When songs and films collide


There are many reasons why I hate those Richard Curtis / Working Title romantic-comedy movies that over the past two decades have blighted British culture.  Four Weddings and a Funeral?  Bleeeuuurgh!  Notting Hill?  Double-bleeeuuurgh!  Love Actually?  Multi-bleeeuuurgh!  But one of my main reasons for hating them is their musical soundtracks.  More precisely, the calculating, predictable and sterile nature of their soundtracks – music that’s not been chosen with any artistic desire to complement the varying moods of the scenes onscreen, but chosen because it can also go on a lucrative aimed-at-the-lowest-common-denominator soundtrack / compilation album to tie in with the movie’s release.


For example, I can imagine Curtis and fellow writers Helen Fielding and Andrew Davies, director Sharon Maguire, producers Tim Bevan, Eric Fellner and Jonathan Cavendish, etc., sitting around discussing the music that they were going to bung onto the soundtrack of Bridget Jones’s Diary back in 2002.  “Okay, so this is about a woman called Bridget Jones.  Jones…  Miss Jones…  Hey, wait a minute!  Why don’t we use that old Frank Sinatra number Have You Met Miss Jones?  But hold on.  Frank Sinatra.  He’s a bit old… and dead.  He’d never appeal to the kids.  So let’s get someone young and cool and vital whom the kids really dig to record a new version of the song.  Someone cutting-edge.  Like…  Yes, Robbie Williams!”


And then: “So Bridget Jones is desperate to get hitched but she can’t find Mr Right.  She must wish it was raining men…  Hey, wait a minute!  Why don’t we use that old Weather Girls number It’s Raining Men?  But hold on.  The Weather Girls.  They’re a bit fat… and black.  They’d never appeal to the kids.  So let’s get someone young and cool and vital whom the kids really dig to do a new version of the song.  Someone cutting-edge.  Like…  Yes, Geri Halliwell!”


Cue £-signs pinging up inside Richard Curtis and company’s eyeballs.


On the other hand, and as somebody who loves both music and films, it’s a pleasure when I watch a movie and suddenly hear a song on the soundtrack that I didn’t expect.  The song isn’t there because it slotted neatly into a money-spinning soundtrack album to be released on the back of the film.  It’s there because someone involved in the film thought that it enhanced – however weirdly – what was happening in the film itself.  The result is a memorable musical / cinematic frisson.  (It helps if the song and the film are good, but occasionally I’ve heard a song I didn’t like turn up in the middle of a film I didn’t like either – and somehow the resulting juxtaposition has been hard to forget too.)


Here, then, are seven of my favourite instances when songs and films have collided unexpectedly and strangely – in a manner that’s simply beyond the range of Richard Curtis’s thought processes.


From medberths.com

(c) Colombia Pictures 


Duran Duran / The Layer Cake (2004)

“Ten years!” screams George Harris’s Morty character during the infamous café scene in the British gangster movie The Layer Cake.  Meanwhile, the strains of Duran Duran’s 1993 opus Ordinary World waft from a radio behind the café-counter.


Harris – who’s better known for playing Kingsley Shacklebolt in the Harry Potter movies – is not, as you might think, screaming about the fact that Duran Duran ushered in the New Romantic movement and ruined popular music in Britain for about ten years, i.e. the 1980s.  No, he’s screaming at sleazebag Freddie (Ivan Kaye) who’s just appeared and highlighted the fact that, thanks to him, Morty spent ten years in prison.  Morty proceeds to kick Freddie to a pulp on the café floor before emptying an industrial-sized pot of scalding tea over his head; while, all the time, Simon Le Bon warbles in the background about how he won’t cry for yesterday, about how he has to try to make his way to the ordinary wooo-ooo-ooorld.


No wonder the unnamed character played by Daniel Craig can only stand and watch from the side-lines, stunned.


