Road to Las Vegas

Rarely does a documentary manage to encapsulate its subject matter with the kind of beauty and non-judgemental insight as Jason Massot’s latest film Road to Las Vegas (2010). Spanning four years, it follows the lives of African American couple Vanessa and Maurice Melton and their five children as they leave home and set off on an indefinite road trip to Las Vegas, where, as Vanessa believes she was told in a message from God, the family will prosper and find a better home. With no more than 300 dollars to their name and using their car as a home, Road to Las Vegas provides a superb insight into the many difficulties and personal traumas the family are forced to deal with, in an account that is at times painfully personal, yet conducted with sensitivity and sympathy from Massot throughout.

Unfolding in the style of a traditional road movie Road to Las Vegas depicts the false promise of new beginnings for a family such as the Melton’s, particularly in Las Vegas, where it’s booming tourist industry offers the opportunity of employment and the ideal setting for a family in search of work and a new home. However, on arrival, Maurice realises that things may be somewhat more problematic than first thought. In the first year of the film he initially finds the kind of job offers he was hoping for, only to realise that due to the enormous demand for work, the income rate is ludicrously low. Rather than accept these unfair conditions, the family continue to search for better paid work. Unfortunately for them, their search is met with similar results.

As the film progresses the family’s plight begins to deteriorate with each year. It is revealed that Maurice has an addiction to crack cocaine, forcing him to leave the family and live on the streets, whilst Vanessa begins seeing one of Maurice’s friends. It is moments such as these where Massot’s abilities really come into play. At no point does the documentary take sides during these family troubles or make any kind of judgement, it simply captures, with unflinching detail, the situation of the family, allowing the audience to think for themselves.

At times, Massot’s film also makes for deeply harrowing viewing. One of the most notable examples of this is Maurice’s brother Lloyd’s funeral, in which we see Maurice, usually extremely tough on the surface, in a state of debilitating grief, weeping and sobbing openly at his brother’s coffin. Although scenes such as this may sound intrusive, Massot expertly walks a fine line between invasiveness and insightfulness. For some, these scenes will undoubtedly be unsettling and uncomfortable. However, in my view, they are a necessary part of the documentation of the family’s journey and their losses along the way. Furthermore, in the context of the film, Lloyd’s death does appear to play an integral part in Maurice’s determination to get clean and support his family.

In contrast to the above-mentioned moments of sadness and grief, the film also succeeds in highlighting the love that both Vanessa and Maurice have for their family. Despite their numerous issues, the couple’s love for their children does remain at the heart of the film, as does the children’ s amazing ability to deal with the spiralling troubles directly surrounding them. In many ways, Road to Las Vegas could also be read as a testament to the family’s unremitting love for each other, as well as the grit and determination of Vanessa and Maurice to stay together through such desperate times.

It is this superbly balanced and wonderfully constructed snapshot of four years condensed into ninety minutes, which make for such a brilliantly engaging and informative piece of work.

The Hammer and Tongs Collection

Anyone with even a passing interest in the world of film and music videos will no doubt be familiar with the work of director/producer duo Garth Jennings and Nick Goldsmith, a.k.a. Hammer and Tongs. Whether this be as a result of their more recent feature films such as The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy (2005) and Son of Rambow (2007) or their hugely iconic music videos for the likes of Blur, Supergrass and REM, you will almost certainly have encountered some form of their work over the past fifteen years or so.

For the first time in their career, The Hammer and Tongs Collection sees the bulk of the pair’s efforts assembled over one disc, including an array of music videos, short films and a behind the scenes documentary thrown in for good measure. Whilst many fans of Hammer and Tongs, myself included, will simply be glad to see the release of such a collection, I feel that despite its moments of unquestionable genius, it is still, at times, a little frustrating. However, theses flaws, which I will touch upon later, are vastly outweighed by some of the most beautifully inventive and innovative music videos from the past two decades.

Some of the more obvious highlights appear in the form of Blur’s ‘Coffee and TV’ (1999) and Supergrass’s ‘Pumping on Your Stereo’ (1999), whose iconic images of walking milk cartons and gigantic, bendy bodies have firmly cemented their place among pop culture’s most memorable moments. This is also true of Fatboy Slim’s ‘Right Here Right Now’ (1999), in which we see the beginning of time followed through to the evolution of man over the course of a three and a half minute song. Fairly ambitious I think you’ll agree.

There are also a number of slightly lesser known gems on this collection, which some may not be quite so familiar with.  For instance, Beck’s ‘Lost Cause’ (2003) is one of the most magically creative and deftly constructed videos in recent memory. Other notable pieces include Eels’s ‘Last Stop This Town’ (1998) and Moloko’s ‘Flipside’ (1998), each possessing surreal, hallucinogenic qualities in equal measure.

Unfortunately, there are one or two forgettable moments. Radiohead’s ‘Nude’ (2007) captures a slow-motion, dream-like effect, which grows tiresome very quickly, the final product being something close to the visual equivalent of a yawn. Not necessarily a bad thing, but hardly a memorable experience. Especially when placed alongside some of the above mentioned masterpieces. The Wannadies ‘Little by Little’ (2003) and Pulp’s ‘A Little Soul’ (1998) also fail to reach the same levels of quality found in the collection’s finer inclusions.

As mentioned previously, there are one or two other flaws to be found. The three short films included, Eiffels Blessing, Toast the Cat and Polish Plums are all very short and extremely unremarkable. Avid fans might enjoy these as a rare treat and a look at the duo’s earlier work. Personally, I felt as though they were included solely to boost the number of features listed on the collection.

However, the most disappointing aspect of the DVD is the shabbily put together documentary. A seemingly random compilation of behind the scenes footage from a number of shoots from over the years, rarely provides any insight or information; a truly missed opportunity to take a glimpse at the inner-workings of one of the most talented partnerships in the business. What makes the documentary seem even more pointless are the hugely extended and unnecessary behind the scenes clips from ‘Son of Rambow’, which has no other mention on the DVD and appears totally pointless in the context of the DVD.

Still, these drawbacks, frustrating as they are, should not taint what is an absolutely outstanding collection of works from such a talented pairing. The inclusion of recent videos, such as the magnificent ‘Cousins’ by Vampire Weekend emphasises just how relevant Hammer and Tongs remain, and furthermore, that there is more than enough potential for just as many great works to look forward to in the future.

