Back in the early 1930's, the big Hollywood studios were most comfortable allotting just one major star to their productions, or maybe two if the feature was particularly romance-focused. This was still the early days of the 'talkie' era, and directors were too busy exploring new ways to exploit this wonderful new technological advancement to focus their attention on much else. Studios preferred to have a large roster of A-list talent under contract, leading men and women whose name alone on the post could attract a crowd. But one day, MGM producer Irving Thalberg had the bright idea to lump them all together into one massive superstar extravaganza. Adapted by William A. Drake from his own play (which was based on Vicki Baum's novel Menschen im Hotel), Grand Hotel went on to inspire the ensemble movies of Robert Altman and Paul Thomas Anderson, as well as the A-list smorgasbords of Garry Marshall's holiday-themed dreck.
The magnificence of Berlin's Grand Hotel attracts all kinds of people, each with their own story to tell. Baron Felix von Geigern (John Barrymore) has squandered his vast fortune and spends his time trying to recuperate his losses playing card games and stealing jewels. He has his eyes set on a pearl necklace owned by depressed Russian ballerina Grusinskya (Greta Garbo), but he is enough of a decent chap to befriend Otto (Lionel Barrymore), a dying accountant who decides to live life to the fullest before his time runs out. Otto's arrogant boss Preysing (Wallace Beery) is also staying at the hotel, fretting to his new stenographer Flaemmchen (Joan Crawford) over an important business deal that appears to be heading south. While attempting to swipe the valuable necklace, Felix finds himself in love with the sad dancer and unable to go through with the heist. With money to re-pay and a late-night train to catch, will fate and the events at the Grand Hotel allow them to be together?
Winner of Best Picture at the 1932 Academy Awards (despite failing to receive a nomination in any category) and now entered into the U.S. National Film Registry, Grand Hotel's reputation and influence may flatter the actual film somewhat. This is pure Hollywood fluff, laying the foundation for a formula still employed today. Yet Edmund Goulding's film is also witty and well-performed by a cast of recognisable faces, particularly the two Barrymores and Garbo: The latter's immortal line "I want to be alone," became a famous metaphor for the actress's personal life. William H. Daniel's cinematography refuses to remain static like many features of the 30's, using the impressive set to its maximum potential and establishing the luxurious building as a character itself as it influences its inhabitants' lives and decisions. It's no year's best picture, but its fascinating to watch the groundwork being laid for a formula that would go on to inspire as much greatness as it would drudgery.
Michael Reeves' horror classic Witchfinder General made an impressive turnaround at the box-office in spite of its modest budget. Following the witch-hunting exploits of Matthew Hopkins in 17th century England, the movie was disturbing, gruesome, and neatly disguised as a history lesson in an attempt to dodge the censors. The success of Witchfinder naturally led to more witch-trial horror films, most famously being Ken Russell's The Devils, although he denies he was inspired by a film he called "nauseous." It was a big hit in Germany, and their own stab at the folk horror sub-genre came in the form of Michael Armstrong's Mark of the Devil. Using clever marketing (posters warned of a V for Violence certificate and theatres handed out vomit bags to the audience), it was a runaway success, although it has spent the past few decades caught up in the video nasty storm and hacked to pieces in the editing room.
In a small town in early 18th-century Austria, residents are routinely treated to public executions of those accused of dabbling in the dark arts. In charge of finding the witches hiding in their midst and torturing them to confess is Albino (Reggie Nalder), an ugly man who accuses any unfortunate young woman who spurns his advances of performing witchcraft. Albino enjoys and abuses his position of power, until the dashing Count Christian von Meruh (Udo Kier) arrives in town, quickly catching the eye of beautiful, buxom barmaid Vanessa (Olivera Katarina). He is there to announce that famed and highly-respected witch hunger Lord Cumberland (Herbert Lom) will soon be joining him to put an end to the folly carried out by Albino and his cronies. But when Vanessa stands accused of false charges of baring the 'mark of the devil', the Count starts to question his master's methods and motivations, as well as that of the Church.
Mark of the Devil is one of those few horror movies that actually lives up to its reputation. While it certainly isn't the most horrifying film ever made and won't upset your stomach (as the poster claims), it revels in the many scenes of torture and death. Joints are ripped from sockets, digits are squashed, a tongue is removed, and many are burned alive, and almost every torture device imaginable is employed. These scenes initially have the desired effect, but the narrative quickly falls into a repetitive cycle of violence and badly handled love scenes between the Count and Vanessa frolicking on the grass, made all the worse by some atrocious dubbing. It does make a legitimate point however, and points a finger at the hypocrisy of an institution who torture and murder 'by the book' while looking down on the likes of Albino for doing the same for sexual gratification. It would be difficult to admit to 'liking' Mark of the Devil, but it sits as one of the more intriguing entries into the short-lived sub-genre.
