What Becomes of the Broken-Hearted?

Despite being very different, each was a fine film that located characters within their environments and perfectly captured the pace and atmosphere of lives being lived. All of which makes Norwegian Wood such a disappointment, as not only is it a mediocre adaptation of Haruki Murakami's acclaimed 1987 novel (copies of which are being given away to help launch the film), but it is also such a contrivedly poetic and calculatingly tasteful picture that there is no room for the emotion that is so central to the 1960s-set story.

Rinko Kikuchi and Kengo Kôra have been friends from infancy and Kenichi Matsuyama has been allowed to share in their intimacy after palling up with Kôra at school. However, when Kôra commits suicide on his 17th birthday, Kikuchi and Matsuyama drift apart and he buries himself so deeply his books that he barely notices the student demonstrations raging around Tokyo in 1968.

The 19 year-old Matsuyama lives in a dormitory room with the molysmophobic Tokio Emoto and Tetsuji Tamayama, a cocky patrician who treats devoted girlfriend Eriko Hatsune like dirt. However, Matsuyama isn't entirely blameless, as he frequently accompanies Tamayama on girl-hunting sessions, even though he has developed a crush on fellow student, Kiko Mizuhara. But when he unexpectedly bumps into Kikuchi, he allows his long-suppressed feelings to come to the fore and they make love on her 20th birthday.

As they lie together afterwards, Matsuyama asks the virginal Kikuchi why she never slept with Kôra and she is so distressed by the question that she disappears and only contacts Matsuyama many months later to say she is staying in a country sanitorium and will be in touch when she feels stronger. Feeling dejected, Matsuyama indulges in another one-night stand, while also retaining his interest in Mizuhara. However, she insists she has a boyfriend and, tempted though she is, she refuses to betray him.

Time passes and Kikuchi invites Matsuyama to visit her and he agrees to being chaperoned by her roommate, Reika Kirishima. Nevertheless, they find time to be alone and Kikuchi suggests she would like a romance with Matsuyama, but is still too psychologically fragile to commit fully, especially as she no longer feels sufficiently aroused when they attempt intercourse.

Back in Tokyo, Matsuyama tries to chat to Mizuhara, but she blanks him, as she is too aware of his conflicted passions. He is further shamed when Tamayana boasts in front of Hatsune about the night they swapped girls in a cheap hotel and she urges him during the car-ride home not to emulate Tamayana's self-obsessed boorishness. But, shortly after he moves out of the dormitory and asks Kikuchi to move in with him, Matsuyama learns that she has hanged herself in a snowy wood and he escapes to the coast to grieve.

On his return, however, he finds Kirishima waiting for him. She had written him several letters outlining Kikuchi's declining mental state and this closeness prompts them to sleep together in order to give them the strength to begin the rest of their lives. Kirishima has decided to abandon her husband and child and teach music in another part of Japan. But Matsuyama phones Mizuhara to profess his love and her quiet smile suggests she is finally ready for a relationship.

Ending gloriously with The Beatles performing the title track, this is an impeccable piece of craftsmanship. Ping Bin Lee's high-definition photography is the standout, whether he's gloomily illuminating drab campus interiors, revelling in the lush greenery and snowy whites of the sanatorium sequences or using torrid seascapes to convey Matsuyama's despair after Kikuchi's death. Norifumi Ataka and Yen Khe Luguern's production design is equally exemplary, while Yen Khe Luguern's costumes restrainedly capture the 60s mood as neatly as the Can songs on the soundtrack.

But the score by Radiohead's Jonny Greenwood is much less subtle, as it rams home each emotional shift. Indeed, Tran's direction similarly suffers from over-emphasis and an elliptical enigmaticism that will dismay those familiar with the book and simply confuse those who aren't. The fragmentary structuring is compounded by the funereal pacing and the over-reliance on voiceover (which is used to reveal the tragic fate of both Hatsune and Kikuchi). Moreover, none of the principals particularly seem to inhabit their roles, with the debuting Mizuhara missing the garrulous vibrancy that made the contrast between the Midori and the Naoko of the novel so stark.

