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The Fall – The Complete Peel Sessions 1978-2004

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The Fall – The Complete Peel Sessions 1978-2004

Within hours of the news of John Peel’s death at the age of 65 on October 25, 2004, The Undertones’ "Teenage Kicks" had, by virtue of radio and TV news bulletins, selected itself as the nation’s official requiem. His favourite song, it later took precedent during his funeral service while, in accordance with his wishes, its opening lyric would be inscribed upon the DJ’s headstone. But as anyone who ever listened to his show on a regular basis for any given period since 1978 will tell you, the ultimate Peelie band wasn’t The Undertones: it was the "mighty" Fall. Besides Mark E. Smith, John Peel was the only other stable factor in The Fall’s epic career (28 years and counting). Regardless of line-up, label or whether it really was Smith "and yer Granny on bongos", so long as it was, in name, The Fall, Peel could always be relied upon to give them precious airspace on the BBC. Sentimental tosh aside, you couldn’t ask for a more fitting tribute to the man, or the object of his affection, than this monolithic compendium of all 24 sessions The Fall recorded for his programme between May 1978 and August 2004. Likewise, this plays like the first successful attempt to anthologise the band’s often bamboozling history, pinpointing the various halcyon peaks and turbulent troughs. It’s no surprise, for example, that on the two sessions circa 1985’s masterpiece This Nation’s Saving Grace, Smith sounds invincible (introducing "L.A." with the barmy declaration that "Lloyd Cole’s-ah brain and face is made of cowpat”). In contrast, that from late ’98 is an absolute shambles: the drunken din of a band on the brink of collapse and, sure enough, a few months later in New York, they would. But when The Fall were on form, Peel caught them at their very best. The bulk of these BBC tracks easily rival their vinyl equivalents, or in the case of 1980’s radio ham psycho-drama "New Face In Hell" and the brisk, Brix-ed up remake of "The Man Whose Head Expanded", actually surpass them. Then there’s the glut of rarities: rough drafts, lost songs (eg 1984’s previously unreleased "Words Of Expectation") and idiosyncratic covers of everything from Coast To Coast’s "Do The Hucklebuck" ("Hassle Schmuk") to a seriously weird "Hark The Herald Angels Sing". Though desperately eclectic, even by The Fall’s abstruse standards, it’s hard to imagine a more satisfying or comprehensive career overview than this. As for the irreplaceable Peel, these discs say more about the man’s broadcasting ethos than a thousand broadsheet obituaries. Teenage dreams being so very hard to beat, this gives them a bloody good run for their money. By Simon Goddard

Within hours of the news of John Peel’s death at the age of 65 on October 25, 2004, The Undertones’ “Teenage Kicks” had, by virtue of radio and TV news bulletins, selected itself as the nation’s official requiem. His favourite song, it later took precedent during his funeral service while, in accordance with his wishes, its opening lyric would be inscribed upon the DJ’s headstone.

But as anyone who ever listened to his show on a regular basis for any given period since 1978 will tell you, the ultimate Peelie band wasn’t The Undertones: it was the “mighty” Fall. Besides Mark E. Smith, John Peel was the only other stable factor in The Fall’s epic career (28 years and counting). Regardless of line-up, label or whether it really was Smith “and yer Granny on bongos”, so long as it was, in name, The Fall, Peel could always be relied upon to give them precious airspace on the BBC.

Sentimental tosh aside, you couldn’t ask for a more fitting tribute to the man, or the object of his affection, than this monolithic compendium of all 24 sessions The Fall recorded for his programme between May 1978 and August 2004. Likewise, this plays like the first successful attempt to anthologise the band’s often bamboozling history, pinpointing the various halcyon peaks and turbulent troughs. It’s no surprise, for example, that on the two sessions circa 1985’s masterpiece This Nation’s Saving Grace, Smith sounds invincible (introducing “L.A.” with the barmy declaration that “Lloyd Cole’s-ah brain and face is made of cowpat”). In contrast, that from late ’98 is an absolute shambles: the drunken din of a band on the brink of collapse and, sure enough, a few months later in New York, they would.

But when The Fall were on form, Peel caught them at their very best. The bulk of these BBC tracks easily rival their vinyl equivalents, or in the case of 1980’s radio ham psycho-drama “New Face In Hell” and the brisk, Brix-ed up remake of “The Man Whose Head Expanded”, actually surpass them. Then there’s the glut of rarities: rough drafts, lost songs (eg 1984’s previously unreleased “Words Of Expectation”) and idiosyncratic covers of everything from Coast To Coast’s “Do The Hucklebuck” (“Hassle Schmuk”) to a seriously weird “Hark The Herald Angels Sing”. Though desperately eclectic, even by The Fall’s abstruse standards, it’s hard to imagine a more satisfying or comprehensive career overview than this.

As for the irreplaceable Peel, these discs say more about the man’s broadcasting ethos than a thousand broadsheet obituaries. Teenage dreams being so very hard to beat, this gives them a bloody good run for their money.

By Simon Goddard

Interview: Solomon Burke

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Interview: Solomon Burke
UNCUT: Were you surprised by the success of Don't Give Up On Me? SOLOMON BURKE: I'm still amazed people remembered and didn't give up on me. It was a special record at a special moment in my life that I'll always cherish. How did you choose the songs? I got real lucky because Don Was was there to...

UNCUT: Were you surprised by the success of Don’t Give Up On Me?

SOLOMON BURKE: I’m still amazed people remembered and didn’t give up on me. It was a special record at a special moment in my life that I’ll always cherish.

How did you choose the songs?

I got real lucky because Don Was was there to help. Initially we chose 47 songs and then got it down from there to what you hear on the record..

And 40 years after the Stones covered you, here you are covering them…

I don’t know how I had the audacity!

Did Dr John write the title track especially for you?

Yes, and he delivered it in person. I’ll never forget it because it was the day Ray Charles died.

With Ray gone, does that make you the last of the great soul survivors?

That’s a heavy thought but it’s an incredible moment in time for me just to be here.

Interview by Nigel Williamson

Solomon Burke – Make Do With What You Got

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Solomon Burke – Make Do With What You Got

When something works as well as Solomon Burke's 2002 renaissance, Don't Give Up On Me, the temptation to repeat the formula is irresistible. That album appeared on indie label Fat Possum. Then it wins a Grammy, and Sony muscles in and employs producer Don Was to make part two in the safe knowledge that the template can't really fail. Take the last of the classic '60s soul singers and a bunch of songs by the most literate writers of our age and glowing reviews will follow as surely as night succeeds day. And, of course, Burke doesn't fail. Was does his bit, too, brilliantly coaxing an authentic '60s Memphis stew from the band. Yet there's a lurking suspiscion of contrivance here, as opposed to the joyous spontaneity that characterised Don't Give Up On Me. On that album, Burke sounded genuinely thrilled that the likes of Dylan, Van Morrison, Costello, Waits and Brian Wilson should remember him, let alone supply him with songs. Here you suspect the heavy hand of A&R arm-twisting. They've gone back to Dylan, but this time he didn't have a new song, so Burke covers "What Good Am I?" It's a noble version, but it doesn't have the excitement of an unheard composition. True, Dr John (who wrote the title track) and Morrison (who additionally penned the liner notes) contribute new songs. But covering "I Got The Blues" from Sticky Fingers smacks of a stunt: 'Hey, 40 years ago the Stones sang Solomon's Everybody Needs Somebody To Love. What a great story if he now returned the Compliment. . .' If only all the choices were as inspired as his heartfelt rendition of Hank Williams' cautionary “Wealth Won't Save Your Soul”. But objectively, the difference is more of nuance more than substance. At 64, Burke still has the mightiest voice you've heard since Otis died. And if you loved Don't Give Up On Me, you're unlikely to be disappointed with Make Do With What You Got. By Nigel Williamson

When something works as well as Solomon Burke’s 2002 renaissance, Don’t Give Up On Me, the temptation to repeat the formula is irresistible. That album appeared on indie label Fat Possum. Then it wins a Grammy, and Sony muscles in and employs producer Don Was to make part two in the safe knowledge that the template can’t really fail. Take the last of the classic ’60s soul singers and a bunch of songs by the most literate writers of our age and glowing reviews will follow as surely as night succeeds day. And, of course, Burke doesn’t fail. Was does his bit, too, brilliantly coaxing an authentic ’60s Memphis stew from the band. Yet there’s a lurking suspiscion of contrivance here, as opposed to the joyous spontaneity that characterised Don’t Give Up On Me. On that album, Burke sounded genuinely thrilled that the likes of Dylan, Van Morrison, Costello, Waits and Brian Wilson should remember him, let alone supply him with songs. Here you suspect the heavy hand of A&R arm-twisting. They’ve gone back to Dylan, but this time he didn’t have a new song, so Burke covers “What Good Am I?” It’s a noble version, but it doesn’t have the excitement of an unheard composition.

True, Dr John (who wrote the title track) and Morrison (who additionally penned the liner notes) contribute new songs. But covering “I Got The Blues” from Sticky Fingers smacks of a stunt: ‘Hey, 40 years ago the Stones sang Solomon’s Everybody Needs Somebody To Love. What a great story if he now returned the Compliment. . .’ If only all the choices were as inspired as his heartfelt rendition of Hank Williams’ cautionary “Wealth Won’t Save Your Soul”.

But objectively, the difference is more of nuance more than substance. At 64, Burke still has the mightiest voice you’ve heard since Otis died. And if you loved Don’t Give Up On Me, you’re unlikely to be disappointed with Make Do With What You Got.

By Nigel Williamson

Interview: Rufus Wainwright

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Interview: Rufus Wainwright
UNCUT: Is Want Two in any way the flipside to, or a contrast to, Want One? Or is it just a companion collection? "I see it as kind of a yin to the other’s yang. It’s sort of the shadow or the dark side. It’s the feminine to Want One’s masculine. Both are them are still trying to be somewhat...

UNCUT: Is Want Two in any way the flipside to, or a contrast to, Want One? Or is it just a companion collection?

“I see it as kind of a yin to the other’s yang. It’s sort of the shadow or the dark side. It’s the feminine to Want One’s masculine. Both are them are still trying to be somewhat grandiose, but whereas the first record was centred around my own personal struggles, this one is much more of a view of the outside world and how dark it still is.”

Are you happy with the balance you’ve struck between rock and pre-rock arrangements on the Want albums? “Little Sister” could have been written by Mozart.

“My voice is somewhat ravenous and tends to require blood in order to survive, so I like singing stuff that’s challenging, but also that people want to hear.”

Did you know Jeff Buckley at all or is “Memphis Skyline” a kind of homoerotic fantasy?