Only a few famous cinematic figures can get away with using their surname only when headlining a poster or introducing a movie's title. Schwarzenegger and Stallone get away with it, as would the likes of Spielberg, Kubrick and Hitchcock if they were that way inclined. In an incredible display of confidence in his work, Dutch director Martin Koolhoven opens his latest film with the title of 'Koolhoven's Brimstone', a brave move for a filmmaker few outside of the Netherlands will have heard of. He clearly takes himself very seriously, and Brimstone just may be the most serious film of the year in the way the director soaks the film with such a biblical doom-and-gloom atmosphere that it would be difficult to watch without a chin-stroke or two.
Focusing on the life of a young mute woman named Liz, played by Dakota Fanning, in a particularly brutal Old West, Brimstone is a commentary on both the strength of woman and the sadistic nature of man. Liz holds a position of respect in the town due to her midwifing skills, but when a problematic birth leads to a decision between mother or baby, she is targeted by the residents as a murderer. Things get worse when The Reverend (Guy Pearce) walks into town. He is a stoic, imposing figure eager to reinforce God's fury to his congregation, and expects total obedience in return. Liz clearly shares a history with him, and is eternally terrified in his presence. This is the first of four stories played out of order, flashing back to Liz's time in a brothel under the orders of violent owner Frank (Paul Anderson), and forward again as Liz tries to escape the clutches of The Reverend.
At first, the non-linear narrative structure is interesting, unfolding the story carefully in order to reveal truths that change your outlook of the story. When the film finished, it felt as though it was a mere distraction from the boring central plot. Brimstone is a film about punishment, and the 149-minute running-time seems like a deliberate choice from the director to punish us in the process. It's a gruelling watch; alongside the violence and misogyny of many of its characters, there's also paedophilia, rape, incest, infanticide and hangings. It seems to wallow in the very things it is rallying against, particularly an uncomfortable scene in which The Reverend humiliates his wife (played by Carice van Houten) and forces her to wear a metal bridle in an attempt to destroy her. Things liven up slightly when Kit Harington's injured outlaw arrives on the scene, but by this point you'll be too beaten down by the relentless atmosphere for it to make much of a difference. Brimstone is bold and will likely provoke discussion, but ultimately little more than an exercise in misery.
Adapting a series of beloved novels spanning thousands of pages and countless characters and worlds into a consumable stand-alone movie was never going to be an easy task. Over the years, many names have been attached to developing Stephen King's Dark Tower novels, including the combined efforts of J.J. Abrams and Damon Lindelof during their Lost days, and Ron Howard. When it became apparent that these novels were indeed unfilmable, they understandably bailed, and the film found itself in limbo once again. After 10 years of rewrites and personnel changes, The Dark Tower finally arrives in the hands of Nikolaj Arcel, the director of fantastic Danish period drama A Royal Affair. Reports of heavy re-shoots and a frustrated cast was never a good sign, and while it isn't quite the incoherent, tumour-inducing non-entity of Josh Trank's Fantastic Four, The Dark Tower will leave fans of the novels shaking their heads and newcomers scratching them.
The final result is a stuttering mess of disconnected scenes loosely held together by a baffling plot that seems to throw in every fantasy element except the magical kitchen sink. We have a western without the West, a fantasy without the fantastical, and a familiar 'Chosen One' thread fronted by a forgettable child actor. In part a sequel to King's novels and an origin story of sorts, The Dark Tower doesn't know what it is, and increasingly throughout the film it feels as though the studio just stopped trying in the hope that it would eventually make its money back from book fans and teenagers hungry for some fantasy action. Scenes play out with seemingly no connection to what came before and -although I don't know if I was just imagining it or simply looking for something to distract my attention from the sheer tedium of the plot - actors' lips seemed to have been altered by CGI as the script was re-written after scenes were shot. You may also find yourself jolting awake every 5 minutes at the sound of Idris Elba's magical guns.
Eleven year-old Jake Chambers (Tom Taylor) possesses the 'Shine', a power of shady definition but one which allows him to subconsciously peer into other worlds. In his dreams, he has visions of a giant dark tower, an evil man in dressed in black intent on bringing down the tower, and a mysterious gunslinger. He draws his visions and hangs them on his bedroom wall, so naturally his mother and douchebag stepfather think he's crazy and arranges for him to spend some time away in a psychiatric facility. He runs away to find a building from his dreams (which just happens to be in his home city of New York), and finds a portal which transports him to the apocalyptic wastelands of Mid-World. There, he quickly encounters the gunslinger from his dreams: A man named Roland Deschain (Elba) who is part of an ancient order of knights who carry out justice with guns forged from Excalibur. He is also visited by the man in black, a sorcerer named Walter Padick (Matthew McConaughey) who aims to harness children's screams in order to topple the Dark Tower holding all the worlds together.
When the film isn't trying to explain everybody's backgrounds to the audience through endless exposition, it expects us to simply accept this nonsense. I haven't read King's books, but it carries a reputation as being a complex and detailed piece of work requiring audience investment to drink in its slow-build approach. Arcel's movie opts to cram as much as it can into just 95 minutes, without dedicating anywhere near enough time to properly explain the universe's mythos. For a film so short and convoluted, it's almost impressive how boring it manages to be. Elba, like he does in most franchise-building, big-budget affair, seems to huff his way through the film with his eyes half-closed as though he is waiting for his next 'serious' project. McConaughey at least injects some energy into his poorly-developed bad guy, although he may just be happy he's not making horrible rom-coms anymore. It's scant praise for a movie that feels nothing like a final product, and more like a bunch of outtakes found in a bin and glued together with Pritt Stick by a janitor with a penchant for generic fantasy CGI.
