Anne Fletcher directs Danielle Macdonald, Jennifer Aniston and Odeya Rush in this teen comedy where a plus-size teen and her misfit friends decide to rebelliously take part in the Miss Teen Bluebonnet pageant that her mother organises.
There’s a lot going on here; all of it colourful and sweet and relatively wholesome and positive. Executive producer Dolly Parton’s official sanctioned jukebox background soundtrack is the key selling point and it wouldn’t take too much tweaking to turn this into a West End hit. Danielle Macdonald makes light work of a lead role that could be overly worthy and heavy handed in the wrong hands. The kinda movie you’d want your teen daughter watching.
Stephen Norrington directs Sean Connery, Naseeruddin Shah and Peta Wilson in the comic book adaptation where a group of Victorian literary figures team-up to defeat a great evil.
Library card steampunk, flat unmemorable spectacle. Norrington and Connery clashed on set, neither took on any further major movie projects. Were Big Tam’s since revealed health issues to blame? Was this one last begrudging shift to collect a retirement paycheck so he never had to turn up on a sound stage again? Whatever his motivations (and he’s easily the only reason to watch this), he gobbled up a lot of the budget, meaning the support cast are drowsily played by unknowns and also rans when this really needs additional star power to match the lead. Not the only reason this is such a dud but certainly the problem that should have been easily identified before it went to camera. The Invisible Man “FX” are laughable.
Laurent Cantet directs François Bégaudeau, Agame Malembo-Emene and Angélica Sancio in this French drama where we observe the annual ups and downs of an inner-city high school class from the dedicated but jaded teacher’s point-of-view.
The grind of dealing with behavioral issues, entitlement and over-enthusiasm. Bégaudeau essentially plays himself, this is based on his novel based on his experiences. In France both works are called Entre Les Murs, Between The Walls, suggesting we are getting an insider’s view. And what happens is pretty believable, natural, has the frustration of reality. There are no great white saviour moments, no overtures to suggest some grand success story emerging from all the turmoil and boisterousness. The basics are barely communicated, even the projects that capture the teens’ imaginations are only mildly impactful in any tangible graded way. The movie and the year ends with one quiet child questioning aloud and downcast whether she has really learned anything at all. In the first act we witness a few teachers, both newer and seasoned, react negatively about their kids in the staff room. Bégaudeau’s response is poker faced. Is he wiser? More attuned to the class’ pressure, problems and needs? He certainly never writes them off, approaches each lesson with seemingly realistic expectations of what might be achieved if they can stay on topic. Yet in the third act, a moment of emotion leaks out of him, his volatile charges leap on the negativity… even though one child’s ultimate fate is a systemic failure, long in the offing… he cannot help but feel his moment of weakness has lost him the opportunity to turn the tide. The Class itself, almost unconsciously bounces back quicker from the quiet tragedy that threatens their cohesive chaos. A telling drama that benefits from casting real faces rather than professional actors in most roles.
Richard Linklater directs Milo Coy, Jack Black and Glen Powell in this animated youth comedy where the 1969 moon landing is remembered by a fantasist Texan child.
Maybe every generation should have one of these – a nostalgic deep drill into every aspect of their childhood. The music, games, shows, food, social changes and big events. At times it can just feel like an awesome list of cool stuff remembered and recited… and I’m completely down with that. I’ve been adding tracks from the extensive soundtrack to my streaming library for a week now. Fantasy and obsession with the space program give way to a great day out at a theme park. So we are kind of in space, seeing an alternative day dreamed view to one of mankind’s biggest achievements, and also on the couch, half asleep, wondering if Time Tunnel will be on tomorrow. It just clicks, I laughed a lot at this. Linklater most successful rotoscoped project and in my head an unofficial prequel to Dazed & Confused. These Texan kids are exactly the right age to grow up into that tribe.
Ed Wood directs Clancy Malone, Steve Reeves and Dolores Fuller in this cheapie noir involving a plastic surgeon’s son who goes on a crime spree.
A film set in eternal night, with constant inappropriate flamenco music. The random plot is not the worst out there but Wood’s florid dialogue, when put in the mouths of a cast of actors of wildly variable quality, just drains you. Should there be so much sexual chemistry between a brother and a sister? Can you perform a facial reconstruction surgery on an unsterile sofa? Wow, that stock footage blackface sequence is really crowbarred in and gallingly competent compared to everything that surrounds it! And no “jailbait” doesn’t mean what you bought a ticket for in this creaky, crazy world…
Akira Kurosawa directs Toshiro Mifune, Yuzo Kayama and Yoshio Tsuchiya in this Japanese period drama about taciturn town doctor and his new unwilling trainee.
