Mark Kermode's Secrets of Cinema

Hello to Jason Isaacs.

The rom-com is a derided genre. Opponents dismiss it as candy floss, insubstantial confection made of hot air and sugar. It’s fairy tales for adults that need to grow up. Films for women in unhappy marriages, divorced from reality. A night out for the girls; an obligation for the boys. They are not something to be taken seriously; let alone the subject for a one hour programme.

Mark Kermode is the film reviewer on the nation’s favourite podcast The Kermode & Mayo Film Review. Primarily, Kermode’s expertise lies in horror – his thesis was on it – but his job as critic requires his analysis extend beyond the genre. Yes, he regularly reminds listeners (and Mayo) that The Exorcist is the greatest film ever made, however he’s at home praising Mary Poppins too. Kermode is a great film critic because he’s a fan first and reviewer second. Because of this he doesn’t accept pre-conceived wisdom, trusting hard-won instinct instead. Where other critics would dismiss the Twilight series as nonsense, Kermode celebrates it. Whilst snobs would cover their ears to Mama Mia, he lauds it as great entertainment. I thoroughly enjoy his reviews because they appeal to head and heart. He can be fantastically eloquent when expounding upon cinematography and mise-en-scene, but authentic too when simply saying how a film's affected him. So it really is something of a boon to have him cast his eye over the secrets of cinema.

Friday at 2pm on Radio 5.

Each week Kermode and his writing partner, the journalist Kim Newman, will be pulling back the curtain on how cinema’s great magic trick works. This week’s episode was on the rom-com; subsequent ones will include ‘heist’ and ‘horror.’ I’ve been a fan of the rom-com for awhile now. My favourite movies fall into the category: Manhattan, Sideways, The Apartment, When Harry Met Sally and Groundhog Day. I mean how a genre that boasts works by Allen, Ephron and Wilder can be dismissed defies logic. And since meeting my wife-to-be, I’ve enjoyed more commercial ones- personal favourites being Richard Curtis’. Yes, these films exist in a Neverland of contrivances, but they’re warm, witty and fun. At the cinema I’ll watch anything Kermode has recommended: horror, arthouse, foreign, drama, thriller – at home though I mainly put on a rom-com: good ones have the best dialogue of any genre; whilst being light-footed, not full of multiple plots that a working day can't unravel.

Over the hour Kermode talked us through how the genre has evolved over time. No longer are these movies purely boy meets girl. They can now be girl meets boy, girl meets girl, and – in the case of Shape of Water – girl meets fish. As social attitudes change and cinema as social commentator has evolved (what does the creature in Shape of Water tell us about our treatment of outsiders?), then so too have the romantic leads. 

He then exposes how the stories work, beginning with what the industry defines ‘The Meet Cute.’ For there to be Rom, the two have to meet- if possible in a Com way. Richard Curtis movies are particularly fairy tale in this approach: think about the famous actress entering Notting Hill’s quiet book store, or Colin Firth falling for a foreign housekeeper in Love Actually – these are ‘cute meets’ because they have an element of make-believe to them, making universal love appear surprising and unexpected. In Kermode's dissection we learn how Nora Ephron subverted ‘the meet cute,’ having Harry meet Sally without any fanfare at all. Normally, ‘the meet cute’ is a signal to the viewer that the game is afoot. However, Ephron begins her movie with Harry (Billy Crystal) kissing another woman right in front of Sally (Meg Ryan). Neither appears to care about the other. There is no instant telepathy or antipathy – the two share a car and say goodbye when they reach their destination. In fact ‘the meet cute’ in When Harry Met Sally doesn't come until later in a book store. Simply the film doesn't follow the usual steps of rom-coms. The ingredients are there, but the order isn't. As well as being a filmmaker, Ephron was a foodie: like all good cooks, she knows a little experimentation goes a long way.

