German-born filmmaker Robert Siodmak fleed Adolf Hitler twice throughout his career, journeying to and flourishing in France after Joseph Goebbels called him out in the press, and later in Hollywood as the Nazis spread through Europe. It was in the U.S. that he made the pictures he is now most fondly remembered for: tough, dark and distinctly unpretentious film noirs like The Killers, The Dark Mirror, Cry of the City and Criss Cross, many of which are considered some of the best the genre has to offer. Before he was allowed the chance to place his stamp on his works, Siodmak churned out screwball comedies like Fly-by-Night and even a Universal horror film, Son of Dracula. His first venture into noir came in 1944 with Phantom Lady, a film that leaned more towards Hitchcockian thriller territory than the hard-boiled crime dramas that would come later.
Every great noir needs a chump, and we are introduced to Phantom Lady's unfortunate patsy Scott Henderson (Alan Curtis) as he sits slumped at a bar. He has tickets for a show but his date has stood him up, so he innocently asks the only female in the bar, played by Fay Helm, if she will accompany him. The woman, whose name we don't learn until much later in the film, is clearly emotionally unstable, initially turning down Scott's offer before agreeing under strict terms: they won't reveal their names or discuss anything personal. They go to see the show, where the mystery woman's rather outrageous hat is also being worn by the star on the stage, Estela Monteiro (Aurora Miranda), enraging her and amusing the diminutive band drummer Cliff (Elisha Cook Jr.). The night ends with a hurried goodbye, and Scott returns home to find three policemen waiting for him. As they lead him to the bedroom, his wife lays dead, strangled with one of Scott's own neckties.
Of course, Scott has a perfect alibi, but he never learned her name, and everybody they encountered that night - a bartender, a taxi driver, and even Monteiro - all deny seeing the woman. Facing the death penalty, Scott's only hope to unravel the mystery is his beautiful and loyal secretary Carol (Ella Raines) and sympathetic Police Inspector Burgess (Thomas Gomez). Phantom Lady's biggest failing in trying to replicate the genius of Hitchcock is the near complete absence of suspense. The wrongfully-accused thriller was done far better by the man himself over a decade later with The Wrong Man, and when Scott's old pal Jack Marlow (Franchot Tone) shows up halfway through, all sense of whodunit goes flying out the window. Still, Phantom Lady gets by on sheer class. Siodmak elevates the plot-hole ridden story with his trademark weaving of light and dark, and influences brought over from the days of German Expressionism makes this a more visually stimulating experience. It's also a lot of fun: the outrageous plot shares more in common with an Argento giallo than a Raymond Chandler paperback.
The giallo may have been pioneered by the great Mario Bava and spectacularly refined by Dario Argento, but Umberto Lenzi was developing the techniques and stylings we now know and love from the mid-1960s. Before he became known for schlocky horror trash like Eaten Alive!, Nightmare City and Cannibal Ferox, Lenzi was toying with rich socialites and exploring pulpy, dime-store stories that often involved ridiculous, labyrinthine plots, psychedelic interiors, and beautiful, untrustworthy women. These are all ingredients of the giallo, and some of these early Lenzi efforts hint at a director with an eye for kitschy visuals, something that certainly doesn't come to mind when you watch a native tribesman scalp a poor traveller in the despicable Cannibal Ferox. These eye-catching visuals are certainly present in his 1969 film So Sweet... So Perverse, but there isn't much else to hold the attention in this plodding soap opera.
Handsome, jet-setting socialite Jean Reynaud (Jean-Louis Trintignant) enjoys a lavish lifestyle of cocktail parties and shooting ranges, but he has grown bored and frustrated with the lack of passion in his marriage to the beautiful Danielle (Erika Blanc). To counter this, Jean sleeps with anybody who happens to catch his eye, including his friend Helene (Helga Line), and his head is turned by the woman who has just moved upstairs, Nicole (Carroll Baker). When he hears screams coming from above, he rushes to Nicole's aid, learning that she is stuck in an abusive sexual relationship with her husband Klaus (Horst Frank). As they spend more time together, the couple inevitably fall in love, yet whenever they escape for a weekend, Klaus always manages to track them down. After a night of passion, Nicole reveals that she and Klaus have actually been paid a hefty sum to lure in and eventually kill Jean, but that the one doing the hiring has not yet revealed themselves.
