Éric Rohmer directs Pascale Ogier, Tchéky Karyo and Fabrice Luchini in this comedy of errors where an interior designer spends Friday nights away from her suburban boyfriend in her Parisian pied-á-terre and everyone assumes she is doing it to have affairs.
OK Éric… I get it… sometimes women just want “a room of one’s own”…. and romance…. stability… and freedom… It is an irony they can’t have both boths. All your men are saps.
Gerard Damiano directs Linda Lovelace, Harry Reems and Carol Connors in this notorious porno about a woman who can only be sexually gratified by swallowing big dicks to the back of her throat.
The hardcore flick that almost straddled into respectability. Famous names and the upper classes crossed over to seedy adult theatres to watch this in ‘72, the name recognition and veil of zeitgeist meant this was the skin flick it was acceptable to buy a ticket for. It made unheard of millions for a release of its ilk… almost billions, if you believe the legends… certainly still laundered a ton of mafia cash, if you don’t. With such a unique place in cinema history came the eventual harsh light of historical attention. A decade away from its success and Lovelace (real name: Linda Boreman) had written an expose, Ordeal. Her story rewrote the production notes. Her boyfriend / pimp Chuck Traynor had violently coerced her to be in adult movies… some far more appalling than Deep Throat. Watching the movie critically, it is difficult not to discount that backstory. Her skin often bruised and her face grimacing, this is not a woman enjoying the sexual acts she is performing. And the sex in the movie is 90% Lovelace, dead-eyed and passively being penetrated by ugly men. The flesh is white and mottled, an unkempt hairiness pervades every shot. The angles are strangely unflattering and there is little variety beyond the initial orgy to seek what she enjoys and Harry Reem’s jovial doctor’s quick oral assessment of her. After these more plot framed sequences, we just get unconnected footage of a sad woman working as a “therapist” for a succession of identikit creeps, while her doctor gives dictation to his more “professional” nurse. There are attempts at humour but it is constant, bludgeoning sub-Carry On. Was “bubbles” a slang for cunnilingus or orgasm that has been lost in the trashcan of the last century? How did the shitty parody music that grates along side the grim sex cost half the productions $47,500 budget? Dated innuendo in a miserable film that shows you everything. What point innuendo? The whole thing looks like a nasty stain and is about as erotic as scrubbing such a stain out. Compared to its peer Debbie Does Dallas, this film has none of the bonhomie or healthiness that makes that stablemate kinda quaint and charming to modern eyes. It is just irredeemably awful. I felt genuinely unclean after watching this.
Dominik Moll directs Vincent Cassel, Déborah François and Josephine Japy in this adaptation of 18th century gothic thriller where a monk is unwittingly corrupted by the devil.
Moll made his name making tight European Hitchcock homages. This dials back the taut thrills and replaces them with a sexual unease and admittedly spectacular period location work. He conjures up effectively creepy imagery including a character hidden behind an impassive wooden mask and a graveyard leading to hell. We rush through a lot of plot but that pace is there to retain the mystery. One that works better on page than the screen. It all boils down to the sexiness of the stars and while the leads are all very attractive, Moll seems a little coy and shy of fully exploiting their simmering lusts and inevitable downfalls. The Monk is just a touch too chaste given its core currency.
Roy Andersson directs Elisabeth Helander, Jörgen Nohall and Jessika Lundberg in this Swedish arthouse comedy where we witness the population of Lethe go about their futile existences.
A series of deadpan, desolate sketches. The League of Gentlemen slowed down to a painful pace and bleached clean of all primary colour. Ashen faced tableaux that mocks the ironies of existence. Everyone lives in a Kafka-esque waking nightmare where the punchline is apocalyptic. I’m not saying I didn’t like it but another ten minute would have killed me.
Nancy Meyers directs Kate Winslet, Cameron Diaz and Eli Wallach in this festive romantic comedy where a Hollywood business woman and a London society journalist swap homes for the Christmas break hoping to mend broken hearts.
