Everything you ever thought could be wrong with a movie, but you gotta love it. Camp and impossible characters, new faces in big roles, familiars in wrong ones, clichés abound, jokes fall like lead balloons, music replaces pace, but it works. See it. Forget it's a Richie movie and you have to like it, a lot. Action and pretty fast cutting whip this frenzied tale of miscreants oiling the highways of lowlife London and once you decide to go with it and forget Lock Stock, it's a smile at high speed. Deduct a point for the bum performance of the beauty queen accountant who you want to kick from the off and it's an entertaining night with a bottle of cheap wine and an absence of synthetic chemical recreation.
Reviews
11 Reviews
Taking Chance
(2009 TV Movie)
Fallen US Marine returns home with escort
30 May 2010
Warning: Spoilers
For anyone who has been bereaved, in the field of acting this is the closest I've witnessed to the emotional, numbing effect of the real thing. Very quietly understated, and not the most obviously entertaining vehicle for Kevin Bacon, it's clearly a movie he wanted to be a part of. His performance as a career marine is studied, though not overly to the point that his human, emotional reactions are masked.
Bacon's power increases in proportion with his age, and he has such great presence in this beautiful movie, yet still allows the casket to hold the most attention. The respect shown along the way, on the sad journey from the middle east to Chance's home via airports and terminals is moving, warm, and treated with the grace the subject deserves. This is a piece that tends to wake you up to what is happening right now, regardless of the political manipulations of those who run the war game. If die-hard cynics can allow themselves to relax and see this film in the spirit with which I'm sure it was made, I'm certain they will be rewarded, even if it only serves to remind them that they too have hearts.
Bacon's power increases in proportion with his age, and he has such great presence in this beautiful movie, yet still allows the casket to hold the most attention. The respect shown along the way, on the sad journey from the middle east to Chance's home via airports and terminals is moving, warm, and treated with the grace the subject deserves. This is a piece that tends to wake you up to what is happening right now, regardless of the political manipulations of those who run the war game. If die-hard cynics can allow themselves to relax and see this film in the spirit with which I'm sure it was made, I'm certain they will be rewarded, even if it only serves to remind them that they too have hearts.
A History of Violence
(2005)
Clueless Plot less Formless Pointless - Usual Cronenberg Fare
15 May 2009
I watched this directly after the magnificently wretched Eastern Promises (see my comment), and didn't realise till the titles came up that it was a David Cronenberg effort. After slagging-off his Anglo-Russian pantomime and awarding perhaps half percent credit for Mortensen's performance (not without critical drawbacks), I wondered if I'd done him an injustice; maybe he'd actually made a WORSE movie and I'd just missed it? I wish ... This is far, far inferior to the later effort (and I will stress - EFFORT).
Why do they keep on giving this man money to try to make movies when it's painfully apparent he hasn't even got what it takes to make a third rate film, and this is with a cast including Ed Harris and William Hurt? Okay, it's based on a graphic novel, but isn't it about time they gave him something more suitable to do with his time; adverts for The Mindless maybe, shampoo promotions or dogfood slots? I'm reminded of Steve Martin's line in Trains, Planes and Automobiles, when he says to John Candy's Dale Griffin character, 'hey and here's some advice, next time you tell a story - have a point'. Here there IS no point. The unraveling anecdote has no form, no plot and no direction, but I think we've come to expect that haven't we?
Once again Mortensen is great, the only thing he does wrong is to get involved with the piece, and he ought to steer clear of this director chum if he wants to retain any dignity or progression in his career. It's one-dimensional, and keeping with his usual theme, Cronenberg has no sympathetic characters, in fact none of the characters have any character at all. If he's a film-maker fascinated by violence, we'd all be better served by leaving him in a dark room to tell himself what he'd like to do to all those intellectuals who make witty, themed movies full of body, charm and charisma (Wes Anderson for instance), directors who hit the mark on every outing with courageous invention, multi-layered creativity and possibly much lower budgets?
While there are Cinemas still able to break even in the face of recession, it seems madness that no-one can spot meaningless operas of mayhem before they get any further in production than the story-board. There are so many useful and talented artists, from writers through to those more heavily involved in such projects that it seems inconceivable that not one person with the requisite power to stop this sort of drivel had the balls to yell out 'CUT' before the whole silly episode got out of hand.
My biggest gripe with David Cronenberg is that he doesn't appear to credit his audience with any intelligence at all any more, or perhaps he's lost the ability to spot a good story. I now think he's capable of screwing-up any and every idea he's handed, and the man must be restrained physically from entering any studio with the intent of telling a tale HIS WAY.
Of the actual film, William Hurt, miscast as a Philadelphia heavy, and Ed Harris with ridiculous mob uniform of black suit,tie and shades are given clunky clichéd dialogue the like of which (sorry for the cliché) has not been heard since the original '50s series of Dragnet. The sex scenes, those heavily overdone, ambiguous -(does she like it, doesn't she like it) - have all been done before, with grace and danger, and so much better, in B movies from the Golden Age of Hollywood and New Wave French Cinema.