Most fans of rom-coms will be aware that there’s always an obstacle the two characters must overcome. What they might not be aware of is how earlier works inspire their favourite films. A great feature of Secrets of Cinema is where Kermode juxtaposes two films in split screen, enabling you to see the similarities between the two. Miranda, a 1948 picture, is put alongside Ron Howards’ Splash- the joins are evident; what is remarkable though is how Kermode connects Paul Thomas Anderson’s Punch Drunk Love with Superman ­– despite loving the former, I never once thought it alluded to Clark Kent. And that’s the thing Kermode elucidates: how texts are interconnected; how genres crisscross and intertwine; how rom-coms elements benefit films that are dark and mysterious - like The Fly - giving them humanity amidst the cruelty.

Punch Drunk Love: Why does Barry always wear blue? Why does Lena always wear red?

Inspired by the programme, I decided to watch some rom-coms that I’d bought from charity shops ages ago and not got round to watching. The first Chico and Rita was recommended on Kermode’s podcast a while ago. I should start by saying it’s an animated movie aimed at adults – I’d never watched one of those. It’s set in Cuba during the 40’s and 50’s –a place I’d never seen in life or art. The film touched me greatly. It really is a swooning wonder, a smorgasbord for the senses, allowing you to inhale the music of the age, digest the politics of the period. The 'meet cute' of the characters follows convention, with Chico’s eyes meeting Rita’s across a busy music venue. Both are musicians: for Chico the piano is the thing; for Rita it’s the voice. Soon the pair go from being bedroom partners to musical ones; but when Rita is thrust into the spotlight (obstacle) problems arise. Considering Kermode’s episode, I saw how the rom-com has become more nuanced. In earlier movies, the obstacle was often physical: another man or woman often got in the way. Now, it’s more existential: one of the leads has a crisis of confidence that throws the romance off course. Also, I saw within the film allusions to Casablanca: in a nightmare scene Chico is re-cast as Sam, forced to play the same tune over and over again; later, the camera lingers on an airplane – this time though the airport scene is bitter as opposed to sweet- and later there’s an unexpected reunion, only less ambiguous than its influence.

Chico and Rita.

Another movie I spun was The Umbrellas of Cherbourg. I bought this because I know it was an influence on Damien Chazelle’s La La Land – which I thoroughly enjoyed. The 1964 film is something of a surprise because the whole thing is sung. Having never been to the opera, initially I was thrown. Normally musicals oscillate between dialogue and song, which allows for the numbers to register more emphatically. In Umbrellas the music is more about mood than declaration; less about standing out, more about drawing in. Over time a doublethink is achieved: you recognise it as part of the fairy tale element of rom-com, yet by having it maintained throughout, director Jacques Demy makes it seem ordinary too. A good-rom com then should simultaneously feel typical and atypical: typical enough to register the emotions, the feeling of ‘I’ve felt that’; atypical so the characters seem larger than life, people to aspire to. For a picture to work it has to square the circle of holding a mirror up to reality whilst offering an escape from it.

As for what Umbrellas is inspired by, I would hazard a guess that Demy had seen Singin’ In The Rain. In that film the umbrellas were a prop, something to twirl and unfurl; however, in Umbrellas the parapluies are a symbol: the film features an umbrella store where our heroine works, as long as it’s there our lovers are safe, insulated from life's rain; however when it's sold later, their love crumbles, the elements prove too strong; the Gods have won.

Never having made a film himself, Kermode is no magician. He's never turned his wavy hands to the magic of filmmaking. Yet he deserves a place in its magic circle because he’s done more to promote the craft than 'successful' directors. In championing celluloid's genuine rabbit-pullers; in promoting starter kit amateurs; in challenging cinema's false mediums, he more than deserves his place at the table. In revealing illusionists secrets, he’s elevated them, making us grasp how truly extraordinary they are. An extra seat, alongside Friedkin, should be granted. Failing that, Michael Bay can give up his - and Kermode can sit there.

