The Bureau’, France’s Superior Answer to Slow Horses

The Bureau (Le Bureau des Légen­des) in ques­tion is France’s DGSE, a mix­ture of the British MI6 and America’s CIA. They’re the agency in charge of field­ing for­eign agents in areas of strate­gic inter­est to France, prin­ci­pal­ly through­out the Mid­dle East and across North Africa. 

Ignore the expen­sive and whol­ly un-nec­es­sary Hol­ly­wood remake, The Agency, notwith­stand­ing the pres­ence of the always watch­able Michael Fass­binder, and go direct­ly to the orig­i­nal, of which there are 5 sea­sons, first shown between 2015–2020.

What’s so impres­sive about the series is that it rings so clear­ly and tri­umphant­ly true. Obvi­ous­ly, that’s due in part to the fact that’s it’s based on the tes­ti­mo­ny of whis­tle blow­ers who’d pre­vi­ous­ly worked there. 

But it’s impos­si­ble not to sus­pect that if any indi­vid­ual is respon­si­ble for its pal­pa­ble sense of ver­ité, it’s the show’s star, Math­ieu Kasso­vitz.

Kasso­vitz had pre­vi­ous­ly writ­ten and direct­ed the impos­si­bly grip­ping La Haine, which some­how man­aged to cap­ture the bristling ten­sions sim­mer­ing in the ban­lieues, and the racism that that was fuelled by, in a way that out­siders rarely suc­ceed in doing.

The Bureau is a lot more sedate than that, but it has that same sense of hav­ing been made by peo­ple who real­ly under­stand the ter­rain they’re surveying. 

As the Econ­o­mist not­ed, it fea­tures no spe­cial effects and few stunts, but what it gives you instead is a win­dow into the world of inter­na­tion­al espi­onage, where life is as mun­dane and pet­ty as it is in all offices. But where the con­se­quences of actions that are fuelled by base desires are gen­uine­ly unimag­in­ably high. 

The shows believ­abil­i­ty is fur­ther enhanced by the sub­plots, which are set in Syr­ia, Alge­ria and Iran. Where most shows would begin with an estab­lish­ing shot of a minaret, framed by the moun­tains above Tehran, with a title that reads ‘Iran’, before return­ing to a set some­where in the south of France, the Bureau is as focused on life in Syr­ia and Iran as it is on France.

And they’re as metic­u­lous in their research into life lived there, in the field, as they are about what the pen push­ers get up to back at head­quar­ters in Paris.

It’s won­der­ful­ly refresh­ing to watch some­thing that pre­sumes that you’re as intel­li­gent, and as curi­ous, as every­body involved in the show itself is. And sim­ply assumes that you can appre­ci­ate the rel­e­vance of what’s said and done, in the con­text of where it all happens. 

For all of which, it couldn’t pos­si­bly be more French. If Call My Agent was a very specif­i­cal­ly French response to Friends, this is their reac­tion to hav­ing seen the Wire.

Wide­ly described as not mere­ly one of the best French TV series ever, but more prop­er­ly as sim­ply one of the best TV series of the last few decades, if all of this is news to you, as it was for me a few months ago, you’re in for a treat. Enjoy.

Watch the trail­er below:

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Becoming Led Zeppelin: Came Saw Conquered

To their detrac­tors, Led Zep­pelin were far too com­mer­cial­ly suc­cess­ful to be tak­en seri­ous­ly as artists, and all too quick­ly suc­cumbed to what then become a clichéd descent into a hedo­nis­tic hell of their own mak­ing, with the inevitably trag­ic result.

What this exhil­a­rat­ing doc­u­men­tary fea­ture shows is that they’re far bet­ter under­stood as the spir­i­tu­al fore­bears of Radio­head. A band of, in this case, four incred­i­bly dri­ven musi­cal mavens hell bent on pur­su­ing a very par­tic­u­lar musi­cal direc­tion, who, inex­plic­a­bly, wake up one morn­ing to dis­cov­er they’ve con­quered the world, notwith­stand­ing the sin­gu­lar­i­ty of that musi­cal vision.

One of the rea­sons the doc­u­men­tary works so well is that, hav­ing shunned all and any pub­lic­i­ty for their entire careers, espe­cial­ly doc­u­men­taries like these, now that they’ve all agreed to final­ly par­tic­i­pate in one, they are each uncom­mon­ly can­did and open.

