[e-mail] Reviews

The Darjeeling Limited (2007)

Occasionally brilliant, elusive 'rail movie'

[6/10 · 30 December 2007]

In an interesting coincidence, both the pre-film trailers and the film itself appeared to have a common theme on the night, the awkwardness and clumsiness of Americans trying to find themselves a "genu- wine" spiritual experience in the midst of perplexing and ancient foreign cultures.

The Darjeeling Limited (the name of an Indian train) follows the adventures of three brothers, played in descending order of screen age by Owen Wilson, Adrien Brody and Jason Schwartzman. Following the death of their father they undertake to track down their absentee mother (played by Anderson regular Anjelica Huston)who appears to have had a spiritual epiphany of her own and has run off to India to be a Catholic nun. One of the main themes, and pleasures, of the film is the changing objective of the trip. Initially intended as a 'bonding exercise' then as a sightseeing tour (exasperatingly micro-managed by the saccharine yet hectoring Wilson) the purpose ultimately evolves into a mission to scold their mother for failing to attend their father's funeral. Having finally ignored their mother's thinly veiled warnings not to come, they find the feisty Huston quite unwilling to be scolded, after which she disappears and the brothers depart India barefoot, devoid of possessions but we presume rich in spiritual treasure.

Anderson appears to have reached a new level of film-making maturity in TDL as evidenced by the depth and detail of the characters, and all three brothers present as likable, convincing and complex by the film's conclusion. Despite the fact that they are banding together to seek something, each of them is shown to be running from something; Wilson from his fortune and business responsibilities, Brody (unaccountably) from his wife and new role as a father, and Schwartzman from a toxic relationship. The brothers mature via a series of mishaps and adventures (being thrown off the train by a cuckolded train-guard boyfriend, rescuing several boys from a raging river, et al) and achieve their spiritual enlightenment, as we always suspected they would, from their experiences rather than the shopping-list of temples obsessively mapped out by Wilson. The characters themselves, and the shining saffron/orange art direction throughout, are the most appealing elements of the film. Anderson would also appear to have an affectionate leaning towards 30s decadence, as evidenced by touches in both TDL and Royal Tenenbaums (such as the wonderful Vuitton luggage suite, and characters who habitually wear dressing gowns).

In criticism though, perhaps I'm dating myself by daring to suggest that the contrived quirkiness of this director, so beloved of Generation Y, is a tedious detraction rather than an enjoyable element of Anderson's films. The 'short' at the beginning of TDL serves no real value other than a momentary wry smile, likewise the meaningless inclusion of Bill Murray and sundry other cul-de-sacs. Likewise the pace of editing suggested a firmer hand might have been beneficial, although this may have been intended to reflect the torpor of Indian culture depicted on the screen.

For this reviewer, TDL remains a pleasurable buddy 'rail' movie with a number of genuine laughs (unlike the execrable Life Aquatic) and fused together with love between decent and affable characters, a rare enough thing these days.

Million Dollar Baby (2004)

Gruff ain't enough..

[28 March 2005]

Throughout most of his career Clint Eastwood has assumed the role of a protecting angel, sometimes deadly, often sullen or glaring, always with a swollen, golden Irish heart not far from the surface. The Leone westerns (in one of which Lee Van Cleef even describes him as a "guardian angel"), The Gauntlet,(shielding Sondra Locke), Heartbreak Hill and In The Line Of Fire all reinforce this subtle theme. In the same way as much of Scorsese's work deals with men who live with obsession, Eastwood's films often focus on men who feel obligated to protect others, and live with the pain of the consequences when they sometimes fail.

Million Dollar Baby is the story of an ingenue female boxer from the poorest levels of American society, and the relationship she develops with her trainer (Eastwood). No need to recapitulate the story, however in true Anthony Robbins/Frank Capra style she is carried to the heights of fame with, it seems, little else apart from determination and self-belief only to be tragically struck down at the height of her fame. Despite his initial grumpy reluctance to get involved, Eastwood takes her on and the dynamic eventually deepens to the point where Maggie (Hilary Swank) becomes the substitute daughter that Frankie (Eastwood) has lost. This is confirmed by the final revelation of Maggie's Gaelic boxing nickname "My darling, my blood", and the ultimate act of love that climaxes the film. Having failed once more to protect, the Eastwood character almost mythically retreats into a shadowy limbo, a Hadean nocturnal world of country inns and small diners that suggest the final resting place for all unsuccessful guardian angels.

