The Famous Five, on Hulu

Enid Blyton was a veritable one-woman Stratemeyer Syndicate. She single-handedly wrote many long-running British children’s mystery series. Blyton produced multiple volumes in her “Secret Seven,” “Barney Mysteries,” and “Five Find-Outers” franchises, but her “The Famous Five” series was her arguably her most popular. One of the five is a smart dog named Timmy, which surely helps explain their success. They are supposed to be old-fashioned and skew towards a youthful audience, so who better to shepherd their return to television than Nicolas Winding Refn, the director of the Pusher trilogy and Only God Forgives? Parents will be relieved to hear he adapted his style to suit the material rather than vice versa, so the kids can safely watch the six-episode The Famous Five when it premieres tomorrow on Hulu.

Supposedly, George [not Georgina] Kirrin is the only person who visits her family’s reputedly haunted Kirrin Island, so she is surprised to find Timmy wagging his tail there, When she returns later with her three visiting cousins, Julian, Anne, and Dick Barnard, they assume his owner was the dead man in the diving suit sprawled on the beach. In a Refn film, Timmy would similarly wind up leaving with the assassin who massacres the four children during the climax, but that won’t happen here. If the cousins get killed, Timmy will stay loyal to them.

Initially, George resents their presence, fancying herself a lone wolf. However, she needs their help investigating the strange happenings afoot on Kirrin Island. Apparently, Thomas Wentworth, the creepy local blue blood, seeks a mythical Templar treasure, but George intends to beat him to it. The trail will take them to London and then back to Kirrin Island again. Of course, Timmy sticks with them every step of the way.

In the UK, The Famous Five aired in three feature-length installments, but Hulu repackaged the first season into six episodes (three two-parters). Presumably, they wanted to encourage impulse streaming, since the Famous Five are not as famous in the U.S. The second two-fer, “Peril on the Night Train,” features pre-WWII German agents as the villains, perhaps to appeal to Indiana Jones fans.

Anne Barnard thinks Kirrin Cottage is haunted, but the mystery figure is in fact a spy out to steal Uncle (or father) Quentin’s newest invention. With war looming, his Enigma Machine-like “Algebra Box” has huge national security applications. Mr. Roland, an undercover British agent, will escort the Kirrin family to a secret military facility in Scotland, even though the overnight train is a perfect setting for the foreign operatives to strike again.

Much to her own surprise, George is sorry her cousins must soon leave in “The Eye of the Sunrise,” but she quickly meets a new friend. Unfortunately, she loses “The Great Supremo” just as quickly. For their last hurrah, the Barnard cousins agree to help rescue the circus hypnotist from the sinister mental hospital holding him prisoner.

The Famous Five is clearly produced for younger viewers, but smarter kids should dig its caperiness. The pre-War intrigue of “Night Train” and “Eye of the Sunrise” should at least moderately engage mature adults as well. However, the bossy George and goody-two-shoes Julian both get to be rather tiresome. Counterintuitively, the two youngest cousins, Dick and Anne, hold up the best over the course of the six (or three) episodes.

Refn’s Neon Demon

These models have practically zero percent body fat, but they can still produce plenty of body horror. That’s “horror,” as in scary movies. If you’re looking for vicarious thrills and chills, a Nicolas Winding Refn joint really isn’t for you, but if you want to gawk at lurid strangeness, the Danish director delivers more than ever. There are indeed dire consequences in store for a small town catwalk ingénue, who descends into the darkly sexualized, increasingly surreal fashion world in Refn’s Neon Demon (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Fresh off the bus from Bumbletucky or wherever, Jesse immediately falls in with Ruby, a conspicuously interested lesbian makeup artist and her two evil blonde model pals, Gigi and Sarah—or is it Sarah and Gigi? Much to her new model frienemies’ shock, Jesse is immediately signed by a high-power agency and starts booking what they consider “their gigs.” Her boss admits she is raw and undeveloped, but she just has “the Look.”

Within the context of the narrative (such as it is), Elle Fanning’s Jesse is a sixteen-year-old not really passing for nineteen. However, she looks like a fourteen-year-old zonked out on Nyquil. If that “Look” revs your engine, you should probably be on some sort of registry.

Regardless, guys seem to swoon over her like she is the second coming of Marilyn Monroe. That includes the loyal Dean, who follows her around like a neutered hound dog and Hank, the predatory junkyard dog who manages the fleabag Pasadena motel she is still staying in after being signed to a modelling contract by Mad Men’s Christine Hendricks, one of the few women in the film who does not look like a malnourished heroin addict.

There is some creepy tension and some bat-scat lunacy in Neon, but there are also plenty scenes fixated on Jesse as she bites her lip and stares into her navel. Frankly, it is about a focused as Only God Forgives (meaning not very), but it lacks the electrifying presence of Vithaya Pansringarm. Perversely, it is Keanu Reeves who makes the strongest impression as Hell’s own Motelier. He is so unsettling, Refn should have called an audible and rearranged the film into a more conventional Bates Motel-style horror movie.

