In his final starring role, Richard Harris glowers impressively as the Irish underworld patriarch in Don Boyd’s inspired relocation of Shakespeare’s King Lear to contemporary Liverpool, Sadly Boyd directs with a low-voltage energy which flattens out intense emotion and visceral violence into brightly lit, blandly shot TV cop drama.
Angel At My Table
Jane Campion’s second film (1990) tells the life story of Janet Frame, a New Zealand author who overcame poverty, chronic shyness and (misdiagnosed) schizophrenia to achieve international acclaim. Kerry Fox stars, while Campion hones her own stylistic match of trippy fantasy and gauche intimacy. Earnest, with detours into the ethereal.
DVD EXTRAS: Three interviews with Campion, filmographies, trailer, biography of Janet Frame. 
The Count Of Monte Cristo
The ultimate journeyman, Kevin Reynolds is back with his explosively soulless adaptation of Dumas’ classic. Formerly solid character stars Guy Pearce and Jim Caviezel don Hobbit haircuts and bored expressions as the socially mismatched childhood friends torn apart by jealousy and betrayal. It’s clunky and mechanical, and lacking in even the faintest directorial fingerprint, yet it bounces you safely to the finish.
DVD EXTRAS: Making Of…, audio commentary, deleted scenes, sword-fight choreography documentary and sound design featurette.
The Doors Special Edition
Oliver Stone’s typically overwrought biopic of Jim Morrison has been much-mocked down the years, perhaps unfairly. It’s full of Stone’s signature bombast and is characteristically laden with all manner of wild and windy symbolism, but it has rather more going for it than popular reputation usually allows?not least, a surprisingly good performance from Val Kilmer as The Lizard King himself, fantastic duplication of vintage concert footage, especially the re-staging of the infamous Miami bust, and the patently deranged Crispin Glover as Andy Warhol to fucking boot! Worth another look, at the very least.
The Glamour Chase
Considering it was made precisely midway through the 20th century, there’s an eerily fin-de-si
The Pain In Spain
Former ‘dvd extras’ stars Louis Fulton and Keith Pepe, makers of the superlative Twelve Monkeys bonus doc The Hamster Factor, took centre stage with surprise-hit feature documentary Lost In La Mancha. Detailing seven months of financially shaky pre-production, six self-defeating days of shooting and the eventual collapse of Gilliam’s beloved Don Quixote adaptation, Fulton and Pepe capture the wildcard insanity of Gilliam’s film-making process without ever sneering at his overreaching enthusiasm. Instead, whether he’s giggling excitedly with lead star Johnny Depp or raging at his production designer over the non-soundproof soundstage, or facing stoically an onslaught of calamities that include flash floods, noise interference from NATO bombers, no signed contracts, no props, no horses, and no cash, Gilliam is always the wide-eyed fantasist whose dreams have thankfully remained as large as ever.
24 Hour Party People
Madchester: The Movie, in which Michael Winterbottom proves his versatility knows no bounds. In lesser hands, the juiced-up story of Joy Division, New Order, Happy Mondays and self-styled pratgenius Tony Wilson could’ve been scrawny sit-com, but the pace (and the music) makes it zing. Steve Coogan’s hilarious as the north-west’s answer to Warhol, and it’s the first film to feature a joke about the drug dealers of Rhyl. Terrific.
DVD EXTRAS: Commentaries from Tony Wilson, Steve Coogan, Peter Hook, Rowetta, Miranda Sawyer and others, “White Rabbit” style guide, 24 deleted scenes, Pills’N’Thrills And Bellyaches documentary, Portrait Of A Film-Maker documentary, Peter Saville gallery, New Order music video “Here To Stay”. 
(CR)
Boudu Saved From Drowning
Jean Renoir’s 1932 blueprint for Paul Mazursky’s heavy-handed 1986 remake Down And Out In Beverly Hills stars Michel Simon as a Parisian tramp rescued from suicidal despair by kindly bookseller Charles Granval. Simon’s ungrateful Boudu takes over Granval’s house, wife and life, exposing his bourgeois complacency. Enduring, Chaplin-esque social satire.
DVD EXTRAS: Introduction by Renoir, essay on the film, trailer for the Mazursky remake. 
Hijack Stories
Patchy South African drama from 2000 in which an actor, landing a role as a Soweto gangster, asks an authentic underworld figure and old school friend to show him the ropes of crime and carjacking. Lines get blurred. Director Oliver Schmitz makes some still-valid points about race and class issues, but it’s no Bullets Over Broadway.