“I met him once and we hung out and he died not long after. I hated him when he first came out. I thought he was riffy and kind of boring and I didn’t really get it. But there was also a deeper rivalry with Buckley that existed in my mind. I don’t know if we could outsing each other, but it would have been interesting to have had a singing competition with him.”

What did Van Dyke Parks, who had so much to do with your first album, do on Want Two?

“He did the arrangement for “Little Sister”. He told me when I started out, “Rufus, in Japan there’s a saying: ‘It’s the nail that sticks out that gets hammered down the hardest.’ “That’s always helped me.”

Is homosexuality becoming more or less of an issue for you as your career develops? Do you still want to be a “Gay Messiah”?

“Well, unfortunately I think that homosexuality has become a paramount issue in the future of the United States. I truly believe that for the voters who voted Bush back into power, the real enemy isn’t terrorists but gay people and women. Someone asked me the other day if I felt like a Jew before the Holocaust and I said ‘No, I feel like a homosexual before the Holocaust’.”

Do you feel any more or less encouraged by the state of the music industry than you did when you started out?

“I think it all kinda comes out in the wash. My parents’ generation had so much opportunity – every one of their friends was a songwriter with a record deal – but in a weird way that kind of distorted what they did because they could never get over the fact that the party was over. So I feel in a strange way that I’m lucky now because it is so hard to reach the top if you’re doing something on your own with your own theories and your own passion and not just sitting there at some computer. You’ve got a wall to bash up against, and I think I like that better.”

By Barney Hoskyns

Rufus Wainwright – Want Two

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Rufus Wainwright – Want Two

Late last year, Rufus Wainwright was a guest on Tom Robinson’s BBC6 radio show, answering questions about music and celebrity while pointedly avoiding allusion to his host’s former incarnation as the author of "Glad To Be Gay". At the same time, Robinson - The Boy Who Should Have Been Loudon IV, remember - managed to be splendidly catty about Dame David Bowie, heavily implying that the sometime "bisexual" had felt threatened by the younger, flamingly out-there singer. Tetchy queen that Rufus can be, how great to have a truly gay, unapologetically effeminate Star at last: no sly closet clues required for this diva. But he’s much more than that. Rufus Wainwright, spawn of Loudon and (perhaps more importantly) Kate McGarrigle, has ten times the talent of admirer Elton John – or even of a Jobriath. This torch-song troubadour, trading in elegant melancholia, is one of the only great singer-songwriters working in pop music today. With that effortless tenor – bel canto with a vital edge of petulance – he’s Thom Yorke reborn on the stage of La Scala. In this facile pop-idol age when actual talent counts for so little, Rufus’ extravagant gifts should be clung to like life rafts. Part-throwback to a golden era of post-folk-boom auteurs - of which his parents were a core part - he has veteran nurturer Lenny Waronker to thank for shepherding him through three stunning albums to get to this latest one. Many an A&R department would have gone cold on him, reneging on their duty to let talent flower at its own right pace. When Wainwright came out with his self-titled 1998 debut, it was instantly clear that he had craft and schooled sophistication in spades. Here was a beautiful voice singing songs with artful arrangements, aided by the likes of Jon Brion and the venerable Van Dyke Parks. What wasn’t clear was how Rufus was going to get on the radio, a dilemma that 2001’s Poses partially solved by dispensing with the palm-court Parks factor and replacing with it with bluesy guitars, Propellerheads collaborations and the like. Reassuringly, Want One (2003) revealed the sheer spectrum of his musical palette. Rufus’ talent hadn’t contracted in pursuit of the commercial rewards his narcissism demanded. He’d stayed faithful to his swooning muse, to a place where Radiohead met Mahler. Here was bold pop ("I Don’t Know What It Is"), pouty self-pity ("Pretty Things"), delicious pathos ("Vibrate") and searing intensity ("Go Or Go Ahead"), all bathed in luscious orch-pop soundscapes. It confirmed once and for all that Wainwright was more than a mannerist: that a genuine ache, a yearning sorrow, lay in his ravaged heart. Want Two is more, and even better, of the same - one of the dead-cert Albums of The Year. Echoing the cover of One, Two gives us the other side of Rufus’ androgynous split-self: an armoured knight for Want One, on Two he’s a bereft and possibly ravaged damsel, laid out on a bed of straw. On "The Art Teacher", recorded live in Montreal, Rufus sings in the guise of a Desperate Housewife – wearing a "uniformish pantsuit sort of thing" – harking back to a schoolgirl crush on the man who led her around the Metropolitan Museum looking at Rubens and Rembrandt. On the baroque "Little Sister", with its ornate ballroom string arrangement, he dresses up memories of early musical education with sibling Martha and asks her to "remember that your brother is a boy". Elsewhere Wainwright is gleefully Queer: the Second Coming of "Gay Messiah" ("No, I won’t be the one/Baptized in cum"), the power breakfast of "Old Whore’s Diet", featuring fellow Gothamite Antony (repaying Rufus’ cameo on I Am a Bird Now’s "What Can I Do?"). Squeamish homophobes out there shouldn’t be put off: hearing Want Two might even cure them of their benighted prejudices. It’s an album brimming over with beauty. With its scraped-viola intro and impassioned Arabic feel, "Agnus Dei" serves as a sort of overture, Rufus soaring like a debauched monk over swelling strings and rippling pianos. Single "The One You Love" sets off like vintage Squeeze before flowing into a declaration of devotion as glisteningly pretty as "Grey Gardens" or "I Don’t Know What It Is". Wouldn’t it be a treat to see Rufus on Top Of The Pops? The keynote feel of Want Two, though, is of what the great James Wood calls "measured lament": the sound of Wainwright at the piano, "tired of waiting in restaurants/Reading the critics and comics alone" ("Peach Trees"), "bruising from you" ("This Love Affair"), or simply "waiting… for the present to pass" ("Waiting for a Dream"). If Want One was all seedy Gotham glam, Want Two is the aftermath of that album’s restless wanderlust. Most moving of all is "Memphis Skyline", an elegy for another beautiful boy blessed with more than mere attitude and exhibitionism. "Always hated him for the way he looked/in the gaslight of the morning," Rufus croons of Jeff Buckley, to whom this is a sweetly homoerotic tribute: "So kiss me, my darling, stay with me till morning…" If I have any quibbles it’s that Wainwright’s swishiness is sometimes too obviously a mask. Will the real Rufus Wainwright ever step out from behind it and give us his feelings pure and unadorned? That might be when he becomes a truly great artist. And can Rufus break through? Supporting Keane on their upcoming Euro tour is something of a gamble. I’m not saying he’ll be bottled offstage, but the whole point about Keane is that they provide ersatz Jeff Buckley emotion for students who wouldn’t know real beauty or feeling if it came in Alcopop bottles. Having said that, the live Fillmore DVD that comes free with Want Two – with its version of (Jeff Buckley’s version of) Leonard Cohen’s "Hallelujah" – makes it plain: Wainwright could hold his own with any headliner on earth. By Barney Hoskyns

Late last year, Rufus Wainwright was a guest on Tom Robinson’s BBC6 radio show, answering questions about music and celebrity while pointedly avoiding allusion to his host’s former incarnation as the author of “Glad To Be Gay”. At the same time, Robinson – The Boy Who Should Have Been Loudon IV, remember – managed to be splendidly catty about Dame David Bowie, heavily implying that the sometime “bisexual” had felt threatened by the younger, flamingly out-there singer.

Tetchy queen that Rufus can be, how great to have a truly gay, unapologetically effeminate Star at last: no sly closet clues required for this diva.

But he’s much more than that. Rufus Wainwright, spawn of Loudon and (perhaps more importantly) Kate McGarrigle, has ten times the talent of admirer Elton John – or even of a Jobriath. This torch-song troubadour, trading in elegant melancholia, is one of the only great singer-songwriters working in pop music today. With that effortless tenor – bel canto with a vital edge of petulance – he’s Thom Yorke reborn on the stage of La Scala.

In this facile pop-idol age when actual talent counts for so little, Rufus’ extravagant gifts should be clung to like life rafts. Part-throwback to a golden era of post-folk-boom auteurs – of which his parents were a core part – he has veteran nurturer Lenny Waronker to thank for shepherding him through three stunning albums to get to this latest one. Many an A&R department would have gone cold on him, reneging on their duty to let talent flower at its own right pace.

When Wainwright came out with his self-titled 1998 debut, it was instantly clear that he had craft and schooled sophistication in spades. Here was a beautiful voice singing songs with artful arrangements, aided by the likes of Jon Brion and the venerable Van Dyke Parks. What wasn’t clear was how Rufus was going to get on the radio, a dilemma that 2001’s Poses partially solved by dispensing with the palm-court Parks factor and replacing with it with bluesy guitars, Propellerheads collaborations and the like.

Reassuringly, Want One (2003) revealed the sheer spectrum of his musical palette. Rufus’ talent hadn’t contracted in pursuit of the commercial rewards his narcissism demanded. He’d stayed faithful to his swooning muse, to a place where Radiohead met Mahler. Here was bold pop (“I Don’t Know What It Is”), pouty self-pity (“Pretty Things”), delicious pathos (“Vibrate”) and searing intensity (“Go Or Go Ahead”), all bathed in luscious orch-pop soundscapes. It confirmed once and for all that Wainwright was more than a mannerist: that a genuine ache, a yearning sorrow, lay in his ravaged heart.

Want Two is more, and even better, of the same – one of the dead-cert Albums of The Year. Echoing the cover of One, Two gives us the other side of Rufus’ androgynous split-self: an armoured knight for Want One, on Two he’s a bereft and possibly ravaged damsel, laid out on a bed of straw. On “The Art Teacher”, recorded live in Montreal, Rufus sings in the guise of a Desperate Housewife – wearing a “uniformish pantsuit sort of thing” – harking back to a schoolgirl crush on the man who led her around the Metropolitan Museum looking at Rubens and Rembrandt. On the baroque “Little Sister”, with its ornate ballroom string arrangement, he dresses up memories of early musical education with sibling Martha and asks her to “remember that your brother is a boy”.

Elsewhere Wainwright is gleefully Queer: the Second Coming of “Gay Messiah” (“No, I won’t be the one/Baptized in cum”), the power breakfast of “Old Whore’s Diet”, featuring fellow Gothamite Antony (repaying Rufus’ cameo on I Am a Bird Now’s “What Can I Do?”). Squeamish homophobes out there shouldn’t be put off: hearing Want Two might even cure them of their benighted prejudices.

