A few years back, I was advising a Francophile mate of the virtues of the wonderful French comedy, The Intouchables. I mentioned also that the subtitling was superb. ‘How would you know?’ he asked, aware that I had but a smattering of schoolboy French. I explained that the grammar and syntax was perfect, and colloquialisms clearly caught the spirit of the piece – you simply forgot you were reading script, allowing you to concentrate on the visuals.

Sadly, the taut Argentine crime thriller,The Clan, looks as if it’s been subtitled by a dyslexic alcoholic using Google translate. It was extremely frustrating. I was clearly watching a very well made film, based on real events, about a Mafiosa-style family engaged in kidnapping and extortion; this was at a time, the 1980s, when the government was up to similar tactics – many dissidents simply disappeared. Keeping Police and officials sweet, the family could act with near impunity.

Everything about the film – its story, pacing, acting, direction was top notch. But the constantly poor subtitling proved too great a distraction and detracted from the film itself.

I can recommend the film without hesitation to any fluent Spanish speakers among you.

Studying Macbeth at school, I recall not being convinced when an army camouflaged itself with trees to bring Birnam Wood to Dunsinane thus enabling the witches’ prophecy. For me, it always conjured an image of the Dad’s Army platoon on manoeuvre in an English wood with twigs in their helmets. I doubt my rejection of this plot device ever caused Shakespeare to turn in his grave.
Nonetheless, director Justin Kurzel seems to share my misgivings. In an innovative way he adapts the text to improve greatly this scenario; it is cinematically spectacular while simultaneously bringing with it the portent of death. No spoilers, but it’s a highlight of a film which is very well-paced and quite deliberately, with this exception, relentlessly dour in its approach – no glamour, no humour. The cinematography is subdued, the acting understated. It couldn’t be further removed from Olivier’s glorious Technicolor Henry V which, for me, remains the greatest screen Shakespeare. But the film has successfully found its niche and is a very worthy successor to the great adaptations of the mid-twentieth century.

****

What works in a book doesn’t necessarily transfer well to celluloid.

Brighton Rock is rightly regarded as a classic – both Graham Greene’s novel and John Boulting’s 1947 film – for which Greene co-wrote the screenplay with Terence Rattigan.

At the book’s conclusion, Pinkie’s naïve young widow, Rose, hears the disc her psychopathic husband had recorded prior to his death in which he spits out his vitriolic contempt for her. Realising this would lack dramatic impact, the screenwriters changed the scenario so the needle sticks on the vinyl giving Rose the mistaken belief that Pinkie was actually expressing his love.

Unfortunately, David Nicholls’ screenplay for this latest version of Thomas Hardy’s Far From the Madding Crowd fails to take such liberties to enhance the storytelling. I’ve always preferred filmed versions of Hardy’s work to his own rather bombastic prose, although his stories are, in the main, strong. But here, the tale of a young woman Bathsheba Everdene (the ever reliable Carey Mulligan), inheriting a farm and and defying expectations by running it herself, there are far too many happenstances, too many coincidences to give credibility. This is especially true for events surrounding her suitor and eventual husband, Sergeant Francis Troy (Tom Sturridge); as the plot evolves, plausibility is stretched beyond limit.

Plausibility is also in short supply for the sudden capitulation of Bathsheba to the young soldier’s wooing. The heroine is, to that point, shown as a strong willed and fiercely independent post-feminist. She rejects the marriage proposal from the inherently kind and handsome Gabriel Oak (Matthias Schoenaerts) as well as those from the wealthy, if rather dull and middle-aged, William Boldwood (Michael Sheen). Yet we are somehow expected to believe that as soon as Sergeant Troy enters the fray and flashes his sword, she immediately starts behaving like a simpering fifteen year old at her favourite boy band’s concert. Bathsheba herself states she can’t believe she’s behaving so. The trouble is – neither can we.

This is due in part to miscasting. Tom Sturridge, who also failed to make any impression as Allen Ginsberg in On the Road, lacks the screen presence and smouldering sexuality for the audience to accept he could reduce a fair maiden so; Matthias Schoenaerts might very well have achieved it.

The Danish team of director Thomas Vinterberg and cinematographer Charlotte Bruus Christensen, whose last film was the exceptional 2012 drama Jagten (The Hunt), capture wonderfully the beauty of the Dorset landscape and its changing moods. Perhaps it takes an outsider’s eye to do this with such clarity – rarely can early morning autumnal mists have looked so appealing. But Vinterberg must take the blame for a rushed ending; far too much was shoe-horned into the final fifteen minutes.

The film is always easy on the eye, its production values are stand out and costumes and locations are extremely well done. To borrow from Dr Johnson, the film is worth seeing, but not worth going to see.***

On VE Night 1945, the Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret Rose were allowed to leave Buckingham Palace, mingle incognito with the crowd to watch their parents accept acclaim from the balcony, then return to their cloistered world. That’s it. Nothing more. But it happened.

