F. W. Murnau and Werner Herzog direct Max Schreck, Gustav von Wangenheim, Greta Schroeder, Klaus Kinski, Bruno Ganz and Isabelle Adjani in these Bram Stoker’s Dracula influenced tales of a vampire count’s journey to (and destruction of) a small town. 

The masterpiece of German silent cinema and a most efficient (if somewhat bootlegged) adaptation of Bram Stoker’s classic novel. These days it is hard to tell if Nosferatu is so eerie and memorable because of its antiquated, otherworldly format or because of some technical invention on Murnau’s part that is now commonplace. All I know is Schreck’s wholly physical depiction of the rotting immortal predator sends shivers down the spine, each and every time.

Herzog’s re-adaptation is surprisingly loyal – sometimes to the point of redundancy. He gets to use Stoker’s character names, some beautiful on location mountain shots, beefs up the female protagonist screentime and agency, opens up with unsettling shots of mummified corpses. He focuses more on the apocalyptic plague and destruction of society the cursed bloodsucker brings in his wake than the monstrous gothic romance. Rats teem around deserted cityscapes. And Kinski imbues his Nosferatu with a yearning and a sadness, a soul trapped in eternity as much as a grotesque to be avoided. Isolated from humanity, but a humanity depicted as uniformly senile or insane. In Herzog’s vision everyone is susceptible to the virus.

8/7

I

Josh Whedon directs Robert Downey Jnr, Scarlett Johansson and Chris Evans in this superhero team-up movie where Loki threatens Earth with an intergalactic army. 

The first big culmination of the neverending, self perpetuating narrative loose ends of the Marvel universe. The prologue (minor SHEILD characters being chased by Loki through a base) lacks wonder. Then we get a globe trotting first act to pinpoint where all our actual heroes are. These introductions are strong. Everyone gets a nice bit of business (especially Black Widow and Bruce Banner) and you can chalk this up to Whedon – his innate understanding of characters with dual lives, mythic responsibility and a uniform brevity of wit that doubles up neatly as storytelling shorthand. His TV work on Buffy, Firefly and Dollhouse made him a dab hand at playfully exposing the root of his characters in a well placed quip and an unfussy tease, watching him unleash his talents on the figureheads of superheroics is a snarky joy to behold.  Then we get poorly motivated in-fighting at a time of crisis. Watching Thor / Cap / Stark go at it in a forest makes for cool trailer moments but on repeated viewings feels superfluous and indicative of a lot of the rot the franchise has concealed behind critical acclaim and stellar box office. If the end of the world is nigh, then we don’t really have time for macho posturing and inconsequential scraps. Then an interminable extra half hour of chat and further arguing on a hellicarrier. Staffroom bickering (a hangover from Whedon’s TV work too) and a flaw he exported wholesale to his Justice League reshoots. But finally we are in New York, with a palpable insurmountable threat, a villian on the loose and the steel, glass and concrete of an iconic metropolis as a playground. The blockbuster comes to life with a prolonged spectacle where the Hulk gets to smash, Cap gets to valiantly lead and Black Widow gets to do that thing where she wraps her supple thighs around a bad guy’s head and then pivots around him like a swingball thus breaking his neck and making me want to be a doomed henchman. It is a jamboree of destruction, courage, one liners and sheer comic bookyness. Such a spot on jubilant climax wipes clean the flat and stunted water treading of the earlier acts. You get massive screen fun… then you get the inevitable trademarked and copyrighted teases of where this will all go next. It doesn’t hold up to scrutiny or multiple viewings but the first big Avengers team-up gets away with being a top heavy delight where it counts.

7

Julian Gilbey directs Melissa George, Ed Speleers and Sean Harris in this thriller where a group of mountaineers find themselves pursued by killers. 