The Hound Of The Baskervilles
Awful slapstick version of Conan Doyle’s tale from 1978, with Peter Cook and Dudley Moore (as Holmes and Watson) recycling old sketches badly as they head up a cast of vintage British comic talent (Kenneth Williams, Irene Handl, Max Wall). It’s basically ‘Carry On Sherlock’, and it does the memory of all concerned no favours.
DVD EXTRAS: Trailer, biographies, interview with director Paul Morrissey.
The Temp
Joyously kitsch or shamefully ham-fisted, Tom Holland’s Disclosure esque erotic office thriller sees the surprisingly blank Timothy Hutton as a cookie company kingpin with a suspiciously enthusiastic secretary, Lara Flynn Boyle, who has her own secret and ultimately homicidal plans to take over the entire cookie-making empire. Enjoyably silly until it completely reneges on narrative logic or plot cohesion.
Daddy & Them
Chronically misfiring comedy written and directed on an off day by Billy Bob Thornton, who also stars. He and Laura Dern are a bickering Arkansas couple, spending time with her eccentric white trash family. Little happens, but the casting of Ben Affleck and Jamie Lee Curtis as husband and wife has to be among the world’s weirdest.
An Actor’s Revenge
Stunningly beautiful and utterly bizarre Japanese fable about a medieval Kabuki actor (Kazuo Hasegawa), renowned as a female impersonator, who carries his on-stage portrayal of a woman out into the world in order to seduce and murder the noblemen responsible for his parents’ death. The direction is haphazard, the imagery is amazing.
DVD EXTRAS: Director’s biography, web link.
The Mendoza Line – The Borderline, London
“Hey, who wants a button?” yells Shannon McArdle, offering round a bag of Mendoza Line badges with a smile to melt snow. As charm offensives go, this Athens-born/NY-based quintet pulls out all the stops. On-stage banter flows. Guitarist Tim Bracy drawls eccentric but engaging blabber in a delicious Georgia drawl. And with a ramshackle edge to their rolling country-indie, they give the inviting proposition that, hey, we could be playing on stage too.
Whether anyone could just plug in and replicate The Mendoza Line’s yearning magic, though, is doubtful. Last year’s Lost In Revelry cranked up their dazzling qualities by the yard. At turns sunny and good-natured, at others red raw, embittered and heartbroken, the band navigate a rich sound?densely knotted guitars, lap-steels and pianos?matched only by the richness of experience. As “Something Dark” and “My Tattered Heart And Torn Parts” demonstrate, clearly this is a band who’ve lived and lost a lot.
Nevertheless, as the exquisitely lyrical “What Ever Happened To You?” shows, they don’t go for brooding angst either. Instead, intelligence and wisdom is their compass after emotional storms wreak havoc. A similar level-headed calm informs their back-porch country, too. The gently lilting “A Damn Good Disguise”, played tonight with absolute perfection, is hammock-swaying languor incarnate. Elsewhere, “The Queen of England” hits a mournful juncture somewhere between Dylan and Mark Eitzel. While the astonishing “The Triple Bill Of Shame” weaves a scathing tale of thwarted ambition around Tim’s slack-jaw delivery and slow-crawling lap-steels.
At the other end of the scale, though, The Mendoza Line crash and clatter like a keening anorak indie band. The breathless rush of “In Your Hands” and “Mistakes Were Made”, all fuzzy rushes and one-string guitar solos, bizarrely recall sub-C-86 obscurities The Flatmates. This is no bad thing. Balancing the glum with the glad ensures nobody settles too comfortably in their hazy Americana glow. And besides, The Mendoza Line’s exuberant stage presence kind of warrants ramalama guitar blasts. Set closer “It’ll Be The Same Without You” nails down stomping pop perfection to the max.
Wear the badge with pride.
Wayne’s World
The Flaming Lips
Manchester Academy
THURSDAY JANUARY 16, 2003
Pandas, aliens, gorillas, giant rabbits and Jetsonesque robots. Enormous spinning glitterballs spewing kaleidoscopic prisms. Silver confetti, fluorescent strobes, glove puppets and vistas of Teletubbies. At the centre of this Fellini-meets-Barbarella-via-Trigger Happy TV weirdness lurks Wayne Coyne, dappered up like a carnival barker on a mission. “People often live their lives looking ahead,” opines the fortysomething leader of America’s foremost exponents of mind-melting symphonic cyber-pop, “or to the past, when things were better. What happens is people forget how to live right now, for the moment. And who knows? Tonight may be the last show we ever do. I say you’ve gotta make the fuckin’ moment last. Make right now matter.”
