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Various Artists – Space Lines: Sonic Sounds For Subterraneans

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This Sonic Boom-compiled compilation lies somewhere between the All Back To Mine series and Brodie's Notes. It's part join-the-dots (there's Red Crayola's original, stripped-down "Transparent Radiation", covered by Spacemen 3 on a 1987 EP), part eye-opener (Rolf Harris' "Sun Arise" isn't as strange a choice as it might at first appear) and part introduction to the more esoteric reaches of Sonic's record collection (Honolulu Mountain Daffodils anyone?). All told, it makes perfect sense, as the connections between Bo Diddley, Sun Ra and The Wailers, and how they fit into the Spacemen mindset, are made more explicit. And, simply as a collection of songs, shorn of the Spacemen framework, they're excellent in their own right. Get your prescription fixed.

This Sonic Boom-compiled compilation lies somewhere between the All Back To Mine series and Brodie’s Notes. It’s part join-the-dots (there’s Red Crayola’s original, stripped-down “Transparent Radiation”, covered by Spacemen 3 on a 1987 EP), part eye-opener (Rolf Harris’ “Sun Arise” isn’t as strange a choice as it might at first appear) and part introduction to the more esoteric reaches of Sonic’s record collection (Honolulu Mountain Daffodils anyone?). All told, it makes perfect sense, as the connections between Bo Diddley, Sun Ra and The Wailers, and how they fit into the Spacemen mindset, are made more explicit. And, simply as a collection of songs, shorn of the Spacemen framework, they’re excellent in their own right. Get your prescription fixed.

The Chi-Lites – The Complete Chi-Lites On Brunswick Vols 1 And 2

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They were indeed both "Chi" (from Chicago) and "Lite", if by that word we mean lushly uptown '70s soul with a sweet tooth. Eugene Record was a terrifically gifted writer/producer/falsetto lead singer, who hit his stride with such gorgeous, ever so slightly kitsch hits as "Have You Seen Her" ('71), "Oh Girl" and the crushingly sad "Coldest Days of My Life (Pt 1)" (both '72). But The Chi-Lites could also do ghetto-funk ("Give More Power To The People", "We Are Neighbors") with cred and panache. If you need to economise, most of the classics are on Volume One.

They were indeed both “Chi” (from Chicago) and “Lite”, if by that word we mean lushly uptown ’70s soul with a sweet tooth. Eugene Record was a terrifically gifted writer/producer/falsetto lead singer, who hit his stride with such gorgeous, ever so slightly kitsch hits as “Have You Seen Her” (’71), “Oh Girl” and the crushingly sad “Coldest Days of My Life (Pt 1)” (both ’72). But The Chi-Lites could also do ghetto-funk (“Give More Power To The People”, “We Are Neighbors”) with cred and panache. If you need to economise, most of the classics are on Volume One.

Bark Psychosis

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Diamond Dogs is often cited as the beginning of Bowie's cocaine psychosis period. In fact, it was recorded before he started giving Hitler salutes at railway stations and aggravating Eastern European customs officers with the books on Goebbels he carried in his rucksack, and now presents something of a field day for hindsight-lovers. Or should that be hindquarter-watchers, since everything about Diamond Dogs polarised opinion, from Guy Peellaert's canine cover to the jagged avant-garde mellotron nightmares of "Future Legend" and "Chant Of The Ever Circling Skeletal Family". Diamond Dogs was first mooted as a rock musical concept based on 1984. George Orwell's widow refused to sanction it, but it retained the central motif of "we are the dead', dressing it with surreal '70s sleaze. Bowie gave notice his career was going off the rails when he performed before an invited fan club audience for US TV's Midnight Special at The Marquee in October, 1973. A virtual dress rehearsal for his notion of 'at last, the 1984 floor show', it was a great gig, with guest stars The Troggs and Marianne Faithfull adding to the bonkers quotient. But while the idea of a maniacal mainman is convenient, there was still a method to Bowie's a-lad-insane madness. Ziggy Stardust was inspired by the doomed '50s rock'n'roller Vince Taylor; Pin Ups was a '60s tribute covers album, with the Blessed Twig(gy) sharing cover space; and Diamond Dogs went back to old George's Roaring '40s nightmare future. Bowie might not have invented mix'n'match, but he knew how to shoplift at the concept counter with the best of the young dudes. Having dispensed with guitarist Mick Ronson and broken up the bewhiskered Spiders From Mars (the kids had killed the man, see), Bowie hired veteran musos like Tony Newman, Aynsley Dunbar, Herbie Flowers and Mike Garson, while providing his own off-kilter Stooges guitar and screeching, coke-buzzing wall-of-sound saxophone. Tacky taster single "Rebel Rebel" was a sop to the glam sleaze that characterised the end of the Ziggy era. But the rest of the album, recorded in London and Holland (though its maker now lived in America for tax purposes), is often seen as a primer for his raw R&B period and the Brian Eno/Tony Visconti Berlin trilogy. The Aladdin Sane-esque title track fused all three camps with audacious electronic squawk and squit, Bowie striving to make himself as uneasy listening as possible. By contrast, the soulful "Sweet Thing" and the Motown colours of "1984" are akin to sonic bonkers Temptations (in Norman Whitfield's acid phase) with a Philly topcoat. Young Americans before the fact, these cuts are the best in show. This 30th-anniversary edition is much meatier than Rykodisc's reissue, which included the alternative "Candidate" and the sparkling "Dodo". Here you also get a second disc including those songs, the "1984/Dodo" pull, plus the shorter "Rebel Rebel" single, the atypically groovesome "Growin'Up" and two new "Candidate" and "Rebel Rebel" mixes aimed at the clubs. Er, thanks. Not everyone was grabbed by Diamond Dogs' bejewelled collar. Eminent critic Robert Christgau described it as, "Eat, snort and be pervy." Maybe that was the point; an excess-all-areas explosion of whack from the man who would fall to Earth voicing the opinion: "I've rocked my roll. It's a boring dead end. There will be no more rock'n'roll records or tours from me. The last thing I want to be is some useless fucking rock singer." If that absurd outburst proved to be a bitching lie, you could still argue that Dogs was the first bling bling album; a brutally urban, hardcore artefact. The cracked actor persona Bowie substituted for fluffy Ziggy gave up a highly theatrical and hugely expensive concert tour, spawning the more user-friendly David Live, recorded in Philadelphia, and inspired the chilly funk of Young Americans-yet another lost weekend project, given John Lennon's participation. Heard today, it's obvious that these puppies didn't all grow up to be Rottweilers. Dated in some parts, way ahead of its time elsewhere (try bearing OutKast in mind when Bow-wow's frantic cut-up soul vocals kick in), Diamond Dogs now sounds like the work of someone too smart to be pressing the self-destruct button all the way down. Must have been the side-effects of the cocaine, after all.

