The winds of change: farewell to Hayao Miyazaki.

"At Pixar, when we have a problem and we can't seem to solve it, we often take a laser disc of one of Mr. Miyazaki's films and look at a scene in our screening room for a shot of inspiration. And it always works" said John Lasseter, the head honcho at Pixar. Pixar's place at the forefront of Western animation is (or was, thanks to a string of impending sequels) unassailable: for every Toy Story, there's a Shrek 4, an Ice Age, and usually a Madagascar or some other interminable dross. But not since Disney's golden age has there been a string of home- runs like the Japanese Studio Ghibli, and the vision of the man behind it. At 73 years of age, Miyazaki has ended his legendary run with what looks to be one last masterpiece.

 Hayao Miyazaki's films change people. Most are beautiful, captivating fantasies that remain focused and intensely personal, visually arresting and emotionally striking. Miyazaki is one of those rare directors, when even his worst films (The Cat Returns) can't be called misfires, even if they do hit slightly left of the target. Miyazaki at his best (Spirited Away) is a mad, unbridled genius; he brings us worlds filled with blind Boar gods and obese Radish spirits. The visual mayhem leaves Western audiences slack-jawed, mouthing obscenities at the screen, but it ensures the right attention is paid to the film; the focus is then adjusted from the frogs running around the bath-house to the very simple story of a girl who can't get home. Spirited Away is essentially Alice in Wonderland, with Stink Spirits and dragons instead of Mad Hatters and March Hares.

Miyazaki's finest: Studio Ghibli binge-watch guide

• Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind. Miyazaki's adaptation of his own manga comic series kickstarted the creation of the studio. 

• Princess Mononoke. Fiercely intelligent and beautifully put together, one of Miyazaki's true masterpieces also serves as a cautionary tale against the industrial nature of humanity. 

• My Neighbor Totoro. Where would a Ghibli marathon be without its cuddly mascot? This affable tale of two youngsters befriending a forest spirit provides a welcome break from the intensity of Mononoke. 

• Spirited Away. It's the most popular and widely acclaimed of the bunch, and with very, very good reason. Watch it and rediscover yourself.

Miyazaki's latest and last ever film, The Wind Rises, is due to be released over here in the UK on 9 May. Based on the life of Jiro Horokoshi, a Japanese aircraft designer during World War II, the film is likely to be a very personal one; Miyazaki is obsessed with the winds and flight, and has very Tolkienian ideas about pacifism and industry. The juxtaposition of a great inventor who wishes to fly and his sorrow at his creations dealing death across the globe, The Wind Rises takes on a more melancholy theme than some of his earlier work; there will be no Totoros floating around here. Having already received rave reviews, this more complex exploration of Miyazaki's themes is due to be a fitting swansong. I'll be first in line to see it. And I'll be bringing tissues.

The Wind Rises is out on 9 May and stars the voices of Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Emily Blunt. In case you haven't guessed, it's directed by Hayao Miyazaki.

A Star Wars: Episode VII Audition Experience.

I love Star Wars. Even the rubbish ones.

The first three are my go-to movies when I'm feeling happy, sad, bad, glad, mad, pleased or bored. I believe that the genius of taking a conventional fantasy story and plonking it in space cannot be overestimated, and although the prequels have their faults, they add to and enrich a universe that has enthralled millions. And I am the sort of person that owns not one, but two lightsabers.

Technically three if you count that one of them is double-bladed. Therefore, when the open casting call for 'an athletic male, 19-23 years old' came in last week, I was pretty damn thrilled. I knew thousands would line the streets for this chance, and I vowed to be one of them.

Queues hold a special place in Star Wars history. I wish I was old enough to have queued up to watch the originals. I queued up to watch Episode 3, I'm going to queue up to watch Episode 7, and damn it all, I was going to queue up to get my shot at swinging a real, honest-to-god elegant weapon (from a more civilised age), despite my friends and family dutifully informing me that I haven't got a hope in hell.

 So, after some umming and ahhing and almost not going, me and the girlfriend, headshots in hand, dutifully queued up to take our chances.

I'll be honest, as ridiculous as it sounds, I was actually pretty hopeful that I was going to get a callback. I could quote Shakespeare monologues on cue, and I have swordfighting experience thanks to a decade of martial arts. I was going to crush it.

BOOM.
 

