Sam Mendes directs Daniel Craig, Christopher Waltz and Léa Seydoux in this gorgeous but lazy entry into the super spy franchise.

A third watch of this fourth and possibly final entry in Craig’s constantly uncertain reboot of the 007 franchise achieves something no other Bond has… making a rewatchable fourth entry. Thunderball, Moonraker and Die Another Day are all the sequels where Sean, Roger and Pierce respectively blotted their ledgers so in that category this proves a roaring success. The action when it comes is bruisingly OTT and enjoyably sustained. A car chase through the Austrain mountains where a plane is used as bowling ball is the winner but a cracking hand to hand barney through three train carriages and that chaotic Day of the Dead opener share silver medals. Léa Seydoux may not be given the most consistent of characters but in terms of beauty, bottled up charm and sexy, flattering costumes she is a stunning foil for Craig. And we’ve found our funny again. Craig will never be comfortable homaging Roger Moore’s Carry On wacky take on “Oh James!” but there is a knowing emphasis on daft excess and tart retorts that stop Spectre from drying out like a worthy dog’s biscuit. Set pieces, Bond girls and gags. We’re back on track then after the inexpilicably successful Skyfall (A Bond film for people who don’t really like Bond)? Well sadly Mendes is still at the helm and the film still restricted by his overriding ethos of  prestige first, “plots this silly never deserve strong storytelling” interpretation of Ian Fleming’s finest. I’ll give him his dues; he adds a drop of Felini here and pinch of Lean there making Spectre one of the most optically stimulating action films ever, he gets a modern ideal of quality and luxury just right, he ties together all those ignored Casino / Quantum ragged ends and binds them together into quite the sense making boxset and, after his clumsy reintroduction of Q, Moneypenny and especially Fiennes as M previous film, here he now coalesces them into a fun B- team given more watchable business to do than merely send Bond off on his mission then leave him to it. But Waltz’s Blofeld is an inexplicable failure (“Cuckoo!”). It took this third viewing for me to figure out his crime was causing terrorist events so nations’ intelligence services would sign up to his free but controlled surveillance system. I knew he was pushing his snide surveillance system, and he was a wrong un, but the terrorist events all happen off screen, mentioned at best in passing or glimpsed on a hotel TV screen while we are busy admiring Q’s holiday knitwear. I’m quite a switched on viewer but Blofeld 2.0 really came across as a quite generous criminal kook with just a childishly personal grudge against James. Once I realised quite how obscurely his actual plot had been laid out to us, it did not help. A Bond film, one begging for one bonus action sequence by the way, where not once does 007 directly foil or is even present for Spectre’s attacks on cities that prove integral to the plot… ?! Sam fucking Mendes. And people don’t like Quantum of Solace? I give up. Still with time all Bond films eventually blend into one and Spectre has enough chunks of top grade razzmatazz that it settle into the mid tier worthily. Like the series best credit sequence full of octopuses and eyes, it is visually splendiferous but you do wish it danced to a slightly livelier, more fan appropriate tune.

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Dan O’Bannon directs Don Calfa, James Karen and Linnea Quigley in this very gory, very respectful spoof of the Living Dead zombie series.

Joining Kundun one night this week in an accidental Ressurection double bill was a flick that had a very palpable effect on my own childhood. The video cover, at least did,  of Tarman and the gang. Rotting faces leering directly at me, just like Freddy hand drawn but menacing, really got at me as a kid. Terrified me enough to keep me away from my beloved videoshop when I was wee and still out and as far away from the horror section even as eventually I got older but brave enough to venture in to the rental palace where my movie loving tastes formed. No longer anywhere near youth and now a horror fan,  I’d retroactively heard good things about Return since and was eager to catch up with it. And this belated watch proved gleeful if not life changing. It is a knowingly daft and outrageous film. The FX, gore and nasty is just about right, albeit never actual terrifying. The humour manages to be constant, inventive but palpably lacks punchlines. All very of its time, amusing but never amazing. The highlight among some spirited performances is Linnea Quigley who quickly loses her punk clothes (all of them) and then her life and then keeps on chomping as a nudie zombie. Touches like her still don’t make Return of the Living Dead any more than a time waster for sure, but at the very least a lovingly made, grungily frantic time waster. If you like ReAnimator or American Werewolf in London and come to it with lowered expectations it hits a spot no longer catered for.

