Writer, Author, Bond Fan

Category: Uncategorized (Page 9 of 11)

Reviewing THE NORMAL HEART

THE NORMAL HEARTDirector Ryan Murphy clearly has no glee left in him for this thumping, harsh, but selfless adaption of Larry Kramer’s landmark 1985 play, The Normal Heart. Chronicling the part-biographical real life sorrows and fights of Kramer’s own early 1980s world, this ensemble piece drops any pretence of a slow build for a fearsomely frank look at the early impact of HIV/AIDS on the gay communities of New York. The Normal Heart is less about the hedonism hangover of the 1970s and more about the fear of losing the social and political progress (such as it was) to do all of that all over again if needs be without prejudice.

It is 1981 and Ned Weeks (Mark Ruffalo) is travelling to Fire Island for a bout or three of ‘Mighty Real’ no-strings debauchery. Clearly not at total ease with being in love, Weeks is a sexually adrift soul plagued by a small sense of self-loathing and a big of sense of self-righteousness. Within minutes friends begin falling by the wayside as director Murphy puts over the breathless speed and impact of the early 80s AIDS deaths via a clever piece of zeitgeist gay casting proving no-one was exempt. As this devastation takes its cruel hold, Ned is instantly compelled to begin the fight for better mayoral assistance and medical messages in a fiercely homophobic and two-faced world. Immediately, a concerned and already clued-up Dr Emma Brookner (Julia Roberts) is dealing with the now constant stream of patients and a bubbling resentment her Polio-blighted world sees her in a wheelchair as all around her guys are gambling with their very lives for a human contact she has never had. Enter Ned into her initially cold world of pragmatic facts and health budget honesty.

As lesions spread like Rorschach spots testing the psyche of the whole gay community, The Normal Heart throws most of its trailer beats out in the first fifteen minutes. The end result is that you don’t know what the end result is. Exploring the merits or not of “promiscuity” becoming a “political agenda”, the film is partly about sex versus sense as Ned battles his own role in gay society – defying harsh truths posed by his older brother Ben (Alfred Molina, on terrific form) and assuming all past infatuations should become romances. But make no mistake – The Normal Heart is a grenade of a film about a grenade of a plight. Kramer’s adaption of his own play shares the operatic emotions of Tony Kushner’s Angels In America but has none of the fantasy relief. Or even the episodic structure to gather breath. As cold food is left in hospital corridors by medical interns too fearful to feed the dying victims and gay activist friends refuse to ask favours of influential colleagues for fear of outing themselves, the multi-stranded hypocrisy of it all is almost as much of a gut-punch as the very frankly played effects of the virus.

Clearly trying to remember the stage foundations of the original play, Murphy and Kramer let ensemble dialogues unfurl in single rooms before showing the scared panic of lovers hauling their dying partners across town or further (one flashback anecdote from Taylor Kitsch’s Bruce is truly shocking in its telling). Ruffalo is on aggravating form as Ned – possibly becoming too much of an irritant as others are trying to tread more cautiously and sometimes fairly. Dr Brookner suggests his “big mouth” is not an irritant but a “cure”, but Ned does do a lot of shouting. This is a piece where many a central character is afforded a powerful monologue that will just – like the original play – truly floor the audience. Joe Mantello’s Micky has a particularly salient and honest monologue, a volunteer Estelle (Danielle Fernand) wants to do anything to help and details the tragic reasons why and Roberts’ last act lambasting of the bureaucrats required this viewer to have a press of the ‘pause’ button before continuing.