It’s an album brimming over with beauty. With its scraped-viola intro and impassioned Arabic feel, “Agnus Dei” serves as a sort of overture, Rufus soaring like a debauched monk over swelling strings and rippling pianos. Single “The One You Love” sets off like vintage Squeeze before flowing into a declaration of devotion as glisteningly pretty as “Grey Gardens” or “I Don’t Know What It Is”. Wouldn’t it be a treat to see Rufus on Top Of The Pops?

The keynote feel of Want Two, though, is of what the great James Wood calls “measured lament”: the sound of Wainwright at the piano, “tired of waiting in restaurants/Reading the critics and comics alone” (“Peach Trees”), “bruising from you” (“This Love Affair”), or simply “waiting… for the present to pass” (“Waiting for a Dream”). If Want One was all seedy Gotham glam, Want Two is the aftermath of that album’s restless wanderlust.

Most moving of all is “Memphis Skyline”, an elegy for another beautiful boy blessed with more than mere attitude and exhibitionism. “Always hated him for the way he looked/in the gaslight of the morning,” Rufus croons of Jeff Buckley, to whom this is a sweetly homoerotic tribute: “So kiss me, my darling, stay with me till morning…”

If I have any quibbles it’s that Wainwright’s swishiness is sometimes too obviously a mask. Will the real Rufus Wainwright ever step out from behind it and give us his feelings pure and unadorned? That might be when he becomes a truly great artist.

And can Rufus break through? Supporting Keane on their upcoming Euro tour is something of a gamble. I’m not saying he’ll be bottled offstage, but the whole point about Keane is that they provide ersatz Jeff Buckley emotion for students who wouldn’t know real beauty or feeling if it came in Alcopop bottles. Having said that, the live Fillmore DVD that comes free with Want Two – with its version of (Jeff Buckley’s version of) Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” – makes it plain: Wainwright could hold his own with any headliner on earth.

By Barney Hoskyns

V For Vendetta

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Legendary 1980s graphic novel V For Vendetta is being brought to the big screen by the team behind the Matrix trilogy. Currently shooting in Berlin and London, Alan Moore's parable about a masked freedom fighter battling the authorities in a fascist-run Britain has been scripted by Andy and Larry Wachowski. Other Matrix veterans behind the camera include producer Joel Silver and assistant director James McTeigue, who’s taking charge of his first full feature. James Purefoy will play the charismatic, mysterious V, while Natalie Portman co-stars as his confidante Evey. "It’s going to be a very challenging role," Purefoy told a press conference on March 4 at Babelsberg studios near Berlin, where the bulk of shooting will take place. "You will never see my face, and I think that’s something that the fans of the comic book will be really pleased about. You should never see the guy’s face because that makes him infinitely more mysterious." Drawn by artist David Lloyd, V For Vendetta made its debut in the short-lived early 1980s comic Warrior, and was finally published in full by DC in 1988. Speaking from a soundstage designed to resemble the roof of the Old Bailey, McTeigue insisted the film will stick closely to Moore’s dark vision. "It’s very close to Alan Moore’s graphic novel," the director said. "Like all great adaptations for film there are things you have to lose and things you have to keep. But it runs very close to what Alan Moore wrote and what he was trying to say." A disgruntled Moore has disowned several previous features based on his work, including From Hell and the recent Keanu Reeves thriller Constantine. But Silver said the author is being supportive of V For Vendetta, which the producer claims will be more "people centric" and less effects-driven than the Matrix trilogy. "Larry Wachowski has been speaking to Alan about it," Silver said. "He hasn’t been very happy with some of the movies that have been made from his comic books, but he was very excited about Larry and Andy’s script. We hope to see him at some point when we’re in the UK. We’d just like him to know what we’re doing, and be part of what we’re trying to do." Fans of the original comic will also be delighted to hear that V For Vendetta is scheduled to open on November 4th, just in time for the 400th anniversary of The Gunpowder Plot. By Stephen Dalton

Legendary 1980s graphic novel V For Vendetta is being brought to the big screen by the team behind the Matrix trilogy. Currently shooting in Berlin and London, Alan Moore’s parable about a masked freedom fighter battling the authorities in a fascist-run Britain has been scripted by Andy and Larry Wachowski. Other Matrix veterans behind the camera include producer Joel Silver and assistant director James McTeigue, who’s taking charge of his first full feature. James Purefoy will play the charismatic, mysterious V, while Natalie Portman co-stars as his confidante Evey.

“It’s going to be a very challenging role,” Purefoy told a press conference on March 4 at Babelsberg studios near Berlin, where the bulk of shooting will take place. “You will never see my face, and I think that’s something that the fans of the comic book will be really pleased about. You should never see the guy’s face because that makes him infinitely more mysterious.”

Drawn by artist David Lloyd, V For Vendetta made its debut in the short-lived early 1980s comic Warrior, and was finally published in full by DC in 1988. Speaking from a soundstage designed to resemble the roof of the Old Bailey, McTeigue insisted the film will stick closely to Moore’s dark vision.

“It’s very close to Alan Moore’s graphic novel,” the director said. “Like all great adaptations for film there are things you have to lose and things you have to keep. But it runs very close to what Alan Moore wrote and what he was trying to say.”

A disgruntled Moore has disowned several previous features based on his work, including From Hell and the recent Keanu Reeves thriller Constantine. But Silver said the author is being supportive of V For Vendetta, which the producer claims will be more “people centric” and less effects-driven than the Matrix trilogy.

“Larry Wachowski has been speaking to Alan about it,” Silver said. “He hasn’t been very happy with some of the movies that have been made from his comic books, but he was very excited about Larry and Andy’s script. We hope to see him at some point when we’re in the UK. We’d just like him to know what we’re doing, and be part of what we’re trying to do.”

Fans of the original comic will also be delighted to hear that V For Vendetta is scheduled to open on November 4th, just in time for the 400th anniversary of The Gunpowder Plot.

By Stephen Dalton

The Bravery – The Bravery

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The Bravery – The Bravery

Apparently they’ve developed a new computer programme which can accurately predict the hit potential of any prospective record release. One spin of The Bravery’s debut album should blow it to smithereens. So very now it hurts, The Bravery are every record executive’s wet dream. Five ruggedly handsome Noo Yawk dudes with Lothario’s eyes for the ladies and a pervy penchant for leather and eyeliner, they make a gritty New Wave noise that is a suspiciously precise fusion of Duran Duran and The Strokes. They’re so perfect, in fact, that, to paraphrase the late Billy Mackenzie, the fault is, I can find no fault in them. This album really is just too good to be true. Crooner Sam Endicott practically sobs with narcissistic regret, wondering over and over why the world isn’t as wonderful as he is and apologising profusely for past romantic misdemeanours he’s about to commit all over again. A liar, a cheat and yet a victim of his own dark passions, this Casablancas clone is handsomely aided and abetted by the kind of muscular whiteboy would-be funk that underpinned the New Romantic giants, while John Conway‘s pompous keyboards and Michael Zakarin‘s razor slash guitar are the very aching epitome of tacky ‘80s grandeur. There are at least seven Killer(s) hits on the album. "Honest Mistake", "Unconditional" and "Fearless" ( which boasts the wonderful line: "I know that’s why you love me Chico") all recall the strident majesty of vintage Simple Minds. "Public Service Announcement", "Ring Song" and "Out Of Line" ("Hey sweet Cassandra, remember me?") have that sultry something of the young Lou Reed about them. And the truly vicious "Tyrant Mouth" finds our hero "stuck just like a pig roasting in your eyes". All are pumped up to bursting by a production strung out on steroids; not so much songs as mini-melodramas frantic with testosterone, tailor-made to soundtrack future series of The OC. This album is already one of the debuts of the year. All hail The Bravery and their new bold dream. By Steve Sutherland

Apparently they’ve developed a new computer programme which can accurately predict the hit potential of any prospective record release. One spin of The Bravery’s debut album should blow it to smithereens. So very now it hurts, The Bravery are every record executive’s wet dream. Five ruggedly handsome Noo Yawk dudes with Lothario’s eyes for the ladies and a pervy penchant for leather and eyeliner, they make a gritty New Wave noise that is a suspiciously precise fusion of Duran Duran and The Strokes. They’re so perfect, in fact, that, to paraphrase the late Billy Mackenzie, the fault is, I can find no fault in them. This album really is just too good to be true.

Crooner Sam Endicott practically sobs with narcissistic regret, wondering over and over why the world isn’t as wonderful as he is and apologising profusely for past romantic misdemeanours he’s about to commit all over again. A liar, a cheat and yet a victim of his own dark passions, this Casablancas clone is handsomely aided and abetted by the kind of muscular whiteboy would-be funk that underpinned the New Romantic giants, while John Conway‘s pompous keyboards and Michael Zakarin‘s razor slash guitar are the very aching epitome of tacky ‘80s grandeur.

There are at least seven Killer(s) hits on the album. “Honest Mistake”, “Unconditional” and “Fearless” ( which boasts the wonderful line: “I know that’s why you love me Chico”) all recall the strident majesty of vintage Simple Minds. “Public Service Announcement”, “Ring Song” and “Out Of Line” (“Hey sweet Cassandra, remember me?”) have that sultry something of the young Lou Reed about them. And the truly vicious “Tyrant Mouth” finds our hero “stuck just like a pig roasting in your eyes”. All are pumped up to bursting by a production strung out on steroids; not so much songs as mini-melodramas frantic with testosterone, tailor-made to soundtrack future series of The OC. This album is already one of the debuts of the year. All hail The Bravery and their new bold dream.

By Steve Sutherland

Interview: Sam Endicott

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UNCUT:What’s with all the Duran Duran comparisons? ENDICOTT: I can say in all honesty that I don’t own a single Duran Duran record! I’ve heard them on the radio of course, but I don’t really know their stuff. Do you worry that you may be over-hyped? Hype's a double edged sword. On one lev...

UNCUT:What’s with all the Duran Duran comparisons?

ENDICOTT: I can say in all honesty that I don’t own a single Duran Duran record! I’ve heard them on the radio of course, but I don’t really know their stuff.

Do you worry that you may be over-hyped?

Hype’s a double edged sword. On one level it’s great since it draws people’s attention to you. But on the other side, you get people who want to be the cool guy who hates the popular bands. Everyone wants to be the first guy to call ‘Emperor’s new clothes’. So what it means for us is that we have to work harder to make sure that, when you come to see us or listen to our album, we kicked your ass; we have to work harder to prove that it’s not bullshit. Which is good, cos it keeps us on our toes.

Interview By Kirsten Brearley

Interview: Stephen Morris

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Was this one easier to make than Get Ready? It was a bit, yes. I think we’re a bit more comfortable with being ourselves. I think with Get Ready we wanted to do something a bit different and so it’s got a bit of a heavy guitar-y vibe. This time, as much as we have any ideas before we go in, we ...

