Stoutor
It's not great by any means, but it's a pretty good movie that didn't leave me filled with regret for investing time in it.
Lachlan Coulson
This is a gorgeous movie made by a gorgeous spirit.
Logan
By the time the dramatic fireworks start popping off, each one feels earned.
bandw
This is billed as a documentary about post WWII Liverpool, but it is primarily autobiographical musings from director Davies who grew up in Liverpool in the 1950s. He has stitched together here archival footage, newsreels, amateur video, music, narration, quotes, and his own cinematic work to form an affecting whole. The movie has a melancholy cast to it, thinking of how time erases places and people. Davies comments, "But where, oh, where are you, the Liverpool I knew and loved? Where have you gone without me? And now I am an alien in my own land." The images presented from the early times make life look difficult, but there is an authenticity to them. This was encapsulated for me in Davies' comment about sports being played at a time before the athletes punched the air in victory.Davies has little truck with the public housing towers populating the City, commenting on municipal architecture as being dispiriting, illustrating "the British genius for evoking the dismal." He has strong opinions, often dished out as cynicism with a touch of humor. He refers to the British royalty of the time as the Betty Windsor show and Elizabeth and her husband as Betty and Phil. He refers to a Cardinal's new robes as the Vatican's answer to Schiaparelli. The Catholic Church comes in for some heavy criticism, in no small part because of the misery its position on homosexuality caused him. He came to view his time spent in prayer (until his knees bled he says) as wasted, proclaiming himself to be a born again atheist.Davies has real genius for matching music with image, often for ironic effect. The score ranges from popular hits, like The Spinners version of "Dirty Old Town" and the Hollies version of "He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother," to the haunting choral piece "Privagheati si va rugati" by Branesti, the lush "Concertino for Guitar" by Bacarisse, and Mahler's Resurrection Symphony. The musical accompaniment is what raises this film above the ordinary--if someone does not appreciate that, then he will probably not much appreciate the film.Much of the film is in black and white and rather downbeat. However, early on there are scenes of current Liverpool buildings filmed in color that use inspiring camera work, together with Handel's Water music, to create a positive image. The final scenes depict some of the stately statuary and majestic architecture of the City. The penultimate scene of the City skyline at the base of a rainbow, appropriately accompanied by Mahler's Resurrection Symphony, has the film ending on a somewhat upbeat note.Davies intersperses quotes from famous people along the way, some of which he credits, but many he does not, like quotes from T.S. Eliot and Emily Dickinson. I was left wondering what was original with Davies. He has a good voice and narrates effectively.Describing this film in words does disservice to it, it is like describing what a poem is about rather than experiencing the poem for yourself.
chaos-rampant
We kind of expect our artists to be haunted by demons, it is in tacit understanding that in their art we'll find the template to overcome ours. That, in visiting the dark place which is shared among all of us, we can defer to them for guidance, for the light that dissolves the shadows.Here we have the personal memoirs of one such artist. We see the demons, the hurt and anger generated by repressed homosexuality or a suffocating religion without answers. But they're up on the screen whole as dragged from the bitterest place, to be vexed than overcome. The manner is petulant, childish. Of course I agree with Davies for example about the obsolete, useless monarchy sucking the blood of the people, but how am I for the better by listening to his obvious, venomous attack upon it? I can get that in every forum online pending the royal wedding, from casual talk on the street.And what am I to make of the boy's dismay at the silence of god? Which the boy now not-quite grown up, perceives as indictment and completely ignores what comfort he was offered at the time by prayer. Surely, life is more complex than this.When by the end of this we get the realization of what matters, a life lived in the present without hope or love, it rings hollow because it hasn't been embodied in the work itself, which is riddled with an old man's angst.And this is not all of it. The elegy to the city and the time that shuffled it is too tricly, oh-so-sombre, so filled with yearnings. What emotion is here is so obvious, that Malick appears subtle by comparison to it. So easily, quickly digestible that in trying to sate so much, to gorge in it, it doesn't sate at all.What little of this works is the symphony of the city. The kind of film they were making in 1920's Berlin or Moscow to eulogize the booming architecture. With the twist that here, it is the uniquely British genius and propensity for creating a dismal urban landscape that appeals. The drab, grey routine. But I'd rather get this from The Singing Detective, which weaves it into a multifaceted story than a simple nostalgia. Or get the same experience Davies wants for his films from Zerkalo.I suspect this will fare better for the people who share his vexations with religion and society, and who can relax in them. Me, I can't relax in anything without consideration for what the images and voices in it mean. With movies that transport, I'm always interested in the place they transport to. This is not one of those places.
greenwood-3
Sorry, couldn't appreciate it. I'm originally from St. Petersburg, Russia, but my husband grew up in Manchester (in the 50s and 60s), and I do like both the old and new bits of his home city. It's mainly the author's personality that happened to irritate me the most - I found him too pretentious (starting from that theatre curtain episode in the beginning) and felt like he had made this film basically for himself. It was too lengthy, there were many repetitive shots and arie all over the place (drowning the little girls' song which I actually wanted to hear). Rationally, I'm taking Davies's point but emotionally, I couldn't wait till the film was over. Talking about life experience similar to Davies's, I much prefer the late Dutch writer Gerard Reve.
sleemon
I'm usually a patient viewer who has no problem with films in which nothing much happen. In this case, however, I was expecting a more traditional memoir in which the director tells a personal story. What I got was a series of images and music (classical and vintage popular songs) interspersed with a sparse narration of quotes, anecdotes, and philosophical ramblings.It's supposed to be a lyrical visual poem evoking the director's repressed homosexual youth in an industrial hell. To me, however, it was just a bunch of random images screaming "Look here. This is Art! ART!" I guess that one man's masterpiece is another man's boring, self-indulgent, pretentious twaddle.
