Review #1,413: 'The Passion of Anna' (1969)

By the mid-1960's, Swedish filmmaker Ingmar Bergman had already established himself as one of the true masters of cinema. He had unleashed the likes of Wild Strawberries, The Seventh Seal, Through a Glass Darkly and - one of my personal favourites - the criminally underrated Sawdust and Tinsel, all sombre black-and-white masterpieces the director would be remembered for. 1966 saw Bergman kick off a series of films where he would experiment with cinematic form, while still exploring his favourite themes of memory, love and madness. This resulted in arguably his finest achievement, Persona, and he would go on to make the likes of Hour of the Wolf, Shame and The Passion of Anna. Bergman frequently commented on his own pictures, citing The Passion of Anna as one of his greatest failures. While it may not be on the same level as his best work, the raw emotion of Anna cannot be ignored or indeed forgotten, so I'll have to wholeheartedly disagree with the great man on this one.

The story concerns ex-convict and estranged husband Andreas Winkleman (Max von Sydow), who has isolated himself on a Swedish island (actually Bergman's own) and only occasionally socialising with the handful of locals spread across the land. One day he is approached by the beautiful but unhinged Anna (Liv Ullmann), a widow who now walks on a crutch following the car crash that took the lives of her husband and son. She wants to use Andreas' phone, and the hermit is happy to oblige. Only he can't resist eavesdropping on the conversation, which results in Anna hanging up the phone in anger and accidentally (or purposefully?) leaving her bag behind. This leads to a dinner involving married couple Eva (Bibi Andersson) and Elis Vergerus (Erland Josephson), who are both going through their own mental anguish. Eva is an insomniac who has been unfaithful in the past, and Elis is a pompous misanthrope who hoards photographs he takes of everyone he meets. Andreas and Anna start a passionless affair, but their shady pasts are destined to resurface. The island is also struck by a serial animal killer, who attempts to hang a dog before butchering cattle and setting a barn on fire. 

Bergman isn't known to be a 'fun' director, and The Passion of Anna is no different. There are sweeping monologues to camera and existential conversations over dinner. Much of this will be lost on most viewers, including myself, but there is something undeniably hypnotic watching Bergman's favourite actors spewing psychological observations or recollecting strange, nonsensical dreams. Bergman also opts to intercut the film with interviews of the actors talking about their characters, in what appears to be spontaneous behind-the-scenes footage. These sections were in fact scripted, and although the actors do well masking this fact, this experimental approach only interrupts the story. The director himself has also voiced his regret for leaving something in he knew wouldn't work. Still, merely solid Bergman would be the highlight of most director's back catalogues. Bergman explores people's tendency to fall back into previous cycles of behaviour, and how memory can be corrupted by both time and wishful-thinking. Anna frequently recalls her perfectly balanced marriage with a man she shared an unbreakable bond with, but we know from Elis that her husband embarked on an affair with Eva. The final shot leaves many questions unanswered, and we are left to ponder them for ourselves. Despite the confusing manner with which the story is told, we are left with a kind of unspoken understanding.


Directed by: Ingmar Bergman
Starring: Max von Sydow, Liv Ullmann, Bibi Andersson, Erland Josephson, Erik Hell
Country: Sweden

Rating: ****

Tom Gillespie

Review #1,412: 'Predator 2' (1990)

John McTiernan's Predator introduced a new horror icon. With its flowing dreadlocks, formidable size, arsenal of deadly, otherworldly weapons, and a face that can only be described as "one ugly motherfucker," the Predator quickly garnered a legion of fans, who were all the more titillated by the idea that the creature could in fact exist in the same universe as the xenomorphs from the Alien franchise. It hardly had the critics salivating, but Predator quickly became a cult classic, and is now considered one of the finest action films of the 80's. The follow-up, released three years later, is considerably less impressive. Stephen Hopkins' Predator isn't a bad film by any stretch of the imagination, but is about as middle-of-the-road as sequels come. It's sufficiently action-packed and certainly violent enough to appease the horror crowd, but ultimately this is a re-hash of the first film with the action transported from the jungles of South America to the urban jungle of a near-future Los Angeles.

It's 1997, and L.A. has become a playground for violent gangs. Shoot-outs occur in the streets in broad daylight, and the warring Colombian and Jamaican gangs don't hesitate to take down as many cops as they can. Lieutenant Mike Harrigan (Danny Glover) is perhaps the city's best hope: a plays-by-his-own-rules type who will always lead the charge into the gunfire. When a group of Colombian thugs turn up massacred by something of considerable size and strength, Harrigan makes it his personal mission to take down this mysterious hostile. The Predator is back in town on safari, and it seems that both gang members and the police are on its hit list. Harrigan and his crew - Danny Archuleta (Ruben Blades), Leona Cantrell (Maria Conchita Alonso) and Jerry Lambert (Bill Paxton) - know that something is amiss when they discover an alien artefact hidden among the carnage, and especially when secretive F.B.I. agent Peter Keyes (Gary Busey) starts sniffing around. As the bodies of his friends and enemies start to pile up, Harrigan will stop at nothing to take the extraterrestrial down, but how can he outwit a foe that has him outgunned and outsmarted?

The lack of any kind of new story means that Predator 2 lives and dies by its action. Thankfully, there is plenty of it, and it's about as gory as they come. Spines are torn from their body, hearts are ripped out of chests, and in a particularly disturbing moment, the Predator buffs the skull of his latest victim to display in its trophy room. No matter how predictable the story becomes or how ridiculous the dialogue is, nobody could claim that Predator 2 is boring. But action doesn't equal tension, and this sequel misses the mystery of the first film, when the threat was always lurking out of sight, watching his clueless target stagger about in harsh terrain. Here, the Predator jumps straight into the mix, hacking, shooting and impaling anyone in its way. It also misses the presence of Arnold Schwarzenegger and his occasional tongue-in-cheek quips. The Governator was no Laurence Olivier, but his presence is undeniable. As watchable as Glover is, who here is more akin to Lethal Weapon's Riggs than his very own Murtaugh, he ain't no Arnie. It also doesn't help that he is one of the stupidest cops ever to grace the screen.  It's lazy and forgettable, but dumb and fun.