I am inclined to think that the Academy voted Million Dollar Baby as best potential motion picture, as the finished version contains only about a frustrating thirty percent of what might have been achieved with further development of ideas. While Hilary Swank charms always with her wide-eyed vulnerability, the initial relationship is trite, as is the persisting underlying American self-delusion that all things are possible if one only believes in oneself. Even the comic-cuts character of 'Danger' fails to recognise his own limitations and returns to the gym at the end of the film for more ritualised humiliation. Plot and characterisation all show signs of unsteadiness - there is no exploration of the relationship between Eastwood and his daughter, for example, the 'success montage' is jerky and out of kilter with the rest of the film's pace, and the boxer's psychology is insufficiently examined. By the second half, the film's 'fighting Irish' undertones, Catholic confessions and soundtrack began to remind me of John Ford on a particularly maudlin day and struck this reviewer as outdated and contrivedly mawkish.

I have long been an admirer of Clint Eastwood's films and have watched them develop in depth and richness. Were it not for the existing hype, MDB could be enjoyed as a downbeat Rocky fable, even a female version of Every Which Way But Loose. However on this occasion it's hard to escape the feeling that 'Baby' is a lightweight story punching above its weight and ultimately failing to go the distance

Not on the Lips (2003)

Curious museum-piece for an ex-trendsetter

[6/10 · 22 March 2005]

Like several other reviewers I was taken to the film 'cold' without knowing anything about it, and after several minutes was expecting the somewhat lacklustre tunes and stock-farce characters to tip over into something edgy and contemporary. Mais non. However is this such a bad thing? Given the French predilection for unflinching realism and tragic endings, Pas Sur La Bouche can be enjoyed as a salute to the traditions of the Comedy Francaise, an expression of nationalist (anti-Brussels?) sentiment, and as a crafted product as lovingly detailed as a reproduction Deco sideboard. One is almost expected to read afterwards that Resnais had an ironic or iconoclastic subtext in mind, but the film seems to be charmingly irony-free throughout. There are no patronising modernist jabs at the shallowness of pre-war bourgeois entertainment, and in fact the period is recreated with a warm and sentimental glow. It can be argued in fact that the play has been not so much adapted for the screen as embalmed, for there are definite longueurs, the singing voices are almost uniformly mediocre, and the lack of varied or outdoor settings does detract. All in all, a charming, civilised and unexpected entertainment from one of the self-styled intellectuals of French cinema, and a brilliant recreation of an ensemble of now-forgotten French 'types'. To get an idea of precisely how far comedy has 'advanced' in 70 years, compare with Legally Blonde or My Best Friend's Wedding and you'll see my point.

Bliss (1985)

Pretentious and enervating

[1 June 2004]

I know my views seem to be running counter to the general trend on this film, however that's exactly the spirit in which Bliss was created 19 years ago. The difficulty is that Lawrence has gone so exuberantly for the 'shock' technique that the point and plot is all but obscured beneath the contrived quirkiness. We have sibling fellatio, fascist/sadistic sexual references, nudity, a relentlessly 'offbeat' gallery of characters and a general all-out drive to destroy sacred cows that is so single-minded that one can almost hear the boxes being ticked. At the first screening I recall my friend and I, both unshockable, rolling our eyes in embarrassment at this aspect of the film. It seemed a bit like being beaten repeatedly over the head by a hippie wielding a set of beads.

Almost twenty years on, the 'groundbreaking' aspects of Bliss seem tame and quaint, rather like the first episodes of 'Last of the Australians' in which Alwyn Kurts uttered the word 'bastard' on prime time sitcom television. So too, the attention seeking camera-work and 'innovative' narrative treatment strike this viewer as lethargic and unremarkable. The film has been described as 'lauded' but it is worthy of note that at the time it was a box-office disaster, and the industry in general deigned to provide Ray Lawrence with sufficient funds to make another feature until sixteen years later. I know (indeed expect) that many film fans will violently disagree with me, but I welcome (civilised) dissent. Bliss has failed to enhance its reputation with the passing years, but then again I am still of the opinion that Jackson Pollock's paintings are rubbish, and expect to find myself bailed up by the 'cognoscenti' on the cocktail party circuit..

The Italian Job (2003)

And dont forget to book your Mini test drive in the foyer after the movie..!

[4 September 2003]

This remake of Peter Collinson's popular 1969 caper set me thinking about comparisons between the movie's star cars, the Mini Cooper S. In many ways the new film resembles the new car; bigger, better built, competent, yet utterly lacking in character, relevance or the intangible fun factor.