Diamond Dogs is often cited as the beginning of Bowie’s cocaine psychosis period. In fact, it was recorded before he started giving Hitler salutes at railway stations and aggravating Eastern European customs officers with the books on Goebbels he carried in his rucksack, and now presents something of a field day for hindsight-lovers. Or should that be hindquarter-watchers, since everything about Diamond Dogs polarised opinion, from Guy Peellaert’s canine cover to the jagged avant-garde mellotron nightmares of “Future Legend” and “Chant Of The Ever Circling Skeletal Family”.

Diamond Dogs was first mooted as a rock musical concept based on 1984. George Orwell’s widow refused to sanction it, but it retained the central motif of “we are the dead’, dressing it with surreal ’70s sleaze. Bowie gave notice his career was going off the rails when he performed before an invited fan club audience for US TV’s Midnight Special at The Marquee in October, 1973. A virtual dress rehearsal for his notion of ‘at last, the 1984 floor show’, it was a great gig, with guest stars The Troggs and Marianne Faithfull adding to the bonkers quotient.

But while the idea of a maniacal mainman is convenient, there was still a method to Bowie’s a-lad-insane madness. Ziggy Stardust was inspired by the doomed ’50s rock’n’roller Vince Taylor; Pin Ups was a ’60s tribute covers album, with the Blessed Twig(gy) sharing cover space; and Diamond Dogs went back to old George’s Roaring ’40s nightmare future.

Bowie might not have invented mix’n’match, but he knew how to shoplift at the concept counter with the best of the young dudes.

Having dispensed with guitarist Mick Ronson and broken up the bewhiskered Spiders From Mars (the kids had killed the man, see), Bowie hired veteran musos like Tony Newman, Aynsley Dunbar, Herbie Flowers and Mike Garson, while providing his own off-kilter Stooges guitar and screeching, coke-buzzing wall-of-sound saxophone.

Tacky taster single “Rebel Rebel” was a sop to the glam sleaze that characterised the end of the Ziggy era. But the rest of the album, recorded in London and Holland (though its maker now lived in America for tax purposes), is often seen as a primer for his raw R&B period and the Brian Eno/Tony Visconti Berlin trilogy.

The Aladdin Sane-esque title track fused all three camps with audacious electronic squawk and squit, Bowie striving to make himself as uneasy listening as possible. By contrast, the soulful “Sweet Thing” and the Motown colours of “1984” are akin to sonic bonkers Temptations (in Norman Whitfield’s acid phase) with a Philly topcoat. Young Americans before the fact, these cuts are the best in show.

This 30th-anniversary edition is much meatier than Rykodisc’s reissue, which included the alternative “Candidate” and the sparkling “Dodo”. Here you also get a second disc including those songs, the “1984/Dodo” pull, plus the shorter “Rebel Rebel” single, the atypically groovesome “Growin’Up” and two new “Candidate” and “Rebel Rebel” mixes aimed at the clubs. Er, thanks. Not everyone was grabbed by Diamond Dogs’ bejewelled collar. Eminent critic Robert Christgau described it as, “Eat, snort and be pervy.” Maybe that was the point; an excess-all-areas explosion of whack from the man who would fall to Earth voicing the opinion: “I’ve rocked my roll. It’s a boring dead end. There will be no more rock’n’roll records or tours from me. The last thing I want to be is some useless fucking rock singer.”

If that absurd outburst proved to be a bitching lie, you could still argue that Dogs was the first bling bling album; a brutally urban, hardcore artefact. The cracked actor persona Bowie substituted for fluffy Ziggy gave up a highly theatrical and hugely expensive concert tour, spawning the more user-friendly David Live, recorded in Philadelphia, and inspired the chilly funk of Young Americans-yet another lost weekend project, given John Lennon’s participation.

Heard today, it’s obvious that these puppies didn’t all grow up to be Rottweilers. Dated in some parts, way ahead of its time elsewhere (try bearing OutKast in mind when Bow-wow’s frantic cut-up soul vocals kick in), Diamond Dogs now sounds like the work of someone too smart to be pressing the self-destruct button all the way down.

Must have been the side-effects of the cocaine, after all.

