If events in the Middle East, the prospect of the school run or the onset of autumn are conspiring to lower your spirits, then escape to the V&A and immerse yourself in the dreamy elegance of Horst P. Horst’s magical fashion photographs spanning a career that lasted 60 years.
“It looked like Dresden after the bombing.” Blondie’s Chris Stein may be a member of one of pop’s most-loved bands, but he also has a way with words. Describing 1970's New York City in this way is offensive to the memory of the 25,000 who died in the World War II air raids on Dresden. More pertinently for New York-dweller Stein, his comment also chimes badly with the destruction of the twin towers of Manhattan’s World Trade Centre in 2001.
Depardieu as an imaginary version of Dominique Strauss-Kahn was always likely to be a study in grossness. Add director and co-writer Abel Ferrara, the hardcore extremist behind Driller Killer and Bad Lieutenant, and a white-knuckle night out is guaranteed. Depardieu’s powerful French banker Devereaux is a creature of grotesque and relentless appetites, alright, a bloated sex addict and rapist. But actor and director also insist he is human and shamelessly so, even as he sacrifices others to his desires.
My (very) small haul of autographs collected as a schoolboy ran the gamut from Peter Pears to Linda McCartney but even back then I knew the classiest signature I bagged was that of Elaine Stritch. Years later, she was described as someone who went from being a sensation to a legend without ever being a star, but “starring” is the only word to describe her performance in the title role of the shortlived London premiere of a less than good Neil Simon play The Gingerbread Lady in 1974.
When Daytona was premiered at the Park Theatre last year some of the critics went into contortions to avoid giving away the two "reveals" in Oliver Cotton's plot. The challenge remains, but can there be many potential theatregoers who haven't heard about the shock revelation in the first half and the life-long secret disclosed in the second? If there are, the following may contain spoilers.
Alex Webb’s musical Café Society Swing, about a provocatively liberal Manhattan jazz club in the 1940s, made a much-anticipated return to the Leicester Square Theatre last night. With remarkable ingenuity and economy, Webb tells the story of the real Café Society, a radical and subversive multi-faceted entertainment venue, which on opening in December 1938 was the first non-segregated club in America. It soon courted further controversy with Billie Holiday’s debut rendition of “Strange Fruit”.
It’s stockbroker Goodfellas, basically. If you enjoyed Martin Scorsese’s pacey, flashy, beautifully shot ensemble gangster flicks, Goodfellas and Casino, there’s little doubt you’ll enjoy this. Here the master director, absolutely on fire, has his cake and eats it with the “based-on-a-true-story” saga of corrupt stockbroker Jordan Belfort’s rise and fall. The central character, played with audacious, astounding flare by Leonardo DiCaprio, exudes charisma from every pore and guzzles pleasure by the raw ton, taking no prisoners. While Belfort is a ruthless, unpleasant protagonist, the sort of man who causes utter misery through his selfishness, the viewer cannot help but clamber aboard Scorsese and DiCaprio’s demented rollercoaster and root for his sheer lust for life.
The comic actor Jonah Hill also outdoes himself as Belfort’s sidekick Donnie Azoff. Where Belfort is messianic and mesmeric, Azoff is a slobby, venal loser riding the gravy train. Their story takes Belfort from his start at high class brokers LF Rothschild, through the crash of 1987 and onto his own outfit Stratton Oakmont, with their wildly successful “pump and dump” securities fraud schemes, eventually reaching an inevitable and unhappy unravelling. The details paint a picture of a warped, morally corrupt, male culture but the film is primarily a monstrous tale of hubris, played out at maximum extravagance, often for great big roaring laughs, and is utterly gripping for its entire three hours, a visual cacophony of cocaine, sex, money and excess. The sequence where Belmont come unstuck taking ancient Quaaludes he mistakenly presumed had lost their potency, before driving his Porsche and having a wasted ruck with Azoff, is as shocking, entertaining and riveting as anything I’ve seen in any film for a long time.
There are other great performances too, of course, notably Australian actress Margot Robbie as Belfort’s wife Naomi and a scenery-annihilating cameo by Matthew McConaughey as the Rothschild broker who shows Belmont the ropes. The restaurant scene alone, where DiCaprio takes advice from McConaughey, is more fun than most films manage end-to-end. This is hyperactive, over-the-top film-making constructed with the smash’n’grab zest of a true cinematic genius. I can’t recommend it enough.
There are no extras on the DVD but the Blu-ray edition comes with a “making of” documentary, The Wolf Pack, a featurette called Running Wild about the pre-production process, and a round-table featuring DiCaprio, Scorsese, Hill, etc, discussing the movie.
Overleaf: Watch the trailer
Swansea's much-mythologised son would have been 100 in October this year, but he died in New York in 1953, from a list of medical problems exacerbated by his colossal intake of alcohol. Thomas's doomed, chaotic trajectory could almost qualify as the first rock'n'roll death, since the New York that lionised him would soon hail the Beat poets, the Folk Revival and the Bob Dylan whose adopted name and freewheelin' versifying both bore Thomas's imprint.
Favourite of the Coens, John Turturro’s fifth turn at the helm is a surprisingly lively, enjoyable fable of male prostitution. After the shuttering of the New York City bookstore where he worked for Murray (Woody Allen), Fioravante (Turturro) is talked into being the male meat in a female sandwich between Selima (Sofia Vergara) and Murray's dermatologist Dr Parker (Sharon Stone). Meanwhile, Fioravante doesn't fall for either of his lady-pals. Instead, he finds himself drawn to untouchable Hasidic widow Avigal (Vanessa Paradis), she herself shuttered since her husband's death.
It's surely among the most grotesque factoids in the history of Hollywood that despite being nominated for 10 Oscars, American Hustle won a grand total of none. Its big mistakes were presumably being too entertaining and failing to concern itself with a historic social issue. My own theory is that the cast was just too good - the flick boasted five potential gong-winners, and perhaps it was beyond the capabilities of the Academy to choose wisely between them.