After Steven Spielberg's Saving Private Ryan reinvented the way the brutality and chaos of war was depicted on the cinema screen back in 1998, Hollywood went slightly nuts for all things World War II. At one point, it felt as though we were getting one every other week, and fatigue naturally kicked in, especially since none measured up to Spielberg's visual masterpiece (if very flawed film), other than Terrence Malick's superior The Thin Red Line released the same year. By 2002, attention was moving towards the Vietnam conflict, an unjust and borderline psychotic war that resulting in heavy losses on all sides. It was a favourite topic for many filmmakers in the 1980's, and produced a few greats, but interest seemed to wane as we moved into the 90's. In 2002, We Were Soldiers was supposed to rekindle our fascination with Vietnam, but has since faded into a long list of half-forgotten war movies.
Based on the book We Were Soldiers Once... and Young by Hal Moore and Joseph L. Galloway, Randall Wallace's film attempts to cover the Battle of Ia Drang from three perspectives: the 400 American men fighting at the front, the 4,000 Vietnamese troops they're up against, and the wives at home fearing the arrival of a taxi cab bringing them unwanted news. The bulk of the action follows Moore (Mel Gibson), then a lieutenant colonel, through training his troops and eventually onto the front line, where intelligence is so sparse that they have no idea what they are up against. It turns out that the Americans are greatly outnumbered, and so begins one of the bloodiest battles of the entire war. He is later joined by reporter Galloway (Barry Pepper), who captured much of the conflict on camera as well as picking up a rifle himself. At home, Moore's wife Julie (Madeleine Stowe) intercepts all the letters informing the devastated wives of their loss to hand-deliver them herself.
We Were Soldiers feels like more of a complete overview on the battle thanks to this unique perspective, while the action is some of the toughest and most unflinching in the genre. Perhaps down to its more observational approach - apparently the events take place almost exactly how it played out in real life - the film often gets criticised and labelled as a pro-war movie. I don't feel that what we see is glamorising or promoting war in any way. On the contrary, it refuses to really to take a stand, and this is what makes Wallace's movie far less interesting than it should be. It all boils down to 'war is Hell', but most people know this already whether they have experienced combat or not. The battle scenes are intense, horrifying and well-staged, and demand to be admired from a technical point of view. But it's nothing we haven't seen before. Despite Chris Klein's failure to really convince as a human, We Were Soldiers features many impressive performances, most notably by Sam Elliott as Sgt. Major Plumley, a gruff Sam Elliott-type who mows down his enemies with a revolver while the rest of his men pack automatics, and Gibson himself, who helps tug on the heartstrings during quiet moments of reflection.
Pixar's Cars is now remembered as one of the great studio's rare misfires; a formulaic animated movie that had far more to offer to the children in the audience than to the adults paying for them to be there (although I think it's one of their most misunderstood movies and well worth a re-visit). Despite this, it was a box-office smash and a dream in terms of merchandising. A few years ago, Pixar may have thought twice about extending the story of Lightning McQueen (Owen Wilson) and the town of Radiator Springs without having something new to say, but ever since Disney took over, they've taken a more relaxed attitude towards bending to audience demand and churning out an underdeveloped and unworthy sequel. The result is Cars 2, a mess of a movie with an absence of any real laughs that feels like a straight-to-DVD short stretched out over 106 minutes.
Now a four-time Piston Cup champion, the world-famous Lightning McQueen returns to Radiator Springs to see his old friends, much to the delight of best chum Mater (Larry the Cable Guy). However, formula champion Francesco Bernoulli (John Turturro) challenges McQueen to join him in the World Grand Prix, an event created by Sir Miles Axelrod (Eddie Izzard) to advertise his new fuel Allinol. McQueen, along with Mater, Luigi (Tony Shalhoub), Guido (Guido Quaroni), Fillmore (Lloyd Sherr) and Sarge (Paul Dooley), heads to Tokyo, where Mater's buffoonish behaviour starts to grate on the racing star. Meanwhile, weapons designer Professor Zundapp (Thomas Kretschmann) and his cronies are taking out cars using an electromagnetic pulse in an attempt to scupper Axelrod's plans and secure oil profits. This catches the attention of international super-spy Finn McMissile (Michael Caine) and his partner Holley Shiftwell (Emily Mortimer), who mistake Mater for a fellow spy and hire the clueless tow truck to help with their mission.
This may sound like a bold move for a franchise built on low-key themes of friendship and humility around a traditional fish-out-of-water story, and Cars 2 fleetingly captures the imagination as McMissile swings onto an enemy oil rig, gadgets at the ready. But this is no longer Lightning McQueen's story. Instead, they push Mater, the comic relief best served in tiny doses, front and centre. Not only do his shenanigans increasingly annoy, they are also painfully unfunny. Many of the memorable supporting cast from the first movie are either heavily sidelined or given the boot altogether, and the story is so disjointed that it's difficult to keep up with the endless roster of forgettable, newly-introduced characters. Kids will love it though, and that's all that really matters when it comes to box-office receipts. There's enough colour, slapstick and racing action to keep them on their seats, and the animation again is truly wonderful. While this may get a pass if released by Dreamworks, mediocrity never used to be on Pixar's radar, and the high standards are still expected. One need only look at their Toy Story trilogy to see how inspired their sequels can be, which makes the middling antics of Cars 2 all the more crushing.
