Clint Eastwood directs himself, Meryl Streep and Annie Corley in this romance where a farmer’s wife and a National Geographic photographer share a brief week in love that defines their lives.
Streep’s Italian accent in this is pretty iffy. She sounds like Bela Lugosi! That aside, this is a gentle yet classy affair.
Peyton Reed directs Kirsten Dunst, Eliza Dushku and Gabrielle Union in this teen comedy about a cheerleading competition.
Surface level – this is just an average teen movie, very much of its era, with enough dirty dialogue for the adults, enough colour and energy for the kids. But it is very, very rewatchable. Dunst is probably the main reason for this – her lead role really plays towards her long since abandoned mainstream star strengths. Yet I can’t think of any movie that gets the unlikely combination of sweet yet salty, sexy yet sunny quite so perfectly blended.
Milos Foreman directs F. Murray Abraham, Tom Hulce and Elisabeth Berridge in this classic period drama following the one sided rivalry between genius composer Mozart and infuriated court hack Salieri.
Transports you to another world and celebrates everything decadent and groundbreaking about Mozart’s work. Telling his rise and fall from Salieri’s jealous and conniving point of view is the masterstroke – F. Murray Abraham runs with a gift of a role. This is an evocative production that completely enthrals you. Tom Hulce’s central performance is a little too stagey and forced… and the whole shebang is loooong. But sticking with it reaps many rewards. One of the few Eighties Oscar darlings that stands the test of time, Foreman gets the balance right between playfulness and prestige, madness and measuredness.
Éric Rohmer directs Emmanuelle Chaulet, Francois-Eric Gendron and Sophie Renoir in this French romantic comedy where two new friends wobble over which handsome man is right for them.
I overdosed a little on Rohmer over lockdown… can’t say though I ever really settled into his painstakingly sloooow rhythm or fully appreciated his low key humanistic sex farces. I know people love his films but with one or two exceptions I’m just not getting it? This was, however, one of those exceptions. A perfectly pleasant gentle, wordy rom-com. Very middle class. Very “new town”. Very C&A. I especially appreciate his commitment to getting beautiful young French ingenues into swimsuits in the shortest amount of runtime possible.
Alan J. Pakula directs Kevin Kline, Kevin Spacey and Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio in this yuppie in peril thriller where the mysterious new neighbours encourage the boring nice folks next door into insurance fraud… then wife swapping… then HOLY SHIT!
A batshit mental forgotten thriller but not a particularly good time. Nobody behaves or reacts in a way that could be construed as believable. The plot developments jerk forward out of nowhere, leaving you discombobulated rather than engaged. There is so much we are not being shown, or that is given so little screen time, you feel something is being obscured in the service of some ultimate revelation… but eventually it just all sums up to an uzi gun battle. Really? An uzi!? Lessons learnt: 1) That is the very worse way to do a wife swap. Tantamount to rape. 2) Spacey cooks here. Though many of his lines of dialogue have taken on darkly hilarious double meanings since #metoo. 3) This feels like an awful parodic rehash of American Beauty at times, so weird it came seven years earlier. 4) I had to google whether femme fatale Rebecca Miller was Marilyn Monroe’s daughter. She isn’t. She could be. 5) Erotic thrillers should have at least some nudity in them. All in all; A cheesy car crash that I reckon those involved thought might be in the running for Academy Award buzz. Hubristic but never boring.
Martin Scorsese directs Nicolas Cage, Patricia Arquette and John Goodman in this bleak black comedy where an insomniac NY paramedic can’t seem to save anyone over three traumatic shifts.
A swan song. The very last time Scorsese worked on this kinda claustrophobic urban character study scale. Everything over the last twenty years has been pointedly epic and sprawling. I guess The Departed and The Wolf of Wall Street have the same satirical black heart. And Shutter Island is as self contained and geographically limited – but the intention there is very much grander and more baroque. Bringing Out The Dead feels like the last gasp of young punkish Marty who trapped us in his city, his religion, his paranoia, his addictions, his night. No one else harnesses the night like Scorsese – the moon under water becomes the neon lost in a dirty puddle. Mean Streets. Taxi Driver. After Hours. A character study, a working grind, an existential hell. I wonder if he and Paul Schrader ever have a light conversation? Make small talk?