Directed by: Stephen Hopkins
Starring: Danny Glover, Gary Busey, Kevin Peter Hall, Maria Conchita Alonso, Rubén Blades, Bill Paxton, Robert Davi, Adam Baldwin
Country: USA

Rating: ***

Tom Gillespie

Review #1,411: 'Ramrod' (1947)

Feuding landowners have always been a popular subject matter for the old-school B-movie westerns, and on face value Andre De Toth's Ramrod appears to be cut from very familiar material. The presence of co-stars Joel McCrea and Veronica Lake no doubt attracted punters charmed six years earlier by their performances in Preston Sturges' masterpiece Sullivan's Travels, and they would be forgiven if they thought they were in for some light-hearted white hat vs. black hat cowboy fun, with a little bit of romance sprinkled in for good measure. In fact, Ramrod couldn't be further away from Sturges' romp in terms of tone, with De Toth revelling in the cynicism of all but one of its central characters. Based on a story by legendary Western author Luke Short, this is a tough, twisty horse opera that pushes its characters into morally murky territory, sharing more in common with the film noir genre than the tropes of a western.

As the film opens, we are already at the boiling point of a conflict between powerful ranch owner Frank Ivey (Preston Foster) and sheepherder Walt Shipley (Ian MacDonald). Walt wants to bring sheep to the land, a big problem in cattle country. Caught in the middle of the feud is Connie Dickason (Lake), the beautiful and headstrong daughter of rancher Ben (Charles Ruggles). Her father wants Connie to marry Ivey, but she detests his bullying, violent manner and prefers to marry Walt instead. As it turns out, Walt doesn't have the stomach for a fight and flees town, leaving his Circle 66 ranch to Connie. Rather than caving to Ivey's demands for the land, Connie hires the stoic Dave Nash (McCrea) as her 'ramrod', or foreman, who feels indebted to Walt for taking him in when he was at his lowest. Dave accepts, but only on the promise that he is allowed to deal with Ivey peacefully, and without resorting to violence. He hires the free-spirited Bill Schell (Don DeFore) as back-up, but as Ivey and his gang employ increasingly brutal methods and Connie loses patience with Dave's restraint, alliances are forged and broken as the conflict spirals out of control.

Despite the magic they made together working with Sturges, I've never been particularly fond of either McCrea or Lake as actors. They have the screen presence, certainly, but they can both come across as empty shells. They are undoubtedly the weakest aspect of Ramrod, a film that is otherwise riveting from start to finish. The story is complicated enough to hold your interest for the duration, with supporting characters emerging to play a more important role that you were expecting, and revealing hidden layers that provide plenty of twists and turns. Indeed, Ramrod would be pretty pedestrian if Dave's methods proved to be the only way, and as his grip on the situation loosens when the back-stabbing and dirty dealings start to play out, the film heads into pure film noir territory. As the bodies start to pile up and the gun-fire becomes more frequent, De Toth forces his characters down some incredibly dark paths and doesn't wimp out of the difficult corners he backs them into. This is tough and exciting stuff, made all the more interesting by the way De Toth toys with the myth of black against white. The weakness of the leads is countered by some excellent supporting players, in particular Foster and DeFore.


Directed by: André De Toth
Starring: Joel McCrea, Veronica Lake, Don DeFore, Donald Crisp, Preston Foster, Arleen Whelan, Charles Ruggles, Lloyd Bridges
Country: USA

Rating: ****

Tom Gillespie

Review #1,410: 'All That Heaven Allows' (1955)

German-born film maker Douglas Sirk grew up watching the ground-breaking expressionist films his country pioneered in the 20's and 30's, when movies like The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari and Nosferatu were making full use of shadow techniques and angular sets that were as wonderfully warped as the minds of their characters. After fleeing the Nazis with his Jewish wife, Sirk - born Hans Detlef Sierck - worked in Europe before arriving in Hollywood, where he would ultimately become remembered for his ravishing melodramas. One of his most popular, All That Heaven Allows, saw Sirk fully embracing the expressionist pictures of his birth country, adapting these techniques for 1950's Americana, and employing them to expose the ugly underbelly of a Technicolor world he would make equally as beautiful.

The middle-aged Cary Scott (Jane Wyman) is still trying to make sense of life after the death of her husband. Her children, who insist she purchases a television to fill up her spare time, are all grown up and pursuing careers of their own, while her friends at the stuffy country club seem unhealthily invested in finding her a new husband. There's no shortage of men lining up to declare their interest, but the only man to truly catch her eye is the dashing Ron Kirby (Rock Hudson), the gardener who tends to the neighbourhood's shrubs and bushes. He's certainly handsome and charming enough, but Ron is below Cary's social status, favouring a care-free life with close companions and building whatever he needs with his own hands. This doesn't bother Cary, and if anything is the reason she falls completely in love with him. But everybody around her takes offence at a widow shacking up with a younger man, and look down their noses at a man who doesn't fit in with their ideal social balance.