Undoubtedly, that sure wouldn’t make an interesting film. So A Royal Night Out concocts an entire fiction of the princesses slipping their chaperones from the stuffy ball they had been allowed to attend and escape into the celebrating crowds to find excitement amongst their subjects.

If you can allow yourself to believe that the army officers, charged personally by The King to look after the heir presumptive and her younger sister, would abandon their duty to engage in carnal pursuits; if you can believe that the 14 year old Margaret Rose could end up in a knocking shop and lose consciousness after being given a Mickey Finn; if you can believe the coincidences allowing Princess Elizabeth to continually find her airman minder Jack amidst the throbbing thousands; if you can believe that both princesses went back to a working class house in Battersea to clean up and have a cup of tea before returning to the Palace, then you might just get some enjoyment from this lightweight piece of nonsense. If, on the other hand, you find it all too tiring and ridiculous, then it is a film to be given a wide berth.

The film’s one redeeming feature was Jack Reynor as the RAF corporal, Jack, who most reluctantly finds himself looking after Princess Elizabeth. He has seen the horrors of the war and having been busted down for seeking compassionate leave after witnessing the slow death of a mate on return from a mission, sees no reason to celebrate; he has no time for the Royal Family and has no idea the young woman who has attached herself limpet-like to him is heir to a dynasty he does not support. Despite the paucity of good material, his screen presence and charisma shine through, and he gives a depth of character performance out of kilter with the rest of the film. He is a young actor to watch.

Oh, and a note to the film-makers. A Pink Gin consists of a slug of gin with just a dash of Angostura bitters giving it the slightest blush of pink. It is not a garishly opaque quarter pint drink looking like Barbara Cartland’s face.

In Clint Eastwood’s 2009 film, Invictus, there is a scene in which Morgan Freeman as Nelson Mandela absents himself from state business and heads off to a meeting of the Sports Council where he has been told they are passing a motion changing the name of the South African rugby team from the Springboks to the Proteas. It is put to him that he surely has more important things to worry about than the name of a sporting team. Mr Mandela disagrees.

He explains that, to the contrary, this is a crucial moment in the reconciliation of South Africans. He advises that during his long incarceration, he studied the Boer – their language, their culture, their poetry. He got inside their head to understand what made them tick, what motivated them. Through this study, he knew just how important the Springboks were to the white South Africans and that a name change would be a grievous error. Putting his authority on the line, he managed to overturn the original decision and retain the Springbok name.

This was a crucial scene in the film, demonstrating Mr Mandela’s wisdom and erudition. A small vignette, it did much to explain Mr Mandela’s character and why he proved so successful and commanded such respect following his release from prison.

Unfortunately, there was no similar moment in Justin Chadwick’s Mandela: Long Walk to Freedom.

The film took a sprawling, episodic approach to its subject’s life and as such could only touch superficially on its aspects. Mr Mandela’s first forty years were covered at break neck speed as we saw him pull himself up by his bootstraps to achieve a fine education, witness injustice and state sanctioned violence, then have his first marriage fail due to his commitment to the cause as well as his own infidelity. Only after his trial – at which he and his co-defendants fully expected to receive the death penalty – did the film take a breath and attempt a deeper approach. But even then, it missed its target.

Perhaps the most interesting story to emerge from this film was toward the end of Mr Mandela’s imprisonment. Seeing the writing on the wall, the white minority government set up meetings with him to try and establish a power-sharing agreement acceptable to both sides. Nelson Mandela’s fellow four prisoners all voted that he should not respond to these overtures, they saw it as a trap. Ignoring the strongly held views  of people with whom he had fought alongside and been jailed with for over 20 years, Mr Mandela went his own way moving to upmarket and comfortable accommodation in a residential area . Here, he discussed with his jailers their country’s future.

This was an episode ripe for exploring – how did his long-term prison friends and ANC members view this? Did they feel betrayed? Did the friendships endure or did they feel unable to forgive him? Did Mr Mandela himself suffer sleepless nights questioning his own actions and motives? We don’t know. We were never made privy to their inner feelings or reactions. This was such a pity – I wanted to know so much more. Had the film concentrated more on this single aspect in its over long running time, it would have been so much more successful.

The film’s direction, cinematography and acting were all competent. As Nelson Mandela, Idris Elba had a thankless job to show him ageing from a youthful man into old age – and he wasn’t helped by ineffective make-up and talcum powder grey hair. But he lacked charisma and the film’s script also failed to evoke the spirit of one of the greatest figures from the second half of the 20^th century.

The film was average. Mr Mandela deserves better.

***