London Film Festival 2010: Carlos

Excuses first, my London Film Festival blogs haven't been up to their usual standard, partly because I've been kept busy at the festival and also because I'm writing this on a plane to the Middle East, where the second Doha Tribeca Film Festival is about to begin. I'm hoping to write a more considered LFF wrap when I get back to the UK on Sunday, but in the meantime I'm going to pick out a couple of very interesting movies that I have so far neglected. The first is Carlos, which I missed in Cannes on account of the fact that I was supposed to interview Lindsay Lohan on the only day the five-hour-plus cut of Olivier Assayas's film screened there (it played out of competition, so it wasn't repeated). In my defence, Ms Lohan was supposed to be discussing her role as porn star Linda Lovelace in the upcoming biopic Inferno, so it wasn't like I was waiting for the scoop on Herbie 2. It was also the day that two bogus policemen came to the Empire apartment, apparently staking the place out for potential burglary, so I think I can be excused for dereliction of duty that day.

I kicked myself afterwards because Carlos was one of the few hits of the festival, uniting both European and US critics in praise, which is no mean feat in itself. And I have to confess that I didn't see the film at its LFF screening, preferring the easier option of the home DVD experience, which I expect (or rather hope) is the way you'll see it too. And even on the small screen, Carlos is a revelation – this is definitely one of the best films of the year, hands down, even though its roots as a TV movie will be used against it. And the curious thing about it is that it reaches this high status without even seeming to try; the canvas is broad, the narrative fragmented, politically complex and not especially coherent (like its subject), but Carlos is a film that should draw you in regardless.

The key attraction is Spanish-born actor Edgar Ramirez as Ilich Ramirez Sanchez, the South America ideologue who, in the 70s, transformed himself into the freedom fighter known first as Carlos and then Carlos The Jackal after a copy of Frederick Forsyth's novel (ie, The Day Of...) was found in one of his hideouts, even though it probably wasn't his. And although he doesn't have much experience of leading even a regular two-hour movie, Ramirez handles a complex and demanding role with ease. And it is demanding. Because Carlos, in Assayas's story, is the Elvis of terrorism, a young, sexy rebel who became obsessed with his own countercultural superstar image and went to seed once the new world order he helped to create turned on him and rejected him. Assayas underscores this with the most eclectic soundtrack I've ever heard, dropping tracks by Wire, A Certain Ratio, New Order and The Dead Boys onto the action to surprisingly good effect.

For his part, Assayas foregoes the usual biodrama beats and steers a unique path through Carlos's story that's somewhere between rock biopic and cinema verite. Because the film traverses the world, Assayas keeps to the native tongue wherever possible, so if Carlos is in Germany he speaks German and in the Middle East he speaks English – not altogether fluently, like the people he meets. The result is wonderful, and the imperfections in the dialogue make the conversations all the more chilling, especially in the electrifying scenes where Carlos hijacks an OPEC meeting, the centrepiece of the movie and the main reason to see it. Some say the end is an anticlimax, but I beg to differ. Carlos (the real Carlos) wanted to be an Arthur Rimbaud but he didn't even get to be Jim Morrison. There is no myth, and Assayas's film handles that bathos perfectly.