POLANSKI BEAT

At the conclusion of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s classic story, ‘The Red Headed League’, Sherlock Holmes responds to Watson’s effusive praise of his efforts with a shrug, saying:

‘“L'homme c'est rien – l'oeuvre c'est tout,” as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand.’

Why do I mention this? Because of Roman. Poor Roman.

You have to hand it to the US authorities; whatever they lack in immediacy, they certainly make up for in dogged persistence. Over 30 years it’s taken them to catch up with European arthouse cinema’s most wanted – the Ronnie Biggs of film.

The response to Polanski’s arrest in Switzerland has been one of near universal outrage – partly because of the sheer unexpectedness of it (though one has to concede that unexpectedness may play a fairly crucial part in its successful completion). France's culture minister, Frederic Mitterand (Polanski is French by birth) declared himself ‘dumbfounded’. British author Robert Harris – with whom Polanksi had been working – was ‘taken aback’. President Sarkozy said he was following the case closely, and hoped it could ‘soon be resolved’. Harvey Weinstein called it a ‘miscarriage of justice’, and said he was going to call Arnold Schwarzeneggar (presumably to have him flex his metaphorical muscles as Governer of California, rather than spring the accused from jail with a massive truck and lots of guns).

Meanwhile, organisers of the Zurich Film Festival, where Polanksi was to have received a lifetime achievement award before being collared by Swiss police, were in ‘shock and dismay’, and immediately arranged a special ceremony ‘to allow everyone to express their solidarity for Roman Polanski and their admiration for his work’. Now, a petition has appeared – signed by over 100 leading names in cinema, including Woody Allen, Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu, Martin Scorsese, David Lynch, Wong Kar Wai, Harmony Korine, Stephen Frears, Michael Mann, Wim Wenders, Tilda Swinton, Julian Schnabel, Whoopi Goldberg, Monica Bellucci and Pedro Almodovar – stating: ‘We demand the immediate release of Roman Polanski’. They add: ‘Roman Polanski is a French citizen, a renowned and international artist now facing extradition. This extradition, if it takes place, will be heavy in consequences and will take away his freedom’.

Like Woody, Martin, Whoopi et al, I appreciate many of Polanski’s films (though, clearly, Bitter Moon was a mistake). I hope he continues making them. I also think there are many questions to be asked about the way this absurdly long investigation has been conducted, and perhaps also its current outcome. Nevertheless, there’s something in this outpouring of support, these demands, that niggles. No, that screams.

Suppose, for a moment, that this wasn’t Mr Polanski, but Mr Zadenski. And suppose that he wasn’t a film director, but a pipe fitter. Would there be a similar outcry? Of course not. In all likelihood, we wouldn’t even hear about it. Even if we did, would the cultural and intellectual heavyweights of the world be leaping to his defence? Would anyone? Unlikely. Isn’t it more probable that the prevailing view be: ‘If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime’?

Let’s just consider the original ‘crime’ for a moment. According to the testimony given to a grand jury by 13-year-old victim Samantha Gailey, the then 44-year-old director had plied her with alcohol and drugs, and taken nude pictures of her in a hot tub during a fashion shoot. He then had sexual intercourse with her despite her resistance and requests to be taken home. Polanski originally faced charges including rape and sodomy, but following plea bargaining these were dismissed in exchange for him admitting unlawful sexual intercourse with a minor. However, rather than stand trial he skipped bail in 1978 and never set foot in the US again. So, not an incident to be particularly proud of, nor one that, under ordinary circumstances, we would dismiss lightly. Had the hypothetical Mr Zadenski been the perpetrator, it seems unlikely he would have elicited much sympathy.

Polanski, however, has widespread support. Why? Because he’s a great film director. This fact is not only the spur that has kicked people into action, it has become the main thrust of their argument. He is talented. Successful. Renowned.

