Opening on a train journey, Eccentricities of a Blond Hair Girl is the story told by the young male passenger to the middle-aged female in the adjacent seat. When she politely enquires into the reason for his travels, she surely isn’t expecting the tale she is told: working as an accountant for his uncle, Macário (Ricardo Trêpa) is a dull man in a dull world. When one day he glances out of his office window and sees a young blond woman fanning herself in the window across the laneway, his heart is filled with romantic ideas and grand notions. One obstacle after another will arise to thwart their great love and provide the basis for the story he will tell.

There isn’t much more than this to the story, and yet it is in the telling that Eccentricities of a Blond Hair Girl can separate itself from the more common cinema experience. The relatively straightforward tale is told in a simple and unadorned way, allowing the characters and the sympathy they generate to remain front and centre.

The story of Macário and Luisa (Catarina Wallenstein) is old school, understandably so when one considers the source material, and yet this telling of it seems fresh. Perhaps it is the wry wit that pervades many of the scenes that allows this sensation to develop, as director Manoel de Oliveira certainly seems to know when to allow an absurdity to break the tension. There are several moments when one may find oneself laughing out loud, but generally this film provokes more smirks than laughs. Minor details that can only suggest self-awareness mean Eccentricities of a Blond Hair Girl will also reward the attentive.

When one considers the film in a modern context – and there is no evidence to suggest it is set in any other time, in spite of the nature of its story and the era of the writer’s prominence – it will be hard to understand the motivations of certain characters, and particularly the reaction of Macário’s uncle. It is never entirely clear why he would require so much of his nephew, unless he really is possessed of the omniscience his behaviour appears to depend upon.

The film is lavishly made, with great attention spent on creating a rich and lush world for the characters to inhabit. It appears that little expense has been spared, although IMDb suggests an estimated budget of only $2.5 million.

It really is hard to fault Eccentricities of a Blond Hair Girl, and the decision to keep things as simple as possible has paid off in spades. At only 64 minutes, the film is a short but sweet introduction to the work of Portugese auteur de Oliveira, and that it has a wonderfully droll sting in its tale is the icing on the cake.

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Kseniya Rappoport is Lyubov, a middle-aged opera singer, well-known to almost all of Russia after many television appearances, but who has decided to move to Western Europe to pursue her career. After deciding to take one last visit to the village of her youth, she brings along her truculent son Andrei. His disappearance during their sightseeing will mean her plans are shelved as she desperately tries to convince someone to help her find him.

Yuri’s Day is long, and it feels really long due to its langurous pacing and close focus on character rather than plot. At well over two hours, it is hard to justify, and one wonders how successful it may have been with a harsher editor and forty-five fewer minutes. Scenes run long, while whole sequences add little to the progression of the story – there is ample padding here that could be trimmed without harm.

In spite of its prolonged running time, very little appears to be happening on screen, with director Kirill Serebrennikov apparently shooting for the subtle breakdown of his lead character’s psyche but perhaps erring on being too subtle. The transformation from successful, modern woman to rundown, slightly crazy villager is a little hard to believe, in spite of the director’s lavish attention to every little bump on the downward spiral.

Rappoport does a fine job of her rather thankless role, given she is allowed barely an ounce of natural appeal and her character arc goes from obnoxious to insane. She rarely waivers, hitting each mark for her director, and given this is a character study and the focus must remain on her from beginning to end, she really does perform well. Her supporting players all are adequate, with none being given any latitude to demonstrate their skill within the confines of their poorly developed characters.

The main problem is that the gradual mental decline of the opera singer is so dull as to be mind-numbing. Her increasingly bizarre behaviour is hard to relate to, even when considering what effect losing a child might have on a parent. Meanwhile, the village world she becomes involved in feels more like a freakshow than a real-life portrayal of Russian rural life.

Sometimes one can recognise the intent and admonish the failure, and so it is with Yuri’s Day. A character study of grieving mother losing her world and her mind may have succeeded, but for a multitude of reasons, in this case it just doesn’t.