In Tony Scott's True Romance, from a screenplay by Quentin Tarantino, Christian Slater's Clare Worley takes his date to the movies to see Sonny Chiba's Streetfighter trilogy. When he is questioned about Chiba's questionable 'heroics', Worley responds that, "he ain't so much a good guy as he is just a bad motherfucker." A long-time fan, Tarantino hits the nail on the head here (he would go on to cast his idol in the Kill Bill films). While Bruce Lee was wowing the world with the speed and agility of the martial arts, Sonny Chiba was demonstrating its brutal, more unforgiving side. In The Streetfighter's Last Revenge, Chiba's anti-hero Takuma Tsurugi is at his most sadistic. He may have punched a guy's eyeballs out of his head in the previous instalment, but here he calmly burns a thug alive in an incinerator.
Much of the appeal of Chiba's movies lies with his sneering approach to the ancient arts, where he is far more comfortable sadistically beating a bad guy to a bloody pulp than he is with finding inner peace. This trilogy-closer has upped his mean streak, and made things a hell of a long weirder. The Streetfighter was excellent, Return of the Streetfighter was passable, and The Streetfighter's Last Revenge comes across as a bunch of scenes discarded from the previous movies for being too bonkers. Not only is Tsurugi a near-unstoppable punch, kick and throw machine, but he now dons Mission: Impossible-esque face masks to disguise his identity, and at one point bears vampire fangs for unexplained reasons. There's also a villain even James Bond would chuckle at: A mafia hitman who dresses like a mariachi with a giant sombrero and shoots invisible laser beams out of his hands.
The plot itself is incredibly simple. Tsurugi is hired to rescue Go Owada (Akira Shioji) from a police riot in exchange for a hefty payment. When he goes to collect his loot, he is handed a bag of cut-up newspaper and is attacked by the Owada family's men. Furious, he decides to take revenge on the gangsters. There's also a stolen tape and a master foe in Kunagami (Koji Wada). Noticeably less violent than the previous entries, this third feature shares more in common with a spy film than the martial arts genre. As a result, it's less fun, and only manages to pique the interest when at its most idiosyncratic and just plain daft. It's also nice to see exploitation icon Reiko Ike in a supporting role as Chiba's wannabe sidekick. But ultimately, Last Revenge stutters through a threadbare story, failing to deliver the sort of gory chopsocky that made the original so wonderful. Clearly the weakest of the trilogy.
As Disney wade through their back catalogue of animated classics to introduce to modern audiences, the wealth of pure quality at their disposal borders on the embarrassing. By the end of 2016, favourites such as Maleficent (a spin on Sleeping Beauty), Cinderella and The Jungle Book had already been and gone, to varying degrees of success. Next on the agenda, much to many people's surprise, was Pete's Dragon, a live-action remake of a pretty crappy mixture of animation and live-action from 1977, a film many won't have even heard of, and the few who have actually seen it will have long forgotten. The choice for the director's chair was also curious: The job fell to indie director David Lowery, who up to this point was known only for his little-seen outlaw movie Ain't Them Bodies Saints. It seemed as though Disney were taking a "may as well get it over with" attitude towards re-imagining one of their more obscure works, but 2016's Pete's Dragon is actually the best and loveliest of their recent crop.
It's the 70's, a five year-old Pete is heading on a road trip with his parents in search of adventure. The plan is turned on its head (much like their vehicle) when a deer runs out into the road, causing them to crash and killing Pete's parents in the process. Within moments of fleeing the wreckage and making it in the woods, Pete finds himself confronted by a giant dragon. Five years later, and Pete (now played by Oakes Fegley) has forged a bond with the dragon, who he names Elliot, and has turned feral in the forest. Their home is shrinking every day, thanks to a lumberjack crew ran by Jack (Wes Bentley) and his brother Gavin (Karl Urban), so it isn't long until their discovered. Luckily for them, Pete is seen by good-hearted park ranger Grace (Bryce Dallas Howard), whose father (played by Robert Redford), tells stories of the day he encountered a huge green dragon in his youth. As Pete longs to go home while also warming to his new surrogate family, Elliot misses his friend, and finds himself hunted by prize-seeker Gavin.