A gripping first hour, full of twists and lethal wilderness set pieces, gives way to a slightly more standard gangster shoot-out in the end. The grimly achieved sense of isolation and ambitious scale is sacrificed for shooters and hardboiled dialogue. Classy scream queen Melissa George and brittle Sean Harris are dab hands at this malarkey and fulfil their roles with an effortless quality. A diverting thriller.

7

Allan Arkush directs P. J. Soles, Dey Young and The Ramones in this teens’-takeover-the-school-when-The- Ramones-play-their-town comedy. 

Where have you been all my life? Brilliant soundtrack (obviously). 2 sexy non-prissy girls as the comedy leads, Riff Randle and Kate Rambeau… PHWOAR! A fascist principal. A brilliant visual joke involving a paper airplane. Riff Randle takes over gym class. Clint Howard playing a proto-Ferris Bueller. A make-out at inspiration point 3 day starter course. Riff Randle queues for tickets over three days. Racist joke. The Ramones arrive in the “Gabba-Gabba-Hey” mobile, Joey eating half a chicken. Riff Randle in red lacy underwear imagines The Ramones are performing in her en-suite. A plush seduction van. A humanoid mouse turns up at the concert. 20 minutes of concert footage with non-cooperative Ramones fans extras. Joey Ramone says the name of the movie like he is speaking a foreign language. The school is taken over. The humanoid mouse’s mom shows up. KA-BOOM! Daft, cartoonish shenanigans.

8

Franc Roddam directs Phil Daniels, Leslie Ash and Mark Wingett in this Mods versus Rockers teen drama based on an album by The Who. 

It starts grainy, grim and gangly… making facile points, with unfocused unlikeable characters, played with an amateurish roughness. But it gets better… the Brighton riot sequence really throws you into the action and the closing stretch of alienation and dejection is captivating. Maybe as finally The Who’s music dominates the soundtrack after 90 minutes of teases and whispers. Maybe as Phil Daniels’ inarticulate tough, wanting to rebel, wanting to belong, finding no solace, gets to react silently to reality. My Dad loves this film… it is his era recreated and filmed around his old Shepherd’s Bush stomping ground. Even telling him on the phone we watched it again inspired him to tell us about a fight he got into at a pie mash shop used as a location. While lacking Tommy’s shamanistic power, there are inspired touches. Showing the epilogue to the ambiguous final shot at the very start, Sting’s dancing and any bit with podgy Ray Winstone. “Don’t matter who you are or where you go. There’s always some cunt with stars and stripes on his arm telling you what to do!” SMASH CUT “Quiet please!”

7

My Top 10 Rock N Roll Movies

1. Back To The Future (1985)
2. Green Room (2016)
3. Yellow Submarine (1968)

4. Pump Up the Volume (1990)
5. Inside Llewyn Davis (2013)
6. Backbeat (1994)
7. Sing Street (2016)
8. Rock N Roll High School (1979)
9. Walk the Line (2005)
10. Crazy Heart (2009)

 

Greg Berlanti directs Nick Robinson, Logan Miller and Katherine Langford in this teen romantic comedy about a gay lad who is forced “out” when he begins communicating with another anonymous boy from his school.

