The fickle nature of the music industry is well known. Most bands will try and flounder with a whimper; true visionaries will fail to find an audience or be deemed as too great a risk by the corporate machine; and the pretty but talent-free will strike it rich with one instantly forgettable tune after another. It's been documented in film before, but never in such brutal, in-your-face detail as Ondi Timoner's documentary Dig!. The cameras followed bands The Dandy Warhols and The Brian Jonestown Massacre for seven years, covering their friendship during the bright-eyed, let's-change-the-world beginnings to the bitter rivalry that formed between them as one made it big and the other struggled in infamy.
Both bands wanted to start a music revolution - one that would see artists take back control from the industry heads who ultimately lacked vision - by refusing to sell out. The Dandy Warhols' professionalism and willingness to bend as long as it avoided breaking meant that their star rose with increasing speed, before Bohemian Like You was snapped up by a mobile phone company and they became an overnight sensation, particularly here in the UK. This savviness is mistaken for bending over by BJM frontman Anton Newcombe, and soon Dandy lead singer Courtney Taylor-Taylor is receiving strange packages containing shotgun cartridges. Meanwhile, Newcombe's increasingly threatening behaviour towards everyone around him sees his band often struggle to make it through a set without brawling on stage. BJM were descending quickly from the next big thing to a circus sideshow.
Despite the chaos on screen, Timoner never loses sight of Newcombe's raw talent. His actions can be blamed on mental illness, egomania or copious amount of heroin, but he is the real deal, pouring everything into his work and banging out records at a miraculous rate (they released three albums in 1996 alone). The genius and madness meld together to create an image of a man worn down by his philosophy, someone who preached love but only ever gave any to himself. His descent is both tragic and funny, and every fight, argument and storm-out is captured by Timoner's ever-present camera. For a film ultimately echoing Newcombe's views on a corporate mechanism more interested in money than artistry, Dig! somehow forgets the music itself. The odd bar or snippet can be heard here and there, but it's usually interrupted by some act of self-destruction or other. Ultimately however, Dig! is a fascinating study of the idea of selling-out and a must-see for music fans, serving as a cautionary tale for anyone considering starting a band.
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.
Guillermo del Toro's latest immersive fantasy spectacle began life as a remake of one of the Mexican director's favourite movies of all time - the iconic monster movie Creature from the Black Lagoon. When he pitched his plans to Universal, perhaps as part of their troubled 'Dark Universe' franchise which kicked off last year with spectacular misfire The Mummy, he wanted to tell a love story between the Gill-Man and a woman from the perspective of the titular creature. This idea, which sounds like a dream for film buffs but a turn-off for studio executives, was rejected outright, presumably being for too risque for mainstream audiences. Del Toro stuck with it anyway, and the script turned into The Shape of Water. Would the same film have nabbed the Best Picture at this year's Academy Awards if it was titled Creature from the Black Lagoon? I think not, so it worked out well for everybody apart from Universal, who are probably still licking their wounds from last year's Tom Cruise-starring horror show.
The Shape of Water tells the story of Elisa Esposito (Sally Hawkins), a mute lady who lives in an almost dreamlike apartment above a barely-used cinema called The Orpheum. We quickly learn everything we need to know about her in a wonderfully edited opening sequence, in which she boils eggs, masturbates in the bath, and pays a visit to her neighbour Giles (Richard Jenkins), all before heading off to a top secret government facility where she works as a cleaner. Giles spends most of his time alone with his cats in his apartment, paying the bills by drawing product advertisements, occasionally venturing out to buy pies from a nearby diner and lust after the young man behind the counter. Elisa's best friend and co-worker Zelda (Octavia Spencer) saves her a space in the queue for the clocking-in machine every morning, and has learned sign language so the two can chit-chat whilst carrying out their mundane job of cleaning piss up off the floor and, much to Zelda's befuddlement, the ceiling.
