Legendary directors Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger are best known for their glorious Technicolor achievements. Their impressive careers delivered the likes of The Thief of Bagdad, The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, Black Narcissus, The Red Shoes and The Tales of Hoffman, all sumptuous and sweeping pictures that now feel way ahead of their time. Earlier in their careers, they were also responsible for 'smaller' films set in and around Powell's native Britain (Pressburger was born in Austria-Hungary but died in the country he spent most of his working life in). One such film, from 1945, is I Know Where I'm Going!, a charming little romantic drama set on the Scottish Hebrides.
Ambitious and headstrong young Englishwoman Joan Webster (Wendy Hiller) has known how her life will pan out ever since she was a little girl. Much to the concern of her father (George Carney), she is to marry wealthy, and much older, industrialist Sir Robert Bellinger, who owns a lavish home on the remote island of Kiloran. When she arrives by boat on a nearby island, the area is so thick with fog that to complete the last leg of her journey would be an impossible and life-threatening task. As a result, Joan is forced to wait for better weather on the Isle of Mull, where she meets handsome young naval officer Torquil MacNeil (Roger Livesey), who is on shore leave and also trying to make it to Kiloran. The weather doesn't improve, and the more time Joan spends with her new acquaintance, the more torn she becomes between ambition and love.
Powell and Pressburger made films in colour prior to 1945, but I Know Where I'm Going! isn't any less visually inspiring due to being shot in black-and-white. Cinematographer Erwin Hillier (who had worked with the directors on A Canterbury Tale) captures the Hebrides as a cold, unforgiving part of the world, lashed by constant rain storms and its inhabitants threatened by a nearby whirlpool. Yet it's also serene, untouched by the modern world, albeit invaded by unwanted rich folk. Of course, it's all a metaphor for Joan's emotions, as she decides between the calmer, gentler lands on which she currently walks or braving the dark, dangerous unknown. She claims to know just where she's going, but does her heart tell her otherwise? Events won't surprise you, but you'll be swept up in the film's flow and sentiment nevertheless. Hiller and Livesey form an attractive couple with plenty of chemistry, and Hillier's camera will have you swooning over the locations.
The early 1960s saw the beginning of a rivalry between two competing films set amongst the world of Formula One. Lee H. Katzin's Day of the Champion, starring Steve McQueen, was to focus on a particularly gruelling 24-hour race, France's Le Mans, while John Frankenheimer would shoot Grand Prix, a luxurious ensemble piece boasting a handful of the industry's biggest names, on 70mm Cinerama, in what would be one of the final films to showcase the technique before it became defunct. It was a race to hit the cinema screens first, with both movies experiencing issues during production. Day of the Champion would later be re-titled Le Mans, and wouldn't see a release until 1971, a whopping five years late. Grand Prix emerged as the winner, winning multiple Academy Awards in the technical department and boasting racing scenes that haven't been matched since.
While Le Mans' focus was solely on the racing, Grand Prix has larger ambitions. On top of a number of extended racing scenes, the story also gets bogged down by various melodramatic sub-plots involving a few of the drivers and their romantic engagements. Our main heroes are Jean-Pierre Sarti (Yves Montand), a French multiple champion reaching the end of a decorated career; Pete Aron (James Garner), an American looking to salvage his career after he signs up with Yamura Motors; Nino Barlini (Antonio Sabato), an arrogant but promising rookie who plays second fiddle to Sarti; and Scott Stoddard (Brian Bedford), a British driver looking to get back behind the wheel following a horrific crash. Away from the track, their personal lives resemble a soap opera. Aron grows close to Pat (Jessica Walter), Stoddard's estranged wife, while the married Sarti embarks on an affair with American journalist Louise Frederickson (Eva Marie Saint).
This is the sort of lavish, star-studded production that was so common in the 1960s, offering a new familiar face in what feels like every scene. There's also an international flavour to the impressive cast, with the likes of Adolfo Celi, Toshiro Mifune and Claude Dauphin popping up, to name but a few. The hysterical dramatics drag the running time to just shy of three hours - complete with intermission - and Grand Prix ultimately succeeds on the strength of its racing scenes alone. Strapping a camera on top, on the side, and seemingly everywhere but underneath the vehicle, Frankenheimer thrusts you straight to the head of the action. Also employing split-screens, this is one of the most dazzlingly stylish films of its day. Despite not being a Formula One fan in the slightest, I found the time spend on the track exhilarating. The growls of the engines combined with the angles of the camera place you front and centre, almost as if you were right there behind the wheel. As a pure thrill ride, it's one of the very best, it's just a shame that we have to sit through 90 minutes of melodramatics in between.
