When rating a film I ask myself these three questions: What is the director’s goal or purpose? How does the director try to achieve it? Is the director successful? Hence a big box office hit may get a “5” while a Eurosleaze sexploitation flick gets a “7”. My rating system in a nutshell:
10 = Brilliant!
9 = Exceptional
8 = Very Good
7 = Good
6 = Average
5 = Forgettable
4 = Bad
3 = Dismal
2 = Dog Barf
1 = Beyond Awful
~ ~ ~ ~
Kill Your Darlings (USA 2013) (7): In the summer of 1944 troubled Columbia University student Lucien Carr (Dane DeHaan) stabbed his longtime stalker-slash-lover David Kammerer (Michael C. Hall) to death in what he claimed was an act of self defense after the much older Kammerer began making threatening moves against him. But it’s what followed the killing that became a source of historical debate, and some urban legends, for Carr’s actions ended up implicating three of his closest friends—future “Beat Generation” icons Allen Ginsberg (Daniel Radcliffe), William Burroughs (Ben Foster), and Jack Kerouac (Jack Huston). Writer/director John Krokidas’ highly fictionalized account, set firmly within the the stuffy confines of American academia, offers both a possible explanation for what led up to that horrendous act and a critical examination of a nascent counter-cultural movement led by a group of visionary yet slightly naïve students whose bold new ideas were marked by avant-garde writings, a bit of public mischief, and experimentation with sexuality and drugs. Radcliffe plays the confused and closeted Ginsberg with total conviction, his idealism contrasting sharply with the tired cynicism of Foster’s privileged Burroughs and Huston’s manic nomad Kerouac. Hall, for his part, is equal parts pathetic romantic and creepy Svengali as a man so obsessed with the youthful object of his desire that he is willing to sacrifice everything to keep him. And DeHaan’s Carr is an erratic mess of conflicting id impulses—a user whose delicate features attract attention while his passions run hot and cold. This is probably not how it played out, exactly, but Krokidas’ intelligent script and convincing period touches combine with an able cast of young actors to produce a compelling drama involving men who would go on to influence a generation. Jennifer Jason Leigh co-stars as Ginsberg’s mother, a woman whose struggles with mental illness had a profound influence on her son.
Kong: Skull Island (USA 2017) (9): In 1973, as the Viet Nam war comes to a close, a group of American soldiers accept one last assignment—provide support to a group of scientists eager to map out a newly discovered island in the south Pacific. But a routine mission turns into a deadly struggle when they find the mysterious island inhabited by very large—and very angry—beasts like man-eating birds, ten-storey spiders, and (ta-DAA!!) one rather truculent gorilla the size of a skyscraper. With gleeful nods to Coppola’s Apocalypse Now, director Jordan Vogt-Roberts’ hyper-stylish monster movie is a kick ass ride of big screen special effects set to a grand orchestral score seasoned with rock anthems from the likes of Bowie, Jefferson Airplane, and Black Sabbath. Receiving a well-deserved Oscar nomination for special effects, Vogt-Robert’s team create a nightmare isle overrun by titanic creatures where innocent meadows can conceal death traps and bones the size of oil tankers litter the landscape. And it’s all presented in ground-rumbling stereo sound. The sterling cast features Samuel L. Jackson playing an unhinged army officer, John Goodman as a researcher with a secret agenda, Academy award winner Brie Larson channeling Fay Wray, and John C. Reilly taking Marlon Brando’s Colonel Kurtz character from Apocalypse and turning it on its ear. You’ll grab your seats as army helicopters fly through a thunderstorm from Hell! You’ll jump as slathering monstrosities suddenly appear from above and below! And you’ll cheer as everyone’s favourite ape proves time and again why he’s the king of this particular jungle. Truly the type of ridiculously entertaining nonsense for which the term “Summer Blockbuster” was coined. Just be sure to stay through the closing credits for Vogt-Roberts ends his flick with a heartwarming home movie followed by a great big salute to Toho Studios.