Wyman is superb as a woman who knows her heart's desire, but hesitates at the idea of upsetting those holding up the foundations of a privileged life. It isn't that she doesn't want to leave a life of dull conversations and social gossip - on the contrary she is profoundly bored with it - but it's all that she knows. Having been ushered into this world by her late husband, the thought of a life without assurances is simply terrifying. Her own children even turn their backs at the thought of a younger man seducing their mother, and see Ron as a threat to their inheritance. Sirk brings this conflict to life with lashings of vivid reds and blues, reflecting both mood and temperament, as Cary desperately struggles to contain the waves of uproar lapping through her community. As the gossips bicker and the older single men puff out their chests, Sirk dissects the seemingly harmonious and postcard-perfect family unit of the Eisenhower-era, and finds an ugly heart beating beneath. It's the kind of thing David Lynch would explore more overtly a couple of decades later, employing the same soap-opera sheen as Sirk does here to give the world an even more vacuous feel. All That Heavens Allows is also a gorgeous and engrossing love story, lending joy to what is otherwise a damning social commentary.


Directed by: Douglas Sirk
Starring: Jane Wyman, Rock Hudson, Agnes Moorehead, Conrad Nagel, Virginia Grey, Gloria Talbott, William Reynolds
Country: USA

Rating: *****

Tom Gillespie

Review #1,409: 'R.I.P.D.' (2013)

Ryan Reynolds may have gone out of his way to try and obliterate the memories of some of the terrible movie choices he's made over the years during the post-credit scenes of Deadpool 2, but the sheer scale of the misfires he's been caught up in never ceases to amaze. One of the standouts in his filmography of horrors is R.I.P.D., an adaptation of Peter M. Lemkov's comic book of the same name which comes across as a misguided mash-up of Men in Black and Ghostbusters and whose biggest boast is that it's probably just a tiny notch better than how terrible you've no doubt heard it is. The Men in Black comparisons are unavoidable from the get-go, and while the comic was released just as the love for Barry Sonnenfeld's smash-hit was at its highest, Robert Schwentke's adaptation has no excuse for such lazy regurgitation. Seriously, if you replace Will Smith with Ryan Reynolds, Tommy Lee Jones with Jeff Bridges, and aliens for monsters, you have the same movie. Only this isn't good.

Crooked Boston detective Nick Walker (Reynolds) buries gold stolen during active duty in his back garden, hoping the loot will provide a nice rest egg for him and his wife Julia (Stephanie Szotak) in the future. After deciding he doesn't need the money or the guilt on his back, Nick decides to turn it over into evidence, but not before revealing his intentions to partner Bobby Hayes (Kevin Bacon). During a police raid, Bobby informs Nick that he cannot allow the gold to be handed in, and shoots his partner dead. But death is not the end, Nick learns, and on his journey into the afterlife he is hauled into the office of the Rest in Peace Department, a force designed to capture any souls who refuse to pass over and instead remain on Earth, known as 'deados'. His humourless boss Mildred Proctor (Mary-Louise Parker) partners Nick with rugged former United States Marshal and Civil War veteran Roychepus 'Roy' Pulsipher (Jeff Bridges), a gruff figure from the days of the Wild West who speaks like a cowboy with a mouth full of cotton balls.

As R.I.P.D. was the beginning of what the producers hoped would lead on to a fully-fledged franchise, there's a lot of explaining to do. Before the plot involving the Staff of Jericho, the end of the universe as we know it, and the obligatory sky beam even kicks in, there are characters to introduce, rules to set in place and a mythology to establish. When the film isn't busy reeling off exposition, it's a chaotic mish-mash of jarring tones and woefully-realised action, as Nick and Roy bicker their way through the city searching for their targets, employing seemingly random questions and, for some reason, curry, to expose the undead's true, monstrous form. Bouncing aimlessly between slapstick comedy, tedious drama, endless chase scenes, and some hideously rendered CGI action, R.I.P.D. is a cesspit of half-baked ideas. Such hideousness could even be forgiven if the film raised the odd chuckle, or threw in a surprise every now and then, or it's lead star wasn't sleepwalking through the entire thing. Bridges, who actually seems to be relishing the chance to flex his goofy chops, certainly tries his best to liven things up, but even a seasoned Oscar winner isn't enough to save this from the cinematic rubbish pile.


Directed by: Robert Schwentke
Starring: Ryan Reynolds, Jeff Bridges, Kevin Bacon, Mary-Louise Parker, Stephanie Szostak
Country: USA

Rating: *

Tom Gillespie

Review #1,408: '22 July' (2018)

British writer and director Paul Greengrass has spent half of his whole career documenting real life tragedies with equal amounts of verve and respect. The likes of Bloody Sunday, United 93 and Captain Phillips were equally difficult to watch and to look away from, paying tribute to those caught up the real-life events, who are likely still living with the traumatic memories, yet delivering an emotional, visceral cinematic experience at the same time. The two styles should contradict each other, but they really don't, and it's what makes Greengrass a special film-maker. But even he couldn't escape the controversy that came with his latest film, 22 July, a re-telling of the 2011 terrorist attack on Norway's Utoya island, an event still fresh in the minds of anybody old enough to remember the news reports. Is the film simply too soon? And does a Brit even have the right to try and make sense of a Norwegian tragedy?

22 July arrives mere months after Erik Poppe's Utoya: July 22, a Norwegian production that placed a fictionalised character at the centre of the massacre as it unfolds in real-time using one long take. Poppe's movie was even more controversial, raising questions about the ethics of applying such cinematic flair to an event that still feels like an open wound to many. Greengrass is more concerned with the aftermath: how Norway reacted as a country and how the actions of Anders Behring Breivik are still felt throughout the world. The massacre itself, which took the lives of 69 people attending a Labour Party youth camp, is mercifully short, but undeniably horrifying. One attendee in particular stands out: the bright, articulate and well-liked Viljar (Jonas Strand Gravli). We first meet him delivering a short speech about the ethnic diversity of his own town, speaking out in favour of everything Breivik hates. At the same time Breivik, played with a haunting steeliness by Anders Danielsen Lie, has posted his online manifesto and is fitting a home-made bomb to a van outside the Prime Minister's office. Whilst on his journey to Utoya, Breivik had already murdered 8 people.

