Review #600: 'Sherlock Holmes' (2009)

Said to have been portrayed by over 70 actors in over 200 adaptations, it was only a matter of time before Sherlock Holmes received a modern-day revision. The BBC cast Benedict Cumberbatch as the titular loose-cannon, with Martin Freeman as his sidekick Dr. Watson in the series Sherlock, but director Guy Ritchie wanted to revert back to the source novels for his Holmes, and who better than Robert Downey, Jr. to star as the bohemian detective-for-hire with a penchant for self-starvation and cocaine. Only this being rated 12A, the cocaine and needle abuse is somewhat glossed over in favour of a more 'teenage-friendly' preference to alcohol, though the unpredictable and near-schizophrenic personality is maintained, and his famous and iconic deerstalker hat (though never mentioned in the books) ridden of altogether.

After foiling the ritualistic sacrifice of a young girl at the hands of the aristocratic Lord Blackwood (Mark Strong), Sherlock Holmes retreats into a state of isolation while he awaits his next case. His good friend and colleague Dr. Watson (Jude Law) is getting married, and his invitation to Holmes to meet his bride-to-be finally brings Holmes back into the world. With Blackwood awaiting execution, his last wish is to talk with Holmes, who is warned of three more deaths to come. Blackwood is hanged and assumed dead, until his body goes missing and is replaced by a man reported missing by Irene Adler (Rachel McAdams), an American thief who has managed to escape Holmes in the past. Holmes' investigations leads them to the Temple of the Four Orders, a secretive magical organisation who seem terrified by Blackwood's apparent resurrection and eventual resurfacing.

I've never really been a fan of Guy Ritchie. Since his breakthrough début way back in 1998 with Lock, Stock & Two Smoking Barrels, he has done little of note, or at least nothing to develop on the promise of his début. Lock, Stock was an amusing and quite clever little throwback to the Cockney gangster films of the 1980's, featuring memorable dialogue and a funky score. He then made Snatch (2000), which is still lauded by its fanbase but offered nothing different apart from a new and annoying self-awareness, and Alan Ford calling himself "an 'orrible cant!". He then was almost forced to pack it in for good after making the embarrassing double-whammy that was Swept Away (2002), a love-letter to his then-wife Madonna, and Revolver (2005), a pretentious, insulting piece of shit starring Jason Statham and Ray Liotta. Seeing his dreams fading, Ritchie went back into his comfort zone - the criminal underbelly of London - and made RocknRolla (2008), which although being over-familiar, wasn't half bad and featured some nice cinematography.

With Holmes, Ritchie has gone mega-budget and handles it well. Though for all its CGI backdrops and grand set-pieces, Ritchie has stuck with the Cockney wide-boy dialogue and slow-motion fight scenes. From the very first scenes, his intentions are clear, as Holmes envisions his opponents weak-spots and we are narrated through the damage that each blow will inflict, all caught in that time-altering way he championed way back in '98. This is Holmes at his most action-heavy. I don't recall ever seeing Basil Rathbone taking out someone's knee-cap or getting involved in bare-knuckle boxing fights. But isn't that was revisions are all about - taking a beloved character and taking them to places never seen before? Well of course, but in this case, it's to take their character to the top of the box-office by attracting a less-demanding audience, and make a lot of money.

The Ritchie-isms aside, Sherlock Holmes is still entertaining, which is its primary goal. Although the story is weak, everything looks fake and like a computer effect, and the aspect that made Holmes such a popular read - the investigation and his almost supernatural ability to unravel the smallest of clues - isn't particularly clever, and is brushed aside in favour of Downey, Jr's admittedly excellent comedic performance. He is perfect for this Holmes, showing a lot of the cocky charm and general strangeness he injected into Tony Stark in the Iron Man films (2008-2013). After all, Downey, Jr. practically is (or was) Holmes, almost spurning his talent in favour of drug abuse. It's enough to make me watch the sequel someday, but not enough to make me warm to Ritchie. But it's 128 minutes of breezy, easy-watching entertainment.


Directed by: Guy Ritchie
Starring: Robert Downey Jr., Jude Law, Rachel McAdams, Mark Strong, Eddie Marsan
Country: USA/Germany

Rating: ***

Tom Gillespie

Review #599: 'The Killers' (1946)

This film noir from 1946 was loosely based on an Ernest Hemingway play of the same name, introducing the world to giant powerhouse Burt Lancaster. The famous 20-minute opening that has two contract killers, Max (William Conrad) and Al (Charles McGraw), arrive at a small-town diner looking for a man named the 'Swede' (Lancaster), is now one of the most widely celebrated scenes in noir, going against type by having it's (anti)hero killed before the film has really begun. As Ole 'Swede' Anderson lies dead, life insurance investigator Jim Riordan (Edmond O'Brien) takes a special interest in the case, interviewing friends and ex-colleagues that leads back to sultry femme fatale Kitty Collins (Ava Gardner) and a $250,000 heist.

While it ticks all the traditional film noir boxes, the main aspect that makes The Killers stick out amongst many other noirs of the period is the cinematography, which is straight out of the school of German Expressionism (German-born director Robert Siodmak would have grown up with the likes of The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920) and Metropolis (1927)). Filmed by Elwood Bredell, long, dark alleyways swirled with steam, silhouetting suited strangers, pepper the film, adding a real sense of style to the proceedings, and adding to the mystery and blindness of Riordan's mission, of which he has little to go on. The aforementioned opening scene, which was later homaged by David Cronenberg in A History of Violence (2005), is a masterwork of tension-building, as two suited thugs press their violent sensibilities onto the simple townsfolk. Producer Mark Hellinger helped create some of the finest noirs of this era, including They Drive By Night (1940), Brute Force (1947) and The Naked City (1948).