The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms (USA 1953) (5): After a nuclear bomb test in the arctic releases it from its icy tomb, an ancient dinosaur takes to the sea leaving a swath of death and destruction in its wake. It eventually arrives in New York City where the Big Apple proves to be a very tasty target indeed… Supposedly one of the inspirations behind Toho Studios’ Godzilla released just one year later, this American creature feature combines shaky stop-motion monster effects with clumsy rear projection and detailed miniatures to give a mostly unconvincing impression of a rampaging reptile wreaking havoc as it crushes toy cars and levels cardboard buildings. Swiss heartthrob Paul Hubschmid plays the scientist tasked with destroying the beast, Paula Raymond plays his love interest who just happens to have a PhD to go with her party dress and heels, and an almost unrecognizable Lee Van Cleef plays a tough-as-nails army officer. B-movie icon Ray Harryhausen’s animation effects are not much better than King Kong’s spastic moves from twenty years earlier however, and an underwater sequence is so obviously filmed in an aquarium with a toy diving bell hanging from a string that it’s actually pretty funny. Nice ending however with a scale model amusement park setting the scene for one helluva Cretaceous swan song.
Annie Get Your Gun (USA 1950) (5): MGM’s screen adaptation of the stage play based on the life of Wild West sharpshooter Annie Oakley who wowed audiences with her uncanny ability to put a bullet through any target. But while her aiming skills are unmatched, Annie (Betty Hutton) becomes an easy target for Cupid’s arrow when she joins Buffalo Bill’s Traveling Wild West Show and immediately falls head over heels with the show’s star marksman, Frank Butler (Howard Keel). The path of true love is never easy, however, and it’ll take a whole lot of song and dance routines before the naïve Oakley and the somewhat conceited Butler can finally enjoy that big onscreen kiss. Hutton lays on the backwoods yokel routine so thick it’s embarrassing to watch her strut about in homemade rags and sooty cheeks pulling faces and mispronouncing words, but by the halfway mark she does manage to clean up enough to resemble something of a romantic lead. Keel is his usual big handsome self, that sexy baritone voice making up for an otherwise two-dimensional study in male ego (she shoots better than him…egad!). Presented in eye-scorching Technicolor with bigger than life Western sets which earned it Academy Award nominations for both cinematography and art decoration, it wound up bringing home a single Oscar for musical scoring which is hardly surprising considering Irving Berlin worked on the songs with “There’s No Business Like Show Business” and “Anything You Can Do” going on to become classics. But it’s just so corny, even for 1950, that I found myself cringing more than smiling at the forced sentimentality and hackneyed dialogue not to mention all those Hollywood Indians whooping it up in face paint and braided wigs. Truly a product of its time, this is a big screen curio that has definitely not aged well.
The Last House on the Left (USA 1972) (3): Fledgling director Wes Craven originally planned on making a hardcore adult movie but instead decided to tone down the sex and concentrate on the blood and violence thus raising the ire of censors around the world (the old hens at the BBFC rushed to ban it as a “Video Nasty”!) and setting a crude template for all those slasher movies to come. Happy-go-lucky teens Mari and Phyllis are on their way to a heavy metal concert when they are abducted by a group of psychopaths whose sadistic leader subjects them to 24 hours of torture and rape before karma finally makes an ironic entrance. True to its its original porn aspirations this zero-budget grindhouse cheese platter boasts horrendous acting, a script that could have been written by a pair of horny mean-spirited adolescents, and set/costume designs that incorporate every vomit-inducing faux pas the ‘70s had to offer. But the brutality was realistic enough—especially with that convincing fake blood—to have some authorities question whether or not they were watching an actual snuff film. Notable for being one of the first splatter flicks to receive mainstream attention (mostly bad) it continues to divide critics and audiences alike for pushing the envelope when it comes to onscreen cruelty and sexualized misogyny—even cast members recalled the time they spent making it with various degrees of disgust while incidents of fainting and physical illness reportedly occurred among more sensitive audience members upon its initial release. An infamous milestone in American cinema sure to spark more outrage from GenZ today then it did from their grandparents fifty years ago, it may help to repeat the original marketing mantra: “It’s only a movie…only a movie…only a movie…”