Was this one easier to make than Get Ready?

It was a bit, yes. I think we’re a bit more comfortable with being ourselves. I think with Get Ready we wanted to do something a bit different and so it’s got a bit of a heavy guitar-y vibe. This time, as much as we have any ideas before we go in, we wanted to do a record which was… varied.

Which songs are you particularly pleased with?

I like “Told You So” because you don’t get a bit of reggae with New Order very often, do you? It’s a reggae-fusion record I think. think it was inspired by Bernard’s holiday trip to Bognor Regis.

Apparently there’s another film in production…

There’s actually two! One is based on Deborah Curtis’s book, with Anton Corbijn signed up to direct. And there’s another in America. Now we’ve finished the record we can sit down and talk to them and either be Henry Kissinger and get them to make friends so they only make one film, or suggest that they just fight, and let the winner make the film.

New Order – Waiting For The Sirens’ Call

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New Order – Waiting For The Sirens’ Call

Like battleships or hurricanes, New Order albums traditionally have classical, stately, one-word titles. So 2001’s slack Get Ready seemed like an admission that they were still warming up after that decade apart. Borne aloft on critical goodwill, in retrospect the record sounds tentative and rudderless, with special guests in place of strong ideas. But then the original New Order didn’t hit their stride straight away. Returning with guitarist Phil Cunningham in place of the retired Gillian, on lead single "Krafty" they sound relaxed and reinvigorated, self-composed rather than chasing trends. With its breezy, kiddy-Kraftwerk electraglide, the song lent some substance to the rumours that Waiting… was to be a return to the pinnacle of Technique – the band’s most prescient rewiring of rock dynamics with dance technology. Ironically, the songs most blatantly aimed at the dancefloor may be the weakest. Stuart Price (aka Jacques Lu Cont, whose remixes make no secret of his fandom) is one of four producers – Stephen Street, John Leckie and the band themselves - and his two contributions "Jetstream", featuring Scissor Sister Ana Matronic, and "Guilt…" are bizarrely lifeless exercises. In fact, Waiting… makes more sense as an emotional, rather than a sonic, sequel to Technique. Although the earlier record was a magnificent, flawless piece of machinery, its charm lay also in the fact that it was kind of a holiday romance, a pilled-up, Ibizan Grease. You might listen to Waiting… as an update on that chemical romance, 15 rocky years into the relationship. The most affecting songs here are about second chances, reaffirming commitments and the terrible seduction of straying. Sumner has rarely sung better and "Dracula’s Castle" and "Turn" feel like older, wiser revisions of "Run" or "Fine Time". The title track, meanwhile, is a superb example of the surging, bittersweet grace of classic New Order, at once Apollonian and mordantly English. With one or two exceptions - the daft Egyptian Ragga of "I Told You So", and the sub-Stooges closer "Working Overtime" - it’s a remarkably coherent, consistent record. This may seem like faint praise for a band who once veered so flukily between the divine and asinine. But if nothing here is quite touched by the hand of God, then maybe it’s all the more engagingly human. By Stephen Trousse

Like battleships or hurricanes, New Order albums traditionally have classical, stately, one-word titles. So 2001’s slack Get Ready seemed like an admission that they were still warming up after that decade apart. Borne aloft on critical goodwill, in retrospect the record sounds tentative and rudderless, with special guests in place of strong ideas.

But then the original New Order didn’t hit their stride straight away. Returning with guitarist Phil Cunningham in place of the retired Gillian, on lead single “Krafty” they sound relaxed and reinvigorated, self-composed rather than chasing trends. With its breezy, kiddy-Kraftwerk electraglide, the song lent some substance to the rumours that Waiting… was to be a return to the pinnacle of Technique – the band’s most prescient rewiring of rock dynamics with dance technology.

Ironically, the songs most blatantly aimed at the dancefloor may be the weakest. Stuart Price (aka Jacques Lu Cont, whose remixes make no secret of his fandom) is one of four producers – Stephen Street, John Leckie and the band themselves – and his two contributions “Jetstream”, featuring Scissor Sister Ana Matronic, and “Guilt…” are bizarrely lifeless exercises.

In fact, Waiting… makes more sense as an emotional, rather than a sonic, sequel to Technique. Although the earlier record was a magnificent, flawless piece of machinery, its charm lay also in the fact that it was kind of a holiday romance, a pilled-up, Ibizan Grease.

You might listen to Waiting… as an update on that chemical romance, 15 rocky years into the relationship. The most affecting songs here are about second chances, reaffirming commitments and the terrible seduction of straying. Sumner has rarely sung better and “Dracula’s Castle” and “Turn” feel like older, wiser revisions of “Run” or “Fine Time”. The title track, meanwhile, is a superb example of the surging, bittersweet grace of classic New Order, at once Apollonian and mordantly English.

With one or two exceptions – the daft Egyptian Ragga of “I Told You So”, and the sub-Stooges closer “Working Overtime” – it’s a remarkably coherent, consistent record. This may seem like faint praise for a band who once veered so flukily between the divine and asinine. But if nothing here is quite touched by the hand of God, then maybe it’s all the more engagingly human.

By Stephen Trousse

Interview: Josh Homme

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UNCUT: Did you feel pressure about going it alone? JOSH HOMME: No. I think I’m built for situations like that. I felt really free, like I could do anything, because no one would know what to expect. It was actually really comfortable. I just did what I learned to do on the other three records. ...

UNCUT: Did you feel pressure about going it alone?

JOSH HOMME: No. I think I’m built for situations like that. I felt really free, like I could do anything, because no one would know what to expect. It was actually really comfortable. I just did what I learned to do on the other three records.

It starts off really tight, then goes off on a tangent. Accident or design?

We start doing it, basically, midway through the album. It goes through a series of aggro left and right punches, into making out, and then doing it.

How did Brody and Shirley Manson get involved?

They were drinking wine in the other room. So I was like, ‘Hey you sexy babies, can you sing on my record?’ I’ll be damned if they didn’t go ahead and do it.

Are some of the songs on the album about Brody?

They’re about my life…. So yeah, she’s in there somewhere. How’s that for vague?

How are things with Nick?

Well, I’m going to record three or four tracks on his new record. So obviously, we can’t stand each other.

Queens Of The Stone Age – Lullabies To Paralyze

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Queens Of The Stone Age – Lullabies To Paralyze

When word came out of the California desert last year that maniacal singing bassist Nick Oliveri and third vocalist Mark Lanegan had left Queens Of The Stone Age, few doubted that founding member Josh Homme couldn’t persevere capably without them. The man’s muse is manic — since 2002’s Song for the Deaf, he’s released an excellent PJ Harvey-graced instalment of his Desert Sessions series and played drums in his silly-boogie side-project, Eagles of Death Metal. Still, the pressure must have been tremendous. QOTSA’s second album, 2000’s Rated R, established ex-Kyuss members Homme and Oliveri as America’s most vibrant heavy rock band, and Songs emphatically consolidated that reputation. Here was a band that could woo with melodious, dark pop just as easily as it could wallop with bone-crushing, metal-fisted rock’n’roll. Lullabies to Paralyze suggests that Homme, faced with this legacy, couldn’t decide whether to lean towards immediate, straight-for-the-jugular pop, or thunderous, rambling psychedelia. So he did both. Effectively embracing the entire history of the band’s sound, the album sprawls over an hour, and has so many peaks and valleys it’s practically topographical. After lovely madrigal-like opener "Lullaby", the following seven songs are tight, perfectly-formed examples of QOTSA’s signature driving repetition, multi-tracked falsetto vocals, and edgy, punky hooks. Homme’s energy proves uncontainable, though, and around the album’s halfway mark he cuts loose. "Skin On Skin" slinks into an unmade bed with wah-wah pedals and longing groans, while the downright weird "Someone’s In The Wolf" is a seven-minute epic riddled with seasick riffs and distorted vocals. Lyrically, Lullabies seems preoccupied with the problem of errant women, which might have something to do with Homme’s girlfriend, notorious Distillers’ frontwoman Brody Dalle (who appears with Shirley Manson on backing vocals on the coolly swinging "You Got a Killer Scene"). "Everybody Knows That You’re Insane" and "Tangled Up In Plaid" ("Like to keep you all to myself/ I know you got to be free/ to kill yourself"), in particular, are love songs struggling to hold the squirming object of their affection. Without Oliveri’s lunacy and Lanegan’s lugubrious gravity, Homme obviously has a few less tricks in his bag, but that’s only a minor disappointment. Queens Of The Stone Age have always been able to reshape even the most hackneyed rock’n’roll motifs into something fresh, strange, and exciting. In that sense, at least, nothing’s changed. By April Long

When word came out of the California desert last year that maniacal singing bassist Nick Oliveri and third vocalist Mark Lanegan had left Queens Of The Stone Age, few doubted that founding member Josh Homme couldn’t persevere capably without them. The man’s muse is manic — since 2002’s Song for the Deaf, he’s released an excellent PJ Harvey-graced instalment of his Desert Sessions series and played drums in his silly-boogie side-project, Eagles of Death Metal. Still, the pressure must have been tremendous. QOTSA’s second album, 2000’s Rated R, established ex-Kyuss members Homme and Oliveri as America’s most vibrant heavy rock band, and Songs emphatically consolidated that reputation. Here was a band that could woo with melodious, dark pop just as easily as it could wallop with bone-crushing, metal-fisted rock’n’roll.

Lullabies to Paralyze suggests that Homme, faced with this legacy, couldn’t decide whether to lean towards immediate, straight-for-the-jugular pop, or thunderous, rambling psychedelia. So he did both. Effectively embracing the entire history of the band’s sound, the album sprawls over an hour, and has so many peaks and valleys it’s practically topographical.

After lovely madrigal-like opener “Lullaby”, the following seven songs are tight, perfectly-formed examples of QOTSA’s signature driving repetition, multi-tracked falsetto vocals, and edgy, punky hooks. Homme’s energy proves uncontainable, though, and around the album’s halfway mark he cuts loose. “Skin On Skin” slinks into an unmade bed with wah-wah pedals and longing groans, while the downright weird “Someone’s In The Wolf” is a seven-minute epic riddled with seasick riffs and distorted vocals.

Lyrically, Lullabies seems preoccupied with the problem of errant women, which might have something to do with Homme’s girlfriend, notorious Distillers’ frontwoman Brody Dalle (who appears with Shirley Manson on backing vocals on the coolly swinging “You Got a Killer Scene”). “Everybody Knows That You’re Insane” and “Tangled Up In Plaid” (“Like to keep you all to myself/ I know you got to be free/ to kill yourself”), in particular, are love songs struggling to hold the squirming object of their affection.