Marvin Gaye

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Though a drummer, Marvin Gaye's achievements are seldom thought to lie in the rhythm bed. He was notably adrift during disco, his technique too liquid, too subtle for four-on-the-floor pummelling (or maybe not...!) Aside from the title track, few tunes on The Funk Collection are recognised floor-fillers, but sweet Jesus, do they groove?! Dig the proto-rap of flop 45 "Ego Tripping Out" ("Oh, it must be said, I'm greatest in the bed"), Frank Blair's wicked percolating bass on "Funk Me", and the rippling "World Is Rated X" (not, unfortunately, the fruity synth mix that appeared shortly after he died). Much of the best stuff here is also on The Master, an awesome career-spanning collection with some fascinating rarities, chiefly "Piece Of Clay"?among Marvin's most marrow-stirring performances, and unavailable elsewhere. Whichever you choose, to hear him is to marvel.

Though a drummer, Marvin Gaye’s achievements are seldom thought to lie in the rhythm bed. He was notably adrift during disco, his technique too liquid, too subtle for four-on-the-floor pummelling (or maybe not…!) Aside from the title track, few tunes on The Funk Collection are recognised floor-fillers, but sweet Jesus, do they groove?! Dig the proto-rap of flop 45 “Ego Tripping Out” (“Oh, it must be said, I’m greatest in the bed”), Frank Blair’s wicked percolating bass on “Funk Me”, and the rippling “World Is Rated X” (not, unfortunately, the fruity synth mix that appeared shortly after he died). Much of the best stuff here is also on The Master, an awesome career-spanning collection with some fascinating rarities, chiefly “Piece Of Clay”?among Marvin’s most marrow-stirring performances, and unavailable elsewhere. Whichever you choose, to hear him is to marvel.

Spring Reigns

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Argue the toss, if you like, over the pre-eminent genius of the first three Go-Betweens albums, or the two recent reunion sets. But when the tossing's over, the three Go-Betweens albums composed circa 1986-88 in a rush of creative late youth and London poverty will always be the beauties, the gold standards. The ones you reach for to convert others to the fond and tender charms of Brisbane odd couple Robert Forster and Grant McLennan. Almost two decades on, these records aren't 'interesting', or 'influential', or 'era-defining', or whatever reissuers-on-the-make intone while feeling for your wallet. This is music fresh as the first time you played it; glorious, literate, lovelorn, unforgettable. Indeed, if we could all age as gracefully, there'd be nothing to fear from being 90. From the heel-kickingly flirtatious "Spring Rain" and McLennan's heart-shredding "Apology Accepted" to the cello-led dignity of Forster's "The Clarke Sisters" and a peerlessly yearning "Bye Bye Pride", to the sun-soaked chromatic peaks of "Streets Of Your Town", it's startling to remember these albums span a mere three years. Of their contemporaries, only The Smiths worked as much magic in the same short time. Essentially, this is where it all went right, or righter:the wise, lugubrious Forster and bittersweet, lump-throated McLennan on peak songwriting form, and a band hitting its uncluttered stride thanks to Lindy Morrison's nimble drums and Amanda Brown's oboe, strings and harmonies. In hindsight, it seems irrelevant that Tallulah was nobody's favourite at the time, or that 16 Lovers Lane, all radiant crescendos and dark elegies, was thought worryingly 'glossy' by the elect. In fact, the only Go-Betweens releases better than these records are their generous new configurations. Each lovingly assembled reissue comes twinned with a 10-track bonus disc that gets it right all over again. Covetable B-sides and rarities leap impishly from the sublime (a sorrowful "When People Are Dead", a lilting "You Won't Find It Again") to the sweetly ridiculous (McLennan's sturm und drang freakout "Reunion Dinner", Forster's wonkily oddball 'Little Joe'), and very nearly feel like three whole extra Go-Betweens albums. They never had hits. It doesn't matter.

Argue the toss, if you like, over the pre-eminent genius of the first three Go-Betweens albums, or the two recent reunion sets. But when the tossing’s over, the three Go-Betweens albums composed circa 1986-88 in a rush of creative late youth and London poverty will always be the beauties, the gold standards. The ones you reach for to convert others to the fond and tender charms of Brisbane odd couple Robert Forster and Grant McLennan. Almost two decades on, these records aren’t ‘interesting’, or ‘influential’, or ‘era-defining’, or whatever reissuers-on-the-make intone while feeling for your wallet. This is music fresh as the first time you played it; glorious, literate, lovelorn, unforgettable.

Indeed, if we could all age as gracefully, there’d be nothing to fear from being 90. From the heel-kickingly flirtatious “Spring Rain” and McLennan’s heart-shredding “Apology Accepted” to the cello-led dignity of Forster’s “The Clarke Sisters” and a peerlessly yearning “Bye Bye Pride”, to the sun-soaked chromatic peaks of “Streets Of Your Town”, it’s startling to remember these albums span a mere three years. Of their contemporaries, only The Smiths worked as much magic in the same short time. Essentially, this is where it all went right, or righter:the wise, lugubrious Forster and bittersweet, lump-throated McLennan on peak songwriting form, and a band hitting its uncluttered stride thanks to Lindy Morrison’s nimble drums and Amanda Brown’s oboe, strings and harmonies. In hindsight, it seems irrelevant that Tallulah was nobody’s favourite at the time, or that 16 Lovers Lane, all radiant crescendos and dark elegies, was thought worryingly ‘glossy’ by the elect.

In fact, the only Go-Betweens releases better than these records are their generous new configurations. Each lovingly assembled reissue comes twinned with a 10-track bonus disc that gets it right all over again. Covetable B-sides and rarities leap impishly from the sublime (a sorrowful “When People Are Dead”, a lilting “You Won’t Find It Again”) to the sweetly ridiculous (McLennan’s sturm und drang freakout “Reunion Dinner”, Forster’s wonkily oddball ‘Little Joe’), and very nearly feel like three whole extra Go-Betweens albums.