The acting is pretty exciting. All of it coming at you in discordant speeds and volume. Cage is worn out, subdued… we don’t really see him this internalised that often. The Schrader written narration probably is a misstep. A part of the formula from previous successes that doesn’t need to be carried over in this instance. Patricia Arquette feels ethereally out of time with her Catholic schoolgirl look and whispered wails of dialogue. John Goodman, Ving Rhames and Tom Sizemore bring the colour as Cage’s three alternating ambulance partners. Each one tramples over the lead’s neuroses and sanity with their big parasitic personalities. After being set up as such the agent of chaos in his brief appearances before the third act, it feels a shame we din’t get more of Sizemore’s violent psycho, Captain Tom. By that point the narrative is shaking loose its structure to do artier things. The background ensemble has people you’ve never logged doing fascinating work; Afemo Omilami, Mary Beth Hurt and early appearances from The Wire’s Sonja Sohn and Michael K. Williams. A pantomime of bad behaviour.
You could see it as raking over old ground… it was marketed somewhat bluntly as Taxi Driver in an ambulance… ER meets Catch-22. It works best as a very dark comedy. The second half has issues. Scorsese struggles to find anything new to say after a rush of setting up imagery and moods. He ends up repeating motifs until the movie just shuts down and dozes off. But that first hour now feels like a last hurrah. We are running red lights, popping meds and blasting Johnny Thunders. Scorsese might have matured but I haven’t. This is the cinema I want. I’d take the relentless and manic first half over a thousand Kunduns and Silences. You can’t put your arms around a memory!
Paul Thomas Anderson directs Adam Sandler, Emily Watson and Philip Seymour Hoffman in this romantic comedy between a lonely man with anger issues and an eye for the loophole in a deal, and the woman who may be stalking him.
Most cineastes approach Punch-Drunk Love as a Paul Thomas Anderson project. After making critically lauded ensemble pieces that impressed with their prestigious casts, scope, emotional intelligence and technical mastery he decided to change gears and make a minor romance movie starring the least respected comedy star on the A-List. From Jerry Lewis to Bill Murray, auteurs normally wait until big name clowns reach late middle age and are well past their box office hay day before they begin casting them in their artier projects. Yet Punch-Drunk Love was made at the height of Sandler’s youthful box office ascendancy, at a point when he seemed to represent everything lunk headed and unsophisticated about general multiplex going tastes. You’d struggle to find a critic who appreciated his mode of cinema in 2002. I’m sure most contemporary write ups of this great movie were written through the snide filter of a tyro director utilising one of Hollywood rawer and less refined resources. Slumming it. A quirk. A prank. An ironic self imposed obstruction.
And I call bullshit on that… As someone who enjoyed Sandler ever since Airheads, and concedes he has tasteless duds like Billy Madison and The Waterboy for every comedy success, Punch-Drunk Love plays out a lot more like an Adam Sandler release than it does a PTA work of art. Sandler plays a henpecked, overwhelmed man child barely in control of his emotions and hostility. A veil of forced politeness smothers a bubbling volcano of justified fury in every interaction. The film is at its best when you can see all of his Barry Egan’s button getting pressed and the irritation of other humans not playing by the rules just rip off his mask, a hundred little consecutive unthinking pulls a minute. As with all good Sandler stories he eventually beats the system, gets the dream girl and puts the bullies in their place. It has a cast of quirky comedy insiders and indie darlings; Hoffman, Luis Guzmán, Mary Lynn Rajskub or Robert Smigel wouldn’t seem out of place in the regular ensemble of any Adam Sandler vehicle. The movie has the pleasingly garish colour scheme of a kid’s telly show or a Nineties toy shop aisle. The soundtrack repurposes forgotten songs from the Eighties (OK… I’ll confess…that’s a stretch as Altman, Nilsson and Shelley Duvall’s He Needs Me from the Popeye soundtrack isn’t exactly a dated banger from The Police or Thompson Twins). Sandler even spends a portion of the shoot at a holiday resort and fans know if he can crowbar a tropical beano into the middle act for his family and friends, he’ll definitely pick that script over countless other. The only way this is a departure from the usual Sandler template is that he never looks at camera, a self aware nod lifted from Eddie Murphy, when plot developments break even the broadest borders of incredulity. That, and Rob Schneider doesn’t cameo. The sincerity and magical realism and near psychotic slapstick rages that define a Sandler hit are all here. Present and correct! In 50 years time will people studying his surviving films even see this as such a huge departure or a risk?
