6ths and The Archies) is featured, as is some plentiful back catalogue 'Fields material. It's sewn together by banter from Merritt and Claudia Gonson, which is, like the band, cute, playful and a little awkward. The show has it all; even an interval in the middle. It's a welcome palette cleanser, and you wonder how you manage to get through other gigs without one.

I admit I'm sad when the show ends. It feels like I've left a friend behind. But you've got to be pragmatic about these things. So, I get my iPod out and listen to Realism on the train home. Two days later, the songs are still in my head.

Micmacs

The accusation of style over substance does funny things to directors. In the case of Jean-Pierre Jeunet- helmer of visual chocolate boxes Amelie and Delicatessen - the response was obvious. He’s made a film about the heaviest of subjects: the arms trade.

We follow Bazil (a dour Dany Boon), in what can only be described as a French vigilante movie. Bazil's rally is against the weapons manufacturers that produced the bullet that put him in hospital and the landmine that killed his father,

But being Jeunet, it's a vigilante movie with a twist (and not least because it features a contortionist). Bazil enlists the help of an odd-bod posse featuring a mathematical genius and a human cannonball. The group’s den is an underground junk heap overseen by a rolling pin wielding matriarch and a wizened artist. It’s almost self-parodically Jeunet.

And this is the fundamental problem. MicMacs is what happens when a good director gets lazy. It's a film full of fun visual invention, but a lack of freshness or surprise. Not even the many crinkles of supporting actor Dominique Pinion's face can give proceedings a much-needed third dimension.

Micmacs is to the arms industry as Amelie was to photo booths. Bear with me. Both do prove important narrative elements to their respective films. But, ultimately, have little to do with what you feel when you leave the cinema. Another difference between the two is that Micmacs is just not very good. And, crucially, it's something we've seen before.

Oh, Julianne

Julianne Moore most recently adorned the screen in Tom Ford's A Single Man. She played a bitter alcoholic, raging at the loss of her husband and also at Colin Firth's single man, the one she believed had got away. She was great in it. She was only in a couple of scenes, but, as is her want, she owned them. 'Adorned' is the correct word; she was like this fabulous bauble. She glitters enough that her periphery position almost decentres the film.

Due to the strength of that performance, I decided to revisit some of her past work. And I came across 'Safe', a 1995 indie in which she plays an LA housewife who develops an allergy to modern life. It's directed by Todd Haynes, who she has since worked with in the widely-appreciated Far From Heaven.

Like much of Haynes' work, the film appears to be a head-slappingly broad approach to its material, and yet with his skill, is actually strangely oblique. The subjects: the sterile environment of a rich LA home, the rejection of certain Western twentieth century symbols of affluence (the home, the car, the air conditioning system and even the pest control) could be a little obvious, done to death and sterile themselves.

Yet, Hayes visual precision (it's the visual equivalent of Radiohead's disarming song 'Everything in its Right Place; a beautifully constructed, seemingly perfect veneer which hides an incredibly disturbing undertone) and the absolute stillness he creates, are completely disarming. This calm and controlled atmosphere is scary, and suggestive, stuff.

And Julianne Moore is no adornment here; the film drapes itself around her. And she looks stunning in it. It's an unusual role for her; she's not the strong, empowered woman of Magnolia or Hannibal, the intelligent but oppressed woman of Far From Heaven or The End of the Affair. Her character is completely unremarkable. Some may say she's a little slow. She's perhaps even, on a bad day, an empty vessel.

Yet there's no sneering or broad strokes from Julianne. She plays the role with conviction and compassionate. She let's the film do the talking, yet she is the film; she appears in nearly every scene.

All hail Julianne; her effortless grace triumphs again. In retrospect, calling her a bauble was a little unfair. She'll be the angel on top of my Christmas tree.

A Prophet

A Prophet is a messenger of God. In the film that shares the same name, the messenger is Malik El Djebena (Tahar Rahim) and his God is Mafia kingpin Cesar Luciani (Niels Arestrup). Malik delivers the word of this god (or godfather) to the inmates of the prison he is incarcerated in, and, later, beyond. This word often expresses itself in violence or money.

A messenger is also someone who experiences visions. Here, Malik is visited by the ghost of a man he murders. Is it a vengeful vision, or a vision that will help him along the way? To add another twist, Malik also experiences visions of a deer. Later on it appears these visions were prefigurative; in the final third, there is a spectacular (and pivotal) road accident involving a stag.

It’s this melding of symbolism and allusion with staples of the prison and gangster dramas (drugs, mob hits and the odd predatory inmate in the showers) that make A Prophet a surprising, original and gripping piece of filmmaking.