Despite a lively start in Venice (providing the only pretext for the film's title), The Italian Job soon showed signs of triteness and thin characterisation. Sutherland's 'Mr Bridger' was played with a sort of fluffy-haired, huggy beneficence that instantly marked him out for a predictable death. King-of-the-remakes Wahlberg once again demonstrated his brilliant future in rap music, and Charlize Theron provided an attractive, if vapid and rather anaemic love interest. Only Edward Norton's character played anything remotely like the clever criminal personalities supposedly involved.

For a 'caper' film, the plot was disappointingly linear with none of the intrigue, paranoia or suspenseful setbacks one would have expected in this genre. The Ukrainian mafia was a token nod to the Italians of the original (are Italian gangsters in America thought passe by now?) yet thrown in almost as an afterthought, and serve only to provide the Norton character with his inevitable undoing. The writers obviously felt they needed a handy way of avoiding blood on the hands of our saintly anti-heroes. Even continuity errors don't seem to trouble the producers' pursuit of mediocrity - a motorcycle with rider crashes into the door of one of the Minis during the chase only to cause it no damage in the ensuing scenes.

The original Italian Job had eccentricity, wit, colour, the clash of English versus Continental cultures, and above all, class. The remake is nothing but Starbucks coffee in a brightly coloured styrofoam cup. In view of the fact that similar territory has been covered recently (and so much better) anyway, by Ocean's Eleven and The Score makes me wonder why the project was even considered viable. In this age of product placement I have a sneaking suspicion that BMW may have had a hand in the funding somewhere.. 4/10

Secrets & Lies (1996)

Old wine in a new kitchen sink

[22 August 2003]

Despite a great deal of critical acclaim, I found Secrets and Lies somewhat wooden and contrived, almost stagey in its plot development. A dysfunctional family unites at Christmas, with the inclusion of a mysterious friend of the main female character, who is black. At first tolerated out of English politeness, all hell breaks loose when it is disclosed that the woman is the female lead's daughter from an earlier relationship. Darkies are perfectly fine as long as you don't happen to be related to one it seems, and the long hidden wounds of the various family members (infertility, envy, perceived parental neglect) begin to bleed again. All leads to catharsis, and a boo-hoo-fest penultimate scene leads to a 'gritty' and uneasy resolution a l'anglaise - tea in the backyard. The end.

Secrets and Lies contains a number of strong ensemble performances, but it's hard to escape the feeling that the film looks like it might have been made as a family therapy training video. The exposition is just too neat, the confluence of tensions just too symmetrical. In the middle of it all is the character of Hortense, a pillar of quiet (and slightly freaked-out) dignity in a nest of yelling, anal-retentive and blubbering Anglos. One is left with the urge to slap the main characters or show them around Baghdad for a few weeks; the constant angst about relatively insignificant problems tends to pall very quickly. Is Mike Leigh making a satirical point about the hill-of-beans preoccupations of urban Britons, or are we genuinely expected to "feel the pain"? Whatever happened to the stiff upper lip? If you really want to have a good cry, see 'Travelling Birds' instead. Or your analyst.

Rendezvous (1976)

Hairy-chested, un-PC and pure bollocking fun

[31 July 2003]

Seeing this film is like being catapulted into an IMAX version of a Peter Stuyvesant commercial, back to the days when men smoked and didn't wear underarm deodorant, cars had engine notes, clutches required leg muscles and women enjoyed being flirted with at the office (...and, yes, they actually did!). Rendezvous is a high-adrenaline, condensed style statement with an ending that could have only come from the maker of 'A Man and A Woman'. Underscoring it all is the sexiest soundtrack of all time (John Barry and Shirley Bassey notwithstanding), 12 cylinders and 4 litres of the Ferrari 365 Boxer driven by Lalouch's friend, racing driver Jacky Ickx. I love this film and the era it represents, particularly as I live in one of the most over-regulated, purse-lipped and 'responsible' societies in the world. For anyone that has ever owned, driven or just loved classic Italian sportscars, (and enjoyed raising a little bit of hell), Rendezvous is a must see. I can just imagine our hydrogen-car driving grandchildren shaking their heads in befuddlement as they tuck into their tofu and spring water. I'll be there to explain to them that if you don't smoke, drink, fornicate and drive sexy cars that they actually mightn't live longer...but it sure as hell will feel longer.