This is 1962 America, where the happy (and white) nuclear family is the very definition of achieving the American dream, but also where minorities are still looked down upon. It's no accident that Elisa, who rarely stops smiling even when she is treated differently for her affliction, is closest to and most comfortable around a gay man and a black woman. The arrival of a strange amphibian humanoid from a swamp in South America and the loving bond it gradually forms with Elisa represents a threat to this very American way of life, at least in the eyes of Richard Strickland, a brutish military official who caught the creature, played with sheer menace by Michael Shannon. Strickland wants to cut the creature open to learn if its abilities can be forged into some kind of weapon, and to keep it out of the hands of the Soviets. Mild-mannered scientist Robert Hoffstetler (Michael Stuhlbarg) wants to keep it alive for further study, but Strickland is given the green light by his superior.
What follows is a daring break-out and Elisa's efforts to keep the stranger hidden in her apartment. The story isn't exactly ground-breaking, and you can probably work out where the film is heading quite early on. However, The Shape of Water isn't a film about surprises and twists, but a strange tale of forbidden love to utterly immerse yourself in. Most directors would struggle to capture a sex scene between a beautiful woman and a slimy fish man with a straight face, but del Toro somehow makes the whole thing feel natural, and most importantly, incredibly beautiful. Longtime del Toro collaborator Doug Jones does some stellar physical work as the creature, forging a chemistry with Hawkins without the benefit of facial expressions or dialogue, relying on otherworldly howls and the odd bit of sign language to communicate. It warrants comparison to del Toro's Pan's Labyrinth, and although it's not as good as the 2006 Oscar-winning masterpiece, it shares much of its creepy magic and vintage character design, and also reflects on a country's troubled past. It's the riskiest and best work del Toro has done since. Suck in a deep breath and take a plunge.
Paul King's Paddington was one of the great surprises of 2014: a re-imagining of a world-famous character beloved not only to children, but to the adults who grew up reading Michael Bond's stories or watching the various television incarnations since the 1970s. Aesthetically, it shared very little in common with the charmingly old-fashioned and quaint little adventures penned by Bond and illustrated by Peggy Fortnum, but shared much of its heart. Most who saw Paddington fell quickly under its spell, which was a wonderful amalgamation of Wes Anderson and Jean-Pierre Jeunet's proudly artificial visual splendour and the stiff upper lipped playfulness of Ealing Studios. This sequel's arrival is more than welcome, if not only to make us forget what's happening out there in the real world, but to allow us to spend more time in the company of Ben Whishaw's endearingly clumsy yet optimistic bear.
In almost every way, Paddington 2 is an improvement on its predecessor. The return of King and his co-writer Simon Farnaby is a no-brainer, and they have not only grown in confidence and in their willingness to push their kooky boundaries even further, but they have fixed what was arguably a weak link first time around - the villain. Nicole Kidman had a ball as evil taxidermist Millicent Clyde, but here they have tried something less terrifying for kids in Phoenix Buchanan, a washed-up thespian who dreams of bringing his one-man show to the West End, but finds himself in humiliating dog-food television adverts instead. Casting Hugh Grant was a stroke of genius, and it's no stretch to say that this is the finest he has ever been. He's pompous and full of himself, but takes pride in his ability to disappear into his characters. His desire to spark his festering career back to life leads to the theft of a valuable pop-up book from the store of Mr. Gruber (Jim Broadbent), which holds clues to the location of a treasure chest hidden somewhere in London.
Phoenix Buchanan may steal the film, but the attention rarely strays too far from the titular hero, who is once again voiced pitch-perfectly by Whishaw. He was Colin Firth's last-minute replacement first time around when the Kingsman actor's efforts didn't quite feel right, and it's difficult to imagine any other actor behind Paddington's soft features and wide-eyed curiosity. When we first meet him, it's clear that the charming little bear's community wouldn't quite function without him. The Brown family, again played by Hugh Bonneville, Sally Hawkins, Julie Walters et al, are happily getting on with their lives, although dad Henry is experiencing a midlife crisis at work and with his ageing appearance. With Aunt Lucy's 100th birthday coming up, Paddington finds the perfect present in the pop-up book of London in Mr. Gruber's store, which he hopes will compensate for the elderly bear never being able to see the big city for herself. He starts to work odd jobs to save up for the pricey gift, but all suspicion falls on Paddington when Buchanan steals the book for himself.