Almost too separately pitched from his campaigning colleagues to make him in any way likeable (and possibly creating the vaguest of faults of the film), Ruffalo’s Ned is however unexpectedly granted a true love in the guise of Matt Bomer’s Felix – a figure he has known before (played out in a nearly fun retro flashback advertising the pitfalls of the bathhouses within faux ads for themselves). By bringing that deliberately beautiful and fresh Clark Kent canvas to the story, Bomer’s Felix is a welcome breath of cute fresh air. But a single tear running down his chiselled cheekbones whilst making love is a chilling coda of Felix’s future. “Men do not naturally not love”, he remarks, “ – they learn not to”. Bomer will get award recognition for this. So will others. Not that awards are why narratives like The Normal Heart need to be told. There is the film’s constant dialogue about equating history turning its back on the gay communities for gay men who blindly do the same with the next casual partner. The film and play both catalogue all facets of the gay condition – its support friendships, contradictions and gay homophobes. But Larry Kramer, Ryan Murphy and The Normal Heart do not make judgments. Judgments don’t help the dying. The Normal Heart is about the search for dignity – in the characters loves, their workplaces, their campaign tactics and ultimately their deaths. The film does have its flaws. It ends far too abruptly and offers scant respite. But that is maybe its point. And Murphy is reportedly prepping a sequel for Ned.

And there are pockets of not-bleak. Jim Parsons’ quick-witted Tommy is the only near-fun figure of the film, becoming a calm and waspish mediator for both the characters and audience. His use of suddenly unneeded Rolodex cards – his “cardboard tombstones” – is particularly affecting, as is the film’s end coda with a choice of music that is almost too much to ever hear again without seeing all those faces that are not here anymore. Tommy serenely observes when pondering now dead colleagues, artists and writers – “all those plays that won’t get written”. Larry Kramer should forever know he did write this and Ryan Murphy’s brutal film creates a new immortality for a vital piece of writing about those who had so such luck.

The Normal Heart airs on HBO in America on Sunday 25th May and on Sky Atlantic in the UK soon.

 

OF PARAMOUNT CONCERN – why one of America’s best movie houses deserves to make an exhibition of itself

(c) Mark O'Connell / 2013

California obviously has more than its fair share of glittering movie houses with a history. Hollywood has of course the famous Grauman’s Chinese and Egyptian Theatres, San Luis Obispo has the Fremont and San Francisco has the Roxie and the glittering old paddle steamer that is the Castro Theatre. But just across the water from San Francisco in neighbouring Oakland stands one of movie exhibition’s most beautiful monoliths. Opened at the peak of the Art-Deco movement in 1931 and designed by Timothy L. Pflueger (who also designed the Castro Theatre), the Paramount Theatre is one of the most luxuriant, ornate and precious working movie houses.

Greenlit in the 1920s by Publix Theatres (the then exhibition face of Paramount Pictures) and taken on by Fox-West Coast Theatres before construction was even complete, the Paramount eventually fell into neglect as movie audiences queued up at their own home box office to watch that personal movie-box they called television. In the 1970s (when its namesake production studio was about to have a heyday at the hands of playboy producer Robert Evans) the cinema was eventually taken over and its thirty years of neglect replaced with a gilt-edged renovation that drops the jaw to this day.
Having been fortunate enough to be invited to Paramount to see an apt screening of Hitchcock’s 1959 classic North By Northwest (apt as it is one of the classics of movie making and movie going), to enter this Babylonian enclave is itself as cinematic as it gets – with a scale of design, scope and detail that would not be out of place onscreen in Fritz Lang’s peer contemporary Metropolis or RKO’s 1933 King Kong. The 2025 Broadway front facia alone is an emerald green neon tower of letters beckoning the queuing audiences in to its world of cinematic Ozmosis. Heck, there is very nearly a yellow carpeted brick road weaving into every corner of a gargantuan front lobby replete with Chrysler era flat, dancing metallic gods betraying their Egyptian influences like graphical guardsman in an ancient Luxor tomb. Brass fixtures, vintage telephone kiosks, cigarette vendors, candy machines, “Mezzanine” signage, stair rails and light guards combine to bling ring you into an ancient world of exhibition opulence. “Always The Best Show In Town” is not just a promise as more emerald green twirls and swirls above the punters heads and Lang’s Metropolis comes to life as 1930s friezes stack up like graphical depictions of pre-WWII skylines. And this is just the front lobby.