So, should murder now be taken less seriously if committed by someone with artistic talent? Should we treat the wealthy more leniently than others if they break the law? Should the severity of punishment by the criminal justice system be inversely proportional to ones fame? Of course not. Even a child knows that such a view of justice is absurd.

And yet, French director Luc Besson – who refused to sign the petition – was practically a lone voice of sanity when he said: ‘I have a lot of affection for him. He is a man that I like very much, but nobody should be above the law.’

Some have pointed out that the victim has herself called for the charges to be dropped, having previously reached an out-of-court financial settlement with the director. But is this really a satisfactory conclusion? Was it satisfactory in the case of Michael Jackson? Is it justice, or is it really just another example of the rich being able to buy their way out – a situation that only invites further abuse by alleged victims and alleged perpetrators alike?

There are many complex issues raised by this case, but what has emerged most forcefully – eclipsing all else – is that we seem suddenly incapable of making the simple distinction between a man and his work (or, as Holmes puts it, in the tongue of Polanski’s native land, between l’homme and l’oeuvre). It’s a failure of our powers of perception at the most fundamental level – and one that, bafflingly, has afflicted not just ordinary folk, but many of the most perceptive minds in cinema.

Perhaps, for them, it’s all a little too close to home. And perhaps there’s one key question that should be uppermost in their minds: How good do your films have to be to save you? Because if the shit hits the fan and your freedom comes down to critical appreciation of a body of work, you’d better hope you’re a Polanski rather than a Glitter.

Scorsese, surely, is bullet proof. Woody would probably be OK (though he might want to buck his ideas up a bit). Lynch we expect to be weird anyway. Yeah, those guys are safe.

But what of Michael Bay? A commercial success, sure – but can he hack it artistically? Which side of the line would Joel Schumacher fall? Or Brett Ratner? Would Renny Harlin be damned or saved by his oeuvre? And do we judge on content? Has Cronenberg always looked like a dodgy character? Would Lars Von Trier be judged more harshly because Cannes audiences booed?

If ever there were an incentive for directors to make decent films, surely this is it.

ANTICHRISSED

Antichrist Lars von Trier (2009) Denmark/Germany/France/Sweden/Italy/Poland

In a recent piece for the Daily Mail, critic Christopher Hart slammed maverick Danish director Lars von Trier’s controversial new work Antichrist – but also succeeded in creating a controversy all his own. Under the heading ‘What DOES it take to get a film banned these days?’ he went straight for the soft underparts, with the opening words: ‘A film which plumbs new depths of sexual explicitness, excruciating violence and degradation has just been passed as fit for general consumption by the British Board of Film Classification.’

Having a go at von Trier is nothing new, of course. At Cannes, it’s practically compulsory. The part that really ruffled readers’ feathers, however, came in the fourth paragraph. ‘I haven't seen it myself,’ said Hart, ‘nor shall I – and I speak as a broad-minded arts critic, strongly libertarian in tendency. But merely reading about Antichrist is stomach-turning, and enough to form a judgment.’

This was greeted with hoots of derision from readers and commentators of every hue – including fellow critic Mark Kermode – all of whom seemed to struggle with the concept of judging a film you haven’t actually seen. When Hart talked of the film containing ‘horrors the likes of which I have never witnessed’ you could almost sense the half-stifled guffaws of disbelief, and the cry from the bequiffed gentleman at the back of ‘That’s because you haven’t seen them...’

When he went on to harangue ‘the anonymous moral guardians of British Board of Film Classification (BBFC), who in their infinite wisdom, have passed this foul film for general consumption’ you could almost hear the unrestrained cascades of cruel laughter, and the pantomimesque heckles of ‘Their wisdom may not be infinite, but at least those moral guardians bothered to watch it!’

And when he continued by stating: ‘It doesn't surprise me that Antichrist was heavily subsidised by the Danish Film Institute to the tune of 1.5 million euros,’ you could almost feel the furrowing of the eyebrows and lengthy pause for thought across vast swathes of southern Scandinavia, as the entire population of Denmark mused on whether they had just been roundly insulted.