Just as Stealer Wheel’s Stuck in the Middle with You has never sounded the same since Quentin Tarantino used it to accompany the ear-slicing scene in Reservoir Dogs in 1993, so the soppy, dreamy vibe of Duran Duran’s last big hit will be ruined forever if you watch The Layer Cake.  Instead of seeming soppy and dreamy, Ordinary World will become synonymous in your mind with excruciating violence, pain and rage.  Here’s the scene on Youtube, but be warned.  It might put you off your food – and your tea.




(c) Probe Plus

(c) Blueprint Pictures / Film4 / BFI


Half Man Half Biscuit / Seven Psychopaths (2012)

Martin McDonagh’s Seven Psychopaths is a black comedy set in and around Los Angeles.  It’s a phantasmagorical affair, populated by aspiring Hollywood scriptwriters, dog-kidnappers, gangsters, henchmen, molls and, yes, psychopaths.  It takes place against a backdrop of blue skies, wide boulevards, palm trees, swimming pools and – when the action moves out to the Joshua Tree National Park – looming rock formations and vast scrubby plains.


So it’s a surprise, in the midst of these sun-drenched Californian cityscapes and landscapes, to hear the chords of 1985’s Trumpton Riots – the first single off the debut album Back in the DHSS by Half Man Half Biscuit, the durable indie band from Birkenhead.  Since the 1980s the Biscuits have sung relentlessly surreal and sarcastic songs about the crapness of British popular culture and the crapness of British life generally.


Trumpton Riots tells a tale of violent insurrection in Trumpton, the cosy English village depicted in the much-loved 1967 BBC animated kids’ programme of the same name: “Someone get a message through to Captain Snort / That they’d better start assembling the boys from the Fort / And keep Mrs Honeyman out of sight / ‘Cos there’s going to be a riot down in Trumpton tonight.”  Which is as far away from LA swimming pools and the Joshua Tree National Park as you can get.


From gunshyassassin.com

(c) Warner Brothers


Cannibal Corpse / Ace Ventura: Pet Detective (1994)

Adam Sandler may be the modern bête noir when it comes to irritating screen presences.  But even Sandler at his worst is small beer compared to the wincing painfulness that was Jim Carrey in his early movie career – he was immensely annoying in supposed comedies like Ace Ventura: Pet Detective, The Mask and Dumber and Dumber (all 1994).  Mind you, he did get better later on, in the likes of The Truman Show (1998) and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004).


The grimly unfunny (and transphobic) Ace Ventura would have left my consciousness a nanosecond after it’d entered my consciousness if it wasn’t for one curious scene where Carrey / Ventura blunders into a live concert – and the band onstage is none other than the legendary American death metal band Cannibal Corpse, who’re performing a song with the memorable title Hammer Smashed Face.  Carrey, wearing a multi-coloured shirt that’s louder than anything coming from the speakers, goofs around and behaves like a dick for a minute.  Then he gets flung off the premises.  Good.


From www.blogs.houstonpress.com

(c) United Artists


Sisters of Mercy / Showgirls (1995)

Directed by Paul Verhoeven, written by Joe Eszterhas and regarded as one of the worst films of the 1990s, the tits-crazy Showgirls is, actually, a fitting movie for the city in which most of its action takes place, Las Vegas.  Like Vegas, it’s flashy, shallow, dumb, vulgar, materialistic and soulless.


I’m sure that Andrew Eldritch, who depending on your point of view is either the creative genius or the arrogant git in charge of the seminal, operatic and grandiose 1980s / 1990s goth band the Sisters of Mercy, would not care to have the adjectives flashy, shallow, dumb, vulgar, materialistic or soulless applied to his music.  So I often wonder if Andrew ever strolled into his local multiplex in 1995 and settled down in the front row with a bucket of popcorn to watch Showgirls.  And, if he did, how he felt when he discovered that his record company had given United Artists permission to use the 1990 Sisters of Mercy song Vision Thing during Showgirls’ opening scenes, when heroine Elizabeth Berkley is shown hitchhiking to Las Vegas.


I’ll bet he wasn’t chuffed.