Sundown (France/Mexico 2021) (8): With this baffling, low-key family drama writer/director Michel Franco accomplishes a small cinematic coup—he encourages his audience to make certain assumptions only to challenge them in the final act. Wealthy siblings Neil and Alice Bennet (Tim Roth, Charlotte Gainsbourg) along with Alice’s two teenaged children are on holiday in Acapulco when a family emergency necessitates their immediate return to England. However, when Neil discovers his passport is missing he’s forced to remain behind until a new one can be procured. But the passport isn’t missing and rather than taking the necessary steps to have it replaced he spends his days drinking on the beach, leisurely bumming around, and initiating a love affair with a local shopkeeper. Meanwhile, Alice’s frantic phone messages go unanswered as her brother becomes increasingly uncommunicative. Brilliantly played by Roth, Neil comes across as a self-absorbed lying bastard shirking his familial duties in favour of a seaside hedonism—but there’s something about his flat affect, his stillness, and his sparse interactions punctuated by long stretches of silence which hint of deeper motives at work. This is not an action film by any stretch. Aside from Alice’s few exasperated outbursts over Neil’s taciturn evasions (in this Gainsbourg expertly reflects the audience’s own growing frustration), Franco fills the empty spaces with drawn out moments—some tragic, some sublime—while ocean waves, blinding sunlight, and blood-red dusks mark the passage of time. Roth, for his part, proves a master at conveying volumes with no more than a gaze or a slouch of his shoulders. His is not a sympathetic character as he pursues his own needs with little to no concern over how his actions (or inactions) affect others. “What the hell is his problem?” becomes front and centre as his aimlessness begins to grate; and while the answer is not quite so forthcoming Franco reveals enough to make us rethink our position—Neil may not be likeable but by the time that final ambiguous frame fades to black he is at least a bit more understandable.
The Meg (USA/China 2018) (7): Director John Turteltaub proves that an entertainingly silly book can be transformed into an entertainingly silly movie with this toothy adaptation of Steve Alten’s underwater novel. Thanks to the actions of a high-tech deep sea research conglomeration, a massive prehistoric shark is released from the ocean depths and immediately begins chomping on anything that moves as it slowly makes its way towards the crowded beaches of southern China. It now falls to a washed-out submarine pilot (hunky Jason Statham) and a team of marine geeks to kill the monster fish before it turns a tropical resort into an all-you-can-eat buffet. Terribly uneven performances and corny dialogue are more than compensated by an onslaught of killer special effects which carry no scientific weight (a fish that can bite a submarine in two can be halted by a flimsy chain?) but look absolutely dazzling on a wide screen accompanied by subsonic sound effects and a frenzied orchestra. The deep ocean vistas are the stuff of science-fiction nightmares while the multiple action sequences will have you rolling your eyes and snickering “yeah right…as if!” even as you hold your breath—to his credit, Statham downplays his character’s heroics thus turning those impossible marine antics into pure comic book gold. Plus, as an extra bonus for those of us old enough to remember, Turteltaub and his writers throw in a handful of very funny references to 1975’s Jaws when the shark pays a visit to Hainan’s picturesque Sanya Bay. This is the type of schlocky summer blockbuster that was especially made for popcorn and a large Coke.
