"Tristram Shandy: A Cock and Bull Story" takes a film about making a film to the next level. The film they are making is based on a novel that, sure enough, is about writing a novel. It's a modern-day version of Jean-Luc Godard's, "Le Mépris (Contempt)"; but instead of trying to put Ulysses on celluloid, "Tristram Shandy" follows a crew as they attempt to adapt Laurence Sterne's circuitous novel, "The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman," a not-so-simple task for a novel that is famed for being "unfilmable." The structure of the screenplay is an amazing accomplishment in itself. For instance, the lead, Steve Coogan, plays Tristram Shandy, Tristram Shandy's father, and himself, all while the cast and crew nonchalantly switch between the 18th and 21st centuries.
The first portion of the film is an adaptation of "The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman." Tristram Shandy recounts the events surrounding his quite eccentric childhood. Tristram watches from the sidelines as a child-actor recreates his experience of having a heavy window close on him as he is relieving himself out of a window. Why out the window? Who knows? Shandy then forms an unspoken bond with his uncle, Toby Shandy (Rob Brydon), who also had an accident in the same general anatomical area during a war.
Somewhere along the line, the director, who is now actually on screen, yells, "Cut!" The first glimpse of the crew behind the making of the movie is revealed. Coogan's assistant hustles into the room, asking if he wants coffee, the Director of Photography yells about the lighting, and the producer sits close by, diligently vocalizing his various concerns.
Here, we are introduced to Steve Coogan, a man plagued with self-doubt. He has a wife who struggles for his attention. He has a recently born child. He has people calling his name left and right. He carries the guilt of being unfaithful to his wife. He has an attractive assistant who throws herself at him. He is disillusioned with life. It is hard not to feel sorry for him, but at the same time, it is hard not to want to yell, "Get over yourself!" He has it pretty easy. At this point, Steve does not deserve our sympathy.
The pacing slows greatly during Coogan's story, especially compared to the earlier adaptation of the novel, which has faultless comedic timing and an engrossing, quirky storyline. The cinematography takes a dramatic change also. The filming becomes documentary-like, with the entirety of filming done on hand-held and an observable over reliance on rack-focuses. Although this cinematography may accomplish the overall goal of visualizing a meta-film, it becomes a little too haughty and self-absorbed. With the already grandiose weight taken on with the plot alone, the overuse of these visual goodies ends up diverting the concentration of the viewer.
As the multiple stories begin to interweave, the similarities between the new father, Coogan, and Tristram's father, Walter, become apparent; both of their families are unsteady, their sex lives are struggling, and they are wary about where their lives are headed. But, deep in the hearts of Coogan and Walter, there is goodness. And the story of "Tristam Shandy" lies in this evolution from wariness to something close to goodness.
The screenplay's structure is birthed as a shapeless, oozing blob that flows into the infinite. But, as every character begins to find a footing in the quicksand, the overall shape and structure of the film can be, at the most, grappled with. What we find from this ever-evolving shape is most definitely a celebration: a celebration of human error, existence, and storytelling at its bulkiest.
The first portion of the film is an adaptation of "The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman." Tristram Shandy recounts the events surrounding his quite eccentric childhood. Tristram watches from the sidelines as a child-actor recreates his experience of having a heavy window close on him as he is relieving himself out of a window. Why out the window? Who knows? Shandy then forms an unspoken bond with his uncle, Toby Shandy (Rob Brydon), who also had an accident in the same general anatomical area during a war.
Somewhere along the line, the director, who is now actually on screen, yells, "Cut!" The first glimpse of the crew behind the making of the movie is revealed. Coogan's assistant hustles into the room, asking if he wants coffee, the Director of Photography yells about the lighting, and the producer sits close by, diligently vocalizing his various concerns.
Here, we are introduced to Steve Coogan, a man plagued with self-doubt. He has a wife who struggles for his attention. He has a recently born child. He has people calling his name left and right. He carries the guilt of being unfaithful to his wife. He has an attractive assistant who throws herself at him. He is disillusioned with life. It is hard not to feel sorry for him, but at the same time, it is hard not to want to yell, "Get over yourself!" He has it pretty easy. At this point, Steve does not deserve our sympathy.
The pacing slows greatly during Coogan's story, especially compared to the earlier adaptation of the novel, which has faultless comedic timing and an engrossing, quirky storyline. The cinematography takes a dramatic change also. The filming becomes documentary-like, with the entirety of filming done on hand-held and an observable over reliance on rack-focuses. Although this cinematography may accomplish the overall goal of visualizing a meta-film, it becomes a little too haughty and self-absorbed. With the already grandiose weight taken on with the plot alone, the overuse of these visual goodies ends up diverting the concentration of the viewer.
As the multiple stories begin to interweave, the similarities between the new father, Coogan, and Tristram's father, Walter, become apparent; both of their families are unsteady, their sex lives are struggling, and they are wary about where their lives are headed. But, deep in the hearts of Coogan and Walter, there is goodness. And the story of "Tristam Shandy" lies in this evolution from wariness to something close to goodness.
The screenplay's structure is birthed as a shapeless, oozing blob that flows into the infinite. But, as every character begins to find a footing in the quicksand, the overall shape and structure of the film can be, at the most, grappled with. What we find from this ever-evolving shape is most definitely a celebration: a celebration of human error, existence, and storytelling at its bulkiest.