Every couple years, director Mike Leigh (Another Year; Vera Drake) delivers a delightfully British drama, oftentimes mined from history (Topsy-Turvy). This year brings Mr. Turner, a dour biopic illuminating the life of Joseph Mallard William Turner, one of the finest landscape painters (with a nautical obsession; Orlando Bloom’s character name in Pirates of the Caribbean is no accident), whose legacy is colored by his decision in leaving over 19,000 pieces of artwork to the British nation upon his death.

Mr. Turner chronicles an unspecified amount of time in the life of the controversial painter (one might say too long), and there’s no disputing that Timothy Spall (Harry Potter) is perfect for the role, as the thespian won the Best Actor award at Cannes for his all-consuming performance.

As Turner, Spall’s voice is a permanent bellow, punctuated often by grunts and growls. He has the deep gravelly voice befitting a chain-smoking British rockstar on his death bed, yet more often than not, he merely speaks in pointed grumbles, brow furrowed, his lips pursed permanently in a scowl, lower lip jutting out, as if Turner lives his life inches away from a particularly noxious fish dish. Dollop on his unwieldy sideburns, bushy eyebrows and blotched pink skin, and you have a particularly unappealing character who actually says things like, “I beseech you brook your ire.” It’s a testament to Spall’s talent that Turner doesn’t wholly devolve into caricature.

As is the norm with Mike Leigh, Mr. Turner is blessed with terrific costume design and lived-in sets, with as much attention to detail as one of Turner’s impressionist paintings. The movie is peppered with beautiful landscapes of the sea, forest and cliffs of England and abroad. The sanguine, placidly gorgeous vistas are jaw-dropping shots meant to contrast the chaotic nature of Turner’s life and his oil paintings, but mostly contrast the rest of the film because they’re actually pleasant to watch.

The movie’s too long, depressing and at times, boring. More interesting than Mr. Turner is how he affects other people. Turner barely acknowledges his gregarious and obnoxious wife, and we can hardly blame him based on her limited, one-note portrayal, but it’s still disheartening that he denies his children’s existence, skipping his daughter’s funeral. I’d have liked to see their side of things. Of course, we do get to see what his coming and goings and lack of interest in anyone else but himself does to Hannah Danby (Dorothy Atkinson), a hired hand who looks after his house and well-being (and random sexual desires) throughout his life, but aside from being increasingly scarred, sad and loopy, we never get a sense of who Hannah is. She clearly wants more from Turner (everyone does, especially his increasingly less adoring fans) to the point where she actually relishes his inconsistent but forceful advances, but we never know why, or if there even is one: Hannah almost comes off as a doddering, mentally challenged invalid. Of course, Mr. Turner treats everyone like a mentally challenged invalid, perhaps growing used to his simpleton father (Paul Jesson). While the elder Turner ostensibly appears to be the only person he cares about besides himself and his canvases, he really just likes to have a man around who reveres him that he can completely dominate intellectually.

We see a slightly cheerier relationship with Mrs. Booth (Marion Bailey), an elderly widower he woos, a relationship that never feels as comfortable for the viewer as it seemingly does to them. Turner is supposed to be a charming figure at times, but we never see any evidence for it, leaving us forever wondering why anyone wants to share his company.

Mr. Turner might be the most British movie I’ve ever seen, for better or worse. There’s a hilarious scene in which Turner bounces from artist to artist, “helping” them with their work with pointed suggestions, as they feverishly put the finishing touches of work that is to be proudly displayed for the king and queen. Turner’s the Naval commander of one of the many ships he’s painted, at home in the storm of war of politics, putting on a performance for his peers. He deliberately puts a massive splotch of red paint on what seemed to be a finished work, ruining a masterpiece. Instead, he transforms the blot into a buoy swaying in the sea, delighting his audience.

At one point, Mr. Turner and a few of his contemporaries meet over tea and discuss how the outside temperature affects the taste and refinement of the noble fruit, the gooseberry, replete with a snobby, petulant, effeminate art critic who slurs his r’s in cartoonish fashion (About Time’s Joshua McGuire).  Could it be any more British? Mr. Turner feels like a two and a half hour long Monty Python sketch that doesn’t realize it is one.

Even before Turner gets sick and deteriorates, succumbing to fits of choking, coughing and other avenues of human flatulence, Timothy Spall is fearless in portraying such a repulsive character. The whole film is noisy. I’ve never seen a movie where coughing seemed to overshadow the plot of the film. It’s not just wheezing; this movie has the weirdest crying scene I’ve ever seen, like Turner is a choking, dying wheezing pig. The whole movie sounds like a petting zoo hit by Ebola; Mr. Turner has a horrific fascination with these noises, and it’s wholly uncomfortable to sit through (and provokes violent reactions). There likely has never been a movie with more bodily babel, though I haven’t seen The Nutty Professor 2: The Klumps.

