Movies, movies, movies!

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The Abandoned (Spain 2006) (7): Marie Jones is a successful American film producer with a troubled past. Originally born into a Russian family, she was adopted while still an infant after her mother was brutally murdered. But despite being raised in the West Marie feels compelled to visit her birthplace in order to unravel the twin mysteries of her mother’s death and the identity of her elusive father. However, upon arriving in Russia she soon discovers that her parents’ little village holds more secrets than she was prepared for. Joining forces with Nicolai, a curious stranger with more than a passing interest in her family history, Marie tries to get to the root of what happened in that now abandoned farmhouse where she was born forty years earlier... With a palette of washed out colours and widescreen visions of misty forests, decaying hallways, and dripping zombie effects, Nacho Cerdà has fashioned an effectively creepy ghost story. The usual jolts and jumps are there (an encounter in a cramped closet gave me goosebumps) but the film’s real strength lies in its clever use of light and sound; a flooded basement corridor comes alive with shifting shadows and demonic cries, a curtained window offers a gauzy glimpse of “something”, and a moonlit river provides a final answer. Although the Eastern European cast gave somewhat lukewarm performances, Anastasia Hille’s portrayal of Marie was convincing enough as she went from troubled tourist to terrified prey while the cleverly circuitous plot threw in one twist after another. A nice bit of spookiness to watch in the dark.

The ABCs of Death (USA 2012) (8): Twenty-six directors from around the world were each given a different letter of the alphabet and instructed to make a very short film about death using a word beginning with their particular letter as inspiration. The result is a giddy mix of oddities ranging from the scatological (“F” is for “Fart”) to the outré (“W” and “R” were...different) to the outright pornographic (“Z” is definitely not for the kiddies). With hefty doses of humour thrown in to offset the gorier elements there is nevertheless a couple of sobering chapters dealing with such hot button topics as addiction, poverty, and body image among other things. But it was the two animated contributions which came very close to singlehandedly stealing the show. Although a few shorts failed to elicit more than a blank stare it was still heartening to see so many young artists willing and able to take a minuscule budget and cobble together a four-minute nightmare complete with macabre punchline—and do it with such obvious zeal! Apparently a few teachers were fired for showing this compilation to their classes so don’t expect these letters to be hosting Sesame Street any time soon.

The ABCs of Death 2 (USA 2014) (7): Same premise as the first installment: twenty-six directors are each given a letter of the alphabet and asked to make a short horror film based on a word beginning with that letter. Not quite as entertaining as the first since the novelty has worn off and the graphic bloodletting has become a prerequisite, but with such deceptively innocent titles as “J” is for Jesus and “X” is for Xylophone (trust me, they are anything but) there is still a lot of great gory fun to be had. Look for a rather disturbing cameo at the end of the closing credits! And not to worry, part three is already in production.

A Beautiful Curse (Denmark 2021) (6): What are those intangible cues, those abstract qualities that tell us this particular person may be “the one”? And are these cues wholly based in reality or are they based, at least in part, on our own desire to see what we want to see? In his flawed yet nevertheless impressive debut feature writer/director Martin Garde Abildgaard attempts to address these questions by turning the tale of Sleeping Beauty into a peculiarly one-sided love story. A small island community has fallen victim to a mysterious plague which causes people to fall asleep wherever they happen to be. Without suffering any ill effects from their dormancy, the residents doze peacefully in restaurants, city buses, and private homes completely oblivious to the world around them and unable to be roused. Enterprising young photojournalist Samuel (Mark Strepan) sneaks past official barricades in order to take pictures of the unconscious populace and in so doing comes across the slumbering body of Stella (Olivia Vinall) and is immediately smitten. Now taking up residence in her cottage, Samuel begins forming a mental image of what Stella is all about based on her journals, a couple of audio tapes, and his own imagination—a series of fanciful conjectures which gradually take on a life of their own. Long slow takes and a drowsy musical score may prove tedious for impatient viewers but Abildgaard makes the most of his clearly limited budget with touches of magical realism (sunlight casts rainbows across a sleeping face, a goldfish forms a connection) and an astute script that sidesteps what could have degenerated into a string of sun-kissed Hallmark moments. And of course it’s the little details that always make me smile such as the artwork on Stella’s walls which speaks of barriers whether it be a painting of sunglasses or a photo of a woman staring from behind a window pane. Lastly, his handsome leads are a good match as sparks—real? imagined?—fly between them leaving us to wonder that when it comes to matters of the heart just how wide awake are any of us?

Aberdeen (UK/Norway 2001) (7): At the request of her estranged mother, now dying of cancer in an Aberdeen hospital, twenty-something yuppie Kaisa hops a plane to Norway in order to drag Tomas, her equally estranged drunken lout of a father, back to Scotland for one last reunion. Meeting up at a seedy Oslo bar, truculent father and embittered daughter immediately begin sticking pins in each other while fate seems determined to thwart their every travel plan; from being denied airline boarding passes due to dad’s inebriated condition to repeated run-ins with both the law and a gang of menacing street hooligans. And all the while their guardian angel, in the form of a kind-hearted truck driver who decides to tag along, desperately tries to keep them pointed in the right direction. But as old wounds are laid open and dark secrets revealed on the way to Aberdeen, the mother’s condition continues to deteriorate. There is much to admire in Hans Moland’s dysfunctional road movie. For starters the cinematography is truly beautiful as it shifts between bleak wintry landscapes and teary intimacies, stopping to linger on a vase of wilted flowers in a sterile hospital room or an isolated oil rig alone in a stormy sea. Furthermore, a strong cast anchored by Stellan Skarsgård, Charlotte Rampling, and Lena Headey keep things from flying off into melodramatic excess. But despite these obvious strengths there is a sense of hollowness to the characters, as if they were only half-drawn. We’re shown consequences without much light being shed on causes; why did Tomas go from the doting father in Kaisa’s single candy-coated memory to the trembling alcoholic drifter we see at the film’s outset? why is Kaisa so hooked on cocaine and cheap sex? and why are they both so angry at mom? A few subtle clues are dropped, and perhaps the rest is left intentionally blurred, but this lack of narrative background robs the film of much of its punch leaving the final dramatic reveal and subsequent reparation feeling contrived. But I freely admit to being a sucker for any halfway decent road movie, a weakness which compels me to overlook Aberdeen’s few shortcomings.

Abigail’s Party (UK Television 1977) (8): Mike Leigh’s delightfully caustic comedy of manners takes aim at the petty mindset of Britain’s middle class, circa 1970s, and fires both barrels...repeatedly. The story unfolds in the living room of Beverly and Laurence Moss, a truculent bourgeois couple with nouveau riche aspirations, as they prepare for an evening of drinks with friends. Using the Mosses and their guests as a catalyst, Leigh proceeds to examine their every prejudice, delusion, and paltry ambition in funny, yet increasingly uncomfortable detail. Bev is clearly a snob who finds fault in everyone except herself although her childless state and acid retorts hint at a deeper dissatisfaction. Laurence is all show and tell as he brags about his (unread) collection of leather bound Shakespeare and cheap Van Gogh prints while bemoaning the “changing character” of their street. Meanwhile their friends Angela and Tony, clearly lower middle class and new to the neighbourhood, make awkward attempts to keep up. Angela is full of vapid compliments and banal non-sequiturs while the taciturn Tony, a low level computer programmer and failed football star, offers up angry monosyllabic responses which become ever more violent as the evening wears on. Finally, the Moss’ politely reserved friend Sue, divorced and obviously monied, arrives with a bottle of wine in hand expecting dinner only to be offered chips and cheap hors d’oeuvres. Her daughter Abigail has kicked her out of the house so she can have a party; a situation which weighs heavily on Sue’s mind as she tries to appease her boorish host and hostess. As the evening progresses and the alcohol loosens everyone’s inhibitions (including Beverly’s attraction to Tony) the stage is set for a series of showdowns culminating in an outrageous ending worthy of Buñuel. As in all of Leigh’s later works, the message is often found in the details whether it be Sue’s exaggerated height (she towers over everyone else in the room), Beverly’s fawning over a tacky piece of pop art, or the distant sound of rock music drifting from Abigail’s party. Cruel, sardonic, and definitely not to everyone’s taste, but as a biting piece of social satire I give this one a firm middle finger, straight up!

Able Edwards (USA 2004) (4): In the near future the earth’s population is decimated by a “biological contaminant”. The few remaining survivors flee to the safety of a large orbiting space habitat controlled by the powerful Edwards corporation whose charismatic founder Able Edwards, obviously based on Walt Disney, made his fortune creating cute cartoon characters and fantasy theme parks. When the company begins experiencing financial difficulties they decide to clone their namesake in the hopes he can turn things around. They soon find out that the man behind the legends left much to be desired... This movie’s one claim to fame is that it was the first feature to be filmed entirely against a green screen; all the sets and backgrounds either created digitally or lifted from stock photos and tacked on in postproduction. While that may impress some technophiles the film itself is a forgettable rip-off of  Citizen Kane that looks like it was pieced together on a Sony Playstation. The backgrounds are mostly unimpressive (and unconvincing) while the wooden acting fails to deliver any emotional impact. Despite some effective gothic imagery…Edwards' return to his ancestral home is particularly well done…and some nice retro touches that look great in B&W I can’t find much here to recommend. To see this technique used to much greater effect check out  Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow and give this one a miss.

The Abominable Dr. Phibes (UK 1971) (9): An organ-playing mad genius, an elaborate high-tech mansion with its own clockwork orchestra, and a series of grisly murders. These are just a few of the pleasures to be found in this ultra camp horror movie from MGM studios which gained an almost immediate cult status upon its initial release. Determined to exact a horrible revenge on the medical team he blames for a personal tragedy, the horribly disfigured Dr. Anton Phibes (Vincent Price no less!!) concocts a fiendishly clever way to kill them off one by one using the bible as inspiration. Assisted by his mysterious mute henchwoman Vulnavia—who never wears the same gaudy outfit twice—he sets his diabolical plans in motion while a beleaguered team of Scotland Yard detectives always seem to be just one step behind. Ostensibly set in 1925 but with mod decor more suited for swinging London (check out that neon Wurlitzer!) and buoyed by a musical score ranging from Mendelssohn’s “March of the Priests” to “Over the Rainbow," this is one terribly guilty pleasure from start to finish. Little wonder it was quickly followed by a worthy sequel, Dr. Phibes Rises Again!


About Elly (Iran 2009) (9): From the outset of his clever opening credits it’s obvious that not everything is what it appears to be in Asghar Farhadi’s absorbing mystery—part social critique and part morality lecture. When a group of Tehran yuppies decide to spend a few days in a rented seaside villa one of the wives invites her daughter’s kindergarten teacher, Elly, to join them in the hope that she can play matchmaker between Elly and Ahmad, her recently divorced friend visiting from Germany. But the festivities are cut short when Elly mysteriously disappears without a trace leaving the rest of the group to contend with the police, the missing woman’s oddly taciturn family, and themselves. As the days wear on however their anxieties slowly morph into accusations, recriminations, and breast-beating when the truth about Elly is slowly revealed. Sumptuous cinematography alternates between shadowed interiors and the wide open Caspian sea, finding time to linger on a child’s tears or an adult’s tense face while a solid script defies Western notions of everyday life among Iran’s middle class. Using sly little tropes—a tire spins uselessly in the sand, twisting the truth results in physical illness, an offhand quote becomes prophesy—Farhadi shows how even the whitest of lies can spin the darkest webs while at the same time pointing a gently accusing finger at certain rigid social dictates and an omnipresent patriarchy. Heavy-handed at times with a few lapses in logic but the direction is tight and the cast is nothing less than perfection, especially Golshifteh Farahani’s Oscar-worthy performance as the beleaguered wife who invited Elly in the first place. A fine example of the right director with the right story finding the right ensemble of actors.

Absolutely Fabulous: The Movie (UK 2016) (6): Jennifer Saunders and Joanna Lumley dust off their AbFab characters for another go in this vaguely disappointing farce framed for the big screen but written for the telly. When her list of clients begins to dry up and an autobiography deal goes sour, fashion PR maven Edina Monsoon (Saunders, as loud as her clothes) tries to snag a recently agent-less Kate Moss with the help of her coke-snorting slag BFF Patsy Stone (Lumley decked out in cigarette, sunglasses, and up-do). Unfortunately, all she manages to do is earn the wrath of an entire nation when she accidentally knocks Moss into the Thames after crashing a swank industry soiree. With the supermodel presumed drowned and the press calling for her head, Eddie and Patsy hightail it to the French Riviera with her teenaged granddaughter in tow. Now doggedly pursued by both the police and Eddie’s irate daughter Saffy (Julia Sawalha still mousy only greyer) the two flamboyant fugitives will face a champagne-soaked uphill battle all the way… The panoramic views of downtown London and sunny Nice are beautiful and the list of fashionista cameos are as long as your arm—besides Moss herself we’re treated to walk-ons from the likes of Stella McCartney, Jerry Hall, and Jean Paul Gaultier with Pierre Cardin opening the doors to his futuristic hilltop mansion. But aside from Saunders and Lumley’s manic performances the material sags under the weight of all those personalities causing you to go from “OMG!” to “Oh look, it’s Perez Hilton, Joan Collins, and Dame Edna…” To be fair, the two leads are in fine form despite the intervening 25 years and the original cast members manage to reignite something of the old chemistry—not to mention the fashion industry being more than willing to laugh at itself—it’s just that the shock value has worn thin and the characters have become so predictable they’re something of a self-conscious cliché. Eddie and Patsy get shit-faced with a bong, Eddie’s daffy assistant “Bubble” (Jane Horrocks) still spouts vacuous non-sequiturs, and magazine editor Magda (Kathy Burke) continues to spit and growl. Even a sadly despairing monologue by Saunders on growing old, fat, and irrelevant (while bobbing about in Pierre Cardin’s pool) only serves as a lead-in to yet another schtick while a gender-popping finale is more or less lifted from Wilder’s Some Like it Hot. With a quarter century gap you’d expect something more than a storyline as old and tired as its protagonists.

A Ciambra (Italy 2017) (7): The Romani community in Italy’s Calabria region forms the setting for writer/director Jonas Carpignano’s sadly realistic coming of age story centred on 14-year old Pio. No longer a child, yet not quite an adult despite his smoking, drinking, and petty crimes, Pio longs to follow in the outlaw footsteps of his older brother. Alternately encouraged and criticized for his criminal initiative by his family (mom doesn’t want to know what he’s been doing but she gladly accepts the money he brings home) Pio decides to pull the biggest caper of his young career—unfortunately he chooses the wrong target setting off a chain of events he can’t control. Real life Pio Amato and his entire family provide a most convincing non-professional cast, their underplayed roles not only offering insight into the Romani community itself but also delicately tracing one young man’s evolution from wide-eyed follower to cynical insider. And Amato is more than up for the task giving us a natural performance, culled from actual experience, which makes every grandiose smirk and quivering tear wholly believable. None of Calabria’s natural beauty is on display here, Carpignano’s largely handheld cameras lingering instead on piles of garbage and sordid discotheques as Pio moves between his ramshackle tenement and the clapboard slum where his refugee friend Ayiva lives—another winning performance from Burkina Faso native Koudous Seihon backed by an amateur supporting cast culled from all over Africa. Decidedly unsentimental in its approach—neither immigrants nor Italian locals are wholly evil or without blemish—the director nevertheless injects a touch of magical realism to propel his story forward: a mystical horse speaks of innocence lost; a harrowing trip aboard a commuter train suggests what will replace it; and a visit to a brothel becomes a sad rite of passage. Finally, a supreme act of betrayal will mark one boy’s point of no return. A film that begins with a chaotic narrative jumble only to end on a sad note of quiet resignation. Italy’s official entry for the 2017 Best Foreign Movie Oscar.

The Acid Eaters  (USA 1965) (5):  When the workday is over there's nothing these big-haired office temps like more than to grab their creepy middle-aged boyfriends and hit the road in search of that elusive pyramid of acid-laced Lego blocks. Eschewing repressive societal demands.....like driving on the right side of the road or developing a dramatic narrative.....these rebel receptionists prefer to spend their drug-crazed off-hours painting each other's breasts and faking orgasms. But when they enter the Styrofoam gates of hell and meet Satan himself (in his ill-fitting devil's outfit) the party REALLY gets going. Far out!

The Acid House (UK 1998) (6): From the pen of Irvine Welsh (Trainspotters) comes this trilogy of nasty tales intent on portraying Scots as loud lazy lumpen dolts whose only goals in life are to drink and get shagged. In the first instalment a young man is experiencing the worst day of his life—he’s lost his job and his his girlfriend, and now his parents are evicting him so that they can have more privacy to indulge in their sick S&M fetishes. And then he meets God down at the local pub and the drunken, foul-mouthed deity shows him that no matter how bad things seem, they can always get worse. Next up, a spineless milquetoast married to the town slag faces unbearable humiliation when she leaves him and their newborn baby to shack up with the psycho neighbour. Finally, a tweaking yob experiences the ultimate LSD trip when a freak lightning strike inextricably ties him to a snobbish pair of English yuppies expecting their first child. With a palette of drug-addled colours and cameras that never stray far from the crumbling housing projects in which the stories unfold, director Paul McGuigan’s triptych of wrack and ruin jumps about like a cat on meth with results that are sometimes amusing (a housefly is bent on revenge; a baby is possessed by a crackhead; God doesn’t give a shite) but mostly dull and dreary and pointless despite (or maybe because of) all those repetitious scenes of depressingly kinky sex. And the sparse subtitles hardly do justice to that expressive Scots dialect delivered in a working class brogue: “Go back to your ma! Lick your ma’s fuckin’ piss-flaps ya fuckin’ cunt!” Charming.

Across the Universe  (USA 2007) (8):  What starts out looking like an amateur high school operetta gradually builds into an unexpectedly  mature piece of cinema with strong performances throughout and a soundtrack that makes clever use of all those classic Beatles songs.  The musical numbers may not always work but when they do they are bang on thanks in large part to some dazzling visuals and Taymor’s overall sense of artistic restraint.  No, there are no amazing plot twists and you can guess how it will all end within the first 15 minutes but it’s the journey  itself that is so appealing.  For those who would accuse this film of being shallow and dull, may I remind you of that other musical based on the Beatles’ music, 1978’s vomit-inducing Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band featuring the Bee Gees.  ‘Nuff said.

The Act of Killing (UK 2012) (9): Director Joshua Oppenheimer lists Errol Morris and Werner Herzog amongst his executive producers and this shocking yet wholly unique documentary certainly bears their influence. In 1965 the Indonesian government was overthrown by a military coup and in the bloody years which followed over one million suspected communist, mainly peasants, intellectuals, and ethnic Chinese, were rounded up, tortured, and killed with full support of the West. But the new dictatorship did not do the dirty work themselves, they hired gangsters and paramilitary organizations to carry out the mass murders instead—men who are still living freely, protected by the government and hailed by some as national heroes. To try and understand the mindset behind the killings Oppenheimer contacted some of the surviving death-squad leaders, now grown into jovial grey-haired grandfathers, and presented them with an interesting alternative to the standard interview: he’d supply them with the technical expertise needed to allow them to make a short film reenacting the killings from their point of view. Concentrating mainly on three men—Anwar, once a prolific executioner; Herman, a gangster with a penchant for drag; and Yapto, a paramilitary leader—what follows is a horrifying glimpse into the minds responsible for the sadistic slaughter of thousands of innocent civilians. With cinematic genres ranging from surreal musical numbers to violent film noir, the men seem to relish the chance to relive the good old days—Anwar brags about how he perfected the art of garrotting, Yapto reminisces on the joys of raping a 14-year old girl, and Herman coaches a village full of extras on how to react to watching their houses being burned to the ground. In between taping Oppenheimer engages the men with probing interviews in which they show neither remorse nor a fully developed conscience, nor even a full understanding of what a “communist” was. Indeed, he films them shaking down local shop owners and rubbing shoulders with sycophantic government officials as if these were everyday occurrences. However, as their film-within-a-film winds down one man begins to question what he did over forty years ago after he plays the role of a torture victim, but his dramatic reaction leaves you wondering whether this is the beginning of true contrition or simply another performance while the cameras roll. As an added note of irony, the closing credits list most of the Indonesian crew as “Anonymous” for fear of government reprisals. Brilliant, jarring, infuriating.

An Act of Love (USA 2015) (6): In 2007 Methodist minister Frank Schaefer ignored the rules and regulations of his church and presided over the same-sex wedding of his gay son. It took almost six years for this transgression to reach the ears of the church hierarchy leading to a canonical trial in which his staunch support of inclusivity would threaten his ordained status. Scott Sheppard’s piecemeal documentary—composed of grainy news bytes, talking heads, and old photo albums—examines the issues surrounding the case and the often contradictory stance of a religious body which officially recognizes its gay members as “equal children of God” while simultaneously imposing a double standard when it comes to equality within its ranks. Defrocked gay ministers compete with church officers, both sympathetic and not, in pushing their separate agendas but in the end it’s the same tired old pro/con arguments with one side calling for a renaissance of sorts in the Methodist mindset and the other side stressing the importance of unity, church law, and the dangers of a schism (not to mention the very real threat of lowered Sunday revenues). One must applaud the courage of Rev. Schaefer and his supporters, but as a gay man and an atheist I can only shake my head as the teachings of a desert deity continue to hurt and divide thousands of years later.

An Actor’s Revenge (Japan 1963) (8): With a career that began when he was only five years old, Kazuo Hasegawa was not only an accomplished Kabuki actor but he also became a box office sensation in the fledgling Japanese movie industry. In this, Hasegawa’s 300th film, director Kon Ichikawa puts the actor’s talents to excellent use in a strangely beautiful story which seamlessly blends stage and screen. Famous for playing female leads, 19th century Kabuki actor Yukinojo Nakamura (Hasegawa) travels to Edo where his troupe has been hired to perform a historical tragedy before a full house. But there is more than stagecraft on his mind, for Edo is home to the three powerful men he blames for ruining his parents’ lives and he has devised an ingenious plan to destroy each one of them in turn. And it all begins with him wooing one of their daughters, now a concubine in the court of a local shogun. Shot in eye-popping colours on an ultra-wide canvas, Ichikawa keeps his audience on their toes as the action shifts between “real life” and stagey production—rich palatial interiors morph into set pieces and a deep dark forest reveals itself to be nothing more than plywood props. Never abandoning his female persona Hasegawa, preening in elaborate drag, blurs the boundary between an actor acting and a son seeking vengeance, and his complex character is enhanced by a pair of quarrelling thieves—one male, one female—who aid and abet in their own bumbling way and an irate swordsman with a deadly score to settle. And just to add a touch of whimsy, Hasegawa (dressed as a man) is also cast as a dashing cat burglar smitten by Yukinojo’s feigned feminine charms. A gender-bending Shakespearean tragedy played out with all the pomp and formality of a grand Kabuki production—the overtly choreographed sword fights alone are pure theatre—with a mournful score and cinematography that turns the everyday into small pieces of art.

Adam Resurrected (Germany/Israel 2008) (4): In 1920’s Berlin, Adam Stein (Jeff Goldblum) made a name for himself as the owner and star of a one-man circus where he wowed audiences with parlour tricks and his uncanny feats of mind-reading. Forty years later, suffering from the horrors he endured while a Concentration Camp inmate as well as crippling survivors’ guilt after his family was exterminated at that same camp, Stein is a patient at an experimental asylum outside Tel Aviv which specializes in treating victims of the Nazi death camps. Now wracked by bouts of violent mania and possessing a strange ability to affect the workings of his own body (he can initiate spontaneous hemorrhaging and restart his own heart) Adam seems a lost cause, until he finds a kindred spirit in another “hopeless” case—a feral child whose pathology reopens a very raw wound. Set in the early 60s with B&W flashbacks, director Paul Schrader’s attempt to make an arthouse Holocaust film—think Cabaret meets One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest—juggles profundity with opacity only to wind up flat and affected instead. Goldblum puts in a fine performance as he alternates between gregarious intellectual and cowering casualty but his character grates on the nerves (intentionally?) and he isn’t aided much by a cast of bit actors playing the usual potpourri of psych unit residents. Derek Jacobi plays it straight as the gruff yet compassionate medical director permanently at odds with Stein, and Israeli actress Ayelet Zurer aims low as a sultry head nurse who finds Stein’s delusions overpoweringly sexy—their tasteless couplings looking as if they were plagiarized from a cheesy Italian sex comedy. But it’s Willem Dafoe’s role as death camp supervisor, Commandant Klein, that provides the film with anything resembling a backbone. Torn by his own inner devils, Klein takes perverse pleasure in forcing Adam to assume the role of a pet dog—shuffling about on all fours, eating from a bowl, and being led on a leash—a humiliation which will spare his life yet leave it marked forever. In the end Schrader’s mixed bag of psychiatric clichés and ponderous metaphors (the chains that bind) never really takes off, culminating as it does with a mishmash of Old and New Testament tropes that features a Burning Bush and a Last Temptation. But he does leave us with a couple of searing visuals: a despondent Stein howls in his kennel while smoke billows from a crematorium chimney, and a bitter old man flings rocks at an empty sky demanding an account from God.

Adam’s Rib (USA 1949) (8): When a battered woman (Judy Holliday, magnificently mousy) shoots up the apartment of her cheating husband’s mistress, injuring him in the process, it seems an open and shut case of assault with intent to public prosecutor Adam Bonner (Spencer Tracy). But Adam’s wife Amanda (Katherine Hepburn), a fellow lawyer who has taken up the cause of women’s equality, is not so sure. Believing the woman was driven to extremes by years of neglect and abuse, and acknowledging that men are all too often acquitted of “crimes of passion” whenever their family or personal honour are threatened, Amanda decides to take up the case for the defense. And as the trial quickly escalates into a cause célèbre for the press, the Bonner’s marriage begins to feel the strain with Adam’s fervent belief in the sanctity of “law and order” clashing daily with Amanda’s sense of feminist outrage. When the jury’s verdict is finally delivered it may decide far more than one woman’s guilt… A cutting edge comedy-drama for its time, director George Cukor’s insightful opus (co-written by Ruth Gordon) features an intelligent script with just enough wit to ease the occasional sting. And the trio of leads are in perfect form—Tracy and Hepburn playing the ethically divided lovers while a timorous Holliday provides the explosive lynchpin that not only rocks their personal relationship but challenges the entire judicial system itself. And to think this film is already sixty-six years old!

A Day in the Country (France 1946) (8): Begun in 1936 and never finished due to WWII and director Jean Renoir’s immigration to America, this proposed feature length film was eventually released as a 40-minute short. The fact that it’s still counted among his greatest works bears testimony to Renoir’s artistry. In the summer of 1865 a Parisian shopkeeper takes his family—wife, aged mother-in-law, and grown daughter Henriette—on a jaunt into the countryside where they wind up at a rustic inn for a picnic and a bit of fishing. While the family frolics among the cherry trees and wildflowers a pair of roguish locals become smitten with the effervescent Henriette and vie for her attention—while simultaneously slathering her giggly mother with a few risqué compliments. And as clouds gather overhead an innocent flirtation will lead to something much more…and much less. Aided by future director Luchino Visconti and celebrated French photographer Henri Cartier-Bresson, Renoir is able to capture the essence of a carefree summer’s day where sunlight filters through trembling leaves and an old woman naps with a kitten curled in her lap as if both were posing for a portrait. With the weather thus tied directly to mood, the director goes from sunbeams to raindrops, and from animated banter to a silent boat ride whose leisurely trek across a swirling stream carries overtones both erotic and wistful. A triumph of minimalist storytelling which left me yearning for the feature film that never was.

Address Unknown (South Korea 2001) (5): Ki-duk Kim’s allegorical potpourri is so crammed with conspicuous metaphors, shallow pathos and forced ironies that it plays out more like a contrived performance piece than a motion picture. It’s South Korea, 1970, and along the northern border a small knot of villagers eke out an existence in the shadow of an American military base. There’s the angry young girl blinded in one eye by a toy gun made from an army surplus crate; the desperate mother living in an abandoned military bus who writes endless letters stateside hoping to contact the father of her half-breed son; the son himself (a Korean actor looking faintly ridiculous in brown face paint and afro wig) torn between two worlds yet shunned by both; the taciturn artist bullied because he can’t speak English; and a bevy of veterans trying to out-boast each other with war stories. Against a backdrop of American jets which hint at a freedom just out of reach and packs of yapping dogs that seem to reflect the unhappiness and cruelty around them, these interweaving stories present us with a rather bleak snapshot of life in Korea’s “liberated” south. Klunky and unconvincing for the most part (the Western actors are horrible) Kim’s ensemble piece does contain some nice visual flourishes and a dark humour which finds its source in life’s smaller absurdities: a man attributes his well water’s sweet taste to rotting “commie corpses” buried in his front yard; a pair of youth’s garner an impromptu language lesson from the pages of a smuggled “Hustler” magazine; and the blinded young girl sports a temporary eyepatch adorned with a distinctly caucasian baby blue. An intriguing idea with a flawed presentation. And, as a cautionary note, despite the filmmaker’s assurance that “no animals were actually harmed” the casual scenes of canine abuse prove to be unsettling just the same.

Adventures in Babysitting (USA 1987) (7): Chris is not having a good afternoon. First her boyfriend bails on their big date and then she gets stuck babysitting bratty Sara, her lovestruck brother Brad, and his perpetually horny bud Daryl. Her evening takes a turn for the surreal however after she receives a frantic phone call from her best friend Brenda whose just run away from home and is now stranded at the bus station downtown and in desperate need of a ride. Reluctantly packing up the kids Chris heads into the big city where a blown tire on the freeway causes her to cross paths with a crazy one-handed tow truck operator, which leads to a run-in with a carjacker, which snowballs into a deadly confrontation with a mafia kingpin, which leads to… Get the idea? And the fact that she bears an uncanny resemblance to the current Playboy centrefold model doesn’t help matters either. Will Chris be able to keep everyone safe, rescue Brenda, and get the kids to bed before their parents come home? One of the defining teen flicks to emerge from the 80s, Chris Columbus’ lightweight comedy about a hapless young girl’s babysitting night from hell may not have aged well but for those of us who can remember a time before smartphones and GPS satellites it’s a pleasant romp down memory lane. From Elizabeth Shue’s big-haired innocence to an early cameo by Vincent D’Onofrio as a golden haired (and very thin) garage mechanic this is pure bubblegum cinema yet I must admit I smiled throughout, especially at the ludicrously improbable finale atop a Chicago skyscraper and the prerequisite “new love interest” final scene. Perhaps it’s a good thing they don’t make them like this anymore, but I’m kind of glad they made this one. Guilty pleasure.

The Adventures of Marco Polo (USA 1938) (4): In order to establish a trade pact with China the son of a wealthy Venetian merchant braves soundstage blizzards and the blistering sands of a Malibu Beach Arabia to arrive at an elaborate backlot Peking populated by exotic caucasians speaking perfect English. Caught up in a series of comic book adventures, the intrepid Marco Polo will eventually ingratiate himself with the Emperor Kublai Khan while at the same time wooing Khan’s ridiculously demure daughter (Sigrid Gurie trying to keep her eyes open). Gary Cooper delivers an “Aw Shucks” performance in what has to be one of Hollywood’s worst examples of miscasting while veterans Basil Rathbone and Alan Hale do marginally better as a treacherous Saracen and jovial Mongolian respectively. With its camp faux oriental sets, cornfed dialogue, and complete lack of any historical grounding, Goldwyn Studios’ box office flop seems more like an ambitious Busby Berkeley musical than a historical drama, only without the welcome distraction of song and dance numbers.

The Adventures of Prince Achmed (Germany 1926) (7): In a fairy tale kingdom straight out of the Arabian Nights, an evil sorcerer schemes to marry the Caliph’s beautiful daughter by tempting him with a magical flying horse. Thwarted at the last minute by the Caliph’s son, Achmed, the sorcerer seeks his revenge by sending the young man on a perilous journey. And thus begins a string of adventures in which the young prince contends with a sex-starved harem, falls in love with a mystical princess, and teams up with a powerful witch for a final showdown with a volcano full of demons and monsters. Painstakingly reconstructed from bits and pieces of surviving footage this impressive full-length animated feature, one of the world’s first, utilizes metal and cardboard cut-outs silhouetted agains sheets of illuminated glass. The overall effect calls to mind the Southeast Asian tradition of shadow puppetry with it’s heroic sword fights and happily ever after endings. Although primitive by modern CGI standards, Lotte Reiniger’s stop-motion epic still displays a meticulous attention to detail whether it be a princess’s feathery bird costume or the intricate finger movements of a magician casting a spell. Lastly, a stereo soundtrack of orchestral music heightens the onscreen drama while coloured backgrounds set the mood as they shift from melancholy blues to fiery reds. A fine example of the animator’s art and highly recommended to anyone interested in the subject.

The Adventures of Tintin (USA 2011) (7): Steven Spielberg anglicizes the popular Belgian comic strip about crime-solving reporter Tintin and his trusty terrier Snowy and then proceeds to have the time of his life with it. When Tintin purchases an old model ship at a London flea market he inadvertently stumbles upon a deadly mystery involving sunken treasure and modern day pirates. A clue contained within the ship’s tiny mast will lead our plucky protagonist on a wild chase halfway around the world where he’ll do battle on the high seas and fight for survival in a burning desert—evading bloodthirsty cutthroats every step of the way and befriending an alcoholic captain who may very well hold the ultimate answer in his whisky-soaked head…if only he can remember it. Europe circa 1930’s is brought to wondrous comic book life in this motion capture animation epic which combines live actors (looking waxen and faintly disquieting in their generated bods) with CGI animals and candy-coloured period sets. In the lead role Jamie Bell, sporting our hero’s signature ginger hair and elaborate quiff, exhibits all the wide-eyed wonder you’d expect while a cast of mainstays from comedy and drama circles huff and puff their way through a roster of elaborately overdone support characters. But, while the impeccable special effects left me reeling—a pair of flaming ships battling it out in a hurricane was superbly done and a giddy dash through a quasi-mystical sultanate must have looked awesome in 3D—Spielberg’s continuous attempts to ramp up the excitement with one dizzying chase sequence after another become tiresome while a quaint little non-ending practically screams “Sequel!” Apparently it’s due in 2016 but I’m not holding my breath.

Advise & Consent (USA 1962) (10): Otto Preminger’s searing adaptation of Allen Drury’s politically charged novel is just as pertinent today as it was at the height of the Cold War. When the ailing U.S. President elects Robert Leffingwell (Henry Fonda) to be his Secretary of State it does not come without controversy. Leffingwell’s belief in detente over military posturing rankles more than a few senators especially Seabright Cooley of South Carolina (a drawling Charles Laughton in his final role) who’s also nursing a personal vendetta against the man. As Cooley’s opposition becomes more vocal a Senate sub-committee to determine Leffingwell’s suitability is convened headed by an idealistic young senator from Utah, Brigham Anderson (Don Murray). But when troubling information from Leffingwell’s past threatens to surface despite the President’s attempts to block it, the naïve yet conscientious Anderson comes to realize just how ruthless Washington politicking can be as his own dirty laundry comes back to haunt him. Drury based his characters on real politicians (Peter Lawford’s womanizing schemer is a stand-in for JFK while George Grizzard’s unscrupulous senator from Wyoming has Joseph McCarthy written all over him) and many of the events taking place in the novel were loosely based on real life incidents. In Preminger’s capable hands this attention to detail gives rise to an engrossing and wholly believable tale of underhanded deals, misguided patriotism, and the type of self-serving backstabbing that seems to be a Washington mainstay. Anti-communist rhetoric echoes back to the witch hunts of the 1950’s—the recently coined logo “In God We Trust” looms prominently over the senate chamber and Preminger never misses a chance to throw a bit of dirt onto that sentiment whether it’s a prostitute sneaking out of a senator’s hotel room or a rich socialite wining, dining, and screwing her way into the Capitol’s inner circle. Crisp B&W cinematography renders D.C. in all it’s tree-lined glory and a host of stand-out performances give the film the immediacy of a live stage production only slightly marred by a stars ’n stripes ending. Lew Ayres, Walter Pidgeon, Gene Tierney, and Burgess Meredith round out the cast and a very prim Betty White makes her screen debut as a no-nonsense representative from Kansas.

Aelita: The Queen of Mars (USSR 1924) (4): In 1921 the world receives a mysterious message from Mars consisting of just three words, "Anta Odeli Uta". It's enough to fire the imagination of Engineer Los who immediately begins plans for a rocket ship to take him to the red planet. Meanwhile on Mars, Queen Aelita has fallen in love with Los thanks to a powerful new telescope which allows her to see his every move. But the way to Mars is rocky indeed for Los' marriage is in trouble as his wife seems to be flirting with a member of the old aristocracy, Aelita's own Martian suitor is insanely jealous, and Mother Russia is filled with penniless peasants as she slowly recovers from the events of 1917. Accompanied by his revolutionary friend and a dogged detective Los eventually makes his way to Aelita's side where he finds the unibrowed beauty and her dictator father reigning Tsar-like over a population of oppressed workers just itching for liberation. Billed as the first Russian sci-fi film Aelita plays more like a slapdash soviet bedtime story complete with Communist grandstanding and hammer & sickle symbolism. The impressionistic Martian sets are pretty cool though consisting of swirling staircases and asymmetrical constructs while the the native dress code is a kitschy blend of King Tut and Lego blocks with elaborate headdresses made out of chicken wire and radio parts. A curious little tidbit that plays way too long and culminates in one of the corniest endings I've yet to see. Doesn't come within a light year of Metropolis.

A Fistful of Dollars (Italy 1964) (7): This first instalment in Sergio Leone’s “Dollars Trilogy” was roundly condemned by critics and the subject of a successful lawsuit filed by Japanese director Akira Kurosawa who felt it bore an uncanny resemblance to his 1961 film, Yojimbo. But time and reputation has nevertheless earned it a place in the pantheon of memorable Spaghetti Westerns where it remains an entertaining, if somewhat kitschy, Italian interpretation of America’s Wild Wild West (and Kurosawa’s Yojimbo). A drifter with no name (it’s Clint Eastwood) breezes into the Mexican border town of San Miguel—a haven for smugglers and bandits—where he become embroiled in an ongoing power struggle between the village’s two ruling clans: The Baxters, whose patriarch also doubles as sheriff; and the Rojos whose leader Don Benito has sired two bloodthirsty psychopaths for sons, Esteban and Ramón. Deciding to play both sides against each other in a deadly game of one-upmanship, the drifter uses the two families’ greed and hubris to line his own pockets. But as bodies pile up in the streets he risks becoming too clever for his own good, especially when he lays eyes on Marisol (German bombshell Marianne Koch), unwilling mistress to the insanely jealous Ramón. An opening credits sequence featuring animated silhouettes shooting it out to a haunting Ennio Morricone score (the whistles and minor chords foreshadowing later collaborations), sets the stage for the Wild West opera that follows which, while not nearly as polished as the trilogy’s capstone, The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, still manages to incorporate some mythological elements into all that whisky and gunplay, including a symbolic sojourn in the Underworld. Upon entering San Miguel, Eastwood is met with various images of death—a corpse on horseback, an empty noose, a leering undertaker, the town “bell ringer” whose peals herald a fresh grave—and Leone wastes little time driving those portents home as one violent yet curiously bloodless showdown after another fills the undertaker’s coffins (while sending the British censors into a tizzy). Being his first major motion picture break, Eastwood wastes no time perfecting his soft-spoken sarcasm and squinty-eyed glare while Leone’s supporting cast—culled from Germany, Italy, and Spain—put forth convincingly mad performances despite the English dubbing (even Clint had to dub his own voice for the film’s American release). In the end, sub-par production values are made up for by a wickedly clever plot that sees Eastwood’s more or less ethical drifter stoking chaos for profit, and Morricone’s aforementioned score is beautiful as it wavers between funeral dirge and paean to Justice.

An Affair to Remember (USA 1957) (8): Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr shine in one of the greatest cinemascope weepers of all time. On a cross Atlantic cruise bound for New York, notorious playboy Nickie Ferrante develops a tentative shipboard romance with fellow passenger Terry McKay, the only woman he’s ever met with a wit to match his own. Unfortunately the smitten couple are just weeks away from getting married to other people; he to a wealthy heiress and she to millionaire tycoon, both of whom are waiting for them at the New York City docks. Agreeing to put their separate marriage preparations on hold, the couple plan a romantic rendezvous atop the Empire State Building in six months; just enough time for each of them to become gainfully employed. While Nickie tries to hone his skills as a painter, Terry returns to the nightclub circuit where she gains some notoriety as a stage singer. But when the time comes for their much anticipated reunion a sudden tragedy keeps them apart and threatens to destroy any future happiness they might have had. With its lush widescreen cinematography, rich technicolor sets and bubbling dialogue, Leo McCarey’s film certainly starts out with a romantic flair. Grant and Kerr’s sparkling repartee, moving from capricious banter to lovestruck confessions, is very well written and delivered with appropriate vigour; a side trip to visit an aging grandmother in her hilltop villa is especially poignant. However, if Affair begins like a refreshing sip of pink champagne, it ends with a mouthful of sticky corn syrup. Schmaltzy pathos competes with dewy-eyed pining to see how many tissues they can wring out of the audience while the addition of a cloying children’s choir filled with sweetly smiling cherubs (why does their junior band sound like a professional orchestra?) goes straight for the sentimental jugular. But, for those who can handle the extra helping of icing towards the end, this is one cinematic confection that will leave you satisfied.

Affliction (USA 1997) (8): The sins of the father are visited upon the son in this dark and pessimistic American tragedy. As a child, small town cop Wade Whitehouse bore the brunt of his alcoholic father’s physical and emotional violence. Now an adult he still struggles with the legacy of rage and self-doubt he inherited from the old man while his more fortunate siblings have managed to move on; his brother to the emotionally detached world of academia and his sister to the comforting illusion of religion. Still bitter over a messy divorce and desperately trying to mend bridges between himself and his estranged daughter, Wade feels increasingly set upon from all sides; even the tender embraces of his new girlfriend, a much needed psychological lifeline, go largely unheeded. But when a big city businessman dies in a mysterious “hunting accident” while prowling the local woods, Wade’s initial suspicion that a murder has been committed grows into a full-blown conspiracy theory as former friends and acquaintances begin to turn against him. Is there really more to the man’s death than what is contained in the official report? Or is Wade’s grip on reality slowly loosening as persistent childhood flashbacks coupled with a pathological need to prove his worth begin to cloud his judgment? In the hands of his three brilliant leads, director Paul Schrader takes what could have been a maudlin psychodrama and turns it into a piercing study of one man’s private hell. As father and son, James Coburn and Nick Nolte dance around each other like two sides of the same coin. Nolte traces Wade’s sad disintegration with an intensity that’s painful to watch, while Coburn’s portrayal of the family patriarch spitting fire and venom even as his body crumbles went on to win a well deserved Oscar. Meanwhile, in the role of the girlfriend, Sissy Spacek displays a convincing mix of heartbreak, bewilderment and, ultimately, a muted horror. It all culminates in a suitably operatic finale while a cool voiceover ties up the loose ends and provides a dispassionate eulogy of sorts. Cruel, unsentimental, and completely engrossing.

A Fool (China 2014) (7): When a crazy vagrant follows him home one day, suburban goatherd Latiaozi (writer/director Jianbin Chen himself) finds his troubles multiplying. For starters, the incoherent “fool” proves impossible to ditch and appears to have a limitless appetite for home-cooking. In addition, his disruptive presence is driving a wedge between Lati and his wife as their feelings for the wild man oscillate between pity, disgust, and a grudging sense of responsibility for his fate. But when Lati places a picture of their unwelcome houseguest in a Lost & Found ad, “relatives” of the homeless man suddenly come crawling out of the woodwork causing a beleaguered Lati’s domestic and financial woes to skyrocket as his wife becomes fed up with his waffling and the fool’s ersatz family members begin accusing him of profiteering… No good deed goes unpunished in Chen’s small town satire which combines elements of farce and social critique to tell the tale of a basically honest everyman caught up in a society where graft is a fact of everyday life (Lati and his wife are raising funds to reduce their incarcerated son’s jail term through bribery), money is a social lubricant, and government agencies not only turn a blind eye to what’s going on—they profit from it themselves. Images of mindless goats, including a sacrificial lamb, figure prominently and it all takes place in the days leading up to Chinese New Year where dancing dragons and colourful lights promise an auspiciousness that never seems to arrive. Furthermore Lati’s modest one-room home sports a crudely painted tropical paradise on one wall and he and his wife entertain themselves at night by watching sappy Hong Kong soap operas—both of which only highlight his current predicament. And what’s with that battered cherry-coloured visor which passes from fool to goatherd? As it tinges an already cruel world with a crueller shade of red one can’t help wondering why Chen chose that particular colour. It eventually ends on a muted note awash in irony and more than a touch of melancholy which suggests that Latiaozi, in striving to do the right thing, may be the biggest fool of all.

The African Queen (USA 1951) (8): In east Africa, circa 1914, a somewhat priggish missionary and her equally dour minister brother have devoted their lives to converting the local natives. Unfortunately WWI is looming on the horizon and their backwater idyll is soon beset upon by the advancing German infantry who leave a swath of devastation and burning villages in their wake. With her brother dead and the locals rounded up for military duty Rose Sayer has no choice but to escape downriver with Chris Allnut, the scruffy yet amiable captain of a ramshackle steamboat. Braving rapids, wild animals and sniper attacks they not only hatch an ingenious scheme to thwart the German high command but slowly discover they like each other more than they thought. Unique for it’s use of actual African locations (though much filming was also done on British sound stages) this is one of Hollywood’s most iconic romantic adventure stories. If the plot is somewhat facile and the ending wholly contrived, director John Huston more than makes up for it with gorgeous technicolour cinematography and a brilliant script by the late James Agee. Furthermore, the combined star power of Katherine Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart ensures The African Queen a permanent place in the realm of cinema classics.

Aftermath/Genesis (Spain 1994) (8): “Death has its price…” says the subtitle of director Nacho Cerdà’s amazing and abhorrent pair of horror shorts which sprang from his twin fascinations with death and autopsies. In Aftermath a pair of morgue attendants take an unusually cavalier attitude when carving up the bodies entrusted to their care, but when one of the men finds himself alone with the corpse of a once very beautiful (and now very mangled) young woman…well…boys will be boys. Several prolonged and horrifically graphic scenes of necrophilia later and he’s ready for bed—but not before one last desecration. “I wanted to present a nightmare from which the audience can never wake up” states a painfully young Cerdà in a post-production interview. Lines were crossed. In Genesis however, Cerdà puts aside the butcher knives and vaseline and flexes his artistic muscles instead as he presents a beautifully lyrical and almost unbearably sad tale of love and grief. After losing his wife in a fatal car crash, a heartbroken artist fashions a life-sized statue in her image. But as his work nears completion he finds the sculpture taking on a life of its own even as his own life takes a drastically different path. Graced by a soundtrack of soft classics and mournful chorales Genesis certainly surpasses the pornographic gore of Aftermath (which nevertheless contains a jarring artistry of its own). Considering Cerdà had just graduated from film school though, both short features display a surprisingly mature use of sound, lighting, and camerawork (with no dialogue) in order to set moods which swing from grotesque nihilism to poignant melancholy.

After Porn Ends (USA 2010) (7): What happens to porn stars after they get old and their careers end? Director Bryce Wagoner manages to gather a who’s who of adult actors from the 70s, 80s, and 90s for this telling “where are they now” documentary which challenges many of the myths surrounding the porn industry and the people who work in it. With a couple of expert talking heads including a UCLA psychologist, controversial journalist Luke Ford, and former star turned advocate Bill Margold providing context, Wagoner sets up his camera and lets his subjects talk about their lives before, during, and after porn. As it turns out their reasons for entering the industry are not as varied as one would expect with tales of rebellion, abuse, and the lure of quick cash more common than not, or as Margold succinctly sums it up, the need for “recognition, validation, and credibility”. But far from the “broken twisted lives” portrayed by a deeply cynical Ford (who, ironically, runs a few adult sites of his own) life after porn for these people is surprisingly varied. Despite their past occasionally blindsiding them (“X is forever” warns a few insiders) many have managed to move on and reinvent themselves: superstar John Leslie engaged in his twin passions of music and painting before succumbing to a heart attack in 2010, actress Mary Carey ran for California governor (she came in 10th), actress/producer/director/writer Asia Carrera is a single mother and MENSA member living in Utah, and actor Richard Pacheco, who once considered becoming a rabbi, is an author and artiste. Sadly other stories were not as successful with drugs, alcohol, and abusive relationships the norm while others found another addiction of sorts in religious fundamentalism thus giving rise to the “Pink Cross” bible ministries aimed at “healing lives from porn”. There is a strange disconnect evident amongst those that fared poorly after leaving their careers—they talk longingly of change and hope yet their furtive mannerisms, surgically enhanced chests, and collagen lips seem to tell a different story; no surprise then that many of them ended up back in front of the camera. Overall a fair and even-handed approach to people who work in an area of entertainment which, as many are quick to point out, still carries a lasting stigma even in this day and age.

After the Wedding (Denmark 2006) (6): Jacob, a Danish man running an orphanage in India, is promised a large donation from a wealthy businessman providing he returns to Denmark to receive it personally. Upon his arrival the tycoon invites him to his daughter’s wedding and before you can say “Skoal” skeletons begin flying out of closets and hidden agendas are laid bare. Jacob is disgusted by the lies and subterfuge he encounters but before he can return to India the businessman makes him one final offer he can’t refuse... Bier deftly contrasts the material poverty of an Indian slum with the emotional poverty of an upper class family half a world away. She doesn’t judge her characters too harshly, after all everyone has a reason for being dishonest, but neither does she excuse them. In the end we are left watching a group of bumbling adults tripping over their own good intentions as they try to make peace with one another. There is a good premise here and some good performances. Furthermore the camerawork has a refreshingly natural feel to it that gives the story a sense of immediacy. I also appreciated Bier’s occasional use of wry humour…..the drunken billionaire sitting in his office surrounded by trophy heads was especially effective. Unfortunately she asks us to accept too much on faith…..some aspects of the story are not credible and some of the “coincidences” are a bit contrived. She puts too much on one plate when a minimalist approach would have proven more effective. Alas, this is the type of crowd-pleasing soap opera that is always credited with being far more profound than it really is.


The Age of Innocence (USA 1993) (9): Set among the ornate brownstones and gilded ballrooms of 1870s New York society, Martin Scorsese’s sumptuous adaptation of Edith Wharton’s story is one of his most restrained and therefore most powerful films. An epic period drama about star-crossed lovers, it follows the fortunes of stalwart attorney Newland Archer (Daniel Day-Lewis) whose happy engagement to mousy debutante May Welland (Winona Ryder, Best Supporting Actress nominee) is threatened when he meets her cousin Ellen (Michelle Pfeiffer), a disgraced countess fleeing from an unhappy marriage in Europe and now ostracized by New York’s elite for her “unconventional ways”. Finding in Ellen a kindred rebel spirit which sees the world as it truly is—so unlike May’s timid domesticity and naïve conviction that all is harmony and order—the two are gradually drawn to one another. But this is Victorian Era America and beneath all the gold leaf and rococo trappings the privileged gentry are confined by a rigid set of social codes more impenetrable than that of any primitive tribe so it isn’t long before gossip and innuendo ensure that any action taken by Newland or Ellen will come at a cost. Apparently Scorsese deemed this his “most violent film” not for any physical action but for its sheer depth of emotion. indeed, despite their waxed moustaches and butterfly dresses, the refined gentlemen and ladies depicted here are able to flash the most dazzling of smiles even as they twist their knives further in. A wistful, heartbreaking, and deeply romantic piece with a baroque score and erudite script—partially narrated by Joanne Woodward—all set off by Michael Ballhaus’ golden cinematography, Gabriela Pescucci’s Oscar-winning costume designs, and set decorations which make old New York’s monied class come to life once more, if only for a few hours.

The Age of Stupid (UK 2009) (8): Set on a pollution-ravaged Earth circa 2065 this quasi-documentary/sci-fi hybrid stars Pete Postlethwaite as the embittered curator of the "Global Archives"; a stronghold off the coast of Norway built to house the last remnants of terrestrial life as well as the bulk of human knowledge. Looking back on the "Age of Stupid" (1950 - present) he pieces together what led up to the world's ecological and social collapse; a mixture of short-sightedness, corporate greed and unchecked consumerism. In the words of one 80-year old mountain guide, filmed as he gazed upon a shrinking glacier, “We knew how to profit but not how to protect...” A winning combination of actual news and documentary footage coupled with comic book effects which, unfortunately, will only be seen by those who already believe its dire message. Unsettling.

Agnes and His Brothers (Germany 2004) (6):  Oskar Roehler’s overly ambitious family drama follows the separate stories of three adult siblings from the highly dysfunctional Tschirner clan.  Eldest brother Werner, a successful politician, is slowly going mad thanks in large part to his emotionally frigid wife and loveless marriage.  To make matters worse his snotty son, who seems uncomfortably close to mom, is not only videotaping his mental unraveling but growing a healthy crop of pot in the couple’s front yard to boot.  Middle brother Hans-Jörg is an alcoholic sex addict and chronic masturbator whose monomaniacal obsession with women causes him to lose his job, his dignity, and  quite possibly his sanity.  Lastly there is little brother “Agnes” now a marginalized transsexual involved in a violent relationship who may or may not be harbouring a traumatic secret from her childhood.  Their unhappy adulthoods seem to be related to their slovenly hippy of a father and his child-rearing practices which left much to be desired.  With resentments all around and tensions becoming unbearable, the only pressing question is who will snap first.  This is a dark bit of filmmaking whose occasional flashes of weak sunlight do little to dispel the gloom.  Although the main performances are uniformly excellent the script is woefully short on substance, as if loud histrionics and thumbnail characterizations should be enough to carry us along.  Roehler asks us to fill in too many narrative gaps and leaves the role of the father, which is pivotal to an understanding of the story, weak and poorly developed.  Furthermore, the siblings’ unique tales fail to overlap but run parallel to each other instead.  This lack of a group dynamic robs the film of much of its power and leaves the characters' final scenes involving tragedy, hope, and reconciliation, flat and unmoving.  Agnes fails to earn the dramatic impact it was aiming for leaving us with little more than a handsome ragbag of missed potential.  Nice soundtrack though.

The Agony and the Ecstasy (USA 1965) (8): A wonderfully old-fashioned costume epic depicting the titanic battle of egos waged between Michelangelo, “the sculptor who never wanted to be a painter”, and Julius II, the “warrior pope”, who commissioned the reluctant artist to adorn the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Often filmed high atop his elaborate scaffolding surrounded by swirling saints, Michelangelo wrestles with issues of faith and artistic license while Julius, firmly rooted on the ground, struggles to keep the Church alive and solvent while engaged in a war against France. But the two men meet their greatest match, both spiritually and temperamentally, in each other. In the roles of Pontiff and Painter, Rex Harrison and Charlton Heston are perfectly paired (although Heston occasionally lapses into his “Moses” persona), while a soaring orchestral score and sumptuous widescreen cinematography keep things appropriately grand; candlelit scenes of those famous frescoes in the process of becoming are especially well done. An engaging piece of cinema exploring faith, duty, and the inherent suffering of the artist.

Aguirre, The Wrath of God (Germany 1972) (10): Sixteenth century Spanish explorer Gonzalo Pizarro leads a ragtag group of conquistadors, nobles, and Indian slaves into the wild Peruvian jungle to search for the fabled city of gold, El Dorado. But one of his officers, the sullen and megalomaniacal Don Lope de Aguirre (an equally sullen Klaus Kinski), stages a coup and heads off with his band of mutineers to claim El Dorado for himself. Their nightmarish journey along the Amazon, plagued by violence, lunacy, and deprivation, becomes an allegory on the foibles of human avarice. Aguirre, driven mad by visions of power, crowns one of his cohorts “king” of El Dorado while the church, represented by a cowering monk who also serves as narrator, tries to ingratiate itself to whomever wields the most power. Meanwhile the rest of the men, seeing the preferential treatment afforded lord and commander, begin to reconsider their loyalties yet again. Time and nature eventually take their toll however, and in one of cinema’s most tormented sequences a raving Aguirre takes stock of his dwindling “empire”. Actually filmed on location aboard a small fleet of makeshift rafts, director Werner Herzog and crew suffered through many of the same hardships as the characters in the story with a colossal battle of egos between pigheaded director and a temperamental Kinski becoming the stuff of cinematic legend. But the finished product is breathtaking with its glorious cinematography set off by a spare yet evocative musical score. Although the entire cast put forth memorable performances, Kinski’s depraved Aguirre dominates every scene—glowering and hissing like a pit viper, his lurching gait and crooked back calling to mind a Castilian Richard III. Culling whatever he can from his surroundings whether manmade or natural (a boat suspended from a tree provides a haunting visual while a troop of frantic monkey manage to upstage Kinski himself) Herzog spins a tragic parable whose occasional flashes of gallows humour only accentuate its funereal tone.

A Hijacking (Denmark 2012) (10): A Danish cargo ship with nine men on board is hijacked by Somali pirates who demand a fifteen million dollar ransom for its release. Back in Copenhagen the company CEO, a man who is used to wheeling and dealing in order to get what he wants, decides to go against the advice of the international hostage negotiator his company hired and deal with the pirates’ English-speaking negotiator himself…a decision which will have a profound impact on both himself and the ship’s crew. Comparisons to Tom Hank’s 2013 blockbuster, Captain Phillips, are inevitable of course, but writer/director Tobias Lindholm avoids the winning big screen bravado of the latter and instead concentrates on the psychological toll such an incident exacts on the sailors as well as the negotiating team back home. With the ongoing parley—conducted over fax and phone—stretching from days into months as alternate offers are tabled and rejected, the various deprivations see the crew slowly unravel. Even the pirate negotiator, a man who insists on his own impartiality by repeatedly avowing, “I’m not one of them!”, begins to succumb to the pressure of having to broker a seemingly impossible deal between a hardline businessman (whose bluffs can’t conceal the fact he’s terrified) and a ragtag troop of heavily armed outlaws who are growing more impatient each day. Lindholm’s tense standoff drama ultimately rests on two men: ship’s cook, Mikkel (Pilou Asbæk) whose heartbreaking descent into panic and near catatonic anguish perfectly encapsulates the mood of his fellow sailors, and stone-faced company CEO Peter (Søren Malling) whose own feelings of outrage and impotence are underscored by the tense faces of the crew’s families. Relative unknown Abdihakin Asgar also puts in a fine performance as the voice of the pirates, a harried middleman who, like the captive Danes he oversees, would much rather be at home with his own family. With action shifting from cramped, malodorous ship’s cabins to an equally cramped situation room back in Denmark, Lindholm leaves audiences little room to breathe nor does the tension ever let up. Indeed, an uneasy fraternization between captives and captors—born out of close proximity and hampered by a language barrier—is too often dispelled when machine guns are waved at heads. With a cast of anti-heroes drenched in fear and sweat, the resolution of Lindholm’s gripping shipboard drama may not carry the visceral satisfaction of Hanks’ movie (Rambo fans take note) but it will hit you harder and last longer because of that, for it carries the unmistakable sting of reality.

Alexandra (Russia 2007) (6): Using highly formalized visuals that oddly complement its overall verité style, writer/Director Aleksandr Sokurov applies his dreamlike prose to the futility of war and the results, while visually striking, still fall far short of 1997’s Mother and Son. Alexandra, an eighty-year old grandmother, rides convoy trains and armoured tanks in order to visit her grandson, an army officer stationed in Chechnya. Once arrived however her matronly presence has an untoward effect on the troops even as the ravaged countryside (and its inhabitants) take a toll on her. Taken as a critique of warfare Sokurov’s elderly babushka becomes an everyman figure, muttering non-sequiturs as she hobbles through a camp devoid of colour wherein everything is covered in dust and soldiers are frightened boys dwarfed by the military machines rumbling past them. Her visit to a modest local market gives rise to further sad ruminations when she teams up with a Chechen grandmother and the two reflect on the human cost of armed conflict. Taken as a socio-political allegory she becomes a weary Mother Russia herself, all aches and pains as she looks back on an unhappy life while alternately doling out sympathy and sharp criticism to the troops she encounters—the young men attracted by the wizened authority she exudes. Finally, taken as a two-handed drama it becomes problematic, for even though we know she and her grandson have been apart for seven years, Sokurov gives few clues as to what has gone on before leading to an awkward confession on Alexandra’s part followed by an even more awkward embrace. Despite the washed out cinematography and a static sense of life holding its breath (the ongoing battle is reduced to fires seen in the distance) the film, like its mumbling limping namesake, doesn’t seem to know where it wants to go and instead takes us in tiresome circles only to end where it began. And perhaps it’s this seemingly pointless circularity itself which encapsulates Sokurov’s strongest point. Octogenarian Galina Vishnevskaya, a former opera singer, does put in a fine performance as Alexandra—you can practically feel her arthritic bones and the mountain of sadness she carries within her heart—but even she is not able to buoy up a movie meant to crawl along at ground level.


Alfie (UK 1966) (5): Lewis Gilbert’s depressingly cynical film follows the exploits of one self-absorbed thirtyish libertine whose cavalier attitude seems to attract an endless stream of unhappy doormats only too happy to trade in their dignity for a place in his bed. Firmly entrenched in the centre of his own universe, Alfie sees women as little more than something to be used and then discarded as soon as they develop inconvenient feelings for him, whether it be a young runaway, a despondent housewife, or the neglected mother of his bastard child. In fact, anyone and anything is fair game in his single-minded pursuit of material pleasure. Three key incidents eventually do threaten to knock some feeling into him; a wealthy widow gives him a bitter dose of reality, a poignant churchyard scene reminds him of what he could have had, and he is forced to confront the tragic consequences of one particularly irresponsible affair. But as the camera follows him through the aftermath and into the next day we are left wondering whether or not he’s learned anything at all. In the title role Michael Caine’s cheeky portrayal of a selfish lout determined to look out for number one, yet secretly afraid of being alone, earned him a well-deserved Oscar nomination. His ongoing monologues aimed directly at the audience (a clever device by Gilbert borrowed from the original play perhaps?) puts us in the interesting position of being both conscience and jury. But what is the purpose behind all this deliberate provocation? What exactly is Gilbert wanting us to feel? Alfie is certainly beneath our contempt (isn’t he?) but, with one glaring exception, the doe-eyed dishrags he takes delight in misusing are not entirely sympathetic either. For all its mod flourishes and frank dialogue, the film remains terribly dated as well as socially irrelevant. Try as I might I simply can’t see the character of Alfie as a serious metaphor, nor can I glean any deeper meaning from his crass misogynistic ramblings. What we’re left with then is the tragic escapades of an arrogant and deluded emotional sadist. And that is what it’s all about, Alfie.