In the latest offering from the great cinematic filmmaker Lynne Ramsay, Joaquin Phoenix stars as a psychologically scarred combat veteran who dishes out his own particularly brutal brand of justice without blinking an eye. With his massive beard generously flecked with grey and straggly long hair tightly pulled back into a man-bun, he hasn't looked so dishevelled since his faux-public breakdown for Casey Affleck's mockumentary I'm Still Here in 2010. His clothes look like they haven't been washed in months, and there's a redness look in his eyes that hints at a lack of sleep or a reliance on prescription medication. He is packing a bit of a gut and a lack of definition, but he carries himself like a fearless UFC fighter bounding into the ring, ready and eager to destroy whoever is thrown in with him. His character, Joe, is a modern day Travis Bickle. Yet while you would cross the street in fear that Bickle may say or do something weird, you would flee from Joe just in case he bashes your skull in with a hammer.
You Were Never Really Here, based on the novel by Jonathan Ames, is an incredibly violent, unflinching picture. But Ramsay is an intelligent, thoughtful filmmaker, way more interested in characters and mood to be distracted by the many horrors on show. She doesn't dwell on the violence, and instead views it through the eye of a security camera, or a half-seen reflection in a mirror. Sometimes even the sound alone, combined with Jonny Greenwood strange and hypnotic score, is more than enough to creature a vivid picture in your mind of what is transpiring. Ramsay simply isn't interested in visualising the bloodshed, and this shrewd approach skilfully makes the many horrific acts committed by Joe all the more wince-inducing. Her focus rests purely with Joe himself, beginning with a portrait of a man long pushed over the edge, before journeying even more inward and downward.
Joe earns his keep by hiring himself out for covert missions that may require action not necessarily permitted by law. A purposefully confusing and violent opening sets the tone: Joe is simply not to be messed with, and does not flinch at the possibility of violence. He has a reputation for brutality, which is precisely the reason he is paid by frustrated parents to find missing kids, usually those kidnapped for sex trafficking purposes, by man-in-the-middle John McCleary (The Wire's John Doman). In his downtime, he also cares for his elderly mother (Judith Roberts). Ambitious young New York Senator Albert Votto (Alex Manette) wants Joe to locate his missing daughter Nina (Ekaterina Samsonov), and carry out whatever it takes to make her abductors suffer for their crimes. Joe accepts the job, and it doesn't take long for him to find the shell-shocked teenager. What happens next would be venturing into spoiler territory, but Joe is sent down a dark path to redemption, unravelling a conspiracy way above his pay grade.
Despite what many critics have said, You Were Never Really Here isn't Lynne Ramsay's best film, and will surely be her most divisive. Some parts just don't work: Although it is by no means integral to film's themes and focus, the revelations of Joe's investigations may have attracted Liam Neeson with a vastly different director at the helm, and the final scene, which touches on fantasy, clashes uncomfortably with what came before. But these issues don't affect the film's sheer impact. At its best, You Were Never Really Here is pure cinema, dragging you through the squalor by the neck and plunging you into the mind of a truly damaged soul. I haven't felt so beaten up - in a good way - by a movie since the first time I saw Elem Klimov's Come and See. As Joe, Phoenix has probably never been better. He is a ticking time-bomb, favouring the use of a hammer against his enemies. In one of the film's finest scenes, Joe is asked by a young girl to take a picture of her and her friends. He mumbles and agrees, before a close-up of the girl reveals her to be crying. Is this a hallucination, or has she seen the pain etches across his face? Reality and dreams are melded together into a 90-minute punch to the gut, and Ramsay proves once again why she is one of the greatest working filmmakers.
