Tyrannosaur (dir. Paddy Considine)

TYRANNOSAUR (still in cinemas)

Paddy Considine has been one of the most prolific (and versatile) British actors of modern film and his first unbridled foray into filmmaking does not disappoint.

Telling the tale of ageing anti-social yob Joseph, it begins with the gruelling depiction of his dog being kicked to death then ferments into an unconventional love story. The cinematography is beautifully grim. Pauses are revelled in, as conversely are abrupt scene changes when nothing else can be said. Peter Mullan (a renowned director in his own right, cf. The Magdalene Sisters and several short films) is terrifying and utterly believable as the violent loner in this perfectly realised council background. Within eight minutes he has killed an animal, attacked some young men in the pub and smashed the Post Office window. Things simmer a bit after that but such a role deserves qualified understatement and thankfully that’s what it gets, his twitchy lips underlining each abhorrent impulse.

Hiding from a gang seeking revenge, Joseph runs into a charity shop and meets Hannah (Olivia Colman). As the kind Christian trapped in an abusive relationship, Colman is a revelation. Her last speech is heart-rending and indeed, when I saw it, one woman left the cinema in tears. Hannah’s relationship is torrid and this is made immediately clear. Her unstable husband James (Eddie Marsden) is first seen arriving home drunk and pissing on his sleeping wife.

This is a film that plays with audience sympathies and, while it is incredibly hard to empathise with Joseph, through his care of Hannah and a young lad on his estate (Samuel Bottomley) we root for him. That rooting is further confounded by constant reminders, including the dark explanation of the film’s title, that he is by his own definition ‘a cunt’. And ultimately Hannah is not without blame as we come to the bittersweet yet still underplayed denouement. Perhaps by this point we realise that just as Hannah is not to be idolised, Joseph is not to be demonised. Not because he is trying – however slightly – to redeem himself but he is, like all of us, merely an animal.

As you’ll understand this is not an easy film to watch. It is however a brilliant piece of naturalistic storytelling featuring perfect dialogue and a masterclass in subdued performance, as is surely evidenced by the many awards it has already received including one each for Considine, Mullan and Colman at the Sundance Film Festival earlier this year. The film also boasts some fine turns from the supporting cast, most notably Ned Dennehy and Samuel Bottomley.

If you enjoy this film, please try Paul Andrew Williams’ Cherry Tree Lane (2010) which is similar not only in its fine performances but its horrid naturalistic feel and satisfying end.

Preincarnate by Shaun Micallef

Preincarnate (S. Micallef, 2010, Hardie Grant Books, Australia)

Shaun Micallef is more or less an unknown entity to those in the UK, and this is a great shame. His eighteen years of participation in various Australian media have provided us with some of the most joyous and unique comedy available. Although obviously influenced by classic comedy in the past, which he often references, his voice - a gestalt mishmash of silliness and indignation, once so prevalent in British comedy before it was overthrown by joyless and cynical panel shows or subsidised whimsy - is always a relief, and perhaps made more satisfying by his shows' tendency to fail quite dramatically.

The word 'fail' may be too harsh but at least it doesn't have the overtones of 'cult'. He came to prominence on ABC with The Micallef P(r)ogram(me) (1998-2001), three glorious series of a madly deconstructive sketch show heavily indebted to Monty Python and very possibly Alan Partridge in Micallef's smarmy host persona. Shortly after, network executives - apparently bemused by the spoof interviews which interlaced the skits - decided to give Micallef the shot of hosting his own late-night chat show. He, of course, wanted to bring something of his own humour into the mix and the result - Micallef Tonight (2003) - was an awful misfire. Amusing items were bogged down by dreary, awkward interviews with Ricky Martin and the like. At the same time he was creating a solicitor-based sitcom (Welcher & Welcher) that fell off the map, ratings-wise at least, and while this can be blamed on bad scheduling and poor advertisement the end result isn't that cheering to look at either - lurching between knockabout farce and noble attempts at drama with a certain unease. He has however done quite well of late with appearances on a lauded improvisational game-show and the genuinely innovative Newstopia (2007-8). That brings us to his novella.

Pardon me for being slightly late in reviewing this far-reaching adventure but, given it deals largely with time travel, well, no, I'm still a bit late. Alexander Pruitt, of Birmingham-cum-Yorkshire (the malleability of location is something of a running gag it seems), is visiting his doctor in 2005 when the already sinister physician stabs him with an unwanted, fatal syringe. Pruitt wakes up, rather a long time before, in the body of Richard Cromwell - son of the famed Puritan and Charles I-hater, Oliver Cromwell. Thus follows Alexander/Richard's story of finding his way back to the present in order to stop his unnecessary murder, careless of what this may do to the space-time continuum. The story is told alternately from his perspective and that of an unnamed, fairly adventurous archivist whose interest in unearthing the facts - relating to a plot between the CIA and the Royal Order of Freemasons - puts him in a spot of bother.

This is where we too come into a spot of bother because, as amusing as the book undoubtedly is, Micallef's struggle with the framework of his tale somewhat mars the reader's enjoyment. The main shame comes because the story is indeed quite gripping and one wonders what a slightly more experienced and adept sci-fi novelist could have made of it, or even Douglas Adams whose voice certainly shines through near the novella's demise. Better, as I heard suggested, to treat it as a sketch show in book form since the tangenital zig-zag style is totally disappointing if you wish to actually follow the story. I cannot be too upset as the detail given to each section (veering as the story does from representatio of dull homelife in Northern England - where patients awaiting the doctor read Dead Princess magazine - to explanation of the Roswell incident, touring Hollywood with Tom Cruise to solving the Ripper murders with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, aided by the comically pointless HG Wells) and joy put into each humorous aside is truly addictive.

'The Popes paused and each stroked their chins in thought. They paused again then stroked each other's chins. This did little to help.' etc.
Micallef's strength lies in these amusing asides, often wrapped up in never-ending footnotes which comment on the structural falling apart of the story as it occurs. Perhaps the end of the book (not the rushed end of the novella) is the greatest section, offering a selection of fake book titles and advertisements making full use of the author's gift. Titles such as 'If Dolphins Could Pilot Commercial Jets: A Re-imagining of 9/11' by Lt. Commander Billy 'Tea' Hecuba and 'Gas Pressure Readings in Adelaide, June-July 1934' made the trawl through time and space ultimately worthwhile. A shame that Micallef only had the confidence for such outright silliness at the end, often focusing on verbose descriptive prose for moderate passages of the story proper.

If just slightly better handled in either sense, this could have been a rollickingly absurd endurance test of laughter or heralded as a deconstructuralist novel in the vein of Tristram Shandy or indeed his sketch show (Micallef, not Tristram's). Sadly it falls below the mark for both. Like all of Micallef's work it is a splendid curio, and the positive features so outweigh the negative that once seen it will be fondly remembered.

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'...expressed so much weight upon [the mouse] so that both were evaporated under the mandolin'
Clive Barker, Sow Of Violence, p34, ibid.