They never had hits. It doesn’t matter.

Various Artists – Gather In The Mushrooms: British Acid Folk Underground 1968-1974

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Imagine your best folk-rock mate doing you a tape from the most thrilling corners of his collection. Leaving aside the contentious application of the word "underground" to a form of music that had far more media outlets at the time than, say, comparable soul or reggae "undergrounds", this is still one corker of a compilation. From Magnet's Wicker Man opener ("Corn Rigs") to the 12-minute garden of unearthly delights that is Comus' "The Herald", there's barely a bad busker's dirge to be heard here. The tracks by Forest, Vashti Bunyan, Shelagh MacDonald and Lesley Duncan are all blessed with that bleak and wistful undertow that characterised the era. Stranger still, the inclusion of Mr Brooks' theme to the TV series The Family (and that's about as overground as you can get!) is a timely reminder of what a rich resource early-'70s TV was for esoteric incidental music.

Imagine your best folk-rock mate doing you a tape from the most thrilling corners of his collection. Leaving aside the contentious application of the word “underground” to a form of music that had far more media outlets at the time than, say, comparable soul or reggae “undergrounds”, this is still one corker of a compilation. From Magnet’s Wicker Man opener (“Corn Rigs”) to the 12-minute garden of unearthly delights that is Comus’ “The Herald”, there’s barely a bad busker’s dirge to be heard here. The tracks by Forest, Vashti Bunyan, Shelagh MacDonald and Lesley Duncan are all blessed with that bleak and wistful undertow that characterised the era. Stranger still, the inclusion of Mr Brooks’ theme to the TV series The Family (and that’s about as overground as you can get!) is a timely reminder of what a rich resource early-’70s TV was for esoteric incidental music.

Electronic System – Disco Machine

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Generally regarded as the poor man's Kraftwerk, quirky Belgian trio Telex penned one memorable tune: 1979's "Moskow Diskow", a funkier "Trans-Europe Express". Two years earlier, as Electronic System, Telex's resident synth boffin Dan Lacksman produced this little-known space-disco curio that would've sounded ahead of its time had Giorgio Moroder not made the superior "I Feel Love" and "Now I Need You" for Donna Summer the same year. That said, propelled by tootling Moog basslines and sprinkled with laser whooshes, "Flight To Tokyo" and "Cosmos Trip" are undeniably charming. Above all, Disco Machine should provide perfect sample fodder for today's lazier producers.

Generally regarded as the poor man’s Kraftwerk, quirky Belgian trio Telex penned one memorable tune: 1979’s “Moskow Diskow”, a funkier “Trans-Europe Express”. Two years earlier, as Electronic System, Telex’s resident synth boffin Dan Lacksman produced this little-known space-disco curio that would’ve sounded ahead of its time had Giorgio Moroder not made the superior “I Feel Love” and “Now I Need You” for Donna Summer the same year. That said, propelled by tootling Moog basslines and sprinkled with laser whooshes, “Flight To Tokyo” and “Cosmos Trip” are undeniably charming. Above all, Disco Machine should provide perfect sample fodder for today’s lazier producers.

Supergrass – Supergrass Is 10: The Best Of 1994-2004

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It's puzzling?though oddly pleasing?fact that Supergrass amble towards their 10th anniversary as one of Britpop's few survivors, in spite of being among that benighted scene's least charismatic bands. Amid all the self-aggrandising and hyperbole of the mid-'90s, Supergrass were praised chiefly for the singer's prodigious sideburns and, quaintly, the craftsmanlike handiness of their tunes. Supergrass Is 10 highlights the enduring quality of these songs: simple, lyrically trite, often comically derivative, but sturdy and likeable enough to survive after Britpop had run its course. At their best?"Alright", "Mansize Rooster", "Grace"?they combine mischievous punk and glam energy with a craggy, sepia-tone Englishness more redolent of real ale than sulphates. Fizzy and disposable indie-pop, in other words, which has proved to be far more nourishing than ever seemed likely.

It’s puzzling?though oddly pleasing?fact that Supergrass amble towards their 10th anniversary as one of Britpop’s few survivors, in spite of being among that benighted scene’s least charismatic bands. Amid all the self-aggrandising and hyperbole of the mid-’90s, Supergrass were praised chiefly for the singer’s prodigious sideburns and, quaintly, the craftsmanlike handiness of their tunes. Supergrass Is 10 highlights the enduring quality of these songs: simple, lyrically trite, often comically derivative, but sturdy and likeable enough to survive after Britpop had run its course.

At their best?”Alright”, “Mansize Rooster”, “Grace”?they combine mischievous punk and glam energy with a craggy, sepia-tone Englishness more redolent of real ale than sulphates. Fizzy and disposable indie-pop, in other words, which has proved to be far more nourishing than ever seemed likely.

