Joe Wright directs Gary Oldman, Kristin Scott-Thomas and Ben Mendelsohn in this WWII drama looking at the pressure put on Churchill to negotiate with Hitler during the Dunkirk crisis. 

An enthusiastic Gary Oldman performance is slightly obscured by layers of blubbery rubber. There are a few too many shots of his shimmering eyes peering out from beneath the restrictive mask that reminded me of the adverts for the Tower of London or Madame Tussaud’s. The glossy ones where a look-a-like of Henry VIII or Jack the Ripper would turn to make eye contact with you over your tube of Pringles. “Come meet history, for a fee.” Joe Wright’s normally dancing, dive bombing camera and framing work appears slightly stifled by a story stuck in bunkers and bedrooms too. Perfectly fine but you wouldn’t seek out a second watch… not unless you fancied doubling it up with Nolan’s Dunkirk for their parallel timelines.

6

Martin McDonagh directs Frances McDormand, Woody Harrelson and Sam Rockwell in this drama about a tough grieving mother who uses three provocative advertisements to induce the local sheriff’s department to keep investigating her daughter’s tragic rape and murder. 

Martin McDonagh is not a subtle writer. He flirts outrageously with bad taste, knowing the hurtful power of certain words. He prints them on a billboard, writes them in a heart wrenching letter and has his characters spit smartly written dumb obscenities at each other knowing that while some are meant to wound, others merely to win points. He is a playwright who thrives on strong actors having twisting, turning verbal battles; offence is for losers, political correctness for the weak. Some things are said to truly hurt, others to vandalise a conversation beyond repair, others to force action out of the other. It gives actors fantastic (if sometimes overtly stagey) scenes to excel in, it gives commentators troubling language to justify or be outraged by. When he knowingly lobs in a dwarf, a racial slur, a cunt or a rape in to the rat-a-tat-tat between players he knows he is lobbing in a hand grenade, whether it goes off is up to the viewer. Some can get past his bad behaviour with no true offence meant, others are too inflexible in their sensibilities to enjoy the power struggles he wrangles from his talent. The talent here is divine, McDormand deserves every gong going to her, the outcome more wholesome than say the cynically flip Seven Psychopaths. Billboards just about works as a mystery, as a small town drama, as a strong character essay, as an ultra-violent slapstick comedy. But it still feels like a self-aware exercise too often, the actors have to work a little too hard to overcome the throbbing unreality of the dialogue and formal tricks. And it is up to you whether you feel smartly deployed bouts of rape and cancer and revenge and hateful language should be toys in a playful game. I’m fine with it but in this day and age feel like I’m in a minority. At its best Billboards is a powerful little film, and that’s thanks to an eager ensemble supporting a fine central performance. A lesser, safer script probably wouldn’t have attracted them all together.

7

 

Bob Fosse directs Roy Scheider, Ann Reinking and Leland Palmer in this musical fantasy that fictionalises aspects of Fosse’s own life and legacy while exploring his own mortality. 

You’ve never seen a movie quite like All That Jazz – a morbid celebration, a risk taking work of art, a self lacerating parody of the author, and compilation of brilliant song and dance sequences he seemingly could find no narrative home for elsewhere. It is funny and honest and strange and unflinching and depressing and jubilant and sleazy and sexy. I enjoyed it thoroughly.

9

Ridley Scott directs Michelle Williams, Mark Wahlberg and Christopher Plummer in this true story thriller about the kidnapping of billionaire John Paul Getty’s grandchild. 

A really tight adult gripper with a keen central performance by Michelle Williams. Here she is all convincing cut glass accent, steely reserve. All her scenes sing with genuine emotion and bubbling desperation. It is another blast of fireworks from a still underrated thesp. Jen from Dawson’s Creek has come a long way. Ridley adds a warm, nostalgic gilt edge to the visuals but fails when he tries to punch up the action in the set-pieces. We are invested in the outcome already Ridders, no beefing up is necessary. He should just have left his over talented cast, combined with his own wise sense of irony, the freedom to battle each other verbally, as that’s where the movie’s granite strength lies. Finally, this will always be the project remembered for pasting a last minute Christopher Plummer performance over footage of a disgraced Kevin Spacey. I don’t agree with losing a talent due to accusations, but neither do I agree with rape. Time will tell if Spacey is guilty of anything. What we are left with is a ‘What If?’ What if Spacey’s performance was brilliant? What have we, the viewers not interested in salacious gossip, been deprived of? My thoughts are with Spacey if he is innocent, the victims if he isn’t. Plummer is fantastic in the role, and obviously more age appropriate casting. So only Spacey, one of cinema’s best, has suffered from this emergency tinkering. The intense and intelligent movie is fine without him.

