FILM ME IN

The bittersweet maintenance of a Top 5 movie list.

You know that definitive, prized and trusty Top 5 movie list that no one ever asks you to repeat but is nevertheless stored in the recesses of your mind just in case? Well I recently went through a crisis as to whether one of my five still belongs after fifteen years of Top 5 inactivity and I can assure you it was an issue that I shared with absolutely no one and thus I was confined to dealing with this merciless state of turmoil internally. In fifteen years since I last finalised the list I can barely recall a time when I was poised to enlighten someone with what constitutes an elite five and therefore haven’t given it much thought or felt the need for re-evaluation. Reciting such a list would surely be a mild form of torture for the listener and I dare say, should I ever find a willing recipient of my insipid movie nonsense, I would also deem them sadistic enough to endure another seventy movies with little hesitation and indecisiveness as I prove to the listener exactly how I store them compartmentalised in genre and era deep in the noggin willing to resurface upon request. I was once asked to produce a top 75 for a friend who graced me with a list of his own, hence the random number, but know that I most certainly accommodated the requestor who specifically wanted the list in alphabetical order relieving me of the pressure to rate the movies with personal affections. I took pleasure in reading the requestor’s list and accepted recommendations but you bet I took even more pleasure in compiling my own. Save for the occasional ‘is it good? It’s in my top 5 of all-time!’ I still hold firm that the esteemed list requires nurturing and now, fifteen years on, I can think of one movie in particular that needs to justify its place.

 

These days I’d much rather explore new or unseen features rather than revisit something I know backwards but when I officially committed a Top 5 list to memory I guess absorbing every facet of your favourite movie was considerably integral. The ultimate in validation was reciting dialogue in unison with the TV, counting (and publically exclaiming) the number of times you had watched it and the conclusive test of finding something new to like each time whilst simultaneously defying ad nauseam. DVDs and the accompanying home theatre system were a relatively new phenomenon and I persisted with the latest in movie enhancements even if the equipment filled almost every square inch of space in my small bedroom. I happily compromised posture and eye-sight positioning myself as hard against the wall to maximise the DVD experience, but despite such adversity I truly relished in the almighty leap from VHS. For a short window your DVD collection defined who you were and the selection process could be gruelling. Once committing to a purchase, it was deemed mandatory to ingest every last special feature, commentary and Easter egg. But as movies became more accessible and DVDs less of an item to behold, the flicks flickered past my eyeballs and any all-time favourites already inducted to the podium remained as such stagnating the Top 5 list. So how can I be sure the movies I chose during a streak of viewing the same thing multiple times even belongs in my Top 5 anymore?

 

On the other hand, if I never saw a film like Citizen Kane again I wouldn’t question whether it’s still great or belongs. I know it’s close to perfection and in a split second my mind easily races through countless magnificent scenes, its beautifully executed script, its remarkable non-linear structure, its ground-breaking production techniques and its mind boggling photography which when assessed against its time of release is nothing short of extraordinary. Objects in the foreground and background both appear in focus, holes were dug in the floor so that a camera could look up to the protagonists as though they were giants, plus tiny details like scratching film footage to fashion a newsreel set in the 1920s, all the way to a clever narrative that follows key witnesses via an inquisitive journalist, through to its harrowing mirror-scene climax and poignant twist to close, it’s a feat the likes of which we may never see again. Then there’s the real story of Orson Welles and William Randolph Hearst, the former, a boy wonder who rather than being imprisoned for a perceived hoax with his War Of the Worlds radio broadcast was given the keys to Hollywood. His fatal error was depicting a media tycoon for his first project. Hearst confiscated those keys, damned the picture and essentially made film pursuits for Welles difficult, a theme that stayed with the filmmaker until his final days but in a blessed moment of creative liberty Welles managed to slip a genuine masterpiece through the cracks.

