Review: Crisis Commission, Somerset House

Some of the leading names in the British art scene have made or donated works to the Crisis Commissi

Displayed in the East Wing galleries of Somerset House the opposition between the shows themes of isolation, property, security and space and its grandiose setting are set in grim opposition.

In the centre of the second room, Gillian Wearing’s Craig, a hyper-real 45cm bronze sculpture of a young ex-serviceman, stands trophy-like on a thin wooden plinth. The work’s scale creates a sense of isolation, it is emasculating, dislocating. Craig is lost in the vast space. The plinth’s transcription tells of Craig’s descent from soldier to homeless man, “Craig became homeless soon after returning from Afghanistan by rapidly spending all of his savings on alcohol. He was eventually diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder”. Commenting on the work, Wearing asserts, “I see all of my work as a portrait of people and the individual stories and experiences they go through”.

Again, a strong sense of narrative is evinced in Bob and Robert Smith’s Kite whose fraying flags trail across the gallery floor. An upturned bucket and rusting saw suggest a party that has long finished. “Help”, it reads, an explicit reminder of the need for intervention.

The fourth room is dominated by Nika Neelova’s Partings. Here, conventional architectural space is shattered. Concrete casts of the interior doors of Somerset House are taken out of context; they strain from ropes tied to a burnt timber frame, while fragments of broken wood litter the floor. No longer providing the entrance to a welcoming space, a refuge, a home, the doors instead present ominous barriers.

Further in, Yinka Shonibare’s crouching mannequin, Homeless Man, strains under the weight of a towering pile of suitcases. Though his dress is made up of vibrantly patterned, African textiles, his bent globe head betrays his burden. The hands that reach up to grasp his loads are disturbingly realistic. ‘Black, dark and piercingly cold,’ reads the swirling text, that spans the mannequin’s head, ‘it was a night for the well housed and fed to draw round the bright fire and thank God they were at home’. “The cases, stacked tall”, describes Shonibare, “weigh heavily. They represent all that is left from a previous life; any privileged person can become vulnerable at any time”.

This sense of vulnerability is shared amongst much of the work. Though, their interpretations are often radically different, the contributor’s representation of the subject is, for the most part, starkly effective. However, there are some pieces, such as Tracey Emin’s self portraits Deep Blue III & V that have less apparent links to the show’s theme. Indeed, in the 1999 documentary Mad Tracey From Margate, Emin commented, "It's pretty difficult for me to do drawings not about me and about someone else”. In light of what we know of the vast sums ammassed by today's big-name contemporary artists, it is hard to draw parrallels between Emin's situation and that of the figure of Craig.

All the work in the exhibition will be auctioned at Christie's on the 3rd of May. All proceeds will go to the charity Crisis. The Crisis Commission will be on display at Somerset House until 22 April.

Jonathan Yeo, The Park Bench. Photo: Mark Bourdillon ©
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Okja begins as a buddy flick – but ends up in the slaughterhouse

Korean director Bong Joon-ho works with British co-writer Jon Ronson on this tale of genetically engineered superpigs.

If Studio Ghibli, the Japanese animation studio responsible for Spirited Away, were to branch out into live action, the result might be something like Okja – at least in part. It’s the tale of a genetically engineered breed of waddling grey superpigs, not so much porcine in appearance as manatee or hippo-like, created by the twitchy, imperious CEO of a multinational corporation, Lucy Mirando (Tilda Swinton), in the hope of solving a global food shortage.

Each of these docile beasts is despatched to a different corner of the planet to be reared. The enormous Okja grows up in rural Korea, gambolling in the fields with her young companion, Mija (Ahn Seo-hyun).

Okja is no dumb animal – she saves the child from falling off a cliff by using a rope to improvise a sophisticated pulley system. She should be working in crisis management, not ending up on someone’s fork. But eventually the day comes when Mirando’s representatives arrive to claim their several thousand pounds of flesh.

The early scenes borrow the leisurely rhythms of Mija’s idyllic days with Okja; she snoozes on the beast’s vast belly, softly rising and falling in time with her pet’s breathing. Yet once she follows the kidnapped creature to Seoul, where they are taken in by a band of animal rights activists, the film lurches from one style to another. What begins as a tranquil buddy movie finishes up in the blood-soaked slaughterhouse where Okja is due to end her days; it’s as though My Neighbour Totoro had morphed into Fast Food Nation.

The film’s Korean director, Bong Joon-ho, and his British co-writer, Jon Ronson, present viewers with a transaction that reflects the ethical and ecological implications of the story.

We can have our heart-warming tale of the bond between human and animal, but only if we accept also those parts of the plot which demystify that relationship and take it to its industrialised extreme. It’s a bold strategy that has worked before for this film-maker – in The Host and Snowpiercer he used the genres of horror and action, respectively, to smuggle through political and environmental messages.

But Okja risks falling between two stools. Young children who might enjoy the first third (and can see Okja on Netflix the very day it is released in cinemas, easily bypassing the 15 certificate) would be alternately bored and traumatised by the rest of it. Conversely, adults will have an awful lot of whimsy to wade through before reaching the meat of the movie.

There are compensations. The film is sumptuously designed by Lee Ha-jun and Kevin Thompson, and crisply shot by Darius Khondji. Swinton, who played the villain in Snowpiercer as a grotesque northern schoolmarm with oversized gnashers, puts in the distorting dentures once again in Okja as both Lucy and her sister, Nancy, with whom she is locked in an irresolvable rivalry. Lucy is bleached (pink skin, platinum hair, white robes) to the point of invisibility, whereas Nancy is a harrumphing Penelope Keith type in a quilted jacket.

Other capable actors are undone by the unreasonable demands placed on them. Shirley Henderson, as Lucy’s assistant, has been directed to talk at comically high speed for want of any actual funny dialogue, and Paul Dano would be more plausible as a winsome animal rights activist if he weren’t leading the Animal Liberation Front. The group’s portrayal here as a group of touchy-feely flower children (“This is a non-lethal chokehold, OK?” one member says, as he disables a security guard) is laughable.

But no one comes out of Okja quite as badly as Jake Gyllenhaal in the role of Dr Johnny Wilcox, a wacky nature TV presenter who is like Steve Irwin trapped in Timmy Mallett’s body. The film is at its most wrong-headed in scenes where Dr Johnny, left alone with Okja, first forces her to mate with another superpig (a pointless episode that serves no plot function) and then tortures her.

It’s that risky trade-off again: enjoy the knockabout chase sequence in which Okja fires turds at her adversaries, and later you must endure the darker side of the same narrative. It will be a forgiving audience indeed that doesn’t recoil from this approach, which is too much stick and not enough carrot.

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.

This article first appeared in the 22 June 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The zombie PM

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