by Allan Fish
(USA 2007 131m) DVD1/2
Strawberry jam
p Matthew Gross, Jennifer Todd, Suzanne Todd d Julie Taymor w Dick Clement, Ian le Frenais ph Bruno Delbonnel ed Françoise Bonnot m Elliot Goldenthal m/ly John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison md Elliot Goldenthal, T-Bone Burnett art Peter Rogness cos Albert Wolsky spc/tit Kyle Cooper
Evan Rachel Wood (Lucy), Jim Sturgess (Jude), Joe Anderson (Max Carrigan), Dana Fuchs (Sadie), Martin Luther (Jojo), T.V.Caprio (Prudence), Joe Cocker, Bono, Salma Hayek, Harry Lennix, Eddie Izzard,
It’s a commonly perceived opinion that whether one loves or loathes Julie Taymor’s phantasmagoria of love n’ the Fab Four depends on whether you grew up with the music and knew it with any degree of not just depth but feeling. The Beatles had broken up several years before I was even born, so that rules that one out. The approach of having characters burst into famous song was hardly a new one – it was mastered by the likes of Dennis Potter. Nearer to the mark, however (in that the actors actually sing rather than mime or undercut) is Baz Luhrmann’s Moulin Rouge, another love story set in the past and splitting audiences right down the proverbial spinal column bonemarrow.
Set in the sixties, the film tells the tale of Scouse dockworker Jude who sets off to America to find the GI father who left his mother pregnant during the war. While over there he befriends Princeton student Max, about to drop out, whose sister Lucy has just waved her beloved Daniel off to the Vietnam War. When Daniel is killed in combat, Lucy sets off to join Max and Jude and their Bohemian lifestyle in New York, from whence nothing will ever be the same.
Undoubtedly this is one hell of a mixture, a real fruit salad of diverse ingredients, directed by the mastermind of the hit show of Disney’s The Lion King, whose Titus had already shown her to be a visually bold, fearless filmmaker. Chuck in a script from the great duo who wrote such beloved British TV institutions as Porridge, Auf Wiedersehen Pet and The Likely Lads, a location that literally echoes to the spirit of Boys from the Blackstuff and a host of young hopefuls and cameos from such diverse figures as Bono, Eddie Izzard and Salma Hayek (in a true homage to Potter’s The Singing Detective). Oh, and yes, a choice selection of arguably the greatest back catalogue of pop songs ever written. What is remarkable is not that the film is faultless, but that it’s such a joyous experience and does both the old songs and the spirit proud. Some American audiences may say the depiction of the Vietnamese conflict was reduced to predictable montages and demonstration scenes left over from Nixon and Forrest Gump. Some British audiences may decry the using the music in a largely – but not wholly – American setting at all, while others may have found the choice of songs predictable (the hero and heroine’s names should give you two of them). In this way the choice of title seems to give away the intention. The eponymous song isn’t even played in its entirety and isn’t the highlight of the piece – the finale to ‘All You Need is Love’ is, appropriately fading out, like the Beatles did in real life, with a farewell performance on a roof – but it most perfectly embodies a film soaked in the psychedelia of the period, which you’ll either love or loathe. The question remains, to Taymor and indeed both the film’s supporters and detractors, whether the songs themselves are universal or whether love is. That the songs are universal is undoubted, as their continuing popularity and that of devotees such as Oasis proves, which leads us to love. On one level it’s a labour of love on behalf of its creators, gorgeously shot, directed and acted, with special mention to the lovely Wood and the ingratiating Sturgess. And for those who still don’t quite get it, maybe they’re just the sort of people Sapphire was talking about in Almost Famous, when she said “they don’t even know what it is to be a fan. Y’know? To truly love some silly little piece of music, or some band, so much that it hurts.” Music hurts, love hurts; ergo music equals love. Maybe Shakespeare’s Orsino was right after all?