Godzilla (I) (1998)

Realistic creature, rubber-suited actors

[26 June 2003]

Like many thirty-somethings, I have vivid memories of staying up late on Friday nights for the regular 'creature-feature' on TV, so the remake was eagerly awaited. When seeing this in the cinema however, I longed for a remote to fast-forward through the atrocious human element and simply get to the creature scenes; they really are awe-inspiring, terrifying and everything the Japanese creators of Godzilla would have envisaged for the screen if only they had the technology at the time. Aside from this, let there be silence. Matthew Broderick looks embarrassed, Jean Reno has his tongue firmly planted in his stubbly cheek and the female lead deserves eternal obscurity. Broderick's line as an enormous pile of fish is dumped in the street as bait "That's a lot of fish.." sums up the level of wit in the screenplay. OK, I admit, it's not intended to be Shakespeare, however given the excellent recent rash of comic-book creations (X Men, Hulk) Godzilla misses (by a mile) the opportunity to have been so much better. Favourite scene - the wall of rock that opens slowly to reveal Godzilla's eye. Wagner fans might well be reminded of the dragon Fafner's fight with Siegfried. Worth seeing on the small screen, (with remote)

Eyes Wide Shut (1999)

Curiously unerotic

[11 June 2003]

Eyes Wide Shut is an adaptation of a short story, 'Traumnovelle' or Dream novel, by the Viennese early 20th century author Arthur Schnitzler. Its popularity was no doubt boosted by the tremendous advances in (and fashion for) psychoanalytic theories in Vienna at the time, and its central themes of infidelity, jealousy and sexual obsession were no doubt very potent and risque a century ago. The central flaw in Kubrick's film is that no-one, it appears, seems to have told him that these themes, like whale-bone corsets, don't set too many hearts aflutter in the late twentieth century.

Further to this is the strange choice of the leads, made no doubt primarily for commercial reasons at the time. Am I alone in thinking that Cruise and Kidman would have to be the most bloodless, unerotic pair of major actors in the cinema today? Kidman has a certain alabaster elegance but in the manner of the gallery exhibit, whereas Cruise has a strangely chaste and sexless perfection that suggests to me that he may be a lost Osmond brother. While not wishing either to speculate on the sexual life and experiences of the director, Kubrick's idea of sexual titillation is exactly what one would expect from a happily married man of 42 years. It is in short, an old man's tease of a movie, as devoid of real sexual spark as A Clockwork Orange was of genuine violence, despite all its arty perversity. If the mores of Schnitzler's novel had been up-dated to suggest that the couple was indulging in swinging, for example, and jealousies had arisen, then one might have had a more believable pretext for all of Cruise's mental torments.

Despite the central implausibility of the character's reactions to events, there are many fascinating details to enjoy. The minor players (Rade Sherbedzia for one) provide constant delightful menace, and the overall atmosphere of secret and dire deeds threads through the narrative brilliantly. Overall, a curate's egg. As an exercise in film craft, constantly watchable. As a psychological essay, slightly dusty, creaky and hampered by the rather sterile sexuality of the leads. 6/10

War and Peace (1965)

An eight-foot tall chorus girl

[3 June 2003]

As the old quip went - big, beautifully put together, but useless. Useless is perhaps a bit too harsh. For lovers of historical (especially Napoleonic) epics this is a field day (almost literally), and readers of the novel will find the narrative of the film punctilious to the point of slavishness. However the film is far from being above criticism.I will make these comments as brief as the film is long.

Two things get my goat about this so-called 'super-production' The first is that the cinematography alternates between genius and vodka-induced tremor. Some of the close-ups of Natasha even suffer from poor steadiness and off-centre composition. The 'hand-held' look was, I'm certain, not a stylistic device in those days. As well, the battle scenes suffer from some vehicle mounted shots that look as if the camera was placed in a moon buggy driven by an epileptic. On the other hand, the scenes of Pierre standing in a desolated Moscow surrounded by whirlwinds of ash, apocalyptic bells pealing in the background, are so sublime it makes one weep with pleasure. Why the inconsistency?

The second is that the soundtrack to this film has got to be the most irritating compilation ever released. Has anyone out there bought it? Vladimir Ovchinnikov's score is occasionally chilling, awesome and appropriately represents the motifs of the main characters, but no single track ends naturally! Instead we get fades into horses hoofs, marching soldiers or the next track which tramples over the emotional atmosphere just constructed. How about a re-release which gives the score some dignity instead of just mimicking the narrative of the film?

Otherwise, stick with the King Vidor version. Hey, it's shorter at least..