 

 

 

 

Okay so Citizen Kane’s not the one I’m grappling with. I’m referring to Velvet Goldmine which in my mind’s eye is still the coolest piece of indie rock n’ roll filmmaking and one of the greatest cinematic achievements of the last twenty years… or is it? At least I think it is…

 

Without revisiting Velvet Goldmine you must admit the pedigree of this puppy is pretty decent. A film by Oscar nominated director Todd Haynes, starring Ewan McGregor, Jonathan Rhys Meyers, Christian Bale and Toni Collette that’s based on David Bowie’s (Meyers) rise to fame. Add to that Bowie’s love affair with Iggy Pop and the resuscitation of Pop’s career, although the on-screen character (McGregor) reveals traces of Lou Reed’s DNA. The movie joyfully escorts us through the sensational window where the glam and glitter movement took flight from London clubs to the world’s stage. It’s extraordinarily well-versed with music, style, associated themes and nuances faithful to the era, each image bursts with colour on an otherwise grey backdrop, it precisely mimics documentary footage from the early 70s and above all amuses whilst it exploits salacious behaviour from it’s audacious, androgynous protagonists in a us-versus-them musical war cry. What’s not to like? I still get the songs stuck in my head and with good reason, the soundtrack rivals the camera with catchy, captivating numbers performed by the likes of Thom York, Placebo and even Ewan McGregor himself. This music centre’s one flashy, hypnotic fable of the often confronting path to excess, the likes of which can only be considered destiny in the minds of its stars.

 

In a nutshell Christian Bale plays a journalist assigned to investigate an enigmatic bisexual glam-rock originator named Brian Slade who ended his career ten years earlier after being shot on stage, a situation we soon learn was a publicity stunt. The well acquainted former glam enthusiast come journalist traces the entertainer’s life via the people closest to his career who detail the rise and fall of the man and the movement until finally uncovering the recent identity and mysterious whereabouts of Slade.

 

Velvet Goldmine was a life-changer, a sentiment shared by close friends at the time and in hindsight perhaps the world at large for a short second. The biggest rock star of 1998 (the year of the film’s release) was arguably Marilyn Manson who had shed his Goth-scant-black-wardrobe for what looked and sounded like a revamped combination of The Stooges and David Bowie. All signs pointed to glam revival and if the streets were about to burst to life as depicted in the film then let the show begin! The sad reality was that Limp Bizkit was ever further upon us shattering this shimmering glimmer of hope as feather boas lost out to red baseball caps.

 

Velvet Goldmine was also the first movie I recall seeing in an indie cinema, a seminal moment in any movie enthusiast’s life. I arrived to find my Dad in the cinema and still can’t recall corresponding prior making this encounter a sheer coincidence indeed. Glancing at Dad’s record collection his attendance combined with the dismal lack of screenings now seems inevitable, in fact his taste in 70s rock may have just sowed the seeds subconsciously aiding my love for the movie I was about to see. This trip to unknown cinematic territory was merely based on a promotional scene I caught on television where Brian Slade is preaching to a confused media that he is both married to a female and also likes men, his wildly-styled-serpentine-made-up wife Mandy (Collette) violently wags her tongue at him in evil delight. I immediately scanned the newspaper for screenings! What I thought of the film itself was even captured within – it’s only brief but a young Christian Bale glimpses Slade on British television and shouts toward his sterile, mute parents ‘that’s me!’ I felt that he was expressing something vastly universal, a moment any music lover could appreciate, for although I was less vocal about it, the rock stars who captivated via my stereo would practically warrant heart palpations when seen on TV! For some strange reason I felt the need to convey to my family how the reckless, tattooed menaces they saw before them embodied my every attitudes and desires.