All of these reactions, of course, are grossly unfair. I may not agree with Christopher Hart’s assessment of von Trier’s film, but I defend to the hilt his right to pass judgement on it in a state of complete ignorance. In fact, let me add my own voice to his.

I haven’t seen Antichrist either, but based on blind assumption, hearsay and rumour I judge it to be possibly the best film I have never seen. The opening sequence, in which the couple make love while their child falls out of a window, is both beautiful and heartrending, while the Sleepy Hollow bit with the arms coming out of the tree looks absolutely marvellous.

As far as the much-debated genital mutilation goes, well, I’m all for it. Just another one to add to the collection, from my point of view. And who cares if it hasn’t got a happy ending or a moral? That’s why we have Disney and Dreamworks, for goodness sake. As for the idea that these shocking images corrupt us, I’m with Wes Craven on that one – such cinematic shocks and traumas are small rehearsals for the shocks and traumas of real life, and so are life-enriching, not corrupting.

The bits in between – though largely imagined – are by turns absurd, tragic, funny, sickening, heartwarming, thrilling, stomach-churning, poetic, offensive, bold, terrifying, sentimental, misogynistoc, ironic, meaningless and life-changing, and the sequence in which Willem Dafoe does tricks on a bicycle in an apple orchard to the strains of Burt Bacharach and crashes into the mic boom is sheer movie magic.

Some – bandwagon jumpers, BBFC officials, people who have actually seen the film – may take issue with this unfashionable point of view. But it’s people such as Chris and myself who have the purest possible experience of it, unsullied by the distraction of any kind of objective reality. Certainly, our versions are a hundred times better and/or worse than yours. Born out of sheer bloody ignorance, these are pure and unfettered experiences – untouchable, incorruptible, beyond criticism; something those who have actually seen Antichrist will never know, and have absolutely no right to comment on.

In short, a fabulous film, that everyone, young and old, should see. Or not.

DESPERATE ANTICS

Desperate Romantics BBC 2, Tuesday 9.00pm

"In the mid-19th century, a group of young men challenged the art establishment of the day. The pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood were inspired by the real world, yet took imaginative licence in their art. This story, based on their lives and loves, follows in that inventive spirit."

It’s witty. It’s entertaining. It looks great. But what’s it all about?

Well, the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, apparently. There’s the young, fresh-faced one whose talent the others envy (John Millais), the bohemian, brooding one who’s always tapping the others for cash (Dante Gabriel Rosetti) and the stripped-to-the-waist boxing one known as ‘maniac’ (William Holman Hunt) who is, well... a bit of a maniac.

The drama follows them on their quest for fame and fortune in the art world, set against a lively backdrop of saucy London lowlifes and the stuffy, Academy-dominated art world. They dash about bustling, Dickensian streets, questing here, questing there, pursuing the perfect model, ordering gins on the slate in whore-infested taverns and wondering when they’ll break into the big time. Seen through the eyes of a (fictional) hanger-on imaginatively named ‘Fred’, the action plays out like a sophisticated and very expensive soap, built around the shifting relationships between the key characters and the wacky/funny/embarrassing/dangerous situations they periodically find themselves in as they vie for success.

Those seeking historical accuracy are likely to be disappointed – as are those expecting to encounter Romantics (as opposed to romantics). It’s all good fun, nonetheless – and the handy disclaimer invoking ‘inventive spirit’ at the start of each episode neatly sidesteps the need to stick to the facts. But while most of us can happily accept the flouting of a few facts for the sake of a juicy narrative (facts, as Dickens points out, are greatly overrated) there’s a far more fundamental issue at the heart of it all. A gaping hole, in fact. What are ‘Pre-Raphaelites’, and why have these men chosen to become them?