With such a cool-sounding title (yet another famous trait of the gialli), there is nothing sweet and little perverse about the film itself. Argento eventually set a high standard for story-telling and the slow-building of tension within a vital set-piece, and the likes of Lucio Fulci and Sergio Martino added gory violence and a graceful style into the mix, but So Sweet... So Perverse is frustratingly tame, failing to ignite much interest in the plot or generate any excitement when events take a more sinister tone. Where Lenzi ultimately excels is in the glossy cinematography and dazzling interiors, which are garish enough to amusingly satirise the world of these detached characters and their materialistic lifestyles. Images of sun-drenched locations, expensive suits and beautiful, provocative women add a sleazy glamour and seductive glaze to the film, a hedonistic way-of-life Lenzi is happy to indulge as he shrewdly condemns it. It isn't quite enough to prevent So Sweet... So Perverse from becoming little more than a curious cinematic artefact, that ultimately paved the way for better directors to come along and take this new genre by the scruff.
Bad Times at the El Royale, the latest offering from former Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Alias and Lost scribe Drew Goddard, was shrouded in secrecy before its release. The trailer promised a dazzling ensemble, a noir-ish crime aesthetic, and a hotel setting where the characters would likely spend the whole film double-crossing each other or figuring out what the hell is going on. This mystery hinted at something more, even something special, but Bad Times is little more than a sporadically fun throwback to the dialogue-heavy crime capers of the 1990s, which were mostly inspired by Quentin Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs, even though Hollywood had walked on similar terrain going back decades. It reminded me of Ben Wheatley's recent Free Fire, which pitted various groups against each other in a singular location. And just like Wheatley's disappointment, Bad Times tricks you into believing you're on the road to a shocking revelation, before underwhelming as it struggles to live up to its promise.
Inspired by the Cal Neva Lodge & Casino, the El Royale is a kitchy and somewhat shady hotel located on the border between California and Nevada in 1969. A line separating the two states is proudly displayed within, with each side offering different draws. Catholic priest Father Daniel Flynn (Jeff Bridges) is already there when the film begins, apparently staring into space as our next player arrives, singer Darlene Sweet (Cynthia Erivo), a member of a Supremes-esque group on her way to Vegas to make it as a solo act. As the two strike up a conversation and enter their home for the night, slick-haired salesman Laramie Seymour Sullivan (Jon Hamm) is also there, waiting patiently at the reception for a room he is intent on reserving. We are soon joined by the fourth member of this mysterious group, no-nonsense hippy chick Emily Summerspring (Dakota Johnson), who proudly signs the register with a 'Fuck You'. Eventually they are given their rooms for the night by the nervous Miles Miller (Lewis Pullman), who appears to be the hotel's only employee. As day becomes night, backstories and true intentions unfold before the arrival of unpredictable cult leader Billy Lee (Chris Hemsworth).
Telling the same story from multiple perspectives was a fad that thankfully burnt itself out by the early 2000s as audiences grew aware that they were being forced to watch the same thing over and over again with little to no pay-off. Goddard does his best to mix things up and keep the unravelling story intriguing enough to hold our attention for the most part, but at two hours and twenty minutes, there's a lot of needless padding to unnecessarily wade through for what is ultimately a routine crime thriller. The film creates a major problem for itself in the opening scene by delivering a well-staged set-piece that concludes with an explosion of violence, something the rest of the film never really feels like topping. If you've ever seen Goddard's Daredevil on Netflix, you'll be lamenting the lack of dizzying camera-work and knuckle-bruising action. What ultimately saves Bad Times is the cast, who are all eager to make their mark when given the opportunity from some one-on-one time. Particularly Bridges, who seems to wander in from another film to deliver a heart-breaking monologue that reveals more information about his past, as well as his current state of affairs, and Hemsworth, who repeats his Ghostbusters trick by stealing the entire film with only a modest amount of screen time. Bad Times doesn't justify its hefty running-time, but you'll likely be left remembering its good parts.