Nobody’s favourite cake is a mince pie but December rolls around and it seems sacrilegious to avoid them. Same with this hokey houseporn fluff. It is predictable, languorous and fails to sell Jack Black as a romantic lead through no fault of its own. Kate Winslet definitely gets the wooden spoon here in terms of prize blokes. So Meyers over compensates by adding a hundred extra scenes of Diaz and Jude Law’s more winning but drama-lite Blighty hook-up and giving Kate Winslet a better non-romantic pairing to spark off. Her segments with retired movie writer Eli Wallach have the magic you want – he’s a gem here (as always) and treats his top billed scenemate with the reverence and glamour she deserves. It is a warm, comfy film with zero surprises. Tasteful and expensive as the dream homes it takes place in but you wouldn’t want to touch anything for fear of going bankrupt. The only truly impressive thing is the sheer amount of accurate boozing that goes on in the U.K. half of the movie.
David Cronenberg directs Marilyn Chambers, Frank Moore and Joe Silver in this body horror chiller where a woman infected with a penetrating mutation turns everyone she feeds on into a cannibalistic zombie.
Bleak and grimy – the occasional shoddy cheapness of this only adds to the unease. What starts out as a nasty little horror in a plastic surgery clinic suddenly begins to expand in scope rapidly. By the last reel, we are watching a global pandemic play out relatively convincingly. A lot of the infected are bad actors (and ugly to boot) who out stay their welcome in only one or two scenes. But porn star aiming for the mainstream Marilyn Chambers is surprisingly capable. Holding the eye and steadying the plot with her protruding grotesque secret and new unpalatable lusts.
Michael Mann directs Colin Farrell, Jamie Foxx and Li Gong in this cop thriller where a crew of Miami Vice detectives go undercover to infiltrate a cartel and their White Supremacist connection.
“That is the hand we have been dealt at eleven forty seven o’clock on Saturday night.” Intimate weaving digital camerawork. Leads who barely talk to each other. Their onscreen relationship so tight they know what the other one is thinking and work in silent unison. Dread inducing action sequences where one slip up can result in death. Ominous Florida skies pregnant with colour and energy. A wistful Romeo + Juliet romance between a lonely cop and an ops manager for an international cocaine dealer. “Smooth, that’s how we do it.” This for a fair few years was my go to late night movie, there is something about its unintentional ASMR mood (often silent, close-ups, whispered compact dialogue, attention to detail, stripped back lighting) that means it hypnotises you into its moments efficiently. So that when extreme violence does erupt it is a nerve jangling shock. Did Mann intend this to revive his 80s TV series? I doubt it… I think he just bolted on the brand to a big budget script he wanted to make. Knowing Universal were more likely to stump up $135 million for a recognised IP than a standalone tale of two cops entering a geopolitical scam. It is telling that Jan Hammer’s electronica theme music is notably absent. At least we get an update of the iconic 80s Phil Collin’s track In The Air Tonight to accompany this dark case file. An underrated crime epic that puts you right into the heady mix of going covert.
Craig R. Baxley directs Carl Weathers, Vanity and Craig T. Nelson in this action comedy where a mild mannered cop takes on an army of villains.
Featuring every henchman from Commando,Lethal Weapon and Die Hard, this slick little shaggy dog story knows it is nonsense so just ramps up the random destruction. At one point a game Weathers trash talks a hitman into driving straight at him and then backflips over the speeding sports car. You get nudity from Sharon Stone and Vanity and running jokes that might sit better in a Police Academy sequel. Not the Lost Ark of forgotten VHS era gems but very watchable.
Arthur Jones directs Matt Furie, Pepe the Frog and Donald Trump in this documentary where an indie comic book artist tries to reclaim his creation after it is co-opted by the Far Right and is deemed a symbol for hate groups.
A neat alternative history of the last decade in American politics and a primer for the more obscure (to this middle aged man) corners of the internet. An education for someone who thought they were up to speed with the niches and subcultures that exist out there. I always kinda felt meme culture is a symptom of a less creative generation. To share a recognised image as the height of wit rather than come up with your own joke makes comedians of even the humourless. Democratises funny? Sure. Devalues funny? Definitely. This follows a rather sweet and naive creative after his hard work is blacklisted by becoming an ever mutating meme. His struggle to reclaim hand drawn, 2D slacker amphibian Pepe has a Capra-esque quality. I don’t think this would work if Furie wasn’t such a gentle and recognisable Generation X dude. The director did lose me in one chapter about auctioning memes like Bitcoin but I think it is there to lampoon the ridiculousness of monetising the ephemeral and I got the intent if not the content.
