"MIIIIIIILKSHAKE!" IF THERE WAS one enduring moment in Paul Thomas Anderson's strange and brilliant There Will Be Blood that penetrated the pop-culture landscape, it was Daniel Day-Lewis's demented uttering of the aforementioned phrase during the fil
m's bullgoose-loon finale. Though for some this was proof the film was nothing more than a showcase for an outrageous piece of panto, it was actually the culmination of a meticulously controlled performance and a meticulously controlled piece of directing that together perfectly illustrated the absolute corruptive effect that the ruthless pursuit of wealth and power has on both the individual and on society at large.
Exploring the origins of our oil-based world, There Will Be Blood – which begins in 1898 and ends on the eve of the Great Depression – is very much a film about the dawn of the modern age and, befitting such a project, it's structured like the industry it's exploring, gradually drilling into the surface of the film's monstrous antagonist Daniel Plainview (Day-Lewis) and culminating in an almighty eruption of insanity and violence.
Plainview is a piece of work: a fearsome, imposing figure, whose brusqueness barely hides his contempt for humanity and, especially, God. In his eyes both are a hindrance to pure profit, something that the film explores via the titanic clash between Plainview and Eli Sunday (a magnificent Paul Dano), the young opportunistic preacher whose family's ranch sits atop the ocean of oil Plainview wants to get at. Anderson smartly never tells us what's motivating Plainview, leaving us instead to read between the lines of his odd handling of familial questions – the strange relationship he has with his young son and the conspicuous absence of women.
Day-Lewis, meanwhile, delivers such a big, mesmerising, intensely felt performance that it's endlessly fascinating trying to unravel just what is going on in Plainview's head. A deserved winner of this year's Oscar, he may not be striving for naturalism, but he is natural; this is not one of those over-the-top-turns where you can see an actor acting. He's not screaming, "Look at me! look at me!" His Plainview is a full-blooded force of nature and the storm he brings is the perfect metaphor for the calamities the world's addiction to oil has wrought. Stunning stuff.
Talking of metaphors, George A Romero once again re-animates the rotting corpse of his one good idea with Diary of the Dead, yet another zombie film in which his sledgehammer attempts at satire are supposed to make us ignore the lameness unfolding on screen. This time, the media and surveillance culture are his targets as a group of irritating film students shooting a cheapo horror flick are caught short by the realisation that the dead really have come back to life.
As these zombies start munching on fresh flesh, these budding Romeros capture it all for posterity on camera and in the process debate at length the ethics of filming atrocity. It's very didactic – and very dull. Romero spells out every point to such an extent it's a wonder he doesn't just insert explanatory subtitles and be done with it. It's as if he's forgotten there's such a thing as subtext, or that the reason people actually liked his masterful Dawn of the Dead was not because it was a metaphor for consumer culture but because it was, first and foremost, a disturbing horror film. Romero should stop believing his own hype. Or maybe just stop.
The full article contains 603 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