(c) Acid Jazz

(c) DNA Films


Matt Berry / Dredd (2012)

The Pete Travis-directed, Alex Garland-scripted Dredd, based on the Judge Dredd strip in the British comic 2000AD, is not a movie you’d take your granny to – unless your granny has a penchant for hyper-violent, grimy, monosyllabic, sleazebag-populated, fascistic, dystopian-future bloodbaths where civilians are blasted apart with cannons and villains burst messily after being dropped off a very high skyscraper.  But what should pop up in the middle of Dredd’s mayhem but the theme song for the short-lived BBC comedy series Snuff Box, sung by the congenial folk / progressive / pop-rock singer (and comic actor) Matt Berry?


A jaunty little number, with synthesisers chugging pleasantly in the background, the Snuff Box theme is what big-bad-villainess Lena Headey’s techie henchman (played by Domhnall Gleason) is listening to in her HQ at the top of the skyscraper.  This contrast between the musically winsome and the cinematically brutal is jarring – it’s like having The Clangers make an appearance in the middle of Alien (1979).  But it’s also rather sweet.


From www.freeradio.co.uk

(c) BFI / Film4


Deacon Blue / Under the Skin (2014)

It may not be fashionable to say so now, but once upon a time I liked the poppy Glaswegian soul band Deacon Blue.  At least, I liked their debut album, 1986’s Raintown.  Unfortunately, it was a song off their less-good second album in 1989, one called Real Gone Kid, that became the template for their sound – i.e. clodhopping keyboards and vocalist Lorraine McIntosh going “Whooh-whooh-whooh!” like a stuttering factory whistle.  That Boots-the-Chemist has used Real Gone Kid as the jingle for its ubiquitous TV adverts over the past year or so hasn’t helped Deacon Blue’s reputation, either.


And last year, Real Gone Kid was heard on the soundtrack of the dark, unsettling, Scottish-set science fiction thriller Under the Skin, starring Scarlet Johansson.  This is especially weird considering that the rest of the film’s soundtrack consists of the flesh-crawling work of Mica Levi, with violin-strings squirming and seething like a pit full of snakes and scorpions.


Even more weirdly, the film suggests that exposure to Real Gone Kid helps Johansson’s character – a murderous alien who’s beginning to rebel against her programming – become a little more human.  When she hears the song on a radio, it kindles homo-sapiens emotions in her and she starts tapping her fingers in time to it in a homo-sapiens way.  To be honest, that part of Under the Skin seemed less like science fiction and more like fantasy.


From thequietus.com

(c) Studiocanal / Film4 / Rook Pictures


Frankie Goes to Hollywood / Sightseers (2012)

After dominating the British charts in 1984 with Relax – spending five weeks at number one after the BBC refused to give it airplay – and Two Tribes – a whopping nine weeks at number one – Frankie Goes to Hollywood blew everything by releasing saccharine ballad The Power of Love at Christmas-time.  It reached number one again, briefly, but it wrecked the band’s credibility.  Particularly problematic was the accompanying video, which consisted of Nativity scenes.  These scenes had zero to do with the lyrics and was obviously designed to sell it as a ‘festive’ song.


Having always regarded The Power of Love as crass and clunking, then, I was surprised when it turned up at the end of Ben Wheatley’s 2012 black comedy Sightseers – an eccentric and beguiling film that’s best described as a cross between Alan Bennett and Natural Born Killers (1994).  Shorn of the nonsensical Christmas-y imagery and transposed into a very different context, The Power of Love is actually affecting.  It even inspires a lump in the throat while it plays out over the fate of the film’s hero and heroine, played by Steve Oram and Alice Lowe, two north-of-England oddballs in love with caravanning, hillwalking, dog-walking, wearing woolly hats, visiting National Trust properties and serial killing.


You spend years waiting for an arty vampire movie and then three come at once


(c) Universal Studios


I’d practically given up hope of seeing an interesting vampire film again.  This was partly due to the malign influence of those Blade and Underworld movies, which were full of cartoon violence and computer-generated imagery and reduced this once-majestic and haunting sub-genre of the horror film to the level of a computer game.  And it was partly due to another malign influence, that of the Twilight movies, where vampirism became a bland metaphor for the travails and temptations faced by teenagers as they approach adulthood.  From Count Dracula to a bunch of mopey American teenagers.  What an ignominious fall from grace.


