Bobby Carroll's Movie Diary

Jeremy Saulnier directs Anton Yelchin, Alia Shawkat and Patrick Stewart in this claustrophobic punk band versus skinheads thriller.

Last time I trembled like this in the cinema I was watching Ringu in the ICA, 1999. Sadako was climbing out of a TV screen and I knew what was about to happen next was going to be dreadful for a character I had invested in. Jeremy Saulnier, building on his intense Blue Ruin, hits exactly the same nerve expertly with this. It is a tight, aggressive little shocker that plays out with a relentless glee. Unlike say, Return of the Living Dead (see below) the protagonists aren’t running around like headless chickens. They are introduced as resourceful but careless – they’ve run out petrol but problem solve the best siphoning opportunity with experienced petty criminal precision. And this characterises the Ain’t Rights once the shit hits the fan as they make smart plays and reckless moves to escape a horrific situation. They are a captivating crew who have trouble being decisive in their new prison, but every time the clock runs out on them the violence that occurs is explicitly awful. The voice through the door plotting against them is none other than Patrick Stewart, who gives up on anything resembling a yank accent and just launches at every line reading with a hammy Yorkshire menace. Head Skin is accompanied by vicious dogs and lower ranking bother boys with hidden agendas. Their wavering against the boss’ ideology will be the bands only thin windows to make their break. So they tool up and go for it… Kubrickian in detailed realisation of the punk scene, Fincher-esque in its cold, practical springing of the trap and John Carpenter amplified in every fibre and shot and edit and line. Borrowing from the best is no crime. Yet this still moshes, glasses and stomps to it own hideously compelling rhythm. Class.

10

Sebastian Schipper directs Laia Costa, Frederick Lau and Franz Rogowski in this Berlin set romance / thriller all done in one late night take.

It starts like a less pretentious, working class Before Sunrise and warps into a very, very dragged out Run Lola Run. The one shot gimmick is effectively achieved, the likeable performances (Lau in particular makes this worth watching) never noticeably slip, the action really rather awesomely never treads water. But after a slow but appealing flirtation and an enjoyable if unbelievable heist, we get left with one hell of a hungover comedown. Characters become unlikable and you keep thinking back to an earlier point where everything neatly came about full circle and just wish the credits had started rolling off there and then rather than half an hour later. As an exercise in plate spinning it is laudable, as a night out at the movies frustrating.

5

U

The Russo Brothers direct Chris Evans, Scarlett Johansson and Sebastian Stan in this conspiracy thriller lite where Cap finds the modern world to be a distinctly untrustworthy milieu.

Strong ensemble character work and some genuinely kick ass action make this standard issue blockbuster fun. Evans stretches out perfectly into his iconic long term home – he’s still a Boy Scout in his small asides, actions and exchanges albeit an indestructible one. Johansson’s Black Widow is given more to do here than any other Marvel appearance, winningly so. Sure, the plot and paranoia isn’t quite up to scratch when held near the 70s genre it apes, the weather is that near constant Marvel bland utopia of never changing 40 degree days and you do wish in the final big battle they might “shut the fuck up” with the jokes and let the well set up stakes of the boom boom speak for itself. But all in all out an efficient romp.

7

Jason Reitman directs Charlize Theron, Patton Oswalt and Patrick Wilson in this dramaerdy about a prom queen still terrifyingly clinging to her high school romance as she approaches middle age.

I’m a big fan of Jason Reitman’s clearly framed, crisply colourful character studies but this particular one does little for me. The Diablo Cody scripted humour rationed out in the early half just isn’t there enough by the end, wasting a note perfect lead turn from Theron as a woman so self centred she sees an ex’s newborn as the green flag to try and break up his happy hometown family. Patton Oswalt impresses as the equally arrested in development geek who still has time for her, and I get the subtly made points about maturing and motherhood, but essentially the end game of the film is for us to have sympathy for someone who has not learnt or grown yet whose shocking behaviour gave up on entertaining us after the first act. If the monster was let loose in a few more scenes later on, then Theron would have scooped up awards a plenty. Good soundtrack.

5

Sam Mendes directs Daniel Craig, Christopher Waltz and Léa Seydoux in this gorgeous but lazy entry into the super spy franchise.

