Stanley Kramer directs Spencer Tracy, Fredric March and Gene Kelly in this courtroom drama based on a real 1925 cause célèbre where a Tennessee school teacher was put on trial for teaching evolutionary theory.
A bit overwhelmingly theatrical – pompous, didactic and with zero adherence to courtroom procedure. Everyone is going at it at 11 and their prosaic reasoning lacks erudite impact. Gene Kelly steals the show as the serpentine journalist who somehow finds himself on the side of good. You can’t really knock something this well made, superbly cast and that wears its liberal bleeding heart on its sleeve… but it would be nice if Spencer Tracy’s lawyer palpably won a few arguments rather continually express frustration that he would have history on his side in the long run.
Tony Scott directs Eddie Murphy, Judge Reinhold and Brigitte Nielsen in this action comedy sequel where Detroit cop Axel Foley returns to the West Coast to solve the ABC crimes.
A sequel so monogamous to its blockbuster originator you genuinely can compare every element. Is Bob Seger’s opening credit hit Shakedown poppier than Glenn Frey’s The Heat Is On? Is Tony Scott’s glossier, more bombastic direction more entertaining than Martin Brest’s grittier, satirical tone? Do you prefer cinematographer Jeffrey Kimball’s smooth pop art visuals of Bruce Sutree’s grainier realism? Is Steven Berkoff’s overacting ham villain more of a challenge than Jürgen Prochnow’s more imposing, mysterious antagonist? Do you wanna hear Axel F. in every scene or does Harold Faltermeyer’s new percussive action theme draw you into the crime set-pieces more effectively? Is the sexual tension more rife between Johnathan Bank’s scuzzy henchman or Brigitte Nielsen’s teutonic henchwoman? Annoying boy scout Billy Rosewood or Rambo weirdo Billy Rosewood? Banana in the tail pipe or cement truck demolition derby? Nasty Girl or Gerald Ford? Ramon “the fella he met about a week ago” or Johnny Wishbone from the island of St Croy? Baby Damon Wayans walk-on or baby Chris Rock walk-on? Pointer Sisters or Pointer Sisters? Mansion shoot out or oil field bazooka-out? The first film wins pretty much all these coin tosses but it is closer than you would imagine. As a pure entertainment, this starts with the Eddie Murphy Production Company credit appearing over a close-up of the mega star rearranging his crotch. We all came to see Eddie be the biggest swinging dick in the room again. II snappily delivers, taking zero risks to fuck with that winning recipe.
Andrew Fleming directs Robin Tunney, Fairuza Balk and Neve Campbell in this teen horror where a gang of girls becomes vengeful witches.
Teen Witchcraft… Don’t Do It! Chokers at the ready, pleated mini-skirts on order! Not a perfect film… it is somehow both clunkingly obvious and loosely vague at the very same time. The acting is pretty basic, as is the scope of the drama. However, when it lurches into violence or terror it actually hits home pretty hard. While no The Lost Boys, an obvious influence, it never is boring. A product of its time, opening the garden gate for the superior Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Scream series. Perfect sleepover horror / wish fulfilment for girls experimenting with eye shadow.
Éric Rohmer directs Béatrice Romand, André Dussollier and Féodor Atkine in this romantic comedy where a wayward antique dealer’ assistant gives up affairs and sets her sights on an eligible young lawyer.
Low key doings. Spoilt and bratty you are unsure whether you want Sabine to nab her unsuspecting prey or fall flat on her face when it appears obvious the stiff, distant bore is rebuffing her.
James L. Brooks directs Reese Witherspoon, Paul Rudd and Jack Nicholson in this romantic comedy where a softball player and a suit facing Federal investigation meet for a series on non-dates.
This film gets a kicking as it somehow cost $120 million dollars… but really it is so cartoonish that the characters don’t interact as much as their speech bubbles work as airbags for any chance of connection. The wealth on display is distasteful, the waste of talent difficult to tally… only Owen Wilson lands laughs or any affection. And he’s essentially playing Jack’s astronaut character from Terms of Endearment. Janusz Kamiński at least makes sure Reese Witherspoon looks as smooth as a showroom bathroom.
Stanley Donen directs Fred Astaire, Cyd Charisse and Nanette Fabray in this musical where a failing song and dance star sees his Broadway comeback taken over by pretentious cast members.
Martin Scorsese’s favourite musical. Which might have set expectations a little too high. It is bitty and smug… with not quite enough showstopping numbers. Three or four of the breakouts though are zippy and flamboyant though. The broad acting is delightful.
Richard Stanley directs Chelsea Fields, Robert Burke and Zakes Mokae in this road movie horror where a demonic hitch-hiker stalks the desert highways of an unstable Namibia.
My first awareness of Dust Devil was a small, underwhelming review hidden away in Empire. It starred The Last Boy Scout’s Chelsea Fields (who I fancied) and looked like a Mad Max style thriller. So I was in! What you get is an existential terror train. Happy to hit the brakes and idle between stations to explore political unrest, racial discord, a failing marriage, an apartheid tragedy and a serial killer who likes to fuck then destroy his prey. It is an alluringly strange film that only gives us subliminal glimpses of its shocking make-up effects. Chris Cunningham was involved in those… so expect nastiness beyond your imagination if you dare hit the pause button. It works as a laid back adventure. It works as an erotic thriller. It is probably a few character scenes shy of being a great movie. The various subplots feel undercooked. The mythology behind Burke’s predator is murky. But then this film was infamously butchered on release. Who knows if the original cut had the drama to match the atmosphere and brutality? As it stands this is an evocative curio from the VHS years.
