Bobby Carroll's Movie Diary

Danny Boyle directs Ewan McGregor, Robert Carlyle and Ewen Bremner in this belated catch-up with the ageing population of Irvine Welsh’s Edinburgh skagboy universe. 

An absolute laugh out loud charmer this. Given the talent involved and the original’s untarnished importance to a generation, the weight of expectation should cripple this lesser film fatally. Boyle makes quite clear this is a cash-in, an exercise in nostalgia and sitcommy extension. You wouldn’t and couldn’t enjoy it as a stand alone film. It is a remix of all the old iconic moments imbued with streak of worry line maturity, balding self awareness and hope. Fuck it. It is fun and I can’t wait to bang it on the DVD player immediately after watching the true classic episode one. Renton and Sick Boy have become creaky watered down versions of their less interesting selfs. With the exception of a thrilling visit to a Unionist bar (let’s see how that travels overseas) their main plotline dawdles along, allowing echoes of the past to infect the film, pleasingly so. No… the fight is on between Begbie and Spud for who steals the show. Carlyle gets all the best lines and scenes, only his resolution with his son rings false. While Bremner must be kicking himself that T2  has been released on the far side of the moon for award contention. He takes the buffoonish role he perfected decades ago and amps up the pathos and the bathos to heart wrenching effect. Ya fucking beauty! Now Boyle is the one who you feel could have used this time making a better film, he rarely knocks out less than masterpiece but we’ll give him a pass here. He sticks surprisingly close to Welsh’ literary follow-up Porno, removing only what would truly date or restrict an adaptation. In fact a returning Welsh’ cameo as Mikey Forrester is telling, the fateful drug deal that ended the opening rush in ’96 and he’s the only one who has really benefitted from it. That’s quite the lock up for a fence, full of everything Renton choose to reject in his opening monologue all those years ago.

6

M. Night Shyamalan directs James McAvoy, Anya Taylor-Joy and Betty Buckley in this thriller about a nut with 23 personalities who kidnaps three girls.

A thirty something year old man convincingly dancing to Kanye as a nine year old boy would. Can’t be topped for laughs or creepiness. And pretty much sums this whole five finger exercise up. A rum cocktail of tense and daft moments but what more could you ask for from Shyamalan. McAvoy is pleasantly committed but you suspect there is no real sweat to playing a half dozen different caricatures if they only have to share the same face and no other attributes. Taylor-Joy is equally fine as the final girl… but she’s been better used by horrors of wavering quality elsewhere. The twist is there is no twist… yet one long drawn out narrative rug pull involves child abuse without exploring the emotional damage, just using paedophilia as a get out clause to a sticky situation, narrative shorthand, thus cheapening the whole thing. Meanwhile the coda makes you remember a little too keenly when Shyamalan was actually quite decent at this kinda of self important trash bobbins.

4

Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger direct Deborah Kerr, Kathleen Byron and Jean Simmons in this tale of nuns on a mission in the Himalayas driven to distraction by repression, jealousy and isolation. 

Cor! It all looks right beautiful. Fake vistas surround the fake location but all are mere mattes painted by some impressionistic old master. Essentially a staid drama about religious duty that has sequences of sex comedy and psychological horror embedded within it. The nuns all feel like fragments of Kerr’s youthful Mother Superior personality, with each one becoming more overwrought by their defining mania, dutifulness or nostalgia as the seasons change. Kathleen Byron’s hysteria gripped subordinate in particular often feels like a dark mirror being held up to the protagonist as much as a character in her own right. Then you have browned up Simmons, Sabu, topless David Farrar and May Hallat as the more acclimatised ‘locals’ lustfullily squawking around the nuns like tempting harpies. A strangely disturbing experience, as much parable as straight narrative, told in bold strokes and flashes… just as you’d expect from The Archers.

8

Gavin O’Connor directs Natalie Portman, Joel Edgerton and Ewan McGregor in this western about a woman in the desert who asks her ex to protect her wounded husband as a group of outlaws close in on her homestead.

A rare Western told from a female perspective and closer to the harsh realities a frontier venturing woman might have been threatened with than what your Barbara Stanwyck or Joan Crawford ever encountered. It is a bit too po-faced to gain any lasting pleasures from, a bit too obsessed with its flashbacks to create a captivating main narrative. The potential is there in cast, set up and intention just never capitalised on.

4

John Badham directs Johnny Depp, Christopher Walken and Charles S. Dutton in this real time thriller about an ordinary man whose daughter is kidnapped by a cabal who want him to kill a senator within 90 minutes. 

I remember this being a bit weak when it was released direct to video in my youth but over two decades the central hook was so strong (24 Series 1 managed to spin thrills and spills over a dozen episodes out of essentially the same premise), the two leads so intriguing and my own lack of faith in my teenager self’s judgement that I gave this another shot. Once again though, spotty, greasy, Oasis loving Bobby Carroll of days gone by was pretty astute. This is a waste of a brilliant concept producing, instead of a man pushed to the edge style Hitchcockian paranoia, entire quarter hours of Depp getting his shoes shined (twice) before pacing back and forth like a Type 1 security risk in the lobby of a decent hotel. The trap is so loose, so forgiving of his constant deviations, transgressions and backing out (Why 90 minutes for example? Why not a mere 15 to give him no wriggle room or time to deliberate?… PS I know the structural answer but seriously the conspirators have issued quite the length of rope for him to find his way out of this pit) that no tension is created. Beyond the fact that the film is quite a nice advert for the conference facilities of the Westin Hotel, are there any saving graces? Walken convinces as a man “who will make gravy of your little girl’s bones” even when he spends 90 minutes ignoring consistent provocations to do so, but I bet he convinces he is that type of guy when letting the gas meter man in to take a reading… we didn’t need this time waster to prove that. Depp however sleepwalks through it. Desperate family man is not part of his repertoire, any more than convincing Walken that his character needs at least one professional shoeshine an hour is.