And yet recently I happened to view three – yes, three – movies on DVD, Neil Jordan’s Byzantium (2013), Jonathon Glazer’s Under the Skin and Jim Jarmusch’s Only Lovers Left Alive (both 2014), which featured vampires and tried, mostly successfully, to do things with them that were more interesting than having Wesley Snipes or Kate Beckingsdale crack open heads or having Robert Pattinson and Kirsten Stewart simper love-struck at one another.


Am I going to tell you what I thought of them?  Of course I am.  (Incidentally, for this entry I have to post a warning: PLOT SPOILERS AHEAD!)


(c) Studio Canal


Neil Jordan’s Byzantium stars Gemma Arterton and Saoirse Ronan as mother-and-daughter vampires on the run from other, malevolent vampires, who hide out in a rundown English seaside resort – much of it was filmed in Hastings on the Sussex coast.  It got some frosty reviews on its release.  Certain snooty mainstream critics who regard all horror films as being ridiculous and / or revolting were disdainful of it.  Also, certain online horror-fan critics pooh-poohed it for being a bit uneventful, stuffy and pretentious.  Which is a pity because I found it impressive.  It’s certainly Jordan’s best movie for a while and is very welcome after The Brave One, the misfire of a vigilante movie that he made with Jodie Foster in 2007 – Neil is obviously a lot better with vampires than he is with vigilantes.  He and his cinematographer Sean Bobbitt do great things with the film’s seaside setting and, despite the place’s decrepitude, it looks admirably dream-like and phantasmagorical.  And incidentally, Byzantium breaks the first rule of Neil Jordan movies, which is if Stephen Rea isn’t in it, it’s no good.  Rea isn’t in this one but it is good.


And Jordan gets good performances from Arterton and Ronan: the former playing the hardboiled mother vampire who behaves as ruthlessly and murderously as she thinks necessary to ensure her and her offspring’s safety; and the latter playing the less jaded and more humane daughter who tries to restrict her blood-drinking to victims who want to die.  (At the movie’s start, we see a sick old man learning what she really is and inviting her to finish him off.)


Once upon a time, vampire literature and cinema had reactionary and sexist tendencies.  Women would be infected by vampire-bites and become sensual, libidinous creatures freed from the restraints of the staid Christian society around them; but then, inevitably, they’d be punished and neutralised by staid Christian men who’d drive alarmingly phallic-looking stakes into their bodies.  (Bram Stoker’s original Dracula novel helped set the template.)  Because its main characters are female, Byzantium predictably has a revisionist and feminist take on this.  At one point we even see Arterton and Ronan sitting in front of the TV and watching, without much enthusiasm, the famous Spanish-Inquisition-like scene in the 1966 movie Dracula, Prince of Darkness wherein a pointy-toothed Barbara Shelley is held down and staked by a group of monks.


But this is actually a red herring.  The male-chauvinistic villains persecuting our two heroines in Byzantium aren’t vampire-hunting mortals but other vampires.  We gradually learn that the film’s vampire society is a Freemason-like one where weird initiation rituals take place in a temple on an uncharted island.  (For an island that’s so remote and mysterious, I have to say that nobody seems to have any trouble finding it.  Throughout the film it receives a stream of visitors, all keen to change into vampires.)  This society’s membership is jealously guarded and exclusively male – and, like the Freemasons, they seem to have an unhealthy influence over the police force.  So they aren’t best pleased when a pair of upstart females sneak in when nobody’s looking and join their immortal, blood-drinking club.