Without Oliveri’s lunacy and Lanegan’s lugubrious gravity, Homme obviously has a few less tricks in his bag, but that’s only a minor disappointment. Queens Of The Stone Age have always been able to reshape even the most hackneyed rock’n’roll motifs into something fresh, strange, and exciting. In that sense, at least, nothing’s changed.

By April Long

Interview: Brendan Benson

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Interview: Brendan Benson
UNCUT: What lessons did you learn from the Virgin experience? BENSON: It took me a while to regain my confidence. I think I fell into a depression. I was insecure and unsure of my ability as a songwriter. But I have a more realistic approach now. Then, everyone was promising me the world – telli...

UNCUT: What lessons did you learn from the Virgin experience?

BENSON: It took me a while to regain my confidence. I think I fell into a depression. I was insecure and unsure of my ability as a songwriter. But I have a more realistic approach now. Then, everyone was promising me the world – telling me I’d be the next big thing and crap like that – and I believed it. I didn’t realise that’s what everyone says all the time. I’ve learned so much, like the kind of music I write isn’t hugely popular. I’ve got no business being on a major label really.

How do you achieve that freshness of sound?

I don’t know if it’s a conscious thing, but they do sound spontaneous. [Mixer] Tchad Blake has a lot to do with it too.

Brendan Benson – Alternative To Love

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Brendan Benson – Alternative To Love

The White Stripes have already covered "Good To Me", a stand-out from Brendan Benson’s 2002 album, Lapalco. Now, Jack White is apparently recording Elephant’s follow-up at Benson’s home studio in Detroit, and there’s a joint Benson/White venture slated for next year, trailed as Cat Stevens-meets-Led Zep. It’s easy to see why White is so keen. Benson’s glittering pop songs are descendants of every boy-girl psychodrama from The Beach Boys to Big Star. But, much like their predecessors, there’s a damaged undertow. The caffeinated rush of 2002’s Lapalco – five years in the making - belied a tortuous major label experience in the mid-to-late ‘90s, when Benson was dropped from Virgin after the release of debut One Mississippi. Hauling himself back home to Detroit from LA, he poured his insecurities into a fistful of irresistible tunes. Lapalco’s critical success was testament to both his self-belief and staying power. Similarly, Alternative To Love is impossible not to love. With only longtime bandmates Matt Aljian and Chris Plum on board – alongside mixer and co-producer Tchad Blake – it’s a jubilee of full-fat riffs, nagging hooks and melodies like ornate sugar sculptures. Lyrically though, it remains troubled. "I Feel Like Myself Again" may appear to be a joyous rebirth from romantic wreckage, but it’s more likely a riposte to old record company execs or even the father that abandoned him. Likewise, the Spectoresque "Pledge And Allegiance" is no lover’s entreaty, but seems to be a loyalty pact between Benson and music itself: it’s clear he’s in it for the duration. The downbeat acoustic shuffle of "Them And Me" reinforces the point, his own third-party muse urging him on: "Isn’t this everything you ever wanted?" Yes, but there’s a price. At times – as on "What I’m Looking For" - he sounds like Evan Dando offering confessions at Gold Star Studios. At others, as on the grandly ambitious mini-suite "Flesh And Bone", like Brian Wilson himself. In a just world, he’d be huge. Wouldn’t that be nice? By Rob Hughes

The White Stripes have already covered “Good To Me”, a stand-out from Brendan Benson’s 2002 album, Lapalco. Now, Jack White is apparently recording Elephant’s follow-up at Benson’s home studio in Detroit, and there’s a joint Benson/White venture slated for next year, trailed as Cat Stevens-meets-Led Zep.

It’s easy to see why White is so keen. Benson’s glittering pop songs are descendants of every boy-girl psychodrama from The Beach Boys to Big Star. But, much like their predecessors, there’s a damaged undertow. The caffeinated rush of 2002’s Lapalco – five years in the making – belied a tortuous major label experience in the mid-to-late ‘90s, when Benson was dropped from Virgin after the release of debut One Mississippi. Hauling himself back home to Detroit from LA, he poured his insecurities into a fistful of irresistible tunes. Lapalco’s critical success was testament to both his self-belief and staying power.

Similarly, Alternative To Love is impossible not to love. With only longtime bandmates Matt Aljian and Chris Plum on board – alongside mixer and co-producer Tchad Blake – it’s a jubilee of full-fat riffs, nagging hooks and melodies like ornate sugar sculptures. Lyrically though, it remains troubled. “I Feel Like Myself Again” may appear to be a joyous rebirth from romantic wreckage, but it’s more likely a riposte to old record company execs or even the father that abandoned him. Likewise, the Spectoresque “Pledge And Allegiance” is no lover’s entreaty, but seems to be a loyalty pact between Benson and music itself: it’s clear he’s in it for the duration. The downbeat acoustic shuffle of “Them And Me” reinforces the point, his own third-party muse urging him on: “Isn’t this everything you ever wanted?” Yes, but there’s a price.

At times – as on “What I’m Looking For” – he sounds like Evan Dando offering confessions at Gold Star Studios. At others, as on the grandly ambitious mini-suite “Flesh And Bone”, like Brian Wilson himself. In a just world, he’d be huge. Wouldn’t that be nice?

By Rob Hughes

REM – The Warner Back-catalogue

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REM – The Warner Back-catalogue

As the 1980s wound down, REM found themselves in an awkward but promising position. The elliptical jangle that clouded their early records had cleared, to reveal a band with a purpose and directness few could have foreseen. Their first records had marked out REM as part of the upsurge in American underground music alongside the likes of Sonic Youth and Husker Du; albeit with a sound more identifiably rooted in rock tradition. Slowly, though, it became obvious that REM’s ambition – and, critically, their potential for universality – reached far beyond that of their peers. If Peter Buck, Mike Mills and Bill Berry appeared to be modest, courteous artisans, and Michael Stipe a strategically odd art-rocker, they had worked out a way to bring these values to stadium-sized audiences and compete with U2 rather than Miracle Legion. 1987’s 'Document' presented a band ready to make the move from Miles Copeland’s IRS (hardly a homespun indie label, but an indie nevertheless) into the covetous arms of Warner Brothers. It may not have been quite the end of the world as they knew it. But plenty of REM’s fans had reason to worry that their cultish heroes would lose even more of the mystique that had made them so appealing. They did, of course. Diehards may argue that REM never bettered their first three albums. Nevertheless, as they became, for a time, the biggest rock band in the world, they were also riven by an internal war: between brash, muscular, marginally eccentric rock, the music a band of REM’s size felt obliged to make; and subtler, acoustically-driven music which, perversely, brought them their biggest successes. The dichotomy is most glaring on 'Green', their Warners debut released on American election day, 1988. From the opening song, “Pop Song ‘89”, the dilemma is hammered home by Stipe, seemingly unsure now who he wants – or who he’s meant - to be. “Hello, I’m sorry I lost myself,” he sings, caught between superstardom and introversion. Where the band had embraced clarity as early as 'Lifes [NB NO APOSTROPHE] Rich Pageant' in ’86, Stipe was only belatedly bringing his words and opinions into focus. 'Green' was designed as a punchy, uplifting, politically mobilising record and, to that end, songs like “Stand” were clarion calls wedded to goofy pop-rock. Greenpeace stalls stood in the foyers of REM gigs now, and the band sounded precariously liberated, confident enough to transmit less ambiguous messages. The beautiful political allegory “World Leader Pretend” even had its lyrics printed on the album sleeve – a previously unthinkable concession. Still, the songs that resonated most on 'Green' were the anomalies: the brittle mandolin sketches “You Are The Everything”, “Hairshirt” and “The Wrong Child”. As REM became major players, few could have imagined that these were establishing a template for the band’s most auspicious success. That became clearer on 1991’s 'Out Of Time', when “Losing My Religion” outperformed its daft single sibling, “Shiny Happy People”. 'Out Of Time' saw the band trying out new directions: rap-rock (the KRS One-augmented “Radio Song”), exuberant dumb pop (“Shiny Happy People”), and, most propitiously, a way of making their folky digressions and Stipe’s paradoxical relationship with fame into something quietly anthemic (“Losing My Religion”). For all its general lushness, it also feels like a record where Stipe is trying to claw back some of his enigmatic status. The explicit politics were dropped – Stipe’s popularity brought him a platform beyond music to express his opinions – and the singer briefly suggested that the album should be called 'The Return Of Mumbles'. On the outstanding track, a stream-of-consciousness meditation called “Country Feedback”, he happily sublimated himself back into the music. Consequently, Stipe scrupulously avoided interviews throughout the early ‘90s, and misinformed rumours proliferated that he had contracted the HIV virus. To many, 1992’s extraordinary 'Automatic For The People' seemed to confirm them, as the singer contemplated mortality from diverse perspectives. “Try Not To Breathe” even suggested that the singer was musing on suicide, until he belatedly revealed that the song came from the perspective of a geriatric woman drawn to euthanasia. Finally, the album found REM concentrating on their mature strengths: dignity, mandolins, sombre brown textures (with string arrangements by John Paul Jones), unblinking seriousness of intent, giant consolatory hugs in “Everybody Hurts” and “Find The River”. It sold extravagantly – 12 million copies worldwide. But even before its release, REM had resolved to undo its good work and make an all-electric album. 'Monster' (1994), designed to give the band some crude, glammy songs to play on their first world tour in half a decade, was not quite as trashy as its reputation suggests. Its best song, “Let Me In”, was a moving requiem for Kurt Cobain constructed out of feedback played by Mike Mills on one of Cobain’s old guitars. But predominantly, 'Monster' was anti-compassionate, and this time Stipe’s narrators were jealous obsessives – stalkers, even - fixated on sex over spiritual consolation. Momentarily free from being totemic bleeding hearts, REM took to the road. Berry had an aneurysm. Mills collapsed with abdominal pains. Stipe had a hernia. And somehow, they also recorded an album in transit, 'New Adventures In Hi-Fi' (1996). Just before its release, Warners renewed their contract, advancing them $80 million for the next five albums: an outlay which, when 'New Adventures' fell well short of its predecessors’ sales, looked a tad overgenerous. Artistically, though, it proved a triumph. If the previous two albums had isolated the acoustic and electric strands of their make-up, 'New Adventures' mixed them up again. At times – notably on “E-Bow The Letter”, a revisiting of “Country Feedback” featuring Patti Smith - a satisfying murk reappeared around the band, as if by returning to heavy touring the band had closed up again. Soon after, physically spent, Bill Berry quit the band, and the remaining trio ignored their long-held pledge to split should any member leave. Instead, they took the opportunity to rethink how an REM record should sound. “Airportman” begins 'Up' (1998) subversively, with drum machines, vintage synths and Stipe intoning, “Great opportunity awaits”. But while they could change the palette and make their songs sound like pretty, occasionally sinister trinkets, REM were incapable of changing their fundamental nature. And once the more experimental tracks on 'Up' drifted away, the overlong album revealed a band perilously close to a pastiche of their younger selves. 'Reveal' (2001) confirmed as much: on “Disappear”, Stipe ruefully noted, “The crushing force of memory, erasing all I’ve been.” A sunny, lavish production also seemed rather stifling. Nevertheless, some fine songs lurked in this polished environment; “Beachball”, in particular, perfected the heat-hazed Beach Boy reverie the band had been fine-tuning for some years. On last year’s 'Around The Sun', however, the lack of substance was more troubling. Stipe’s return to political engagement had undoubted elegance, but the music which accompanied it – a plush, keyboard-heavy updating of 'Automatic'’s gravitas – mostly lacked the craftsmanship and resonance of this enduring band’s best work. Worst of all, 'Around The Sun' felt calculated and over-anxious, when even through the ‘90s REM were reassuringly contrary, constantly veering away from a sensible career path. Peter Buck once called his band, “The acceptable edge of the unacceptable,” but now they seemed orthodox, conservative, content to play the hits on lucrative tours and blandly recycle them for new material. It took REM 12 years to make a commercially exigent follow-up to 'Automatic For The People'. As they probably would have predicted themselves, it wasn’t worth the wait. By John Mulvey