Russian Ark (2002)

Sublime meditation on the agelessness of beauty

[9 May 2003]

Having read the number of mixed, mystified and even hostile reviews for Russian Ark, I recalled my initial thoughts at the end credits. This is a film that must strike a particular subjective resonance in the viewer in order to succeed. Nobody reared on Eminem could be reasonably expected to sit through a Mahler symphony, and no-one habituated to reading magazines or comics would be expected to become engrossed in Ulysses, for example. This is not intended as a snobbish comment. It is simply that the capacity to resonate with the material differs from one person to another.

For me, a man of the late 20th and early 21st century who has often felt that he has been born 150 years too late, Russian Ark is nothing less than an astounding time-warp. Everything from the faces, beards, teeth of the extras, to the physical details (the Romanov eagles on each champagne glass at the dinner setting) are perfect. Look at photos from the mid nineteenth century if you don't believe me. Even the dusty, crabby, Nosferatu-like figure of the Diplomat is a superb recreation (modelled perhaps on the 1850's Russian diplomat Count Orlov whom he closely resembles).

Apart from the merely physical aspects of reconstruction however, Russian Ark is a multi-layered film that contains many strands of meaning within the over-arching miracle of its continuous structure. The banality of nobility, their 'ordinariness' as they jostle each other, argue, run out to pee, is contrasted with their glowing smugness as members of the supreme elite. They all think they'll live for ever, yet another door opens to another time and they have all passed on. The only truly enduring certainty is the beauty of artistic and architectural creation, as revealed by the paintings in the Hermitage gallery and of course, by the building itself.

As mentioned before, the profoundest theme for me was the sense of 'appropriateness' of one's time. A person from the sixteenth century would no doubt find our own society as intolerable as we would theirs. After wandering through the Escher-like maze of the Hermitage, emerging in one time and disappearing through another, nothing quite sits 'right' with the diplomat. He squirms, scratches and nags like a man with an ill-fitting garment and rightly so - he is a man out of his time, and searching for it. The last look of melancholy and yet fulfilment that he gives the camera after rediscovering his true milieu, is one of the most profoundly affecting images I have ever seen at the cinema.

Yes, I can agree with some of the leftist critics on the site that Russian Ark presents a 'from the top down' view of Russian history, and that the 'tour' of the Hermitage treasures is cursory and selective. However to criticise the film for not being documentary, not being sufficiently balanced in its presentation of 20th century history, not being concerned with the 'ordinary people' of Russia is I think churlish and missing the fun of the experience. Despite all these admitted shortcomings, Russian Ark is so much more than just a mere pageant or 'potted history'. It throbs with life, and the flowing life of Russia is not merely the subject, but also the very structure of this wonderful film. I can sympathise with those who failed to like or understand Russian Ark, just as I can sympathise with those who dislike Mahler Symphony No 7, and I wouldn't inflict it on anybody. But all the same, I'm glad they both exist.

Get Carter (1971)

Ere! I want a word wiv you...!

[7 February 2003]

I've never really been a Michael Caine fan. His performances seem too heavy-lidded and self-satisfied, as if rather than being on camera he would prefer to be lounging in his London restaurant, smoking a Bolivar. Like his friend Connery, Caine has created an archetype and founded an entire career on reprising it. A friend of mine bought me the DVD of Get Carter, and I surprised him by saying that I had never seen it before despite its considerable critical and cult reputation.

Jack Carter is (as we are constantly reminded) an 'ard lad from the slums of Newcastle who returns home from London to investigate the sudden and mysterious death of his "bruvver". Brothers of hard lads obviously just don't die of natural causes, so he hangs around to 'stick his bugle in'. He is warned by his criminal chums in London to be careful as they have some 'hard nuts' up North. What he runs up against are a bunch of the most incompetent, limp and cartoonishly impotent gangsters this side of 'Home Alone'. John Osborne tries hard to appear suavely menacing as a purring porn-boss, but comes across looking more like an emeritus professor of poetry, right down to the patches on his elbows. Caine himself alternates his lines between either whispering Cockney or a snarling rictus and sounds at times laughably wooden, irrespective of his emotional range.

In some ways 'Get Carter' is a product of the same period of unrestrained cinematic sex and violence that produced A Clockwork Orange, though without the arty pretensions. It has an anti-hero at its centre, realistic settings and a cast of grubby and generally highly avoidable characters. The trouble with this approach is that (as we all know from Hollywood) standards of sex and violence change so quickly that films with little else to offer date badly. Carter's conversion to avenging angel is never plausible because we aren't convinced he has the emotional capacity to feel that outraged. After all, isn't the brother he's avenging the same guy whose wife he impregnated? What follows is simply a gratuitous kill-by-numbers plot that tries to pack in the maximum number of gory deaths (by 70s standards) and finally ends with Caine (thankfully) being knocked off himself at his moment of fulfilment.