While Arterton and Ronan potter around modern-day Hastings – Arterton taking over a disused hotel, the Byzantium of the title, and Ronan getting involved with a sickly youth played by Caled Landry Jones (Banshee in the first X-Men prequel) – there are multiple flashbacks to the time of the Napoleonic Wars showing how they became vampires and earned the other vampires’ wrath.  Arterton was originally a young innocent who ended up as a prostitute after being used and abused by a nasty naval officer, played by Johnny Lee Miller, who essays the same sort of arrogant prick he essayed in Trainspotting.  Later, one of Miller’s friends and comrades who was supposed to have died in battle, a kinder character played by Sam Riley, reappeared and offered Miller the secret of eternal life and youth, i.e. vampirism.  But Arterton overheard them, and not only did she steal the vampires’ secret but she later shared it with her born-out-of-wedlock daughter.


And if the film has a problem, it’s the amount of backstory involved.  There’s a lot of it and sometimes it makes the narrative a little tangled and cumbersome.


(c) Film 4 / BFI


Backstory is not a problem with Under the Skin, in which scriptwriters Walter Campbell and Jonathon Glazer (also the director) are impressively determined not to tell, only to show.  It features an unnamed and, it becomes clear, artificial woman played by Scarlett Johansson who drives a big white van around Glasgow, picking up men with the promise of sex back at her place.  But when they get back to her place…  Well, things don’t end well for those lustful blokes.  Johannsson functions as bait, luring them there so that a mysterious alien force can use them for protein.


Also in the frame are some leather-clad, motorbike-riding alien minders.  At first, we think there’s just one of them, but later it becomes apparent there are several.  They clean away traces of Johannsson’s victims, tidy up loose ends and generally display Terminator-type levels of ruthless efficiency.


And that’s all the information we get.  It’s enough to get the plot moving, which picks up momentum when the blank, machine-like Johannsson nets a victim who’s disfigured by neurofibromatosis.  His sad plight causes something unexpected – a stirring of conscience inside her.  Thereafter, she rebels against her programming, abandons her mission and flees into the Scottish Highlands with those alien-motorbike-terminators in pursuit.  But it transpires that the biggest threat to her isn’t her former alien colleagues but the human males who’d previously been her prey.  Now that she’s no longer doing what she was programmed to do, she’s become confused and defenceless; and those men have suddenly become predators.


Once Johannsson goes on the run, she encounters things that seemingly encourage her to become less alien and more human: a slice of Black Forest gateau in a café (which she immediately spews up, not being designed to eat food); a TV clip of Tommy Cooper failing to do a magic trick with a spoon and a jar (“Spoon… jar!  Jar… spoon!”); and exposure to Real Gone Kid by Deacon Blue on the radio, which prompts her to tap her fingertips in a human, non-alien way.  In fact, if I’d been her, hearing Real Gone Kid by Deacon Blue would’ve persuaded me to give up on becoming human and return to being an alien killing machine – but maybe she hadn’t watched TV during the past year and hadn’t been driven mad by those Boots-the-chemist adverts that use the song as a jingle.


Obviously, Under the Skin isn’t a traditional vampire movie.  But it has similar themes, of sexual attraction and seduction, and of something superhuman sustaining itself by feeding on the merely human, so I’ll classify it as one.


The British film industry has previous form with sci-fi / horror alien vampires, most notably in Tobe Hooper’s barmy 1983 movie Lifeforce, wherein Mathilda May played an extra-terrestrial humanoid parasite who’s brought to earth and spends much of the movie strutting around in a state of nakedness whilst draining the energy out of hapless earthlings.  In Under the Skin, Scarlett Johannsson similarly spends a lot of time being nude in the name of art – though I have to say there’s rather more art in Under the Skin than there was in Lifeforce.


I wasn’t entirely impressed by Under the Skin.  Although I like how Glazer and Campbell leave it to the audience to work things out, there are times when the storyline’s vagueness seems a convenient way to sidestep problems with logic.  The biggest logical failing is a common one in films where aliens arrive on earth and behave in a secretive, low-key (and invariably low-budget) way.  The universe is unimaginably vast and so are the distances between solar systems with habitable planets, but despite all the time, energy, technology and effort these aliens must’ve expended in travelling to our planet, they decide to be as furtive as possible when they finally arrive here.  And if an alien civilisation went to such lengths to get to earth because they wanted a food source, I very much doubt if they’d be content to send Scarlett Johannsson prowling the streets of Glasgow in a white van, picking up the occasional Ned for them to snack on.  Surely they’d be consuming humanity on an industrial scale.