Job done, three film contract. Next.

•  

We turned up at nine. That was our first mistake. This is a very accurate representation of my face when I saw the queue:

There were thousands of people there, most of which were legitimate, honest-to-god actors that had clearly won the genetic lottery, most of whom knowing very little about the films. The security guys told us to 'move along' and I was the only one who sniggered. There were also chancers like me, hopefuls that hadn't done much acting, but would spend two days inside a Tauntaun for the opportunity of a lifetime. We got in just before the cutoff point, so whatever happened, we were in with a shot!

There were mixed messages in the queue. Some said it closed at three, others said six. Some said twenty-five were going through at any one time, others said thirty. This was the second day of auditions, and I had done a bit of research beforehand. Thanks to that, and me asking some men in hi-vis jackets that may have been working the crowd, but could also have been some local builders screwing with me, I became the font of all knowledge to my neighboring hopefuls.

However, the weariness of the sporadic start-stop movement, and the sight of the zigzagging droves of sheeple soon began to drag, and we contemplated leaving the line for a steak.

After four hours of numb feet, and listening to aspiring thespians tell me the pointlessness of 'Star Wars nerds' being there, the queue began to speed up.

This was due to the casting director scouring the lines, pulling out people he liked, and telling others to go home. After four hours, we were told that the wait would be a further five hours. Soon after that, we were told to go home.

Yep. The dream was over.

They had pulled just three people out of our back two hundred or so: a Donald Glover lookalike, a six-foot-plus young man with dark hair and a jaw that you could crack nuts on, and a short brunette that bore a passing resemblance to Carrie Fisher.

I reacted rather calmly to this.

On reflection, it's probably for the best. I was thrilled to be a part of the phenomenon, if only for a day. When I'm showing Episode VII to my children, thirty years hence, I can point to Ben Skywalker or Jacen Solo or whoever that character ends up becoming and say 'I was there. I was part of it, and that could've been me'. That sense of community is what makes Star Wars special. More so than any other franchise, it crosses generations and brings people together.

We left that queue after four hours and fifteen minutes. The steak was okay.

*beat*

 It was a bit Chewie.

Trailer Tuesdays: A Brony Tale

Brent Hodge is going up in the world. Ridiculously photogenic and always insightful, the CEO of Hodgee Films is hitting the documentary scene hard, named one of BC Business' '30 under 30' to watch. His latest film, A Brony Tale, delves into the mythos of one of the most abused and maligned subcultures on the internet, examining not just a subversion of gender norms, but age norms as well. Welcome to the My Little Pony fanbase.



Since Hodge is above the kind of zookeeper mentality that, say, the UK's Channel 4 often falls prey to, it promises to be more than just a case of 'look at the nerds'. The use of one of the show's voices, Ashleigh Ball, as the focal point of the film could provide a unique dynamic, as both insider and outsider to the subculture. Could be a nice indie.

A Brony Tale is out on April 26.

The Raid 2: Recap.

Fighting is ugly.  Fighting is raw, claustrophobic, and intense, a knock-down drag-out burst of pure adrenaline that is over all too quickly.

The same adjectives could be used to describe Gareth Evans' martial-arts blockbuster, The Raid.

Two years ago, Welsh director Gareth Evans and Indonesian star Iko Uwais reinvented the martial arts film with a deceptively simple premise: rookie cop Rama (Uwais) and his SWAT team are trapped in a Jakarta tower block. The close-quarters nature of the beast and threadbare premise (fight your way out) played out like a videogame, Rama going from level to level focused purely on survival. But that is by no means an insult; no-one, and we mean no-one, watches these things for the plot. This is not Wes Anderson.

Chief amongst the factors that kept The Raid fresh was its approach to the fighting, and in this Uwais brought a new faction to the old schools of beat-'em-up cinema: traditional Chinese gung fu versus the 'Statham' mix of kickboxing, judo and headbutts. We've had Bruce Lee as Hong Kong's Superman, and Jackie Chan's Chinese Opera generation turning martial arts into elaborately choreographed dances. We've had all varieties of Westerners slugging their way through foes with pithy one-liners. But following in the footsteps of Tony Jaa's fabulous Thai boxing showcase Ong Bak, Evans pairs Western action-movie setting with Uwais' knowledge of Penkak Silat, an Indonesian martial art.