And they are ‘all’ here, as the three sur­viv­ing mem­bers are accom­pa­nied by the voice of drum­mer John Bon­ham, thanks to a recent­ly unearthed inter­view that Bon­ham gave before his death in 1980.

The rea­son these hith­er­to reclus­es have sud­den­ly opened up so casu­al­ly is the mutu­al respect that they and the film mak­ers enjoy. And the rea­son for that is Amer­i­can Epic, which was the project that film mak­ers Bernard MacMa­hon and Alli­son McGour­ty made before this one.

Amer­i­can Epic, which I reviewed ear­li­er here, is a 3 part doc­u­men­tary that charts the birth of record­ed music in Amer­i­ca in the 1920s, and the musi­cal gen­res that that gave birth to; the blues, coun­try, blue­grass, RnB, rock ‘n’ roll, rap, hip hop and all man­ner of pop.

The argu­ment this film makes, entire­ly con­vinc­ing­ly, is the Led Zep­pelin are the miss­ing link that con­nects every­thing that came before 1969, and every­thing that fol­lowed, after 1970. 

As much as any­thing else, this is cul­tur­al his­to­ry rather than mere music his­to­ry, in much the same way that Peter Gar­al­nick’s tow­er­ing Sweet Soul Music is as much about race and the Amer­i­ca of the 1950s and ‘60s, as it is about Sam Cooke and James Brown

So what we get for most of the first hour is a his­to­ry of 1960s Lon­don, and the dif­fer­ent paths that the four men take before final­ly form­ing the band. 

There’s Jim­my Page, becom­ing one of the most in-demand ses­sion gui­tarists, and then pro­duc­ers in town, work­ing with every­one from The Kinks and The Who to The Rolling Stones and Van Mor­ri­son

While Bassist, and then arranger, John Paul Jones was sim­i­lar­ly record­ing with all of the above, which is how they meet. While also arrang­ing for the likes of Françoise Hardy, Shirley Bassey, Dusty Spring­field and the Walk­er Brothers.

Even­tu­al­ly, in 1968, Page teams up with Jones to form a band, and, some­how, they enlist the tal­ents of the force of nature that is Robert Plant, and his close friend and col­lab­o­ra­tor, drum­mer John Bonham. 

In those days, the genial Plant was repelled from con­ven­tion­al soci­ety and main­stream cul­ture in much the same way that elec­trons are in per­pet­u­al flight from the pro­tons they orbit. Remark­ably, the sec­ond he and the oth­er three start play­ing togeth­er, every­thing fits into place, and sparks explode spec­tac­u­lar­ly into the ether.

When the film final­ly gives us a taste of the actu­al music, its sound is sig­nif­i­cant­ly rich­er from hav­ing been posit­ed in the midst of the cul­tur­al and musi­cal land­scape that it sprang from. 

Dif­fer­ent in size and scope to Amer­i­can Epic, Becom­ing Led Zep­pelin is every bit as impres­sive, and makes for absolute­ly manda­to­ry view­ing. And should, if pos­si­ble, be seen in a cinema. 

And I defy you to resist imme­di­ate­ly going in search of, at the very least, those first two albums the sec­ond you exit the cinema.

Watch the trail­er for Becom­ing Led Zep­pelin here:

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The Brutalist, Nice Video Shame About the Song 

As you’ll no doubt have heard by now, The Bru­tal­ist is either a mod­ern mas­ter­piece rep­re­sent­ing the great white hope of world cin­e­ma, or a moral­ly rep­re­hen­si­ble artis­tic trav­es­ty. As usu­al, it’s noth­ing like as excit­ing as all that, and lands fair­ly and square­ly some­where in the middle.

In the first of its two l o n g and mean­der­ing halves, we’re intro­duced to Lás­zló Tóth, a renowned, Jew­ish archi­tect, who arrives in Amer­i­ca from Europe in the imme­di­ate after­math of the II WW. His mod­ernist ways and Jew­ish her­itage mark him out as oth­er, and his life as an out­sider there proves to be ever more suffocating.

All of which is giv­en gen­uine grandeur, and we’re pre­sent­ed with a visu­al and son­ic splen­dour that sweeps us along. But it’s as we move into its sec­ond half that the film comes to slow­ly unrav­el in terms of its story. 