Steven Spielberg's The Post is the great director's most handsome film in years. Shot quickly and clinically while he waited for the effects to be finished for Ready Player One, the film, if anything, is a sign of just how masterful he is at his craft. Starring A-list heavies Meryl Streep and Tom Hanks, The Post tells the story of the Pentagon Papers, leaked by disgruntled military analyst Daniel Ellsberg, which revealed that the President knew the war in Vietnam could not be won early on in the conflict. Many young men were drafted anyway, and sent to their deaths half a world away from home. The New York Times had the story first, but were threatened with a court injunction in an attempt to halt the publication of a series of planned articles which would damage the reputation of many high-ranking officials, including the President himself.
It's a story Spielberg felt needed to be told now, and for good reason. There are many parallels to the modern day, only nobody here is forced to live out their days hiding in an Ecuadorian embassy or assassinated with poison. When The Washington Post is handed the story themselves (by a hippy girl who dumps a package on the first desk she sees), editor-in-chief Ben Bradlee (Hanks) immediately decides that the revelations must be released to the public. Being the intelligent man he is, Bradlee had long suspected that the Times had their hands on something huge, and refuses to be silenced by the government of a country whose right to free speech is written in its very constitution. The Post depicts the newspapers search to locate the source of the leak, and Bradlee's relationship with publisher Kay Graham (Streep). The heiress and socialite has her own reservations about the newspaper's upcoming stock market launch, and how the Papers will affect the reputation of her close friend Robert McNamara (Bruce Greenwood).
There's an earthy, smoky quality to the 1970's-set The Post. Spielberg manages to capture the sweaty urgency of some of the great movies to emerge from Hollywood in its greatest decade, with All the President's Men being the most obvious comparison. In a world now filled with information at the swipe of a thumb, it's exciting and invigorating to see Ben Bagdikian (Bob Odenkirk) spills his pay-phone quarters onto the floor as he desperately searches for a pen, or the sight of Ellsberg (Matthew Rhys) holed up in a motel with thousands upon thousands of printed pages stacked all around the place. The large ensemble, which also includes Sarah Paulson, Tracy Letts, Carrie Coon, Jesse Plemons, Bradley Whitford, Alison Brie, Michael Stuhlbarg and David Cross, is impressive across the board, and although its hardly a stretch for such seasoned screen giants, Streep and Hanks - the former a fumbling yet oblivious feminist icon and the latter a cranky but good-hearted fighter - help the film to be incredibly watchable. It doesn't offer any further insights into a story many will already know, and Ellsberg is somewhat sidelined, but The Post is a timely stance against anyone looking to threaten the right to free speech and the freedom of the press.
It wouldn't be fair to Ridley Scott's latest film to dwell too much on the revolting allegations that came out regarding Kevin Spacey and his sexually aggressive behaviour, yet the 80 year-old's reaction to the news and subsequent quick-thinking led to one of the most impressive aspects of All the Money in the World. Filming had already wrapped with Spacey in the lead donning heavy prosthetic makeup, but Scott quite rightly opted to remove the disgraced actor from the final product entirely, save for one scene in which his face is digitally replaced. Scenes were re-shot in an astonishing nine days, with Scott's initial first choice Christopher Plummer now playing the role of tycoon J. Paul Getty.
The result is not a film that appears to be quickly patched together, but one that seamlessly pieces together the old footage with the new. As Getty, you will believe that Plummer was present for the duration. He effortlessly balances Getty's occasional playfulness with his more tyrannical and stubborn sides, and he cuts an impenetrable yet enigmatic figure. Questions surrounding his refusal to pay his grandson's ransom when the 16 year-old is kidnapped in Rome forms the film's biggest mystery. Is he concerned that coughing up the dough will only inspire the kidnapping of more vulnerable heirs to vast fortunes? Does he believe that John Paul Getty III (played by Charlie Plummer, no relation) arranged the whole thing himself to get a slice of the action? Or is he simply a stingy old man, seeing no reason to spend a dime on something he sees as a bad business deal?