Algiers (USA 1938) (7): France’s most wanted jewel thief, the dashing Pepe le Moko (Charles Boyer), has fled to Algeria with a fortune in gems and now lives like a king in the capital’s Casbah district. An exotic rat’s nest of twisting alleyways and interconnected terraces alive with criminals and other undesirables, the Casbah allows Pepe and his henchmen to hide in plain sight where they provide a constant source of irritation for the local authorities. But women are his Achille’s heel and when he meets attractive Parisian socialite Gaby (Hedy Lamarr) who’s vacationing in Algiers with her sugar daddy fiancé, their star-crossed romance could spell trouble for the wary Pepe… Shunned by American censors for its allusions to prostitution, licentiousness, and “kept women”, John Cromwell’s remake of the 1937 French hit Pépé le Moko is tame by today’s standards although there is no mistaking the erotic sparks flying between its two leads—Boyer’s photogenic looks and intense gaze definitely find their mark in the beautiful Lamarr’s downcast eyes. Combining grainy on-location travelogue footage with Hollywood sound stages works well for the most part but Cromwell seems stuck in the Silent Film Era with a couple of emotive performances and awkward close-ups (Boyer’s EYES! Lamarr’s TEETH!). Still, as the pace quickens, a compelling melodrama unfolds with tragedy, romance, and an obligatory musical croon from Boyer himself. He received an Oscar nomination for his flamboyant performance as did Canada’s own Gene Lockhart for his role as Pepe’s double-crossing double agent. But it’s Joseph Calleia who ultimately anchors the film as Inspector Slimane, an honest, soft-spoken cop and acquaintance of le Moko who realizes this particular case will require brains over brawn. An amusing side note, Boyer’s portrayal of the charming thief would go on to inspire the cartoon character of “Pepe le Pew”, Warner Brothers’ horny French skunk.

Alice in Wonderland: An X-Rated Musical Fantasy (USA 1976) (6):  Alice is a painfully naive librarian who dreams of being a woman even as she rejects her handsome boyfriend’s amorous advances.  It finally takes a trip through a looking glass to the madcap (and shockingly liberal ) realm of Wonderland to free her from her inhibitions.....and most of her clothes.  This infamous adult musical based on Lewis Carroll’s children’s book was first marketed as a mainstream softcore  “nudie” by 20th Century Fox.  Fox was apparently not aware of the fact that several hardcore scenes were also filmed but edited out of the final product....until Subversive Cinema managed to procure the naughty bits for this uncut DVD version.  Oddly enough this strange little film actually works for the most part.  The original songs are wonderfully corny; the sets and costumes, while obviously low budget, are bright and colourful; and the script is a bizarre mixture of 70’s burlesque and bedtime story.  Of course the acting is hopelessly uneven and the sex scenes prove to be more distracting than integral, but there is a sense of innocent hedonism to the proceedings that I found quite entertaining.  And Alice’s query, “What’s a nice girl like you doing on a knight like this?” is definitely one of the greatest film quotes I’ve ever heard!

Alien Vs. Predator Requiem (USA 2007) (3):  When a mob of fertile Aliens go tusk to tusk with one very pissed off Predator in a small Colorado town (apparently located just outside of Vancouver) the local townsfolk wind up with two new career options......egg basket or lunch.  There are so many awful things about this film that it is easier to list the things I actually liked:  some of the creature effects were cool, the exploding heads were funny, and the “maternity ward massacre” was just plain wrong on so many levels.  Lastly, despite all the hype on the box the gore factor in this “unrated” version was not only disappointingly tame but poorly lit as well.  A real cinematic stink bomb.


All Fall Down (USA 1962) (9): With it’s ironic allusions to The Nativity, Cain & Abel, The Prodigal Son, plus a ramshackle Garden of Eden with too many worms and apples, director John Frankenheimer’s dark family drama is almost a parable unto itself. Brothers Clinton and Berry-Berry Willart (Brandon de Wilde, Warren Beatty), couldn’t be less alike: Clinton’s trusting, wide-eyed naïf contrasting sharply with his revered older brother’s self-destructive womanizing misogynist. Meanwhile, the family home is an unpredictable battleground with their idealistic father, Ralph (Karl Malden) dousing his many disappointments with whiskey and their prattling neurotic mother Annabell (Angela Lansbury) unwilling to face the elephants in the living room. Things come to a full boil however when the older daughter of a family friend pays a visit (Eva Marie Saint) and both brothers become smitten—a situation which brings about a troubling sea change in mom. Presented in rich B&W that dulls the sunlight while accentuating the shadows, this is a slice of small town American gothic whose occasional excesses—naming the eldest son after a wasting disease for example—are compensated by superb casting and a script that crackles with repressed tensions. Malden and Lansbury are pure cinematic gold as they cross swords more out of weary habit than passion, de Wilde’s innocence makes that final fall from grace all the more poignant, and even though Beatty’s amoral libertine seems underdeveloped his performance still packs a punch when his epiphany finally comes. For her part as the aging spinster (all of thirty-one, gasp!) Saint ends up showing the most range going as she does from frustration to elation to desperation to summation. Lionel Lindon’s cinematography glides through seamy dives and kitschy parlours alike, his cameras coming to rest on the drawn face of a prostitute or the ambivalent gleam in Annabell’s eye as she looks upon her firstborn with something more than maternal devotion. One scene in particular stands out, a tryst by a pond filmed through layers of gauze with blossoming trees, swans, and an offscreen orchestra lending a false mythological sheen to what is essentially a hasty rut. Through his two male leads Frankenheimer juxtaposes goodness and honour with all seven of the deadly sins and the result is quite often arresting.

All is Lost (USA 2013) (9): At the age of seventy-seven Robert Redford gives a powerful solo performance in writer/director J. C. Chandor’s moving story of one old man and a very different sea. When his sailboat is rammed by a rogue cargo container somewhere on the Indian Ocean a lone yachtsman methodically goes about assessing the damage and repairing what he can. Miles from any safe haven (or even a passing ship) he struggles to keep his crippled boat on course but Nature still has a few nasty curveballs up her sleeve and after riding out an especially vehement squall the man begins to realize he may very well be living out his final days… From this simple premise Chandor weaves a meticulous allegory touching on issues of courage, determination, and a pervasive sense of our own fragile mortality. With only a few lines of dialogue he instead relies on astonishing cinematography which plunges his viewers into a storm-tossed ship’s galley or marvels at sunlight glinting off the silvery scales of fish as they glide past like a shoal of placid angels. With the camera rarely straying far from his side, every line on Redford’s weathered face seems to have a story to tell and as he jots down a few notes in his logbook we are offered only a fleeting glimpse into the complexities behind the man. With so much left unsaid then, it is only fitting that the film closes with an ambiguous underwater tableau as beautiful as it is cryptic. A surreal, nearly subliminal score of ambient harmonies propels an already gripping tale of disaster at sea into something approaching transcendence.

All That Heaven Allows  (USA 1955) (8):  Pretty controversial for its time, this film by Douglas Sirk revolves around a mature woman who falls in love with a much younger man.  It proves to be yet another magnificent over-the-top technicolour melodrama from the master of the genre. As always the pretty colours and beautiful white people are merely props used to illustrate darker truths......middle class conformity, xenophobia, materialism, alienation, and the social isolation that awaits those who dare to think outside the pack mentality. Don't dismiss this film based on its soap opera appearance.....it's a bitter pill wrapped with a candy coating.

All That Jazz (USA 1979) (9): Stage legend Bob Fosse does a pas de deux with his own mortality in this beautifully conceived, semi-autobiographical story of Joe Gideon, an edgy Broadway director with insatiable appetites for perfection, sex, and dexedrine. Forsaking love and commitment, much to the chagrin of the women in his life, Gideon drives himself to produce bigger and better shows until a couple of blocked coronary arteries bring down the final curtain. Roy Scheider is amazing as the charismatic Gideon, his manic portrayal of a man dancing over the abyss is at once tragic and breathtaking. The supporting cast is strong and the musical interludes are superb culminating in one of Hollywood's more famous song & dance numbers as a hospitalized Gideon hallucinates his final farewell while Death (a luminous Jessica Lange) looks calmly on. Bold, brash and self-indulgent all the way, just like its director, this is one of the better films to come out of the 70s.

All the King’s Men (USA 1949) (8): Director Robert Rossen may not have had Orson Welles’ knack for big screen spectacle but this Oscar-winning riff on a Citizen Kane theme is all the more successful for its lack of embellishments. Fed up with local corruption at City Hall small town dirt farmer Willie Stark (Broderick Crawford, Best Actor) begins a faltering political campaign based on honesty, integrity, and a connection with the common people which eventually wins him the state governorship. But sometimes you have to do evil in order to bring about good, or so Willie convinces himself, and as he slowly falls in love with the sound of his own voice it becomes easier for him to overlook the threats, cover-ups, and crooked deals which got him into power—the same petty graft which originally prompted him to run for office in the first place. Crawford is magnificent as he evolves from soft-spoken hick to growling egotistical demagogue hungry to reshape the world in his own image yet determined to deliver on every grandiose promise even if the means don’t justify the ends. And Rossen’s script (based on Robert Warren Penn’s Pulitzer-winning novel which was loosely based on the real life exploits of a Louisiana senator) carefully catalogues how one man’s slide into moral bankruptcy—paved with the best of intentions of course—ultimately corrupts everyone close to him including idealistic newspaperman Jack Burden (John Ireland) who goes from dutifully reporting the truth to wielding it like a political weapon and a tough-talking campaign manager (Mercedes McCambridge, Best Supporting Actress) whose admiration for the gubernatorial Frankenstein she helped create eventually crosses that thin line. A choppy editing style spiced with whirling campaign trail montages keeps the action moving at a clip and aside from a final frame that flirts with Shakespearean overkill Rossen keeps things grounded and believable—every character seems to struggle with good and evil including Stark’s own upright country wife (Anne Seymour) and resentful son (John Derek). Ironically, only Burden’s thoroughly capitalist stepfather, a most unlikeable cynic, sees the writing on the wall when everyone else is blinded by visions of stars and stripes and apple pie. Staunch Republican John Wayne was originally offered the leading role but turned it down accusing the film of “smearing the machineries of government” and “throwing acid on the American way of life”. Considering some of the White House scandals which came later the Duke’s admonishments ring hollow indeed.

All the President’s Men (USA 1976) (8): On June 17th 1972, five men were caught breaking in to the National Democratic Committee headquarters at the Watergate office complex in Washington D.C. But when Bob Woodward, a cub reporter for the Washington Post, discovered that not only were the men carrying surveillance equipment, some of them had ties to the C.I.A. as well, he and fellow newspaperman Carl Bernstein spearheaded a journalistic investigation which uncovered a web of deceit and political espionage stretching all the way to President Nixon’s personal cabinet. Based on Woodward and Bernstein’s subsequent book, Alan J. Pakula’s film is both a taut newspaper procedural and a damning indictment of the lengths politicians will go in order to stay in power. Utilizing harsh fluorescent lighting, explosive sound editing (typewriter strokes superimposed over cannon fire...brilliant!), and a highly kinetic visual style Pakula’s cast of Hollywood heavyweights, led by Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman, breathe life into those glaring headlines while William Goldman’s screenplay tries to make sense out of a decidedly serpentine plot. Furthermore, the inclusion of archival television footage keeps things rooted in reality while the use of two-way telephone conversations, wherein the audience is privy to both sides of the call, gives a feeling of authenticity. Whether we’ve become more accustomed to Washington scandals in the forty years following Watergate, or just more tired and apathetic, All The President’s Men still serves as a valuable time capsule which hearkens back to the days before journalism became the three-ring infotainment travesty it is today.

All This and Heaven Too (USA 1940) (5): Based on a true story, Anatole Litvak’s grievously over-baked melodrama, set in 19th century Paris, follows virtuous doe-eyed governess Bette Davis as she accepts a position in the luxurious home of Duke Charles Boyer. The Duke’s children, epitomizing sugar & spice, immediately take to their new mentor as she brings sunshine into their lonely lives and single-handedly saves little Reynald from a nasty case of diphtheria. Unfortunately, the duke also finds himself attracted to the diminutive teacher; a fact not lost upon his wife, a pathologically jealous and sexually frustrated shrew who spends her days writing him rambling letters and her nights scheming to make everyone’s lives more miserable than they already are. With the duke and governess gazing chastely at one another and the duchess’ insanity becoming increasingly theatrical, it comes as no surprise when heartbreak, madness, and tragedy arrive on the doorstep. Told in flashback as Davis’ character, now teaching French in America, tries to plead her case before a classroom of malicious debutantes who have labeled her a fallen woman, Litvak’s lavish soap opera overflows with sobbing close-ups set to weeping strings. Too bad, since some solid performances and a few clever jabs at social hypocrisy and religious dogma wind up getting lost amidst all the flailing and emoting. The sets, however, are amazing.

Alphaville (France 1965) (5): Despite its lofty premise Jean-Luc Godard’s sci-fi noir—a satirical dystopian downer that could have been penned by Orwell and Dick with a little advice from Kafka and Bradbury—plays out like an unfinished art project. In a faraway galaxy lies Alphaville (looking exactly like 1965 Paris…wink wink), a totalitarian metropolis run by Alpha-60, a computerized tyrant that has outlawed all forms of self-expression—even crying will get you executed by firing squad, your body then thrown into a pool to be stabbed repeatedly by a women’s synchronized swim team (huh?) Into this iron-fisted autocracy comes Lemmy Caution, an American agent decked out in trench coat, fedora, and flash camera, who is tasked with destroying Alpha-60 before it can realize its goal of galactic conquest. But two seemingly insurmountable problems stand in his way: he falls in love with the daughter of Alpha’s evil creator, and he has no idea how one goes about breaking an unbreakable machine with superhuman powers. Godard deconstructs the usual science-fiction tropes using low budget stand-ins: a Plymouth Valiant takes the place of a spaceship and futuristic technology is merely suggested by blinking lights, toy phones, and the disembodied voice of Alpha itself provided by an uncredited actor using an electronic voice box so grating I was tempted to turn the sound off altogether. He then adds a few clever touches such as replacing the Gideon bible in hotel rooms with an official dictionary that is constantly being revised to remove such problematic words as “Love” and “Conscience”. And the industrial settings are pure film noir with impersonal office buildings looking down upon rain-soaked streets and Caution letting his pistol speak for him as he manoeuvres his way through a society of law-abiding automatons made crushingly uniform by Alpha’s pervasive control. Even the characters’ names provide a bit of sardonic irony: Doctors von Braun, Nosferatu, and Heckell ’n Jeckell all get their fifteen minutes. But the editing is too disjointed, the plotting too opaque (perhaps on purpose), and the dialogue—gleaned from the works of Jorge Luis Borges and French surrealist Paul Éluard—too often drifts into arthouse gibberish. Lastly, the distinct lack of anything even remotely resembling special effects definitely marks this as “cinema of the mind” which would probably have played better on the radio. Besides, we’ve already seen mad computers and enslaved populations in countless other sci-fi offerings, and the film’s unoriginal ending will give anyone familiar with E. M. Forster’s novella, The Machine Stops, an unshakeable sense of déjà vu. Look for an underused Akim Tamiroff playing a hapless fellow agent coming apart at the seams thanks to too much enforced conformity.

A Married Woman [Une femme mariée] (France 1964) (6): Composed of interlocking vignettes, some lasting only a dozen seconds or so, this is not the best example of Jean-Luc Godard’s directorial skills. But despite its flat presentation and abrupt editing, his disdain for France’s emerging consumer culture and the way it objectifies women comes through loud and clear—perhaps a bit too loud. Unhappily married Charlotte (a strikingly delicate Macha Méril) is at a crossroads in her life: does she remain with her husband Pierre (a tightly wound Philippe Leroy) or leave him for her newfound lover Robert (Bernard Noël looking like a cross between Cary Grant and Rock Hudson)? Either decision will come at a cost for the possessive Pierre, a commercial pilot, treats her like an errant child to be owned and disciplined—even resorting to private detectives and sexual violence to keep her in line. On the other hand Robert, an actor, treats her like a sex kitten and source of pleasure. Indeed, the first several minutes of the film are nothing but images of him running his hands over her naked body while the camera deconstructs that body into its basic components: shoulders, belly, legs, neck, hands, and finally face. As for Charlotte, she comes across as vain, vacuous, and only able to interact on a superficial level, hardly surprising when one learns that her worldview is mostly gleaned from glossy Cosmo-style magazine articles (“How Perfect is your Bust?”) and seemingly endless ads for women’s underwear which assail her from newspapers and billboards. Even her inner dialogue is underscored by flashes of lurid tabloid headlines and she’s barely moved by radio reports of death and destruction—when the subject of Auschwitz comes up (her husband having visited the site on a recent flyover) she initially draws a blank. Of course, being a nouvelle vague French film there is a whole lot of navel-gazing and visual non-sequiturs going on, but in this case the circuitous dialogue and bland day-to-day diversions are precisely the point Godard is trying to make, even going so far as to implicate the artifice of cinema itself in the process. Not for every taste, I admit I found it a bit of an endurance test at times, but for those interested in the evolution of 60s arthouse cinema this is an important (though hardly essential) piece.

The Amazing Mrs. Holliday (USA 1943) (7): An American schoolteacher working as a missionary in China during the Japanese invasion flees to San Francisco with eight little war orphans in tow. But when the immigration department tries to separate her from the children she finds herself posing as the sweet young widow of a wealthy old commodore who was lost at sea when his ship was torpedoed. Now firmly ensconced in the dead man’s palatial estate with eight wide-eyed moppets, her troubles are only just beginning for besides dealing with a guilty conscience she must also contend with the commodore’s suspicious family and his handsome grandson who seems to be falling for her… Canadian-born Deanna Durbin, Hollywood’s perpetual virgin, plays the title role with her trademark “golly gee!” apple pie innocence set to high gear—even managing to give her famous pipes a workout as the screenwriters make room for a couple of songs in English, Italian…and Mandarin no less. She’s joined by Edmond O’Brien as the dashing grandson, fish & chips icon Arthur Treacher as (what else) a stuffy butler, and Barry Fitzgerald as a crusty old sea dog-slash-guardian angel who somehow manages to cajole and manipulate everyone towards the film’s highly improbable happy ending. It’s the kind of fluffy treacle which if made today would be consigned to the Hallmark channel but time and pedigree have allowed it to remain “heartwarming” if not much else. Fine performances—despite that tiresome naïf schtick Durbin was indeed a star—and an Oscar-nominated score of velvety violins make the whole production feel like a summertime Christmas flick. Though uncredited, French master Jean Renoir apparently did the lion’s share of directing but Bruce Manning took all the credit.

Amen (France 2002) (8): Playwright Rolf Hochhuth’s opus The Deputy: A Christian Tragedy created quite a stir after its 1963 Berlin premiere detailing as it did the complicity of the Catholic Church in Hitler’s Final Solution. Now, legendary director Costa-Gavras brings it to the screen in a harrowing adaptation that even Hochhuth is said to have admired. Tasked with disinfecting troop barracks and purifying their drinking water, conscientious SS officer Kurt Gerstein (Ulrich Tukur), a devout Protestant, is horrified to discover that his expertise with chemicals is now being used to exterminate thousands of human beings on a daily basis. Determined to get word out, Gerstein is stonewalled at every turn—from friends, family, and fellow churchgoers who refuse to believe him to Western Allies who prefer to concentrate on their own war effort (while ignoring Jewish refugees seeking asylum) to the Vatican itself whose leader, Pope Pius XII, is more concerned with diplomacy and Hitler’s war on Communism than heeding rumours of death camps. Aided by an equally outraged Jesuit priest (Mathieu Kassovitz) Gerstein must tread a fine line between German patriotism and his moral revulsion towards the Nazi party’s tactics. Needless to say, their stories do not have a happy ending… Outstanding performances all around especially from Tukur whose portrayal of a man torn down the middle goes straight for the heart and Kassovitz who presents us with a young naif whose faith is shaken to its roots when his revelation of war atrocities are met with condemnation from the very people tasked with keeping the Faith. But perhaps Costa-Gavras’ greatest achievement is in his ability to relate the horrors of the Holocaust while barely showing them—the outside walls of a gas chamber tremble silently as an SS officer gloats through a peephole; corpses are briefly glimpsed through the trees as they tumble into hastily built bonfires; and throughout the film grim trains pulling strings of cattle cars constantly traverse the landscape, their engines belching out black smoke like so many crematoriums. The overall impression is of a nightmare from which neither protagonist can awaken delivered with a gut punch usually associated with films that rely on more graphic measures. If Auschwitz and Treblinka were horrible in themselves, so too were the official reactions to news of their existence and Costa-Gavras makes no concessions in this regard whether it’s Pius XII wandering beatifically in papal drag or a Vatican dinner party where cardinals and American diplomats suck back crawfish while staring disinterestedly at a map detailing how many Jewish “units” are to be eliminated. In one pointed scene a fellow Christian and former friend condemns Gerstein’s SS uniform while at the same time his own supposedly innocent war efforts provide the movie with one of its most ironic tweaks. Yet another Holocaust film perhaps, but one told from a most unique and unlikely perspective.

Amer (France/Belgium 2009) (10): Little Ana lives in a big mansion on the Côte d’Azur along with her overbearing mother and ineffectual father. She also shares an adjoining room with the mysterious shrouded maid Graziella who may be a witch, while her mummified grandfather (who may or may not be dead) resides downstairs. Highly sensitive to the negative vibes in the house, Ana is given to frightening flights of fancy with cursed lockets, haunted bedrooms and an increasingly malevolent Graziella preying on her mind. But she is not prepared for the ultimate shock of accidentally walking in on her parents having intercourse. Fast forward to teenaged Ana, a curious young girl whose newfound sexuality has her tightly wound mom trying to slap some chastity into her. Finally we see Ana the adult returning to her childhood home, now in ruins, her head full of vague erotic yearnings which elicit a sense of guilt so strong it actually takes on a life of its own. Framed within the conventions of a European slasher flick, with strong nods to giallo masters Mario Bava and Dario Argento, directors Cattet and Forzani have produced an amazingly surreal psychodrama exploring one woman’s sexual evolution from precocious child to repressed adolescent to frustrated adult (Amer translates as bitter). With only a dozen or so lines of dialogue in the entire film they rely instead on heightening our other senses through the use of provocative imagery, embellished sound, and an acute awareness of colour and texture. The result is a highly sensual, almost tactile experience in which a child’s footsteps crack like muted gunfire and a dripping bedspring splashes into a puddle with the force of a subterranean sea. But it is the exaggerated visuals which ultimately propel the story as a simple bus ride carries the promise of carnal excesses, a trek through an overgrown garden is rife with sin and temptation, and a candlelit bath literally drowns in masturbatory metaphors. With manic editing, jarring sound effects, and a camera that seems to linger on eyes, fingers, and throats, this is pure art house fare whose heavy-handed symbolism and religious references are sure to alienate the popcorn crowd even as it blows away fans of the genre. Personally I was mesmerized.

American Animals (UK 2018) (9): College art major Spencer Reinhard is tired of his average life and yearns for something that will set him apart from the herd. Then he becomes acquainted with his university’s priceless collection of rare books including a volume of watercolours depicting American fowl by James Audubon—artwork which gives the film both its name and central metaphor—and a plan begins to hatch. Joining up with three other disaffected students including anarchist slacker Warren Lipka (and possibly inspired by the movies of Quentin Tarantino) Spencer et al plan a daring daytime theft of several valuable books from the library’s minimally secured “special collections” room. Of course life isn’t like the movies and despite ringleader Lipka’s best laid plans problems, both logistical and psychological, begin to add up. A true story based on an actual 2004 robbery in Lexington, Kentucky, writer/director Bart Layton’s multi-layered scrutiny of restless youth and the pursuit of American-style celebrity unfolds at breakneck speed, stopping now and again to break that fourth wall as the real students behind the characters—now adults—give account for their actions, their stories often conflicting as they mistake one another’s memories for their own. Segueing between reality and dramatization, and elevated by a phenomenal soundtrack including a show-stopping rendition of Leonard Cohen’s “Who By Fire”, Layton’s arthouse hybrid of heist flick and psychodrama is pure cinema. With evocative cinematography that draws upon everything from strobing flashlights to anxiety-riddled verité, and four powerhouse performances from leads Barry Keoghan, Blake Jenner, Jared Abrahamson, and Evan Peters, American Animals is not so much a crime re-enactment as it is a dissection of those egocentric forces which led up to it. Finally, as if to add a dash of irony to this underlying theme, Layton concludes with a brief “where are they now?” segment which suggests that life sometimes does imitate art. Or is it the other way around?

The American Friend (West Germany 1977) (5): Less pretentious than Wings of Desire but just as meandering, Wim Wenders’ stab at “noir lite” is a road movie without a map, a buddy flick without any friends, and a gangster film with no good guys in sight. German picture framer Jonathan Zimmerman (Bruno Ganz in his first big role) is peripherally involved with an art forgery ring that stretches from Hamburg to New York City. He is also dying from an unnamed blood disorder and fears that he will leave his wife and child destitute. Enter American friend and ringleader Tom Ripley (a wooden Dennis Hopper) who inadvertently lands Jonathan a lucrative job as a hitman for a French mobster. Initially horrified at the prospect of killing another human being, a desperate and increasingly fatalistic Jonathan eventually warms up to the task—albeit with some degree of ineptitude—causing Ripley to become both his mentor and guardian angel. Nicely lit and tinted (apparently Wenders and cinematographer Robby Müller were inspired by American painter Edward Hopper) The American Friend is definitely appealing to the eye and aside from Dennis Hopper’s mechanical performance everyone else puts on a good show including a host of fellow directors playing bad guys (Samuel Fuller?!). But if there is any point to the film it is obscured by arty detours, abrupt edits (which city are we in now?), and pacing that slows to a crawl except for two memorable scenes: one in a Paris metro station where Zimmerman stalks his first victim and the other on a speeding train. What motivates Zimmerman is made clear—he wants the money. But Wenders’ attempts to expound on the psychological fallout from his actions make for some frustratingly murky cinema full of U-turns and dead ends.

American History X (USA 1998) (7):  Sent to prison on manslaughter charges for the brutal slaying of two black men who were trying to break into his jeep, confirmed Neo-Nazi Derek Vinyard (a ridiculously buff Edward Norton proving he deserved that Oscar nomination) returns to his southern California neighbourhood a changed man thanks to a series of prison epiphanies.  Making amends to the family he once disowned for their “liberal bias” Derek embarks upon the straight and narrow. Unfortunately his younger brother Danny ("Terminator’s" Edward Furlong) seems hellbent on following in his older brother’s footsteps and is now the golden child of the same White Supremacist guru who set Derek on the wrong path years ago.  Joining forces with one of Danny’s teachers, a black man who sees the boy’s true potential, Derek is determined to protect his brother from becoming what he once was.  But the past is not so easily dismissed and Derek suddenly finds his life threatened by both the Aryans and the friends of the two men he killed.  Tony Kaye’s unsettling look at the evolution of hate features a stellar cast, an unflinching script, and enough point/counterpoint arguments to fuel a dozen heated discussions outside the theatre.  No one is born prejudiced and through a series of clever B&W flashbacks we see how Derek’s emotional vulnerability following the senseless murder of his father (a man with definite opinions of his own) left him wide open to the kind of racist rhetoric that appears to offer easy explanations to a young man filled with rage and grief.  But far from one-sided, Kaye examines the race divide from both sides showing those small transgressions and deliberate misunderstandings that inevitably lead to greater tragedies.  Perhaps he relies a bit too much on images of slo-mo seagulls, ebbing tides, and cascades of cleansing water (another shower anyone?) and those soaring choral pieces, while deeply moving, do get heavy-handed at times. But there is still an unshakeable ardor to Kaye’s film (even though he eventually gave up on the project) which manages to weather most of its Hollywood embellishments.  Too bad he felt the need for those terribly schmaltzy final scenes.

American Hustle (USA 2013) (9): At the height of the Disco Era a pair of New York con artists have built a modest empire selling forged paintings and offering bogus loans to desperate men with questionable debts. Irving Rosenfeld (Christian Bale personifying sleazy chic with beer gut, coloured shades and the worst combover in filmdom) and Sydney Prosser (Amy Adams, a conflicted mix of bewildered naif and hungry predator) are also lovers much to the chagrin of Irving’s neurotic wife Rosalyn. It all comes crashing down however when the two are nabbed by FBI agent Richie DiMaso who makes them an offer they can’t refuse: either aid the Feds in catching a few corrupt low-level politicians or face lengthy prison sentences. It all seems pretty easy at first until things begin to go wrong: Richie starts to have feelings for Sydney; Irving develops a friendship with one of the targeted men; and Rosalyn dusts off her high heels and decides to make a few waves of her own. But when the overly ambitious DiMaso, already unhinged thanks to a violent temper and taste for cocaine, decides to widen his net to include a couple of high-ranking congressmen and a very dangerous mob boss, Irving and Sydney realize they must pull their biggest scam yet or else face consequences far worse than jail. Writer/director David O. Russell has fashioned a giddy yarn of cross and double-cross populated by fully fleshed clichés and presented with all the moral ambivalence of a sinister sitcom. He further embellishes things with a frantic editing style, a glorious soundtrack of old A.M. radio classics, and more kitsch than the 1975 Sears catalogue. However, although the story is very loosely based on the FBI’s Abscam Sting (an opening title card assures us that “some of this stuff actually happened”) his film is essentially all about appearances, lies, and bullshit. It’s about the many ways we con ourselves into seeing what we want to believe in order to satisfy our need for either money, love, or prestige. But the fact that he has taken a tired old Hollywood plot, gussied it up with some A-list performances and a brilliantly sardonic script (partly improvised), and then marketed it as an Oscar contender may be the biggest hustle of all. Sir, I salute you!

An American in Paris (USA 1951) (6): An ex-GI decides to follow his dream of becoming a famous artist while living in the fabled City of Lights. Along the way he is wooed by a rich cougar, falls in love with his friend’s fiancee, and finds ample opportunities to sing and dance. This is certainly a technicolor delight filled with postcard cinematography and a famous soundtrack of hummable Gershwin tunes. Some highlights include a one-man orchestra performance by Oscar Levant, a sequence of whirling solos by Leslie Caron, and an extended dance routine played out against vibrant cardboard cut-outs of Paris complete with misty fountains and glowing archways. Unfortunately it soon becomes apparent that Caron and Kelly are performers, not actors. While the choreography is technically on the mark and the vocals are pitch-perfect, there is no chemistry between the two leads and therefore no depth to the story itself. Their tearful romance is little more than a colourful prop meant to bridge the gaps between song and dance numbers. Worth a look, but file it under “light entertainment”.

Amityville: The Awakening (USA 2017) (4): The fact that it took five years to complete and then suffered through three disastrous release dates before settling for a limited run should give you a clue as to the quality of Frank Khalfoun’s contribution to the Amityville Horror franchise. Unfortunately some of us don’t heed the warnings. Forty years after the iconic New York farmhouse’s demonic presence caused a man to off his entire family—good use of fake news footage—angry single mother Joan (Jennifer Jason Leigh finding a new career low) and her three kids move in just as the demons are getting restless again. But even though sullen goth teen Belle (a sullen Bella Thorne and her panties) suspects something is amiss and cutesy Juliet (Mckenna Grace) finds a bogeyman in her closet, the house seems most interested in their brother James (Cameron Monaghan stretching the special effects budget), a twisted comatose paraplegic hooked up to home life support and the apple of Joan’s obsessive eye. The usual shocks and mayhem ensue as an increasingly agile James leads the family down a rabbit hole so lined with clichés and illogical plot points that even the devil gives up eventually. However effective some of those shocks are—a zombie dog was gross and a mirrored reflection almost made me drop my digestive cookie—they’re all for naught as Khalfoun piles on the silliness with an obscure biblical reference, too many doors and windows slamming open and closed, and a family-unfriendly “climax” which might have been more watchable had the studio not trimmed it down for that coveted PG-13 rating. Setting itself up as a new “true story” of sorts, it also mocks the previous Amityville movies with Belle and her creepy pals watching the James Brolin original on DVD just as the lights go out prompting a trek to the basement fuse box. Glass houses Mr. Khalfoun, glass houses. At least upstate New York looked splendid with the odd palm tree (it was filmed in Long Beach…oops). Maybe they could name the next turkey pile Amityville: Go Back to Sleep Already and be done with it?

A Most Violent Year (USA 2014) (8): When making a moral decision do we focus more on the consequences of our actions or the “rightness” of the actions themselves? Writer/director J. C. Chandor tackles this age old quandary with an intense drama that zeroes in on ambitious yet virtuous entrepreneur Abel Morales and his more pragmatic wife, Anna (Oscar Isaac and Jessica Chastain providing onscreen dynamite). Set in New York circa 1981—statistically the most crime-ridden year in that city’s history—Morales is intent on expanding his heating oil business by purchasing some prime industrial real estate at great personal risk. Standing in his way however are the D.A.’s office which has made his company the focus of a corruption investigation, and a pair of unknown thugs who are regularly hijacking his fuel trucks. Honest to the core, the harried businessman nevertheless sees his American Dream aspirations slipping away with every theft and subpoena while those he once considered friends and confidantes—including his lawyer (Albert Brooks), his teamster foreman, and Anna who doubles as company accountant—offer solutions steeped in various degrees of moral repugnancy. But as his financial situation becomes ever more precarious Morales is forced to acknowledge that in the world of business, ethics is relative and even the most upright objectives cannot escape the taint of corruption. Shot in dreary industrial locales with the spires of New York glittering in the distance, Chandor’s tight editing and articulate script make two hours fly by while the film’s sense of classical tragedy is enhanced by a soundtrack of funereal movements and lethargic radio voices recapping the day’s crime statistics as if they were reciting a shopping list. Isaac’s disheartened Everyman is a study in outrage and control as he tries to swim agains the tide, and he’s matched stroke for stroke by Chastain whose character learned long ago that it’s better to simply float. Also of note is David Oyelowo as the prosecuting District Attorney, a man so inured by his office that he can only see the world in shades of dishonesty. Chandor’s tale of one good man, an antithesis to Coppola’s The Godfather if you will, ends appropriately enough on an ambivalent note with characters gazing upon the fruits of their decisions with all the weight of Shakespearean monarchs. An unexpected pleasure.


Anastasia (USA 1956) (7): Set in 1928 Paris, Anatole Litvak’s sparkling though historically inaccurate screen adaptation of Maurette’s stage play sees General Sergei Pavlovich (Yul Brynner), former right hand man to the executed Tsar Nicholas, determined to cash in on rumours that the Tsar’s daughter Anastasia managed to escape the firing squad and is now living incognito somewhere in Europe. Not believing the rumours himself, he nevertheless manages to collect hefty deposits from various deposed Russian aristocrats who are counting on him to track down the young duchess. Enter “Anna Koreff” (Ingrid Bergman in her Oscar-winning performance), a mentally unstable amnesiac Pavlovich finds wandering along the banks of the Seine who not only bears a striking resemblance to his quarry but also possesses a mind so malleable that she is capable of taking on any persona he wishes. But as he slowly transforms his emotionally labile protégé into a marketable Anastasia she becomes so convincing that even the cynical general begins to wonder whether he has actually stumbled upon the real thing. Artistic license aside, this is a beautifully rendered exercise in what if—an historical fairy tale which combines mystery with a dash of romance as Pavlovich realizes, perhaps too late, that his interest in Anna goes beyond the huge dowry waiting for her in a London bank. Filmed in swirling colours with widescreen Cinemascope settings that reach from Parisian slums to royal reception halls, this is filmmaking on a grand scale. Presenting Koreff as a naïve tabula rasa, Litvak toys with issues of memory and identity as well as the need to belong—is Anna’s performance merely parroting or has Pavlovich’s tutoring actually tapped into buried memories? And is that a note of despair we hear in her insistence that she actually is Nicholas’ missing heir? Fine performances all around, especially from Bergman and a dignified Helen Hayes as Pavlovich’s most ardent skeptic, the dowager Russian Empress Maria Feodorovna living in luxurious exile in Copenhagen.


Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy (USA 2004) Anchorman 2: The Legend Continues (USA 2013) (1): It’s the 1970s and television news reporting is still part of the old boy’s club. Nowhere is this more apparent than at KVWN in San Diego, a station run by chauvinist pigs with the head hog being celebrated anchorman Ron Burgundy (Will Ferrel, screaming a lot). So it comes as no surprise then that when the boss hires a female reporter (Christina Applegate proving she can’t act on the big screen either) blatant sexism—and unexpected romance—rears it’s moustachioed head and….and….and that’s about as far as I got. It’s rare for me to actually give up on a film before it’s over, and almost unheard of to have it happen twice in a row but these two flicks are so godawful terrible I could only stand 30 minutes of each one, plus a few more minutes spent fast-forwarding just in case things got better. Like a pair of really bad Saturday Night Live sketches that go on way too long, there is nothing here that goes beyond a self-conscious chuckle. What humour there is consists mainly of boners, ca-ca, and titty jokes with lots of yelling, juvenile pratfalls, and idiotic non-sequiturs, (“I’m mentally retarded!” quips the silly weatherman. Haha!) . Yes, I realize writers Ferrel and McKay were probably going for the look of an old school sitcom (and old school laughs) wherein the sheer zaniness is supposed to sweep you up or something. But this is not 1970 anymore and I’m not nine years old. Pathetic.

The Anderson Tapes (USA 1971) (3): Sean Connery stars as sexy Duke Anderson, a master thief fresh out of prison who decides to get back into the game by robbing the residents of a swank New York apartment building where Ingrid, his pampered prostitute girlfriend lives. Gathering the usual assortment of criminal ne’er-do-wells around him, including a shockingly young Christopher Walken as an ace safecracker, Anderson prepares to pull off the biggest hit of his career. But unbeknownst to the cocky burglar not only are those nightly pillow talk sessions with Ingrid being tape-recorded by her jealous benefactor, but the I.R.S. and F.B.I. have their cameras pointed in his direction as well. Sidney Lumet’s tale of a skewed Robin Hood (fed up with the double standards inherent in Capitalism, Anderson steals from the rich to give to himself) living in an age of surveillance cameras and hidden microphones tries to inject a bit of conspiracy paranoia into an otherwise tepid heist caper. Grainy video images accompanied by a jarringly intrusive electro soundtrack by Quincy Jones are obviously meant to ramp up the tension but only serve to annoy, while the quick cuts and flash-forwards are just plain messy. An admirable cast of B-listers do their best, especially Judith Lowry and Margaret Hamilton as a hilarious pair of bickering spinsters, while the 70’s “high tech” gadgetry is amusingly primitive. But it all fails to gel into anything profound and instead we’re left watching a mildly engaging cops ‘n robbers romp with some sort of ironic message tacked on to the final scenes. And, in a particularly shabby move, the late great character actor Martin Balsam is cast as an outrageously fey interior decorator giving rise to more than a few “faggot” snipes. Real classy.

The Andersonville Trial (USA 1970) (10): During the American Civil War Georgia's Andersonville Prison was the site of unimaginable suffering as captured Federal soldiers died by the thousands from lack of shelter, food, and basic sanitation. After the South fell the man in charge of running Andersonville, Captain Henry Wirz, was brought to trial on charges of wartime atrocities. In this brilliant television adaptation of Saul Levitt's play, Wirz's trial is given dramatic life as two opposing lawyers, one Federal one Confederate, argue over the fine line between an officer's patriotic duty to obey the orders given to him and his moral obligation to resist those orders if he finds them inhumane. An all-star cast, directed by George C. Scott (!), provide top-notch performances in a production that goes beyond mere courtroom procedural to cast a harsh light on what it means to be human. Amazing!

And God Created Woman (France 1956) (5): A tawdry melodrama whose immorality would barely warrant a PG rating these days, Roger Vadim’s potboiler is noteworthy only because it cemented a then 22-year old Brigitte Bardot’s reputation as an international sex kitten. Raised in a dour conservative family, former orphan Juliette (Bardot) has grown into a pouty teenaged libertine who has all the village men chasing her tail like lustful alleycats—but Juliette only has eyes for Antoine, manager of the local shipyard. In a fit of pique however she marries his younger brother, Michel, even though her loins are still firmly orientated toward Antoine. Meanwhile wealthy middle-aged shipyard owner Eric is determined to become the moody naif’s sugar daddy come hell or high water. The heated romantic rectangle which results ensures that it’s only a matter of time before events reach a tragic head… With St. Tropez’s azure locations standing in for Eden, Bardot’s character is both apple and snake, temptress and victim of her own desires. And Vadim’s camera spends as much time lingering over her tastefully exposed flesh as it does on all those sandy beaches and tortured male close-ups. But this flick doesn’t quite fit within the realm of “female empowerment” for Juliette wields her sexuality like a toddler with a loaded pistol—firing at random and racking up collateral damage along the way. Bardot is certainly attractive in all the right places, but her character’s scatterbrained approach to life, filled with 18-year old angst and seductive moues, becomes monotonous very quickly even if one accepts the usual scenario of sheltered small town girl smitten with hormonal wanderlust. Still, the scenery is lovely and a crazy jazz score is quaintly dated.

And the Band Played On (USA 1993) (6): Matthew Modine heads a surprisingly diverse cast of A and B-listers (Phil Collins as a gay bathhouse owner?!) in this medical docu-drama examining the earliest years of the AIDS epidemic. He plays Dr. Don Francis, a researcher who along with colleagues in New York, San Francisco, and Los Angeles---not to mention the Pasteur Institute in Paris whose work was pivotal in isolating the virus---struggled to understand why so many previously healthy men were succumbing to opportunistic infections heretofore unseen in such numbers. Hampered by conservative politics, professional egos, and the mistrust of the gay community itself, Francis and the other teams waged an uphill battle in the beginning while new cases of AIDS steadily increased worldwide. A well-meaning film despite some Hollywood grandstanding and a script which often wavers between highschool lecture and activist rant. The use of actual news footage provided an historical backdrop and all those familiar faces jockeying for a cameo in what was then a “controversial” picture put in generally good performances. Unfortunately, although some very obvious attempts were made to portray the gay community in a favorable light I couldn’t help but see them as little more than a small horde of angry club boys and underwear models serving up background noise. A closing montage of video clips and dead celebrity photos, all set to an Elton John ballad, was blatantly manipulative yet still left me in tears as I remembered my own Lover who died from this disease over twenty years ago. Nevertheless, this remains an important testament when taken with a grain of salt and an understanding of the era in which it was produced.

And Then There Were None (USA 1945) (8): A grand old whodunnit from the pen of Agatha Christie is translated into a B&W confection by director René Clair. Eight strangers find themselves in a gloomy mansion situated atop a remote island, invited guests of an absent benefactor. Together with a dour maid and butler—the only other people for miles around—they patiently await the arrival of their host, and that’s when the fun begins. Someone on the island has a murderous agenda and as their numbers begin to dwindle (the deaths oddly connected to a children’s rhyme) each guest begins to feel the killer could be sitting right next to them. But what’s the motive? Lots of moody atmosphere with storm clouds and crashing waves outside and creaking corridors within as the body count rises and everyone scrambles to solve the mystery before they’re next. Barry Fitzgerald and Walter Huston are exceptional as a shrewd judge and drunken doctor respectively, while the rest of the cast play their one-dimensional suspects with melodramatic aplomb. Clair doesn’t offer a lot of clues, the red herrings are thankfully kept to a minimum, and the big reveal is saved for the very end. It’s not the solution that matters however, it’s the journey itself which proves to be so much fun!

Angel-A (France 2005) (7): “It’s difficult to love yourself when nobody shows you how.” A simple observation that goes a long way in writer/director Luc Besson’s offbeat romantic comedy laced with heavenly overtones. André (Jamel Debbouze), a small-time American hustler currently living in Paris, owes an awful lot of money to an awful lot of bad people. Now facing threats of bodily harm—and worse—unless he pays up he decides his life isn’t worth much anyway and so prepares to leap into the Seine. Enter the mysterious Angela (Rie Rasmussen) a towering blonde beauty who just happens to be clinging to the very same bridge as André. Angela’s rather abrupt appearance in the unhappy man’s life will not only cause waves (literally) but as the two form a hesitant bond, rife with friction and ideological clashes, her otherworldly comportment will have André considering taking a different kind of leap… The diminutive Debbouze’s dark features and elfin good looks play nicely off Rasmussen’s pale nordic profile as does his neurotic musings (think middle-eastern Woody Allen) when compared to her grounded, slightly edgy pragmatism. She has no qualms about raising much needed funds by using whatever means God has given her, for instance, while he drowns his moral ambivalence with shooters even as the euros pile up. Gradually, however, Angela’s ethereal presence will have André looking at the world—and himself—with newfound eyes, a revelation which will carry its own set of complications. Filmed in expressive B&W (bridges, mirrors, and angelic statuary figure heavily) with a wonderful soundtrack of soft jazz, Besson’s witty script practically flies out of his main characters’ mouths—André’s manic zeal tripping over itself, Angela’s preternatural calm more than suggesting supernatural roots—leaving a cast of background actors to play the usual assortment of devilish gangland heavies. As far from the arty hubris of Wenders’ Wings of Desire as one can get, this gentle, often quite funny tale of saints and sinners making their way through the City of Lights lingers in the mind like a cool sip of champagne—with a hefty shot of bourbon on the side.

Angels Wear White (China 2017) (8): The sexual assault of two underage girls by a prominent politician in a seaside hotel provides the focal point for Vivian Qu’s angry dissertation on corruption and power imbalance in the new People’s Republic. Following the incident, twelve-year old victim Wen finds herself little more than a pawn in a game larger than she is able to imagine: mom worries about her reputation, the authorities don’t want to rock the boat, and the perpetrator is intent on finding everyone’s price before the courts take notice. Meanwhile sixteen-year old desk clerk Mia, the only witness to the crime, finds herself threatened by an irate boss who wants his hotel kept out of the papers. Everyone it seems has something to either gain or lose except the little girls themselves… Shot with a noirish edge and special attention to faces—angry, despairing, frightened, resolved—Qu pulls no punches while at the same time highlighting how quickly people lose sight of the real crime in their zeal to escape the fallout. The rapist himself is not even seen except in a grainy video, as if his presence is only a backdrop to the real story. Only Wen, Mia, and the female attorney assigned to the case see what’s really happening and they are perhaps the least able to do anything about it. And throughout the film the director scores one visual coup after another whether it be a despondent Wen walking along a beach full of blushing newlyweds or a giant Marilyn Monroe statue gracing a city park like a Goddess of Defiance in blousy skirt and six-foot stilettos. A target for both frightened runaways and petty vandals alike, Monroe’s likeness may ultimately be mere fibreglass and steel but Qu’s striking metaphor makes for a final scene that resounds long after the house lights come on.

The Angry Red Planet (USA 1959) (2): Retro sci-fi for people who know jack shit about science fiction. Absolutely awful story of the first manned trip to Mars where three virile astronauts and one token female scientist (who also doubles as nurse and housewife...I guess her PhD simply stands for Pretty Hot Dame) must face down a giant rat-spider with lobster claws, a carnivorous play-doh bush and a huge "bacterium" filled with psychedelic scrub brushes. Presented through the miracle of "CineMagic" which simply means actors are filmed in a monochromatic shade of lurid crimson as they cavort in front of cheesy painted backgrounds (I've seen better artwork taped to refrigerator doors). And of course it ends with the cliched “Earthlings beware...” speech delivered by some rather uppity Martians resembling three-eyed samurai grasshoppers. It’s enough to make Ed Wood lose his lunch. (Score 2/10 for sheer campiness and some atmospheric music).

Aniara (Sweden 2018) (9): En route from a ravaged Earth to a new home on Mars the interplanetary ship Aniara—filled with thousands of colonists many of whom bear the scars of things more terrible than global warming—experiences a disaster which leaves it hurtling towards interstellar space. Now, with onboard fear turning into fatalistic malaise, all the old foibles of humanity begin to manifest themselves amongst passengers and crew alike as brushes with fascism and religious zealotry vie with rampant consumerism and a unique brand of hedonism thanks to bootleg drugs and MIMA, an AI virtual reality machine. But as weeks grind into years once pristine hallways become ghettos and recreation centres turn into shrines until the arrival of a mysterious object from space pushes Aniara’s small pocket of mankind towards its next iteration. With a timeline as big as its vision, Pella Kågerman’s existential space opera—based on Harry Martinson’s epic sci-fi poem—is a blend of impressive CGI and bleak psychodrama exploring what happens when people are stripped of all hope and life loses whatever meaning they may have once given it. With the blackness of space hovering just outside every viewport like an organic presence (kudos to the effects team for some breathtaking vistas) Kågerman’s endless night of the soul eventually extends beyond humans to infect MIMA with its own brand of mechanical melancholy. Told mainly through the eyes of a staff astronomer and her female lover, Aniara’s grit and drama unfolds like a Viking saga with flashes of violence and carnality interspersed with passages of austere grace and a final twist of brutal irony which provides the film with a perfect capstone. An eye-opener for those who still believe science-fiction to be the realm of little green men and wisecracking robots.

Animal Farm (UK 1954) (8): Aside from the ending, Joy Batchelor and John Halas’ BAFTA-nominated piece of animation remains more or less true to George Orwell’s political satire about revolutionary idealism vs human nature. After years of suffering deprivation and indignity at the hands of an oppressive farmer, the livestock rise up in a workers’ revolt, send him packing, and claim the farm for themselves. But the manifesto that they lovingly hand-paint on the side of the barn (which includes such golden rules as “All Animals are Created Equal”, “Animal Shall Not Kill Animal”, and “Four Legs Good, Two Legs Bad”) is gradually undermined by a cabal of scheming pigs led by the coldly ambitious boar Napoleon and his cowardly sycophant Squealer who believe that some animals are more equal than others and lolling about in a human house beats a sty any day. With the drunken farmer thus replaced by an elite porcine dictatorship—all of whom are learning to walk on two legs—the furred and feathered proletariat find their quality of life becoming more unbearable with each passing day. Despite a couple of adorably drawn characters (ooh that baby duck!) and a palette of dark pastels, this is a relentlessly bleak riff on the theme of “Absolute Power Corrupts Absolutely” which doesn’t shy away from blood and death as when Napoleon calls upon his squad of vicious Storm Trooper dogs—which he perverted from the time they were puppies—to rid “his” farm of malcontents. Nor does he hesitate to exploit the less able animals in exchange for bartered human goods which he hogs (haha) to himself. However, whereas Orwell’s novel ended in a whimper rather than a bang, Batchelor and Halas rewrite it into something a bit more inspirational—apparently the American CIA owned the rights to the book and it’s rumoured they wanted to use the film to promote their anti-communist rhetoric. Either way it still packs quite an emotional punch for a cartoon so send the kids out to play because this ain’t Disney.

Animal Kingdom (Australia 2010) (10): After his mother dies of a heroin overdose Joshua Cody, not quite eighteen and not particularly bright, is taken in by his estranged grandmother and her adult sons...uncles he hasn’t seen in years. There’s a reason his mom tried to shield him from the rest of her family however, for under the tutelage of Grandma Cody and uncle Andrew (aka “Pope”) the family home is a volatile den of thieves with armed robbery and drug dealing the main sources of income. Surrounded thus by crooked cops, crooked relatives, and the crooked lawyers who defend them, Joshua quickly learns that in the human jungle the strong must fight for survival while the weak must align themselves as best they can; everyone else is fair game. Unfolding like a waking nightmare, David Michôd’s visceral gut-punch of a film follows Joshua as he tries to determine his place in the food chain, especially after the slaying of two police officers puts him squarely in the crosshairs of both the authorities and the Cody family alpha male, uncle “Pope,” a soft-spoken sociopath with a murderous temper. A far cry from the usual crime drama, Animal Kingdom features a brilliantly downplayed script enhanced by grim, dreamlike cinematography and a disparate soundtrack of muted pop tunes and somber acoustical passages. Michôd’s cast is picture perfect as they flesh out their characters, especially Jacki Weaver as Joshua’s grandmother; a seemingly benign white trash matriarch who just may be the most cold-hearted predator of them all. A horrifying and unapologetic film with an ending that is at once shockingly unexpected and sadly inevitable. Good cinema!

Annabelle: Creation (USA 2017) (7): First the usual glut of disclaimers for this genre of film: of course the storyline is completely ludicrous when you give it more than a cursory thought; of course normal people do not behave this way when they discover they’re in a haunted house; and of course evil never dies, at least until the studio has milked every dollar they can from it. That being said, this prequel to the lucrative Annabelle-slash-Conjuring franchise could very well be the best of the lot. In the midwest circa 1960, six orphan girls and their kindly governess Sr. Charlotte find a new place to stay in the big country home of toymaker Samuel Mullins and his wife Esther. All is not well from the very beginning however for an opening prologue shows how the Mullins lost their little girl Annabelle in a terrible accident twelve years earlier, a death which left Samuel a dour husk of his former self and Esther a bed-bound invalid. But as the days pass and the orphans settle in, peace seems to come to the Mullins home—until little Janice enters a forbidden room and finds a most unusual doll… The Mullins have been harbouring an awful secret and Janice’s small transgression is about to unleash a whole mountain of diabolical headaches. Stylishly filmed with wide pans and close tracking shots as the girls giggle up and down staircases or else stare horrified at a darkened doorway, director David F. Sandberg finds just the right balance of innocent frivolity and demonic foreboding. There are shadows aplenty in the Mullins home, some real some psychological, and Sandberg is not above throwing in a pair of glowing eyes, scraping claws, or that eponymous doll—the ugliest piece of crinoline and porcelain you’re likely to see—which always seems to show up at just the wrong moment. But as effective as the first half of the film is, the second half spirals into haunted house clichés with flickering lights and a little black devil goading the adults into wielding the usual Catholic voodoo with the usual suboptimal results. Good special effects though, and the young actresses work well together. Unfortunately we’ve seen it all before from those very unsubtle sequel tie-ins to the promise of even more to come. Best appreciated if simply viewed as a series of fireside ghost stories…..ooh evil scarecrows and malevolent Barbies!

Anna Christie (USA 1930) (8): Greta Garbo’s first talkie was this screen adaptation of Eugene O’Neill’s play about three disconnected souls in search of love, forgiveness, and liberation. Fifteen years after she was sent to live on a Wisconsin farm by her recently widowed father, twenty-year old Anna Christie (Garbo) returns to the dingy New York City wharf where dad ekes out a living piloting a coal barge in between bouts of drinking. Practically strangers to one another, father and daughter nevertheless form a tentative bond despite his desire to keep her as far away from the temptations of “that devil sea” as he can. But when temptation does arrive in the form of brusque Irish sailor Matt (Charles Bickford practically oozing brute machismo) the stage is set for a trio of heartbreaks. Anna’s father is desperate to protect his daughter from the hard and lonely life of a fisherman’s wife (the same fate his own spouse succumbed to years before) while Matt is determined to strong-arm his way into Anna’s heart for his own weary heart longs for a “good girl” to maintain hearth and home. Anna however, consumed with anger and resentment, carries a dark secret from her past which threatens to derail everyone’s happiness. Dark and moody with images of restless waves and obscuring sea fogs, director Clarence Brown captures the essence of O’Neill’s themes—alienation, destitution, perseverance—to produce an intense theatrical drama with a cinematic flourish. Although his characters occasionally emote (Hollywood was just emerging from the quirks of the Silent Era after all) their performances ring true especially Garbo and character actor George F. Marion as daughter and father. But it is the incomparable Marie Dressler as Marion’s spurned mistress Marthy who steals scene after scene. Overweight, dowdy, and perpetually soused, Marthy is the only person honest enough (or drunk enough?) to tell the truth regardless of who wants to hear it. A magnificent piece from the beginning of American cinema’s Golden Age with a surprising, albeit deeply buried, feminist twist.

Anna Karenina (UK 2012) (5): Artifice and stagecraft bring Tolstoy’s grand tragedy to clinking, clanking life but when the final curtain drifts across the screen you’re left wondering if all that pomp was worth it. Not really. The story is by now iconic: torn between the lukewarm attentions of her adoring yet stiflingly bourgeois husband (Jude Law) and an exciting yet rakish Count (Aaron Taylor-Johnson), the aristocratic Anna Karenina (Keira Knightley) chooses the latter. And in the upper class circles of imperialist Russia where it is all but impossible for a woman’s reputation to survive even a whiff of scandal, her decision will come to exact a terrible price. Director Joe Wright’s lavish production certainly doesn’t skimp on the visuals from the Oscar-winning costumes to the Oscar-nominated music and cinematography, in fact his film often has the feel of a small jewellery box come to life. And Tom Stoppard’s highly theatrical screenplay places the action squarely on a 19th century stage where actors move from set to set (sometimes bypassing extras arranged in frozen tableaux until needed); prop doors open up onto wheat fields; and St. Petersburg appears as a painted backdrop for toy trains and artificial snow. An intriguing approach reduced to mere gimmickry by the film’s distinct lack of passion. Knightley and Taylor-Johnson stare hungrily at one another as Law simpers and wrings his hands, but despite being technically admirable their performances ultimately fail to convince. Compare that to a parallel, and more satisfying story between a lovestruck landowner (Domhnall Gleeson) and a reluctant socialite (Alicia Vikander) and the main plot’s shortfalls become even more glaring. Lovely to look at—a train station appears as if by magic in the rigging above the main stage just in time for the bleak finale—but in the end flat and not very engaging.

Anonymous (UK 2011) (9): According to proponents of the “Oxfordian Theory”, Shakespeare was merely a front man who never set quill to paper but instead published the works of another under his own name. It is the waning days of Elizabeth the First’s reign and she is besieged by war both from Catholic royals on the mainland and from an uprising in Ireland, not to mention an increasingly restless Earl of Essex. Even in the heart of London itself a small troupe of actors led by Ben Jonson (future poet Laureate) are entertaining the masses with ribald comedies whose satirical jabs at the gentry border on seditious. And then the works of a new playwright, William Shakespeare, are presented and certain members of the court are more outraged than ever for not only are these plays enormously popular, they also seem to contain thinly veiled criticisms aimed at key government figures especially Sir Robert Cecil, the queen’s unctuous advisor whose powerful family has been manipulating the monarchy for decades. But Shakespeare is nothing but a semi-literate stage actor for the true author of Julius Caesar, Twelfth Night and all the rest is Edward de Vere, 17th Earl of Oxford, the queen’s former lover now married into the ultra-conservative Cecil clan. With writing prose considered idle, even wicked, foolishness by his Puritan in-laws Edward is forced to write anonymously (even though his family and the queen are well aware of his ruse) while the boorish Shakespeare basks in the spotlight. But court intrigues run far deeper and more treacherous than either William or Edward could possibly imagine and it is only a matter of time before Cecil threatens to bring the curtain down for the final time with a series of damning accusations. Better known perhaps for his apocalyptic “monsters and explosions” epics, director Roland Emmerich proves he is equally adept at sprawling historical dramas. His CGI invocation of old London, both from the air and at ground level, is an impressive mix of country estates, garbage-strewn alleys, and a vibrant core of Tudor squalor all bound in perpetual mist and rain. An amazing cast, impeccably dressed in rags or satins, shift back and forth through time as Emmerich backtracks in order to fill in the details: here a decaying Elizabeth (a star turn from Vanessa Redgrave) reminisces with a wistful de Vere when suddenly she is a young queen once more (played by her real life daughter Joely Richardson) grappling beneath the sheets with her equally passionate paramour. And throughout we catch glimpses of Jonson’s troupe performing key scenes from Shakespeare’s (de Vere’s?) plays before an appreciative audience; their wit and pathos enriching the film’s context immeasurably. Although diehard Oxfordians are relatively few in number they include the director himself and actor Derek Jacobi who, as a contemporary narrator, opens and closes the film in a suitably theatrical manner. The conspiracy aspect may be suspect (most scholars laugh it off) but as an exercise in alternative history this is still an intelligently written and hugely entertaining work shown bigger than life as befits any tall tale.

Another Country (UK 1984) (7): Playwright Julian Mitchell adapts his own stage production for the big screen in this hit-and-miss period drama based on the early life of infamous “Cambridge Five” spy Guy Burgess who, along with his cohorts, passed sensitive Western intel to the Soviets during the Cold War. The film excels in its impeccable evocation of a proper 1930’s English public school where the next generation of Britain’s privileged elite act out their country’s rigid class system through an equally rigid hierarchy of junior students, prefects, and handpicked seniors appropriately nicknamed the Gods. With gauzy backdrops of gilded interiors and warm summer days we follow the fates of upperclassmen Guy Bennet (a painfully young Rupert Everett) who embraces the status quo despite his much flaunted homosexuality, and his unexpected ally Tommy Judd (an equally young Colin Firth) whose fervent embrace of revolutionary Communism puts him at odds with everyone else. Where the film falters however is in its attempt to tie Bennet’s disillusionment with school politics (his lack of discretion costs him an invitation to join the Gods) with his decision to become a traitor to his country—a rather big leap to say the least. But the long languorous camerawork captures a certain romanticism and Everett’s conflicted character is a brilliantly detailed study of defiance and fragility, openly challenging the norms yet painfully in love with fellow classmate James Harcourt (Cary Elwes). A political metaphor perhaps (Lenin and Gay Activism!) but a tragic love story more than anything else.