Carrying on the torch lit by fellow noir masterpiece Double Indemnity (1944) and succeeded by Sunset Blvd. (1950), The Killers is tough, unpredictable and dark, representing everything the genre is so lauded for. Anchored by an impressive physical performance by Lancaster, it is really O'Brien who takes the centre stage, playing the shrewd investigator who would become the fabric for many a noir dick, full of confrontational dedication and unconventional methods. But it is Ava Gardner, who plays one of the most devious femme fatales in history, that lingers in the memory, perhaps never looking more beautiful. When the climax comes into force, it becomes clear that the plot is actually very basic, but the film wraps it up in double-crosses, bruising monochrome boxing matches, and some fine dialogue, written by Anthony Veiller and an uncredited John Huston. One of the finest of its genre.


Directed by: Robert Siodmak
Starring: Burt Lancaster, Ava Gardner, Edmond O'Brien, Albert Dekker
Country: USA

Rating: *****

Tom Gillespie

Review #598: 'Mannequin' (1987)

If I were ever to be truly embarrassed about any of my entries into the Childhood Memories Project, it would be this simply disastrous excuse of a movie. It was shown mid-afternoon in the early days of Channel 5 one day, and my granddad thought to record it for me, along with another bizarre and semi-obscure entry into the 1980's comedy genre, FEDS (1988). I can't remember if I even liked the film, but I remember watching it repeatedly. Maybe I was drawn to the simple-minded and childish comedy, played out over some extremely dodgy 80's electro-pop. Or perhaps it was Kim Cattrall, looking beautiful before she starred as upper-class slut Samantha in Sex in the City (1998-2004), stirring some pre-pubescent feelings inside of me. I like to think the latter is true.

Ancient Egyptian princess Emmy (Cattrall) hides from her mother who wants her to marry against her will. After praying to the Gods for rescue, she in transported through time on a quest for true love. Meanwhile, young mannequin-manufacturer Jonathan Switcher (Andrew McCarthy) is sacked for taking too long on the job, he drifts between jobs while trying to keep his demanding girlfriend Roxie (Carole Davis) happy. One night he spots his greatest mannequin creation - in the image of Emmy - in the window of the failing Prince & Company, ran by Claire Timkin (Estelle Getty) and the slimy Richards (James Spader). After saving Claire from a bizarre accident, he is given a job as a stock boy. One night, Emmy comes to life and enchants Jonathan, inspiring him to create a window display that attracts a large audience.

I don't really know how to write a serious review of Mannequin after just typing that plot synopsis. The bull-shit story and lack of any remote explanation aside, the film is nothing but clichéd, childish humour, and a fairytale romance aimed at mentally numb teenage girls. The truly creepy idea that Jonathan is in love with a plastic mannequin is simply justified by his outlandish co-worker Hollywood (Meshach Taylor) being 'weirder'. He is gay and camp, after all! There is also a gaping plot-hole that begs that question as to why Jonathan doesn't just take the mannequin home with him, therefore ruling out the need to sneak around under the nose of psychopathic security man Felix (G.W. Bailey) and his dog Rambo. It would have also been a reason to avoid 90 minutes (and hours of my childhood!) of sheer drivel.


Directed by: Michael Gottlieb
Starring: Andrew McCarthy, Kim Cattrall, Estelle Getty, James Spader, G.W. Bailey
Country: USA

Rating: *

Tom Gillespie

Review #597: 'Mary Poppins' (1964)

I'd like to think that I've seen a lot of movies, of varying quality and genre; enough to believe I have at least a basic grasp of cinema as a whole. But during all the classics and tripe I've endured over the years, Mary Poppins has somehow managed to evade me. I was too busy watching rabbits getting torn to pieces in Watership Down (1978) and clapping giddily at Rocky Balboa's training montage in Rocky (1976) as a child to be distracted by something quite as colourful as this. So, it's at the ripe old age of 28 that I came round to sitting through Mary Poppins, to struggle through its squeaky-clean visage and many, many songs that I somehow knew all the words to before seeing the film. Well, I was wrong to be so cynical, as although the film is hardly what I would call a classic, it's really rather good.

London, 1910. Merry jack-of-all-trades Bert (Dick Van Dyke) is playing a one-man-band to an enthusiastic street audience when he senses something magical in the air, signalling the return of his good friend Mary Poppins (Julie Andrews). He takes us into the stable yet unhappy Banks' family home, where the household is ran by lord-of-his-castle Mr. Banks (David Tomlinson), and his suffragette wife Mrs. Banks (Glynis Johns). Busy attending to work and other matters, the Banks' have started to neglect their children, Jane (Karen Dotrice) and Michael (Matthew Garber). After their umpteenth nanny walks out on them, Mr. Banks makes a desperate newspaper plea for a nanny who will lay down the law, and teach the children respect and the harshness of life. So enters Mary Poppins, 'perfect in every way', a nanny who is as strict as she needs to be but one capable of also showing the children the joys of life.

Mary Poppins suffers mainly from the same thing that I feel plagues most musicals - it's too long. Seemingly every musical feels the need to round-up every change of emotion and sub-plot with a grand song-and-dance number that gets old quickly. The first half of the film is pure family entertainment, with memorable songs and some stunning special effects (for its day) making the film zip by happily. Then the songs get more clunky and forgettable, and we are exposed to much more of Dick Van Dyke's terrible accent and his grating, over-enthusiastic Bert than we need (although I'm sure he has his many fans). Yet after the somewhat exhausting 139 minutes is over, Poppins still leaves you with that cuddly feeling inside, something I thought had died inside me when I sprouted my first pube.