Watching 'Get Carter' does have its scattered pleasures however, not the least of which are the bleak landscapes of Northern England (with accompanying howling wind on the soundtrack), Roy Budd's John Barry-ish score, and a masturbating Britt Ekland. Overall, given the passage of thirty years of ever nastier villains, the film has an almost cosy aspect to its violence that is actually rather endearing, like a cranky but charming old Jag Mark II. Watching it made me think of the Monty Python sketch about the gangster who went around nailing people's heads to the floor. "Lovely fella, though.."

In short, a woefully dated revenge flick made frequently hilarious by its characters and setting. (One other inconsistency, as regards the opening train scene. British Rail never, EVER, travels that fast...) 5/10

Waiting for Guffman (1996)

Waiting for Godot had more laughs

[20 January 2003]

Like David Mamet, Christopher Guest (born an English aristocrat) likes to highlight the petty egos, dreams and aspirations of small-town Americans to 'be somebody'. Unlike Mamet (in this film at least) he seems incapable of realising when to stop milking an idea that is only mildly funny at best. Waiting for Guffman is a ten-minute short that somehow became inflated into a cliched, irritating and even slightly patronising pseudo-documentary about non-actors getting it together to 'put on a show'. All the stock characters are here, the failed gay theatre-maven from the big smoke, the dreamy fast-food girl waiting to be discovered, the nerd, the ex all-American footballer with a dark secret. What Guest and Levy don't seem to appreciate is that they have fallen into exactly the same mind-set as their would-be Broadway cast. It's nowhere near as funny or relevant to those who aren't directly involved. The stage production itself is so interminably long and irritating it made me want to scream (I was watching in the presence of a good friend who was keen for me to see it) and on another level was even rather perverse - were we as an audience expected to derive pleasure from the failure and naive, energetic non-talent of others?

Overall I am happy to see that Guest et al have redeemed themselves with the clever Best In Show (which I saw first) Poking fun at amateur theatricals may seem like an easy target, but Waiting for Guffman is a flabby, self-satisfied and strained entertainment that might be considered 'subtle' by some, but anaemic and tiresomely padded by the majority. 3 out of 10

The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers (2002)

Short people return jewellery to rightful owner.

[3 January 2003]

I must say openly at the outset of this review that I have attempted to read the story several times and have always found it stodgy and impenetrable. I suppose one either has affinity for Dark-Ages style sword-boilers, or one does not. For fantasy I prefer the multi-layered mysticism of C.S. Lewis and for sci-fi the brightly-coloured hyper-detail of Frank Herbert. So saying that The Two Towers is tedious, portentous and doesn't amount to very much in its volume of narrative is like a non-Wagner fan sitting through all sixteen hours of The (other) Ring and complaining that nothing much really happens.

So, I'll exasperate all the Tolkien acolytes here by saying that overall the story is reasonably well-paced and engrossing enough for the non-fanatics to enjoy. Costumes, sets and art direction are all excellent and Viggo Mortensen makes a charismatic lead. Also a constant source of delight is the octogenarian Christopher Lee doing his best Osama impression, raging impotently from his bedroom at the destruction of Isengard like an imam being woken early on a Sunday morning by a leaf-blower. The character of Gollum also is destined to be one of the movies' unforgettable, classic creations - his mental torment so beautifully conveyed, the conflict of greed and loyalty so clearly defined, he appears like a psychotic, hallucinating version of Yoda. The film comes alive every second Gollum appears on the screen

To the negative aspects. As I said at the outset, not a lot happens over the course of three hours. The hobbits go on walking, our heroes appear on endless helicopter shots running or riding, and there's a battle at the end. That's it. Characters are already established so no further exposition is needed, but what we get is an awful lot of (sometimes exquisitely lovely) padding. I know this is a Celtic-style fantasy, but why does the dialogue have to be so heavy, slow and mock-Shakespearian? Surely Tolkien didn't originally write all this stuff? He did, you say? Geez! I'm sure to the reverential Tolkien-ites the characters drip pearls from their very lips each time they open them, but to me it all sounded rather like a po-faced version of Conan the Barbarian, minus the humour. Howard Shore's music also struck this reviewer as rather pedestrian and missing the required Wagnerian touch, and not enough (nearly enough!) of the delectable Liv Tyler.

