Within the first five minutes of Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives you'll find my favourite cinematic image of 2010. The film opens at night, and we watch as a tethered ox breaks free and wanders into the woodland. He is eventually caught by his owner and led back from whence he came, but there is something else lurking in this jungle, and the sharp cut that introduces it is startling. He is a shadowy, ape-like figure, standing upright and staring directly at us. His eyes, like small red lasers, are the only distinguishing features on this mysterious silhouette. This is our first glimpse of the monkey ghost, and it is an arresting start to this amazing film, but it is by no means the last unusual happening that we'll experience as we venture into the world according to Apichatpong Weerasethakul.
What's remarkable – and delightful – about the presence of mysterious creatures in this film is the matter-of-fact way that Apichatpong, and his characters, deal with them. Uncle Boonmee (Thanapat Saisaymar) is a farmer living in a remote area of Thailand who is slowly dying of kidney failure. In his final days, he is being cared for by his sister-in-law Jen (Jenjira Pongpas), his nephew Tong (Sakda Kaewbuadee) and Jaai (Samud Kugasang), a Laotian immigrant. One evening, as they sit together at the dinner table, a spirit slowly materialises in the empty chair next to Tong. This is Huay (Natthakam Aphaiwonk), Boonmee's former wife, who died many years before. A few moments later, they are joined by a red-eyed monkey ghost, who wanders in from the night and takes a seat, before revealing himself to be Boonmee's long-lost son Boonsong (Geerasak Kulhong). This is the strangest of family reunions, but that's exactly how Boonmee and the others welcome these mysterious apparitions – as family – registering less shock than delight at once again seeing those they had lost. "Why did you let your hair grow so long?" is the first question Boonsong is asked.
Apichatpong Weerasethakul doesn't draw a line between any of the inhabitants of his jungle, whether they are humans, animals or spirits, and he suggests that it's the most natural thing in the world for one to flow into another. "I only know I was born here," Boonmee says, "I don't know if I was a human or an animal," and Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall Past Lives is a film driven by the ideas of Karma, reincarnation and the transmigration of souls. After the bipartite structure of his earlier works, Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Pas Lives appears at first to be a more linear work, but the director is always ready to digress at a whim down some strange avenue, and one such tangent takes us into the story of a princess, distraught at her fading beauty, who has an encounter with a talking catfish. What is the relationship between this story and the main narrative? Is this an episode from one of Boonmee's former lives? Is he the catfish? That may be the case or it may not, but Apichatpong refuses to make anything concrete, preferring to leave his film entirely open for us to interpret as we wish.
I hope that doesn't make Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives sound challenging or impenetrable, because I honestly believe nothing could be further from the truth. Yes, it is true that this director makes films like nobody else, but all it takes to appreciate his work is a slight adjustment to the distinctive rhythm and openness of his style, and a willingness to follow the path he sets for us even if we know we may not understand everything we see. Apichatpong is not an elitist, deliberately withholding the meaning of his films from the viewer, he is actually an extremely generous filmmaker, simply making a film that feels right to him and then asking the public to take what they want from it. I've seen it twice now and on both occasions I have been moved in different ways by the picture. Some viewers will be touched by the meditation on death and the cycle of life; some will see resonant allusions to Thai history and culture; some will simply marvel at the lyrical weirdness of it all. All responses are equally valid.
The one constant in every viewing will surely be astonishment as Apichatpong's stunning technique, the careful way he composes his shots (when he shifts to handheld camerawork late in the film, the effect is startling), the hypnotic rhythm of his editing and the stunningly involving and atmospheric sound design. Even if you don't understand what you're looking at in Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives, the film is so mesmerising on a technical level it's impossible to look away. This director has always had an impressive command of his craft, but after two viewings, this strikes me as his most accomplished work, full of extraordinary examples of Apichatpong's rich imagination at work.
Many of those amazing moments are saved for the final section of the film, which sees the characters venturing out into the jungle, so Boonmee can rest in the pace where he will finally leave this life. He is led there by Huay – the dead guiding the living from one life to the next – but the sadness of these scenes is tempered by the knowledge that he will return, in some form or other. Similarly, Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives is a film that takes many forms and one that endlessly shifts as we try to pin down its meaning, but there's also a simplicity and an essential truth to the way the film deals with encroaching death and asks us to find beauty and wonder in the everyday. Each viewing yields new treasures and for that reason it is one of the year's great films, but even with the Palme d'Or behind it, will viewers be willing to surrender themselves to the film and allow it to work its magic? All I can say is – take a chance. Enter the wonderful world of Apichatpong Weerasethakul, and you may find you don't want to leave.
