Review: Attack the Block

Contrary to the opinions of those who live north of the river, plenty of stuff happens in South London. There's a tennis thing every year. We made dubstep in our bedrooms out of clicks and clacks and rat-a-tats we scavenged up in Croydon. We're fairly proficient at murder. All these things and more can be found below the city's belt in London's sweaty crotch.

One thing South London doesn't have is a decent alien invasion. These tend to be reserved for giant American conurbations like New York and Los Angeles; when they do stray over the Atlantic we usually have to make do with a couple of shots of the London Eye falling over or Big Ben blowing up. Even North London got its own zombie apocalypse with Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg's Shaun of the Dead.

With Attack the Block, the debut film by Joe Cornish (of Adam & Joe fame), South London is finally getting its own slice of the supernatural, and we've not been let down. The film follows a group of young muggers and assorted other residents of a Stockwell tower block as they struggle to defend their turf from a batch of snarling, toothy extraterrestrials (or "dem tings", as they are referred to at one point) that have crash landed on the estate. It's a simple set-up that's minimal on exposition, making room for a breakneck pace, punchy dialogue and innovatively orchestrated action scenes.

The aforementioned Shaun of the Dead is one of the first touchstones for Attack the Block, and not only because Edgar Wright is one of the movie's executive producers. The two films share an incredible knack for finding an elegant, unobtrusive balance between humour, characterisation and surprisingly raw horror elements. As our five anti-social heroes, along with the lady they mugged a couple of hours earlier and a foppish suburbanite stoner trapped on the estate, tool up to scrap and scrape through the night, the script makes room for their personalities to bloom in the background without endless reams of clunky exposition.

Attack the Block's performances range from solid to excellent, with the gang's leader Moses a particular standout. Young actor John Boyega brings a bullish physicality to the role, investing Moses with a brooding toughness and fiery charisma reminiscent of a young Denzel Washington. He's the nucleus around which the young punks revolve; his gravitas gives the rest of the gang license to differentiate their characters, from smartmouth whippet Pest to the gentler, altogether more bespectacled Jerome. Special mention should also go to Nick Frost as good-natured drug dealer Ron; though only a peripheral character he makes a disproportionate impact on the film's gag rate.

The Shaun of the Dead comparisons only stretch so far. Audiences are unlikely to find their sides splitting quite so often as with Wright's rom-zom-com; Attack the Block is an action-horror movie first and foremost, and its primary appeal lies in brilliantly kinetic skirmishes. Our boys' encounters with the alien invaders feature pacy chase sequences, claustrophobic brawls through council flats, improvised explosives and more than a couple of grisly demises. In fact, the movie's backdrop of perpetual night and its synthy score often recalls vintage John Carpenter sci-fi like Assault on Precinct 13 and Escape from New York. The film's superb sound design also does a great job of modulating the myriad audio cues, cleanly separating bestial screeches, the roar of misused fireworks and clipped one-liners so they never interfere with one another.

The design of the movie's mysterious space critters might be divisive in its simplicity, but Cornish's creature effects team has turned a limited budget into a virtue here. Somewhere in between giant wolves and gorillas in shape, the creatures are wreathed in slimy shadow, the blackness of their forms pierced only by luminous rows of razor sharp teeth. They're bestial and bruising, and their design economically highlights the only thing that matters: those teeth and how fast they can get at your throat.

Attack the Block might not match up to this summer's blockbuster leviathans in scope or budget, but it's almost certainly destined for cult glory. As such, this plucky South London underdog might end up being fondly remembered far longer than even the glossiest superhero epic. Joe Cornish has made a movie that's lean and mean, without much green; a masterclass of economical filmmaking. He may also, at 42 years of age, have emerged as British cinema's exciting new talent, with a movie that feels more youthful and vibrant than any Harry Potter. Fancy that.

Movie Violence: What's The Point?

A few years ago I was at my parents' house extolling the virtues of The Thin Red Line at length and probably to the mild irritation of my family, who were trapped in the living room with me and unable to escape. After a couple of minutes of waxing pedestrian about the film, my gran (old school, academic, intellectually intimidating) asked me why I would want to watch a film that depicted scenes of war. The question gave me pause for thought. In a hundred years of accumulated filmmaking, violence remains one of cinema's key methods of expression and a timeless device for heightening drama.

I think my gran's question was grounded in a belief that films are, in general, entertainment rather than art, and therefore depictions of violence are morally dubious on the grounds that they are created for entertainment's sake. I would disagree with that argument; there are plenty of movies that I have found edifying and artistically valid, partly through the application of onscreen violence, whether shockingly realistic or stylised. But I also have to admit that I have enjoyed shallow movie violence as pure entertainment without any moral reservations. So I thought I'd have a think about the purpose of cinematic violence and its best and worst exponents.