Viljar survives the attack but is left blind in one eye and with bullet fragments lodged dangerously close to his brain. While Breivik is processed through the courts, Viljar provides a much-needed ground-level view. Through Viljar, 22 July also finds its emotional beats, as his physical and emotional recovery builds towards a final confrontation in court, where Breivik is also granted the opportunity to say his piece. The system may have given Breivik some time in the spotlight, Greengrass certainly doesn't, at least not in the way the delusional, self-styled "leader of men" no doubt envisioned. It commends both due process and Norway's refusal to allow events to descend into a circus. As a result, Breivik is systematically broken down and disarmed, and if the film is ultimately about our truly dark times, some satisfaction can be gained by watching a monster stripped of his delusions of grandeur. Greengrass trips up with his decision to shoot the film in accented English, going half in the right direction by casting unknown Norwegian actors but stopping short of full immersion. For such an otherwise authentic document, it's a baffling decision, but 22 July is still brave, powerful film-making that reminds us with genuine concern of what little has changed since that day seven years ago.


Directed by: Paul Greengrass
Starring: Anders Danielsen Lie, Jonas Strand Gravli, Jon Øigarden, Maria Bock, Thorbjørn Harr
Country: Norway/Iceland/USA

Rating: ****

Tom Gillespie

Review #1,407: 'Poltergeist III' (1988)

The promotion and subsequent release of Poltergeist III was overshadowed by the death of 12 year-old star and face of the franchise Heather O'Rourke, from cardiac arrest and septic shock brought on by a misdiagnosed intestinal stenosis. The studio, who understandably wanted to avoid any claims that they may be looking to take advantage of such a devastating tragedy, kept advertising to a minimum, although they had previously pressured director Gary Sherman into completing the film against his wishes. Poltergeist III was a critical and commercial flop, putting an end to the franchise that should have really stopped with Tobe Hooper's original. A lack of promotion cannot be blamed entirely though, as the rushed final edit is an incoherent mess with precious few links to the mythology established in the first two entries. They should have known they were in trouble when original stars JoBeth Williams and Craig T. Nelson turned down the chance to return.

In an attempt to freshen up the series, the action is moved from a suburban home to a luxury skyscraper: A 100-story colossus complete with its own mall and art gallery. In charge of the tower is Bruce Gardner (Tom Skerritt), the new husband of Patricia (Nancy Allen) - the sister of JoBeth William's character. As well as having to adapt to newly married life, Pat is also having to deal with her daughter from a previous marriage, Donna (Lara Flynn Boyle), so the last thing she needs is the arrival of spooky Carol Anne (O'Rourke), who seems to bring trouble with her wherever she goes. I don't recall an explanation given for why the Freeling family would suddenly send the daughter they almost lost twice to an auntie they've never mentioned, but the script by Sherman and Brian Taggert isn't concerned with making too much sense. It's happy to simply drag out the franchise as far as it will go and ignore what made the previous films so popular with audiences. The Freelings always fought off the supernatural forces at play with their unbreakable family bond, but Poltergeist III sidesteps establishing this newly family unit in favour of lazy jump shocks.

The Gardner's don't seem particularly adept at taking care of a traumatised 12 year-old either, happily leaving her in the care of their irresponsible teenage daughter and enlisting her in a special school, where sceptical psychiatrist Dr. Seaton (Richard Fire) believes the spooky events experienced by Carol Anne and the people around her are brought on by some kind of mass hypnosis. This leaves plenty of time for Carol Anne to be harassed by Reverend Kane (Nathan Davis, replacing the late Julian Beck), who still wants her to lead them all into the light. The film quickly dissolves away into a series of set-pieces plucked at random from Cinema's Big Book of Characters in Peril, involving falling through ice and killer cars revving in the underground car park. Without the family bond so purposefully developed over the course of the last two films, these moments lack any dramatic weight. Sherman would prefer to have the characters yell each other's names repeatedly at the expense of actual dialogue, and in one case is happy to toss away one supporting character without any explanation at all. On the positive side, there are some fantastic 'in camera' effects deployed as the spirits use mirrors to communicate with the living world, and the presence of Zelda Rubinstein and Tom Skerritt's moustache is always a pleasure.


Directed by: Gary Sherman
Starring: Tom Skerritt, Nancy Allen, Heather O'Rourke, Zelda Rubinstein, Lara Flynn Boyle
Country: USA

Rating: **

Tom Gillespie

Review #1,406: 'Upgrade' (2018)

Leigh Whannell's Upgrade feels like the type of film made for Netflix; a sort of mid-level science-fiction story constructed around one intriguing idea, and bulked up with elements from other, better genre movies. It's also the type of film I would consider for a few seconds whilst flicking through my Netflix queue, before opting for something else with a more compelling premise. Set in the very-near future, the film's main hook comes from a game-changing microchip that, when surgically planted in a willing - or unwilling host - allows body and foreign body to communicate with each other. Of course, it doesn't stop there. The implant can also turn down your nerve endings so you don't feel pain, and - with the host's permission - can fully operate your body and turn you into a hand-to-hand master. This comes in handy for grease monkey Grey Trace (Logan Marshall-Green) when the plot demands he seeks revenge on some baddies.

As well as possessing one of cinema's all-time most ridiculous names, Grey spends his time fixing classic muscle cars and drinking beer. This near-future is complete with iHomes and self-driving cars, but Grey is far more comfortable getting his hands dirty. His wife Asha (Melanie Vallejo), on the other hand, works for one of the big tech companies and has fully embraced this new digital, hands-free world. Opposites do attract however, and Grey invites his wife along to the isolated home of tech genius Eron Keen (Harrison Gilbertson), his most high-profile customer. Eron, who is clearly inspired by Elon Musk, is withdrawn, strange and undeniably brilliant, and also eager to show off his latest invention: a microchip he dubs "a new, better brain." On the journey home, their car experiences a catastrophic error, sending the couple down dark streets before crashing and overturning. Injured, they are then preyed upon a gang of masked criminals, who murder Asha and cripple Grey. Waking up paralysed from the neck down and understandably angry, Grey is offered a solution when Eron makes a rare public appearance at the hospital.