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As resistance fighters, Flame and Citron are almost without equal – they happily assassinate the enemies of the mother Denmark, upon the orders of the relatively mysterious Winther (Peter Mygind). When Flame meets the elusive Ketty Selmer (Stine Stengade), however, his alliance with the more experienced Citron will come under pressure, as a combination of doubt and double-dealing makes them vulnerable to counter-attack by the Gestapo.

Flame & Citron is intriguing in the way that any good biopic should be – it makes one want to learn more of the characters and events portrayed, while encouraging one to wonder as to the accuracy of that portrayal. In this regard, it succeeds in raising the profile of these Danish heroes while remaining an entertaining film in its own right.

There are problems with the film, however, with the exploration of double-agency and double-crossing in the middle becoming tedious and detracting from the momentum generated in the first sequences. The hidden motives and unneccessary convolution actually become trying for the audience, as they attempt to keep up. Perhaps focussing more tightly on the relationship between the two men – rather than the political intrigue among the greater resistance – may have allowed this momentum to be retained.

The same complaint can be applied to the pacing in general, with the film being allowed to blow out to a 130-minute running time that is simply unneccessary. Audiences will differ in the length of films they will tolerate or prefer, but one wonders how many would appreciate a marginally briefer experience with Flame & Citron.

The performances are strong, with Lindhardt standing out among his colleagues as the red-headed Flame. Given a little more to work with than Mikkelsen with Citron, Lindhardt is excellent as the conflicted assassin. Mikkelsen turns in a more understated performance, although he generates fire within particular scenes as another reminder of his skill and craft.

Although it waivers in its midsection, Flame & Citron achieves its aim of alerting the world to the remarkable work of the Danish resistance during German occupation in the Second World War. An entertaining and enjoyable film, it can be comfortably recommended.

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While picking flowers in a field in her Romanian village, Katalin Varga comes across a little girl who stares briefly at her before rushing off the other way, while later an old man won’t return her greeting on the street. A chance meeting with her best friend and confidant suggests her husband has found out her hidden secret, leading Katalin to a fearful encounter and the end of her life as she knew it.

Katalin Varga is filmed to be a sparse, ambiguous telling of the titular character’s story – there are long moments spent watching cloud movement or rainfall, while the credit sequences roll without any accompanying soundtrack. It seems that writer/director Peter Strickland wished for very little embellishment, preferring to let the story tell itself. This approach is fine, however it places even more emphasis on the strength of the plot and characters, and in this film contributes to a lack of engagement.

The ‘secret’ of the first act is not revealed until much later in the film, which means Katalin and her son Orbán (Norbert Tankó) spend a large amount of time travelling with the audience having little understanding why. Characters generally are left unexplained and given very little definition. Additionally, Katalin is played as a fairly unsympathetic character by Hilda Péter, contributing further to the lack of immersion in her story. Orbán contributes little to events, while the men Katalin comes across on her journey are a collection of caricatures.

Many of the key sequences are filmed with handheld cameras, in a bizarre choice that ruins most of those same sequences. Why anyone would think filming a scene of vigorous dancing lit only by firelight with a camera seemingly held by another dancer is a good idea is unfathomable, and to let that scene last as long as it does borders on criminal abuse of the vestibular systems of the audience.

The soundtrack is filled with choral pieces presumably intended to add a haunting quality to the events on screen, with mixed results. Often the vocal droning becomes simply annoying, outstaying its welcome and contributing little.

Although Hilda Péter is very good in the lead role, she is surrounded by a film so obscure it becomes vague, and it is extremely difficult to become engaged enough to care about her fate. The film is mercifully brief at just 84 minutes, and yet even this seemed overlong. Disappointing.

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Mühe is Inge, a young woman living in Malchow in the former East Germany, making a living as a librarian and spending a lot of her time caring for her elderly grandparents, by whom she was raised. After ageing literature professor Robert (Ulrich Matthes) arrives in town, and although seemingly content, Inge will commence a tumultuous quest to find the mother she believed long-dead. Meanwhile, Robert is writing a book and the motivation for his sudden appearance in Inge’s life is unclear.

