The Neon Demon (18.)
Directed by Nicolas Winding Refn.
Starring Elle Fanning, Jena Malone, Bella Heathcote, Abbey Lee, Karl Glusman, Alessandro Nivola and Keanu Reeves. 118 mins. Out on VOD, EST, DVD and Blu-ray from Icon.
I've never really been convinced by Refn, unable to shake off the suspicion that he was a hollow show pony charlatan rehashing other people's ideas and happily playing at being Kubrick or Lynch or Mann while convincing critics (or a coterie there of) that he was a unique talent. He was the worst kind of iconoclast: his films were long periods of artfully posed torpor punctuated by moment of outre violence. Now he's made his most superficial effort, a horror mystery set in the LA fashion industry that appears to be rehashing elements of Mulholland Drive, and he's quite won me over.
In Mulholland Drive the golly gosh innocent Naomi Watts comes to Hollywood for her shot at stardom, and seems to enchant everyone she meets. Or does she? In The Neon Demon, Fanning is the naive new girl in town, living in a seedy motel run by Reeves, while taking the modeling game by storm. Los Angeles can't get enough of her pristine, untouched charm. Among those drawn towards her is makeup artist Malone; among those who resent the attention she is taking away from them are two models Lee and Heathcote. But maybe Fanning isn't as pure as she seems. Or maybe LA isn't as bowled over
Fashion is a perfect milieu for Refn whose films usually take the form of an insubstantial, uninvolved catwalk shows of depravities, paraded before you for your delectation without much thought for deeper investigation. You look, but you don't get touched. His films are all about the Glide, the graceful, detached way the camera will slide across the subject, and never before has he got the Glide down so completely as he has in The Neon Demon. The story is nothing, a meek little Snow White number jizzed up with bits of sadism, lesbianism, necrophilia and any other ism or ia he can think up. The Glide though is so thoroughly assured, so totally aloof, it mesmerises, generating a unique sense of nebulous menace.
The glories of The Neon Demon Glide is achieved by two inspired collaborations. Working for the first time with the cinematographer Natasha Braier, the images are incredibly rich, shooting scenes you've seen many times before with fresh magic: it even out shimmers all previously efforts at capturing the shimmer of the LA nightscape. Together they seem to do everything possible to put a distance between the viewer and the image, with lens flare, reflections, strobing and mirrors. We, the plebs are to be kept at an arm's length from the beautiful people.
The other inspired collaborator is composer Cliff Martinez, who Refn worked with on his previous two films. No Hollywood composer can do a score better suited to the Glide than Martinez; through his work on films like Solaris, Spring Breakers and Drive, he has established himself as a master of discrete, percussive electronica that lifts you up and just floats you through the action, never letting you touch the sides.
Between them they have concocted a product that is so seductive and alluring, that any repellent elements just seem to be another intoxicating part of the mix. And it really is enticing; I only saw it a few days ago but writing this I feel something close to a craving to put it on again. Which is something given that in a very real sense it is rubbish, a protracted and undramatic telling of something that barely counts as a narrative.
The acting, in a film where everything is so arch and posed, is good all round. Keanu is marvellously menacing as a sleazy and heartless motel owner and Jena Malone hasn't had a chance to show her skills like this for way too long. I have one problem with it and that is the casing of Elle Fanning, as the LA newcomer whose unspoilt beauty drops every jaw. She isn't pretty, or rather photographically pretty, enough to convince. She's good in the role, but being drop dead gorgeous isn't something that can be acted and though the fashion industry frequently has odd conceptions of beauty, I just couldn't buy it. The more all this perfect looking women raved about this pale little girl, the more ridiculous it all seemed. Presumably this is deliberate, but I can't see the point.
Extras.
Two short features, the best of which is Refn discussing his collaboration with composer Martinez.
Directed by Nicolas Winding Refn.
Starring Elle Fanning, Jena Malone, Bella Heathcote, Abbey Lee, Karl Glusman, Alessandro Nivola and Keanu Reeves. 118 mins. Out on VOD, EST, DVD and Blu-ray from Icon.
I've never really been convinced by Refn, unable to shake off the suspicion that he was a hollow show pony charlatan rehashing other people's ideas and happily playing at being Kubrick or Lynch or Mann while convincing critics (or a coterie there of) that he was a unique talent. He was the worst kind of iconoclast: his films were long periods of artfully posed torpor punctuated by moment of outre violence. Now he's made his most superficial effort, a horror mystery set in the LA fashion industry that appears to be rehashing elements of Mulholland Drive, and he's quite won me over.
In Mulholland Drive the golly gosh innocent Naomi Watts comes to Hollywood for her shot at stardom, and seems to enchant everyone she meets. Or does she? In The Neon Demon, Fanning is the naive new girl in town, living in a seedy motel run by Reeves, while taking the modeling game by storm. Los Angeles can't get enough of her pristine, untouched charm. Among those drawn towards her is makeup artist Malone; among those who resent the attention she is taking away from them are two models Lee and Heathcote. But maybe Fanning isn't as pure as she seems. Or maybe LA isn't as bowled over
Fashion is a perfect milieu for Refn whose films usually take the form of an insubstantial, uninvolved catwalk shows of depravities, paraded before you for your delectation without much thought for deeper investigation. You look, but you don't get touched. His films are all about the Glide, the graceful, detached way the camera will slide across the subject, and never before has he got the Glide down so completely as he has in The Neon Demon. The story is nothing, a meek little Snow White number jizzed up with bits of sadism, lesbianism, necrophilia and any other ism or ia he can think up. The Glide though is so thoroughly assured, so totally aloof, it mesmerises, generating a unique sense of nebulous menace.
The glories of The Neon Demon Glide is achieved by two inspired collaborations. Working for the first time with the cinematographer Natasha Braier, the images are incredibly rich, shooting scenes you've seen many times before with fresh magic: it even out shimmers all previously efforts at capturing the shimmer of the LA nightscape. Together they seem to do everything possible to put a distance between the viewer and the image, with lens flare, reflections, strobing and mirrors. We, the plebs are to be kept at an arm's length from the beautiful people.
The other inspired collaborator is composer Cliff Martinez, who Refn worked with on his previous two films. No Hollywood composer can do a score better suited to the Glide than Martinez; through his work on films like Solaris, Spring Breakers and Drive, he has established himself as a master of discrete, percussive electronica that lifts you up and just floats you through the action, never letting you touch the sides.
Between them they have concocted a product that is so seductive and alluring, that any repellent elements just seem to be another intoxicating part of the mix. And it really is enticing; I only saw it a few days ago but writing this I feel something close to a craving to put it on again. Which is something given that in a very real sense it is rubbish, a protracted and undramatic telling of something that barely counts as a narrative.
The acting, in a film where everything is so arch and posed, is good all round. Keanu is marvellously menacing as a sleazy and heartless motel owner and Jena Malone hasn't had a chance to show her skills like this for way too long. I have one problem with it and that is the casing of Elle Fanning, as the LA newcomer whose unspoilt beauty drops every jaw. She isn't pretty, or rather photographically pretty, enough to convince. She's good in the role, but being drop dead gorgeous isn't something that can be acted and though the fashion industry frequently has odd conceptions of beauty, I just couldn't buy it. The more all this perfect looking women raved about this pale little girl, the more ridiculous it all seemed. Presumably this is deliberate, but I can't see the point.
Extras.
Two short features, the best of which is Refn discussing his collaboration with composer Martinez.