Blackmail at the Barbican

When considering the many great works of Alfred Hitchcock, the title 'Blackmail' (1929) is, for many, not one that would immediately spring to mind. Far more likely would be those famous household titles, such as 'Rebecca' (1940), 'Psycho' (1960), or 'The Birds' (1963), each having embedded themselves firmly into the fabric of cinematic and popular culture to such an extent that even those who may not have seen these films are well aware of their influence on cinema to this day. Whether this be through the impact of Hitchcock on the world of horror or through countless parodies of his most iconic scenes over the years, people of all ages will be aware of Hitchcock’s most celebrated moments. However, 'Blackmail', a somewhat forgotten gem from Hitchcock’s formative years, seems to have eluded the same degree of fame and commercial attention as those above mentioned movies. A movie which, in my opinion is worthy of equal celebration.

'Blackmail', Hitchcock’s dark and twisted tale of moral ambiguity follows Alice White (Anny Ondra), a woman who murders a rapist in self defence. Her boyfriend, Detective Frank Webber (John Longden) finds what he believes to be the only piece of evidence linking her to the crime. Unfortunately for them, a wanted criminal known as Tracy (Donald Calthrop) is also able to place Alice at the scene of the murder. What ensues is a story of blackmail and ethical complexity culminating in a finale that I will not spoil now for anyone wishing to see the film.

This Halloween I had the great privilege of attending a screening of 'Blackmail' at Barbican Hall. Accompanied by an original score by Neil Brand, performed by the BBC Symphony Orchestra and conducted by Timothy Brock, the results, I am glad to say were absolutely stunning. Brand’s score somehow manages to provide additional tones, textures and layers to the piece, enhancing each of the elements that made 'Blackmail' such a success in the first place. Its moments of impending danger and mystery are rendered all the more chilling by the orchestration of Timothy Brock, with moments of subtle, understated tension offset majestically by moments of sharp, 'Psycho' ‘shower scene’ style power and intensity.

Such moments are typified in the scene of Alice’s rape, with the orchestra raising the overwhelming atmosphere of dread and foreboding. An already disturbing and unsettling scene, the score also brings with it an added depth of sinister tension, as even though the rape takes place behind a curtain and out of the audience’s sight, the sound somehow adds an extra dimension to the piece, causing the minimal on-screen action to feel far more graphic than it actually is. Equally effective is the violent nature of the orchestration framing the following scene in which Alice kills her attacker with a knife. Once again, through the power of the score, the audience is left with a sense of having witnessed more than they really have; such is the visceral nature of the sound in the scene.

The score also creates the effect of dictating the pace of the film, rather than the film dictating the score, a quality particularly evident in the chase sequences between Tracy and the police. As the orchestration builds in tempo, it also maintains that same, constant tone of potential threat around the corner, raising both pace and suspense in equal measure.

Despite 'Blackmail'’s central themes of threat and exploitation, there are also notable moments of humour and romance, both equally underlined by the score’s seamless ability to shift its tone with deft precision. The early scenes of Alice and Frank having drinks together are beautifully accompanied by a light playfulness in the orchestration, therefore bringing a greater sense of danger and tonal contrast to the sequences of rape and murder which are soon to follow.

Above all else, Brand’s score has breathed new life into an already outstanding piece of work. He, along with the combined efforts of Brock and the BBC Symphony Orchestra, has taken each of the film’s signature themes and developed them to an unprecedented degree. At times humourous and sweet, at others threatening and frightening, 'Blackmail', with this score, is surely as powerful and effective as any of Hitchcock’s most acclaimed achievements. A forgotten masterpiece, 'Blackmail' is as vital a part of the Hitchcock back-catalogue as any other, and if you are presented with the opportunity to experience it with this score, I strongly urge you to do so.

Mary and Max

In recent years there has been a rapid decline in the output of clay animation films. This would appear to be due to the huge increase in CGI animation films from Hollywood, such as 'Wall E' (Andrew Stanton,2008), 'Up' (Pete Docter and Bob Peterson, 2009) and 'Toy Story 3' (Lee Unkrich, 2010) to name but a few. The highly polished, glossy sheen of these films seems to have made the homemade, hand-crafted aesthetic of clay animation a thing of the past. Not, that I am criticising the above mentioned films, on the contrary, I am a huge fan of each, all three being shining examples of just how charming and moving, huge budget Hollywood CGI movies can be when placed in the right hands. However, it is still saddening to see such an imbalance of animation styles on our screens these days.

Thankfully, Adam Elliot’s latest clay animation or ‘clayography’ 'Mary and Max' goes someway to redress this balance. A film of astonishing beauty, 'Mary and Max' is undoubtedly one of THE films of the year. Taking place over the course of twenty years and spanning two continents, the film follows the relationship of pen pals Mary, an eight year old child from Australia, and Max, a forty four year old Jewish man living in New York, suffering from Aspergers syndrome. Through this relationship, Elliot explores the film’s central themes of loneliness, mental illness, love and friendship, all with a deft balance of humour, sadness and subtlety.

Firstly, the clay animation is absolutely impeccable. With an aesthetic that is deceptively child-like, one could easily overlook just how painstaking a process the animation in 'Mary and Max' must have been. This is certainly to the animators and director’s credit, as the style is never too showy or distracting from the unfolding story. Instead, it draws its audience in delicately, allowing its tones and shades to assist in setting the mood.

The balance between the child-like tone and the film’s adult central themes is superbly offset by the narration provided by Barry Humphries, lending itself perfectly to the style of the animation, and allowing the story to be told in way that would be equally fitting to a child’s fairy tale. This is also true of the vocal talent provided by Toni Collette and Philip Seymour Hoffman as 'Mary and Max' respectively, with each adding an extra layer of depth to their characterisation.

The combination of each of these elements makes for a truly exceptional piece of work. Although there are moments of heart-wrenching sadness and a lingering sense of melancholic loneliness throughout, there are also enough moments of quirky humour and touching tenderness to render 'Mary and Max', at times both uplifting and heart-warming. The depth and development of each and every character engages with the viewer in a manner, which would usually seem impossible through animation, such is the strength of Elliot’s script.

For me, 'Mary and Max' should be held in the same regard as Tim Burton’s 'The Nightmare Before Christmas' (1993) as a genuine classic of the clay animation genre. As a genre which is growing ever more redundant at the hand of Hollywood studios’ penchant for big budget 3D and CGI animations, gems such as Mary and Max will inevitably become an even rarer commodity in contemporary cinema, which is why EVERYONE should go see this film at least twice! It really is that good.

The American

As an artist known primarily for his work as a music video director and band photographer, Anton Corbijn’s latest project 'The American', starring George Clooney, could well be seen as a drastic departure from his well established roots. His debut feature 'Control' (2007) yielded great critical acclaim, although some may have noted that being a biopic of the late Ian Curtis, this didn’t really show a significant leap from his usual territory. This time out, however, Corbijn certainly appears to have branched out from those familiar surroundings taking on the spy-thriller genre.