What was Cronenberg trying to say,(badly)? Perhaps, 'everyone reverts to their real personality in the end'. Well David, on this showing, you've proved that YOU do!
Why do they keep on giving this man money to try to make movies when it's painfully apparent he hasn't even got what it takes to make a third rate film, and this is with a cast including Ed Harris and William Hurt? Okay, it's based on a graphic novel, but isn't it about time they gave him something more suitable to do with his time; adverts for The Mindless maybe, shampoo promotions or dogfood slots? I'm reminded of Steve Martin's line in Trains, Planes and Automobiles, when he says to John Candy's Dale Griffin character, 'hey and here's some advice, next time you tell a story - have a point'. Here there IS no point. The unraveling anecdote has no form, no plot and no direction, but I think we've come to expect that haven't we?
Once again Mortensen is great, the only thing he does wrong is to get involved with the piece, and he ought to steer clear of this director chum if he wants to retain any dignity or progression in his career. It's one-dimensional, and keeping with his usual theme, Cronenberg has no sympathetic characters, in fact none of the characters have any character at all. If he's a film-maker fascinated by violence, we'd all be better served by leaving him in a dark room to tell himself what he'd like to do to all those intellectuals who make witty, themed movies full of body, charm and charisma (Wes Anderson for instance), directors who hit the mark on every outing with courageous invention, multi-layered creativity and possibly much lower budgets?
While there are Cinemas still able to break even in the face of recession, it seems madness that no-one can spot meaningless operas of mayhem before they get any further in production than the story-board. There are so many useful and talented artists, from writers through to those more heavily involved in such projects that it seems inconceivable that not one person with the requisite power to stop this sort of drivel had the balls to yell out 'CUT' before the whole silly episode got out of hand.
My biggest gripe with David Cronenberg is that he doesn't appear to credit his audience with any intelligence at all any more, or perhaps he's lost the ability to spot a good story. I now think he's capable of screwing-up any and every idea he's handed, and the man must be restrained physically from entering any studio with the intent of telling a tale HIS WAY.
Of the actual film, William Hurt, miscast as a Philadelphia heavy, and Ed Harris with ridiculous mob uniform of black suit,tie and shades are given clunky clichéd dialogue the like of which (sorry for the cliché) has not been heard since the original '50s series of Dragnet. The sex scenes, those heavily overdone, ambiguous -(does she like it, doesn't she like it) - have all been done before, with grace and danger, and so much better, in B movies from the Golden Age of Hollywood and New Wave French Cinema.
What was Cronenberg trying to say,(badly)? Perhaps, 'everyone reverts to their real personality in the end'. Well David, on this showing, you've proved that YOU do!
Eastern Promises
(2007)
Chronenberg delivers turkey to your door!
15 May 2009
It happens to us all I suppose, my high-point was winning in the third round of Central Secondary Modern's ping-pong championship in 1962. It was all downhill after that. I sometimes think Cronenberg peaked with Existenze, but surely there are limits to how low you can fall? I won't waste skin tissue by typing too much if I can avoid it. Cardboard characters, stereotypes abound, joke story, bad acting (Cassel is laugh-cringe-inducing) Naomi Watts invisible, I half-expected Mrs Overall to creep in and the scenery to shake. Editing - what editing? It must have been years ago they all saw The Godfather and everyone forgot you need several ingredients in the right proportion for critical acclaim; style, pace, talent, judgement etc. The party scene (attempted rip-off of the Corleone wedding) has some bloke badly dressed as a Russian peasant singer looking like an extra in Coronation Street - I kid you not. Saving grace? None. Mortensen's performance is good, but it's as if he's acting in another, much better movie without the rest of the cast and crew being aware! Make no mistake, this movie is a catastrophe and the director doesn't deserve another chance. Do yourself a favour and compare it to REAL skill: The Lives of Others, or failing that, check out The Bill on telly, that's crap too but Eastern Promises makes it look like high Art.
Oliver Twist
(2005)
Why am I so angry? Meat Madam! I should be kept on gruel!
31 March 2006
Warning: Spoilers
Now I'm not a literary expert, and I know Roman Polanski is well capable of hitting the mark with classy, searing studies of unorthodox behaviour and plot, but to tackle Dickens in the light of at least three adequate and successful previous versions is a not a task for one who may already have peaked professionally. I love many of Polanski's earlier films, for me the height of his art came in the little known Le Locataire (AKA The Tenant: 1976), a study of character and bizarre momentum guaranteed to put you off renting a budget apartment in Paris. It's so apparent he hasn't chosen projects well for a long period now, and flying in the face of popular opinion, this was much as I expected. On this evidence, discerning producers will not be beating a way to his door.