This is a tried-and-tested Disney formula, so expect few surprises here. What is most surprising, and utterly charming, is the way Lowery goes about his business. There is plenty of genuine heart and care taken with developing its characters. Even the 'villain' of the piece shows genuine concern for Pete's well-being when he is discovered ragged and howling, and Jack isn't the cold habitat-slayer you would expect. Although there is an impressive CGI dragon complete with tail-chasing and a cute wet nose, the story stays remarkably low-key, comparable in many ways to Steven Spielberg's E.T. before the government goons enter the story. If there's a major criticism to be, it is that Gavin's sudden ambition to slay the dragon comes out of nowhere, and seems included simply to create a foe for Elliot while Pete is off in society. For a film that handles the human drama so well, it simply isn't needed, although it sets up a climax exciting enough to slightly make up for it. If you haven't seen the original, then save yourself the trouble, as 2016's Pete's Dragon is a rare example of a remake that leaves the original well in its wake.
If you weren't already aware going into Wind River of just who is the brains behind this tough, tense and distinctly masculine drama, then it won't take very long for you to guess that it is Taylor Sheridan, the so-hot-right-now scribe behind the likes of Sicario and Hell or High Water. Rounding off his trilogy based around the American frontier, Sheridan directs for the first time here, and proves to be as equally adept with bringing his work to life as he is with penning it. To dub him the new Cormac McCarthy may be slightly condescending to the talented writer, but the comparisons are certainly there to be made. This is the world of tough, lean men doing what they have to do in order to survive or get by in their increasingly dire economic surroundings, and it's certainly a setting Sheridan feels comfortable in, or at least wishes he was part of.
While Sicario placed us in the terrifying, claustrophobic choke-hold of the Mexican drug cartels and Hell or High Water delivered outlaw hi-jinks with serious social and economic undertones, Wind River is a movie of quiet, simmering tension played out against the backdrop of the freezing, desolate mountains of Wyoming. Hard times have come to the titular Indian Reservation and the surrounding areas, but so little apparently occurs here that a police force of over 6 officers is trusted with covering an area the size of a large city. When a young Native American girl (Kelsey Asbille) is found barefoot and dead in the snow 5 miles from the nearest residence, the minuscule department find themselves clearly ill-equipped for the investigation. The girl died from suffocating on the blood in her lungs, brought on by the sub-zero temperature, but she has also been raped. The man who found her, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service agent Cory Lambert (Jeremy Renner), uses his knowledge and experience as a hunter to start making connections.
Renner has spent so many years in superhero costumes or starring in forgettable, little-seen box-office under-performers that it's easy to forget just how he made the jump from supporting character actor to leading man material. In movies like The Hurt Locker and The Town, he demonstrated an uncanny skill at playing introverted characters emotionally scarred by past experiences. Yes, he was an outright psychopath in Ben Affleck's thrilling The Town, but it always felt like he was masking something deeper. Lambert is living with his own trauma. He pays visits to his Native American ex-wife to see his son, but their separation was clearly brought on by tragedy. In a moving monologue to the father of the murdered girl (a marvellous Gil Birmingham), he reveals through choked-back tears that his daughter had passed years earlier. It's quite possibly the best work he's ever done; utterly convincing as the strong, silent hunter who can spot a snowmobile track from a mile away, and as a potential romantic interest for FBI agent Jane Banner (Elizabeth Olsen).
She is sent from her office in Las Vegas, and arrives completely ill-prepared for the brutal conditions of Wind River. When she quickly realises she's out of her depth, Banner leans on Lambert to help her navigate the perilous conditions and vast landscape. It's a character seen many times before - even in Sicario - and although Olsen is perfectly fine, her role seems somewhat diminutive and over-reliant on her male counterpart. It's an issue Sheridan should perhaps address in his next venture, but Wind River proves that he is more than capable of visualising his own work. He shoots the wilderness as a cold, unforgiving place, where only the toughest - humans or animals - can survive, turning them wilder and more primitive in the process. The score by Nick Cave and Warren Ellis also give the land a mystic ambience, similar in many ways to their work on The Proposition. Although it does digress into Quentin Tarantino territory and the final pay-off seems over-eager to highlight good from bad, Wind River deserves some recognition come awards season, as does Sheridan as a director to watch.
Due to its catastrophic failure at the box-office and underwhelming reception from critics, William Friedkin's Sorcerer will always find itself linked to the that floppiest of flops, Heaven's Gate. Yet while Michael Cimino's over-ambition caused costs to skyrocket (taking down iconic studio United Artists in the process) and the thought of a bum-numbing, slow-burn western proving rather unappealing to audiences, Sorcerer's failure is often chalked down to the timing of its release - alongside Star Wars, which, of course, rapidly became a pop culture phenomenon and a box-office smash. On paper, a remake of French classic The Wages of Fear seems like a terrible idea, but Friedkin's gruelling and visceral thriller has quite rightly received a critical re-evaluation of late, with many recognising it as The Exorcist director's greatest achievement.
Other than the basic set-up, Sorcerer shares little in common with Henri-Georges Clouzot's classic. It spends a lot of time establishing the four main characters and the sins that will eventually bring them together. In Mexico, Nilo (Francisco Rabal) casually assassinates a man using a gun with a silencer; in Israel, Kassem (Amidou), an Arab terrorist disguised as a Jew, causes a deadly explosion in Jerusalem; in France, businessman Victor (Bruno Cremer) is rumbled for fraud and given 24 hours to pay back an unrealistic amount of money otherwise he'll be turned into the authorities; and in the U.S., Irish gangster Jackie (Roy Scheider) sees a robbery go tits-up and a price placed on his head by a powerful mob boss. Their destiny lies in Porvenir, a remote village in Latin America. Following an oil well explosion, a lucrative job becomes available for four lucky men. Only the work entails transporting damaged dynamite containing unstable nitroglycerin across 200 miles of jungle, mud roads, crazy locals, and a broken down rope-bridge.