Sure… Paul Thomas Anderson plays around with the mix a little, I personally think the director is at his best observing a closed-in anti-romance like here or Phantom Thread. The unresolved mysteries of the harmonium, Barry’s underused ability to fly and the hypercolour sugar sweet moments of narrative blackout all feel like they belong in a Coen Brothers movie or a Paul Auster novel. But if they did happen in a Dennis Dugan or Frank Coraci directed comedy you wouldn’t blink or ask to speak to the manager.
There’s a lot of looseness and openness that makes Punch-Drunk Love fascinating. Emily Watson’s Lena Leonard is an obtuse and mysterious fantasy woman. She shows flashes where she is just as fucked up and touched as Sandler’s Barry. You can imagine an entire parallel film where her whole unseen side of the romance could produce similar moments of primary colour tension, mania and overwhelming idiosyncrasy. Then there are motifs that become more apparent on repeated viewings. Why does so much of the narrative take place in liminal spaces? Alleyways, hallways, lobbies, airport walkways. Why are these characters trapped in spatial limbo, restless without destination? Is that why Barry explodes in toilets, phone boxes, kitchens and warehouses? Is he most dangerous when cornered, always needing an entrance and an exit to keep moving? Does he have to see the loophole? And what’s with all the subtle references to Superman?!
This stood as Sandler’s finest work until the recent, but equally frazzled and beautiful, Uncut Gems. He has so many great films in his back catalogue now ranging from the popular rom coms to SFX blockbusters to the genuinely experimental. Isn’t it time people started to talking about Brooklyn’s most successful funny man in the same conversations as Keaton, Sellers, Martin and Carrey? Or are the snooty middle classes thrown that he still sees the value in a Hubie Halloween or a Murder Mystery when people just wanna have Friday night pleasures? Because I can tell you no matter how put upon and soul destroyed he is here, or violent or deranged his reaction proves, we as an audience member are completely on his side and within his mindset. Every step of the way. Not many actors have achieved that through an entire movie.
Cate Shortland directs Scarlett Johansson, Florence Pugh and David Harbour in the Marvel prequel espionage thriller where former Russian assassin Natasha Romanoff faces her past.
Marvel has had the proverbial red in its ledger for quite a while now. One of the biggest stars to sign up and commit to underpaid supporting roles within multiple entries has been Scarlett Johansson. More so than Robert Downey Jnr. or Samuel L. Jackson she has proven the franchise’s mainstay over various self imposed phases. After a decade on the frontline of team-ups and falling outs with the Avengers, they finally announced her solo adventure… and then killed her character off. This prequel, set curiously between Civil War and Infinity War, helps to finally fill out her much hinted at dark backstory while giving her a chance to hand the baton over to a future heir apparent. You might expect this ultimately inconsequential late chapter to either create a get out clause to Natasha Romanoff’s big heroic sacrifice or to be a celebration of a character and star who has added so much needed continuity and sex appeal to the ever expanding Marvel universe… but really this is a superhero tinged spy thriller made because everyone realised Scar-Jo deserved her own movie away from the boys and there was a financial appetite for it. Why it has come so jarringly late in the cycle is anyone’s guess -it certainly feels more essential and cinematic than Doctor Strange or Captain Marvel’s origin features, and is a more compelling release than that childish Ant-Man sequel. Whether you approach Black Widow as an orphan of scheduling conflicts or mega budgeted contractual obligation, it is probably fair to say it should have been made in 2017 ahead of other projects. Still… this is easily the best Marvel movie since Thanos clicked his big purple fingers. Catch it at a multiplex on the biggest screen if you can!
Once you can get your head around where this belated piece of the jigsaw puzzle fits into the overall picture, the lack of urgency and impact to the overarching grand narrative proves negligible. It is a really entertaining spy thriller which relies more on stunts and chutzpah than magic lasers and weightless CGI. For the first two acts this plays more like an action movie in the Bond / Bourne / Hunt mode. Maybe not quite as muscular as those series at their finest but certainly of that ilk. Bones crunch, cars rev and you are emotionally engaged with the bodies in flight. The sleeper family on the run prologue is particularly remarkable for its patiently escalating peril and getting young Natasha in the driving seat while introducing her “family.”