7

Doug Liman directs Hayden Christensen, Rachel Bilson and Samuel L Jackson in this fantasy adventure about boys who can leap to different points of the globe in a heartbeat. 

Utterly detestable characters dash through a stakes free “adventure”. The concept offers the world, the finale ends up in a bungalow. I read that the original script focussed on high schoolers and then the studio demanded the cast be aged up a decade for marketing reasons. Whether that explains the lack of weight and certainty to the events that prolapse into our eyes for 90 minutes is uncertain. But you can’t get away with vapid, immature scumbag protagonists AND set pieces which seem utterly afraid to have larks with the physics bending powers. Doug Liman must have had his wings clipped, as this is normally the kinda bunkum he parties hard with.

2

Andrei Tarkovsky directs Aleksandr Kajdanovsky, Anatoliy Solonitsyn and Nikolay Grinko this arty Russian sci-fi about a man who illegally guides a scientist and a writer into a forbidden zone that defies the laws of time and physics. 

As of the start of the new year, I have been making a more regimented effort to watch classic and foreign films I have missed out on so far. Many of these will be works considered “the greatest” by critics, that I always suspected might be too pretentious for me. My tastes are rigidly populist and I primarily judge a movie’s merits based on how well it entertains and what risks and successes it creates with that audience aware intention in mind. I do think good cinema should make you think, increase your understanding of the world and the human condition, manipulate your emotions… but never at the expense of being… for want of a better word… fun. Stalker, and from what I’ve experienced so far of Tarkovsky’s work as a whole, isn’t “fun”. It is obtusely and intentionally pretty much about as far from fun as you can get. Stalker ponders philosophical concepts of belief, need and existence… often with oblique didactic arguments between the three scraggly, desperate middle-aged men who take this quest. Then leaves you with longuers of the men standing in desolate scrubland or industrial ruins, giving you a chance to ruminate on what depressing concepts their last round of bickering has churned up. They are a depressive, overly nihilistic bunch, terrible company for three grainy hours, they probably smell of turps and salted fish. And although the pace is intentionally deadening, the grimly poetic imagery it leaves us languishing in is often grotesquely beautiful. The rain soaked wasteland, the crumbling chambers of generators and sewer tunnels have an otherworldly aesthetic. Whether filmed in exquisitely framed sepia or deep focus, almost breathing pans, the tableaus these explorers are trapped in are unforgettable, even to the casual viewer. And while nothing really happens during their search of The Zone, an air of constant threat and cosmic danger is imbued and maintained in every movement. That’s quite masterful for a three hour film with little true incident. Merely by calling a dank tunnel ‘The Meat Grinder’ we fear for the trio’s eventless, five minute walk through it. Tarkovsky might never prove to be my cup of tea, he cares to give little of what I desire from a movie. But if he wanted to gift it to us, I get the feeling Stalker could have easily been a gripping genre exercise.

5

 

Martin Campbell directs Daniel Craig, Eva Green and Mads Mikkelsen in this 007 adventure that sees a newly promoted Bond finding his feet at a poker game against a banker for international terrorists. 