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Martin Scorsese directs Tenzin Thuthob Tsarong, Gyurme Tethong and Tulku Jamyang Kunga Tenzin in this epic look at the Dalai Lama’s childhood in Tibet before Chinese aggression exiled him.

Difficult one this as Matin Scorsese has produced a hauntingly beautiful film and one with a unique and naturally compelling tale running through it… yet Kundun just does not gel into a satisfying experience. The bold use of colour is trademark Marty, the near constant telling from child’s point of view (or more accurately…  a very peaceful and gentle man’s shared but diplomatic remembrance of his childhood) often feels like mid career Spielberg. Perhaps this is why the film squanders its inherent power. By not wanting to offend or misrepresent its holy living source, the film lacks the forgivable embellishments of captivating storytelling to give it any hook. The stunt cast of non acting descendants do fine but, like the film itself, end up worthy and respectful rather than mature or interesting. You finish up feeling you have not really seen the truth, nor really even the legend, leaving very little to print. A rare occasion where you get the inkling that Michael Bay or Brett Ratner’s Young Dalai Lama Adventures might be a more practical use of your two hours over Scorsese politically neutered, beneficent life of a saint. Marty has just too much respect for the Dalai Lama    as a man alive to make Kundun work for the casual viewer.

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Tony Scott directs Christian Slater, Patricia Arquette and Gary Oldman in this Tarantino scripted ultra violent love affair between a comic book loner and a neon clad call girl.

True Romance was the poster above my teenage bed, the music we used as our wedding march and the gateway film into my love of movies. If I was to single out one great performance in this I would merely end up listing twenty. I cannot say one negative or unbiased word about Scott’s beautifully hazy direction and Tarantino’s purest and most energetic script. The scene between Walken and Hopper, where a father faces torture, death and betraying a son he has only just reconnected with and instead chooses to insult his way with obscure history and wit to a slightly nobler end, is quite simply the greatest scene in cinema history. I have included a screenshot of Elliot Blitzer’s unfortunate traffic stop as the chosen image instead for this love letter as that visual punchline is one of the funniest in cinema too. Perfection.

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Irwin Allen and John Guillermin direct Paul Newman, Steve McQueen and William Holden in this skyscraper inferno disaster flick. 

Lacking the great performances of The Posieden Adventure and the overblown destruction of Twister or San Andreas it’s fair to say Towering Inferno has gotten creaky in its old age. The cast often looks bored, feel a little too split up (OJ Simpson, Richard Chamberlain and Robert Wagner all seemingly disappear for entire hour portions making you wonder if a quirkier, more action packed film is happening in the deleted scenes) and with not quite enough big name, on-screen deaths spread about the mammoth running time to make it gleefully silly enough. Stodgy then but still a great way to fill an evening. Newman, McQueen, Holden and Dunaway phoning it in is still one hell of a switchboard and while the scale has been topped since, the old school effects work is nostalgically strong. Shout outs to Fred Astaire as a con man who looks genuinely terrified in the explosive finale. He’s the only one who gives it his all. Old twinkle toes gets man of the match in the Promenade Room of Doom.

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Jean Renoir directs Michel Simon, Charles Granval and Severine Lerczinska in this satire where a tramp rejects liberal, comfortable Parisian life.

The problem with watching nearly century old classic comedies is that sometimes the beautiful era captured for satire seems so otherworldly to modern eyes it is hard to recognise the humour. That does not change the appealing shots of Parisian life’s compelling qualities but does mean the slow pace and long lost reference point skewered mean you watch this more as a museum piece than an entertainment. Only an edit from a piece of unexpected sexual conquest to a victory parade outside hits that laugh out loud magic still. Which is a shame as the delightful ensemble work hasn’t aged and the central performance of Michel Simon as the odious free spirit who destroys his saviour’s household is like nothing else. Both clumsy, whiny and unlikable yet also gymnastic, mocking and lustful there has never been such a spot on realisation of a blasé dick as this recorded on celluloid. He reminds me of one person I encountered in reality, who I cannot stand, to quite an uncanny degree. And in real life Simon himself was something of the fascinating oaf “at various times, a boxer, a boxing instructor, a right-wing anarchist, a frequenter of prostitutes, pimps and petty crooks. He was extremely well read, a talented photographer, a hypochondriac, a misanthrope, owner of a vast collection of pornography and with a reputation for unorthodox sexual behaviour which he did not bother to deny.” according to Wikipedia anyway. A truly unique piece of acting results from that lifestyle here.