It takes a while for the unsavoury foursome to shift into gear, but when the engines start rumbling, backed by Tangerine Dream's hypnotic score, Friedkin takes us on a punishing journey into the heart of darkness. Like Herzog's Aguirre, The Wrath of God and Klimov's Come and See, Sorcerer makes the experience seem physically draining. The troubled shoot is etched on the character's faces; sun-scorched, sleep-deprived and eyes bulging with madness, you can really feel their torment. The scene that adorns the poster, in which the two bulky trucks must navigate across a rotten and flimsy rope-bridge in hammering rain, is truly one of the most nail-biting set-pieces ever made. It's a miracle they even managed to film such a complicated and dangerous-looking sequence, and this adds a real physicality to the action. There are pacing issues as the film over-milks its introductions, but the international cast are a pleasure to watch during these early vignettes. The Exorcist will always remain at the very top of the pile, but Sorcerer is certainly Friedkin's most misunderstood work, and one that deserves recognition as one of the last great movies from the New Hollywood era.
One of the fairest criticisms aimed at Marvel's now 9 years in-the-making Cinematic Universe is that mastermind Kevin Fiege has worked out the perfect superhero blockbuster formula and has stuck with it. It's a cookie-cutter approach, so much so that entries like Iron Man, Ant-Man and Doctor Strange seem almost indistinguishable on paper. The MCU has now raked in over $13 billion at the box-office, so it's clearly doing something right. But recently, Marvel have deliberately selected directors capable of leaving their fingerprints, such as Ryan Coogler being handed the task of tackling the Africa-set Black Panther (due next year), and Kiwi filmmaker Taika Waititi - a choice met with both confusion and sheer excitement on its announcement - to handle the Norse apocalypse. Although I enjoyed 2011's Thor for all its Shakesperian campiness, 2013's sequel The Dark World was mediocre at best, and the God of Thunder was in major need of a kick up the arse.
In fact, the sight of 'the strongest Avenger' receiving a boot up the backside wouldn't look out of place in Waititi's bright, 80's-inspired cosmic wet-dream. Marvel's have always peppered the heroics with humour and sight gags, but Thor: Ragnarok represents the first time they have opted for full-blown comedy with an occasional action scene in between. Waititi was clearly hired for this very reason, and anybody who fell in love with vampire comedy What We Do in the Shadows and last year's surprisingly touching Hunt for the Wilderpeople will find plenty of laughs here. The director's goofy, playful sense of humour can be found all over Ragnarok, and anybody concerned that this will be to the detriment of taking the film's end-of-the-world premise seriously can be rest assured. Characters are offed or mutilated without pausing for breath, and the climax changes the universe of the MCU forever. The good guys also face their most formidable threat yet, the Goddess of Death herself, Hela (a striking Cate Blanchett).
We first meet up with Chris Hemsworth's Thor as he lies chained-up and imprisoned by fire demon Surtur, after having spent the last two years travelling the cosmos searching for those pesky Infinity Stones. When he finally arrives home, he finds his mischievous brother Loki (Tom Hiddleston) posing as their father Odin (Anthony Hopkins), allowing Asgard's many enemies to gain more power as a result. They travel to Earth and, with the help of Doctor Strange (Benedict Cumberbatch), locate their father, who is apparently waiting to die in Norway. He warns his sons that Ragnarok is coming, as is their sister Hela. After a skirmish that sees the hammer Mjolnir destroyed, Thor is blown into space and lands of Sakaar, where most of the universe's garbage ends up. He is captured by scrapper Valkyrie (Tessa Thompson) is forced to become a gladiator for the amusement of the Grandmaster (Jeff Goldblum). Here he meets his old friend Bruce Banner (Mark Ruffalo), who has been in Hulk form for the past two years and clearly enjoying his life as a celebrity warrior.
Waititi promised a buddy road-trip through the cosmos and that is exactly what we get. Hemsworth has always had a gift for comedy and he is given free reign here, with the bulk of the dialogue made up of improvisation. Ragnarok is truly daft and care-free, even finding the time to squeeze in jokes about masturbation and a wormhole called 'The Devil's Anus'. The director himself also shines on camera as well as behind it, lending his voice to the gently-spoken rock monster Korg, who steals every scene he is in. There are weaknesses: Not all the jokes land, and Blanchett's Hela comes across as a one-note distraction from the events on Sakaar, where Thor, Loki, Valkyrie, Banner and a Jeff Goldblum at his most Goldbumiest are having a much better time. But when Led Zeppelin's Immigrant Song kicks in near the end, you'll be too busy punching the air to care about such flaws. Very much like how The Winter Soldier finally nailed Captain America after a stumbling start, Ragnarok elevates Thor from the runt of the litter to one of the leaders of the pack, reminding us just why he's called the God of Thunder.