Since this is ostensibly what motivates the action of the entire drama, it would seem a fair question – and a necessary bit of information, whether we’re interested in the facts or not. But it remains unanswered. OK, so they ‘challenged the art establishment’. But as to how, the drama gives us no clue. We’re simply told in the opening preamble that they ‘were inspired by the real world, yet took imaginative licence in their art’. And that’s that. The fact that this vague generalisation could apply to any artist at any time doesn’t seem to bother the makers; stereotypical character background has been established. Passionate. Bohemian. Rebellious. Just artists, OK?

The real Pre-Raphaelites were indeed ‘inspired by the real world’ – they felt artists should ‘study Nature attentively’ so they would be better equipped to express their ideas. Certainly they were also passionate, as well as determined to overturn the prevailing trends in art by consciously rejecting ‘what is conventional and self-parodying and learned by rote’. In this, they might be seen to have a great deal in common with the (genuine) Romantic William Blake, who – contrarian that he was – was one of the few to speak out against the establishment of a free National Gallery, on the grounds that it would corrupt young artists and encourage them to copy other art, rather than follow their own pure visions.

But the Pre-Raphaelites were no less contrary. They were radical, yes – but, in many respects, radically conservative, pledged to ‘sympathise with what is direct and serious and heartfelt in previous art’. The fact that they felt the art of their day to be stiflingly mannered and lacking meaning doesn’t mean they had a secret yen to invent Cubism or were planning to set up the Bauhuas. In fact, the art they held up as the ideal to aspire to was, quite literally, medieval. The clue, as they say, is in the name; ‘Pre-Raphaelite’ is a term that evokes what came before – that looks back, not forward.

It is their primary pledge, however, that is the one most noticeably absent from the drama: ‘to have genuine ideas to express’. Theirs was not simply an aesthetic revolution. Art, they felt, had become a depressing parade of empty gestures, and they sought to re-establish painting that had a moral point, based on Christian ideals. Certainly they were hungry for success, but central to their art – and central to understanding both it and them – is a moral crusade.

Yet of all this, there is no hint. True, Hunt seems to agonise – at least for a couple of seconds – before giving in to the charms of his former prostitute model, but this is presented not so much as a moral dilemma as just him being a bit uptight. Most of the time, the rogering and roistering and purposeful striding about streets in long coats seems to go on without too much of a care for anything – apart from how their generic, proto-X Factor quest for fame is progressing.

Why should this be? Does the BBC really believe that an audience who – let’s face it – are prepared to give a drama about a group of 19th century British painters a punt are nonetheless too stupid to understand what motivated them, or too lazy to care? Even if one assumes the most jaded audience possible, raised on a tooth-rotting diet of pure summer blockbusters, the desire to have some vague explanation of character behaviour is still very much in evidence. In fact, whole genres are built on it. Think of all those superhero origins stories – Superman, Spider-Man, Batman Begins, X-Men, Hulk, Blade, Daredevil, Elektra, The Fantastic Four, Iron Man, another Hulk (Incredible), and X-Men Origins: Wolverine, not to mention the forthcoming Thor and Captain America. If these don’t demonstrate that the vast majority of us have more than a passing interest in what makes a character tick – even a comic-strip character – then what does?

But no. Like a household appliance-wielding psychopath in a bad, straight to video ‘80s slasher movie, no explanation is deemed necessary. Instead, we’re just given a kind of shorthand. He’s mental. They’re rebellious artistic types. What more do you need?

The queer thing is that on this point even the writer, Pete Bowker (who also wrote the recent Occupation) seems conflicted. In the midst of it all, the character of John Ruskin – beautifully played by Tom Hollander – shines out like a beacon. This is no bawdy caricature, but a complex, rounded character, whose past and tangled motivations seem utterly convincing (which, ultimately, is more important than whether they are true). Troubled – haunted, almost – and carefully balancing wit with poignancy, the part is often funny, but never played for laughs. The effect of this is to make any scene in which Ruskin appears immediately stand out, whilst simultaneously demonstrating what Desperate Romantics could so easily have been – a great drama, rather than a merely entertaining, unneccessarily dumbed-down romp.