Most of the success of Poppins comes from the performance of Julie Andrews. All sweet and idyllic, she could have come across as a stuck-up Miss Perfect, but Andrews' effortless likeability and stage experience makes her more of a supernatural missionary, sent to make a stand against Mr. Banks' stern and rigid outlook on life. Disney were really coming out of their Golden Era at the time of this being released, but it's still one of their most fondly remembered, and certainly their most critically successful live-action efforts. It's more than likely that children will turn away from it, due to the mega-bucks spewed into children's films these days, but it will continue to enchant adults, especially those that grew up with it, and even those new to it, like me. Chim-chimernee, chim-ernee, chim chim, cheroo! Damn it, it's in my head again!


Directed by: Robert Stevenson
Starring: Julie Andrews, Dick Van Dyke, David Tomlinson, Glynis Johns
Country: USA/UK

Rating: ****

Tom Gillespie

Review #596: 'The Mad Ghoul' (1943)

Curious about the effects of an ancient Mayan nerve gas used in human sacrifices, Dr. Morris (George Zucco) asks one of his eager pupils, Ted (David Bruce), to assist him in his experiments. Morris has managed to put a monkey into a 'dead' state, and Ted manages to revive it by giving it the fluid of another heart. Morris has an ulterior motive however, and plans to put the moves on Ted's musician girlfriend Isabel (Evelyn Ankers), who has grown tired of Ted and longs for someone else who shares her love of music. Afraid of hurting his feelings, Isabel confides in Dr. Morris to help Ted understand, but Morris exposes Ted to the Mayan gas, turning him into a mindless zombie that Morris can control. He has to rely on human hearts to survive, so Morris and Ted leave a trail of murders and grave-robbing behind them, as Morris turns his attention to Isabel's new beau, pianist Eric (Tuhran Bey).

Of all Universal's regular actors, George Zucco was one of their most prolific, but was usually confined to supporting roles. Here he is given the starring role, and his well-spoken, subtly evil performance proves to be one of the few positives in what is a quite dull affair. Universal's gorgeous set-design and high production values are clear to see, but the story is old-fashioned and weak, offering nothing more than a familiar mad scientist storyline, similar in many ways to Universal's own Frankenstein (1931), but lacking the satirical bite. The make-up, which is usually highly iconic, is uninspired and quite basic, involving nothing more than a bit of powder and messy hair, and features no big 'change' scene, and instead Ted simply raises his head from his hands and is transformed.

Running at just 65 minutes, The Mad Ghoul is clearly lacking ideas, and resorts to lazy scenes of exposition as Robert Armstrong's 'Scoop' McClure gets a scent of Dr. Morris, communicating his ideas and intentions with a girl from his office he keeps happening to come across, helping the audience to understand what's going on. The scenes with Armstrong do offer some light comic relief however, taking the attention away from the mundanity of Morris's quest from Isabel. I'm sure this was made merely for the purpose of playing as a second feature to one of Universal's more accomplished films, but it doesn't excuse The Mad Ghoul from being frightfully pedestrian, with the only real saving grace being the performance of Zucco.


Directed by: James P. Hogan
Starring: George Zucco, David Bruce, Evelyn Ankers, Robert Armstrong
Country: USA

Rating: **

Tom Gillespie

Review #595: 'Jubilee' (1978)

Queen Elizabeth I (Jenny Runacre), guided by John Dee (Richard O'Brien) and spirit guide Ariel (David Brandon), travels forward in time to the eve of the Silver Jubilee to witness Britain in a state of moral and physical decay. The Queen is dead, and the streets are now seemingly ran by groups of punks wearing outlandish clothes and face-paint. One particular group, consisting of, amongst others, Amyl Nitrate (Jordan), Mad (Toyah Willcox), Bod (Runacre in a dual role), Crabs (Nell Campbell) and Chaos (Hermine Demoriane), tend to spend their time smashing cars, having sex, participating in the odd murder, and generally giving the two-finger salute to anything resembling conformity. Crabs picks up a young punk named Kid (Adam Ant), who has aspirations to be a rock star, and finds himself being swept up by the system.

Derek Jarman certainly wasn't a punk - he was at least one generation too late and his art was generally  more focused on themes of homosexuality and homoerotica - but Jubilee seems to aspire to be a film that defines punk. As well as the many punk acts that appears in the film (Siouxsie and the Banshees, Wayne County and The Stilts all appear as well as the aforementioned Jordan, Wilcox and Adam Ant), Jubilee adopts a punk aesthetic. The Britain of the 'future' is a dystopian wasteland, filmed in the poorer areas of London that are still marked by the Blitz, visualised through a grey-blue tinted lens. The outfits are a ragged mixture of fashions and social decadence from years and centuries past, combined to make a mockery of social conformity and mass consumerism.

Yet the film is a lot more than a representation of a movement that caught the director's eye. Jarman combines themes of sci-fi, social commentary, the idea of 'Britishness', and satire, in what is ultimately a bit of a mess, but an intriguing and often fascinating mess nonetheless. In fact, this roughness works in favour of it's nihilistic outlook, and the episodic structure offers some bizarre and outlandish vignettes (my personal favourites being Jordan's rendition of Rule Britannia in an Union Jack dress and the murder of a transvestite). But the film wanders on for a bit too long, lessening its impact, and shifting focus to Kid's dull plight in the music business (although it does introduce the phenomenal Jack Birkett).