Every movie lover knows that Oliver Twist kicks off with Mother dying and giving the boy a necklace, the McGuffin, the plot-point that must be written so very skilfully, thus misdirecting the audience, (difficult enough with a well-known story). As usual in Dickens-movies this would be placed with a very large sledgehammer right at the start so that we can commence suspending our belief whilst Amos Killfarthing suspects he's the father of Beatrice Blackhamp and that her house is where the missing will was found even though Noah Goodberry and Silas Crackenfast buried it in the garden where the butcher concealed the bones that contained the ruby brooch that Amos was given by the Duke of Buckingham. We find Dickens' coincidences comfortable don't we? So it comes as no surprise that Roman apparently decreed: 'this is a cornball coincidence, so lose the bit about the mother, the necklace, the daughter, and Oliver being Brownlow's grandson etc. I don't blame him, I always hated that amateur Twist in the story too. But if you lose that daft dodge, it's like taking out the crucifixion and still hoping for sympathy at the end of The Gospel According to St Matthew.
Castwise, there's Bill Sykes (Jamie Foreman); well how'd you like to have to follow in the steps of Robert Newton who probably actually was a Victorian Bully-boy off the set, or Ollie Reed? Now there's an Oliver you wouldn't trust with your cat or your canapés, every inch the pulsating psychopath with or without a script. I was relieved when he got topped on screen, a scintillating and disruptive influence on the plot, just what the script-doctor ordered!! Jamie Foreman played it up as a sort of soap opera baddie. ('I really don't like your tone Mrs Crutchworth! kindly leave the Crescent)! As if all that wasn't dire enough, take away any pretence at pace, London greyness, depth or interest, arm the best mature actress in the UK (Liz Smith) with a couple of measly lines, then give her the elbow, and voilà! all is prepared for the visionary New Ending. Wassat you say, that's how Dickens wrote it? Yeah right, that may be the ending Dickens actually wrote, and if it is ... he was a worse writer that I'd taken him for, and more credit to David Lean (1948) and Carol Reed (1968) for leaving that bit out and giving us a proper movie finale.
So Bill Sykes clumsily hangs himself, but without any drama at all. Probably a lot of accidental suicides happen like that, but not when being witnessed by a regular 1864(?) Hue & Cry with all the Peelers, Strowbuckers and Cordwanglers (Victorian terms), and a Very Worried and theatrical Mr Brownlow (wide eyed and hand-to-mouth).
I'm not dissing this 'Oliver' for the sake of it or because I don't like the author, 'au contraire lesser mortals', I rated the television version (1999), with its vastly superior cast, (apart from the regularly appalling and predictable Robert Lindsay) and the awe-inspiring performance of Marc Warren as Monks, doubtless the role which eventually got him a bit in Band of Brothers.
'Oliver' according to Polanski is Dickens-by- rote: Cut Mum's death, into the coffin-shop, out you go, off to London, artful Dodger grabs him, off to Fagin (all without Lionel Bart's tunes to give us a breathing space), gang gets boy, gang loses boy, gang gets boy back etc.
I didn't catch the Dreyfuss TV version 1997, but with a minimum of three previous outings all based on the same very familiar tale, Polanski would have been better off spending a month on the Isle of Wight making sandcastles.
Plusses? At last a movie director has rid Oliver of that posh accent and made him a more believable starving workhouse-educated Victorian orphan! Nancy (Leanne Rowe) engenders some small amount of sympathy also, save that she didn't look like an East End hooker-du-jour which I'm sure the author hinted at quite strongly - (I daresay Mr Snodwallet could put me right on that?) Best point? I did love Ben Kingsley who undoubtedly trained for the part by boning-up on The Best of Steptoe and Son, (he did a wicked Albert, I kept on expecting him to declare: 'Now that Nancy, she's a big girl!) Bless him, he was the only real thing in it.
How often will we be diverted by 'famous names' from seeing that the plaudits heaped upon so many of our movie icons are undeserved? Why are the right questions not asked prior to production? Nobody used common sense when Vince Vaughan did Psycho or Steve Martin lowered himself beneath the decency barrier for his Peter Sellers mockery. Polanski could once do much better than this, (even The Pianist looked like someone else's movie). The world did not need this film, no-one gains greatly from the experience of rubbing shoulders with gross mediocrity. Wake up Roman, look around, the world is on fire and there are stories to tell. Your pro-lifeline is hanging by a very fine thread, another one like this and we will not ask for more.
Every movie lover knows that Oliver Twist kicks off with Mother dying and giving the boy a necklace, the McGuffin, the plot-point that must be written so very skilfully, thus misdirecting the audience, (difficult enough with a well-known story). As usual in Dickens-movies this would be placed with a very large sledgehammer right at the start so that we can commence suspending our belief whilst Amos Killfarthing suspects he's the father of Beatrice Blackhamp and that her house is where the missing will was found even though Noah Goodberry and Silas Crackenfast buried it in the garden where the butcher concealed the bones that contained the ruby brooch that Amos was given by the Duke of Buckingham. We find Dickens' coincidences comfortable don't we? So it comes as no surprise that Roman apparently decreed: 'this is a cornball coincidence, so lose the bit about the mother, the necklace, the daughter, and Oliver being Brownlow's grandson etc. I don't blame him, I always hated that amateur Twist in the story too. But if you lose that daft dodge, it's like taking out the crucifixion and still hoping for sympathy at the end of The Gospel According to St Matthew.
