Robert Butler directs Ray Liotta, Lauren Holly and Rachel Ticotin in this bonkers airplane disaster thriller.

This was advertised on the back cover of every comic book I bought when I was 18. A terrible film full of ropey effects, uncertain storytelling and a terrible lead protagonist. Was the wooden Lauren Holly, our flight attendant turned John McClane, ever truly anyone’s idea of the next big thing? Sharon Stone or even Cameron Diaz would have smashed this role. But… but… ***SPOILERS AHEAD*** Ray Liotta absolutely rocks in this. A lizard of gurning mania, he spends the final hour out hamming Gary Oldman, out zany-ing Nicolas Cage and out fucking the frame more than Jack Nicholson at their collective best / delicious worst. And the best thing about his off-the-wall nutso? You spend the first act teased and tossed whether he is going to be the good guy or Ted Bundy. Rope-a-dope! Ted Bundy, it is. Bundy on a Plane. That was the pitch. That’s what we get. Every moment with Ray is sublime, everything else gloss trash. Saturday night sorted. As good as a really bad film gets.

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Philippe Moura directs Paul Clemens, Bibi Besch and Ronny Cox in this stale horror where a woman is raped by a bugman and 18 years later her son bugs out.

Starts with a sexual assault, ends with a sexual assault, fills a clumsy middle with wasted support actors and a meh transformation effect. Very poor, hard to justify.

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Michael Haneke directs Dieter Berber, Birgit Doll and Leni Tanzer in this experimental film that explores the true story of a family who abandoned modern life in a cold, incomprehensible way.

A provocative arthouse hit, not for faint hearts or those averse to cinematic risk. The first act avoids showing the leads’ faces almost entirely. We get to know them by their routines and product consumption. A lot of the way through the movie has the look of a dated school textbook. By the last act, as they are tragically checking out of a dehumanising modern grind, you’ll need nerves of steel. It is a truly affecting, gut wrenching denouement. Not anyone’s sane choice for a Friday night entertainment but even more powerful than some of Haneke’s more celebrated big name actor hits.

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John Sturges directs James Garner, Jason Robards and Robert Ryan in this Western drama following the legal fallout from the O.K. Corral gunfight.

Straight laced and straight faced cowboy realness. Not exactly exhilarating or memorable despite a few tense stand-offs. Garner plays against type, does well, but I prefer him with that mischievous sparkle.

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Abel Ferrara directs Zoë Lund, Steven Singer and Jack Thibeau in the New York vigilante flick where a mute Garment District worker takes to the streets to hunt male beasts after she endures two rapes in one mind-shattering day.

A rape revenge exploitation movie that has aged like fine wine. All men are scum, the worst transgressors are hunted down but the others can justifiably picked off in a spree. Valerie Solanas would buy popcorn. This feels more of our time, more sensitive and more stylish now than it probably ever did back then. Lund is an appealing and unfussy lead even when deranged. The guerrilla Manhattan location work produces some fantastic frames, every street scene is brimming with life. And for a slice of cheapo nasty it is pretty on point when detailing the daily, relentless objectification and demeaning behaviour that women go through. The violence is gleefully transgressive, the ironic white man funk soundtrack thumps and the last shot is a killer punchline. Side note: Every poster for this is epic.

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And one extra special mention for this one-sheet that I tried and utterly failed to steal from a bus stop as a teenager

Roland Emmerich directs Ed Skrein, Woody Harrelson and Patrick Wilson in this WWII epic following the US Navy’s recovery after Pearl Harbour through to their successful retaliation in the Pacific.

Fourth choice actors (Woody and Luke Evans aside) avoid getting in the way of the heartless polygon carnage. A film so flat, so devoid of spark, you wonder if it is the first AI directed film? China chipped in on the budget so we get their personalised China-set subplot sticking out like a sore thumb on a gangrenous foot. Emmerich has done better work, the veterans deserve better, you want the Japanese to win a long ago settled war. Mandy Moore looks nice in a period dress, attracting those heartland, God fearing dollars.