Refn being Refn, he frequently bombards the audience with barrages of tripped out imagery. Some of it is admittedly quite weird and original, but the film needs a more solid foundation for his regurgitated subconscious to wash over. It is just not enough to be subversive and out there. There also needs to be a there there. Not recommended, Neon Demon opens this Friday (6/24) in New York, at the Angelika Film Center.

My Life Directed by Nicolas Winding Refn: When the Behind-the-Scenes are Better than the Movie

It was not a total lost when Only God Forgives, Nicolas Winding Refn’s much anticipated follow-up to Drive, bombed with the Cannes press corps. At least it should have shown Ryan Gosling how to deal with the Lido drubbing dealt to his directorial debut, Lost River. Maybe Winding Refn’s film is not looking as bad to them, by comparison. Maybe. Nevertheless, his family did not return from six months in Thailand without bringing home one highly watchable film. Alas for Winding Refn, that would be his wife Liv Corfixen’s up-close-and-personal behind-the-scenes documentary, My Life Directed by Nicolas Winding Refn (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

When watching Corfixen’s film, you immediately realize there was no way OGF was going to work. Winding Refn essentially admits his script makes no sense, which is never a good sign. Yet, his own contradictory impulses imply an even deeper identity crisis for the film. On one hand, he is clearly preoccupied with the pressure to repeat the success of Drive, yet he is perversely determined to produce a something utterly dissimilar. Mission accomplished on that score.

Much to her frustration, Winding Refn strictly limited Corfixen’s access to the set. It is evident from their often testy exchanges that she missed a lot of “making of” drama as a result. Still, it is blindingly obvious from the get-go this is a “troubled” production. In some shockingly revealing scenes, she captures all of her husband’s unvarnished self-doubt and self-pity, as OGF irreparably runs off the rails. Winding Refn’s references to compatriot Danish filmmaker Lars von Trier sounds especially telling. They seem like they should be two neurotic peas in a pod, but Winding Refn clearly nurses an inferiority complex.

Life should really not be dismissed as a DVD-extra, because it is hard to see anyone packaging it with OGF. After all, the shorter film basically explains why the longer feature attraction is such a chaotic mess. Short is also the right term. The actual movie substance of Life clocks in just under sixty minutes. However, Life has one thing few films can boast: their legendary family friend, director Alejandro Jodorowsky reading tarot and providing marriage counseling.

In all honesty, OGF has its moments, but they all come courtesy of the wonderfully fierce Kristin Scott Thomas and stone cold Thai movie star Vithaya Pansringarm, both of whom are seen in Life, planning their climatic scene together. In contrast, Gosling is utterly underwhelming, but to be fair, he comes across like a good sport in Corfixen’s doc, often seen playing with the couple’s young daughters. Perhaps he and Winding Refn should just leave the making of David Lynchian films to David Lynch.

Regardless, Life is a brutally honest look at the personal and emotional repercussions of a film that never worked, in any step of its production. It is also frequently very funny, in decidedly uncomfortable ways. Frankly, it is a shame we do not have similarly intimate records of the notorious production processes for films like Heaven’s Gate, but Life will be there as a cautionary example for all future filmmakers battling their expectations and egos. Highly recommended for fans of cult cinema, My Life Directed by Nicolas Winding Refn opens this Friday (2/27) in New York, at the Elinor Bunin Monroe Film Center.

Winding Refn’s Only God Forgives

Evidently, expat Julian Thompson had a spot of legal trouble back home.  He and his drug-running brother Billy now assume Bangkok is their oyster and act accordingly.  However, Thompson might just miss those coppers with their due process.  The family business will get decidedly ugly in Nicolas Winding Refn’s Only God Forgives (trailer here), which opens today in New York.

Julian is the sensitive Thompson brother.  He runs the legit side of their Muay Thai boxing club front and keeps his regular prostitute Mai on-call, even though he never fully avails himself of her services, if you get the drift.  Billy Thompson was always their mother’s favorite.  Unfortunately, he is now dead, but he sure had it coming.

After raping and killing an under-aged prostitute, the elder Thompson brother was locked in a room with her guilt ridden father, who knew what to do.  Chang was the one who told him to.  The mysterious retired police officer still seems to call all the shots on the Bangkok force.  Although he sometimes appears eerily bad-assed, Chang is probably just a metaphorical “Angel of Death.”  Of course, Thompson is just as dead either way.

Given the circumstances of his brother’s death, little Julian has trouble ginning-up sufficient outrage to seek vengeance.  This is not the case for their Oedipus Complex-on-wheels mother, Crystal.  She blows into town like a hurricane, determined to avenge her preferred son.  Crystal will also take every opportunity to mess with Julian’s head, while re-asserting control of her far-flung illicit businesses.  Killing a cop is no big deal to her, but Chang is no ordinary flatfoot.