 

 

 

 

A friend who visited England brought me back a VHS copy – from England! The very place where all this hedonistic partying and performing took place! I snapped up the accompanying soundtrack at once (actually twice, I brought it again rather than hunting down whoever had last failed to return the hot item) and eventually secured an unwatched DVD copy for safe keeping. I found myself frequenting Brit-pop clubs just to hear the odd number and vigorously followed bands that I found reminiscent of the soundtrack like Suede and Manic Street Preachers (this is no exaggeration when Suede toured Melbourne, my friends and I aggressively followed them back to their hotel room, abandoning road rules and at one point nearly colliding with their Tarago. When we approached them on foot for an autograph one member flippantly replied ‘that’s how Lady Di died’).

 

Velvet Goldmine had an air of cool, so much so that when my parents went away my friend Bell and I organised a party and we invited real life girls! Girls, who we barely knew, but members of the opposite sex nonetheless! Although Bell and I didn’t dare discuss the trendy elephant in the room, we figured that providing Velvet Goldmine was on the VCR when they arrived it would immensely elevate both our music and movie integrity. However things panned out a tad differently – the girls arrived during the scene where Ewan McGregor and Christian Bale are having sex in a bath tub for what felt like an eternity, which to the uninitiated would have appeared as though were watching Fellini’s take on gay porn. Amidst the awkwardness, one of the girls asked ‘where’s the toilet?’ and rather than show her I gave verbal directions and when she returned I absent-mindedly asked ‘how did you go?’ implying did you find the toilet? She looked embarrassed thinking I had asked about her bowel movements, embarrassed she replied ‘fine thanks’ ending the party and making Bell and I look like two excrement obsessed creeps who also happened to be gay. This was the first in a line of times where Velvet Goldmine was not as warmly received as I had expected.

 

When I first met my wife she was raving about Across The Universe, a musical told through the songs of The Beatles. I confessed I didn’t quite get it, the narrative via songs felt a bit forced and after the Queen stage musical We Will Rock You, it felt like a poor man’s attempt at the same thing… So I insisted ‘if you like that…’ then surely Velvet Goldmine would be a revelation! Surely! From memory she didn’t even watch it all the way through as it bored her senseless. The same thing happened at work, a colleague told me she was obsessed with the band Placebo which I would have segued to Velvet Goldmine. Upon realising she didn’t even know what it was I brought in my DVD copy the very next day eager to change her life, particularly as the band themselves have a small role portraying a new generation of glam rockers. But it was returned to me with a shrug of indifference, in fact I believe she too didn’t watch it all the way through.

 

As the DVD stared back at me from my draw at work I suddenly became aware of how shabby the artwork was, if I were to judge this book by its cover I would say it looked like a-made-for-TV-movie, the type you can buy at your nearest post-office for under $5. I also started recalling either a review or a conversation somewhere along the way in which Toni Collette was dissed for her awfully inconsistent accent. Also Bowie wanted nothing to do with the project, did he perhaps know something I didn’t? Ratings and tomatoes on various websites didn’t appear too kind either. Then there’s the production credits – I’ve read Peter Baskin’s Down and Dirty Pictures and if it taught me anything it’s that if a Weinstein is at the producing helm then integrity will likely be compromised. To be fair, REM’s Michael Stipe was also a producer although I just can’t see him fighting and reducing the talent tears in order to get his own way.

 

 

 

 

I sighed admitting to myself that Ziggy and Iggy were never really my bag, in fact any and all appreciation I have for these universally beloved artists has stemmed from Velvet Goldmine and the lines between reality and film concerning these artists had well and truly blurred. When my parents ushered me to see David Bowie live I was quietly racking my brain as to what his former stage name had been. Was it Brian Fairy or Jack Slade, and are any of these other guys surviving members of The Furs? When Bowie passed away my initial reaction via momentary memory lapse was that it had finally happened despite being shot on stage previously which of course only happened in the movie.