Carlos might have been made for French television, but this is no ordinary TV movie. For a start, it has been made by a real filmmaker, with Olivier Assayas cementing his reputation as one of the most exciting and mercurial directors currently working. He invests Carlos with an irresistible, propulsive sense of momentum that rarely flags across the film's five-and-a-half hour running time. This film is a good deal longer than both Steven Soderbergh's Che and last year's double-bill Mesrine, but Assayas' decades-spanning biopic somehow manages to feel shorter than both of them. It switches countries and languages with a remarkable fleetness of foot, and introduces characters at a dizzying rate as it hurtles through its subject's eventful life. Don't be deterred by Carlos' epic length, for this is one of the most audacious and exhilarating cinematic events of the year.
It also contains a central performance as good as any other you'll see this year. Édgar Ramírez plays Ilich Ramírez Sánchez, better known by his nom de guerre Carlos, and he is utterly convincing at every step of his character's journey, possessing a swagger and physicality that reminded me of Brando and De Niro in their pomp. When we first meet Sánchez, in the early 1970's, he is a man driven by a clear ideology – "Behind every bullet we fire, there will be an idea" he announces early on – and that conviction drives him to commit acts of terrorism in the name of the PFLP. In the film's final section, he is a bloated shadow of that young firebrand; a man living in a changing world that no longer has any use for him. Carlos' narrative unfolds in a traditional manner, employing a three-act structure (the French TV presentation was in three parts) that depicts his rise and fall in a familiar fashion. But Carlos feels so much more alive than most screen biopics, with Ramírez's performance and Assayas' bravura direction energising the film.
In the film's opening third, Carlos the character rarely stays still (at one point, we see how he quickly he loses his shape and sharpness when he is forced to lie low for a period of inactivity) and Assayas' restless, dynamic camerawork matches him stride for stride. The film moves fluidly from Carlos' political motivations to his womanising and acts of violence, and lends each encounter the same sense of authenticity and the same gripping tension. At times, admittedly, the ceaseless rush of Assayas' filmmaking can leave us struggling to catch up, particularly when supporting characters – introduced with onscreen captions announcing their name and affiliation – appear and then disappear so abruptly. The director is less interested in explaining background details and offering exposition than he is in simply showing us Carlos the man and letting us experience his actions, but this approach can result in some areas of the film feeling murky and vague.
On the other hand, his style also fills Carlos with so many sublime moments, and it seems ridiculous to grumble about small deficiencies when confronted with filmmaking of this stature. In particular, Part 2 of Carlos deals almost exclusively with his most famous act, the taking of hostages at the OPEC conference in Vienna in 1975. Running to an almost feature length in itself, this is an indescribably brilliant piece of sustained filmmaking from Assayas, whose confident pacing and masterful control of tone develops and then maintains an electrifying sense of tension, even as Carlos and his cohorts sit motionless on an airport runway, their plan slowly crumbling around them. This sequence in itself would be enough to ensure Carlos' status as one of the films of the year, and as I left the screening room at this point for the interval, I wondered if Part 3 could live up to what had gone before.
I'm afraid to say it doesn't. That's not to say the third part of Carlos is bad – it's far from that – but after the explosive, sexy and thrilling action of the first two parts, it feels a little more laborious and it's the first time that Assayas seems to suffer from the constricting confines of the biopic as a cinematic storytelling form. It is fascinating to watch Carlos being cut off from his former allies as communist regimes fall one by one, and to see how lost this international terrorist is without the states that once shielded him, but it also feels like we're marking time as we wait for justice to finally catch up with him. The third act drag is a perennial problem in biopics that deal with the whole arc of a person's life, but it's particularly disappointing here after that life has been rendered so thrillingly for the preceding four-and-a-bit hours.
Again, however, I need to set those complaints against the frequent displays of the director's brilliance in Carlos, and the filmmaking comes out on top every time. I haven't even mentioned the roster of outstanding supporting performances, including Nora von Waldstätten as his wife and Julia Hummer as his volatile accomplice. I could have also gone into more detail describing sensational individual sequences, such as the Japanese Red Army's bank assault, Carlos' escape from the police after he is betrayed, or the botched attempts to blow up Israeli planes at Orly airport; there's simply so much here to digest. Carlos is available in two forms, both as a five-and-a-half hour version and as a cut-down 165-minute film. I haven't seen the latter, but I really can't imagine how you could chop almost three hours' worth of incident from this film without losing something special, because very little of it feels like filler. I'm not entirely sure if Carlos possesses the depth to match its length, but it's a ceaselessly invigorating cinematic spectacle, and an awesome directorial achievement.
