Lau Kar-leung and Jackie Chan direct themselves and Anita Mui in the bigger budget legacy sequel to the film that broke Jackie to the world.
Really daft but incomprehensible at times. Like much of Jackie’s Hong Kong output the slapstick excess of the fights, bone breaking commitment to stunt work and his own eternal youthful charm make this far better than it ever really should be.
7
Jon Watts directs Tom Holland, Michael Keaton and Jacob Batalon in this friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man teen comedy actioner.
The first tentpole of the summer to exceed expectations and the Spider-Man movie to feel like the comics I read as a kid Spider-Man movie. Yoinks! Absolute fun whether revelling in the awkward fumbling of high school relationships or the awkward fumbling of being superhero trying to run when you haven’t quite figured out how to crawl. Spidey is at his best when he is just helping out and cracking wise in Queens. The bigger set pieces are colourful rumbles but not quite as engaging. The wise move to introduce his sweet superhero obsessed best pal Ganke from the Miles Morales comics (he is called “Ned” but it is unmistakably Ganke) is a master stroke in both comedy, storytelling and making it all human. He’d be the highlight of this incarnation… if it wasn’t for Keaton’s brilliant intimidating villian turn. People often write the Vulture off as a third string baddie but I remember him vividly from my youth. The crazed old guy swooping down at Peter Parker. Keaton’s eyes full of menace, his hair wild and his craggy face determined… that manic, seductive rhythm of his voice, full of intelligence. “You wanna get nuts?! C’mon let’s get nuts!” A battle of the generations, leading to one of tensest face-offs in comic book flick history. You get goosebumps at his and Spidey’s most intimate scene. He joins Ledger and his own old adversary Jack Nicholson in the pantheon of great superhero bad eggs. Why? Because it is both a committed performance and feels like a genuine threat to our hero rather than a plot requirement. And as such, he raises this genre flick up on a par with the best too. More from everyone, please.
8
Ang Lee directs Christina Ricci, Joan Allen and Kevin Kline in this 70s set ensemble piece about suburban malaise during a cold snap.
There was a time when everything Christina Ricci appeared in was golden. She was the precocious watermark for quality, adult dramas, written with wit and cutting emotions. This was the best, and her best performance, surrounded by excellent actors of all generations. As the kids explore sex and rebellion but just need affection and integrity, the adults keep them locked out of their own experimentation with key parties and shoplifting. The results are brutal. As a showcase for considered screenwriting, imagery and performances this is one of the forgotten greats of 90s cinema. Only Tobey Maguire’s New Year’s Eve in New York subplot feels pedestrian, all other threads explore the unexpected. Interestingly, set the same year Don’t Look Now was made, this homages a key image and theme expertly from that favourite.
9
Peter Jackson directs himself, Terry Potter and Doug Wren in this no budget sci-fi horror about aliens who take over a small New Zealand coastal town and turn the population into fast food.
Inventive bonkers. Clearly made over 200 weekends with whatever DIY special effect they had worked on during the school nights, this has a keen eye for action and self aware gross abandon which overcomes the cheapo origins. Would you guess one of the most financially successful auteurs ever was taking his first movie making steps here as brains spill out, vomit is eaten tapas style and aliens butts burst out their suit pants? Yep, you really do. There’s never a boring shot, nor a set piece that doesn’t use its shitiness as a strength.
7
John Hughes directs Matthew Broderick, Alan Ruck and Jeffrey Jones in this 80s teen comedy fantasy about a wordly wise teen who orchestrates the most epic school bunk ever.