If all of this sounds familiar, it's because you've seen it before in countless other movies. Upgrade's greatest achievement is that it doesn't make you wish you were watching something else, and instead pulls you along into its world. This is mainly down to some spectacular action scenes, which combine well-choreographed hand-to-hand fighting with some nifty camerawork, which bends and turns along with Grey as he dishes out violence with a look of both confusion and excitement splashed cross his face. There's something hilarious about a body acting independently of the face, and Whannell wisely chooses to play up these moments. Marshall-Green is often unfairly referred to as a bargain-bin Tom Hardy (who is currently dealing with his own parasitic second personality in Venom), and while he fails to convince as a leading man, he's clearly enjoying himself. Produced by Blumhouse Productions, who churn out huge hits with incredibly modest budgets, Upgrade is infused with a grainy, B-movie aesthetic that give it an exploitation vibe and slightly grimy feel. I mean that as a compliment, and it's a shame that the excitement generated by the outrageous action scenes couldn't be replicated in the generic beats of the main story.


Directed by: Leigh Whannell
Starring: Logan Marshall-Green, Melanie Vallejo, Harrison Gilbertson, Betty Gabriel, Benedict Hardie
Country: Australia

Rating: ***

Tom Gillespie

Review #1,405: 'Escape from Alcatraz' (1979)

Before their falling out, director Don Siegel and actor Clint Eastwood made some great films together, beginning with Coogan's Bluff in 1968 and ending with arguably their finest work, Escape from Alcatraz in 1979. Like Eastwood's character Frank Morris, Escape from Alcatraz is lean and no-nonsense, set completely within the walls of the infamous island prison. It's also a masterpiece of visual storytelling, with Siegel displaying a skill for capturing the routine of life in Alcatraz, from the small individual cells to the mundane work cycles, all combining to create an overall sense of hopelessness for those destined to rot away on the Rock. Morris has been placed there because he has escaped from every other prison he's been sent to, and nobody escapes from Alcatraz. He is quickly informed by a fellow inmate that should you even manage to get out of your cell, it's a mile away from land and the cold will kill you before the next prisoner count.

This revelation would crush the souls of most men, but Morris simply sees it as another challenge to overcome and quickly starts to plan a break-out. It will take time however, so he must endure the harshness of prison life in the meantime. Alcatraz is a place of punishment, not rehabilitation, and the quietly sadistic warden, played by Patrick McGoohan, appears to be proud of the prison's reputation of making good prisoners, not citizens. We are gradually introduced to the other inmates: There's the eccentric Litmus (Frank Ronzio), who convinces a new arrival that he is actually Al Capone, artist and amateur botanist 'Doc' Dalton (Roberts Blossom), black librarian English (Paul Benjamin), and eventually Morris' old acquaintances and brothers Clarence (Jack Thibeau) and John Anglin (Fred Ward). Morris quickly makes an enemy in Wolf (Bruce M. Fischer), when he clobbers the would-be rapist for making advances in the shower room. With Wolf waiting impatiently in solitary for revenge and the threat of a cell move looming, Morris steps up his efforts, finding hope in the crumbling concrete around the grille in his cell.

The escape itself is a magnificent, meticulously researched sequence that arrives at the climax, but before that we are ushered into the harsh realities of prison life, and what it takes to survive and maintain your sanity in such brutal surroundings. Siegel skilfully builds dramatic tension in a suffocating, cramped confinement. Alcatraz was no ordinary prison. It was an intricate machine designed to crush the spirits of those serving time, where a luxury could be taken away in an instant for the pettiest of reasons, leaving you with nothing but walls and your thoughts. Siegel doesn't necessarily side with the prisoners - with one exception, they all certainly deserve to be locked up - but he is keen to point out that such mental abuse doesn't do anybody, especially society, any good. This sense of injustice is certainly what seems to be driving Morris, and you'll be willing him on when the date is finally set. The escape is actually relatively straight-forward, but Siegel makes it nail-biting nonetheless. This also fits in with the whole docudrama feel, sticking closely to how it actually went down back in 1962. The ending eerily lets you ponder their fate for yourselves. They were never seen again, nor were their bodies discovered.


Directed by: Don Siegel
Starring: Clint Eastwood, Patrick McGoohan, Roberts Blossom, Jack Thibeau, Fred Ward, Paul Benjamin, Larry Hankin
Country: USA

Rating: ****

Tom Gillespie

Review #1,404: 'The Quick and the Dead' (1995)

By 1995, the western genre had all but disappeared completely from our cinema screens. Black-and-white tales of cowboys and Indians in America's Old West was the stuff your granddad would watch on television during the day and claim they just don't make 'em like this anymore. They didn't stop completely however, with the likes of Jim Jarmusch's Dead Man making an earnest attempt to infuse the genre with a psychedelic, folksy edge, and George P. Cosmatos' Tombstone turning the events at the OK Corral into an explosive action thriller. Some, like Clint Eastwood's Unforgiven, while adding a more sombre tone, successfully stuck the traditions of the genre, while others, like Sam Raimi's The Quick and the Dead, simply took an old-fashioned premise and ran with it. If you're looking for revisionism or an interesting take on an iconic time in America's history, then The Quick and the Dead ain't the film for that, but you may just find yourself having a bit more fun that you expected.