Castwise, there's Bill Sykes (Jamie Foreman); well how'd you like to have to follow in the steps of Robert Newton who probably actually was a Victorian Bully-boy off the set, or Ollie Reed? Now there's an Oliver you wouldn't trust with your cat or your canapés, every inch the pulsating psychopath with or without a script. I was relieved when he got topped on screen, a scintillating and disruptive influence on the plot, just what the script-doctor ordered!! Jamie Foreman played it up as a sort of soap opera baddie. ('I really don't like your tone Mrs Crutchworth! kindly leave the Crescent)! As if all that wasn't dire enough, take away any pretence at pace, London greyness, depth or interest, arm the best mature actress in the UK (Liz Smith) with a couple of measly lines, then give her the elbow, and voilà! all is prepared for the visionary New Ending. Wassat you say, that's how Dickens wrote it? Yeah right, that may be the ending Dickens actually wrote, and if it is ... he was a worse writer that I'd taken him for, and more credit to David Lean (1948) and Carol Reed (1968) for leaving that bit out and giving us a proper movie finale.
So Bill Sykes clumsily hangs himself, but without any drama at all. Probably a lot of accidental suicides happen like that, but not when being witnessed by a regular 1864(?) Hue & Cry with all the Peelers, Strowbuckers and Cordwanglers (Victorian terms), and a Very Worried and theatrical Mr Brownlow (wide eyed and hand-to-mouth).
I'm not dissing this 'Oliver' for the sake of it or because I don't like the author, 'au contraire lesser mortals', I rated the television version (1999), with its vastly superior cast, (apart from the regularly appalling and predictable Robert Lindsay) and the awe-inspiring performance of Marc Warren as Monks, doubtless the role which eventually got him a bit in Band of Brothers.
'Oliver' according to Polanski is Dickens-by- rote: Cut Mum's death, into the coffin-shop, out you go, off to London, artful Dodger grabs him, off to Fagin (all without Lionel Bart's tunes to give us a breathing space), gang gets boy, gang loses boy, gang gets boy back etc.
I didn't catch the Dreyfuss TV version 1997, but with a minimum of three previous outings all based on the same very familiar tale, Polanski would have been better off spending a month on the Isle of Wight making sandcastles.
Plusses? At last a movie director has rid Oliver of that posh accent and made him a more believable starving workhouse-educated Victorian orphan! Nancy (Leanne Rowe) engenders some small amount of sympathy also, save that she didn't look like an East End hooker-du-jour which I'm sure the author hinted at quite strongly - (I daresay Mr Snodwallet could put me right on that?) Best point? I did love Ben Kingsley who undoubtedly trained for the part by boning-up on The Best of Steptoe and Son, (he did a wicked Albert, I kept on expecting him to declare: 'Now that Nancy, she's a big girl!) Bless him, he was the only real thing in it.
How often will we be diverted by 'famous names' from seeing that the plaudits heaped upon so many of our movie icons are undeserved? Why are the right questions not asked prior to production? Nobody used common sense when Vince Vaughan did Psycho or Steve Martin lowered himself beneath the decency barrier for his Peter Sellers mockery. Polanski could once do much better than this, (even The Pianist looked like someone else's movie). The world did not need this film, no-one gains greatly from the experience of rubbing shoulders with gross mediocrity. Wake up Roman, look around, the world is on fire and there are stories to tell. Your pro-lifeline is hanging by a very fine thread, another one like this and we will not ask for more.
Maid in France
24 March 2006
Warning: Spoilers
In the wrong directorial hands, classic historical stories can easily metamorphose into classic hysterical movies. Amongst many others, Mel Gibson, the master of fashioning commercial material from rope sandals, bedroom curtains, and a box of mum's make-up, knows this only too well, as must all accomplished, one-time cult-directors such as Luc Besson (Subway, Nikita, Leon). Re-telling the past is a particularly difficult genre to do well, limited as it must be to no more than a legendary use of language, and with little more than myth and tradition to provide a framework. A screenplay, cast and production must be cobbled together with backers' money in the sure knowledge that so many have fallen at this large and testing hurdle.
Kenneth Branagh solves the problem by using a time-tested scriptwriter and a weathered, respected team, the only usual nod to inform us 'it's all a game really' is to place Brian Blessed like a cherry on top of the cake. This formula works as often as not, but Besson, at this time fresh from sci-fi comedy, (Fifth Element), is more daring. His cherry is John Malkovitch, and the icing is Dustin Hoffman, during this period of his career more often seen in summer blockbusters and misconceived comedies.