Mühe is the daughter of late actor Ulrich Mühe, whose performance at the heart of the brilliant The Lives of Others (Das Leben der Anderen) goes some way to explaining the obvious talent on display here. Mühe is wonderful in both roles she plays – Inge and her young mother Anne in flashback. Inge is determined and yet fragile, placid and yet spinning a million miles an hour beneath the surface, and her journey – both around Germany and her past – could only be carried off by a performance of immense skill. A worthy nominee for an acting award indeed.

Matthes is a little harder to get to grips with as the enigmatic Robert, although he turns in a similarly impressive performance. The supporting cast are all excellent in fairly limited roles, as it is really Inge and Robert’s story that is the focus. The sequences depicting events in Anne’s life in 1980s East Germany are shot with lens filters in place, both to enhance the separation from the present and to evoke the sense of memory and fantasy intertwined. The film moves briskly without being hasty, and its running time of just 95 minutes belies the depth of the material on offer. For a director just thirty years old, November Child is a wonderful achievement.

Occasionally the planets align and cinema-goers are afforded the opportunity to compare and contrast two very similarly intended films, and such is the case with November Child and the local film Closed for Winter. Both tell the story of a young adult woman struggling to come to terms with a tragedy from her childhood, both films are quiet dramas with minimal histrionics, and both rely heavily on frequent flashbacks cut into the main narrative to gradually unravel the backstory. They even have similar theatrical posters! The reasons November Child is more successful are probably many and subtle, and yet it involves its audience so much more generously than the rather cold Australian film. Where Natalie Imbruglia’s Elise is unattainable, Mühe’s Inge is warm and endearing. Her struggle is no less significant and yet her story is much more accessible, a shame given the local film has such a head-start due to the familiarity of its setting.

The rich vein of artistic inspiration that is drawn from the physical and psychic insults German society endured in the 20th century continues to flow, and certainly shows no signs of abating. That more films of this calibre may yet be released should give all film-lovers hope.

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Moreau is the title character Séraphine, who is introduced to the audience in 1913 in rural France as housekeeper, scavenger and thief. She rather feverishly performs her tasks in multiple places of employment, seemingly just scraping together enough to eat, and yet there appears to be a reason for her vigorous approach to her chores. At night, she utilises the scraps and debris of her day to form rudimentary paint that allows her to follow her calling and express the beauty she sees as God’s creation on canvas.

The film is a gentle and ambling portrayal of the character and her developing relationship with her patron, German art critic Wilhelm Uhde, and often seems to take its pace from that of the countryside of the setting. Séraphine is shown walking through fields and sitting in trees, immersed in her experience of God so truly that the pressing requirements of her life melt into the background. It is only as the film slowly progresses that her madness will become evident.

Moreau handles this transition with skill, never resorting to clichéd demonstrations of pathology but building a character that is clearly psychologically impaired. She engenders sympathy without ever seeming to be asking for it, in a performance of grace and power. Little wonder her’s was judged the best of all French actresses’ performances in 2008.

Ulrich Tukur is similarly excellent in the main supporting role as Louis’ patron, although there are elements of his character that are left unexplained that may provoke concern around his motivations. This may not be the responsibility of Tukur, but rather writer/director Martin Provost.

The film is shot beautifully, with the French landscape vividly brought to life and the small town lifestyle under the shadow of two World Wars and the Great Depression evocatively demonstrated. Costume design and art direction allow the sense of reality to pervade this biopic and do justice to Provost’s vision.

That it often feels to be moving rather slowly should not dissuade its audience from enjoying the quietly developing drama, and the eventual outcome for the major characters feels authentic and never gaudy. A well-handled biopic that should provoke interest in a figure from the art world that for many may otherwise have remained hidden. Recommended.

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Something isn’t right in the world of Antoine (Albert Dupontel), and like a character afflicted by a truth-telling serum in a bad Jim Carrey movie, he just has to tell the world. The problem facing the demanding client in his advertising firm isn’t that Antoine’s pitch is on the nose, they just make bad yoghurt. His wife and children have trapped him in a dull life while his friends are ignorant and pretentious. Deciding to let them all know how he really feels will land Antoine with bruises and the isolation he seems to really desire.