In the most basic sense, violence is possibly the simplest method of heightening drama and giving urgency to a plot. In war movies like Saving Private Ryan or Platoon, the main antagonist isn't German or Viet Cong soldiers, it's the constant spectre of violence. It's the death-rattle of machine guns; the doom-hum of tanks rolling down the road or warplanes screeching across the sky. When we see medics desperately patching up their ruined comrades on the beaches of Normandy as the rounds continue to thump down around them, when we see Platoon's Sgt. Elias desperately clinging on to life despite being left behind to rot in the jungle, the lump in our throat doesn't rise through hatred of their human adversaries. The real enemy is the loss of humanity, intelligent beings reduced to meat in an instant. The physical and psychological wastage.

Violence in war movies is usually directed at putting across this soul rot in as unflinching and brutal a manner as possible. But in other genres, violence is a potent force to drive plot and character motivation. Revenge movies usually start with a despicable act of violence in order to aim the protagonist at his/her foes. Kinji Fukasaku's Battle Royale, a gore-soaked pulp tale of Japanese schoolchildren trapped on an island and forced to kill each other off as part of a murderous government youth cull, explores the fractures between the values of two Japanese generations through the application of appalling violence. It's violence as the purest representation of a power struggle.

Some movies use onscreen brutality as a reflection on violence as a concept. David Cronenberg's A History of Violence meticulously charts the metamorphosis of main character Tom Stall, a reformed mobster who slowly re-engages his violent impulses after killing two robbers in his small town diner. Tom's mannerisms begin to shift; his relationship and sex life with his wife is affected; even his teenage son begins to assert himself violently at school. In A History of Violence, the ability to inflict pain on others is studied as a destructive, long-term condition that's incompatible with civilised life, as well as a Darwinian defence mechanism that prioritises asserting one's right to survive at all costs. Other filmmakers that have explored the idea of violence through its onscreen application include Sam Peckinpah (Straw Dogs), the Coen Brothers (No Country for Old Men) and Clint Eastwood (Unforgiven).

On a different level, I have no problem with admitting to enjoying cinematic violence for the thrill of it, especially when presented in a stylised and unreal manner. There's a world of difference between Luke Skywalker blowing up the Death Star and violence that feels believable and emotionally wearing. It's the reason we laugh rather than retch when the hulking German mechanic gets mashed up in a plane's propeller in Indiana Jones. It's the reason we suspend disbelief when Jet Li and Tony Leung are dancing their combat ballet on the surface of a gleaming lake in Zhang Yimou's Hero.

Similarly, cinematic violence can be beautiful to look at. The awesome spectacle of the battle scenes in 300 is worth revisiting for its brawny audacity, even if the story is worth forgetting. Martial arts movies only exist to impress viewers, whether kung fu enthusiasts or chop socky casuals, with the forms and movement of make-believe fighting. Hell, gruesome violence can even be funny if the tone is right. I don't know many people who didn't guffaw at Shaun and Ed lobbing old records at a couple of oncoming zombies in Shaun of the Dead, or at Team America's blonde badass Lisa blowing an Al-Qaeda puppet through a Paris store window to the immortal line, "Hey terrorist - terrorise THIS!". I find I'm able to enjoy screen violence as entertainment as long as I'm aware of the artifice, like a rollercoaster of guns and explosions.

The only movies that cross my violence line are those that seem to have been made for the sole purpose of enjoying realistic depictions of human suffering. Most of these fall into the horror category, although only an elite few do I avoid on moral grounds. Even pretty extreme horror movies like Alexandre Aja's Switchblade Romance and claustrophobic Spanish infection freakout [REC] have enough going on under the hood that the violence is about sustaining threat rather than revelling in pain.

No, it's the torture porn of the Saw sequels and the Hostel movies that put me off. The films that seem cynically designed to devalue realistic visions of pain and death, that strategically attempt to inspire voyeuristic murder-boners, often by maiming and killing attractive young women to complete the perfect circle of death/masturbation confusion. Cinematically, it makes for lumpen experiences with no sense of restraint or pacing. More importantly, they're the only movies that I wouldn't be able to explain to my gran.

Paul review: missing Mr Wright?

We all know Simon Pegg and Nick Frost are fanboy royalty, especially here in the UK, where the duo could probably film themselves strangling nuns and get a standing ovation, as long as they were dressed up as wookies while they did it. There's a sense of trust when we see these two onscreen together that's almost unique in the hyper-critical vulture's nest that is the online fan community. That's what Spaced, Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz buys you in nerd currency.