He is sentenced to ten years in prison for the crime, and if that seems unnecessarily harsh, you'll understand why when you see the film. This may seem like a somewhat grim direction for a family film to take, but thanks to a mishap involving a stray red sock in the laundry room, the scenes within the jail are some the film's funniest. This is also thanks to the character of Knuckles McGinty, the fearsome chef played brilliantly by Brendan Gleeson who Paddington naturally befriends over some marmalade sandwiches. Paddington 2 is unashamedly fanciful stuff, presenting a fantasy vision of London where the sun always shines and people on the street always greet you with a smile. It's an image many foreigners will no doubt have of the capital, but there's nothing wrong with playing up to this, especially when the film's fantasy sequences are quite as wonderful as they are. Production designer Gary Williamson and animation director Pablo Grillo are a crucial part of this, and King, who always displayed a flair for the fantastical in his early TV work, surely also had a hand in Paddington 2's overall magical feel.
With Coco, Pixar reminds us once again why they are the creme-de-la-creme when it comes to American animation, with another emotionally resonant and visually breathtaking picture that will have both adults and children sobbing into their sleeves. This is their finest work since game-changer Inside Out in 2015, again tackling complex themes most studios would shy away from exposing their young audience to, and doing so with a technical flourish and completely free from the white-washing so common in American films dealing with a culture and folklore from overseas. I'm not ashamed to admit that I wept like a baby at Coco, the first time I had done so since, again, Inside Out.
Despite the title, our protagonist is Miguel (Anthony Gonzalez), a 12 year-old wannabe musician who seems destined to follow his elders into the family shoe-making business. 96 years earlier, Miguel's great-great-grandmother forbid the sound of music in their house when her song-writing husband left town in search of his dreams. As a result, Miguel is forced to teach himself guitar and worship his idol Ernest de la Cruz, a famous crooner who was killed in an unfortunate on-set accident, in secret. His grandmother Abuelita (Renee Victor) is keen to enforce the rule, literally shoeing away a mariachi who asks Miguel to play for him. His refusal to follow his family's ban leads to an argument and a supernatural encounter, after which Miguel can only communicate with those from the other side who have crossed over to take part in the Day of the Dead celebrations.
Miguel's only hope of returning to his family before he fades away himself is with a magical marigold petal willingly handed to him by an ancestor. It doesn't take long to locate great-great-grandmother Mama Imelda (Alanna Ubach) and some other faces familiar from photographs, but the matriarch will only allow him to return if he promises to give up music forever. With the help of lovable scoundrel Hector (Gael Garcia Bernal) and a large-tongued stray dog, Miguel journeys across the Land of the Dead in search of the musician ancestor his family have been banished from mentioning. with only an old photograph with the face torn away for help. But could it be that Miguel was always destined to follow his muse, and that Ernest de la Cruz himself, who came from the very same town, may hold all the answers?
Pixar take every opportunity to illuminate the screen once we cross over with Miguel into the bright, almost psychedelic land of his ancestors, which is protected by dazzling alebrijes and connects itself to our world by a glowing marigold petal bridge. Yet beneath the surface there is a richly textured script by Adrian Molina and Matthew Aldrich, complete with fully realised characters, fluid storytelling and heavily-researched attention to detail. Ana Ofelia Murguia as the titular Mama Coco does some stellar voice work, easing us into those lip-quivering final scenes assisted by Pixar's wonderful animation, as does Benjamin Bratt as the self-admiring de la Cruz, a man who does well for himself in a world in which you can only exist whilst you are remembered on the other side. And this being Disney, it wouldn't be complete without a signature song, and Remember Me, written by married team Kirsty Anderson-Lopez and Robert Lopez of Let It Go fame, is another winner. The song might be stuck in your head for days, but the emotional impact of this tale of family, music and death will last much, much longer.
