Orlando – throughly entertaining queerness

It was time for another spot of film catch-up this evening – and back to an effort at being thematic for LGBT+ History Month – with a first viewing of Sally Potter’s 1992 adaptation of Orlando, Virginia Woolf’s 1928 novel of the same name.

The film opens in 1600, with aristocratic youth Orlando pondering over his loneliness and his desire to write poetry. When his family is visited by Elizabeth I, the aged monarch takes to him, making him her “mascot” and granting him property and money. There’s one condition: “Do not fade. Do not wither. Do not grow old”, she orders.

In the novel, there is no explanation of how Orlando becomes immortal, but Potter added this to the film to suggest how this occurs, feeling that a cinema audience would need at least a hint.\

As part of the wider court of James I, he becomes utterly besotted with Sasha, a beautiful Cossack, who is visiting with her father. But when she dumps him, he’s left to muse on the “treachery” of women.

Time passes and, in the 18^th century, the eternally unchanging Orlando – nobody ever comments on this, ‘because it’s England’ – is appointed ambassador to the Ottoman Empire. There he enjoys a brotherly friendship with the Khan, before participating in a battle.

Shocked at seeing his first violent death, he flees and falls into a deep sleep for seven days. On waking, he discovers that he has become a she. Heading back to England, Orlando is stripped of her home on the basis of being a woman – and thus effectively “legally dead”.

Somehow, she continues living there until the time of Victoria, where she has an accidental meeting with Shelmerdine, an American revolutionary, with whom she enjoys a passionate fling, before he departs for home. She refuses to join him – and muses on the “treachery” of men – before her life takes her into the 20^th century, through the mud of Flanders and beyond, to 1990s London, where she has a young daughter.

It's not a devastating script, but there is wit – not least in the wonderful to-camera shots of Tilda Swinton as Orlando, where Potter has her break the fourth wall.

It is beautifully shot – cinematography was by Alexsei Rodionov – and beyond Swinton’s fabulous performance, which really grounds the film, it has a wonderful ensemble cast.

Billy Zane posts a nice turn as Shelmerdine, but one of the real joys here is Quentin Crisp as Elizabeth I – “the Queen of Queens”, according to Potter – which also adds to the queerness of the whole thing.

Then there’s Jimmy Sommerville, Kathryn Hunter, Simon Russell Beale and Toby Jones among many other familiar faces, while John Wood provides a delightful cameo as a bumptious, elderly archduke who falls for Orlando.

Potter’s direction moves things at a nice pace – easy to expect an epic, given the century-spanning scale of the story – but it’s just 93 minutes. She also wrote the screenplay and the music (the latter, along with David Motion and, for one song, Sommerville).

It’s thoroughly entertaining – and with the added spice of the gender politics, not least in terms of the differing attitudes toward men and women throughout history.

And as Vogue put it in 2020: “Nearly three decades later, Sally Potter's Orlando is more topical than ever”.

A killer of a film ... if you've not watched the genre extensively

David Fincher’s new film, The Killer, is based on a French graphic novel and centred on an unnamed contract killer, played by Michael Fassbender.

It opens in Paris, where the eponymous assassin is stationed in an empty building opposite a posh hotel, waiting for his target to arrive. Narrated by The Killer himself, he explains his processes, the “logistics” of the what he does and his philosophy – essentially, that he must have no empathy whatsoever and that, in a world where few are able to be at ‘the top’, he has chosen to be one of those.

But when the contract arrives, it all goes pear shaped and The Killer must take action fast if he is to escape.

From then on, as his own life is threatened, he can no longer play by his own rules, but has to improvise.

The film has had mixed reviews – primarily because many reviewers note that the ‘cold-blooded contract killer’ has been done many times before – sometimes better and sometimes worse.

For me, that wasn’t a problem – I’ve not even seen The Day of the Jackal all the way through – so it never felt like a rehash of something I’ve seen countless times before.

Fassbender is utterly chilling – most particularly in the long opening scenes where he’s waiting and preparing – his face, physicality and voiceover mesmerising. I have seen reviews that regard the narration, which carries on throughout the film, as ‘pretentious’, but for me, it worked very well and helps illustrate just how much the character has cut himself off from humanity.

Or has he?

Part of the fun here is seeing where, in the circumstances in which he finds himself, he breaks his own ‘code’. And whether he really is as utterly emotionless as he likes to claim.

Erik Messerschmidt’s cinemaphotography is striking. The use of tracks by The Smiths throughout – The Killer finds their music helps him concentrate – should perhaps make one want to slit one’s own wrists, but (and I am no Smiths fan) I think it works really well here, with more than a hint of the ironic.

As already said, you can’t take your eyes off Fassbender. Kerry O’Malley is really good as the secretary to a lawyer, but Tilda Swinton, in a cameo late in the film is simply … well, Tilda Swinton! She absolutely crackles and brings humour to the film – albeit it in a very dark form.

So my very personal take is that it’s worth seeing on a big screen – it’s distributed by Netflix, is on at only a select number of cinemas (I saw it at a Curzon) and is streaming now – but if you’ve seen lots of those ‘cold-blooded contract killer’ movies, you might not be as impressed as I was. 

It’s so much not my usual type of film – and I really wondered whether it would be too violent for me. I can’t watch much of The Sopranos or Deadwood – even though I completely understand that they are superb works of TV drama – because the violence (physical and language-wise) becomes overwhelming for me after a short while.

Here, Fincher has made a violent film that reminds me of The Silence of the Lambs, in that the actual violence itself is clear – and not remotely celebrated – but also not filmed in ways so as not to make it gratuitous.

I’d also note that, at 118 minutes, it’s really tight and not self-indulgent in an era when many films seem to come from a starting point of having to be over two hours.