London Nights

I hated Unmade Beds at first because I did not recognize it. I have revised this review so many times already that I hope IMDb will allow just one more. I think I can get it right at last.

At first, this seemed like a bleak and depressing picture of young people: of random, meaningless sex, total aimlessness in life, and grating, obnoxious music. They seemed more old and worn-out than young, more dead than alive, and it made me very sad.

But then suddenly I saw that they are exactly like me when I was their age, and if this movie had been made in the East Village of New York City in 1967 instead of London more than 40 years later, I could easily have been in it; and not one word, not one scene, not the tiniest detail would have to change. This is EXACTLY what life was like then.

The life it shows looks bleak and pointless to older generations (that's me now), but under the surface it is a life of unbelievable, matchless discovery and productivity. At the time I seemed just as lost as the kids in this movie do, but I look back on the late 1960s as the most glorious time in the history of the world, a time of unprecedented beauty, change and innovation. I trust that the generation depicted so accurately in Unmade Beds will feel the same about their own youth 40 years from now.

I especially recommend this movie to old farts like me who hate it at first: that may be because it hits closer to home than you expected it to. Let it get under your skin and see what happens.

I went to see this film because it was described as being "young and fresh". Afterwards, I can only say it is boring and pretentious. There is no story to speak of, no dialogue apart from some vague conversations, no character development, no point.

There is, on the other hand, a lot of loud music by bands I don't know (but are undoubtedly very hip), there are a lot of images of young people uttering would-be philosophical wisecracks, and there is a lot of partying, drinking and smoking going on.

This could be a sort of nouvelle vague-ish, real life document about young people and the way they live, but I'm afraid it utterly fails. Or maybe I'm too old for this sort of film.

There is one plus: wonderful Belgian actress Déborah François.

I attended the World Premiere of "Unmade Beds" at the 2009 Sundance Film Festival. This is the second feature from writer/director Alexis Dos Santos, whose first film, "Glue" (from Argentina), was one of my Top Picks of 2006 after having had its debut in Toronto. So naturally "Unmade Beds" was a must on my list and I had high expectations. It met and exceeded them.

The film stars Déborah François and Fernando Tielve (Carlos in "The Devil's Backbone") as two naivé young expatriots living in London, wandering souls in search of a home. Axl (Tielve) is also looking for his mysterious English father, whom he hasn't known since his hazy early childhood. His nights consist of drinking, dancing, and waking up in strange beds with even stranger people. Meanwhile, Vera (François) has her sights set on a mysterious man as well -- someone with whom she can spend a night without commitment. She is equally lost in a cold world where eye contact and a smile are a rare commodity. This is the big city, and it can be cruel as hell. Their goals are different, or are they? The pulsating indie rock soundtrack seamlessly blends with the live music performed onstage in the concert club which doubles as their crash pad. Some tunes are reprised, with common themes paralleling the pair's progress (or not) in finding what they're searching for. Watch for Tielve's mirror "performance" of Black Moustache's "Hot Monkey, Hot Ass!" It was a crowd pleaser in all the screenings I've attended, especially since its boldness is in such stark contrast to the puppy dog innocence he displays through much of the narrative.

The visuals are especially notable, as cinematographer Jakob Ihre captures the trippy, frenetic atmosphere of the concert hall. Using mostly hand-held camera and stage lighting, with its strobes on the dance floor flashing across his staggering frame, the viewer is made to feel just as drunk and clueless as Axl. Vera is constantly in motion as well, looking equally lost and vulnerable, as she glides through crowded London streets looking for companionship. The viewer is always a close observer, almost within arm's length. We want to reach out and hug these lonely strays but we can only watch helplessly and hope they'll each end up in someone's arms.

Writer/director Alexis Dos Santos has grown tremendously as an artist -- while "Glue" was mostly improvised, "Unmade Beds" is not although it still retains a loose unscripted feel. That's a tribute to his insightful writing as well as the sensitive performances of Tielve and François. As a team, the three have crafted a wonderful little gem that is close to perfection.

This is a nice gentle little film. The type of indy that use to get made all of the time before producers and worthy script editors decided each film had to have a quota of gangsters, fist fights and murders. I loved the fact that we didn't have to rely on any of these to tell a story, establish characters and reach a conclusion.

I can understand some of the harsh comments on this site coming from people who feel cheated because this quota is not there. They've seen so many films building up to getting rid of a dead body or finding somewhere to stash the loot that when they are confronted with something that simply presents the lives of ordinary people (okay ordinary but very good looking people who look like they have stumbled off the set of a Lynx advert) it is not enough for them.