This is certainly Jarman like I've never seen him before, possibly the most complex and 'cinematic' of his filmography, but the film sometimes overreach itself. Often the film becomes confusing, shifting it's tone from dramatic to satirical, causing the message that Jarman is trying to communicate to blur to the point where I didn't know whether to laugh or to ponder. Is this a film celebrating punk and rebellion? Or is it satirising punk? I've read various writings about this film that claim both. As a film, it lacks lacks narrative and focus, but as an experience, it is certainly memorable. It also has a great cast of actors and musicians that are still remembered in cult circles from old Britain, including Ian Charleson, Karl Johnson, Claire Davenport and Lindsay Kemp, for those, like me, who enjoy looking back in time at Britain, which is ironically the opposite to what Queen Elizabeth I does in Jubilee.


Directed by: Derek Jarman
Starring: Jenny Runacre, Nell Campbell, Toyah Willcox, Jordan, Hermine Demoriane, Ian Charleson, Karl Johnson, Adam Ant
Country: UK

Rating: ****

Tom Gillespie

Review #594: 'The Raid' (2011)

Released amongst a flurry of post-Expendables 80's action homages, The Raid arrived to be met with almost universal acclaim from audiences and critics alike. So while Stallone and his crew have wetted audiences appetites for big guns and corny dialogue again - that coincidentally coincided with the return of the original oiled-up arse-groper, Arnold Schwarzenegger - The Raid took action back to the hand-to-hand delights of Asian action cinema and created what is undoubtedly the finest collection of fisticuffs that has ever been committed to film. Made with little budget, an inexperienced cast, and a director from Wales (the movie itself is Indonesian), the result is simply mystifying, blowing away all pretenders.

The plot is simple. Expectant father Rama (Iko Uwais) and a 20-man police squad led by Sergeant Jaka (Joe Taslim) and Lieutenant Wahyu (Pierre Gruno) are sent to an apartment block run by crime lord Tama (Ray Sahetapy). Made up mainly by rookies, the team intend to sneak in undetected, taking Tama and his two henchmen Andi (Donny Alamsyah) and Mad Dog (Yayan Ruhian) alive. Things don't go to plan when they are seen by a spotter and are quickly confronted by a small army of the apartment block's residents. With the squad separated and quickly getting smaller, and Lieutenant Wahyu's intentions becoming increasingly unclear, Tama announces that any man that kills a policeman will be allowed to live there free of charge, causing even more cronies to descend on them.

While the plot sounds distinctly similar to that of Die Hard (1988) (and one copied by Dredd a year later), the set-up is a simple platform to allow director Gareth Evans to unleash a near-endless orgy of fists, feet, knives and, well, more fists. Had the action been anything less than spectacular, The Raid would be a massive bore, but thankfully, it is jaw-dropping. Every fight is a lightning-fast array punches and kicks with spatters of black humour and squirm-inducing deaths. Yet there are no bone-snapping close-ups or time-altering impact accentuations that plague action movies with lesser scope and respect for it's audience - this is fast, brutal, almost real. Sure, the characters simply defy the limits of the human pain threshold, but it's the realism of the punches and stabbings that give the fights their impact.

You will need to leave your brain at the door however, as beyond the action scenes, there is very little going on in terms of story and believability, which makes the film somewhat shallow in terms of what it could have been given a little more thought. Every resident in the apartment complex is a master of some martial art or other. But that I can easily forgive, as it just offers the chance to make every single fight memorable. If you loved the famous fight scene in They Live, then you're in for a treat towards the end, where we get a truly nasty extended three-way face-off, that displays some fine martial artistry that will surely put pencak silat on the movie map. The Raid is destined to be the film that all action movies are compared with, and undoubtedly silenced by. Sadly, with the absence of any real plot developments, The Raid will always be a great action movie to me, rather than a great movie.


Directed by: Gareth Evans
Starring: Iko Uwais, Joe Taslim, Donny Alamsyah, Yayan Ruhian, Pierre Gruno
Country: Indonesia/USA

Rating: ****

Tom Gillespie

Review #593: 'The Octagon' (1980)

A film that could be easily summed up as simply ninja terrorists and the sexual allure of Chuck Norris' hairy mammoth-chest, The Octagon is a standard martial arts actioner, involving a conspiratorial group of, well, ninja terrorists. Chuck Norris is Scott James (although I was convinced after Norris stated his character name that he was in fact Scotch Eggs), a martial artist who stumbles upon the organisation that is secretly training a hard-core team of terrorists in a camp of unknown location. He has to infiltrate and bring down the clandestine operation before they begin "terrorising". I'm guessing that ninja terrorists would work ridiculously as they would waste all that time stealthily and silently getting into targets, only to make a whole lot of noise on their way out: it just seems reductive to me.

Of course Norris gets an entourage collected on his way. From Lee Van Cleef's mercenary to Art Hindle's young martial artist with a case of premature penetration (that's not supposed to be euphemistic), but of course, as suggested by the appearance of his fur covered chest, one flash of this (in almost any Norris vehicle) sends the women giddy. It seems that just previous to any final battle in the action genre of this period, the hero will use his visual tool (here, of course, the suspect, revealing chest), and the usually younger female character will throw herself at him sexually, a cliched catalyst that empowers the machismo of the hero into ultimate battle.

Whilst wholly generic, the acting is inevitably dull. In an early scene the trainees of the oriental organisation are being shown the fighting techniques of the ninja, scythes and swords are shown penetrating watermelons. One trainee says glibly, with the characteristics and delivery of a red-neck on his tenth bottle of moonshine: "It would be a lot better it they used real people". To which is relied with: "They will". For some bizarre reason, when I sit down to watch any late '70's or '80's standard action film, I seem to believe that I am going to enjoy it. That somehow these films are fun and exciting. However, every time I convince myself of this, the film I watch is so incredibly dull. Perhaps it is simply that my movie watching habits have changed since being a wide-eyed youngster, and that these films were always awful. Maybe I will re-watch one from my youth that I will enjoy... Here's hoping, but it ain't this one.