France's premier auteur on the commercial, world stage, delivers the Maid of Orleans as Christ. In an approach reminiscent of Scorcese's 'Last Temptation ' the movie asks of the audience not the more conventional questionability of Joan's divine inspiration, but seeks to examine the motives for her claims. Milla Jovovich is short, sharp and punky, glinting even more than her steel armour in the title role. All the character actors are a tad larger than life, and with the superb, subtle, and well-pitched blend of Hoffman's embodiment of conscience and the remarkably effective scenes of Joan's visions, Besson has created a gorgeous film. He chooses to take a story everyone thinks they remember from childhood, gives us a cast generally unknown in the mainstream, and adds a few ingredients to change the flavour. Released in the same period as 'Gladiator', and complete with effects and action arguably as good, this production does have a story. It also has a ring of modern humour, which convinced me that these people really lived. One of Joan's officers, having issued an ultimatum on her (and God's) behalf, is told, 'tell her to f . off!' This, when asked by Joan for the response, is translated as ' they say they'll think about it!' This is an epic, moving, exciting, believable and enchanting film. The photography is stunning, the soundtrack discreet and of quality. Like most people, I missed this in the cinema, and predictably, recommendation hasn't tempted my friends into watching a 'God-movie' based in 14th Century France, which stars nobody! Dare to be different. This is the message YOU must follow!
Docked one point for the lack of Jean Reno in the cast.
Kenneth Branagh solves the problem by using a time-tested scriptwriter and a weathered, respected team, the only usual nod to inform us 'it's all a game really' is to place Brian Blessed like a cherry on top of the cake. This formula works as often as not, but Besson, at this time fresh from sci-fi comedy, (Fifth Element), is more daring. His cherry is John Malkovitch, and the icing is Dustin Hoffman, during this period of his career more often seen in summer blockbusters and misconceived comedies.
France's premier auteur on the commercial, world stage, delivers the Maid of Orleans as Christ. In an approach reminiscent of Scorcese's 'Last Temptation ' the movie asks of the audience not the more conventional questionability of Joan's divine inspiration, but seeks to examine the motives for her claims. Milla Jovovich is short, sharp and punky, glinting even more than her steel armour in the title role. All the character actors are a tad larger than life, and with the superb, subtle, and well-pitched blend of Hoffman's embodiment of conscience and the remarkably effective scenes of Joan's visions, Besson has created a gorgeous film. He chooses to take a story everyone thinks they remember from childhood, gives us a cast generally unknown in the mainstream, and adds a few ingredients to change the flavour. Released in the same period as 'Gladiator', and complete with effects and action arguably as good, this production does have a story. It also has a ring of modern humour, which convinced me that these people really lived. One of Joan's officers, having issued an ultimatum on her (and God's) behalf, is told, 'tell her to f . off!' This, when asked by Joan for the response, is translated as ' they say they'll think about it!' This is an epic, moving, exciting, believable and enchanting film. The photography is stunning, the soundtrack discreet and of quality. Like most people, I missed this in the cinema, and predictably, recommendation hasn't tempted my friends into watching a 'God-movie' based in 14th Century France, which stars nobody! Dare to be different. This is the message YOU must follow!
Docked one point for the lack of Jean Reno in the cast.
Heavens Above!
(1963)
Says much about the dreary 90% of the iceberg that was British life topped by 10% 'swinging sixties' above the water-line!
24 March 2006
Warning: Spoilers
Ian Carmichael with vicar's teeth, and the angelic Irene Handl as wife of dead-beat Eric Sykes in one of his rare, prominent movie roles (see him excel in 'The Liquidator' 1965), accompanied by 'sixties British character actors arranged randomly, as if in a box of top-notch chocolates you just can't wait to eat! Peter Sellers underplays Reverend Smallwood, in what can be seen as a biting satire on the then attitudes of comfortable 'Christian' middle-class villagers, towards those less fortunate. A gypsy family is evicted from the field owned by bastard landowner William Hartnell, and 'mistaken identity' vicar Sellers takes them in, showing true humanitarian action. Simultaneously, Lady of the Manor, majority shareholder in the company which keeps the village afloat, decides to buy her way into heaven by selling her shares to feed the locals for free. And such locals! I spotted Cardew Robinson, Joan Hickson and Miriam Karlin, and anyone who thought Chris Barrie was good but miscast as butler to Lara Croft in Tomb Raider would have seen the real McCoy in Bernard Miles, the only thing missing was the identifying fart.
This was, I remember, hilarious when released, but has undeniably dated. It is now most useful as a beautiful memento of the lost world that was mid-20thcentury England. Peter Sellers eating the dog's biscuits has been done a few times since, I am sure, but never bettered.
The Boulting Brothers had bigger hits which are shown more frequently: 'Carlton Browne of the F.O.', 'The Family Way' etc., and this, though a good film, is not a classic. The most grating aspect, regrettably quite common in the sixties, is the dubbing with female' voices of all the kids, male and female. Call to mind that awful advertisement for insurance with the six month old child speaking like Brian Sewell. Perhaps the real voices were too regional or uncultured and the netball team just happened to be standing close-by?
