James Mangold directs Meg Ryan, Hugh Jackman and Liev Schrieber in this time travel romance between a 19th century duke and 21st century career woman. 

More decline period Meg Ryan and this one is pretty vexatious as it squanders a good concept, a brilliant early turn by Hugh Jackman and some crisp direction by top end journeyman Mangold. The script fails as the bulk has the feeling of being assembled from the less memorable scenes of a forgotten sitcom’s first season rather than a tight 100 minute movie with a conclusion to pressingly get to. I love early Meg Ryan (I’m not going to say “young Meg Ryan” as that isn’t the problem, let’s clarify by saying “Meg Ryan back when she was hungry to make it”) but really after French Kiss and it is only her darker turns in Addicted to Love and In the Cut that work. If she felt stretched in a role rather than constricted there was a shift in effort. That sense of hating the gilded cage is apparent here as her Kate comes across as a bit of a selfish, petty bitch lashing out and interrupting the fish out of water fun rather than someone deserving of Hugh Jackman’s winning embodiment of an unjaded, principled and… Yes!… rather dashing love. My wife pointed out Billy Crystal is the only foil who works for her as he comes across as equally flawed. And I think she hit the nail on the head on why these romcom, with dream man macguffins rather than Harry Burnses as their end goals, don’t work for Ryan’s slightly irksome yet often adorable talents. And before someone pulls Sleepless in Seattle out of their arse… Ephron sensibly never shows us what a chalk and cheese trainwreck reality would occur after unleashing Ryan’s postal stalker on the widower and his kid’s actual lives post meet-cute.

4

 

Jon M. Chu directs Lizzy Caplan, Mark Ruffalo and Woody Harrelson in this sequel to the magicians do heists sleeper.

The first film was a fun ensemble heist movie and the trailer promised more of the same. The only decent trick that has been performed is in the marketing as 2 is bamboozlingly bad. And while the sequel looks just as slick, and pretty much everyone is back, the follow up somehow gets bogged down in backstory whereas what came before was breezy and becomes incoherent from shot to shot when the storytelling used to be reliably solid. Gallingly it forgets to really have more than one bit of significant Ocean’s 11 style scamming (some sleight of hands and bodies with a playing card size microchip… that goes on for five minutes too long). Just talk, talk, talk, talk, talk, talk about shit no one really cares about. That and the final magic show, which really culminates in the most guessable con yet (I highly doubt that many Londoners would give a shit, think of us hurling abuse at poor David Blaine in his perspex box), betray a film that decided it should exist without ever figuring out how. New addition Caplan puts in some effort, showing up the incumbents who seem happy enough picking up a bonus paycheck while standing on their marks for a couple of takes. Ruffalo’s subplots and action sequences seem like they belong to a far darker, more serious film. Michael Caine gives a lovely one scene cameo including a placeholder swansong of serious acting in his monologue, but then decides to hang around. Is he going to treat every film for the next decade like his last, just in case? And we get two Woody Harrelsons… Which saves this from being the unforgivable 1 score. Yet imagine what a film that had two Woody Harrelson and then gave them something… ANYTHING!… we actually cared about to do would achieve? Even if it was merely one decent line of dialogue between them. A waste of all involved and easily the most goodwill insulting cash-in of the summer.

2

David Cronenberg directs Oliver Reed, Samantha Eggar and Art Hindle in this aggressive psychological therapy produces mutant rage children slasher.

As a freshman hypothesis of Cronenberg’s concerns (destruction of the family, the horrific cost of sex, physical manifestation of spiritual traumas as boils and sores, womb sacs ) there’s much for scholars to read into. Get yer dissertations ‘ere! As a horror film it is dull and duff, a waste of popcorn. Reed and Eggar’s scenes of role play therapy are better than Hindle’s directionless investigation. Only an attack in a nursery classroom, with playfully transgressive believable reaction shots from the kids, transcends the pretentious and the lack of incident.

3

David Lynch directs Patricia Arquette, Bill Pullman and Robert Blake in this surreal tale of sexual paranoia and violent jealousy. 