There have been many attempts over the years to comprehend the genius of Dutch artist Vincent van Gogh, from 1956's Lust for Life, to 1990's ambitious Vincent & Theo. While some of these movies are unquestionably good - perhaps none more masterful than Maurice Pialat's Van Gogh - the man himself remains an enigma, so filmmakers have now been forced to take more experimental measures when attempting to understand the painter who, while now regarded as one of art's most influential figures, only managed to sell one painting out of a rumoured 900 during his lifetime. Much focus is placed on the infamous ear-slicing incident, and this is where we began in Loving Vincent, a joint Polish and UK film that employed 125 painters to painstakingly recreate van Gogh's style over footage shot with actors in front of a green screen.
A year after van Gogh's suicide, postmaster and close friend of the troubled artist Joseph Roulin (Chris O'Dowd) tasks his street-fighting son Armand (Douglas Booth) with delivering van Gogh's final letter to his brother Theo. With questions surrounding the suicide still up in the air, Joseph finds van Gogh's sudden demise as suspicious, especially since the painter was in high spirits in the days leading up to the tragedy. It's a feeling that will eventually be shared by Joseph as he embarks on his journey, meeting faces familiar to us from van Gogh's portraits, including the likes of art dealer Pere Tanguy (John Sessions), cafe owner Adeline Ravoux (Eleanor Tomlinson) and close friend Doctor Gachet (Jerome Flynn). As Joseph learns of van Gogh's day-to-day life and his rocky relationship with Gachet and his daughter Marguerite (Saoirse Ronan), this may not be a cut-and-dry suicide carried out by an ear-chopping madman as previously thought.
By turning the subject of van Gogh into a dime-store detective story, Loving Vincent frequently runs the risk of tipping over into TV movie territory. What ultimately prevents this from happening is the time, care and love etched into every frame by directors Dorota Kobiela and Hugh Welchman and the tireless artists, who took approximately 6 years to recreate the likes of Starry Night, At Eternity's Gate and Bank of the Oise at Auvers, and weave these scenes into a convincing narrative. There's also great work by the ensemble cast, each bringing to life the portraits they're based on without feeling staged, and each character offering a unique viewpoint of van Gogh himself, and how he was treated by those around him. It's a fresh take on van Gogh's life, mixing traditional narrative with flashbacks and interpretations in the hope of understanding this mysterious figure or seeing him from a different angle. The man himself is here also, played by Robert Gulaczyk, but his actions and behaviours still remain a mystery. While the true crime slant is somewhat pulpy, Loving Vincent is a treat for fans of van Gogh's work, and undeniably crafted with tenderness and a genuine love of its subject.
The Coen brothers have long weaved their love of the western genre into their movies, whether it be capturing its core essence with the likes of Blood Simple and Raising Arizona, or tackling the genre head-on with No Country for Old Men and True Grit. Their latest, The Ballad of Buster Scruggs, which makes its way onto Netflix after a limited theatrical release, sees the siblings hark back to the horse operas of old. Initially marked as an anthology series, it soon evolved into a feature of six unrelated stories, bound together only by the imaginary pages of the short-story book we as the viewer are supposed to be reading. The final product suffers from the same problems faced by any film attempting the portmanteau format - a couple are great, some are either frustratingly short or unnecessarily drawn-out, and at least one you'll be struggling to remember after the credits have rolled.
There's also the feeling that Buster Scruggs blows its load far too early, as the titular Ballad, featuring one of Tim Blake Nelson's best performances, struts into town on the back of a horse carrying the smoothest country singer and deadliest gunslinger in the West, and knocks it out of the park. It's a bizarre little tale that mixes the yodell-y crooning of those white hat vs. black hat genre pictures of old with bursts of the ironic, darkly humorous violence the Coens are so well known for. The tunes are wonderful, the cinematography (by Bruno Delbonnel) is ingeniously inventive (watch out for that shot from inside the guitar), and Nelson is a lively narrator. It ends too soon, and you can't help but think that a standalone feature for the sharply-dressed Buster Scruggs may have been warranted instead. The next story, Near Algodones, sees James Franco's roaming thief hold up the wrong bank and come under fire from the gun-toting teller, played by Stephen Root. It's supposed to be a funny tale of irony and karma, but ultimately feels like an afterthought in the wake of Scruggs' more well-rounded story.