The Secrets of Cinema is on BBC 4, Tuesday at 9pm

Much Ado About Nothing

Earlier this year Emma Rice, the artistic director of The Globe, was forced to leave her post after falling out with the theatre’s board. Concern with her vision was evident from the start: her take on Shakespeare was something the theatre hadn’t seen before- there was inauthentic sound and lighting as well as modern costume and staging. In the hallowed home of Shakespeare, traditionalists felt Rice had ransacked the ancestral property, stripping it of its character, putting up gaudy wallpaper in its place. The heritage site of England’s finest was aflame; the director charged with arson – she had to go.

I saw one of her approved productions last year: Romeo and Juliet. And although I didn’t like every element of The Day Of The Dead vision, I admired it. These plays are over 400 years old – do people really want to see another loyal Elizabethan version? I think some critics see it as egocentric when directors modernise or transpose Shakespeare, conceiving it as ‘change for change’s sake.’ They would argue that you can’t improve on perfection so why tamper with something that has worked for centuries. For me, this is the antithesis of art, of society. Something great can be made greater. It’s not arrogant to think a Shakespeare production can be improved; rather it’s cowardly and conservative to believe that it can’t. As long as the words and characters are there, it’s Shakespeare; the conduit can be changed, the message is still the same. Teachers will always tell students that Shakespeare is relevant to them: the postcode war in Romeo and Juliet, the fake news of Othello, the about-turn of teenage love in Midsummer...: so what’s the problem if it looks and sounds relevant to? A more relatable context can turn a Shakespeare denier into a believer. Just because elitist commentators ‘get it’ straightaway doesn’t mean everyone does. Paradoxically for an Elizabethan writer, Shakespeare feels modern; so I have no problem with him looking it too.

Emma Rice. Pic. courtesy of Daniel Hambury.

The reason why I talk about this is because I’ve just seen a wonderful production of Much Ado About Nothing by the OVO theatre group. Performed in St Albans’ Roman amphitheatre, the setting is incongruously fresh. Instead of being set in the 16^th century port of Messina, it’s staged in the American Midwest. The men returning from battle aren’t soldiers but members of the Navy, stationed on the USS Gull, a minesweeper used in the Second World War and Korean War. One of the men returning is Benedick, who sees himself as something of a sexual libertine. If he was to draw a self-portrait, the cock would be elongated and the body more ripped than true. Soon he’s entering into ‘a skirmish of wit’ with Beatrice. In terms of heroines, Beatrice is one of Shakespeare’s best. Given the play was first performed in the 16^th century, she is more than a match for Benedick; in fact, she is his intellectual superior. In response to his constant barbs, she responds with insults of her own, challenging his weight, ego and misogyny. The repartee between the two performers, Faith Turner and Peter Bryans, is sublime with each recognising the need for quick-fire timing. Deep down though the two characters are in love; their words mask their emotions. The two have the gift of the gab; however are emotionally mute. Neither has the courage to confess their feelings, aware that the other could ridicule them for it. These characters pride themselves on their intellectualism, as a result they can’t debase themselves by playing commoner and confessing love. A teacher colleague of mine made a wise remark on playing Beatrice: he was saying that when the insults have ended and Beatrice says in an aside, ‘You always end on a jade’s trick,’ that’s where you tell the quality of an actor. This line reveals Beatrice’s true character: that she’s hurt by Benedick’s words; that she’s vulnerable. Some actors don’t have the ability to transition quickly from comedy to tragedy, but Turner does, making OVO’s Beatrice appropriately big and small.

In rehearsal.

Given the play features returning American Navy men, it’s probably wise that I tell you how it fits into directors Adam Nichols and Janet Pond’s vision. The men have come into port and like all good sailors want some kicks. They set up residence in Leonata’s (a change from the original's Leonato) diner, a place where you can unwind with a beer and the jukebox. In the evening a girl group are in residence, The Sonnettes (a play on 60’s girl group, The Ronettes). OVO are known for including live music and this inclusion is a testimony to the craft that goes into their productions. The band, situated to the side of the stage, are sublime, banging out the tunes of Chuck Berry, The Supremes and Shangri-Las. Sometimes the music is just there to establish the atmosphere of a forthcoming scene; other times it’s there to reflect on the action. When Benedick and Beatrice eventually realise their love, a singer sings a beautiful rendition of Etta James’  ‘At Last.’ When Dogberry, a member of the watch, arrests Borachio for subterfuge, we’re in to Elvis’ ‘Jailhouse Rock.’ Whether the music is literalising the action or colouring a scene, the choices always feel right. The whole sound direction of the performance is to be applauded. We know the tunes, but we’re not distracted by them. It’s not clap-a-long jukebox musical, but a soundtrack to a wonderful play.