As statement of intent, the nub of Coyne’s philosophy can be traced directly to his father’s death during the making of the Lips’ 1995 album, Clouds Taste Metallic (the point at which their wilfully freakish psych-rock shifted into an altogether more daring realm of sonic adventure), and shored up by the death-triggering triumph of last year’s stunning 10th album and Uncut poll-topper, Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots.
If the latter was the Oklahoma trio’s attempt to glean meaning and joy from unfathomable cosmic design, then tonight’s live experience is the physical manifestation of defiant struggle, of hope forever sprouting eternal. These days, Lips shows bubble with unmatched communal warmth. This heat?from fans dancing on stage in $500 furry costumes to Coyne leading a throng-a-long of “Happy Birthday” to two random crowd-goers?may not have been what Pete Townshend exactly envisaged when he dreamt up that doomed utopia of band/punter communion, Lifehouse, but its effect is as curiously exhilarating as anything I’ve seen on stage.
Their music?like the incongruous optical riot?shouldn’t really work, but does so to glorious effect: sadly rippling piano effects over stumbling hip hop beats wrapped in sensory-shifting symphonic dubscapes, all strained with that strangely suspenseful Coyne tremble that suggests the answers to the Big Questions are within reach somewhere over the next cloud. The most beautiful, fragile moments (“All We Have Is Now”; “In The Morning Of The Magicians”; “A Spoonful Weighs A Ton”) are counterpointed by ebullient crashes through the classic “She Don’t Use Jelly”, Pink Floyd’s “Lucifer Sam” and the megaphone-wielding “Lightning Strikes The Postman”, but it’s the likes of “Race For The Prize” and the magnificent “Do You Realize??” that truly transfigure. Honourable mentions go to auspicious support, British Sea Power, and Badly Drawn Boy, whose unheralded three-song prelude to the Lips’ appearance came with a much-applauded Joe Strummer tribute during “You Were Right”. No stealing of thunder from the main act, though. The Flaming Lips, genuinely humbled by the affection they inspire, urge you to love, live and fill thy cup. Somewhere, there’s a panda costume with your name on it.
Andmoreagain…
Arthur Lee & Love
Royal Festival Hall, London
WEDNESDAY JANUARY 15, 2003
On paper, Arthur Lee is an unlikely recruit to the rock heritage industry. In a hilarious rant in NME recently, Lee claimed Brian Wilson, Mick Jagger and former Beatle “Paul McCarthy” all “stink”. “I’m tired of playing that old stuff,” he said, “I’m going to put Forever Changes out of people’s minds with this new album I have. It’s the best rock album there’s ever going to be.”
It’s been noted before that Arthur Lee can be a little schizophrenic. Even so, the enthusiasm with which he is singing, “This is the time and life that I am living,” as if 1968 never ended, still comes as something of a shock. For here is Lee and the latest of Love’s countless incarnations (the LA band Baby Lemonade, ostensibly), plus string and horn sections, ploughing through the entirety of Forever Changes with a deftness and passion that would be unlikely in far keener revivalists.
Lee is, in a way, the luckiest and unluckiest of ’60s rock legends. His complete lack of success for 30 years may have left him relatively poor and bitter, but it has also ensured that his artistic vision remains untainted by the commercial exigencies of the ’70s and ’80s. His cowboy hat, Stars & Stripes bandanna and white fringed shirt aren’t historical props, they’re the evidence of an aesthetic code that hasn’t materially altered since February 1968, when he sat in the hills overlooking LA and contemplated the hippie dream, and society in general, beginning to fall apart.
Remarkably, the spirit of Forever Changes is sustained through this formal recital, right down to its deceitful prettiness, its prickly intimations of bad trips and imminent crashes. The show begins with Lee and his core band blasting through a suitably ragged selection, notably a needling version of “Your Mind And We Belong Together” that reveals his wounded soul vocals are miraculously undamaged. Then Forever Changes is performed, in order, from the mariachi fanfares of Bryan MacLean’s “Alone Again Or” through to a devastating version of “You Set The Scene”.