All-in-all, a bum-numbing haul along the road of synthetic lyricism, with seemingly more emphasis placed on not alienating Tolkien fans than on attracting new ones. I can guess the next one - the short people give the ring back and good triumphs over evil, right? I hope that doesn't spoil it for anybody..

The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1939)

The peak of art in Hollywood cinema

[12 December 2002]

A sweeping claim? Perhaps. But despite the presence in Hollywood over sixty subsequent years of Ford, Wyler, Kubrick, Coppola, Scorsese et al, The Hunchback of Notre Dame remains as fresh, as emotionally resonant and yes as powerfully artistic as the day it was made. What constitutes 'art' is of course a personal matter, just as the Breughel-like compositions of Hunchback might be as mystifying to someone whose favourite film is A Clockwork Orange (Lichtenstein?). But what makes Hunchback so satisfying as art is precisely that its makers didn't set out with art in mind. Dieterle and his co-creators embarked on the project with the aim of telling a great yarn, making it look authentic, and above all ENTERTAINING the audience. It is to this end that the Grand Guignol excesses of the novel were trimmed or altered, and the Hollywood bittersweet ending imposed. Audiences filed out with their Kleenex in hand having witnessed a three-ring circus of a movie, then went home to read the war-soaked newspapers.

Virtually every frame of this movie could be taken in isolation, made into a poster and hung on a wall. Examples include Gringoire cradling the dying Clopin as a rivulet of lead trickles past in the background, the voyeuristic eye of Quasimodo peering through fence palings at the dancing Esmeralda - I could go on and on. And pervading it all is the magnificent score of Alfred Newman, surely his finest ever.

Rather than sing its obvious praises, the film can simply speak for itself. As narrative, as character, as cinema craft, it is totally successful throughout. The Hunchback of Notre Dame is my favourite film of all time, bar none. Ten out of ten

Octopussy (1983)

Tinsel and paper

[2 December 2002]

There's an element of falseness about this entire film that is impossible to ignore, like a cheap (but expensive-looking) fake Rolex that gets worse the closer you look at it. Moore looks old, talks old, runs old and fights old, Q seems almost half dead, and the Indian/Octopussy interiors have all the taste and authenticity of a theme room in a Vegas cathouse. The film has one saving grace, though, and this is the only reason I occasionally play it, and that is the pre-credits sequence involving the Acro-Star jet. I absolutely DEFY anyone to name a better one in the entire series, ludicrous though it is. The pace, editing and music are textbook, and enough to make one cry and clap hands with delight. Another delightful scene involving a Mercedes driving on a railway line. Apart from that, Octopussy remains merely another summer holiday filler, as lurid and oversweet as a cheap cocktail. P.S. Why is it, I wonder, that Roger Moore is almost universally the ladies favourite as Bond, and Connery is for the lads? Both were sophisticated types - Moore, though hardly macho, was no poof. Can anybody explain why this is?

With Fire and Sword (1999)

For Polish patriots only

[23 October 2002]

Granted that I saw this movie in a Sydney cinema packed with Poles (including my Polish wife sitting next to me), the number of weeping expats at the final credits suggested that I needed at least some Polish blood to fully appreciate the experience. Objectively, O i M is a handsomely mounted costume piece with good attention to military details and minor roles (Pan Zagloba in particular), but is let down by lack of polish (no pun intended) and a number of unintentionally hilarious touches such as Scorupco's mile-long plaits and Daniel Olbrychski chewing the scenery at every opportunity. Even with subtitles, the historical narrative remains biased and confusing, and the whole enterprise is infused with an almost quaint Polish naivete and prudishness (except for the depiction of graphic violence, of course). Is it any worse however, than 'Glory' or 'Gettysburg' however? Probably not. 6 out of 10

Car Trouble (1986)

One joke film that fails to fire up

[22 October 2002]

What on earth were Ian Charleson and Julie Walters thinking when they signed on for this piece of sub-Carry On drivel? Perhaps the script looked different, or maybe the paycheck silenced all doubts. Whatever, this would have to be the most desperate, telegraphed (not to mention medically impossible) one trick pony I have ever seen involving a prodigal waste of otherwise reliable comic talent. If this film were a car, it would be a Morris Marina

The World Is Not Enough (1999)

Enough already!