Bryan Forbes directs Katharine Ross, Paula Prentiss and Peter Masterson in this psychological horror where a housewife begins to suspect the men of her new community of swapping their ladies for automatons.
Dull and dreary for an hour and 15 minutes. Rosemary’s Baby got away with a similar trick where we watch the victim of a diabolical fantasy conspiracy slowly realise her own situation. Forbes is no Polanski. He cannot make the outlandish betrayal unsettling or creepy until the final shot. It is a long way to go to get there. The marketing hook is also the final reel twist. Why do these films make us sit through the preamble to a concept that is spoiled for us on the poster?!
Mia Hansen-Løve directs Isabelle Huppert, André Marcon and Roman Kolinka in this French drama about a Parisian philosophy academic whose life goes through a sequence of major disruptions.
A sturdy and intellectual bit of soap that showcases the unwaveringly excellent Huppert in fine fettle.
Sam Mendes directs Kevin Spacey, Annette Bening and Thora Birch in this Oscar winning comedy about a suburban mid-life crisis that takes triumphant and tragic turns.
“Ah, look atall the lonely people!” The awards darling for the crazy, marvellous year where Hollywood lost the plot and gave the keys to the kingdom to bunch of indie mavericks and disruptive outsiders. Being John Malkovich. Three Kings. Fight Club. Magnolia. Election. The Virgin Suicides. Office Space. Election. Dogma. Go. The Green Mile. Ride With the Devil. South Park: Bigger, Longer, Uncut. Somehow all greenlit by major studios or bankrolled and distributed by their boutique arms. While stalwart auteurs Kubrick, Stone, Allen, Lucas and Burton produced declining work, a new breed made challenging, well funded cinema that filled the multiplexes. December ‘99 / January ‘00 you couldn’t find a screen in London or Edinburgh showing mass market, formulaic product. So when American Beauty (a directorial debut, satirically combative, formally acerbic, preternaturally crafted) swept the board, the adulation dried up and a backlash soon formed.
Why has the tarnish emerged on this fine film over the last two decades? Even I, on a revisit a decade ago, was less impressed. Its top ranking in a Premiere article about the most overrated “classics” did not help. The fact it feels formally conservative now compared to still groundbreaking peers Being John Malkovich or Fight Club. The generational shift in sexual and representation politics – these days the rebellion and desires of a middle class, middle aged white man feel like the least essential or vital voice in the room. The unexciting eventual careers of the stand-out teen performers… after this Hollywood was there for Birch, Wes Bentley and Mena Suvari’s taking. Bad choices and Hollywood politics smothered their prospects making you question the obvious promise on display here. Mendes’ follow-up projects all proved too automatically respectable and prestigious… only the recent 1917 has arrived as mould breaking and visually eager as his debut. The fact that Alan Ball’s scabrous and hilarious way with dialogue and characters now no longer feels revolutionary after Six Feet Under and imitators worked the once fresh formula into redundancy.
…And then there’s the fall of Kevin Spacey. Coming off the back of a series of surprise villain stand-outs, this confirmed him as one of THE greatest actors. His current reputation pulls at his Lester Burnham awkwardly. Reshaping the wonderful performance. The sad sack letch who abandons the lie of his married life to lust after young women and attract closet gay men these days rubs uncomfortably with the real life accusations of predatory behaviour and his own unsurprising “coming out” as an ineffective defence.
Even if the new light in which you review his powerhouse lead here is disregardable, it still is a powerhouse. He slam dunks every line, eviscerates every victory. I’m the same age as Lester Burnham now and, while I live a very different lifestyle with far less paedophilic fantasies, I can appreciate his waking up, lashing out and short sighted triumphs. The moments where Spacey rejects a surprising advance from a neighbour or finally catches on that his hard-on for his daughter’s bratty friend is just goddamn awful are delivered with a tender humanity, at odds but somehow still truthful to the sophisticated comedy that houses them. If you cannot get over the star’s personal life then Thora Birch, Chris Cooper and Annette Bening all knock their jaded humans out of the park too.
Then there is Thomas Newman’s conspiratorial, jaunty yet mournful score. Conrad Hall’s dead centre, magisterially clean cinematography. Mendes understands the eroticism of the everyday. A cheerleading show turns Fosse striptease, a hand reaching for a beer becomes a tactile loop of fulfilled seduction. A balding, hairy, paunchy man working out shirtless in his window has all the reality shattering allure of an indecent proposal. Mendes and Ball take their lightning-in-a-bottle cast to create a horny prosecution of middle class values that has the same wit and impact and damning emptiness as the finest work of Billy Wilder, Mike Nichols or Robert Altman. This is still a classic, the iconic rose petals and carrier bag prove far hardier than current tastes and shifting fashions. I fully expect American Beauty to be reappraised over the coming years and return to pantheon of indisputably great movies.
Bobby Carroll's Movie Diary 