With a momentary glance at the poster, Cohen & Tate appears to be somewhere in the realm of those buddy cop thrillers that proved so popular in the 1980s, with tough-guy poses and its two central characters named right there in the title accompanied by an ampersand. At least that's the impression I got. In fact, Eric Red's directorial debut is anything but. Part road movie and part tense thriller - and occasionally struggling when switching between the two - Cohen & Tate is a menacing, violent and often plain mental neo-noir, with a chilling performance by Roy Scheider at its centre. Often veering into territory marked by the Coen Brothers, Red, who also wrote the script, demands that you spend 90 minutes with two bickering, cold-blooded killers as the life of a child hangs in the balance. And it proves to be a pretty riveting experience, even though it requires you to suspend your disbelief for the duration.
We open at a farm house, where a seemingly all-American family are in hiding for unexplained reasons. FBI agents surround the house, but that doesn't stop hit-men Cohen (Scheider) and Tate (Adam Baldwin) from breaking in and murdering everyone in sight except the 9 year-old son, Travis (Harley Cross). Instead, they whisk him away in their car to deliver him to their bosses. What they have in store for him is unknown, as the eponymous anti-heroes are as much in the dark as we are. Yet they have made a terrible blunder: On the radio they learn that the father has survived and has already given descriptions of the killers to the police. The hot-headed Tate wants to ice the child right there and then, but the wiser, more level-headed Cohen insists on finishing the job as planned. Sensing distrust between the two men, Travis takes the opportunity to turn them against each other and plan his escape.
The film plays out from there as a series of vignettes, usually involving the increasingly volatile Tate going off the rails and threatening to kill young Travis. These screaming outbursts are repeated so often that it becomes unintentionally comical, similar in many ways to Bill Paxton's over-the-top character in Near Dark, which was also written by Red. Scheider, however, subtly oozes menace. He may be the more balanced of the two, but it's easy to believe that he's capable of executing a child. The mean-spirited tone works in favour of the film, which ultimately delivers its thrills most effectively when things turn really nasty. The majority of the action takes place in the claustrophobic confines of the car, and the film's main strength is the sharp and often amusing dialogue between the titular bad men. It's ridiculous and messy, but it's damn good fun, any film in which a character eats a box of matches to prove how crazy they are is a winner in my book.
Tongues quickly began flapping after the screening of Amat Escalante's Heli during the Cannes Film Festival, where it was in competition for the Palme d'Or. It's reputation as a brutal and unflinching look at the effects of the drug trade in Mexico even caught the attention of BBC News here in the UK, which is where I first heard of the film. Escalante went on to win Best Director at Cannes, and probably deservedly so. Heli is a beautifully directed film, and wonderfully shot by cinematographer Lorenzo Hagerman. Yet it's matter-of-fact approach and insistence on painting all of its characters with broad shades of grey also makes it difficult to fully engage with. Almost everybody here is flawed in one way or another, and we are locked in a place that saw society crumble long ago.
Essentially a film of two parts, the first half lends much of its focus to 12 year-old Estela (Andrea Vergara) and her relationship with the much older police cadet Beto (Juan Eduardo Palacios). When he isn't being put through brutal and frankly bizarre training routines (he is made to roll in his own sick), Beto promises Estela a better life. One stolen load of cocaine later, and the military (or the cartel - lines are deliberately blurred here) burst into Estela's family home, taking her and older brother Heli (Armando Espitia) off to God-knows-where. The destination is the home of low-ranking cartel members, who proceed to torture and mutilate Heli and Beto. The second half focuses on the aftermath, and the toll the experience takes on Heli. Widespread corruption and brutality leaves a lasting mark on everybody.
The majority of Heli's power comes from its sudden bursts of violence. Even animals and children aren't safe here, and the film sets the tone during its opening scene, a long-take journey on the back of the truck that ends with one of them hanged from a bridge. It's main talking point is the torture sequence, which is one of the grisliest scenes ever committed to film. Not only are genitals set ablaze in one long take, but children are in the room, slouching on sofas and barely batting an eyelid. It's strong and effective stuff, but there's comes a point when you start to wonder if the film has a point to make. The cartel trade has seemingly locked Mexico into a never-ending cycle of violence, but this is nothing new. Heli is best enjoyed from a purely technical point of view, with an uncomfortable, tense atmosphere throughout, even injecting certain scenes with Herzogian strangeness. Still, it's a lot to sit through only to feel the strange sense of emptiness I felt when the credits rolled.
Robert Bresson is known for his stark and stripped-down worlds, where actors were employed as mere 'models' would rather than conduits of expression. The script and story would be where the emotion would resonate, and this would create a rather cold, blank exterior, when in fact there would be great power, grace and humanity lurking beneath its icy surface. Diary of a Country Priest, Bresson's third feature, was the first time the French director would fully embrace this approach, going so far as hiring non-professional actors for the bulk of his cast. Claude Laydu, who plays the titular priest, gives a performance of such complexity that it is often cited as the greatest in the history of motion pictures. Scenes would be re-shot if Bresson felt his actors were, well, acting too much, and Laydu often looks like he's suppressing so much he's going to explode.