3

Ben Affleck directs himself, Brendan Gleeson and Elle Fanning in this adaptation of the Dennis Lehane’s doorstop thriller about a decent man who controls a Florida city during Prohibition for the Italian mob. 

Affleck and Lehane back together again. Nothing could go wrong. Then I saw the trailer and it all felt a little Dick Tracy… did I flinch? Nah, it’s Affleck and Lehane. Nothing could go wrong. Then the duff reviews came in, and I don’t read reviews before seeing a movie… but sometimes the cacophony of glimpsed at 2 star ratings manage to distract you with their consistency and regularity. Did I stumble on my way to the ticket counter? Nah, it’s Affleck and Lehane. Nothing could go wrong. And the first 20 minutes of period Boston bank robberies, treacherous molls and Gleeson tearing up the screen as Affleck’s hard cop Dad… and I was relieved. It’s Affleck and Lehane. “Nothing has gone wrong.” I whispered to myself. But then things went wrong. And it is hard to put your finger on exactly what while you are watching… except you soon realise as Affleck is passively on the sidelines of various cliched subplots that squirm around each other, trapped in the beautiful two hour bucket, wrestling each other for air… just how boring it all is. Every now and again an impressive exchange of acting or gunfire wriggles free of the bucket, and slithers away, but in the main it’s just all writhing up there on screen, becoming more tangled and indistinguishable. Aside from costume and set dressing, it all feels lacklustre. It feels like everyone thought this was such a sure thing that no effort needed to be made to excel. It feels constrained by 120 minutes of running time, like Gangs of New York there are scenes edited to cut away so quickly you wonder what the point of including them was, and you hypothesise about a longer cut that might give all this unoriginal murmuration just a few extra seconds per moment to find its sure footing. Like watching a series recap of Boardwalk Empire, then some deleted scenes, then another series recap without ever getting to enjoy a well paced, keenly structured episode. You’ll never find me Affleck bashing, not Affleck the director, nor Affleck the movie star, but either on set hubris or some unspoken of studio constriant in the edit booth has hobbled what should have been movie gold.

4

J. A. Bayona directs Lewis MacDougall, Sigourney Weaver and Felicity Jones in this tale of a stoic boy whose grief, guilt and rage at his mother’s terminal illness manifests itself as a destructive, fable spouting tree monster.

Beautifully crafted and performed (the kid is excellent) – this sadly left me cold through no real fault of its own. For all its fine qualities, I struggled to see who it was for. Too close to the bone for bullied, orphaned or troubled children to entertain yet a bit self worthy to be cathartic for adults remembering when they went through similar traumas. Like Kubo or Silence, I’ll happily concede I can see how such intelligent labours of love from celluloid artisans could seduce everyone else, and that the fault must internally be with me.

5

William Malone directs Geoffrey Rush, Famke Janssen and Jeffrey Combs in this horror remake where a group of strangers accidentally get invited to a rollercoaster tycoon’s party in an abandoned, haunted asylum. 

I vaguely remember this opening well with 50s psychiatric staff being attacked by sharp pencil wielding loons. That bit still proves OK, as does a joke stunt to introduce Rush’ latest wild ride, but that’ about all there is to say for this duller. Once the actual plot begins this becomes a snooze fest. C-list movie stars go wandering off on their own, double crossing each other half heartedly, until some inevitable poorly rendered CGI fuggy swirl slugs about mildly in the final act, picking off anyone an unwanted sequel couldn’t afford to rehire. Punishingly uninvolving.

2

 

Damien Chazelle directs Emma Stone, Ryan Gosling and John Legend in this original musical about an aspiring actress and obsessive jazz pianist trying to make it in Los Angeles. 

I settled into a New York multiplex seat with high expectations and within minutes they were exceeded. The opening number reached a crescendo of such dare, verve and painstaking timing (yet while feeling fresh and unstaged), popping with vivid colours and confident moves, that the rest of the running time could have just been the effervescent Stone and likably flawed Gosling making shadow puppets on the wall and I still would have given this a 10 anyway. They all do more than that (Whiplash was apparently no fluke and we all already love these stars), wearing the technical ingenuity, the quality influences proudly on their collective sleeves, and glorifying the simple emotions of risking it and failing and pulling yourself back together and moving on with an expert flourish. And the risky ending… featuring a forgotten almost star who made his name in a similarly bright movie about creative hopefuls almost touching the sun…. is just on-point. I’ll hold my finger to my lips and say no more right now. A breezy, touching, reverential, stops pulled all out, modern masterpiece.

10

Nicholas Ray directs Joan Crawford, Sterling Hayden and Mercedes McCambridge in this technicolor western about a saloon owner being driven out of town by her fanatical respectable counterpart. 

Romance, star vehicle, feature length catfight, gender subversion, blatant exploration of McCarthyism and still with your industry standard shoot-outs to boot, Johnny Guitar is one of those rare 50s form-busting, risk taking, tongue in cheek genre endeavours that make you constantly ask “What the fuck am I watching?” as it snares you tighter into its trap (see also 40 Guns). Obviously a massive influence on Tarantino with its long, monologue driven sequences and genre deconstruction, the above image sums up the camp fun to be had within; Crawford greeting a lynch mob in all her fineries at a piano, stuck between a rock and hard place. She plays for them for five whole tense, illuminating minutes.

7