'The American' follows the story of Jack/Edward (Clooney), an assassin and expert weapons builder as he embarks on a task to provide a fellow spy, Mathilde, with a weapon for her next kill. Whilst, on duty he befriends Father Benedetto, a local priest played Paolo Bonacelli, and finds himself romantically drawn to a local prostitute called Clara (Violante Placido). These relationships cause Jack/Edward to reconsider his lifestyle as a hired killer and he decides to make this his final job. Somewhat predictably, things don’t quite pan out so easily.

For various reasons, I found 'The American' crushingly disappointing. Being a huge fan of Corbijn’s work I had possibly set my expectations of the film a little high, yet I still believe 'The American' to be one of the most criminally missed opportunities of the year. It is not Corbijn’s visual skills and sensibilities that are at fault here. The film is replete with stunning shots of spectacular landscapes and beautiful expanses of scenery, which both perfectly emphasise the loneliness of the protagonist and the ability of the artist behind the camera. What IS at fault here is the sense of impending and crushing boredom that sets in around 20 minutes into the piece. Quite simply, 'The American' is a film in which nothing happens for approximately 110 minutes. For long periods, you could be forgiven for thinking that you had walked into an extended perfume or clothes commercial, with many a sequence of Clooney, seemingly performing on autopilot, driving and wandering around alone, looking effortlessly cool, but not doing anything! The only thing he really seems to do is have sex with local prostitute Clara, and with her share a small amount of clunky, unconvincing dialogue.

With regards to Corbijn’s directorial style, as mentioned above, he certainly knows how to compose superb shots and utilise his idyllic surroundings to the highest level. What must be questioned though is his lack of discipline or ability to find an even balance between style and narrative exposition. With such exquisite locations in Italy and Sweden at the heart of the film, Corbijn’s instincts as a photographer take over, resulting in far too many lingering shots that would look great in a holiday brochure, but ultimately hinder and slow the pace of the film.

The performances on display are all perfectly adequate, with the cast making the most of the lacklustre screenplay they have to work with. George Clooney does his usual George Clooney thing as well as ever, providing just the right amount of suave sophistication to the role. Most notably, however, is the performance of Paolo Bonacelli as Father Benedetto. Despite his role being relatively minimal, his presence immediately lights up the screen, conveying a much needed sense of charm and humour to the film.

Somewhere in the midst of this enormous catalogue of, admittedly, wonderful images, was the potential for a fantastically stylish spy movie. With a director of undoubted ability at the helm and a protagonist that appears to be custom built for George Clooney, 'The American' could genuinely have been something special. Sadly, in spite of the cast’s attempts there is nowhere near the required amount of characterisation or plot development. This major flaw makes it almost impossible to invest anything in the protagonist or any of the other key characters. Although commendable for his decision to remove himself from his comfort zone, I for one feel that Corbijn’s vast experience and finely honed abilities at shooting in the world of music and performers is where he clearly excels. Whatever he does choose to work on next, let’s just hope its results are closer to that of the majestic 'Control' and not this forgettable flop.

Leap Year (Ano Bisiesto)

If there is to be a more disturbing or divisive film released this year, it will certainly have to go some distance to top Michael Rowe’s minimalist debut feature Leap Year (Año bisiesto). A depiction of intense loneliness and psycho-sexual torture, or experimentation, depending on which side of the fence you lay, Leap Year raises many a difficult question, with regards to its seemingly complex gender politics.

It follows the life of Laura, played with vulnerable perfection by Monica Del Carmen, a lonely freelance journalist who lives alone in a small Mexican apartment. After a series of one night stands she meets and sleeps with Artur, played by Gustavo Sanchez Parra. Their subsequent relationship grows increasingly violent, with Artur apparently forcing Laura into a chain of appalling, aggressive and demeaning sexual acts. Gradually, however, what initially appears to be a case of intense male dominance, it is Laura who then sets about forcing him into acting out even further acts of sexual violence, reaching a finale that I will not reveal for you here.

Initially, Leap Year left me torn as to whether it is a stark, brutal, and unrelenting portrayal of a woman’s lonely existence, played out with superb complexity, or merely an exercise in repugnant, vulgar and gross misogyny. The first half of the film is pitch perfect. Rowe emphasises Laura’s loneliness beautifully, utilising the tiny confines of her apartment to provide an intimate insight into her sadness. He then goes on to further illustrate the intense nature of her desire for a partner, when we see her staring out of her window whilst masturbating, only to reveal that she is looking at couple just sitting together watching TV. Through a number of one night stands, Laura’s spiralling desperation is made all the more evident, as she is constantly rejected as soon as she tries to establish a connection after they have had sex. To this point in the film, Rowe exerts the correct amount of realism and intensity, drawing us with ease into the world of the protagonist.

However, it is upon the arrival of Artur that things begin to unravel. At first, he appears to be just another one night stand, yet he stays with Laura afterwards, showing her the attention she has so constantly craved from each of her previous encounters. He then returns for a second night, in which we see the first indications as to his violent tendencies. With each passing night that they have sex, his brutality becomes, at times, almost impossible to bear. We see scenes of rape, beating and revolting humiliation, in which Artur forces her to masturbate as he urinates on her.

It is sequences such as those mentioned above that initially left me torn as to Rowe’s intentions with Leap Year. Although the acts are irrefutably degrading, it seems that Laura is the one to really be taking pleasure from them, eventually placing her in a position of power, with her making demands of Artur. However, in spite of this, I, on reflection, believe the second half of Leap Year to be a piece of vile misogynist trash. No matter what Laura’s intentions may or may not be, I can find no justification for creating a ridiculously protracted scene of a woman taking pleasure from a man pissing on her. Or, for that matter, having cigarettes put out on her breasts, or being beaten with a belt.

While some may argue that it is the unflinching, torturous moments which are actually at the heart of the film’s deconstruction of Artur’s character, I could find no argument to stand up against the fact that Leap Year serves only as faux intellectual torture porn.

Rebels Without a Clue

With debut feature Rebels Without a Clue, director and writer Ian Vernon attempts to blend elements of so-called gritty social-realism with black humour, in a film that is about as misguided as it’s unfortunate title suggests. The tagline, ‘Teenagers with guns, drugs and a cool car. All they need to do is lose their virginity’, doesn’t exactly fill one with hope. Its tone being one of slight desperation to attract the teenage, Skins generation via a, shall we say, lack of subtlety and an abundance of brash clichés. It tells the story of four teenagers, who inadvertently interrupt a drug deal and find themselves in possession of drugs, money and a Cadillac. Whilst being tracked by an unnamed thug, they decide to head for Spain in an attempt to escape their current, mundane lives in Manchester.