Wayne and Ford. De Niro and Scorsese. Depp and Burton. DiCaprio & Scorsese again. Always fascinating to follow a star / director who have long standing, almost symbiotic, collaboration together and then try and pick apart that final project to try and figure out why ever they split the dream team up. In the case of Mifune and Kurosawa… the master just took too damn long. A two year shoot where Mifune could have made a half a dozen other projects. And at the peak of his international stardom cashed six juicy Toho or Hollywood paychecks. Still the results were worth it, a far more humanist drama than his samurai pictures but they still manage to crowbar in a kick ass fight sequence in the middle. In fact the rather death-centric movie turns a corner after Red Beard hands a group of pimps their hats and the narrative tightens to focus on a child rescued from prostitution, a very cute thief and our junior doctor finding his purpose after resisting his new posting. If you stick with it, Red Beard sheds its darkness and has a true, rare poetry.
Peter and Bobby Farrelly direct Woody Harrelson, Randy Quaid and Vanessa Angel in this sports comedy road movie where a broke, one-handed bowling failure shows an Amish apprentice the hustling ropes.
Sandwiched between the far more financially successful Dumb & Dumber and There’s Something About Mary, if you told anyone in the 1990s that Kingpin would be the Farrelly Brothers’ release that would stand the test of time they’d spit their bull semen right in your face. An unsubtle, unlikely mash-up of Witness and The Color Of Money this feels like it should run out of ideas after the first act. But joke for joke, gag for gag it is a titan. Stupid, silly, gross, inspired. It just makes you laugh a lot. And when most mainstream comedies hit the 90 minute dip, this flick picks up a spare. Kingpin reintroduces Bill Murray as Big Ern McCracken, the star’s most malevolent and vain creation. A truly hissable antagonist worthy of any sports movie finale, the genius is off-the-leash of having to drive the story, he dances a ballet of scumbaggery. The directors have openly stated Murray ad-libbed virtually every line he spoke, including his stand-out infomercial. He would read over the script, get the general idea, and then discard it.
It was around 1996 I first heard a film reviewer (Mark Kermode?) state that if a comedy made you laugh out loud 10 times then it was way ahead of the pack. I must have bellowed at Kingpin way too much. I took a girl on a first date to see it at what was then the Hammersmith Virgin. When I called her next weekend to see if she wanted to meet up again I was given the excuse that her grandmother was ill. Many of my first dates were responsible for a whole spate of sick grandparents in my mid-teens. I’m surprised the NHS could handle the pressure at such full capacity. I didn’t let the disappointment jade my feelings toward Kingpin though. It has become a firm favourite.
Quaid and Harrelson have a lovely rhythm together. Playing even the daftest moments relatively straight. They have a chemistry and clearly seem comfortable even with the groaniest, nastiest digressions. They trust the material even when they shouldn’t and it pays off dividends. Harrelson had only just shed his Cheers following by this juncture in his career and was being courted as a serious actor around Hollywood, so it feels especially brave in retrospect to reverse back into a comedy that is, on the surface, far dumber than the classy sitcom he made his name in. Yet the gamble paid off, I’d say Kingpin was the first time he was the dominant side of the buddy pairing or the love triangle. Box office wise, this might not have fluctuated his ranking on the A-List but it proved he could carry a movie without a Wesley / Demi / Juliette. And, much like Kingpin, in the long run he made whatever the opposite of “a real Munson” is from out smart plays like this.
“What is it about good sex that makes me have to crap? I guess it’s all that pumpin’. Pump and dump. You really jarred something loose, tiger.”
Loren Bouchard and Bernard Derriman direct Kristen Schaal, H. Jon Benjamin and John Roberts in this big screen animated adventure of the family of burger restaurant nerds.
Much love for the telly show but it works better in 20 minute condensed bursts. There’s nothing here that wouldn’t work over one or two far shorter episodes and I definitely expected more laughs.
Alex Garland directs Jessie Buckley, Rory Kinnear and Paapa Essiedu in this folk horror where a woman goes on retreat to a country house in a village where every man has a familiar look to them.
Technically perfect (that score, that lighting, that costume design, that freak-out finale) but ultimately a cold fish. Difficult to connect to. Feels like an exercise. Ripe, almost teeming, with allegory, to the point of distraction. But you will see things and in spurts it forgets to be ‘elevated horror’ and just delivers horror. I will revisit this… Jessie Buckley might want to take a break from existential nightmare-scapes, where all men are controlling bastards, though. This and I’m Thinking Of Ending Things feel too much a piece.