The world was black and white in those days, not just the movies, and though we have lost a lot along the way, we have occasionally gained a depth which early British comedy rarely achieved. Elstree movies were finished by then, - the New Wave had not arrived, and 'Heavens Above', while worthy and amusing, is little more than one of the richly decorated connecting links between these two interesting eras of movie-making.
This was, I remember, hilarious when released, but has undeniably dated. It is now most useful as a beautiful memento of the lost world that was mid-20thcentury England. Peter Sellers eating the dog's biscuits has been done a few times since, I am sure, but never bettered.
The Boulting Brothers had bigger hits which are shown more frequently: 'Carlton Browne of the F.O.', 'The Family Way' etc., and this, though a good film, is not a classic. The most grating aspect, regrettably quite common in the sixties, is the dubbing with female' voices of all the kids, male and female. Call to mind that awful advertisement for insurance with the six month old child speaking like Brian Sewell. Perhaps the real voices were too regional or uncultured and the netball team just happened to be standing close-by?
The world was black and white in those days, not just the movies, and though we have lost a lot along the way, we have occasionally gained a depth which early British comedy rarely achieved. Elstree movies were finished by then, - the New Wave had not arrived, and 'Heavens Above', while worthy and amusing, is little more than one of the richly decorated connecting links between these two interesting eras of movie-making.
Lucky Number Slevin
(2006)
The Boss: Why did you think I was him? Slevin: I didn't, I thought he was you.
5 March 2006
Seen very soon after a belated watching of Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, with the eminently substantial Crash (2006) in between, this movie had to earn its place amongst the most valuable cine-memories for almost 8 people on a depressing February Wednesday in a little town on a tiny island off the coast of a small country that has, let's face it, seen better days. And earn it did! Having only seen Josh Hartnett in Black Hawk Down, I was confident of an adequate performance in what I had been led to believe by the local press -(one edition PER WEEK)- was going to have to be a 'word of mouth' success if it were to make the big-time.
The pick of a bad bunch, (I thought), we decided to see it because we could get an Orange Wednesday half-pricer, at the same time checking-out how Bruce Willis is doing these days. (Incidentally, a couple of elderly ladies in front of us had got their money back after ten minutes of The Producers because they didn't like the language. They chose this instead).
Obviously not a star vehicle for Bruce, what a jolt to the system to find an intelligent, funny, sharp, fresh, offbeat and exhilarating performance by him and by all involved! The opening scene reminds us that nobody does it better than Bruce, even with his vest covered and a nerdy side parting in his hair. He's the backbone of the movie, even though you sense from early-on it ain't gonna be an easy ride. Josh underplays his role just enough to send a message out that there is always a bright young thing snapping behind the heels of every established star who can carry a movie on their own. Lucy Liu, showing a strong but sympathetic personality, is engaging, and here is evidence of that old chemistry Hollywood wastes so much time and dollars trying to invent!
Ben Kingsley and Morgan Freeman must have come aboard on the strength of the team already proposed, and a script that leaps off the screen. You could be forgiven for having thought it was all too damned cool for itself, if it hadn't been so thoroughly enjoyable and commendable at every twist and turn. Once every couple of years, you see a bit-part performance that defines the word 'breakthough', and I've yet to find out the name of the black guy (Elvis' buddy), with the teeth, who steals the first scene he's in and invokes an underlying regret that you don't see much more of him. The progress of the plot is many-layered, and the drive of the main character reveals itself through the eyes of an innocent-abroad. I was telling myself this is the sort of movie Hitchock would have been making were he still alive (107 next August), when Ben Kingsley made much the same point. Josh's hotel room is dressed in unfashionable retro, not so much an attempt to remember the good old days as remind us that neglect in updating decor gives off a smell of decay that doesn't need Odourvision to make it potent in an auditorium.
You can't help thinking Tarantino, though this didn't have the 'gloss' of Pulp Fiction, the coldness of Reservoir Dogs, or the inconsequential dialogue of either. Yet, the cool is there, and like Kiss Kiss Bang Bang it advertises that really good movies don't have to have Superheroes and Extraspecial Effects. I suspect audiences twig the plot a little earlier than desired by the director, but ENJOY for goodness sake, the film's not trying to make a point! In fact, credit to Paul McGuigan, for holding back from a handful of more traditional twists, and for keeping himself under control to finish this effort with superb standards in look, sound and feel. Special credit to Jason Smilovic fresh from television writing for an ambitious debut into the world of quality features.
Josh Hartnett follows this with The Blue Dahlia, a Brian De Pamla/James Ellroy concoction, hopefully launching himself thereafter successfully into the role of Chet Baker as The Prince of Cool. On this evidence Brad's position in the Hollywood hierarchy is in his sights, maybe De Palma will be the one to pull the trigger. ..... Oh, and the elderly ladies in front of us? They f*****g loved it!