What I know about the world of ice-skating wouldn't fill the back of a postage stamp. I'm familiar with Torvill and Dean's famous gold-medal winning routine at the 1984 Winter Olympics, but that's probably because I'm British and have seen their performance repeated during near enough every Olympic event since. Craig Gillespie's I, Tonya doesn't care if you like ice skating or not, because as soon as its troubled protagonist Tonya Harding (Margot Robbie) hits the ice to the likes of Cliff Richard's Devil Woman and ZZ Top's Sleeping Bag, you'll be too caught up in the action, which are comparable to Baby Driver's car chase scenes, to care. But of course, if you know anything about Tonya Harding at all, you'll know this could never be just about ice skating.
One of my biggest gripes with biopics is the issue of historical accuracy and artistic license. Often a film can resemble a moving Wikipedia page as a result, and the other times it can be accused of glorifying its subject. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. I, Tonya plays with this idea by admitting its based on questionable statements, and so tries to film it all to let the audience decide for themselves. Tonya, her mother LaVona (Allison Janney), her abusive husband Jeff (Sebastian Stan), security guard Shawn (Paul Walter Hauser), and a handful of others who were caught up in the whole Nancy Kerrigan debacle, all give their testimonies to camera as the action jumps back and forth in time. Characters sometimes break the fourth wall to outright deny what we're seeing is true, and this playful, fast-moving approach is what gives I, Tonya its zing. It reminded me of Adam McKay's excellent The Big Short, which also featured Robbie talking to camera.
Saying that, the film clearly has more sympathy for Tonya than it does for the abusers and low-lives around her. Born into a white-trash community with a sharp-tongued, bully of a mother looking after her, Tonya felt compelled to skate from a very young age. Trainer Diane Rawlinson (Julianne Nicholson) doesn't train girls of her age, but soon changes her mind after meeting LaVona and seeing the 4 year-old come alive on the ice. At 15, she is one of the best skaters in the U.S., and one of a few who can pull off a triple axel jump. She is the only one to brave it in competition as well, but despite her abilities, the judges refuse to warm to her unconventional music and clothing choices, and general 'white trash' reputation. Against her mother's wishes, she starts to date Jeff, who quickly becomes abusive whenever Tonya speaks up. She pushes on anyway, trying to reinvent herself in order to meet the expectations of a snobby sport.
Of course, the action builds up to the attack on rival skater Nancy Kerrigan, an incident that shocked the sporting world and is still surrounded by controversy. As for Tonya's level of involvement, that's for you to decide. Gillespie's film could be accused of ignoring one of the victims caught up in the story, but to have focused more attention on Kerrigan could have taken the action away from Tonya, whose film this is. As for the performances, they are stellar across the board. It's a shame Margot Robbie wasn't up against such a formidable opponent in Frances McDormand for this year's Academy Awards, as her transformation here would have surely seen her take home a golden statue most other years. Janney and Stan are excellent too, with both managing to squeeze some sympathy out of their loathsome schemers, and Hauser appears to have wondered in from another movie until you see the real-life footage of Shawn at the end credits. I, Tonya is an intelligent, unconventional, highly entertaining and darkly funny re-telling of a difficult subject matter, with a knockout performance at its centre.
Polish-born, French-based filmmaker, animator and artist Walerian Borowczyk is mainly remembered for his erotic works such as The Beast and The Margin, and has been described as "a genius who also happened to be a pornographer." Before he dabbled in eroticism, he produced many animated shorts before his first feature-length piece, the wonderfully weird Mr. and Mrs. Kabal's Theatre. His first live-action film, Goto, Isle of Love, employed similar tactics to his hand-drawn experiments: a desolate island setting, limited camera movements, and frustratingly (yet fascinatingly) odd and unrelatable characters. The result is somewhat isolating, but often reminiscent of the surreal genius of Georges Franju, Luis Bunuel and Borowczyk's friend and sometime collaborator Chris Marker.