It also helps that its directed by the masterful Jacques Audiard, who was behind 2005’s sleeper hit The Beat That My Heart Skipped (which made an instant pin-up of star Romain Duris). Perhaps this movie will do the same for its young star; indeed, Tahar Rahim delivers a performance easily equal to Duris’s. Although perhaps lacking the star charisma of Duris, Rahim makes up for it in sheer ability.

The actor is integral- and in fact rarely off screen- in this tale of attempting to define an identity in a place so adamant to suppress any traces of individuality. It’s hard to say what the most defining aspect of the film is; it’s two and a half hour length is so rich in plot, character and thematic detail to almost prove overwhelming. However, it gives the viewer a more than worthy excuse to go back and watch it again. And again. It seems to be the case that this film will quickly become regarded as a classic, and rightly so.

Airy fairy

Up in the Air is more Thank You for Smoking than Juno. Jason Reitman’s third directorial outing is light, amusing and perspicacious; but all done in an undemanding and tasteful way. Its commentary on business travel, life decisions and relationships is cute, but never profound, or particularly moving.

Ryan Bingham (George Clooney) lives out of a suitcase, employed in a job which consists of terminating other people’s livelihoods. He doesn’t hate people; indeed, he meets his female equivalent, Alex Goran (Vera Farmiga), and soon enters a casual relationship with her. However, he also meets young Ivy League graduate Natalie Keener (Anna Kendrick), a 23 year old in a steady relationship, planning on a family and also planning on reshaping the company, and immediately dislikes her for her apparent precocity. Her suggestion of grounding the team and getting them to fire people remotely proves a winner with boss Craig Gregory (Jason Bateman). Gregory teams Ryan up with Nathalie, to give the girl the gift of first-hand experience, before implementing the plan for good.

The premise, indeed, is essentially a familiar one. It’s youth versus experience, in which each party learns something from the other. Perma-bachelor (and travel nerd) Clooney learns that there is more to life than his collection of loyalty cards (which, incidentally, form one of the most amusing scenes of the movie, in which he and Farmiga compare the contents of their respective wallets), although he has to get through several sanctimonious monologues from his 23 year old colleague and his sister’s wedding to get there. Simultaneously, Kendrick’s character learns of the nervous impatience of youth.

Many critics have criticised the movie’s final third, in which things tend to slop to the saccharine. What, I think, they were expecting was something a little more caustic and satirical. However, the signs are there from the beginning where this movie is going. Although Clooney’s realisations are somewhat clumsily handled by a script so quickly distracted by (some great) one liners and comic set pieces, it’s clearly a ‘journey’ movie, and in not just the sense it’s about planes. Surprisingly, it’s the downbeat ending which jars.

That said, it’s a diverting experience, and Clooney delivers a performance of surprising subtlety and versatility. He’s ably supported by Kendrick, and a sassy Vera Farmiga. It’s a shame its only veritable weight is more hand baggage than hold luggage.

Folked up

Since I threw that album by A Perfect Circle out the window, the idea of a supergroup formed out of intriguing artists worries me. For every good project (Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young or something by Cream) there have been inoperable blights on the musical landscape (the Travelling Willburys or Emerson, Lake and Palmer). As a precaution, I asked for the Monsters of Folk album from Santa. That way, I wouldn’t waste my own money. And, also, feel less concerned as I made the CD into another coaster.

With a few exceptions, the result is actually a fairly safe album, and allthe better for it. Indeed, there are songs clearly belonging to a Bright Eyes record (the mid-paced sprawl of Ahead of the Curve and, earlier on, Temazcal) an M Ward record (the low-key, hushed torchlight folk of Slow Down Jo, and the wistful Magic Marker) and a slightly out-there My Morning Jacket effort (Losing Yo’ Head, which also sounds a bit like a Tom Petty track).

The exceptions are a little odd. In true maverick style, the opener, Dear God, throws a curve ball; it’s an Al Green-esque slice of funky soul. Elsewhere, Map of the World begins like a Bright Eyes song but turns into an escalating melodrama a la Rumours-era Fleetwood Mac.

Less surprisingly, the album is glued together with a considerable amount of slow country-tinged folk, especially in its first half. It’s clearly something the four guys share as common ground, as these tracks are distinctly more genre-oriented than any of their own material. It’s still engaging work, however.

It’s a solid album, and whilst there are far fewer fireworks than there might have been, there are both highlights and surprises. And, at fifteen tracks lasting fifty-five minutes, it does not outstay its welcome.