The 50's staging. Picture courtesy of Jonnie Nash.

The production, on the whole, is loyal to Shakespeare’s words - although some are pruned and chopped. A few are altered altogether. (The board of The Globe would have kittens.) I really didn’t mind some bits being changed and in fact enjoyed the inventiveness. In one earlier scene where Benedick says what he would rather do than talk to Beatrice, his words are given a period setting. Instead of proposing, ‘I will fetch you a tooth-picker now from the furthest inch of Asia,’ he instead says he will ‘pluck the cigar from Castro.’ Since we’re in a 50’s/60’s setting, it would be jarring to hear arcane references; therefore, the writers stay loyal to their period. Having taught the play to secondary students for a few years, I, along with the students, enjoyed picking up on the changes; it also served as a reminder that all good art is collaborative; in this case between the living (OVO) and the dead (Shakespeare).

Having been to The National and The Globe, I was a little apprehensive about seeing a production by a group I’d never heard of. I was wrong and ignorant to worry. It genuinely is the best time I’ve ever had at a Shakespeare play. The attention to detail was truly staggering for people that have day jobs. It really is awe-inspiring when you think about the commitments people have with work and family that they can find the time, not just to put on a Shakespeare play, but to be in dialogue with it. OVO really consider how they can corporealise the Bards' ghost for an audience that either haven’t seen a Shakespeare play or have seen so many that it’s hard to be impressed. OVO’s Much Ado is proof positive that you can put Shakespeare in a swing dress without him looking ridiculous. After all, centuries turn, styles change, but his lyrical voice remains constant. As long as creatives don’t lose sight of the language, they should feel free to dress him how they like.

Much Ado About Nothing is on at Roman Theatre of Verulamium until 21st July.

Southgate's England

Yesterday England achieved something I never thought they could: win a match without causing cardiac arrest.

After Harry Maguire opened the scoring, the team seemed to exude a confidence that we haven’t seen since England beat Germany 5-1 in a World Cup qualifier. Yes, we’ve waited seventeen years for our side to deliver a performance that projects authority, skill and endeavour.

The team that beat Germany were billed as ‘The Golden Generation.’ Ferdinand, Terry, Gerrard, Scholes, Owen. These weren’t just the best players in England, but the world. So why could they not get beyond the quarter-finals? In the case against his team, Eriksson would cite bad luck. In 2002 they met Brazil, the greatest world cup nation, whom would go on to win the tournament. In 2006 they lost on penalties to Portugal, having played the final hour with ten men. Therefore, one might excuse the team of coming up against the best; of falling foul of the footballing Gods.

Can any team who has Paul Robinson in goal be golden?

What this denies though is the true context around these games. In 2002 Brazi’s Ronaldinho was sent off on the hour mark. England had thirty minutes – with a man advantage – to claw a goal back; they couldn’t do it. In 2006 they were the ones down to ten men – the reason? Wayne Rooney stamped on an opponent. Eriksson might say luck was against England, but that, in my mind, is a Stalinist re-working of history. England didn’t progress because the stars were against them. Rather they were architects of their own downfall. An inability to seize the moment and an ability to be indisciplined in key moments was their undoing. When it came down to it, the golden generation were fool’s gold: they may have looked like the real deal, but when put to the microscope they were found wanting.