SAN FRANCISCO - The Paramount Theatre - 23-08-13 (13)The Paramount’s greatest structural tic and trick is its hidden scale. Taking your seat is now a dirty carpeted chore, as we trudge in our multiplexes past bored students with their fave film quote (as decided for them by people who are clearly not film fans) emblazoned upon their creased shirts like threadbare welcome mats. But at the Paramount, the welcome is the experience. And that welcome is yours to investigate. Part of the cinema’s monthly screenings (it is a key venue on the live music and performance circuit now too) involves plenty of time to explore the theatre itself. And that possibly takes longer than all three versions of King Kong played back to back. Proud and suited staff are on hand to guide with a [sadly] yesteryear panache but the beauty is taking a look yourself as the cliff-face sized red curtain of the only screen in the house follows you upwards and into the gods as each further level proves it is not the last.

SAN FRANCISCO - The Paramount Theatre - 23-08-13 (61) MONTAGE 2

There is no welcome to the cheap seats as there aren’t any. Every viewpoint, every row of chairs, aisle, end row fixture and side panel is truly glorious. This is a movie house with a “Ladies Smoking Room” more opulent and spacious than most new cinemas. This is a movie house – like the Castro Theatre – with a working Wurlitzer organ. This is a movie house with over 3040 seats with access spread out over at least five levels of carpeted and brass luxuriance. This is a movie house with a men’s lounge, a woman’s lounge, a hydraulic orchestra pit, its own historically documented mosaics and at least two bars. This is a movie house that does not need the movies for its thrills and awe. This is a movie house that was declared an official American National Historical Landmark in 1977. And this is a movie house that charges just $5 dollars a movie ticket. That’s right. North By Northwest. At the Paramount. For $5. Always the best show in town indeed.

For more details about visiting the Paramount click here.

 

 

Putting the “me” into “The Academy” …. Hollywood’s 86th annual buffet and raffle night in a nutshell…

(c) Mark O'ConnellDear Hollywood, as another annual Hollywood buffet and raffle night comes to a close and in the “indomitable journey of life that takes us all on an transformative odyssey of respect and being able to be who we are” just remember that no-one outside of award speeches uses the word “indomitable” – especially Brad Pitt (unless of course he is about to play an Austen spinster).

So what happened this year? We had a montage celebrating 90 years of cutting to Goldie Hawn in the audience, Ronan Farrow has to now add Cate Blanchett to the list of people he will have to Tweet-hate like a Sinatra behaving like a spoilt Kennedy, Bette Midler forgot how the Acadamee hated For The Boys to sing over a montage of beaches scenes from the movies (I think), Kim Novak took to the stage nearly looking younger than Jennifer Lawrence (though she has yet to fall over twice infront of a billion TV viewers – is Lawrence the new Lee Evans?), the black Will Smith presented the Best Film Oscar for the slave drama/trauma that is 12 Years A Slave (trust me, the Academeee does this a lot – which is why Harvey Feinstein will present the Oscar to Jonah Hill should my fantasy biopic notion of him as Divine ever see the light of day), Liza Minnelli was in the house to help celebrate 75 years of The Wizard of Oz by letting, er, Pink sing Over The Rainbow, Hollywood and the world forgot that a “selfie” is taken by one person of them self … otherwise it is called a “photo“, Hemsworth annoyingly didn’t take home the Best Supporting Junk award for that cameo of his ball sack in Rush, Gravity picked up all the important technical awards including Best Sound Editing (for a space-set film where there would be no sound) yet sadly the film about a women stuck in a Space nightmare in just her underwear and vest top and having to save herself with a fire extinguisher were noticed by the Acadamee before when Aliens and Wall-E came out (in Space everyone can hear Sandra Bullock scream), American Hustle failed to get noticed on the night (or a nomination for hair and make up?!!) yet another montage featured the all-important remake of The Karate Kid (which was no doubt a rider for getting Will Smith to be the new Poitier), Jared Leto is clearly in preparation for the sequel to Chapter 27 where he will not play John Lennon’s killer but John Lennon himself, McConaughey deservedly wins for playing the worst JR Ewing tribute act in the Dallas Buyers Club (though Leto did make a marvellous Victoria Principal), Frozen won Best Animated Feature Not Yet Based On A Hit Broadway Show and the Interflora In-Memorium montage had its work cut out this year but still managed to keep a blank space in case Liza didn’t get out of her chair.

