Andy Morahan directs Christopher Lambert, Mario Van Peebles and Deborah Kara Unger in this threequel where it turns out some bonus immortals were buried in a cave in Japan and now that they are free they want Connor MacLeod’s head.
Might be the first Highlander film I ever watched. In the cinema no less. Sleazy sex and violence. A rerun of the original with less flair, budget and a weaker cast. It is a patchwork of half realised ideas, exposition and montage with average sword fight moments. The one big sex scene is really strong though, albeit in a cheesy rock video kinda way. But that won’t save a movie. I completely understand the need to try and keep the story going… but when hidden immortals emerge surely “the prize” should leave in Lambert in some painful, and cinematic, way. Terminator 2 inspired finale aside, this ain’t a kinda magic but it is acceptable trash.
Robert Zemeckis directs Jodie Foster , Matthew McConaughey and James Woods in this sci-fi drama where Dr. Ellie Arroway, after years of searching, finds conclusive radio proof of extraterrestrial intelligence.
Maybe it is because he has spent the entire 21st century trying to tame the uncanny valley with middling success that we overlook the tremendous run of ambitious blockbuster after blockbuster that Robert Zemeckis crafted over 17 years at the pinnacle of his career. Romancing The Stone, The Back To The Future Trilogy, Roger Rabbit, Death Becomes Her, Forrest Gump, Contact, What Lies Beneath, Castaway. Not a dud or arthouse vanity project among them, all with cutting edge spectacle and something deeper to say about the late 20th century American experience. Contact gets a little lost in the shuffle even though it is the most intelligent and philosophical. Maybe you prefer 2001 / Close Encounters / Arrival. Contact is very much my go to in the sub-genre. Expansive, challenging, yet completely comfortable as Saturday night multiplex fodder. The chase for the truth and the big answers compels. Thrum. Thrum. Thrum. The message from another galaxy bellows at us with oblique possibilities. The whole endeavour is anchored by Foster in her most perfectly tailored role. It fits her talents and star persona like a glove. She is a pioneer, a romantic, the most intelligent person in the room, the most vulnerable to the prejudices of the patriarchy. No movie like it has a central character so captivating, attractive or zealous. 2 and half hours fly by. For a film that constantly interrogates weighty issues, Contact is never dull or lost in talk. A wonder.
Gary Dauberman directs Lewis Pullman, Makenzie Leigh and Alfre Woodard in this feature length adaptation of the Stephen King vampire horror classic.
Having just finished reading King’s second official novel, and first of many door stopper sized bestsellers, I was excited for this. The Tobe Hooper miniseries from back in the day isn’t half as good as people make out, give or take one or two childhood shattering moments of creaky terror. Yet a lot of people have cried foul of condensing King’s first big ensemble work into a mere two hour adventure. The book’s key strength is getting to know a very human cross section of a small town’s population and then suffering the loss of just about every single one of them systematically. This truncated take swaps some fates around, makes the casting more diverse and only gives certain supporting characters briefly glimpsed cameos. It is also fair to say much of the sadness and cynicism over fighting a foe in a world without faith in the supernatural is fully jettisoned. Pullman maybe isn’t quite manly enough for his lead role but all in all the casting is very pleasing. There are surprises, neat set-pieces (faithful and freshly invented) and even a few laughs. I know Egger’s Nosferatu is imminent but this is a very beautiful, classically framed and lit modern gothic horror flick. Some of the best straight faced genre visuals in a good while. Crucifixes become blindingly iridescent, doomed walks in the woods resemble elaborate shadow puppetry and Seventies nostalgia becomes a tactile cage.
John Boorman directs Sean Connery, Charlotte Rampling and Sara Kestelman in this sci-fi fantasy where a brutal warrior hides in a flying stone head to discover how the secret society who control his people live.