Another Earth (USA 2011) (8): On the same night that astronomers discover a new terrestrial planet approaching Earth, honours student Rhoda Williams gets behind the wheel of her car after downing a few too many celebratory drinks. The resulting collision earns her a four-year prison term and destroys the life of local composer John Burroughs. Now released from prison and desperate to make amends for what she did, Rhoda sets out to apologize to Burroughs but instead enters into an unforeseen relationship with the unsuspecting composer who is still nursing his grief with medication and alcohol. And all the while the sky above is increasingly dominated by a new world which proves to be more similar to our own than anyone could have dreamed. Talking about his remarkable debut feature, filmed on a shoestring budget with the help of family and friends, director Mike Cahill stated, “There are certain things you have got to deal with yourself…there’s this inner monologue inside your head…what if it were externalized?” Using an outrageous science-fiction device as a potent metaphor he explores issues of isolation, atonement and redemption in a most unusual and captivating way. Both Williams and Burroughs (get the literary allusion?) are frozen; she’s drowning in remorse while he’s crippled with rage and sadness; yet neither one is able to make that connection which would allow them to move forward. But as “Earth II” continues its inexorable advance a new possibility presents itself, one that will have consequences both mysterious and reparative. With ordinary urban settings rendered extraordinary in eerie blue earthlight, and fantastical images of another earth suspended over rooftops and ocean, Cahill’s restless camera and ethereal script produce a style one could describe as “dreamlike verité”. If he sometimes appears to fall in love with his own vision it’s only because what he’s seeing is beautiful indeed.

Another Happy Day (USA 2011) (7): Quivering mass of neuroses Lynn (Ellen Barkin) reluctantly drives to her parents’ place in Annapolis to attend the wedding of her eldest son—a child she bore but never raised. In tow are her two other sons: young Ben (Daniel Yelsky) whose touch of autism sometimes has him saying the darnedest things, and sullen teenager Elliot (Ezra Miller) whose caustic personality, confrontational bouts of rage, and various addictions have him flying in and out of rehab. There’s a reason for Lynn’s en route misgivings however, reasons which crystallize as soon as she opens the front door. Mom (Ellen Burstyn) is a flinty old queen of denial, dad (George Kennedy) is a lumbering bear slowly slipping into dementia, and Lynn’s sisters are a cackling group of nasty gossips. And when Lynn’s abusive ex-husband arrives on the scene (Thomas Haden Church) accompanied by his new wife (Demi Moore), a passive-aggressive witch with a few axes of her own to grind, you just know the weekend is not going to go well… The dysfunctional family reunion has always been a Hollywood mainstay and with this exercise in mud-slinging and acidic rebukes writer/director Sam Levinson doesn’t set out to reinvent the genre. With emotional wounds on full display and old accusations flying about like live grenades his film too often slides into histrionic meltdowns even with its random moments of mordant humour (Ben, who fancies himself a film director, records more drama than he intended). But what ultimately saves the day is a script that contains more than a few kernels of genuine pain and consistently brilliant turns from his leads who inhabit their characters thus making some of the story’s louder moments uncomfortably believable. Barkin’s complex performance gives us a whimpering doormat whose multiple resentments seethe just below the surface; Burstyn is a coiffed harridan whose brittle hugs hide daggers; 86-year old Kennedy, in one of his final screen appearances, is a marvel of wisdom and confusion; and Moore’s nasty new wife practically leaves icicles in the air every time she opens her mouth. And kudos to Yelsky and Miller who gives us a pair of siblings slowly being crushed beneath their family’s baggage—Kate Bosworth joins them later as the estranged older sister who perhaps carries the deepest scars of them all. In the hands of a lesser cast and crew we’d have been left with a stagey melodrama—in fact we very nearly are—but Levinson manages to serve up a bitter pill that captivates even if it catches in our throats.

Anthropoid (Czech 2016) (8): Shortly after Germany’s annexation of Czechoslovakia, SS General Reinhard Heydrich, one of the Third Reich’s top officers and an architect of Hitler’s “Final Solution”, is tasked with quelling any Czech resistance—his brutal methods of torture and wholesale murder earning him the nickname “The Butcher of Prague”. In response, the exiled Czech government, operating out of London, fly in a group of paratroopers whose mission it is to enter one of Europe’s most heavily occupied cities and assassinate Heydrich, one of Germany’s most heavily guarded officials. Based on the true story of Operation Anthropoid and filmed for the most part in the actual locations where events unfolded back in 1942, writer/director Sean Ellis has fashioned a thoroughly engrossing historical piece whose main actors, Irishmen Cillian Murphy and Jamie Dornan both leaving their brogues behind, blend seamlessly with a largely Czech cast. Authentic period details bring the past to life (or death) and although Ellis does not flinch from brutal reality—a brief scene of torture is so intense it seems longer than it actually is—quotidian atrocities are only a backdrop as the operatives and their Czech Resistance allies (not all of whom agree that Heydrich’s death would be a good thing) put their meticulous plan into action. There’s the usual hair-raising moments when it becomes apparent not everything is going to go according to plan, but that explosive climax is perhaps more memorable for its stretches of painful silence, punctuated by a classical score, than the thousands of bullets and hand grenades ripping up the screen.

Antibodies (Germany 2005) (6): When Gabriel Engel, the monstrous psychopath responsible for a string of child sex murders, is arrested in Berlin beleaguered rural cop Michael Martens hopes he can finally solve the mystery of a young girl whose mutilated body was found in his village a year earlier. Certainly this cold case bears most of Engel’s trademarks but when Michael travels to the big city to interview the madman a cruel psychological game of cat and mouse ensues with Engel sowing seeds of doubt in the young detective’s mind (did he kill the little girl or not?) while turning his already staunch Catholicism into a neurotic obsession with guilt. “Evil is a virus…” whispers Engel from behind bars, his cell decorated with a devilish mural done in his own blood, “…and you are infected!” Borrowing heavily from The Silence of the Lambs, writer/director Christian Alvert’s topsy-turvy mindfuck of a film certainly doesn’t lack ambition with it’s staccato editing, rattling timeline shifts, and pervasive gloom of sin and sickness. As the killer’s seductive words seep into Martens’ virtuous Christian psyche the battle between Good and Evil plays out on an uncomfortably intimate level. But Alvart chooses to wallow in too many biblical references turning an otherwise intelligent thriller into a clunky Old Testament metaphor straight out of Genesis. Engel’s full name translates into “Angel Gabriel” (wow!) and while Michael (as in archangel?) wrestles with him we quietly overdose on Catholic symbolism—a stapler delivers some good old-fashioned mortification; a brothel offers up temptation in both black and white; and God’s own stand-in bursts through the clouds in a triumphant whirl of helicopter blades. But it was a magical mystical backwoods intercession by Bambi and friends that ultimately pushed the envelope too far. A great premise and capable cast, but even a clever double twist at the end was not quite enough to save its soul.

The Antichrist (Italy 1974) (4):  Poor little Ippolita; as if being confined to a wheelchair is not bad enough, her father’s impending marriage is now throwing her Electra complex into a tailspin.  But when she wakes up one morning with a frog in her throat and goat on her breath all hell breaks loose...  This little Italian cheese ball manages to be bad in so many awful and imaginative ways that it would be a shame to simply dismiss it as another “Exorcist” rip-off.  The dinner scene is priceless and the final exorcism deserves a very special Oscar all its own (keep an eye out for the black clad stagehands crouching behind the dresser as its drawers “mysteriously” pop out).  Put this one on your cult classics list

Antigone (Greece 1961) (8): Screen legend Irene Papas’ intense performance as the titular heroine burns up the screen in this classical rendition of Sophocles’ tragedy. When the disposed Polynieces attempts to sieze the crown from the king of Thebes (his estranged brother Eteocles) his army is defeated, but not before both brothers die in battle. Their uncle Creon, being the next in line, assumes the throne and immediately orders Eteocles’ body to be buried with full honours while the traitorous Polyniece’s body is to be left to rot in the field. Upon hearing this royal edict Antigone, the dead men’s sister, openly defies the king and buries her disgraced brother thus enraging Creon who orders her to be sealed in a cave forever. But Creon’s decision to place his personal pride above family honour will ultimately lead to his own disgrace and tragic downfall. Beautifully filmed in sombre B&W with sets and costumes taken from the Classical Greek stage, director Yorgos Javellas stays faithful to the play’s theatrical roots right down to a chorus of bearded wise men whose poetic asides serve as the conscience of both king and common man alike. And the cast is amazing, aided by a highly formalized script rife with rage and sorrow they deliver their lines with an emotional force that is almost palpable. An ancient classic which can still speak to the heart two thousand years later.

Antigone (USA-TV 1974) (9): Antigone is a princess of Thebes whose brothers are killed fighting on opposite sides of a civil war. When her uncle Creon finally assumes the throne he has the body of the "good" brother (the one who fought for him) buried with full honours while issuing a royal decree that the other be left to rot in the field as a warning to all who would oppose him. Defying Creon, and risking the death penalty for treason, Antigone buries her brother and thus begins an ideological tug-of-war with her uncle which leads to consequences neither one could have imagined. Honour, duty and stubborn pride take centre stage in this brilliant contemporary adaptation of Jean Anouilh's 1944 play, based on Sophocles' tragedy and originally aired on PBS's "Great Performances". Genevieve Bujold's searing portrayal of Antigone, equal parts blind idealism and naive cynicism, is perfectly matched by Fritz Weaver's Creon, a tired and inflexible tyrant whose crown weighs heavier than he is willing to admit, while television veteran Stacy Keach provides a passionate yet oddly sardonic Greek Chorus. Filmed in and around an actual theatre this teleplay suffers from the usual problems of old video: the sound is rather flat, the colours faded and there is a bit of peripheral distortion; but its powerful leads, combined with some wonderfully theatrical staging makes this a tour de force worth renting.

Antiviral (Canada 2012) (7): Writer/director Brandon Cronenberg (David’s son) obviously inherited his father’s flair for the macabre and he puts it to good use in this deadly satirical tale of corporate scheming and celebrity worship. In the very near future an entire industry is devoted to harvesting diseases from pop culture idols—from a common cold to herpes simplex—and passing them on to obsessive fans willing to pay a hefty price in order to share the exact same misery as their favourite stars. Syd March (Caleb Landry Jones) is a salesman for one such company whose main source of everyday pathogens—celebrity diva Hannah Geist (Sarah Gadon)—has proven to be a gold mine of coughs and rashes. But Syd has another sideline career, that of smuggling these valuable viruses in his own body and selling them to black-marketeers. Things go terribly wrong however when Hannah (and subsequently Syd himself) becomes deathly ill and the cause seems to be anything but natural… Sticking to low-tech effects bolstered by a talent for lighting and set design, Cronenberg creates a convincing world of Fame Worship and consumerism run amok; a world where one can purchase a movie star’s chlamydia (all infectious agents copyright protected of course) or else devour a steak cloned from that same star’s muscle cells. Unsettling medical passages (yes, those needle pokes are real) and grotesque body transformations are straight out of Cronenberg Sr.’s playbook and Brandon deepens this pall of horror with antiseptically white sets where oversized tabloid pics adorn every wall and CGI starlets writhe on widescreen television sets—adding a whole new dimension to the term “peep show”. Jones is perfectly cast, his softly growling voice and cold eyes defining a predatory yuppy until ill health turns him into something both cruel and pitiable. As the object of everybody’s desire, Gadon’s persona is as flashy as a camera bulb and as shallow as an airbrushed magazine cover—in other words, “perfection”. Perhaps Brandon’s efforts are not quite polished enough for Hollywood, perhaps his story’s trajectory is a tad too opaque for the matinee crowd, but for those willing to give him a chance he paints a picture at once diabolically exaggerated and uncomfortably close to home.

Atlantis: The Lost Empire (USA 2001) (7): Although it proved to be box office poison when it was first released (and not entirely without reason) this PG-rated offering from Disney Studios is still a fine example of old fashioned animation set to a rousingly good original score. It’s 1914 and polyglot bookworm Milo is stuck working in the boiler room of a prestigious museum when all he really wants to do is continue the search for Atlantis begun by his late grandfather. He gets his chance when a wealthy benefactor offers him a berth on a fantastic submarine whose crew are off to find the lost continent using an array of retro hi-tech gadgets. But the journey to their awe-inspiring destination will be marred by monsters, disasters…and betrayal of the worst kind. A colourful steampunk nod to the likes of Jules Verne and H. G. Wells relatively free of the usual Disney treacle (although it still manages to seep in once Milo meets the super cute Atlantean princess) and unexpectedly violent with a rising body count courtesy of bloodthirsty mechanical crustaceans and a seemingly endless supply of enemy ammo—an underground aerial dogfight is a fine example of choreographed mayhem. Atlantis itself turns out to be an interesting amalgamation of Egyptian, Celtic, and Aztec ruins peopled by flaxen haired Aryans whose advanced woo science has both maintained and hobbled them. As a bonus Marc Okrand, the man who invented the Vulcan and Klingon lexicons, contributes his considerable talents to the production by creating a believable lost language for a lost race. A decent watch for adults (who’ll get the sly asides) and older kids (who won’t). Plus, the voice talents of Michael J. Fox, James Garner, and Leonard Nimoy don’t hurt either.

Antz (USA 1998) (7): With a script influenced by the works of Huxley, Orwell, and Ayn Rand, and enough violence and mild profanity to earn it a “PG” rating, this early animation by DreamWorks Studios about a neurotic little bug tired of the status quo was something of a groundbreaker in its day. Rebelling against his own insignificance…”I was the middle child of five million”…perpetually depressed worker ant “Z” (voice of Woody Allen playing Woody Allen) decides he doesn’t want to be just another faceless drone in a colony of zillions. But a combination of skewed luck and happenstance ends up landing the meek insect smack in the middle of an anthill communist uprising, a royal kidnapping, and a deadly military coup—all within an area of less than ten square metres. The animation may be primitive by today’s standards but the story, buoyed by Allen’s signature one-liners, skips along with humour clever enough for tots and adults alike: “This tastes like crap…” says a stoned ladybug chewing on some suspicious brown material, “Hey, it is crap…not bad!” responds the equally stoned weevil slumped next to her. And a pair of effete wasps will have you looking at yellow jackets in a whole new light while human cameos are limited, appropriately enough, to such things as a pair of gigantic sneakers and a fly swatter. An entertaining little cartoon about diversity and individuality notable for its long list of celebrity voices from Ann Bancroft and Gene Hackman to Christopher Walken, Danny Glover, and Jennifer Lopez.

Apartment Zero (UK 1988) (8): Adrian LeDuc is an introverted neurotic living in Buenos Aires who divides his time between managing a ramshackle repertory cinema and an equally ramshackle residential complex filled with delightful eccentrics. Shunning all human contact during his off-hours, he retreats to his dingy apartment where he finds some degree of solace amongst the movie posters and framed photos of dead matinee idols which adorn the walls. With his mentally ill mother locked away in a sanitarium and theatre revenues taking a nosedive he is eventually forced to seek a roommate in order to cut costs. After interviewing a string of increasingly bizarre applicants he eventually settles for a darkly handsome American expat. Jack seems to be Adrian’s opposite in every way; he’s outgoing, bold, and has no problem voicing an opinion; but behind the smoldering eyes and vaguely threatening smirk there is an unsettling intensity that hints of unspoken secrets. Donovan wastes no time ratcheting up the homoerotic tension as Adrian begins to obsess over his new lodger. At first content to simply do his laundry and make him breakfast every morning, Adrian gradually begins to question Jack’s suspicious behaviour especially after a series of mysterious murders begin to rock the city… Colin Firth brings a manic energy to the role of Adrian, a man who seems to have trouble distinguishing reality from a movie script. Indeed, there is a definite aura of Hollywood artifice to the entire film with its beautifully overdone dramatics and noirish dialogue. With Apartment Zero Donovan first delivers a winning combination of cerebral humour, ambiguous sexuality and paranoid suspense which makes full use of the subdued lighting and cleverly placed movie memorabilia. He then executes a brilliant segue from camp mystery to psychological horror before bringing it all to a suitably outrageous ending. A dark and disturbing treat.

The Apple Dumpling Gang (USA 1975) (5): In the frontier town of Quake City, California (built on an active fault line), notorious gambler Russel Donavan suddenly finds himself saddled with three precocious orphans, penniless heirs to one of the region’s now defunct gold mines. But as the confirmed bachelor tries to squirm his way out of town, sans children of course, the kids discover that their late father’s mine still has a bit of profit left amidst the rickety timbers and dank tunnels; a revelation which puts them squarely in the sights of a couple of bumbling thieves as well as a more sinister gang of outlaws. Donovan, meanwhile, is surprised to find he’s not only developing some latent paternal instincts toward the lovable moppets but the daughter of a local businessman is also causing some uncomfortable romantic yearnings. Gosh, could the two reluctant grownups and three adorable waifs actually form a family?! Despite a cast of solid Hollywood character actors this bland and relentlessly inoffensive Disney comedy boils down to nothing more than a series of wild west pratfalls and slapstick routines with a bit of forced fuzziness (awwww...orphans! ) to tie it all together. The adults seem to wade through their shallow lines with a twinge of self-conscious embarrassment while the three little leads have as much onscreen charisma as a tin of sardines. To be fair, some stagecoach action scenes are nicely choreographed but a tacked on sequence involving a runaway mine car is pure rear-projection cheesiness. Aside from the usual love affair with gunplay inherent in all things Western (don’t worry, no one gets hurt) this bit of cowboy fluff is as “G” as they come.

Appleseed: Ex Machina (Japan 2007) (8): Although not considered true anime by many diehard aficionados due to its artwork and animation techniques, Shinji Aramaki’s adaptation of the popular graphic series still makes for exciting viewing. In the year 2133 mankind has recovered from yet another global war only this time a new urban utopia, named Olympus, has arisen from the ruins. A marvel of civil and architectural engineering, Olympus is inhabited by every kind of human (organic, cyborg, and GMO “bioroids”) co-existing in harmony thus providing a hopeful blueprint for the rest of the world. But a snake has entered this future Eden in the form of terrorists who are somehow able to turn peaceful citizens into murderous mobs. Suddenly besieged by violent insurrection on all sides, Olympus’ leader calls in the E.S.W.A.T. team (Especial Weapons and Tactics) to quell the rioters and uncover the psychic saboteurs. The task of saving Olympus will eventually fall to E.S.W.A.T. officer Deunan, a kick-ass ninja chick, and her cyborg partner-cum-lover Brialeos… Although Aramaki’s film doesn’t do well with extreme close-ups (his computer graphic characters exhibit the emotional range of cartoon marionettes) he more than makes up for it with wide screen action. Crayon-coloured explosions and glowing sci-fi cityscapes light up the screen accompanied by giant booms, rapid fire bangs, and a supercool electro-pop musical score by Yellow Magic Orchestra founder Haruomi Hosono. It’s as if a young John Woo was let loose on a stack of superhero colouring books—no surprise that he's listed as a producer! And if you can get by all those blatantly ridiculous narrow escapes there’s some deeper philosophical points to chew on—the allure of conformity vs the need for individuality for instance, or the contradiction of striving for peace through force. And then there’s the concept of interracial romance taken to the next level when you realize Duenan’s hunky metallic boyfriend has more in common with a refrigerator than a human being. A meticulously executed piece of cinema which looks great, sounds awesome (turn those speakers up!), and leaves you with something to think about.

L’argent [Money] (France 1983) (4): A pair of highschool students weave a tangled web when they decide to make a few bucks by passing on a counterfeit bill. Their single act of dishonesty will not only affect a handful of fellow Parisians leading to bankruptcy, madness, and murder (?!) but it will also lay bare the cold withered heart of capitalism itself as real bills are used to circumvent justice, win favour, and wreak vengeance. “Money is the Root of All Evil” is a tired old cliché and in this his swan song director Robert Bresson once again employs his tired old minimalist approach that still has critics touting him as some kind of genius. Halfhearted cameras plod alongside a cast of untalented amateurs who move like robots, parroting their lines with all the passion of a GPS giving directions to the nearest supermarket—here’s a fake tear self-consciously wiped off a blank face, here’s a facsimile of rage as stage blood sprays over cheap wallpaper, and here comes a smarmy observation on the wages of greed delivered with all the finesse of an axe to the head. Little more than a hasty sketch of a good film that could have been made but wasn’t, Bresson’s insistence that less is more intentionally bleeds the story of all emotional references leaving audiences to glean whatever meaning they can from a rather blasé puppet show.

Army of Darkness (USA 1992) (5): When Ash, an overbearing hardware salesman, comes across an ancient edition of the Necronomicon, the accursed "Book of the Dead", he can't help but dabble in a little black magic much to his regret. Not only does his meddling in the black arts cost him his girlfriend and his right hand, he also inadvertently opens a time vortex which lands him in the year 1300. There, through a series of misadventures, he becomes involved in a war between the local kingdom and a putrefied army of the dead over that same copy of the Necronomicon--the king needs it to defend his people against the ghouls, the zombies need it in order to rule the world, and Ash needs it in order to return to the 20th century. Armed only with his trashed car, a chainsaw, a shotgun and a couple of science textbooks Ash prepares for the biggest showdown of his life. Rife with inside jokes, nerdy humour and inane Three Stooges-style slapstick, Sam Raimi's horror/comedy flick plays like the idiot offspring of The Evil Dead and Monty Python's Holy Grail though far less gory than the former and definitely less funny than the latter while a few feeble nods to the likes of Star Wars and The Day the Earth Stood Still elicit little more than a blink or two. Where the movie excels however is in the final half when an epic battle between a ragtag brigade of medieval knights and an animated horde of skeletal warriors provides a skewed homage to the works of Ray Harryhausen (or is it Jim Henson?). Although this DVD transfer was a bit too dark and fuzzy, watching these two armies hack and insult each other (some of the visuals and one-liners are pretty funny) almost made up for it. A bona fide cult hit with the Tech Support crowd but after all the hype I was left feeling vaguely disappointed.

Army of Shadows (France 1969) (7): Focusing on a cell of the underground French Resistance during that country’s Nazi occupation, Jean-Pierre Melville’s adaptation of Joseph Kessel’s novel destroys the romantic notion of handsome young men performing gallant acts of bravery while maintaining the moral high ground. Both Melville and Kessel were actively involved in the defence of France during WWII, in the military and the Resistance, and this unsettling insiders’ view of how the Underground worked is perhaps more accurate than a dozen Hollywood blockbusters. Living with the constant threat of torture and execution should they be caught by the Germans, a small cadre of French fighters wage a clandestine war against the enemy aided in part by British allies. From midnight parachute jumps over hostile territory to elaborate rescue schemes, there’s nothing they won’t do in order to hasten the liberation of France. But the danger and risk of exposure doesn’t come without a price—namely an obsession with secrecy bordering on paranoia and an ice cold sense of justice for anyone (even their own) who violates the rules. In this “army of shadows” courage and brutality necessarily exist side by side—a scene in which three men must carry out a death sentence on a former friend turned informant is especially gruelling to watch. Presented in a near verité style which makes it look as if it were filmed on the fly, Melville paints a sobering picture of lives upturned by war and morals compromised out of necessity—for in a time where happy endings are a luxury even heroes can emerge tarnished. As one of the group’s leaders, Lino Ventura is a study in duty and implacable resolve while superstar Simone Signoret dominates the screen as a fellow agent with a gift for making the impossible possible.

Arn: The Knight Templar (Sweden 2007) (8): Based on the books by Jan Guillou, this spirited costume epic set in medieval Scandinavia follows the shifting fortunes of Arn, a Swedish Knight Templar sent to defend the Holy Land for a period of twenty years as a form of penance after he falls in love with and impregnates a local chieftain’s daughter. For her part in the affair the daughter, Cecelia, is consigned to a nunnery for an equal length of time and has her newborn son taken away from her. While in Jerusalem Arn proves himself to be an exceptional warrior winning the respect of not only his superiors but his sworn enemy, the legendary Muslim leader Saladin with whom he forms a tentative friendship. But his heart yearns for Cecelia and the hope that one day they will be united once more. Meanwhile back in Sweden, Cecelia holds onto the same desperate hope; but with the Crusades raging in the Middle East and the Danes threatening war from the south, tragedy seems inevitable. With glorious widescreen cinematography that makes the most of its European and Moroccan locations, an international cast of seasoned actors, and an intelligent script that shifts effortlessly between English, Swedish and Arabic, Peter Flinth’s assured film seamlessly combines a rousing historical adventure with a heartbreaking love story. Even in the midst of clashing armies his camera manages to capture the subtlest nuance; a hungry stare or a bloodied crucifix, while scenes of battlefield carnage and desert sandstorms give way to quietly lit chapels and gentle snowfalls. Perhaps he relies a little too heavily on slow motion brooding and soaring chorales, but it’s a small critique for something that kept me captivated for over two hours.

Around the World in 80 Days (USA 1956) (7): Eccentric London businessman Phileas Fogg wagers a sizable bet with his fellow Reform Club members that he can traverse the entire globe in 80 days, quite a feat for 1872. Accompanied by one small suitcase, a satchel full of cash and his multi-talented manservant Passepartout, Phileas begins a journey that will take him soaring over the Alps in a balloon, trekking through an Asian jungle on the back of an elephant, and traversing the American Wild West by steam locomotive. Along the way he and Passepartout will also manage to rescue a doomed princess and fight savage Indians. But forces are afoot to ensure that Fogg fails in his quest; for the stuffed shirts back at the Reform club are not above a little international sabotage in order to protect their investment while a tenacious private investigator is determined to implicate Phileas in a most ingenious crime. Jules Verne’s fantastical story is reduced here to a series of mildly engaging skits separated by prolonged travelogue footage obviously meant to wow audiences with the film’s then brand new 70mm widescreen format. Of course many of the supposedly exotic locales were actually filmed on American sound stages with painted extras giving them that precious “Hollywood Postcard” appearance, but the cinematography is still lovely to look at and the dozens of surprise celebrity cameos (a term coined by producer Michael Todd) will keep movie buffs on their toes. A big ambitious film filled with colourful flourishes and charming period details which nevertheless fails to rise above light entertainment.

Arrhythmia (Russia 2017) (6): Oleg is a paramedic whose fierce, sometimes reckless dedication to the sick and injured too often leads to drinking binges and stretches of depression. His wife Katya is a surgeon at the district hospital where long hours and shift work are also taking their toll. Yet despite the sensitivity they exhibit for the strangers they encounter while on duty, their own marriage is floundering on life support for Katya wants a divorce and Oleg can’t quite figure out why. Saved by powerful performances and low-keyed, almost verité ambulance sequences, Boris Khlebnikov’s clunky melding of E.R. drama with soured romance never really gels into something cohesive. Katya and Oleg’s marriage is in free fall and the medical system in which they work is similarly crumbling thanks to new draconian guidelines from Moscow, but if there is a metaphor to be found here it is mostly lost in translation. Certainly the uphill battle both partners face at work thanks to dwindling resources and official bureaucracy is reflected in Oleg’s personal struggle to save a relationship whose erratic heartbeat grows weaker by the day. But the film seems lost in a continuous loop that sees Oleg alternately drinking and crying, Katya doling out mixed messages as her feelings run hot and cold, and the omnipresent ambulance siren sparking apathy, anger, or despair. Could have been so much better had Khlebnikov connected a few more dots.

The Artist (France 2011) (7): When silent screen star George Valentin accidentally bumps derrieres with an ardent fan, fresh-faced chorus girl Peppy Miller, romance seems inevitable. Weighed down by a loveless marriage, George is drawn to Peppy’s insatiable optimism and joie de vivre while the young ingenue’s much publicized flirting with the older celebrity jumpstarts her own motion picture career. Unfortunately it’s almost 1930 and the age of silent films is coming to an end as “talkies” begin to make their first appearance. Refusing to compromise his artistic integrity for the sake of this latest cinematic fad, Valentin sees his own star power quickly diminishing while Peppy suddenly finds herself the toast of Tinseltown. With his latest film dying at the box office, his assets eaten away by the Great Depression, and only his little dog for companionship (he fired his faithful manservant), Valentin begins nursing his self-pity with unhealthy doses of alcohol; but Peppy has other plans for George, including a most ingenious job offer. Can love truly conquer all or is yesterday’s matinee idol destined to become tomorrow’s tragic headline? Although filmed entirely in English, The Artist has become one of the most celebrated French films in years. This meticulously crafted tribute to Hollywood’s silent era, complete with intertitles, a jazzy score, and rich B&W cinematography, definitely has the appearance of an old classic with a few modern tech twists thrown in; a “full sound” nightmare was especially clever. Furthermore, with his slicked hair and pencil moustache and her permed curls and flapper dresses, handsome leads Jean Dujardin and Bérénice Bejo exude that golden era movie star quality. Add to that a strong supporting cast, some sly references to vintage films, and an eye-popping musical finale, and you have all the makings of a fun night in front of the big screen. But despite the loving attention to period detail and genre motifs (the signature styles of old-school directors are aped throughout), this is not 1930 anymore. They really can’t make ‘em like they used to, nor should they, and all that fluffy romantic melodrama ultimately comes across as elaborate imitation, flattery notwithstanding. Besides, the Best Actor Oscar should have gone to the dog.

The Artist and the Model (Spain/France 2012) (5): The often thorny relationship between the creative mind and its various muses is put under the microscope in writer/director Fernando Trueba’s B&W film—a pastoral piece aiming for allegory but settling instead for a series of dry lectures. As WWII rages, aging sculptor Marc Cros (a curmudgeonly Jean Rochefort) is content to simply observe the world around him from the relative peace of his studio in the French countryside. But when his wife (an older, classier Claudia Cardinale) brings home a secretive young Spanish girl she found sleeping in a doorway, Cros’ artistic juices begin flowing once again. Doffing her clothes in exchange for room and board “Mercé” begins posing for the artist and as the days linger on learns a thing or two about the nature of art while Cros—having created what may be his signature piece thanks to Mercé—encounters a yawning void when his Latin muse decides to move on. Peppered with wry dialogue in which the artist delivers mumbling lectures on observation and technique (a simple pen drawing by Rembrandt brings him to tears with its glorious simplicity), Trueba confines most of the film to a rustic studio wherein Cros wanders among half-finished statues of nude women as sunlight falls upon Mercé’s naked flesh. This constant juxtaposition of dusty remnants from the past with a vivacious living body turns an otherwise unremarkable workshop into a psychological space in which an old man’s sensual memories are stirred once again and an artist’s blocked mind is pierced by sudden inspiration. It’s a potent drama which may have made a great short story but as a feature-length film it too often felt as if I were simply watching the plaster dry. Chus Lampreave provides some much needed comedy as the couple’s bug-eyed Spanish housekeeper and Götz Otto points at the transcendent quality of art playing Cros’ best friend and disciple—a German officer whose military affiliation doesn’t hinder his admiration for beauty and the people who can create it.

The Art of Love (France 1983) (1): The final instalment in Borowczyk’s “Immoral Trilogy” and supposedly based on the work of Ovid. It is 8 A.D. and in one wealthy Roman household it’s adulterous liaisons and tepid orgies all around. Before the day is over a tumescent statue will receive some oral service, a man in bull drag will mate with an ersatz cow and a lethargic maiden will loll about in a fish tank with all the erotic conviction of someone who’s just fallen into a toilet. From the ludicrous script (badly dubbed) to the glaring soundtrack of singing centurions and disco muzak there is nothing even remotely titillating going on here. And, as a final insult to his audience, Borowczyk ends this gobbler with one of the lamest “twists” I’ve seen in some time. It’s a good thing Ovid is already dead because this turd sandwich would have killed him for sure.

As Above, So Below (USA 2014) (6): There are more than 200 miles of tunnels beneath the streets of Paris crammed with the skeletons of six million people which were moved underground centuries ago when the surrounding cemeteries became overcrowded. Drawn to these dusty catacombs in search of the Philosopher’s Stone, that elusive metal which grants unlimited power and immortality, a young archaeologist leads a ragtag documentary crew armed only with headlamps and a few arcane clues. As the team wends its way deeper into the maze of bones strange things begin to happen, things that seem drawn from their collective memories: a childhood piano appears around one corner, a ringing telephone around the next. But when they pass through a forbidden tunnel (ignoring the implicit warning carved directly above it of course) shit gets real as the subterranean necropolis reveals its darkest secret yet. Filmed in that shaky handheld camera style that nauseates as much as it disorients (everyone has their own helmet cam so the audience doesn’t miss a single jolt) this underground treasure hunt cum demonic puzzler plays like a cross between Tomb Raider and Blair Witch as imagined by Dante Alighieri. Of course as with all such horror expeditions its ability to frighten is dependant upon one’s willingness to suspend disbelief—and there are enough “WTF?” moments to make the less forgiving reach for the “eject” button. But for those willing to go along for the ride there are adequate bumps and shocks to keep your interest including an existential head-scratcher of an ending. And the fact that it was filmed in the actual Parisian catacombs themselves with real live bones (the first feature to receive such clearance) is just icing on the cake.

The Ascent (Russia 1977) (9): As the film begins we are faced with an arctic vista of sleet and ice when suddenly, out of a snowbank, a ragtag group of Russian partisans slowly rise like dispirited wraiths amongst the bare trees and frozen earth. Thus begins Larisa Shepitko’s grueling story of two soldiers struggling to stay alive in WWII Russia while still remaining true to their principles. The two men, Kolya and Sotnikov, are sent on a quest by the partisan commander to try and procure much needed food and supplies for the suffering troop. Their journey quickly becomes an odyssey as they encounter the many faces of war; from an elderly collaborator to a struggling widow with three young children to feed. But it is when they are captured by German forces that they face their greatest challenge in the form of a Russian Nazi interrogator who offers them life in exchange for denouncing their beliefs and betraying their comrades. As one man steadfastly refuses to break faith with his cause, even unto death, the other begins to waiver in his convictions, terrified at the prospect of torture and execution. This is when the film takes an unexpected spiritual turn as events in the German detention centre begin to mirror the Passion of Christ complete with temptations, betrayals, and the long march to Calvary. Rife with religious imagery played out against bleak winter landscapes, Shepitko uses B&W cinematography to wring every nuance out of a fall of snow or a trembling shadow. She shifts effortlessly between a handheld verité style and long dreamlike passages which are visually arresting yet do not weaken the film’s underlying gravity. The final scenes of salvation and damnation are delivered with such overpowering intensity I was tempted to hit the pause button just to catch my breath. A classic whose influence can be seen in later films such as Come and See and Aleksei German’s The Last Train.

A Serious Man (USA 2009) (9): What do Schroedinger’s Cat, Jefferson Airplane, and the sufferings of Job have in common? Quite a lot, at least in this wonderfully surreal, Oscar-nominated parable from the Coen brothers. In the biblical account Satan asserts that man is only good because he desires heavenly favours—God disagrees and to prove the devil wrong he allows him to smite the pious Job with all manner of plague, pestilence, and personal tragedy. Never losing faith, Job nevertheless begins to question divine wisdom causing Yahweh, in a pique of theodicy, to assert his moral superiority once and for all. Relocating the biblical epic to a middle class Jewish neighbourhood in 1967 Minnesota (the kitschy touches are perfect!) the Coens’ film revolves around Larry Gopnik, a mild-mannered physics professor who suddenly finds his comfortable existence turned upside-down when his wife demands a divorce, his tenure at the university is put into question, and infernal temptation arrives in the form of a Korean exchange student willing to pay for a passing grade. With his world imploding and a trio of comical rabbis unable to offer any useful counsel, Larry eventually finds himself balanced on the edge of a crushing moral dilemma—and like Schroedinger’s mystical cat the universe can go either way… Although steeped in Judaic folklore and idiosyncrasies (an 18th century Yiddish prologue sets the tone) there is ample spiritual and secular crossover to allow the average goy to follow along and the Coens inject enough deadpan humour, including fanciful dream sequences, to keep the laughs going—a stoned bar-mitzvah is worth a rewind. But an answer to the central question of how a just and loving god can allow evil and suffering to exist remains appropriately opaque. A great cast balances gravity and satire while a plethora of divine metaphors ranging from TV antennas and whirlwinds to Grace Slick’s apocalyptic voice keep things just this side of suburban fantasy.

Ashes and Diamonds (Poland 1958) (7): During the German occupation of WWII Polish forces loyal to Russia allied with their counterparts in the Polish Resistance in order to fight the Nazis. But with the end of the war and subsequent fall of the Third Reich their common enemy disappeared overnight leaving in its wake a leadership vacuum which both sides were determined to fill. Hovering somewhere between tragedy and bitter satire, Andrzej Wajda’s unsettling film spans the first 48 hours following the German retreat in May of 1945. A new Communist representative from Moscow is en route to Warsaw and a band of former Resistance fighters is determined to stop him thereby sending a clear message to the Kremlin—but they wind up killing the wrong people instead thus setting in motion a long night of recriminations, soul-searching, and personal catastrophe. Wajda distills both sides down to two people: the party secretary himself, a soft-spoken older man who has seen his share of politicking; and the young guerrilla sent to kill him whose sense of duty is now at odds with his increasingly troubled conscience (played by the striking Zbigniew Cybulski once touted as Poland’s answer to James Dean). Obviously influenced by the earlier works of Orson Welles, Wajda proves a master at intricately staged interior shots where lofty ceilings dwarf the people below and light bursts through doorways like a runaway locomotive, this juxtaposition of light and shadow establishing a common theme throughout. Although his protagonists are on opposite sides of the political divide Wajda is quick to point out the ties that bind—the upstanding secretary’s estranged son is definitely not a chip off the old block; the would-be killer’s infatuation with a local barmaid offers a peace he cannot accept—and it is this sense of moral ambiguity which provides the film with its most startling visuals. A victim collapses into the arms of his assassin as a garish display of fireworks lights up the sky; a debate on right and wrong unfolds in the bombed ruins of a church where a blasted figure of Christ slowly swings upside-down; and a dying man twitches unnoticed in the middle of a fetid garbage dump. But Wajda casts his net even wider to produce one of European cinema’s more caustic passages when a drunken banquet featuring disheveled loyalists, rebels, and fair weather politicians turns into a stumbling waltz of sorts after the orchestra begins a screeching off-key Polonaise. Blind loyalty cuts both ways, idealism sours, and Poland’s post-war rebirth—as observed by one director at least—ends up being a complicated and painful delivery.

As It Is In Heaven (Sweden 2004) (2): After a near fatal heart attack cuts his career short a world-famous maestro retires to the small village he left at the age of seven; a move which stirs up a few unhappy childhood memories. At first delighted to have Daniel take over as conductor for their amateur church choir, it isn't long before his big city presence and standoffish manner begin to rankle some of the locals' small town sensibilities. Exaggerated rumours concerning the new choirmaster are soon circulating thanks in large part to one jealous spinster and an emotionally repressed pastor; rumours which threaten to not only divide the community but break up the fledgling choir just as it's on the verge of gaining international notoriety. But, thanks to the power of music, wondrous things begin to happen: an abused wife finds courage, an emotionally scarred woman falls in love, and a pair of former bullies show remorse. Alleluia! This movie is so full of bullshit Hollywood cliches and forced sentimentality it's little wonder it was chosen as Sweden's official entry for Best Foreign Language Oscar. From Daniel's healing affair with the town slut (she teaches him to love again...and ride a bike!) to the glaring religious references, everything about this film rings false and stagy. There are a few memorable lines when the errant pastor receives a tongue-lashing from his furious wife but the final scene at an international choir competition is so blatantly manipulative I had to hit "pause" until I could stop laughing. American-style dreck with a Swedish accent.

A Song is Born (USA 1948) (5): If you experience a sense of déjà vu while watching Howard Hawks’ tedious musical romcom it’s not your imagination at work for it’s basically a scene by scene remake of his slightly more successful Barbara Stanwyck/Gary Cooper vehicle, Ball of Fire, with a couple of jumping jam sessions tacked on. Part-time nightclub singer and full-time gangster’s moll Honey Swanson (Virginia Mayo plodding through a Stanwyck imitation) is on the lam from the police who want to question her regarding her boyfriend’s involvement in a murder. She finds refuge of sorts in an elaborately appointed Manhattan music institute, home to a group of eccentric old professors who believe she’s come to help them understand modern jazz. The fun supposedly starts when she begins to fall for one of the men, a high-strung bachelor with raging hormones (a limp and lifeless Danny Kaye) at the same time her violent boyfriend comes knocking. Billy Wilder tweaks his original script from 1941 and Hawks tries to liven things up using eye-watering Technicolor, but even with swinging jazz numbers and cameos from the likes of Benny Goodman, Tommy Dorsey, and Louis Armstrong, the film ends up hitting nothing but flats. Mayo and Kaye lack any onscreen chemistry, the acting rarely rises above bad community theatre, and the cliché-riddled script reads like a series of lead-ups in search of a punchline. Interesting to see some Big Band era names hamming it up onscreen though, and the culture shock between a jive-talking Honey and her seven stuffy academics is charming—at least until the joke grows stale.

The Asphalt Jungle (USA 1950) (9): Newly released from prison, notorious master thief Erwin “Doc” Riedenschneider is already planning the biggest heist of his career—one million dollars in gems locked away in the vault of a swank jewellery store. To this end he gathers a small cadre of local crooks bankrolled by a prominent lawyer with a taste for the good life, including a very expensive bleached blonde mistress (an unknown Marilyn Monroe). However, despite Doc’s meticulous planning things begin to fall apart almost from the beginning thanks to a few technical mishaps and the inherent greed of his cohorts. But when the double-crosses begin in earnest everyone’s future begins to look increasingly grim… John Huston’s quintessential noir classic features knockout performances from a cast of Hollywood heavies and enough moody atmosphere for a dozen lesser movies. Shooting in expressive B&W that transforms his unnamed city into a concrete wasteland of littered streets and grimy back rooms, Huston populates his film with crooked cops, backstabbing gangsters, and the prerequisite beautiful women; from Marilyn’s brain-addled temptress to Jean Hagen’s naïve showgirl whose unrequited love for one of Doc’s posse brings her nothing but heartache. An intelligent script crackles with enough angst and menace that Huston wisely refrained from garnishing it with an unnecessary soundtrack…in fact the entire film only contains six minutes of background music heard during the opening credits and returning for the ironically pastoral closing scene. “Crime is nothing but a left-handed form of human endeavour…” says the morally bankrupt lawyer at one point and, despite a tidy little “law and order” service announcement delivered by the city’s upstanding chief of police, Huston’s pessimistic foray into mankind’s darker side would seem to bear that out.

A Star is Born (USA 2018) (7): Bradley Cooper makes an impressive directorial debut in this remake of a remake of a remake, and sharing the spotlight with him Lady Gaga proves that she is made of more than just crazy props and make-up. Jack (Cooper) is a C&W singer on the way down thanks to drugs, alcohol and childhood trauma who embarks on an emotionally fraught relationship with talented naif Ally (Gaga). Watching over the couple are Jack’s older brother (Sam Elliot) who, given Jack’s addictions, is more of a babysitter than road manager, and an unscrupulous producer intent on turning Ally into the next big pop star even if it compromises her artistic integrity and drives a wedge between her and Jack. Cooper plays his own guitar and belts out live performances like a pro, Gaga plays against type and nails it, and together they create a definite onscreen chemistry which makes every duet soar and every tragic turn shred those heartstrings. Elliot expands his range dramatically—yes those are real tears—and a supporting cast includes Dave Chappelle being dead serious for a change, Andrew Dice Clay (?!) playing Ally’s middle-aged dad like a blue collar Robert Young, and RuPaul alumni William Belli and Shangela ad libbing the house down as Ally’s drag queen BFFs. Although some of the symbolism tends to be overbearing (a billboard foreshadows an unhappy twist, Gaga whistles “Over the Rainbow” as she traipses up a brick road, a poster of Carole King hangs prominently) Cooper handles his twin stories—rags-to-riches intertwined with riches-to-rags—with an unexpected depth that made those final moments of tragedy and triumph strike with documentary realism. A fine effort all around which definitely deserved its eight Oscar nominations—including “Best Song” win. And speaking of songs, the music is pretty amazing.

Audience of One (USA 2007) (6): Richard Gazowsky, a charismatic Pentecostal minister based in San Francisco, claims to have received a message from God instructing him to film the world’s greatest biblical-based science fiction epic. Gathering his friends and family around him—none of whom have any film experience—he mortgages his home and culls his meagre flock for all the dimes and nickels he can get in order to form “WYSIWYG” (What You See Is What You Get) Christian Pictures and begins work on Gravity, a film he describes as “Star Wars meets The Ten Commandments”. Traveling between Italy and California with a ragtag crew and some drunken actors he found on Craigslist, Gazowsky quickly realizes that filming the next big thing is not as easy as the Lord led him to believe. With shoddy equipment continuously breaking down, a drug-addled leading man threatening to mutiny, and a mountain of overdue bills piling up (including a lawsuit from the city of San Francisco over unpaid rent), it’s going to take a miracle to get Gravity off the ground. What begins as a lighthearted and often amusing documentary gradually spirals down into something rather sad and pathetic as we see a severely disillusioned wannabe director desperately trying to attain his dream even as he insists it’s “God’s movie”. Tearful prayer sessions calling upon divine monetary intervention are rendered somewhat insincere as we see him try to bluff and lie his way out of one jam after another. In one particularly disturbing scene Gazowsky attends an industry convention in Las Vegas where he brags about his two-hundred million dollar budget and the filming he plans to do all around the world. In another scene we catch a glimpse of his grandiose delusions as he tells his dwindling congregation about the Lord’s eight-fold plan for him which includes an airline, a television empire, and an outer space colony. Meanwhile his mother, who founded the church he now presides over, looks on with a mixture of sadness and regret. Cunning con artist, deluded dream-chaser, or perhaps a little bit of both, one is still left with the distinct impression that the small voice of God in the back of Gazowsky’s head sounds an awful lot like his own insatiable ego.

Audrey Rose (USA 1977) (3):  John Beck’s gorgeous blue eyes and tight butt are the main attractions in this tepid spin on an “Exorcist” theme in which the only mystery is not the existence of reincarnation but rather how a group of seasoned actors managed to wade through such a corny script without giggling.  The story opens with little Audrey Rose dying in a fiery car crash.  Cut to Manhattan 11 years later where Ivy, the googly-eyed daughter of  upper-class parents, is having disturbing nightmares of being burned alive.  When Audrey’s dad (a distracted Anthony Hopkins) shows up on the scene claiming Ivy is really his reincarnated daughter and demanding visitation rights all hell should break loose.  But it doesn’t.  What follows is a lot of spiritual mumbo-jumbo, 70’s style, culminating in a ludicrous court trial and an ending that is unexpectedly bleak though equally ludicrous.  The director could at least have had Beck take his shirt off just once, dammit...

August: Osage County (USA 2013) (10): A family crisis causes the three Weston sisters to return to their Oklahoma home where they are forced to contend with Violet (Meryl Streep), their caustic mean-spirited mother—an aging shrew whose barbed tongue is further loosened by chemotherapy (irony of ironies, she has “cancer of the mouth”), chronic pain both physical and psychological, and a monumental addiction to prescription drugs. There’s flighty Karen (Juliette Lewis) whose string of failed relationships has her forever lost in a romantic daydream; reserved Ivy (Julianne Nicholson) who has grown tired of being Violet’s handler; and bitterly cynical Barb (Julia Roberts) whose own failing marriage threatens to turn her into a carbon copy of the mother she loves yet hates. And they’re joined by Violet’s sister, Aunt Mattie (Margo Martindale), a matronly chatterbox with more than a few things to say about everything. Everyone, it seems, has arrived at the Weston homestead armed for battle with plenty of ammo to spare—but when the haggling begins in earnest bombshells are dropped which threaten to rip the family apart at the very seams. I have a weakness for stage productions and ensemble dramas, and director John Wells’ star-bedecked adaptation of Tracy Letts’ Pulitzer-winning play does not disappoint. With the Weston home appropriately situated in the middle of nowhere during the hottest month of the year there is little to distract from the ongoing self-demolition as daughters and mother whip knives at one another under the bewildered gaze of their not-quite-perfect husbands (Chris Cooper, Ewan McGregor, Dermot Mulroney), Barb’s highly impressionable 14-year old daughter (Abigail Breslin) hovering in the background like a sacrificial lamb, and Violet’s stoic Native American housekeeper (Misty Upham) whose small but crucial role provides the calm eye of the storm. But the film ultimately belongs to Streep and Roberts as the fiercely vulnerable, hard-headed mother and daughter duo. Slicing away at each other with the skill of a surgeon—each verbal slash hurting themselves as much as each other—they prove yet again why they are screen icons. In the hands of a lesser crew this could have spiralled into just another clamorous dysfunctional free-for-all, but Letts’ words cut to the heart, Well’s directorial skill maintains an uncomfortable intimacy, and a dream cast of A-Listers generate enough emotional pyrotechnics to shake the very walls of their two-story ranch house set. Sam Shepherd and Benedict Cumberbatch co-star, the former playing Violet’s long-suffering husband who knew her better than she knew herself, and the latter as aunt Mattie’s anxiety-riddled son who ends up being a bigger thorn in the family’s side than anyone—including himself—imagined.

Au Hasard Balthazar (France 1966) (4): A young girl’s pet donkey provides a hairy metaphor in Robert Bresson’s glaringly obvious religious allegory. Loved by his first owner, the virginal Marie (get it?), Balthazar is eventually pawned off to a succession of owners including a thief, a murderer, and a miser, before ending up back in Marie’s stable. Along the way he will be alternately used and abused, reviled and cherished, as his placid eyes behold every vice and virtue mankind has to offer—including Marie’s repeated falls from grace. Viewed by one grieving mother as a saint of sorts, Balthazar patiently brays and snorts while his human counterparts wax philosophical on everything from human vanity to the nature of sin before he finally meets his own little Calvary in a field full of bleating sheep (get it yet?). Marred by a stilted script and a host of lifeless performances, Bresson’s opus is further weighed down by a few too many narrative gaps and an overabundance of symbolism (oh look, he’s carrying gold and frankincense!). In the hands of a director like Luis Buñuel or Carl Dreyer this tale of an ass elevated to sainthood would go in the most obvious of directions but Bresson asks us to take it all at face value and that is one direction I’m not willing to go.

Au Revoir Les Enfants  (France 1988 ) (9):  In WWII France a privileged young boy becomes separated from his classmates during a school outing. He suddenly realizes that outside the walls of his comfortable Catholic boarding school lies a dark and threatening forest filled with wild animals.....some of which walk on two legs. This is perhaps the defining scene in Louis Malle's beautifully understated opus about the loss of childhood innocence amidst the horrors of war. Malle imbues his film with a sense of tragic irony.....children play silly war-like games while real atrocities occur a few miles away; images of Christ and the Virgin look down helplessly upon scenes of petty theft and everyday cruelty; and betrayal comes in the form of an innocent glance. A sad, gentle film free of artifice and bombast, which makes the final farewell all the more tragic.

Autobiography of a Flea (USA 1976) (8): Hypocrisy in its basest forms...moral, sexual and religious...forms the cornerstone of this period romp based on a 19th century erotic manuscript. Opening with the susurrant strains of a harpsichord the camera pans an immaculately appointed boudoir before focusing on a pampered pooch vigorously chewing its ass. This is when we are first introduced to the film’s narrator, a verbose body louse who has a keen interest in the puzzling behaviour of humans. Jumping through a convenient keyhole he finds a new home for himself on Belle, a curvaceous yet maddeningly naive debutante who’s just discovering her own sexuality. What follows is a series of lighthearted adventures involving lusty priests, lecherous uncles and oversexed hayseeds as Belle’s chastity falls into disrepair and is replaced by an increasingly cunning libido. In one of the more interesting scenes, a spartan church rectory plays host to a wholly secular gangbang (with John Holmes showing off his gift from God); while in another segment the flea saves Belle from an unwanted advance by delivering a well placed bite on her attacker’s dangling bits. It may lack the darkly salacious wit of the Marquis de Sade, and the faux Victorian dialogue gets tiresome after a while but the elaborate sets and costumes are well done and the energetic performances fun to watch even if the actual acting is hopelessly uneven. A good effort and certainly one of the better porn flicks to emerge from the 70s.

Autopsy (USA 2008) (2): Part of the After Dark Horrorfest’s 8 Films to Die For this little stink bomb has neither the wit nor the humour to raise it above the level of juvenile trash. A car load of hysterical teenage archetypes end up in a creepy hospital run by a staff of kooky horror film clichés who view their patients as being somewhat less than the sum of their parts. Here they must endure the usual cheap shocks and gratuitous gore until the only one left standing is the one you predicted would survive at the film's outset. The carnage is about what you’d expect although the “hanging guts” scene had a certain nasty charm and the “girl gone wild” twist at the end was mercifully brief. Has the genre really sunk this low?

The Autopsy of Jane Doe (UK 2016) (8): The father and son coroner team of Tommy and Emile Tilden are in for a rough night when the sheriff brings them the body of an unidentified woman found half buried at the scene of a multiple homicide. Remarkably pristine and with no obvious signs of trauma, the corpse of “Jane Doe” presents something of an enigma—especially once the autopsy gets underway. From the very first incision the Tildens are caught up in a terrifying mystery as the woman’s body yields one macabre secret after another from strange packets to impossible mutilations. Meanwhile a vicious storm is brewing outside and the lab's FM radio has started picking up some very unusual stations. And then the lights go out… Norwegian director André Øvredal’s first English language film is a master class in skin-crawling horror and suspense which mixes hefty doses of explicit gore (cinematographer Roman Osin’s camera crawls right inside Jane Doe’s rib cage) with terrors barely seen (what exactly is that thing shuffling down the dark hallway?) With the special effects team conjuring infernal firestorms and prosthetic innards, screenwriters Ian Goldberg and Richard Naing keep everything on track with a tight script that contains some welcome curveballs and only a few genre tricks—beware the close-up and never ever peer through a hole in the wall. Kudos to Scotsman Brian Cox as the elder Tilden who produces a passable midwest accent and Olwen Catherine Kelly who, as a most convincing cadaver, had the hardest part of all simply lying naked and still on a cold slab. In 2010’s The Troll Hunter, Øvredal made an old-fashioned monster movie which tickled the funny bone even as it sent the occasional chill down your spine—with Jane Doe he bypasses the bones altogether and grabs you straight by the guts. Definitely not one to watch alone.

An Autumn Afternoon (Japan 1962) (7): Ozu’s final film (he died a year later) explores much of the same territory as his earlier Late Spring; namely the disintegration and reintegration of the nuclear Japanese family post WWII. Once again an aging widower is concerned over his daughter’s refusal to marry due to her filial obligation to look after him. Afraid that 24-year old Michiko will miss out on the happiest time of her life, Mr. Hirayama enlists the aid of friends and family to find her a suitable mate even though the prospect of losing her is taking a greater toll on his peace of mind than he’s willing to admit. Ozu’s usual assortment of visual cues are here with train whistles and drifting smoke reminding us that the clock is ticking; but there is an undertone of pessimism at work (or is it just resignation?) not usually seen in his family dramas. A reunion with a former high school professor reveals an old man trying to alleviate his many life regrets through alcoholic binges; a contentious pair of golf clubs bought by Hirayama’s cash-strapped son casts a glaring eye on Japan’s emerging consumerism; and some wartime recollections in a smokey bar hint at a deeper cynicism. An appropriately bittersweet ending, sad yet oddly comforting, provides the perfect capstone for one of cinema’s more distinguished careers.

Avanim [Stones] (Israel 2004) (5): Thirty-year old Michale’s time is divided between being a secretary at her father’s accounting firm, being a wife to her overworked husband, and being a mother to her little toddler. She’s also having an affair with a handsome young man—a physical arrangement involving cheap hotel rooms and hasty good-byes. But when her lover dies under tragic circumstances she suddenly finds herself very much alone with no shoulders to cry on and no way to express her grief without rousing suspicion. Her pent-up misery will eventually poison her relationships with everyone in her life as she begins to question the various roles she’s been forced into. Or something like that. Writer/director Raphaël Nadjari’s plodding verité style and bare bones narrative don’t really take a stand as much as suggest a host of interpretations. Is this a story of one woman coming undone…or rising above? As portrayed by Assi Levy, Michale is certainly not a sympathetic character—dour, selfish, and passive-aggressive—nor is she exactly an oppressed martyr. Could there be a social critique in the way her devout father cooks the books a bit so that a conservative religious group can receive more funding than they’re entitled to? There is certainly a focus on Jewish orthodoxy in the way its members bemoan the rise of secularism and see their role of teaching the Torah as a form of revitalization (never mind their questionable business dealings or the fact one of them gets away with something far worse). A feminist parable? Michaela rebels against male authority figures, refuses to cover her head when meeting a revered rabbi, and her only ally defends her at a cost. All are equally valid yet none are expressed with sufficient finesse to kick the story out of first gear. Granted, there may be facets to Nadjari’s no-burner which will resonate with Israeli audiences yet get lost in translation when viewed abroad. But as an outsider trying to look in I found the experience rather flat and listless.

Avanti! (USA 1972) (7): Notable for flashes of nudity, colourful language, and post “sexual revolution” morality, it’s difficult to decide which part of Billy Wilder’s “fish out of water” farce is ultimately most appealing: the star chemistry between leads Jack Lemmon and Juliet Mills, or the Isle of Capri’s lush photo ops. Wendell Armbruster Jr, the punctilious son of an American business magnate (Lemmon, earning a Golden Globe), is forced to take an unexpected flight to Italy after his vacationing father dies in a car crash. Once there however the complications begin before he even has a chance to clear customs; but the real shocker is waiting for him at the hotel. As it turns out dear old Dad did not die alone—he was with his secret mistress of ten years—and when the dead woman’s daughter (Mills) arrives from England to claim her mother’s body from the same morgue, things get really complicated. Playing Lemmon’s morally uptight businessman against Mill’s slightly neurotic bohemian provides some fertile comedy ground (he’s shocked by the infidelity, she finds it romantic) which Wilder further augments with exaggerated culture clash jokes as a fastidious Armbruster tries to adjust to rural Italy’s more laissez-faire sensibilities. To that end, New Zealand character actor Clive Revill provides the missing link as a harried hotel manager who tries to cover everyone’s tracks while also dealing with an irregular kidnapping, an impromptu murder, and the red tape intricacies of a society wherein getting anything done at all is predicated upon who you know, not what. And it’s all given a sensuous technicolor sheen by sun-drenched backdrops of sea, sky, and swaying palms set to a wistful melody. The laughs may be dated, the shocks dulled, but as a sparkling romantic comedy it’s still thumbs up all the way.

Away From Her (Canada 2006) (8):  A soft, gentle film about a couple coming undone due to Alzheimer’s disease.  As Grant enters his autumn years, Fiona slowly retreats into an eternal springtime of sunshine and fading memories.  Pinsent plays the husband with great restraint, often using nothing more than a glance to convey the depths of the man’s despair while Christie brings a sense of graceful dignity to Fiona, holding her head high even as she fades away.  But it is Dukakis’ crusty yet practical Marian that keeps the film firmly anchored and prevents it from slipping into maudlin sentimentality.  Polley accents the film with subtle shifts of timelines, a keen eye for visuals....blue shadows in a wintry wood, delicate wildflowers covered in frost.....and a few sly elements of pure Canadiana that let you know this film belongs north of the 49th.  A remarkable achievement.

The Awful Truth (USA 1937) (8): Cary Grant and Irene Dunne are perfectly matched in this sparkling little confection voted one of the top comedies of all time by Premiere magazine. They play Jerry and Lucy Warriner, New York socialites whose marriage is coming undone thanks to a few innocent fibs and a general mistrust of each other. With only ninety days to go before their divorce settlement becomes final the former lovebirds try getting into the dating scene once more, she with an Oklahoma oil tycoon and he with a ditzy nightclub singer and sullen debutante. But, the awful truth is they’re actually ambivalent about ending their relationship and thus spend way too much time trying to sabotage one another’s attempts at finding new love. A partially improvised script crackles with witty comebacks and double entendres as the Warriner’s verbal sparring goes from casual insults to a catty game of one-upmanship. In two of the film’s funnier scenes Jerry sets his soon-to-be ex up for a dance floor fail and she later retaliates by arriving at his new girlfriend’s estate pretending to be a drunken sister. A chic urban comedy sure to put a smile on your face! And yes, the Warriner’s dog, “Mr. Smith”, also played Asta in The Thin Man series.

Ayar (USA 2021) (5): Floyd Russ tries to breathe new life into an old formula and the resulting arthouse curio certainly has its moments of clarity, but they are ultimately undone by too much gimmickry and too little substance. Single mother Ayar left her newborn daughter in the care of her mother so she could seek her fortune performing on the Las Vegas strip. But, alas, a combination of COVID shutdowns and questionable talent scuttled her dreams before she could realize them. Returning to her hometown intent on becoming a part of her growing daughter’s life, she must now contend with her own mother who is reluctant to surrender the child to the daughter who abandoned her in the first place. Finding herself at a psychological crossroads, Ayar is forced to examine where her life decisions have led her… The emotionally fraught bonds between mothers and daughters, here spread out over three generations, may not be a new idea in screenwriting but Russ’ two leads (and co-authors) do put in adequate performances. As Ayar, Ariana Ron Pedrique wears her distraught heart on her sleeve while Vilma Vega, playing the stoic mother, injects a note of bitterness as she recalls having to sacrifice her own dreams—including leaving a comfortable life in Mexico—in order to give Ayar a chance for a better life in America. But somewhere along the way the film leaves the rails and becomes an avant-garde “experimental piece” with cast members breaking through the fourth wall in order to engage with one another as well as the audience. Why, exactly? Their impromptu bios don’t really mirror those of their characters (unless contrasting reality with fiction is the point?) and rather than adding a layer of insight the informal gab sessions end up looking like so many failed screen tests. Yes, Ayar has played many roles in her life—from absent mother to star-crossed dreamer—and being an actress in her own story could be seen as just one more, but the film’s narrative just isn’t strong enough to accommodate such an affectation. Then there’s the primal screams (thankfully muted), the ponderous camerawork, and the ubiquitous ivy that suddenly begins sprouting from every nook and cranny like a pushy metaphor. As the saying goes: sometimes it’s not what you say but how you say it. And sometimes you simply try to say too much.

The Baba Best of Baba Alla (Russia 2006) (2): With her toothless grimace, sagging breasts and fat unwiped ass, Baba Alla has certainly earned the title of world’s oldest and ugliest whore. In Yakov Levi’s collection of juvenile short films we see the shambling grotesque as she squeezes her fungus-yellowed toes into a pair of disco pumps, waves a crusted feminine pad at passing teenagers, and cleans cockroaches out of her vagina with a toilet brush. Aided by Penisella (the chick with a dick) and Dinkerbell the Cock Fairy, Levi’s theatre of disgust is a mostly unfunny mishmash of flabby guts, tonsillar close-ups and grossly exaggerated faux cumshots which make the works of John Waters seem like pure genius. Add to that a pair of completely gratuitous asides involving haunted matroshka dolls and a trio of busty co-eds who raise the ghost of the Marquis de Sade and you are left with two good laughs, a few groans, and a whole lot of blank staring.