 

POLARI – London’s Best Glitterary Salon

Host and Mr Polari Paul Burston.

Host and Mr Polari Paul Burston.

November 13th 2013 marked the night the Polari Salon had its annual Polari First Book Prize. Catching Bullets – Memoirs of a Bond Fan was on the shortlist this year so attendance in spesh clothing and clean shoes was a must. And no, I didn’t wear the Octopussy dressing gown or Roger Moore ski-suit despite hinting on Twitter I would (the many open stairs at the Southbank Centre rendered the Octopussy nightgown a no-no for anyone underneath not wanting to cop a peek).

And what a grand night it was, putting – as ever for a Polari gathering – the great and the good better all together to honour all guises of the queer word – spoken, sung, poetry, narrative fiction, non-fiction, stand-up, performance art and speech. And that was just host Paul Burston’s entrance!

Before the Prize winner was announced, Polari took on its more familiar monthly form. The nights are held at London’s Southbank Centre, cost a very fair fiver and represent two hours (plus interval, book and beverage stall) of the best LGBT readers and writers out there. This month’s menu of salonistas included Rosie Garland, Patrick Flanery, Dee Chanelle, Helen Lederer, Dean Atta and Charlotte Mendelson. It is hard and wrong to underline faves, but Patrick Flanery’s prose was fragile and quick-fire, Dean Atta’s stand-up poetry struck a very contemporary and sadly apt chord (“racism is institutionalised thinking“), singer Dee Chanelle gave the Brazilian street dancers a run for their volume-levels next door and Helen Lederer (a comedy hero of mine) was typically self-deprecating all over the podium.

And then to the grand master-plan, the denouement of the night and Polari’s crowning glory – the Polari First Book Prize 2013. Announced in true “Acadamee Award” style by the quietly incisive VG Lee (a new comedy hero of mine), the Societe Generale sponsored trophy went to Mari Hannah and The Murder Wall. A lovely winner clearly in awe of her charity telethon sized and much deserved cheque took to the stage and made winners of us all. Okay, she didn’t at all. Nor should she. It was her moment and she earned it. Us other four shortlistees got to go home with the ‘win’ that Polari and Paul Burston took us under his sterling wing. Not only have I been asked to read at Polari this year but I have seen first-hand the immense value and support mechanism it represents for queer writers. Writing is a lonely practise at the best of times. Paul himself has rightfully remarked how writing needs a reader to complete the process. Polari allows all manner of voices a podium or chair or even sometimes just a Re-Tweet and gives an audience to so many people, including myself. That is worth its weight in gold. The use of words as help and support versus the use of words to hate and incite is still the centuries old dilemma of language. Even now the use of phrases like “dyke” or “queer” is over-worried by the over-worriers, when it is up to gay individuals to adopt it into their parlance and out of the box marked “abuse”. Included in the audience was Nigerian activist and TV host Funmi Iyanda and out-gay Nigerian Bisi Alimi (now a welcome UK resident having had to flee his home country and family). The pair have their own [and sadly very] valid LGBT story to tell and THIS is where Polari is more than a few dykes and queers supping Pinot from plastic glasses in the name of literature (not that Burston would allow that complacency to sink in – hence his ever changing rota of readers and performers).

Polari and the work and efforts of its alumni, audience regulars (the life and pulse of each monthly gathering), venue owners and just those that pass the word on is one of the greatest LGBT assets in London and indeed the UK (where Polari is stretching its wings north – see here).

Furthermore, Paul and his team of judges give their time and efforts to reading the longlist and shortlisted titles and for my tale of a 1980s Bond fan to even get dropped on the “to read” pile is the stuff of privilege.

The Polari First Book Prize 2013 judges this year:

Paul Burston (Chair of Judges) – author, journalist and host of Polari.