At the time, oil-rich Getty was not only the richest man on the planet, but the richest man there had ever been. It would seem that he never invested without the promise of a return. The old coot spends much of his time in dark, grandiose rooms within his spectacular mansion, pouring over the latest figures as if every cent must be accounted for. When he is informed that his favourite yet wayward grandchild has disappeared, his eyes never leave the books. We are informed via flashback that Getty III's parents, Gail Harris (Michelle Williams) and John Paul Getty Jr. (Andrew Buchan), divorced years earlier due to the latter's drug abuse, with the mother receiving full custody. This, in J. Paul's eyes, was a betrayal, and possibly the first time he has lost something he couldn't simply throw money at. There's also the possibility that malice may be driving the stinking-rich old man's complete disinterest in paying what is a small sum in the context of his vast fortune. It takes the arrival of a severed ear make him re-consider.
Like many of Scott's recent efforts, All the Money in the World has its flaws, albeit far fewer than the likes of Robin Hood or Alien: Covenant. If there is a blemish on what is a stellar cast, its Mark Wahlberg as Getty's former CIA operative adviser Fletcher Chace. While everybody else disappears into their role, he can only muster his Boston everyman act and sticks out like a sore thumb. For a film that initially takes its time developing the characters and their backgrounds, it can't help but introduce tired tropes which didn't occur in real life, such as the sympathetic kidnapper Cinquanta (Romain Duris) and a climax involving a desperate chase through the streets. Still, Scott manages to keep us engrossed in the story, ramping up the tension with a frantic pace whether you know how it played out in real life or not. This is the director back to his The Martian best, and how he cannot seem to replicate this quality when he diverts into the Alien franchise is a head-scratcher. And Christopher Plummer is truly exceptional.
There were few directors so suited to the film noir genre as Robert Siodmak, whose lengthy career produced everything from B-movie horrors (Son of Dracula) to exotic adventures (Cobra Woman) and forgotten westerns (Pyramid of the Sun God). However, he is best remembered for his work in the noir genre, which spawned tough, pretension-free crime dramas such as Phantom Lady, Cry of the City and Criss Cross. His movies often employed a kind of gimmick as a hook, with his finest film The Killers jumping back and forth in time to keep the audience guessing. One of Siodmak's lesser-known pulpy efforts, The Dark Mirror, leaned towards psychoanalysis as well as the more familiar sleuthing from a craggy-faced, weather-beaten detective. The advancements in mental health studies was all the rage with many screenwriters during the 1940s, and although much of what is said is utter nonsense, it helps give this lively noir a refreshing edge.
Quick-witted detective Lt. Stevenson (Thomas Mitchell) takes on the case of Dr. Frank Peralta, who is found dead in his apartment with a knife in his back. Investigations advance quickly, and after interviewing various witnesses, all the clues points to one woman alone: Peralta's lover Terry Collins (Olivia de Havilland). Many saw her leave the scene shortly after a loud thud was heard from the apartment, and the doctor's appointment book confirms a rendez-vous with the attractive young lady at the time of the murder. Yet when Stevenson corners Terry at her work after various witnesses make a positive identification, she has an alibi that cannot be disputed. Utterly perplexed at the mystery, the veteran dick visits her home to pose a few more questions, only to discover that Terry has, as you probably would have guessed by this point, and identical twin sister, named Ruth. One committed the crime and the other is innocent, but both exercise their right to keep their trap shut to avoid incriminating themselves.
Refusing to believe in such a thing as 'the perfect crime', Stevenson brings in Scott Elliott (Lew Ayres), a doctor who frequently encountered both women at their place of work, and who also happens to be an expert in the study of twins. The Dark Mirror doesn't convince when it comes to psychologically evaluating the sisters, but if you can suspend your disbelief and roll with the film's coincidence-reliant plot, this is one of the most engaging noirs the genre has to offer. It's also helped a great deal by the central performance of de Havilland, who takes great delight in playing with the siblings' differing personalities. Their interactions are made even more delightful thanks to some seamless visual effects. The use of clever split-screens make it seem that two different actresses are indeed speaking to one another, putting efforts to recreate the effect as recent as the 1990s completely to shame. There a noticeable tonal issues, particularly with some musical choices heard after Stevenson's wisecracks which grate with the film's darker moments, but The Dark Mirror is yet another of Siodmak's quirky noirs deserving of more recognition.