The Babadook (Australia 2014) (9): Single mother Amelia is having trouble with her precocious son Samuel, a hyperactive six-year old who not only believes in monsters but takes elaborate steps to protect the two of them by fashioning homemade dart guns and booby traps in the basement of their old home. Born on the same day his father died—a horrendous accident which still haunts his mother—Sam has become extremely sensitive to the opinions of others, his erratic behaviour alternating between violent tantrums and forlorn withdrawal. Now, thanks to an especially scary storybook that he found on his bedroom shelf he’s more convinced than ever that a malevolent spirit is hellbent on destroying him and his mother. Presented in threatening rhymes and illustrated with macabre pop-up illustrations the book tells the tale of “Mr. Babadook”, an evil man in top hat and coat who sneaks into houses at night and wreaks havoc before turning his sights on the unlucky inhabitants. Despite assuring Samuel to the contrary, Amelia begins to suspect that this most inappropriate bedtime story is responsible for more than just a few childish nightmares. And then her own bad dreams begin… Childhood angst and unresolved grief come together to form a most diabolical bogeyman in writer/director Jennifer Kent’s first feature film; a taut psychological mindfuck that’s equally effective as a straight-up ghost story. Playing like every campfire tale you’ve ever heard, there are enough bumps in the night—not to mention one very scary armoire—to keep you whistling in the dark for weeks. Not content to simply rely on standard genre jolts however, Kent elicits much of the movie’s sense of dread through old clips (as Amelia flips through late night TV stations she encounters everything from big bad wolves and sex ads to Italian giallo) and clever camerawork including some of the most evocative dream sequences since Mia Farrow turned out the lights in Rosemary’s Baby. But there is a deeper unease beneath the film’s wicked chills, one that speaks of a widow’s despair and a child’s fear of abandonment—for the horror in the house presents a very different face to mother and son. Finally, even though her film’s final moments pay due respect to The Exorcist and Poltergeist, Kent brings it all together for an unexpected finale with a distinctly feminine sensibility. And the performances are amazing too.

Babes in Arms (USA 1939) (6): One of Busby Berkeley’s cornier musicals is this low-rent extravaganza meant to showcase the talents of teenagers Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland. When the advent of talking pictures puts their Vaudevillian parents out of work, a group of talented kids under the tutelage of budding singer/songwriter Mickey Moran (Rooney) and his sweetheart Patsy Barton (Garland) decide to wow friends and neighbours by staging a show of their own. Renting an old barn and a couple of dusty costumes they set about making their Broadway dreams come true—but trouble is waiting in the wings in the form of town busybody Martha Steele (Margaret Hamilton playing yet another witch) who thinks the kids would be better off in trade school and intends to get a court order to that effect. Can Mickey, Patsy, and the gang manage to sway public opinion before the school buses arrive? Will youthful zeal win out over grownup cynicism? And will Patsy get the big break—and marriage proposal?—she’s been dreaming of or will talented upstart and new star of the show “Baby” Rosalie Essex (contortionist extraordinaire June Preisser) beat her to the punch? Rooney is hyper-manic as he mugs and cackles for the cameras (did he borrow a couple of Judy’s “diet pills”?) in a performance which earned him his very first Oscar nomination, Garland just seems preoccupied, and a cast of future Hollywood footnotes strut their wares through one insufferably cheerful musical routine after another. A bit of gravity is introduced with Mickey’s stage veteran father (Charles Winninger) sinking into a bitter depression over the unfair prejudice aimed at old theatrical “has beens” but even that is eventually given an ironic tug, at least to modern audiences, when the kids’ big opening number turns out to be an outlandish minstrel show with Rooney and Garland singing about “Ala-bammy” while shuffling around in nappy wigs and blackface. And with WWII just beginning it’s no surprise that this whole Great White Way fairy tale comes with a gaudy salute to Old Glory and Mom’s Apple Pie as the entire company gushes over “God’s country”, the land of opportunity and freedom!! Entertaining in a kitschy way with songs that are memorable if nothing else, my personal highlights include an awkward dinner date between lower middle-class Mickey and upper crust Rosalie (he fumbles over the silverware then chokes on a cigar), and Rooney giving amusing impersonations of Clark Gable and Lionel Barrymore.

Baby Blood (France 1990) (5):  When a malevolent pork sausage makes a home for itself in an unsuspecting woman’s uterus, “Female Empowerment” takes on a whole new meaning in this French splatter film.  It isn’t long before the little cocktail weenie has her chugging back the gallons of fresh human blood it needs in order to survive and grow into the  big bad monster it always wanted to be—think of a phlegmy calzone designed by H. P. Lovecraft.  Despite the poor editing, bad performances, and lacklustre script there are still some admirable elements here.  For one thing, the ongoing telepathic dialogue between woman and worm has a certain wry wit to it and some of the underlying humour manages to hit the mark, although the sandwich board advertising “Baby Blood 2” was a bit obvious.  Lastly, the gore effects are a pretty cool mixture of George Romero and Monty Python.  I’ve seen worse.

The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer (USA 1947) (7): Buoyed by an Oscar-winning screenplay and an all-star cast (Cary Grant, Myrna Loy, Shirley Temple) this screwball comedy of misunderstandings and misplaced affections is sure to make you smile, if not exactly laugh out loud. When a roguish artist is put in a precarious position by a lovestruck teenager her older sister, a circuit court judge, makes him an offer he can't refuse; pretend to date the young girl until she can get over her infatuation or else face a number of trumped up charges. Things get complicated however when the judge begins to have romantic feelings of her own and her wannabe boyfriend, an assistant D.A., decides enough is enough. A final showdown in a swank nightclub involving shouting matches and birthday cakes is truly funny!

Bad Day at Black Rock (USA 1955) (8): Towards the end of WWII a one-armed man breezes into the tiny desert community of Black Rock; his identity unremarkable, his purpose unknown—and immediately we’re aware that something is not quite right. Greeted with suspicion and outright hostility by the town’s dozen or so inhabitants, John J. Macreedy (a soft-spoken Spencer Tracy) is nevertheless determined to seek out the man he’s come to find despite being stonewalled by the sheriff and threatened by the local land baron and his posse of goons. It seems Black Rock has a terrible secret to hide and no one wants to see Macreedy live long enough to discover it. Filmed in widescreen Cinemascope with vistas of endless sand and towering mesas to heighten its sense of isolation, John Sturges’ tale of an ugly small town and the even uglier people who live there paints a dire picture of patriotism’s other side—the xenophobia and racism, and the righteous mindset of the pack. Although a bit too extreme to be considered a microcosm of America at large (unless you concentrate on the civil rights travails of the South) Bad Day certainly casts an unwelcome light on one of that country’s darker wartime legacies. Presenting his film as a dry and dusty chamber piece featuring a cast of A-list character actors, Sturges slowly ramps up the tension using long, almost languorous shots under a burning sun. The result is a dim and pessimistic parable set in a West more villainous than wild.

A Bad Day to go Fishing (Uruguay 2009) (7): Uruguay’s official entry for 2009’s Foreign Language Oscar is this little secular parable which uses the wrestling ring as an odd metaphor to touch on issues of personal adversity and salvation. Perpetually drunk and quite possibly brain damaged, former world wrestling champion Jacob van Oppen (Finnish strongman Jouko Ahola, built like a bull and quiet as a mouse) has been reduced to touring obscure Latin American towns where he reluctantly grapples for money in exhibition bouts arranged by his manager-cum-nursemaid “Prince” Orsini. Unbeknownst to Jacob however is the fact that Orsini is practically penniless and has been manipulating the fights so that his client never loses, not that the local competition poses much of a threat to the hulking and highly volatile Van Oppen. It is an unlucky day when the pair blow into the village of Santa Maria however for not only does the local newspaperman recognize a scam when he sees one but the man chosen to fight against Jacob is bigger, younger, and being mercilessly goaded into winning by his financially strapped fiancée. As aging champ and desperate newcomer face each other down you just know only one will be leaving the ring under his own power… There is an oily Mephistophelean quality to Orsini (Scotsman Gary Piquer playing a thoroughly convincing Spanish conman) as he chides and cajoles the depressive wrestler into one ring after another. He’s not an evil man per se but rather a benign parasite who lives off of Jacob while at the same time nursing him through his frequent psychotic episodes. The brooding Ahola on the other hand is perfectly cast as a giant man-child who, like his biblical namesake, is wrestling with a few angels of his own namely addiction, mental illness, and the Svengali-like Orsini (Van Oppen translates as “from upstairs”). As their story unfolds one wonders which character is more dependent on the other—or more in need of deliverance—for Jacob always seems to be one step from madness yet it would appear Orsini is nothing without his headline act. A curious mix of low-key drama and dry comedy with a quasi-religious twist or two (a high stakes poker game brought Bergman’s The Seventh Seal to mind) made me think of The Wrestler had it been produced by Wes Anderson.

Bad Education (Spain 2004) (7): It’s Madrid, 1980, and thirty-ish Enrique Goded is making a name for himself as an up-and-coming film director. Enter Ignacio Rodriguez (Gael Garcia Bernal), a former schoolmate now a struggling actor hungry for work who bursts into Goded’s office with a homemade movie script in hand. Agreeing to read the script Enrique is at first intrigued and then obsessed, for the story—revolving around two Catholic school boys in love with each other whose abuse at the hands of a predatory priest irrevocably alters their lives—mirrors his own childhood experiences growing up with Ignacio. But when he agrees to shoot the film with his former friend in the lead he’s shocked to discover the script contains a few deadly curveballs including an “alternate ending” that not even he saw coming… What a tangled web he weaves when Pedro Almodóvar sets out to deceive and this dark, twisted homage to American Film Noir and campy Spanish películas of yesteryear is no exception. Presented as a film within a film and generously laced with drugs, fluid identities (masks and make-up figure heavily), and transgressive homo lust—not to mention a bitter blast directed squarely at the church—all played with an unwaveringly grim straight face, one can get caught up in the film’s downbeat subterfuge without ever noticing the sardonic humour which underpins everything. From posters alluding to Almodóvar’s other films to a harrowing scene of priestly stalking which looks as if it belongs in a Friday the 13th sequel to all those little queer touches (Bernal actually looks damn convincing in drag) this polished telenovela has Pedro’s signature all over it, a fact which makes its many loops both refreshingly offbeat and so-so predictable. First and foremost however, like All About My Mother that came before it, this is a love poem to the art of filmmaking.

Bad Grandpa (USA 2013) (7): When his drug-addicted daughter is sent to prison yet again, puerile octogenarian Irving Zisman is saddled with the task of transporting his 8-year old grandson across country to live with his slovenly crackhead father. Recently widowed and perpetually horny, Irving resents little Billy’s “cock blocking” presence and tries his damnedest to balance his guardianship duties with getting laid any way he can…often involving the kid in some highly questionable pranks along the way. As for Billy, although he willingly goes along with his grandfather’s harebrained schemes he secretly longs for a brand new family… Straight-up adolescent comedy, right? WRONG! This is a Jackass production, that giggling troupe of comedy neanderthals who unleash their offensive stunts and grotesque bodily function humour upon unsuspecting rubes which they then secretly film à la Candid Camera. Star Johnny Knoxville, (forty-three going on twelve) is completely convincing in his layers of old man make-up while young Jackson Nicoll plays the foil with a wide-eyed innocence that’s almost criminal. Substituting a series of non-PC gags for dramatic narrative Knoxville and his pint-sized accomplice cruise the open highways of America, hidden camera crew in tow, grossing out/offending/enraging as many people as they can and capturing it all on tape for our perverse amusement. Among the high (low?) points: a farting contest at Denny’s gets messy; grandpa dangles his rubbery nut sack at a ladies’ club; and the two instigators, with Billy in full circuit queen drag, conspire to tear the “Carolina Cutie Pies’ Young Miss Pageant” a new arsehole. I won’t even mention the sexual encounter with a vending machine or grandma’s most unfortunate memorial service. Disgusting, childish, and a sure indication of just how low popular entertainment has sunk. It’s also funny as hell! So I’ll watch something by Bergman tomorrow…bite me.

Bad Santa (USA 2003) (6): With over 300 cuss words including a whopping 170 F-bombs crammed into its 99 minute running time, Terry Zwigoff’s spiteful Christmas caper is definitely the antithesis to such frothy holiday fare as Capra’s Wonderful Life. Billy Bob Thornton, true to form, plays Willie, a child-hating alcoholic ex-con with a suicidal streak who wastes most of the year stealing, getting pickled, and indulging his fetish for heavyset women. But every December marks a moral low point on his calendar when he and diminutive sidekick Marcus (Tony Cox managing to insert “fuck” into every sentence) hire themselves out as mall Santa + elf—a racket which allows them to case each store’s security system so Willie can practice his safecracking skills later on. And then, while working a shopping centre in Arizona, Willie is force to hide in the opulent home of a precocious and utterly naïve ten-year old (is there an Oscar for most annoying child performance?) and his life takes a drunken lurch to the right as something resembling a conscience tries to crawl out of his tequila-soaked brain. An overriding fixation with bad taste seems to be the prime motivator in Zwigoff’s thoroughly nasty flick and Thornton’s malicious forays into petty crime and booze-fuelled outbursts—usually while decked out in his jolly red suit with a doe-eyed tyke balanced on one bony knee—are funny in a cringeworthy sort of way. And Cox certainly picks up the slack with a seemingly endless supply of colourful foul-mouthed comebacks. But watching a rock bottom loser continually implode over the course of an hour-and-a-half grates on the mind and that cornball ending suggests a screenplay that wrote itself into an uncomfortable corner. Worth a rental nevertheless if only to get a healthy dose of political incorrectness, for the only snowflakes in this film are on the ground. Look for John Ritter in his final role as a mousy floor manager and the late Bernie Mac as a crooked store detective.

Bad Santa 2 (USA 2016) (7): F-bombs and toilet humour rule the day in this low-brow scatological sequel to 2003’s anti-Christmas flick. Hard-drinking, perpetually horny safecracker Willie Soke (Billy Bob Thornton) is once again talked into an uneasy alliance with his mutinous former partner-in-crime the elfish Marcus Skidmore (Tony Cox) who has his wee heart set on robbing a crooked charity based in Chicago (Montreal). But a few wrenches are thrown into the plan beginning when Willie discovers that the yuletide caper is being masterminded by his estranged mother (Kathy Bates sporting tattoos and a trucker’s mouth), then the wife of the charity’s CEO worms her way past his zipper, and finally Thurman Merman—his ersatz son from part one now twice as big and three times as stupid—begins dogging his every step (a tedious one-note performance from Brett Kelly). Will the trio get away with it this time or will Willie’s rock bottom luck ruin the day yet again? As in the first instalment the plot takes a backseat to a script determined to piss on every politically correct sensibility with crass jokes taking aim at midgets, white trash, addiction, and Christmas itself—an enraged Willie in Santa drag beats up another Kris Kringle using a “weapon” borrowed from a nearby manger scene. Strictly frat house dialogue with visuals that emphasize the “gag” in “sight gag” (Kelly bares his lumpy butt, Cox poses with a scrotum, Thornton pukes and pisses) but oddly enough it all works for the most part especially if you set your expectations really low from the outset. Part 3, however, is definitely NOT on my wish list.

The Bad Seed (USA 1956) (8): After her military husband is called away to Washington for a month, Christine Penmark (Nancy Kelly, bringing down the house) is left to look after their precocious eight-year old daughter Rhoda (Patty McCormack making The Omen’s Damian look like Cindy Brady). Always a bit of a sugary sycophant around adults, Rhoda is also capable of flying into intense rages whenever things don’t go her way, a trait of which her exasperated mother is only too aware. But when tragedy strikes during a school picnic Christine begins to suspect—with mounting horror—that her outwardly sweet, pig-tailed cherub may actually be a cunning psychopath. Going directly from the Broadway stage to the big screen, Mervyn LeRoy’s adaptation of Maxwell Anderson’s play (based on William March’s novel) is a pint-sized gothic chiller that manages to maintain most of its live performance impact thanks to the original cast who reprise their roles with theatrical abandon. With action mainly taking place inside the Penmark’s living room, the ghastly details are left offscreen as LeRoy concentrates instead on the psychological fallout between an increasingly hysterical Christine and a coldly manipulative Rhoda—both actresses oscillating between awkward shows of affection and bursts of hand-wringing. And it’s all shored up by a supporting cast who emphasize the iceberg developing between mother and child: the landlady ( Angela Lansbury lookalike Evelyn Varden) who thinks Rhoda is nothing but sugar & spice; the caretaker (Henry Jones) who thinks he knows an evil kindred spirit when he sees one; the absent father (William Hopper) who has put his little girl on a pedestal; and a grieving mother (Eileen Heckart stealing the show with only two brief scenes) whose drunken accusations are flung like knives through Christine’s heart. At times so over the top, especially Kelly’s monumental foundering and McCormack’s screeching brat, that it sweeps you up like a cinematic tidal wave before leaving you vaguely disappointed with its pat ending. Apparently the powers that be were not happy with the play’s original finale so LeRoy had to concoct a harebrained alternate ending so risible it could have had its own laugh track, this followed by a puzzling curtain call obviously meant to dispel any bad taste the film may have left in the audience’s mouth. Still an interesting psycho thriller if you can imagine Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm crossed with Silence of the Lambs.

The Bad Sleep Well (Japan 1960) (9): Akira Kurosawa’s angry film noir not only examines corporate corruption in high places but is also highly critical of the mindless loyalty engendered in Japanese workers; some of whom would willingly kill themselves rather than face the humiliation of testifying against their crooked bosses. When one such man is shamed into committing suicide after he discovers his superiors are up to their eyebrows in a scheme involving rigged government contracts, his enraged son Nishi decides to go deep undercover in order to expose the men responsible. Going so far as to change his identity and marry the boss’ crippled daughter, Yoshiko, in order to gain the old man’s confidence, Nishi uses his meagre inheritance to unleash an ingenious plan aimed at gaining confessions from all concerned. But not even he is prepared for the lengths criminals will go to in order to protect their own—for not only do wicked men sleep peacefully, they have trouble distinguishing the light from the darkness. in the meantime his wholly innocent wife and hot-tempered brother-in-law are having some distressing revelations of their own. Brilliantly scripted and accompanied by a hip jazz score, Kurosawa’s critical eye follows his characters from opulent hotel suites and boardrooms to the desolation of a bombed factory; a crumbling remnant of Japan’s military defeat just fifteen years earlier. As the story progresses however you come to realize that the lines between “good” and “bad” are not so easily drawn, for Nishi’s memories of his father aren’t quite as golden as he would like and his marriage of convenience to the trusting Yoshiko carries within it the same aura of unscrupulousness he’s vowed to expose. Furthermore, in his single-minded zeal to wreak vengeance (and ease some personal guilt) Nishi is only too willing to step outside the law himself. A complex and cynical film whose bleak ending once served as a wake-up call but now, sadly, seems more of a prophecy.

Bait (Australia 2012) (5): As if to prove that the SyFy channel is not the only source of Z-grade chills, those wacky Australians have combined The Mist with Jaws to give us a waterlogged thriller that’s as much fun to watch as it is to slam. When a tidal wave wipes out an idyllic beachfront community a handful of survivors find themselves trapped in a flooded supermarket with a pair of hungry great white sharks patrolling the aisles (I kid you not!) Cut off from the outside world the plucky shoppers—including a delinquent daughter and her policeman dad, a pair of robbers, a love triangle, and a bickering couple trapped in a car with their yappy pomeranian (best actor by far)—must devise a plan to outwit the giant fish and escape while the director tosses a coin to see who gets eaten next. Despite some regrettable CGI effects which probably looked better in big screen 3D, the submerged grocery store sets are pretty convincing and there’s enough squishy gore to make you either heave or howl depending on your sensibilities. The weakest link however is a bumbling script delivered by an amateurish cast desperate to prove that they can too act and a ridiculously grandiose musical score that merely serves to underline the film’s silliness—a pair of “Rambo: Shark Killer” sequences are unintentional (?) comedy gold. It still serves up a cheesy treat though…who needs Sharknado when you’ve got Sharknami? And yes boys and girls, there is indeed a sequel on the way…

Ballad of a Soldier (Russia 1959) (7): When a nineteen-year old signalman stationed at the Russian front singlehandedly turns back an enemy tank invasion he is rewarded with a six day pass—just long enough to journey back to his little village and spend a day with his mother. But Alexei’s trek by train, foot, and automobile will turn into an odyssey of sorts as he offers a crippled soldier a new lease on life, eases the mind of a dying father, and pricks the conscience of a wayward wife. In addition, thanks to a number of missed connections, he will also encounter fellow traveler Shura who is on her way to see her injured fiancé and the two of them will fall madly in love only to have fate and circumstance threaten their future happiness. And all the while Alexei’s six day leave is quickly coming to an end and he has yet to reach his village… A fine piece of Soviet agitprop cast with the usual assortment of brave warriors defending the motherland and stoic peasants threshing grain beneath a glorious sky. Unlike other directors of the time however Grigorly Chukhray puts aside the hammer and sickle and fashions a beautifully sad love story instead as two young idealists literally pass in the night. A wistful musical score underlines both love and tragedy alike while Chukrhay’s keen eye pulls off a couple of gorgeous cinematic coups: a battleground comes to resemble one of Dante’s hellish circles; a lone woman runs through an endless field of wheat; and two lovers embrace against an explosion of sunbeams. Perhaps a bit self-conscious at times, and a droning voiceover towards the end needlessly pushes the point, but still a grand old entry from the heyday of Mosfilm Studios.

Ball of Fire (USA 1941) (6): After her gangster boyfriend is implicated in a high profile murder case, jive-talking nightclub singer “Sugarpuss” O’Shea (Barbara Stanwyck) eludes police investigators by hiding out in an opulent Manhattan institute staffed by eight eccentric professors busy working on an upcoming encyclopedia. Unaware of her criminal ties one of the eggheads, English major Bertram Potts (Gary Cooper), eagerly soaks up her snappy vocabulary as part of his research into contemporary American slang leading to the usual romantic complications when O’Shea’s sexy demeanour begins to stir his latent hormones at the exact same time her ruthless lover comes looking to reclaim her. With a screenplay by Billy Wilder and director Howard Hawks at the helm I expected more from what has been billed as one of the last “screwball comedies” of Hollywood’s golden era. But despite co-stars like Oskar Homolka as a jovial fellow professor, Dana Andrews as the bad guy, and Dan Duryea as his snivelling henchman there isn’t much to laugh at aside from Stanwyck’s quaintly archaic patois—her Oscar-nominated performance complimenting a cast of doddering academicians and overshadowing Cooper’s relentless monotone. The comparisons to Snow White and the Seven Dwarves were nicely played however although a snide reference to Cooper’s role in Sergeant York would probably fly over most heads. The film ultimately succumbs to too much froth and too many implausible plot devices (what are the chances of that happening?! and that ?!) before it’s all tied up nice and neat with a closing kiss. A rather bland confection.

The Band Wagon (USA 1953) (7): Writers Adolph and Betty Comden completely rewrite an old 1930’s stage hit and in the hands of director Vincente Minnelli it’s turned into what many critics consider to be one of the quintessential MGM musicals. Former matinee idol Tony Hunter (an aging Fred Astaire) is well aware of the fact his star has all but faded as times and tastes have changed. But when his playwright friends Lester and Lily Marton (Nanette Fabray, Oscar Levant) offer him a chance to star in their latest Broadway revue he’s at first reluctant even though it’s to be directed by the legendary Jeffrey Cordova (Jack Buchanan). He eventually gives in and that’s when the troubles begin: Tony and ballerina co-star Gabrielle Gerard (a stunning Cyd Charisse) take an instant dislike to each other, the rehearsals are a technical disaster, and a pretentious Cordova insists on taking the Marton’s play—a frothy musical comedy about a children’s author—and revamping it into a contemporary version of Faust with fire and brimstone and tortured souls galore. Can everyone settle their artistic differences before the entire production becomes an even bigger flop than it already promises to be? Marvelous technicolor sets are steeped in 1950’s modernism yet the song & dance numbers are charmingly old-fashioned from the now iconic “That’s Entertainment!” to the pure country corn of “Louisiana Hayride”. But the show belongs to Astaire and Charisse who seem to float on air as they swirl and swing across the stage beginning with a fanciful pas de deux in Central Park and ending in a rather odd but watchable jazz number about a Manhattan murder mystery. The rest of the cast perform admirably and despite a forced love interest between its two stars the film still gives off enough sparks to assuage all but the most cynical of viewers.

Barcelona (USA 1994) (7): It’s hard being an American abroad in writer/director Whit Stillman’s oh-so-droll comedy of manners and morals, part of his loose trilogy which also contains Metropolitan (1990) and The Last Days of Disco (1998). Set in Barcelona, 1987, during the waning days of the Cold War, the film centres on neurotic ex-pat WASP Ted (Taylor Nichols giving a Presbyterian version of Woody Allen) working for a Chicago-based marketing agency who is suddenly forced to endure a prolonged visit from his boorish cousin Fred (Chris Eigeman), an American naval officer working on behalf of NATO. Seemingly opposites in every way—uptight Ted aspires to a moral code which precludes dating “attractive” women; Fred is a shallow, opportunistic lout who’ll bed anyone and just as quickly forget their name—the two men will spend a most revealing few days together dredging up the past while discussing love & sex, politics & diplomacy, and freedom vs commitment even though neither appears to have a clue about any of them. And while they wrangle over the finer points of everything from shaving to American foreign policy (comparisons between the USA and a colony of ants are as confusing as they are amusing) their Spanish contemporaries offer a few pithy—and not entirely on base—observations of their own. Set against a backdrop of anti-US sentiment where graffiti urges “Yankee dears go home” and bombs seem to go off like clockwork, Stillman is not so concerned with the sociopolitical machinations behind the resentment as he is with the cultural misunderstandings which provoke it. And there are misunderstandings galore in this high-brow, dialogue-driven satire that makes 1963’s The Ugly American look crass by comparison. It’s not easy to take an intentionally vacuous script and have it convey something more profound but in his own sly way Stillman manages to do just that, leading us down the garden path laughing all the way.

The Barefoot Contessa (USA 1954) (4): Celebrated movie star Maria D”Amata (an unconvincing Ava Gardner) has died after making only three films. As acquaintances gather in the Italian countryside for a modest funeral three mourners look back on her meteoric rise and tragic death: writer/director Harry Dawes (an unconvincing Humphrey Bogart) who knew her when she was an unknown Spanish flamenco dancer named Vargas and has acted as her mentor and guardian angel ever since; PR man Oscar Muldoon (Edmond O’Brien, convincing enough to snag an Oscar) who admired her from afar while a pair of international tycoons fought over her like a bone; and wealthy Italian count Vincenzo Toriato-Favrini (a ham-stuffed Rossano Brazzi) whose love stole her heart yet led to her tragic downfall just the same. In the process we are treated to three self-indulgent bouts of post mortem navel-gazing as each man beats his breast while Ava, in flashback after interminable flashback, tries to embody the object of their individual obsessions through stilted mannerisms and a bargain basement Latina accent. A ludicrous soap opera script supposedly borrows elements from the real life bios of Rita Hayworth and Gardner herself (poor girl gets a break, finds fame, marries rich) adds a touch of Pygmalion (check out that tombstone statue) then proceeds to garnish it with so much Hollywood flotsam and affected monologues that had it been handled slightly better—or slightly worse—you could almost enjoy it as a satirical take on the film industry itself with characters constantly reminding one another that reality is not a script, dammit! In once scene, perhaps the film’s most shamelessly awful, Brazzi’s tortured count explains to Maria why he won’t be joining her in their conjugal bed and when she runs to Harry Dawes with a hare-brained scheme to make her unhappy husband smile again he counters with “You’re talking mawkish nonsense you’ve remembered from cheap films!” If ever a pot called a kettle black…

Baron Blood  (Italy 1972) (2):  A little slice of fromage from Mario Bava about a stupid tourist visiting the family estate in Austria who unwittingly raises his evil ancestor from the dead.  Naturally the reanimated Baron goes on a killing spree and it’s up to the idiot and his bimbo sidekick to have him put down...again. I remember seeing this film as a child and it scared the HELL out of me.  Thirty-five years later and it all looks so corny--from the uneven editing and poor continuity (it’s daytime, no, it’s nighttime, no wait, it’s daytime) to the awful acting and mediocre effects nothing seems to work.  Add to that a paint-by-number script and a musical score that sounds like it belongs in a stag film and you have all the makings of a bad movie.  Sadly, it’s not quite bad enough to be good.

The Baron of Arizona (USA 1950) (7): In the late 1800s former office clerk James Reavis produced official documents dating from the 1700s proving that he and his wife were the sole heirs to the entire territory of Arizona, as granted to their ancestors by the king of Spain. With his evidence seemingly airtight he was within a hair’s breadth of becoming a bona fide North American Baron much to the chagrin of the US State Department who had been considering the territory for admission to the union. But it was all a carefully planned ruse, for Reavis was in fact a master con-artist and unabashed liar who spent years painstakingly forging documents and altering others in order to create a fake lineage. Writer/director Samuel Fuller takes this fascinating footnote from American history and twists it into a western swashbuckler with Vincent Price playing the suave sociopathic Reavis as if he were a 19th century James Bond villain. Told in flashback with a narrator filling in the holes, many of the facts remain intact—Reavis really did go to extraordinary lengths to shore up his claim—but, perhaps to bolster ticket sales, Fuller tacks on a soapy orchestra score and a few feats of derring-do (Reavis drives a team of horses over a cliff; takes up with gypsies; woos a diplomat’s willing wife) as well as a gushing love story with Ellen Drew in the role of his doe-eyed wife and unsuspecting accomplice. Even a tense climax involving an angry mob of displaced homesteaders owes more to James Whale’s Frankenstein than actual historical accounts. But as a piece of quasi-fiction, Price and Drew play off each other nicely—his cool indifference contrasting with her misplaced ardour—and the story clips along so smoothly you’re almost able to overlook its rushed resolution and moments of treacle. Nice cinematography too, especially Reavis’ office where a giant wall map of Arizona overshadows everything like the Holy Grail itself.

Barry Lyndon (UK 1975) (7): Stanley Kubrick’s sumptuous three hour costume epic follows the rise and fall of Redmond Barry, an 18th century Irish libertine who manages to rise far above his humble station in life as he goes from penniless criminal to military hero to kept husband of a wealthy widow. But his single-minded pursuit of the good life, coupled with the insular mindset of the aristocracy with whom he tries to ingratiate himself, lead to his ultimate undoing. If the story is hardly original its glorious widescreen presentation more than compensates. Utilizing a new lens technology which allowed him to capture key scenes using only ambient light, Kubrick fills the screen with soft pastel landscapes and baroque interiors awash in golden candlelight. Elaborate costumes and make-up coupled with meticulous period sets, apparently inspired by the paintings of Thomas Gainsborough among others, give the film a gauzy romantic feel complimented by a musical score of lilting Gaelic ballads and sombre orchestral movements. A lacklustre script does manage to deliver a few choice lines, but Ryan O’Neal’s leaden performance (his appointment had more to do with studio politics than artistic merit) is ultimately distracting; his portrayal of Barry being neither sympathetic nor engaging. A pity considering everything else was pretty well spot on.

Basket Case (USA 1982) (7): Every now and again a horror film comes along which is so godawful terrible that it should be dismissed before the opening credits finish scrolling—yet it’s made with such childlike (and slightly sadistic) zeal and is terrible in so many right ways that you find yourself cheering the beleaguered director on even as you break out in fits of laughter. Such is the case with Frank Henenlotter’s zero-budget “video nasty” about Siamese twins Duane and Belial (one normal, one monstrous) forcibly separated in their teens and now wandering the sleazy streets of Manhattan seeking vengeance on the doctors who performed the operation. Hiding his stunted brother in a wicker basket that he carries with him everywhere, soft spoken Duane (Donovan lookalike Kevin Van Hentenryck), sets up base in a fleabag hotel off of Times Square and begins plotting one messy murder after another. However, despite a crippling psychic connection with Belial (who looks like a mutant scrotum with fangs and claws) Duane nevertheless finds time to start dating vacuous blonde receptionist Sharon, a love interest which turns Belial green with envy and sets in motion all manner of good bloody fun. Cheap and tawdry from the squirts of fake gore to Belial’s stop-motion styrofoam rampages, there is a definite sense of humour at work in Henenlotter’s film as if cast and crew knew exactly what they were doing and only gradually let their audience in on the joke. Featuring B-movie performances all around and enough grotesque effects to make even the most jaded viewer crack a smile although, ironically, it was the panty-sniffing scene and not the eviscerations that grossed me out the most. Small wonder it was released by “Analysis Films”.

Battle in Heaven (Mexico 2005) (5): Pudgy, middle-aged chauffeur Marcos has a few things on his mind. Not only is he having an affair with Ana, his wealthy employer’s rebellious daughter, but he and his wife have accidentally killed their friend’s baby in a botched kidnapping attempt—a murder he casually mentions to Ana one day while visiting her at the brothel where she moonlights as a prostitute. With his wife urging him to keep his mouth shut and his young lover insisting he turn himself in, a moral tug-of-war takes place in Marcos’ head with a guilty conscience waging war against self-preservation. His inner turmoil begins to colour the world around him as Mexico City suddenly teems with portentous images both sacred and grotesque: an impatient mother manhandles her child, a procession of pilgrims file past singing hymns, and a subway passenger sports a devilish mask. Things finally come to a head prompting Marcos to make his ultimate decision... Reygadas’ strange aesthetic (a poor attempt to emulate Gus van Sant?) is evident in every frame of this bombastic mishmash of half-baked ideas. There are long takes including a 360° pan off a balcony, annoying sound effects with ticking clocks and oddly placed classical music figuring prominently, and some explicitly carnal non-sequiturs featuring chubby bums and sweaty genitals. Images of conflict abound, whether it's a cadre of armed guards or a spirited soccer game, and there are more than a few subtle digs at both religious fervour and blind nationalism. The overall effect may be disquieting but any attempts at achieving greater depth are ruined by the flat and lifeless performances of his hopelessly amateur cast. Despite its grandiose title and some dazzling visuals, Battle in Heaven comes across as an experimental film gone terribly awry. Shallow, indulgent and emotionally sterile.

The Battle of the River Plate [Pursuit of the Graf Spee] (UK 1956) (7): At the beginning of WWII, Germany patrols the Atlantic with a small fleet of “pocket battleships”; small, fast and highly maneuverable warships able to conduct raids on Allied convoy routes and then make their escape before reinforcements can arrive. One such ship, the Admiral Graf Spee, is especially troublesome in the waters of the south Atlantic where it is responsible for sinking several merchant vessels. Caught in a clever ambush by three British gunships off the coast of Uruguay, the Graf Spee is badly damaged despite its superior fire power and forced to limp into the harbour at Montevideo. Being a neutral country Uruguay is required by international law to assist the Germans in making their crippled ship seaworthy, without providing any ammunition or weapons repairs, after which its captain is obligated to leave their waters. Meanwhile just off the coast, with only three ships to their name and over a hundred miles of ocean to patrol, the British are preparing for a game of cat and mouse with the damaged battleship once it re-enters international waters. As both sides engage in heated diplomatic negotiations with the Uruguayan government (and some public opinion propaganda on the side) the deadline for the Graf Spee’s departure is quickly approaching... Powell and Pressburger’s fine tale of duty and honour under pressure defies the usual flag-waving conventions we’ve come to expect from war dramas and instead seeks out the human component beneath the uniforms. There are no lionhearted heros or loathsome villains here but rather a handful of commanding officers, three British, one German, bound by conflicting sets of principles to carry out their separate missions to the best of their ability. An air of mutual respect develops between them despite the fact their orders are to attack one another, a respect which makes the brief yet gripping visions of battle carnage all the more tragic. In one particularly poignant scene a group of shipboard P.O.W.s are given boxes of Christmas decorations to brighten up their holding cell, while in another scene captured officers salute the coffins of enemy sailors killed during a particularly heavy assault. A most un-warlike battle film in which adversity is met with quiet courage and a victorious celebration is tempered by a profound sense of loss. The understated musical score and wide horizon cinematography are marvelous.

Battle Royale (Japan 2000) (7): In the near future a global stock market collapse and record unemployment has pushed Japanese society to the brink of total chaos and nowhere is this more apparent than in the school system. With truancy and juvenile delinquency reaching dangerous levels the government is forced to pass the Battle Royale Act which effectively allows the state to randomly kidnap groups of students, place them on a deserted island, and give them 48 hours in which they must either kill or be killed with the last kid standing declared the winner. Thus it is that forty-two unlucky grads from Tokyo wake up from a drugged haze to find themselves equipped with basic military rations, a “mystery weapon”, and two days to off each other. As a bonus incentive they’re also fitted with explosive dog collars to prevent escape and encourage full cooperation because in the unlikely event that more than one person lives past the deadline, everyone’s head blows up! It’s Hunger Games served up sushi-style with extra helpings of graphic teen-on-teen violence and a pervasive sick sense of humour which leaves you chuckling even as the body count rises. Director Kinji Fukasaku taps into everyone’s dark highschool fantasies as old classroom resentments explode in a hail of knives and bullets, sweethearts become killing duos, and the class geek plans to even the score with every authority figure he can find. Plus, just for fun, Fukasaku also throws a relentless psychopath and murderous nymphomaniac into the mix. But, blatant social satire aside, it’s ultimately all about the violence; from an hilariously deadpan indoctrination video in which a perky co-ed welcomes the unwilling recruits to the island, to the final bullet-riddled comeuppance. Perhaps a bit problematic in this age of school shootings (the film was released in Japan…with official disapproval…just a year after Columbine) but with the great “Beat” Takeshi Kitano playing a disgruntled professor-cum-camp commandant how can anyone take this seriously?

The Battleship Potemkin (Russia 1925) (8): Sergei Eisenstein’s breathtaking piece of Soviet agitprop is just as engaging ninety years later even if the Communist posturing elicits more irony than insurrection these days. When sailors aboard the battleship Prince Tavrichesky (nicknamed “Potemkin”) stage a mutiny to protest their poor living conditions they manage to subdue the commanding officers but not before one of their own members is shot dead by the captain’s guards. When news of seaman Vakulinchuk’s martyrdom reaches the port of Odessa, a city already gripped in revolutionary fervour, its citizens take to the streets in a peaceful show of solidarity—peaceful that is until the Czar’s troops arrive… Banned in France and the UK until the 1950’s due to a fear of working class unrest this masterful silent classic has gained a rightful place on countless “best of” lists including Premiere magazine’s “100 Movies That Shook The World”. From painterly views of ship’s cannons backlit by glorious clouds to a string of close-ups showing zealous sailors and peasants alike embracing the party line, there is nothing subtle about this movie especially when a tense naval stand-off takes an unexpected turn. But propaganda aside, the true genius of Eisentstein’s vision can be summed up in its climactic bloodbath scene shot on the great steps of Odessa when the military began firing indiscriminately into the crowd. Directing hundreds of extras into a coherent pandemonium you can sense the panic and horror as rifles go off and bodies fall leaving us with two iconic images: a distraught woman confronts the Czar’s forces while cradling her dying child, and a baby carriage careens down endless flights of concrete steps after the child’s mother falls prey to a bullet. I wonder what Eisenstein would make of Communism’s modern legacy.

The Bay (USA 2012) (5): Although no stranger to creating stories for the small screen, writer/director Barry Levinson’s attempt at the found footage genre, a kind of eco-conscious monster movie, is just too staged to be passed off as “real” and instead resembles nothing more than a rigorous workout from the improv studio. Millions of dead fish and seabirds are showing up along the New England coast and the official cause is listed as an algae bloom. But fledgling news reporter Donna (a not quite convincing Kether Donohue) knows better because she was at ground zero when all hell broke loose at a fourth of July celebration on Chesapeake Bay. Now possessing several hours’ worth of classified video thanks to a dark web hacker site, she is determined to deliver the real story of death, mayhem, and environmental crimes to the world. What follows is a montage of dashboard cams, smartphone captures, and security camera footage as Donna pieces together the disaster as it unfolded. Occasionally effective—some underwater scenes are very creepy—but a few bloopers manage to get past the editing department (palm trees in Delaware?) and despite some intentional humour there were just too many moaning extras in shock make-up jostling for a close-up to suspend my disbelief. In addition, a “top secret” big screen video conference between Homeland Security and the CDC is more slick than it should be and a doctor’s home movie pushes the envelope even further. It’s Jaws meets Blair Witch as envisioned by Greenpeace, with a message relentlessly rammed into our corneas. At least the special effects are pleasingly gross.

Beasts of No Nation (USA 2015) (10): When soldiers enter his West African village searching for anti-government guerrillas, young Agu flees into the forest—but not before witnessing half his family being murdered. Eventually falling into the hands of the outlawed guerrillas, he comes under the spell of a fatherly commandant who uses fear, rebel propaganda, and recreational narcotics to turn Agu into a 10-year old killer. But the boy’s lessons don’t end with his first kill (the butchering of an unarmed college student), for the further Agu journeys into the heart of darkness the more he realizes that human corruption runs rampant regardless of which side you profess to fight for. Based on Uzodinma Iweala’s novel, Cary Fukunaga’s shocking drama of one child’s living nightmare actually employed former child soldiers to serve as extras and technical directors making the results nothing less than harrowing. Blood red seems to saturate every other frame—in the dirt, in the lurid sunsets, in gore pooling by an ambushed jeep—and Fukunaga furthers the hellish metaphors with images of black smoke obscuring the sun and fires burning pyre-like between jungle fronds. Meanwhile, in a stroke of irony, every ruined building seems to sport an upbeat mural promoting national pride. “Sun, why are you shining at this world?…” says Agu in one of his many voiceovers, “…I am wanting to catch you in my hands, to squeeze you until you can not shine no more.” A heartbreaking curse coming from a little boy who at the film’s outset was consumed with soccer and playing “Imagination TV” with his friends. Idris Elba outdoes himself as the commandant, a ruthless renegade whose patriotic jingoism barely conceals an underlying psychopathy, but it is newcomer Abraham Attah in the role of Agu who gives the film its visceral sense of tragedy. Going from a babbling preteen to an embittered warrior peering from out of those same young eyes, Attah needs little more than a stare or a dismissive tilt of the head to impart an entire world of hurt while his youthful exuberance, now distilled down to a weary monotone, chronicles the destruction of every innocent dream he ever held dear. “Mother…” he intones prayerfully recalling the last time he saw her face during a frantic evacuation, “…I can only be talking to you now because God is not listening.” Just one of the film’s many moments of agonizing truth.

Beau Père (France 1981) (6): After her mother dies in a traffic accident, 14-year old Marion foregoes moving in with her alcoholic father and instead chooses to stay with her stepfather Rèmi, a somewhat irresponsible, sporadically employed nightclub pianist. But there is more behind the young girl’s decision than mutual grief, for fancying herself a full grown woman Marion has decided to take Rèmi as her lover. In Bertrand Blier’s erotic comedy—originally banned by Ontario’s squeamish censors—a wily young Lolita wages a game of seduction that the older object of her desire can’t hope to win. As Rèmi sputters and trips towards that inevitable first kiss and Marion demurely plays the innocent naïf—she always seems to be towering over him—complications will arise in the form of her biological dad who just won’t go away, and the beautiful single mother next door who plays on Rèmi’s guilty conscience (he’s hot for his stepdaughter, she’s a loving mom to her own 5-year old) while deepening his already considerable inferiority complex (he tinkers at the piano keys, she’s a virtuoso). And it doesn’t help that his apartment is filled with photographs of his late wife, a former model, which always seem to be staring at him. The humour is definitely low-key, a fact not helped by performances that are awkward and perfunctory—as Rèmi, Patrick Dewaere delivers all the emotional punch of someone waiting for a bus and 15-year old Ariel Besse’s Marion walks through her lines as if she just borrowed a couple of mom’s Ambiens. There is a certain envelope-pushing charm to the film however and that final scene in which the stage is set for a possible future transgression arrives like a sobering alarm bell.

Beau Travail (France 1999) (8): Director Claire Denis takes Melville’s Billy Budd off the high seas and sets it down in east Africa where the drama unfolds at an outpost of the French Foreign Legion. Sergeant Galoup (Denis Lavant) is a career soldier whose unwavering adoration for his commanding officer suggests more than mere professional respect. But when the commander begins heaping praise on new recruit Gilles Sentain—a fresh-faced young man who quickly wins the favour of officers and enlisted men alike—Galoup’s jealousy becomes a deadly obsession to break Sentain’s spirit at any cost… Told in flashbacks as a disgraced Galoup sits brooding in his Marseilles apartment, Denis trades in straightforward narrative for a fevered stream of consciousness where disconnected memories gradually come together to tell us what happened next. Impressionistic and dreamlike, she strings together random vignettes and static tableaux to impart Galoup’s worsening emotional state and she does so with the delicacy of a sculptor: a trio of shadows unfurl across a patch of rock; sunlight picks out a discarded tire submerged on a sandbar; brightly dressed local women sway dispiritedly on a makeshift dance floor; and half-clothed soldiers perform their morning calisthenics as if it were a pagan ritual—their sensuous movements underlining the film’s pervasive homoeroticism. And it’s all set to an ingenious score that flows from club beats to Neil Young to operatic dirges. A tale of male bonding and un-bonding, of loyalty gained and lost, and of one sad little man coming to realize just how empty his life actually is—all played out under a hot desert sun. With this distinctly masculine parable (an opening sequence calls to mind a neolithic cave painting) Ms. Denis emphasizes the “art” in arthouse.

Beauty (South Africa 2011) (9): Sure to raise eyebrows and hackles among those expecting the relative safety of a “gay film”, writer/director Oliver Hermanus’ agonizing character study of one man raging in a Hell of his own making nevertheless took home the Queer Palm at Cannes. Built like a bull and with a temperament to match, Afrikaner businessman François van Heerden (a brooding Deon Lotz) seems to have it all: a comfortable marriage, a successful lumber mill, and healthy doses of racism and homophobia. Homophobia directed towards effeminate queers that is, certainly not the clandestine circle of like-minded men he gets together with now and again for some secretive man-on-man group sex. Having thus far managed to keep his sexual appetites separate from his role of patriarch and breadwinner François is thrown a curve ball when, at his daughter’s wedding, he meets and falls in lust with Christian, the decidedly heterosexual son of a former business partner. Infatuated with the handsome young man François is at first content to engage in chance encounters and genial small talk, but there is a darker, unbalanced side to the desperately closeted older man and what began as a passing fancy swiftly becomes a dangerous obsession with tragic possibilities… There is a hint of Michael Haneke’s emotional disengagement in Hermanus’ sometimes clinical approach to storytelling and his brilliant use of long static shots which show little yet speak volumes compares favourably to the very best in contemporary Romanian cinema. Long takes of François, outlined in red strobes, fidgeting in a gay disco or staring with singleminded intensity at the object of his desire from across a sunlit beach cause the first stirrings of tension while an innocuous scene of him cleaning out a stagnated swimming pool carries a sinister overtone—and throughout the movie images of long poorly lit corridors, physical barricades, and happily out gay couples cavorting just beyond his reach provide appropriate visual metaphors. The closet is a terrible place to be, and in the case of François it can also be ultimately destructive. A despairing and uncomfortable film, masterfully told right up to its harrowing climax and deliberately open-ended coda.

The Beauty of the Devil (France 1950) (9): Director René Clair’s cheeky adaptation of the Faust legend stars legendary Swiss character actor Michel Simon (a Gallic version of Monty Woolley) as the boisterous demon Mephistopheles who comes to Earth seeking to buy the soul of unhappily aging Professor Faust (also played by Simon). Newly retired and despondent over having wasted his life pursuing nothing but academia, Faust gladly accepts the second chance at youth, fortune, and romance offered by Mephisto…seemingly at no obligation. But the devil is in the details and the elderly doctor, now a dashing young man, quickly discovers that being twenty again isn’t all it’s cracked up to be especially with a crafty old demon intent on separating him from his eternal soul with every kind of trick and temptation imaginable. With his dreams turning to dust and damnation awaiting him, it’s going to take a miracle—and perhaps a bit of stupid luck—for Faust to deny the devil his due. Told with much humour and diabolical subterfuge, Clair’s film belongs squarely to Simon whose blustering presence and good-natured evil carries everyone through the occasional dry spell—his overly confident Mephistopheles both the instigator of chaos and its collateral victim. The rest of the cast, notably Gérard Philipe as the young Faust and Nicole Besnard as his gypsy love, put in fine performances aided in large part by a musical score of choral arrangements and Michel Kelber’s grandiose cinematography which spins between 18th century cobblestone streets, pastoral countrysides, and the royal palace itself. Blasphemy is rarely this much fun!

The Beaver (USA 2011) (2): Walter Black is the worn out CEO of a failing toy company whose descent into depression and alcoholism seems destined to end in suicide, just like his father before him. His wife can no longer relate to him, his youngest son has become invisible and his eldest son is keeping a checklist of all his dad's peccadillos so he can avoid becoming like him. All seems lost until Walter happens upon a discarded puppet lying in a trash bin. Quickly becoming his aggressive alter ego, the comical little beaver soon puts Walter’s personal and professional life in order while Walter, no longer able to speak for himself, gives full rein to the puppet which never leaves his arm for a second. Meanwhile his eldest son, who's also making a living of sorts by pretending to be someone else, is slowly sinking into the same abyss as his father. Things come to a head when Walter realizes the Beaver is not as benevolent as it pretends to be and a violent confrontation leads to lots of group hugs. This is the kind of insipid crapfest that festival audiences insist on crediting with profound psychological depth instead of seeing it for the shallow one-trick tearjerker it actually is. As the drunken schizoid Walter, Mel Gibson (playing more of a cameo than an actual role) mopes and mugs his way along while feigning some nondescript British accent for his hairy sidekick. As his long-suffering wife Jody Foster (miscast!!) just stares and weeps into the camera. There are a few meaty bits along the way, a valedictorian's speech towards the end has some merit, but it's all lost amidst the dramatic cliches and unintentionally hilarious showdowns; watching Gibson and the Beaver duke it out had me howling! Terrible!

Becket (UK 1964) (6):  Lackluster historical soap opera recounting the tempestuous relationship between Henry II and Thomas Becket.  Gross historical inaccuracies and artistic license aside, the film is just plain dull.  Burton delivers his lines in a flat monotone as if he were nursing a perpetual hangover (which he probably was), and O’Toole portrays the young king as if he were a bitchy old queen.....although he would do a better job of it a few years later in “The Lion In Winter”.  The rest of the talented cast is pretty much wasted, except for John Gielgud’s feisty turn as King Louis of France.  Even though some of the sets are impressive and the cinematography appropriately grandiose it was still a royal letdown.

Bedazzled (UK 1967) (9): Timid short-order cook Stanley Moon (Dudley Moore at his mousiest) dreams about making a move on Margaret, the strangely coiffed waitress. Alas, dream is all he can do thanks to a terminal lack of self-confidence, a fact that drives him to the brink of suicide. Help of a sort arrives in the form of George Spiggot (Peter Cook, brilliant!) a suave, smooth-talking con artist who also goes by the names Lucifer, Beelzebub, and Satan. Spiggot offers to grant Moon seven wishes in exchange for his measly little soul, an offer Stanley finds too good to be true. But, as the sayings go, be careful what you wish for and the devil is in the details for Satan quickly proves himself to be a most devious genie. As Stanley doggedly tries to win the heart of the elusive Margaret, Spiggot manages to twist his every wish into something vulgar causing the hapless burger-flipper to find himself transformed into everything from a snobbish cuckold to a common housefly to a lesbian nun. In the meantime God, portrayed here as a somewhat less than divine Voice, has a few plans of his own for the errant angel. Moore and Cook have penned a side-splitting satire that manages to skewer religion, politics, and consumer culture all at the same time. Cook’s silver-tongued Satan is a perfect blend of mischievous imp and heartless capitalist who takes great pride in his work whether he’s swindling old ladies, stealing souls, or simply taking a hammer to a shipment of bananas. Aided by the Seven Deadly Sins (including Raquel Welch as a convincing Lust) he runs the Rendezvous Club, a sleazy vice joint with no shortage of clientele. In the role of the naive and bewildered Stanley, Dudley Moore provides the perfect foil for Cook displaying the flexibility and sense of timing that made him a comedic mainstay. A cheeky satirical romp whose flamboyant performances and sparkling script have managed to withstand the test of time.

Bedknobs and Broomsticks (USA 1971) (6): At the height of WWII, a bumbling apprentice witch living on the coast of England (Angela Lansbury, charming) finds herself saddled with a trio of war orphans being evacuated from London. At first Miss Price and the kids eye one another warily --- she doesn’t like children, they don’t like her cooking --- but sweet smiles and the wonders of magic eventually win out. When Price receives the terrible news that her Correspondence School for Witches is closing its doors without sending her the one final spell she desperately needs, she and the kids travel to London via a flying bed in order to confront the school’s founder, Professor Emelius Browne. Although the professor’s assistance proves to be somewhat less than satisfactory, he agrees to join Price and the tykes as they search the globe for the missing incantation, a journey highlighted by a stint on the wholly animated island of Naboobu, a technicolor land ruled by animals; and ending with a sorcerous encounter between a cadre of bumbling German invaders and a castle full of enchanted armour. Guess who wins? Disney enlivens a rather dull script with some well choreographed cartoon sequences (an underwater dance between Lansbury and co-star David Tomlinson amidst swirling bubbles and fishy waiters is nicely done), the songs are catchy though hardly memorable, and the final showdown between Nazis and ghostly battalions from England’s past borders on creepy. Thankfully, the usual dose of Disney treacle is kept to a minimum, it’s just too bad they didn’t maximize the editing...a raucous jungle soccer game goes on way too long while a song & dance homage to the hawkers of Portobello Road begins to resemble a series of outtakes from Mary Poppins. Fine fare for the single-digit crowd and a bit of syrupy nostalgia for their parents (or grandparents).

Beefcake (USA 1999) (6): Want to see what your bachelor uncle used to look at behind a locked bathroom door back before you were born? "Beefcake" is an occasionally funny, always campy look at the heyday of the "physique" magazine, those softcore, homoerotic publications that claimed to be nothing more than manuals for fitness fanatics. The performances are generally convincing, the guys are easy on the eyes and the clever melding of old B&W stock footage with the contemporary actors is almost seamless. Unfortunately it suffers from a great deal of uneven editing and the talking head cameos seem superfluous. A good effort that doesn't quite hit the mark.

Before Midnight (USA 2013) (8): Richard Linklater brings his romantic drama trilogy to a satisfying close with this cerebral, though no less affecting, look at a couple in turmoil. It’s been 18 years since Jesse (Ethan Hawke) and Celine (Julie Delpy) first laid eyes on each other as adolescents vacationing in Austria. Now, one divorce and a set of twins later, the two are experiencing a very different holiday in Greece after a visit from Jesse’s stateside son sets off a chain reaction of guilt, resentments, and self-analysis. Jesse regrets being so far away from Hank, Celine feels she’s being blamed for the estrangement, and on a final night meant for romance and lovemaking both partners begin tossing long held emotional baggage at one another instead. And their aim is ruthlessly on the mark. Brilliantly co-written by Linklater and his two stars, this is a savvy tale for grown-ups set in a seaside Eden littered with the kind of snakes and apples that all relationships must eventually face—from past regrets and transgressions now hastily resurrected in the heat of argument to ice cold appraisals of what the future may hold. But throughout it all there remains that undercurrent of passion which made the first two instalments so compellingly watchable, for even at this late hour we still have our fingers crossed. And, as always, Linklater’s cast makes it all painfully believable with a trenchant script that never stoops to cheap melodrama. In one perfectly conceived passage taking place at an impromptu brunch the director actually manages to encapsulate all three films when Jesse and Celine are suddenly surrounded by reflections of themselves—the young couple on their left are still blushing with first love; the husband and wife across from them are trying to keep the flame alive; and the widow and widower to their right recall their lost loves with sad fondness. If Before Sunrise featured fresh-faced naifs taking off into calm blue skies and Before Sunset achieved altitude with the first signs of turbulence, then Before Sunset shows our two protagonists finally coming back to Earth for a precarious but nevertheless hopeful three-point landing. A superb piece of cinema all around.

Before Night Falls (USA 2000) (7): Schnabel’s ambitious biopic traces the life of Cuban poet Reinaldo Arenas from the dire poverty of his early years in Cuba to the dire poverty of his final years in America. Born into a household of “unhappy women”, the young Reinaldo quickly learned to equate having nothing with having absolute freedom. Chastised by his grandfather for writing poetry and seeing no hope for gainful employment in his future, the young writer ran off to join the revolution at the age of fifteen. After Castro came into power Arenas, like his fellow writers, enjoyed a brief revival of the arts before the new government clamped down on certain key freedoms. “People who make art are dangerous to any dictatorship...” states his benefactor at one point, “...artists are escapists and therefore counter-revolutionaries.” Jailed for his defiance of Castro’s regime and harassed for his homosexuality, Reinaldo spent a year in one of Cuba’s most notorious prisons before finally receiving permission to emigrate to the United States, along with Cuba’s other “undesirables”. In the meantime his major oeuvre, written while incarcerated and smuggled out chapter by chapter, won a prestigious literary award in Europe. Schnabel’s film is saturated with brilliant colours and a mesmerizing score composed of classical piano, mellow strings and hot Latin beats. He combines straightforward narrative with languorous passages of visual poetry which takes the viewer from sun-washed beaches to the dimly lit filth of a stone cell to a freezing tenement in New York. Using old newsreels and contemporary Mexican locations, he recreates post-revolutionary Cuba and shows it to be a contradictory mix of kinetic energy and spiritual torpor laced with an edgy sexuality. Being openly gay, it seems, was both an attempt to integrate into the fledgling society and an act of political defiance which was not limited to those living on the fringe as a naked nighttime romp with a cadre of horny soldiers attests. Unfortunately, the last half of the film gets stalled by repetitious scenes and a final coda that seems to go on far longer than it should. Furthermore, although Javier Bardem’s powerhouse performance shines throughout, the bizarre cameos by Sean Penn and Johnny Depp come across as superfluous and gimmicky. Despite its flaws, Before Night Falls remains an honest and respectful tribute.

Before Sunrise (USA 1995) (8): While traversing Austria two young strangers (Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy crackling with onscreen chemistry) meet on a train—he has a flight back to America which departs Vienna the next day, she’s on her way back to Paris. As idle banter turns to innocent flirting, she decides to keep him company and so they spend the next twenty-four hours wandering through the capital together. Richard Linklater’s utterly charming feature takes the simplest of premises and turns it into a meditation on life, love, and the million choices which shape our destiny. As Jesse and Céline head towards that first kiss their conversation likewise wades into deepening waters—he’s a pragmatist still smarting from an emotional wound, she’s a romantic reacting against her privileged upbringing—and together they compare notes on everything from intimacy and indifference to the politics of life and death. “Isn’t everything we do in life a way to be loved a little more?” she queries. “I kind of see love as this escape for two people who don’t know now to be alone…” he shoots back even as their fingers entwine a little tighter. And as the sun sets over Vienna the city transforms into a magical netherworld alive with portents—a fortune teller sees past their palms and into their hearts; a gypsy’s dance puts Céline in mind of creation; an old woman hobbles past like Mother Time herself; and in the background trains and trolleys pass each other going in opposite directions. It’s these subtle visual cues—a visit to a quiet cemetery provides counterpoint to the raucous nightclub the two visit next—coupled with a disarmingly natural script which couches heavier philosophical musings inside featherweight chatter that makes Linklater’s opus so irresistible. That, plus the voyeuristic glow—simultaneously erotic and melancholy—which comes from watching two handsome strangers drift towards each other knowing that their time together is measured in mere hours. A study in what might have been—or what may be to come for this is but the first instalment of a trilogy—that one can’t help but apply to their own experience. What would your life be like if you had done this instead of that?

Before Sunset (USA 2004) (7): The sequel to Richard Linklater’s slightly superior Before Sunrise in which a chance encounter between American Jesse (Ethan Hawke) and French Celine (Julie Delpy) on a European train led to a 24-hr romance in the streets of Vienna before the two had to part ways. In that film the fledgling lovers agreed to meet again at the same train station even though they neglected to exchange phone numbers. Nine years later Jesse, on tour promoting his bestselling novel, stops at a Paris bookstore and is reunited with Celine despite the fact their planned Viennese reunion never happened. With just over an hour to spend before Jesse has to be whisked away to the airport, the two wander around Paris comparing the paths their lives have taken and brooding over how things could have been different. Jesse is a successful author drowning in a dead marriage (his novel, ironically, a romance mirroring his encounter with Celine), Celine is a social activist who has yet to find the love she needs and the endlessly disappointing search has left her former sunny outlook on life marred by a bitter fatalism. Shot in real time with the two strolling and chatting, small talk gradually segueing into deeper ruminations and unhappy confessions, Linklater’s superb script once again explores “what might have been” as the couple’s old flame, tempered by circumstance and regret, begins to rekindle. And, as in the first film, the chemistry between Hawke and Delpy remains a convincing blend of candour and guarded intimacy. Balanced between two offhand remarks by Celine—“If you don’t believe in any kind of magic or mystery you’re as good as dead” and, “Memories are wonderful things, if you don’t have to deal with the past”—audiences are likewise left yearning for a romantic resolution yet made all too aware of reality and the passing of time right up to that ambiguous final line. As an interesting aside, Miss Delpy wrote and sang her own songs for the film.