The pick of a bad bunch, (I thought), we decided to see it because we could get an Orange Wednesday half-pricer, at the same time checking-out how Bruce Willis is doing these days. (Incidentally, a couple of elderly ladies in front of us had got their money back after ten minutes of The Producers because they didn't like the language. They chose this instead).
Obviously not a star vehicle for Bruce, what a jolt to the system to find an intelligent, funny, sharp, fresh, offbeat and exhilarating performance by him and by all involved! The opening scene reminds us that nobody does it better than Bruce, even with his vest covered and a nerdy side parting in his hair. He's the backbone of the movie, even though you sense from early-on it ain't gonna be an easy ride. Josh underplays his role just enough to send a message out that there is always a bright young thing snapping behind the heels of every established star who can carry a movie on their own. Lucy Liu, showing a strong but sympathetic personality, is engaging, and here is evidence of that old chemistry Hollywood wastes so much time and dollars trying to invent!
Ben Kingsley and Morgan Freeman must have come aboard on the strength of the team already proposed, and a script that leaps off the screen. You could be forgiven for having thought it was all too damned cool for itself, if it hadn't been so thoroughly enjoyable and commendable at every twist and turn. Once every couple of years, you see a bit-part performance that defines the word 'breakthough', and I've yet to find out the name of the black guy (Elvis' buddy), with the teeth, who steals the first scene he's in and invokes an underlying regret that you don't see much more of him. The progress of the plot is many-layered, and the drive of the main character reveals itself through the eyes of an innocent-abroad. I was telling myself this is the sort of movie Hitchock would have been making were he still alive (107 next August), when Ben Kingsley made much the same point. Josh's hotel room is dressed in unfashionable retro, not so much an attempt to remember the good old days as remind us that neglect in updating decor gives off a smell of decay that doesn't need Odourvision to make it potent in an auditorium.
You can't help thinking Tarantino, though this didn't have the 'gloss' of Pulp Fiction, the coldness of Reservoir Dogs, or the inconsequential dialogue of either. Yet, the cool is there, and like Kiss Kiss Bang Bang it advertises that really good movies don't have to have Superheroes and Extraspecial Effects. I suspect audiences twig the plot a little earlier than desired by the director, but ENJOY for goodness sake, the film's not trying to make a point! In fact, credit to Paul McGuigan, for holding back from a handful of more traditional twists, and for keeping himself under control to finish this effort with superb standards in look, sound and feel. Special credit to Jason Smilovic fresh from television writing for an ambitious debut into the world of quality features.
Josh Hartnett follows this with The Blue Dahlia, a Brian De Pamla/James Ellroy concoction, hopefully launching himself thereafter successfully into the role of Chet Baker as The Prince of Cool. On this evidence Brad's position in the Hollywood hierarchy is in his sights, maybe De Palma will be the one to pull the trigger. ..... Oh, and the elderly ladies in front of us? They f*****g loved it!
The Big Empty
(2003)
People don't live or die, people just float.
13 February 2006
Warning: Spoilers
Favreau finds the pick of the bunch almost every time. Beautiful little movie injecting a barb of synchronicity for me this day when I had just finished reading Fear & Loathing in LA, centring very much around the Mint 400 desert race. The echo of Thompson's warning about bad deeds and dudes abroad among the dunes is still ringing in my ears as everyman John Person slips into Hitchcockian situation through desperate need for daily bread. Bud Cort in neck-brace tells you this is going to be a rocky ride for the Fav, but this is a buddy movie, YOU are the buddy! Peppered with Daryl Hannah doing great business as a security role for offbeat actors and characterisations, the near genius Jon Gries (Napoleon Dynamite's stand-out Uncle Rico), and the jarring but subtly successful casting of Sean Bean as the Man in Black. This film experience is studded with the sort of scenes and shots everyone wants to make. The overall uplift comes from knowing that someone can still make this sort of Art in the land of Cine-cism.
Many thanks to Steve Anderson who wrote and directed this gem, he made my evening with a graceful, poised and elegant look at the American Heart and its place among the human coyotes who feed upon it.
Many thanks to Steve Anderson who wrote and directed this gem, he made my evening with a graceful, poised and elegant look at the American Heart and its place among the human coyotes who feed upon it.
The Princess and the Warrior
(2000)
Stop Lola Stop
22 April 2005
For me, a brilliant movie. There is so much of it, and any holes were not apparent at first viewing. But if it is not universally acclaimed, no-one is at fault. There's much magic in the hands of this director-writer. The casting is perfect; original in looks and body language, Furmann and Potente grace a modern fairy tale that says, well, something about fate, leaving the past behind, finding what you want right under your nose etc. All the old true clichés. This time, told with exquisite pace (slow), and beauty. A couple of shatteringly good scenes, well thought out, plotted and executed, all rounded out with a black humour and tender touch that keeps it CLEAR of pretension. The ending leaves a poignant, puzzled smile and an appetite for more German cinema. If you don't like this you must be a Van Damme fan.