The Dollanganger children - the elder Cathy (Kristy Swanson) and Chris (Jeb Stuart Adams), and young twins Cory (Ben Ryan Ganger) and Carrie (Lindsay Parker) - live an idyllic life with their photogenic mother (Victoria Tennant) and caring, successful father (Marshall Colt). That is until the day of their father's birthday brings the devastating news that he has been killed in a car accident, leaving the four kids without a father figure and their mother with dwindling savings. When their money runs dry, Mother takes them to their grandparents' mansion in the country, where she hopes to reconnect with her dying father in the hope of being written back into his will. When they arrive, they are met with disdain by Grandmother (Louise Fletcher), who has long felt that her daughter's marriage and family was an abomination. As Mother attempts to crawl back into her parents' good books, the children must be locked away unseen in the attic to be told over time by their only remaining parent to endure the isolation just a little while longer.
V. C. Andrews' novel Flowers in the Attic was incredibly successful when it was released in 1979, selling over 40 million copies worldwide, gathering a huge following of young readers, and spawning no fewer than three sequels. The author wisely insisted on script approval when selling the rights for a film adaptation, turning down a number of screenplays before settling with Jeffrey Bloom's version. The producers had already turned down Wes Craven's violent and disturbing vision, deeming it too disturbing for a mainstream audience, despite the director's recent success with A Night on Elm Street. Bloom's script stayed true the novel's controversial themes of incest, but the final product, also directed by Bloom, did not play well with test audiences, who were freaked out by the sexual activity between the two oldest siblings, and unsatisfied with the climax.
The production was a notoriously troubled one. When the producers got nervous after the test screenings and insisted on re-shooting the ending, Bloom stepped away, and an unknown replacement was brought in to helm the new scenes. The result has one salivating at the thought of a juicier, more harrowing version with Craven behind the camera, as Flowers in the Attic is a tame, frustrating and ultimately boring affair. It is a film completely disinterested in detail, choosing instead to force us into accepting the children's predicament with no real understanding of how they took so long to figure it all out, and why don't simply make a run for it. Cathy and Chris come across as idiotic, irresponsible and weak, despite the best efforts of Swanson and Adams. Fletcher, evoking her intimidating presence from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, gives it her very best, but she can't save this damp squib from instantly fading from memory.
A new film from writer and director Paul Thomas Anderson is always a cause for celebration among film buffs. Apart from his underwhelming 1996 debut Hard Eight and 2014's messy Inherent Vice (which I still enjoyed despite the constant head-scratching), Anderson's output is always something to savour with repeat viewings. But his latest, a sumptuous and idiosyncratic love story set in 1950's London, is not only noteworthy for being the work of the one of the finest filmmakers of recent times, but for the announcement that this will be the final big screen appearance of Daniel Day-Lewis, an actor whose frequent returns to cinema after long periods away always mark a reason to sit up and get excited.
Day-Lewis plays Reynolds Woodcock, a famous fashion designer who creates the most wonderful and elegant dresses for the ladies of high society, who clearly pay top dollar for his services. He is charismatic and handsome, but also impulsive and quick-tempered. Woodcock is a man of routine who insists on starting the day with a large breakfast and, most importantly, quiet. We first meet him sharing the breakfast table with his latest squeeze, and he scowls at the sight of a pastry offered by her. His sister Cyril (Lesley Manville), who he shares his large residence with, has witnessed her brother's cycle of excitement and boredom with attractive ladies many times before, and quickly sets up plans to remove the poor girl from their home and his life. He talks of his late mother and a growing sense of unease. It's clear he's in dire need of a new muse to keep the creative juices flowing.
His mood quickly improves when he has breakfast at a nearby hotel and has his attention grabbed by the clumsy yet beautiful Alma (Vicky Krieps). He invites her to dinner and does most of the talking, telling stories of his past and his fondness for sowing hidden messages within the dresses he creates. In his own suit jacket, he keeps a lock of his mother's hair. Alma is swept away by this charming man, and agrees to a dress fitting despite the intimidating presence of Cyril. Soon enough, she notices a gradual change in Woodcock's mood, and Cyril braces herself for the inevitable. But Alma loves and feels that she understands the mysterious and exciting genius, and concocts a plan to keep a hold of him forever. Indeed, Phantom Thread is possibly the oddest and most mesmerising love story since Punch-Drunk Love, Anderson's 2002 dark comedy and still his greatest film to date.