The Second Coming

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DIRECTED BY Quentin Tarantino STARRING Uma Thurman, David Carradine, Michael Madsen, Daryl Hannah Opened April 26, Cert 18, 140 mins It's been a long, hard six months for the Tarantino faithful. After delivering the synapse-frying grindhouse classic Kill Bill Volume 1 way back last October, contemporary Hollywood's last great directing icon retreated to Miramax headquarters with long-time editor Sally Menke and laboured over the concluding chapter for three times longer than expected. Here, at last, is his labour of love, the second volume of "The 4th Film By Quentin Tarantino", and it's a curious experience: leisurely and underwhelming to the same degree that Volume 1 was audacious and compelling. As we left The Bride (Uma Thurman) at the close of Volume 1, she was headed for a reckoning with the remaining members of the Deadly Viper Assassination Squad?Elle Driver (Hannah) Budd (Madsen) and Bill himself (Carradine). Volume 2 opens with a lengthy flashback to the apocalyptic wedding ceremony we glimpsed in Volume 1, and we finally get to meet David Carradine's hypnotically evil Bill in all his charming snake-like glory. This meticulously paced monochrome sequence sets the pace for the next two hours plus, over the course of which Tarantino immerses the audience in a procession of beautifully shot scenes that are heavy on his trademark pop culture-tweaking dialogue and light on jaw-dropping kung fu slaughter. There are notable exceptions. We get a horrific live burial, a lengthy flashback to The Bride's training with kung fu master Pai Mei (Gordon Liu) and a hardcore showdown between The Bride and the ferociously unpleasant Elle Driver. These sequences are worth the price of admission, but they account for 15 minutes out of 140. The rest is a Tarantino talking-heads fest, almost as if he's answering Volume 1's too-much-action-not-enough-dialogue detractors by cramming in every piece of dialogue-heavy footage he could lay his hands on. As you'd expect, much of this dialogue is clever, but there's way too much of it, almost as if QT couldn't bear to part with a single sentence. Most problematically, apart from the odd lapse into death-dealing female assassin action, Volume 2 is essentially made up of one showy monologue after another. There are very few real conversations here, just an endless procession of gifted actors spouting soliloquies. The thing is, when one rapid-fire show-stopping monologue just follows another, QT's unique pop-culture patois loses its charm. By the time Carradine's climactic digression on Superman rolls around, it's hard not to feel Tarantino is just wanking himself into a coma. Some of this repetition is offset by the sheer power of the lead performances. Thurman excels once more as the indestructible, iron-willed Bride, and Hannah is transformed as her snarling nemesis Elle Driver?never has a beautiful actress looked more fucking unpleasant. Although QT regular Madsen is unexpectedly wasted as Bill's brother Budd (and fails to deliver the trademark menace he brings to even his most minor roles), David Carradine is a revelation. His beguiling, villainous Bill is a fantastic creation, and he effortlessly dominates the whole movie, distilling 30 years of Kung Fu re-runs and genre acting assignments into one truly mesmerising personal-best performance. So what has Tarantino left us with as the elaborate end credits roll on Volume 2? Mainly the suspicion that one two-and-a-half-hour single volume would've been fucking mind-blowing and that what we've just sat through is the second bloated instalment of an overlong, overly-indulgent obsessive-fanboys-only special edition. While his demented Volume 1 was blessed with a surfeit of expertly realised action sequences that eclipsed any obvious structural defects, Volume 2's far more traditional approach lays bare the undeniable fact that this is really only 50 per cent of a four-hour wet dream. One that could have done with some trademark snipping from scissor-happy Miramax boss Harvey Weinstein. Sure, Tarantino's movie-geek genius remains undimmed, and there's plenty of memorable moments in Kill Bill Volume 2 but, after the euphoria-inducing, cliffhanger-ending brilliance of Volume 1, it's a distinct anti-climax.

DIRECTED BY Quentin Tarantino

STARRING Uma Thurman, David Carradine, Michael Madsen, Daryl Hannah

Opened April 26, Cert 18, 140 mins

It’s been a long, hard six months for the Tarantino faithful. After delivering the synapse-frying grindhouse classic Kill Bill Volume 1 way back last October, contemporary Hollywood’s last great directing icon retreated to Miramax headquarters with long-time editor Sally Menke and laboured over the concluding chapter for three times longer than expected. Here, at last, is his labour of love, the second volume of “The 4th Film By Quentin Tarantino”, and it’s a curious experience: leisurely and underwhelming to the same degree that Volume 1 was audacious and compelling.

As we left The Bride (Uma Thurman) at the close of Volume 1, she was headed for a reckoning with the remaining members of the Deadly Viper Assassination Squad?Elle Driver (Hannah) Budd (Madsen) and Bill himself (Carradine). Volume 2 opens with a lengthy flashback to the apocalyptic wedding ceremony we glimpsed in Volume 1, and we finally get to meet David Carradine’s hypnotically evil Bill in all his charming snake-like glory. This meticulously paced monochrome sequence sets the pace for the next two hours plus, over the course of which Tarantino immerses the audience in a procession of beautifully shot scenes that are heavy on his trademark pop culture-tweaking dialogue and light on jaw-dropping kung fu slaughter.

There are notable exceptions. We get a horrific live burial, a lengthy flashback to The Bride’s training with kung fu master Pai Mei (Gordon Liu) and a hardcore showdown between The Bride and the ferociously unpleasant Elle Driver. These sequences are worth the price of admission, but they account for 15 minutes out of 140. The rest is a Tarantino talking-heads fest, almost as if he’s answering Volume 1’s too-much-action-not-enough-dialogue detractors by cramming in every piece of dialogue-heavy footage he could lay his hands on.

As you’d expect, much of this dialogue is clever, but there’s way too much of it, almost as if QT couldn’t bear to part with a single sentence. Most problematically, apart from the odd lapse into death-dealing female assassin action, Volume 2 is essentially made up of one showy monologue after another. There are very few real conversations here, just an endless procession of gifted actors spouting soliloquies. The thing is, when one rapid-fire show-stopping monologue just follows another, QT’s unique pop-culture patois loses its charm. By the time Carradine’s climactic digression on Superman rolls around, it’s hard not to feel Tarantino is just wanking himself into a coma.