Dazed and Confused (USA 1993) (5): Writer/director Richard Linklater’s attempt to reinvent American Graffiti for Generation Jones certainly has plenty of juvenile hijinks and low brow humour but whereas Lucas’ classic was meticulous in its evocation of a certain time and place—namely southern California in the early ‘60s—Linklater seems to rely mainly on loud shirts, bad hair, and outdated slang to rewind audiences to the ‘70s—and not very successfully. It’s graduation time, 1976, and in a nondescript Texas high school all hell is about to break loose with an itinerary that includes freshmen hazings; a kegger in the nearby woods; and young love blooming amidst the beer cans and pot smoke. And all the usual props will be in attendance from the idealistic jock to the football meatheads; from the future sorority bitches to the ever-so-sensitive future sophomores; and from the class stoner to the AV club nerds. There’s a faux nostalgia at work here with petty vandalism and underage drinking elevated to rites of passage (which I suppose they were, sort of) and period touches like a video arcade and drive-up burger joint meant to slap those wistful memories right up into your forebrain. But it just doesn’t add up to anything more substantial than a string of loosely linked vignettes showcasing what the ‘70s might have looked like to a select few cool kids while the rest of us simply did our homework and hung out at the mall. Or maybe I just went to the wrong school. Killer soundtrack though. Look for a very young and virtually unknown Ben Affleck and Matthew McConaughey, the former playing a particularly sadistic senior and the latter a creepy, perpetually high former grad with a taste for jailbait.
The Ipcress File (UK 1965) (7): The first screen adaptation of a Len Deighton novel to feature Michael Caine as Harry Palmer, the working man’s low-tech James Bond. Someone is kidnapping Britain’s top scientists and returning them unharmed yet mysteriously unable to continue their research. It’s now up to Palmer to discover the who, how, and why before British academia is completely wiped out. The usual Cold War intrigues follow with secret agents, double crosses, and a brunette femme fatale who may be working for either side finagling her way into Palmer’s bed. London is appropriately grimy and the bad guys appropriately slimy while Caine’s waggish rogue works his way further and further into a most diabolical plot without the aid of ridiculous Bond-style contrivances. Adding to the grit is composer John Barry’s simple yet doleful score which perfectly underscores the film’s resolutely anti-romantic approach to the “Spy vs Spy” genre.
Baise-Moi [Fuck Me] (France 2000) (2): Having recently been gang-raped by a trio of thugs, street punk Manu kills her abusive boyfriend in a fit of pique. Meanwhile, coldly cynical prostitute Nadine, already grown tired of turning tricks and having to answer to her whiny roommate, witnesses her only friend being murdered. When the two women meet one night at a subway station a lunatic friendship develops based on the one thing they have in common: a hatred for society in general and men in particular. In the wholly gratuitous and psychologically null shit show that follows the two embark on a cross country spree of robberies, murders, and fucking until their psychotic road trip finally reaches its inevitable conclusion… A thorn in the side of censors worldwide, Baise-Moi goaded audiences with either its explicit sex, explicit violence, or explicit sexual violence (pick one). But what, exactly, writer/directors Virginie Despentes and Coralie Trinh Thi had in mind is anyone’s guess. Is it a twisted take on female liberation like a XXX Thelma & Louise? A spurious, blood-soaked attempt to justify passages of brutality by blaming it on victimhood like a cheap knockoff of Ms. 45? A clumsy rail against that old mainstay of “bourgeois values” (their victims tend to be well off and/or pervs) in a sophomoric attempt to emulate Buñuel? Or is it just a poorly written, poorly directed mess of blowjobs, bullet holes, and homicidal tantrums eliciting a visceral response and little else? Given the bargain basement production values and salacious content it should come as no surprise that Trinh Thi and her two leads—as well as several extras—were culled from the adult movie industry to do what they do best, namely screw around with neither emotion nor empathy nor insight. Kind of like the movie itself.
Host (UK 2020) (9): Composed of separate screens (each shot using iPhones and laptops) and with a running time of only 60 minutes, writer/director Rob Savage’s COVID-era ghost story delivers more shocks and squirms per minute than many features twice its length. At the height of the pandemic lockdown a group of bored friends decide to hold a seance via Zoom just for something to do. With a “spiritualist” overseeing the group chat they light their candles, form a virtual circle, and send out an e-invite to the netherworld. But giggles and eye-rolls quickly become paranoid whimpers after things start to go wrong—for something appears to have joined the chat and ctrl-alt-del is not going to be an option…. Savage expertly plays on the angst of the time with a group of young adults, already stressed by isolation restrictions, now finding their familiar apartments becoming haunted houses filled with dark hallways and even darker closets. The jump scares and creepy effects are hardly novel, but played out in realtime using grainy onscreen windows Savage achieves a new level of contemporary horror especially when those windows occasionally freeze or dissolve into static at the exact wrong moment. When one woman, clinging to a selfie-stick, investigates a strange noise in her attic I reached for my bedside lamp; when another started taking flash photographs in a pitch black room I had to keep myself from flicking the lamp on. Yes, the usual illogical plot devices are in full effect—normal people tend to run away from terror, not towards it—but Savage does manage to explain away most of them and in the movie’s final onslaught of sound and visual effects it doesn’t really matter anyway. As a niche film this is good creepy fun made even more fun by its high-tech touches—think of Blair Witch presented as a series of frantic Facebook posts.