Before the Rain (Macedonia 1994) (7):  A young monk undergoes a crisis of faith when a Moslem girl, wanted for murder, seeks refuge in his cell.  A married woman must make a painful decision whether to continue her comfortable existence in London or follow Aleksander, her Macedonian lover, back to his homeland.  Her lover, meanwhile, seeking a return to a simpler past finds the village he grew up in transformed by ethnic hatred into something terrible.  These are the stories that make up Manchevski’s circular triptych on the many casualties of war in which blood begets blood, brother turns against brother and the innocent are often caught in the crosshairs.  As a successful photojournalist Aleksander traveled the globe documenting the horrors man inflicts upon his fellow man.  But when the violence comes to his doorstep he realizes that there is no such thing as a neutral observer and his silence equals tacit consent.  Manchevski presents us with a parched desert landscape where goodness is often overwhelmed by vindictiveness and a simple gesture of compassion can lead to tragedy.  When the rain finally does come however, it is not the healing shower we expect but rather a torrent of bitter tears.  Before the Rain is visually gorgeous employing a series of highly stylized painterly tableaux that seem almost impressionistic.  Some scenes are perhaps a bit too composed, as if the film were staggering under the weight of its own portents, and the use of narrative symmetry, wherein certain lines and situations are repeated, seems forced at times.  Still a beautiful and heartfelt work that deserves to be seen...and heard; the music is wonderful.

Before Tomorrow (Canada 2008) (8): Directors Marie-Hélène Cousineau and Madeline Ivalu make perfect use of their arctic locations to tell this tale of an ill-fated Inuit family, a follow-up of sorts to 2001’s Atanarjuat: The Fast Runner. It’s high summer circa 1840 and in 10-year old Maniq’s village life goes on as it always has with hunting, mending, and storytelling from the elders—grandfather’s tall tale about white men in a strange boat the only hint that Europeans are on the move. Things change irrevocably for Maniq however when he accompanies his grandmother Ninioq (co-director Ivalu) and her frail ancient friend Kuutujuk to a remote island in order to dry fish and caribou meat for the coming winter. During these last few weeks of summer Maniq will harpoon his very first seal, Kuutujuk will draw her final breath, and Ninioq will entertain the sleepy boy with fanciful stories about cavernous whales and impish ravens. But when the snow begins to fall and the men of the village fail to come back for them Maniq and his grandmother must set out on their own to discover what happened… Cousineau and Ivalu’s cast of aboriginal non-professionals put in such natural performances that at times the film resembles a documentary especially with those amazing backdrops of rocky shores, rolling tundra, and sheets of ice glistening beneath a frozen sun. Whether it be a dying Kuutujuk savouring a bowl of berries or an anxious Ninioq seeking solace from her dead husband’s memory, the directors wring a bit of magic from even the simplest scenes. Those expecting an action adventure movie will be sorely disappointed however, for just like one of grandmother’s bedtime stories told round a guttering oil lamp, Before Tomorrow is a slow progression of quiet moments and everyday metaphors whose underlying message—the devastating cost of colonialism—is delivered in a hushed whisper.

Begotten (USA 1989) (3): Christianity and paganism go mud wrestling as E. Elias Merhige shits out his very own Creation Myth and presents it in glorious monochromatic Snuff-O-Rama. Opening with a sombre warning advising “language bearers, photographers and diary makers” to forsake their “frozen memories” and pay heed to the “incantation of matter” (translation: if you don’t understand my film it’s because I’m way too clever for you) we see a bound and hooded creature spastically disembowel itself. According to the closing credits, God has just committed suicide. But from the dripping offal emerges Mother Earth, suitably clad in a Lone Ranger mask and hula skirt, to digitally inseminate herself from Jehovah’s phallus. And the evening and the morning are the second day. On the third day we are subjected to all sorts of poorly focused atrocities with a salacious emphasis on genital mutilation and dismemberment eventually leading to a montage of seedlings emerging from the ground as the earth is reborn. Merhige uses a series of post production techniques which not only give the film a grainy, under-exposed look but add a jerkiness to the characters’ movements. Coupled with a voiceless soundscape of dripping faucets, surgical suction, and incidental noises the overall effect is of a silent movie filmed in Hell, which is probably where it should have remained. Grotesque, macabre, and excessively repellent, but not without a certain pathological charm. No wonder Marilyn Manson cannibalized parts of it for one of his music videos.

Behind the Candelabra (USA 2013) (8): Steven Soderbergh’s bitchy drama about Liberace and his former lover Scott Thorson (based on Thorson’s tell-all book) unfolds like an episode of Dynasty—only with way more make-up and rhinestones. Opening in 1977 when the fabulously flamboyant pianist (Michael Douglas, amazing) first met the 18-year old boy toy (Matt Damon, convincing despite being 24 years older than his character), Soderbergh pulls no punches as he films the two men going from enthusiastic bedmates to comfy companions to resentful exes—the bewigged and controlling Liberace succumbing to plastic surgery and his insatiable taste for young men, Thorson spiralling his way through addiction, jealous rages, and some needless surgery of his own. And much of it is filmed on location amid the late entertainer’s kitschy rococo mansions loaded to the rafters with golden columns, tacky knick-knacks, and enough animal fur to depopulate several zoos. Titillating and lurid—neither Damon nor Douglas shy away from butt shots and saliva-swapping—this is not exactly a poison pen exposé for Thorson’s memoirs elicit a certain sympathy for the fey Liberace who was one of showbiz’s most open closet cases. Playing on the libidos of the old women who came to see him while backstage playing the sugar daddy for a succession of pretty male faces, Douglas presents his character as a complex contradiction of material wealth and emotional poverty, flashy confidence and crippling doubt. Damon, meanwhile, nails it as the quintessential California blond seduced by the older man’s promises of bright lights and financial security. But, true to its subject matter, Behind the Candelabra is mostly fading sparkles and queer theatrics despite a sobering deathbed coda. It is done so well, however, that that alone was enough to keep me glued to the screen. Scott Bakula, Dan Aykroyd, and Debbie Reynolds are almost unrecognizable as a barroom pickup, business manager, and Liberace’s mom respectively, and Rob Lowe oozes sleaze as an unscrupulous plastic surgeon. Interesting to note that while Soderbergh’s film was released in theatres around the world it was limited to cable in the United States after studios considered it “too gay”. Bitch, please…

Being Julia (Canada/UK 2004) (9): London, 1938, and unrivalled queen of the stage Julia Lambert (Annette Bening, brilliant) is terribly bored of it all and wants her husband-slash-producer Michael (Jeremy Irons all stiff upper lip) to end her current West End blockbuster early so she can seek some real excitement abroad. Despite protests from the play’s backer, whose wife has more than motherly feelings towards Julia, Michael considers giving in to her pleading. And then “real excitement” winds up finding her instead when she begins a sudden affair with someone half her age, a penniless young American who has adored her since he was a teenager. Now with the blush of love on her cheeks Julia takes a renewed interest in love and life, much to the exasperation of her faithful maidservant who has seen it all before. But when her paramour proves to be not quite the dashing knight she envisioned—well, as they say, “Hell hath no fury…” All the world is indeed a stage in director István Szabó’s charming adaptation of W. Somerset Maugham’s novella, and his immaculately primped protagonist glides through it as if she never left the theatre—unconsciously quoting lines while trying to hold an actual conversation and shocked to discover real tears on her cheeks as she feels genuine emotions for perhaps the first time in decades. Glittering sets and a shamelessly romantic score by Michael Danna, punctuated here and there by Cole Porter and Noel Coward, set the mood perfectly while Bening’s Oscar-nominated performance—culminating in a hilariously theatrical revenge—makes this an actress’ film through and through. Lambert may have her weaknesses but her years of experience and innate sense of self-preservation prove more than formidable for anyone trying to cross her—including a young upstart who fancies herself the next big star only to discover the reigning queen is nowhere near ready to abdicate. An ebullient celebration of one woman coming into her own whose humour is both thoughtful and intelligent and whose occasional forays into pure fancy (Michael Gambon plays Julia’s dead mentor who still coaches her from the sidelines) add just the right amount of magic.

Be Kind Rewind (USA 2007) (4):  When the owner of a ramshackle video rental outlet goes on a short vacation he leaves his inexperienced assistant in charge of the business.  The boss is only gone a few hours when the assistant’s schizoid friend accidentally erases all the VHS tapes in the store (he was apparently “magnetized” while trying to blow up a power plant or something.  Never mind, it’s not important).  Anyway.  Rather than toss out the store’s entire inventory the two men decide to use the erased cassettes to tape their own versions of the lost  films.  Unbelievably their cheap amateur 20-minute remakes prove to be very popular and business is soon booming with eager customers lining up to buy the “sweded” versions of everything from “Driving Miss Daisy” to “Last Tango in Paris”.  It doesn’t take long for the bubble to burst however. Not only are the men slapped with a series of copyright infringement lawsuits from the major studios but the city serves notice that they intend to demolish the building in which the store is located unless the owner can come up with sixty thousand dollars for repairs.  Their solution?  Make an original movie starring everyone in the neighbourhood to try and raise the necessary cash before the bulldozers move in.  I really wanted to like this film....not only does it satirize America’s “Blockbuster” mentality but it also throws a few well placed jabs at corporate Hollywood in the process.  Unfortunately it is just not that good.  Gondry often sacrifices logic for a silly gag or mawkish sentimentality and Jack Black joins Adam Sandler and Jim Carrey on my list of extremely annoying character actors.  In it’s own strange way though it is a love letter of sorts to the magic of cinema......a poorly worded letter with lots of spelling errors and written in crayon.......but sincere nonetheless.

The Belko Experiment (USA 2016) (5): Eighty ex-pat Americans working in a Bogotá office complex find themselves unwilling pawns in Greg McLean’s satirical psycho-bender—a shoot-em-up with far more guts than brains. At first shocked to find their building abruptly turned into an armoured cage (à la Transformers), the unlucky co-workers’ unease turns to terror when a mocking voice on the PA system goads them into a deadly game of kill or be killed. Quickly falling into loose groups of hawks and doves (or pragmatists and idealists if you prefer) with one lone dissenter trying to avoid a bloodbath, fear and desperation—and an arsenal of knives, guns, and surprisingly lethal office supplies—start the body count rising while the unseen tormentor continues to raise the ante… Yet another riff on the Battle Royale theme, albeit more political with nasty American posturing and allusions to globalization and militarization (funny how that ad hoc vigilante squad springs up so quickly), McLean piles on the symbolism: skull masks, lucky talismans, and the company motto “Business Without Borders” all figuring prominently while an operatic score tries to raise the arthouse bar. He even takes the idea of Battle’s explosive neck collars and substitutes it with explosive microchips previously embedded in everyone’s head supposedly as a tracking device in case of kidnapping—cue exploding skulls and spattered walls. But despite the madhouse pacing and chaotic tension Belko doesn’t have much more to offer beyond colourful gore, for when its central puzzle is finally resolved the answer is so smug and facile that I wanted to kick in the TV screen—irony and all.

Belladonna of Sadness (Japan 1973) (7): Heavily influenced by the psychedelic poster art of the 60s and 70s not to mention the pervasive drug culture, Eiichi Yamamoto’s scandalous animated feature unfolds like a series of LSD-laden watercolours set to a trippy score of discordant jazz and melancholy piano. It tells the story of Jean and Jeanne, two chaste lovers living in medieval Europe whose lives are forever altered when the local land baron takes it upon himself to rape Jeanne on the eve of her wedding. Nursing a burning hatred towards the man, Jeanne enters a pact with the devil in order to wreak vengeance upon the entire village while her listless husband sees his own fortunes rise and fall. Shot through with nudity and a graphic yet surreal carnality, Jeanne’s dalliances with a persistent Lucifer (he’s one horny devil) show her that the road to perdition is not only life-affirming, it can also be downright…orgasmic. Putting Christian voodoo on the back burner, this remarkable film is first and foremost a multicoloured celebration of female empowerment and sexual awakenings with Jeanne’s journey from battered victim to erotic goddess unfolding against a hallucinatory background of bloody revenge, writhing couples, and moist genitalia . In this universe God is little more than a limp noodle while Satan rears up like a big stiff prick. It’s enough to make Fritz the Cat blush.

The Belles of St. Trinian’s (UK 1954) (8): St. Trinian’s school for girls has a rather notorious reputation among the surrounding towns; whenever its students are on the warpath shops board up their windows, policemen hide in jail cells and the very mention of its name causes the local school superintendent to reach for the aspirin. To say the girls are “horrid” would be an understatement unless you consider betting on the horses, making bootleg gin in chemistry class, and winning athletic competitions by doling out concussions to the opposing team part of a legitimate curriculum. Then there’s the constant pranks involving cans of paint and medieval weaponry. Think of it as a Hogwarts for future delinquents. And overseeing it all is the terminally optimistic, and morally myopic, headmistress and school founder Miss Millicent Fritton. Having seen her school go from its glory days in the 1920’s to its current state of disarray thanks to a disastrous mix of unpaid bills, bounced cheques and shoddy hiring practices (the staff are either drunk, neurotic or wanted for questioning), Miss Fritton is determined to keep its doors open come what may. But when the fabulously wealthy Sultan of Makyad unwittingly sends his daughter to St. Trinian’s with a pocketful of cash and a prepaid tuition the school’s normally anarchic atmosphere erupts into a series of hilariously madcap misadventures involving amateur gangsters, Zulu warfare and a stolen racehorse which not only divide the student body but pit the indomitable Miss Fritton against her unscrupulous brother Clarence with the fate of St. Trinian’s itself hanging in the balance. For all its silliness and slapstick gags this is an extremely likable comedy whose wonderful cast and witty script are aided by director Frank Launder’s keen sense of comic timing. The rich B&W cinematography and lively score keep the action flowing while dozens of shrill-voiced extras in school uniform provide just the right amount of chaos. The real star of the show however is the wonderful Alastair Sim who does an amazing job in and out of drag playing both Millicent and Clarence Fritton. His portrayal of the frumpy headmistress is a joy to watch and attests to his formidable acting ability. Crosby and Bergman would be aghast!

The Bells of St. Mary's  (USA 1945) (9):  “The Bells of St. Mary’s” is one of those timeless movies that seem to exist in a bubble.  If it had been made at another time, with different actors it would have been just so much corny sentimentality and sugary sweetness.  Luckily for us it was made at just the right time with the perfect cast.  Bergman is positively luminous in her role as Sister Benedict, and only Bing Crosby could have reprised the role of Fr. O’Malley with such effortless grace.  We can forgive the film’s wide-eyed naiveté because it is just so well done, from the warm and cozy sets to the rich B&W cinematography.  And that final scene has got to be among Hollywood’s top 100 tearjerkers.

The Belly of an Architect (UK 1987) (6): The emblematic belly in question belongs to Stourley Kracklite, a husky, overbearing American architect who, along with his nasally-voiced trophy wife, makes a pilgrimage to Rome. Supposedly hired to oversee the construction of an exhibition honoring obscure 18th century French architect Etienne Boullée, his personal hero and a man with whom he shares more than a few things in common, Stourley instead finds himself embroiled in a power struggle with a wealthy Italian upstart and a host of strangely hostile officials. As deadlines loom and his wife’s behaviour becomes increasingly suspicious, Kracklite begins to suffer vague abdominal symptoms coupled with an odd temporal dislocation wherein the intrigues of long-dead Roman emperors begin to mirror events in his own life. Concerned about his failing health, and plagued with doubts regarding his wife’s fidelity and his own self-worth, Stourley’s initial sense of unease threatens to turn into absolute paranoia...but is it completely unfounded? As with all of Greenaway’s projects, Belly of an Architect unfolds with a cinematic bravura that takes full advantage of Rome’s magnificent scenery. Blowing drapes, piercing stares, and ancient artifacts compete with the film’s pounding score while the director’s penchant for stark symmetries and puzzling allegory is evident throughout. Unfortunately, the rich visuals are not always supported by a leaden script that too often wallows in abstruse references and arty chinwagging. The film’s cast is hopelessly uneven as well. Brian Dennehy is perfect in the role of the titular antihero; his larger-than-life frame and booming voice give him the appearance of an imperial statue come to life. He dominates each scene both physically and emotionally at the expense of the other, less talented, actors whose characters become little more than a pallid backdrop. Finally, Greenaway’s preoccupation with birth, death and decay once again takes centre stage but, unlike the cleverly engaging twists and turns of his previous films, Architect comes across as a colourful cerebral exercise with a disappointingly poor payoff in the end.

Belushi (USA 2020) (7): R. J. Cutler’s incisive documentary on the life and death of SNL legend John Belushi follows the usual trajectory—restless young boy follows his dream of fame and fortune only to be undone by the harsh realities of life in the spotlight—but he takes a few novel approaches. To begin with his use of previously recorded voice interviews instead of endless talking heads allows the likes of Dan Aykroyd, Carrie Fisher, Harold Ramis, and other close associates of John (including his widow, Judy) to provide context without interrupting the film’s stream of old TV clips, yearbook photos, and home movies which emphasize Belushi’s formative years as the talented black sheep of a staunch immigrant family. Secondly, Cutler fills in the visual gaps using edgy animated sequences with Bill Hader giving an uncanny impersonation of Belushi’s rasping voice. And, finally, excerpts from Judy’s diary and John’s own tortured love letters, both presented in scrawling cursive, trace the devolution of a once creative and dynamic personality as he succumbs to addiction, despair, and the weight of his own ambition. From smart aleck kid to television phenomenon to Hollywood centrepiece to overdose statistic at the age of 33, Belushi didn’t so much burn the candle at both ends as take a blowtorch to it—but while he blazed he shed a lovely light indeed. R.I.P.

Beowulf  (USA 2007) ( 8 ):  Surprisingly literate adult fantasy that looks like a cross between a playstation game and a Waterhouse painting.  Everything here is presented in heroic proportions from the imposing soundtrack to the elaborate action sequences, which must have looked spectacular in IMAX 3D.  And let’s not forget the hunky protagonists......Ray Winstone and Angelina Jolie never looked so sexy in their computer-generated bods, it’s a shame the technical crew forgot to give them genitalia.  Be sure and check out the “making of” short in the extras section....very interesting.

Bernie (USA 2011) (7): Kind, compassionate, and charitable to a fault—and just a little too light in the loafers—funeral director Bernie Tiede was one of the most beloved citizens of Carthage, a quiet town of upscale rednecks in eastern Texas. Adored by all the little old ladies and admired by the men, Bernie was not only a bastion of solace in times of grief he was also active in local theatre and gave as best he could to any and all humanitarian concerns. So when he started keeping company with wealthy 80-year old widow Marjorie Nugent—accompanying her on first class trips, organizing her social calendar, and acting as valet, butler, and chauffeur (and maybe more)—it raised nary an eyebrow for just about everyone hated the cantakerous old crone and felt pity for the selfless little man who withstood her daily abuse. But when Tiede was charged with murdering the woman people were oddly divided between those who felt he could never have done such a horrible thing and those who felt she deserved it anyway. Based on a true story written up by journalist Skip Hollandsworth, director Richard Linklater’s darkly comic satire of skewed small town values takes a deceptively lighthearted stance on Tiede’s crime. As played by Jack Black, Bernie is a soft-spoken dandy with a weak spot for sob stories who only wants to make people happy. Marjorie on the other hand (Shirley MacLaine at her bitchy best) was a devil in blue rinse who delighted in hurting others and shunned any form of human contact. Riding him like a nazi foreman Nugent made Bernie’s life so unbearable that he had no recourse but to grab the nearest rifle and then cover his tracks as best he could. But as we find ourselves joining the townsfolk in patting Bernie on the back and tut-tutting the mean old prosecuting attorney (Matthew McConaughey all cowboy hats and Texas drawl) you can almost sense Linklater smirking up his sleeve. And just in case he didn’t make his point clear enough he throws in a bunch of colourful ad-libbed interviews with locals who are only too eager to extol the virtues of the charming young man who just happened to shoot an old woman in the back four times. Wink wink!

The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel (UK 2011) (7): An assortment of proper British retirees heed the siren call of a colourful brochure, pack all their possessions, and head to Jaipur India where the “Best Exotic Marigold Hotel for the Elderly and Beautiful” promises to fill the golden years of foreign pensioners with peace and adventure. Upon arriving however they discover that the crumbling establishment bears little resemblance to the heavily photoshopped pamphlet and it’s up to the hotel’s young and harried proprietor (Dev Patel) to convince them otherwise. An ensuing series of culture shocks provide some meat to an otherwise mawkish West End-style comedy as a crusty old harridan (Maggie Smith) is called out on her racist ways, a timid doormat (Judi Dench) finds some backbone, a tightly wound housewife (Penelope Wilton) threatens to come undone, and the other characters strive to fulfill their own desires though not in quite the ways they expected. An A-list cast including Tom Wilkinson and Celia Imrie keep the sentimentality to an acceptable level and Ben Davis’ lush cinematography presents a nicely sanitized vision of modern India where teeming squalor is reduced to a quaint backdrop against which our lovable seniors cavort, ruminate, and otherwise find themselves. Definitely one of those feel-good warm and fuzzy films made by westerners for western audiences—even a subplot involving mismatched Indian lovers plays out like a happier Romeo & Juliet. But for all that, director John Madden’s screen adaptation of Deborah Moggach’s novel is a guilty delight given some weight by a gentle voiceover as Dench’s character reads from her online blog, her growing sense of self-reliance providing the movie with a much needed anchor.

The Best Man (USA 1964) (10): According to Bertrand Russel, “People in a democracy tend to think they have less to fear from a stupid man than an intelligent one.” And with this quote alone Franklin Schaffner’s acerbic political drama (screenplay by Gore Vidal) ensures it will remain as pertinent today as it was in ’64. Two rival senators vying for the party presidential nomination go head to head at the national convention. Willam Russel (Henry Fonda) is an intelligent, well-educated liberal who believes he can come out ahead through a fair and honest fight. His nemesis Joe Cantwell (Cliff Robertson) is a muck-raking, conservative “man of the people” who will do anything to achieve the Oval Office. Mentoring them both is outgoing president Art Hockstader (Oscar nominee Lee Tracy) an irascible old cynic who knows all too well how the machinations of power turn in Washington thus making him view both Russel’s rose-tinted ethics and Cantwell’s decidedly unethical plotting with equal disdain. But when the two men uncover dirt on each other—secrets that could shatter a career—the difference between their individual philosophies threatens to turn the convention on its ear. Although the political party is never named, Vidal meant Fonda’s character to be reminiscent of Adlai Stevenson while Cantwell was based on an amalgam of Nixon, McCarthy, and a dash of the Kennedys. Certainly Russel has a softer view on the ideals of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness while Cantwell feels the only way to achieve those ideals is by routing out leftist commies, slashing taxes, and building up the military. And of course Russel’s atheism runs afoul of Cantwell’s affected piety. So two incompatible mindsets personified by two presidential hopefuls using a convention floor as a microcosm of America herself. Beautifully directed by Schaffner who segues effortlessly between tense interpersonal confrontations and a swirling chaos of delegates and lobbyists while Vidal’s brilliant script spills over with so many scathing bon mots you may have to rewind. Controversial for the time—both candidates have things to say about segregation for instance, prompting one southern sycophant to remark to his conservative idol, “Nice thing about you Joe, is that you can sound like a liberal, but at heart you’re an American!”—yet timeless in its implications, and remarkably prophetic as one candidate has the audacity to even think about the possibility of a black president, this is the perfect companion piece to 1962’s Advise and Consent despite some unfortunate brushes with homophobia. Edie Adams and Margaret Leighton are perfect as the two spouses—Adams a weary Washington wife tired of the games, Leighton a faded belle two steps from cheap white trash—and Ann Sothern shines as a vacuous socialite eager to align herself with whomever holds the reins, or as Russel describes her, “…the only known link between the NAACP and the Ku Klux Klan”. Should be required viewing during each and every election year.

Better Off Dead (USA 1985) (7): High school senior Lane Meyer (John Cusack) is not having a good life. His clueless parents are an embarrassment (Dad is an uptight WASP, mom is a dingbat whose culinary forays look more like biology experiments—one gelatinous creation actually crawls off the plate); his kid brother is a savant genius who can pick up a roomful of chicks and create a death laser all on the same day; the homicidal paper boy is demanding a pound of flesh in exchange for two dollars owed; and a pair of crazy Asian twins continually beat him at road racing. But the ultimate cherry on his crap sundae is the fact his hot blonde girlfriend (whom he’s pathologically obsessed with—cue funny-creepy factor) has just dumped him for the hunky blonde leader of the downhill skiing club. With no recourse but to end his life Lane discovers, much to his humiliation, that he can’t even commit suicide properly… To be honest, “Savage” Steve Holland’s derivative 80s teen comedy doesn’t have a lot going for it: the sophomoric script overruns with pure corn, the silly sight gags seem borrowed, and the entire plot is so tired it has age spots, but its sheer absurdity combined with touches of good old 80s nostalgia were just enough to keep me smiling and laughing out loud. As dad, David Ogden Stiers provides a passable foil whether he’s facing High Noon with the aforementioned paperboy or making clumsy attempts to bond with his sons while Kim Darby plays mom like a loveable airhead (everyone gets frozen TV dinners for Christmas presents!) Meanwhile across the street Laura Waterbury and Dan Schneider provide comedic relief as the grotesque Mrs. Smith and her son Ricky, she looking like a toned-down Divine he resembling a rotund future serial killer, with Diane Franklin slaughtering the accent as their French exchange student and horrified object of Ricky’s geeky lust. But it’s Curtis Armstrong who ultimately owns the film as Lane’s BFF, a gravelly-voiced druggie who looks like a chimney sweep and is not above snorting strawberry jello in the school cafeteria. For his part Cusack just seems preoccupied with more important things as he reads his lines, supposedly he absolutely hated this film and never talked to Holland again. True to the genre the movie practically writes itself—you know the underdog will triumph, the jock will be humiliated, and the French girl will figure prominently—but this was the decade that brought us Sixteen Candles, Pretty in Pink, and Ferris Bueller’s Day off, so if Holland uses the same cookie cutter he at least turns out a decent batch. Look for the late Vincent Schiavelli as math teacher Mr. Kerber—his classroom scene is a howl especially for anyone who remembers coming to class totally unprepared.

Beyond the Darkness [aka Buio Omega] (Italy 1979) (6): When it comes to trashy exploitation flicks, Joe D’Amato is definitely one of the kings and with this gruesome little nugget he crosses so many lines that they’re not even worth counting. Having inherited a lavish estate from his parents, 22-year old Frank Wyler needn’t worry about money so he pursues his taxidermy hobby instead, hence the legions of little stuffed animals adorning his basement shelves. He is also devoted to his lovely girlfriend—a little too devoted for when she dies from some mysterious illness he realizes he can’t live without her. But what’s a young man to do? Especially a horny young man with an interest in taxidermy? And then there’s Iris the crazy housekeeper who has her own designs on Frank and is not above breastfeeding him like a baby or offering him the occasional handy release. But can a love triangle between two psychopaths and a stuffed corpse ever end well? Trust me, grave robbery is the least of this film’s transgressions as a completely derailed Frank and an equally fried Iris go off on a lark which sees bodies being butchered, guts being ripped out, eyes gouged, and a wee whiff of necrophilia and cannibalism thrown in just to make sure everyone gets a chance to be offended. And, being an Italian giallo, there’s boobs and bush aplenty—both alive and dead. Badly dubbed, badly edited (even the uncut version jumps and skips), and wholly gratuitous, this is one sick cinematic puppy which should amuse fans of the genre while making everyone else feel soiled and contaminated. Video nasty indeed!

Beyond the Valley of the Dolls (USA 1970) (7): Directed by big breast enthusiast Russ Meyer and penned, believe it or not, by future film critic Roger Ebert, this is not a sequel to 1967’s potboiler but rather a kitschy parody of the original with even more grass, more tits, and more big, big 70s hair. And for the most part it actually works! Buxom rock star wannabes Kelly, Casey, and Pet, along with their roadie Harris, pile into an old van and head west to seek their fortune among the bright lights of Los Angeles. With encouragement from Kelly’s wealthy aunt and music industry bigwig “Z-Man” Barzell (John Lazar giving Hollywood one of it’s campiest performances ever) the girls’ success seems guaranteed. But that success comes with a hefty price tag written in drugs, sex, and a round of personal heartbreaks. Shot in psychedelic colour by De Luxe and sporting enough mod fashions and tacky day-glo art to fill a thousand thrift shops, Meyer’s pills’n’booze addled soap opera plays it straight-faced throughout. And it is precisely this disciplined approach which sharpens its satirical edges making a wild Hollywood party look like an adult episode of Laugh-In and turning that outrageous climax—a throughly inappropriate riff on Helter Skelter—into the biggest spoof of all. Despite its dated portrayal of mincing homos, depressive dykes (“…their’s was not an evil relationship, but evil did come because of it…”), and psychotic trannies—all of which have to be taken with a weary forbearance—this is still a fun watch and the original songs, including a cameo by 60s group Strawberry Alarm Clock, are not half bad. Lastly, Ebert’s script leaves us with one of B-Cinema’s most memorable lines shouted during a spurned lover’s monumental hissy fit: “You will drink the black sperm of my vengeance!” They just don’t write ‘em like this anymore and for that we can all be thankful.

Beyond Tomorrow (USA 1940) (5): One expects a “Christmas Movie” to be somewhat sentimental but this gushingly sweet confection from Academy Productions is enough to put audiences into a sugar coma that’ll last all the way into the New Year. On Christmas Eve in New York City Jean and Jim, a pair of lonely strangers, are brought together thanks to the intervention of three wealthy old men living in a nearby mansion. Sadly, as the weeks pass and romance begins to bloom between the two tragedy strikes and their three benefactors are killed. Returning as ghosts, the elderly trio await their ultimate fate—until Jean and Jim’s relationship begins to falter (his singing voice lands him a lucrative contract and puts him in the crosshairs of a man-eating diva) and the deceased millionaires realize it’s going to take a bit of supernatural intervention to set things right again… In the 80-minute church sermon which follows, director A. Edward Sutherland threatens to bury us under an avalanche of warbling choirs, sickeningly precious kids (Jean works at a children’s clinic), and compulsory cheer while the Almighty makes a series of ham-fisted cameos amid swirling clouds and blinding arc lights. As Jean, Jean Parker alternately weeps and beams like a good little martyr while Richard Carlson, playing James, yucks it up as a Texas yokel seduced by the Big Apple. In fact the only performances of note come from Charles Winninger as one of the tycoons—a feisty Irishman determined to see the good in everyone—and Maria Ouspenskaya playing her usual Eastern European eccentric, this time as a deposed Russian noblewoman now content to serve as housemaid. Trite and manipulative from its opening montage of twinkling ornaments to that final stairway to Heaven this is one holiday platter that will have you muttering “Humbug!”

The Big Bad Fox and Other Tales (France 2017) (8): Patrick Imbert and Benjamin Renner take us back to the old Loony Tunes days in this animated trilogy. As the curtain opens a troupe of barnyard thespians are preparing to entertain us with three short plays starring (among others) Rabbit, Pig, and Duck. After a rocky start—the furry, feathered, leathery actors are not quite ready—act one opens with a lazy stork insisting that the three bumbling protagonists deliver a baby girl to her new parents while he takes some R&R. Act two concerns a hungry but not so bright Fox who “kidnaps” three eggs from a chicken coop only to wind up as a surrogate mother when the newly hatched chicks immediately bond with him. Finally, in act three, believing they’ve accidentally killed Santa Claus Duck and Rabbit (with a long-suffering Pig in tow) don their holiday apparel and take to the rooftops to try and save Christmas—but their good intentions land them in the pound instead. Literally. Delightfully primitive animation rendered in pastel shades calls to mind bedtime storybook illustrations and a cast of energetic voice actors breathe manic life into the little critters with Fox regularly breaking the fourth wall in order to emcee the evening’s festivities. Available in both the original French and a professionally dubbed English version, this is a whole lot of fun with or without kids.

Big Bad Mama (USA 1974) (7): Angie Dickinson (and her breasts) star as Wilma McClatchie, a dirt poor single mother in Depression era Texas who finds herself even more destitute when her bootlegging boyfriend is killed by the cops. Packing up her two sex-obsessed daughters she decides to hit the road in search of infamy and fortune. At first content to simply deliver moonshine to the local hicks, a few twists of fate land her in the company of a machine gun-toting bank robber and suave con artist who introduce her and the girls to the lucrative world of armed robbery. Slowly making their way to California where Wilma hopes to use her ill-gotten lucre to open a legit business, the gang decides to pull one more outrageous stunt guaranteed to make them all filthy rich. Although Dickinson doesn’t quite convince us she’s a hard-edged desperado and William Shatner’s faux southern drawl is cringe-worthy, this is still one of the more entertaining B-Movies to emerge from the 70s; think slapstick version of Bonnie & Clyde with the sleaze factor turned up half a notch. Carver, under the tutelage of the great Roger Corman, keeps things buoyed with plenty of frantic shoot-outs and steamy bed-hopping as mother and daughters take their male accomplices for a few test spins; Shatner and co-star Tom Skerritt even manage to show off some of their assets in a few (almost) nude scenes. Like a string of dirty jokes with some occasionally funny punchlines the humour is decidedly low-brow but the pacing is tight and a supporting cast of dumb sheriffs, horny yokels and religious swindlers keep things interesting. Even the oddly incongruous ending seems more of a sly wink than a glib cop-out.

Big Bang Love, Juvenile A (Japan 2006) (7): With this homoerotic murder mystery Japanese bad boy Takashi Miike has made what could be his most accessible film. Of course with a Miike film “accessible” simply means audiences aren’t left feeling as if they’ve been punched in the face. In a juvenile detention centre for young men, slim and effeminate Ariyoshi has been charged with strangling fellow inmate Kazuki, a violent hulking thug feared and hated by everyone including the warden. The two incredulous detectives assigned to the case are at first baffled by how this could have happened until the clues begin pointing to a solution as sad as it is improbable. Taking place within the prison—or rather the idea of a prison with Miike borrowing a theatrical flourish from Von Trier’s Dogville and merely suggesting a physical enclosure using chalk outlines, plywood walls, and sickly yellow lighting—what unfolds is an exercise in dichotomies: love and hate; desire and disgust; dreams and crushing failure, as his two protagonists orbit each other, their covert glances and single chaste embrace providing a gravitas not entirely eclipsed by Miike’s wildly eclectic style. Time sloshes back and forth like water in a bucket (flashbacks and flash-forwards completing the puzzle) and reality is rendered completely subjective with the view beyond Ariyoshi’s barred window divided between secular aspirations—a gleaming spaceship points toward the stars—and something more esoteric—a fantastic pyramid points toward something entirely different. A simple enough story embellished with enigmas and a destructive masculinity that is at once tragic and deeply vulnerable.

The Big Clock (USA 1948) (8): If you can overlook a couple of credibility stretches you’ll thoroughly enjoy this noir offering from Paramount Studios, truly one of the genre’s unsung classics. Earl Janoth, a tyrannical publishing magnate with a fetish for timepieces (a predatory Charles Laughton), kills his mistress in a fit of pique and then tries to shift the blame onto an anonymous man the woman was seen with the night of her death. In order to find this man he employs one of his editors (Ray Milland), a crime buff with a knack for sniffing out suspects. The twist however is that the editor is the innocent mystery man she was seen with and only he knows the truth of what really happened—but can he stage a mock investigation convincing enough to keep himself off the list of suspects while still managing to gather enough evidence to send his boss to prison? Impeccable performances all around—Laughton is as cold as a snake, Milland sweats it out—and cinematographer John F. Seitz keeps the shadows sharp and crisp with Manhattan skylines providing a chic gloominess, corporate boardrooms alive with kowtowing toadies, and a penultimate sequence inside a giant clock as it ticks away the seconds—literally and figuratively. Apparently Kenneth Fearing, whose novel the film is based on, wrote his story as a form of “revenge fiction” against Time magazine editor Henry Luce with whom he shared an acrimonious working relationship for many years. Whether or not that is completely true, the result is a brisk and entertaining script filled with enough twists and knots to keep you smiling. Maureen O’Sullivan is sugar ’n spice as Milland’s long-suffering wife, George Macready is pure slime as Janoth’s protective right-hand man, Elsa Lanchester hams it up to perfection as an eccentric artist and star witness, and a young Harry Morgan (M*A*S*H’s own Col. Potter) is confusing as a silent tough guy lurking in the wings for no apparent reason.

The Big Combo (USA 1955) (8): For those who like a double shot of noir with an extra side of sadistic hoodlums, two-fisted cops, and the hapless dames who love them both! Coldhearted crime boss “Mr. Brown” (Richard Conte, intensely unlikeable) practically runs the city and police lieutenant Leonard Diamond (a chiseled Cornel Wilde) is determined to put him away for good even if he has to bankrupt his department’s budget to do so. It doesn’t help matters that Diamond is also in love with Brown’s bleach-blonde moll Susan (breathless bombshell Jean Wallace) a woman who is just beginning to realize what she threw away when she agreed to become a gangster’s mistress. Unfortunately Brown is very good at destroying incriminating evidence (or people) and Diamond’s efforts to pin an old murder on him leads both men down a very dark and treacherous path of double-crosses and dirty dealings… Shot in a perpetual twilight of fogbound streets and cheap dives, Joseph Lewis’ B&W evocation of a city seething with angst and corruption is sure to make genre fans squeal with delight. The dialogue is appropriately corny (“I’m going to break him so fast he won’t have time to change his pants”) and the plot is knotty enough to offer up a few surprises before its inevitable conclusion. Helene Stanton does a good job as Rita, Diamond’s world-weary stripper girlfriend (of course) but the biggest shock is Earl Holliman and Lee Van Cleef as a pair of gay hitmen—believe me, subtle hints abound!

A Bigger Splash (Italy 2015) (7): Jealousy, lust, and sexual tensions percolate just beneath the surface of an otherwise idyllic island getaway in Luca Guadagnino’s remake of Deray’s 1969 classic La Piscine, updated and transferred from the French Riviera to southern Italy. Aging rock star Marianne Lane (Tilda Swinton) is recuperating from throat surgery on a small Mediterranean island with her hunky filmmaker boyfriend Paul De Smedt (Matthias Schoenaerts) when her former producer and ex-lover Harry (Ralph Fiennes) rings to say he’s arriving for an impromptu visit—in fact his plane actually passes over the sunbathing couple in what has to be one of contemporary cinemas more clever foreshadowings. Manic and somewhat unpredictable, Harry’s also brought his estranged daughter Penelope (Dakota Johnson) along for the ride signalling the beginning of a very bumpy holiday, for Harry is still carrying a torch for Marianne who hasn’t quite forgotten the good old days, Paul is dealing with unresolved conflicts of his own, and Penelope turns out to be a calculating Lolita seemingly intent on playing everyone against everybody—can transgression and tragedy be far behind? Borrowing his title from artist David Hockney’s iconic painting in which the calm surface of a swimming pool has been shattered by the aftermath of a dive, Guadagnino likewise places his characters in a calm subtropical setting and then proceeds to probe beneath surface appearances to reveal a darker psychology at work, often utilizing heavy-handed metaphors to drive home his point—snakes slither through Marianne and Paul’s little slice of Eden; The Rolling Stones croon “Emotional Rescue” and “Worried About You” from the stereo turntable (in between more ominous notes); and characters are never more than a couple of paces from a tempting body of water. Keeping Tilda Swinton’s character voiceless for the most part provides an intriguing counterpoint to Fiennes’ pressured speech while Schoenaerts and Johnson play off each other nicely for even though they both sense wrongness in the air—he’s a documentarian used to searching for the truth, she’s cynical beyond her years—both are caught off guard when emotions actually start hitting the fan, including their own. Fearless performances from Swinton and Fiennes who bares all (literally) in one of his most vulnerable performances—Schoenaerts and Johnson on the other hand seem to have trouble keeping up—and Guadagnino keeps the pace brisk and just a little off-kilter with abrupt edits and seamless flashbacks. Not sure why he tried to tie the plight of African migrants crossing the sea with the main story—the two lines don’t easily connect—but it’s a dangling tangent which doesn’t really affect the film’s overall impact.

Big Hero 6 (USA 2014) (7): Life in the futuristic metropolis of San Fransokyo (like San Francisco only with more architectural gewgaws and cute Disney-fied ethnic types) is tough enough for fourteen-year old engineering whiz Hiro: he’s still reeling from a family tragedy and his application for the city’s most prestigious technical college is about to expire. He’s also inherited “Beymax”, a big loveable klutz of a robot with a blank face and a body made out of balloons. But when a masked super-villain steals his latest invention—an amazing breakthrough in miniature robotics—and uses it to wreak destruction upon the city Hiro realizes he is the only person who can defeat the madman. Transforming a cadre of fellow geeks into a team of superpowered crime fighters the boy wonder prepares to face his arch nemesis with a souped-up Beymax (now geared for violence) at his side… Amazing animation compensates somewhat for the heavy doses of Disney syrup as a boy and his robot discover the meanings of forgiveness, mercy, and sacrifice and a host of annoying sidekicks live out every geek’s superhero fantasies. But Hiro winds up pulling so many high-tech rabbits out his hat (does he have a nuclear reactor in his lunchbox too?) that everything just gets silly towards the end. Without much for adults to laugh at, Big Hero 6 lacks the wit of The Incredibles, the campy science of Frankenweenie, and the endearing nonsense of Despicable Me. Nice lesson in ethics for the kiddies though (if they’re even listening) but a robot pal that shambles about like a leaking hot water bottle just doesn’t measure up to a decent Minion.

Big Man Japan (Japan 2007) (6): Japan’s entry in the “mockumentary” category has a film crew following everyday loser Masaru Daisatô around Tokyo. Chronically underemployed, estranged from his wife and daughter, and with only his cat for company Daisatô nevertheless has one very big secret—zap him with enough electricity and he becomes Big Man, a fifty-foot destroyer of monsters and defender of all Japan. At least that’s the notoriety his father and grandfather enjoyed…nowadays Daisatô’s antics are more annoying than helpful earning him a meagre late-night cable TV slot and legions of angry protestors decrying his wasteful energy consumption and the wholesale destruction he often leaves in his wake. But when an evil horned devil creature brings a new threat to downtown Tokyo, Big Man Japan finally meets his match—but at least his ratings go through the roof. Although its running length could have been trimmed by a few minutes and many of the laughs require a thorough knowledge of Japanese pop culture (those who grew up with the likes of Ultraman and the Power Rangers will have a distinct advantage) director/star/writer Hitoshi Matsumoto’s deadpan delivery and hysterical visuals go a long way in smoothing over some of the film’s more baffling elements—an over-the-top final showdown had me smiling and scratching my head at the same time. Big Man himself looks like a warped G.I. Joe sporting a sky-high afro wig and corporate logos while the assorted CGI monsters range from sweetly grotesque (Baby Monster) to disgusting (Stink Monster in heat) to downright obscene (Stare Monster with a telescopic eyestalk for a dick). A few good laughs surrounded by a tad too much dead space make for a quaint little satire that’s as easy to forget as it is to watch.

The Big One  (USA 1998 ) (1):  Typically self-promoting and hopelessly biased series of hissy fits from the uber-liberals' slovenly poster child. It's amazing how Michael Moore can uncover the sordid underbelly of corporate America just by interviewing a few high school dropouts in a dark parking lot. Perhaps he can take some of the MILLIONS of dollars he's made condemning capitalism and use it to put himself through film school.

The Big Short (USA 2015) (9): For years Wall Street was making a killing by selling junk mortgage bonds as if they were as solid as gold and banks supported the ruse by granting outrageous mortgages to people who had no hope in hell of making their payments. When the defaults finally began it started a domino effect which led to the great worldwide recession of 2007 that saw pension plans, retirement funds, and even entire economies collapse seemingly overnight. But a few savvy investors saw the coming disaster and tried to profit from it by betting against the crazy popular Mortgage Funds using an economic sleight-of-hand called “shorting”. In Adam McKays hyped-up comedy-drama based on Michael Lewis’ book he gives a distinctly sardonic spin to what went down in the months leading up to the Great Fall and his all-star cast—Ryan Gosling as an amoral opportunist, Steve Carell as the only manager with a conscience, Brad Pitt as a big player turned disillusioned hermit; and Oscar-nominated Christian Bale as an autistic wunderkind—are more than capable of maintaining the manic energy McKay’s vision demands. Jarring edits combine flashbacks with stills of Wall Street bigwigs and the newly homeless; freeze frames are laced with intertitles defining the plot’s more technical terms; surprise celebrity cameos from the likes of Selena Gomez and the late Anthony Bourdain explain exactly what’s happening in layman’s terms using everything from blackjack tables to fish fillets as props, and throughout it all the cast routinely break that fourth wall to help us separate fact from fiction. The result is a giddy, quasi-satirical look at the unchecked greed and ridiculously flawed trade dealings—shored up by government oversight and corporate collusion—which determine just how much our life’s savings are really worth. But the film’s comedic elements never quite mask its bitter cynicism, for all the clever turns in the world can’t erase the fact that those responsible for inflicting so much hardship on others not only avoided jail time, they actually got bailed out with tax dollars raised from the very people they hurt. Nominated for Best Picture of 2016 and winner of Best Adapted Screenplay.

Billy Budd (UK 1962) (10): Peter Ustinov not only directed but co-wrote this staggering adaptation of Herman Melville’s final book, a searing allegory on good and evil which takes place, appropriately enough, on the wide open sea. It’s 1797 and able seaman Billy Budd (an Oscar-nominated Terence Stamp in his first film role) is an affably naïve sailor serving aboard a British warship where his self-effacing mannerisms and open-faced honesty quickly gain him the favour of his fellow conscripts as well as the gruff Captain Vere (Ustinov). The sadistic Master-at-Arms John Claggart however (an ice-cold Robert Ryan) quickly becomes obsessed with Budd once he realizes he cannot break the young man’s spirit with his usual array of threats and small cruelties. But then Claggart goads Budd into unwittingly committing a capital offence for which the only penalty is death and his final victory seems secure. With no time for a formal court-martial hearing Captain Vere and his officers are suddenly faced with an insurmountable moral crisis: do they shirk their sworn duties and pardon Billy, or knowingly hang an innocent man? Vere’s conflicted conscience, accentuated by a heaving ocean and an unseen French enemy lurking nearby, casts a glaring spotlight on the often contradictory interplay between the letter of the Law and the spirit of Justice. With Budd’s angelic disposition showcasing man in his purest state and Claggart’s cynical tyranny (fostered by some vaguely suggested life experiences) the exact opposite, both officers and crew come to represent the Everyman treading uncertainly between the two poles vainly clutching whatever moral compass they possess be it a bible, a personal code of ethics, or a big tome of naval regulations. Solid literary performances all around backed by magnificent Cinemascope vistas of foaming seas and starlit skies. An overlooked classic.

Birdman (USA 2014) (7): Actor Riggan Thomson (Oscar-nominated Michael Keaton) was once famous around the world for playing superhero “Birdman” in a trilogy of action-packed comic book thrillers. Now, more than twenty years later, he’s struggling for artistic recognition by staging an obscure Broadway play based on a Raymond Carver story about a man struggling to remain relevant in his own life. But his efforts are dogged by a cynical daughter fresh out of rehab (Oscar-nominated Emma Stone), an abrasively eccentric co-star hellbent on upstaging him (Oscar-nominated Edward Norton), his neurotic lawyer (Zach Galifianakis), and a shallow pretentious theatre critic determined to teach this aging Hollywood upstart a lesson in artistic integrity. Alejandro G. Iñarritu’s highly polished film within a play within a film is a study in contradiction. Even as his protagonist provides that too familiar metaphor of the imaginative soul railing against conformity in a world of social media tweets, his film revels in its own gimmickry: a dangerously unstable Thomson may or may not have real superpowers and an ongoing inner dialogue with his feathered alter ego is highlighted by glossy passages of magical realism. The film itself is a vertiginous swirl of steadicam shots cleverly edited to appear as one continuous take even though it spans three days, and a handful of too obvious references to Phantom of the Opera and Macbeth (a crazed actor screams out the “Sound and Fury” monologue just off of Times Square) drive their points home with theatrical zeal. But this is a film about egos, creativity, and the stage after all which makes Iñarritu’s dramaturgical flourishes not only germane, but indispensable. The fact that it went on to win four Academy Awards is a delicious irony.

The Bishop's Wife (USA 1947) (8):  An overlooked Christmas classic which warms the heart despite its mushy religious sentimentality.  A dapper angel (Cary Grant) is sent to New York in order to help Henry Brougham (David Niven), an Episcopalian bishop whose obsession over building a new cathedral has caused him to neglect the more important things in life like faith, hope, charity, and family.  Passing himself off as Dudley, the bishop's new aide, the angel reveals his true identity to Brougham (but no one else) and sets about making things right one tiny miracle at a time.  In the meantime the bishop's wife Julia (a gushing Loretta Young), long taken for granted by her preoccupied husband, finds herself inexplicably drawn to the heavenly Dudley when he begins lavishing her with the attention she has been denied for so long.  With Dudley falling in love for the first time in centuries, the faithful Julia becoming emotionally confused, and the bishop beside himself with jealousy, the stage is set for a most memorable Christmas Eve...  A cloying bit of fluffiness drenched in yuletide cheeriness but ultimately saved by a trio of fine performances and Gregg Toland's beautiful B&W cinematography which cashes in on snowy stage sets and cozy fireplaces.  As an added bonus the ebullient Monty Woolley gives a twinkling cameo as Professor Wutheridge, a stuffy academic whose brush with Dudley renews his faith in mankind.  Put this one alongside Capra's It's A Wonderful Life.

The Blackboard Jungle (USA 1955) (6): Idealistic war veteran Richard Dadier is excited to land a job teaching English at North Manual Highschool, an inner city boys school dubbed “the garbage can of the educational system” by one of its many harried teachers. But with a student body consisting mainly of thugs, gang-bangers and assorted cretins, his initial enthusiasm is soon dampened to a sullen persistence especially after he’s assaulted in an alley and his precariously pregnant wife begins receiving troubling letters. Beginning to doubt his vocation, Dadier is on the verge of packing it in until a classroom showdown with the school’s head hoodlum provides an inroad of sorts. For the most part Richard Brooks manages to keep his film believable thanks to a very talented cast including Glenn Ford as the beleaguered Dadier and Sidney Poitier as an unexpectedly wise student. Along the way he also makes a few salient observations on the many faces of prejudice, the abysmal working conditions of educators, and the role of society in molding the next generation of taxpayers. Unfortunately, by today’s standards it all comes across as a little too trite and tidy with simple discussions often morphing into sermons and a lukewarm script rife with truisms and clichéd bad boys; one tense scene in which Old Glory comes to the rescue provides a particularly puzzling metaphor. Interesting just the same, and the opening credits featuring Bill Halley and His Comets belting out “Rock Around the Clock” was cool, if somewhat odd.

The Black Cat (Italy 1981) (5): Lucio Fulci, one of the undisputed masters of splatter cinema, turns down the gore factor and adds a few extra smoke machines for this dark and moody supernatural thriller "freely adapted" from Edgar Allan Poe's short story. A series of macabre accidents are killing the inhabitants of a small English village, accidents that seem to revolve around a local psychic and his pugnacious pussycat. Caught up in the mystery are a visiting amateur photographer and a skeptical Scotland Yard inspector who suddenly find their own lives in danger the closer they get to the truth. Despite its creepy crawly camerawork and shadowy gothic sets there are just a few too many loose ends to Fulci's opus to garner it more than a passing nod. How are the victims related, exactly, and why were they killed? How does the psychic's eccentric little "hobby" fit into the storyline? And what about that chamber of horrors in the local churchyard? The P.O.V. cat cam gets annoying after a while but the little black feline itself is just adorable!

Black Christmas (Canada 1974) (8): Filmed in just over a month on a modest budget, Bob Clark’s wonderfully atmospheric slasher film went on to become one of the most famous bits of homegrown cinema, even influencing the likes of John Carpenter. It’s Christmastime in the American town of Bedford (a poorly disguised Toronto despite the two American flags) and the girls at the Pi Kappa Sig sorority have a few problems: one sister is dealing with an unwanted pregnancy, another is slightly unhinged (Margot Kidder, being ironic), and the House Mother is a foul-mouthed drunk. However, on a more ominous note, a homicidal madman is stalking the premises taunting the women with increasingly psychotic phone calls and availing himself of every open window and unlocked door. As her roommates begin disappearing it’s up to Jess (a luminous Olivia Hussey) and police lieutenant Fuller (a bored John Saxon) to unmask the killer before he can complete his crazed agenda. Filmed in rich shadowy earth tones accentuated by candy-coloured holiday lights and a macabre score of jarring piano chords, Black Christmas is a guilty pleasure which makes no apologies for it’s handful of illogical plot devices, including an odd little twist at the end which, if taken as a psychological metaphor rather than a straight-up shocker, does manage to provide one final frisson. The strong cast of B-listers seem to be enjoying themselves while some clever cinematography, including creepy POV killer shots and one especially infamous eyeball scene, have you peering self-consciously over your shoulder. One of the best genre films I’ve seen thus far.

The Blackcoat’s Daughter (US/Canada 2015) (6): The Exorcist meets Picnic at Hanging Rock in writer/director Oz Perkins’ brilliantly stupid horror show which proves Thomas Wolfe was right and you really can’t go home again—even if you’re the devil himself. It’s winter break at a prestigious girls boarding school in upstate New York and everyone has gone home for the holidays except freshman Katherine and senior Rose, both of whom are waiting for parents who never seem to arrive. But the girls have other pressing matters to attend to for Rose may be carrying some unwanted baggage and Kat is having problems of a more…diabolical…nature in the form of menacing phone calls and an unhealthy attraction for cutlery. Meanwhile, in a timeline next door, runaway Joan is hitching a ride with a nice middle class couple with a tragic secret of their own, but not to worry for Joan is carrying the biggest, most bloodcurdling secret of all… What exactly is the relationship between these three young women and is there any truth to the rumours of black magic being practiced by the two old maids who oversee the school? A true triumph of style over substance—not to mention narrative cohesion (don’t worry, it all makes sense eventually)—Perkins takes great delight in exaggerated staging, slo-mo saunters, and enough darkened corridors and banging pipes to flesh out at least one sequel. It all looks great on the big screen especially with an appropriately jarring soundtrack to ramp up the creep factor. But whether your frissons come from the film’s overt supernatural element or its plethora of bad psychology (what exactly is that half-seen wooly mammoth in the corner?) this is one production that will keep you in your seat until the very end…and then have you rolling your eyes all the way home.

Blackfish (USA 2013) (7): Keeping orcas in captivity for the sake of turning a profit has long been a contentious issue but in Gabriela Cowperthwaite’s scathing documentary on the effects of that captivity it becomes tantamount to a crime against nature. Armed with an array of talking heads including a man who used to trap wild whales, a neuroscientist, and a host of former trainers—many in tears as they give their story—as well as damning evidence from the Occupational Health and Safety Administration’s files Cowperthwaite asserts that taking these intelligent and highly social animals out of their natural environment and training them to do backflips for a bucket of fish not only harms them psychologically but has led to numerous human fatalities in the process. Citing incidents at water parks from Victoria BC to the Canary Islands she zeroes in on one animal, “Tilikum”, and shows how crowded conditions, lack of staff education, and corporate profiteering all played their part in a series of tragic deaths and near deaths involving trainers and orcas “frustrated” from being penned up for years in small concrete pools with other whales not related to them (they have a highly advanced sense of “family” and are often aggressive towards members of other pods). From the barbaric act of capturing baby whales in the wild—now banned in Washington State—to the process of coercing them to act against their nature in theme parks worldwide, nothing in the “black fish” trade is above contempt or likely to disappear as long as there are paying tourists and a market for cuddly plush killer whale dolls. A bit preachy and manipulative at times (cue sombre music) and ignores the good work being done by other marine researchers, but the wrongness of cooping up these bright mammals should be self-evident from the outset.

The Black Hole (USA 1979) (5): While combing the galaxy in search of “habitable life” [sic], the crew of the starship Palomino happen upon a huge derelict ship orbiting the fringes of a black hole. Identifying it as the USS Cygnus which disappeared mysteriously 20 years previous, they decide to investigate further. Upon entering the Cygnus they discover the entire complex is now being run by the eccentric, and possibly mad, Dr. Reinhardt along with a silent crew of homemade androids. It is Reinhardt’s dream to plunge the Cygnus into the heart of the black hole in order to discover what lay on the other side, and he quickly recruits the reluctant crew of the Palomino to help him. But all is not as it seems, for the wild-eyed genius has a few dark secrets he’d rather not reveal. Disney’s box office flop is a weak hybrid of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea and Star Wars, but does justice to neither one. Although impressive for the time, the special effects are now hopelessly dated consisting mainly of bad matte paintings, plastic models and lots of visible wires. Coupled with that is some ludicrous techno jargon (it’s not a searchlight, it's a micro beam!), garish sets awash in plaid-coloured lights, and enough scientific faux pas to make Stephen Hawking run out of the theatre. And of course, being Disney, there is a pair of adorable robots; one with a Slim Pickens drawl and one sounding like Roddy McDowall huffing helium (neither actor is credited). Still, despite its many drawbacks, there is an aura of childlike wonder to the film which renders it more of an outer space fairytale than a bona fide work of science fiction. Furthermore, the unexpectedly operatic ending was impressive; a kind of last minute collaboration between Stanley Kubrick and Dante Alighieri. Not good enough to be taken seriously, yet not quite bad enough to achieve cult status.

Blackmail Boy (Greece 2003) (7):  While watching this Olympian soap opera with its frenzied bitch fights and gender-bending bed-hopping one can’t help but be reminded of the early works of Almodovar.  The directors employ the same black comedy and broad farce to skewer contemporary Hellenic society while their sly allusions to classical mythology give the movie a dramatic formality that belies its essentially outrageous storyline.  Unlike Almodovar, however, they do nothing to elicit sympathy for the film’s main characters and instead we are left watching a handful of urban pigs wallow in their own muck.  The film does end in a wonderfully overdone tragedy of.....well......Greek proportions though, and that alone was worth the preceding 90 minutes.

Black Mass (USA 2015) (8): Scott Cooper’s slow burner follows the rise and fall of James “Whitey” Bulger, south Boston’s most notorious gangster who went from small-time racketeer to running a crime syndicate that stretched all the way to Miami. It opens in the mid-70s when a turf war between Bulger’s “Winter Hill Gang” and the North End Mafia attracts the attention of FBI agent John Connolly who manages to convince Bulger to supply intel on the Italians in exchange for certain quasi-legal favours. But when you make a deal with the devil you’re sure to get burned for despite being childhood friends who grew up together on the mean streets of Boston, Connolly and Bulger chose very different paths and it doesn’t take long for Bulger, ever the opportunist, to have Connolly questioning where his true loyalties belong… The violence is graphic as is the gutter language, but if you’re looking for another Godfather or Goodfellas you’re sure to be disappointed for Cooper is not so interested in cops & robbers thrills as he is in tracing one evil man’s descent into moral anarchy, and Johnny Depp proves to be the perfect vehicle. In the lead role an almost unrecognizable Depp slithers and hisses—his eyes as dead as his voice—a true sociopath who fouls everything he touches and whose paranoia and murderous rage increase exponentially with his bank account. Trading in his Aussie accent for a decent South Boston twang, Joel Edgerton’s Connolly is a study in conflict torn between his oath to uphold the law and the blood ties he formed as a child. Rounding out the cast is Benedict Cumberbatch as Bulger’s younger brother whose position as a prominent Massachusetts senator adds a political twist and David Harbour as a fellow FBI agent who sees Bulger in a different light. Highly polished yet still maintaining a gritty aura of corruption throughout, Cooper films a blood-soaked strangulation as nonchalantly as he does a Miami Beach picnic while images of impotent Catholicism—an empty church ablaze with candlelight, a draped casket—underscore the very soullessness of his protagonist. Commendable performances from Kevin Bacon and Adam Scott on the good team and Peter Sarsgaard, Jesse Plemons, and Rory Cochrane on the bad.

Black Narcissus (UK 1947) (10): Shortly after WWII a group of Anglican nuns are sent to an abandoned palace high in the Himalayas, a former harem actually, in order to set up a school and dispensary for the local peasants. At first warming to their task under the watchful eye of newly appointed Sister Superior Clodagh, the women are soon overwhelmed by the sensuous beauty around them; from the intimidating cliffs and mountain peaks outside their door, to the faded murals depicting carnal delights adorning the fledgling convent’s crumbling walls. It doesn’t help matters that the natives have to be bribed into seeking the sisters’ services, nor that the local General’s surly British handyman embodies the very essence of temptation with his too-short shorts and unbuttoned shirt. As their faith in their vocation wavers and unpleasant memories begin to resurface the sisters slowly succumb to passion, despair, and madness; and all the while a cold incessant wind whips at their habits while an ancient Hindu holy man watches impassively from beyond the convent walls... Directors Powell and Pressburger’s gothic melodrama is one of the most strikingly photographed Technicolor marvels the British film industry has ever produced. The interplay of light and shadow, bathed in rich primary colours, lends a painterly quality to their work which often borders on pure expressionism. Choosing to film the entire epic on a UK soundstage rather than on location, they maintain a firm sense of artistic control which sees the wonders of northern India transformed into a series of psychological metaphors and plumbs each scene for its most primitive emotional content whether it be Sister Clodagh ringing the morning bell while perched on the edge of an abyss, or the increasingly neurotic Sister Ruth smearing crimson lipstick across her mouth. This constant juxtaposition between the sacred and the subtly erotic, tinged with elements both tragic and horrific, make for an exhilarating cinematic experience which has not dimmed in the intervening sixty-five years. A masterpiece.

Black Night (Belgium 2005) (8):  Oscar inhabits a Kafkaesque world of dark streets and menacing shadows where the sun makes a weak appearance for only fifteen seconds every afternoon. During the day he works at the Natural History Museum collecting and cataloguing exotic insects--a passionate hobby that carries over into his private life. But at night he has troubling dreams triggered by vague memories of a childhood tragedy involving a young girl who may have been his sister. Then one day his insular world is suddenly breached when he comes home to discover a seriously ill African woman dying in his bed… Oliver Smolders has described Black Night as a film reflected in a broken mirror where the onus is on the viewer to glean some sense from the fractured, non-linear narrative. He has certainly produced an elaborate psychodrama to challenge our sense of what is real and what is metaphor utilizing a bleak fairytale aesthetic that mesmerizes even as it confounds. He does drop tantalizing clues along the way though: Oscar’s memories are presented as grainy 8mm loops played against a toy stage; there is an emphasis on duality (or disassociation): mysterious twins, night/day, black/white; and strong references are made to Belgium’s history of colonialism in Africa. And then there are the omnipresent insects whose combination of beauty and savagery seem to reflect our protagonist’s own contradictory emotions, their silent gaze forever following him. They thrive on death and decay yet carry the ability to morph into something greater; a theme which the movie explores in unflinching detail. Black Night finally ends as enigmatically as it began, with two children on a dimly lit stage. An elegantly crafted nightmare whose cryptic imagery taps into our most primitive fears even as it teases our intellect.