Meal Ticket is more sombre in tone, following opportunistic impresario Harrison (Liam Neeson) and his performer, the legless and armless Artist, who is played with great poise by Harry Melling (Dudley Dursley from the Harry Potter films). There is a great idea here, one fraught with tragedy and sorrow, but it simply doesn't have enough time to fully develop its ideas. Slotting nicely alongside Buster Scruggs as a stand-out piece is All Gold Canyon, in which Tom Waits' grizzled prospector digs for gold in an untouched valley. It's like the opening scene of There Will Be Blood, only this also has a nice surprise in store as the weather-beaten old man searches for 'Mr. Pocket', the place in the ground holding his grand prize. The remaining two stories, The Gal Who Got Rattled and The Mortal Remains, touch on romance and horror elements, as the characters are transported by wagon train and stagecoach, respectively, to the destination that may or may not await them. They round off a mish-mash of tones and themes, and although they each have individual merits, they simply don't gel together or flow naturally. Fans will no doubt find some wonderful stuff here, as I did, but recommended only for Nelson and Waits, whose stories are up there with some of the Coens' very best.
If you were to task both critics and general audiences with naming their favourite active directors, I would place a bet on Guillermo del Toro being the first name on the lips of many. The Mexican monster-lover has the unique ability to juggle both passion projects that clearly mean a lot to the filmmaker, and large-scale blockbusters to appease the studios, and this one-for-me, one-for-you approach has allowed to him to bring to the screen some incredibly personal stories which would have otherwise been left to linger in the director's imagination. So for every The Devil's Backbone, we got a Hellboy, and for every Pan's Labyrinth, we got a Pacific Rim. 2015's Crimson Peak was del Toro's first attempt at blending these two styles. Movie lovers could admire the breathtaking visuals and attention to detail, while the general audience could enjoy a juicy gothic mystery featuring some of the industry's most attractive stars. The result is a very mixed bag.
In turn-of-the-century New York, heiress Edith Cushing (Mia Wasikowska) dreams of becoming an author, but finds herself dissuaded at every turn by the men holding the power. Her father, wealthy businessman Carter (Jim Beaver), is visited by English travelling salesman Thomas Sharpe (Tom Hiddleston), who is seeking investment for his clay-mining machinery. The dashing bachelor is shut down by Carter, but catches the eye of Edith, and two begin a romantic affair. When Carter dies, Edith marries Thomas and travels to his home Allerdale Hall in Cumberland, a decaying mansion dubbed 'Crimson Peak' due to the red clay oozing up from the ground. Joining them will be Thomas' ice-cold sister Lucille (Jessica Chastain), who seems to harbour a resentment for her brother's new wife. But Crimson Peak has stories to tell, and Edith's unexplained connection to the spirit world means that she is frequently visited by hideous tormented ghosts carrying warnings. Back in the U.S., former suitor Dr. McMichael (Charlie Hunnam) is conducting his own research into the Sharpes and their shady history.
Del Toro has always excelled at building tangible worlds which seem to live and breath alongside the characters, and the rotting interiors of Allerdale Hall is one of the director's greatest achievements. Lush with exquisite detail, the house pulses with menace, tormenting Edith with locked doors and taps that spurt red before running clear. There's even a hole in the ceiling that allows snow to gather at the bottom of the main staircase, and the splashes of bold colour evoke the likes of Mario Bava, Dario Argento and Hammer. It's a feast for the senses, and it's just enough to distract from the mediocrity of the main story and the inclusion of CGI spectres. The mystery unravels quite beautifully, but the problem is that you'll already be two or three steps ahead. Nothing that happens in Crimson Peak will come as a surprise, especially after you've quickly realised that anyone with an English accent can't be trusted. The film loses its physicality somewhat when attempting to deliver the scares, as twisted ghosts crawl and squeal their way towards Edith. Computer-generated apparitions will never be scary, and Crimson Peak packs way more impact when catching you off guard with moments of extreme violence that will make you wince and cry out without averting your gaze. Rank this somewhere above Pacific Rim and below Hellboy II.
Whether you appreciate his genre-hopping and wince-inducingly violent movies or not, nobody could ever accuse director Jeremy Saulnier of lacking ambition. From the grisly, low-budget revenge picture Blue Ruin to the greasy punks/neo-Nazi stand-off of Green Room, Saulnier has always demonstrated the will to subvert our expectations, to carry us off into seemingly safe territory before slapping us across the face with a moment of utter savagery. It seems strange then, that Saulnier's most ambitious movie to date, the Alaskan-set 'mystery' Hold the Dark, debuted on the small screen via Netflix. The word mystery is in inverted commas because this is one of a few genres Hold the Dark dips its toes into, making for an unsettling and surprising film, but also a frustrating and confusing one. The scope is noticeably broader than Saulnier's previous efforts as the action hops between different continents and viewpoints, but Saulnier and writer Macon Blair fail to maintain a firm grasp of the story.