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Joe Johnston directs Chris Evans, Hayley Atwell and Hugo Weaving in this big budget WWII origin’s story for the good old Cap himself.

Released way back when, in the mists of time, at a now unrecognisable point in history when Marvel wasn’t exactly a guaranteed home run at the big screen, this proves a delightful mixed bag of old school fun. As to set an entire feature length adventure in an unfashionable, Doctor Who-esque variation on World War II and aim for a smorgasbord of establishing derring adventures rather than a clean central plot was quite the risk for a cutting edge superhero flick. Even if the appropriate but safe Joe Johnston direction blandly balances this gamble out. The material seems like a perfect fit for the sub-Spielberg and almost on cue he gives a lot of shots and montages that make for great trailer moments but very little sustained action to test Marvel’s earliest superhuman. In fact only the just out of the oven foot chase around Brooklyn test the souped up Steve Rogers in an audience engaging way. So it’s the character stuff that makes this worthwhile. Evans -whether wimpy, cowled or crusading- is captivating. You truly root for Steve Rogers, the 4F turned unstoppable force. His determination, loyalty and heart never waiver whether being beat down in an alley by a towering jerk or on the radio piloting a death machine away from a populated area. When later, threat neutralised and finding himself heading towards the present day, the film suddenly seems to kick up a notch. This is all prologue to get the icon where he doesn’t belongs: out of time. End game achieved intriguingly, the bonus is that Evans clean cut take on potentially the creakiest and least relatable Marvel figurehead flips the character into the pantheon of cinema’s most loveable protagonists. He’s not alone here in this first effort. Hayley Atwell burns up the screen as the capable and in charge bombshell Agent Carter. Her sexy and likeable turn is stuff that khaki fetishes are made of. And Hugo Weaving can do this type of boo hiss villainy in his sleep. His Red Skull looks amazing but is never really given enough nasty to unleash. C’mon Marvel – don’t waste the Weaving. Bring him back, let him run loose on present day Captain America and Bucky.

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Paul Feig directs Kristen Wiig, Rose Byrne and Melissa McCarthy in this maid of honour’s already pretty shitty life spirals even further out of control under the pressure and chaos of her besty’s imminent wedding. 

Quite frankly the best in every category  (funniest / well made / intelligent)  recent US comedy. Wiig plays an endearing disaster of a human being and her chemistry with her co-performers ensures even the exposition and realisation scenes have steady chuckles and at least one big laugh. The key set pieces of the hen party plane freak out, the tennis doubles game where one player is oblivious to the all out war she finds herself in and Wiig’s montage of low level lawbreaking to catch O’Dowd charming but spurned State Patrol Officer’s attention have yet to lose their hilarious power after now multiple viewings. Everything is energised by Feig’s colourful direction, a kick ass soundtrack and a very relaxed, almost luxurious running time for a comedy. At two hours plus Bridesmaids never feels bloated, even the quieter character moments, such as the wordless desperation baking sequence, feel indispensable. The box office juggernaut of Melissa McCarty was launched off her small yet scene stealing role here. In this limited but stand out turn she absolutely dazzles even if some extra scenes of her have clearly been shunted in a month after test screening feedback. Hopefully actual star Wiig will recover the same momentum for her own comedy career off the back of the promising Ghostbusters reboot and Masterminds when they are released later this summer. Hope so – as she’s a rare and absolute talent.

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Jean- Marc Vallée directs Jake Gyllenhaal, Naomi Watts and Judah Lewis in this drama about a man who tears his life apart after the death of his wife.