(The premise was treated more believably back in 1980 in the fourth and last of Nigel Kneale’s Quatermass TV serials.  This had the world’s youth gripped by a mass psychosis, which made them congregate in certain locations, where they were then harvested by deadly energy beams sent from above by unseen aliens.)


Another inconsistency involves the capabilities of Johannsson’s alien-motorbike-minders.  Early on, they seem omniscient.  They immediately turn up to destroy any last traces of those men whom Johannsson has lured to their doom.  But when Johannsson goes AWOL, they seem clueless about where she’s got to and have to organise a search for her.  Maybe their alien-hive-mind link with her is sundered the moment that she develops a human conscience.  However, the motorbike-aliens still know what’s going on for a good five minutes after she does her first human good deed – for one of them appears dismayingly quickly to sort out the mess created by that.  Glazer and Campbell, we suspect, are happy to sacrifice logic whenever it suits their plot.


That said, though, I found much to admire in Under the Skin.  Despite the way-out-ness of its subject matter, it has a raw, uncomfortably-realistic feel to it that’s different from most other sci-fi or horror films I’ve seen.  This is largely due to Glazer’s unconventional filming methods.  The initial scenes where Johannsson encounters her victims often consist of footage, shot with hidden cameras, of her talking to non-thespians, i.e. real, ordinary blokes, while she trundled around Glasgow in her van.  Once Glazer and his crew had revealed themselves and explained to these men that no, a miracle hadn’t occurred and someone who looked like Scarlett Johannsson wasn’t really trying to chat them up, but their reactions had been secretly filmed for a movie, they were invited to participate further and do the scenes back at Johannsson’s lair.  Meanwhile, for the sequence where Johannsson discovers her human side, Glazer eschewed using an actor wearing prosthetics and employed a genuine neurofibromatosis-sufferer, a non-actor called Adam Pearson.


Incidentally, the film’s atmosphere is complemented by Mica Levi’s excellent music.  There are troubling periods where strings seethe like a pit of angry snakes.  At other times, during the seduction scenes, a slow, languid but suitably-ominous refrain kicks in.  It’s the best musical soundtrack I’ve heard since Clint Mansell’s work on Duncan Jones’s Moon (2009).


And praise is due for Scarlett Johannsson – though I suspect she wondered what she’d got herself into after she’d signed the contract and found herself in Glasgow for the first day of shooting. She’s believable as the gorgeous but doll-like, affable but not-quite-all-there man-bait roaming the city in the film’s first half.  She’s talkative in a flat, oddly-direct way, her conversation consisting mostly of questions about her passenger’s personal circumstances (to determine if they’ll be missed once they’re eaten) and of startlingly-open invitations back to her place.  She’s equally believable as the confused fugitive later on.  The moment she abandons her function and stops man-hunting, her conversational powers seem to desert her and she becomes mute.


(c) Recorded Picture Company / Pandora Film


The vampires in Byzantium kill with a retractable, talon-like, jugular-slashing fingernail, while Johannsson’s killing method in Under the Skin is appropriately weird and alien; so it’s nice in Only Lovers Left Alive, directed by American indie-cinema legend Jim Jarmusch, to see vampires with properly pointy canines lurking at the corners of their mouths.  Mind you, we only see these pointy teeth when the vampires are luxuriating, and grinning mindlessly, after they’ve had a heroin-like fix of blood.  But they don’t normally use the teeth to procure the blood, by biting people.  No, they try to procure it in a more mundane but civilised fashion, which involves slipping bundles of money to a crooked doctor (played by Jeffrey Wright) at the local blood-bank in return for packages of delicious O negative.


