dir. Anton Corbijn
When I first heard about the Ian Curtis biopic early last year, I didn't want to see it. After it played at Cannes with some success my interest was piqued and increased only further with time. When I heard it was coming to town, I was all set to see it opening day but then continually postponed it until I finally ended up seeing the last show, the last night of its run.
Control starkly played like a visual time line, marking each crucial moment in Ian Curtis' life (beginning with him meeting his future wife), playing the scene out with care and then abruptly jumping to the next pivotal tick without explanation. I'd be curious to know how well one would follow (and like, for that matter) the film not already knowing the sequence of events. I could hear the guy next to me explaining background on the scenes to his friend and I'd catch him laughing here or there at key points that he caught but that were not explained. In fact, the film carried itself in this sort of "for fan's only" approach. The recreation of Joy Division's first television appearance was so meticulous it could be mistaken for digitally restored archival footage. Sam Riley's on stage performances as the singer were so remarkable that I couldn't help but smile every time he broke out in dance. But like most rock biopics, uncanny impersonations can't be expected to carry the film. But then nor do I think that to be the failing of this particular film.
I questioned for a moment why they showed the laundry hanger in the kitchen a second time before I caught the foreshadowing. The third reference, stripped of all subtlety this time, was unnecessary. In fact the inevitability of Curtis' suicide was so increasingly alluded to that it inundated the scenes themselves, as if the present moment was less significant and merely building up to that final, looming tragedy. Twenty minutes before suicide scene, I was ready to walk out of the theater because the anticipated voyeurism brought me nothing but agony in its mistreatment.
Although the film strained for a trueness to fact and focused on showing the increasing pressures which drove Curtis to his end, the film ended up feeling as cold to its main character as its black and white photography was to England, with of course only the latter being intentional. How many still shots of Curtis standing morosely in his trench coat amid the desolate Macclesfield backdrop can one take before one can no longer see him as a person but only as a rock icon? Isn't that what the film should be working against? Corbijn's photography background shows and overwhelms the supposed realism of his camera work: too pretty despite it's rugged texture, it leaves the entire cast, and hence the film, rather lifeless.
When I first heard about the Ian Curtis biopic early last year, I didn't want to see it. After it played at Cannes with some success my interest was piqued and increased only further with time. When I heard it was coming to town, I was all set to see it opening day but then continually postponed it until I finally ended up seeing the last show, the last night of its run.
Control starkly played like a visual time line, marking each crucial moment in Ian Curtis' life (beginning with him meeting his future wife), playing the scene out with care and then abruptly jumping to the next pivotal tick without explanation. I'd be curious to know how well one would follow (and like, for that matter) the film not already knowing the sequence of events. I could hear the guy next to me explaining background on the scenes to his friend and I'd catch him laughing here or there at key points that he caught but that were not explained. In fact, the film carried itself in this sort of "for fan's only" approach. The recreation of Joy Division's first television appearance was so meticulous it could be mistaken for digitally restored archival footage. Sam Riley's on stage performances as the singer were so remarkable that I couldn't help but smile every time he broke out in dance. But like most rock biopics, uncanny impersonations can't be expected to carry the film. But then nor do I think that to be the failing of this particular film.
I questioned for a moment why they showed the laundry hanger in the kitchen a second time before I caught the foreshadowing. The third reference, stripped of all subtlety this time, was unnecessary. In fact the inevitability of Curtis' suicide was so increasingly alluded to that it inundated the scenes themselves, as if the present moment was less significant and merely building up to that final, looming tragedy. Twenty minutes before suicide scene, I was ready to walk out of the theater because the anticipated voyeurism brought me nothing but agony in its mistreatment.
Although the film strained for a trueness to fact and focused on showing the increasing pressures which drove Curtis to his end, the film ended up feeling as cold to its main character as its black and white photography was to England, with of course only the latter being intentional. How many still shots of Curtis standing morosely in his trench coat amid the desolate Macclesfield backdrop can one take before one can no longer see him as a person but only as a rock icon? Isn't that what the film should be working against? Corbijn's photography background shows and overwhelms the supposed realism of his camera work: too pretty despite it's rugged texture, it leaves the entire cast, and hence the film, rather lifeless.
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