In a small town out in the Alaskan wilderness a few children have gone missing - suspected of being taken away by wolves - and Bailey Sloane is the latest to disappear. His mother, Medora (Riley Keough) writes to Russell Core (Jeffrey Wright), a naturalist who has written a book about his experiences killing a wolf, in the hope that he will hunt down the animals responsible. He agrees, curious of Medora's motivations, and the two damaged, introverted characters form a quiet bond through shared loneliness. Meanwhile, Medora's husband Vernon (Alexander Skarsgard), a soldier fighting in Afghanistan (the film takes place in 2004), is notified of his son's abduction. His own wife describes him as an animal, and we quickly understand why. A towering, fearsome figure, Vernon is a man who believes that murder is wholly justified, even necessary, when it comes to protecting the ones you love. When he arrives in town, all hell breaks loose, attracting the attention of the unprepared and unequipped local police force, led by chief Donald Marium (James Badge Dale).
The synopsis is vague because to reveal any more would be to spoil the film's most interesting aspect, its sheer unpredictability. The first hour draws you in with its sombre and almost threatening atmosphere, as it seems to set up a familiar man vs beast scenario, and the ethical conundrums that come with it. It then takes a sharp, violent turn with a riveting set-piece that comes out of nowhere, and from then on you won't have a clue where you're heading. The main problem is that the film doesn't seem to know either, and when we finally arrive at a certain destination in the story, we don't really know where we are. The clashing tones and genre switches of Saulnier's previous movies felt organic and exciting, but the pieces don't quite fit together in Hold the Dark. If you were to view individual scenes, there's some great work here. Saulnier understands how to grab your attention and execute moments of brutality that don't feel gratuitous or exploitative, and an extended shoot-out that successfully blends horror and action is the film's most shocking and memorable moment. Wright is terrific too, but his pained whispers aren't enough to save this from being Saulnier's weakest film to date, made all the more frustrating by the fact that there are moments of brilliance throughout.
The Hollywood debut of Greek director Costa-Gavras caused quite a stir when it was released in 1982. Based on a true story, Missing is a damning condemnation of U.S. foreign policy, criticising their efforts to locate missing American citizen Charles Horman (John Shea) when he goes missing in 1973 Chile, as well as suggesting their direct involvement. The country had just experienced a military coup, and the new leaders have declared martial law, placing a curfew on the population under threat of death. The sound of machine-gun fire is commonplace, as are military raids on homes and the disappearance of thousands of citizens. Worst of all, bodies litter the streets, watched over by dead-eyed soldiers who seem to do as they please. Charles, a left-wing writer, has simply vanished, sucked up into a system of brutality. And nobody seems eager to find him.
We're with Charles for a long period before his disappearance, and Costa-Gavras keeps us just as much in the dark as his wife Beth (Sissy Spacek) and father Ed (Jack Lemmon), the latter arriving frustrated with the little progress his daughter-in-law has made. Their ideologies clash almost immediately. Beth is very much on board with her husband's politics, while Ed is a devout Christian scientist with complete trust in his country's Embassy's desire to locate a fellow citizen. The performances are genuine and heartfelt. The characters themselves are recognisable and relatable in an otherwise terrifyingly alien, oppressive world, which serves as a wake-up call to Ed, who would otherwise be eating breakfast at home oblivious to the plight of Chile's people. The most powerful moments of Missing involve Ed battling his way through waves of bureaucracy and the empty promises of diplomats.
Costa-Gavras manages to build an atmosphere of relentless tension in a place where failing to find yourself a taxi to make it home in time for the curfew could see you dragged away for execution. Yet this is built around Ed and Beth's difficult relationship, and the film emerges and ultimately triumphs as a thoroughly engaging character study rather than a political thriller. Tiny, throwaway moments hammer their struggle and mental anguish home, particularly a moment where Ed descends a set of stairs and, without realising it, starts to ascend the one opposite. It takes a moment before he realises, shakes his head, and turns around, and you really feel for the guy. Costa-Gavras deliberately infuses Missing with a sense of timelessness, failing to confirm the story's year and location, introducing the idea that this could be happening anywhere, at any time. Coups and dictators come and go, and the people suffer for it. Those who choose to ignore it may eventually become the cause.