As the 1980s wound down, REM found themselves in an awkward but promising position. The elliptical jangle that clouded their early records had cleared, to reveal a band with a purpose and directness few could have foreseen. Their first records had marked out REM as part of the upsurge in American underground music alongside the likes of Sonic Youth and Husker Du; albeit with a sound more identifiably rooted in rock tradition.

Slowly, though, it became obvious that REM’s ambition – and, critically, their potential for universality – reached far beyond that of their peers. If Peter Buck, Mike Mills and Bill Berry appeared to be modest, courteous artisans, and Michael Stipe a strategically odd art-rocker, they had worked out a way to bring these values to stadium-sized audiences and compete with U2 rather than Miracle Legion. 1987’s ‘Document’ presented a band ready to make the move from Miles Copeland’s IRS (hardly a homespun indie label, but an indie nevertheless) into the covetous arms of Warner Brothers. It may not have been quite the end of the world as they knew it. But plenty of REM’s fans had reason to worry that their cultish heroes would lose even more of the mystique that had made them so appealing.

They did, of course. Diehards may argue that REM never bettered their first three albums. Nevertheless, as they became, for a time, the biggest rock band in the world, they were also riven by an internal war: between brash, muscular, marginally eccentric rock, the music a band of REM’s size felt obliged to make; and subtler, acoustically-driven music which, perversely, brought them their biggest successes.

The dichotomy is most glaring on ‘Green’, their Warners debut released on American election day, 1988. From the opening song, “Pop Song ‘89”, the dilemma is hammered home by Stipe, seemingly unsure now who he wants – or who he’s meant – to be. “Hello, I’m sorry I lost myself,” he sings, caught between superstardom and introversion.

Where the band had embraced clarity as early as ‘Lifes [NB NO APOSTROPHE] Rich Pageant’ in ’86, Stipe was only belatedly bringing his words and opinions into focus. ‘Green’ was designed as a punchy, uplifting, politically mobilising record and, to that end, songs like “Stand” were clarion calls wedded to goofy pop-rock. Greenpeace stalls stood in the foyers of REM gigs now, and the band sounded precariously liberated, confident enough to transmit less ambiguous messages. The beautiful political allegory “World Leader Pretend” even had its lyrics printed on the album sleeve – a previously unthinkable concession. Still, the songs that resonated most on ‘Green’ were the anomalies: the brittle mandolin sketches “You Are The Everything”, “Hairshirt” and “The Wrong Child”. As REM became major players, few could have imagined that these were establishing a template for the band’s most auspicious success.

That became clearer on 1991’s ‘Out Of Time’, when “Losing My Religion” outperformed its daft single sibling, “Shiny Happy People”. ‘Out Of Time’ saw the band trying out new directions: rap-rock (the KRS One-augmented “Radio Song”), exuberant dumb pop (“Shiny Happy People”), and, most propitiously, a way of making their folky digressions and Stipe’s paradoxical relationship with fame into something quietly anthemic (“Losing My Religion”). For all its general lushness, it also feels like a record where Stipe is trying to claw back some of his enigmatic status. The explicit politics were dropped – Stipe’s popularity brought him a platform beyond music to express his opinions – and the singer briefly suggested that the album should be called ‘The Return Of Mumbles’. On the outstanding track, a stream-of-consciousness meditation called “Country Feedback”, he happily sublimated himself back into the music.

Consequently, Stipe scrupulously avoided interviews throughout the early ‘90s, and misinformed rumours proliferated that he had contracted the HIV virus. To many, 1992’s extraordinary ‘Automatic For The People’ seemed to confirm them, as the singer contemplated mortality from diverse perspectives. “Try Not To Breathe” even suggested that the singer was musing on suicide, until he belatedly revealed that the song came from the perspective of a geriatric woman drawn to euthanasia. Finally, the album found REM concentrating on their mature strengths: dignity, mandolins, sombre brown textures (with string arrangements by John Paul Jones), unblinking seriousness of intent, giant consolatory hugs in “Everybody Hurts” and “Find The River”.

It sold extravagantly – 12 million copies worldwide. But even before its release, REM had resolved to undo its good work and make an all-electric album. ‘Monster’ (1994), designed to give the band some crude, glammy songs to play on their first world tour in half a decade, was not quite as trashy as its reputation suggests. Its best song, “Let Me In”, was a moving requiem for Kurt Cobain constructed out of feedback played by Mike Mills on one of Cobain’s old guitars. But predominantly, ‘Monster’ was anti-compassionate, and this time Stipe’s narrators were jealous obsessives – stalkers, even – fixated on sex over spiritual consolation.

Momentarily free from being totemic bleeding hearts, REM took to the road. Berry had an aneurysm. Mills collapsed with abdominal pains. Stipe had a hernia. And somehow, they also recorded an album in transit, ‘New Adventures In Hi-Fi’ (1996). Just before its release, Warners renewed their contract, advancing them $80 million for the next five albums: an outlay which, when ‘New Adventures’ fell well short of its predecessors’ sales, looked a tad overgenerous. Artistically, though, it proved a triumph. If the previous two albums had isolated the acoustic and electric strands of their make-up, ‘New Adventures’ mixed them up again. At times – notably on “E-Bow The Letter”, a revisiting of “Country Feedback” featuring Patti Smith – a satisfying murk reappeared around the band, as if by returning to heavy touring the band had closed up again.

Soon after, physically spent, Bill Berry quit the band, and the remaining trio ignored their long-held pledge to split should any member leave. Instead, they took the opportunity to rethink how an REM record should sound. “Airportman” begins ‘Up’ (1998) subversively, with drum machines, vintage synths and Stipe intoning, “Great opportunity awaits”. But while they could change the palette and make their songs sound like pretty, occasionally sinister trinkets, REM were incapable of changing their fundamental nature. And once the more experimental tracks on ‘Up’ drifted away, the overlong album revealed a band perilously close to a pastiche of their younger selves.

‘Reveal’ (2001) confirmed as much: on “Disappear”, Stipe ruefully noted, “The crushing force of memory, erasing all I’ve been.” A sunny, lavish production also seemed rather stifling. Nevertheless, some fine songs lurked in this polished environment; “Beachball”, in particular, perfected the heat-hazed Beach Boy reverie the band had been fine-tuning for some years. On last year’s ‘Around The Sun’, however, the lack of substance was more troubling. Stipe’s return to political engagement had undoubted elegance, but the music which accompanied it – a plush, keyboard-heavy updating of ‘Automatic’’s gravitas – mostly lacked the craftsmanship and resonance of this enduring band’s best work.

Worst of all, ‘Around The Sun’ felt calculated and over-anxious, when even through the ‘90s REM were reassuringly contrary, constantly veering away from a sensible career path. Peter Buck once called his band, “The acceptable edge of the unacceptable,” but now they seemed orthodox, conservative, content to play the hits on lucrative tours and blandly recycle them for new material. It took REM 12 years to make a commercially exigent follow-up to ‘Automatic For The People’. As they probably would have predicted themselves, it wasn’t worth the wait.

By John Mulvey

The Yes Men

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In 1999, anti-corporate pranksters Andy Bichlbaum and Mike Bonanno started running a website, purported to be that of the pernicious World Trade Organisation. In fact, the website slyly exposed the various ways in which the WTO allows corporations to operate unhampered by international law, human rights or environmental strictures. All very clever - but some visitors didn't realise the site was a spoof, and the duo found themselves invited to represent the WTO and speak at conferences around the world. This documentary duly follows the pair around as they deliver preposterous "lectures" to the great and good of the international business community. It's almost impossible to believe how easily the pair are allowed to carry out their charade. All they need do, it seems, is deliver their spiel in the bland cadence and jargon of corporate-speak. At a Finnish conference, none of the audience bat an eyelid as they deliver a presentation explaining how slavery is no longer necessary since it's more convenient for pittance workers to be kept in their own countries. When they demonstrate a "management leisure suit", featuring a TV monitor attached to a phallic protrusion enabling managers to keep employees under surveillance as they work out, they provoke snickers but no outrage. Only when they deliver a powerpoint presentation to a group of young students explaining how First World excrement can be converted into burgers for Third World countries do they excite indignation. But still, no one cottons onto the joke, provoking them into their ultimate stunt - announcing the disbanding of the WTO. And even then, they're taken seriously. The Yes Men is extremely funny, yet underlying it is a feeling of despair - not only at the apparent worldwide sense-of-irony shortage, but that the grey ranks of the corporate have become so dulled to the outrageous moral implications of their quotidian iniquity that they can barely recognise it, even when it's waved so blatantly in front of their faces. Superb. By David Stubbs

In 1999, anti-corporate pranksters Andy Bichlbaum and Mike Bonanno started running a website, purported to be that of the pernicious World Trade Organisation. In fact, the website slyly exposed the various ways in which the WTO allows corporations to operate unhampered by international law, human rights or environmental strictures. All very clever – but some visitors didn’t realise the site was a spoof, and the duo found themselves invited to represent the WTO and speak at conferences around the world. This documentary duly follows the pair around as they deliver preposterous “lectures” to the great and good of the international business community.