The Virgin and the Gypsy (UK 1970) (5): The erotic elements are tame but director Christopher Miles certainly scours the English countryside for organic metaphors in this tepid adaptation of D. H. Lawrence’s novella about a young society woman’s first sexual stirrings. Fresh from their stint at a French boarding school, sisters Lucille and Yvette (Harriet Harper, Joanna Shimkus) return to their family home in Derbyshire where Yvette’s headstrong ways immediately create friction within a stiflingly proper household ruled over by her father, a respected Anglican minister still bitter over his wife having left him years earlier; her aunt, a frustrated spinster who balks at the mere suggestion of impropriety; and her grandmother, a doddering relic from an earlier age who casts a suspicious eye on everything—her pronouncements marred by deafness and a touch of senility. And then Yvette happens upon a nearby encampment where she meets “the Gypsy” (Franco Nero) whose piercing blue eyes and sinful physique become a carnal obsession that leads her to stray from the straight and narrow with eager abandon. Set in 1922 when the stuffy mores of the Gilded Age were giving way to the Roaring Twenties, Miles and his design crew create a convincing period piece of clashing fashions and technology (grandma’s dowdy black lace versus Yvette’s scarlet flapper dress, beeping motorcars versus horse-drawn carriages) and shifting morality—Yvette befriends an unmarried couple (Honor Blackman, Mark Burns) who are living quite happily in sin. And the elements themselves are used to provide sensual accompaniment as water flows by suggestively, fires smoke and smoulder, and a passionate surrender is underscored by a capricious act of nature. But Shimkus’ deadpan performance doesn’t adequately reflect her character’s enflamed hormones while Nero, handsome as he is, merely recites his lines in a monotone while the camera lingers over his swarthy face and hairy pecs. In reducing the work’s raw sexuality to a fleeting series of gauzy cutaways Miles gives us a lukewarm Merchant Ivory costume drama, albeit one with a fittingly abrupt closing shot.
Mikey and Nicky (USA 1976) (7): With a price on his head for stealing from the mob, low level crook Nicky (John Cassavetes) is now holed up in a fleabag motel where paranoia is slowly eating away at his sanity. Desperate to escape town he calls his only friend in the world, fellow crook Mikey (Peter Falk), whose cooler head always seems to find the right solution. But over the course of one very dark night their relationship will be tested as old grievances bubble to the surface and each man’s true nature is laid bare. Writer/director Elaine May’s two-handed study of pathological male bonding couldn’t have found a better pair of leads. Cassavetes’ cornered sewer rat is at once utterly pathetic and wholly repugnant as he leads his friend on a manic run from the mob peppered with drunken outbursts, petty crime, and assaults—his demeanour flashing back and forth between quaking neurotic and smug bully. Falk, likewise, gives us a complicated character whose attempts to help his friend are not as altruistic as they appear for in the end both men seem to be cut from the same tainted cloth. Shot in a flat verité style that turns Philadelphia’s night locations into a purgatory of brick and neon, May’s production suffers somewhat from haphazard editing and repetitive drama (the men alternately bicker and embrace, reminisce and accuse) but thanks to an unpolished script delivered by a pair of seasoned stars the result is a mesmerizing journey towards a dawn which brings light but no warmth. Joyce Van Patten gives a small but crucial performance as Nicky’s long-suffering wife; Ned Beatty, looking like a disgruntled car salesman, plays the unlikely hitman assigned to track him down; and Carol Grace gives a heartbreaking performance as the woman Nicky is having an affair with, a squeaky mouse whose meekness makes her a target when the two inebriated louts decide to pay her a visit.