Directed by: Eric Karson
Starring: Chuck Norris, Karen Carlson, Lee Van Cleef, Art Hindle
Country: USA

Rating: *

Marc Ivamy

Review #592: 'The Cement Garden' (1993)

Based on the 1978 novel of the same name by Ian McEwan, Andrew Birkin's' screen adaptation of The Cement Garden is about masculine and social decay, and the power of female sexuality against the fragmentation of masculine dominance. Contained within the backdrop of a crumbling concrete landscape on the outskirts of town, a family home, block-like, grey and characterless seems to erupt from the ground which only sees plant life protruding from small cracks in the manufactured ground. In the opening the father (Hanns Zischler) of the isolated family is concreting over what plant life exists in their garden, but his evident ill-health (represented as a spluttering pipe-smoker) causes a heart attack, killing him. During this scene the film cuts from the impending heart attack to the increased masturbatory climax of eldest son, Jack (Andrew Robertson), a 16 year old who is clearly sexually frustrated, and is detached from the rest of the family. Just weeks later the mother (Sinead Cusack) dies of a mysterious illness, but on her death bed she speaks of orphanage's and fragmentation of the four children to her eldest, Jack and Julie (Charlotte Gainsbourg).

Not wanting to comply with the social structures of adoption and social services, Jack and Julie decide to bury the mother themselves in a block of cement in the basement. The eldest two vie for control over the siblings, acting as surrogate parents, but Julie, also at the stage of teenage-era where she is learning to use her sexuality to control and influence men. She plays against Jack's frustration by teasing him, sexually luring him to gain female dominance over the family. This idea of female sexual dominance is presented in the cross dressing whims of youngest child, Tom (Ned Birkin), who plays at being Julie with his friend (who consequently play-acts as Jack. Tom wears his mothers dress and a blond wig. After the death of the parents, the only adult presence is a slimy, business-dress, convertible sports car driving, Derek (Jochen Horst). A friend of Julie's, Derek is another masculine object that Julie is attempting to break down with her sexual teasing, but he becomes increasingly suspicious of the smell coming from the basement. After a confrontation, where Jack step up to become the man of the household, Derek is sent away, and Julie has her brother where she wants him.

The Cement Garden goes into some incredibly dark places, touching on incest and young sexual control. The film is also self-contained in its setting, and this isolation, and the very man made environment give the film substance and depth. This backdrop also juxtaposes the characters ideas of what natural is. Nature in this place is absent, so Julie and Jack's own perception of nature is skewed. Outside and inside the house everything external to their emotions are falling apart and rotten, and inevitably this decomposition (also of the mothers dead body) influences their ideas of natural acts - culminating in incestuous activities. The acting is superb, with Gainbourg's sexually promiscuous, flirting character she is seduction incarnate, and Robertson's detached, wanking teenager, is rife with sweaty, greasy complexion and brooding, on-the-edge-of-explosion sexual charge. It is not a beautiful film, but the culmination of all these elements creates a daring and alarming drama that highlights the symbiosis of place and human nature.


Directed by: Andrew Birkin
Starring: Andrew Robertson, Charlotte Gainsbourg, Alice Coulthard, Sinéad Cusack
Country: France/Germany/UK

Rating: ****

Marc Ivamy

Review #591: 'Edvard Munch' (1974)

Since the mid-1950's the films of Peter Watkins have utilised a mix of documentary and fiction techniques to question these forms of media construct. From the historical portrayals of real, or imagined "realities" (Colluden (1964), The War Game (1965)), to science fiction dystopian visions of political systems (The Gladiators (1969), Punishment Park (1971)), Watkins has placed his cinematic eye within dramatised verite settings, refusing to conform to fiction narrative structures and the normative styles of documentary cinema. In Watkins' anachronistic cinema the characters (whether fictional or historical figures) are photographed as if the action is actually happening, and he breaks conventions further by interviewing characters, filming them in the talking head format, which eliminates the fourth wall in fiction cinema and television, and involves the viewer with the formal realities of detail. Watkins states on his website (pwatkins.mnsi.net) that Edvard Munch is his most personal film. It is certainly his most emotionally engaging, one that is not necessarily as political or prescient as previous films, but perfectly captures the emotional turmoil and strain that goes into the creative process, and particularly the ways in which events in an artists life effects the evolution of form and style.

The eponymous Munch's (played, like all here by amateur actor Geir Westby) life and career is dealt with in the usual Watkins style, focusing largely on the period between 1884 and 1894, a period in which his painting developed into what would become Expressionism. It shows a young man struggling with shyness and emotional immaturity, one that when confronted with rejection from Fru Heiberg (Gro Fraas), a married woman who has affairs with bohemian types (the film constantly reminds us of the historical realities of women in 19th century Norway, who require men to live), Munch becomes jealous and possessive. The film juxtaposes these emotional moments of anguish and the tragedies of Munch family fatalities that struck the young throughout his early life, with the development of Munch's painting style. Watkins shows throughout the actual painting process. Beginning with the breathtaking picture The Sick Child, Watkins shows the anger and psychological torment that went into it. The ways in which Munch attacked to painting with knives or the non-bristle end of the brush, which created a startlingly bleak image, devoid of unnecessary details.