You know how, while you feel sorry for the poor sap coughing through a play the row behind you, you’re immediately annoyed and wish he would just go home? Mr. Turner is a movie about that man that you can’t escape from for 150 minutes. I appreciate Timothy Spall’s performance, because I’ve never seen anything like it (nor care to again), but even so, it was hard to take seriously, even in the middle of what wanted to be a prestigious artsy British biopic. Mr. Turner was a difficult figure to categorize; so is the film dedicated to his life.

Mr. Turner opens December 19th in NY and LA. 

For my money, there is not a funnier movie, second by second, scene to scene, than Monty Python and the Holy Grail. There isn’t a more quotable movie, or a more fun one to quote, either. While it’s probably not my favorite movie of all-time, it’s in the top 5, and is one of the best communal movie-going experiences ever.

Thank you John Cleese, Eric Idle, Terry Gilliam, Graham Chapman, Terry Jones and Michael Palin.

The brilliant quest for the Grail is one of those movies that presents you with a different favorite scene every time you watch it. The touchstone of a great comedy is when you ask people what their favorite scene is, and they all have wildly different answers to that question. That’s the beauty of the Holy Grail, the entire thing is made up of favorite scenes, jokes, and bits. It never drags, even through the brilliant credits (perhaps the best ever).

It’s Nigh impossible to pinpoint a favorite scene. When I first was shown Monty Python and the Holy Grail by my Uncle (who grew up listening to the movie on tape; how many movies can you just listen to and love?), I was most amused by the glee with which a 35 year old man watched it for the hundredth time, quoting every word. But by the second time I watched it, I was quoting it myself (and I’m not one of those people who quotes movies all the time, at least not outside of blog posts), laughing deliriously at the infinite silly, irreverent and timeless gags.

There’s the Rabbit of Caerbannog. The gay son who doesn’t want land, Father (“I just want to…sing!” STOP THAT), who’s like the spiritual cousin of Hermey the Elf from Rudolph. The stunning refusal of characters to die. The Trojan Bunny. Patsy. Camelot.

Glorious Patsy.

John Cleese’s taunting French guard. Swallows (“African or European?”). Wicked, bad, naughty Zoot. Shrubberies. Tim the Enchanter. Sir Not Appearing In This Film. The greatest and probably most accurate witch scene ever (“Who are you, who are so wise in the ways of science?”).

In other words: Everything. Every time you watch it, you discover a new gem you missed the first time (likely because you were laughing during it). Recently, my favorite has become the political scene involving Dennis the Peasant and his Mother (“Well, I didn’t vote for you” is my favorite thing to say):

While Monty Python and the Holy Grail doesn’t need booze to be the fulcrum of a fantastic Friday night, a frosty ale wouldn’t hurt it, neither. And thus is borne the Monty Python and the Holy Grail Drinking Game: Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch Edition.

THE RULES

1. Drink for butt trumpets. Because, butt trumpets:

2. Drink whenever you hear the infamous Monty Python cat scream. You’ll find it in the “Bring Out Yer Dead!” scene, for starters:

3. Drink for every utterance of “I’m not dead yet,” or variance thereof. This happens throughout, not just the above scene.

4. Any time there’s an argument about African or European swallows, drink.

5. Take a sip whenever Sir Lancelot kills someone.

6. Each time Arthur, King of the Britons proclaims, “I am Arthur, King of the Britons!”, take a swig.

7. Every time the Monks self-flagellate, sip for their pain.

8. Drink for every “Run away!”

9. Take a drink for every limb that the Black Knight loses.

10. Drink every time “Brave Sir Robin” is sung/uttered. This one comes with a multiplier: take an extra drink for every “Brave” said before “Sir Robin.”

11. Whenever you hear the Knights Who Say Ni (or formerly say Ni) say, “We are the Knights who say…”, drink.

12. Drink every time Sir Bedevere flips up his helmet (“Who are you, who are so wise in the ways of science?”).

13. Whenever something is launched (“Jesus Christ!”), drink.

14. Take a sip for every instance of story book graphics.

15. Waterfall for the Camelot song (“It’s a silly place”).

If you can’t hang with these rules, then…well:

During the fateful first get together of the Writer’s Meeting in Burbank (a group now forever known as “Hear Me Out, Bro!”), one of my friends brought up the film A FIELD IN ENGLAND.