The Lodge (USA 2019) (7): When their dad has to return to the city for work, Aiden and Mia find themselves alone with their future stepmother in an isolated winter chalet as a raging blizzard causes whiteout conditions. And that’s when the creep factor begins to ratchet up with disembodied voices, mysterious disappearances, and ghostly manipulations intruding on their days and nights. Already at odds with one another—the children blame dad’s new wife for precipitating a family tragedy while stepmom is haunted by memories of a childhood spent in a death cult of which she was the sole survivor—the three are forced into an uneasy truce…and then the power goes out. Writer/directors Severin Fiala and Veronika Franz have produced a chilling piece of psychological horror rife with religious icons (the Virgin Mary has never looked so ominous) and an unreliable narrative that shifts between objective reality and subjective nightmare as winds howl and windows turn opaque with frost. The film’s few jump scares are effective, perhaps too much so (had I been in a theatre there would have been popcorn on the floor) yet the real frights lay in a blank stare here or a child’s stifled whimper there. Certainly the candlelit cottage has enough doors and narrow hallways to house a hundred bugaboos, real or imagined, and just to add a layer of surrealism Mia’s big sprawling dollhouse bears an eerie resemblance to the very house they’re trapped in, a resemblance that will turn sinister before the closing credits roll. Unfortunately the directors ask us to take a pretty big leap towards the end which lessens the impact of the film’s big resolution—yet they still manage to bring it all together for a finale that will either leave you cringing or smiling depending on how sick you are. I smiled.
Love & Mercy (USA 2014) (8): Apparently director Bill Pohlad actually had to tone down this biopic of Beach Boys songwriter Brian Wilson lest audiences thought he was making stuff up. The finished product however is both a tragic exposé and a testament to his subject’s genius and perseverance. Jumping between the group’s heyday in the ‘60s to Wilson’s low point in the ‘80s where poor personal choices and a lifelong struggle with crippling mental illness were exacting a heavy price, this is a kaleidoscopic mash-up of studio drama, family politics, and first person breakdown. Paul Dano and John Cusack segue seamlessly back and forth as young Brian/old Brian—Dano’s deeply troubled musical visionary full of promise adding tragic counterpoint to Cusack’s aging visionary now addled by medication and the overreaching care of an abusive quack (Paul Giamatti giving one of his slimiest performances). Elizabeth Banks also puts in a fine performance playing the older Wilson’s newfound love interest and fiercest advocate, her consistently soft-spoken character evening out Cusack’s wilder mood swings. And of course there’s the songs with their intricate rhythms and soaring harmonies (sometimes lip-synced, sometimes using the actors’ voices) which Pohlad uses to great effect—providing a melodious backdrop for pans of sunny SoCal beaches one moment, crowding on top of one another to form a discordant racket the next as a panic-stricken Wilson’s mind is overcome by noise and voices. A heartbreaking and respectful salute to one of American music’s brighter stars which was given a firm thumbs up by Wilson himself. Sadly, Brian died last month (June ’25) just a few days before his 83rd birthday. But long before his death he was finally able to secure the proper psychiatric care he needed which allowed him to stage a hugely successful comeback.