 

There was only one way to settle this, I simply had to re-watch the damn thing. Which considering I’ve held it dearly in my top 5 since I first saw it in 1998 it shouldn’t be a stretch, right? I should want to watch it today and every other day because it’s a clear favourite and yet I was kind of dreading it for fear I might end up hating it and end up mocking myself for some late-teen obsession that only speaks to a younger version at a precise age…

 

 

 

 

Watched it! I can confirm with all honesty and utter sincerity that Velvet Goldmine is the best fuckin’ film that has graced the planet! I usually feel the same way after watching other all-time favourites but nevertheless I hold this movie in the same high regard as always. It really has stayed with me, I’ve been encompassed in a cloud of blissful arrogant rock-star antagonism ever since. Let’s get one thing straight, Toni Collette is flawless and by that I mean her accent is perfect. Collette portrays an American party-girl living in England. Her accent changes to compliment the time and mood of the scene for she portrays an American desperately trying to shed the accent which explains the wonkiness and winds up an alcoholic with her proper American twang back where it belongs. To her credit, in real life, she’s an Australian playing a Brit who’s struggling with her old American accent whilst surrounded by a mostly British cast – bravo!

 

Now to the epiphany – the real reason why I love this film despite its exterior as a rock n’ roll fable and only loosely based on truth is because I’ve seen this movie somewhere before. I’d bet every last dollar that director Todd Haynes based the Christian Bale character on himself. Anyone who can get the swagger and sound this accurate and with as much vibrancy and passion would surely want to throw themselves into the mix even if their whole childhood they were merely the outsider or the fan. Although google makes no mention of Haynes being a former journalist, only a filmmaker, the answer as to how to incorporate your ‘film buff’ self into the story is simple. Just rip off your favourite film Citizen Kane! Remove the shadows of Kane’s non-descript journo’s and go one further by integrating yourself into the story. From here you can literally engage in intercourse with your idols and even wind up owning the Rosebud equivalent (FYI – the Rosebud I’m referring to in Velvet Goldmine is not a sled but a broach that belonged to Oscar Wilde which gets passed down, finds Brian Slade, then Curt Wild and eventually lands with our most deserving journalist Arthur Stuart).

 

 

 

 

But how did I never see what was so clearly obvious before? I loved Velvet Goldmine because it’s virtually identical to the other favourite Citizen Kane trading a media tycoon with a rock star! Bernard Herrmann is sodomised by electric guitars, Xanadu replaced with mountains of cocaine, newspapers with albums, Susan with Mandy (for those playing at home – Mandy Kane was the name of the Kane’s mother) and Joseph Cotton and Michael Feast both tell their recollections whilst in wheelchairs, the blatant borrowing almost evokes fits of laughter.

 

Once I’d ceased slapping my head I granted myself the benefit of the doubt for in 1998 Citizen Kane was still fairly new to me. I only saw it for the first time a year before and was not yet acquainted with the whole ‘greatest-movie-of-all-time’ fan-fare. I remember watching it in a university cinema at the cruelly designated class time of 10am on a Monday morning and although it commanded my attention through tired eyes I remember thinking very little of it immediately afterwards. That was until it began lingering and haunting me in the days and weeks that followed and without successfully scraping the movie from my thoughts I finally yielded, insistent that I see it again. Within a year Velvet Goldmine was released and hell, by that point I would have assumed that journalists uncovering the baffling past of enigmatic and extremely successful figures was simply a staple of good filmmaking.

 

I’m glad to have purged my little quandary on paper and to have eased the restlessness of whether this is still a movie that I should hold dear. The Goldmine bubble that I’ve lost myself in this past week has been totally worth it, even if the constant loop of previously forgotten lyrics have circled my brain to the point of insanity. It’s also kept the anguish of bumping the movie from the Top 5 list at bay for at least for a few years. But I can’t shake the countless gems I’ve seen in the last fifteen or so years that have roused a cinematic awakening and perhaps deserve a Guernsey. I guess this exercise has been the perfect and painless excuse needed to assess the other three. If one doesn’t cut it, then will I also need to revisit the ‘other’ good films that may substitute? Man these are some hefty and difficult decisions and it seems inevitable that I will be chasing my tail on this one for a long time before finally reaching a state of only mild comfort. If only a Top 8 were a thing.