But Paul, the road movie/Close Encounters homage Pegg and Frost wrote together and roped in Greg Mottola (Superbad, Adventureland) to direct, marks a momentous watershed for the pair, it being the first film they've appeared in together without the guiding hand of co-conspirator Edgar Wright behind the camera. After all, their records outside of their Wright collaborations are considerably more spotty - Pegg has been earning his bread with amusing but lightweight rom coms (Run Fatboy Run) and "funny little Brit" comic relief roles in massive US blockbusters (Mission: Impossible III, Star Trek). Frost, meanwhile, has mixed some TV roles with the likes of The Boat that Rocked, Kinky Boots and Wild Child, which range from unremarkable to somewhat dreadful.

So here's a story Pegg and Frost have been working on since filming on Shaun of the Dead, a passion project that they're properly invested in, which aims to stake their claim as great screenwriters and comic actors in their own right. They certainly made smart decisions in the lead-up to the film, working with a director with proven comedy chops and bringing on board a veritable troop of credible US comic talent (Jason Bateman, Kristen Wiig, Joe Lo Truglio and Bill Hader, among others). So did they bring it together, or does Paul feel worse off for its Wright-shaped hole?

Well, as Daisy Steiner would say, it's ups and downs. This story, which follows a couple of British geeks who have their sci-fi obsessed US road trip interrupted by the appearance of the titular foul-mouthed little space man who needs to catch his flying saucer home before the M.I.Bs on his tail harvest his magical gizzards, has plenty going for it, but some crucial missteps hold it back from the upper echelons of the action-comedy pantheon.

Let's start with the bad. Perhaps the most surprising thing that occurred to me watching Paul, a criticism I never thought I'd make of a Pegg/Frost movie, was the relative lack of chemistry between the two leads. The script makes a big deal of Graeme (Pegg) and Clive's (Frost) lifelong friendship and the constant assumptions by passersby that they're lovers, but oddly enough, Pegg and Frost lack the amiable onscreen fizz that is so central to all their other collaborations. Their banter at the beginning of the film seems forced and dull (along the lines of "Who'd have thought we'd be here at Comic-Con/this UFO hotspot, eh? Amazing!") and the relationship lacks the little details of familiarity that sell an onscreen friendship to an audience. The fault lies less with Pegg and Frost's performances and more with the script, which fails to differentiate the characters enough to generate some engaging back-and-forth.

Sadly, Paul also lacks the gag hit-rate to really register as an unreserved slice of fried gold. Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of really funny moments (on which more later), but few of them are in the saggy first half hour when Graeme and Clive are touring around in their RV. A comedy really needs to hit the ground running to warm up an audience's funny bone for the meat of the movie, and in this regard Paul falls short.

There are also some pretty lazy, easy-target jokes, most notably an ongoing seam of perfectly truthful but painfully cliche anti-Creationism gags. Speaking of ongoing gags, Pegg and Frost somewhat overplay their hand with the movie references - a little goes a long way when it comes to sly nods to other movies, and there are moments (our introduction to Special Agent Lorenzo Zoil chief among them) when what should be a wink feels more like a oversized cock punch.

So there's the bad, but what about the good? Well, there's plenty to choose from here, as well. Alien stow-away Paul is the heart of the movie, as well as the adrenaline shot that kickstarts the plot just when it seems to be flatlining. Voiced by Seth Rogen, Paul is a brilliant creation. Hilarious, sweet and expertly rendered, Paul is an extraterrestrial with a difference. He's been cooped up in government facilities since his ship crashed in the 50s, and his exposure to earthling media has made him a foul-mouthed product of pop culture (in a clever little twist, he's also been the secret consultant behind xeno-inspired artistic endeavours over the years, from Close Encounters to The X-Files). Rogen is an unlikely but surprisingly inspired vocal choice, imbuing Paul with a soft human side as well as the expected sense of comic timing.

Backing Paul and his Limey cohorts up is a dynamic and well-considered cast of supporting players. Kristen Wiig is foremost among them, playing sheltered Christian fundamentalist Ruth, who has her entire theological belief system blown apart the minute she catches sight of Paul's fat grey head. Her overenthusiastic attempts to embrace the sinner's lifestyle, complete with jarring mish-mash swearwords and hyperactive drug freakouts, yield some of the film's funniest moments.

Bill Hader, Joe Lo Truglio and Jason Bateman all shine as the trio of goons on Paul's trail. Hader and Lo Truglio suffuse their bumbling over-zealous rookie roles with a child-like stupidity (Lo Truglio's character at one point loses his shit over the thought of Paul's "space man balls", which in turn sets up a cracking visual gag down the line) that does a lot to bring the movie's hit-rate back up to par. Bateman as the aforementioned Zoil indulges his inner bad-ass, delivering his lines with a straight-faced conviction that counterplays well with his ridiculous subordinates.