A third watch of this fourth and possibly final entry in Craig’s constantly uncertain reboot of the 007 franchise achieves something no other Bond has… making a rewatchable fourth entry. Thunderball, Moonraker and Die Another Day are all the sequels where Sean, Roger and Pierce respectively blotted their ledgers so in that category this proves a roaring success. The action when it comes is bruisingly OTT and enjoyably sustained. A car chase through the Austrain mountains where a plane is used as bowling ball is the winner but a cracking hand to hand barney through three train carriages and that chaotic Day of the Dead opener share silver medals. Léa Seydoux may not be given the most consistent of characters but in terms of beauty, bottled up charm and sexy, flattering costumes she is a stunning foil for Craig. And we’ve found our funny again. Craig will never be comfortable homaging Roger Moore’s Carry On wacky take on “Oh James!” but there is a knowing emphasis on daft excess and tart retorts that stop Spectre from drying out like a worthy dog’s biscuit. Set pieces, Bond girls and gags. We’re back on track then after the inexpilicably successful Skyfall (A Bond film for people who don’t really like Bond)? Well sadly Mendes is still at the helm and the film still restricted by his overriding ethos of  prestige first, “plots this silly never deserve strong storytelling” interpretation of Ian Fleming’s finest. I’ll give him his dues; he adds a drop of Felini here and pinch of Lean there making Spectre one of the most optically stimulating action films ever, he gets a modern ideal of quality and luxury just right, he ties together all those ignored Casino / Quantum ragged ends and binds them together into quite the sense making boxset and, after his clumsy reintroduction of Q, Moneypenny and especially Fiennes as M previous film, here he now coalesces them into a fun B- team given more watchable business to do than merely send Bond off on his mission then leave him to it. But Waltz’s Blofeld is an inexplicable failure (“Cuckoo!”). It took this third viewing for me to figure out his crime was causing terrorist events so nations’ intelligence services would sign up to his free but controlled surveillance system. I knew he was pushing his snide surveillance system, and he was a wrong un, but the terrorist events all happen off screen, mentioned at best in passing or glimpsed on a hotel TV screen while we are busy admiring Q’s holiday knitwear. I’m quite a switched on viewer but Blofeld 2.0 really came across as a quite generous criminal kook with just a childishly personal grudge against James. Once I realised quite how obscurely his actual plot had been laid out to us, it did not help. A Bond film, one begging for one bonus action sequence by the way, where not once does 007 directly foil or is even present for Spectre’s attacks on cities that prove integral to the plot… ?! Sam fucking Mendes. And people don’t like Quantum of Solace? I give up. Still with time all Bond films eventually blend into one and Spectre has enough chunks of top grade razzmatazz that it settle into the mid tier worthily. Like the series best credit sequence full of octopuses and eyes, it is visually splendiferous but you do wish it danced to a slightly livelier, more fan appropriate tune.

7

Dan O’Bannon directs Don Calfa, James Karen and Linnea Quigley in this very gory, very respectful spoof of the Living Dead zombie series.

Joining Kundun one night this week in an accidental Ressurection double bill was a flick that had a very palpable effect on my own childhood. The video cover, at least did,  of Tarman and the gang. Rotting faces leering directly at me, just like Freddy hand drawn but menacing, really got at me as a kid. Terrified me enough to keep me away from my beloved videoshop when I was wee and still out and as far away from the horror section even as eventually I got older but brave enough to venture in to the rental palace where my movie loving tastes formed. No longer anywhere near youth and now a horror fan,  I’d retroactively heard good things about Return since and was eager to catch up with it. And this belated watch proved gleeful if not life changing. It is a knowingly daft and outrageous film. The FX, gore and nasty is just about right, albeit never actual terrifying. The humour manages to be constant, inventive but palpably lacks punchlines. All very of its time, amusing but never amazing. The highlight among some spirited performances is Linnea Quigley who quickly loses her punk clothes (all of them) and then her life and then keeps on chomping as a nudie zombie. Touches like her still don’t make Return of the Living Dead any more than a time waster for sure, but at the very least a lovingly made, grungily frantic time waster. If you like ReAnimator or American Werewolf in London and come to it with lowered expectations it hits a spot no longer catered for.

6

Martin Scorsese directs Tenzin Thuthob Tsarong, Gyurme Tethong and Tulku Jamyang Kunga Tenzin in this epic look at the Dalai Lama’s childhood in Tibet before Chinese aggression exiled him.