Shortly after he wowed cinema-going audiences with his independent debut feature Moon back in 2009, director Duncan Jones talked about his next project, a 'spiritual sequel' to his breakthrough film about a mute man searching for his lost love. Of course, this didn't exactly go to plan, as he followed Moon with the entertaining Source Code in 2011 and big-budget misfire Warcraft: The Beginning in 2016. Jones' stock had fallen, but strength of his debut meant that his next film would always invite interest. After years trying to get his idea onto the screen, Mute finally arrives on Netflix, the kind of platform that would allow Jones to follow through on his unique ideas without the pressure of having to please an audience who had just coughed up £10 to see the film.
The result is a bigger disappointment than Warcraft, mainly because his 2016 effort already had the video-game adaptation stigma attached to it so expectations were understandably reserved. Mute is strange, but not in a good way. It spends over 2 hours telling two loosely connected stories which, when they finally cross over, will no doubt inspire "is that it?" reactions for those who try to remain patient with it. The film starts with an accident involving a young boy in the water. His Amish parents refuse to have the surgery that would allow him to speak, so the boy, named Leo, grows up physically scarred and unable to speak. Unfortunately for him, the technology of the future relies heavily on voice commands, so the imposing lug (played by Alexander Skarsgard) finds it difficult to connect to other people and his surroundings, all except his girlfriend, the beautiful and blue-haired Naadirah (Seyneb Saleh).
A lot of time is spent developing their relationship as one of tenderness and genuine affection, but it is clear that Naadirah has a secret. This is the kind of the film where a character says "I love you, but you don't know me," and keeps a straight face. One night, Leo shows up at the Berlin nightclub in which they both work, only to find her missing. Fearing the worst, the hulking mute sets about uncovering the truth for himself, encountering sleazy brothels and dangerous gangsters along with way. Meanwhile, disgraced American surgeon 'Cactus' Bill (Paul Rudd) runs a black market clinic for the criminal underworld, as he waits for the arrival of forged documents that will allow him and his young daughter to leave Germany. The shifty Bill, a melting pot of anger, bitterness and shame, clearly has something to hide, and so does his creepy friend Duck (Justin Theroux). Could it be related to Naddirah's disappearance?
One of Mute's main issues is that it takes a hell of a long time to get going, taking a whole hour to reveal where it's taking you, and by which point you'll have likely lost interest. The stories of Leo's quest to find Naddirah and the illegal shenanigans of Bill and Duck feel like they belong in two completely different movies, with the tones differing so significantly that it disrupts the film's flow and atmosphere. Rudd, as a sort of evil version of his moustachioed Brian Fantana character from Anchorman, feels miscast at first before settling down and eventually stealing the film. The biggest disappointment of all is the sense of the world-building. This is a longtime passion project for Jones and the idea has likely lingered in his mind for years, but the world he has created feels shockingly hollow. It feels like a half-arsed attempt to replicate Blade Runner, but it's really put to shame by last year's sequel to Ridley Scott's 1982 masterpiece, and the visuals are so unengaging that they hinder the plot rather than moving it forward. There is a hint of a good movie buried in there somewhere, so this is precisely why I'll still go into Jones' next movie with high hopes.
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.
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.
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.
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.
As well as delivering some of the shoddiest straight-to-video horror efforts ever made, the 1980s were also notorious for making stars of the real brains behind most projects - the writers. Popular authors such as Stephen King and Dean Koontz saw their names frequently advertised above the movie's title, used as the main selling point over any actors attached or the director in charge of the adaptation. One of the biggest names to emerge in the decade was Clive Barker, whose pull-no-punches approach and love of the stomach-churning side of sexuality provided a racier alternative to the milder King and Koontz. He would really make his mark in 1987 with his directorial debut Hellraiser, but before that came Rawhead Rex, adapted from a short story from Volume 3 of his Books of Blood series.