Some of this repetition is offset by the sheer power of the lead performances. Thurman excels once more as the indestructible, iron-willed Bride, and Hannah is transformed as her snarling nemesis Elle Driver?never has a beautiful actress looked more fucking unpleasant. Although QT regular Madsen is unexpectedly wasted as Bill’s brother Budd (and fails to deliver the trademark menace he brings to even his most minor roles), David Carradine is a revelation. His beguiling, villainous Bill is a fantastic creation, and he effortlessly dominates the whole movie, distilling 30 years of Kung Fu re-runs and genre acting assignments into one truly mesmerising personal-best performance.

So what has Tarantino left us with as the elaborate end credits roll on Volume 2? Mainly the suspicion that one two-and-a-half-hour single volume would’ve been fucking mind-blowing and that what we’ve just sat through is the second bloated instalment of an overlong, overly-indulgent obsessive-fanboys-only special edition. While his demented Volume 1 was blessed with a surfeit of expertly realised action sequences that eclipsed any obvious structural defects, Volume 2’s far more traditional approach lays bare the undeniable fact that this is really only 50 per cent of a four-hour wet dream. One that could have done with some trademark snipping from scissor-happy Miramax boss Harvey Weinstein. Sure, Tarantino’s movie-geek genius remains undimmed, and there’s plenty of memorable moments in Kill Bill Volume 2 but, after the euphoria-inducing, cliffhanger-ending brilliance of Volume 1, it’s a distinct anti-climax.

Taking Lives

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OPENED APRIL 23, CERT 15, 103 MINS From its dream-like 1980s-set prologue when a vicious serial killer takes his first victim through to the deadly showdown in a snowbound cabin, Taking Lives is a consistently gripping crime thriller. The killer's MO?stealing each victim's identity to conceal his own?leaves stumped Montreal police little choice but to call in FBI profiler Angelina Jolie. But, unsure if Ethan Hawke is her prime witness or prime suspect, and isolated by Canada's increasingly resentful cops, she begins to crack under the strain. Director DJ Caruso (The Salton Sea) follows the usual cat-and-mouse game between Jolie and the killer as each try and lure the other into the open. He gives it a dark-hued ambience that recalls Seven, and pulls off a few seat-leaping shocks with genuine skill. But, importantly, he also concentrates on character with notable success. Jolie brings guilt and fear to her usual fieriness, and is matched by a jittery, sweaty Hawke. Finally, it delivers more than you'd think possible from its stale genre ingredients.

OPENED APRIL 23, CERT 15, 103 MINS

From its dream-like 1980s-set prologue when a vicious serial killer takes his first victim through to the deadly showdown in a snowbound cabin, Taking Lives is a consistently gripping crime thriller. The killer’s MO?stealing each victim’s identity to conceal his own?leaves stumped Montreal police little choice but to call in FBI profiler Angelina Jolie. But, unsure if Ethan Hawke is her prime witness or prime suspect, and isolated by Canada’s increasingly resentful cops, she begins to crack under the strain.

Director DJ Caruso (The Salton Sea) follows the usual cat-and-mouse game between Jolie and the killer as each try and lure the other into the open. He gives it a dark-hued ambience that recalls Seven, and pulls off a few seat-leaping shocks with genuine skill. But, importantly, he also concentrates on character with notable success. Jolie brings guilt and fear to her usual fieriness, and is matched by a jittery, sweaty Hawke. Finally, it delivers more than you’d think possible from its stale genre ingredients.

Emile

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OPENS MAY 21, CERT 15, 95 MINS Ian McKellen swaps Middle Earth for middlebrow with this earnest, well-crafted but dull Canadian feature. He plays Emile, a London-based academic who left his family in Canada 30 years ago to study in Britain. Returning for an honorary degree, Emile stays with estranged niece Nadia (Deborah Kara Unger) and her feisty teenage daughter. The set-up?a professor reflecting on a life marked by regret and tragedy?is similar to Bergman's masterly Wild Strawberries. But where that 1957 movie was genuinely poignant and elegiac, Carl Bessai's film?which completes his self-styled "Identity" trilogy?is mannered and uninvolving. The honey-coloured flashbacks to Emile's young adulthood on the Canadian prairies are stagey affairs, while the cloying depiction of his growing closeness to his niece is straight out of an advert for Werthers Originals. Unger is on typically spirited form, but McKellen is unusually bland?as grey as the tatty cardigans his character sports.

OPENS MAY 21, CERT 15, 95 MINS

Ian McKellen swaps Middle Earth for middlebrow with this earnest, well-crafted but dull Canadian feature. He plays Emile, a London-based academic who left his family in Canada 30 years ago to study in Britain. Returning for an honorary degree, Emile stays with estranged niece Nadia (Deborah Kara Unger) and her feisty teenage daughter.

The set-up?a professor reflecting on a life marked by regret and tragedy?is similar to Bergman’s masterly Wild Strawberries. But where that 1957 movie was genuinely poignant and elegiac, Carl Bessai’s film?which completes his self-styled “Identity” trilogy?is mannered and uninvolving. The honey-coloured flashbacks to Emile’s young adulthood on the Canadian prairies are stagey affairs, while the cloying depiction of his growing closeness to his niece is straight out of an advert for Werthers Originals.

Unger is on typically spirited form, but McKellen is unusually bland?as grey as the tatty cardigans his character sports.

Uzak

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OPENS MAY 14, CERT 15, 110 MINS Fans of delicately framed arthouse gloom will have much to chew on in this third feature from Turkish auteur Nuri Bilge Ceylan. It pits a middle-aged photographer Mahmut (Muzaffer...