Although Paul might lack a little of that consistent comedic flair to put it up there with the greats in terms of comedy, praise should be given to Pegg and Frost, and director Mottola, for creating a genuinely feel-good story with real warmth. Pegg has described Paul as a love letter to Steven Spielberg, and there really is a pleasantly Spielbergian tone here. The story's impetus picks right up as the movie hits the mid-way point, with Pegg and Frost showing they have a real knack for mixing broad humour with more touching moments, especially as the gang get closer to the end-point of their journey.

No doubt Paul would have been a different movie had Edgar Wright been at the helm. But it feels unfair to speculate what Wright could have brought to the table when Frost, Pegg and Mottola have crafted a movie with an atmosphere of its own. Paul is not without its flaws, but as a broad, accessible comedy blockbuster, it's pretty loveable. In its own way.

Zombieland: A (shuffling) step too far

It’s no secret that Hollywood, and by extension the Western world, is in the grip of full-fledged zombie fever (does anyone else like the idea of Spike Lee writing and directing Zombie Fever?). As one of the world’s foremost zombie fetishists, this is a trend I can I absolutely get behind. I’m sometimes even tempted to give this trend a little reach around.

I love zombie movies. I love the slow, creeping threat they represent; I love that they can be hilarious and terrifying at the same time; I love the shambling ones and I love the snarly, sprinty ones. I’m glad the zombie sub-genre has made such an emphatic return since its heyday in the ‘70s, and the likes of 28 Days Later, Shaun of the Dead and a host of zombie-dismembering videogames have done an admirable job of keeping that fetid fire alive.

I reckon the zombie genre’s still got legs, too. Robert Kirkman’s Walking Dead comic books are a great read and could provide the basis for a brilliant, brutal HBO series. News is also just breaking that Natalie Portman is set to star in the film version of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, a parody novel that splices our favourite face-gnashers into our favourite book that we’ll get around to reading someday, in our own bloody time. That’s exactly the kind of iconoclastic middle finger to the establishment for which zombies make the perfect foil.

However, as with all trends, zombie fever™ does encourage a certain amount of rose-tinted gush-o-vision. We all saw it with Romero’s recent Land of the Dead and Diary of the Dead – despite being mostly incoherent rubbish (sentient zombies? Dennis Hopper as an authority figure? Come on!), reviewers at the time displayed a leniency that, looking back in ten years, simply won’t make sense.

The most recent beneficiary of the zombies+camera=awesome formula? This year’s hugely overrated Zombieland. Both Empire and Total Film, two UK publications not usually given to hype-manipulation or excessive giddiness, awarded the film four stars. All over the internet, reviewers happily swapped out their critical faculties for more of an “Ooh, Woody Harrelson and zombies! LOLZ!” approach. Aintitcool’s Quint neatly exemplified this brainless hype-train in the first couple of lines of his Fantastic Fest review: “Basically ZOMBIELAND is Woody Allen and John Wayne paired together in a buddy road trip zombie apocalypse comedy. If you’re not sold you don’t exist to me.”

Zombieland is the anti-Shaun of the Dead, stripping away all the elements that made Edgar Wright’s zom-com such a charming and riveting watch and replacing it with a bland, gutless, emotionally hollow product which reeks of the middle of the road. The film is competently directed and acted, with some amusing slapstick and, admittedly, an extremely fun cameo, but that’s almost all I’ll say for it.

Every element of Zombieland feels like it has been workshopped and pieced together by studio committee, from Harrelson’s character Tallahassee, who is little more than a cipher for all the characteristics that 14 year-olds might think of as cool, down to the absence of any genuine threat posed by the zombies, undoubtedly the film’s most serious misstep. Shaun’s zombies are slow and shambolic but, like cinema’s best zombies, represent a merciless meatgrinder that’ll suck your bones dry if you make one wrong move. Zombieland’s deadheads have been so thoroughly de-fanged that the film loses any dramatic tension, resulting in a neutered experience akin to a zombie videogame that you can’t actually play. All the characters are so blissfully, effortlessly alive (including Tallahassee, who seemed a character practically tailor-made for a heroic death scene) at the end of the movie that you can’t help but feel that the movie’s producers were more interested in protecting a new franchise than creating an involving story.

I could go on and on about this movie’s flaws (oh, the plot contrivances! Why would LA, one of the world’s most densely populated urban areas, be entirely empty after a zombie holocaust? Answer: because several million zombies would be inconvenient for the characters), but I have to end this at some point. Suffice to say, zombie fever™ is one of the best pandemics to sweep the world in years, but it’s still a trend, and trends need to be carefully monitored or we’ll all end up indoctrinated and no better than...well, you know.