Another folly. This one from before my time. Infamous for Big Tam strutting around the Irish countryside in a bandolier, a leather nappy, come-fuck-me boots and nothing else. The first 15 minutes of God heads flying about future Wicklow are actually pretty awesome but it descends into trippy, satirical conversations rather than dystopian action. Pretentions take over and it can often be incomprehensible yet never visually daring enough to justify the confusion. I have just glanced at my blog for Boorman’s later Excalibur and I could simply copy the text, change the actors’ names and just paste it onto here. They are very similar experiences tonally. This has lashings more nudity but it is that early Seventies dirty bath water nudity. Skinny, pale, goosebumps in the mud. Interesting and boring but rarely particularly good.
John McTiernan directs Arnold Schwarzenegger, Austin O’Brien and Charles Dance in this action comedy spoof where a young Arnie fan is magically transported into the screen and has to survive an OTT action blockbuster.
My generation’s most infamous mega budgeted folly. Riding the wave of T2, Arnie cashed in all his popularity to send up his own brand. What these days is seen as $85 million of bubblegum subversive wit was written off as mindless hubris back in 1993. People had an axe to grind about Arnold’s immigrant success, hated the original studio head (Mark Canton) who greenlit the “disaster” and gave zero shits about meta movies until Scream came along. Hobbled the same way Hudson Hawk was, Last Action Hero’s brazen confidence, cartoon-ish palette and messy ambition meant it could be executed with extreme prejudice by the critics, the pundits and just about everyone but 13 year old little Bobby Carroll. It was knowingly silly and that gave all who wanted a weak spot to attack the opportunity.
I remember the self contained teaser trailer appearing a year before release. Arnie getting distracted from being heroic. Turning to the camera, breaking the fourth wall, chiding us “Sorry. Not yet. Come back later.” We were warned that LSA was going to be the big ticket of 1993. And, who know, it might have been if it weren’t for Jurassic Park. Arnie’s movie set it’s release date first. Spielberg’s movie decided to open the week before anyway. This was less common in the Nineties. Tentpole releases respectfully gave each other space to not cannibalise shared audience.
The dinosaur classic had true four quadrant mass appeal. While LSA seemed to have a child lead but was too violent for families. It wasn’t hardcore like T2 or Total Recall, it wasn’t PG high concept like Twins or Kindergarten Cop. Who was it for? Arnie and Columbia didn’t blink, they stuck to their ill advised July date. Even though the film was still being found in the edit even up to the final week, had tested poorly in an unfinished state, had been advertised without Arnie holding a gun due to his new sensitivities and already had a bit of a joke reputation in the trade newspapers. Arnie’s response? He posed for a press shot of him laughing at a rubber dinosaur. The gamble didn’t pay off – financially. The profits got devoured by velociraptors.
Now remember, I was just as massive a Schwarzenegger fan back then as I am now. He can do no wrong as far as I’m concerned. I went to see Jurassic Park, I liked Jurassic Park, Jurassic Park is the more violent SFX rollercoaster ride but the Last Action Hero was the movie I was most excited about that summer. This was very much my action nerd Blur V Oasis or Coke V Pepsi. I was nowhere near 15 years old and I made sure my parents snuck me in to the ABC Ealing Broadway on opening weekend. And I begrudged Jurassic Park’s it complete domination over Last Action Hero for years after. It was the better film… that did not matter. It had hurt my Arnie and it could go fuck itself. Jack Slater IV all the way. For life! ‘Til the wheels come off. (For balance, The Fugitive is a superior A-List thrill ride to both ‘93 releases…)
Obviously I can see LSA isn’t perfect. It pummels you with cameos until they are deadening. The big joke around cliches that engine the film is similarly run into the ground by a good twenty minutes of excess. The takedown’s of its genre are way too out of reality. Are there really movie villains like The Ripper in Lethal Weapon or Rambo? No. Should an entire action sequence centre around a farting corpse? Not unless the rest of the movie is bulletproof. Just because you are lampooning dumb one liners doesn’t mean they shouldn’t work. And while not exactly a negative, it does become a very self reflective, sad movie in the second half. Deeper than a movie with an animated cat cop and death by ice cream cone should probably ever try to be. And then it ends abruptly with neither the stakes raised or the emotional baggage packed away neatly.