When Let the Right One In was first released on DVD in the US, there was much anger over the subtitles on the disc, which appeared to be a simplified and dumbed-down version of those that appeared on the theatrical release. For many fans of that Swedish horror, the title of Matt Reeves' American remake, Let Me In, might suggest a similar policy at work, ironing out complexities and making the film more palatable for a mainstream audience who can't be bothered reading subtitles. Such accusations do carry some weight, it must be said, because there really is no reason for Let Me In to exist. For the most part, the film slavishly adheres to the template of the original – sometimes looking like a shot-for-shot remake – but I came away from Let Me In liking the film a lot more than I expected to, and in some regards actually admiring it more than its acclaimed predecessor. Let Me In might well be a pointless exercise, but as pointless exercises go, it's not a bad effort.
I should say at this point that I never quite saw Let the Right One In as the masterpiece that many hailed it as, but it's an undeniably beautiful and bold film, filled with numerous remarkable sequences and driven by two excellent performances from its young leads. Tomas Alfredson's adaptation of John Ajvide Lindqvist's novel has much to recommend it, but I found it oddly unsatisfying, respecting it more as a collection of standout scenes and daring choices rather than embracing it as a fully accomplished and cohesive horror.
Let Me In shares many of the original's virtues and flaws, while offering up a few additional virtues and flaws of its own. The story remains essentially the same, focusing on two lonely children, each troubled in their own way. Owen (Kodi Smit-McPhee) is friendless and frequently at the mercy of the school bullies, while the breakup of his parents' marriage ensures his home life offers little stability or comfort. The only person he connects with Abby (Chloe Moretz), the girl who moves in next door and only comes out at night. Abby is a vampire, living with her guardian (Richard Jenkins, fine if underused), who has to go out at night and find blood to satisfy her insatiable hunger. The smartest decision Reeves makes in his adaptation is to focus more intently on the emotional connection between Owen and Abbey, and he is rewarded by excellent performances from his young actors, with the mysterious Moretz and vulnerable McPhee bringing a sense of intimacy and tentative affection to their quiet scenes together. In fact, Let Me In is just as effective – perhaps even more so – when regarded as a story of teenage romance and a coming-of-age tale than as a horror.
Reeves makes a few judicious choices elsewhere in his handling of Let Me In. The ambiguity over Abby's gender – depicted in a confusing, muddled fashion by Alfredson – is dropped here, as is the rather silly cat sequence from the original, while the addition of a car crash sequence filmed entirely from the back seat works superbly. Generally, however, Let Me In is at its best in the quieter moments, wherein Reeves can establish a mood of encroaching dread, and the unconvincing, CGI-enhanced method of Abby's attacks unfortunately tends to punctuate the sinister atmosphere. Despite such missteps (and the director's overreliance on 80's pop references), Let Me In strikes me as a more fully formed film than Let the Right One In, even if it lacks the original film's ambition and imagination. The sense of warmth that Reeves manages to inject into the central relationship gives the film a greater dramatic pull, and it simply feels more consistent overall, although it is similarly let down by the unsatisfying and implausible climax. Let Me In is a commendable piece of work then, and instead of the lazy, rushed travesty that fans must have feared, Reeves has unexpectedly produced a film that still possesses some bite.
The first character we meet in Another Year is Janet, and she is unhappy. When asked by her doctor to rate her happiness on a scale of one to ten, she doesn't hesitate before snapping back "One," with her misery evident in her uncomfortable, closed-off body language, and the tight grimace on her face. Janet seems utterly resistant to the idea that anything short of "a different life" could lift her out of her depression. "What's the point?" she asks despondently, "Nothing ever changes." Despite being played by Imelda Staunton, the star of Mike Leigh's 2004 film Vera Drake, Janet only appears in two scenes in Another Year, the second of which introduces us to Gerri (Ruth Sheen), the counsellor she has been referred to. After that, she leaves the picture never to return, and we wonder what has become of her. Did she keep up her sessions with Gerri? Did she manage to overcome her woes and turn her life around? Or did she slide further into misery and decide to end it all? Leigh isn't saying, but he leaves all of the options on the table.