The Banishment (Russia 2007) (8): Bleak beyond despair and weighted down by religious symbolism throughout, director Andrey Zvyagintsev’s parable about one man’s loss of Eden demands your full concentration and with a running time of 157 minutes that may not be an easy feat for some—but for those willing to invest the time the rewards are great. Low-level gangster Alex takes his wife Vera and their two children to his family’s countryside dacha for a bit of a respite from the city. Once there, however, Vera drops a bombshell on her husband: a betrayal that he cannot let go of. Now faced with two choices—absolution or retribution—a hurt and enraged Alex will wrestle with the very nature of Good vs. Evil while rainclouds gather and nature itself seems to hold its breath. Shades of Tarkovsky and Antonioni permeate Zvyagintsev’s adaptation of William Saroyan’s book, a moody piece which favours silences over words, imagery over action. Situated next to a deep crevasse crossed only by a wooden footbridge the couple’s cottage becomes a psychological space filled with faded memorabilia—and a concealed weapon—where sunlight dapples on mildewed walls and the colours blue and white figure prominently. And just outside the window a large conspicuous tree seems to watch over the couple as their idyllic surroundings slowly turn into something else. Not a subtle film, Zvyagintsev’s heavy biblical metaphors inform every scene: a flock of sheep wander back and forth; a children’s jigsaw puzzle provides a heavenly clue; and an imposing Soviet-style mural calls to mind Michelangelo’s “Creation of Adam”. And of course lightning will split the sky and in a most remarkable tracking shot that appears to float over the ground cinematographer Mikhail Krichman will recreate the Flood in miniature. Stars Konstantin Lavronenko and Maria Bonnevie are brilliant together—his Alexander a study in male rage and fragility; her Vera a tragic figure whose husband remains deaf to her small cries of despair. Rounding out the cast are Aleksandr Baluev playing Eden’s serpent as Alex’s surly brother, and a remarkable pair of child actors: Maksim Shibayev as the son who seems destined to follow in dad’s criminal footsteps, and Yekaterina Kulkina as the daughter who comes to encapsulate those attributes which Vera’s marriage has stripped from her—namely assertiveness and a sense of joy. Zvyagintsev offers no pat answers and much of his film is up for interpretation (including a big twist that changes everything) but as a study in human foibles and the decisions they sometime engender he has mapped out a very dark journey indeed.
Darling (UK 1965) (7): Twenty-five year old Julie Christie nabbed an Oscar for her portrayal of Diana Scott, a beautiful yet morally and emotionally bankrupt model, actress, and jet set wannabe who finally makes it to the top only to discover her success is a hollow victory indeed. Set firmly in the heyday of Swinging London, director/co-writer John Schlesinger pulls no punches as he skewers England’s upper class conventions, revealing them as a morass of infidelity, hypocrisy, and false bonhomie swathed in silk and decked in diamonds. Christie gives a fine performance as the vivacious, slightly unstable ingenue who throws herself to the wolves in a series of sexual dalliances and opportunistic flirtations designed to further her career even as they corrupt what little dignity she had to begin with. Co-star Dirk Bogarde plays a married man who falls under her spell to to their mutual detriment while Laurence Harvey personifies slime as a cynical bon vivant who winds up giving as good as he gets. Meanwhile cinematographer Ken Higgins’ sharp B&W pans take in smoggy English skylines and sunlit Mediterranean vistas alike, turning Diana’s downfall into an almost mythical odyssey in which a lover’s caress becomes an instrument of retribution and a swank soirée descends into a twisted bacchanal. Even Diana’s pathetic grasp at some sort of spiritual fulfillment eventually sours after a pastoral Italian villa in which she finds herself turns into a psychological prison. Beginning with an ironic billboard sequence jabbing a firm middle finger at Western materialism, and ending with one of cinema’s more poignant gazes, this is a sad tragedy rooted in the ‘60s zeitgeist yet still able to reverberate today. La Dolce Vita on the river Thames.