OPENS MAY 14, CERT 15, 110 MINS

Fans of delicately framed arthouse gloom will have much to chew on in this third feature from Turkish auteur Nuri Bilge Ceylan. It pits a middle-aged photographer Mahmut (Muzaffer

The Company

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Much as we love Robert Altman, we'll be candid, or else you'll think we're afraid to ever criticise such a legend. Sometimes, watching The Company is like watching paint wonder whether or not to dry. The other director whose work comes to mind? Warhol, mostly. Not much happens, very slowly. And what does happen is ballet. On the plus side, the visuals?the paints, if you like?look lovely. Altman's view of ballerinas is clearly influenced by Degas. Everything's tinted in pinkish hues and burned golden light (no red shoes, though). But let's be clear: this is no subversive McCabe And Mrs Miller, and no satirical The Player. It's Gosford Park, only more mum-friendly. Bear in mind that The Company began life as Neve Campbell's pet project. Keen to show there was more to her than Scream-ing, the young actress developed a story to show off her pre-acting talent. A ballet dancer since age six, she collaborated with Barbara Turner (Georgia, Pollock) on a screenplay about the everyday trials and triumphs of a ballet company. When Altman agreed to direct, she was "delighted". Well, you would be. Technically, he films the dance sequences brilliantly. The music's by Van Dyke Parks, though there's much classical, and about nine versions of "My Funny Valentine". Neve and the Joffrey Ballet of Chicago rehearse, perform, survive injuries and nagging parents. She has a vague, under-explored affair with James Dean lookalike Franco. In fact one of the frustrations of The Company is that subplots do suggest themselves, only to remain unprobed. Surely that's cutting Altman off from his greatest strength? McDowell's a camp, bossy "artistic leader", a luvvie with inspirational sermons like: "It's not the steps, it's what's inside that counts." There are times when it's like Chicago without the songs or Showgirls without the flesh. "I hate pretty," hisses McDowell, but the film is, at best, just pretty.

Much as we love Robert Altman, we’ll be candid, or else you’ll think we’re afraid to ever criticise such a legend. Sometimes, watching The Company is like watching paint wonder whether or not to dry. The other director whose work comes to mind? Warhol, mostly. Not much happens, very slowly. And what does happen is ballet.

On the plus side, the visuals?the paints, if you like?look lovely. Altman’s view of ballerinas is clearly influenced by Degas. Everything’s tinted in pinkish hues and burned golden light (no red shoes, though). But let’s be clear: this is no subversive McCabe And Mrs Miller, and no satirical The Player. It’s Gosford Park, only more mum-friendly.

Bear in mind that The Company began life as Neve Campbell’s pet project. Keen to show there was more to her than Scream-ing, the young actress developed a story to show off her pre-acting talent. A ballet dancer since age six, she collaborated with Barbara Turner (Georgia, Pollock) on a screenplay about the everyday trials and triumphs of a ballet company. When Altman agreed to direct, she was “delighted”. Well, you would be.

Technically, he films the dance sequences brilliantly. The music’s by Van Dyke Parks, though there’s much classical, and about nine versions of “My Funny Valentine”. Neve and the Joffrey Ballet of Chicago rehearse, perform, survive injuries and nagging parents. She has a vague, under-explored affair with James Dean lookalike Franco. In fact one of the frustrations of The Company is that subplots do suggest themselves, only to remain unprobed. Surely that’s cutting Altman off from his greatest strength?

McDowell’s a camp, bossy “artistic leader”, a luvvie with inspirational sermons like: “It’s not the steps, it’s what’s inside that counts.” There are times when it’s like Chicago without the songs or Showgirls without the flesh. “I hate pretty,” hisses McDowell, but the film is, at best, just pretty.

Twilight Samurai

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OPENED APRIL 16, CERT 12A, 129 MINS Despite the title, this Japanese period drama is no swords-and-gore fest. Instead, director Yoji Yamada has crafted a sensitive study of small-town Japan at the sunset of samurai culture in the 19th century. Our hero is Seibei (Hiroyuki Sanada), a middle-aged widower with two daughters, torn between domestic and clan duties. When his colleagues complain he always goes home at the end of the day instead of going for a drink, the nickname 'Twilight Samurai' sticks. This is a restrained piece of film-making that focuses on the everyday, not the extraordinary. The fight scenes are dampened by Seibei's reluctance to engage, yet made poignant by his unwavering loyalty to his family and the difficulty he has caring for them without a wife. The narrator is Seibei's elder daughter who, at the film's close, delivers a moving testimony to her father: an ordinary, poor man who loved his daughters and wasn't dissatisfied with his meagre lot. This is excellent historical film-making, presented at the most real and human of levels.

OPENED APRIL 16, CERT 12A, 129 MINS

Despite the title, this Japanese period drama is no swords-and-gore fest. Instead, director Yoji Yamada has crafted a sensitive study of small-town Japan at the sunset of samurai culture in the 19th century. Our hero is Seibei (Hiroyuki Sanada), a middle-aged widower with two daughters, torn between domestic and clan duties. When his colleagues complain he always goes home at the end of the day instead of going for a drink, the nickname ‘Twilight Samurai’ sticks.

This is a restrained piece of film-making that focuses on the everyday, not the extraordinary. The fight scenes are dampened by Seibei’s reluctance to engage, yet made poignant by his unwavering loyalty to his family and the difficulty he has caring for them without a wife. The narrator is Seibei’s elder daughter who, at the film’s close, delivers a moving testimony to her father: an ordinary, poor man who loved his daughters and wasn’t dissatisfied with his meagre lot. This is excellent historical film-making, presented at the most real and human of levels.

Occult Status

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DIRECTED BY Donald Cammell and Nic Roeg STARRING James Fox, Mick Jagger, Anita Pallenberg, Mich...

