Don't believe the hype
If ever a film was garlanded in undeserved praise, in my opinion, it's Brick, released on DVD next Friday. A stylish debut from Rian Johnson, you can see what he was driving at - a film noir in the style of The Big Sleep and The Maltese Falcon except transplanted to a modern 21st-century California high school. And he has a real photographer's eye for suburban vistas in the early evening. Brick looks very nice, in an indie kind of way - bleak and blue and desolate and apparently devoid of people most of the time - and it's framed beautifully. But it's all surface. It's all conceit. There's a whodunit here, as the boy from Third Rock From The Sun tries to find out where his ex-girlfriend, the pregnant girl from Lost, is. This means he has to hang out with a load of drug dealers, the leader of whom carries a cane and was the little boy in Witness who did the witnessing. They speak in a weird vernacular ("Who's she eating lunch with these days?") and it's all deliberately obtuse rather than actually complicated, and because the whole thing is delivered at the same pace, in the same deadpan tone, all their voices roll into one long drawl. It's impossible to care about anybody once the body turns up in the storm drain. Third Rock From The Sun bloke doesn't seem that bothered, so why should we?

At the end of the day, this is the kind of film that gives "indie" a bad name. It fancies itself. It knows how to pose. And I wouldn't have taken against it so violently if the DVD box wasn't so plastered in plaudits. Five stars in The Independent! Five stars in Total Film! Four stars in Empire! Are film critics so starved of decent films they fall at the feet of anything that doesn't star Will Ferrell or J-Lo?

I say: beware. Worth a look, but keep your expectations low.

At our age it's enough surprise we're still alive every morning
In the week when one New Labour insider said that the Blair-Brown infighting was "like an episode of The Sopranos," it was good to remind ourselves why it fucking isn't. Watched two tonight, after bailing out of the critically acclaimed Brick on DVD, which was atonal, pretentious toss (and I have to watch the rest as I'm reviewing it!): Episode 7, In Camelot, written by Terence Winter and directed by none other than Steve Buscemi, and Episode 8, Marco Polo, written by none other than Michael Imperioli and directed by John Patterson. A fine pair.

In the former, Uncle Junior visits four funerals in a row, and loses it, while Tony dallies with Fran Felstein (Polly Bergen, the sort of autumnal actress you feel you recognise, but in fact she's been in no films of any note, and seems to have spent her entire career since the 50s on TV - I suppose I could have seen her in The Love Boat). She was Tony's father's bit on the side, and at first he is fascinated by her and almost attracted to her, despite being old enough to be his mother (and yes, Dr Melfi spotted that), especially with her stories about having it off with JFK and meeting Sinatra. But this soon sours, when he realises that no matter how much he claims to have hated his mother, his father did a bad thing. We see Tony as a teenager in flashback, forced to lie to Livia in hospital to cover for his philandering father. Meanwhile, we see Christopher trying to help out an old friend, JT, from rehab, a TV writer (cue: plenty of in-jokes about TV being an inferior medium to cinema - JT can't pawn his Emmy award for smack money!) - at least this shows Christopher in a good light. Well, until he kicks the shit out of his friend for non-repayment of a loan, smashing a framed Dr Strangelove poster over his head. I'm sure there's symbolism there.

The final, wordless shot, lingering on a cigar-sucking Tony at the Bing, is one of those that just bristles with history and depth. There is so much going on in there. And that's the reward you get for watching it all these years. A great line from Phil Leotardo, when Johnny Sack reminds him that Tony, whom he just called a "kid", is also a boss: "Jersey? Come on."

In the latter episode, action centres around the 75th birthday of Carmela's dad, Hugh, and a surprise party he knows all about. Tony is invited for his sake (he's "crazy about your sausages"). He's back at the barbecue, master of all he surveys. "A doctor in the house?" Tony says to Carmela's parents' "cultured" Italian friends, one of whom is a diplomat. "That's good, because somebody usually goes down at these things." Nobody does, but a comment by one of Tony Blundetto's twins afterwards about how much they wish they had a big house like their cousin Anthony Jr, causes him to cross the floor - for money to top up the airbags operation. Wooed by Little Carmine's capos (one of whom is played by Frankie Valli, who may just have "had some work"), he takes on a hit, which just happens to be Leotardo's bodyguard Joe. The prostitute he's giving a lift to takes a bullet also, and their car rolls over Blundetto's foot, reminding you of Buscemi's character in Fargo. So somebody does go down. I had a worrying moment when Blundetto seemed to be ogling Meadow, but perhaps he's just jealous of Tony's relationship with his daughter, when his has disappeared. There's a lot to keep up with, not least the ongoing repairs to Leotardo's car, damaged when Tony ran him off the road for disrespecting him. Something's up with the recline, and the paint job. Got myself a gun.

How best to convey the horror of September 11, 2001: fiction or fact?