Black Orpheus (Brazil 1958) (9):  The sad tale of Orpheus and Eurydice is played out against Rio’s Carnival in this gorgeous technicolour explosion of music and dancing.  In this version we see Orpheus as a handsome carefree streetcar conductor forsaking his spoiled fiancée for Eurydice, an ingénue from the country who is convinced a murderous stranger is stalking her.  As the jilted woman and skull-masked stalker close in on the two lovers events come to a tragic climax amidst the swirling dancers and colourful costumes of a Carnival parade.  Orpheus’ subsequent search for his lost love is filmed with a classic solemnity that contrasts sharply with the sunny spontaneity of the movie’s first half thereby heightening the sense of grief and despair.  Camus manages to remain faithful to the original Greek tragedy while at the same time making it seem as if it was written for the favelas of Brazil.  I especially enjoyed his sly references to  mythological names and images:  Orpheus’ fellow conductor and guiding force is named Hermes; a guard dog named Cerebus; and Eurydice’s scarf covered in zodiac signs are but a few examples.  Lastly, he brings the whole story to a sad yet hopeful conclusion.  Amazing!

Black Rain (Japan 1989) (7): Shôhei Imamura’s passionate film follows the fate of three family members caught in the atomic blast over Hiroshima. Although they survived, Shige Shizuma, his wife Shigeko, and their adult niece Yasuko are nevertheless scarred by the ordeal, both physically and emotionally, for the rest of their lives. Moving back to their rustic mountain village the three find some comfort in both one another and in the quotidian rhythms of the farming community around them. But as rumors of Yasuko’s exposure to radioactive fallout continue to scare away potential suitors and the Shizumas watch with helpless resignation as friends and fellow victims succumb to the “flash sickness”, all three are reminded of their own uncertain future. Meticulously shot in rich shades of black and white which lend it an aura of authenticity, Black Rain has the feel of a classic film. Imamura exhibits an artist’s eye for texture and composition whether he’s filming a pastoral vista of hills and rice paddies or a procession of burned and bloodied civilians shambling through streets choked with corpses and smoking rubble. His scenes of devastation achieve a poetic intensity while other moments of quiet, individual suffering take on a tragic intimacy. And throughout it all he manages to interject some striking cinematic images; a group of women bathing in the river are partially obscured by smoke from nearby funeral pyres while a shell-shocked veteran has a disturbing flashback amidst a studio filled with stone gods and demons. Although he clearly loves his characters, Shôhei does not spare them, or us, from life’s harsher realities. With neither science nor religion able to offer much solace, Mr. Shizuma sums it up quite succinctly, “An unjust peace is better than a just war...”

Black Snake Moan (USA 2006) (7): The title refers to one’s personal demons and in Craig Brewer’s trashy backwoods drama those demons loom large. Town slut Rae (Christina Ricci, bold and brassy) copes with her traumatic memories of sexual abuse through drugs and casual encounters with every male in town whenever her boyfriend Ronnie (Justin Timberlake, amazing) turns his back. Ronnie, for his part, can’t cope with loud noises, a PTSD-like disorder which hampers him from pursuing his goal of enlisting in the army. And then there’s aging musician Lazarus (Samuel L. Jackson deserving of an Oscar but not even nominated), a crusty old loner still angry over his ex-wife’s double betrayal. When a bad date leaves Rae unconscious and bleeding outside Lazarus’ shack, he takes it upon himself to “cure” her of her self-destructive ways by literally putting her in chains and showing her the kind of platonic compassion lacking in her life—an arrangement which actually begins to pay dividends. And then Ronnie comes back from boot camp and the misunderstandings begin… An admittedly controversial storyline which drew ire from female critics for its likening of one woman’s sexuality to demonic possession (not to mention frank, often violent, sex scenes), yet there is an undeniable sympathy which runs throughout. The relationship between bitter old black man and emotionally brittle white girl is nothing like the exploitation suggested by the film’s unfortunate theatre posters (a bone of contention with Ricci) but rather a dysfunctional therapy of sorts, laced with dark humour and an adamant refusal to pigeonhole either character. She cools down despite being chained to a red hot radiator while he pours out his soul in a series of bluesy ballads, and in the background secondary characters keep things in perspective—a teenaged store clerk embodies innocence, a female pharmacist’s romantic advances give Lazarus a sense of hope, and a preacher provides the calm eye to the storm which is enveloping everyone. A movie about broken people trying to heal in whatever way they can, even if their methods might prove scandalous to more sensitive viewers. Impeccable performances are backed up by soulful music (played and sung by Jackson himself) and a script as sharp as it is tawdry.

Black Sunday [The Mask of Satan] (Italy 1960) (7): In this early work by horror maven Mario Bava, ‘60s scream queen Barbara Steele showcases her ample talents as the 17th century princess Asa who was executed by her own family for being a witch. Before she died (with a spiked mask messily nailed to her face) Asa vowed to return from the grave and wreak vengeance on her family’s future generations. Two hundred years later a pair of curious travellers unwittingly release the witch from her tomb…and mayhem ensues! With a macabre style lying somewhere between Hammer Horror gothic and German Expressionism, Bava’s B&W ghost story is a moody piece of crumbling castles and fogbound cemeteries forever caught in a perpetual twilight. In this vaguely eastern European landscape of dead trees and cobwebs Steele is superbly cast in a dual role as both the resurrected witch and her lookalike descendant, the princess Katia, whose body Asa must possess in order to complete her bloody revenge. Steele’s jet black hair, mascaraed eyes, and clinging period costumes add a touch of unearthly eroticism to counterbalance some of the film’s more grotesque passages—although tame by today’s standards, Bava’s growing proclivity for blood and gore had censors in an uproar when Black Sunday was first released. Accompanied by a suitably eerie orchestral score, the film’s highly operatic mood is further enhanced by a stagy script (badly dubbed into American English) and melodramatic performances which would come across as hackneyed if taken out of context but are right at home given the production’s overall sense of menace which is so inflated it borders on kitsch. An enjoyable campfire tale full of undead malfeasants and secret passageways, where vampire bats leap out of mausoleums and skulls leer from within darkened niches. Rounding out the cast are John Richardson as a visiting doctor and Katia’s love interest, Arturo Dominici as Asa’s zombie henchman, and Ivo Garrani and Enrico Olivieri as Katia’s unlucky father and brother. Based on an 1835 novella by Russian/Ukrainian author Nikolai Gogol which was later remade as the (superior) Soviet film Viy (1967).

Black Swan (USA 2010) (3): Touted as a deeply psychological thriller, Darren Aronofsky’s bird-brained shocker tries to jolt new life into a tired old premise with enough arty hysterics and gaudy effects to flesh out a dozen teen scream movies. The story revolves around Nina Sayers, an up-and-coming prima ballerina who lands the lead role in her company’s controversial new production of Swan Lake; a role which requires her to play both Princess Odette, the virginal white swan, and Odette’s chief nemesis Odile, the evil black swan. Emotionally repressed and pathologically neurotic, Nina at first finds it difficult to tap into that dark part of her nature which the role of Odile demands. It doesn’t help that her mother is a controlling shrew who blames her daughter’s birth for destroying her own stage career; nor that Thomas, the company’s artistic director, is causing her confused libido to run hot and cold with his mixed sexual messages. Furthermore, fellow dancer and arch-rival Lily seems intent on sabotaging Nina’s grand debut by introducing the naive ballerina to the sordid world of drugs, discotheques, and hot lesbian lust. It all comes to a head on opening night when Nina, her last shred of sanity firmly in the toilet, decides to give the audience the performance of her life... This is the type of overwrought melodrama that wows cinematic dilettantes with its trite Freudian allusions and crap symbolism, whether it be the pink butterfly wallpaper adorning Nina’s bedroom, a menacing winged statue standing in a theatre foyer, or the black feathery tattoos on Lily’s shoulder blades (seriously??) Not content to let this cheap psychodrama play out subliminally where it would be the most effective, Aronofsky chooses instead to assault his audience with some unintentionally hilarious CGI effects including Nina’s bone-crunching morph into a malevolent red-eyed gobbler right in front of her screaming mother. Finally, a host of wooden performances (enjoy that Oscar Natalie), slapdash directing, and a comic book script combine to make Black Swan one giant goose egg.

Blancanieves (Spain 2012) (9): Poor little Carmencita. It’s bad enough that her mother has died, but her grief-stricken father, a famous toreador, has disowned her. And it all happened on the same day—the day she was born. Raised by her grandmother, the plucky child is eventually forced to return to her family estate after the old woman dies, a situation that doesn’t sit well with her new stepmother who rules the roost like a haute couture despot. Treated worse than a scullery maid, Carmencita ends up fleeing for her life only to fall in with a traveling troupe of bullfighting dwarves (?!) who adopt her as one of their own especially when she displays an innate talent for the sport. But her stepmother is not done with her yet… Set in 1920s Seville and shot as a B&W silent film, Pablo Berger’s stunning re-imagining of Snow White is a perfect combination of style and substance. With cleverly retro special effects and greasepaint theatrics all framed within a boxlike aspect ratio, he embellishes elements from Golden Age Hollywood epics with a wildly contemporary Spanish flair. The stepmother is more psychopathic than wicked, the dwarves are a colourful lot (one has a talent for drag), and nature itself takes on the guise of animal familiars with a pet rooster provoking a long overdue reconciliation and a snorting bull meting out retribution as if it were Judgement Day made flesh. Aided by incidental sounds and a rousing music track that shifts from melodrama to Flamenco, Berger bypasses our expectations while giving new perspective to the story’s old tropes: stepmom’s “magic mirror” gets a modern interpretation and that poisoned apple leads to something far more heartbreaking than death. But the biggest revelation of all is Berger’s reinvention of the story’s heroic Prince, here shown as a tragic figure less royal yet somehow more noble. A dark and brooding bedtime story for adults which provides counterbalance to Disney’s animated confection. Maribel Verdú is pure ice as the stepmother, Macarena Garcia breaks your heart with a smile as Carmen, and even though he only has a bit part Josep Maria Pou is evil personified as a devilish talent agent.

Blast of Silence (USA 1961) (7): Freelance hitman “Baby Boy” Frank Bono has been hired to knock off a low level New York gangster, one of his more lucrative assignments. But it’s Christmas Eve in Manhattan and a chance run-in with a woman he once had a crush on has Frank rethinking his career choice—not a healthy thing to do when you’re working for the mob. Meanwhile, his deepening ambivalence does not go unnoticed by the ruthless men who hired him and they never take “no” for an answer… Considered by many to be a late film noir classic, Allen Baron’s ultra low-budget B&W downer is a gloomy mix of recycled clichés and a host of stock characters ranging from the troubled assassin (played by Baron himself) to his virginal object of desire to the slovenly corpulent gun dealer with a fondness for rats of all stripes (a delightfully sleazy performance from accomplished writer and producer Larry Tucker). And Bono is dogged every step of the way by an unseen narrator who acts as a combination Greek chorus and voice of conscience. What raises this one above the herd however is Merrill Brody’s brilliant cinematography and Meyer Kupferman’s score of frantic jazz and soulful horn solos. Filmed guerrilla style on the twilit streets of Harlem and the Lower East Side, Brody juxtaposes urban grunge with garish Christmas displays (complete with children’s choirs) with ironic effect while his interior shots are all sharp angles and cold electric light. Dark and despairing from its opening monologue on the rigors of childbirth—brilliantly underscored by scenes of a train emerging from a tunnel—to its final storm-tossed climax filmed while hurricane Donna was battering the eastern seaboard. A fine example of maximum effect with minimum resources.

Blind Chance (Poland 1981) (6): “Every generation needs light...a belief that life can be better”. So states an elderly professor in Kieslowski’s rambling circuitous story in which coincidence, fate, and divine intervention go up against each other with no clear winner. The film is presented as a trio of short films each beginning with the same introduction; Witek, a promising young medical student, is running to catch a train. In two scenarios he misses the train, in one he does not, yet in each case there are subtle differences in the sequence of events which drastically alter Witek’s life. In one timeline he becomes a tentative Catholic whose only desire is for God to be, in another he becomes an anti-government activist, and in the third he puts his faith in neither God nor Man and instead chooses political and spiritual apathy. But the Fates, presented here in various female guises, are a fickle bunch and the film’s ultimate finale is either a scathing look at God’s “mysterious ways” or simply another example of mordant Eastern European nihilism. Questions of free will, idealism and individual choice abound in what is arguably Kieslowski’s most overtly political film; uncomfortable questions which caused the film to be held in limbo for six years by Poland’s communist censors. There is much to chew on here, but the glacial pacing and preachy dialogue had me squirming more often than not, while the unsympathetic characters kept me at arm’s length. Definitely not one of his better films.

Blind Mountain (China 2007) (8): Recent college grad Bai Xuemei is lured into the far north with the promise of a lucrative job offer but winds up being drugged and sold as a wife-cum-slave to a local peasant instead. Cut off from everyone and everything she held dear she must now endure being held captive by a village hungry for young brides, beatings at the hands of a miserable man who will not tolerate disobedience, and the expectation of producing babies—her in-laws even helping out by holding her down while their son rapes her on their “wedding night”. Xuemei is made of tougher stuff however, and with single-minded fervour she attempts one escape after another despite the harsh alpine surroundings (beautifully captured by cinematographer Jong Lin) and cajoling from the village women—some of them former kidnap victims themselves—who try to convince her that things aren’t so bad once you accept your fate. But Xuemei is not so easily broken down… One of the more gut-wrenching and unsettling films I’ve seen in some time, Yang Li’s angry polemic against the buying and selling of brides, set in the 1990s, is sadly rooted in reality especially in sparsely populated regions where female infanticide has led to a shortage of available women. Star Lu Huang gives a remarkable performance as a naïf who goes from wide-eyed innocent to hardened cynic willing to go to any lengths in order to reach civilization and she is supported by a cast of mostly non-professionals as the villagers—an uneducated mob of peasants forever stuck in a centuries-old mindset. But this is not a Western film by any stretch and although Xuemei’s outrage reverberates throughout, the life she’s trying so desperately to regain—where public servants come with a price tag, indifference is a fact of life, and betrayal can be bought with a cigarette—is not so very different from her mountain prison.

Blindspotting (USA 2018) (8): As the opening credits roll a pair of split screens give us a study in contrasts—a neat row of houses go up against a squatters’ camp; street rappers go side-by-side with white men trying to dance—leaving you with the impression that director Carlos López Estrada and writer/co-star Rafael Casal have an agenda to deliver. But in actuality the drama which follows winds up being a convincing urban critique whose sharp edges are softened somewhat by flashes of comedy and brief moments of intimacy. Serving the last few days of his parole, convicted felon Collin (an intense performance from Daveed Diggs) is determined to stay as far away from trouble as possible. He’s managed to land a job with a moving van company, he’s repairing his relationship with ex-girlfriend Val (Janina Gavankar), and he is also trying to fly under the radar at the halfway house to which he’s been assigned. But trouble dogs him constantly in the form of his best friend and co-worker Miles (Casal), an irresponsible trash-talking fuck-up who has a thing for pot and illegal firearms despite having a loving wife and highly impressionable little son. And then one night Collin witnesses the fatal police shooting of a black man and the experience leads him to question not only the status quo but his own complacency… Filmed in and around Oakland, California, where gentrification is taking a toll on neighbours and neighbourhoods alike, Estrada doesn’t deliver the expected sermon on racism and inequality but rather aims for deeper waters as each one of his characters experiences personal epiphanies both affirming and unsettling. The term “blindspotting” refers to how we are conditioned to see things in one way only, leaving us blind to other truths and other realities. In Estrada’s film everyone is eventually forced to confront their own blind spots whether it’s a caucasian Miles seeing his ghetto mannerisms for the facade they are (a revelation that doesn’t go down well) or Val’s inability to see her ex-boyfriend as anything but a released felon. Estrada thus toys with reality and our perception of it—aside from a few unfortunate stereotypes (no, not every white guy is a smarmy suburban hipster) his main characters are books whose covers are too often misread. Diggs, who wowed Broadway audiences in Hamilton, brings a theatrical immediacy to his role going from Miles’ hangdog sidekick to enraged warrior in a climactic face-off delivered almost entirely in slam poetry. Casal is a mixed bag of vulnerable machismo and affected blowhard whose eventual comeuppance leads to a painful rebirth. And Gavankar bridges the gap as a black woman who realizes that she too is not immune to blindspotting. Finally, Ethan Embry plays a small but volatile part as the police officer who fired the deadly shots—although his character only has one line to speak he drops it like a grenade and in the ensuing silence his perspiring face and flushed cheeks register a hollowness that goes beyond fear and guilt.

Bliss (USA 1997) (2): When sensitive yuppie Joseph discovers his neurotic trophy wife Maria is having a few deep sessions with an unorthodox sex therapist he is hurt and angry--until he starts taking a few lessons of his own from the mysterious Dr. Balthazar. Soon Joseph is getting in touch with his inner chakras while helping Maria dispel her childhood demons by poking her sacred spot and pouting a lot. This pretentious little softcore "art" film overflows with enough empty-headed prattle and New Age cliches to fill a dozen Deepak Chopra books. Whether it's the gauzy camerawork which makes everything look like it was filmed through a curtain or the overblown soundtrack of whining violins and lethargic vocals, there is a smug sense of profundity at work here which is not supported by the wooden performances and shallow coffeehouse philosophizing. Maria's final healing catharsis carries the promise of some depth but, like the rest of the movie, falls prey to one too many teary close-up and reproachful stares. The shots of Gastown and the Vancouver skyline are rather pretty though.

The Blonde One (Argentina 2019) (9): Single-father Gabriel (Gaston Re) leaves his young daughter at his parents’ house in order to search for work. He eventually lands a position in a woodworking shop several miles away and moves in with co-worker Juan (Alfonso Barón) who seems to be his opposite in every respect. Whereas the more taciturn Gabriel tends towards introspection, Juan is an outgoing lothario who never seems to want for female companionship. Yet despite their differences, or perhaps because of them, an attraction develops between the two men which slowly smoulders towards a greater intimacy. But it will be a rocky road for both, for even as Gabriel wears his heart on his sleeve Juan proves to be just as cavalier with men as he is with women… Writer/director Marco Berger’s bittersweet love story relies so much on minute observations that its already spartan dialogue is rendered pretty near superfluous. An emotionally charged glance seems to last forever; a furtive caress goes unnoticed by a roomful of homies; sunlight picks out a single tear as it slides down an unshaved cheek—and outside the apartment commuter trains rush to and fro, their sheer implacability mirroring a passion which likewise ebbs and flows. Handsome as hell, Re and Barón are pure dynamite on screen, their hot and cold relationship heartbreakingly familiar to anyone who’s ever allowed themselves to be vulnerable and their mutual lust almost tangible. But it is Malena Irusta, playing Gabriel’s daughter Ornella, who ultimately anchors the production with a pint-sized practicality—her seemingly random banter with dad offering some much needed sunshine especially in that final reel. A tenderly observed drama that is at once painfully human and almost unbearably erotic.

Blood and Black Lace (Italy 1964) (7): Things are not going well for recently widowed fashion designer Christine Como—with her new collection about to be released someone is murdering her top models one by one in various messy ways and then leaving the bodies about as if to taunt her. Could it be the coke-addicted boyfriend? The taciturn dress designer? The big butch diva? And why does everyone want to get their hands on the first victim’s secret diary? It’s up to cool-headed Inspector Silvester to unravel the mystery before there’s no one left to work the runway. Heavy on atmosphere with backlit drapes, a sinister jazz score, and a studio full of blood red mannequins, Mario Bava’s grisly slasher—the granddaddy of every Italian gialli ever made—features enough garter belts and push-up bras to fill a Victoria’s Secret catalogue. There is a lurid artistry to his work however with clever tracking shots either loitering backstage at a haute couture show or keeping pace with a terrified damsel as she frantically tries to manoeuvre a gallery’s dim hallways with a killer hot on her tail. And the ridiculously dubbed dialogue only adds to the fun! Trashy cinema with a chic edge.

Blood Car (USA 2007) (6): Somewhere between a sedated Uwe Boll and a more civic-minded John Waters lies Alex Orr’s ridiculous zero-budget social satire—a 75-minute exercise in poor taste whose moments of inspired parody are offset by its frequent descents into low-brow schtick. When he’s not lecturing his kids on Hiroshima and hippos, eco-aware vegan-friendly kindergarten teacher Archie (Mike Brune) is working on his new invention: a car engine that runs on organic wheat grass juice—a pretty momentous pursuit in a world where gasoline now hovers at $35/gallon. Not having much luck at first, a chance encounter with a piece of broken glass leads Archie to a startling discovery…what his prototype engine really needs is blood! And lots of it! Putting aside his pacifist ideologies for the greater good, Archie begins collecting the precious red commodity any way he can… Orr’s comedic elements are spread pretty thin but the stiff middle finger his film aims at consumer culture is apparent throughout as Archie finds out that being the only man with a functioning automobile makes him a sex symbol with the ladies, a target for status-seeking carjackers (great cameo from “Mr. Malt”), and a person of interest for a shady government agency that’s begun tailing him. Anna Chlumsky co-stars as the mousy proprietress of a tofu stand who carries a carnal torch for Archie and her character is balanced by Katie Orr (the director’s real life wife) who steals every scene she’s in as the owner of a meat stand, a carnivorous slut who’ll screw anyone able to go over 60 mph. The idea of a modest family car with a meat grinder in the trunk is a pretty apt metaphor especially when Orr suggests that keeping the gears of industry running will now require actual human sacrifices. And the film’s outrageous finale, a photo-op dripping with cynicism and irony, finally pushes the envelope right off the table. The camerawork has its moments—an opening pan over a rusting junkyard sets the stage while a psychedelic joyride has a 60s feel to it—the music is a head-scratching mix of Mozart and Vivaldi (?), and the not-exactly special effects are mainly restricted to fountains of blood shooting up like geysers. In Orr’s near future dystopia no one will be spared from good ol’ American ingenuity: not children, not the marginalized, and (horror of horrors!) not even puppy dogs.

Blood for Dracula (Italy 1974) (6):  Andy Warhol collaborator Paul Morrissey's follow-up to the camp classic Flesh for Frankenstein features an emaciated Count Dracula (Udo Kier) being forced to leave his native Romania in search of fresh blood--and only the blood of a certified virgin will do. Pretending to be looking for a wife, Dracula and his henchman Anton find themselves in Italy at the palatial but decaying home of the penniless Marquis and Marquesa di Fiore (and their four nubile daughters) where the Count prepares for a veritable blood feast.  Unfortunately, the virginity of the eldest Di Fiore girls is in question thanks to hunky resident handyman Mario (Warhol stud Joe Dallesandro not even trying to hide his American accent) causing the aging vampire to experience some unsettling GI symptoms and alerting Mario to the fact that there is a monster in their midst...  But when both bloodsucker and handyman set their sights on fourteen-year old Perla Di Fiore, apparently the only virgin in town, someone's going to have to die...  Full of transgressive sex, theatrical performances, and amusingly bloody effects that are as disgusting as they are tacky, this one is strictly for diehard Warhol fans only.  Morrissey does have tongue firmly in cheek however, casting the great Vittorio De Sica as the barely intelligible Marquis and having Dallesandro spout vapid Marxist jingles as he bangs away at his bourgeois employer's willing daughters.  Kier, for his part, portrays a more sympathetic Dracula--conscious of his advancing years as he meticulously dyes his hair and secretly longing for the everlasting peace of the grave.  A cult classic.

Blood in the Face (USA 1991) (7): Sometimes the best thing filmmakers can do is sit back and let their subjects sing their own praises, or in the case of documentarians Anne Bohlen, Kevin Rafferty, and James Ridgeway, let them build their own pyre. Released in 1991 and composed mainly of newsreels and rough-hewn interviews garnered from the previous forty years, they shed a bit of wan light into the darker corners of the American Nazi-slash-White Supremacist movement and while the revelations are pretty much what you’d expect they prove to be unsettling just the same. Starting in the 1950s when handsome and charismatic WWII pilot George Lincoln Rockwell began galvanizing the far right with his racist rhetoric (he likened himself as St. Paul to Hitler’s Christ) and culminating in klansman David Duke’s ascension to the Louisiana senate in 1989, the directors substitute a linear timeline with a patchwork of monologues, heated sermons, and off the cuff video shots of the alt right at work and play. A few well polished members give stone-face homilies on the evils of Jews, non-whites, and homosexuals (Rockwell admits many of his members used to be gay themselves…snap!) but for the most part we see marginally employed and marginally educated caucasians consumed with hate dressing up and playing with guns, sometimes with deadly consequences. Hubris competes with paranoia—the movement’s spiritual leaders proclaim their white agenda to be ordained by the Christian god, others warn of Mexicans carrying miniature A-bombs and Viet Cong lurking in the forests of British Columbia—and even though the interviewers (including a young and thankfully quiet Michael Moore) try to elicit coherent arguments, more often than not their participants wind up getting mired in non-facts and bombast before falling flat on their faces. What’s truly chilling however is the number of children in the background looking on with doe-eyed innocence as mom and dad sport swastika armbands and carry on about “queers and niggers”. According to one acolyte, caucasians are the only race capable of blushing with shame which apparently indicates their unique ability to hold the higher moral ground. I guess everyone else will have to be content with simply appreciating irony.

The Blood Spattered Bride (Spain 1972) (3): When a man brings his virginal new wife (still wearing her bridal gown no less!) to his ancestral estate in the country things immediately take a turn for the worse. To begin with, every sexual overture he makes puts her into a catatonic state—she’s even unconscious during their wedding night shenanigans—and what’s with the man-hating lesbian vampire who begins haunting her dreams and possessing her waking hours? There’s a dark family curse afoot which seems to be triggered by male-female coitus and when the increasingly psychotic blushing bride gets her dainty hands on a very sharp ceremonial dagger it’ll be every man for himself! Sleaze director Vicente Aranda piles on the boobs, bush, and blood for this sapphic Eurotrash bloodsucker flick which suffers from all the usual genre shortcomings: horrible English dubbing, a cornball script, undisciplined camerawork, and a blaring soundtrack of organ chords more suited to a hockey arena. He does provide an interesting psychological angle however, for this particular vampire is triggered by rage against the patriarchy, institutionalized misogyny (the husband’s erotic fantasies involve abuse), and issues of consent or lack thereof—lofty ideas which quickly succumb to irony given the gratuitous amount of heaving female flesh plus the question of consent between busty vampiress and her frigid victim. One could also see it as an allegory exploring the darker side of female sexuality and the male reaction to it—sometimes a coffin is not just a coffin, same for a long hard rifle and a repeatedly thrusting knife—but that would be giving this turkey more credit than it deserves. Finally, there’s the overbearing metaphors involving trapped vixens (PETA beware), a defaced (literally) painting, and a naked scuba diver. A naked scuba diver? But with lines like, “He has pierced your flesh to humiliate you! He has spat inside your body to enslave you!” (spoken as dead woman goads living woman into action) you realize that simply pinning psychobabble onto a celluloid train wreck is rather like gift-wrapping a turd. With sincere apologies to Jung and Freud.

Blood Sucking Freaks [The Incredible Torture Show] (USA 1976) (2): A truly nasty example of transgressive cinema which caused a small ripple of controversy upon its initial release before being deservedly forgotten. The Amazing Sardu, sole proprietor of “Sardu’s Theater of the Macabre” has a gift for torturing women; when he’s not maiming and murdering them on stage in front of an unsuspecting audience (they think it’s all faked) he’s living out some extremely sick S&M fantasies backstage aided by his little brown sidekick Ralphus. The unfortunate women who manage to survive his sadistic attentions are then sealed in cardboard boxes and shipped out to wealthy businessmen as part of a thriving white slavery ring. But when a renowned theatre critic refuses to review Sardu’s gruesome performance art the stage is set for a most diabolical act of revenge in which kidnapped critic and brainwashed ballerina perform a fatal pas-de-deux in an improvised “Sadism Ballet”. Meanwhile, the dancer’s boyfriend has teamed up with a crooked cop in order to uncover the truth behind Sardu’s theatrical practices and what they find goes beyond their worst fears... With its zero budget, inept performances, and overall sleazy presentation one could compare Freaks to the early works of John Waters, say Pink Flamingos or Desperate Living, but Joel Reed’s grotesque indulgence lacks both the drugged wit and flamboyant cheesiness which make a Waters film so much fun to watch. There is an attempt at satire here as Sardu makes a few snide comments on the state of theater, but for the most part we are subjected to a lurid succession of tits and misogyny: a woman’s bum is used as a dartboard, another has 5,000 volts shot through her nipples, and another has a hole drilled into her skull so one of Sardu’s more ardent fans can suck her brains out through a straw (after pulling out her teeth with a pair of pliers). But seriously, put your feminist outrage to rest for this film is so pitifully done and the performers so self-consciously embarrassed that it’s incapable of offending anyone. Besides, the stable of naked feral cannibal women Sardu keeps locked up in the basement end up having the final laugh anyway.

Blossoms in the Dust (USA 1941) (7): “To a world wracked with desolation and despair...” proclaims the theatrical trailer, “...comes a warm human story of a quiet lady who devoted her life to the nameless, the homeless, and the friendless...” Thus begins this fanciful biopic of Edna Gladney, a former Wisconsin debutante who not only became a champion for the rights of orphaned and unwanted children but a driving political force in eliminating the term “illegitimate” from their birth records; a stigma that often branded them for life. Moving to Fort Worth with her wealthy Texan husband at the turn of the century Edna led the carefree life of the upwardly mobile until a series of personal tragedies changed her life forever. Unable to have a family of her own she eventually turned her attention to the plight of children condemned to “poor farms” where substandard care and social disgrace were the norm. Despite financial setbacks and community pressure her “Texas Children’s Home and Aid Society” was soon placing these unfortunate kids into the arms of loving parents almost as fast as they showed up on the doorstep. There is a wonderful film here if you can get past a few glaring flaws. To begin with, the director chooses to gild Edna’s story with unwarranted amounts of cloying sentimentality and spun sugar; all those lingering shots of rosy-cheeked cherubs and dewy eyelashes set to soaring strings simply get in the way. Secondly, despite their admiral performances Greer Garson is simply too old for the part (she was 37 when she played the part of an 18-year old deb) and Walter Pidgeon, as her one and only love, comes across as neither romantic nor Texan. And lastly, even though I tried to view the whole production from an historical perspective, the cast of yassuh-spouting black domestics began to grate on my nerves anyway. A shamelessly manipulative technicolor tearjerker that nevertheless manages to captivate and entertain. “It’s aimed at your heart...” concludes the trailer, “...and it hits the mark.” No wonder I was pulling arrows out of my chest all night.

Blow Out (USA 1981) (7): Brian De Palma makes murder sexy in this stylish thriller even though time has given it something of a kitschy edge. Sound engineer Jack Terry (a post Grease John Travolta) is out in the Pennsylvania woods with his microphone when he inadvertently records the noise from a speeding car losing control and plunging into a river. Diving to the rescue he manages to pull a young woman to safety but the elderly male driver is already dead. And that’s when his troubles begin for the dead man is a powerful Washington senator, the woman is definitely not his wife, and according to Jack’s recorded evidence the accident was no accident. Now with the senator’s spin doctors trying to keep them quiet, a TV reporter eager for a story, and a homicidal psychopath (creepy sexy John Lithgow) stalking them both, Jack and Sally (80’s icon Nancy Allen) are barely managing to stay one step ahead of the game—but for how long? An obvious allusion to Ted Kennedy’s Chappaquiddick misadventure is tempered by nods to Antonioni’s Blow-Up and just about every cinematic trick Hitchcock has ever pulled from his sleeve including towering crane shots and breathless chase sequences. Oscar-winning cinematographer Vilmos Zsigmond even has a few tricks of his own with ceiling cams skewing our perception (Jack’s cluttered work room is reduced to a doll’s house as the camera zooms upwards), 360˚ pans, split screens, and a brilliant low angle shot of a life and death struggle played out against a sky full of exploding fireworks. Laced with paranoia and a sense of the macabre—a restroom strangulation is a study in fetishized suspense—De Palma takes a rather facile plot and drenches it in so much panache that you hardly even notice the plot holes right up to that horribly ironic final segment. A great late night popcorn flick.

Blow-Up (UK/Italy 1966) (7): The discrepancy between objective truth and that which we perceive as true provides fertile ground for Michelangelo Antonioni’s metaphysical thriller based on Julio Cortázar’s story. Just for a lark, boorish fashion photographer Thomas (David Hemmings) decides to snap a few wide-angle shots of a couple spooning in a city park when the irate woman (Vanessa Redgrave) chases him off only to show up later nervously demanding that he hand over the photos he took. Thomas refuses of course and upon developing the contentious roll of film begins to suspect the lens captured more than a clandestine tryst for as he continues to enlarge the images a deadly crime scene gradually emerges which turns his already piqued curiosity into an obsession. Set in psychedelic-era London Antonioni saturates the screen with crayon colours, jazz records, and long-limbed supermodels decked in outer space glam costumes (iconic 60s covergirl Veruschka makes an impressive cameo writhing seductively on the floor as Hemmings wields his Nikon like an intrusive weapon). Placing his characters against door frames and windows, often with blinds or studio props standing between them and the audience, Antonioni stresses the artifice of Thomas’ world wherein natural elements like blowing tree branches seem out of place, even sinister, when compared to the safety of staged studio shoots. Bookending his film with scenes of a raucous mime troupe creating imaginary havoc only heightens this sense of pseudo-reality while the captured crime itself morphs into an incomprehensible piece of abstract expressionism the more Thomas blows it up. Controversial at the time for its gratuitous nipples and an implied three-way between Thomas and a pair of mod groupies—and bogged down in places by stretches of tedium—this is nevertheless a masterful blending of stylish trappings (now hopelessly “retro”) and philosophical puzzler. Antonioni is not concerned with motives and resolutions but instead poses a conundrum: if the camera—and by association our own senses—never lies, does that mean it always shows the truth?

Blue [Three Colors: Blue] (France 1993) (7): After surviving a car crash in which her famous composer husband and five-year old daughter were killed, Julie is incapacitated by grief. Unable to attend their funeral in person (a state affair given her husband’s celebrity status) she can only crawl under her hospital sheets and stare numbly at a video recording of it. After an unsuccessful suicide attempt Julie decides to kill herself by other means: she sells off everything she owns, cuts ties with her friends (including Olivier, her would-be lover), and moves to Paris where she reinvents herself as an idle woman of means. Refusing to fall into the “trap” of loving anyone or anything again, she spends her days engaging in pointless pursuits while avoiding any meaningful human contact. But no woman is an island and despite herself Julie begins to form tenuous ties with the people around her—the prostitute downstairs, her institutionalized mother, a street musician, a persistent Olivier—all of whom are carrying their own load of emotional baggage. Furthermore, what few trinkets she kept from her former life trigger deeper memories and her husband’s unfinished score (he had been commissioned to compose a symphony celebrating the unification of Europe) refuses to leave her head… The first film in director Krzysztof Kieslowski’s trilogy based on the colours of the French flag, Blue (symbolizing “Liberty”) examines both the cost and the illusion of freedom in an increasingly interdependent world. In trying to escape her sorrow—and accompanying anger—through isolation Julie forms a psychological prison which ironically limits her life more than love or grief ever could. “What do you do for a living?” inquires her real estate agent, “Nothing” is her curt reply. Only by opening up to the joys and pains of others, that trap she so desperately tried to avoid, can Julie hope to obtain personal liberation. But, as with all things worth having, there is a price to be paid for as Julie begins to examine her own life, including her marriage, some painful truths are laid bare. Bogged down in places by a few heavy-handed metaphors (the colour blue saturates every scene; mom’s television screen shows bungee jumpers taking leaps of faith; Julie constantly dives into the sapphire waters of a public pool) Kieslowski’s masterful direction, backed by some evocative cinematography and a standout performance by lead Juliette Binoche, still manages to keep things grounded. And that majestic orchestral score gives the whole proceeding an aura of great solemnity.

The Blue Gardenia (USA 1953) (7): After the man she adores dumps her, meek telephone operator Norah Larkin (Anne Baxter) decides to drown her broken heart by going on a date with sleazy pin-up artist Harry Prebble (Raymond Burr). After indulging in a few too many cocktails at the Blue Gardenia Lounge Norah winds up at Harry’s apartment where, in the process of warding off his attempts at date rape, she passes out. Regaining consciousness, Norah stumbles home and wakes up the next day with a killer hangover and only vague recollections of what transpired the night before. But when she discovers that Prebble was found murdered and the police are searching for a mysterious woman more or less matching her description Norah’s fractured memories send her into a spiral of guilt and outright panic… With a plot as believable as a cheap dime store novel and melodramatic performances all around, this 50’s potboiler would be laughed out of the theatres were it were released today. But it wasn’t, thank goodness, and there remains an earnestness to Fritz Lang’s magnificent direction which takes the lean dark streets of Los Angeles and turns them into an alternate reality of suspicious glances and fogbound paranoia using long tracking shots and shaded close-ups. Baxter’s hysterics are credible and she can turn them on and off with the flick of a switch as she goes from gullible doormat to California’s Most Wanted in a swirl of platinum curls and addled wits. Helping her out are Richard Conte as a crusading reporter eager to get the true story before the police do, a perpetually smirking George “Superman” Reeves as the cynical detective determined to find the “Blue Gardenia” killer, and Ann Sothern and Jeff Donnell as Norah’s roommates—one a kooky airhead addicted to crime novels, the other a pragmatic divorcée with a knack for finding a few clues on her own. Even the late great Nat king Cole makes a cameo crooning the film’s theme song. It’s all pretty ludicrous when you take the time to think it out and the “big reveal” at the end is practically handed to you ten minutes after the film begins, but over sixty years later it’s still a lot of fun to watch. Think of it as Film Noir Lite with a side of corn.

Blue Jasmine (USA 2013) (8): Ever since Eminem won a best original song Oscar for his trailer park drivel (and didn’t even have the decency to honour the travesty by showing up in person) I’ve viewed the Academy Awards as a contemptuous joke and not a measure of actual talent. But occasionally they do get it right. Case in point is Cate Blanchett’s emotionally draining performance as Jasmine, a former New York trophy wife with attitude to spare suddenly reduced to a working class peasant when her millionaire husband is convicted of fraud. Now suffering from acute anxiety attacks which cause her to babble to herself at the most inopportune times, Jasmine heads west to San Francisco where she moves in with her estranged sister Ginger, a white trash single mother of two with more than a few reasons to dislike Jasmine and her ex-husband. But trading in country estates, European shopping sprees and gala dinner parties for a dingy apartment, part-time employment, and night school courses proves to be more daunting than she expected, and not even self-medicating with Xanax and vodka martinis can stop her slow slide towards madness. Although it contains some genuinely humorous elements as Jasmine makes pathetic attempts to deny her new circumstances, Woody Allen’s class-conscious drama tracing one bewildered woman’s terrible fall is in fact deeply tragic. Repeatedly blindsided by past memories Jasmine staggers about in an angry haze, her denials and outright lies sabotaging whatever chance at happiness comes her way, while even life on the lowest rung of the economic ladder proves to be beyond her capacities. Ironically Ginger, having learned to accept her own status long ago thanks to her older sister’s imperious critiques, finds in Jasmine’s struggles a new sense of dignity. Intelligently written and presented with great conviction…one of Allen’s finest achievements.

Blueprint (USA 2017) (9): Sometimes the gentler voice carries the most weight and this little under-appreciated indie film from Daryl Wein can certainly bear testament to that. Ever since his best friend was shot dead by police over a tragic misunderstanding, Jerod (co-writer Jerod Haynes) has turned his anger inwards. Drinking too much, working too little, and neglecting the important people in his life—namely his young daughter, estranged wife, and concerned mother—he seems bound to become any one of a number of statistics himself. And his anger is not isolated, for the funeral of one more unarmed black man at the hands of the police has inflamed an already raw nerve in Jerod’s south Chicago neighbourhood. With some proposing armed resistance and others furthering the cause of non-violent engagement, Jerod will have to forge his own path towards the light…but he will need to put his immediate house in order first. Devoid of the usual volatile theatrics Hollywood usually lays on films dealing with racial identity and discrimination, free also of the clichéd bombast that too often accompanies it, Wein and Haynes’ true-to-life script rings so authentic it sometimes feels like we’re eavesdropping on a real family in crisis. True, they manage to inject a few sobering statistics and BLM tenets into the dialogue but they arrive naturally whether it’s a community leader’s call for solidarity or a mother trying to convince a disheartened daughter that her life really does matter. Consistently side-stepping our expectations, Blueprint is an emotionally engaging portrait of one conflicted man that hovers somewhere between street-level realism and allegorical quest. Kudos to Haynes, Tai Davis as his wife, and Jalaiya Lee-Haynes as his daughter (she actually is)—their powerful three-way performance giving the movie a backbone of steel. The only sour point, for me at least, was a chapel scene which downplayed human resilience by crediting it to a god.

The Blue Umbrella (India 2005) (7): Vishal Bhardwa goes heavy on the metaphors in this simple story about the transformative power of innocence and the wages of avarice. Precocious little Biniya (newcomer Shreya Sharma so full of sugar and spice you don’t know whether to hug her to death or just drown her) trades in her precious good luck charm for a beautiful blue umbrella. Since none of the neighbours in her remote northern village have ever seen anything like it before Biniya and her glorious parasol quickly become the centre of attention drawing locals and tourists alike. Shopkeeper Nandu, on the other hand, openly covets the girl’s prized possession, desiring its simple beauty (and ability to attract customers) for himself. Despite his best offers Biniya stubbornly refuses to part with her umbrella causing his jealousy to turn into an obsession. And then the umbrella goes missing, breaking the girl’s heart and throwing the village into an uproar as accusations fly and Nandu protests his innocence. But when he receives an exquisite red umbrella in the mail Nandu finally gains the notoriety he’d been hoping for as all eyes focus on him. Fame, however, can be a fickle thing especially when it is ill-gained… Bland performances and the usual Bollywood hokum are offset somewhat by a fairy tale aesthetic which sees Biniya singing and dancing her way to wisdom while Nandu huffs and scowls through adversity towards redemption. In the end, however, it was the arresting cinematography which finally won me over. Shot in the shadow of the Himalayas Bhardwaj’s film revels in colour and texture whether he’s shooting a wedding procession making its way through a gentle fall of snow or a child draped in scarlet fabric twirling beneath an endless sky. There is a lyrical quality to his parable which glosses over much of its technical shortcomings (like shoddy editing) and makes a rather glib moral all the more palatable. Sweet and easy on the eyes.

Blue Valentine (USA 2010) (7): Dean and Cindy’s marriage is in trouble. What communication they share consists mainly of repetitive arguments and hurtful accusations; even an overnight stay at a tackily appointed “love hotel” meant to provide some quality alone time winds up being just another alcohol-fuelled evening of angry resentments. It doesn’t take long to appreciate the reasons for this unhappy state of affairs for Cindy presents as a passive-aggressive martyr while Dean’s drunken man-child has more in common with their four-year old daughter. A series of flashbacks allow us to trace the couple’s disintegration as we see two naïve and painfully immature souls trying to connect; she’s living at home with her violent domineering father while trying to earn a medical degree, he’s a dim-witted highschool dropout from a broken family who’s been eking out a living doing menial labour. When she finds herself pregnant they decide to do the wrong thing for all the right reasons. This then is not the story of good beginnings gone sour, but rather a marriage which never had a chance in the first place. Ryan Gosling and Michelle Williams are wonderful together; their largely improvised dialogue is completely convincing as banal smalltalk and heated quarrels hint at deeper psychological scars which neither partner is emotionally equipped to deal with constructively. Director Derek Cianfrance keeps the mood low-keyed with muted colours and overcast skies while his relentless camera records love’s final death throes. To his credit he steadfastly avoids any clichéd Hollywood cop-outs presenting us instead with a sad little non-ending and a few visual cues as the final credits roll. Some may see this as a lolling drama going nowhere and featuring unbelievable characters (med student marries loser?) While I can’t say they’re completely wrong, I chose to view Blue Valentine as a piercing character study of two damaged and desperate people making a string of bad decisions. There may be something of the “experimental” in Cianfrance’s work, some scenes definitely have an aura of affectation to them, but Gosling and Williams’ naturalistic performances go a long way in smoothing out the film’s few rough edges.

Boccaccio 70 (Italy 1962) (7): Taking its name from the 14th century author of The Decameron, that licentious work which shed some light on medieval thoughts regarding love and sex, this quartet of short films—each helmed by a noted director—examines the downside of eros in contemporary Italy. Mario Monicelli offers up a sitcom involving newlyweds Luciana and Renzo who are constantly frustrated in their attempts to find time for a wedding night. Federico Fellini addresses sexual repression with a visual circus about an ardent puritan with a fetish for public decency who is terrorized by a giant colossal Anita Ekberg. In Luchino Visconti’s segment a wealthy woman (Romy Schneider) responds to her husband’s latest infidelity by getting a job only to find out she’s qualified for just one thing. Finally, Vittorio De Sica casts Sophia Loren in the role of an impoverished carnival barker who tries to buy a brighter future by holding a lottery with herself as the grand prize. Four directors, four visions each featuring strong women reacting to distress in four very different ways—stoicism, satire, despair, and blazing tenacity—while the men are relegated to background noise (De Sica’s decision to film a group of horny lechers next to a herd of squabbling pigs was certainly no accident). A tad dated and containing a few scenes guaranteed to ruffle modern day feathers, but an interesting time capsule of a film just the same.

Bombon: El Perro (Argentina 2004) (6): Ever since losing his job as a gas station mechanic, kindhearted fifty-something Juan finds himself living on his daughter’s couch while trying to eke out a living selling handmade knives from the back of his truck. One day, as payment for helping a stranded motorist, he is given a fully grown purebred dogo Argentino; a large hunting dog looking like a cross between a pit bull and a boxer. Before long he forms a partnership with a professional dog promoter and in a montage of scenes reminiscent of a canine Rocky, “Lechien” is being trained as a champion show dog; a future which could prove very lucrative for Juan. It all comes crashing down however when it is discovered that Lechien is unable (or unwilling) to mate with other dogs thereby ruining Juan’s chances to profit by hiring him out for stud service. It would appear that Lechien and Juan have one thing in common--in the eyes of the world they are both seen as lacking any intrinsic worth; Juan because of his age, and the dog because of his lack of marketable assets. As this revelation dawns on both man and beast the beginning of a new partnership slowly emerges... Despite it’s open-faced sincerity Bombon suffers from an acute lack of chemistry. Neither actor nor dog radiate any charisma; Lechien dutifully barks and whines on command while Juan’s permanently baffled expression makes him look as if someone dropped a few xanax in his yerba mate. Despite the inspirational soundtrack and long symbolic shots of dusty deserts this remains a road movie forever stuck in neutral.

Bon Cop, Bad Cop (Canada 2006) (8): When the mutilated body of a Montreal lawyer is found sprawled across the Quebec/Ontario border both jurisdictions assign a detective to the case—brusque and slovenly Francophone David Bouchard (Patrick Huard), and fastidious anglophone Martin Ward (Colm Feore). At odds from the very beginning, the two officers must find a way to work together after more bodies begin showing up suggesting the work of a serial killer with a very precise vendetta. Director Erik Canuel has produced one of cinema’s rarer birds: a Canadian film that actually works on all levels. As a thriller the action unfolds with frantic editing backed by a growling soundtrack of heavy metal. As a policier the plot thickens just enough to be interesting. And as a bilingual comedy it plays directly to Canadian funny-bones with a wicked script that wrings humour out of French/English frictions (the two men often swapping languages in mid-sentence), the metric system, Americans, and, above all, HOCKEY!! Among the movie’s many delights are a CBC-style talk show hosted by Rick Mercer doing a Don Cherry imitation that spirals into an NFL brawl complete with sweater pulling and underhand punches, and a bad guy with a heavy French accent attempting Travis Bickle’s mirror monologue from Taxi Driver while wearing a giant beaver costume—who else but Canucks could appreciate the self-effacing humour in this? And it all starts with a scene of the two men play tug-of-war with the first body leading to side-splitting results (literally…yuck!) For their part Feore and Huard are (mis)matched perfectly and they mine their differences for all the comedy gold they can muster even after a potential tragedy galvanizes them into a cohesive unit. But it’s the little asides and in-jokes that had me smiling throughout, for this is not a mere attempt at mimicking stateside dramas but rather a purely Great White North production as loudly Canadian as poutine and a Molson Dry. And Kraft Dinner. Sarain Boylan spices up the plot as Feore’s sexually aggressive sister while Lucie Laurier and Sarah-Jeanne Labrosse round out the cast as Huard’s ex-wife and assertive teenaged daughter respectively.

Bone Tomahawk (USA 2015) (8): Writer/director S. Craig Zahler takes a handful of tried and true horror tropes and twists them into something chillingly fresh, if not quite original. The Wild Wild West is about to become ferocious when a tribe of cave-dwelling cannibals begin picking off the hapless residents of Bright Hope, an otherwise peaceful frontier town. When the savage troglodytes make off with a couple of well known citizens a four man posse led by the erudite, no-nonsense sheriff Hunt (an impeccably bewhiskered Kurt Russell) give chase—but their would-be rescue mission quickly spirals into the stuff of nightmares when the quarry becomes the hunter. With dialogue that is oddly formal verging on stilted and brief flashes of grisly bloodletting, Zahler’s monstrous Western has the feel of a graphic novel especially with those howling sound effects echoing over the sagebrush and hungry fiends all decked out in grey body paint and grotesque piercings. Russell brings his usual intensity to the role of Hunt, a man bound by honour as much as the law, while a supporting cast of ne’er-do-wells and cowpokes flesh the story out, notably Matthew Fox as the town’s dapper yet deadly Lothario; Patrick Wilson as a husband eager to find his captured wife despite hobbling with a broken leg; and Richard Jenkins whose scene-stealing deputy Chicory—a perfect blend of addled geriatric and loyal sidekick—throws some much needed humour into all the gore and tension. And gore, both implied and explicit, arrives in due course including one particularly brutal scene in which a trio of cannibals prepare their struggling evening meal. John Wayne would have pissed his pants.

The Book of Life (USA 2014) (9): Rough ’n tumble Joaquin and artistically inclined Manolo are best friends even though they’ve been in love with the same woman, the gorgeous Maria, since they were kids. Now several years later Joaquin is a decorated hero, Manolo a disgraced bullfighter who plays a mean guitar, and Maria is at a loss as to whom she truly loves. However, unbeknownst to the earthly trio, a pair of netherworld gods have made Maria’s final decision the basis of a diabolical bet—a bet neither one intends to lose. But while both men vie for the hand of Maria in a struggle which will take one of them to Hades and back, their small town of San Angel is about to face its greatest challenge yet as the evil bandit Chakal and his gang of cutthroats decide to pay everyone a visit… Set in a storybook Mexico with action that spans the world of the living and the worlds of the dead, director Jorge R. Gutiérrez’s exuberant animated feature practically leaps off the screen in a swirl of music and cartoon pandemonium. The subject matter (life, death, and what comes next) may be Tim Burton territory but Gutiérrez’s Latin sensibilities eschew the former’s dark palette of greys and blues for an explosion of bright crayon colours instead, presenting us with an Aztec fantasyland where everyone and everything seems to be constructed of wooden blocks and Lego pieces. The humour spans all generations, the kickass songs (including a hit from Radiohead and two originals from Paul Williams) are definitely hummable, and the onscreen adventures suggest a beautifully warped imagination. Cool stuff!

The Book Thief (USA 2013) (6): The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich is witnessed by Anne of Green Gables in Brian Percival's adaptation of Markus Zusak's novel. Torn from her mother, a convicted communist, and sent to live with good Aryan foster parents the quietly reserved Liesel seeks what solace she can in learning to read---finding escape in the pages of every book she "borrows" from people around her. But when her new parents begin harbouring a fugitive Jew in the basement Liesel gains a new sense of responsibility and a mandate to tell her own tale. Curiously narrated by the Grim Reaper himself (?!) who waxes a bit poetic on his vocation, what unfolds is a generic tale of Nazi oppression and heroic resistance with bombs relegated for the most part to dust-shaking rattles and Hitler staring from posters like the Big Bad Wolf. Liesel's shaky transformation from war waif to story-weaving adolescent is shored up by the likes of Geoffrey Rush and Emily Watson as her ersatz parents, his kindly grandpa figure playing against Watson's stern yet flappable matriarch. Nico Liersch also does a fine job as Rudy, the Hitlerjugend with a heart of gold and a boy-sized crush on Liesel. Sadly a climactic passage of pure Hollywood heart-tugging is only partially offset by a poignant denouement before it all fades to black. Nicely presented with its snowy streets and rustic homes but quickly forgotten once the lights come up.

Borgman (Netherlands 2013) (7): “…and they descended upon the Earth to strengthen their ranks.” With this faux Old Testament-style quote writer/director Alex van Warmerdam opens his surreal and darkly comic film, a hodgepodge of sadistic puzzler in the vein of Lars von Trier, bourgeoisie skewering á la Michael Haneke, and devilishly sardonic Catholic nightmare straight from the mind of Luis Buñuel. After a vigilante led by an irate priest flushes him out of his underground lair, homeless vagrant Anton Breskens (aka Camille Borgman…names are important here) flees to a genteel suburb of northern Holland where he insinuates himself into the lives of upscale yuppies Richard and Marina, their lithesome Danish nanny, and three picture perfect children. Taking pity on the poor scruff who shows up on their doorstep begging for a bath, especially after her bellicose husband beats him senseless for no good reason, Marina secretly puts Borgman up in the guest cottage where she tends to his wounds and sneaks him dinners. But there is a malevolence surrounding the bearded tramp who seems to derive much pleasure from sowing discord in his host family: Richard’s lucrative job is suddenly in jeopardy, the kids mysteriously tune out, and Marina begins experiencing horrible nightmares of domestic violence which affect her waking hours. And then Borgman’s diabolical accomplices show up and things head south very quickly for the demonic little imp and his posse love to play games and when it comes to winning murder is definitely on the table. The upper class is always an easy target for satire and Borgman is no exception—when he places an ad for a new gardener Richard is appalled by the number of non-white applicants and after youngest daughter Isolde guts her teddy bear Marina lectures her on the poor third-world child who laboured to make it—but Warmerdam’s barbs are edgeless and we’ve heard all these jokes before. As a study in Good vs. Evil however he does manage to make us squirm for he presents a contemporary world devoid of virtue in which darker motives bubble beneath polite facades and wickedness, bearing the mark of the Beast no less, is meted out in the most innocent of packages. Indeed, Borgman only has to blow on the flames that already exist in order to wrack Richard and Marina’s home with all seven of the deadly sins. Finally, a downbeat finale brings forth the true horror of what we’ve been witnessing for the past two hours but even that falls strangely flat. Despite a storyline that at times derails into ad-lib territory and an infuriating smugness (deliberate perhaps?) which seems intent on convincing audiences the film is far more complex than it actually is, there is still an unsettling quality to the production. It’s almost as if the movie were judging you based on your reaction to it and finding therein something shameful. The Netherlands’ official entry for Best Foreign Language Oscar, 2014.

Boris without Béatrice (Canada 2016) (3): Greco-Roman mythology makes for a clunky metaphor in Denis Côté’s high-handed cerebral drama that aims for psychological depths but winds up looking like an arthouse farce instead. Successful Montreal businessman Boris Malinovsky hasn’t achieved his level of wealth by being nice, in fact he’s made being rude, smug, and condescending something of a lifestyle—just ask his mistress, or better yet his wife Béatrice, a prominent cabinet minister who’s in the throes of a depression so severe she’s catatonic and requires a 24-hour caregiver. But an invitation to a midnight rendezvous with a mysterious little man plants the seeds of uncertainty in Boris’ mind when he calls out the entrepreneur on his vanity and hubris, blaming him for his wife’s condition and warning that she will forever be lost to him unless he changes his ways. But who is this diminutive oracle and how come he knows the intimate details of Boris’ life? And will Boris heed his advice, delivered with all the gravitas of a…divine…decree? Clearly Côté scoured the antiquities section of his local library for inspiration given the glaring allusions to Tantalus, Croesus, and Orestes & Electra—and a fey pair of liberal arts majors, done up in white pancake and lipstick, make for anemic muses. Gee, and could the wife possibly be named after that chaste object of Dante’s heavenly desire? A helicopter makes for a puzzling deus ex machina and Côté manages a political dig when he casts the Prime Minister—making a house call on Béatrice—as an inept anglophone. “Even the strong are sometimes brought to their knees…” admonishes yet another incarnation of Boris’ little visitor posing as a museum usher (apparently the gods like to rub it in) and I couldn’t help but think that overreaching directors sometimes suffer the same fate.

Born to Be Blue (Canada 2015) (8): Jazz music is best when it's spontaneous, improvised, and from the heart. Perhaps it’s fitting then that writer/director Robert Budreau’s free-flowing look at the life of legendary trumpeter and lifelong heroin addict Chet Baker—credited with inventing the sound of “west coast swing—relies more on feeling than actual biographical facts. Opening with Chet’s first introduction to smack when he was a gap-toothed kid playing alongside Dizzie Gillespie and Miles Davis in the early 50s (a clever film-within-a-film as an older, wizened Chet is hired to play himself in an ill-fated biopic) and ending with his much lauded comeback attempt in 1966, Budreau takes a non-linear approach to the musician’s life with stagey B&W flashbacks offset by colour sequences detailing a rocky personal life marked by failed romance, violence (a vicious assault just about ended his already faltering career), and an overwhelming addiction to a drug which was both a crutch and a creative muse. Ethan Hawke should have received an Oscar nomination for his role as the passionate yet muddled Baker, and Carmen Ejogo excels as his frustrated lover, a struggling actress who comes to represent all the women in Baker’s life. Downcast and moody, much like Chet’s peculiar brand of music-making, with an eye for sunsets and an ear for sad jazz, this is not destined to be a crowd pleaser. But for those who appreciate a fine ensemble drama shot through with flashes of bleak poetry it’s certainly worth a look.

The Boss of it All  (Denmark 2006) (7):  While watching this caustic corporate satire It’s difficult to tell exactly who Von Trier holds in deeper contempt.  Lawyers?  CEOs?  Thespians?  Danes?  Icelanders?  Anyone who isn’t Lars Von Trier?  He seems to have a knack for thinking up ideas for edgy and intelligent films then ruining them by being stupid.  This time around he delivers a brilliantly funny, if typically mean-spirited, comedy revolving around the unethical and cowardly owner of an IT company......think of a dark Danish version of “The Office”.  He then proceeds to mar the proceedings with cheap gimmicks like stopping the action in order to lecture the audience and using some silly computer program to determine camera angles resulting in a nauseating blend of jarring cuts and off-centre framing.  Great idea for a film though, too bad someone else didn’t think of it.

The Boston Strangler (USA 1968) (8): Between 1962 and 1964 as many as 13 women in the Boston area were found strangled and sexually mutilated. The resulting police investigation eventually led detectives to Albert DeSalvo, a local furnace repairman and father of two small children. Although he was never formally convicted in any of the murders he would end up spending the rest of his life incarcerated for lesser crimes; first in a state mental hospital and finally in a maximum security prison. Fleischer’s engrossing drama features a cast of seasoned actors headlined by Tony Curtis as the deeply troubled strangler and Henry Fonda as John Bottomly, the reluctant law professor charged with hunting him down. Controversial for 1968, the film doesn’t shy away from the more troubling aspects of the case; DeSalvo’s sexual aberrations are alluded to (Curtis’ facial expressions during the assaults speak volumes) and his victims are portrayed with a blunt realism that deepens the sense of tragedy while keeping the grislier details tastefully off camera. Some homophobic slurs do prove troublesome, even when you consider the time and place in which the story unfolds, and it’s difficult to assess whether Bottomly’s overly respectful approach to a gay suspect constitutes genuine sympathy or condescension. What won me over in the end however was the film’s highly innovative camerawork. Fleischer’s frequent use of multiple frames and overlapping dialogue is brilliant; the separate frames sometimes appearing as pieces of a puzzle while at other times forming a mosaic of fear and suspicion as we see images of women locking doors and peering nervously over their shoulders. Furthermore, Bottomly’s tense interrogations of an increasingly psychotic DeSalvo are beautifully enhanced when the killer’s disjointed memories suddenly become interactive with both men moving in and out of reality. Despite some glaring factual omissions, DeSalvo was definitely not the innocuous family man portrayed here, this still remains a highly polished and riveting piece of pseudo-fiction.

Boulevard (USA 2014) (2): An unconvincingly subdued Robin Williams (delivering his Swan Song) gives a one-note performance as a deeply closeted milquetoast whose phobia of hurting other people's feelings has caused him to put his own feelings on hold. Forever stuck in first gear, mousy loans officer Nolan Mack (Williams) divides his time between randomly shuffling papers at the bank where he works, going to the nursing home to stare at his vegetative father, and coming home to a sexless marriage with a listless and permanently depressed zombie wife (Kathy Baker actually showing less animation than one of John Carpenter's undead). But when he suddenly finds himself playing sugar daddy to troubled street hustler Leo, their platonic navel-gazing gives him the courage to shift his life from dull desperation to tedious optimism as he discovers that even at sixty years of age it's never too late to be boring in new and novel ways. Working with a cast of cardboard characters and a script which combines the worst of Woody Allen's dramas with Barney the Dinosaur platitudes, director Dito Montiel is clearly aiming for the heartstrings in this sad little tale of old regrets and new beginnings. Everyone is suffering in his universe: Mack struggles with a long overdue midlife crisis; Leo gets smacked around by his big bad pimp; and Mrs. Mack (named "Joy"...haha irony) is stuck in a sham marriage. But Montiel's aim is completely off and no one ends up suffering more for it than his audience.