The director has always worn his influences on his sleeve, and Phantom Thread is infused with an aura of Kubrick, and a heavy lashing of Hitchcock. It's probably his most straight-forward film, but there is an obliqueness to the story also. The narrative veers off into almost fairy-tale territory, as Alma sets in motion her grand scheme. It all moves along at a dazzling, hypnotic pace with the assistance of Johnny Greenwood's classical score and Anderson's constantly gliding camera. If this is truly the final performance of Daniel Day-Lewis, he is certainly ending in a high note with one of the finest performances of his career and further cements his place as one of, if not the, finest actor to ever grace our screens. Manville is also fantastic as the cold and shrewd Cyril, a woman who has seemingly dedicated her life to her mummy's-boy sibling, with whom she shares a relationship that often feels incestuous. Krieps is radiant, simmering with intensity as she refuses to become yet another muse to be shown a quick exit. Phantom Thread is not for everyone, but Anderson's films never are. Despite the period setting, this is a truly modern love story, and one with the power to both warm the heart and genuinely horrify.
The debate surrounding Netflix's validity as a cinematic platform was in full swing last year, with Cannes Film Festival announcing that the streaming service will no longer be able to enter their original movies into competition, following a negative reaction by audiences who jeered and booed whenever their logo flashed on screen. Should only movies released in cinemas be classified as 'true cinema', or is this just blatant, ignorant snobbery? Great directors such as Steven Spielberg, Ingmar Bergman and Rainer Werner Fassbinder have all produced fantastic work for the small screen, so should films be judged on their quality alone, regardless of how they were released to the general audience?
With The Cloverfield Paradox, Netflix have proven they can offer an alternative to a production company sweating on the success on something they have poured millions of dollars into. The fact that it was a steaming pile of hot mess aside, Cloverfield drew far more viewers than it would have ever dreamed of if released on the big screen. With Annihilation, director Alex Garland's first film since 2014's fantastic Ex Machina, Netflix were used a compromise when Paramount weren't happy with the film's ending, which they were concerned would be 'too weird' for a mainstream audience. Garland stuck to his guns, and Annihilation is now available to us as the director intended. Despite the mass of crap they produce on a monthly basis, the billion-dollar company clearly love cinema, supporting artists without being too concerned about whether or not it will make money, as the subscriptions will still be paid regardless.
The strongest argument is that when the final product is as thrilling, engaging and original as Annihilation, who the hell cares if it was projected onto a cinema screen or not? (It did receive a limited release elsewhere, but not here in the UK) Garland's second movie backs up the idea that the 28 Days Later and Sunshine scribe is one of the most important voices in science-fiction at the moment. Loosely based on the novel of the same name by Jeff VanderMeer, Annihilation sends a group of women into an scientific anomaly known as 'The Shimmer', without making a big deal of the absence of a male lead one would expect from such a genre piece. Our protagonist is Lena, played by Natalie Portman, a cellular biology professor grieving over the year-long disappearance of her husband Kane (Oscar Isaac). Believed to be long-dead, Kane suddenly reappears one night, unable to recall where he has been or how he made it home. After he starts to cough up blood, they are both abducted on the way to the hospital at gun-point by a special government unit and taken to a secret facility called Area X.
It's here that Lena learns of The Shimmer, a mysterious oily dome covering much of the southern coast and constantly expanding. Many have made their way into the otherworldly place, but none, save Kane, have made it back out. Communication cuts out as soon as anyone enters, so the one overseeing expeditions, psychologist Dr. Ventress (Jennifer Jason Leigh), is just as clueless as anyone else. She plans to join the team recruited for the next expedition, which consists of physicist Josie Radeck (Tessa Thompson), paramedic Anya Thorensen (Gina Rodriguez), and anthropologist Cass Sheppard (Tuva Novotny). Keen to uncover the truth about Kane's time spent within the Shimmer and how he made it out alive, Lena persuades Ventress to allow her to join the group, using her military background and scientific expertise to plead her case. Things quickly turn weird as they pass through the seemingly inexplicable border, as the unit wake up to find they have been in there for three days and cannot remember a thing. As they venture further into the Shimmer and towards a lighthouse believed to be sheltering the source of its power, they witness the law of physics increasingly defied and reshaped.