Kikuchi (who earned an Oscar nomination for her work in Alejandro González Iñárritu's Babel) is more persuasive as the latter. But she also seems too mature and controlled for such a vulnerable waif, while Matsuyama's Toru Watanabe is never as confusedly caddish as the novel's anti-hero. But the acting frustrates far less than Tran's melodramatic handling, which eschews the eroticism of the source and over-laces nearly every exquisitely composed image with faux lyricism in striving to render the aching sadness and desperate longing that Murakami achieved so delicately.

Sangeeta Datta's direction also errs on the heavy handed side in Life Goes On, another insight into bereavement that centres on an affluent London-based Bengali family as it comes to terms with secrets and lies that have lain dormant, in some cases, for over half a century. Datta can't be faulted for trying to explore so many intriguing issues. But in attempting to cover everything from Partition and continuing Hindu-Muslim tensions to desi integration and lesbianism, she often ends up settling for platitudes instead of in-depth discussion.

When librarian Sharmila Tagore dies while preparing doctor husband Girish Karnad's evening meal, he is devastated and leans heavily on his three daughters, Mukulika Banerjee, Neerja Naik and Soha Ali Khan. He is also consoled by the boundless cheeriness of his oldest friend, Om Puri. But, as the arrangements are made for Tagore's funeral, a number of home truths begin to leak out.

Having risked her father's ire to marry English banker Christopher Hatherall, Banerjee now feels neglected, as he uses the recession as an excuse to work long hours and avoid taking care of their young child. Naik became even more of a pariah when she announced her ambition to become a sports journalist and she is distraught at having hardly seen Tagore since moving to Birmingham with her French lover, Steph Patten.

But it's Karnad's favourite daughter who hurts him most, as not only is Ali Khan determined to appear as Cordelia in a production of King Lear during her period of mourning, but she is also pregnant by her Bangladeshi doctor boyfriend, Rez Kempton. She thinks back to Tagore promising to intervene on her behalf and now realises that will have to face her father's full fury when she breaks the news alone.

Karnad and Puri are not immune from troubling thoughts, however. The first keeps harking back to the late 1940s, when his childhood friend suddenly became his enemy when the move for independence pitted Muslim and Hindu against each other, while the last has to live with the guilt of an unrequited love that he has kept hidden ever since leaving India.

Played by a capable cast with laudable earnestness, this always feels more indebted to Satyajit Ray and Ritwik Ghatak than the British directors Datta cites as her primary influences, Mike Leigh and Ken Loach. Indeed, the realism is stilted throughout, while the references to Lear are as awkwardly integrated as the flashbacks to Karnad's troubled youth and Tagore's affectionate conversations with her daughters. Even the usually reliable Om Puri struggles to animate the jovial drinker whose endless quips are supposed to make him akin to the pompously irascible Karnad's Fool.

Yet, Datta makes solid use of differing musical styles to counterpoint the generational attitudes to such contentious topics as identity and belonging. Some may be less convinced by the soulful reveries that allow song lyrics to comment upon the action, but this tried-and-trusted masala tactic is a valid part of the British Asian screen tradition and the melancholic ballads enable cinematographer Robert Shacklady to produce some winsome soft-focus images of Tagore and Ali Khan, the real-life mother and daughter who are co-starring together for the first time.

Despite the surfeit of crises, there's rarely any doubt that harmony will eventually be restored to the Karnad household. But life is very different from art, as Ken Wardrop demonstrates with considerable charm in His & Hers, a documentary filmed in the Irish Midlands that reflects upon the old proverb that a man loves his sweetheart the most, his wife the best and his mother the longest.

Bookended by silent images of a newborn baby in its crib and an old lady in a home, the film makes for endlessly amusing and occasionally poignant entertainment as it focuses on 70 girls and women, as they ruminate upon the men in their lives. However, this doesn't make it the easiest item to review, as the subjects are only afforded a single moment in the spotlight and they hop between topics with alacrity as Wardrop ascends the age range.

