Gilbey on Film: Agfhan story

Armadillo highlights the problems documentary makers have in conveying the truth about war.

Fictional films set in Iraq or Afghanistan have had a notoriously unfavourable commercial reception. Fortunately that hasn't deterred documentary makers from exploring the same territory, the budgets being so much smaller, the box-office expectations modest to negligible.

There's another reason why documentary is better suited to the subject: its immediacy, not just in visual terms, but in its capacity to reach the screen more quickly without the obstacle course of studio schedules and test screenings to negotiate. It would be foolhardy for any filmmaker to aim for a definitive portrait of an ongoing conflict, but the documentary form doesn't make the same promises of completion or containment that fiction does; we accept it more readily as a snapshot grabbed on the hoof.

The riveting new documentary Armadillo is an instructive example of a film which tries to have it both ways -- to evoke the unpredictability, anxiety and essential shapelessness of its subjects' lives but also to fashion the material into a rounded narrative more typical of a scripted project. Armadillo is named after a military base in Helmand Province that is home to 170 Danish and British soldiers. The director Janus Metz secured extraordinary access to the Danes on the base, and begins his film with a brace of scenes promising two different kinds of behind-the-scenes candour.

In one, a downbeat dinner-table conversation between Mads, a soldier about to leave for Helmand, and his family, who can't quite come to terms with what he's doing, establishes the film's intimate emotional texture. The second, showing Mads and his fellow recruits mauling a stripper during a raucous party the night before they leave, hints that the coverage will be no-holds-barred, no punches pulled. A deeply unsettling scene late in the movie, when soldiers strip Taliban casualties of their weapons in the aftermath of a ferocious battle and drag their bodies around while likening them to dead animals, confirms this for all time.

There has already been controversy surrounding the troops' behaviour in the film, particularly their shooting of injured Taliban fighters, which led to an inquiry in Denmark. But from a cinematic point of view, the picture is rather caught in a cleft stick. It wants the pell-mell, sand-in-the-eyes authenticity of reportage, which it achieves with its terrifying battlefield sequences, but it seeks also to frame that material within the reassuring arc of fiction cinema. The problem is that the latter can only compromise realism. Audiences are so alert to the significance of apparently trifling elisions and distortions in documentary that the tiniest hint of fraudulence or manipulation will unravel a lot of hard work.

I'm not casting any aspersions on Metz's motives, which I'm sure were beyond reproach. He has said:

The mission was to bring the war on Afghanistan back into people's living rooms and make them engaged. There was a feeling that nobody was really caring that there was a war in Afghanistan.

What better way to do that than to give documentary footage the viewer-friendly shape and rhythm of a movie? If only one form didn't risk cancelling out the other. I guess Metz made his job easier by following one group of men during one tour of duty. There's a narrative right there: some will make it home, others won't; even those that do will have experience etched into them. And as one of the soldiers who is about to leave when Mads and friends arrive tells the newcomers: "You won't be bored. You'll see action." That's Metz's promise to us too.

I just wish the film wasn't so tidy; it throws up so many questions that the neat structure seems inherently to disavow. It's giving nothing away about the body of the film to say that the final shot is a close-up of a soldier standing in the shower, his head bowed toward us as the water streams down his face. We are clearly meant to infer from this shot that he is damaged, seeking solace, cleansing himself, washing off the sins of combat. But he might equally be thinking: "Golly, this shower is refreshing. I do like a nice shower. Showers are so much better than baths."

I see that shot, stolen from a moment even more private than a family pow-wow or a macho shindig, and I think instantly of the director on the other side of the camera, negotiating with the subject to film him during his ablutions. Armadillo is a strong and disturbing piece of work. A small moment like this, though, can be enormously telling. Introduce an aesthetic contrivance into a documentary that purports to be gritty and you've given the audience licence to doubt.

"Armadillo" is released on Friday

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.

Getty
Show Hide image

The difficulty of staging Ibsen in a post-Yewtree world

The Master Builder at The Old Vic is even stranger than the original - especially when it tries to negotiate modern sensibilities.