The key problem with Rebels Without a Clue is the unconvincing and occasionally awkward script. In a film that is primarily centred on an ensemble cast of four, the relationships and the dialogue need to be sharp and engaging if they are to draw one in, yet here, often feels forced and heavy-handed. This is most likely due to the in-authenticity of the interaction between the teens. What should be an entertaining insight into the lives and minds of a group of teens, ends up sounding like an ill-advised guess as to how this generation communicate. This is no more evident than in the all too frequent moments in which, without exaggeration, almost every character to appear on screen refers to Mark (Rik Barnett) as “wanker”. If this is an attempt at humour it comes across as, at best, lazy, and at worst, embarrassing, as though throwing in this word every other minute is somehow going to make teenagers laugh. If not, then it may be that Vernon feels that the constant use of swearing adds to the grittiness or the realism. It doesn’t.

Similarly, the cast on offer fails to capture any sense of realism or comedy. With the exception of Lucy Brennan, who plays Kylie, the performances are wooden and uneven to say the least, although, admittedly, they probably weren’t helped by the equally flawed screenplay. The worst offender though, has to be that of Hylton Collins, whose portrayal of the nameless thug chasing the gang really has to be seen to be believed. In a performance that is so cringe-inducingly bad, I am left unsure as to whether it is deliberately intended as part of the humour. Sadly, I don’t think it is. Dressed all in black, with the words ‘love’ and ‘hate’ tattooed across his knuckles, the thug should have at least seemed intimidating if only in a comic book sense. Unfortunately, the performance holds more in common with Keith from TV show The Office than a scary gangster type. You can almost feel the energy being sapped from the screen whenever he appears, which is a fundamental flaw, considering that this is the character who really needs to be setting the pace in his pursuit of the gang.

Rebels Without a Clue suffers mostly by failing to create an identity for itself. Described as a black comedy, it barely raises enough laughs to call itself a comedy, whilst also lacking anything one might even remotely consider to be gritty or realistic. Additionally, the lack of any consistent or cohesive characterisation further adds to the overall imbalanced tone of the film. All too often, one feels as though Vernon assumes that by simply combining swearing teenagers with dangerous elements such as drugs or guns is an immediate recipe for success, while the reality is that merely putting these components together without a genuine purpose is destined to disappoint.

The Last Exorcism

Over the past few years, documentary-style horror movies seem to have become a fairly frequent occurrence, often achieving varying degrees of success. On one hand we’ve seen wonderfully terrifying examples such as ‘Rec’ (2008) and ‘Paranormal Activity’ (2009), each, in my view, worthy of standing up as true classics of the genre. Equally, however, some haven’t quite delivered in the same way; 2008’s ‘Cloverfield’ and 2010’s ‘Rec 2’both highlighting, albeit in different ways, just how easy it is to get things wrong when shooting in this style. In the case of Daniel Stamm’s ‘The Last Exorcism’ we find a film that embodies many of the qualities that make this genre so effective, yet also manages to implode quite spectacularly due to a few misguided steps.

‘The Last Exorcism’ takes the form of a documentary, following preacher and ‘exorcist’ Cotton Marcus, played superbly by Patrick Fabian, as he sets out to show the world the tricks of the exorcist trade and to reveal the fraudulent and exploitative ways of the church. Somewhat predictably, this doesn’t quite go to plan.

Although the plot and exposition of the film are both highly derivative and explicit in their influences, for large sections ‘The Last Exorcism’ works beautifully, slowly building up the tension and creating an atmosphere of suspense in a way that’s comparable to that of ‘Paranormal Activity’; specifically the moments in which the camera is focussed on the bedroom whilst the couple are sleeping. With these moments, the fear manifests itself in the form of anticipation, rather than what is actually happening on-screen. Examples of this technique can be seen as Cotton and his team are following an apparently possessed Nell through the house. As she moves into different rooms and out of the camera’s sight, one can clearly draw comparisons with the style employed in ‘Paranormal Activity’. Similarly, the scene in which she is alone behind her locked bedroom door, yet the sounds of another voice and a baby crying can clearly be heard, also make for extremely unsettling viewing . In sequences such as this, Stamm exemplifies just how scary and powerful horrors of this kind can be, with literally nothing other than the audience’s imagination providing the terror.

The quality of the performances from the key cast members also adds to the scariness, with no one over-acting or trying to compensate for the film’s carefully understated tone. Ashley Bell’s performance as Nell deserves particular praise for its vulnerability and sensitivity, making the moments of her possession all the more frightening. It is this obvious technique of less-is-more, regarding the cast’s performances, that undoubtedly provides ‘The Last Exorcism’ with its creepiest and spookiest moments, allowing the tension to unnerve its audience instead of screaming at you to be scared.

How frustrating it is then, when in the film’s final act, it decides to abandon every element that had worked to this point, in favour of an ending which is so preposterously bad that it essentially destroys all of the groundwork which was laid before. The realism of the single camera style of shooting is hurriedly discarded to make way for a number of cut-away and reaction shots that simply don’t add up or make sense if the action were truly being captured by one camera. Furthermore, the ‘twist’ in the plot really is laughable. I won’t reveal the ending here, for anyone that is thinking of seeing the film should not be put off by its final 10 minutes, yet when you come away from ‘The Last Exorcism’, the prevailing feeling is one of disappointment at what could have been, rather than appreciating just how good a film it was for around eighty minutes. Such a shame, as given a little more thought, ‘The Last Exorcism’ could well have been one of the year’s best horrors.

Interpol, 'Interpol'

Over the past eight years, Interpol, for me at least, have been without question the most important and consistent band currently releasing music. From the very beginning they have possessed an air of majesty and beauty that has became distinctly synonymous with the band, their 2002 debut ‘Turn on the Bright Lights’ being one of, if not THE, defining indie album of the decade. It can not be overstated just how great an achievement ‘Bright Lights’ is, with tracks such as ‘Obstacle 1’ and ‘Stella…’ showing a maturity and deftness of touch that many bands could only dream of capturing in their first outing.

However, when a debut of such quality is released it is inevitable that doubts will be cast over the band’s ability to follow it up with something of equal worth, with so many bands releasing greatly hyped and well received debuts, merely to fall by the wayside on their second offering. This is an obstacle which Interpol have consistently avoided with consummate ease, with both 2004’s ‘Antics’ and 2007’s ‘Our Love to Admire’ each developing on the qualities evident in ‘Bright Lights’ yet displaying a greater leaning towards epic, and at times cinematic atmospherics, culminating in ‘Our Love to Admire’s’ closer ‘The Lighthouse’, a track of haunting melancholy to rival any of Interpol’s previous work.

Understandably then, the three year wait for self-titled album number four has been a painfully long one. Surely Interpol would once again deliver an album to blow anything else from 2010 out of the water. Sadly, it is with a heavy heart I must report that with ‘Interpol’, the band for the first time, has failed to meet the high expectations they so regularly set for themselves with each release. An album of two halves, ‘Interpol’ begins with so much promise, yet around the halfway mark, gradually falls apart.

