Walter Hill directs Mickey Rourke, Ellen Barkin and Lance Henriksen in this neo-noir thriller where a disfigured criminal gets plastic surgery and goes after the crew who set him up.
And Morgan Freeman. And Scott Wilson. And Forest Whitaker. And why haven’t I seen this movie before? It feels like something I should have encountered much earlier in my movie fandom. The actual state of play is pretty stodgy. Nothing happens that hasn’t been done a load better elsewhere. Yet that cast is undeniably spectacular even if the material ain’t. Especially Ellen Barkin who completely runs off with a very nasty villainess role.
Jacques Tati directs himself, Guy Decomble and Paul Frankeur in this French slapstick comedy where a mailman struggles to deliver his rounds when the fair comes to his village.
Gentle pastoral larks. There are some jolly sight gags and good bicycle stunts. My own highlight was the elderly lady who observes all with her goat in tow. More of her.
Hamilton Luske, Wilfred Jackson and Clyde Geronimi direct Ilene Woods, Eleanor Audley and Verna Felton in this Walt Disney animated classic about the imprisoned step daughter who shall go to the ball.
As long as you are keen on comedy mouse antics (turns out I am) then this is the first Disney Princess fairytale with enough plot to fill a feature length running time. The animation is pretty magical – lots of fine choices that go an extra step than they need to. I’d say Cinderella isn’t actually the best example of any of the key ingredients. Yet the songs, heroine, comedy animal sidekicks (shout out to Gus Gus), villains, mild peril, makeover are all cohesively achieved. There’s no wobbly afterthought or experiment that stinks the room out. The balance on the thing is flawlessly calibrated. I’m going to give Cinderella a 10 as it is a perfect all rounder and the first of “the classics” that on this revisit I instantly wanted to rewatch again that afternoon. Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo!
Charlotte Wells directs Paul Mescal, Frankie Corio and Celia Rowlson-Hall in this nineties-set British drama where an 11 year old girl is taken on a package holiday by her estranged but loving young Dad.
Felt very much like a mood movie to begin with. Lo-fi coming-of age but more familiar to Brits of my generation. The fashions and soundtrack choices ring true but don’t feel too in your face or too obvious. Even when they marry up with that scene or emotion perfectly. Yet proceedings casually take a more ominous turn. Something unspoken has clearly unsettled Dad (Mescal is excellent) and though he is trying his best to have a good time, we sense a horrific weight hanging over him. It can’t be his relaxed, thoughtful parenting style. He clearly loves our protagonist and seems to have a healthier if overly aware attitude to her growing up than most parents of this decade. We even see a more standard, aggressive form of discipline (nasty, confidence knocking) take place across the pool. Something that echoes with what we hear about granny and grandad back when he was a kid. We see glimpses of adult Sophie in the future – remembering, yearning for that lost, enigmatic summer. She and we are trying to piece together what Dad was going through. Is he suicidal? Fated to die in some oft teased accident? Bisexual? Cancer stricken? Drowning in debt? Soon to abandon this paternal relationship he seems too young for in many ways? The growing negativity is never truly defined but Wells keeps disrupting the good times with moments of suggested fatal peril and obvious despair. He definitely is doing his best to overcome a depression. In the best scene, his daughter casually remarks that even though she has had a perfect day, she is sad. On the other side of the bathroom door, he spits his toothpaste at the mirror, at himself, in anger. Is he most fearful that he has unwillingly passed his suppressed demons onto her? The ending leaves nothing resolved but strands you with a sense of finality and loss that almost brought me to tears. All through suggestion. About as accomplished as an indie debut gets.
David Frankel directs Bryan Cranston, Annette Bening and Rainn Wilson in this true white collar crime story about a retired couple who figure out a hack in the state lottery and begin playing the system.
Sidney J. Furie directs Barbara Hershey, Ron Silver and David Labiosa in this horror where a single mother is regularly raped and tormented by an invisible assailant.
Based on a true story. Sleazy as fuck. The first act is just a cycle of Hershey being sexually assaulted by the unseen forces in her home, trying to act like everthing is normal to her kids, finding no solace from friends, the police or the medical community… then being attacked again. It is pretty merciless. The Stan Winston puppeted “groped body” cast FX is eerily weird to watch. Then there’s a really left-of-field bombastic finale where university nerds try to freeze the ghost / demons / out-of-body rapist. Then it ends on an unresolved note, suggesting our lead victim is just going to have to endure the unexplained attacks. A bit too grim and blunt to praise, this, at least, is often grindingly unsettling.
James Cameron directs Kate Winslet, Leonardo DiCaprio and Billy Zane in this epic period romance disaster movie of the real life tragedy.