Even though Janet plays a tiny role in Another Year, she seems to embody one of the film's central subjects, that of people trapped by their own unhappiness, unable or unwilling to change their lives, and finding it impossible to see the light at the end of the tunnel. This description might make Another Year sound like it ranks alongside Vera Drake as one of Leigh's bleakest works, and quite a comedown from his upbeat Happy-Go-Lucky, but it actually settles somewhere in between those two extremes, as it explores states of happiness and sadness and the gulf in between.
The lighter side of Leigh's new film focuses on Gerri's marriage to Tom (Jim Broadbent). This couple might have been together a long time, but they haven't lost the sense of affection and playfulness that has sustained their marriage, and they seem entirely contented with their lot. They also share a great relationship with their son Joe (Oliver Maltman), who seems similarly satisfied with life, and in no great hurry to change his single status despite his mother's gentle prompting. One of the great joys of Another Year lies in watching the way Leigh's characters interact, with their easy familiarity and shared sense of humour creating a convincing, warmly enticing portrait of a real family. Leigh uses this family as the anchor for his film and gradually introduces supporting characters who offer a severe contrast to their sunny disposition.
The most fascinating of these is Mary (Lesley Manville), a workmate of Gerri's and someone who has been a regular visitor to Tom and Gerri's home for many years. Mary is around 50, although she makes an effort to appear younger, and she is unhappily single, frequently drowning her despair in drink as she contemplates a lonely future. When Manville first appeared in the film, twitching and chattering nervously, I thought she was overplaying her part, but it gradually dawned on me that Mary is trying so hard to keep it together, and to maintain some sense of hopefulness, which is exactly what makes her such a heartbreaking character. Manville beautifully expresses the depths of her character's neediness and desperation, and she's devastating in those moments when she drops her forced chirpiness to reveal the sadness within. In a couple of awkward scenes she flirts with the friendly but clearly uninterested Joe when she joins the family for a summer barbecue, but we know she's destined to leave the party alone once more.
Other characters come and go in Another Year. There's Ken (Peter Wight), an old friend of Tom's whose situation mirrors Mary's, but who is even more pitiful as he eats and drinks too much and bemoans his lonely existence. Then there's Ronnie (David Bradley), Tom's older brother who is left bereft by the passing of his wife, and his son Carl (Martin Savage), with whom he shares a fractious relationship. The way Leigh introduces and then dismisses these supporting players gives Another Year a sense of life going on outside the frame, and the impression that we are only dipping into these characters' lives. Leigh frames his film as four snapshots of a year, marking the progression of his narrative by the passing of the seasons. The seasonal chapters are subtly delineated by Leigh and his regular DP Dick Pope through variations in tone, with the most dramatic of these switches occurring in the Winter section, shot in a grey, shadowy hue, and haunted by a sense of loss.
Generally, however, 'dramatic' is not the correct word to use when describing Another Year. Leigh tends shy away from major revelations and explosive confrontations, and instead the film works as an accumulation of details, with the director's camera always ready to capture the gestures, the meaningful glances and the awkward silences that define their relationships. This is the kind of film that only Mike Leigh could have made, with his thorough, character-driven preparation bearing fruit in an ensemble that appears to be fully invested in their roles. The director observes his creations with compassion, and Another Year is one of the most emotionally piercing and resonant films he has yet produced, climaxing with a masterstroke of a final shot that focuses on Mary as she contemplates her future. Again, Leigh gives us no clue as to what lies ahead for this troubled, hugely sympathetic figure, but with the despairing Janet still fresh in our minds, we can only hope and pray for better times ahead.
Sawako Decides (Kawa no soko kara konnichi wa)
This quirky Japanese comedy occasionally threatens to get a little too quirky, but the film is kept in check by some deft direction and a charming lead performance. Hikari Mitsushima plays the title character, a character who is actually defined by her indecisiveness. In her fifth year in Tokyo, she is currently on her fifth job and fifth boyfriend, and while Sawako knows she is downtrodden and that her life is passing her by, she just accepts this state of affairs with her regular catchphrase, "It can't be helped." She believes she's just an average person who doesn't deserve anything better, but she has to get her act together when called back to the small town she grew up in, where her father is dying and the family clam-packing business is quickly going down the tubes. While the insecure and unassertive Sawako can be a frustrating character at times, Mitsushima subtly gives her a beguiling innocence and openness that keeps the audience on her side, even while Yûya Ishii's storytelling can get a little wayward. The director has a lively, sharp visual style and while Sawako Decides occasionally feels baggy, Ishii does build momentum towards the climax nicely in the second half, and there are a couple of very funny sequences along the way. He also neatly rejects some anticipated clichés by basing Sawako's triumphant final act around her embracing, rather than overcoming, her underdog status.