It’s almost impossible to believe how easily the pair are allowed to carry out their charade. All they need do, it seems, is deliver their spiel in the bland cadence and jargon of corporate-speak. At a Finnish conference, none of the audience bat an eyelid as they deliver a presentation explaining how slavery is no longer necessary since it’s more convenient for pittance workers to be kept in their own countries. When they demonstrate a “management leisure suit”, featuring a TV monitor attached to a phallic protrusion enabling managers to keep employees under surveillance as they work out, they provoke snickers but no outrage. Only when they deliver a powerpoint presentation to a group of young students explaining how First World excrement can be converted into burgers for Third World countries do they excite indignation. But still, no one cottons onto the joke, provoking them into their ultimate stunt – announcing the disbanding of the WTO. And even then, they’re taken seriously.

The Yes Men is extremely funny, yet underlying it is a feeling of despair – not only at the apparent worldwide sense-of-irony shortage, but that the grey ranks of the corporate have become so dulled to the outrageous moral implications of their quotidian iniquity that they can barely recognise it, even when it’s waved so blatantly in front of their faces.

Superb.

By David Stubbs

Oscar Winners in Full

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Best film Million Dollar Baby The Aviator Finding Neverland Ray Sideways Best director Clint Eastwood - Million Dollar Baby Martin Scorsese - The Aviator Alexander Payne - Sideways Taylor Hackford - Ray Mike Leigh - Vera Drake Best actor Jamie Foxx - Ray Clint Eastwood - Million Do...

Best film

Million Dollar Baby

The Aviator

Finding Neverland

Ray

Sideways

Best director

Clint Eastwood – Million Dollar Baby

Martin Scorsese – The Aviator

Alexander Payne – Sideways

Taylor Hackford – Ray

Mike Leigh – Vera Drake

Best actor

Jamie Foxx – Ray

Clint Eastwood – Million Dollar Baby

Don Cheadle – Hotel Rwanda

Johnny Depp – Finding Neverland

Leonardo DiCaprio – The Aviator

Best actress

Hilary Swank – Million Dollar Baby

Imelda Staunton – Vera Drake

Kate Winslet – Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

Annette Bening – Being Julia

Catalina Sandino Moreno – Maria Full of Grace

Best supporting actress

Cate Blanchett – The Aviator

Virginia Madsen – Sideways

Laura Linney – Kinsey

Sophie Okonedo – Hotel Rwanda

Natalie Portman – Closer

Best supporting actor

Morgan Freeman – Million Dollar Baby

Alan Alda – The Aviator

Clive Owen – Closer

Jamie Foxx – Collateral

Thomas Haden Church – Sideways

Best foreign language film

The Sea Inside – Spain

As it is in Heaven – Sweden

The Chorus – France

Downfall – Germany

Yesterday – South Africa

Best original screenplay

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

The Aviator

Hotel Rwanda

The Incredibles

Vera Drake

Best adapted screenplay

Sideways

Before Sunset

Finding Neverland

Million Dollar Baby

The Motorcycle Diaries

Best music (song)

Al Otro Lado Del Rio – The Motorcycle Diaries

Accidentally in Love – Shrek 2

Believe – The Polar Express

Learn to be Lonely – The Phantom of the Opera

Look to Your Path (Vois Sur Ton Chemin) – The Chorus

Best music (score)

Finding Neverland

Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events

The Passion of the Christ

The Village

Best documentary short subject

Mighty Times: The Children’s March

Autism is a World

The Children of Leningradsky

Hardwood

Sister Rose’s Passion

Sound editing

The Incredibles

The Polar Express

Spider-Man 2

Best sound mixing

Ray

The Aviator

The Incredibles

The Polar Express

Spider-Man 2

Best cinematography

The Aviator

House of Flying Daggers

The Passion of the Christ

The Phantom of the Opera

A Very Long Engagement

Best animated short film

Ryan

Birthday Boy

Gopher Broke

Guard Dog

Lorenzo

Best short film

Wasp

Everything in This Country Must

Little Terrorist

7:35 in the Morning

Two Cars, One Night

Best visual effects

Spider-Man 2

Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

I, Robot

Best documentary feature

Born into Brothels

The Story of Weeping Camel

Super Size Me

Tupac: Resurrection

Twist of Faith

Film Editing

The Aviator

Collateral

Finding Neverland

Million Dollar Baby

Ray

Best costume design

The Aviator

Finding Neverland

Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events

Ray

Troy

Best make-up

Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events

The Passion of the Christ

The Sea Inside

Best animated feature film

The Incredibles

Shark Tale

Shrek 2

Best art direction

The Aviator

Finding Neverland

Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events

The Phantom of the Opera

A Very Long Engagement

Lifetime Achievement Award

Sidney Lumet

The Woodsman

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The Woodsman

Sure to send the usual self-appointed moral guardians into screaming apoplexy, this daring, feature debut about a recovering paedophile adopts a sensitive and intelligent approach to its provocative subject matter. Produced by hip hop entrepreneur Damon Dash, this finds Kevin Bacon plays Walter, returning to his Philadelphia hometown after spending 12 years in prison for molesting young girls and trying to restore some semblance of normality to his life: "Normal is when I can be near a girl, talk to a girl, and not think about..." Most of his family have shut him out. He's got a detective (Mos Def, sly and shifty) on his back, just waiting for him to re-offend: "I don't know why they keep letting freaks like you out - it only means we have to catch you again." Matters aren't helped much when he finds he can only get lodgings over the road from a grade school, and his colleagues at the local lumber mill respond aggressively when his past leaks out. Pushed from all sides, you wonder whether he'll cave in. Only Vickie (Sedgewick, Bacon's real life wife), a co-worker at the lumber mill who becomes his lover, offers any understanding: she was abused by her three elder brothers "in chronological order." Adapted from Steven Fechter's play, Kassell's sombre, minimalist film inevitably makes for difficult viewing. How much sympathy are we meant to have for a character responsible for such horrific crimes? But Kassell is less interested in why he committed those offences, or drawing you towards making moral judgements, but whether Walter is capable of changing his nature. In the film's pivotal scene, Walter the Woodsman follows a Little Red Riding Hood of his own into the local park. Has his resolve snapped, or is he testing himself? When he asks her to sit on his lap, your stomach plummets. Bacon - an underrated actor - here turns in a performance that's unsettling and complex; he's neither villain nor victim. With Walter totally withdrawn into himself, Bacon still manages to convey the character's deep-seated self-loathing. "When will I be normal?" he growls at his therapist, both impatient and scared. It's a career peak. There are a few weak links (how in God's name did anyone let a convicted paedophile live opposite a school?). But let them slide. This is a bold, uncomfortable piece of cinema. By Michael Bonner

Sure to send the usual self-appointed moral guardians into screaming apoplexy, this daring, feature debut about a recovering paedophile adopts a sensitive and intelligent approach to its provocative subject matter.

Produced by hip hop entrepreneur Damon Dash, this finds Kevin Bacon plays Walter, returning to his Philadelphia hometown after spending 12 years in prison for molesting young girls and trying to restore some semblance of normality to his life: “Normal is when I can be near a girl, talk to a girl, and not think about…” Most of his family have shut him out. He’s got a detective (Mos Def, sly and shifty) on his back, just waiting for him to re-offend: “I don’t know why they keep letting freaks like you out – it only means we have to catch you again.” Matters aren’t helped much when he finds he can only get lodgings over the road from a grade school, and his colleagues at the local lumber mill respond aggressively when his past leaks out. Pushed from all sides, you wonder whether he’ll cave in. Only Vickie (Sedgewick, Bacon’s real life wife), a co-worker at the lumber mill who becomes his lover, offers any understanding: she was abused by her three elder brothers “in chronological order.”

Adapted from Steven Fechter’s play, Kassell’s sombre, minimalist film inevitably makes for difficult viewing. How much sympathy are we meant to have for a character responsible for such horrific crimes? But Kassell is less interested in why he committed those offences, or drawing you towards making moral judgements, but whether Walter is capable of changing his nature. In the film’s pivotal scene, Walter the Woodsman follows a Little Red Riding Hood of his own into the local park. Has his resolve snapped, or is he testing himself? When he asks her to sit on his lap, your stomach plummets.

Bacon – an underrated actor – here turns in a performance that’s unsettling and complex; he’s neither villain nor victim. With Walter totally withdrawn into himself, Bacon still manages to convey the character’s deep-seated self-loathing. “When will I be normal?” he growls at his therapist, both impatient and scared. It’s a career peak.

There are a few weak links (how in God’s name did anyone let a convicted paedophile live opposite a school?). But let them slide. This is a bold, uncomfortable piece of cinema.

By Michael Bonner

The Life Aquatic

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The Life Aquatic

Once you accept that this isn't quite a comedy and isn't exactly a tragedy, The Life Aquatic is a mischievous and melancholy thing of wonder. A post-modern Moby Dick with some moping and much dicking around, it's daring, different and memorable. Ideas run like water, the cast are decidedly odd, and Anderson confirms himself as the palatable, fashionable face of slightly askew weirdness. It's I Heart Huckabees with a story (of sorts), or Punch Drunk Love with more defeatism and depth. Lots of depth, almost despite itself. Like dolphins, dolphins can swim. The liberal use throughout of Portuguese acoustic versions of Bowie classics (sung by City Of God actor Seu Jorge) is just one of its sweetly challenging quirks. Anderson's third film with Murray (following Rushmore and The Royal Tenenbaums) is arch, deadpan and, for all the water, dry. This can be annoying or exhilarating: Murray's adept at this glazed gaze, others less so. Payback comes when a late pathos seeps through the studied surrealism and cold, clever comedy. The film sneaks up on you, decks you with an after-burn concerning mortality, having spent the best part of two hours convincing you it's a dark Dada farce. It's again about both misfits and families. Those not fond of Anderson's techniques will find it smart-ass and chilly. Those attuned to his bends will follow it down, leagues. Murray leaves much open to translation as expressionless oceanographer Steve Zissou. Acclaimed for his underwater documentaries, ageing Zissou is hitting hard times. Funding's scarce (from scatty producer Michael Gambon), and his name doesn't wow the world the way it used to. When the mysterious - feasibly non-existent - Jaguar Shark kills a colleague, he peps up the crew of his ship The Belafonte (a dazzling construction) for another exploratory mission. "What would be the scientific purpose?" asks a reporter. "Revenge", he answers. So Team Zissou - a queerly-uniformed crew that can only be described as motley - embark on their make-or-break voyage, the odds against them. They include airline pilot Ned (Wilson), who introduces himself as "possibly" Steve's long-lost son: Steve's stoned when they meet, and enjoys the notion, warms to the kid's enthusiasm. English journalist Jane Winslett-Richardson (Blanchett) tags along for an interview, heavily pregnant. She's soon disillusioned by her jaded idol. "We're being led on an illegal suicide mission by a selfish maniac," mutters the usually topless script girl. Noah Taylor, background-funny as ever, composes the unutterably bad electro score for Steve's films. The comic jewel on board however is blindly loyal German engineer Klaus (Dafoe): a smitten, nodding puppy. Dafoe's rarely been looser. Steve's estranged wife Eleanor (Huston), "the real brains", hovers, ready to help or hinder, while his nemesis/rival (Jeff Goldblum) sniggers and mocks. The interplay between all these eccentrics is half the film. When "action" kicks in, though, Anderson doesn't hesitate to dive overboard. Recklessly sailing uncharted waters, The Belafonte's attacked by pirates, forcing Steve into a heroic shoot'-em-up rescue to the strains of Iggy's "Search And Destroy". Goldblum and bond company rep Bud Cort are kidnapped; our lunatic seamen go in pursuit. There are McGuffins about money, and Steve's dead rapport with Eleanor flickers. But he's really in love with the aloof Jane. Who's in love with Ned. For all his dumb courage, Steve senses a midlife crisis. He must find the Jaguar Shark to give his life meaning, to prove to those he values that for all his impotence in other areas - "Do you not like me any more?" he gruffly sighs - he's still the best at what he does. There's a lovely grace note at the ending. The interiority of Tenenbaums is opened out, with chases, gunplay, sharks and wild, animated underwater creatures. But it's still very Anderson, with jokes emphasised in the "wrong" places, and rhythms wilfully off the beat. Murray's so dour that Wilson's cloned blankness is too much. Blanchett's boldly bizarre, and the rest of the team are allowed camp, broad humour. Twisting like an eel from tired narrative conventions, coining its own metre, this bends your brain till the finale makes perfect, poignant sense. Floats like a jellyfish, stings like a ray. Jacques Cousteau was never like this. By Chris Roberts