At around the 3 hour mark, so fair­ly ear­ly in that sec­ond half – and yes, we’re tak­ing about yet anoth­er near 4 hour film, made all the longer by its extrav­a­gant and whol­ly unnec­es­sary 15 minute inter­mis­sion), one of the three pro­tag­o­nists does some­thing. And it’s that event that comes to define and deter­mine the three of their lives.

Adrien Brody and Guy Pearse, both of whom are par­tic­u­lar­ly impressive.

There are two seri­ous prob­lems with this. First, none of the char­ac­ters give any sug­ges­tion that the event in ques­tion is as life-chang­ing as it turns out to have been. It’s lit­er­al­ly not men­tioned, by any­one, until the very last few minutes. 

Sec­ond, and more damn­ing­ly, what the char­ac­ter does comes com­plete­ly out of the blue. Noth­ing up until that point, that is to say, for the last 15 years of their lives, gives any sug­ges­tion that that is in fact how he feels. On the con­trary, every­thing we’ve seen clear­ly demon­strates the exact opposite.

It feels like you’re watch­ing an adap­ta­tion of a real­ly long nov­el where the scriptwrit­ers were forced to delete three or four chap­ters from their screen­play, only to dis­cov­er that those chap­ters are pre­cise­ly the ones that reveal and explain the main char­ac­ters’ moti­va­tions. And with­out which, the sto­ry makes no sense.

But it’s not an adap­ta­tion, it’s an orig­i­nal screen­play, and was writ­ten by the film mak­er duo of Brady Cor­bet and his wife, Mona Fastvold. And it’s fair­ly clear where the prob­lem lies.

Giv­en his and her pre­vi­ous two films as a direc­tor writer pair, The Child­hood of a Leader (2015) and Vox Lux (2018), they are both direc­tor writ­ers, rather than writer direc­tors. Which is, alas, a fair­ly com­mon phe­nom­e­non in the film mak­ing world. 

The scenes they write are first and fore­most an oppor­tu­ni­ty for the direc­tor to flex his cre­ative mus­cles, instead of exist­ing for the pri­ma­ry func­tion of pro­pelling the sto­ry inex­orably forward. 

So an enor­mous amount of effort is invest­ed in impres­sive cast­ing, the bril­liant use of care­ful­ly scout­ed loca­tions, exten­sive­ly researched cos­tumes, impec­ca­ble art direc­tion, pristine­ly chore­o­graphed cin­e­matog­ra­phy and a mon­u­men­tal sound design. With, inevitably, very lit­tle time invest­ed pure­ly and sole­ly in story.

The first half real­ly is a spec­ta­cle to behold and hear. It feels like one of those sprawl­ing, epic David Lean films of yore, where big if bold­ly delin­eat­ed ideas are giv­en an inter­na­tion­al back­drop – no won­der Hol­ly­wood has been so blind­ly smitten. 

But unless they can wean them­selves off of mere spec­ta­cle to focus on the emo­tion­al depth a prop­er­ly told sto­ry can gen­er­ate, all they’ll ever be is mere Hol­ly­wood film mak­ers. They’ll have to leave art to the Europe where peo­ple like Lás­zló Tóth arrived from. 

Watch the trail­er for The Bru­tal­ist here:

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HBO’s “Fantasmas” from Julio Torres

The best way to enjoy Fan­tas­mas is by know­ing as lit­tle about it before­hand as pos­si­ble. For­tu­nate­ly it’s well nigh impos­si­ble to sumarise so noth­ing you’ll read here will in any way spoil your expe­ri­ence of watch­ing it. 

Osten­si­bly, we’re in a dystopi­an future where every­thing we over 30 something’s had feared has appar­ent­ly come to pass. Every­thing you do is done via your mobile and every­one leads lone­ly lives lived in con­junc­tion with their robot friend come but­ler in exis­ten­tial isolation. 

This is the vista that for­mer Sat­ur­day Night Live per­former Julio Tor­res presents us with as we fol­low what seems to be a video diary of what has become his life. 

He’s an out of work actor slash etc with a per­son­al man­ag­er who is actu­al­ly just role play­ing as his man­ag­er, but is it doing it so con­vinc­ing­ly that she seems to believe that she real­ly is his man­ag­er, and she spends her days try­ing to con­vince him to shell his soul so that he can final­ly afford to pay the rent. 