Four decades in and we got the first ever genuine Bond reboot, rewinding our superspy back to heartlessly capable rookie status, and using Fleming’s debut novel for a remarkably faithful adaptation. The second hour dispenses with explosions and gadgets for an often line for line run through of the great airport thriller that started it all. Adaptations this loyal are an anomaly to the Eon franchise, the producers traditionally being  more comfortable ignoring the source literature completely and sticking a Bondian sounding title onto their own tried and tested plot formula. Well done on them for taking so many risks here, opening the character up to include some emotional growth (Craig’s baseline is cad and killer – an interpretation that would make your lovelier Moores, Daltons and Brosnans wince with unease) and allowing the action to ebb and flow as the plot requires. It is a rare family blockbuster that is more often than not defined by brutality over spectacle. The big showstoppers are still grandly heart quickening but it is the low level, high stakes attacks on Craig’s sculptured body that attract the most attention. Nude torture, poisoning, fighting his cold survival instincts in the face of romantic betrayal. This often feels like the Passion of the Bond. We are also well out of fantasyland. The invisible cars and ice palaces of Brosnan’s undeserved career killer yield to silk dresses you can buy (give or take a month’s salary), grotesque exhibitions you can visit, and airport chases that pay some homage to the tight security these institutions actually have. There are series highpoints dotted throughout like cherries in a fruitcake. Eva Green excels as the most convincingly detailed and human of the Bond girls. More than a match for Bond, more than mere eye candy for us. Chris Cornell’s You Know My Name is an utter banger of a Bond theme. I dance around the house pointing an imaginary Walther  PPK whenever it shuffles onto my iTunes playlist. The black and white prologue is a noirish masterwork, a desaturated reintroduction to this gritty new take on James himself. It is not perfect though. The minute long Ford Mondeo advert makes Bond seem like a regional salesman. And it interrupts just moments after you’ve accepted Craig in the role too. Ouch! The poker tournament’s script allows ways too much hand holding exposition from characters who would be better served being witty or threatening. And Craig himself…. a little too superior to become as loved as previous incarnations. You can feel his grimace during the silly stuff… but the young generations love the silly stuff, so get over yourself Mr Serious Actor Who Took The Payday. All in all though, this is a premium action adventure and in my controversial opinion it perfectly lays the path for the bruising and brilliant, and the even better… Quantum of Solace.

9

 

Paul Schrader directs Christopher Walken, Natasha Richardson and Rupert Everett in this Venice-set erotic mystery about a holidaying couple who pick up some bad company. 

A mood piece, with not really enough plot to keep you hooked, but gallons of uncertainty about where it is headed. The question mark that hangs over the whole strange endeavour is so overawing that you want to stick with it to solve its labyrinth. Schrader captures the feeling of getting lost in the sinking city well, it geographically makes a nice bedfellow with Don’t Look Now. He also frames and lights the gorgeous if milky couple arousingly, charting their course from separate hotel beds to passionate fuck to bohemian disaster with a continual unabashed kinky thrill. Thank goodness for his alluring visuals, as Harold Pinter’s adaptation on Ian McEwan’s source novel, often skates with parody, rarely broaching genuine emotion. Jarring repetition. Predictable repitions. Pauses. Then pointless repetitions. And then there is Christopher Walken, as a white suited Venetian (by way of  Queens). At one point, unexpectedly, he punches Rupert Everett right in the gut then leers at him deliciously, throwing him a wink. If that sounds like your kinda acting then The Comfort of Strangers allows him and you and all of us to luxuriate in one of his most baffling screen weirdos. He runs riot, it is a thing of beauty and the movie arcs up a couple of notches with every appearance by him. What’s his end game? That’s a twist worth savouring.

6

My Top 10 Christopher Walken Movies
1. True Romance (1993)
2. Pulp Fiction (1994)
3 Batman Returns (1992)
4 The Jungle Book (2016)
5 The Deer Hunter (1978)
6 Things to Do in Denver When You’re Dead (1995)

7 Man on Fire (2004)
8 At Close Range (1986)
9 The Dead Zone (1983)
10 Sleepy Hollow (1999)

 

 

John Carpenter directs Dan O’Bannon, Brian Narelle and Cal Kuniholm in this sci-fi comedy about an ambivalent crew of astronauts, blowing up planets and dealing with a runaway beach ball alien. 

The movie that was recycled into Alien. John Carpenter’s debut. A cult classic. Is it fuck? Boring hippy comedy, cheap FX and a whole lotta wheel spinning. The optimistic bomb is good. Dark Snnnnnnoooorrree.

3

Peter Landesman directs Paul Giamatti, Zac Efron and James Badge Dale in this ensemble drama following the immediate fallout of the Kennedy assassination for the Dallas residents. 

A solid drama that churns up some unknown to me trivia about JFK’s murder but doesn’t really give its strong cast much more room than is needed to go through the motions. James Badge Dale’s portrayal as Oswald’s unwitting brother, whose quiet existence is torn apart by the infamous killer’s actions, is the only thread with any real meat to it. Those scenes aside, Parkland works best as a companion piece to Oliver Stone’s JFK, Pablo Larraín’s Jackie or the fictional miniseries 11.22.63.

5