I had heard of the movie, as it played at the Beyond Fest, which means one thing: it’s weird as shit. Aforementioned Writer Friend confirmed this, when he said he went to a screening and was offered shrooms by someone else in attendance. He declined the offer, never having taken shrooms and wisely resistant to experimenting for the first time in a public venue.

For a couple days I just thought this was an amusing anecdote. Then, on this particular Thursday night (Feb. 13th), faced with the possibility that I may never get the chance to see A FIELD IN ENGLAND in its proper venue, it was the only thing I could do without tearing off my apartment’s wallpaper. My apartment doesn’t have wallpaper; that’s how dire a situation it was, exacerbated by this trailer:

A FIELD IN ENGLAND was ending its run at Cinefamily‘s not-so Silent Movie Theater, an awesome local theater recently renovated and under new ownership (with JGL, Phil Lord and Michael Cera on the advisory board), playing both the classics (like Chaplin-era classics) and new, trippy films like Ben Wheatley’s newest. Not only would I miss out on the chance to see this bizarre movie about a few 17th century British civil war deserters in theaters, I’d be missing a chance to see it at the Silent Movie Theater, on one of their comfy couches that take up the first few rows, AND, I’d miss the possibility of seeing a psychedelic movie on psychedelic drugs. So, I made sure that didn’t happen.

I’ve done shrooms once, and it was alternately one of the best and worst moments of my life, but it also revolved around an (admittedly obvious) movie: PINEAPPLE EXPRESS. For a couple hours, I was one of James Franco and Seth Rogen’s pals, along for the ride, kicking out the windshields and giggling with them.

Then, I was forced to endure the movie a SECOND TIME (I couldn’t move from the couch; the only thing I managed to do was rub the hardwood floors lovingly with my feet), and that led to vomit, massive embarrassment and darker thoughts than I’ve probably ever had. I wanted to go to the hospital, or bang my head against the toilet to blissfully pass out for a little while. I was prepared to live the rest of my life in a psych ward in a straitjacket, with my parents looking down at me in disappointment. Miraculously, friends and WALL-E managed to drag me out of the darkness and into the light of the stars.

Having had this experience, I felt like I was ready for A FIELD IN ENGLAND, and thought the movie would be better for it.

I hopped on the bus, and arrived way too early. I purchased my tickets and walked around Fairfax, determined to squeeze out even more fun into this evening. After a Yelp search and a few circles around the block that likely made another moviegoer believe I was chasing him, I ended up at…

The Dime. The place is exactly the dive one wants at about 1:38 AM. At 8 PM on a Thursday, there was about 4 people in the bar, and the tiny space felt darn right huge and comfortable, a feeling never shared after 10 PM. From my painful conversation with the hot bartender, I learned that the Dime had DJ’s every night (every night). I also learned that a dive bar in LA means $9 well vodka drinks. The Dime is not the right name, though it does have one of those old-school cash registers:

The vodka soda at least was strong, and it readied me for the mindfucks to come.

Unfortunately, no one offered me shrooms. I don’t know if I didn’t qualify, if Shroom Dude wasn’t in attendance, or if my writer friend just happened upon a miracle (and wasted it). Until I arrived there, it seemed to me like it was a veritable certainty, as if my ticket entailed I receive a handful of smelly, awful tasting psychotropic drugs.

Alas, it was not meant to be (or perhaps thankfully, judging from my only other experience), and I think the movie was worse for it. I had no idea what was going on, and while I know that was the point, I feel like I just wasn’t on the same plane of existence with the characters, the filmmakers or the writers (Amy Jump and Ben Wheatley). This movie demands another frame of mind and a lack of sobriety, and I celebrate it for that. It’s essentially MONTY PYTHON meets David Lynch and Ingmar Bergman.

Even so, it managed to be hilarious at times, and if you desire random penises and other disturbing images of violence, sex and god knows what, wrapped around by an absorbingly eerie score, A FIELD is for you. There’s even a scene where one of the soldiers is literally choking on mushrooms, and I can’t imagine this movie puts you in good, magical happy trip land based on its fucked up content.

While I was disappointed by the movie and the experience as a whole, I’m glad I went for it. I could’ve stayed home and caught up on AMERICAN HORROR STORY, but instead, I tried to live out my own episode. These are the kinds of things I’m in LA for; these are the kinds of things we live for. I’d rather go and experience the weird, than for a moment regret I didn’t.

I also ended up getting a business card out of it for an event planner who once raised money for charity by traveling across the world wearing only a Tuxedo. Yes, the guy rules.

To figure out how to see A FIELD IN ENGLAND, check its website. Its apparently on demand, available on DVD and Blu-Ray, and during the summer of its release, you could’ve seen A FIELD IN ENGLAND…in a field in England. That would’ve been everything.