Honeymoon (USA 2014) (6): Newlyweds Paul and Bea (Harry Treadaway, Rose Leslie) have finally begun their much anticipated honeymoon at a rustic lakeside cabin—but the fun doesn’t last long. After a puzzling incident Bea begins to act strangely: becoming increasingly absent-minded, evasive to the point of paranoia, and refusing to explain away some peculiar marks. As her behaviour worsens Paul’s concern turns to panic especially after the owners of a nearby restaurant start displaying their own marital problems. And who keeps shining that spotlight in their windows while they’re sleeping? Director Leigh Janiak’s slow-burning horror flick definitely has its moments starting out as it does on a cutesy note with smiling wedding videos and loads of adoring eye contact before descending into psychotic chaos one creepy step at a time. And her two stars pour enough energy into their performances to propel the story over most of its rough spots. Unfortunately it suffers from a lackadaisical script which consists largely of Treadaway finding a hundred different ways to say “Tell me what’s wrong!” while Leslie responds with a hundred different versions of “I can’t!” Furthermore, some very effective special effects—including a grisly bedroom sequence that would make Cronenberg squeal with appreciation—put us on track for a big reveal which never really appears. A deliberately opaque ending can be a very effective tool under certain circumstances but in this case it feels like Janiak and co-writer Phil Graziadei wrote themselves into a corner and decided to just let the audience figure it all out. The clues are there but even after you connect the dots there are still maddening gaps.
Land of Storms (Hungary 2014) (6): Much to his domineering father’s dismay, Szabo turns his back on a promising football career in Germany in order to return to Hungary where he’s inherited his late grandfather’s dilapidated house situated in the middle of nowhere. Moody and not very communicative, Szabo hires local tough guy Áron to help with the building’s extensive renovations but as the work progresses their close physical proximity leads to a deeper intimacy which will raise the ire of the conservative locals and put the closeted Áron into a psychological tailspin. Supposedly based on a true story, writer/director Ádám Csázi’s spin on a Brokeback Mountain theme left me with a feeling of weary ambivalence. On one hand he casts more light on the injustices and hypocrisy inherent with homophobia—from church sermons preaching love before a congregation only too willing to hate, to supposedly devoted parents who throw their gay kids under the bus, to the very real tragedy of internalized self-loathing. And his two handsome leads certainly generate sparks, both erotic and angry, as their troubled relationship bumps and lurches along only to be further complicated when a visitor from Szabo’s past gives the pot another stir. But “true story” aside, do we really need another fucked up gay love story featuring emotionally wounded men battling a crowd of pitchfork-wielding villagers? Csázi’s heart is in the right place however, and there is no doubt as to which direction his sympathies point even if the script does sometimes drift into clunky melodrama. And those nicely framed scenes of two men trying to fix up a derelict house that is quite likely beyond repair provides a fitting metaphor…a metaphor ultimately sabotaged by an overwrought ending that comes out of nowhere. Perhaps it’s time filmmakers flip the narrative a little more lest “Gays-as-Victims” becomes too entrenched as a movie genre.
Love & Friendship (UK 2016) (7): Penniless since her husband died the vivacious Lady Vernon (Kate Beckinsale) pays a visit to her monied relatives in the English countryside where she sets in motion a veritable spider’s web of intrigues and manipulations with but one goal in mind—to secure lucrative mates for both herself and her bright but socially awkward daughter Frederica (Morfydd Clark). Based on a Jane Austen short story this delightfully worded 18th century satire on all things romantic is as crisp today as it was then. Beckinsale excels as the indomitable widow whose lack of funds is more than compensated by a quick wit and scheming mind further bolstered by an uncanny ability to charm with a simple smile or a well-timed bon mot. Social conventions of the time are turned on their ear as Austen’s heroine lampoons the British gentry, poking fun at its stuffed shirts with an illicit affair here, some scandalous rumours there, and a company of wealthy men more than willing to be led by the nose. Director Whit Stillman draws upon the same acerbic humour he displayed in The Last Days of Disco, adapts it to 1790s Britain, and then embellishes it with grand interiors and gorgeous period costumes topped off by a sweeping baroque score and a script rife with well aimed but oh-so-subtle snipes—English has rarely sounded so damn clever. And even after Lady Vernon’s plans don’t go off exactly as planned such is her prowess that we are left wondering whether or not that was part of her plan all along. Chloë Sevigny co-stars as Vernon’s American BFF married to a fussy aristocrat (Stephen Fry), Xavier Samuel plays a dashing love interest, Tom Bennet commands the spotlight as a very rich yet very dumb squire, and Lochlann O’Mearáin leers and struts as a sexual complication.
