Love Like Poison ****

We learn many lessons as we move from childhood to adulthood, about love, and sex, and guilt, and death. But we’ll come to that later. Another, perhaps less soaring, but nonetheless important, lesson we learn is: don’t judge a book by its cover - or a film by its title. Love Like Poison, about a 14 year old girl coming to terms with her parents’ break up and her own emerging sexuality in the lead up to her Confirmation, sounds a bit like it’s going to be a post-Twilight melodramatic angst-fest. It is not.

For one thing, it’s French. Forgive my wild generalisation and stereotyping, but the French are better at talking about sex than us. Here, 14 year old Anna’s nascent sexuality isn’t presented as something controversial or shocking, nor is it sentimentalised. There is no clear divide between childhood innocence and adult experience. The adults are just as confused as Anna is. Her mother is falling apart after the breakdown of her marriage; the priest who tries to offer support is struggling with his faith as a result of his feelings for Anna’s mother. The one thing I struggled with was Anna’s relationship with her dying grandfather. In one scene she is giving him a bed bath and he gets an erection. He tells her he feels handsome and she promptly runs off. There are a couple of scenes like this, and maybe it is done to purposely unsettle the audience. If this is the case then it hit the mark with me.

The film brilliantly captures the awkwardness and insecurity that are not solely confined to adolescence, and subtly weaves together the complexities of love, guilt, and religion, without ever being judgemental. A beautiful quiet mix of melancholy and hope. Much like life itself.


Original review here

The Lodger (1927) ****

My local cinema (the most excellent Phoenix Picturehouse) has an Alfred Hitchcock season this week.  This pleases me.  I like Alfred Hitchcock films.  I can tell someone that Alfred Hitchcock is one of my favourite directors, sound reasonably intelligent, and not be lying.  So having the opportunity to see The Lodger, Hitchcock's first film, was pretty exciting.  Plus it would give me a new talking point in the 'What do you know about Hitchcock?' conversation.  I have never had this conversation but, you know, it's always good to be ready, should the opportunity arise.

The film is loosely based on the Jack the Ripper killings, with Ivor Novello (who I'm sure will be rooting for MY KZ, UR BF to win Best Song Musically and Lyrically at this year's Ivors) playing the titular lodger who may or may not have a penchant for killing golden-haired girls.

It's really interesting to see hints of Hitchcock to come: interesting camera angles, bits with staircases... hmm I think maybe it's a good job I have never had the Hitchcock conversation.  I seem to have run out of things to say already.

The main thing that I will take from the experience is how very weird it is to sit in a cinema when there is no sound.  This wasn't just a silent film in the normal sense, with some tinkly piano accompaniment.  This was literally silent.  For 80 minutes.  I could hear the guy next to me breathing.  I could hear my stomach rumbling (in my defence it was a lunchtime showing).  I could hear my chair squeaking, and what was, I think, the cinema manager having a telephone conversation in the next room with a chap called Michael.

It's remarkable how much will power it required to sit in a silent darkened room for over an hour and keep my eyes open, even though I had huge respect for the moving pictures in front of me.  I don't know whether I should be ashamed to admit that, or whether in actual fact very few people would now watch a silent film for pure entertainment's sake, without thinking 'I'm a bit bored, but this is really good fodder for the "Have you seen any silent films?" conversation so I'll try and concentrate'.  (Obviously I haven't had this conversation either.  But I'm ready now.  Oh yes).  I'm really glad I saw The Lodger, of course.  But I'm even more glad that Hitchcock met Bernard Herrmann.