For what it’s worth, Only is nowhere near the train wreck Cannes reviewers made it out to be.  The film has its memorable moments and performances.  Yet, there is no denying Winding Refn’s approach is rather self-indulgent.  There are so many long slow David Lynchian shots of empty hallways, viewers will half expect the giant and the dwarf to eventually pop out of a door.  There is also an oppressively misogynistic vibe to the film.  Thai actress Ratha Phongam is a lovely woman, who does what she can with Mai’s pencil thin character, but the way the Thompsons treat her is rather appalling—and she gets off easy compared to others.

Of course, some might call Crystal Thompson a strong female character.  That is certainly true, but a foul mouthed, sexually manipulative, woman-hating, sociopathic mommy-monster should not exactly constitute a feminist role model.  Kristin Scott Thomas is rather awe-inspiring in the role, hardening her tart-tongued imperious image in a forge of Hellfire.

To the film’s credit, it finally finds Ryan Gosling’s comfort range: sullen and emasculated. The film also delivers vicarious payback during Julian’s massive beatdown scene.  Audiences will start to cheer in their heads “that was for the interminable Blue Valentine and that was for the pretentious The Place Beyond the Pines, and that was for its ridiculously awkward title.”

Frankly though, Vithaya Pansringarm is the star of the film, following-up his breakout performance as the murder-solving Buddhist monk in Tom Waller’s Mindfulness and Murder.  An intensely righteous screen presence, his Chang is like a Dirty Harry with a divine mandate.  As the president of the Thailand Kendo Club, he also swings a sword with authority.

Throughout Only, Winding Refn’s directorial hand is so heavy it nearly crushes everyone on screen, except KST and Pansringarm—they never wilt.  Too laborious and too stylized, it still serves as a dramatic showcase for its fine supporting players.  Only recommended as a curiosity piece for cult film veterans, Only God Forgives opens today (7/19) in New York at the Angelika Film Center.

Pusher: Remade with Refn’s Blessing

Kids, pay attention to the following unsolicited guidance counseling: selling drugs may sound like a quick and an easy way to make money, but it can land you deep in debt to the wrong sort of people.  One London dealer learns this the hard way in Luis Prieto’s remake of Nicholas Winding Refn’s Pusher (trailer here), executive-produced by Danish filmmaker, which opens this Friday in New York.

Frank goes to a lot of parties and folks are always happy to see him, because he is the man with the drugs.  He enjoys living the fast life with his girlfriend Flo, a stripper who turns the odd pro gig on the side.  Together with his loser sidekick Tony he deals on an unsentimental, cash-and-carry basis.  However, he makes the mistake of leveraging himself with Milo, a notorious Balkan gangster, when a mysterious former associate pops up looking to buy a serious chunk of cocaine.  When the cops break up the deal, Frank is still on the hook with Milo.

Over the next week, Frank will careen through London, trying to collect debts and set-up a Hail Mary score, but not at the expense of his hedonistic lifestyle.  Eventually, Milo’s top enforcer Hakan will even lend a kneecap-breaking hand, knowing full well he will soon turn his talents on Frank.

If any film were ever amped up on coke it would be Prieto’s Pusher, an English language reboot of a Danish film from a Spanish director, featuring the Croatian-born Zlatko Burić, reprising the role of Milo, whom he portrayed throughout Refn’s original trilogy.  Propelled by a disorienting techno soundtrack, the film never gives the audience a minute to reconsider their sympathetic investment in the amoral Frank.  Instead, we just root along with him out of respect for his high wire act.

Often teetering on the brink of full-on substance related mania, Richard Coyle is impressively intense as Frank.  Following his genial turn in the tight-little-island creature mash-up Grabbers, it is quite a surprise to see he had this in him.  Model turned actress Agyness Deyn also far exceeds expectations, portraying Flo with dignity and depth.  Once again, Burić does his thing, villainously chewing the scenery as Milo.  Yet, the standout support comes from Mem Ferda, unusually smart and funny as the philosophical Hakan.  Unfortunately, Bronson Webb is just uncharismatic dead weight as the annoying-by-the-numbers Tony.

Cinematographer Simon Dennis tries to out slick every Michael Mann crime drama ever with his cool neon and noir look.  Sleazy but effective escapism, what Prieto’s Pusher lacks in depth it makes up for with its unpretentious directness.  Recommended for those nostalgic for Miami Vice and the sort of old school Britspoitation films that always seemed to have Roy Budd soundtracks, Pusher opens this Friday (10/26) in New York at the Village East Cinema.