The last World Cup was forgetable for England. In a challenging group we were out after two games. The nation forgave the team because their performances weren’t abject, showed some promise, and the players were seen as ones for the future. Well, the future came in the 2016 European Championships. And the future was not kind. Iceland was meant to be an easy game. Having a population of eleven meant the side had few to pick from. Despite being co-managed by a dentist, England didn't expect to be opened wide (Don't excuse the pun). With an early Wayne Rooney penalty it looked like plain sailing. Then Iceland equalised and the game changed. Joe Hart, England’s goalkeeper, seemed to forget that there was more to football than shouting and conceded again. England had seventy minutes to find a goal. Unfortunately, they did not rise to the occasion. There was no Churchillian sense of purpose and mission. Instead they negotiated Europe with all the acumen of Theresa May. It was clear there was no plan, eventually they exited with cowed embarrassment.

Joe Hart may have been more effective if he adopted this position the whole game. Pic. Reuters

So when Sam Allardyce became England manager the nation breathed a sigh of relief. No longer would the team be paralysed by the world stage. If England played in Allaryce’s DNA, we had nothing to fear. Big Sam had big balls; his progeny surely would too. In all seriousness, we believed that this was the only thing stopping us from advancing: a small matter of courage. When pressure was exerted on England, they crumbled. If their mentality could be sorted, then we would have a chance. Unfortunately, as well as the players, there was a problem with the coach’s mind-set. In a ‘set up’ meeting Allardyce discussed ways of circumventing the FA’s rules on player transfers; the subsequent publication left the bosses with no option but to sack their man. With one game and one victory, Allardyce’s 100% win record makes him England's most successful manager of all time. (It’s a wonder that people are venerating Gareth Southgate when his stats compare so unfavourably to Big Sam’s.)

Next in the media firing line was Gareth Southgate: the oxymoronic bright footballer. Southgate enjoyed a top level playing career, captaining three different sides; though most notably he was known for failure. One failure in particular. In 1996 he missed the deciding spot kick in the European Championships. On a wave of Baddiel and Skinner euphoria, Southgate hit the iceberg, sending  England's hopes south. Along with Stuart Pearce and Chris Waddle, he became part of the missed penalty alumnus; a prestigious group that would eventually initiate new members – David Batty (“Quickly Kevin: will he score?”) being a noticeable one. Questions were raised over the appointment. Was putting an individual famous for failure in charge of a group renowned for it a good idea? Were we not just sending a man with a jerry can into a burning building? Or had the FA got out their old maths textbooks and realised that two negatives made a positive. If blood and thunder jingoism didn’t work, maybe a child-level approach to maths would.

Southgate, who had previously managed to Under 21’s, started slowly but assuredly. In an easy group the points tally soon racked up. No one seemed to care though. England had topped qualifying groups before, and then capitulated in the tournament itself. No pride could be taken in heading a group that had Scotland in joint second. (No offence meant). If you’re the kind of person that gets vainglorious about defeating the Auld Enemy, you're probably the type of person that celebrates successfully negotiating a pedestrian crossing. The one thing that did get people mildly excited about England was the manager’s insistence on things. Previous England managers had forgotten that football consists of a midfield, choosing instead to routinely bypass it with long balls. Southgate, on the other hand, experimented with ball playing defenders in a back three, utilising wing-backs as many premier league managers do. Consequently, England showed signs of pass and move – not quite a Liverpool groove, but neither a dad shuffle too. At least someone was trying to give the team an identity.

On to Russia. 

The first half against Tunisia had us all salivating. An early Harry Kane goal calmed the nerves. Then, England launched wave after wave of attack. Unfortunately, the general spearheading the campaign, Jesse Lingard, had a crisis of conscience, hesitating when tasked with shooting – it nearly cost us. The first sign of a new look England is that it didn’t. An old England would have asked FIFA for special dispensation to fly in Andy Carroll and hoof the ball up to him in the closing minutes, but Southgate’s England stuck to their manager’s instructions, working the ball, until the Tunisians grew so tired of defending that they forgot to pick up their markers, earning England the win.

Kane celebrates. Pic. courtesy of Kieran McManus.