Just why Barker seemed so intent on bringing Hellraiser to the big screen himself is made perfectly clear after watching Rawhead Rex, a cheap, schlocky monster movie which Barker himself wrote the screenplay for, but quickly disowned after seeing the final product. Set in Ireland, Rawhead follows American Howard Hallenback (David Dukes), who drags his whole family to the cold, wet countryside in a bid to discover his roots and research sites that may be of religious and historical significance. But little does he know that nearby, a farmer has moved a sacred stone and unleashed the snarling demon Rawhead Rex upon the world. The peculiar priest Declan O'Brien (Ronan Wilmot) starts to act even more bizarrely when he encounters a strange vision after laying his hand on the church altar. Soon enough, mutilated bodies are being unearthed and citizens are vanishing, and with the police seemingly clueless, it's left to Howard to uncover the truth and send the monster back where it came from.
Directed by George Pavlou, Rawhead Rex is a terrible movie, losing points on everything from the camerawork to the acting (although Dukes actually isn't bad). The monster itself looks like hastily clumped-together paper mache school project, with a permanent open-mouthed expression unable to disguise the clear signs that the actor inside is struggling to see where they're going. It's offensive to the Irish, and just about anybody else with reasonable taste in cinema. Still, like many horror movies from the 1980s that receiving a pounding from the critics before gathering dust in the local video store, this is tons of fun for anybody with a weakness for tongue-in-cheek trash. It has a sense of humour, and certainly isn't afraid to have the most helpless of victims be dragged away by the rabid beast when you really expect them to turn up alive. Barker was understandably embarrassed but this certainly doesn't damage his reputation, and is enough to tide us over until Barker hopefully gets around to his long-planned remake.
If by some miracle Julius Onah's The Cloverfield Paradox is remembered in the years to come, it won't be for its qualities as a sci-fi actioner or its position in the intriguing and mysterious Cloverfield franchise, but for its rather ingenious marketing campaign. Audiences were aware of its existence under the name God Particle, but like the previous two entries in J.J. Abrams' monster series, everything about the movie was kept under wraps. Cue the Superbowl, where production studios clamber to show their latest trailers to the largest audience in the U.S., and the film, now under the name of The Cloverfield Paradox was finally unveiled. Much to everybody's surprise, they wouldn't have to wait several months to see it in the cinemas, but it would be available to stream on Netflix straight after the game. Now, you don't even need to leave the house to see the latest blockbuster in all its glory, but could watch it in your pants while intoxicated, with Doritos crumbs dotted down your front.
As I stated earlier, this was an ingenious move, but only on one side of the deal: Abrams and Paramount. Obviously sensing an utter stinker, they managed to flog this tarted-up straight-to-DVD effort to Netflix for more than $50 million. It started strongly, but the viewing figures started to die away as audiences sobered up. Hampered with a horrible, TV-level script, a willingness to steal from far better films, and a central mystery that gets explained to us before the story has even kicked in, The Cloverfield Paradox is barely a movie but a string of cliches played out by an enormously talented cast, which includes the likes of Gugu Mbatha-Raw, David Oyelowo, Daniel Bruhl, Zhang Ziyi, John Ortiz, Aksel Hennie and annoying comic relief Chris O'Dowd, all of whose eyes look oddly glazed over. If I had paid £9 or whatever ridiculous price the cinema is these days, I would be asking for my money back. Luckily I have Netflix, so I get to watch this crap for a small monthly payment.
Set in 2028, the Earth is experiencing a global energy crisis and the crew aboard the orbiting Cloverfield Space Station are humanity's only hope. They aim to unleash the Shepard particle accelerator, which will generate infinite energy and save our species. Some, however, believe this will open up parallel universes and alternate dimensions, allowing demons and monsters into our world, tearing a hole in reality as we know it. When things start to get freaky, we know precisely what has happened, so are forced to suffer being two steps ahead of the crew for the remainder of the film. Things liven up slightly when a mysterious passenger winds up on board, played by the radiant Elizabeth Debicki, but by this time I was tired of seeing all my predictions come true. The Cloverfield Paradox feels like a forgotten straight-to-DVD relic from the early 2000s, dusted off and re-edited to loosely tie in with Cloverfield franchise. How they convinced Netflix to cough up $50 million is beyond me. Abrams should have done the decent thing and spared us of this nonsense altogether.