The economy of Uwais' fighting calls to mind, of all things, Christopher Nolan's Batman, but the similarity is there. Batman's discipline, a new martial art entitled the Keysi Fighting Method, shares roots with Silat. Vicious and economical, both arts take advantage of openings in a defense to break bones and work against joints, each action as tightly contained as the film itself. Everything fits.

This portrayal of Rama as a death-dealing machine is in stark contrast with Uwais' everyman looks and slight build, possessing neither the iron jaw of Van Damme nor the fierce intensity of Bruce Lee. It makes the torrent of violence all the more shocking, but it's not the violence that's new. By taking an action movie as old as the hills and presenting it with new leads, new moves and a very un-Hollywood respect for the genre, all the old tropes have a new spring in their step. This newfound joy is there in every punch and kick.

Evans' ambitious follow-up to The Raid looks to provide a slightly more Asian take on cinema, taking a step back from the claustrophobia of the previous film to breathe, exploring more of the underworld, some very painful-looking knifeplay, and introducing new craziness from characters like Hammer Girl. I'll be definitely first in line to watch it, providing action's hottest double-act keep themselves grounded in what made The Raid as fresh as it was.



So, to recap: should be good. Not for squeamish. Go and see. Not Wes Anderson.


The Raid 2 is out now.

Youtube Fridays: Winnie the Pooh, Dark Lord

Jim Cummings, A.K.A the voice of Winnie the Pooh for generations, reading the lines of Darth Vader.

'She must have hidden the plans in the escape pod...'

 '...Oh bother.'

The Desolation of Smaug

Or 'Let's Cash In Again'

Bofur posing a little like Marilyn Monroe during the iconic barrel sequence.

Peter Jackson and Sauron were both people with vision. Few could have realised, upon first glance at a slim three-hundred page children's tale, there would be room to expand it into a sprawling nine-hour epic. But, wisely or unwisely, Jackson did it anyway, and this second chapter of the series has been beefed up by the director to make for a veritable rollercoaster of a picture, even if the heart of the source material is left in its wake.

The film picks up mere moments after An Unexpected Journey, with Bilbo, Thorin and the gang still on the run from Azog and his Orc pack, until the latter is called away by his mysterious master in Mirkwood. The first film's ponderous nature has been stripped away; if Jackson's love for Middle-Earth let AUJ drag because Rivendell felt like home, his guiding hand is much more forceful here. This installment is a race to get to the dragon, and it's all the better for it.

And the dragon is impressive. The titular Smaug, realised in mo-cap by Benedict Cumberbatch, is a glorious technological achievement, easily taking the crown of Best Movie Dragon from the heads of Sean Connery and the Dreamworks team. Cumberbatch's malevolent purr is perfect for the role,  bringing to life the famous scene where the dragon and Bilbo exchange puzzles. It is perfection. Smaug is old, powerful, intelligent and cunning, a fifty-foot-tall lizard Loki, and the magic-makers at Weta convey this beautifully, with stirring, recognisably human facial expressions crossing over a reptilian face.

Indeed, there is so much buzz around the introduction of Smaug, the return of Legolas, the mystery of the Necromancer, and an elf-elf-Dwarf love triangle that has prompted a whirr sound emitting from Tolkien's grave, that one could almost forget the title of the film. Martin Freeman shines in a comic masterpiece of a performance that gives Desolation of Smaug, in danger of suffering from George Lucas-esque CGItis, some genuine humanity (Hobbity?). In such a bloated film, the idea that there is so little room for the main character seems laughable at best.

This highlights DOS's main problem. It doesn't pause for breath. It hurtles along at a hundred miles an hour, constantly moving in an attempt to retain the attention span of the Playstation generation. While Dwarves bounce in barrels, and Legolas and new character Tauriel do their best Neo and Morpheus, little character evolution is made due to the film's overstuffed nature, and combined with the almost cartoonish visual sheen given to the whole production, anyone over fifteen may find their attentions begin to wane.

The beauty of Lord of the Rings lay in building suspense, in pauses, real locations and practical effects, and Jackson's attempt to prove to both us and himself that he had enough material to justify the extra film means that these lessons lie forgotten. It's a phenomenally exciting return to Middle Earth. It feels like coming home again. But also, in the words of Bilbo Baggins, it feels 'thin, sorted of stretched, and like butter scraped over too much bread.'