The Boxtrolls (USA 2014) (8): The nearly perpendicular town of Cheesebridge is under siege by a subterranean horde of Boxtrolls—jabbering little beasties sporting grocery containers for clothes and possessing an unquenchable thirst for any gewgaw or knickknack they can get their four-fingered hands on. Things have become so bad that mayor Lord Portley-Rind and his white-capped cabinet have hired the venomous exterminator Archibald Snatcher to destroy the creatures once and for all, even agreeing to Snatcher’s exorbitant price: namely a garish white top hat (symbol of power and prestige) of his own. But you can’t judge a box by its label for the trolls are not the drooling monsters portrayed in Snatcher’s tall tales and the exterminator himself has some diabolical secrets of his own involving kidnapping and murder. It finally falls down to Portley-Rind’s headstrong daughter Winnie and “Eggs”, a human child raised by the trolls, to expose Snatcher’s true plans and save the wee bugaboos before they’re eradicated completely. Definitely not for the single-digit crowd, directors Annable and Stacchi’s painstakingly intricate stop-motion animation feature has enough macabre scenarios and outrageous inventions to turn Tim Burton green with envy. Beautifully realized in all its storybook grunginess, the town of Cheesebridge is teeming with eccentrics and grotesques thanks to the vocal talents of Simon Pegg, Nick Frost, and Ben Kingsley among others. Snatcher proves to be a formidable cartoon villain with his rotten teeth and fire-breathing mechanical death machine—yet his scariness is balanced with a slightly sick sense of fun (he’s monstrously allergic to cheese, the town’s biggest commodity) and a few unexpected insights on morality provided by his conscience-stricken henchmen who constantly try to assure themselves that they’re still the “good guys”. Dark, eclectic, and shot through with enough imagination to keep adults and older children interested.

Boy (New Zealand 2010) (9): Ever since his mother died in childbirth eleven-year old “Boy” has been busy helping his grandmother raise his younger brother Rocky as well as a few cousins in a ramshackle house on New Zealand’s Waihau Bay where he maintains his hope and sanity through a very active imagination. But the family’s equilibrium is thrown into chaos when gran goes away for a few weeks and Boy’s delinquent dad, Alamein, shows up fresh out of prison with a few of his shady mates in tow. Suddenly faced with the father figure he had always dreamed of Boy sets about trying to mend fences but Alamein is only interested in two things: getting high and finding the stash of stolen money he hid somewhere in a nearby field. Over the next few days both Boy and his father will have some growing up to do, but who will end up being the parent and who will be the child? If the plot sounds clichéd and gloomy writer/director Taika Waititi (who also plays dad) serves it up with such wit and self-effacing charm, not to mention winning performances from his young Maori cast, that you can’t help but smile even through some of the more painful scenes. Unlike the world weary grade-school midgets portrayed in 2005’s 12 And Holding, Waititi’s kids are not mini-adults but rather fully fleshed children with all their silliness and nascent wisdom intact—Rocky believes he has uncontrollable super powers which accidentally killed his mother when he was born; Boy fancies himself a Polynesian Michael Jackson with the baddest moves (the film takes place in 1984); and Boy’s cousin doles out tween ennui while strutting around in an oversized fur wrap and high heels. Waititi still knows how it feels to be a little kid in a big world and his film’s many segues into simple fantasy embellish the story rather than distract whether it’s Rocky’s crayon drawings moving across the page or Boy, upon watching his father being roughed up by a biker gang, imagines him starring in a low-budget version of Jackson’s “Beat It” video instead. And when the children visit their mother’s grave which they covered in their own loving graffiti, it’s difficult to keep a dry eye. If the poverty and neglect seem downplayed it’s only because the camera is filming from the vantage point of an impressionable young lad who can still sense goodness long after adults have given up. With a disarmingly natural script and amiable performances (even dad and his slapstick gang grow on you) as well as those clever touches—with kids named Falcon Crest and Dallas you know television is Waihau Bay’s major source of entertainment—Waititi has produced a real winner. Childhood’s joys, pains, and sundry mortifications are all served up with warmth and just a touch of magic. Be sure to sit through the closing credits…

Boy A (UK 2007) (7): Eleven years after he was sent to juvenile detention for committing a horrendous crime, a young boy—now a young man—is finally released under a veil of secrecy. Given a job and a new identity in a new town, “Jack” slowly builds an assumed life for himself with the encouragement of a fatherly social worker. But the press has a long memory and some people are unable to forgive and forget so it’s only a matter of time before Jack, still plagued by bad dreams, must face his past yet again. In this his film debut, Andrew Garfield plays Jack as a sympathetic naif whose hangdog expression and driving desire to be liked are underscored by flashbacks to an emotionally starved childhood and a most unfortunate friendship with a budding sociopath. Peter Mullan, as the social worker, provides an equally complex character study as a man whose compassion for the young offenders in his care contrasts sharply with the thorny relationship between his estranged son and himself. Director John Crowley’s adaptation of Jonathan Trigell’s novel keeps things low-keyed, only gradually releasing the details of what young Jack did to deserve such infamy, and in so doing he gives audiences a chance to acquaint themselves with the character without pre-judging him. And for their parts Garfield and Mullan share an onscreen chemistry with Mullan’s sage humanity playing off Garfield’s self-doubts and guilty memories. But, unfortunately, both author and director already know where our sympathies should lie and they go out of their way to point us in that direction with a pitiful stab at romance between Jack and an office worker and an unlikely feat of heroism on Jack’s part which garners him a child’s thank-you card dripping with pathos and irony. At least the film’s satisfyingly ambivalent ending doesn’t include torches and pitchforks.

The Boy and the Beast (Japan 2015) (6): After his mother dies, truculent nine-year old Kyuta tries to run away from his pain and anger only to blunder into the Land of Beasts, a low-tech alternate world where anthropomorphic barnyard animals live under the benign tutelage of their supreme lord and ruler. Reluctantly becoming the apprentice of the ill-tempered and bearish Kumatetsu, a minor dignitary aspiring to become the next ruler, Kyuta tries to learn the ways of the warrior. But with their personalities constantly clashing (actually, they are both petulant brats) and the allure of the human world beckoning to Kyuta, a final decisive showdown between student and master is inevitable—until an even greater threat promises to destroy them both unless they can work together… Mamoru Hosoda’s meticulously detailed anime is technically perfect—crowded streets come alive and backgrounds are rendered with photographic realism. As an adolescent metaphor however it stumbles one too many times with characters remaining more or less static (oh, that bickering! ) and a muddy mishmash of an ending mired down in Eastern mysticism and Herman Melville. Plus, at almost two hours in length it’s too convoluted for the kids, even if taken at face value, and too repetitive for adults (another tantrum, another moment of truth, another lesson learned). Perhaps it could have benefitted from a wee bit of trimming.

Boy Erased (USA 2018) (7): After the teenaged son of a prominent southern Baptist minister is outed as a homosexual he agrees to enter into church-sanctioned conversion therapy. Run by “former homosexuals”, none of whom boast any qualifications other than loud faith and emphatic denial, the program’s sole aim is to pray the gay away by any and all means including humiliation, biblical harangues, and abuse both physical and psychological. Reluctant from the start—his decision to enrol due more to fear and guilt than anything else—Jared comes to suspect that he is not the one who is broken…but who will listen to him? Based on the memoirs of Garrard Conley and directed by Joel Edgerton, who co-stars as a fire-and-brimstone counsellor with a prurient interest in the sexual experiences of his charges, this is one of the more disquieting films I’ve ever sat through due in no small part to the fact it actually happened, and continues to do so in several places. To his credit Edgerton does not go for cheap dramatics with two-dimensional characters either brandishing God’s Word or cowering in fear, his approach is more subtle and consequently more powerful. Those who run the program are not evil per se but rather so deluded by dogma they actually believe their twisted attacks qualify as tough love—in one scene a resistant young man is literally beaten with bibles to release his demon; in another an ex-con gives a lesson on how to exude manliness (it’s all in the hips) yet is not above hurling “faggot!” at one young man. Conversely, the attitudes of the people they’re supposedly counselling range from self-loathing and despair to cynical resignation. Lucas Hedges puts in a fine performance as Jared, the story outlining his painful growth from frightened and confused adolescent ill-equipped to unite his nascent desires with the religious guilt imposed upon him, to a young man finally discovering his voice. But the crux of the film is the evolving relationship between son and parents. Played by Aussie duo Nicole Kidman and Russell Crowe (both effecting believable drawls), Jared’s folks mirror his own journey as they too struggle with family bonds and outdated Old Testament strictures. Not a perfect film—flashbacks are clunky, revelations come a little too easily, and the final reel is too tidy—but the acting is consistently above par (even the dispirited faces of Jared’s “campmates” are heartbreaking) and Crowe and Hedges practically give off sparks whenever they share a scene. Quebec’s Xavier Dolan co-stars as does singer and Youtube sensation Troye Sivan who contributed a few songs to the movie’s track. Be sure to remain seated for the end credits where snapshots and a couple of “Where Are They Now?” disclosures prove illuminating.

Boy on a Dolphin (USA 1957) (5): Notable only for its Cinemascope views of the Greek islands and the fact it was 23-year old Sophia Loren’s American film debut, this romantic thriller is otherwise a waterlogged washout. Impoverished sponge diver Phaedra (Loren) discovers a priceless statue lying on the seafloor and immediately finds herself torn between two men: an unscrupulous antiquities dealer (Clifton Webb) who promises to make her rich if she helps him smuggle the ancient artifact out of the country, and an American archaeologist (Alan Ladd) who believes it belongs to the people of Greece. And just to make things more complicated, Phaedra finds herself falling for the American even as her Albanian boyfriend, an abusive and greedy cad, begins making plans for all that money… Loren owns the screen as a strongly independent woman who finds herself at the centre of an emotional and ethical storm—her defiant stance and acid repartee easily outshining her more famous co-stars. It’s just too bad that her widescreen personality cannot overcome a lacklustre script where the thrills lie dead in the water and the budding romance between her and the much older, much shorter Ladd spits and sputters without ever igniting. Reportedly the studio actually had her stand in a trench so as to make Ladd look taller. Indeed, finding all the ways they downplayed his short stature provides a pleasant diversion while slogging through this movie: he’s filmed on staircases, rocks, a pier (while others are in a boat), standing (while others are sitting), and in one instance he’s perched on an offscreen box—the scene cuts just as he begins to step off. Equating the removal of ancient artifacts from a sovereign nation with “cultural theft” might resonate with some contemporary audiences, and Phaedra’s argument that the “glory” of donating her find to the national archives won’t change her life by as much as a crust of bread carries some weight, but in the end aside from quaint travelogue footage shot both above and below the waterline there’s not a whole lot to see here.

Boys (Netherlands 2014) (5): There’s no doubt that Mischa Kamp’s heart was in the right place when he directed this gay highschool love story, certainly words like “sweet” and “tender” could be used when describing it. Unfortunately, “derivative”, “cliched”, and “sappy” would be equally appropriate. When a dip in the local pond turns into a first kiss, teen track stars Sieger and Marc become smitten with one another. But whereas Marc is gung ho on becoming boyfriends, Sieger is still very much in the closet, even going so far as to woo ponytailed Jessica for the sake of appearances (really? in 2014?). But on the day of the big championship relay race Sieger will finally be forced to come to terms with his feelings—for better or for worse. Cue violins. With scenes of the two boys bouncing on a trampoline in slow motion while sunbeams assault the camera lens, or stealing a furtive smooch in a moonlit forest under the gaze of two adorable fawns (awwww!) Kamp reaches for the heartstrings but occasionally pokes the gag reflex instead resulting in a paperback romance whose rainbow is too often smothered in corn.

The Boys in the Band (USA 1970) (9): As storm clouds gather overhead a group of men, all gay, gather in a modest New York apartment for a birthday party in honour of their mutual friend, Harold, who has chosen to be fashionably late. There’s the usual generic queer dishing and camping as they await his arrival but when the host’s very conservative and questionably straight college buddy shows up unexpectedly with emotional baggage in tow, a slow fuse is lit that burns brighter and hotter as the evening wears on. When Harold eventually does show up, stoned and uncaring, the stage is set for a series of emotional showdowns. Easy banter soon gives way to some rather sharp and nasty barbs; jealousies and resentments begin to surface and the host’s buddy throws a homosexual panic that almost brings the house down. With a tempest raging outside, the men retreat to the living-room where a cruel game of “Truth or Dare” takes place which strips away defenses and lays bare some painful truths. Based on Mart Crowley’s play, Boys in the Band uses a party as an ironic metaphor to illustrate the realities of being gay in 1970. If you can look past the gucci bags, fruity poodles and chintz curtains you’ll see that he has incorporated a rich variety of sentiments into just a few characters. While the host is poisoned by internalized homophobia one guest acts out his gayness almost as a challenge to the world; while another man risks everything for the sake of love, his partner finds himself terrified at the prospect of intimacy. Even Harold, world-weary and cynical, finds some solace in the hustler hired to be his “gift” for the night; a naive and refreshingly untainted young man who remains immune to the poison darts flying over his head. It would be easy to dismiss this film as just so much homo nihilism, but one must take it in historical context. Released just one year after the Stonewall Riots, it was the first film to show gay men as more than just comedy relief. It came out at a time when being gay was sufficient grounds for losing your job, your home, your family, and your freedom. I see this brilliant film as both a dark celebration and an angry rebuke to society at large. As one character put it, “If we could just learn not to hate ourselves quite so much...” As true today as it was back then. As a sad footnote, five of the original cast members have since died of AIDS.

Boystown (Spain 2007) (8): Madrid's aging Chueca neighbourhood is undergoing a sea change. Gay couples are buying up its quaint little condos and slimy real estate agent Victor is only too happy to oblige them, even if he has to murder every little old lady who refuses to part with her home. When their next door neighbour meets an untimely end at Victor's hands, the bearish Leo and his hunky boyfriend Rey inherit her apartment (Rey was the "son she never had") but instead of selling it to Victor, Rey decides to give it to his miserable bitch of a mother who immediately makes it her business to break up their relationship. Frustrated with this unexpected turn of events Victor sets his sights on the old woman while at the same time driving a romantic wedge between the two men. Meanwhile the neurotic police detective Mila and her closeted sidekick son Luis are hot on the trail of the killer...a trail that seems to be leading them to Leo. Playing like the bastard son of Almodovar and Hitchcock, this rollicking dark gay comedy may lack the former's touch of the subtly absurd and the latter's sense of style but director Juan Flahn knows how to elicit a coarse laugh and a knowing wink. His cartoonish protagonists are all huggable, his yuppie antagonist sleaze personified, and the character of Rey's mother hilariously abrasive. Of course it all ends happily ever after without too many twists or turns, although a final chase through a steamy bath house probably looked better on paper. The men, of course, are gorgeous!

BPM [aka 120 Beats Per Minute] (France 2017) (8): Set in France during the height of the AIDS epidemic, Robin Campillo’s confrontational film focuses on the ragtag members of “Act Up Paris”. Composed mainly of angry militant queers—many of whom were already suffering from the effects of HIV and the few available toxic drugs meant to control it—Act Up took their collective desperation with the status quo and turned it into acts of civil (and not so civil) disobedience aimed squarely at government complacency, corporate politics, and an official reluctance at all levels to disseminate life-saving information. Frank and unapologetic, Campillo’s camera never flinches whether it’s recording a furious rant at a pharmaceutical rep or an intimate night of transgressive sex, for under his direction both come to represent acts of defiance. Nor does he glorify his subjects—their in-fighting proves tedious, some of their public stunts childish—yet there is a fierce dignity to every frame as he portrays these social pariahs literally fighting for their lives…for as long as AIDS was only seen affecting “fags, hookers, and druggies” no one else seemed to care. There is also a love story (perhaps to balance the overt politics?) between two members, one HIV-negative and the other positive, with the latter’s deteriorating health—shown in heartbreaking detail—giving a human face to the cardboard slogans. Filmed in an almost verité style, Campillo manages to smooth out the film’s aggressive tone with moments of pure arthouse: filmed from above, a candlelight protest moves like a singular organism; a disco’s strobe light picks out faces contorted by passion or pain, and dust motes floating above a dance floor morph into T-cells waging a losing battle against viral invaders. With a script that occasionally gets lost in its eagerness to educate (even a running time of almost 150 minutes is not enough to do justice to the complexities of that era) and the aforementioned romance which at times seems more frosting than integral, BPM nevertheless provides us with a fiery moment of silence, however imperfect, in memory of a most unjust chapter in our history. Having lost my own partner to AIDS in 1992, its message rang loud and clear.

Brain Damage (USA 1988) (5): Respectable middle-aged couple Morris and Martha Ackerman are tearing their tastefully appointed New York apartment to pieces searching for their little pet who’s gone missing despite the seven deadbolts on the front door. The pet in question, named “Aylmer”, is in fact a wisecracking twelve inch parasitic worm resembling a big blue turd able to induce highly addictive LSD-style trips in his hosts as long as they keep him supplied with fresh brains to eat, preferably human. In a neighboring apartment, a young man wakes to find his bed covered in blood, the ceiling dripping pleasant psychedelic colours and a smooth-talking, blue-eyed Aylmer attached to his neck. It isn’t long before Brian becomes firmly hooked to Aylmer’s little gift and begins taking the wriggling monster out for late night walks so he can burrow hungrily into the foreheads of unsuspecting victims. Troubles begin to mount however as the body count rises, Brian’s girlfriend begins asking too many questions, and the Ackmermans, now looking like a pair of haggard crackheads, come knocking with a loaded pistol. Director Frank Henenlotter combines a bizarre storyline with a few primitive special effects to produce a mildly engaging little flick which fails to achieve the quirky cult status of 1982’s vastly superior Liquid Sky. Usually a film of this low calibre can at least elicit a bit of 80s nostalgia with all those hairdos and madonna-esque accessories, but here they just look silly and dated; one particular scene involving an ill-fated blowjob at an underground “Goth club” filled with mohawked extras bopping around to lame music is especially embarrassing. Aylmer himself is rather cute as he cajoles and berates an increasingly desperate Brian into finding him one more brain to eat, but the mix of puppetry, cheap animation, and stop motion photography used to bring him to life is woefully inconsistent. Lastly, an odd shower room scene featuring muscle hunk Joseph Gonzales repeatedly soaping up his tight butt is completely gratuitous but appreciated just the same.

Branded to Kill (Japan 1967) (7): “Requiem for a Hitman” might have been a more apt title for Seijun Suzuki’s odd piece of gangster gothic—a mixed bag containing camp elements from The Avengers, violence from The Godfather, and poetic justice from a Shakespearean tragedy. Despite his ranking as the third best hired assassin in Japan, Hanada (Jō Shishido and his signature chipmunk cheeks) nevertheless screws up a major assignment leading to grief from three sides: his shrill wife who’s harbouring an agenda of her own (cabaret dancer Mariko Ogawa having trouble keeping her clothes on); a mysterious vamp with a morbid death obsession (a heavily mascaraed Annu Mari); and an angry mob boss who has hired Japan’s #1 killer to take Hanada out for good… Despite a shaky start in which I gave up trying to figure out who was whom and why, Suzuki eventually hits his stride as the pieces begin to click into place. What emerges is a funky downbeat parable on the price of pride and ambition garnished with surprising amounts of nudity and limp sex, Japanese-style kink (the smell of boiled rice gives Hanada a stiffy), and curiously bloodless shootouts. There can be only one victor as Hanada, eager to avoid assassination and increase his underworld ranking in the process, faces off against #1 (Kôji Nanbara, cool as sushi) in a citywide game of cat & mouse that will pit his desperate strategies against the more experienced man’s psychological tricks. Shot in ultra-hip B&W with a jazzy score and touches of 60s panache throughout (oh those shades and groovy threads!) Suzuki’s quirky sense of style sometimes works—when Hanada and #1 become unlikely roommates the deadpan humour had me smiling—and sometimes left me scratching my head: why do men who have just been fatally shot always seek out a railing to fall over before they die? How can a bullet through a windshield hit a man without breaking the glass? Loud and chaotic for most of its 90-minute running time, Suzuki does manage to rein things in for his grand climax—a riot of shadowy angles and hollow ironies which goes a long way towards forgiving the film’s technical faux pas. Eclectic, electric, and too cool for (film) school, this is quite possibly the director’s masterpiece.

The Brave Little Toaster (USA 1987) (6): Disney takes anthropomorphism to a new level in this animated tale of five abandoned appliances who take to the road in search of their beloved pint-sized master after his family moves to the big city. Along the way they discover an enchanted pond, spend a night in a scary forest and do battle with a malevolent junkyard magnet....only to discover that their master's new appliances aren't exactly pleased to see them. Featuring good old-fashioned animation and some lively musical numbers including a macabre stint in a used appliance store and a death row dirge played amongst rusting heaps of condemned cars. I suppose one could see a subtle jab at our consumer mentality but for the most part it's a lesson on the importance of respect, cooperation and self-sacrifice aimed squarely at the preschool crowd. Jon Lovitz and Phil Hartman lend their voices.

The Brave Little Toaster to the Rescue (USA 1997) (4): Weak sequel to 1987’s so-so tale of animated household appliances setting out in search of their “master”. This time around the precious electrical gadgets rescue a group of cutesy lab animals bound for an evil research facility, give an outdated computer a new lease on life, and help their master (now a college senior) recover his lost thesis on “The Secret Life of Animals”. Lots of cartoon silliness, machine hugs, and slapdash songs to amuse the kids while the underlying themes of faith and perseverance are sweetly summed up in the cloying musical ditty, “Hang In There Kid!”. It’s enough to make you want to kick your toaster right square in the ball bearings.

Bread and Tulips (Italy 2000) (6): In the same vein as Shirley Valentine, Silvio Soldini’s fluffy piece of magical realism features bored and neglected Italian housewife Rosalba who decides to reinvent herself while on a bus tour with her family. After her boorish husband and sullen teenaged boys fail to realize the bus has left without her, effectively stranding her at a roadside cafe, Rosalba has no choice but to hitchhike her way back home. But an unexpected detour to Venice changes everything when she decides to stay in the City of Canals, get a job working for a truculent florist, and share an apartment with a grieving widower (Bruno Ganz) whose quiet attentions ignite feelings she had long forgotten. But her philandering husband is not about to give her up that easily and so hires a bumbling amateur detective to track her down… Shot through with music and flowers, and just a touch of the absurd—Rosalba’s daydreams take on life of their own while the detective gets more than he bargained for—this is a charming fairytale of a film rooted in real life yet milking its picturesque locations and photogenic cast for all the whimsy it can get. Very easy to like and just as easy to forget.

Breath (Korea 2007) (7): Notorious quirk master Ki-duk Kim, able to go from the sublime to the ridiculous and back again at the drop of a clapperboard, takes three of arthouse cinema’s most beloved staples—love, sex, and death—and twists them into something highly watchable if not entirely successful. Aspiring sculptress Yeon is so browbeaten by her philandering husband that she’s taken to midnight fugues along the outskirts of Seoul. Death row inmate Jang Jin has been trying to avoid his upcoming execution by attempting suicide so many times that his latest self-mutilation has made national headlines. Recognizing a kindred spirit (both are dying in one way or another) Yeon bluffs her way into visiting Jang Jin and in a highly improbable but ingeniously cinematic turn of events manages to squeeze a yearlong affair into a few short weeks. But even as the two damaged lovers pursue their doomed tryst Yeon’s husband undergoes a sea change which threatens to upset an already precarious equilibrium while Jang Jin’s obsessive gay cellmate gradually succumbs to jealousy and despair. Taken as a love story Kim’s skewed tale of amour fou rings flat and hollow indeed for he doesn’t even try to inject it with anything approaching credibility. But taken as a psychodrama there is enough sexual yin and yang, not to mention gender wars, artistic conceit, and a touch of the divine, to fuel a dozen heated discussions afterwards. And Kim peppers it all with a barrage of cryptic visuals just to pique your inner artiste: Yeon’s sterile urban apartment contrasts with Jang’s cramped cell where five men huddle beneath makeshift murals of nude women scratched into the concrete walls; the weighty statue of a one-winged angel stares forlornly from behind a television set; a voyeuristic prison warden (tellingly played by Kim himself) watches Yeon and Jang through CCTV cameras, alternately encouraging and then frustrating their amorous advances seemingly on a whim. Beautifully shot in the dead of winter (of course) with long brooding takes that cash in on bare branches, blue snowdrifts, and whitewashed prison walls, there is a touch of whimsy amongst all the melancholy despite a patently downbeat ending. A tragic love poem firmly rooted in unreality that still succeeds in addressing issues of yearning, disconnectedness, and a sad kind of redemption.

Breathing (Austria 2011) (6): Raised by the state after he was abandoned as a child and now incarcerated in a juvenile detention centre for a grievous crime he committed five years earlier, nineteen-year old Roman Kruger is facing his future with a mixture of fear and sullen resignation. Unable to truly connect with another human being he is now expected to find gainful employment or remain in a bureaucratic no man’s land. After a few unsuccessful attempts he finally takes a job transporting bodies for the county morgue where a chance encounter with an emaciated corpse that happens to bear his family name gives him the impetus to confront his past—the most painful journey of his young life. To its credit, writer/director Karl Markovics’ multiple-award winning film about one damaged soul’s first hesitant steps towards adulthood manages to steer clear of emotional excesses. Relying instead on a slowly burning tension Markovics follows Roman through a series of small emotional epiphanies leading to a somewhat predictable final confrontation which is nevertheless handled with a delicate restraint. Unfortunately the movie’s plodding symbolism begins to drag with Roman’s cell representing more than physical isolation, a swimming pool substituting for a womb, and a sad parade of anonymous cadavers symbolizing the ultimate disconnect. Furthermore, a garish transit station billboard (trains also figure heavily) encouraging viewers to “take the plunge” is shown one too many times while a key scene goes for the irony jugular when it is played out amidst the fake domesticity of an IKEA showroom. Some striking imagery and a sombre background score do soften a few of the film’s rougher edges though, and lead actor Thomas Schubert’s reserved performance captures Roman’s dilemma perfectly.

Breathless (France 1960) (7): Arguably more famous for what it isn’t rather than for what it is, Jean-Luc Godard’s grainy low-budget homage to American B-movies forever broke the mould of what movies are supposed to look like and ushered in French cinema’s New Wave aesthetic. Petty thief and all-around cad Michel (Jean-Paul Belmondo hovering between man’s man and lovable sociopath) goes for a joyride in a stolen car, killing a motorcycle cop in the process. Now holed up in Paris with his unsuspecting American ex-girlfriend Patricia (Jean Seberg personifying Beat Generation sexy) Michel whiles away the hours planning an escape to Italy with Patrica while at the same time trying to seduce the headstrong woman all over again. Meanwhile, the gendarmes are slowly closing in… Seemingly shot on the fly with jerky handheld passages alternating with long tracking shots and the then novel use of jump cuts—reportedly used by Godard to remove any tedious bits—Breathless’ hopped up energy is further augmented by a wailing jazz score and some clever, seemingly ad-libbed dialogue—be it Michel and Patricia bringing the Battle of the Sexes into the bedroom or Michel breaking the fourth wall to smirk directly at the audience. Audacious for its time and still oozing hipness sixty years later. Bogart would have either been proud…or confused.

Bride of Re-Animator (USA 1989) (6): That whacky Dr. West and his angst-ridden sidekick Dr. Cain are at it again in Brian Yuzna's decidedly macabre spoof on the Frankenstein myth. This time around the demented duo are collecting spare parts in order to fashion a new girlfriend for Dr. Cain starting with the preserved heart of his former gal pal. Grisly special effects and outrageous plot devices aside (flying head? finger-eyeball monster?) this is a worthy sequel to its darker predecessor made all the more interesting by superior techno wizardry and a perverted sense of humour; yes, beneath all those butchered limbs and slimy entrails there is a dark comedy of sorts accentuated by a musical score that shifts between tense horror and Bugs Bunny cartoon. For pure gross-out entertainment you could do worse...the final basement showdown between the hapless doctors, their buxom creation, and a crypt full of sewn-together rejects is priceless!

The Brides of Dracula (UK 1960) (6): En route to a private girls’ school in Transylvania, French teacher Marianne Danielle’s coach makes an unexpected stop at a country inn where it appears the local patrons have been doing double-espresso shooters all morning. Between jumping at shadows and giving each other quick nervous glances they try to convince her that a hasty return to Paris would be in her best interest. But when the elderly dowager, Baroness Meinster, enters the tavern and convinces Marianne to spend the night at her estate, the innkeeper and his wife bid her farewell with all the finality of a march to the gallows. Living alone with Greta, her butch maid, the Baroness seems content simply to have another live body gracing her table until Marianne makes a startling discovery...the old gal’s son is being kept prisoner in a separate wing of the castle, presumably so she can rule in his stead. Swayed by his oily charms, Marianne helps the Baron escape and before you can say “Nosferatu” young girls are dropping dead with peculiar bite marks on their necks and furry rubber bats are winging their way on not-so-hidden wires. Enter the cadaverous Dr. Van Helsing (horror mainstay Peter Cushing). Armed with a satchel of wooden stakes and a lot of pseudo-religious babble he sets out to defeat the fanged villain before Marianne becomes his next victim. With its glorious overacting and sumptuous colours, this is one of Hammer Studios’ B-movie gems. The wistful recreation of 19th century Transylvania is a curious blend of Bavarian beer gardens and Cockney accents while Castle Meinster embodies the term “gothic camp”. And the cast is almost perfect, from the gruff local priest to Marianne’s wide-eyed innocence, but David Peel’s GQ looks don’t quite fit the role of a bloodsucking fiend. With his poofy blonde wig and lisping accent he approaches his character with all the conviction of a hairdresser on steroids; perhaps they should have renamed it The Beards of Dracula. Great fun anyway!

A Brief History of Time (USA 1991) (7): Even Errol Morris’ one-note documentary style can’t dampen the sense of wonder in this look at the life and passion of Stephen Hawking based on the physicist’s own bestseller. Part biography, part soliloquy, and part theoretical physics lecture, Hawking is joined by family, friends, and fellow scientists as he reminisces about his early life; the crippling reality of living with ALS, the disease which has left him with a vegetative body but an unfettered mind; and his grand theories concerning the birth and ultimate fate of our universe. Narrated in large part by Stephen himself using the computerized synthesizer which has become his trademark voice one can’t help but get caught up in his sense of wonder as he contemplates black holes and exploding singularities from within the confines of his motorized wheelchair. A bit of self-effacing humour helps the more technical discussions go down easily and some vague theological asides are thrown in which seem to challenge God more than bolster him. And of course the inevitable Philip Glass score coupled with the director’s penchant for softly filtered lighting makes all those talking heads appear more cool than they probably are.

The Bridge (USA 2006) (6): Eric Steel’s controversial documentary on those who choose to commit suicide by jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge poses an ethical dilemma which I find impossible to resolve.  He spent months filming the bridge in order to capture footage of actual jumpers, then interviewed some of their family and friends afterwards.  Is this artistic expression or simply cold exploitation, good intentions or not?  The video clips are definitely gut wrenching and the subsequent interviews are tactfully done.  Steel allows his subjects to speak without hindrance, the result is a heartfelt testament to the memory of those that died....but was it necessary to show the fatal leaps themselves?  Watching these troubled people in their last moments of life certainly added to the film’s impact.  It’s the question of whether or not “dramatic impact” is sufficient justification that troubles me.  There seems to be no higher purpose to this film other than documenting a year’s worth of suicides.  Then, as if to add some artistic integrity to the proceedings, Steel intercuts the various stories with time-lapsed images of the bridge shrouded in fog.  The result is a false romanticism that is cheap and repetitive.  As a journalistic endeavour it has its moments, I’ll even accept Steel’s claim that he tried to intervene whenever he could, but there remains a morbidly voyeuristic component to this documentary that I find unsettling.

Bridge of Spies (USA 2015) (9): As the Cold War heats up, Brooklyn insurance lawyer James Donovan (Tom Hanks) is recruited to defend convicted Soviet spy Rudolf Abel (Oscar-winner Mark Rylance) in what promises to be an open-and-shut case. Vilified as a commie sympathizer by a population already obsessed with nuclear bombs and the Red Menace, Donovan nevertheless sticks to his belief that all men deserve a fair trial as laid out in the Constitution, even if they are working for a foreign power. But matters become politically complicated when U.S. Air Force pilot Gary Powers is captured while flying an aerial reconnaissance mission over Russia at the same time an American student is detained by East German authorities who suspect him of being yet another spy. With the CIA breathing down his neck and military authorities on both sides eager to get their men back, Donovan finds himself in a tug-of-war with Moscow, East Berlin, and Washington as he tries to find a solution that will satisfy everyone. Despite a few of his signature Apple Pie moments, this is one of Director Steven Spielberg’s more captivating films with a literary script penned by the Coen brothers and superb performances from its international cast. Far from the black and white morality of Schindler’s List or Saving Private Ryan, in Bridge of Spies Spielberg views the Cold War through varying shades of grey. Although they are working on opposite sides both Abel and Powers are conscientious men carrying out their assignments with equal diligence—their own opposing convictions highlighting the overall unease of the late 50s when atomic paranoia, fierce nationalism, and East-West xenophobia was the stuff of headlines. Janusz Kaminski’s cinematography, coupled with an Oscar-nominated score and production design take an already fascinating page in history and turn it into a widescreen epic that hops from the sunny streets of New York City to the snowy ruins of East Berlin—scenes of Powers’ plane being shot down had me gripping the sides of the couch. A highly polished yet old-fashioned political thriller.

The Bridge to Terabithia  (USA 2005) (3):  When the school loner teams up with the quiet new girl in class a peculiar friendship develops.  Soon they are playing deep in the woods where they imagine themselves to be king and queen of an imaginary realm. This movie had lots of promise but unfortunately Csupo gave it a double dose of Disney syrup and turned it into a sappy melodrama for preteens. In choosing to smother audiences with schmaltz and shallow pathos he missed an opportunity to really delve into the dark fantasy world of children....a theme explored with greater effect in films such as "Tideland" and "Pan's Labyrinth". Everything about this film is over-the-top from the ponderous soundtrack to Anna Sophia Robb's cloying little saucer-eyed waif. Not recommended for diabetics.

Brief Encounter (UK 1945) (5): When an emotionally frustrated housewife bumps into an equally desperate married doctor at a railway station a spark is lit that threatens to overwhelm them both. Soon Laura and Alec are frolicking in a rowboat, holding hands over dinner and staring into each other’s eyes at the cinema; but when the opportunity to go all the way finally presents itself the two are forced to examine the path their lives are taking. Told mainly in flashback as Laura composes a fictitious confession to her conservative fossil of a husband David Lean’s three-hanky weeper, based on Noel Coward’s play, is chockfull of the usual cinematic metaphors: trains pass each other in the night, a stone bridge is somehow never crossed, and a furtive pat on the shoulder conveys all the heartache in the world. Sadly, although the film is replete with emotional credibility (it’s sympathetic portrayal of spouses on the brink earned the wrath of Irish censors) it suffers from some terribly florid dialogue and overblown performances which render it more soap than substance. The final obligatory scene of syrupy reconciliation while Rachmaninov plays in the background reduced us to a round of groans and winces.

Brigsby Bear (USA 2017) (7): Abducted as a baby by a pair of well-meaning intellectual sociopaths and raised in a hermetically sealed underground bunker somewhere under the desert, James Pope’s world consists of odd rituals coined by his faux parents, intensive math tutoring, and thousands of VHS episodes of Brigsby Bear. Poised somewhere between Barney & Friends and Dr. Who, Brigsby is a cuddly intergalactic teddy whose ultra-low budget adventures combine Sci-Fi camp with calculus lessons and questionably sage advice (“Curiosity is an unnatural emotion!”). Obsessed with the little furry hero James fills his bedroom with Brigsby memorabilia and spends his nights figuring out how to help the bear get out of his latest jam. And then the FBI come knocking and James, now twenty-five, is thrust into a real world he never imagined and reunited with a real family he never knew. Even the one consistent source of comfort in his sheltered life, Brigsby Bear, turns out to be one big lie. But when he discovers the wonderful world of movies James becomes consumed with putting Brigsby to rest by filming one final episode himself—an idea that doesn’t sit well with the new authorities in his life… Penned by SNL alumni and childhood friends Dave McCary and Kyle Mooney (who also plays James) Brigsby Bear is a unpolished charmer which pokes fun at pop culture while at the same time praising the dreamers and creative minds which spawn it. Considering the film’s dark premise however, McCrary and Mooney bypass any dramatic depth and aim instead for the easy “fish out of water” laughs with James’ culture shock toned down to a series of awkward assimilations and his abductors (Mark Hamill, Jane Adams) no more than quirky eggheads who went too far. But perhaps its this divorce from reality (a continuation of James’ fantasy childhood?) which gives the film its “aww shucks” likability in the first place. I mean, who does’t want to see Mooney’s mop-headed man-child live the dream if only for a few reels? Greg Kinnear co-stars as a cop with thespian aspirations and Claire Danes toggles the charm as James’ cynical teenaged sister.

Britannia Hospital  (UK 1982) (7):  Too bitter to be dismissed as mere farce, too blunt to be simple satire, this final instalment in Lindsay Anderson’s trilogy on the decline of the British Empire is equal parts sitcom and social diatribe.  Like the boarding school in If... we once again see a public institution standing in for the country itself.  This time around it’s a hospital under siege.  As the privileged elite go head to head with unionized labour on the eve of a royal visit, a lone doctor quietly creates a super being meant to replace vastly inferior homo sapiens.  Absurd, angry, and filled with despair, the film ends with a darkly prophetic monologue and a chilling demonstration of man’s “successor”.  Unsettling.

Broadcast News (USA 1987) (7): James L. Brooks’ skewed view of journalistic integrity in the arena of high stakes network news takes the form of a workplace love triangle. Shrewd but boring reporter Aaron Altman (Albert Brooks) is carrying a torch for neurotically fastidious producer Jane Craig (Holly Hunter) who is obsessed with charismatic anchorman Tom Grunick (William Hurt), a handsome hunk whose outgoing personality and unwavering honesty mask the fact he is completely clueless when it comes to just about everything. With Aaron and Jane pushing the boundaries of their respective niches and Tom feeling the first stirrings of ambition after a controversial story he covered himself receives positive reviews, everyone is brought to the breaking point both personally and professionally when emotions finally go ballistic just as the station announces massive layoffs. The right combination of biting comedy and honest drama allows Brooks to make a quasi-cynical statement regarding journalism in the age of infotainment without resorting to sarcasm or cliché. He presents an industry where stories of human suffering are gussied up for optimum viewer impact (and commercial breaks), emotions are often rehearsed, and personality trumps substance—yet his three stars (who all received Oscar nominations for their trouble) stumble ever onward convinced that it is all somehow worth it. A fully fleshed, slightly bitter, anti-romance co-starring Joan Cusack as a whacked-out girl Friday and Jack Nicholson in a surprise cameo as the network’s star anchorman whose slightest frown reverberates throughout the newsroom like a heavenly edict.

The Broadway Melody (aka The Broadway Melody of 1929) (USA 1929) (5): Catfights and heartbreak abound in this roaring twenties fairytale which follows the trials and tribulations of two naïve sisters from the American heartland as they vie for fame and romance on New York’s “Great White Way”. This early talkie boasts some terribly camp song & dance numbers along with enough bitchy humour and racy lingerie to keep modern audiences mildly amused. There’s even a mincing homo costumer to show us just how far Hollywood’s gay stereotypes haven’t come in the intervening eighty years. The glitzy deco sets are wonderful but the blatant overacting and mortuary make-up hearken back to the worst days of silent films. A frothy little melodrama that’s as shallow as a producer’s soul.

Broadway Melody of 1940 (USA 1940) (7): Take away the grand sets, the string of Cole Porter tunes, and the dazzling dance routines and you are left with a threadbare plot which holds no surprises. But oh those sets and songs and dance routines! Longtime friends and dance routine partners Johnny Brett and King Shaw (Fred Astaire and future California governor George Murphy) are barely making a living performing in second rate nightclubs when opportunity comes knocking in the form of Broadway talent scout Bob Casey (the Wizard of Oz himself, Frank Morgan) who has his sights on Brett. Unfortunately a case of mismatched identities ensues and it is Shaw who gets the big break instead, hoofing it up on the big stage with leading lady and mutual love interest Clare Bennet (Eleanor Powell dancing rings around both men). Of course it all gets ironed out in the end just in time for the grand finale, a camp South Seas spectacle choreographed to Porter’s “Begin the Beguine”. A thoroughly charming bit of eye candy whose highlights also include a swirling pas de deux between Astaire and Powell in Harlequin drag and cameos from a few forgotten Vaudeville stars: juggler extraordinaire Trixie Firschke, and soprano Charlotte Arren in a side-splitting operatic spoof worthy of Fanny Brice.

Broken (England 2012) (2): Welcome to the most dysfunctional cul-de-sac in Great Britain home of “Skunk” (Eloise Laurence), the diabetic daughter of solicitor and single parent Archie (Tim Roth) a respectable man who happens to be caught up in a romantic triangle with his Polish au pair. Across the street are the Buckleys and their adult son Rick who is not only mentally challenged, he may very well be dangerous. And next door to them is single father Bob Oswald (Rory Kinnear), a hot-tempered asshole whose three lying slag daughters would rather watch the world burn than tell the truth. Over the next few days the impressionable Skunk will witness human nature at its worst as sex, lies, and violence irrevocably change her small world. Plagued by a script marked with ludicrous turns and schoolgirl clichés (that first kiss! that terrible bully! that baffling old adult world!) Rufus Norris’ contrived melodrama tries too hard to mix tragedy with a bit of irony and humour as a nearby auto scrapyard becomes a destructive metaphor and Skunk’s verbal spars with Archie, meant to be precocious, wind up dull and childish. And what’s with those twins tossing bags of shit at people for no apparent reason? Aside from a waste of acting talent everything feels strained and theatrical from the wailing tears to the bloody fisticuffs to a gauzy “spiritual” sequence as one character stands at a crossroads. If you like your pathos served up hot and heavy then get out your napkin and tuck in for Norris has ensured there’s plenty to go around.

The Broken (UK 2008) (6): "Through the looking glass" takes on a whole new meaning when a woman begins to suspect she is being replaced by a malevolent doppelganger from the other side of the mirror. Awash in menacing shadows and claustrophobic camerawork The Broken is certainly stylish. Add to that some great performances, taut direction and a fiendish sense of paranoia and you have all the makings of a great thriller-cum-psychodrama. Too bad it all peters out in the end with a lukewarm twist and a distinct lack of resolution one way or the other. It's the horror equivalent of a shaggy dog story; lots of buildup with a disappointingly bland finale.

The Broken Circle Breakdown (Belgium 2012) (6): Didier and Elise are a perfectly mismatched couple: he’s a bearded banjo-plucking cowboy in a popular bluegrass band and she’s a bohemian tattoo artist whose body art is a veritable patchwork quilt of her life and loves. As the film opens the two are faced with every parent’s nightmare when their seven-year old daughter Maybelle is diagnosed with leukemia, a stressor for which their relationship is ill-prepared. Based on a play by Johan Heldenbergh (who is also cast as Didier), director Felix van Groeningen moves the narrative back and forth through time showing husband and wife falling in and out of love as Maybelle goes in and out of hospital, her illness providing a guilt-riddled minefield of sorts between her dad, an angry atheist, and her mom’s hippy spirituality. In much the same vein as Clanfrance’s Blue Valentine, Groeningen traces the emotional ebb and flow of a contemporary relationship over a period of several years, from two young people experiencing the first blush of love to a pair of haggard parents and beyond. A well acted and engaging piece of cinema ultimately undone by Heldenbergh’s decision to use it as a podium from which to launch a few very personal YouTube rants. When Didier discovers that the science necessary to save his daughter’s life is being hampered by American evangelicals he launches into a couple of lengthy tirades aimed first at George Bush’s veto of stem cell research, then at religion in general before finally shaking his fists at Yahweh himself. While his sentiments certainly hit the proverbial nail on the head their delivery is both stagey and forced. And the decision to smother his two leads under mountains of unbearable heartache begins to look like mere fodder for a hundred Top 10 country-western weepers—the exaggerated misery rendered almost frivolous in the process. No wonder it was Belgium’s official Oscar contender. The soundtrack of bluegrass ballads however (Heldenbergh and co-star Veerle Baetens use their own voices) is pure heaven, and in the role of Maybelle little Nell Cattrysse delivers the film’s most believable performance.

Broken Wings (Israel 2002) (9):  Beautifully realized film about one family’s disintegration following the sudden death of the husband and father.  While the eldest daughter watches her dreams of becoming a recording artist slip away due to the new domestic responsibilities thrust upon her, the eldest son turns his back on the world and adopts an angry cynicism that keeps everyone at arm’s length.  The two youngest children, perhaps sensing the crippling grief  in the home, develop a sullen petulance composed of tantrums and life-threatening stunts.  And all the while their mother sleepwalks through her day oblivious of the pain around her.  There is an aura of barely suppressed rage and guilt in the Ulman household that seems to poison everything it comes in contact with.  It finally takes another crisis to jolt the older members of the family out of their self-pitying ruts and begin to work towards healing the rift left by the husband’s death.  It’s difficult to believe that this remarkably mature and assured work is Nil Bergman’s first feature film.  He brings a depth of characterization to his movie that is usually associated with far more experienced directors.  Furthermore he realizes that the tiniest of details can be tremendously important to a story’s narrative....whether it’s a honeybee buzzing against a pane of glass or faded murals of happy children surrounding an empty pool.  A wonderfully understated film with natural performances and an ending that is both upbeat and believable.

Bronson (UK 2008) (8): Since he was arrested for armed robbery in 1974, Michael Peterson has spent his entire adult life, save for a few short-lived months of freedom, shuffled between prisons and asylums with most of that time in solitary confinement due to his well earned reputation of being Britain’s most violent criminal. Leaving a trail of bruises and broken bones (but no corpses) in his wake, Peterson—who took the name “Charlie Bronson” in honour of the American actor whose films he never saw—was an unpredictable mad dog with a working class bellow who waged one-man riots that chalked up thousands of pounds in damage yet also produced impressive, though patently disturbed, drawings and wrote essays on everything from physical fitness (he built himself up to bull-size while in confinement) to award-winning poetry. Danish director Nicolas Winding Refn tackles the enigma of Bronson in this schizoid biopic and he finds his perfect instrument in Tom Hardy who mugs and rages with mad glee, his shorn head and handlebar moustache making him look like an insane circus strongman. Narrated by a clownish Bronson (Hardy) as he performs a spirited monologue for an imaginary audience in an imaginary theatre straight out of Rocky Horror, Refn sticks mainly to the facts but he does so with a theatrical zeal suitable to his subject. Hardy’s unstable alpha male stampedes across the screen roaring defiance and messing with people’s heads (often while nude and greased up for a fight) while a soundtrack ranging from Verdi and Wagner to Pet Shop Boys and Glass Candy provide counterpoint. With surreal passages butting up against bone-crunching realism, the whole film passes before one’s eyes like like a bit of psychotic cabaret. Upon seeing the film in 2011 Peterson himself described it as “…theatrical, creative, and brilliant…” I dare not disagree.

The Brood (Canada 1979) (7): At the mysterious “Somafree Institute of Psychoplasmics” patients with deep seated resentment issues are offered a novel way to vent their anger. Under the tutelage of Dr. Hal Raglan (a wonderfully intense Oliver Reed) clients are emotionally goaded to the point where their rage takes on an actual corporeal existence leading to dramatic catharses involving sudden rashes and dripping pustules. But for one particularly disturbed woman the treatment proves to be all too effective allowing her to not only nurse her various murderous grudges, but dress them up in little snowsuits and send them on their bloody way as well...an ability which doesn’t bode well for anyone who’s ever wronged her. Arguably one of Cronenberg’s best films, this fiendish little sci-fi/horror hybrid revels in those dark spaces we’d rather not investigate whether it be a gloomy staircase in an empty house or our own sadistic revenge fantasies. Directing a talented cast against a backdrop of wintry Toronto landscapes Cronenberg slowly ratchets up the tension, jolt by sudden jolt, before bringing it all to a suitably macabre finale...including one particularly nasty postpartum scene which had censors everywhere lunging for the scissors. Grotesque and deliberately provocative á la David Cronenberg, The Brood still remains one of the more intelligent films to emerge from the era of “Canucksploitation” shockers.

Brotherhood (Denmark 2009) (7): After leaving the army amid rumours of sexual impropriety, a despondent blond-haired Lars somehow falls in with a local chapter of White Supremacists where he meets hardcore skinhead Jimmy, a sullen young man bedecked in swastika tattoos and attitude. Rooming together while Lars prepares for his initiation into the Brotherhood, the two men go from sharing a house to sharing a bed—a situation which proves dangerously awkward when they’re discovered and a violent chapter in Jimmy’s past resurfaces once more. If it were helmed by an American production company—or even worse, Canadian—we could pretty well expect this “Gay Nazis in Love” story to be little more than a string of Antifa clichés manipulating us to a final righteous ending. But Danish director Nicolo Donato has a deeper vision to share, plunging us headfirst into the internalized homophobia and unfocused rage which sees his Alt-Right Romeo & Juliet trying to ascend the pit they’ve dug for themselves while implacable forces (in this case Neo-Nazi leader “Fatty” plus an unexpected Judas) cling tenaciously to their pant legs. Some handheld camerawork gives everything an unpolished edge while an accompanying score provides all the right musical cues and stars Thure Lindhardt and David Dencik offer up a fine pair of performances—Lindhardt’s aryan good looks contrasting with Dencik’s brooding features. Starting off with a horrific bashing, Donato barely gives his audience time to recover before he starts amping up the sexual tension between his two protagonists leading to some dark homoeroticism—the vigorous sex scenes rendered ambivalent whenever one of Jimmy’s tattoos come into view. But for all its sincerity Donato’s film suffers from a couple of narrative potholes: Lars’ transformation from pampered Liberal to morally indecisive immigrant-basher is never fleshed out satisfactorily and the movie’s ironic climax hinges on a pair of coincidences which challenge credibility. But Donato still had the balls to jar our complacency, and with this film he asks some tough questions for those willing to listen.

The Browning Version (UK 1951) (7): Michael Redgrave brings a remarkable depth to the role of a public school teacher whose ill health is forcing him to give up his tenure at an upper class boys’ school in favour of a less lucrative position at an institution for troubled teens. Mr. Crocker-Harris, grim and unsmiling, looks back over his 18 years as a professor of Latin and Greek with bitterness and regret. Once a promising young scholar, he slowly let his dreams die one by one until, approaching middle age, he realizes his life is as dead as the languages he teaches. He is pitied by the faculty, scorned by his students, and trapped in a loveless marriage to a woman who views him with contempt even as she flaunts her affairs in his face. Yet there remains one student who seems to sense the old man’s inherent worth, a bright young boy who tries to tap into his fragile humanity and whose farewell gift, from which the movie gets its title, opens a floodgate of repressed emotion. Asquith presents Terence Rattigan’s painfully honest play with great subtlety aided in large part by Dickinson’s poignant B&W cinematography. It’s all so very British, with the characters’ impeccable diction and well-mannered facades barely concealing their underlying anger and despair. Harris’ emotional showdown with his wife, a victim in her own rights, is brilliantly downplayed even as the sky above them explodes with fireworks. Perhaps the film relies too heavily on melodrama at times with its drawn out stares and well-choreographed anguish; and perhaps the allusion to the classical tragedy of Agamemnon, which Harris is teaching his class, doesn’t quite hit the ironic mark it was aimed at. But these are minor drawbacks for a film that many critics hail as a small masterpiece.

Brute Force (USA 1947) (9): Jules Dassin’s deceptively simple prison break flick actually frames a much deeper allegory, namely man’s ceaseless struggle against the cold decrees of God and Fate. Within the walls of the overcrowded Westgate penitentiary a contest of wills is raging between tenacious prisoner Joe Collins (Burt Lancaster) and head of the guards, Captain Munsey (Hume Cronyn). Fixated on busting out at any cost Collins sets himself on a direct collision course with Munsey, an oily psychopath whose soft voice and diminutive stature belie a streak of sadistic cruelty. Elaborate escape plans, double-crosses, and one final act of desperation will ultimately pit one against the other with no clear winner in sight… Shot in joyless shades of grey, the world is reduced to iron bars and concrete blocks wherein Collins and his fellow convicts pine away for the freedom that beckons just outside the prison gates while Munsey and his acolytes look down impassively from their towers and walkways. Lancaster dominates the screen with an intense performance that uses every part of his body from those fiery unblinking eyes to the set of his shoulders. Cronyn, equally intense, practically slithers across the screen doling out pain or false assurances with the same venomous intent—his obsession with gaining more power unto himself evident to everyone, including the cowed and ineffectual warden (Roman Bohnen) and the prison doctor (Art Smith) whose disillusionment with the system has led to alcoholism. Shocking at the time, the implied violence is comparatively tame by today’s standards yet no less effective and Dassin offsets it with touches of surprising artistry: a Wagnerian overture covers up the sounds of a beating; Munsey’s office is decorated with telling artwork; and a sketched calendar girl, her eyes forever closed, becomes a makeshift shrine as her blank countenance elicits romantic memories in Collins and his cellmates. Furthermore, a work detail in an underground drainage conduit filled with mud and poisonous air is rife with mythological overtones. A near perfect marriage of gritty realism and spiritual metaphor which compares favourably to 1985’s cerebral prison film, Runaway Train. Ann Blyth and Yvonne de Carlo co-star as the women left behind, heartthrob Howard Duff makes his film debut as a disgraced serviceman, and Trinidad native “Sir Lancelot” (Lancelot Victor Pinard) provides a Greek chorus of sorts as a mild-mannered inmate prone to bouts of ad-libbed calypso.

Bug (USA 2002) (7): A little boy squashing a cockroach on a Los Angeles sidewalk sets in motion a long chain reaction of coincidences affecting dozens of strangers. That one dead bug will eventually lead to one couple's disintegration and another's reconciliation; a man will become a stalker while another one will end up very unwell and a third will find himself in a real jam; a cat will have its nine lives put to the test and a pig will end up in the crosshairs. And in what has to be the film’s biggest stretch everyone will be given a second chance at life and they won’t even know it. Phil Hay and Matt Manfredi’s lighthearted look at Chaos Theory may lack the pizzazz of Tom Tykwer’s Run Lola Run but it certainly doesn’t lack in imagination or sheer audacity, and a few familiar Hollywood faces don’t hurt either. Watching how these two men manage to link seemingly innocuous events into an ever expanding picture had me laughing out loud more than once—not all the connections may make perfect sense but then again life itself rarely does anyway. An enjoyable little indie production with wit and charm to spare.

Bug (USA 2006) (7): “Truth” is what you make of it and psychosis is a contagion in William Friedkin’s adaptation of Tracy Letts’ play—a widescreen presentation which somehow manages to maintain the latter’s sense of paranoid claustrophobia. Living in a fleabag motel somewhere in Oklahoma and desperately trying to avoid her abusive ex who’s just been released from prison, down and out waitress Agnes (Ashley Judd, utterly convincing) begins a faltering relationship with taciturn drifter Peter (Michael Shannon reprising his stage role). Both characters are broken in more ways than one: personal tragedy and a violent relationship have left Agnes crushed inside with drugs and alcohol providing only transient relief while Peter is escaping a different kind of abuse, one that has left him suspicious and uncertain of everything and everyone. When the two eventually give in to carnal temptation the morning after proves to be anything but a pleasant afterglow for that is when the bugs begin to appear. At first nothing more than a small bite on his wrist, Agnes has trouble seeing the tiny creatures that Peter insists are infesting the apartment. But as his agitation increases—coupled with a fantastical backstory—she slowly begins to question…everything. Just as the distinction between reality and delusion grows indistinct for his two leads the further they trip down the rabbit hole, so too does the boundary between tightly controlled shots and a chaotic free-for-all as Friedkin’s directorial style intentionally threatens to go off the rails. Going from seemingly rational discourse to the equivalent of tin foil hats is not easy to accomplish in any media, yet cast and crew manage to pull it off taking us along with them as detached observers. We may not know exactly what is happening beneath the stroboscopic effects and grotesque visuals, where a knock at the door induces terror, a ceiling fan turns malevolent, and a simple toothache hints at darker forces, but we know it isn’t good. A tale of two damaged souls plucking madness out of thin air, Bug is a fitting metaphor to describe an age where misinformed zealots reshape the real world in their own image and conspiracy theorists are able to connect dots that don’t even exist. Brían F. O’Byrne co-stars as an unwelcome face from the past; Lynn Collins plays the fading voice of reason as Agnes’ best friend; and Harry Connick Jr. proves he is more than a mellow voice as the dangerous ex, a character bristling with toxic male rage.

Bullitt (USA 1968) (7): Aside from an amazingly choreographed car chase in and around San Francisco and Steve McQueen’s handsome mug, Peter Yates’ gritty policier is pretty much standard fare albeit with a slightly more convoluted plot. McQueen plays Frank Bullitt, an honest cop assigned to protect a star witness who is slated to appear before a senate committee on mob corruption. Unfortunately the bad guys are one step ahead and the witness is assassinated before he can testify leaving Bullitt at the mercy of both a very angry senator (an oily Robert Vaughn) and the chief of police. Determined to find out how the killers managed to track down their target Bullitt launches his own investigation and winds up uncovering a lurid trail of deception and double-crosses. Nice touches of 60’s kitsch, including a host of familiar character actors, add to a compelling if somewhat fantastic storyline and Jacqueline Bisset’s inclusion as Bullitt’s love interest (and nagging voice of reason) provides a sexy distraction. But that aforementioned car chase alone is worth the rental fee.

Bunny Lake is Missing (UK 1965) (6): Freshly arrived in England, American Ann Lake (Carol Lynley) leaves her five-year old daughter Felicia, nicknamed “Bunny”, at nursery school before running off to do some errands. When she returns to pick her up however not only is Bunny missing but the staff have no record of the child having been there in the first place. And then the police become involved and Ann’s initial concern turns to full blown panic for all traces of Bunny seem to have vanished into thin air including her passport and all her clothes and toys. With the police beginning to doubt whether her daughter ever existed at all only Ann’s brother Steven (2001’s Keir Dullea), a journalist living in London, insists that something sinister is afoot… Director Otto Preminger’s tale of mystery and madness starts out as a straightforward policier before taking a sharp turn into darker psychological territory. Much like Mia Farrow’s character in Rosemary’s Baby, Lynley plays a distraught mother in crisis whose cries for help not only fail to reach the right ears, they also cast further suspicion on herself. Filmed in bleak shades of B&W, Preminger keeps most of the action indoors with narrow hallways, locked doors, and dusty corners suggesting frames of mind as much as physical settings. A fine supporting cast provides enough creepy eccentrics to keep you guessing including a cameo by Noël Coward as Ann’s lecherous landlord and Martita Hunt as the retired head of Bunny’s school—a nutty old woman with an unhealthy interest in children’s nightmares—while screen legend Laurence Olivier plays the cynical police superintendent whose investigation into Bunny’s disappearance yields one dead end after another. Unfortunately Dullea’s tepid performance as the outraged Steven is more studied than sincere and that big twist ending is just so much psychotic improv.

The Burmese Harp (Japan 1956) (9): At the end of WWII a regiment of Japanese troops stationed in Burma surrender to British forces and prepare to be transported to a distant P.O.W. camp. Before leaving however, one officer is given the task of convincing a renegade battalion of fellow soldiers firmly planted in a mountain stronghold to lay down their weapons and accept defeat. Sadly he fails to sway their stubborn commander in time to avert an ally counterstrike and tragedy ensues. Suddenly alone and destitute, the young man disguises himself as a monk and begins the 200 mile journey to join his comrades. Along the way his encounters with war’s gruesome aftermath will contrast sharply with the simple humanity of the peasants he meets and his life will be changed forever. Rife with Buddhist allegory and sublime choral pieces, this anti-war parable is one of the most striking examples of Japanese cinema ever made. Kon Ichikawa directs with the eye of a poet and his talented cast perform beautifully. Sad, reflective, and quietly subversive—a small masterpiece.

Burn After Reading (USA 2008) (8): Like a dummied down version of Dr. Strangelove aimed at the YouTube crowd, Ethan and Joel Coen’s screwball satire strives to take the “I” out of C.I.A. while proving yet again that proper style can triumph over a lack of substance. When disgruntled ex-CIA analyst Osborne Cox (John Malkovich, delightfully unbalanced) decides to record his memoirs for a future book he sets in motion a deadly comedy of errors and mistaken identities after a copy of his unfinished work accidentally falls into the hands of a pair of inept personal trainers. Believing they have stumbled upon a cache of volatile government secrets Linda Litzke (Frances McDormand proving she’s still got it) and Chad Feldheimer (Brad Pitt, ditto) quickly give up on the notion of simply returning the incriminating CD and instead decide to sell it to the highest bidder—Linda, a forty-something lonely heart, needs the money to “reinvent” herself through cosmetic surgery while Chad, who obviously rode the short bus to school, just likes playing spy vs. spy. Meanwhile Osborne’s emasculating harpy of a wife (I love Tilda Swinton!) is having an affair with slutty federal agent Harry Pfarrer (a salacious George Clooney) who’s convinced he’s being shadowed by the government which causes him to suspect everyone around him including Linda whom he’s just met through a personal ad while his wife is away secretly contemplating divorce…. And all the while Osborne is getting crazier, Linda’s boss is bent on wooing her, the Russians are mildly interested, and the CIA is walking into doors. In the end everyone involved is either screwing someone else or being screwed themselves, often simultaneously. It’s a madcap mess to be sure, and the separate strands don’t add up to a whole lot despite its tepid Cold War echoes and a few unexpected shocks. Taken as a farce however the laughs come easily, the A-listers provide a host of endearingly idiotic caricatures, and a non-stop barrage of F-bombs spice up a decidedly deadpan script. And even though the all too obvious nods to Kubrick are mostly wasted, they do provide a visual flair which compliments the film’s overall frenetic pace. But the final laugh, which perfectly sums up the preceding ninety minutes, comes from a stone-faced CIA superior who, upon trying to make sense of the conflicting reports crossing his desk, wonders aloud how people could be so damn stupid.