Intolerable Cruelty
(2003)
Out of Sight collides with War of the Roses, resulting in damp squib in a paper bag.
22 April 2005
Warning: Spoilers
Someone should have told the writer-director(s) that Catherine Zeta-Jones is incapable of being cool. As brothers, they should have told each other that the production stank, as must have been evident from the read-through. The casting is is bad as the script which is very bad. Over-the-top acting decorates the whole mess, Clooney may have got away with it in 'O Brother
', but miscasting like that seldom works more than once for anyone, and besides, he was then acting lines inside real Coensworld.
Bad timing, overlong scenes, no sympathetic main character. You want George and Z-J to end up together, but only inasmuch as then the movie might fade to credits. Incidentally there are times you fear it never will. I'd have switched off at several points, but I couldn't believe they could complete this project without at least one saving grace, well, they couldn't, Billy Bob Thornton comes along to save them just one point as far as I'm concerned. Carter Burwell's beautiful music is desperately out of place. The script is littered with pretentious quotations, as if to remind us that Joel and Ethan did rather well at college. (Did they)? It pains me to write this, as I have championed these two since 'Blood Simple', but it really is a very bad exercise in wastage of studio funds.
I paused for a moment to catch my breath, (badly required so that I might deflate my expectations a little more scene by scene), and momentarily I imagined Melanie Griffith and Kevin Spacey doing this movie. It would perhaps have been better, but oh, those lines would not have improved their prospects for another job!
Even when not playing a bitch, Zeta-Jones exudes heartless shallowness, (evidence: 'The Terminal'), and it seems plain that apart from the initial promise shown in 'The Darling Buds of May', that's all she had. As actor after actor attempts to portray emotional attachment it feels more and more cringworthy. Even the dependable actors are unable to build with such insipid mortar. Nothing hangs together, then here comes Burwell again, calling passionate musical themes reminiscent of Miller's Crossing into scenes devoid of any pulse. I feel in this association he has devalued his own work, is it possible he can turn his beautiful music out at the drop of a bad line without the prime mover of a good, connecting human story? Did he even see the film before writing the original score?
Some Sample dialogue, and believe me, the Coens take credit for this: "You must leave the house because I left the gas main on that leaks", honestly, it's there in the movie, then "Whatever they're paying you, I'll pay you double". It goes on and on and on and on forever and eventually dissolves into slapstick like DeNiro doing a bad Jim Carry part. How can you have so many good ingredients and still spoil the dinner? Did Joel and Ethan really see 'Out of Sight' and 'War of the Roses' in the same week and gamble they could just join the two together with a bad glue-job? It takes more than that, at least a hint of screen chemistry. Unbearably bad, intolerable cruelty. O brothers . Shame on you.
Bad timing, overlong scenes, no sympathetic main character. You want George and Z-J to end up together, but only inasmuch as then the movie might fade to credits. Incidentally there are times you fear it never will. I'd have switched off at several points, but I couldn't believe they could complete this project without at least one saving grace, well, they couldn't, Billy Bob Thornton comes along to save them just one point as far as I'm concerned. Carter Burwell's beautiful music is desperately out of place. The script is littered with pretentious quotations, as if to remind us that Joel and Ethan did rather well at college. (Did they)? It pains me to write this, as I have championed these two since 'Blood Simple', but it really is a very bad exercise in wastage of studio funds.
I paused for a moment to catch my breath, (badly required so that I might deflate my expectations a little more scene by scene), and momentarily I imagined Melanie Griffith and Kevin Spacey doing this movie. It would perhaps have been better, but oh, those lines would not have improved their prospects for another job!
Even when not playing a bitch, Zeta-Jones exudes heartless shallowness, (evidence: 'The Terminal'), and it seems plain that apart from the initial promise shown in 'The Darling Buds of May', that's all she had. As actor after actor attempts to portray emotional attachment it feels more and more cringworthy. Even the dependable actors are unable to build with such insipid mortar. Nothing hangs together, then here comes Burwell again, calling passionate musical themes reminiscent of Miller's Crossing into scenes devoid of any pulse. I feel in this association he has devalued his own work, is it possible he can turn his beautiful music out at the drop of a bad line without the prime mover of a good, connecting human story? Did he even see the film before writing the original score?
Some Sample dialogue, and believe me, the Coens take credit for this: "You must leave the house because I left the gas main on that leaks", honestly, it's there in the movie, then "Whatever they're paying you, I'll pay you double". It goes on and on and on and on forever and eventually dissolves into slapstick like DeNiro doing a bad Jim Carry part. How can you have so many good ingredients and still spoil the dinner? Did Joel and Ethan really see 'Out of Sight' and 'War of the Roses' in the same week and gamble they could just join the two together with a bad glue-job? It takes more than that, at least a hint of screen chemistry. Unbearably bad, intolerable cruelty. O brothers . Shame on you.
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