Album opener ‘Success’ sets the tone superbly, with the kind of grand production and typically introspective lyrics and delivery from Banks that usually mark the opening of each Interpol record. The album continues with similar promise in the form of ‘Summer Well’, a piano-led track which builds toward an infectious chorus. ‘Interpol’ then reaches its peak with two of the band’s finest moments to date. ‘Lights’ grows and swells in manner that echoes ‘The Lighthouse’, becoming even more haunting and spine-tingling with every listen, placing itself as a true masterpiece amongst the Interpol canon. ‘Barricade’ also finds the band hitting their stride, boasting a deceptively catchy guitar hook and a magnificent Banks vocal as it reaches the chorus. In fact, ‘Barricade’ holds many of the components that could have made ‘Interpol’ a far more enjoyable listen, as from this point onwards the album opts for a more subtle, atmospheric direction.

The results are somewhat frustrating, as many of the tracks lack the edge evident in both their previous works and indeed the first half of the album. Although they aren’t bad, they certainly aren’t anything to get too excited about. ‘Safe Without’ tries its best to find a hook or a tangible thread for the listener to grab onto but ultimately ends up sounding just a bit dull. Similar symptoms of tediousness are present in ‘All of the Ways’, trying its best to replicate the mood of ‘The Lighthouse’ but falls well short, feeling laborious and forced at over five minutes.

Although ‘Interpol’ is clearly not quite the album I had hoped for, it still has enough great moments to ensure that old and new fans alike will be satisfied. Its highlights are more than capable of holding their own against classics from Interpol’s near faultless back catalogue, indicating that there is still a wealth of potential for even more to come from this extraordinary band.

Scott Pilgrim vs the World

It appears to be the case that I am somewhat alone in my view of Edgar Wright’s ‘Scott Pilgrim vs The World’. I have just been having a peek at some of the reviews and comments other viewers have made on the IMDB website and have found almost unanimous love and praise for this film. Additionally, it has also been on the receiving end of great critical acclaim and approval. However, I must admit that I found ‘Scott Pilgrim’ to be a distinctly average and overall disappointing piece of work. For many reasons, it fails to capture any of the wonderfully unique qualities which have become inherent in the work of Edgar Wright, of whom I am a big fan.

As a director of such ability and creativity I had hoped for so much more than what is delivered in ‘Scott Pilgrim’. Whereas Wright has always had the sharp wit and precise focus of Simon Pegg’s writing to steer their previous projects forward, ‘Scott Pilgrim’ feels more like an extensive brainstorming session of potentially good ideas, yet lacks any sense of control or direction. With TV show ‘Spaced’ and movies ‘Shaun of the Dead’ and ‘Hot Fuzz’, the pairing of these two consistently made for highly original viewing, with a truly majestic blend of genre splicing and homage, held together by a string of flawless performances and beautifully constructed scripts.

While the film is visually a huge success, with all the hallmarks of Wright’s directorial style evident in it’s scenes of computer game homage and comic book violence, it lacks enormously in humour and substance. The plot, about Scott having to defeat the seven evil exes of his girlfriend, frankly becomes redundant in the hands of Wright, with ‘Scott Pilgrim’ essentially becoming no more than a canvas for him to show off his skills as a visual artist as opposed to a director with the ability to drive a story in the right direction. For instance, the vast majority of the moments of homage and parody appear to serve no purpose whatsoever and are often entirely irrelevant to what’s going on in the film. It is littered with nods to moments from computer games that are at no point mentioned nor make any sense. This is a major flaw, which should be glaringly apparent to anyone who is a fan of Wright’s previous work, in which any element of parody or homage made sense, and more importantly added to the story.

As a result of such loose direction ‘Scott Pilgrim’ also fails to raise many laughs. The few that do exist often arise from a disappointingly under-used Kieran Culkin, whose perfectly understated performance as Wallace, Scott’s gay room-mate, is one of the film’s undoubted highlights. This overall lack of humour and engagement with the audience left me feeling that ‘Scott Pilgrim’ was more of a missed opportunity than a terrible film. Furthermore, with the input of someone such as Simon Pegg, one can only imagine how much better ‘Scott Pilgrim’ could have been. A project such as this could not have been placed in better hands than those of Edgar Wright, yet still it somehow falls way below par.

Klaxons, 'Surfing the Void'

The follow up to 2007’s ‘Myths of the Near Future’ was always going to be a tricky affair for Klaxons. With a ludicrous ‘nu-rave’ tag, which was more the fault of a gimmick-hungry music industry than the band themselves, it seemed a drastic change in sound and style would be necessary if they were to shake off the shackles of their ‘nu-rave’ image and be taken seriously as a band, rather than merely NME poster-boys. While ‘Myths….’ has moments of greatness, it does possess an element of style over substance; their misguided cover of Grace’s ‘It’s Not Over Yet’, among a few other album fillers, already sounding dated well beyond their three years of age.

Thankfully, with long-awaited follow-up ‘Surfing the Void’, Klaxons find themselves drifting closer toward a sound of far greater depth and longevity. Where ‘Myths….’ relied far too heavily on immediate hooks and distinctly 90s synth sounds to grab your attention, ‘Surfing the Void’ displays a significant maturity both musically and structurally. Although there may not be much in the way of obvious singles or instant hits, the way by which each track grows on you serves to draw you in gradually, in a way that ‘Myths….’ severely lacks. Lead single ‘Echoes’ exemplifies this perfectly, with a deceptively catchy chorus that gets better and better with each listen. ‘Flashover’, a track of pounding intensity and dense production, is also an indicator of just how far Klaxons have come over the past three years.

Although for the most part ‘Surfing the Void’ is a major improvement, there are still a few imperfections lingering from its predecessor. The lyrics, for example, at times are beyond stupid. Presumably supposed to sound astronomical and spacey , they end up sounding more like the kind of insincere, sci-fi bollocks one would expect from Matt Bellamy in his recent attempts to destroy music. An example of such lyrical nonsense can be found in ‘Cypherspeed’, in which we are enlightened with the following: “Ride the pandemonium, The hyper confusion, Escape to nowhere, Glimpse no illusion, In the distance, Information, Glimpse the existent.” Rubbish. However, when compared to how good ‘Surfing the Void’ is as a whole, one can surely forgive them the occasional lyrical lapse.

Overall, the Klaxons return is an extremely welcome one. Whilst there was genuine concern that the band may have faded into obscurity in the wake of the ‘nu-rave’ scene, it would now appear that they possess a purpose and substance that wasn’t quite there before. With ‘Surfing the Void’, Klaxons have not only developed a sound of greater density and maturity, but have also suggested that their best is yet to come.