DIRECTED BY Donald Cammell and Nic Roeg

STARRING James Fox, Mick Jagger, Anita Pallenberg, Mich

Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter… And Spring

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OPENS MAY 14, CERT 15, 103 MINS Director Kim Ki-Duk, Korean cinema's 'angry young man', takes a chill pill for this, and creates arguably his best work yet. A contemplative, Zen koan of a movie which, like the remote mountain lake that provides its setting, finds hidden depths beneath a calm surface. It's about the big stuff: the meaning of life, time, the nature of redemption... An old monk (Oh Yeong-Su) lives on a floating temple in the middle of the lake with his young disciple. One springtime, the disciple, a small boy, indulges in a childish act of cruelty which will have repercussions for the rest of his life. Time passes and he falls in love one summer with an ailing girl sent to live with him and the master. They run away together. Years later, he returns as autumn arrives, a heinous crime hanging over his head. The master helps him readjust to the monastic life, and the whole cycle looks set to start again. Although unabashedly austere, it's a film that lingers in the mind for weeks after, hitting all the right cinematic pressure points.

OPENS MAY 14, CERT 15, 103 MINS

Director Kim Ki-Duk, Korean cinema’s ‘angry young man’, takes a chill pill for this, and creates arguably his best work yet. A contemplative, Zen koan of a movie which, like the remote mountain lake that provides its setting, finds hidden depths beneath a calm surface. It’s about the big stuff: the meaning of life, time, the nature of redemption…

An old monk (Oh Yeong-Su) lives on a floating temple in the middle of the lake with his young disciple. One springtime, the disciple, a small boy, indulges in a childish act of cruelty which will have repercussions for the rest of his life. Time passes and he falls in love one summer with an ailing girl sent to live with him and the master. They run away together. Years later, he returns as autumn arrives, a heinous crime hanging over his head. The master helps him readjust to the monastic life, and the whole cycle looks set to start again. Although unabashedly austere, it’s a film that lingers in the mind for weeks after, hitting all the right cinematic pressure points.

Shattered Glass

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OPENS MAY 14, CERT 15, 95 MINS It happened recently with Jayson Blair at The New York Times, and it happened in 1998 with Stephen Glass at The New Republic?the story retold here. The lauded, popular journalist is on a hot streak, finding great stories and influencing the US's political heartbeat. O...

OPENS MAY 14, CERT 15, 95 MINS

It happened recently with Jayson Blair at The New York Times, and it happened in 1998 with Stephen Glass at The New Republic?the story retold here. The lauded, popular journalist is on a hot streak, finding great stories and influencing the US’s political heartbeat. Only thing is, the journalist is lying, inventing these stories out of thin air due to an eagerness to please and a lust for fame. When he’s exposed, the whole house of cards comes tumbling down.

Director Billy Ray’s debut feature tells its own true story with gradually increasing tension, and Glass (Hayden Christensen, bravely doing some proper acting) is such a smug, sycophantic prick from the off that we relish his humiliation.

Despite some sentimental guff about how saintly editors are (the catch with true stories is the living must be flattered), both Hank Azaria and Peter Sarsgaard are brilliant as the mag’s supremos, and the idealistic office’s internal politics are well nuanced by Chlo

Bon Voyage

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OPENS MAY 14, CERT PG, 114 MINS Le cin...

OPENS MAY 14, CERT PG, 114 MINS

Le cin

Re-Inventing Eddie

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OPENS MAY 7, CERT 15, 93 MINS When northern nice guy Eddie (John Lynch) and his wife are seen having sex by young daughter Katie (Lauren Cook), Eddie is totally forthcoming when answering her questions. But his explanation, along with his role as a "rough old granny" in harmless bath-time games, is passed on at school, triggering a damaging social services investigation. Soon, Eddie's helplessness as inflexible state mechanisms plough into his life, compounded with his innate immaturity, threaten to tear the family apart. Lynch's brooding performance makes it hard to immediately find sympathy for Eddie, but this is balanced by the profound love he obviously has for his children. Director Jim Doyle creates a grim, all-too-believable movie here, and as the story builds, we find Eddie ostracised by co-workers and neighbours, irrespective of the social services' eventual verdict. Sadly, the Alfie-like to-camera asides (retained from the story's origins on the stage) and attempts at Britcom jauntiness undermine the seriousness at this story's core.

OPENS MAY 7, CERT 15, 93 MINS

When northern nice guy Eddie (John Lynch) and his wife are seen having sex by young daughter Katie (Lauren Cook), Eddie is totally forthcoming when answering her questions. But his explanation, along with his role as a “rough old granny” in harmless bath-time games, is passed on at school, triggering a damaging social services investigation. Soon, Eddie’s helplessness as inflexible state mechanisms plough into his life, compounded with his innate immaturity, threaten to tear the family apart.

Lynch’s brooding performance makes it hard to immediately find sympathy for Eddie, but this is balanced by the profound love he obviously has for his children. Director Jim Doyle creates a grim, all-too-believable movie here, and as the story builds, we find Eddie ostracised by co-workers and neighbours, irrespective of the social services’ eventual verdict. Sadly, the Alfie-like to-camera asides (retained from the story’s origins on the stage) and attempts at Britcom jauntiness undermine the seriousness at this story’s core.

The Sorrow And The Pity

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As the success of Bowling for Columbine, Etre Et Avoir, Capturing The Friedmans and The Fog Of War attests, the biggest story in cinema recently has been the resurgence of the documentary. No better time, then, to re-release one of the form's most sacred beasts, Marcel Oph...

As the success of Bowling for Columbine, Etre Et Avoir, Capturing The Friedmans and The Fog Of War attests, the biggest story in cinema recently has been the resurgence of the documentary. No better time, then, to re-release one of the form’s most sacred beasts, Marcel Oph

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