The obvious parallel is with Brian Wilson’s Pet Sounds shows last year. But if Wilson’s triumph was one of poignancy and a legacy reclaimed, Lee’s success is more assertive, a display of musical virility that seems undimmed. The mixture of imprecise yearning and paranoia which characterises Forever Changes is perfectly reproduced, helped by the fact that Lee is far more attuned to these youthful anxieties than the average 57-year-old. Particularly outstanding are the incantations of “The Red Telephone”, with the orchestra used sparingly and sensitively, never cluttering up the arrangements with slush. Eventually they troop off, and Lee returns with Baby Lemonade for another smash-and-grab raid on his archives that features a great, psych-garage hack through “My Flash On You”, a moving “Always See Your Face” (plenty of Love Four Sail gets an airing), and a version of “Singing Cowboy” featuring Graham Coxon (“Gram Caxton!” announces Lee, bewildered or mischievous) on extra guitar. Finally, one of the fabled new songs is revealed, a bizarre kiss-off to the States and hymn of praise to the UK that features Lee animatedly conducting the orchestra and a bagpiper in full regalia. His happiness at playing new material is infectious, but unfortunately “My Anthem” is cursed by its peculiar resemblance to Slade’s “Run Run Away”; not quite the quicksilver charmer we might have imagined.
Hence Lee’s dilemma, one he’s having to face much later than most of his contemporaries. How to reconcile an ongoing career when your fans?entirely justifiably on this evidence?will damn your new songs with, at best, polite tolerance? Lee’s ingenuous trust in his genius and his faith in antiquated rock’n’roll values elevates this show far beyond historical re-enactment. But paradoxically, it may also compel him to see his own creative future unrealistically. “The time that I’ve been given’s such a little while/And the things that I must do consist of more than style,” he sings in the apposite “You Set The Scene”. Still, after three decades of hardship, bitterness, trauma, even imprisonment, it’ll be hard to begrudge him one more chance to prove himself.
Jackie Leven – Shining Brother, Shining Sister
The wilfully weathered Leven wears his art on his sleeve: his new work incorporates poems by Rilke, ee cummings and Edith Sitwell, read by Ron Sexsmith, Robert Bly and David “Pere Ubu” Thomas. Despite Leven’s wry sleevenotes, it’s nothing if not earnest. When it doesn’t click, it’s a bit Chris Rea/Dire Straits, but when he allows himself to croon songs of honest personal heartbreak, like the lovely “Another Man In The Old Arcade”, the library lets some light and shade in and his lilting voice moves you to the marrow.
Melys – Casting Pearls
Following the surprise success of their song “Chinese Whispers”, which topped John Peel’s Festive 50 at the end of 2001, there has been increased expectation surrounding Welsh four-piece Melys’ third album. But try as they might to match the lush indie-pop of their most famous song, they never fully achieve this. The sumptuous vocals of lead singer Andrea Parker continue to enchant, but the melodies here lack the necessary bite to make them truly memorable, and even the better ones are frustratingly undermined by poor production and arranging.
Mira Calix – Susanne Brokesch
South African-born, London-based Chantal Passamonte, aka Mira Calix, creates experimental electronica… sort of. Less obsessed with laptop gadgetry, she utilises analogue synths and vintage mixing hardware to collage found sounds, battered guitar riffs and the wide variety of weird and wonderful instruments she’s picked up on her world travels, creating an exquisite suite of almost palpably textured instrumentals.
Vienna’s Susanne Brokesch composes post-industrial artcore electronica where the ghosts of ancient opera recordings resonate in the same space as new-age jazz keyboards and retro-futuristic sci-fi sound effects.
Songdog – Haiku
If 2001’s superb The Way Of The World was a fittingly damaged, literary affair for a songwriter in thrall to the Beats, Brel and Dylan, Haiku ups the ante with more extreme, nerve-jarring tales of love and sex in all its obsessive, voyeuristic, clammy glory.
Award-winning playwright and frontman Lyndon Morgans’ acute, tragic-comic heart-letting is never less than captivating, be it salivating over the girl in HMV from behind a Lara Croft cut-out, pining for a girl who’s bogged off with a “cutie in clean chinos… and big joy in his jeans” (“Hat-Check Girl”) or being horrified about a husband murdered with the spike of a shoe. Delivered over gorgeously understated guitars, strings and bowed bass in a desperate, lurching voice, Morgans’ near-suicidal anguish makes for oddly liberating listening.