The majority of the subjects are seated and speak directly into the camera. But several are busy with chores or show off photos and keepsakes that help clarify their relationship with the father, boyfriend, husband or son they happen to be talking about. Few offer great insights into the male psyche or the female willingness to tolerate its shortcomings. But all speak with an affection and honesty that make their views so simply profound.

If the picture has a fault, it lies in the selection of mostly white, middle-class interviewees and the eschewal of any contentious topics. Indeed, strict parenting and a tendency towards thoughtless chauvinism seem to be the most heinous crimes committed by these unseen Irishmen, several of whom seem to work the land. But, even though they mostly speak in hushed tones here, it seems clear that many of these women could also wield a big stick if required and few seem unhappy with the choices they have made.

The most moving contributions come towards the end, as the elderly widows recall happier times and lament the loneliness that only the fortunate ones have relieved by doting sons. But Wardrop avoids sentimentality with the same scrupulousness he brings to the composition of images designed to reinforce both the homogeneity and discongruity of these warm, witty, wise and wholly worldly women. Wardrop spent half an hour with each subject and edited out any questions, instructions and interjections. Indeed, it's fascinating to compare his methodology with that of Robert Flaherty, who caused considerable controversy in seeking to creatively record reality in Man of Aran (1934), which is reissued this week.

One of the first examples of a docudrama, this landmark actuality centres on young Mikeleen (Michael Dirrane) spots a basking shark off the coast of the Isle of Aran and waits with his mother (Maggie Dirrane) while his father (Colman 'Tiger' King) spends two days on the treacherous Atlantic breakers trying to capture the creature.

Flaherty conceived the idea of a sea hunt in 1932 when he sighted a basking shark near his then-home on Achill Island, off the County Mayo coast. Undeterred by the fact that Irish fishermen hadn't caught sharks for oil for some 60 years, he had replica harpoons made and put his cast through an intensive training course.

However, he arrived on Aran after the basking season had ended and had to secure a year's shooting extension from Michael Balcon at Gainsborough, who had provided him with cast-off film stock and a big enough budget to shoot in silence and construct a soundtrack in post-production. When the camera finally began to roll, Flaherty amassed 200,000 feet of film and frequently feuded with the Soviet-influenced John Goldman as it was edited down to a mere 7,000.

But the compelling clash between Flaherty's predilection for natural mise-en-scène and Goldman's preference for montage was largely overlooked as the film provoked a fierce ethical and artistic debate about the nature of documentary film-making. While some critics praised Flaherty's use of long lenses to record the intimidating majesty of the ocean, many more regretted his manipulation of fact.

The fisherman's family were selected for their photogenicity, while the use of seaweed for potato planting was as anachronistic as the shark hunt. But it wasn't the romaticising of reality that most objected to, but the failure to allude to such pressing issues as the islanders' exploitation by absentee landlords, the class conflict that existed on Aran and its relationship with the newly established Free State. Indeed, some accused Flaherty of producing a work of escapism whose demeaning and reactionary attitudes to tradition and progress not only revealed his essential lack of humanity, but also abnegated the documentarist's duty to produce films with a social purpose.

Seen today, the action retains a heroic feel and it's hard not to admire Flaherty's eye for a memorable image. But the compromised purity undoubtedly detracts from the picture's impact and it pales in comparison with the more astutely made Louisiana Story (1948).

The latter suggested how well Flaherty had learned the lesson of Man of Aran, as, even though it was sponsored by the Standard Oil Company, it unflinchingly depicted the disruption caused to bayou life by the installation of an exploratory rig. Six decades later, Mark Hopkins retained a similar sense of perspective in making Living in Emergency, a trenchant insight into the work done in crisis zones around the world by Médecins Sans Frontières, which he was only able to film with the rarely granted co-operation of the Paris-based organisation.