The biggest problem in watching a film like Love Me No More is that the audience is never given the opportunity to develop a rapport with the lead character, meaning that when Antoine begins to behave badly it is hard to care about him or the consequences. It is almost dishonest to start the film just at the crisis moment, and then demand the audience care in the final act – if not dishonest, it is at least asking far too much. While some will cheer at Antoine’s treatment of his yoghurt client, the sequences in which he celebrates his birthday with his wife and two young children are simply unpleasant.

The fact that Antoine can evoke even the slightest amount of sympathy is largely the responsibility of Dupontel, whose performance is measured and calculating. The internal conflict evident behind his eyes is a hard acting task to successfully pull off, and yet Dupontel succeeds. Perhaps it is recollections of past performances that subconsciously encourage a degree of sympathy with his character, because, as written in the screenplay, he is intolerable.

The remaining cast are supporting players to Dupontel only, and both Marie-Josée Croze (as Antoine’s wife Cécile) and Pierre Vaneck (as his father) are adequate in their roles. The film is mercifully brief at just 85 minutes, although perhaps five minutes at the top end allowing Antoine even one or two positive character attributes would have made the film easier to bear. Writer/director Becker must accept much of the responsibility for the film’s flaws.

The strange thing about all of the problems of the film is that it does make us believe the characters and their pain, and in this regard it can be considered successful. An unpleasant film is not necessarily a bad one, and Love Me No More is certainly not a failure. Its strengths are overshadowed by its structural deficiencies and the unhappy use of the ‘gotcha!’ that will make many viewers simply shrug while others will find they like the film even less. Hard to recommend.

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François Bégaudeau plays François, a young French teacher in an area of Paris that features a wide spectrum of ethnicity and religious beliefs that means his day-to-day workplace resembles a minefield. He is challenged by cultural factors he can’t possibly understand, but more often than not it is the fact his pupils are teenagers that is the issue. His class is made up of disrespectful students who question his methods and demonstrate little motivation to either learn or improve their lot in life. In spite of his best intentions he can’t help every student, and a personality clash may put his own work in jeopardy.

The Class was filmed in an semi-improvised form, with Bégaudeau playing short scenes with volunteer students from a school over the course of a year before the narrative was finalised and then filmed. All of the child actors in the film are local schoolkids, which brings an element of authenticity to the film that could make one wonder if it is documentary. Additionally, much of the character development is down to the students themselves, who clarified and improved their roles over the course of their year of preparation. This fact also suggests that much of the obnoxious behaviour displayed by the ‘students’ is grounded in reality, which is scary when one considers some of their antics to be bordering on appalling.

The film also contains several sequences that will be hard to understand for Australian viewers, with the presence of two ‘student representatives’ at staff meetings to discuss their student reports bordering on bizarre. Perhaps this reflects the French approach to egalitarianism, but it certainly makes the work of the teachers that much harder. Parent-teacher meetings may include parents blaming teachers for any perceived deficiencies in their child’s learning, and, given the sympathetic picture that develops of the earnest struggle most teachers endure, this seems most unfair.

Performances are generally excellent, with several students standing out – perhaps the focus of the story naturally gravitated towards those most capable of holding the interest of an audience, but the main student roles are universally well played. Bégaudeau is close to inspiring as the teacher, although still capable of crossing the line in a moment of frustration. Were he to have been shown as saint the film would likely be far less successful. Support comes from real teachers and the actual parents of the students taking part, again suggesting verité.

In spite of the use of handheld cameras this technique is never nausea-inducing as it often is in Hollywood action films, perhaps due to the relatively static tableau of the classroom. Several long shots add to the sense of immersion in a real classroom rather than spectating a staged scene, and director Laurent Cantet seems to know just when they’ve reached their natural end. This is particularly evident also in the introductory sequence in which the teachers are meeting one another at the start of the new school year. This scene almost perfectly introduces the setting and adult characters while placing everything in context.

The Class is a highly recommended look at Parisian life featuring excellent performances and a believable story. That it is sometimes difficult or uncomfortable should not make it any less worthwhile, and that it is also interesting for how it was made is an added bonus. Sure to be in top ten lists at the end of 2009.