Of course, as with anything different within an artistic medium, Munch's stripped down aesthetic was not met with praise initially, and Watkins shows the various vitriolic reactions from the art establishment and critics, both through over-heard conversations in gallery spaces, and the filmed interviews with detractors. During these moments, Munch can be seen skulking on the periphery, further exacerbating his deteriorating psychology, but this imbalance and possible fastidiousness influences his further subversion of the classical painting style - and one that would lead to German Expressionism. Periodically the narrator will place historical facts against the period portrayed, and the film is certainly as much about history (sometimes in relation to contemporary politics), as it is about an artist.

The bohemian group that Munch spent time with, headed by anarchist Hans Jaeger, would openly discuss political and social issues. Even women would be part of this group, and along with the formal discussion, the "film crew" interview various female exponents, discussing feminism and the role of the female within society. Placed within this historical context, the present (at least in 1974 when the film was released) was in what appeared to be a new sexual revolution, and the feminist movement was a media convention, but in 19th century Europe, these women see what they are able to achieve living within the constraints of a male dominated society. Whereas prostitution (in the '70's it was pornography) is socially seen as immoral and degrading, these female thinkers see it as motivating, a process of female empowerment. In Edvard Munch the women are self-contained, they are individual and have power over their own lives. But this is not exclusively inclusive of female characters, it is also a film (through its documentary style) that includes the audience.

Munch is the best use that I have seen of Watkins' idiosyncratic documentary style, because it is an emotional exploration, as well as a political one. The emotional aspects are embellished by the characters acknowledgement of the viewer. Throughout the film the characters look directly into the camera, addressing the audience with a glance, at times to question their own actions (should we do this?), or by including the audience in the emotional events that are occurring, you always feel included, even when those moments are incredibly voyeuristic. I at times even felt that I should not be privy to this, such was the effect of this connecting barrier. Like much of Watkins' work (and himself as a figure), Edvard Munch has been marginalised. Watkins' criticism of mass media has clearly left him out of main stream publication, and his work (whilst now gaining distribution and serious praise) is difficult to see commercially. Originally made for a Norwegian/Swedish television co-production, the film lost distribution due to the studios refusal to play it. The film did received an international release in a shortened version, but the 221 minute version is now accessible. It sounds exhausting, but the majesty and emotional connection the film presents makes it a beguiling and moving experience, and it is easily the most in depth exploration of the artistic process.


Directed by: Peter Watkins
Starring: Geir Westby, Gro Fraas, Kerstii Allum
Country: Sweden/Norway

Rating: *****

Marc Ivamy

Review #590: 'The Bad Seed' (1956)

Hollywood had dealt with the precocious little girl before with the likes of insipid movie starlet Shirley Temple. But by the mid-1950's the sweetness and innocence of the diminutive lassies with pigtails and pretty summer dresses had been tarnished by the advent of youth movements, and particularly the media attention of juvenile delinquency. The parental fear of something sinister brewing within their own little treasure is addressed in The Bad Seed, and the horror archetype of the creepy, evil child was thrust onto cinema goers, a tool of the uncanny and frightening monstrosity that still finds an audience in modern cinema (Insidious (2010) or Mama (2013) for example).

But compared to the more direct horror of our modern child-monsters, Rhoda Penmark (Patty McCormack), the titular 'bad seed' of this narrative, presents herself as a wholly innocent girl, clinging onto parents and adults, subtly manipulating them with a pristine veneer, but hiding churlish glee. In early scenes Rhoda's doting landlady, Monica (Evelyn Varden), notices that whilst Rhoda's contemporaries wear the fashionable styles of the times (jeans and t-shirt), she still wears the attire of idealism - it seems, even in the '50's this vision of childhood is a lost image of Victoriana. But this is a petulant child, one of those girls who could 'scream and scream' until she gets what she wants (I've encountered a few adult "girls" who have the same temperament - encounters that are largely unpleasant).

After losing a gold medal award at her school, Rhoda and her school friends go out for a picnic, and, off-camera, she pesters the little boy who had rightfully won the award. At home her mother, Christine (Nancy Kelly), holding conversation largely about the hot topic of the time, psychoanalysis - a preoccupation that is thinly thread throughout the film, - hears on the radio of the news that a child at the school picnic has drowned becomes fraught with anguish. But on arrival home, the precocious Rhoda walks in stating that the incident was "fun". This detachment from the event concerns Christine, but as time goes by, the mother begins to suspect that Rhoda is not an innocent in this death, and begins to unravel her daughters manipulative nature, believing eventually that Rhoda is a murderer.

Aside from the heavy Freudian psycho-babble presented by the intellectuals that surround the Penmark family (the father, Col. Kenneth (William Hopper) is absent during Christine's mental collapse, away as he is for work), the film also portrays another social issue that still is topical today, the question of nature and nurture on the subject of child-rearing. As mother casts doubt upon the validity of her child's innocence, and begins to see the manipulative make-up of the girl, the issue of her own hereditary and parentage comes into question. This highlights rather naively, that there would be no way that a child raised in a stable home could commit any kind a atrocity, and that this behavioural trait is strictly for the lower classes. But this is a minor quibble.

The film came to the screen through novel written by Willaim March (who died the same year of publication, 1954), then through the stage production written by Maxwell Anderson, to the screenplay written by John Lee Mahin and directed by veteran director Mervyn LeRoy. It is brilliantly cast, and particular attention should go to McCormack's performance. As a girl who presents innocence, but has the ability to snap and commit murder, she brings those juxtapositions with bravado and skill. It is also a quite frightening performance. It was a low budget film that garnered four academy award nominations, and introduced the concept in horror cinema that the monster is not always the uncanny icons such as the wolf man, but that the monstrous lives within humans. This, four years before that horror trope began its enduring mark on cinema with Hitchcock's Psycho (1960). You may never look at an innocent little child in quite the same way again.