The town of Redemption was once a thriving community, but it now rests in the hands of the ruthless mayor and former outlaw John Herod (Gene Hackman). Herod enjoys a nice house while taxing his citizens 50% on any money they make, and apparently relieves his boredom by hosting a quick-draw contest every year. Gunslingers from all across the country arrive to take part - but God knows why, given the obviously high risk of death - including the mysterious Ellen (Sharon Stone), who shares a history with both the town and Herod himself. Also in town is Kid (Leonardo DiCaprio), a cocky teenager with a steady hand who also believes he is Herod's unacknowledged son, and a repentant outlaw-turned-preacher named Cort (Russell Crowe). Cort is dragged into the contest against his will by Herod's cronies, and the boss man is seemingly angered at his former associate's new anti-violence stance. There's backstory and melodrama, but it's all just an excuse for a series of stand-offs in a town where it always seems to be high noon.

While subverting expectations by enlisting a woman to play the central gunslinger, Raimi may as well have cast a broom in a wig, as Stone struggles to convincingly brood and frown and maintain any kind of interest in her character. Faring considerably better are DiCaprio and Crowe, who were just a few years off Titanic and Gladiator and the global stardom that followed. Their charisma and star quality are as clear as day, especially when they share a scene with the one-note Stone. For a film that boasts a wonderful supporting cast (Roberts Blossom, Tobin Bell, Keith David, Lance Henriksen and Gary Sinise are just some of the familiar faces), they all cower in the shadow of Gene Hackman, who somehow manages to turn some truly atrocious dialogue into Shakespeare. Yet the real star is Raimi's crazy camera lens. Before he was bringing Peter Parker's swinging exploits vividly to life in Spider-Man, he was crash-zooming on the faces of readying gunslingers and capturing daylight through a bullet-hole in the belly. It's silly, outrageous and wonderful. The problem is everything that comes in between, from the dreary central hero to the unengaging backstories.


Directed by: Sam Raimi
Starring: Sharon Stone, Gene Hackman, Russell Crowe, Leonardo DiCaprio, Tobin Bell, Roberts Blossom, Kevin Conway, Keith David, Lance Henriksen, Pat Hingle
Country: Japan/USA

Rating: ***

Tom Gillespie

Review #1,403: 'Man with a Movie Camera' (1929)

David Abelvich Kaufman was born on January 2nd, 1896 in Bialystok, Ukraine, and came of age during the Russian Revolution, joining the movement headed by Lenin and Trotsky that would eventually overthrow the Russian Republic. At some point during this time, Kaufman changed his name to Denis Arkadievich to avoid the persecution of Ukranian Jews. He studied music and medicine until he found his true calling in the arts, writing essays on Futurism and French avant-garde and developing a keen interest in cinema, something he viewed with both curiosity and frustration, calling out traditional, sentimental cinema as "leprous". Learning his trade developing newsreels for Cinema Week and changing his name once again to Dziga Vertov, the filmmaker set out to develop something nobody had ever seen before: a film without narrative, characters or dialogue.

Man with a Movie Camera, released in 1929, did away with traditional storytelling techniques to the point that no story would be told at all, at least not in the way that audiences were - and still are - accustomed to. Vertov would spend over 3 years on the film, shooting in Soviet cities Moscow, Kharkiv, Kiev and Odessa to capture the hustle-and-bustle of everyday life, from faces on the street to the labourers keeping the cities in motion. But this is no ordinary documentary, and to call it a documentary at all is somewhat misleading. Vertov and his group, the kinoks, were rooted firmly in modernism and Marxist ideologies, and Man with a Movie Camera aimed to push the limits of what could be achieved with a camera and clever editing. What may sound like a dour experiment for the academics is actually incredibly entertaining, with Vertov having plenty of fun playing with his toys. After a short burst of intertitles, we see an audience arrive for a screening, their seats magically lowering themselves down before the film begins. Later, we see a woman editing a scene we've just watched.

It's a film being made before our very eyes, and Vertov even manages to make you feel part of the process. Not only do we have the pleasure of some dazzling, innovative camerawork, but we also get to see how such a shot was achieved. The only 'character' of the film is the man with a movie camera, played by Vertov's brother and cinematographer Mikhail Kaufman. We see him scaling great heights and perched on the side of a moving car, or lounging in the shallow sea as he shoots a crowd gathered at the beach. The film would pioneer techniques still used to this day, including the likes of double exposure, slow-motion, extreme close-ups, jump cuts, and in one of the most delightful segments, stop-motion animation. With an average shot length of 2 seconds - the same as many blockbusters today - it thunders along like a well-oiled machine, backed by The Alloy Orchestra's rousing score. Everything is constantly in motion, from the trains, trams and factories, to the people going about their business. Vertov juxtaposes life and death, marriage and divorce, happiness and hardship, almost like it's happening simultaneously. It's a head-spinning experience that remains one of the most significant moments in cinema history, and to think it was done over 50 years before Godfrey Reggio's Koyaanisqatsi attempted the same.


Directed by: Dziga Vertov
Starring: Mikhail Kaufman
Country: Soviet Union

Rating: *****

Tom Gillespie

Review #1,402: 'Hold the Dark' (2018)

Whether you appreciate his genre-hopping and wince-inducingly violent movies or not, nobody could ever accuse director Jeremy Saulnier of lacking ambition. From the grisly, low-budget revenge picture Blue Ruin to the greasy punks/neo-Nazi stand-off of Green Room, Saulnier has always demonstrated the will to subvert our expectations, to carry us off into seemingly safe territory before slapping us across the face with a moment of utter savagery. It seems strange then, that Saulnier's most ambitious movie to date, the Alaskan-set 'mystery' Hold the Dark, debuted on the small screen via Netflix. The word mystery is in inverted commas because this is one of a few genres Hold the Dark dips its toes into, making for an unsettling and surprising film, but also a frustrating and confusing one. The scope is noticeably broader than Saulnier's previous efforts as the action hops between different continents and viewpoints, but Saulnier and writer Macon Blair fail to maintain a firm grasp of the story.