Love, Simon is a safe and neat teen flick. In fact, what is most impressive about it is it deals with a teen coming out, his emotions and feelings, within the brisk, personality-lite, faded primary colour mode of any other mid budget studio teen movie of the last decade. To have a toothpaste commercial looking kid and his Patagonia model looking mates go through his standard product adolescent love life normalises the tumultuous feelings a unrepresented minority of children must go through. I get the inkling that in the long term Love, Simon will be a more important film for young gays, bis and questionings than say Call Me By Your Name. While both are idealised fantasies of high income living, one is a summer romance so prestigious and nostalgic as to be unattainable while Love, Simon at least looks and talks and posts and blands in a way a 14 year old kid might find recognisable and relatable. Which is not to say it is a great film. It lacks the wit of say The Duff or Edge of Seventeen… only the teachers get anything resembling a good line (MVP shared between Tony Hale’s gawky Vice principal and Natasha Rothwell’s stupified drama teacher). Equally there’s none of the artistry or rawer emotions of Lady Bird or The Spectacular Now. It seems quite content being a xerox of a John Hughes movie. Apeing the aesthetic and sounds of a three decades old creative to lend this relatively toothless confection an air of quality. And this sadly is where Love, Simon fails within its modest aims. Simon and his mates in their sneering rejection of outsiders, their car shares, gossiping, million dollar homes, and iced coffee binges feel more like the Blanes and the Steffs than the Andies and the Duckies. Simon lies to and manipulates his friends (albiet for a mixture of selfish self-protection and vague nobility) and even tries to change the dorkish villian by telling him not to show any of his personality or tastes. Even the unsubtle blackmailer knows he still needs to be himself. He wants to be himself, just not ignored by the cool girls. I’m not sure whether the troubling ramifications of that moment are entirely intentional. Have we just acknowledged that Simon’s gang would rather only be with their own handsome yet unthreatening clique rather than accept the loud, over confident geek on his own terms? Just look at their continued passive pity staring at the actually bravely out, effeminate gay kid. Are we supposed to like these semi-skimmed jabronis? And as for the romance aspect… there isn’t one. Two anonymous voices guessing who each other might be, while a solid plot concept, sadly doesn’t a hot connection make. Sure, they share a moment of forced intimacy together at the very end but we have no investment as to whether Simon and his “Blue” will have any kind of sexual relationship after the credits roll. Even mismatched Bender and Claire would have had a one-off, hot and heavy weekend after their Breakfast Club get together… I’m not sure how much I care about bland coward number one and bland fibber number two hanging out a bit more after so little physical contact. Given the conceit, maybe Sleepless in Seattle might have been the better movie to crib from?

5

 

Fritz Böhm directs Bel Powley, Brad Dourif and Liv Tyler in this horror romance about a girl kept in captivity in the woods as an ageing hunter thinks she will turn into a wild beast.

Tame-ling. Dull-ling. Bel Powley waste-ling.

3

 

Ken Russell directs Roger Daltrey, Ann-Margaret and Oliver Reed in this musical fantasy rock opera about a psychosomatic death, dumb and blind kid who becomes a pinball messiah.

A movie that never once submits to a boring shot or cut even if it slightly outstays its welcome by the end. There’s a brilliant central turn by Ann-Margaret as Tommy’s equally disconnected mother, frames of showgirls in gas masks and that brilliant The Who soundtrack. Tommy is an acquired taste for sure, of its time and wilfully nonsensical, but the sheer power of the imagery generated from the rock is undeniable. It also has four or five genuinely unsettling moments in the lengthy sequence of Tommy’s corruption.

8

Fred F.Sears directs Bill Haley & His Comets, Johnny Johnston and Lisa Gaye in this rock showcase movie that explores the “birth of the scene” with a framing love triangle and performances from The Platters and Freddie Bell & His Bellboys. 

The framing romance, where a sharp band manager tries to navigate himself between a savvy young dancer and a manipulative tour booker, is neat in its relative sexual frankness and the fact the ladies have the upper hand. But you haven’t come for that, you’ve come for the music and there are loads of great performances here – whether they be in village hall sock hops, Alan Freed’s nightclubs or Hollywood concert venues. This footage is fantastic, giving this cash-in cheapie a long spanning afterlife it is hard not to get caught up in.

7

John Frankenheimer directs Burt Lancaster, Karl Malden and Telly Savalas in this stark prison biopic of Robert Stroud, a brutalised man who begins to care for birds and study their health from his isolated cell. 

A fine, worthy biopic that transcends a lot of its unavoidable cliche through the dynamic performance of its star. Lancaster truly transmogrifies himself on screen from his normal proud, manly fighter to a sensitive, unbroken elderly man. The length and claustrophobia of the setting may be a little off putting, as does some of the whitewashing of the real Stroud’s continued criminal attitudes, but this is one of the last great black and white films.

8