I found myself Googling just how old Jake Gyllenhaal is after this movie. As Demolition has all the pathos, forced quirk and beats of unlikely resolution that one of those rebellious mid-life crisis dramedies they used to release every fortnight have and he just couldn’t possibly be old enough yet to fill those scuffed brogues. 35 years old apparently, so on the cusp but essentially still a bit too young to be reviving the barely buried subgenre. The script itself was from the 2007 Blacklist of best unproduced screenplays which maybe explains all the dusty 9/11 referencing and its very existence post American Beauty / Wonderboys / Up in the Air. And you cannot blame one our best method actors for wanting to graduate to the kind of lead role where 15 years ago he would have been offered the part of aloof but onlooking son or creepy neighbourhood kid. It is well made enough and finely performed enough but after the first act you feel like you’ve been on this selfish journey with these unlikely rich folk too many times and too often before. Maybe Jake should have waited another decade and then his street dancing, house smashing and letter writing petty, stock rebellions might have recovered a bit of their trangressiveness and humour. Really only some neat elliptical editing in the early half make this feel any more than stale leftover. Also a bizarre air of deep paranoia infects even the lighter daftness which robs Demolition of some much needed mirth.

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The Russo Brothers direct Chris Evans, Robert Downey Jnr and Sebastian Stan in this third Cap film that really is a third Avengers film in all but name.

If you take away the super fun but barely integrated Guardians of the Galaxy, then the Captain America flicks have been the best entries in the Marvel Cinematic Universe. Chris Evans’ old fashioned valued but quick to evolve action hero has proven the most emotionally complex and therefore the most involving superhuman in an ever increasing cast of enhanced and mutated freaks that currently rule the box office. But this third film often struggles to find room for Steve Rogers to do what we like most about him despite his name on the poster and top billing. A more box office friendly title  (and trading standards untroubling name) might be Iron Man: Civil War or The Avengers: Civil War but the most appropriate in terms of screentime and character arc would be The Winter Soldier: Civil War…try selling that. And while certain sequences had me bouncing in my seat like a child and grinning like a loon (it really is a must see for comic book fans) it’s hard not to focus on all that Whoever’s Civil War gets wrong. It is just as messy as Batman Vs Superman – try explaining the plot rather than the pitch in a few simple sentences to someone uninitiated, or even a fan for that matter. Impossible. Like Batman Vs Superman, too many characters are introduced to the film’s detriment – Black Panther in particular robs Cap of his trademark distinctiveness by being even more honourable, decent and patriotic than the title character who is built on these values, and not in way where you feel that was intended as part of the fun. Like Batman Vs Superman, the final grim fight over dead parents and a villian preternaturally pulling strings could be avoided if the characters just talked to each other – and considering these are characters who share a bunkhouse and talk all the time that is even more ridiculous a plot hole to leap over than the similar one in the more maligned film. Like Batman Vs Superman, after a thrilling sequence where people die in Africa most of the mega powered rough and tumble takes place in pointedly unpopulated areas – though to give Civil War some extra credit that opening Lagos set-piece tops anything you’ve seen at the cinema this year and makes rare, brilliant use of the 3D gimmick. Like Batman Vs Superman they take a bright and fun character and make him introspective and dull – once the life and soul of the blockbuster party, Robert Downey Jnr looks bored for most of this film, only his scene with Marissa Tomei’s Aunt May has any of the old angel dust energy. So if previously you cast any of the above stones at BvS, but can’t see the same deserving targets for criticism in Civil War, then your prejudices are pretty obvious. Luckily these are sins I can overlook in both films and enjoy them for the tonally very different rides they are. Civil War often is a sillier and lighter film. The big everyone-against-everyone-face-off is filled with quips about how everyone will still be friends after this tussle. This makes the kinetic brouhaha all feel a little inconsequential, rightly so the Russos are far better at gaggy sitcom energy than portentous consequence. The characters who shine are the more human and self aware ones – Hawkeye, Spidey and especially Ant Man prove the universe can exist without a now rusty Iron Man through charming daftness alone. In fact you might leave the cinema not caring if anyone returns apart from Paul Rudd. His size shifting thief pretty much steals the film in three great scenes. As a night out to the big screen, Marvel Numero 13 proves all over the shop but one hell of a trolley dash.

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