On Tuesday, I saw World Trade Center, the new, big-guns Oliver Stone movie about the date I will continue not to call 9/11. The night before, I saw The Miracle of Stairwell B on Channel 4, an hour-long documentary (in a week that's full of them) with a similar true story at its heart but told without recourse to dramatisation. In many ways, it was more effective at doing the same job, and did so with less fuss, and a lot less money.

Stone's movie - whose mawkish, sensational trailer had already given me the willies ("the world saw evil that day" - did they?) - concentrates, with admirable economy, on the emergency services trapped beneath the wreckage after the collapse of the North Tower on September 11, 2001, specifically a small group of Port Authority policemen. I won't say what happens, in case you don't know the true story it's based on. Needless to say, much of the action occurs after the collapse ie. after the action.

I have complicated feelings about September 11 - not least because of the carnage it paved the way for in the Middle East and beyond - but I am drawn to it as a subject matter. I was nauseated by the press coverage that followed it, but now that the dust has, literally, settled, it's possible to see that it did change the world, as the media and politicians predicted, albeit perhaps not in quite the same way. There are some who believe it's "too soon" for feature films on the subject. I respect their view. But, as with United 93, families of those involved have been consulted on World Trade Center, so you have to respect their judgement too. (A widow of one of the officers who died has objected to the portrayal.)

As a disaster movie nut, this film is tailor-made to appease me, with equilibrium-shattering catastrophe, spectacle, peril and rescue, but the fact that it really happened makes any pleasure from the medium voyeuristic. (So, you might say, why make it exciting and melodramatic?) And for all its respect and restraint for those who lived or died on the Big Day, Oliver Stone has still made a disaster movie that's shot and designed to thrill and involve and unnerve. For my money, as an action movie, there's a lot of inaction. It feels churlish to complain, and in fact, the scenes under the rubble are played out with much less cheese than I'd expected. Nic Cage, usually so preposterous, is quite low key. Mind you, they had to immobilise him to make him that way. The waiting wives, played by Maria Bello and Maggie Gyllenhaal, are exceptionally good. If there's a problem with the film, it's that the opening is so good (New York awakes on an ordinary day; extraordinary event occurs; people jump to it), once the towers are down, the story has a built-in lull. Also, although it's factually correct, the pivot for the rescue is unbelievable. If I hadn't read of its apparent veracity, I would have put it down to melodramatic licence. You'll have to judge for yourselves. Here is the news: it's nothing like as bad as I had feared. And the only stars and stripes hangs forlornly from a pole. No fluttering.



Stairwell B, where the "miracle" occurred (and I say let's not allow religion into a structural anomaly), saw 12 firemen, one police officer and one civilian survive the collapse of the North Tower. The firemen had stopped to help escort Josephine Harris and it was this that saved them. The documentary was based on testimony from the survivors, a commendably doughty but self-effacing bunch of Noo Yawkers from Engine Company 16, Engine Company 39, Ladder 6, the 11th Battalion and Port Authority Police K-9 Unit. Some of them were tearful as they remembered preparing to die, others tight-lipped and practical, but all conveyed the insanity of that day and their particular ordeal. Real footage was mixed in to illustrate, but clearly not of the "miracle" in question. You had to imagine that. And that's why it was such a good programme. Who's going to dispute the recollections of the actual protagonists? Their testimonies even backed each other up. This was what really happened, not a dramatic reconstruction. Though it was mainly guys (and one woman) talking, it was moving, arresting and really bloody scary. You got to know characters like Battalion Chief Rich Picciotto, and firefighters Mickey Kross, Jim McGlynn, Michael Meldrum and Sal D'Agastino. No actors needed to make these men dramatic.

I could watch September 11 documentaries all week. Which is handy. I know I'm not going to see any footage that hasn't been shown a million times, but this doesn't reduce the power of those images. What I don't need is guff about evil and heroes and "America is at war", nor the creeping feeling that the 2,749 who died on September 11,m 2001, are somehow the most important casualties in any conflict or act of aggression ever perpetrated. The most powerful stories are those of people doing their job, and getting through it. The Miracle Of Stairwell B, despite the m-word in the title, was a plain-speaking document about an amazing occurence. No bugles. No fluttering flags. World Trade Center, without giving anything away, ends with applause and stirring music and slow motion and a setting sun, and ultimately, I would argue, subtracts from our understanding.