Bidisha – writer, critic and broadcaster

Suzi Feay – literary critic

Rachel Holmes – author and former Head of Literature at the Southbank Centre

VG Lee – author and comedian

Joe Storey-Scott – books buyer

 

The Polari First Book Prize 2013 shortlist:

The Murder Wall by Mari Hannah (Pan Macmillan)

Tony Hogan Bought Me An Icecream Float Before He Stole My Ma by Kerry Hudson (Chatto & Windus)

The Sitar by Rebecca Idris (self-published ebook)

Catching Bullets – Memoirs of a Bond Fan by Mark O’Connell (Splendid Books)

The Tale of Raw Head & Bloody Bones by Jack Wolf (Chatto & Windus)

 

For more on Polari and why you should get along, click here.

 

 

Catching ROGER

CATCHING ROGER

Whoever said never meet your heroes clearly never had mine as theirs. For thirty years my cinematic hero, sartorial inspiration and now literary muse was and continues to be Sir Roger Moore.

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It was June 1983 when my dad took a reluctant and seven year old younger version of myself to the Guildford Odeon to see Roger Moore’s sixth Bond opus, Octopussy. It was a simple outing that put a 007 shaped stamp on my life and was the beginnings of realising the stamp James Bond had already had on the O’Connell family. Key to that was Roger Moore. Being a 1980s kid, he was my Bond. Being a 1980s cinema kid, he was crucial. Numerous posters and images flanked my walls like Broccoli frescoes and an autographed still for my ninth birthday is still the best birthday present in the world ever.

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Flash-forward thirty years and not only have I written a comedy memoir about literally growing up with Bond, Catching Bullets – Memoirs of a Bond Fan (Splendid Books), but Sir Roger is appearing in his current tour An Evening With Roger Moore at a local Surrey venue, G-Live (or the Moore-quip friendly G-Spot for those who can never quite find their way round Guildford’s notoriously shocking one-way system). Organised and marshalled onstage by Roger’s manager and biographer Gareth Owen, the Autumn 2013 show is a relaxed but complete look at Roger’s career from his early days at RADA (with fellow classmates including Bond alumni Lois Maxwell) via the touchstones of The Saint, The Persuaders, The Sea Wolves, that small matter of seven 007 movies to his more recent and very sterling work for UNICEF and taking on the charity baton handed to him by friend Audrey Hepburn.

And just as a 007 who sported the best ski-wear known to man should be, Moore is a master of going off piste – taking the audience and himself along reminiscences and sharply recalled anecdotes with cute timing and that self-mocking veneer that has served him well over the years. If only all of us could even hope to be so sharply minded at 86 years young. I had never seen Moore more lucid, relaxed, quick to quip and totally poised with all that trademark saintly persuasion.

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It was not wholly random and the people who I need to thank already have been, but as the highly recommendable show came to a close I was faced with the prospect of finally meeting the man himself. Should I? Maybe I shouldn’t. The man might want to quite fairly shoot off home and crack open a glass of something bubbly, no? Guildford’s fine but it is no Monaco (despite Roger remembering with mocking fondness filming an AA commercial decades there before as a young actor). Suddenly I was overcome with a paranoia – “I should leave best alone, the journey of Catching Bullets has been so wonderful and well received and an L.A. encounter with my Bond Girl was such a divine day, don’t push your luck and spoil it now O’Connell!”. But if I didn’t try I would – to badly paraphrase the film Moore circles as his finest work – become the man who haunted himself.

Cut to the back car-park of G-Live and my seven year old Bond fan self has already led my adult brain down into a Guildford car park before the auditorium had barely got to its feet amidst well deserved cheer. A chauffeured car is naturally waiting for Mr Moore as is someone’s vintage Volvo from Roger’s The Saint days, and of course some loyal fans wrapped up against the autumn cold. A wink and a nod later and my partner, our friend Pat and I are coming in out the cold towards Mr Moore’s dressing room and a friendly hive of post-show backstage activity. I don’t know if the tricky Bond mistress that we all call ‘life’ meant to add such poetry to but it suddenly hits me how right now Roger Moore and I are merely yards away from the Guildford Odeon where my Bond fan journey commenced with Octopussy. Furthermore – and due to a bout of parental house-sitting – I write this piece alongside the very childhood bedroom that was a veritable shrine to our man James, 007, Octopussy, Maud Adams and all manner of Bond-foolery. Like those little white dots mark each and every Bond movie, events do sometimes have a very curious habit of going full circle. And before I knew it I was sat in Roger’s gleaming white dressing room with the man himself looking at me with the same piercing blue eyes that fought Zorin, Drax, Scaramanga, Stromberg, Nick Nack and Jaws with the same boyish grin that bedded Solitaire, Mary Goodnight, Anya Amasova and of course both our shared favourite 007 lady, Octopussy.