Once you accept that this isn’t quite a comedy and isn’t exactly a tragedy, The Life Aquatic is a mischievous and melancholy thing of wonder. A post-modern Moby Dick with some moping and much dicking around, it’s daring, different and memorable. Ideas run like water, the cast are decidedly odd, and Anderson confirms himself as the palatable, fashionable face of slightly askew weirdness. It’s I Heart Huckabees with a story (of sorts), or Punch Drunk Love with more defeatism and depth. Lots of depth, almost despite itself.

Like dolphins, dolphins can swim. The liberal use throughout of Portuguese acoustic versions of Bowie classics (sung by City Of God actor Seu Jorge) is just one of its sweetly challenging quirks. Anderson’s third film with Murray (following Rushmore and The Royal Tenenbaums) is arch, deadpan and, for all the water, dry. This can be annoying or exhilarating: Murray’s adept at this glazed gaze, others less so. Payback comes when a late pathos seeps through the studied surrealism and cold, clever comedy. The film sneaks up on you, decks you with an after-burn concerning mortality, having spent the best part of two hours convincing you it’s a dark Dada farce. It’s again about both misfits and families. Those not fond of Anderson’s techniques will find it smart-ass and chilly. Those attuned to his bends will follow it down, leagues.

Murray leaves much open to translation as expressionless oceanographer Steve Zissou. Acclaimed for his underwater documentaries, ageing Zissou is hitting hard times. Funding’s scarce (from scatty producer Michael Gambon), and his name doesn’t wow the world the way it used to. When the mysterious – feasibly non-existent – Jaguar Shark kills a colleague, he peps up the crew of his ship The Belafonte (a dazzling construction) for another exploratory mission. “What would be the scientific purpose?” asks a reporter. “Revenge”, he answers.

So Team Zissou – a queerly-uniformed crew that can only be described as motley – embark on their make-or-break voyage, the odds against them. They include airline pilot Ned (Wilson), who introduces himself as “possibly” Steve’s long-lost son: Steve’s stoned when they meet, and enjoys the notion, warms to the kid’s enthusiasm. English journalist Jane Winslett-Richardson (Blanchett) tags along for an interview, heavily pregnant. She’s soon disillusioned by her jaded idol. “We’re being led on an illegal suicide mission by a selfish maniac,” mutters the usually topless script girl. Noah Taylor, background-funny as ever, composes the unutterably bad electro score for Steve’s films. The comic jewel on board however is blindly loyal German engineer Klaus (Dafoe): a smitten, nodding puppy. Dafoe’s rarely been looser.

Steve’s estranged wife Eleanor (Huston), “the real brains”, hovers, ready to help or hinder, while his nemesis/rival (Jeff Goldblum) sniggers and mocks. The interplay between all these eccentrics is half the film.

When “action” kicks in, though, Anderson doesn’t hesitate to dive overboard. Recklessly sailing uncharted waters, The Belafonte’s attacked by pirates, forcing Steve into a heroic shoot’-em-up rescue to the strains of Iggy’s “Search And Destroy”. Goldblum and bond company rep Bud Cort are kidnapped; our lunatic seamen go in pursuit. There are McGuffins about money, and Steve’s dead rapport with Eleanor flickers. But he’s really in love with the aloof Jane. Who’s in love with Ned. For all his dumb courage, Steve senses a midlife crisis. He must find the Jaguar Shark to give his life meaning, to prove to those he values that for all his impotence in other areas – “Do you not like me any more?” he gruffly sighs – he’s still the best at what he does. There’s a lovely grace note at the ending.

The interiority of Tenenbaums is opened out, with chases, gunplay, sharks and wild, animated underwater creatures. But it’s still very Anderson, with jokes emphasised in the “wrong” places, and rhythms wilfully off the beat. Murray’s so dour that Wilson’s cloned blankness is too much. Blanchett’s boldly bizarre, and the rest of the team are allowed camp, broad humour. Twisting like an eel from tired narrative conventions, coining its own metre, this bends your brain till the finale makes perfect, poignant sense. Floats like a jellyfish, stings like a ray. Jacques Cousteau was never like this.

By Chris Roberts

Interview: Wayne Kramer

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Interview: Wayne Kramer
UNCUT: You're performing a special concert with Sun Ra Arkestra this month. What kind of set can we expect? KRAMER: Y'know, its hard to say. What we're aiming at, is being true to the spirit of the MC5 and true to the spirit of experimentation and pure rock and roll. We've never been a band for doi...

UNCUT: You’re performing a special concert with Sun Ra Arkestra this month. What kind of set can we expect?

KRAMER: Y’know, its hard to say. What we’re aiming at, is being true to the spirit of the MC5 and true to the spirit of experimentation and pure rock and roll. We’ve never been a band for doing things half heartedly and we don’t intent to start now just because we’re older. I just spoke to one of the Arkestra a few minutes ago and we’re looking at the possibility of joining each others sets at some point and coming together at the end.

Will you be playing any Arkestra compositions during DKT / MC5 set?

I’m certain we’ll be performing Starship which is an MC5 / Sun Ra composition from Kick Out The Jams, but we haven’t discussed the rest of the set yet. We’re just so excited about being able to pick up where we left off in the sixties and continue this effort to push music further and further into the future.

Sun Ra loved to dress up in wild, flamboyant costumes. Will you be dressing up for the show?

I hadn’t really thought about it, but now you’ve mentioned it we’ d better put some effort into that. After all, the whole point of this gig is to raise the bar and remind people that MC5 was always about participating in an on-going experiment in life and music and the possibilities of creative power. If you keep an open mind, great things can happen!

Your label suggested you might be accompanied by a few special guests…

We’ve been talking to a bunch of people including Handsome Dick Manitoba (The Dictators), Lisa Kekaula (Bellrays), Billy Duffy (The Cult) and Mick Jones (The Clash). Mick said he would love to do it, but it looks like he might not be able to make it because of his work schedule. One friend we definitely have joining us is David Thomas from Pere Ubu. I’ve asked him to compose something special for the event and I’ m confident he’ll come up with something wonderful.

Are there any plans to record the show for a live DVD or album?

We’ll be filming the whole thing, but we won’t know til afterwards if it’s any good or not. I’m keeping my fingers crossed it will be a fantastic night, but I can’t predict if we’ll manage to capture that on film or if someone ends up with their thumb over the lens. What I can tell you, is we’re making a conscious effort to archive everything we do from now on. If the London show goes well, there’s also a possibility we might do a similar thing in the States. We haven’t made any plans yet, but its a very compelling idea.

Why do you think free jazz has such a bad reputation?

I have a theory about this and the theory is that free jazz lost its focus when John Coltrane, Albert Ayler and Sun Ra died. They were the ones that really pushed the music to new places and when they went there was no-one left to carry the torch. Of course there were talented players like Archie Shepp, Pharaoh Sanders and Cecil Taylor, but they didn’t have the personality of Trane or Ra. Something else had to fill in the vacuum left by those artists and that is what I call the curse of Miles Davis. I love Miles, but unfortunately his cool and cerebral music inspired a whole generation of musicians to start making fusion.

Just hearing the word fusion conjures images of noodling instrumentals and self-indulgent solos.

Hahaha. It was a terrible name for a terrible genre where nothing really fused. To make matters worse, the records just got quieter and lamer until we were left with smooth jazz. Which, lets be honest, is neither smooth nor jazz. It’s just elevator muzak. My point is, after Albert, Coltrane and Sun Ra were gone there was nobody radical left on the frontlines.

Have you been working on any new DKT / MC5 material since you reformed?

We actually haven’t done any writing together yet. We’ve been talking about it, but we didn’t know if we could play together until we did that show in London. We were so humbled by the response that night and the world tour we did last summer, that we’ve been thinking we should try and do some new songs. Maybe this gig will be the incentive we need?

What’s been on your turntable recently?

A wonderful instrumental group called the Nils Klein Singers and lots of old records by Cole Porter and George Gershwin. I’ve been going back to the great American composers and studying how they wrote their songs. Most of my work today is music for film and television so I’m keen to understand more about symphonic arrangements. In fact, I think I’m going to take some classes so I know how to write for violins and french horns. Real life is in session and I want to participate in it!

Are you working on any film material at the moment?

I’ve got a couple of different projects on the back burner, but the main thing I’ve been doing is music for extreme sports programmes. Its great fun because they let me do exactly what I want. I hate corny,gladiatorial tracks with lots of trumpets, so I try to put lots of other elements in there and use the job skills I have in a way thats outside the world of rock. I’ m a middle age man now and although I’ll always play in bands, there’s many other things I would like to do.

Interview by Sarah-Jane

DKT / MC5 & Sun Ra Arkestra play the Royal Festival Hall, London on Friday 25 February

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