Tidal inundation has seen the island of Goto cut off from the rest of Europe for three generations. It has seen three leaders since - Goto I, Goto II, and the current ruler Goto III (Pierre Brasseur) - and the monarchy rules as a dictatorship, 'protecting' the island from outside dangers and influences. There seems to be little to do on the island, so Goto keeps himself and his wife Glossia (Ligia Branice) entertained by staging fights between prisoners. Petty thief Grozo (Guy Saint-Jean) manages to survive his battle with a towering lug-head and wins the sympathy of Goto. Grozo's reward is a job building fly-catchers and showing off his work to a classroom of under-educated children. He also uncovers an affair between Glossia and handsome captain-of-the-guard Gono (Jean-Pierre Andreani), and grows bolder and more ambitious in his scheming as he seeks to claw himself up the social ladder.
On an island populated by criminals, no-hopers and aristocrats, Glossia emerges as the only sympathetic character. Played by La Jetee's Ligia Branice, she longs to escape this grey, mundane world, her eyes shining with tears as she watches the boat she hoped to sail away on sank before her. With little to hold on to on an emotional level, Goto becomes an observational piece, a commentary on an isolated society with an obvious anti-dictatorship stance. This is a world so lacking in stimulation that the object which draws the most fascination is a cutting-edge fly-catcher stolen by Gozo and flogged as his own design. It's deliberately farcical but lacking in humour, with the world made even more soul-crushing by the stark black-and-white photography and Borowczyk's preference for limited camera movements. It's an interesting piece but one that will likely leave you feeling cold, but certainly a work of art deserving of rigorous study.
After spending most of the 1990s helping create the likes of The Day Today and I'm Alan Partridge - two of the greatest comedy works to have ever come out of Britain - satirist Armando Iannucci really made a name for himself with The Thick of It, a political farce centred around a bunch of politicians and spin doctors within a fictional government department going to ridiculous lengths to further their own careers and avoid the sack at the behest of an unseen prime minister. This led to the brilliant spin-off feature film In the Loop, before he would go on to tackle U.S. politics with acclaimed HBO series Veep. These groundbreaking satires now seem like they were a mere warm-up for his most ambitious project yet, The Death of Stalin, which covers the panic-stricken aftermath following the demise of one of the Soviet Union most notorious dictators, Joseph Stalin.
For the film, Iannucci has gathered together some of the finest British actors working today: those who are as comfortable with improvisation as they are with brooding monologues. Michael Palin is Molotov, the nervously chirpy minister who remained loyal to Stalin after the execution of his wife; Andrea Riseborough is Svetlana, Stalin's emotionally crumbled daughter; and Rupert Fried is the drunken son Vasily. Most impressive of all is Simon Russell Beale as the reptilian Lavrenti Beria, a man renowned for his love of rape and torture who is now desperately picking up the scraps and trying to seize power. Working against Beria is Steve Buscemi's Khrushchev, the former cabinet jester who may actually be the country's best bet. Trying to hold it all together is Jeffrey Tambor's timid Malenkov, who despite unwavering loyalty to his leader discovers his name on a death list before the big guy drops dead, and is installed as acting Premier shortly after.
There are many belly laughs to be enjoyed in The Death of Stalin, but Iannucci's approach to the subject matter often approaches horror territory. While the worst the players in The Thick of It faced was public embarrassment or a dressing down from Malcolm Tucker, here one ill-timed comment can land you with a bullet in the head. It's an incredibly scary place, where characters stroll nonchalantly through grey buildings as screams and gunshots hum in the background, and people are taken from their homes by armed officers for some imagined slight. The comedy and tragedy are incredibly well-balanced, and intensifies the absurdity of political life to genuinely concerning levels. Watching the terrible events unfold as these desperate men stutter and scurry around like rats, willing to back-stab and manipulate their colleagues without pausing for breath if it means buying themselves some extra time, is irresistible. As you would expect, Iannucci's script (co-written by David Schneider and Ian Martin) is expletive-laden and sharp as a dagger, and the entire ensemble are at the top of their game. It's unlikely The Death of Stalin will ever see a release in Russia, but someone should definitely suggest Putin adds it to his IMDb watchlist.