Sometimes a cigar, warns a joke dubiously attributed to Sigmund Freud, is just a cigar. And, in other circumstances, a huge church tower that a seductive young woman persuades an ageing man to climb is just a huge church tower. Not, however, in Henrik ­Ibsen’s play The Master Builder, written in 1892, when the Norwegian playwright was 64 and besotted with a younger admirer, and Freud had just begun his revolutionary consultations in Vienna.

That the protagonist, Halvard Solness – an architect who is struggling to get anything up these days – was proto-Freudian when written, but feels satirically psychoanalytical now, is one of two big problems with the play. The other is its tonal instability.

Ibsen dramas broadly divide between the ones with symbolism and trolls (Brand, Peer Gynt) and theatre-redefining exercises in social and psychological realism (A Doll’s House, Hedda Gabler). However, there are a few works – including The Master Builder and Little Eyolf, recently finely revived at the Almeida by Richard Eyre – in which naturalism blurs into supernaturalism.

So, just as Little Eyolf’s searingly believable examination of the impact of grief on a marriage also involves a batty rat-catcher who may have caused a child’s death through enchantment, The Master Builder does not so much change horses in mid-race as jump from horseback to unicorn. It starts off as a study of male power in crisis, with Solness a strutting but now stuttering brother to other Ibsen menopausal males, such as Dr Thomas Stockmann in An Enemy of the People and the title character of the disgraced financier in John Gabriel Borkman. Like them, Master Builder Solness is an egotist under threat both professionally (he no longer has much energy for his work but doesn’t want younger colleagues to have the jobs, either) and personally. He taunts his wife by flirting with a female assistant, although there is a suggestion – which David Hare’s nicely contemporary-conversational adaptation firms up with the word “impotent” – that the couple’s sex life died when their children were killed in a fire.

Last year at the National Theatre, Ralph Fiennes moved suddenly to the front rank of British stage actors by bringing extraordinary clarity to the windbag Jack Tanner in George Bernard Shaw’s Man and Superman, and his Solness is again magnetically precise: you hear each word, feel every thought. He shows a man who keeps reaching for previously known feelings of power – artistic, erotic, domestic – but finds, like the driver of a failing sports car, that the push isn’t quite there. Fiennes transmits the character’s terror at no longer being terrifying.

But then Ibsen goes troll on us. Towards the end of the first act, a young woman called Hilde Wangel turns up, claiming to be keeping a rendezvous arranged with Solness a decade previously, when he “bent her backwards” and kissed her “many times”, calling her his “princess”. As Hilde would have been 13 then, this scene is almost too realistic for post-Yewtree theatre, and details such as Hilde’s reference to her bag of dirty knickers that urgently need washing (that isn’t Hare being daring; it’s there in the earliest English translations) would have had Freud rushing to the theatre.

Hans Christian Andersen would have been close behind, however, because Hilde also talks of “trolls” and “castles in the air”,  and both she and Solness seem to take seriously the possibility that he may have imagined her or summoned her up. Actors can’t be asked to play a character of ambiguous existence; even a ghost can only be acted substantially. So the young Australian actress Sarah Snook makes Hilde very real and very now – she could have walked in off the backpack gap-year trail – and the director, Matthew Warchus, gives her a moment of great theatrical power, curving urgently through the air as she stands on a swing to see Solness attempt to conquer his fear of heights.

Yet Snook’s naturalistic vigour makes the play even stranger than it already was. If Hilde is a completely unambiguous figure, then either Solness is a paedophile predator, or she is a malicious, marriage-wrecking fantasist – both problematic situations for modern theatregoers. As a result, we are never quite sure what we are watching, although always happy to be seeing Fiennes in his prime.

Mark Lawson is a journalist and broadcaster, best known for presenting Front Row on Radio 4 for 16 years. He writes a weekly column in the critics section of the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 11 February 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The legacy of Europe's worst battle