Essential Killing
Vincent Gallo plays a Taliban fighter in Jerzy Skolimowski's Essential Killing, but that fact is only really relevant for the first twenty minutes of the movie. After he has been chased, captured and interrogated by US forces in Afghanistan – remaining stoically silent throughout – Gallo manages to escape and disappear into the snowy mountains, with troops closing in behind him. At this point, the character's loyalty or religious beliefs have little bearing on his actions; what we are watching here is a man desperately trying to survive, by any means necessary, in the harshest of conditions. With Gallo giving a riveting wordless performance, Skolimowski gradually forces his character into a primal state; kill or be killed, find shelter, eat whatever materials are available. The director frequently frames his actor against the vast emptiness of his surroundings, and some of the images captured by Adam Sikora's camera are staggeringly beautiful. Essential Killing is a striking, lyrical film, driven primarily by a raw animal energy, but also blessed with surreal visions, moments of madness and even a touch of tenderness (offered by Emmanuelle Seigner's kindly mute). This is a stunningly bold and enigmatic film, and I already want to see it again.
Dear Doctor
There's a touch of Ealing comedy about the premise to this beautifully measured Japanese film. In a small village, local doctor Ito (Tsurube Shôfukutei) is regarded as something of a saint, but what they don't know is that he's actually a fraud, with no medical qualifications whatsoever. Miwa Nishikawa's film operates on two narrative levels, cutting between Ito's story, as seen through the eyes of his young assistant Soma (Eita), and the later police investigation into his subterfuge. This director was a former protégé of Hirokazu Kore-eda, with whom she shares a light directorial touch and a deep humanism, finding a perfect balance here between comedy and heartfelt emotion. Shôfukutei has a great comedian's face, and he gives Ito an appealing, impish charm, but he also excels in portraying the character's gradually encroaching guilt and shame over his actions later on. Our attachment to him complicates the film's emotional aspect; what Ito did might have been wrong, but he has brought real joy and relief to his patients, in a way that a more conventional doctor may not have done. Dear Doctor is a really wonderful comedy, creating a group of strong, likeable characters and unfolding a story that successfully manages to amuse and move the viewer. The only time Nishikawa come close to stumbling is right at the end, when she threatens to drag the climax out unnecessarily, but when you see the way she finally does bring her film to a close, it's hard to begrudge her decision.
127 Hours
After closing the 2008 London Film Festival with Slumdog Millionaire, Danny Boyle is back as the festival's headline act once again with his latest effort. He has brought the same sensibility and visual style to a very different story, one in which the central character is static for much of the movie. 127 Hours tells the true story of Aron Ralston (played by James Franco), a thrill-seeker whose climbing adventure in Utah's Blue John Canyon ended with him being trapped in a crevasse, his arm pinned to the wall by a huge boulder. The title refers to the length of time that Ralston was trapped, a significant portion of which consisted of him slicing through his own arm with a small penknife in order to free himself, but what surprised me about 127 Hours was how quickly the film dealt with that particular part of the story. However, even if it's over quickly, the sight – or, more accurately, the sound – of Franco cutting the nerve in his arm is one that has stayed with me for days, and it was by some distance the most disturbing moment of the festival. Unfortunately, Boyle lets the tension slacken elsewhere, with his desperate desire to keep the film visually exciting at all times resulting in too many flashbacks, gimmicky shots, dream sequences and cutaways, all of which were less impactful than the simple reality of a man trapped and alone. Still, 127 Hours is moderately gripping stuff and it benefits greatly from both its genuinely stirring climax, and from Franco's outstanding performance, with his charismatic and emotionally charged display maintaining a sense of focus that Boyle sometimes lacks.