One of those cherished movies I’m way too close to to in any way assess properly. This film is like a summer holiday girlfriend – the nostalgia, the soundtrack, the energy and the intense proximity make it impossible to be critical of. Broderick’s direct to camera talking, master of the universe is a key symbol to the slacker generation. He could excel at school, (and does by all accounts), but is more interested in enjoying life and maxing out relationships. Ruck’s unique Cameron Frye is even more relatable – the nice kid already feeling caged in by his depressing present and his optionless future. His moment of self determination at the wrap up is a superb piece of acting, unlike anything seen in a glossy teen romp. We don’t need to witness the confrontation with his father to know it is a life defining point of victory. Jennifer Grey is excellent as the sister, frustrated that everyone else is seduced by Ferris’ shit. Like Ruck, she’s a rarity in this genre; a female character with an agenda outside of dates and makeovers. Anger personified deliciously. And we get a brilliantly inept adult villian in Jeffrey Jones’ Principal Rooney. Grown Ups suck. There are beautiful moments – the entry into Chicago by Ferrari, a kiss in front of some modern art, Grey’s awkward loved up exit from the police station, the final mad dash home. There are killer lines (“Cameron’s so tight, that if you stuck a lump of coal up his ass, in 2 weeks it would turn into a diamond.”). And there is the coolest soundtrack never collected as an actual LP… Dream Academy, The Beat, Yello, The Beatles. Perfection!
10
Kevin Smith directs Jason Lee, Jeremy London and Jason Mewes in this scatalogical day in the life farce following the slackers that populate a New Jersey shopping mall.
Straight to video when released in the U.K. yet I’d struggle to find anyone of my generation who hasn’t seen it, this was a poster on my wall as a teenager. Nowhere near as thoughtful or genuine as Smith’s no budget debut Clerks but pleasingly broader and more colourful, Mallrats hits many of the same geeky (Stan Lee, the cast being named after Jaws characters, Jedi Mind Tricks) and foul mouthed buttons (“You’re gonna listen to me? To something I said? Jesus, man, haven’t I made it abundantly clear during the tenure of our friendship that I don’t know shit? I mean, half the time I’m just talking out of my ass, or sticking my hand in it.”) with the indulgent abandon of someone who is making a movie with Universal’s money rather than personal credit card debt. Like Desperado or Pulp Fiction or Dazed and Confused, a Sundance lauded director clearly had a load of budget and freedom thrown at them with the instruction “Do the same thing as you just did with $50 and a camcorder, but more… mass market.” It is a looser film, the dialogue energetic even when punchlineless and the more physical stuff is knowingly awkward rather than impressive. John Hughes and John Landis are name checked in the credits but you could equally bung in Porky’s or Police Academy. For every sensitive piece of verbose emoting and spot on soundtrack choices, there are a pair of crowbarred in breasts (“What can I say? I love tits.”), for all the longing the boy’s have to “woo” their exes back, their exes are paperthin dolls who bend which ever way the wind of the plot blows them. All the girls are painted as happy to move onto the next dick within hours, whereas the boys are left in a yearning funk. Is this progressive? Sexist? I don’t know, it is hard not to see the actresses as mere prizes to be re-won or stereotypical sluts. The boys standout with the best lines and most compelling performances. And that’s what makes Mallrats an unsung great among 90s studio comedies; three brilliant central turns. Ben Affleck’s fashion shop villian is a cruel bully – boo-hiss perfect. Jason Mewes reprises his Clerks’ Jay and it is glorious. His introduction banging on the pet store glass at some kittens is perfect, as are his new weird baby talk catchphrases “Snootchie-bootchies.” But Jason Lee, in his first starring role, takes aim at the inherently unlikeable character of Brodie and just runs full pelt at it. No matter what offensive nonsense he is left to spout he imbues it with enthusiasm and heart, he also knows how to softly undersell the smarter lines so they stand out. I had a jacket like his at his age, and his defensive loud bluster. I’m not sure how loved this throwaway film is outside my own thin demographic but for us, the few, it is our It Happened One Night, a generation’s American Graffiti. Flaws and all. And the running gag about Magic Eye picture is a true thing of beauty.
9
Trey Edward Shults directs Joel Edgerton, Kelvin Harrison Jr. and Riley Keough in this post apocalyptic thriller where a survivalist family let strangers into their fortified house.
More a drama in the clothing of a horror flick, this is a convincing and taut journey. Gruff performances and well rationed shock images keep you on your toes but the economic, untrustworthy interactions are where the movie comes alive. Shults twists you around and around and around his finger, breaks your heart and then still looks you right in the eye before he leaves us. Efficient as fuck if not exactly a song and dance man crowd pleaser. We have a new name to keep tabs on. This would make a good double bill with Get Out.
