Gilbey on Film: A guide to the London Film Festival

Here's a tip - take a risk and avoid the big names.

This is a sad year for the London Film Festival, which bids farewell to Sandra Hebron, the energetic and inspired artistic director who has overseen (and improved) the LFF since 2003. It appears that responsibility for the festival is to come under the remit of BFI Southbank. Does that sound like madness to anyone else? As Hebron herself wrote in 2008: "There's a lovely notion that we somehow knock the festival together in a couple of months, whereas in fact we spend January through to August selecting the programme, and the whole year planning." Of course, Hebron's departure comes in the context of hard times at the BFI, which we have already reported. All good things are eventually butchered beyond recognition by funding cuts, as the saying goes.

The programme for this year's festival has just been published, and I have managed to find time to select ten promising highlights, in between picking through the brochure's pages searching for obscene acrostics aimed at Ed Vaizey.

To anyone looking to make their festival-going as cheap and profitable as possible, I would offer the same advice as usual, born out of attending the LFF while a penniless student: steer clear of most things safe and starry, since those films are bound to (a) already have a distributor and (b) already have a release date, often not long after their festival screening. With tickets running to as much as £14 (or £18 for galas), why bother shelling out to see We Need to Talk About Kevin or The Black Power Mixtape 1967 -- 1975, which open several days after playing at the festival? (It's also worth noting that other high-profile festival selections such as Anonymous, The Ides of March, The Future, Wuthering Heights and the closing night film, Terence Davies's The Deep Blue Sea, open within a month of the LFF ending.)

Take a risk instead on something from the selection below. Booking opens to BFI members on 14 September, and on 26 September for everyone else.

This Is Not a Film
The director Jafar Panahi (The White Balloon, Offside) has been banned from filmmaking by the Iranian government for 20 years, and is currently serving a six-year prison sentence. His latest film, shot entirely inside his own apartment and with Panahi before rather than behind the camera, was screened at Cannes only after being smuggled into France on a USB stick buried inside a cake and posted from Iran.

Faust
Aleksander Sokurov's take on the Faust legend won the Venice Film Festival's Golden Lion this month. Accepting the award, he had a message that the coalition government would do well to hear: "Culture is not a luxury! It is the basis for the development of the society."

I'm Carolyn Parker Into the Abyss -- a Tale of Life, a Tale of Death Whores' Glory
Three documentaries. The first, directed by Jonathan Demme, follows a New Orleans woman attempting to return home in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. In the second, Werner Herzog interviews two men on death row. And in the third, which won the Special Orizzonti Jury Prize at Venice, Michael Glawogger contrasts three examples of prostitution in Thailand, Bangladesh and Mexico.

Lawrence of Belgravia
A profile of the eccentric Brummie singer-songwriter Lawrence Heyward, lynchpin of the bands Felt, Denim and Go-Kart Mozart, has been responsible for some of the wittiest, most exciting music in recent British pop. Easily the equal of a Jarvis Cocker or a Morrissey, he is an outcast whose mysteries will likely remain intact even after this documentary.

Crulic -- the Path to Beyond Dreams of a Life
Moving to the outer fringes of documentary, these two features suggest something of the stylised investigations of The Arbor or Waltz with Bashir. Crulic -- the Path to Beyond is an animated feature narrated from beyond the grave by a Romanian man who died on hunger strike in a Polish prison; the picture assembles the pieces of this factual case. The British feature Dreams of a Life also does some detective work of its own to conjure a portrait of a woman whose body had lain undiscovered in her London flat for three years.

Rampart
Two reasons why expectations are high for this thriller about a violent cop resisting expulsion: first, the screenplay was co-written by James Ellroy; second, it reunites actor Woody Harrelson and director/co-writer Oren Moverman, who worked so compellingly together on The Messenger.

This Must Be the Place
I have yet to be convinced of the talents of the Italian writer-director Paolo Sorrentino (The Family Friend, Il Divo). But stills of a back-combed, near-unrecognisable Sean Penn, who plays a reclusive rock star hitting the road, not to mention the prospect of a David Byrne score and cameo appearance, have convinced me to give Sorrentino another chance.