Annihilation had the same effect on me as 2016's Arrival. It feels important to a stagnating genre, offering both riveting set-pieces and exploring areas of science that will have you constantly engaged in order to have any hope of understanding the story's revelations. As plants start to interbreed, strange animals emerge as terrifying amalgamations, and time feels like it has no place or purpose, the film offers convincing explanations. You may not work them out until days later - and Annihilation will likely linger for a long time afterwards - but it will all make sense, even if the climax offers one of the strangest, most beautiful, and undeniably creepiest scenes in recent memory. But this isn't just for science boffins. A found-footage moment that brought back terrifying memories of Event Horizon and an encounter with what can only be described as half bear/half wolf with a scream to give you nightmares only heighten the growing sense of unease as the movie progresses. Garland has the courage to run with his ideas and glory in the ambiguity of it all, and he can only be commended for refusing to alter his vision for any gutless studio heads. Cannes should really reconsider.
Silent movie star and all-round horror icon Lon Chaney was known as the 'Man of a Thousand Faces'. His gift for make-up and prosthetic work meant that he was able to transform himself into some of the most iconic characters of the silent era, such as the masked Phantom of Phantom of the Opera, and Quasimodo in 1923's The Hunchback of Notre Dame. But Chaney didn't become a legend simply for his skills with a make-up brush, he was also a damn fine actor. Having grown up with two deaf parents, Chaney became incredibly skilled at pantomime, something that would benefit him when he was eventually promoted to silent film. The Phantom himself is what people remember and take away from the story, not the plot, the dialogue or the songs of Andrew Lloyd Webber's later musical adaptation, and much of this is thanks to Chaney's memorable incarnation, which was only the second on film (1916's Das Phantom der Oper is now lost).
Adapted from Gaston Leroux's 1910 novel Le Fantome de l'Opera, the story is centred around Paris Opera House, which has recently been acquired by two men who laugh off any suggestion that a cloaked ghost known as 'The Phantom' stalks the halls at night. The new season is about to open with Faust, led by prima donna Carlotta (Mary Fabian), whose understudy Christine Daae (Mary Philbin) has made a rapid rise from a mere chorus girl to potential star-in-waiting. Somebody is clearly a fan of Christine, as Carlotta's mother (Virginia Pearson) receives a letter demanding that Christine be given the lead, otherwise a great tragedy will befall her daughter. The note is signed by the Phantom, but Carlotta sings anyway. Soon enough, she is taken ill, and Christine steps in to wow the audience and her fiance Vicomte Raoul de Chagny (Norman Kerry). Visited by the shadowed Phantom late one night, she is told that she has been touched with a divine voice, and nothing can now stop her career, as long as she agrees to obey the wishes of her new master.
She soon discovers that these wishes involve her heading through a secret passage into the catacombs beneath the Opera House and living out her days in solitude with a disfigured creature who hopes she will return his love. The Opera House was built upon some kind of palace complete with torture chambers, and Christine is whisked off on horseback and gondola to the Phantom's secret lair. This sequence is captured with a dream-like quality, blurring the lines between reality and nightmare, although it has a sense of eerie beauty to it also. The eventual unmasking of Phantom, or Erik as he reveals himself to be, is one of the most famous images in cinema. Even though you know the moment is coming, Chaney's expression of shock and rage at being revealed to the world still has the ability to send a shiver down the spine. It is a shot that wouldn't have had quite the same impact if not for Chaney's involvement, and the actor also manages to squeeze some sympathy out of his bitter, twisted and completely insane romantic. It's far from the best chiller to emerge from the silent era, but it is undoubtedly one of the most influential.
Ambitious and headstrong young Englishwoman Joan Webster (Wendy Hiller) has known how her life will pan out ever since she was a little girl. Much to the concern of her father (George Carney), she is to marry wealthy, and much older, industrialist Sir Robert Bellinger, who owns a lavish home on the remote island of Kiloran. When she arrives by boat on a nearby island, the area is so thick with fog that to complete the last leg of her journey would be an impossible and life-threatening task. As a result, Joan is forced to wait for better weather on the Isle of Mull, where she meets handsome young naval officer Torquil MacNeil (Roger Livesey), who is on shore leave and also trying to make it to Kiloran. The weather doesn't improve, and the more time Joan spends with her new acquaintance, the more torn she becomes between ambition and love.