Directed by: Mervyn LeRoy
Starring: Nancy Kelly, Patty McCormack, Henry Jones, Eileen Heckart, William Hopper
Country: USA

Rating: ****

Marc Ivamy

Review #589: 'Last Year at Marienbad' (1961)

Last Year at Marienbad has beguiled and bewildered audiences since its release, with its enigmatic, elliptical, dream-like narrative structure. It was director Alain Resnais' second fiction feature, and one that explored the same themes of the power and fragility of memory that were present in his debut fiction film, Hiroshima, mon amour (1959), along with the haunting documentary short, Night and Fog (1955). Opening in the baroque interior of an anonymous hotel in the countryside, the camera floats through the corridors, into a room of absent people, watching a piece of theatre. As the show ends, the audience split into social groups, the camera snaking through the groups catching fragments of conversation, chatter that constantly repeats itself, as if in perpetual loop. Throughout the film, the unnamed man (Giorgio Albertazzi) excessively attempts to convince an unnamed woman (Delphine Seyrig) that they had met there, perhaps last year. The woman is unconvinced of this claim, but is never thoroughly sure if the event happened. Another man who may or may not be her husband (Sacha Pitoeff) challenges the man to mathematical parlour games, which seem like an intellectually aggressive sexual power game.

Constantly referenced throughout the film is the sense that the very same group of people attend this hotel annually, repeating the same conventions and processes each year, as if nothing changes from year to year. It's an almost Surrealist or Dada reaction to bourgeois trappings, the constant repetition of pomp and ceremony. The fragments of conversation are largely mundane descriptions, or meaningless chip-chat between rich clientele. When the mysterious structure, set within the annually visited hotel, offers forms of entertainment, the bourgeois audience vapidly and vacantly stare into space, they are separated from both the other members, but also detached from the events on stage, and within the narrative. Attacking the vulgarity of "high" culture's spectators by suggesting that they simply fill their time with such activities, as opposed to immersing themselves within the beauty of the art, is an aspect of the film that seems influenced by the surrealist and dada films of Man Ray, Hans Richter or Jean Cocteau (although Resnais and screenwriter Alain Robbe-Grillet were never a part of either of these movements).

Whilst these bourgeois attacks consistently formulate the background of the film, the main protagonists occupy the same space, but a space that is further fragmented by their own annual trappings. As the man insists to the woman that they met there the year before, and were planning on leaving together, their conversations are set in different temporal space. Through each sentence of speech the film cuts to the rest of the dialogue in a separate place to previously. So whilst the woman has no memory of this supposed meeting, the cutting up of each conversation places his own memories in another space to the one they occupied the year before (perhaps). The repetition of dialogue and space suggests also that this could be a narrative of the afterlife, a suspended purgatory, where class still matters, and the suspended characters simply repeat the same process until further acceptance into the afterlife. The man could simply be attempting to help a loved one remember after losing it at death.

Beautifully shot in black and white widescreen, with sumptuous cinematography, the technical aspects of the film are undeniably stunning. But, like Hiroshima, mon amour and Night and Fog, Last Year at Marienbad is a powerful, if slightly mystifying, film about memory and ultimately loss. In the central protagonists of these films, is a poetic glimpse into fragile, even damaged memories, and the issues caused to it by circumstance. In Hiroshima.. it was the devastation of history and the problems of memory from alternative perspectives, in Marienbad it is the pressures of conforming to the prevailing societal structures that cause problems with memory, perhaps clouding it with formulaic, normalising functions.


Directed by: Alain Resnais
Starring: Delphine Seyrig, Giorgio Albertazzi, Sacha Pitoëff
Country: France/Italy

Rating: *****

Marc Ivamy

Review #588: 'Return of the Living Dead Part II' (1988)

If you're a fan of the cult horror film Return of the Living Dead (1985), then chances are you've watched this lazy sequel, only to be left wondering where the last 90 minutes of your life have gone. The plot surrounds another lost toxic barrel, containing the chemical gas that will awake the living dead. An obnoxious child witnesses the birth of the zombies after the gas is accidentally released, and the town is soon overrun by seemingly indestructible, brain-eating zombies. A couple of gravediggers robbing the dead are caught up in the midst of the zombie outbreak, and with the boy and his family, try desperately to survive the onslaught.

If the plot sounds extremely dull and familiar, it's because it is. The first film was a very amusing, and often quite clever little movie, bursting with ideas and scenes of pure lunacy brought to life by a cast who look like they're genuinely having fun. Part II obviously knows this, and rather than trying to expand on the originals quirky charm and develop the universe, director Ken Wiederhorn, who ended his relatively short career in television, chose to simply re-hash the first, involving similar scenes and situations, and even bringing back some of the actors. What the film becomes is almost pure comedy, aiming at a teenage audience (although the humour is for infants), and lacking the fun horror and gore from the first. There's nothing that even comes close to the limbless female zombie demanding "braaaiinnnss!" from the first.

What we do get is a wise-cracking severed head with the voice of a finger-snapping black woman, a little boy hero who I was praying to be brutally murdered, and a zombie dressed as Michael Jackson doing the Thriller dance (yes, really). It's such a desperate, pathetic attempt to humour an audience that was most likely getting into each other's pants in the back row, and I fail to see how this would amuse anyone apart from those who are entertained by jangling keys. Even James Karen and Thom Mathews,  who were very funny in the first, look uncomfortable with the crap they are given to work with. It's just one boring, cringe-inducing 90 minutes, made worse by the fact that this is a missed opportunity, given the quirky charm of the first. One fellow IMDb reviewer put it better than I can, so I quote - "not funny, not campy, not scary, not good."