Salt

Having recently watched Phillip Noyce’s ‘Salt’, I’m still at somewhat of a loss as to some of the glowing reviews I’ve read of this ridiculous film. Being described by many as one of the action films of the summer and the first instalment of a potential ‘Bourne-esque’ franchise, ‘Salt’ should at the very least be entertaining. Yet somehow, despite a decent performance from Angelina Jolie in the lead role, ‘Salt’ merely comes across as boring, predictable, and above all else, stupid.

Littered with gaping plot holes and wooden performances from most of the cast, ‘Salt’ feels more like a bad B-movie, which Jolie has accidently stumbled into rather than a major Hollywood blockbuster. The story of evil Russian spies trying to bring down America is both tired and uninteresting, having been done many times before, only with far greater depth and intelligence. The result here is 1 hour and 40 minutes of watching Jolie carrying out an endless sequence of stunts which would have probably been rejected by the makers of ‘Die Hard 4’ on the grounds of being too far-fetched. Rather than developing and unfolding as an espionage/spy thriller in the vein of the ‘Bond’ or ‘Bourne’ films, ‘Salt’ shares far more in its plot exposition with a comic book movie, yet lacking any sense of charm or humour.

In addition to the sheer unoriginality and overall tedious tone, ‘Salt’ is also painfully predictable. The final ‘twist’ is not only obvious from around the 10 minute mark, but by the time it is ‘revealed’ I, along with most of the audience, had completely lost interest, possessing no element of surprise whatsoever. With characters this painstakingly dull and a plot that’s about as engaging and thrilling as an episode of ‘The Bill’, ‘Salt’ fails to deliver any of the essential components that are so essential to a film belonging to this genre.

The fact that Angelina Jolie still feels the need to make these kinds of film is equally disappointing, confirming her status, for me at least, as the most frustrating actress in Hollywood, somehow managing to move back and forth between film’s of genuine greatness and trashy nonsense; for every ‘A Mighty Heart’ there’s a ‘Tomb Raider’, for every ‘The Changeling’ there’s a ‘Mr and Mrs Smith’. Quite simply, an actress of Jolie’s talent and skill should not be wasting her time on rubbish like this, yet it almost seems inevitable that with ‘Salt’ being tipped as Hollywood’s next major franchise, there will be countless more below par action films to tarnish her CV in the coming years.

Eyes Without a Face

When looking back over the years at the truly defining moments of the horror genre, one will generally encounter the usual titles; ‘Psycho’, ‘Night of the Living Dead’, ‘The Exorcist’, ‘The Shining’, ‘Halloween’, etc. Each of these films has achieved enormous iconic status within popular culture as well as among horror fans, often the subject of parody and pastiche in comedy, TV and commercials. Even today, one is reminded of the terrifying ‘here’s Johnny’ moment from ‘The Shining’ by Lenny Henry in the equally disturbing Premier Inn campaign. Yet many will be unaware of George Franju’s 1959 cult classic ‘Eyes Without a Face’, a film which has been criminally overlooked and forgotten since its release five decades ago. A film that is both mesmeric and disturbing in its tone and subject matter, it’s hard to define why ‘Eyes Without a Face’ has missed out on the notoriety and success of these other classic titles.

The film is centred on Dr Genessier, a crazed surgeon obsessed with trying to find a new face for his disfigured daughter Christiane, following a car crash for which he was responsible. His attempts to do so involve the kidnapping of young women and the subsequent removal of their face. Meanwhile, Christiane is forced to wear a white, featureless mask to cover her horrendous facial injuries, giving her a haunting, ghostly presence. This darkly sinister premise makes for deeply suspenseful viewing, creating enough tension to easily rival many of those famous horror classics. One of the most important factors in producing this atmosphere is Franju’s technique of not revealing the face of Christiane straight away, and when the shocking moment comes, it is still partially blurred and distorted, leaving the viewer to imagine what her face looks like only through the terrified shrieks of the girl who sees her for the first time.

Franju’s intelligent use of suspense and his skill in allowing the audience’s imagination to provide the horror are expertly offset by the moment in which we witness the graphic removal of one of his victims’ face; an unflinching scene which still has the power to disturb, despite the progression in visual effects and graphic imagery since its release. The cold, surgical manner by which he goes about this appalling procedure is equally as effective as any of the typically over-the-top, gruesome murder scenes from most slasher films. In fact, the clinical, emotionless way in which the Genessier conducts this act is probably what makes it all the more unsettling. It is possible that this scene was one of the reasons to the film’s lack of exposure and success, being simply too explicit in its depiction of facial desecration and therefore turning audiences away rather than drawing them in.

Whatever the reason may be, ‘Eyes Without a Face’ absolutely deserves to be considered alongside the true greats of the genre. It’s utilisation of suspense, atmosphere and cold brutality make for a superb example of how horror movies should be made. Although it may be over fifty years old, ‘Eyes Without a Face’ has certainly lost none of its power or ability to shock and terrify.

A Mighty Heart

Since the release of ‘24 hour Party People’ back in 2002, Michael Winterbottom has firmly established himself as one of contemporary cinema’s most interesting directors. His knack for experimenting with narrative structure and exposition have become distinguishing features of his work, with ‘24 Hour Party People’ and 2006’s ‘A Cock and Bull Story’ each receiving great critical acclaim for their unique, innovative approach. Both of these films, however, were low budget affairs, built primarily around a cast of mostly British actors from television or other low budget releases.

For this reason, it may have come as a surprise to many when it was announced that Winterbottom would be directing Angelina Jolie in 2007’s ‘A Mighty Heart’. The coming together of a Hollywood A lister of Jolie’s stature, with the low-key, independent style of Winterbottom would surely be destined to fail. Thankfully, any doubts there may have been regarding such a pairing are immediately shattered, in what must surely be considered career bests for both Winterbottom and Jolie. Telling the tragic story of the kidnap and murder of American journalist Danny Pearl at the hand of a group of terrorists in Pakistan, ‘A Mighty Heart’ details the investigation and ultimately unsuccessful attempts to rescue Danny from his captors.

As opposed to Winterbottom’s previous work, the film’s narrative structure is played out in a linear fashion, possessing a documentary style that serves to make the unfolding tragedy feel all the more real. In many ways ‘A Mighty Heart’ treads a very thin line to absolute perfection, never once crossing over into melodrama or running into the political pitfalls that could so easily tarnish a film of its kind. An achievement clearly beyond the reach of so many post 9/11 political films. Take for example Gavin Hood’s abysmal ‘Rendition’ (2007), a film which took potentially interesting subject matter, only to set about pissing all over it with a stream of contrived, insincere nonsense and dumbed-down, Hollywood plot devices, with no concern for developing its central characters. It is precisely here that ‘A Mighty Heart’ succeeds, making no attempt at preaching to its audience and focussing solely on the relationships between its key characters as they each experience the series of appalling events.