Not prime Lynch, I remember renting this out to watch with a mate at college and both of us sat silently through it, turned it off, took the VHS out and wordlessly went and did something better with the remainder of our day as teenagers. Twenty years down the line and a cautious revisit, I’ve aged better than it has. I now can appreciate the teased intention and few merits; Blake’s ashen faced Mystery Man is hauntingly creepy, the opening half hour has an inexplicable sense of dread and Patricia Arquette spends much of the film in various states of undress, sexual simulations and lovely noir hairstyles (I’m a man, sue me). But once the narrative shifts to focus on a “new” protagonist everything meanders to a halt. The plot has a weak Xerox of Dennis Hopper’s Frank in Blue Velvet (Robert Loggia is fine but he is pointedly no Dennis Hopper’s Frank in Blue Velvet) and everything stinks just like the Twin Peaks series 2 filler involving dull mechanic James running away to a married femme fatale’s mansion… The worst subplot inflicted on us once Laura Palmer’s murder was solved and Lynch abandoned the show. Is Lynch trying to demonstrate to those he left his show in the care of how such a staple noir plot should be done? He fails. Or is this all a forger’s note that he actually was more involved in the more maligned episodes of his television masterpiece? Possible. We keep cutting away to two clueless detective sitting passively, begrudgingly watching, staking out the dangerous affairs and behind close doors demons. Thank you David for including a massive “Go fuck yourself, you fucking idiots” to anyone trying to comprehend the point of this boring experiment. As it is Lynch, and he is such an obscure and unique voice, I’ll no doubt watch this again in 2030s out of completist’s beliefs. No doubt I’ll be just as disappointed again.

4

 

Nicholas Winding Refn directs Elle Fanning, Jena Malone and Keanu Reeves in this hyper stylised look at a fledgling LA model’s brush with fame and hell.

Mean Girls meets Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me! Black Swan meets Zoolander! You can easily write 100 of these accurate reductions for The Neon Demon and that is part of the fun. Like Tarantino, NWR is a sampler and remixer of other movies (though his record carry case contains easy to place classic hits rather than Quent’s more obscure and hip white vinyl). And here he manages to mega mix a knowing rave of light, shimmer, surface and sexiness… And threat, constant, often intangible threat. A film so winkingly vapid that 50% is told in the reflections of mirrors, if not reflections of reflections – so all that matters is what we are looking at, who cares how it feels? Characters rarely touch unless it is to expertly apply or smear make-up and if ever they do actually connect, it is violently. Elle Fanning is magical as the less than naive naïf who promises a lot (many of her interactions involve making false deals she won’t deliver on), is desired by all and walks the fine line between hero and possible villain. The quite frankly amazing Jena Malone steals the show as a friendly make-up artist who you can’t quite trust. At times the pace can be a little too coy; the male support is well cast (Alessandro Nivola and Reeves kill in small roles) but feel sidelined by the last hour, and that aggressive punchline finale and epilogue will leave a bad taste in many mouths (I swallowed it whole) but as a gory, teasing peephole to a kaleidoscope of glitter, flesh and… well, strobing gorgeous neon, The Neon Demon wins.

8

 

 

Daniel Nettheim directs Willem Dafoe, Sam Neill and Frances O’Connor in this existential adventure about the hunt for an extinct tiger. 

Two films smashed to parts and rewelded together. One perfect: Dafoe’s expert merc, out in the gorgeously stark Tasmanian wilderness, setting traps, roughing the elements and growing paranoid alternately that there’s something else out there with him / there is nothing else out there with him. One uninspired and cliched: as his closed off anti-hero frustratingly returns to base camp every 12 days to connect with his predecessor’s grieving family. A shame as the film does expose some interesting concerns on both working communities reactions to green activists and grief –  but they get in the way of what we want to see more of; which is an increasingly animalistic Dafoe punishing his weathered body, out snipering rivals and punishing himself down jagged ravines. That is where the movie’s beauty, power and uniqueness lie but an overriding urge to devote a good 45 minutes to him cleaning his landlady’s bath and looking at her malnourished kids’ crayon doodlings dilutes these pleasures.

6

John Sturges directs Steve McQueen, Yul Brynner and Eli Wallach in this classic all star western.

Just a fantastic night in and proof that a remake can exceed the source material. There’s some brilliant big names trying to out cool each other – seriously any film where the ever awesome James Coburn plays the fourth best hero must have some real dynamo performances. But if I had to award a medal at the end it would be to Eli Wallach’s jolly villian – not quite as captivating as his Tuco for Leone , it still is a great genre turn. The action efficient, the script unpretentious, that score, that score and the humour measured out neatly, albeit in a testosterone heavy machismo orientated kinda way they can’t really pull off anymore. Faultless entertainment.

10

Camille Delamarre directs Ed Skrein, Ray Stevenson and Loan Chabanol in this far far too soon reboot of the Jason Statham franchise.