In a small town out in the Alaskan wilderness a few children have gone missing - suspected of being taken away by wolves - and Bailey Sloane is the latest to disappear. His mother, Medora (Riley Keough) writes to Russell Core (Jeffrey Wright), a naturalist who has written a book about his experiences killing a wolf, in the hope that he will hunt down the animals responsible. He agrees, curious of Medora's motivations, and the two damaged, introverted characters form a quiet bond through shared loneliness. Meanwhile, Medora's husband Vernon (Alexander Skarsgard), a soldier fighting in Afghanistan (the film takes place in 2004), is notified of his son's abduction. His own wife describes him as an animal, and we quickly understand why. A towering, fearsome figure, Vernon is a man who believes that murder is wholly justified, even necessary, when it comes to protecting the ones you love. When he arrives in town, all hell breaks loose, attracting the attention of the unprepared and unequipped local police force, led by chief Donald Marium (James Badge Dale).

The synopsis is vague because to reveal any more would be to spoil the film's most interesting aspect, its sheer unpredictability. The first hour draws you in with its sombre and almost threatening atmosphere, as it seems to set up a familiar man vs beast scenario, and the ethical conundrums that come with it. It then takes a sharp, violent turn with a riveting set-piece that comes out of nowhere, and from then on you won't have a clue where you're heading. The main problem is that the film doesn't seem to know either, and when we finally arrive at a certain destination in the story, we don't really know where we are. The clashing tones and genre switches of Saulnier's previous movies felt organic and exciting, but the pieces don't quite fit together in Hold the Dark. If you were to view individual scenes, there's some great work here. Saulnier understands how to grab your attention and execute moments of brutality that don't feel gratuitous or exploitative, and an extended shoot-out that successfully blends horror and action is the film's most shocking and memorable moment. Wright is terrific too, but his pained whispers aren't enough to save this from being Saulnier's weakest film to date, made all the more frustrating by the fact that there are moments of brilliance throughout.


Directed by: Jeremy Saulnier
Starring: Jeffrey Wright, Alexander Skarsgård, James Badge Dale, Riley Keough, Julian Black Antelope
Country: USA

Rating: ***

Tom Gillespie

Review #1,401: 'True Romance' (1993)

It's been many years since I last saw Tony Scott's True Romance, huddled up in my bedroom as a young teenager in fear of being caught with my older brother's VHS. I loved it then and I still like it very much, but it never struck me before just how much of a boy's fantasy the film is. This is a story in which a comic-book store worker forms a relationship with a gorgeous hooker-with-a-heart and successfully avenges her mistreatment at the hands of a despicable pimp, all before riding off to Hollywood with a case full of cocaine and dreams of an early retirement in mind. This is no surprise when you see who was behind the script - a young Quentin Tarantino - who at the time of writing was working in a video store dreaming of bigger and better things. But the fact that this is a fantasy isn't a bad thing. True Romance sweeps you up into its universe of outlaw love, mean-spirited gangsters and the ghost of Elvis Presley and doesn't allow you to pause for breath.

The hero at the centre of the story is Clarence Worley (Christian Slater). We meet him in a bar trying to chat up a woman by expressing his love for Elvis and inviting her to join him in a Sonny Chiba triple bill playing at the local theatre. You can almost imagine Tarantino speaking these words and being hit with a rejection, but Clarence is Tarantino's creation, so he has popcorn spilled over him by an attractive blonde named Alabama (Patricia Arquette) as he sits watching one of The Streefighter films alone. The two hit it off and spend the night together, before she reveals she is actually a call girl hired by his friends (the name should have been a hint). But she actually falls in love with Clarence, and him with her, and the two are quickly married before Clarence's attention turns to the pimp who is still holding her belongings, the milky-eyed and dreadlocked Drexl (Gary Oldman). Their confrontation leaves Clarence in possession of a suitcase chocked full of cocaine, so the newly weds head to Los Angeles to find a buyer, with the help of their clueless contact and aspiring actor Dick (Michael Rapaport).

Their road trip allows the opportunity for some familiar faces to flex their acting chops with the assistance of Tarantino's impeccable screenplay, including the likes of Dennis Hopper as Clarence's estranged father, Christopher Walken as fearsome gangster Don Vincenzo, Brad Pitt as Dick's useless stoner roommate Floyd, and a noticeably thinner James Gandolfini as one of Vincenzo's more sadistic thugs. It's a fast and furious two hours, with so much going on that you're barely given time to stop and realise that nothing much really adds up. The film sweeps you up into its silliness, forcing you to bow down to its own particular brand of cool. If you've seen Tarantino's directorial debut Reservoir Dogs, then many of True Romance's story beats will feel familiar (the story carefully moves its characters into place so they will eventually be in the same room at the same time with loaded guns pointed at each other), but Scott's style and energy make the ride exhilarating. The two leads are charming, with Slater convincing as a geek-turned-loose cannon and Arquette portraying just the right blend of cute and sexy, but the real star is Tarantino, who somehow manages to turn an adolescent fantasy into an exciting thrill ride.