Yet the positives outweigh the flaws. The hard rock soundtrack pumps. The mouthy teen and sentient killing machine dynamic often matches T2 in terms of humour, chemistry and warmth. It is clearly made by people who love both Arnie, his fanbase and this brand. The Hamlet sequence is an all timer. The real world New York is gritty and threatening. Charles Dance is a truly devious villain. And Arnie is very game and charming, even when selling the exact same joke for the hundredth time.
Time has been kind to the Last Action Hero and it is nice to know it isn’t just pigheaded nostalgia that motors my love of it. It kills and fills a Sunday evening like nothing else. “It’s a beautiful day and we’re out killing drug dealers. Are there any in the house?”
Richard Tuggle directs Clint Eastwood, Genevieve Bujold and Dan Hedaya in this psychological thriller where a New Orleans cop hunts a serial killer who rapes and kills the same sex workers our protagonist likes to frequent.
At one point there is a lingering shot of a sweaty boy-ish ass and I joked to Natalie “There’s Clint’s smooth butt.” The camera panned across and it was indeed the unlikely nude rump of old craggy face himself. A strange thriller – too seedy to be erotic but too abrasively transgressive to sate Eastwood’s fanbase. By day, Detective Wes Block is a sweet loving single Dad with too many stray dogs and a mild mannered approach to office politics. By night, he is an absolute fuck fiend – known at all the orgies and cathouses. So he suspects himself, puts his daughters at risk, begins to rethink his attitude towards women and genuinely gets lost in a sex hell world more Se7en than Coogan’s Bluff. Unlike Dirty Harry, he isn’t a man of action but he is dirty. The finale finally sees him break a sweat that isn’t from getting his pussy on. A prolonged foot chase that really wallops with a gory little punchline. An unintentionally camp mess of a movie, yet fascinating and endlessly entertaining all the same. Clint’s finest work in the Eighties?
James Whale directs Boris Karloff, Colin Clive and Mae Clarke in this classic Universal horror where a scientist creates a man from human corpses.
The indelible images of gothic horror. Whale’s classic would probably work better as a silent movie. Mute some of those creaky performances. Reduce the incongruously cheery sops to timid 1930s exhibitioners that have clearly been bolted on at the last minute. It is still very powerful though. The creation scene. The death of little Maria. The burning windmill. In my mind the the very best of the entire Universal cycle. And Karloff’s make up design and physicality is still pitch perfect.
Michael Whyte directs Julie Christie, Donald Sutherland and John Lynch in this on-location Irish countryside TV movie about about two middle aged, damaged people coming together while “The Troubles” threaten their dour but idyllic existence.
Minor Don’t Look Now reunion. Only this time with some rather choice accent work. They even have a nice bit of sex. This has a rather basic understanding of how the IRA operated and uses the organisation as an exotic backdrop for a rather Eighties literary romance. Still, nice to see the old humpers back together in winter wear even if not much else comes from it.
Deborah Brock directs Crystal Bernard, Jennifer Rhodes and Kimberly McArthur in this slasher sequel where a survivor of the original massacre has come-of-age and goes away with her mates to practice in their rock band… terrifying images of the past haunt her.
If I were to describe Slumber Party Massacre II in detail you might feel it was the most awesome horror sequel ever. Maybe it would be prolonged exploration of PTSD that might tickle your fancy? Or the fact that this is essentially the California Dreams get drilled to bits? Or that the killer is a mixture of Freddy Krueger and Andrew Dice Clay with a deadly skewering red electric guitar? Sounds brilliant, no? Well, no. This has none of the cheesecake meets feminist charm, subversion or wit of the original, is just way too obviously cheap and takes well over an hour to get started. Very poor considering the material.
Sam Peckinpah directs James Coburn, Maximilian Schell and James Mason in the WWII movie where a German soldier on the Russian front tries to protect himself from a cowardly superior intent on sacrificing his men for glory.
An absolute pummelling of a war movie. Nothing particularly ground breaking happens but Peckinpah’s addiction to impactful mayhem and Coburn’s gruff weary performance make it very watchable. It is so hypnotically despondent you can even forgive them for running out of money before they filmed an ending. Who even needs punctuation when every scene is a massacre?
Bobby Carroll's Movie Diary 