And the vampires in Only Lovers Left Alive are an oh-so-civilised bunch.  We first see the protagonists, Adam (Tom Hiddleston) and Eve (Tilda Swinton), in a series of revolving, overhead shots showing them lying languidly on their respective living-room and bedroom floors, one surrounded by vinyl and pieces of musical equipment and the other surrounded by piles of books.  Actually, as I seem to spend a lot of my life lying on floors surrounded by music and books, I think I’d make a good Jim-Jarmusch vampire too – unfortunately, I’m not immortal and I sometimes have to work for a living.  Apart from making music and reading, these vampires don’t do much else, except for getting off with one another – for Adam and Eve are lovers – and hanging out with similarly-arty fellow-vampires like John Hurt’s Christopher Marlowe, who (surprise!) didn’t really die in 1593 but became a blood-drinking immortal instead.


Needless to say, these vampires take a low view of humanity, regarding them as grubby and stupid creatures and doing their best to avoid them.  Apart from Jeffrey Wight, Hiddleston’s only contact with the human masses seems to be a wheeler-dealer (Anton Yelchin, who plays Chekov in the new Star Trek movies), who keeps him supplied with antique guitars.  Mind you, this disdain for humanity doesn’t stop the vampires from idolising certain individual members of the species.  At one point, Hiddleston, who’s based in Detroit, takes Swinton on a nocturnal drive to show her the house where Jack White used to live; and Hiddleston has stuck to his wall a gallery of pictures showing various humans whom he admires, including Edgar Allan Poe, Oscar Wilde, Franz Kafka, Buster Keaton, Harpo Marx, William Burroughs, Patti Smith and Keith Richards.  (I suppose it’s possible that Jarmusch is implying that these counter-cultural heroes and heroines have become vampires too.  Which is quite believable in Keith Richards’ case.)


Their idyllic, secluded existence comes to an end halfway through the movie when Swinton’s vampire kid sister, an immature, irresponsible brat played by Mia Wasikowska, turns up on their doorstep for a visit.  In David Cronenberg’s 2014 movie Maps to the Stars, Wasikowska plays someone whose arrival on the scene makes everything go pear-shaped, in a few cases fatally, for the other main characters; and she has a similar effect here.


I certainly wouldn’t say Only Lovers Left Alive is among the best of Jarmusch’s films.  It’s a little vexing that a director who’s been famous throughout his career for making unconsciously cool movies should now make a self-consciously cool movie about vampires.  In Jarmusch’s earlier films, the characters were losers and / or misfits (often because they belonged to minority cultures in America’s diverse but Anglo-Saxon-controlled melting pot) who remained themselves, stuck to their guns, got on with things and achieved a certain coolness.  I’m thinking of, say, Eszter Balint’s Hungarian girl in Stranger than Paradise (1984), Roberto Benigni’s manic Italian in Down by Law (1986), the Elvis-worshipping Japanese kids in Mystery Train (1989), Forest Whitaker’s samurai-obsessed hitman in Ghost Dog (1999) and the Ethiopian neighbour played by Jeffrey Wright (again) in Broken Flowers (2006) who loves detective novels and sends Bill Murray on a quest to find his long-lost son.  It now seems a cop-out for Jarmusch to make a movie about vampires, who by their very nature – being immortal, superhuman, elegant, nocturnal and all that – are cool anyway.


That said, the movie has good features.  I enjoyed the performances, even the one by Tilda Swinton, who’s normally an actress I respect rather than actually like.  There are some sly jokes and I love the idea of Detroit – after all its well-publicised economic and social problems – becoming an ideal spot for vampires to hang out.  And as you’d expect from Jarmusch, the music is good.  The soundtrack features artists ranging from established American ones (Zola Jesus, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club) to less well-known ones from elsewhere in the world such as Lebanese singer Yasmin Hamdan and Dutch minimalist composer and lute player Josef van Wissem.


There’s nothing by Tom Waits, though, which is odd considering the association he’s had with Jarmusch in the past, in movies like Down by Law, Night on Earth (1991) and Coffee and Cigarettes (2003).  But perhaps old Tom is more of a zombie man.