It was a man named Michael Rousselet of online film group 5-Second Films who first clocked onto the rich vein of unintentional humour found in Tommy Wiseau's 2003 crap-fest The Room. He brought along friends, who had a great time throwing plastic cutlery at the screen in homage to the weird decorating choices found in the background of some of the film's interior scenes, and generally marvelling at just how any self-respecting film-maker could release such an utter shambles and compare it to the work of Tennessee Williams. It soon caught on, and The Room evolved into a cult phenomenon, playing for years and attracting a vocal celebrity fanbase that included the likes of Patton Oswalt, Paul Rudd, Jonah Hill and Kristen Bell.
Once Greg Sestero, co-star of The Room and somewhat reluctant best friend of Wiseau, released a tell-all book called The Disaster Artist, it seemed inevitable that it would someday find itself adapted for the big screen. And who better than super-fan and Wiseau-obsessive James Franco to carry out the task and don the thick black locks and questionable fashion sense of the man who still remains an enigma to this day. The Disaster Artist starts by detailing how Sestero first met Wiseau in acting class, with the latter impressing the young pretty-boy actor with his fearless, if abominable, displays of his acting prowess. Played by Dave Franco in the film, Sestero soon packs up and moves to Los Angeles to live with Wiseau, whose bottomless pockets are one of the remaining unexplained mysteries circling the clearly Eastern European weirdo. But as one producer tells them, they only have a million-in-one chance of becoming a success even if they had the talents of Marlon Brando, which they do not.
This spurs Wiseau into writing his very own movie, a melodrama called The Room which tells the story of a handsome all-American hero named Johnny, who'll naturally be played by Wiseau. Being the innovator he thinks he is, Wiseau wastes a fortune by going against industry standards of renting and purchases two cameras: one 35 mm and the other HD Digital, which he'll use simultaneously to shoot the movie. His bizarre spending habits don't stop there. He also builds a set of an outside alley when an actual alley sits just outside the studio, and Wiseau also goes to the expense of installing a toilet only he is allowed to use. Yet this is least of the crew's worries. As Wiseau's ego and paranoia spin out of control, he finds himself at loggerheads with everyone around him, including his best friend Greg. He also forgets his lines, fires members of staff on a whim, and remains the only one blissfully ignorant at the steaming cinematic turd he is creating. In his mind, nobody understands or respects his vision.
The moral of The Disaster Artist could be interpreted as not everybody should follow their dreams, despite what most people will tell you. But James Franco, directing himself as Wiseau directing himself, clearly adores The Room and is completely caught up with the weird charisma of Tommy Wiseau. At its heart, The Disaster Artist is a sweet rags-to-riches story that celebrates how greatness - and The Room is great - can emerge from the strangest of places and the unlikeliest of people. If it had been any other year, the older Franco would have been a shoe-in for a Best Actor nod, but recent allegations have seen the Academy distance themselves from the prolific film-maker. Of course, he doesn't look anything like Wiseau but, with the help of prosthetics, a tar-dunked wig and some good-old fashioned thesping, Franco becomes Wiseau before our very eyes, refusing to spill over into pantomime territory. It will make you laugh, cringe and possibly even cry, which is crazy given the subject matter. They could have taken the easy route and turned the story into pure parody, but Franco, along with writers Scott Neustadter and Michael H. Weber, have helped sculpt The Disaster Artist intoa celebration of eccentricity, stubbornness and the unexpected places magic is found at the movies.
Back in 1972, before he became known as the prolific writer and director of many classic and iconic movies - and the poster-boy for Jewish neurosis - Woody Allen was still finding his feet in the world of comedy and in cinema. Based on his own 1969 Broadway play, the film adaptation was not helmed by Allen himself but by Funny Girl and Footloose director Herbert Ross. This now seems unusual for Allen, who has always been keen to bring any of his original works to the big screen himself, but Ross' somewhat unfussy approach to film-making compliments the little man's shtick, and simply lets him get on with his motor-mouth monologues and comic pratfalls without the distraction of any cinematic trickery.