Directed by: Ken Wiederhorn
Starring: Michael Kenworthy, Thor Van Lingen, James Karen, Thom Mathews
Country: USA

Rating: *

Tom Gillespie

Review #587: 'How to Train Your Dragon' (2010)

In the Viking village of Berk, Hiccup (Jay Baruchel), the young, idiotic son of the village chieftain Stoick (Gerard Butler), longs to follow in his father Stoick's (Gerard Butler) footsteps and become a famous dragon warrior. When their village is ambushed by dragons, Hiccup shoots down the most notorious dragon of all, known as Night Wing, who's penetrating scream is all that can be heard before a flash of light and the inevitable destruction. Of course, nobody believes him, and when he finds the wounded dragon, Hiccup realises he cannot bring himself to kill it. He instead invents a contraption that will help it's damaged wing, and after earning it's trust by bringing it food, begins to ride it. But while on a flight trying to impress his potential girlfriend Astrid (America Ferrera), the Night Wing is swept into the dragon nest, where an even bigger threat to the village is laying dormant.

For a Dreamworks animated effort, How To Train Your Dragon holds up refreshingly well when compared to the likes of Pixar, and to the rest of Dreamworks' rather shoddy past output. What works best is directors' Chris Sanders and Dean DeBlois desire to keep things more grown up. This is a film more for the Lord of the Rings audience than those who somehow enjoyed the Shrek sequels and Madagascar (2005), with its execution rooted in fantasy and folklore. There are many different types of dragons in the film, each with a different 'power' and level of danger it brings with it, keeping the whole dragon mythology refreshing amidst a flurry of post-Rings fantasy efforts involving the giant fire-breathers. The opening battle scene is an explosion of action and comedy, an exciting way to discover the world these characters inhabit and witness Hiccup's ineptitude compared to his father's unrivalled prowess.

This being Dreamworks, it then decides to pander to the much younger audience, by introducing the (admittedly cute) Night Wing, whom Hiccup renames Toothless, and the younger inhabitants of the village (voiced by the likes of Jonah Hill and Christopher Mintz-Plasse). It was at this point where I asked myself why the elder villagers all have Scottish accents, while the younger ones sound pre-pubescent Americans in a mall. Obviously, it's a way of helping the younger (American) audience to relate to these characters, but to me it's just damn lazy and often quite annoying given Baruchel's weakling protagonist who sounds like only one ball has dropped. And with this comes the inevitable and familiar messages of acceptance and friendship. But ultimately, How to Train Your Dragon is a highly entertaining film, full of clever ideas, lovely, fluid aerial animation, and an exciting final battle with the giant dragon Red Death.


Directed by: Dean DeBlois, Chris Sanders
Voices: Jay Baruchel, Gerard Butler, Craig Ferguson, America Ferrera, Jonah Hill, Christopher Mintz-Plasse
Country: USA

Rating: ***

Tom Gillespie

Review #586: 'Unhinged' (1982)

So we find ourselves here again, confronted with yet another sub-standard effort in the early '80's flood of slasher films. Unhinged sees three young women leaving the city in a car on a trip to a music festival. Their car is in an accident and they find themselves trapped in the home of an eccentric mother-daughter household, with inevitable dark secrets. Perhaps writer/director Don Gronquist was attempting to reverse much of the arguments in the media against these genre films with a gender twist. Famously, Siskel and Ebert held a vociferous discussion of slasher films and their attempt to subvert the feminist movement by stabbing and eviscerating women on film, and the films were targeted as misogynist. In the mansion house/prison of Unhinged female characters the head of the house, a wheelchair bound matriarch, Marion Penrose (J. E. Penner), has an inate hatred of men, and accuses her daughter of having men in the house, and prostituting herself.

Although if this were the case, the victims (no matter whom their attacker is) are female. The film uses many of the tropes from slasher films from Psycho (1960) to Friday the 13th (1980), and the girls trapped in the house are spied on through peep holes, whilst the deep, sexualised breathing of an unknown male are heard through the walls. It's a strange and almost farcical use of heavy breathing when considered against the backdrop of previous slasher films; particularly when this kind of audio effect was parodied in the dreadful slasher spoof from 1981, Student Bodies. Of course the girls are killed off in a bloody fashion, and the deep-seated psychological damage of the feminine family unit of the household is exposed, bringing with it the fastidious climax which reverses gender specifics - but not, however, creating any kind of revelatory, or even interesting, conclusion.

As would be expected from a low-rent, straight-to-video horror film, the acting is awful, although the campy histrionics of the old woman, are quite irresistible, and often humorous, but her space in the films narrative is underused. Whilst her performance is funny at times, the overall film is simply tiresome. The film doesn't entirely feel like a slasher film either, and at times feels and looks like an early 1970's sorority horror drama - but does not penetrate any kind of character study. No doubt that if this film did not find infamy with its early inclusion onto the UK's video nasty list, then this film would have been lost in time, forgotten, and rightfully hidden in the film history bargain basement - where shit films go to die. Even compared to other little remembered films of the same genre (Deadly Games (1982) or Blood Song (1982) for example), the pacing of Unhinged leaves you with a drab feeling. The dialogue is both written and delivered like the cast were under duress, and the languid, stilted camera glibly moves through the mansion set. I did find myself drifting away from the screen whilst viewing this, and found that whatever else was happening around me (admittedly there was nothing) was more interesting than Unhinged.


Directed by: Don Gronquist
Starring: Laurel Munson, Janet Penner, Sara Ansley
Country: USA

Rating: *

Marc Ivamy