A shoe up his ass
The Sopranos, Episode Six, Sentimental Education, written by Matthew Weiner, directed by - yes! - Peter Bogdanovitch, this one rolled out two important stories: Carmela's fling with Bob (David Strathairn), and Tony Blundetto's ultimate failure to go straight, setting up a massage "storefront" with his Korean boss. Both end in tears. Both end up being reeled back in by Tony Soprano, Carmela by his influence (Bob accuses her of "using" him to get better grades for AJ, which she actually wasn't - she blames this on the fact that she was married to Tony: "My motives will always be called into question"), Blundetto by his cousin's offer of some good, dishonest work - frankly, a lot less hassle than painting a massage parlour, passing an exam and installing a koi pond. It's horrible to see Carmela treated so badly by her seemingly good-hearted academic boyfriend, and to see Blundetto violently lose it with his boss. Even when a plastic bag of money ($12,000) falls in his lap, he spends it all. This is a guy who needs looking after. But what will Tony do when he finds out that Carmela slept with AJ's counsellor? He will receive worse than a shoe up his ass. ("Where the fuck is my Tupperware?", yelled by Paulie at Vito, apropos of nothing important, may be one of this season's finest lines so far.)

You'd fuck a catcher's mitt
The Sopranos, Episode Five, Irregular Around The Margins, written by Robin Green and Mitchell Burgess, directed by Allen Coulter, in which a lot of fuss is made of such a little thing. Adriana, possibly spurred on by the Feds, comes on to Tony in his office (it involves darts - I didn't even know Americans played darts!), but he resists, which Dr Melfi considers a milestone. But a late-nite trip in his tank to her coke dealer, all platonic, leads to a raccoon-related road accident while Christopher is away pinching cigarettes. The rumour mill begins (what gossips these wiseguys are!), until Christopher is wracked with jealousy, despite Tony's continued - and sincere - denials that anything happened. Christopher starts drinking and runs amok with a gun in the club - he must be subdued, in the middle of nowhere, by the headlights of a car, naturally. It's good to see Steve Buscemi just gradually slipping into gangster mode, albeit of the cautious, emollient type ("I'm a pre-board certified massage therapist"). I also liked the fusebox row with Vito Spatafore (the one's who's fatter than Bobby), a real GoodFellas just-busting-your-chops moment. They all make up in the end, of course, including Tony and Carmela - just for show, just to reset the status quo. (Remember the fuss about Uncle Junior and the rumour that he performed oral sex? That nearly ended in bloodshed.) This series continues to impress. And what a speech Christopher makes to Adriana when she reveals, much to his macho disgust, that she has Irritable Bowel Syndrome and puts it down to stress that he, by definition, cannot know about:

"What do you got to be stressed about? That bar?"
"War, Christopher? The Middle East?"
"You don't listen to the president? We're gonna mop the floor with the whole fuckin' world. The whole world's gonna be under our control. So what are you worked up about?"

Ever since he can remember, he's always wanted to be a gangster.

Independent win battle in wallchart war
As the Guardian prepares to launch its second offensive next week, with another round of wallcharts, the Independent gets in an early broadside with a week of RSPB-linked bird posters. This is how it's done! Illustrated by Mike Langman and annotated by the RSPB, these are actually based on wildlife found around these shores and not in Scandinavia in the 70s. They're in a different league to the Guardian's. They actually recognise the existence of the nuthatch as a British garden bird! As I've said before, I admire any newspaper that goes under the radar of free DVDs and CDs in cardboard sleeves, and thinks laterally, but a ropey wallchart bought in from a Scandinavian company is just that, and these are the real deal. I like the fact that the Indy are calling them "glossy posters" to differentiate them from wallcharts, and that the Guardian are flagging theirs as the "original wallcharts". The first casualty of war is restraint.

Like watching an angel fall
The Sopranos, Episode 4, written by Toni Kalem, directed by Rodrigo Garcia, All Happy Families, an episode without sensational incident, but driven by the voltage of family. AJ's at that difficult age. Carmela thinks he hates her. He doesn't. He just hates everybody. His one aim is to get wasted with the guys. Tony buys him a jeep. That helps a lot. AJ says, "Fuck you" to his mom after being rumbled after a hotel-room stopover in New York (he's supposed to be at his sister's), where the textbook frat boy rituals take place: the passing of a bong, the redecorating of a toilet bowl, the shaving-off of eyebrows and the drawing on of new ones, the writing in marker pen on the bare ass of someone passed out, face down (how homoerotic teenage boys are!) - at which she sends him to live with his father. His father, meanwhile, is having trouble with Feech ("Did I learn nothing from Richie Aprile?"), who's too big for his boots, and too fond of recalling the old days (ie. when he wielded power, and Tony was "a kid"). Instead of whacking him, they get him sent back to the can. I suspect this is not the last we'll see of him. Tony is now paranoid, after an incisive comment by Carmela, that he has no real friends, only associates, who laugh at his jokes even when they're not funny. He tells this one about an accountant and a plane at a poker game ("A Boring 747") and we see through his eyes the likes of Paulie and Sylvio busting a gut. But do they mean it? David Lee Roth is at the poker game, apparently playing himself. Must be a mate of Steve Van Sandt's. And there appears to be romance brewing between Carmela, rattling around in that big house on her own now, and AJ's counsellor, played by David Strathairn. Good night, and good luck.