Kaboom
Well, that didn't last long. My appreciation for Gregg Araki, built up through his films Mysterious Skin and Smiley Face, slowly drained away as I watched his latest film. Kaboom is partially about pretty young people fucking, and it's partially about a cult that wants to bring about the end of the world. On the whole, I found it pretty tiresome. I won't deny that there are a couple of amusing moments here and there, and the actors are effective enough, with Juno Temple (despite a wavering accent) and Roxane Mesquida (as a sex-mad lesbian witch) standing out, but the film's strained attempt at wackiness never really takes flight. Araki's direction is too sluggish for the film to develop the kind of crazy energy Kaboom really needs, and instead it just plays out as a load of tedious random incidents. It's repetitive, empty and really rather annoying, and a disappointing step backwards for a filmmaker who was just starting to grow on me.
Cold Fish (Tsumetai nettaigyo)
What better way to end a film festival than with an insane tale of murder, sex and butchery in Japan's tropical fish industry? Sion Sono's Cold Fish is apparently based on a true story, although how much of this is drawn from reality and how much was invented by Sono's sick imagination is open to debate. Mitsuru Kukikoshi stars as Shamoto, a timid owner of a small fish shop who has a chance encounter with Murata (Denden), the proprietor of a tropical fish megastore that completely overshadows Shamoto's family-run business. Murata offers to help Shamoto, giving his rebellious teenage daughter Mitsuko (Hikari Kajiwara) a job as one of his scantily clad assistants, but soon he is involving the bewildered Shamoto in murders, and forcing him to assist in the very gruesome dismemberment and disposal of body parts. Cold Fish is the blackest of comedies, and Sono's twisted sense of humour is vital as it prevents the film from simply becoming a nihilistic wallow in human depravity, which it frequently threatens to do so. Sono doesn't hold back from exploring his characters' darkest sexual and rage-filled impulses, but his film remains weirdly compelling, thanks in part to the outstanding ensemble work. Cold Fish builds to an outrageous, blood-soaked finale that has to be seen to be believed, with Sono displaying no pity for these characters as they slowly destroy themselves.
Final Festival Thoughts
So, that was my London Film Festival 2010, and it was a great couple of weeks. The standard was generally high; from the 61 films I saw there were very few out-and-out stinkers, and I ended up with no walkouts and only one case of falling asleep during a screening. However, despite seeing more films than in any previous year, I was disappointed that I didn't get to see everything I would have liked. I'm not too worried about some of the bigger pictures, like The King's Speech and Biutiful because I know I'll have plenty of opportunities to catch those before they get released, but it was frustrating to hear friends and fellow filmgoers rave about 13 Assassins, Blue Valentine, A Somewhat Gentle Man, Taipei Exchanges or Cold Weather, and not know when (or if) these films will receive distribution. It's so hard to predict these days what festival films will receive a proper cinema release; in fact, I remember thinking that Balibo, one of my favourite films from the 2009 LFF, was a dead cert for a wide release, and yet it still hasn't seen the light of day.
Those disappointments aside, the 2010 LFF was a major success. I met some great people and saw some great films, and it's just such a pleasure to spend a couple of weeks watching an eclectic range of cinema surrounded by people who share your passion. Searching for common themes among the films I saw, there's no question that this was a particularly strong year for documentary filmmaking, whether they are straightforward documentaries or films that daringly experiment with the form. Otherwise, the most interesting trait I noticed in the films I watched was that many of them dealt with themes of loneliness or alienation, or of communities somehow cut off from the world at large: Meek's Cutoff, Adrienn Pál, Archipelago, Aurora and Of Gods and Men could all fit this loose description. Also, it was great to see so many filmmakers I admire stepping up their game with bold, ambitious films and, in some cases, producing the best work of their career. Apichatpong Weerasethakul, Kelly Reichardt, Olivier Assayas, Mike Leigh, Jerzy Skolimowski, Cristi Puiu and Peter Mullan all left the festival with their already considerable reputations enhanced.
And that's about it. Below you can read my final take on the best and worst of the 2010 London Film Festival. Roll on LFF 2011!
The Best of the Fest
1 - Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives
2 - Meek's Cutoff
3 - Waste Land
4 - Essential Killing
5 - Carlos
6 - Tabloid
7 - Another Year
8 - Dear Doctor
9 - Poetry
10 - Adrienn Pál
The Next Best: The Arbor, Archipelago, Aurora, Boxing Gym, Catfish, Hunting and Sons, The Kids Are All Right, Neds, Of Gods and Men, The Tillman Story.
The Worst
1 - Brighton Rock
2 - Blessed Events
3 - West is West
4 - The Nine Muses
5 - Howl
6 - Film socialisme
7 - Miral
8 - Southern District
9 - Kaboom
10 - The Taqwacores