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Jim Mickle directs Boyd Holbrook, Michael C Hall and Cleopatra Coleman in this time twisting serial killer thriller where a Chicago beat cop becomes obsessed with a cold case that keeps reopening every nine years.

The Terminator meets Zodiac. Doesn’t really deliver on that potential but is a neat enough one-watcher. Mickle feels most at home in the chase orientated Reagan-era first chapter – that half hour looks just as good and as just as chilly as Cold In July or We Are What We Are. The story loses its way, overreaching for an emotional resolution rather than an action one. I’m not saying such an approach shouldn’t be appreciated but I’m not sure it is what we bought a ticket for or what the pulpy, familiar storytelling tees you up to enjoy.

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Mark Jenkins directs Edward Rowe, Mary Woodvine and Isaac Woodvine in this low budget British drama where a boatless Cornish fisherman struggles against gentrification.

A gunless Western. A kitchen sink drama where everyone works. Filmed on 16mm film and hand processed, with dialogue roughly looped in, this handcrafted black and white gem has an appropriate rough hewn quality. The images feel like puzzles, obfuscated by dancing grain and extreme close ups of enigmatic faces. The sound bites lurch in with an intentional comic effect. Tension defused by a humdrum interaction. Like protagonist Martin, when the film speaks it is worth listening to, there’s a blunt humour in its observations. Part of Bait’s thrall is every time you think you know where it’s headed, it switches on you. The editing is teasingly elliptical, owing to Nicolas Roeg and Alain Resnais. You get glimpses of the future, some misleading. Martin for example consistently proves he isn’t the townie brute he is easily seen as. It is a bit of a deadpan gem, a tragedy that undermines its form by often dodging the brewing violence. We used to get a low budget release like this every year. The Cement Garden, 24-7, Following, The Last Great Wilderness. Those micro budget directors went on to great things. Bait feels like an echo from that recent past when we had a new talent nurturing strand of British cinema. Bait is now a rarity. A DIY triumph, a word of mouth hit, a new voice full of promise, that somehow blundered into a cinema run through sheer force of quality. Amid pensioner targeted fluff boxes and popular TV show spin-offs, surely there’s more room for this kinda promising debut on the release schedules too?

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Phil Karlson directs Dean Martin, Elke Sommer and Sharon Tate in this Matt Helm spy spoof where Helm has to recover a stolen European gold reserve with the help or hindrance of a clumsy cultural attaché from the Denmark Tourist Board.

So much better than the higher rated Our Man Flint. The stunts are done for real deals, the girls are hotter and more fully formed (in every respect), Helm is a figure of ridicule (a lothario who can’t get it, a protagonist left one step behind the plot). Watched mainly due to its appearance in Once Upon a Time… In Hollywood. I’d say Sommer’s villainess leaves more of an impression than Tate’s good girl but I still watched it barefoot, dutifully, as QT would want it. Dusty larks with a jaunty, swinging score.

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Philip D’Antoni directs Roy Scheider, Tony Lo Bianco and Bill Hickman in this cop thriller were a tough unit of NYPD detectives uncover a kidnapping ring who focus on wealthy mob bosses

If you like car chases then this is the retro-flick for you. At the centre of the hard and gritty The Seven-Ups is a full reel car chase weaving around real New York traffic. The brief was clearly “Top The French Connection!” and this is definitely on a par. The story around it is pretty standard tough cop stuff. Scheider stands around on street corners in lovely winter coats, gets balled out by superiors with a resigned “Go fuck yourself” on his face and masters shoot-outs with convincing panache. He’s a great Seventies movie star – wryly humorous and emanating intelligence. The cinematic storytelling is abysmal though. The plot jerks forward and lurches off into subplots with no flow. You constantly feel left adrift in the first half, only really understanding who is who, what is what and why is why after scenes have finished. It boils down to a pretty simple story with lots of cliches but why the tale is spaffed out in such obtuse clunks is anyone’s guess?

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