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Whilst the details shall remain personal (in part due to me being caught by the utter surrealism of it all and hence forgetting what the hell happened), Roger soon beckoned me into his Santa’s Grotto of suavity to sit down with my cardigan-friendly eye already on his fine knitwear and wishing I had sported mine that night. We discussed Bond, Catching Bullets and my grandfather who worked with Cubby Broccoli and who Roger would have known. I also coyly mentioned the personal symmetry of finally meeting Mr Moore a few metres from where I had seen him in my first Bond at the cinema. He wondered, “which one?”. I nervously replied, “the Odeon“.

He then kindly asked again, “no, which film…?” to which I duly responded with Octopussy-mentioning pride and embarrassment. Roger then kindly said he wants to read Catching Bullets. I jokingly hinted of course he didn’t have to at which moment those firm blue eyes suavely clarified, “oh no, I will”.

Forever a gent. Forever Bond. Forever Moore.

 

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An Evening with Roger Moore continues round the UK.

Catching Bullets – Memoirs of a Bond Fan is available now.

CATCHING BULLETS is shortlisted for the POLARI FIRST BOOK PRIZE 2013!

QUAD SHEET - POLARI SHORTLISTING (1)Splendid Books and I are more than proud to announce that CATCHING BULLETS – MEMOIRS OF A BOND FAN has been shortlisted for the POLARI FIRST BOOK PRIZE 2013.

Polari is a monthly literary salon held (more often than not) at London’s Southbank Centre. Masterminded by author/writer Paul Burston, it is a queer / LGBT showcase of a brilliant rainbow-hued spectrum of writing, poetry, fiction, non-fiction, performance, works-in-progress, theatre and song.

Previous readers have included Jonathan Harvey, Celia Imrie, Damian Barr, Jake Arnott, Neil Bartlett, Rikki Beadle-Blair, Andy Bell, Sophia Blackwell, DJ Connell, Maureen Duffy, Stella Duffy, Fenella Fielding, Christopher Fowler, Patrick Gale, David Hoyle, VG Lee, David McAlmont, John McCullough, Will Self and many more. Oh, and of course yours truly (January 2013).

The POLARI FIRST BOOK PRIZE is an annual award to honour the best in LGBT writing. CATCHING BULLETS and myself never once imagined we would be rubbing shoulders with a range of very skilled books so are doubly chuffed to find ourselves on the final shortlist. The winner is announced on November 13th 2013 at the Purcell Room, Southbank Centre.

POLARI First Book Prize

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One of “the World’s Best Gay & Lesbian Hotspots” for 2013! – ArtInfo.

“Lively, funny and inspiring – a gay-themed salon of interest to anyone remotely interested in literature, whatever their sexual bent. Paul Burston’s achievement in consistently bringing together writers and performers who will stimulate and inspire is remarkable” – Patrick Gale

“Always fun, always thought-provoking – a guaranteed good night out” – Sarah Waters, Tipping The Velvet.

“London’s most theatrical salon” – The New York Times

“London’s peerless gay literary salon” – The Independent on Sunday

 

For more details about past, present and future Polari nights then head over to the website. The evenings are a great and relaxed showcase of good writing, creativity, thought and ideas. A bar and book store is always at hand as are great views of London at night, whatever time of year. Though be warned – Polari often sells out quick so get in early.

 

@Mark0Connell

@PolariSalon

@PolariPrize

CATCHING BULLETS nominated for the 2013 POLARI First Book Prize!

CATCHING BULLETS catches a POLARI First Book Prize nomination!