Directed by: Tony Scott
Starring: Christian Slater, Patricia Arquette, Dennis Hopper, Val Kilmer, Gary Oldman, Brad Pitt, Christopher Walken, Michael Rapaport, James Gandolfini
Country: USA/France

Rating: ****

Tom Gillespie

Review #1,400: 'This Night I'll Possess Your Corpse' (1967)

The idea of going bigger and bolder when tackling the sequel to a surprise hit is nothing new, as evidenced by Jose Mojica Marins' follow-up to cult Brazilian horror classic At Midnight I'll Take Your Soul. The first film managed to achieve cult status in its native country and with anybody lucky enough to see it elsewhere in the world, so director, co-writer and lead star Marins managed to bag a noticeably larger budget and used this to further explore the darkest regions of his mind. The result - the wonderfully-titled This Night I'll Possess Your Corpse - is little more than a shameless re-hash of the previous story, but as a piece of psychedelic gothic horror, it manages to outshine its predecessor in every way. At the end of Midnight, Marins' Ze do Caixao, or 'Coffin Joe', was left for dead by supernatural forces. But now he's back, and more determined than ever to find the perfect bride to carry his child.

While the villagers hid in fear of Joe last time around, they have since grown weary of his superior attitude and suspect him of the many disappearances that took place in their community. However, without sufficient evidence to bring him to trial, Joe is released to carry on with his undertaker duties and his search for the mother of his future son. Assisted this time by a hunchback named Bruno (Jose Lobo), Joe imprisons some of the village's most beautiful young ladies and tests them in order to prove their worthiness. Sadly, the test involves an army of spiders, and while one woman, Marcia (Nadia Freitas), remains calm, the others panic and are thrown into a pit to be killed by snakes. While Marcia is deemed unsuitable to bear his child, she is employed as a spy while Joe sets out to seduce the beautiful Laura (Tina Wohlers), the daughter of a local colonel who shares Joe's twisted outlook and logic.

Marins only stepped into the role of Coffin Joe when the original actor dropped out before the first film started production, but this proved to be a stroke of luck as it's difficult to imagine anybody else donning the top hat, neatly-trimmed beard and grotesque, talon-like fingernails. Joe is more cunning this time around, using his wits to frame a local strongman for the murders and to escape some violent confrontations. A curse placed upon him by one of his victims slowly drives him mad, leading to one of the film's most exceptional set-pieces. In his dreams, Joe journeys into hell, a cesspit of cruelty and torture shot in bold colour (the rest of the picture is grainy black-and-white). Bloody limbs and body parts emerge from the stone walls and poor souls are whipped and beaten continuously is a never-ending carousel of savagery. It's a nightmare that even terrifies Joe, and this segment provides a disturbing window into Marins' imagination. This second entry into the Coffin Joe series moves a mile-a-minute, offering everything from phoney-looking backdrops to smoke-machine special effects as it touches on almost every taboo imaginable, but this excess is all part of its charm, and what makes the world of Ze do Caixao so unique.


Directed by: José Mojica Marins
Starring: José Mojica Marins, Tina Wohlers, Nadia Freitas, Antonio Fracari, Jose Lobo
Country: Brazil

Rating: ****

Tom Gillespie

Review #1,399: 'The Scarlet Empress' (1934)

With the Motion Picture Production Code or, to give it its more popular name, the Hays Code, introduced in 1930 to ensure that cinema didn't corrupt the morals of the American populace, many directors came up with ingenious ways to find loopholes in the code, or employ cinematic trickery to create an illusion of what the Hays Code considered amoral. Some directors, however, seemed to ignore the Code completely, and somehow got away with it. Josef von Sternberg's The Scarlet Empress, a deliberately provocative piece celebrating the sexual freedom of one of history's most enigmatic figures, Catherine the Great, seems to go out of its way to annoy the censors, yet the film remained miraculously untampered with. To say that von Sternberg takes liberties with his artistic license would be a vast understatement, but The Scarlet Empress was the director's "relentless excursion into style," to quote the great man himself.

If this was made today by the BBC, I'm sure that Ofcom would struggle to deal with the scale of complaints. The film begins with Sophia Frederica (Marlene Dietrich), the young and beautiful daughter of a German prince, who is summoned to Russia by the Empress Elizabeth Petrovna (Louise Dresser) to produce an heir for the Grand Duke Peter (Sam Jaffe). She is informed by the handsome, womanising Count Alexei (John Lodge) that the Grand Duke is strong and handsome, with thick locks of ebony hair. Of course, this isn't the case, and when Sophia finally arrives at her new home, Peter emerges as a grinning halfwit unfit to father a child and even less suitable to wear the crown. Renamed Catherine by the Empress, the seemingly wide-eyed innocent bride-to-be embarks on an affair with the rogueish Alexei, and turns her seductive eyes to the soldiers of the Russian army. While the Grand Duke is busy drilling holes into the wall of his mother's bedroom with twisted Freudian curiosity, Catherine starts to plan her ascension.

Every scene is a feast for the eyes, with lavish interiors, fetishistic costumes, suggestive shadows and doors so thick and heavy they require a run-up to close them dominating every frame. It suggests an oppressive, backwards country in real need of new ideals. The tables, walls and chairs are all sculpted to portray monstrous figures: some are gargoyles, and some seem to be people contorted in the grips of death. It's a horrible place, and von Sternberg chooses to juxtapose this with Catherine's sexuality, as her confidence and desire increase with every scene. The way von Sternberg does this is undeniably seductive, further sensationalised by his obsession with Dietrich's flawless face. You wouldn't be able to tell if she is even a good actress from this, as von Sternberg often chooses to express the character's feelings without the need for dialogue. A long, lingering look through a closing door suggests a burgeoning desire, and the flickering of a candle as Catherine's breathing becomes heavier shows her lust. How The Scarlet Empress didn't cause more of a stir I'll never know, but we are better off for it. If you want a quick-fire history lesson then check Wikipedia, but if you seek a rich, gothic atmosphere mixed in with thick layers of eroticism and rich, exquisitely-detailed visuals, then this ticks all the boxes.


Directed by: Josef von Sternberg
Starring: Marlene Dietrich, John Lodge, Sam Jaffe, Louise Dresser, C. Aubrey Smith
Country: USA

Rating: *****

Tom Gillespie