Norse Allegory: Valhalla Rising

Consider him the original cage fighter. It is around 1000 AD and the Christians are coming, but a band of Norsemen will enjoy their Pagan ways while they can. That includes forcing their slaves to fight to the death in Nicolas Winding Refn’s moody Viking film Valhalla Rising (trailer here), which opens tomorrow in New York.

Known only as “One Eye” (for obvious reasons) a hulking Norse killing machine lives shackled inside a crude cage far up in the isolated Highlands. He is only let out only to compete in death matches. It is said no man can own the mute One Eye longer than five years. Maybe there really is a curse attached to him, or perhaps it is just gives the lethal savage more time to figure how to kill his masters. Regardless, his current owner resolves to keep him past the five year mark. In retrospect, this was probably a mistake.

After a grisly escape abetted by Are, the young boy who brought One Eye his occasional gruel, the newly liberated slaves fall in with a band of Christians off the join the Crusades. However, when their boat sails into a preternatural mist, the already portentous film veers into some truly murky allegorical waters.

Despite the ample supply of severed heads, Valhalla is not really a hack-and-slash movie. It is more like a buffet of Pagan and Christian symbolism churned through a Jodorowsky film. Indeed, lest we forget how significant it all is, we are periodically reminded by Refn’s loaded chapter titles (“Men of God,” “Hell,” “The Sacrifice,” etc.). Yet, the film’s metaphysical implications are a bit obscure, despite Refn’s agonizingly deliberate pacing, often holding scenes so long they almost become frozen tableaux. Still, cinematographer Morton Søborg dramatically captures the harsh beauty of the mountainous landscape with striking vistas that suggest the ephemeral smallness of man, except for One Eye of course.

Even those who have found Mads Mikkelsen a bit of a cold fish in previous films (like Coco Chanel and Igor Stravinsky) will have to admit he is all kinds of awesome as One Eye. Beyond convincing, he burns up the screen with raw Nordic seething. Frankly, he is pretty darn scary here.

Valhalla is a strange film that seems destined to find an audience in midnight screenings. Its apocalyptic themes and medieval macho-ness make an unlikely cocktail, but there is no denying Valhalla is the work of a visionary director (albeit one with a heavy hand). He truly immerses viewers in One Eye’s brutish world, giving them a tactile sense of the cold, damp, Godless Highlands. (Why one would want to go there, is another question entirely.) It opens tomorrow (7/16) in New York at the IFC Center.

Six Shooter: Bronson

Michael Peterson is an inconvenient man. A cause célèbre for many, he has spent most of the last thirty-four years behind bars, largely in solitary confinement, despite having been originally arrested for relatively minor crimes. However, he is also an exceptionally violent person, who after adopting the “Charles Bronson” persona inspired by the Death Wish movie-star, seems to prefer the brutality of prison life in Danish director Nicolas Winding Refn’s highly idiosyncratic Bronson (trailer here), the first installment of Magnet’s second Six-Shooter series of international genre films, which opens in New York tomorrow.

Peterson/Bronson was originally sentenced to seven years for an armed robbery that yielded just over twenty-seven pounds. Once in prison though, he discovered he was in his element. During a brief period of liberty, he fought in the underground boxing circuit, where even his unsavory manager found him a little off. While incarcerated, “Bronson” became a published poet and artist, leading many to call for his release, even though the notorious inmate once held his liberal do-gooder art teacher hostage for nearly two full days. After all, he never actually hurt the man they hasten to point out.

Bronson’s outsider art might be oddly compelling, but in Refn’s film, prison is his real canvas, where he stages elaborate acts of violence as if they were performance art. These always seem to culminate with Bronson stripping down to his altogether and tooling on the skulls of the sad sack prison guards sent to subdue him. Though certified legally sane, it frankly seems like the state had the right idea when they stashed Bronson in a loony bin, zonked out on tranks.

Refn and co-writer Brock Norman Brock do not supply any easy explanations for Bronson’s anti-social behavior. His parents seem relatively unremarkable, yet even as a child Bronson was spoiling for a fight. Granted, a girlfriend’s rejection spurs the crime that led to his second extended stretch in prison, but it really just seems to underscore how ill-suited Bronson is for life in the outside world.

Those expecting Bronson to be a grittily realistic prison drama will be a bit surprised by Refn’s highly-stylized approach, featuring surreal vaudeville-like interludes accompanied by voice-overs written by Bronson himself. However, Tom Hardy creates a singularly fascinating screen character in Bronson, combining the calculating savagery of Hannibal Lector with the showmanship of Queen frontman Freddie Mercury (whom the mustachioed Hardy somewhat resembles here).

Bronson is a violent, frequently disorienting film, but it is never dull. Ironically, though Hardy’s remarkable portrayal endows Bronson with a certain snake-like charm, it may well convince viewers he should be looked away for life, perhaps in contradiction of the filmmakers’ original intentions. It opens tomorrow (10/9) at the Angelika.