The next game against Panama pitted The Three Lions against big game hunters. Despite Panama’s best efforts to turn the playing field into a parking lot and go Fight Club on the England team, Southgate’s boys came through 6-1 winners. We had beaten low level opposition before, but not with this level of swagger. (In fact I recall a game against Trinadad and Tobago where Peter Crouch had to pull a man’s dreadlock for England to win 1-0. We had won without resorting to schoolgirl tactics - we were on the up.)

With eight changes to a winning team, the Belgium game taught us nothing. Well maybe it taught us one thing: don’t underestimate players. With a new backline Jordan Pickford looked shaky in goal. The few shots that were thrown at him were parried back into harms way. The goal that eluded him led Belgium pundit/goalkeeper Thiibaut Courtois to say he ‘would have caught’ the shot. England finished the group as runners up, evading a potential quarter final with Brazil. Still, few were seriously impressed with England. They had beaten Tunisia in the last minute and taken a defenceless (don’t excuse the pun) animal to the sword in Panama. Knock-out football is the thing and typically it’s our ruin.

Pickford saves. Pic. courtesy Alex Morton.

Under extreme provocation England survived a battering from Colombia. If Panama were ASBO’s in red, Colombia were the definition of shithousery. They kicked out at everything, except the one thing that mattered : the ball. In previous tournaments an England player would have been sent off (see Beckham/Rooney), but in this one no player wanted to let their teammates down. Settling a personal score wasn’t as important as the score itself – they kept their cool. Even after they conceded in the last minute, they recovered in the second half of extra time to create gilt-edged chances. In the shoot-out they showed tremendous character to come from behind (nearly never done) to win. The maligned Jordan Pickford was England’s hero. He had risen to the occasion when his teammates needed him most. England were through.

Despite the optimism, the public weren't totally convinced. The performance against Colombia hadn’t been great. The defence had performed as a cohesive unit – something not predicted before the tournament – but the attack hadn’t. Alli looked heavy legged in midfield and Sterling seemed to be running into walls. The fluency in attack of England’s first games was not there. Ironically, it was penalty kicks that were keeping us in the competition. The first twenty minutes of Sweden looked more of the same: nervy, ponderous and stilted. If football was coming home, it was coming in a body bag. However, set pieces have been England’s secret weapons in this tournament. Ashley Young floated one in and Harry Maguire buried one away. England were now in their groove. Henderson conducted his orchestra from the centre, controlling the direction of the piece. Sterling's allegro was phenomenal (albeit his finishing wasn't); Alli's goal provided a string to his bow; and by the end Lingard was correctly trumpeted for his work. For the first time in the tournament, the attack and defence had passed the test.

Togetherness. Pic. courtesy AFP.

And as for the man that we owe this semi-final to: he’s cut from the same cloth as Sir Bobby and Sir Alf – England’s two great managers. Those men were passionate supporters of their nation, but they were never jingoistic. They respected the opposition and expected their players to too. More importantly, they believed in the team. Ramsey left talismanic Jimmy Greaves out of the World Cup final in favour of the inexperienced Geoff Hurst. For Ramsey it wasn’t about reputations but form. He picked the players that would fit into a system and not the other way around. Bobby Robson was a man that didn’t lower his knowledge to his players level but raised them to his. He thought if you treated people intelligently, then they would be intelligent with you. Gareth Southgate has these qualities: discipline and decency. As well as calm, his other buzzword has been ‘collective.’ In a world of Ballon d’Or individualism, this is a refreshing word to hear. For Argentina and Brazil, their performances in the tournament were hamstrung by belief in messianic figures (don’t excuse the pun). In prioritising their star men, they forgot other great players orbited around them. Bill Shankly once said, ‘The socialism I believe in is everyone working for each other, everyone having their share of the rewards. It’s the way I see football, it’s the way I see life.’ These Three Lions might not bring football home, but what they will bring is its values: the idea that personal advancement is best achieved through co-operation; that in working together, enjoying what you do, happiness can be found.