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Dev Patel is Jamal Malik, a young man about to make it big on the show that can make dreams come true – ‘Who Wants to be a Millionaire?’ He has already answered all but the final question, earning him 10 million Rupees and the night in a gaol cell being interrogated as to how he has cheated. Telling his story to the police inspector, Jamal touches on the various events in his life that have enabled him to honestly know the answers to each and every question host Prem Kumar (Anil Kapoor) has asked.

Slumdog Millionaire is an utterly magical film, transporting the audience to a place of abject poverty and human degradation, and yet somehow becoming a life-affirming and profoundly moving love story. Although it could possibly be criticised for being overly romantic, it could only be a hard heart that isn’t in some way affected by Jamal’s story.

Patel is excellent in the lead role of the slightly bemused hero who can’t quite believe he knows the answers but somehow does. He is supported by a rather astonishing performance by Ayush Mahesh Khedekar as the youngest Jamal (pictured), on whom lies so much responsibility for the film’s success. Khedekar is engaging and inspiring, although it must be said that his role goes a long way to creating his appeal. Nonetheless, his wonderful performance allows the audience to get right behind Jamal as he ages. Azharuddin Mohammed Ismail plays the youngest Salim with similar skill, while each actor responsible for either character at various ages confidently progresses the character to the present.

Supporting performances are adequate, with Kapoor suitably smarmy as the television host while Irrfan Khan is a passable police inspector. The actors responsible for Latika at each age all excel, and the imagery used to demonstrate Jamal’s recollections of Latika is striking, such that her character is a constant presence throughout the film in spite of her relatively brief screen time.

Directors Danny Boyle and Loveleen Tandan deftly manage multiple timelines and create a cohesive narrative that is easy to follow and gripping in intensity. Not for a minute does the mind wander – Slumdog Millionaire is just so absorbing. The soundtrack aids the visuals with a sense of unity that is rarely achieved, and the use of intermittent handheld camerawork never distracts as it so often can.

It is hard to describe a film experience so sublime without resorting to cliché or ridiculous runs of superlatives. Slumdog Millionaire, however, is close to the perfect cinema experience and is accessible enough to be appreciated by most audiences – little wonder it has already won Audience awards at the Austin, Chicago and Toronto International Film Festivals, along with multiple acting and directing awards from a variety of film organisations. It is hard to recall a character for whom an audience has wished success more than Jamal Malik.

A profoundly moving and joyous experience, Slumdog Millionaire is the best film of 2008.

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Sergei Puskepalis is Sergei Maslov, anaesthetist at a Russian hospital who is underpaid and relies on extorting his patients with threats of post-operative pain and nausea just to get by. His family shares an apartment with other Georgian immigrants and his young daughter has run off with a dock worker. When he is offered the opportunity of making extra money by treating a dying former film star’s pain, he develops an unusual bond with Zhuravlyov (Leonid Bronevoy) that will challenge the lifestyle he has allowed himself to get used to bearing.

Maslov is onscreen for almost every one of the 110 minute running time, and is initially a bit hard to warm up to – he is quiet and beaten down, and Puskepalis allows him very little charm. Gradually, however, Maslov is allowed a little more warmth in a finely tuned performance by the former stage director in his first screen role. It is after the entrance of Leonid Bronevoy as Zhuravlyov, however, that the film gains momentum. Much of the strength of the film lies in the relationship between the two men and their reactions to the needs of the other.

Simple Things is shot to emphasise the drab interiors and bleak cityscape that the film suggests is the legacy of the Communist era. Washed out shots through yellow filters add to the atmosphere of depression and poverty of the setting. These techniques are effective, although the reliance on handheld camerawork for the street scenes is its usual distraction.

The film moves very slowly, allowing the audience to develop a sense of these men and their lives without ever rushing. Writer/director Aleksei Popogrebsky utilises supporting cast only to focus the attention on another aspect of the leading turns, and as such they are adequate without ever capturing the imagination. The gradually building drama is effective, however for many the pace of the film will be too slow for real enjoyment.

While the performance of the two leads and the evocative cinematography are excellent, it is perhaps the film’s pace that will make Simple Things a more difficult experience than it could have been. It can be recommended for those wishing an insight into post-Communist Russian society, or just a quiet, measured film experience that provokes contemplation.

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