Exciting news! CATCHING BULLETS – MEMOIRS OF A BOND FAN has been nominated for the illustrious POLARI First Book Prize 2013! This is a fine honour indeed and I am most flattered, shaken and stirred!

Splendid Books and myself would like to extend a big thanks to Paul Burston and the POLARI First Book Prize judging team. I am now going to paint myself in gold paint and have a lie down to celebrate….

POLARI First Book Prize

Goldfingers crossed for the prize announcement in September 2013.

www.polariliterarysalon.co.uk
www.splendidbooks.co.uk

 

 

FLEMING – a first look at Sky Atlantic’s new drama series

PLAYBOY.
GAMBLER.
SPY.

FLEMING (c) Sky Atlantic / Ecosse Films / BBC America

Sky Atlantic and Ecosse Films / BBC America have revealed an early look at their new 2014 series, Fleming.

Filmed in the UK and Budapest, the mini-series is set during the Second World War when Ian Lancaster Fleming (Dominic Copper) was heavily involved in mounting special operations against the Nazis and others.

Mat Whitecross (The Road to Guantanamo) is directing from a script by John Brownlow and Don Macpherson (based on John Pearson’s work on the life of Fleming). Laura Pulvey (Fleming’s wife Ann), Annabelle Wallis (Muriel Wright), Rupert Evans (Fleming’s brother Peter) Samuel West (Admiral John Godfrey), Anna Chancellor (Lieutenant Monday) and Lesley Manville (Fleming’s mother Evelyn) co-star.

The four part mini-series will air on Sky Atlantic later in early 2014.

Check out the new teaser trailer, Fleming.

 

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I’M SO EXCITED! (LOS AMANTES PASAJEROS)

ISE! Portrait PosterFasten your seatbelts, it’s going be a bumpy night

(All About Eve, 1950)

 

 

 

 

 

 

With King of the Tangent himself Pedro Almodóvar on duty as chief flight recorder, pilot, trolley dolly and navigator, I’m So Excited! is a boisterous stopover of a film. Less long-haul than the melodramatic Volver, clever Live Flesh or the masterly All About My Mother, Almodóvar’s nineteenth feature is a short-haul hen-night of a movie, as quick to get into as it takes to blow up one of those canary yellow safety vests.

Welcome to Peninsula Airlines Flight 2549. You will be cruising at an altitude of 32,000 feet. Literally. And if nothing excites you on the duty-free cart, there will be enough in-flight entertainment and emergency grandstanding to keep children of all ages (and predilections) entertained.

This plane is like a sunlit backroom – floating on clouds of mescaline, passion and resignation. Neither bitter or moral, this is Almodóvar as chief pilot of a Mile [very] High Club. Never mind the fuel the plane suddenly has to burn off before an emergency landing. Almodóvar’s own script is more concerned in his motley passengers jettisoning absurd amounts of tequila, vodka and Valencia cocktails. Pilots, co-pilots, stewards, ground staff – everyone’s necking a quick shot to take the edge off. Before having another. An Easy Jet flight to Sitges packs less booze than this. Yet, as such happy-hour excesses soon replace characters inhibitions with much needed action (Lola Dueñas’s virginity status is quite cheekily – and anonymously – downsized at 30,000 feet), the weight of everyone’s emotional ballast nearly drags the flight into the sea. A mostly empty business class section and a disgraced banker speaks volumes about Spain and Europe’s economy – with the stricken Peninsula 2549 flight struggling to find an airport that is manned, let alone not cash strapped. But that is as political as Pedro gets. His world is one where men are already in marriages to each other (be it sexual, spiritual or actual), mistresses are afforded perceptive back stories and empty control towers are manned by a husband and wife and their packed lunch.

Just as the theatrical Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown (1988) pitches itself in a farce-like apartment, its nearest sibling I’m So Excited! relishes the proscenium confines of this Peninsula flight – affording Pedro his trademark backstage wranglings, curtain twitching, character hierarchies and story-centric phone-calls. It is certainly Almodóvar’s simplest effort for a while, jettisoning the masterful twists of Live Flesh and The Flowers of My Secret for an unabashed pantomime of an in-flight movie that unfurls as if Airplane had a quick knee-trembler in the disabled toilets with Carry on Emmanuelle and Shortbus was the result.