The London Film Festival runs from 12-27 October

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.

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Broken and The Trial: From Sean Bean playing a priest to real life lawyers

A surprisingly involving depiction of a clergyman provides the saintly contrast to the sinner being judged by a real jury.

I was all set to scoff at Broken, Jimmy McGovern’s new series for BBC1 (30 May, 9pm). A drama about a Catholic priest and his impoverished parish in a “major northern city”, it sounded so hilariously McGovern-by-numbers (“Eh, lad, give us the collection bowl – the leccy wants paying”) that on paper it could pass for a spoof. Even funnier, Sean Bean, late of Game of Thrones, was to play the clergyman in question.

Naturally, I adore Bean, who comes from the major northern city that is Sheffield, as I do, and who is so terribly . . . virile (though when I interviewed him in a car park behind King’s Cross Station a few years ago, and a security guard in a high-vis jacket approached us furiously shouting the odds, he ran and hid in his trailer, leaving yours truly to face the music). But let’s face it: he’s not exactly versatile, is he? The idea of him in a cassock, or even just a mud-coloured cardigan, made me laugh out loud.

Settling down to watch the series, however, I soon realised that no scoffing would be taking place. For one thing, Broken is hugely involving, its Dickensian plot (no spoilers here) as plausible as it is macabre. For another, in the present circumstances, its script seems to be rather daring. Not only is Father Michael Kerrigan shown – cover my eyes with the collected works of Richard Dawkins! – to be a good and conscientious priest, but his faith is depicted as a fine and useful thing. If he brings his besieged parishioners solace, he is sure to be carrying vouchers for the food bank as well.

The flashbacks from which he suffers – in which his mammy can be heard calling him a “dirty, filthy beast” and a spiteful old priest is seen applying a cane to his hand – are undoubtedly clichéd. But they are also a device. Forty years on, he is happy to nurse his dying mother, and his love for God is undimmed: two facts that are not, of course, unrelated. How weirdly bold for a television series to set its face against the consensus that denigrates all things Christian as it never would any other faith.

I don’t for a minute buy Anna Friel as Christina, the gobby, broke single mother Kerrigan is determined to help. Even when covered in bruises – a bust-up at the betting shop – Friel manages to look glossy, and she never, ever quits acting (with a capital A), which is a drag. But Bean is such a revelation, I was able to ignore the voice in my head which kept insisting that a Catholic priest as young as he is – in this realm, “young” is a couple of years shy of 60 – would surely be Polish or African (I’m not a Catholic but I am married to one, for which reason I occasionally go to Mass).

He plays Kerrigan, whose overwhelming desire to be kind sometimes makes him cack-handed, with great gentleness, but also with an uninflected ordinariness that is completely convincing. Part of the problem (my problem, at least) with Communion is the lack of rhetorical passion in most priests’ voices, something he captures perfectly. One other thing: Line of Duty fans need to know that Adrian Dunbar – aka Ted Hastings – can also be seen here wearing a dog collar, and that he looks almost as good in it as he does in police uniform.

On Channel 4 The Trial: A Murder in the Family was an experiment in the shape of a murder trial in which the defendant – a university lecturer accused of strangling his estranged wife – and all the witnesses were actors but the lawyers and “jury” were real. Over five consecutive nights (21-25 May, 9pm), I found it pretty tiresome listening to jury members tell the camera what they made of this or that bit of evidence.

Get on with it, I thought, longing again for the return of Peter Moffat’s Silk. But I adored the lawyers, particularly the lead ­defence barrister, John Ryder, QC. What an actor. Sentences left his mouth fully formed, as smooth as they were savage, his charm only just veiling his mighty ruthlessness. Drooling at this performance – which was not, in one sense, a performance at all – I found myself thinking that if more priests came over like barristers, our dying churches might be standing room only.

Rachel Cooke trained as a reporter on The Sunday Times. She is now a writer at The Observer. In the 2006 British Press Awards, she was named Interviewer of the Year.

This article first appeared in the 25 May 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Why Islamic State targets Britain

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