The Europa Corp blend of world weary yet unstoppable lead, cool cars, hot chicks, continental setting and inventive action noticeably fails here. Skrein looks more like Nicholas Hoult after a rough stag party than a force to be reckoned with, even if his Stath voice convinces. The fitted as standard ogling-a-saucy-bird-while-some-exposition-is-spurted-out factor is somewhat diminished by the fact we know they are, to the very last one, all sex slaves since children from the off. This puts a really dampener on all the poolside panties gyrating and Bridgette Nielsen in Beverly Hill Cop 2 lite robberies. And the action feels weakly conceived and half heartedly executed, rationed out too… I can’t remember anything pulse raising occurring in the first half. We are a long fucking way away from Stath’s Frank Martin oiling up for a rumble in a garage slick followed by a car chase followed by another fight glory days when it eventually does get a bit aggro. All in all it doesn’t even match the cheap and cheesy TV spin off, let alone the fun but disposable originals. But there is a incandescently bright flame in all this murky disappointment; Ray Stevenson, camping it up something horrid and having them time of his life, as The Transporter’s dad. I cottoned on to the fact they were going for a Sean Connery in Last Crusade dynamic a few minutes before he started calling Skrein “Junior!” every other scene. Stevenson may never have broke out but he is miles better than this, as evidenced in every single scene he brightens up. Makes you wonder how much fun it would have been if our Jase returned and Ray’s part was redacted to paternal older brother… Or why not just reboot it with his loveable, manly, couldn’t give a flying fuck presence in the lead instead? A palpable wasted opportunity.

4

Quentin Tarantino directs Harvey Kietel, Steve Buscemi and Michael Masden in this independent heist goes wrong thriller.

As calling cards go this is a bold declaration of intent and showcase of talent. The script pops with great exchanges. Its overwhelming distinctive-for-1992 quality netted quite the cast of then unappreciated talents and eye catching faces. There’s never been quite such a well-acted, low-budget genre film. Tarantino’s direction lurks and lingers on these good performances, let’s them shine. And his tricksy structure allows him to slice off as much cliché  as possible so there is rarely a dull moment unless he is purposefully luxuriating in the every day (killing time at breakfast, the washing of hands, stalking Mr Blonde out to his car and back). These mundane pauses, pregnant with threat, before the debates, fights and violence escalate show an author in complete control of pace, character and audience, rather than a one trick pony who merely knows the right movies to sample and the best way to make cool characters sound even cooler. Now having said all that, and it should be obvious I am a Tarantino fanboy, this is not a perfect experience. The various Misters and Nice Guy might be well defined in dynamic but they all do speak in that same voice, with the same concerns and same obscure cultural touchstones. It wouldn’t be until Inglorious Basterds that QT would be comfortable creating dialogue for characters who didn’t spraff away in his unmistakable Tarantino rhythm and argot. And as iconic a piece as it has become, Dogs is not quite Goodfellas or not nearly Pulp Fiction. There no real depth to it, it is a little too tightly wound to exist beyond what is seen and heard. As a writer/director doing loop de loops and nose dives for the spectators, it feels like a practice run and therefore doesn’t quite marvel and charm and thoroughly impress as those outright classics. In fact, by credits roll I felt the more throwaway, derivative types of Things to Do in Denver When You’re Dead or 2000’s Ocean’s Eleven now prove more satisfying repeat view capers to these modern eyes. Once you know the secrets and solved the tricks there is very little to it but some funny, hip back and forths – Reservoir Dogs works best nowadays as a very sick comedy… a morgue set farce. But the imperfect debut’s importance cannot be understated; without this no Tarantino, no none of those other rip off films that followed in its wake either. Like Mean Streets, it may have seen better days but it’s scrappy energy and smart experimentation kicked the hatch open so some absolute classics could then escape. Reservoir Dogs dug tunnels like Charlie Bronson.

8

Nora Ephron directs Meg Ryan, Tom Hanks and Greg Kinnear in this product placement heavy merging of The Shop Around the Corner and Sleepless in Seattle.

A handsome enough attempt the rekindle the fire that roared, crackled and warmed in Sleepless in Seattle. The problem here is Ryan seems at best on autopilot and at worst visibly overacting to get herself through the myriad of superfluous scenes with almost endlessly pointless interactions with superfluous characters. She was clearly tired of being America’s Sweetheart but the paychecks kept rolling in. Add to that a rather sour but predominant  “corporate is best, therefore the time of the quality family business is over” message that matches the thinking behind the production but not the politics of the intended audience. Luckily Hanks brings his incomparable A Game which not just cements over the cracks buts adds a lovely colour and an expensive gold leaf frieze. Really though this feels like a stew of leftovers chucked in with no consideration as to whether they compliment each other at all.

5