Maybe it will annoy the hardcore fanbase but Cate Shortland’s direction is notable for its real world trappings, generosity to showcase the actors natural chemistry and pointed avoidance to give in to the usual Marvel cliches over the first 90 minutes. That doesn’t last – the big finale takes place in swirling, weightless digital debris, the big bad proves a damp squib afterthought and the stand alone nature can’t help but hint at potential THINGS TO COME when it should just focus on telling its own story. I doubt indie director Shortland needed to really be on set all that much once the Red Room begins to self destruct for twenty long minutes but what she delivers before is pretty admirable. We’ve come a long way since we met the Black Widow cleavage first, spilling out of her leather jump suit in Iron Man 2. Who was expecting a decade later to see her in story that references child soldiers, FGM and the disposability and exploitation of young girls out with the white western world? Does it work as a kid’s movie? I don’t know, that’s another question but I appreciated the maturer, dourer and astute aspects of it.
Really though this is should be a showcase for Johansson to shine away from flirtations with the more recognised male capes. She does seem a little subdued, overly happy to share the spotlight with her new cast members. It definitely feels like her character who saves the day ultimately but maybe after multiple movies pitching so other characters can knock it out of the park Johansson is a little too generous here letting other characters steal the scenes. Always the team player? Or maybe just a little bored of the playbook now her place in the queue has eventually come to the front after so long waiting? If this definitely is her last hurrah as THE Black Widow, you kinda wish it felt more definitively her movie or capped her heroics off with a celebratory legacy moment that foreshadows her eventual universe saving demise. It feels weird we are all aware the closing scenes were written and shot knowing her P45 is already filled out and in the post but she just wanders over casually to a superjet as if she’ll be back in the office after the long weekend.
What an impressive support cast! The Marvel behemoth can afford the best money can buy. If I were Rachel Weisz, Ray Winstone or the incredibly underserved Olga Kurylenko I’d just thank my agent for my new swimming pool and not get too bogged down in the sparseness of the part on paper. It is the double team masterclass of scene stealing from Florence Pugh and David Harbour you have to watch out for. Still at a point in their respective burgeoning stardoms where they still feel fresh to audiences, they grab the ungainly aspects of this movie and just run with them. I’m sure their best moments were scripted by a factory of jobbing writers as with all Marvel entries, but they make their quips and little personable bits of business feel more organic than anyone else has managed to in over 22 other films. You relish the scenes where Johansson, Weisz and they get to play off each other and walk away knowing that either could handle this kinda huge affair off their individual backs with flair. If Kevin Feige does plan to spin-off either stand out into their own solo jaunt then hopefully next time he won’t wait until a decade has drained all the essential juice out of the adventure. Ending on the ultimate positive, they make this a summer blockbuster worth booking ahead for.
Thomas Vinterberg directs Mads Mikkelsen, Thomas Bo Larsen and Magnus Millang in the comedy where four middle aged teachers experiment with day drinking to see if it improves their stagnant professional and social lives.
The Danish remake of Men Behaving Badly gets the balance between laughs and drama exactly right. You always expect an impeccable standard from Mikkelsen when he is in the lead, but the whole ensemble here is on fine fettle. The unexpected but well set-up finale has to be one the strongest endings to any 21st century movie, leaving you on a buzzing high.
Christopher Landon directs Vince Vaughn, Kathryn Newton and Uriah Shelton in this teen horror comedy where the final girl swaps bodies with the hulking slasher and has 24 hours to reverse the switch.
Natalie has always chided me for not fully embracing the fun Happy Death Day movies. I think the problem is high concept mash-ups like those films and Christopher Landon’s new movie Freaky are so up my street it is hard for them to ever fully live up to my expectations. They are almost exactly my jam but they have unfussy neatness and brightness I associate more with afternoon telly rather than midnight cinema. The horror elements, for example, could be stronger here, the stalks and survival be just a little more drawn out. I don’t think that tweak would overpower the comedy elements, which fly thanks to a game Vince Vaughn. Freaky is a funnier movie than it is a scarier movie, so easily digestible and sequel worthy that, like Happy Death Day, I can see me rewatching it more often than films I would rate higher.
Bobby Carroll's Movie Diary 