Through her portrayal of Mariane Pearl, Danny’s wife, Jolie really demonstrates her ability as one of Hollywood’s finest talents, giving an astonishingly powerful performance. Throughout the film, as the police are conducting their search for her kidnapped husband, Jolie’s depiction of Mariane is both dignified and graceful, beautifully emphasising the remarkable strength of the real-life Mariane Pearl. By never allowing her performance to veer into melodrama during the search for Danny, the scene in which she is finally told of his death is made all the more harrowing and painful to watch, as we see her finally crumble under the weight of the ordeal she has been through, in a sequence that is both unremitting and overwhelming in its realism. What makes this scene particularly heart-wrenching is the air of inevitability in the lead up towards it, as we know from the start that this moment will eventually arrive, making it doubly distressing when it does.

In a film that could so easily have resulted in leaving its audience with a sense of anger or hatred, the predominant tone of ‘A Mighty Heart’ is one of hope. Through the terrible loss of her husband, Mariane appears unmoved and even more determined that racial and religious relations can only be resolved through maintaining a dialogue with one another, as opposed to violence and terror. A film of rare subtlety and unflinching tragedy, ‘A Mighty Heart’ is a brilliantly understated accomplishment from Winterbottom, further cementing his status as one of Britain’s most exciting and versatile directors.

The Fisher King

Anyone familiar with the work of Terry Gilliam, I’m sure will be aware of his distinctive ability to splice and integrate genres and themes within his films. In 1985’s ‘Brazil’ we see drama, satire and romance fused with fantasy and sci-fi, while 2006’s genre defying ‘Tideland’, my personal Gilliam favourite, combines elements of dream-like surrealism with gritty drama. With ‘The Fisher King’ (1991) we see a slightly more conventional platform for Gilliam’s unique vision. Set in New York, ‘The Fisher King’ could be described as part drama, part comedy and part romance, primarily following the relationship between a suicidal DJ named Jack (Jeff Bridges) and a psychologically deranged homeless man called Parry (Robin Williams), as they embark on a quest for personal redemption and romance.

For a number of reasons, I really enjoyed ‘The Fisher King’. To begin with, the direction is as reliably inventive and visually resplendent as one would expect from Gilliam. In one especially notable scene, we see a bustling subway station magically transformed into a majestic ballroom, the passengers passing through the station also being subject to this transformation, now gracefully dancing with, and amongst one another. This transition takes place as the homeless Parry follows Lydia (Amanda Plummer), the woman with whom he has fallen deeply in love with over the course of seeing her pass through the station every day. Gilliam’s masterful direction in whimsically altering the physical surroundings of the character as a means to represent their state of mind is a common trait in his work, and is as ambitious and awe-inspiring as ever.

The cast of ‘The Fisher King’ are equally impressive in their performances, with Jeff Bridges turning in a typically solid, perfectly measured portrayal of Jack Lucas. However, one of the strongest and most surprising aspects of the film is the superb performance from Robin Williams as Parry. For me Williams has always been a source of massive irritation. A performer whose sheer presence can be enough to ruin a scene, for fear of a typically ‘wacky’ outburst, usually consisting of him shouting lots and leaping around like an over-excited child. An insufferably drawn out and familiar routine, I think you’ll agree. Yet here he manages to keep the balance just right, maintaining the manic edge of the character whilst providing a subtle aura of shyness and fragility that is at times both deeply moving and heart-warming. The moment that he finally professes his love for Lydia almost had me in tears, such was the beauty of the performances in the scene from Williams and Plummer.

In many ways ‘The Fisher King’ could be seen as Gilliam’s most ambitious film. Though many may argue otherwise, that the likes of ‘Brazil’ and ‘Tideland’ are far more visually experimental and deal with seemingly more difficult subject matter, it is for this very reason that I believe the opposite. For Terry Gilliam to release a ‘difficult’ or ‘surreal’ film is generally a to be expected, whereas to produce a mainstream film that is at times funny, heart-warming, tragic and romantic, is in my view, a somewhat more difficult challenge. Particularly, as it retains all the classic Gilliam hallmarks of experimentalism and creative integrity. Although it doesn’t quite take the crown of Gilliam’s best from ‘Tideland’, it’s certainly a close runner-up.

Delicatessen

Films of a ‘quirky’ and ‘zany’ nature have never really sat well with me. More often than not, the same predictable superlatives and adjectives are used to describe them time and time again; fantastical, dream-like, original, weird and wonderful. All of which I tend to wholly disagree with. Usually, these kinds of film are completely interchangeable, taking place in a slightly surreal world and following the lives of a small group of oddball characters. Take for instance, Paul King’s 2009 film ‘The Bunny and The Bull’, whose protagonist, an obsessive compulsive agoraphobic, goes on a surreal, other-worldly journey, meeting a bunch of equally ‘interesting’ (boring) and ‘crazy’ (annoying) characters along the way. Admittedly, a film of great style, yet, substantially lacks in substance. Entertaining for around thirty minutes, tiresome and repetitive for the remaining seventy. Visually the film is a great success, developing a homemade style that will be familiar to those who also watch King’s ‘The Mighty Boosh’. The problem here is that far too much emphasis is placed on the visuals, whilst the characters and plot are essentially ignored and, therefore rendered irrelevant.

2009 again played host to another film that suffered with a similar problem. ‘Micmacs’ from director Jean-Pierre Jeunet, whose 1991 debut ‘Delicatessen’ we will come to shortly, is also very much a case of style over substance. Its collection of off-the-wall misfits living together in a junkyard acts only as a device to string a bunch of bizarre, circus-like sequences together. Although skilfully and beautifully shot, I once again found myself losing interest around the thirty minute mark, as the plot concerning a man seeking revenge on a bullet manufacturing company was so stiflingly dull I began to fear a boredom induced panic attack.

So, we arrive at Jean-Pierre Jeunet and Marc Caro’s ‘Delicatessen’, which, for me, made for frustrating rather than disappointing viewing. The story takes place in a post war/apocalyptic, unspecified region in France, in which food is scarce and a cannibalistic butcher/apartment landlord keeps his tenants sustained on human meat. When a former circus performer named Pinon arrives looking for work, he is quickly employed as a handyman, unaware that he will soon be providing his employer with his next ration of meat. With a rich blend of horror, comedy and art-house surrealism, ‘Delicatessen’ should have left me in awe, hailing it as a modern classic, yet still I felt a nagging sense of frustration. On one hand, it is undoubtedly a far more impressive piece than either of the aforementioned films. Its deftly balanced combination of visual quirkiness and moments of nightmarish, black comedy work to wonderful effect.

