The Great Train Robbery

There must be some correlation between a society's sophistication and its obsession with deviance and were we to look, probably a few hundred PhD theses filed away on the subject.  In the wake of the recent 'Mrs. Biggs' comes 'The Great Train Robbery' about the antics of Buster, Biggs and the rest of the criminal gang in 1963.  (Not to be confused with the 19th Century attempt on a train that was turned into a novel and then a rather camp film by Michael Crichton in the 1970s, nor the 1903 Western.)  Not that it isn't an interesting tale, but the endless fascination induces the same queasiness as those other much-dramatised mid-20th Century cases, the Kray twins and Lord Lucan.  Somehow the violence becomes a by-product.

Does this new production avoid that trap?  Not entirely.  For every shot of sweaty men in dingy rooms in vests, there's a scene of the all-male gang in balaclavas and bowler hats; while they may have spent much time in greasy spoons, what's depicted is a nightclub scene with the gang as erstwhile Goodfellas, and while we're on comparisons, the stylised title sequence bears an uncanny resemblance to that of the late, lamented 'The Hour,

The based-on-truth story is almost undeserving of the script and cast, with Luke Evans as gang leader Reynolds and Neil Maskell as Buster Edwards fleshing out the moral ambiguity and Jack Roth unnerving as Charlie Wilson.

"Mickey Mouse!" spits Buster at a bewildered ex-train driver who asks his name, "and the pleasure's all yours."  This 90 minutes (of 180) was the criminals' tale, astonishingly aptly broadcast on the day when the real Ronnie Biggs breathed his last.  It was entertainingly tense, despite the outcome being known, presumably, by the majority of the audience.  There was no attempt to give the Reynolds gang hearts of gold or good intentions, but the line about not taking guns rings hollow in the wake of the train driver's fate.  These were men who took pride in their criminal 'careers', prepared to use violence to get rich without honest work and, far from meticulously planning to the last detail, they left too much to chance to get away with it.  In the days of DNA and other advanced forensic evidence, they'd have been lucky to get to Reigate, let alone Rio.

Maybe that's a more palatable explanation for Britain's fascination with them: from the Gunpowder Plot to the Dunkerque evacuation, it's not exactly victories we seem to love to celebrate, but near-misses.

W.E.

No, it's not on TV, so no need for panic.  This isn't about to become a film blog, but it's rare that two films on simultaneous release receive such polar-opposite reviews.  We speak of-course of 'The Artist' and 'W.E.'


The former is sublime and deserving of its praise.  Crafted with love and intelligence, it plays with the medium of film and the dubious morality behind Hollywood's dream factory.  It's rare that a film really tries something different and pulls it off with crowd-pleasing aplomb.


So, does 'W.E.' equally deserve the derision it has received from the critics?  To date we haven't seen a single favourable review (Mr Bamigboye in the Daily Mail was more of a sales pitch), so we went with low expectations.  We've seen 'Cassandra's Dream' so we know what a bad film looks like and that's an apt jumping off point.  Would this have attracted such bad notices if the director had been A.N.Other?  Well no... but probably because it wouldn't have been made.  Reading the reviews could make you feel sorry for Madonna, but with her funds, connections and history, it's unlikely she cares much about the negative critical reception.


To start with the positives: Andrea Riseborough is just fine as Wallis, in fact fabulous.  She gets the best deal, screenwise, although it's an undeniable shame that her performance in a better vehicle may well have earned her serious award nominations.  The remainder of the cast are solid in support, and all credit to the casting directors in providing one of the film's saving graces.  It also looks beautiful.  Madonna's background in masterminding several of her own pop videos serves her well in this respect, but just as the film highlights her abilities in wallpaper porn, it also shows up her obsession with appearances and the superficial.


So, what's wrong with it?

• The modern-day storyline set in New York.  It's just weak, doesn't add anything in its supposed parallel to the W.E. thread and is wildly implausible.  Wally is clearly neurotic, her husband is almost a pantomime villain (modelled on Mr. Ritchie, perchance?) and as for the Russian security-guard-cum-intellectual with his spacious apartment, expensive watch and grand-piano-playing abilities... they're "a dime a dozen"?  Come on!  Sotheby's  also apparently have the worst security of any auction house in history.
• The dialogue.    Lots of exposition along the "Welcome to the first day of the auction of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor's estate here at Sotheby's" and "but he's my brother!" lines.  The rest was either trite, pretentious or just plain dull.
• Wallis and Edward.  Theirs may be a larger-than-life tale of the 20th Century, able to be pored over from many angles, but it has already been the subject of countless dramas, documentaries, books etc. and they make regular cameo appearances in works about that time ('Any Human Heart' being a recent case in point).  In addition, there just isn't the material to sustain a two-hour film, which is where TV costume dramas have won out.  The minutiae of the relationship translate to a small screen far more convincingly than they do to a bigger picture experience, obviating the need for the uninteresting modern storyline.  The other sticking point about the pair is their unsavoury reputations.  Even Wallis's biographers don't seem to like her much, despite thinking her chic and rather formidable.  This film continually dismisses or downplays the Nazi angle and depicts the late Queen Mother in a particularly nasty light (nothing new, we admit).  Tellingly, what's also omitted is Wallis's well-documented viciousness towards her, nicknaming her 'Cookie' and so on.  Here, she's portrayed only as the victim of the royal family's snobbish rejection of her.  We could go on in the same vein but here is a woman who needs a revisionist history no more or less than the QM, and like her is unable to comment on her own behalf.
• The talked-about Sex Pistols dance sequence.  Just plain odd.  (It didn't work for Sophia Coppola either, Madge, if that's any consolation.)  Like the whole Wally strand, it added sod all, and that goes double for the inclusion of Mohammed Al Fayed.  Are the modern rich, famous and powerful so insecure that they must draw comparisons to the glamorous - if 'pretty vacant' - dead?

So, yes it's their money and they can do what they want with it, and who is anyone to say that anyone else shouldn't branch out and try to create something new?  But... it's galling as ever that clout opens the doors that remain closed to talent.  Worst film ever?  No, but critics can rest easy that they are taken at their word: there were three other people in the cinema with us.