If more films like this were made and we could all learn to enjoy them then we would enjoy even more our usual diet of kiss kiss bang bang because of the variety these two types of films present. That's why I get bored with films today they all want to shock or imitate a computer game. It doesn't always have to be like that.

I suppose you might say if Unmade Beds is more resemblant of anything, then it is of a final year student's concluding major piece at the back end of their filmmaking course; the moment when everything they've learnt, picked up and observed along the way to now formulates together to create something to take away with themselves post-graduation. The piece as a whole teeters on a brink separating that reaction you have when you admire the energy and motivation that has gone into producing such a film with just coming away from it somewhat infuriated at its flaws and cheap tricks. Take the instance in which one of the more dopier, or at least dopier sounding, supporting characters brings to our awareness the duality he believes he shares with another young man whom he's taken in for the duration of the film: he establishes a sharing sense of duel-existence more broadly linked to that of not really being able to make that move across a proverbial line, and commit oneself to dealing with a problem - and that either of their respective problems reflect one another's. "Don't jump until you're able to jump" the supporting act says; moments as such, apart from the fact very rarely is there any link or connection at all if the characters within the piece must verbally illustrate that there is, places the film out on a line knowing full well there will be those that'll scoff at such items or might actually be drawn into appreciation.

The film follows two differing people on separate strands, frizzy haired Axl (Tielve) is one of them; a Spaniard from Madrid (where else in Spain?) whom has arrived in a more down-trodden part of London (where else in England?) in order to seek out his father who left both he and his mother when he was an infant. Meanwhile, Belgian (what, not French?) young-adult Vera (François) is already based in said city and goes from day to day seeking out new male partners whilst seemingly trying to battle past-mental illness. Whilst depicting these two people and their stories; the early exchanges are punchuated by these voice-overs, the sorts of voice-overs in which the mouths of the artists have been barely centimetres away at the time of recording and of which carry these terribly hushed, self-aware, throaty and self-important tones.

Axl's arrival sees him fall in with a spaced out crowd, the sort of sub-culture that, and due to my own prejudices, I usually zone out of fairly quickly when depicted on film. The people, headed up by native Londoner Mike (Goldberg), are a droopy, drippy, hippie lot; the sorts of people whom smoke drugs, have spaced out conversations, get drunk, have cereal for lunch and attend nightclubs playing host to the sorts of bands whose members usually have hair down to their shoulders and play that biting variety of 'bad' music which isn't quite rock but isn't really pop although just seems to be embedded within the lives of people aged between 19 and 25. On the other strand is Vera, a book shop worker more preoccupied, it seems, with talking male customers out of purchasing books, thus supposedly hinting early on at respective elements of power she has over men. In short, we do not like Vera and we do not come to like her; an early sequence back at the humble surroundings she calls home seeing her move Polaroid pictures of particular men from her wall before boxing them up, labelling them and shelving them with many other boxes of such an ilk thus suggesting a track record of such activity. Her latest in anonymous lays, whom she targets and gets to know before bedding them, comes in the form of a gentleman her age whom works at the airport's security branch on the X-ray machine, and is played by Dutch actor Michiel Huisman.

Her psychological condition of effectively bedding these anonymous men and storing records of such actions, in what appears a cocktail of nymphomania and OCD, is made only more glaring later on when she speaks of her once-childhood tendencies to branch out into schizophrenia; dialogue of which sees her speak of a one-time imaginary boyfriend hinting at that very item. There is no broader study of any greater substantial ilk to do with mental illness, nor, far more alarmingly, is there enough of a sense of there being a substantial enough demonisation of the actions Vera engages in to warrant any sort of praise; specifically in regards to that of anonymous sex, something which needs to be addressed with the utmost care on screen if it is indeed to be explored at all. On occasion, the film's over exuberance to shoot the scenes of a sexual nature in a very loving, highly eroticised manner has it veer perilously close to that of mere pornography without ever coming close to tackling the crux of its matters.

The film's bravery or sensations of more majestic ilk that it is, in fact, about more than first appears rings false; the item of Vera and Axl being foreign is a misdemeanour: it is irrelevant and exists purely to have the film come across as something depicting something else with greater competence. One's mind darts back to 2005's Brick Lane as a film actually depicting life as a London-based immigrant in a complete and thorough fashion, Axl and Vera here might just as well be British. Unmade Beds is a wily effort, ambitious in its tone and general look as it depicts people rummaging through the lower echelons of a big city attempting to find a collative peace with one's self and life situation; but it is all too nettlesome and all too galling all too often to truly get behind without sort of wanting to wish all of those involved the best of luck with future projects.