7
The Young Observant (2019)
Davide Maldi directs Luca Tufano, Mario Burlone and Lorenzo Carpani in this documentary following an uncommitted young farm boy who takes weekend vocational classes to become a five star waiter.
The topic is fertile and the eternally bored and unengaged Luca has quality that reminds you of Antoine in The 400 Blows. You, the punter, are getting a peek behind ‘the pass’ into the world of high end hospitality, which while lacking revelations at least immerses you in the hard work and dedication to detail that goes on. Labours and effort which you don’t witness before you even are given your menus. Maldi begins to include increasingly staged, or perhaps re-enacted, moments towards the end… and while that is a perfectly valid method in the modern documentary it sacrifices the intimacy he achieved and makes you wonder whether (if he is going to break certain rules) there could be even more entertaining footage he can “re-do”?
5
Beastie Boys Story (2020)
Spike Jonze directs Ad-Rock, Mike D and MCA in this filmed concert where the surviving Beastie Boys talk us through the photos, videos and music that made up their brilliant careers.
A stage show autobiography that tracks the evolution of their music and emotional maturity. A celebration of every white person’s guiltiest pleasure; white boy rap… and their fallen member Adam Yauch. I’ve had much fun revisiting each of their LPs in the days since. A perfect full stop to a laudable career, one that is continually self-effacing and charming.
8
Dick Johnson Is Dead (2020)
Kirsten Johnson directs Dick Johnson, herself and Michal Hilow in this documentary where, on realising her father is dying of a degenerative brain disease, a filmmaker stages a series of fake deaths and afterlifes to prepare for that inevitable moment.
Dick Johnson seems like a lovely man – dedicated father, dessert lover, joyously expressive face. Watching him deteriorate is some maudlin shit. Doesn’t matter that his daughter tries to tart the harsh, grim reality up with some fatal slapstick (which don’t come often enough given the brief) and lo-fi Spike Jonze vision of Dick’s heaven (where he looks a little lost and exploited). This feels like monetising grief. I’m sure the artistic intention is to essay the process of losing a loved one with a celebratory brave face… but I felt like I was rubbernecking in on a game old trooper losing his marbles… Just because he was unfortunate enough to have a child who is an artist between projects at the wrong moment of his life. These are some big-ish budget home movies that I wouldn’t have chosen to watch if it wasn’t for the movie’s current critical adulation. Not for me.
3
Boys State (2020)
Jesse Moss and Amanda McBaine direct Steven Garza, Ben Feinstein and Robert MacDougall in this documentary following Texan teenage boys who take part in a political summer camp where they form their own parties, legislative bodies, election campaigns and policies to learn about the harsh realities of working in the Washington DC system.
More gripping than Sorkin. More revelatory than Primary Colors. This gives you a worm’s eye view of American politics and attitudes and electioneering. Genuinely involving, funny and thrilling.
Kiyoshi Kurosawa directs Hidetoshi Nishijima, Yūko Takeuchi and Teruyuki Kagawa in this Japanese thriller where a former detective looks into a cold case… meanwhile his wife becomes obsessed with their strange new neighbour.
An impressive slow burn mystery. I enjoyed it more than Kurosawa’s lauded Cure as it kept the same unsettling and foreboding air without derailing off into fantasy. Strange shit goes down in Creepy but it all stays just within the realms of believability and logic… Just! Kagawa’s discombobulating turn as the dodgy neighbour is the equal of Masato Hagiwara’s hypnotic enigma in Cure. Here the potential antagonist is a slippery, unctuous presence. He scuttles around like a crab and bursts into jovial friendliness like it is glitch in his programming. As Kurosawa calmly reveals what is going on next door you become enthralled with every fatal twist and teasing clue. A gleefully sure-handed thriller that would make a good double bill with Parasite.
Bobby Carroll's Movie Diary 