Play It Again, Sam is centred around Allan Felix (Allen), a recently-divorced film critic who crumbles into self-loathing and pessimism when his wife Nancy (Susan Anspach) suddenly walks out on him. His friends Dick (Tony Roberts), a workaholic businessman, and his lovely wife Linda (Diane Keaton) talk him into dating again, setting up encounters with a string of women that Allan routinely makes a mess of. His favourite film of all time is Casablanca (he watches it on the big screen in the opening scene with his mouth agape during that famous climax), and is occasionally visited by the ghost of Humphrey Bogart (uncannily played by Jerry Lacy). Allan hates himself as he knows he will never be like Rick Blaine, Bogart's most iconic character, but the spirit of Bogie urges him to be a man and show the dames who's in charge. As more dates turn into embarrassment for both parties, Allan finds himself becoming closer and closer to Linda.
Free from the wonderfully silly satire of Bananas and less ambitious in its mockery than, say, Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex, Play It Again, Sam hints at the ingenuity to come. It doesn't reach the heights of Annie Hall or Manhattan, but there is plenty of clever work here, with Allen's seemingly improvised little stand-up routines hitting the mark just as much as his physical buffoonery. It's also the first time Allen and Keaton were on screen together, and the chemistry is just as apparent in their on-screen romance as it surely was behind the scenes. Keaton appears to love working with him, and in one scene she is doubled-up with laughter at Allen's babbling. It doesn't have much to offer the romantic comedy genre in terms of originality, nor does it succeed in reinvigorating it in the way his later works would, but Play It Again, Sam is consistently hilarious, sweet and charming, and reminds us why we loved the little New Yorker before those horrific recent allegations surfaced.
2017 saw cinema give us the complete Dunkirk experience: first with Christopher Nolan's ground-level, soldiers-eye view of one of the main turning points of World War II, and later with this, Joe Wright's Darkest Hour, told from the point-of-view of the stuffy politicians back at home shouting at each other in dark rooms. While over 300,000 brave men waited for evacuation as the German army closed in around them, Winston Churchill had just been sworn in as prime minister and was left with the unenvious task of dealing with Adolf Hitler, a man Churchill's predecessor Neville Chamberlain had been hoping to strike a peace deal with. As history tells it, Churchill knew the futility of trying to reason with a murderous tyrant and that the only outcome was war, but he had to rally his cabinet and deal with the Dunkirk situation at the same time.
Simply put, Darkest Hour is pure Oscar-bait. Ignoring the question of why yet another biopic of one of Britain's most iconic historic figures is needed in a year that had already seen the Brian Cox-starring Churchill, this is another shameless entry into the ongoing series of middlebrow British period dramas which also include fellow awards-favourites The Queen and The King's Speech. Sparing us the full biopic treatment, Darkest Hour starts in 1940 just as Churchill is chosen to lead the country in the wake of Chamberlain's ousting. Played by Gary Oldman in heavy prosthetics, the man who enjoys champagne with his breakfast and dictates his letters still dressed in his pyjamas charges into the situation like a bull in a china shop, out-shouting those who attempt to fast-track peace talks or undermine him. It's a good performance, and one that will almost definitely win Oldman an overdue Best Actor award. But it still feels like an impression, and despite some attempts to humanise the man with moments of self-doubt, we never break the tough, saggy surface.