1997. The most expensive film ever made. Everyone but Cameron was banking on it flopping. We watched the release date wobble around different seasons and heard rumours of nightmare set altercations nearly every week of lengthy production. On opening day I went to see Titanic twice. I had booked to go with my family, weeks in advance, on the evening but then a group of college mates were going that afternoon and I couldn’t resist getting the jump on the movie. That is the only time I’ve done that. Twice in one day.
While it is fair to say I didn’t absolutely love Titanic, I certainly found lots to embrace. The immediate positives were the sheer scale and painstaking quality of the reconstruction, Kate Winslet’s beauty, Billy Zane pantomime villainy and the full hour long rollercoaster finale that puts our young lovers and ourselves right in the danger zone of every calamity that befalls the ship. I dare you to watch the upending of the hull, where we cling on for dear life as the protagonists rush towards the water, and not believe we are in the visionary hands… god like… of the genius who made The Terminator and The Abyss. Cameron is the Beethoven of the blockbuster form and he can’t help himself but deliver amazing, immersive popcorn overtures.
And as I get older, and Titanic joins a pantheon of nostalgic comfort movies (let’s say T2, Jurassic Park, Speed, Twister, True Lies, Face/Off) from my teens, the relatives merits and flaws even out amongst all of them and I just wanna go home again. Yes, the dialogue between Jack and Rose is basic. Yes, there is something distasteful about focusing on these fictional horny teens rather than real life victims and survivors of the tragedy. Yes, the form of it often feels like a museum tour followed by a theme park ride, awkwardly bolted together, rather than a persuasive narrative. But…
… it is all iconic now. The big hat. KING OF THE WORLD. The spitting. The Irish jig. The “Paint me like one of your French girls.” The sated hand on the steamy car window. Iceberg dead ahead and dead centre in the runtime. The grabbing of the axe. “Any room for a gentleman, gentlemen?” The selfish wardrobe with definite room for two. Necklace waste. Ghost stairwell. Admit it, you want to waste three hours on this with me right now? Don’t you? It is a movie that is so hardwired into our generation’s collective consciousness that watching it is like returning to some kind of mothership.
And I’ll always be tickled when I remember the amusing anecdote of my friend’s scatty parents turning up late to see it. Seeing Bill Paxton and some old lady titting about in the modern day and going back out to complain they’d been sold a ticket to the wrong movie.
Richard Brooks directs Diane Keaton, Tuesday Weld and Richard Gere in this sex drama where a repressed school teacher begins cruising bars for casual sex and drugs.
Doesn’t hold up as a feminist film anymore… and Lord only knows what the gay and black communities make of it? Still quite shocking but tonally all over the shop. Keaton’s performance is too quirky, Brooks direction too heavy handed. The ending is so bleak and doesn’t feel earned by the rest of the movie… almost like we have skipped a reel. Not a fun night in.
Robert Benton directs Paul Newman, Susan Sarandon and Gene Hackman in this neo-noir where a retired detective gets embroiled in one last case thanks to his rich and untrustworthy friends.
The one that starts off with Reese Witherspoon in a swimsuit. The one that only a minute later has Reese Witherspoon not in a swimsuit… at all. The one where all the characters seem to think Paul Newman has had his dick shot off. Sounds strange, doesn’t it, but this is very enjoyable. A stacked cast (James Garner, Stockard Channing, Liev Schreiber) helps, as does some excellent LA location work. An underrated gem.
Steve Barron directs Dan Aykroyd, Jane Curtin and Michelle Burke in this sci-fi comedy based on an SNL skit where shipwrecked aliens with cone shaped head assimilate into the American way of life.
Dublin’s Steve Barron is an interesting character. He directed some of the most iconic music videos of the Eighties – with a real penchant for SFX. And then his feature film career stalls with projects that maybe weren’t worth the effort he no doubt always put into them. Take On Me’s animated promo will stand the test of time. Electric Dreams, the first Turtles movie and this probably won’t. You can see the intention and ambition here – it could easily be the Ghostbusters of science-fiction – but the laughs just aren’t there. Most five minute Saturday Night Live sketches go on for four minutes too long. 90 minutes of this… yeucch… Yet, if you accept you’ll rarely laugh, there’s a competent movie sitting in the ex-rental bin of your long closed Blockbuster. The alien vocabulary suits Aykroyd’s deadpan, mad thesaurus reciting schtick. The support cast is a who’s who of Nineties TV comedy faces. The plot has quite a few honest things to say about the American immigrant experience in the latter 20th century. The space-set finale is actually very impressive – with a stop motion Phil Tippet monster and a well realised planet. Can you ignore the lack of workable jokes? Can I give this the same score as Tarkovsky’s Mirror?
Bobby Carroll's Movie Diary 