This currently acclaimed director has a knack for extracting the worst ideas from other works and then spinning them out of control with maudlin movie magic straight from the 21st-century digital toolbox. The dumbest plot idea in Taxi Driver for instance became the core of that Joaquin Phoenix movie from a few years ago, the one that almost everyone absolutely loved.
Apparently she was in town recently trying to get her Moby Dick in Space movie back on track. No whale out there of course because it’s being replaced by an alien.
Lynne Ramsay crash-lands on an armchair on the terrace – hair flying, skirts swirling – looking as though she has just been blown in from the sea. She was out late last night at some ritzy Venice film festival soiree or other. “Dancing with Joaquin,” she says, scrunching her face in embarrassment. The upshot is that she is totally knackered today.
No one is going to begrudge the woman a night on the tiles. All the same, it feels weird to have the director – arguably the toughest, purest voice in modern British cinema – wafting around the photo-calls and champagne receptions like some glamorous social butterfly. Any festival competition that doesn’t include a Lynne Ramsay picture feels, on some nagging, illogical level, like an opportunity missed…
When Ramsay got the call to make the Lacombe documentary she was holed up in Costa Rica. She was hard at work on a script, starved of human company. “Writing’s so hard,” she says. “Someone once said that it’s basically like vomiting and then bending down to pick out the good bits. And I always want to keep my hand in shooting stuff. Being on set, shooting a film – that’s the part of the process I love the most.”
Such ugly imagery. Writing’s not like that all, either. It’s actually pretty easy. The editorial judgment is the hard part.
Whatever happened to truth, beauty, and wit. They all kind of connect but no one notices the loss now. Dumb ideas abound everywhere.
Who or what’s to blame?