Joe Wright has touched on the events of Dunkirk before with 2007's Atonement, a surprisingly moving and powerful love story that featured an impressive tracking shot along the battered beach. Atonement felt like it was created by a film-maker, while Darkest Hour feels like it was sculpted by a committee hoping to overcrowd their posters with lists of their awards nominations. It feels artificial to the point of patronising, with long shots of the smiling working class going about their business as Churchill cruises by trying to get a feel of the public's mood. This is later taken even further he ventures into the London underground on his own to chat with the common folk in a scene that is so out of place it feels like nails down a blackboard. Even worse are the brief moments of battle. CGI bombs are dropped and followed by the camera in a scene that harks back to Pearl Harbor. Impressive supporting turns by Ben Mendelsohn as King George IV and Ronald Pickip as a sympathetic, terminally-ill Chamberlain lighten the mood, while Kristen Scott Thomas, Lily James and Stephen Dillane do the most with what they are given as supportive wife, framing device and sneering villain, respectively. In these times of political uncertainty, Darkest Hour should have had me waving my fist with patriotic pride, but I could barely muster a twitch of the eyebrow.
For their fourteenth entry into the Walt Disney Animated Classics series, the kid-friendly studio adapted the hugely popular 1904 play and 1911 novel by J.M. Barrie Peter Pan; or the Boy Who Wouldn't Grow Up. Barrie's story was a huge success, and continues to delight children and adults alike even today. There have been many adaptations both on film and television (the first was a 1924 silent movie), but none quite as popular as this 1953 version, which is now considered the definitive imagining of Neverland, Tinker Bell and the titular hero himself. Despite some glaring problems that will no doubt make many modern viewers watching it for the first time rather uncomfortable, Disney's Peter Pan still looks absolutely gorgeous and delivers a pretty fun ride.
You already know the story, but I'll regurgitate it anyway. Wendy Darling (Kathryn Beaumont) is on the eve of 'growing up', but enjoys discussing and acting out the adventures of Peter Pan so much with her younger brothers John (Paul Collins) and Michael (Tommy Luske) that she wishes she could stay a child just a little bit longer. That night, as the children's parents head out for the night, they are visited by the flying Peter Pan (Bobby Driscoll), who appears to have lost his shadow, and his fairy friend Tinker Bell. With a sprinkling of fairy dust, the Darlings fly off with Pan back to Neverland where they meet The Lost Boys, a feral group of boys dressed as animals who obey Pan's every command. But anchored just off the coast is evil pirate Captain Hook (Hans Conried), who wants to finally put an end to Pan's hijinks. Along with his confidant Mr. Smee (Bill Thompson), he plans to use Tinker Bell's jealousy of Wendy to manipulate her into luring the gang into a trap.
I must admit that I didn't love Peter Pan as I was expecting, but I certainly enjoyed it. Fans who have grow up watching the film hold it in incredibly high regard, and I can understand why, but I feel I would be more on their wavelength had I seen it as a child. This is, after all, a story about staying young forever, and all the selfishness and carelessness that comes with it. Disney's famed Nine Old Men don't disappoint, carefully and magically bringing this world to life with some incredible backdrops. Say what you will about modern-day advancements, but the characters in Peter Pan feel just as alive as any computer-animated film today. Hook is also a highlight, sneering with relish at the bumbling Smee when he isn't curling up like a baby at the sight of the crocodile that took his hand. My main issue is that Pan is rather grating. He is certainly a true reflection of the care-free cockiness of many children, but deep down I was hoping that Hook would at least land a slap of two. And the less said about the portrayal of Native Americans (who sing a song called "What Made the Red Man Red?") the better.
Both bands wanted to start a music revolution - one that would see artists take back control from the industry heads who ultimately lacked vision - by refusing to sell out. The Dandy Warhols' professionalism and willingness to bend as long as it avoided breaking meant that their star rose with increasing speed, before Bohemian Like You was snapped up by a mobile phone company and they became an overnight sensation, particularly here in the UK. This savviness is mistaken for bending over by BJM frontman Anton Newcombe, and soon Dandy lead singer Courtney Taylor-Taylor is receiving strange packages containing shotgun cartridges. Meanwhile, Newcombe's increasingly threatening behaviour towards everyone around him sees his band often struggle to make it through a set without brawling on stage. BJM were descending quickly from the next big thing to a circus sideshow.