When you understand what Bresson's goal was with Diary of a Country Priest, Laydu's performance becomes almost transcendent. The unnamed priest, who arrives in his new parish of the small commune of Ambricourt at the beginning of the film, is a weak, sickly presence. He is young, but small, gaunt and gently-spoken. Suffering from an unknown stomach ailment, he gets by on a diet of bread, fruit and wine. Ambricourt's inhabitants are mainly made up of poor but tough peasants and farmers, whose lives are so gruelling that they have little time for God. His arrival is met with scorn and distrust, and their reaction triggers feelings of rejection in the young priest. Even the children laugh at him, and Mass is attended by a sole woman whose intentions are far from Christian. He confides in the Priest of Torcy (Adrien Borel), a respected, straight-talking man of the cloth, who mentors the bewildered young man on what is expected of him. "A priest should never be loved," he is told, but seems perplexed at the cruelty of the world around him, and the lack of love within it.
The film really centres around a conversation between Laydu and the Countess (Rachel Berendt), an ageing woman who has never gotten over the death of her son, and whose husband is openly having an affair with a younger woman. The result of this conversation has the village gossiping, and it is this that sparks a remarkable show of faith by the young priest. Bresson's bleak approach compliments these moments well, refusing to over-blow the priest's epiphany before he inevitably starts to wrestle with it, recording all of his thoughts in a small diary. Laydu's performance is masterful, and it was surprising to learn that he later developed a puppet show for children, a world away from his sullen presence here. Alongside Dreyer's The Passion of Joan of Arc and Rossellini's Francesco, giullare di Dio, Diary of a Country Priest is a masterpiece about Catholicism made by an agnostic or atheist, using the Bible's teachings and the institution itself as a way to tell more humanistic story of human anguish and struggle.
Directed by: Robert Bresson
Starring: Claude Laydu, Jean Riveyre, Adrien Borel, Rachel Bérendt, Nicole Maurey
Country: France
Ever since Pixar first wowed cinema-going audiences across the globe with their feature-length debut Toy Story, the company has become the standard for cinematic excellence. Not only for their constantly groundbreaking animation and ability to entertain both children and adults alike, but for the quality of their scripts and the amount of genuine heart that pours out of them. Yet for every WALL-E, The Incredibles or Inside Out there's always a Monsters University, A Bug's Life or Brave. These films still get a pass because, after all, "it's only a kid's movie," but the disappointment is all the more crushing with the knowledge of Pixar's capabilities. Cars is firmly in the latter category, falling into the traps of a familiar plot and a script that isn't quite up to scratch.
Cars' reputation has been damaged ever further in the decade since its release, and this is no doubt thanks to the lazy and bitter-tasting sequels and spin-offs, something the company has churned out at an increasing rate ever since Disney took over. I must admit that I didn't think much of Cars back in 2005. It lacked excitement and a character to really root for, and the story of a cocky upstart learning learning a valuable lesson to change their outlook on the world can be seen in countless other children's movies. However, on my second viewing I found moments of tenderness between the cracks, an old-fashioned romanticism to really warm the heart. The movie is about more than a young race car named Lightning McQueen (voiced by Owen Wilson) and his quest to escape the forgotten town of Radiator Spings to reach the Piston Cup. It's also about the changing face of America and the way its capitalist nature is leaving the little guys behind.
One aspect of Cars that was never criticised was its cutting-edge animation, and the way it brought the loud, dangerous world of racing and the country's glorious landscapes to beautiful life. It is still utterly glorious to look at, whether it be a wide shot of a darkening horizon or a close-up of buck-toothed tow truck Mater (Larry the Cable Guy). The small town off Route 66 is full of other colourful archetypes, voiced by the likes of Paul Newman, Bonnie Hunt, Tony Shalhoub, Cheech Marin and George Carlin. The problems I had with the film the first time around are still present - the climax should be a lump-in-the-throat moment but is oddly devoid of emotion, and the film offers no surprises at all - but they just didn't seem to bother me as much. The hefty running-time (just shy of 2 hours) also whizzed by, despite the lack of genuine laugh-out-loud moments. So forget Cars 2, Planes and those awful-looking straight-to-DVD spin-offs you ignore in Tesco, and give Cars another chance.
The magnificence of Berlin's Grand Hotel attracts all kinds of people, each with their own story to tell. Baron Felix von Geigern (John Barrymore) has squandered his vast fortune and spends his time trying to recuperate his losses playing card games and stealing jewels. He has his eyes set on a pearl necklace owned by depressed Russian ballerina Grusinskya (Greta Garbo), but he is enough of a decent chap to befriend Otto (Lionel Barrymore), a dying accountant who decides to live life to the fullest before his time runs out. Otto's arrogant boss Preysing (Wallace Beery) is also staying at the hotel, fretting to his new stenographer Flaemmchen (Joan Crawford) over an important business deal that appears to be heading south. While attempting to swipe the valuable necklace, Felix finds himself in love with the sad dancer and unable to go through with the heist. With money to re-pay and a late-night train to catch, will fate and the events at the Grand Hotel allow them to be together?