A fraction of the volunteers taken on by Doctors Without Frontiers return for a second mission and this uncompromising feature shows why. Hopkins based himself in Liberia and the Democratic Republic of Congo to show how MSF establishes clinics in the midst of chaos and then withdraws after the emergency is over. But, rather than chronicling MSF's or outlining its working methods, Hopkins lets the emphasis fall on the toll that practicing in appalling and often dangerous conditions takes on the medics who sign up full of optimism, good intentions and an unshakeable faith in their ability to make a difference to those less fortunate than themselves.

Italian toxicologist Chiara Lepora and Australian anaesthesiologist Chris Brasher were once equally idealistic. But the leader of the MSF presence at the Namba Point Hospital in Monrovia, and the new member of Arnaud Jennin's team at the Kanya outpost in the Congolese jungle no longer have any illusions. Indeed, they are considering their futures, as Tennessee surgeon Tom Krueger lands in Liberia for his first tour and Aussie-Asian Davinder Gill rapidly reaches the conclusion that he won't be re-enlisting after being billeted in the remote village of Foya with hundreds of patients, limited resources and an unreliable communications system.

Namba Point is the only free emergency hospital in a city with a population of one million. But it is facing closure, as the Liberian Civil War is over and other regions are in direr need of MSF assistance. The decision strains relations between Lepora and local doctors like Alpha Diallo (who, at one point, reacts badly to being accused of arrogance by French medic Chrystelle Roux). But Lepora is used to conflict, as she frequently defies orders from Paris to venture into the Westpoint shantytown that is a no-go area to all other NGOs based in the capital.

She also has to cope with the frustration of those fighting uphill battles against disease, ignorance and inhumanity. As the first doctor in Foya in 15 years, Gill quickly comes to suffer from what Lepora calls Hearts of Darkness syndrome and they fall out dramatically over the treatment of a pitiable young boy with swellings all over his body. But her experience has taught her that not everyone can be saved and this grim fact is one of the hardest for newcomers to accept.

Things are only marginally quieter in Kayna, as Brasher and Jennin enjoy a run of successes that includes saving a man shot in the head by improvising a drill to relieve the pressure on his brain and bringing a young girl who had witnessed the murder of her parents out of her trauma. But they fail with a boy they had brought back from the brink of cardiac arrest and resort to the same regimen of beer, fags and bawdy humour to get them past the distress as they used to celebrate their triumphs.

All agree that recreation is vital to relieving the pressure and Hopkins includes footage of the Namba Point crew relaxing on the beach and Lepora bopping away at a disco in the bush and extolling the virtues of copious sex. But even though they forge close ties with indigenous staff, a certain tension always remains, especially amongst those resentful of MSF's imminent withdrawal from Monrovia.

Choppered in from Congo, Brasher is delighted to see that a semblance of normality has returned to a city he last saw in the depths of brutal anarchy. But, while he has decided to base himself in Paris for a spell and Gill has accepted a paediatrician post Down Under, Krueger has elected to return for a second stint and is awaiting news of his posting, while Lepora has been promoted to the rank of Emergency Co-ordinator. She takes a last walk around the streets she has come to know well over the past 14 months. But, as one of the locals says in a speech at her farewell party, Médecins Sans Frontières is not about individuals.

Capturing camaraderie, tragedy, euphoria, self-doubt, horror and heroism with a candour that prevents it from becoming a pious paean to angels of mercy prepared to risk their lives in the service of their fellow men and women, this is a deeply humbling experience. Often working with basic equipment (one amputation is performed with piano wire) during power cuts and food and water shortages, the principal quartet consistently demonstrate courage and ingenuity that no medical school could teach. But Hopkins and cameraman Sebastian Ischer are not blind to either the post-colonial antagonisms that exist or the limitations imposed by MSF's mandate. Consequently, with Bruno Coulais's score reinforcing the mood of sobriety, what Hopkins presents is less a message of hope than a shocking reflection of bleak reality.