But the key to life in this world is your Proof of Exis­tence stamp, and he’s res­olute­ly deter­mined not to cave in to the man and get one, so that he can par­take in all of the activ­i­ties that are expect­ed of you here.

It’s both a cel­e­bra­tion of and a pas­tiche of a Gen Z world times a hun­dred that’s only loose­ly con­nect­ed by this nar­ra­tive, and is real­ly just a suc­ces­sion of bril­liant­ly realised skits per­formed by a hand­ful of celebri­ty actors, who are all clear­ly in on the joke, includ­ing Steve Busce­mi, Amy Sedaris, Paul Dano, Emma Stone (who also pro­duces, again, as she did on The Curse, mak­ing her as impres­sive a pro­duc­er as she is an actress) and Natasha Lyonne.

This is the most refresh­ing­ly orig­i­nal and con­sis­tent­ly daz­zling show on tele­vi­sion, and feels like the brighter and slight­ly lighter com­pan­ion piece to Apple’s Sev­er­ance. But looks can be deceiv­ing. Fan­tas­mas is a close as you’re going to get to a show that’s gen­uine­ly Beck­et­t­ian. Enjoy. 

Watch the trail­er for Fan­tas­mas here:

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Anora” Delivers That Happy Ending

Ano­ra is the eighth fea­ture from Amer­i­can film mak­er Sean Bak­er, and won the Palme D’Or for Best Film at Cannes this year. 

He moved in from the periph­ery and into the spot­light with his fifth fea­ture, Tan­ger­ine, which was shot entire­ly on an iPhone, a 5S to be pre­cise, in 2015. But it was his next film, The Flori­da Project from two years lat­er, that caused the main­stream world to real­ly perk up and take notice. 

Bak­er grav­i­tates towards society’s out­siders, prin­ci­pal­ly any­one work­ing in or on the fringes of the sex trade. But rather then mor­al­ize or sen­ti­men­talise them, he treats them as what they are, per­fect­ly nor­mal, every­day peo­ple who just hap­pen to work in the mod­ern day ver­sion of the old­est pro­fes­sion in the world.

Ano­ra is the Chris­t­ian name of Ani, a Brook­lyn based strip­per from a Russ­ian lan­guage fam­i­ly of emi­grants, who hail from some­where in the east of Europe that, under­stand­ably, the film mak­ers refrain from specifying. 

She hooks up with Ivan, a glo­ri­ous­ly gauche and imma­ture son of a Russ­ian oli­garch, and before you know it, they’re an item. At which point the film takes a turn, and we sud­den­ly find our­selves in the screw­ball come caper world of Lubitsch and Wilder, albeit one with a dis­tinct­ly mod­ern and gar­ish hue. 

There are so many dif­fer­ent ways the film could have tripped up and fall­en over its own feet, and an obvi­ous com­par­i­son would be with the oh so dull Tri­an­gle of Sad­ness (reviewed by me ear­li­er here), but Ano­ra pulls the whole thing off with impres­sive panache. 

It strikes the per­fect bal­ance between the demands of con­ven­tion­al farce, where stock char­ac­ters for­lorn­ly pur­sue their dif­fer­ent objects of desire, whilst giv­ing those con­ven­tions a gen­uine­ly orig­i­nal twist by posit­ing them all against the back­drop of a very believ­able and con­tem­po­rary, not to say threat­en­ing, set­ting. Cru­cial­ly, it all rings glo­ri­ous­ly and entire­ly true. 

At over 2 ¼ hours long, they could com­fort­ably have cut that first act by 10 or 15 min­utes. You don’t need 30–40 min­utes of unbri­dled and breath­less hedo­nism to under­stand that, at some point, some­one is going to have to pay for all this. But remark­ably, the film nev­er flags thereafter. 

The rea­son that Ano­ra works so suc­cess­ful­ly is thanks to the per­for­mances that Bak­er and his cast com­bine to con­jure up. They all, with the pos­si­ble excep­tion of Ivan’s moth­er, man­age to elic­it not just empa­thy but actu­al sym­pa­thy. All they are each doing, in their own pecu­liar way, is try­ing to deal with the par­tic­u­lar hand that they’ve each been dealt. Espe­cial­ly Ani, played by Mikey Madi­son. Who, it almost goes with­out say­ing, is, quite sim­ply, a revelation. 

You can see the trail­er for Ano­ra here.

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