Difficult one this as Matin Scorsese has produced a hauntingly beautiful film and one with a unique and naturally compelling tale running through it… yet Kundun just does not gel into a satisfying experience. The bold use of colour is trademark Marty, the near constant telling from child’s point of view (or more accurately…  a very peaceful and gentle man’s shared but diplomatic remembrance of his childhood) often feels like mid career Spielberg. Perhaps this is why the film squanders its inherent power. By not wanting to offend or misrepresent its holy living source, the film lacks the forgivable embellishments of captivating storytelling to give it any hook. The stunt cast of non acting descendants do fine but, like the film itself, end up worthy and respectful rather than mature or interesting. You finish up feeling you have not really seen the truth, nor really even the legend, leaving very little to print. A rare occasion where you get the inkling that Michael Bay or Brett Ratner’s Young Dalai Lama Adventures might be a more practical use of your two hours over Scorsese politically neutered, beneficent life of a saint. Marty has just too much respect for the Dalai Lama    as a man alive to make Kundun work for the casual viewer.

6

Tony Scott directs Christian Slater, Patricia Arquette and Gary Oldman in this Tarantino scripted ultra violent love affair between a comic book loner and a neon clad call girl.

True Romance was the poster above my teenage bed, the music we used as our wedding march and the gateway film into my love of movies. If I was to single out one great performance in this I would merely end up listing twenty. I cannot say one negative or unbiased word about Scott’s beautifully hazy direction and Tarantino’s purest and most energetic script. The scene between Walken and Hopper, where a father faces torture, death and betraying a son he has only just reconnected with and instead chooses to insult his way with obscure history and wit to a slightly nobler end, is quite simply the greatest scene in cinema history. I have included a screenshot of Elliot Blitzer’s unfortunate traffic stop as the chosen image instead for this love letter as that visual punchline is one of the funniest in cinema too. Perfection.

10

Irwin Allen and John Guillermin direct Paul Newman, Steve McQueen and William Holden in this skyscraper inferno disaster flick. 

Lacking the great performances of The Posieden Adventure and the overblown destruction of Twister or San Andreas it’s fair to say Towering Inferno has gotten creaky in its old age. The cast often looks bored, feel a little too split up (OJ Simpson, Richard Chamberlain and Robert Wagner all seemingly disappear for entire hour portions making you wonder if a quirkier, more action packed film is happening in the deleted scenes) and with not quite enough big name, on-screen deaths spread about the mammoth running time to make it gleefully silly enough. Stodgy then but still a great way to fill an evening. Newman, McQueen, Holden and Dunaway phoning it in is still one hell of a switchboard and while the scale has been topped since, the old school effects work is nostalgically strong. Shout outs to Fred Astaire as a con man who looks genuinely terrified in the explosive finale. He’s the only one who gives it his all. Old twinkle toes gets man of the match in the Promenade Room of Doom.

7

Jean Renoir directs Michel Simon, Charles Granval and Severine Lerczinska in this satire where a tramp rejects liberal, comfortable Parisian life.

The problem with watching nearly century old classic comedies is that sometimes the beautiful era captured for satire seems so otherworldly to modern eyes it is hard to recognise the humour. That does not change the appealing shots of Parisian life’s compelling qualities but does mean the slow pace and long lost reference point skewered mean you watch this more as a museum piece than an entertainment. Only an edit from a piece of unexpected sexual conquest to a victory parade outside hits that laugh out loud magic still. Which is a shame as the delightful ensemble work hasn’t aged and the central performance of Michel Simon as the odious free spirit who destroys his saviour’s household is like nothing else. Both clumsy, whiny and unlikable yet also gymnastic, mocking and lustful there has never been such a spot on realisation of a blasé dick as this recorded on celluloid. He reminds me of one person I encountered in reality, who I cannot stand, to quite an uncanny degree. And in real life Simon himself was something of the fascinating oaf “at various times, a boxer, a boxing instructor, a right-wing anarchist, a frequenter of prostitutes, pimps and petty crooks. He was extremely well read, a talented photographer, a hypochondriac, a misanthrope, owner of a vast collection of pornography and with a reputation for unorthodox sexual behaviour which he did not bother to deny.” according to Wikipedia anyway. A truly unique piece of acting results from that lifestyle here.

7