Gone for now are the masculine pulses and of The Skin I Live In and Broken Embraces. Here they are replaced for the mescaline ones of a cabin-fevered cabin-crew led by self-destructive, yet puppy-eyed steward Javier Cámara (Talk To Her, Bad Education) and Pedro newcomers Raúl Arévalo (granted a Pedro tache on his first outing) and portly Carlos Areces. If this work-weary triumvirate steal the movie, then it is the scene-chomping Areces who gets the ‘Peninsula Employee of the Month’ award with his dour queen Fajardo forever hand-fanning his magnificent cow-lick fringe amidst his random urges to pray into a brassy pop-up altar.

As Almodóvar’s gayest film for quite a while, there is very little room in the aisle for any straight manoeuvring. Like most of Almodóvar’s efforts, even the straight women behave like gay men. And possibly vice versa. Not that every persuasion doesn’t get a chance to “check in” on this voyage. Everyone is at it. From the hot straight couple fresh off a three day wedding bender (and a curious affliction the sexy groom is milking to the hilt) to a bi-curious co-pilot, a horny security officer and a veteran soap actor juggling a suicidal ex and a shrewd new squeeze via misplaced cell phones. So far, so very Almodóvar.

With crew and passengers pitched as types culled straight from 1970’s Airport, Almodóvar has early fun churning out the disaster movie character tropes (the disillusioned suit, the veteran fun-time girl, the cabin crews in mid-affair, the family man pilot’s bit on the side, a concerned psychic and a potential killer). Yet, as much as Almodóvar lets the film party with this entertaining bunch, he still takes the time to surprise, to charm and regret. Just as Airport 1975 had the real Norma Desmond in the guest-starring likes of Gloria Swanson, I’m So Excited! gets its own Norma in the guise of the fabulous Cecilia Roth (All About My Mother) as society dominatrix and potential government-toppler Norma Boss. This Anna Wintour fringed ice-maiden is the most familiar from Pedro’s oeuvre. We are told this is a character that – like the director himself – emerged onto the scene in the late 1980s, ruffled the establishment’s feathers and subsequently hit her stride in her 50s.

One of the utter joys of an Almodóvar film is how he lets you go ahead of his story and characters, allowing the audience to curve off with their absurd notions and plot predictions. You kick yourself for thinking that wildly or crudely. But then suddenly Pedro takes you by the hand and ‘goes there’ for you with a day-glo aplomb that is forever liberating and – most vitally – honest. The director’s CV is on show throughout. From key Pedro icons Penelope Cruz (Volver, Broken Embraces, Live Flesh) and Antonio Banderas (Matador, Laws of Desire, The Skin I Live In) playing consequential ground crew to the point of almost giggling on-screen at the fun of it all to the lies men tell of Laws of Desire, the drug dependencies of What Have I Done To Deserve This and Norma Boss’s sado-masochistic day job echoing Tie Me Up Tie Me Down.

Like a trashy airport novel, I’m So Excited! is a wondrous, crazy holiday distraction. Never meant to outstay its welcome, it is a rude jaunt farcing about its tight running time. Pedro purists might want this frothy baggage reclaimed immediately, but he still carefully peels back the motifs of character like the cling-wrap on a Stansted Airport beef casserole. This is a deliberate inflight meal of a movie – easy to get into, tastes better than it looks and will perfectly suffice until you touch down. As a comedy it is possibly more successful than Women On The Verge of a Nervous Breakdown – which now pales when compared to what Almodóvar did next. He is now a genre all of his own, one that has re-pointed people’s opinions and views on Spanish cinema and culture. As fun goes and the summer blockbusters start circling the skies, I’m So Excited! deftly proves Pedro Almodóvar can still drop a big block of blue toilet ice onto his rivals. Just when does this “seatbelt” sign disappear?

 

 

With thanks to Pathe UK for the screening.

 

I’m So Excited! lands at UK cinemas from May 3rd 2013.

 

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