7
Lau Kar-leung directs Gordon Liu, Kara Hui and Alexander Fu in this Shaw Brothers weapons based martial arts soap.
Gold leaf lavish yet still formulaic and cheesy – this feels like both a last hurrah of the old school kung fu epics and a lost in time arthouse revival picture like the self consciously beautiful House of Flying Daggers. Watching Gordon Lui accidentally find himself in his first starring role is good value. The opening sequence feels more like a Broadway musical full cast curtain closer than a battle to the death. Later, a series of attackers are hit in the gob by a pole which rips their teeth out on to the wood of the weapon, red paint bloodily. I couldn’t explain the plot to you a week later now, even if you offered me a million quid for a three sentence synopsis.
6
Robert Zemeckis directs Tom Hanks, Robin Wright and Gary Sinise in this biopic of a below average intelligence man who never existed but seeming came out on top of every major historical moment of recent American history.
Like most discerning movie fans I am troubled by Forrest Gump. It won the Oscars over a slew of far better films (1994 is one of the finest Hollywood vintages – so maybe because it was the least offensive choice, the higher quality contenders split their votes into a series of minorities and Gump won by default rather than conservative reaction?) It has a despicable message, whether intentional or not, that to not question or engage intelligently with the events, corruption and changes around you is the only way to survive history. Although that isn’t actually all that terrible practical advice in this age of hollow clictivism and echo chamber politics. Shut the fuck up and eat your chocolates (“A box of”… TM). And the initial undeniable magic of seeing Hank’s nice moron blithely interacting with dead presidents, celebrities and newsreels via the power of cutting edge FX peters out a good hour before we reach the viciously saccharine conclusion. After Vietnam, Gump becomes a far less entertaining trundle, the humour drains, the comeuppance of his Jenny to AIDS… or Hep C… or whatever liberals who enjoyed themselves should die from… is treated in my mind like a victory rather than a passing. You can’t help but think it is all some blackly comic attack on the American right that was just too effective. That cruel scene where Hanks asks if his surprise son shares his deficiencies has an underlying self awareness that is cripplingly brutal for such a surface level light blockbuster. Has Gump been hiding all his stalkery, lashing out, political ambivalence behind the fact he was written off as retarded early on? As he clumsily flourishes through history taking more than his share of ice cream, Dr Peppers, shrimp and blue chip stocks, is he playing dumb to get away with it all? After all, “Stupid is, as stupid does.” We’ve all been stuck with the nutter at the bus stop who knows enough ways to manipulate the situation so you have to endure their presence, they know you are unlikely to tell them to “fuck off” so they continue to talk in a way that leaches interaction from you as they ramble. Has Forrest figured out the game better than all of us? Perhaps that is what makes Gump the movie work. It is so poker faced it is hard to ascertain its true intent. It can be something for everyone. A melancholy comedy nostalgia road trip that it was marketed as, and made millions from. An idiocratic realignment of the American Dream concept that offends as many people as embrace it. Or simply just a nice leisurely movie with strong charming performances (Hanks, Wright and Sinise all deserve praise) and a few good gags. I remember being entertained but unimpressed by it in the cinema. I remember a New Years Eve night I spent in, watching it on telly, a mate in a similar boat on the other end of the phone line watching it across London too. We ran up our parents phone bills and chatted and enjoyed it. A communal experience, nowhere near as bad or a good as its reputation deserves. Just a well made bit of Hollywood product.
7
Cate Shortland directs Teresa Palmer, Max Riemelt and Emma Bading in this pretentious sex thriller where a backpacker is held captive by her one night stand in a Berlin apartment block.
Watchable and pretty, but by half-arsedly trying to be something more than its The Collector set-up, it ends up achieving very little. As a thriller it is a bit too aimless to ever take hold, as a psychosexual encounter nothing particularly experimental or erotic occurs. A few decent moments of creep (a breathing leather recliner, a German child terrified of hearing a foreigner speak, the discovery of a clipped fingernail, a mangled hand) can’t hide the fact that this is an attempt to avoid cliche, but with nothing new to say instead. We just end up with some grungy beautiful imagery and two blank leads waiting around for their delayed final showdown.
6