However, it is still guilty of prioritising style over substance, with long periods in which nothing actually happens. Yes, there may be scenes and sequences of inventive cinematography and visual artistry, but still nothing is happening. This simply should not be possible for a film with such an inventive and unusual premise. Take for example the moments that depict a man living alone in a dark, flooded flat, infested with frogs and snails. There really is no purpose for these scenes to exist other than for the directors to engage in an act of self-indulgent smuggary and gratification at their own ability. All very nice, but ultimately very boring.

The trouble here really lies in where the directors invest the bulk of their efforts. In trying so hard to place the audience in the world of ‘Delicatessen’ primarily via its aesthetic, the element of engagement through characterisation and plot development are generally overlooked. Don’t get me wrong, ‘Delicatessen’ comes pretty close to striking the right balance, just not quite close enough. When compared to films of such insane brilliance as Terry Gilliam’s ‘Brazil’ or Michel Gondry’s ‘The Science of Sleep’, both master classes in how to achieve emotionally engaging pieces of surrealist, quirky cinema, ‘Delicatessen’ just falls short. With each of the above mentioned films, the aesthetics and surroundings are created to compliment and assist the plot in its development, as opposed to the other way around. In the end, what should have been at the very least a memorable film, ‘Delicatessen’, unfortunately, I found fairly forgettable.

The Idiots

For many a month I have been waiting to see Lars von Trier’s Dogme 95 debut feature ‘The Idiots’. For me, von Trier has been responsible for some of the most intelligent, thought provoking and confrontational cinema over the past decade. I found both ‘Dogville’ and’ Manderlay’ extremely interesting in their approach to improvisation and theatrical experimentation, while last year’s ‘Antichrist’ provided one of 2009’s surprise highlights, boasting two of the years most outstanding performances from Willem Dafoe and Charlotte Gainsbourg.

‘The Idiots’, however, is possibly one of the worst films I have seen in a very, very long time. It is a film of unbridled stupidity, sloppily disguised as a piece of taboo-shattering, art house cinema. Its premise; a group of able bodied and able minded adults pretend to be mentally handicapped in order to challenge society’s attitudes, as well as to get in touch with their own ‘inner idiot’. As ridiculous as this premise may sound, the film takes itself so seriously that one can only imagine how anyone involved failed to detect a sense of irony in the performances of the actors or the manner by which the subject matter was dealt. In some instances, the film glides dangerously close to becoming a parody of self-righteous, Gus van Sant-esque drivel. This pretentious plot or lack thereof, is at best flimsy, and at worst, insulting of its audience.

Stupidity and pretentiousness aside, ‘The Idiots’ is an appalling exercise in shameless shock tactics and unnecessary moments of controversy. In one particular sequence of laugh-out-loud ludicrousness, we see the group embark on a ‘spass (spaz) gangbang’ to further their journey towards their ‘inner idiot’. Just try saying this phrase aloud whilst maintaining a straight face, let alone a serious one. In an attempt to heighten the ‘realism’ and ‘gritty’ nature of this scene, von Trier uses scenes of actors having real sex. Quite what purpose this really serves, other than creating a fair amount of controversy and publicity for the film, is simply beyond me.

On reflection, all that can really be said about ‘The Idiots’ is that it is proof of the fact that even the best directors, even those such as the great Lars von Trier, are capable of producing moments of absolute, inexcusable, nonsensical rubbish. For anyone still interested in seeing ‘The Idiots’, if you feel that watching a group of people acting like 'retards' for two hours, whilst staging a ‘spaz gangbang’ to assist in their search for the ‘inner idiot’ sounds promising, this could be the film for you. If not, don’t bother.

Arcade Fire, 'The Suburbs'

In 2007 Arcade Fire released ‘Neon Bible’, the critically acclaimed follow-up to their 2004 debut, ‘Funeral’, which, contrary to the opinion of pretty much everyone else, I believe to be a far superior album. Although ‘Neon Bible’ had its moments, Intervention and My Body is a Cage being two of the band’s finest achievements, it clearly lacked the cohesive charm evident in its predecessor. In what appeared to be an attempt at sonic expansion and multi-layered musical density in its production, ‘Neon Bible’ had a muddy, and at times, impenetrable sound, which often hindered its tracks rather than enhance them. Take Black Mirror for example. A song which, when played live, reveals itself as a genuine classic to rival any single from ‘Funeral’, yet on record, feels sludgy and laborious. With this direction receiving praise from critics and fans alike, I was fully expecting Arcade Fire to continue in a very similar path.

The potential for disappointment with the band’s third release, ‘The Suburbs’, was further compounded when it was revealed that the record would boast sixteen new tracks, a number which surely suggests a significant amount of filler to be contained within. However, to underestimate a band of this calibre is very evidently a mistake, as ‘The Suburbs’ sees Arcade Fire not only make a clear return to form, but create their best and most accomplished album to date.

The over the top production values have been ditched in favour of a beautifully light and airy atmosphere, allowing each track to breathe and express itself in such a way that would never have been possible with ‘Neon Bible’. Opening track The Suburbs demonstrates this perfectly and acts as a direct contrast to Black Mirror, ‘Neon Bible’s’ opener. With understated piano and acoustic guitars providing a light and sparse mood, The Suburbs acts as a perfect precursor for what is to come over the next 65 minutes. This minimalist approach is once again evident in Modern Man, Rococo, and Deep Blue, displaying a newfound maturity and sense of discipline in their instrumentation.

The Suburbs also sees the band tread new ground in the form of Month of May, a pulsating and intense track that possesses an intensity and urgency previously unheard in their earlier work. Lead single We Used to Wait and Ready to Start each provide moments of similar intensity when compared to much of the album’s lighter moments, both held together by a rigid pulse and tight structure.

Their progression into new territories continues with Sprawl 2 (Mountains Beyond Mountains), arguably the most ambitious move the band have made to date. With a synth laden chorus, Sprawl 2 points the band in an electronic direction unheard in their previous offerings, providing a shimmering backdrop to a spectacularly infectious lead vocal performance from Regine. The way in which the song gently builds and applies its layers without once threatening to impose upon the melodic nature of the central vocal performance is quite simply an achievement in itself.

Not only have Arcade Fire made a welcome return to form with the best album of their career so far, I firmly believe ‘The Suburbs’ to be a true modern masterpiece. They have managed to create an album of such epic scale and grandeur whilst maintaining an atmosphere of understated beauty and simplicity. For me, ‘The Suburbs’ deserves to be firmly placed among the great album releases of the past decade, and certainly the best album of 2010 to date (new Interpol album pending). Furthermore, the sonic qualities displayed here hint at the potential for even greater things in the years to come. Having opened their sound up in such interesting and inventive ways, they really could go anywhere with album number four.