[28 September 2002]

One of the tell-tale signs of a dying franchise is the way the deck chairs get shuffled around as the ship slowly goes under - so far we've had Tomorrow Never Dies (what on earth DOES that mean?) and now Die Another Day..get the idea? Hopefully the producers will also cotton on and let the whole enterprise Die In The Corner Somewhere..(now there's a title! No, wait, we can have Patrick Stewart as Blofeld finally on trial in the Hague for crimes against humanity, and, and- ). Please guys, let Pierce Brosnan be the last incarnation. They don't make Aston Martin DB5 's anymore, but we can all recognise a classic when we see one.

Starship Troopers (1997)

Substitute Iraqis for 'bugs' and you get the message

[28 September 2002]

Where to begin with this film? Is it the cheesy but obviously expensive sets (why do art directors love diagonal black and yellow stripes on equipment?), is it the nauseating American militarism (why aren't there any Asians or Europeans among the troopers?) or is it the idea that a technology capable of building faster-than-light spaceships still uses tommy-guns with bullets to dispatch the nasties. Why indeed not just destroy the planet from space?? Whatever ironic intentions Paul Verhoeven might have had in parodying the American 'genocide for peace' mentality, it all seems to get swamped in a tedious, repetitious sequence of set-piece battles in which the human protagonists emerge as marginally less obnoxious than the insects. The co-ed shower scene is probably the most futuristic thing about the whole film (though Verhoeven IS Dutch after all) and Denise Richards is always appealing, but Starship Troopers remains in the memory (briefly) as a thinly disguised recruiting film for mid-Western matinee audiences. P.S. Did anyone else think the 'brain bug' resembled Terry Gilliam's cut-out monsters in the old Monty Python TV series??

Zulu (1964)

And don't slouch when you're watching this film!!

[25 September 2002]

Ahhh, Zulu! The all-time favourite Sunday afternoon lounge-room general's movie! There's nothing quite like the sense of occasion of gathering some friends around the TV with rations and beers on hand, cranking up the video (or DVD) and settling in for an afternoon of pith helmets, cordite smoke and troop dispositions. After almost 40 years, Zulu still has the power to send chills up the spine with its windswept silences before the inevitable attacks, its chilling bursts of hand-to-hand combat, and its grim depiction of English stubbornness (or 'duty') in an alien environment. While Caine's Lieutenant Bromhead comes across as perhaps a touch too effete, every other performance is noteworthy for its individual qualities; Baker provides a wonderfully stolid, jut-jawed leading role, Nigel Green is unforgettable as everyone's favourite colour sergeant-cum-surrogate dad, and Jack Hawkins is also memorable as the well-intentioned (i.e. meddling pain-in-the-neck) cleric. Also noteworthy is the presence of future Inkatha party (and Zulu) leader Chief Mangosuthu Buthelezi, rehearsing no doubt for the imagined future revolution in South Africa!

While Zulu can perhaps be viewed as a homage to warriors of both sides, it is obvious now where the filmmakers expected their viewers' sympathies to lie. At the end of the film, "a bayonet, with a bit of guts behind it" has saved the British soldiers for another day, while piles of the depersonalised Zulu fighters lie at their feet. Sure, they put up a good show, as would the gallant players of a vanquished rugby side, but as the credits roll, Men of Harlech swells the collective breast, and Britannia waives the rules once again. Still, if one can set aside the political correctoscope for an hour and a half, Zulu can be thoroughly enjoyed as a tense, detailed and well-characterised classic that transcends the costume battle genre and makes for a great ensemble piece of 60s English star-power.

The Last Goon Show of All (1972 TV Movie)

The end of innocence

[24 September 2002]

Now that all the Goons (including Bentine) are finally gone, some appreciation of the Goon Show's central place in twentieth century humour can be made. From its fertile loins sprang the Python series and movies, the exasperatingly uneven but lunatic 'Q' series, and even The Goodies. Goonery was a gentle humour of punning, semantics, mind imagery and class satire. No archetype of English life was left spared, from the military to officious doormen, spinsters, cads, upper-class homosexuals and wandering minstrels. All this was done with a deft mixture of mimicry, inspired lunacy and sometimes groan-inducing music hall clangers. There were no swear words, violent images (except of course for Bluebottle being regularly 'deaded' at the end of each episode, much like South Park's Kenny) or intellectual pretensions, and no need. To listen to the Goons now is to be transported back to a world of ration cards, London bomb sites and dusty vaudeville halls beginning with the immortal words of Wallis Greenslade - "This is the BBC". To listen is also to recapture a certain innocence, never to be seen again. I have often thought of Spike Milligan as the James Joyce of 20th century humour. His recent death filled me with as much sadness as the death of a relative. Vale, the Goons