The town of Suburbicon was the picture-postcard image of the American Dream and wholesome family values for Americans in the 1950s and 60s. No doubt for many, it still is, with its picket fences, perfectly-trimmed lawns, cheery residents, and clean, crime-free streets. But of course, this Norman Rockwell painting come to life is only a utopia if you're white, and so the foundations of this suburban slice of apple pie are rocked when a black family, the Mayers, move in. The chatty and chubby postman suddenly starts to stutter and quickly back away at the sight of them, and neighbours gawk open-mouthed while they water their lawns. Soon enough, town meetings turn to right-wing rallies, Confederate flags start to appear, and the black family find their home surrounded by an angry white mob calling for them to pack up and get out.
Set in 1959, before the Civil Rights Act would make such an occurrence a hate-crime, Suburbicon has plenty of satirical bite and good intentions, but feels like a blender stuffed with half-baked ideas. Strangely enough, the arrival of the Mayers and their subsequent experiences isn't the focus of the film, but instead plays out as a sub-plot, escalating in the background while the main (and way less interesting) story unfolds. Snatched up by George Clooney and writing partner Grant Heslov, Suburbicon was once a canned Coen Brothers project from the 1980s, a story of a shocking crime hidden away behind the plastic smiles of American suburbia, and may have possibly served as the inspiration for the Brothers' 1996 masterpiece Fargo. But Clooney, here directing his sixth feature film - and the first in which he doesn't appear in the front of the camera - is politically-minded and insists on making the film's themes contemporary. The result is an unfocused, all too mannered mess.
Looking much more like your typical resident of Suburbicon, Matt Damon's Gardner Lodge is a bespectacled, slightly overweight family man who lives with his disabled wife Rose (Julianne Moore) and his son Nicky (Noah Jupe). One night, Nicky is awoken by his father who tells him to get dressed and come downstairs. There waiting are two strange men, who intimidate and humiliate the family before knocking them all out with chloroform. The result of this horrific home invasion is the death of Rose, and the remaining family, including Rose's twin sister Margaret (also Moore), are apparently rocked by the experience. Margaret moves in to offer emotional support, and Gardner stoically tries to get on with things despite everyone offering their condolences at every turn. But is there something more sinister at play? Why does Nicky witness his father visiting his aunt's bedroom late at night and failing to pick the two men (played by Glenn Fleshler and Alex Hassell) out of a line-up when they are apprehended by the police?
Clooney wants you to ask these questions, but the film takes it time to answer them. Suburbicon often plays like a mystery, trying to keep you guessing despite the fun really lying in watching its characters deal with the consequences of their actions. It's far too restrained to be as savage as it needs to be in order to be compelling, and really shines a slight on the Coen's talent for bringing their stories to life. We should be laughing as Gardner's walls close in around him and wincing at his efforts to escape them, but instead we're lumped with figuring out the plot and distracted by the increasingly hostile mob gathering outside the Mayers' place. Thank God then, for Oscar Isaac, who pops up as a charismatic, moustached insurance investigator who doesn't quite buy Gardner and Margaret's game. It's a great role, one I would have expected Clooney himself to play, and livens up the entire movie as it starts to really struggle to handle the many plot-threads. Suburbicon has aspirations to be a movie for the history books: the story of walls, hostility and chaos clearly tie in with Trump's America. But as much as I like him, Clooney isn't the director for such a task, and Suburbicon is too much of a confused slog to pack much of a punch.
Every great noir needs a chump, and we are introduced to Phantom Lady's unfortunate patsy Scott Henderson (Alan Curtis) as he sits slumped at a bar. He has tickets for a show but his date has stood him up, so he innocently asks the only female in the bar, played by Fay Helm, if she will accompany him. The woman, whose name we don't learn until much later in the film, is clearly emotionally unstable, initially turning down Scott's offer before agreeing under strict terms: they won't reveal their names or discuss anything personal. They go to see the show, where the mystery woman's rather outrageous hat is also being worn by the star on the stage, Estela Monteiro (Aurora Miranda), enraging her and amusing the diminutive band drummer Cliff (Elisha Cook Jr.). The night ends with a hurried goodbye, and Scott returns home to find three policemen waiting for him. As they lead him to the bedroom, his wife lays dead, strangled with one of Scott's own neckties.