The Burning  (USA 1981) (6):  A cantankerous camp caretaker is horribly burned when a practical joke goes awry.  Five years later, armed with an unusually sharp pair of garden shears, he returns to wreak his revenge on a new generation of stupid kids.  Big hair!  Gratuitous breasts!  Naked shower scene!  Horny teenagers!  Dead teenagers!  Ridiculous bogeyman plot!  Annoying POV camerawork!  Cheap shocks!  Yes kids, this is what used to make your parents scream on a Saturday night.  Now wipe that smirk off your face and pay attention, the 80’s were nothing to laugh at.

Burnt By The Sun (Russia 1994) (7): A sad echo of Chekhov drifts through director Nikita Mikhalkov’s Oscar-winning tale of a decorated Russian veteran unable to come to terms with his motherland’s new reality. Hero of the Revolution and now a loving family man, Colonel Sergei Kotov (Mikhalkov himself who also wrote the screenplay) is spending a relaxing summer at his country dacha surrounded by an ebullient assortment of eccentric friends and domestics as well as his much younger wife Marusya and animated eight-year old daughter Nadya (real life daughter Nadezhda). But this is 1936 and despite the long idyllic days full of laughter and music Stalin’s vicious reign of terror is just beginning to cast its shadow so that when multi-talented Dimitriy—an old acquaintance and Marusya’s former lover—shows up after a long absence abroad, everyone is delighted to see him except Sergei whose military instincts suspect darker motives afoot. Divided by tone into two parts, Mikhalkov first lulls us with a prolonged intro showing the Kotov clan enjoying life in a series of silly, almost satirical vignettes (a showdown between a tank commander and an irate babushka is spot on). With the arrival of Dimitriy however the film makes a u-turn, his haunted presence underlined by troubling metaphors which start out subtle yet grow ever more malignant—mysterious balls of fire drift past windows, a lively piano rendition of Offenbach’s Can-Can turns malicious, and a gigantic portrait of Stalin hovers over a wheat field like the face of God (or Godzilla). Taking its title from the glorious sun of revolution, Mikhaldov has weaved facts and fiction into a vicious polemic bracketed by two standout performances: himself as a once proud party idealist now horrified by what Moscow has become (a photo of Kotov laughing with Stalin sits ironically in the parlour), and his daughter as a yet unblemished tabula rasa who wouldn’t know a dictator from a dormouse. Marred in part by some chaotic editing and too many kooks in the kitchen (Kotov’s household is uncomfortably reminiscent of Capra’s Vanderhof clan in You Can’t Take it With You) it’s still well worth a viewing.

The Buttercup Chain (UK 1970) (6): Since they were kids Margaret and France have always had the hots for each other but since their mothers were identical twins the spectre of incest has prevented them from pursuing their mutual attraction to its logical conclusion. As a consolation prize they enter into a 4-way relationship with tourists Fred and Manny, an arrangement which allows them to air their angst all over Sweden, Italy and Spain as the quartet embarks upon an endless summer holiday. But "free love" can sometimes come with a terrible price including a tragic funeral followed by a hot-blooded showdown on a disco dance floor. I'm sure there's a mature and insightful film here somewhere beneath all the artsy hysterics and counter-culture claptrap but I found myself settling for some gorgeous scenery and soaring violins instead.

By the Light of the Silvery Moon (USA 1953) (6):  Cloying sequel to the insufferable "On Moonlight Bay" which is rendered somewhat more palatable by a handful of memorable pop songs.  WWI has just ended and in anticipation of her sweetheart's return from the trenches eighteen-year old Indiana tomboy Doris Day (she was THIRTY-ONE for crying out loud) is eager to trade in her mechanic's overalls for a frilly wedding dress—much to the bitter disappointment of her kid brother's lovestruck piano teacher.  But alas, her burgeoning hormones are put on ice when fiancé Gordon MacRae decides he needs time to settle down and become established before taking her to the altar.  In the meantime her banker father's professional dealings with a French actress are giving the town gossips a field day and an innocent note is misinterpreted causing everyone to suspect each other of infidelity.  Luckily it all works out in the end thanks to the power of song and a bit of dance.  Of course with all those dollhouse interiors and snowy postcard scenes of smiling caucasians you already knew a happy ending was inevitable.  More wholesome than eating an apple pie in church with Jesus.

Byzantium (UK 2012) (6): If Bram Stoker had penned a chick flick the result might have been Neil Jordan’s moody mash-up of gothic horror and feminist wiles set on the rugged coast of England. Two women on the run from sinister forces hole up in a dilapidated seaside inn. The older Clara (Gemma Arterton) is a ruthlessly practical survivor who has no qualms about dealing with any threat as evidenced by a gruesome opening scene. In contrast, the younger Eleanor (Saoirse Ronan) is a quietly introspective teenager given to bouts of melancholy and a strange aura of sadness. Immediately settling in, Clara goes about ensuring their mutual interests by seducing the proprietor and turning his bankrupt hotel into a more lucrative establishment only to see her hard work undermined when Eleanor puts their plans in peril by unexpectedly falling in love. There is a terrible secret both women are protecting—Clara with single-minded fierceness, Eleanor with reluctant ambivalence—so when “Frank” (Caleb Landry Jones) enters Eleanor’s life complications arise that could have far-reaching, and very deadly, consequences. Nicely shot scenes of rocky shores and grey skies frame a somewhat muddled storyline which flows across time and only gradually comes together to make sense largely due to Eleanor’s ongoing diary entries which she hastily jots down in precise calligraphy only to inexplicably destroy in equal haste. Drenched in rich shades of indigo and crimson which lend it an air of Victorian fable—both grandmother’s house and the big bad wolf are there if you look hard enough— Jordan’s slow pace doesn’t rely on suspense so much as it does on building up a strange feeling of pathos for his two leads whose role of perpetrators gradually gives way to something more tragic. Although the mystery around which the film revolves ultimately proves to be nothing we haven’t seen on the screen before, Jordan’s adaptation of Moira Buffini’s play certainly keeps things fresh enough with a couple of novel turns and some bloody good CGI effects. A little stagey perhaps, like a macabre twist on The French Lieutenant’s Woman, and Jones’ portrayal of the oddly idiosyncratic Frank would look more at home in a mad scientist’s laboratory, but for all its gloomy atmospherics Jordan’s team was still able to add a new volume to an old story.

The Cabin in the Woods (USA 2012) (8): With influences as varied as Sam Raimi, Kevin Smith, and Michael Haneke, Drew Goddard’s wickedly original monster movie doesn’t just poke fun at every single horror cliché you can think of, it mercilessly exploits them for its own twisted purpose while at the same time shooting genre fans a big lop-sided grin. Starting out like any other teen scream movie, the usual college archetypes (slut, jock, stoner, virgin, egghead) climb into a van and head for a cousin’s backwoods cabin for a weekend of alcohol-fuelled mischief. But this is not going to be an ordinary getaway for right from the beginning their every move is being monitored and manipulated by a small army of technicians nestled in an elaborate underground complex brimming with high-tech wizardry. From a creepy encounter with a gas station attendant to a pile of unpleasant surprises awaiting them in the cabin’s basement, everything seems to be scripted, right down to the cleverly concealed nozzles emitting mood-altering pheromones. When the scary stuff finally does arrive the unfortunate kids are left to fight for their lives while their cynical observers crack jokes and sip coffee. Only gradually do we become aware of the reasons behind this intricate ruse, and the final earthshaking reveal proves both monstrously evil and brazenly cheeky. Goddard’s impish mix of paranoia, terror, and youtube parody pays loving (if somewhat warped) homage to so many cult favourites I lost count, but sly references to The Shining, Evil Dead, Hellraiser, and Stephen King’s It were unmistakable. A conspiracy theory penned by H. P. Lovecraft, a satirical jab at what makes audiences squirm, or a smug practical joke aimed at our insatiable appetite for the macabre; The Cabin in the Woods is all of these, plus a damned good time to boot!

Caged (USA 1950) (7): Convicted and sentenced for her role in an armed robbery which killed her husband, 19-year old Marie Ellen (a standout Eleanor Parker) is facing one to fifteen years in a state women’s penitentiary. Terribly naïve, frightened, and already two-months pregnant Marie strives for an early parole, but the realities of prison life—from a sadistic matron (Hope Emerson looking like a 7-foot drag queen), to the soul-crushing daily routine, to the dehumanizing criminal system itself—will slowly erode her dreams, threatening to turn them into something much colder. Highly contentious at the time, John Cromwell’s piece of jailhouse noir was itself based on the accounts of journalist Virginia Kellogg who went undercover as an inmate so she could document prison life from the inside. What emerges is a condemnation of a system which rather than correct criminal behaviour merely enforces it, churning out repeat offenders who feel they have no other options. Using sets that resemble a WWII stalag with rickety bunkbeds and the persistent clanging of barred gates and alarm bells, cinematographer Carl E. Guthrie’s use of subdued lighting and narrow spaces heightens the feeling of isolation while drab B&W film stock leeches out any sense of hope: a passing train full of commuters on their way home proves overwhelming for some inmates, glossy magazines featuring contented housewives mock everything they’ve lost, and an abandoned kitten ultimately brings more pain than comfort. Even the comforting idea of “Mom” gets turned inside-out. Parker does for incarcerated women what Olivia de Havilland did for psychiatric patients in 1948’s The Snake Pit, her Oscar-nominated performance tracing her character’s death of innocence with chilling clarity. Agnes Moorehead co-stars as a compassionate warden whose hands are perpetually tied by a male-dominated bureaucracy and outdated opinions (prisons are for punishment only!) and the cast is rounded out by Simone Signoret lookalike Betty Garde as a tough but fair Queen Bee and Grandma Walton herself, Ellen Corby, playing a jovial murderer (“It’s the judge’s fault! He should have arrested me the first time I shot my husband!”) However it’s Hope Emerson who gives the film its most problematic performance as the corrupt matron, a character which comes very close to overkill despite the fact Emerson herself deservedly received a Best Supporting Actress nomination. Her ice cold demeanour and snarling voice threaten to turn the entire production into a lurid B-movie, but as the physical embodiment of all that’s wrong with the system she has a lot to carry on her ample shoulders and she does so with great skill aided by a script which refuses to wallow in too many clichés.

The Caine Mutiny (USA 1954) (9): Newly graduated from Princeton, fresh-faced and privileged mama’s boy Willie Keith does his part for the war effort by joining the Pacific fleet as an ensign. Unfortunately his dreams of high seas adventure are scuttled when he finds himself assigned to The Caine, a rusty old minesweeper with a laissez-faire captain and a crew of ne’er-do-wells who haven’t seen any action in years. Keith’s initial disgust soon turns to hope however when the captain is replaced by Lt. Commander Philip Queeg (Humphrey Bogart), a strict disciplinarian with a reputation of doing things by the book who soon has the sailors properly dressed, clean shaven, and going about their duties with a reluctant enthusiasm. But with the passing of time it becomes apparent that the new captain’s strict adherence to rules and regulations masks something far more disturbing as his military zeal slowly morphs into a paranoid fanaticism which alienates him from everyone on board, including his own officers. Things finally reach a breaking point when his increasingly erratic behaviour forces second-in-command to forcibly take control of the ship. Now facing the death penalty for mutiny the officer must rely not only on the wiles of his lawyer but on the support of his fellow NCOs as well—the latter proving far more problematic than he could have imagined. Released just three years before his death, this powerful WWII drama garnered Humphrey Bogart his third Oscar nomination and for good reason. As the shellshocked Queeg he displays a depth of emotion rarely seen in his previous films, his outstanding performance backed up by fellow stars Johnson, Fred MacMurray, and José Ferrer. Not interested in burning his protagonist at the stake, director Edward Dmytryk (just recovering from his own Hollywood blacklisting) presents us with a conflicted man whose conscientious efforts to do the right thing are constantly undermined by a resentful staff and his own personal demons. Scenes of shipboard life range from good-natured sloth to strained stand-offs and a climactic storm filmed with enough dizzying effects to elicit a case of widescreen seasickness. But it is the controlled tension of the final court martial hearing that delivers the movie’s most dramatic punches as erstwhile friends turn traitorous, recollections become muddled, and Maryk’s noble intentions are called into question even as Dmytryk wrings a surprising amount of sympathy for the beleaguered Queeg. And although it borders on the preachy, a final angry monologue delivered by Maryk’s lawyer puts everything into uncomfortable focus as he calls everyone’s innocence into question—including the woefully inexperienced Willie Keith. Despite a tacked-on romance between Keith and a San Francisco nightclub singer, this remains an intelligent war time drama which goes beyond the usual Stars ‘n Stripes tropes to deliver a psychological minefield of its own.

The Cakemaker (Israel 2017) (6): Berlin pastry chef Thomas falls in love with married Israeli businessman Oren and the two begin a months-long affair, seeing each other whenever Oren’s job takes him to Germany. But when Oren is killed in a traffic accident back home Thomas seeks closure by travelling to Jerusalem where he begins to clandestinely spy on Anat, his dead lover’s unsuspecting widow. Drawn to Anat, perhaps because she unwittingly shares his grief, Thomas takes a job in her cafe where his dessert creations become an instant sensation… Food as metaphor is nothing new to cinema and director Ofir Raul Graizer (himself a cook of some renown) wastes no time in tying the delicate art of pastry making to the film’s fragile sense of sorrow and bittersweet longing. A simple cinnamon cookie becomes both an erotic vehicle and a rallying point of religious oppression when Anat’s orthodox brother-in-law balks at the idea of a non-kosher German goy breaking eggs in her pantry. Unfortunately, like the film’s many flashes of gastro-porn, too much sugar ruins the recipe and in exploring the individual grief of his two protagonists Graizer too often skews his movie’s quiet pathos into outright melodrama with sad music in a minor key and a double-take resolution rooted in identity politics that smacked of artifice. And Thomas’ happy flashbacks to life with Oren consist mainly of the usual naked couplings (looking very awkward indeed) and clichéd chatter revolving around love and loneliness—apparently an ersatz marriage is better than nothing. Tim Kalkhof and Sarah Adler excel as the two widows and a welcome twist towards the end turns the film’s underlying theme on its ear, but the whole production still felt like a gay chick flick aimed at a straight audience.

Calamity Jane (USA 1953) (5): Doris Day piles on the hick routine with a shovel in this ridiculously camp Warner Brothers musical fit only for diehard fans. The rootin’, tootin’ wild west town of Deadwood Dakota is apparently populated by horny old men and one quarrelsome female scout—Doris strutting about in buckskin breeches and confederate cap—who likes to chug down sarsaparilla and hang out with the likes of Wild Bill Hickok (Howard Keel) when she’s not shootin’ it out with them red-skinned varmints (PC audiences be forewarned). Unfortunately Calamity also likes to tell tall tales so when she promises to bring celebrated midwest chanteuse Adelaide Adams to town for a one-night engagement at Deadwood’s own Golden Garter saloon, she finds herself bound for Chicago—she pronounces it “Chi-coggy”, how quaint—to do just that. But thanks to a case of mistaken identity she accidentally drags Adams’ personal maid Katie (Allyn Ann McLerie) back instead. Dire emotional entanglements follow when Katie not only catches the eye of Wild Bill, whom Jane enjoys a seemingly platonic relationship with, but also piques the romantic interests of dashing Lieutenant Danny Gilmartin (Philip Carey) from the local garrison—a man Jane is secretly smitten with herself… The frontier sets are basic studio backlot fare as are the cowboys ’n Indians outfits, but aside from the Oscar-winning melody, “Secret Love”, the song & dance numbers are lively if nothing else. And when Katie temporarily bunks with Jane the initial chemistry between the two women—they gaze lovingly into each other’s eyes as they turn her rundown shack into a girlie cottage—was enough to receive a sly “wink-wink nudge-nudge” from gay viewers. But Day’s ugly duckling transformation from sassy tomboy to frilly white trash debutante just in time for the annual ball is a stretch and her annoying swagger coupled with Hollywood’s idea of wild west argot (Window, cigarette, and creek get butchered into “winnder”, “ciga-reet” and “crick”) quickly become insufferable. A retro treat for those so inclined, a cloying endurance test for everyone else. Yee-haw.

Caligula (Italy/USA 1979) (6): Malcolm McDowell plays insanity for all it’s worth in Penthouse Films overreaching and salacious historical fuckfest chronicling the rise and fall of Roman emperor Caius Caligula. Following the family tradition of killing all obstacles in his way Caligula dispatches his grandfather Tiberius (a pockmarked Peter O’Toole) in order to claim the title of Caesar for himself. At first content to have the decidedly eccentric upstart in power the army and senate discreetly turn a blind eye to his incestuous love affair and other sundry perversions, but when Caligula begins threatening their own livelihoods his messy demise is only a matter of time. Highly controversial upon its initial release thanks to a mix of big name stars and X-rated non-sequiturs Caligula now seems a camp, if overly violent exercise in big budget exploitation. Sloppily edited thanks to Penthouse editor Bob Guccione’s insistence on mixing pornography with spectacle it nevertheless contains some scenes of inspired lunacy: a thoroughly mad Caligula orders his troops to attack a lake full of bullrushes, Tiberius wanders about a lavish palace overflowing with deviants and grotesques, and an orgy to end all orgies erupts when a host of senators’ wives are recruited to serve in the royal bordello. Even a surprisingly young Helen Mirren takes it up the backside during an Isis convention. Vulgar, gratuitous, and historically suspect—but the overall sense of decadence is palpable while the flamboyant costumes and elaborate sets are amazing. The acme of arthouse sleaze.

Call Northside 777 (USA 1948) (7): When his sweet Polish mother places an ad offering a small fortune in exchange for any information proving him innocent, a convicted cop-killer currently serving a life sentence attracts the attention of cynical newspaper reporter P. J. McNeal (James Stewart). Believing the man guilty as charged, McNeal nevertheless begins to reinvestigate the eleven-year old case and what he uncovers makes him doubt not only the jury’s verdict but the entire judicial system itself. Based on a true story and kept as realistic as possible—the actual newspaperman serves as technical advisor and inventor Leonarde Keeler makes a cameo with his newfangled polygraph machine—this is a fine early example of the “investigative journalism” genre with Stewart giving his usual downplayed performance as a man hungry for the truth backed by a mixed cast of veteran screen actors (Lee J. Cobb as McNeal’s editor, Richard Conte as the convict) and talented newcomers (a 60-year old Kasia Orzazewski wrings your heart as the mother). Director Henry Hathaway also reaches for authenticity with real Chicago locations serving as backdrops, from a dreary tenement project where a crucial clue awaits to an even drearier prison with cells stacked atop one another like a beehive. The final piece of the puzzle is a bit of a stretch though, and in an effort to assure viewers that the system eventually works after all director Henry Hathaway ends it with a small slice of apple pie while an offscreen narrator solemnly declares, “It’s a good world—outside”. Indeed it is.

Calvary (Ireland 2014) (10): In its religious context “Calvary” refers to the Crucifixion where an innocent Jesus was sacrificed for the sins of mankind; in a more secular sense it describes any moment of extreme mental or physical anguish. In this devastating drama writer/director John Michael McDonagh manages to unite both definitions to challenge his audience with a monumental quandary both humanist and theological in scope. Soft-spoken bearish Father James (an amazing turn from Brendan Gleeson) is the parish priest in a tiny seaside village where the inhabitants gleefully indulge in all seven deadly sins, a fact he has grown to accept with quiet perseverance. While hearing confession one Sunday he is confronted by a faceless parishioner who casually mentions that he is going to kill him in one week’s time in order to exact revenge on past sins committed against him. Thus faced with his impending murder James spends the next seven days contemplating everything from the nature of sin and forgiveness to human mortality and the preciousness of existence itself. As if seeing the locals for the first time in his life the good Father is at once outraged and moved to compassionate action by the self-destructive folly around him—and each small epiphany brings him one day closer to his appointment with an angry killer. Relieved somewhat by flashes of very dark yet well placed humour, McDonagh’s rustic Passion play builds upon a succession of revealing episodes in which Father James seems to be the only person actually evolving. The static nature of the characters around him may seem off-putting, even comical, until one realizes them for the biblical archetypes they represent—with the forlorn adulteress and weary rich man rubbing shoulders with the mocking cynic and (in this case) prodigal daughter while Gleeson’s shaggy Christ tries to heal what he can, his own version of Gethsemane played out on an airport tarmac. Filmed with an eye for pastoral charms which belie its sense of impending tragedy, McDonagh uses medieval ruins, stark hillsides, and thundering surf to underline James’ own troubled spirit—the juxtaposition of the solid and eternal with ever-changing seascapes providing a series of poignant metaphors culminating in a sobering montage of people and places. Harrowing and thoroughly engrossing, one of the more spiritual films I’ve seen in some time.

Camera Buff (Poland 1979) (8): The suffering of the artist (or myopic pigheadedness, or sociopolitical obligation depending on your viewpoint) is the focus of Krzysztof Kieslowski’s pre-Solidarity satire which skewers all notions of “official story”. Eager to document the arrival of his first child, Filip Mosz blows two months’ worth of paycheques on an 8mm movie camera. When word spreads of his new toy Filip’s boss is eager to use Mosz as a PR tool, filming happy employees at work and play. But the camera never lies—or rather the person behind the camera films what he wants—and as Filip’s work attracts the attention of social activists and artistes alike he finds the strain of “showing the truth” affecting both his public and private life. “You never know who you’ll help, or who you’ll harm…” says one of his friends who has just lost his job thanks to one of Mosz’s ill-informed five minute exposés, and it would appear truer words were never spoken. Light in tone but carrying a powerful sting, Kieslowski doesn’t condemn Filip’s newfound journalistic zeal—indeed the director himself made a career out of holding up a cinematic mirror to his audience—but there are at least two sides to every story and in the hands of an ardent amateur a camera can be as dangerous as a loaded gun especially when he begins to blur the lines between real-time life and composed images. A wry little gem that revels in its low budget appearance as well as star Jerzy Stuhr’s wonderfully hangdog expressions.

Camille (USA 1936) (9): Set in 19th century France, George Cukor’s grandaddy of all tearjerkers stars the great Greta Garbo as Marguerite, a self-centred Parisian courtesan whose extravagant lifestyle far outweighs her modest purse. Thanks to her seductive looks and carefree attitude however Marguerite is able to charm the francs right out of their owners’ pockets while giving very little in return. But when she finds herself the focus of a passionate triangle her usual aloof attitude comes back to pierce her right through the heart. On the one hand is the austere but fabulously wealthy Baron de Varville who regards Marguerite as a cherished object to be owned; on the other is Armand, heir to a modest estate who practically worships her yet has very little to offer financially. Shifting her attentions between the Baron’s cool stability and the uncertainty of Armand’s ardent embraces, Marguerite’s predicament is made all the more complicated by the knowledge she only has a very short time to live thanks to an unnamed illness that is slowly draining her of life and vitality. When she finally does decide between love and security will it be too late? When discussing the enduring quality of Cukor’s paean to amour fou (based on the novel by Dumas) one can certainly cite the lavish sets and costumes, the lush musical score, and the evocative cinematography that goes from boudoir intimacies to grand ballroom fêtes. And despite the draconian dictates of the Hays code which was firmly entrenched at the time there is a muted eroticism to the ongoing sexual politics whether it be a series of playful kisses or an urgent hug—in one telling scene Marguerite’s innocent birthday party swiftly transforms into a full-blown bacchanal. But it is Garbo’s magnificent performance that makes it all work. She doesn’t so much speak her lines as play with them, toying with the audience even as she toys with her onscreen suitors. Her portrayal of a woman of leisure frightened by the prospect of unconditional love as she faces her impending mortality would be so much overblown melodrama in the hands of a lesser artist—Garbo inhabits the part and makes us believe right up to that final heartbreaking close-up. This is what a movie star looks like.

Camille 2000 (Italy 1969) (5): Sleazemeister Radley Metzger’s arthouse nudie based on Dumas’ La dame aux camélias follows the doomed love affair between Amand Duval, the naive scion of an upper middle class family, and Marguerite Gautier, the voluptuous mistress of an Italian duke. Despite his friend’s warnings that she destroys every man she touches, the lovestruck Duval is immediately drawn to the seductive yet alarmingly frail Gautier. At first put off by her freewheeling sexuality and hedonistic ways Amand eventually gains access to her bed, and ultimately her heart. But everything worth having comes at a cost and in Amand’s case the price of Marguerite’s love may very well be his own heart and soul. Even though the once spicy sex scenes barely touch a 14A rating these days and the story itself is tired and clichéd, Metzger’s lush Italian settings, including a richly appointed Roman villa, are beautifully filmed while the mod 60s outfits and furnishings are pure groovy kitsch. A curious little time warp which neither moves nor titillates yet still remains watchable.

Campfire (Israel 2004) (7): A year after burying her husband, 42-year old Rachel is still feeling the loss. Although she never really loved him he was a good enough man and his presence gave her life the stability she craved. Now feeling the need to move forward she decides to sell his car (which she hasn’t touched since his death) uproot her two teenaged daughters and relocate to an as yet unbuilt controversial new settlement on the West Bank founded by her friend Shula’s husband Motke, an ideological Zionist. Wholly self-absorbed in her own problems Rachel ignores the heated protests of her increasingly cynical eldest daughter Esti and the dangerous liaison forming between her painfully naïve youngest Tami and a local group of male delinquents. Furthermore, she’s so busy waiting for romantic fireworks that she fails to recognize the innate decency of the modest bus driver Shula fixed her up with. It’s not until a series of minor revelations and confrontations occur, including a tragic turn with Tami, that Rachel finally sees what her own self-pity has wrought upon others. Ostensibly told by Tami in few opening voice-overs, Joseph Cedar’s politically-laced family piece—part healing circle, part coming-of-age drama—avoids the obvious melodramatic pitfalls by maintaining a cool distance from its characters while at the same time adding just enough humour and emotional turmoil to keep you connected. Although much of the underlying social commentary may be lost on those of us not well versed in Israeli politics, the human element rings loud and clear from Rachel’s desperate search for a new niche to her girl’s growing resentment of mom’s blinders. Well acted with a restrained cinematography to keep things grounded and a wistful score that wavers between major and minor keys as if to remind us that sometimes life just happens.

The Canal (Ireland 2014) (7): The Grudge. Ringu. Jacob’s Ladder. The Amityville Horror. Paranormal Activity. From demons lurking behind the wallpaper to cursed film stock, from evil homes to waterlogged spirits, there isn’t much writer/director Ivan Kavanagh doesn’t leave out in this panicky, cliché-riddled shocker. Yet, despite its many stumbles I still found myself enjoying the ride far more than I should have. Film archivist David (Rupert Evans) is shocked when he’s handed a scratchy old crime scene reel from 1902 detailing a brutal mass murder that occurred in the very townhouse he now occupies with his corporate wife Alice (Dutch beauty Hannah Hoekstra) and five-year old son Billy (unexpectedly seasoned performance from little Calum Heath). Upon further investigation David discovers the house actually has a very troubling past, one which now seems poised to threaten the present after he begins doubting his own sanity. Strange shadows drift across the room, whispers emanate from behind walls, and a borrowed camera records things that shouldn’t be there. But when he becomes the prime suspect in a bit of foul play, David convinces himself that he’s being targeted by a malevolent force… Jump cuts and strobe effects take centre stage as David’s close encounters with the supernatural begin to unravel his mind—a mucky public washroom provides a rendezvous with horror, a sewer line leads to Hell on Earth—while his sympathetic boss begins to question his innocence and a determined police detective closes in with a warrant. Kavanagh and cinematographer Piers McGrail go full throttle, taking audiences into increasingly narrow spaces as David’s feverish mind runs out of options—is he a victim or a madman? And the special effects department outdoes itself with grimy wraiths crawling out of mud puddles and staccato footage of mutilated bodies that leaps back and forth between grainy B&W and monochromatic shades of blood red. But just as things threaten to spin out of control Kavanagh reins it all in for a hysteria-laced climax followed by a chillingly downplayed coda as sad as it is creepy. This isn’t high art by any means, the pace is rushed and you could drive a hearse through some of its plot holes (why do supposedly smart people do such stupid things whenever they suspect there’s a ghost involved?). Taken as a genre piece however you can write off the missteps especially with such fine performances including Steve Oram as the dyspeptic detective, Antonia Campbell-Hughes as the boss with more than a professional interest, and Kelly Byrne as the live-in nanny who bears the brunt of David’s monomaniacal obsession.

Can-Can (USA 1960) (6): Set in fin-de-siècle gay Paree yet having very little to do with either Paris or the Gilded Age aside from a few gaudy sets, 20th Century Fox’s adaptation of Abe Burrow’s musical comedy is a loud and lacklustre affair all around. The story, what there is of it, centres on a love triangle which develops between headstrong cabaret owner Simone Pistache (a screeching Shirley MacLaine), her sometimes callous lawyer-slash-lover François (Frank Sinatra, about as French as a New Jersey teamster), and Philipe Forrestier, the punctilious judge determined to shut her down even as he falls head over heels for her (Louis Jourdan, French if nothing else). The issue? Simone’s nightly headline act is the scandalous Can-Can dance in which the girls on stage lift their skirts to reveal their bloomers—an act labeled obscene by the local chapter of uptight prudes. Thus, with the gendarmes continually raiding her establishment and her two suitors tugging her in opposite directions—François is committed to defending her but balks at marrying her, Philipe is committed to upholding the law but is willing to make an exception for a kiss and a vow—the stage is literally set for musical high-jinx and choreographed romance. Unfortunately the original Broadway show was gutted for the screen with Sinatra’s character tacked on and some of those wonderful Cole Porter tunes either dropped or reworked and it shows in the clunky dialogue and anachronistic musical numbers which have less to do with 1896 Paris and more to do with 1960s New York beatniks. Maurice Chevalier needlessly drags himself out of retirement to play a sympathetic magistrate and hoofer extraordinaire Juliet Prowse provides the film’s only sparkle as a member of the chorus vying for François’ affections, yet she’s sadly consigned to Shirley MacLaine’s overbearing shadow.

Cannibal (Spain 2013) (5): Terribly shy tailor Carlos adores women—as long as they are properly butchered, pan-seared, and paired with a nice red wine. And then one day a beautiful Romanian migrant moves into his building, a woman who unknowingly shares a twisted connection with him already, and for the first time in his life Carlos feels something towards the fairer sex besides hunger pains. But is it really possible for a cannibal to fall in love with his lunch? The ridiculous premise of Manuel Cuenca’s film would be more palatable were it presented as a comedy, but as a completely sober psychodrama its plodding pace and lifeless script offer neither romance nor chills. Lead Antonio de la Torre portrays Carlos as a mere shell with no backstory other than a few haphazard comments which go nowhere while Olimpia Melinte plays an awkward double role as both victim and sweetheart. The two might as well have been in separate movies for all the onscreen chemistry they share. At least Pau Birba’s moody cinematography shows a good story with close shots of the world passing by Carlos’ barred shop window or huge panoramas of howling snowstorms and rocky crags. With gore only implied, Birba manages to generate a few mild frissons with the first roadside kill and a subsequent seaside stalking—Carlos caressing his victims like an ardent lover as he reaches for the cleaver—but his art is wasted on the film’s overall banality. One penultimate passage does try to reflect something of Carlos’ troubled psyche (love as a wasteland?) but it quickly gets lost among the mountains. Then, seemingly as a desperate last measure, Cuenca throws in some Catholic voodoo with a statue of the Virgin (aka Immaculate Barbie) parading past like the ultimate morsel. And finally, clean out of fresh ideas (?), he ties it up with a resolution so absurd Hannibal Lecter would have spewed his chianti.

The Cannibal Club (Brazil 2018) (5): “Kill the poor to feed the rich” is a sentiment Guto Parente’s blood-soaked satire takes to the extreme, and perhaps a little beyond. Wealthy snobs Otavio and Gilda have two overriding passions in life—satisfying Otavio’s cuckold fantasies using hunky hired hands, and then eating them afterwards. The two are certainly not alone in this for Otavio is also a member of a secret cabal of industrialists and government officials determined to rid Brazil of “scum and pederasts” even if they have to put every last favela on the menu. But the tables are turned when Gilda witnesses a prominent governor in flagrante delicto behind the tool shed and the two predators suddenly find themselves at the top of the quarry list. Sometimes a metaphor can be taken too far and Cannibal Club’s single running joke doesn’t carry it for long especially when Parente insists on grinding his “message” into the audience’s collective face—a rant focused on how the rich are inconvenienced by the lower classes is needless overkill. Emotive performances and predictable ironies turn what could have been a politically charged feast into little more than a modest midnight nosh.

Cannibal Ferox (Italy 1981) (4): Ruggero Deodato’s 1980 “video nasty”, Cannibal Holocaust, had a warped creativity which made its bloody excesses somehow less gratuitous. But this carbon copy rip-off by Umberto Lenzi has no such aspirations as it serves up sadism, animal cruelty, and assorted eviscerations as if they were carnival sideshows. A PhD candidate in anthropology travels to the Amazon with her friends in order to disprove the existence of cannibalism—so the director is familiar with IRONY at least. Their jaunt takes an unfortunate turn however when they meet up with a crazed drug dealer and his injured sidekick who are running away from a tribe of enraged natives. Long story short: no one escapes and the blood (and intestines, and eyeballs, and brains) begins to flow. So-so special effects are pretty much rendered laughable by the cast’s horrendous acting—I’ve seen muppets with a wider range of expression—while the indigenous extras either look bored to tears or on the verge of snickering. Nevertheless, Lenzi’s splatter flick does contain a couple of memorable scenes in which a woman is hoisted up by steel hooks in her breasts and a castrated man looks on in horror as the village chief pops the severed member into his mouth like a stick of Juicy Fruit. Note to the chief: those things are a lot more fun to chew on when they’re still attached.

Cannibal Girls (Canada 1973) (5): Not many people are aware of the fact that Canada churned out a fair number of slasher films back in the 70's and 80's. Case in point is this camp mix of lowbrow horror and campus humour. Sweethearts Clifford and Gloria (SCTV alumni Eugene Levy and Andrea Martin) are vacationing in a small Ontario town when they happen upon a most unique restaurant run by the caped and top-hatted Rev. Alex St. John, his feral handyman, and a trio of beautiful Manson girls. Unfortunately, this particular establishment's signature dishes contain generous amounts of "tourist" prompting the two Torontonians to flee for their lives until they realize that Cannibal Cuisine is more popular in Northern Ontario than they thought. Although the storyline is full of holes, the acting never rises above the level of a dark sitcom and the gore factor is annoyingly tame, there is something endearingly Canadian about this sophomoric little oddity. Perhaps it's the snowy vistas and small town charm, or the dry self-effacing humour which assures the audience that both cast and crew are well aware of what they've produced, but this turkey actually works on some strange level. The addition of gimmicky "warning bells" wherein a submarine klaxon alerts the squeamish to close their eyes before a particularly nasty scene provides the perfect cheesy topping. Not that good, not that bad.

Cannibal Holocaust (Italy 1980) (6): Despite its numerous problematic elements, Ruggero Deodato’s “found footage” shocker—filmed on location in Columbia—hits the screen with such sickening ferocity that you have to admire its crude artistry even if it means wading through reel after reel of disgust. Four American documentarians searching for a tribe of elusive cannibals go missing soon after they enter the Amazon rainforest. Months later anthropologist Harold Monroe (porn star Robert Kerman aka “R. Bolla”) is sent to South America to find out what happened, and after a few harrowing encounters of his own (delicate stomachs and sensibilities be forewarned) manages to recover the lost crew’s film canisters which he promptly brings back to New York. Reviewing the footage with television execs eager to capitalize on the mysterious disappearance, Monroe is horrified by what he sees: the missing filmmakers were not quite the innocent journalists that they claimed to be and their cameras ended up recording their ultimate fate at the hands of outraged natives hellbent on inflicting a terrible revenge… Dominated by grisly scenes of torture, rape, disembowelment, and animal slaughter, the film was so appallingly realistic that Italian authorities believed the director had actually produced a snuff film and had him arrested on charges of murder—charges that were dropped after his actors appeared in court to prove they were all alive and well. And to make the carnage even more gut-churning it’s largely recorded with wobbly handheld cameras where jump cuts and erratically spliced segments only add to the sense of pandemonium. Oddly enough, while the musical score contains the usual electric jolts and sustained chords, the main theme is a breezy orchestral melody more suited to an avant-garde perfume commercial(??) Revolting through and through, this is still more than a simple grindhouse exploitation flick for Deodato uses it to focus a jaundiced eye on the culpability of “objective observers” and tabloid journalism (the documentary crew were truly awful people), the marketability of sensationalism in the days before web browsers made it commonplace, and Western perceptions of indigenous people as hooting savages. But my husband summed it up rather succinctly when he turned to me the next morning and blurted, “What the fuck were you watching last night?!”

Canopy (Australia 2013) (9): During WWII an Aussie pilot is shot down over the forests of Singapore. Alone in an overgrown no man’s land with meagre rations and surrounded by enemy gunfire “Jim” must rely on his wits and blind luck in order to evade capture—or worse. Crossing paths with a Chinese soldier in similar circumstances, the two men begin a high stakes game of cat and mouse in a jungle teeming with Japanese troops. With its slow deliberate pace, lack of dialogue, and refusal to blow things up every two seconds, writer/director Aaron Wilson’s novel anti-war film is definitely not for every taste. There are no Apocalypse Now pyrotechnics or guts’n’glory sermonizing, instead he throws his two protagonists into a fallen Garden of Eden whose lush foliage offers no sanctuary, whose otherwise serene skies are ripped apart by flying shrapnel and where ethereal sunsets are marred by a pall of smoke and ashes. At one point a pair of enemy bombers is reflected in the calm waters of a tropical pond, in another passage the red glow of a flare transforms the nighttime forest into a crimson circle of Hell. Although punctuated now and again by muffled Billie Holliday tunes and sombre bass chords, Wilson’s soundtrack consists primarily of heightened natural sounds and the ever present clash of swords—every birdcall and whining bullet seems to contain within it a deeper spiritual significance which underscores the men’s physical tribulations. Surreal, hypnotic, and unexpectedly complex, it all leads to an ending as lyrical as it is sobering. Arthouse cinema at its most intense.

Can’t Buy Me Love (USA 1987) (7): Ronald Miller (a terribly young Patrick Dempsey) is Tucson High School’s most unpopular senior while blonde cheerleader Cindy Mancini (Amanda Peterson) is the centre of everyone’s attention. But after a lovestruck Ronald comes to the aid of a cash-strapped Cindy one afternoon she reluctantly agrees to “pretend date” him for a month so he can increase his social standing—much to the confusion of her stuck-up girlfriends and his posse of fellow geeks. However, as their four week contractual agreement comes to an end crossed purposes and romantic misunderstandings have Cindy reexamining her feelings while Ron, on the other hand, becomes an insufferable boor thanks to his newfound popularity. Something, obviously, has to change… This is pure 80s schlock from the overly enthusiastic performances and strictly categorized school body (everyone is either a slut, a jock, a valley girl, or a nerd) to the wonderfully horrid fashion sense—neon leg warmers, big feathered hair, sparkly face powder, and top knot ponytails…oh my! And then there’s the three obligatory scenes shown in every teen romcom from that era: the girls’ locker room, the drunken house party, and the big school dance. But, abashed nostalgia and clunky narrative devices aside, it remains a likeable tale of opposites attracting and everyone getting a great big overbearing lesson on inclusivity, tolerance, and the importance of just being yourself. Dempsey fawns and trips over his own feet with conviction while Peterson adds a touch of insight to an otherwise flat character, and a 13-year old Seth Green twirls a non-existent moustache as Ronald’s bratty little brother whose schemes always seem to end with a fart joke. For younger audiences it’s little more than a fluffy time capsule with a few small offences to latch on to (OMG they used the “R” word!) but for those who came of age when this was still premiering in theatres it’s an entertaining example of how Hollywood thought teenaged lives should be lived. It also left me with one of filmdom’s better put-downs: “She’s given more rides than Greyhound”. Bwahaha!

A Canterbury Tale (UK 1944) (7): At the height of WWII three strangers cross paths in a small English village: an easygoing American soldier, his British counterpart, and a young shop girl assigned to agricultural duty by the Home Office. Even though they’ve just met it soon becomes apparent they have a few things in common; two are nursing broken hearts while the third still regrets an unrealized childhood dream. Despite the bucolic comforts of their surroundings, this is a village where the realities of war are confined to a troop barracks on the outskirts of town and the occasional childhood game of “soldier”, they nevertheless find themselves drawn to the nearby cathedral in Canterbury where, like the medieval pilgrims in Chaucer’s tales, blessings and a few everyday miracles await them. With it’s unapologetic romanticism and a script that often veers dangerously close to schmaltzy excess there are at least a dozen reasons I should trash this movie. Yet, in spite of these glaring faults, there is a marvelous sense of innocence and wonder here which defies all attempts to discredit it. Perhaps it’s the lyrical cinematography teeming with windswept clouds and sunny fields, or the sympathetic performances that cut through much of the film’s more syrupy elements. The seemingly strict and inflexible nature of a local magistrate provides some astute social criticism, especially when he confesses his own inner fears, and the directors’ attempt to draw comparisons between these modern pilgrims and those of old is intriguing if ultimately weak. A bizarre storyline involving a mysterious man who assaults women by pouring glue on their heads proves to be an unnecessary plot device however and only hampers the film’s pastoral charms. Hard to recommend, but harder yet to simply dismiss. Note: this review is based on the UK version of the film.

The Canterbury Tales (Italy 1972) (7): Covering all seven of the deadly sins and featuring lusty young bodies, cuckolded husbands, and the lowest forms of scatological humour, Pasolini’s adaptation of Chaucer’s ribald stories never strays far from the common and bawdy, a fact which saw it banned in several countries upon its initial release despite having won the coveted Golden Bear award in Berlin. Containing only eight of the original tales, Pasolini wastes little time introducing the premise (a group of medieval pilgrims on their way to Canterbury entertain one another with fanciful yarns) and instead dazzles the audience from the outset with swirling period costumes in every colour—except for a puzzling ode to Charlie Chaplin—and grandiose sets that incorporate the ruins of ancient castles and monasteries. Although his largely amateur cast have little trouble doffing their clothes for some of the more salacious passages—a free-for-all in a brothel ends with a golden shower from on high—the sobering little ironies Chaucer inserted into each tale sometimes get overshadowed by all the tits and lechery. “The Pardoner’s Tale” in which a trio of arrogant youth go in search of Death only to find him where they least expected proves to be one of the exceptions with its elements of greed and hubris as pertinent today as they were in Chaucer’s time. But Pasolini saves his sharpest vitriol for the Catholic church, all those irreligious barbs culminating in a surreal vision of Hell poised somewhere between Hieronymus Bosch and Terry Gilliam where naked Mardi Gras demons cavort among hills of volcanic ash and Satan himself farts out priests and deacons from between his fiery red butt cheeks. Amen brother, amen.

Can’t Help Singing (USA 1944) (6): Deanna Durbin warbles her way across the Wild West in yet another frothy vehicle meant to cash in on her amazing voice. This time she’s Caroline Frost, the pleasantly spoiled daughter of a U.S. senator who goes against her father’s wishes by running away to California in order to marry her beloved fiancé, a dashing cavalry officer. With dad in hot pursuit Caroline will brave Indian bands and wagon trains while being shadowed by a pair of Eastern European con artists intent on relieving her of her luggage (Akim Tamiroff and Leonid Kinskey providing a few good laughs with their Russian Laurel & Hardy routine). But her resolve falters when she meets a rakish card shark (Robert Paige), a handsome rogue who puts more than a song in her heart… Filmed in eye-searing Technicolor which makes the most of his majestic Utah locations, director Frank Ryan doesn’t exactly reinvent the musical but then again he doesn’t have to for Durbin’s fresh-faced sweetness commands the screen while her vocal cords set the speakers humming—in one tuneful interlude she twirls among pine-covered hills and one can’t help but be reminded of Julie Andrews' similar alpine romp twenty years later. Finally, Jerome Kern’s songs give the film its reason for being ranging as they do from the gushingly romantic “More and More” (nominated for an Oscar) to the unintentionally camp “Californ-i-ay” which gives us lines like: “In gay Californ-i-ay…the hills have more splendour, the girls have more gender…” Oh Jerome, if you only knew.

Can We Take a Joke? (USA 2015) (9): Back in the 60s, controversial comic Lenny Bruce sold out comedy clubs even as he found himself constantly under attack from police and law officials for his on-stage use of dirty words and sexual references. As the obscenity charges and jail time piled up he eventually succumbed to a lethal mixture of stress, depression, and drug abuse—but his life and death did lead to a renewed call for freedom of speech across the USA. Now, according to Ted Balaker’s infuriatingly accurate documentary, in today’s society the role of social censor has passed from lawmakers to the so-called “Outrage Mob” who take offence at the slightest off-colour joke and then use social media like a cyber lynch mob. And sadly nowhere is this more evident than on college campuses, those former hotbeds of anarchy now reduced to soft bastions of political correctness where having an opinion that differs from the herd is cause for expulsion or at least disgrace and public reprimands. From outré comedian Gilbert Gottfried who lost a lucrative deal promoting Aflac Insurance because of a tsunami joke to university student Chris Lee who required a security escort to class after he penned a satirical burlesque on the life of Jesus, the Easily Offended are targeting comedy and they’re using online platforms to quash the first amendment even as they enjoy its freedoms themselves. And it’s not just limited to entertainers as former PR exec Justine Sacco discovered when, en route to South Africa, she tweeted a joke to her 130 followers about AIDS and race meant as a rebuke against North America’s “white bubble” only to find herself fired and the target of thousands of rape and death threats before her flight even landed. How this happened is a question Balaker puts to a succession of funnymen and women and the answers are as diverse as the performers themselves as they talk about misplaced empowerment and a self-congratulatory attitude of being a good person for standing up to jokes which are not safe and pretty. But there is a push back, for just as the hateful ignorance of the Westboro Baptist Church is changing minds in the opposite direction so too are the public hissy fits of the easily offended. “If we as comics steered clear of every topic that might offend somebody we would never open our mouths…” says bad girl comedienne Lisa Lampanelli who views vulgar humour as a way of confronting everything from racism to sexual assault (ironically it was a joke aimed at the 80s band “Journey” that almost got her beaten up) and one can only believe that the ensuing silence would usher in a new puritanical dark age. A bit of a history lesson, a bit of current events (the Charlie Hebdo massacre in Paris was still front page news) and a highly engaging series of interviews.

Capernaum (Lebanon 2018) (5): Caught between the mean streets of Lebanon and the squalor of an overcrowded apartment ruled by abusive parents, 12-year old Zain does whatever he can to keep his head above water whether it be running errands for local merchants or passing on bogus prescriptions for mom’s drug-dealing side business. But when his parents cross a line the little preteen runs away, eventually moving in with Rahil, an Ethiopian woman who is trying to evade deportation and the seizure of her Lebanese-born baby. Told in flashback as a young Zain—already serving a sentence in juvenile detention for a very adult crime—is back in court suing his parents for being awful people, writer/director Nadine Labaki piles misery upon misery as she tries to cram every social ill she can into two hours of viewing: human trafficking, child brides, the plight of migrants, racketeering, inadequate governance, and the crushing hopelessness shouldered by people who have nothing to their name and nowhere to go. And she almost succeeds. Played by a very talented, mostly amateur cast and filmed with a naturalistic flair reminiscent of Italian Neo-Realism, she gives us a ground level view of lives in perpetual chaos—from Zain’s futile quest for a better life (he believes Sweden to be the Promised Land), to Rahil’s game of cat-and-mouse with immigration, to Zain’s parents who dare the judge to judge them in light of their own struggles. And Labaki makes good use of all those dirty streets and crumbling architecture—at one point a sad carnival of creaking rides provides an apt metaphor. But long before you hit the halfway mark you begin to notice just how adorably photogenic the children are (the little baby smiles and coos on command), how Khaled Mouzanar’s score of melancholy strings and minor chords lets you know exactly when you’re supposed to weep, and how Zain’s vocabulary shifts from contrary little tyke to world-weary adult who’s lived too long and seen too much. In short, it devolves into poverty porn exploitation, the kind of manipulative Oscar-bait that Western audiences are supposed to praise because to do otherwise would be to label oneself an uncharitable monster. There are movies with a heartbreaking message, and then there are movies with an agenda that not only try to rip your heart out but want to beat you up with it as well. There are several far superior films out there that deal with the darkest side of childhood: Nair’s Salaam Bombay!, Klimov’s Come and See, Erice’s The Spirit of the Beehive, or Koreeda’s Nobody Knows to name but a few. Interesting side note however, the talented young actor who plays Zain (Zain Al Rafeea) was actually a Syrian refugee in Lebanon when he was cast by Labaki and he and his family are now resettled in Norway.

Caprice  (USA 1967) (4):  Doris Day excels at many things...playing a sexy secret agent is not one of them.  This little nugget is too silly even for her, perhaps that’s why the supporting cast deliver their lines with just a hint of self-conscious embarrassment.  Okay, the movie theatre scene was colourful but the rest was just colourfully dull.  A good film to have on in the background while you do your housework.  Or maybe you could just fire up iTunes instead.

The Captain Hates the Sea (USA 1934) (7): Based on Wallace Smith’s novel, Lewis Milestone’s engaging high seas comedy is not quite of the “screwball” variety but it could have served as a template for a Depression era episode of The Love Boat. Determined to start on his new book, washed out author Steve Bramley decides to forsake alcohol and take a Caribbean cruise in order to revive his creative juices. Of course his vow of sobriety lasts as long as it takes him to stagger from the gangplank to the bar, but as the ship leaves New York he finds himself surrounded by enough eccentrics and oddballs to fuel a dozen novels. There’s the hulking private eye who falls in love with the wrong girl; the browbeaten wife who’s losing patience with her abusive husband; and a Latin general on his way to the latest coup. And they’re all presided over by a drunken purser and the ship’s grumpy old captain who hates passengers almost as much as he hates the ocean. A who’s who of silent era character actors bring their voices to the screen—Alison Skipworth shines as a horny dowager with her eye on a handsome thief while Walter Connolly’s captain scowls and blusters like a dime store Bligh—and Milestone keeps the production on an even keel even though half the cast were pickled at any one time. Sadly, the role of Bramley proved to be the last major part for John Gilbert who was slowly drinking himself to death in real life. Look for the Three Stooges making their onscreen debut for Columbia Studios as a three-piece ship’s band.

Captain Phillips (USA 2013) (9): Despite my ongoing “Tom Hanks fatigue” and the Hollywood hyperbole surrounding the actual facts of the case, I still found this idealized account of the 2009 highjacking of an American cargo ship by desperate Somali pirates one of the more riveting actioners I’ve seen in quite some time. Sailing around the horn of Africa en route to Mombassa laden with heavy equipment and humanitarian supplies the Maersk Alabama, captained by New Englander Richard Phillips, finds itself boarded by a pack of armed men intent on taking over the ship and holding both it and the crew for ransom. What follows is a dangerous game of cat-and-mouse as Phillips bargains with the already agitated posse’s deadly serious leader while his hidden crew wage a war of sabotage against their kidnappers. But once the U.S. Navy gets involved with their “no hostages” mandate the stakes suddenly go from precarious to downright lethal. With quick editing, a pounding score, and cameras in perpetual motion, director Paul Greengrass’ high seas thriller moves effortlessly between wide ocean vistas and glaring blue skies to interior shots of metal rat mazes and broiling engine rooms—a tense stint aboard a bobbing lifeboat will have some reaching for the dramamine. But it is the psychological standoff between Phillips and pirate leader Muse (newcomer Barkhad Abdi deserving his Oscar nod) that propels the story forward. Refusing to demonize his antagonists, yet offering little sympathy, Greengrass presents them as beleaguered serfs propping up their courage with mild narcotics and watching their ill-gotten gains go to feed the coffers of local warlords. Captain Phillips on the other hand is a staunch middle class family man who nevertheless senses the moral ambivalence in Muse and, in the end, tries to prevent the bloodbath he fears is approaching. A taut and suspenseful piece of moviemaking…but if you’re hoping for a factual documentary you best look elsewhere.

Captains Courageous (USA 1937) (5): Forced pathos and a glib sentimentality abound in this watery tale of a spoiled rich kid from New York who becomes an insufferably contrite wuss after he accidentally falls off a luxury liner and is rescued by a gruff old mariner. Miles from land and with no hope of returning home until the cod season is over several weeks hence, little Harvey Cheyne (Freddie Bartholomew, not even trying to attempt an American accent) finds himself adopted by Captain Troop and his salty crew of clichéd sea dogs including Manuel Fidello the Portuguese fisherman who pulled him out of the sea (Spencer Tracy sporting a ridiculous accent that makes him sound more like a missing Marx Brother). Under Manuel’s fatherly guidance and the stern yet harmless camaraderie of his new shipmates Harvey undergoes a sea change (bwahahaha!!) in which brattiness is replaced by a sense of conscience and a predictable tragedy leads to a greater appreciation of all things pure and spiritual. Despite an impressive cast of Hollywood A-listers who bravely deliver their hackneyed lines with the utmost sincerity everyone ends up going down with the ship anyway.

Carandiru (Brazil 2003) (7): In October of 1992 Brazil’s infamous Carandiru prison, the largest in Latin America, was the scene of that country’s worst jail massacres as heavily armed riot police stormed the facility indiscriminately shooting inmates, killing over one hundred of them. Based on the book by Drauzio Varella, Carandiru’s doctor at the time, as well as first hand accounts from the prisoners themselves Hector Babenco’s brutal drama strives to attach a human element to the slaughter by putting us on intimate terms with a handful of inmates. Concentrating on kingpins Highness and Ebony who actually ran the prison while the warden looked the other way, Babenco uses flashbacks and impromptu interviews to add depth to each one of his subjects; there’s the hardened killer whose guilt eventually overwhelms him, the petty thief striving to support two wives, the pre-op transsexual in love with a fellow inmate, and the bewildered young naif whose one moment of rage landed him a 25-year sentence. As seen through the eyes of their idealistic resident physician, a skewed social contract has evolved amongst the prisoners fostered by a need to survive Carandiru’s grossly overcrowded and aging facilities. In fact, aside from the odd knifing and constant specter of HIV, life seems remarkably routine within the prison walls until an isolated skirmish between two rival cellblocks escalates into a full-blown siege prompting the authorities to send in the troops. There is a gritty realism to Babenco’s movie which was actually filmed inside an abandoned Carandiru shortly before it was demolished. His standout cast bring a complexity to their characters which contrasts sharply with their bleak surroundings and adds an undercurrent of primal energy to the story. Guilty perhaps of being a bit too sympathetic towards his subjects, these are hardened thieves and murderers after all, he nevertheless refuses to smooth over some of their more glaring faults; they may be flawed but they remain human throughout. Similarly, the film’s highly operatic final scenes of carnage and mayhem pull no punches as we see bullet-riddled bodies piled in hallways and pools of blood dripping down staircases. In the end the reasons behind the massacre are left deliberately vague; was it politically motivated? A series of personal vendettas? Cops gone wild? As one inmate succinctly puts it, “Prisons are no place for the truth”.

Caravaggio (UK 1986) (8): It’s 1610, and in a lowly fisherman’s hut the great Renaissance artist Michelangelo da Caravaggio lies dying, attended only by his loving servant Jerualeme and a few old women from the village. As he floats in and out of feverish dreams he reflects back on a life filled with controversy; from his sensuous, often homoerotic paintings to his various lovers…both male and female…to his many run-ins with the Catholic hierarchy. In Derek Jarman’s fanciful biopic the artist’s more famous paintings come to sumptuous life accompanied by the director’s signature penchant for anachronism and religious ridicule. In this particular version of the 16th century noblemen ride about on motorbikes, critics bang out scathing reviews on clunky typewriters, and priests do sums on old school calculators. The Church is seen as an opulent den of iniquity with drunken Vatican staff parties playing out in underground catacombs while the pontiff himself is portrayed as a crafty old queen. But it is when the camera focuses on Caravaggio, portrayed by a fiery Nigel Terry, that we see Jarman at the height of his skill. There is an intensity to his character bordering on the erotic which suggests a man born out of time, determined to wring as much love and pleasure out of life as he can yet bound to suffer the exquisite pain of the artist. And artistry abounds in Jarman’s work, with half naked models drifting in and out of painterly tableaux, delicate drapes brushing against imposing murals, and a background score that goes from high Renaissance chorales to wild jazz. A plucky, visceral film filled with elaborate conceits which toys with history even as it draws us in.

Carlito’s Way (USA 1993) (8): After serving only five years of a thirty year sentence for various drug and racketeering offences, gangster legend Carlito Brigante (an animated Al Pacino) finds himself back on the streets determined to turn his life around. Buying into a local nightclub his only dream is to make enough cash to move to the Bahamas where a former cellmate has a lucrative (and legitimate) job waiting for him. And just to sweeten the pot the girl he left behind has decided to give him a second chance. But the siren song of the underworld won’t let him go: friends need “special” favours, a new generation of thugs keep drawling lines in the sand, and his coke-addicted lawyer gets him involved in a harebrained scheme that just might land him back in jail—or worse. Carlito’s life has reached a monumental fork in the road and the path he chooses will make all the difference… Set in New York’s disco era Brian De Palma’s gritty story of one remorseful soul’s quest for redemption, based on the books by Edwin Torres, is an antithesis of sorts to 1983’s Scarface. Unlike Tony Montana’s headlong rush towards damnation, Carlito is struggling upstream all the way; a one-time criminal kingpin trying to put his past to rest. A brilliant supporting cast, including an unrecognizable Sean Penn as the manic lawyer, keep Pacino’s character slightly off balance as he struggles to redefine “right” from “wrong” while whirling cinematography and a score of old dance hits propel the action forward. Of course it wouldn’t be a De Palma film without a touch of the surreal and clever allusions to Heaven vs Hell are used throughout—the word “Paradise” pops up in various guises and a climactic encounter involves people going up (or down) escalators. Not your usual gangster film.

Carmen Jones (USA 1954) (8): Bizet’s classic opera is given a fresh American twist in Otto Preminger’s sumptuous widescreen technicolor production based on the Broadway play. Joe, a promising young Air Force lieutenant, forsakes his career, his future, and the only woman who ever loved him when he falls under the romantic spell of Carmen Jones, a fiery seductress who works at a factory adjacent to his barracks. But Carmen proves incapable of remaining faithful to any one man, a fact which will lead to tragedy and a spectacular fall from grace. With an all-black cast headlined by Harry Belafonte, Dorothy Dandridge, and Pearl Bailey, plus updated lyrics by Oscar Hammerstein set to Bizet’s classical score, Carmen Jones is one of those rare adaptations which actually manages to build upon its source. Although some of the lip-syncing is poorly timed, a few passages quaintly racist (“Joe, you is my man...”), and the more demanding pieces obviously dubbed (they hired professional opera singers to record the soundtrack), there is an undeniable passion and frank eroticism here which translate seamlessly from 19th century Spain to contemporary Chicago. Olé!

Carol (USA 2015) (9): As he did in 2002’s Far From Heaven, Todd Haynes once again channels the spirit of Douglas Sirk—the stirring score of pop tunes and orchestral movements, the lush Technicolor sweeps—to bring Patricia Highsmith’s novel of transgressive love to the big screen and the results are breathtaking. In 1950s New York mousy department store clerk Therese Belivet (Rooney Mara) is irresistibly drawn to wealthy older socialite Carol Aird (Cate Blanchett), an attraction which proves to be all too mutual. But as words inevitably lead to actions complications arise: Therese’s wannabe fiancé (Jake Lacy) demands an explanation for her cooling affections and Carol’s estranged husband (Kyle Chandler), all too aware of his wife’s sexual leanings, is about to embroil them both in a bitter custody battle over their little daughter. And the biggest complication of all? It’s the conservative ‘50s and that rainbow flag is still thirty years away. Deserving every one of its six Oscar nominations—from Mara and Blanchett’s intense performances to Sandy Powell’s vintage costume designs—Haynes has fashioned a widescreen romantic soap whose hushed eroticism is underscored by social realities and the pain so often inflicted when emotional entanglements become complicated. Mara plays the smitten naïf with a wide-eyed innocence that nevertheless hints at untapped passions while Blanchett’s seductive provocateur, all sultry voice and cigarette smoke, gradually reveals her own blind spots. Their onscreen chemistry could spark a wildfire and those bold love scenes are as unbridled as they are intimate. Cinematographer Edward Lachman (also nominated) performs a small miracle by turning contemporary Cincinnati into a bygone Manhattan where neon colours passersby and every scene is illuminated as if by gauzy candlelight. Windows also figure prominently, often superimposing rainy landscapes onto faces lost in thought or else blocking out a Winter chill. Haynes’ microcosm, alive with primary colours (oh that lipstick!), is at once cosmopolitan and crushingly puritan—the women are aware of the social sanctions levied against them yet at the same time Therese becomes acutely aware of the appraising stares she’s receiving from like-minded women who seem to be hiding everywhere in plain sight. Refusing to choose sides—the men are also affected by the homophobia aimed at the women—Haynes instead gives us a testament of what Love once had to endure and in doing so fashions a richly textured romance that left this gay male reviewer misty-eyed. And that is saying a lot.

Carousel (USA 1956) (3): Billy Bigelow, former carnival gigolo now deceased and working in a heavenly sweatshop polishing stars, is granted a request to return to earth for one day to help sort things out with his widow, Julie, and the daughter who was born after he died. In flashback we see how the gruff and virile Billy swept Julie off her naive young feet one evening, married her in haste, then turned into a lazy abusive lout while she strove to be the most lovable doormat 1870s Maine had ever seen. But once he found out she was pregnant he decided to become a responsible breadwinner; starting with an ill-fated armed robbery. Returning to earth fifteen years later he sees that Julie has gotten along well without him, his adolescent daughter however is not only having boy trouble but has had to endure years of merciless taunting on account of her late father being a thief and wife-beater. How can Billy instill a sense of pride in his daughter and comfort Julie’s broken heart in the short time allotted him? Whisper yet another sappy song into their ears of course! God knows there’s no shortage of those floating around in this facile and sickeningly sentimental cinemascope weeper, along with some featherweight drama, ham-fisted performances and ridiculously affected New England accents. With the exception of a nicely fluid ballet sequence towards the end the dance routines are clunky and dull (despite the obvious physical prowess of all those twirling gay boys); a choreographed clambake is particularly painful especially when the overzealous cast of extras belt out an impassioned ditty about splitting lobsters in half and sending clams “galloping down their gullets”. Unfortunately the film’s only standout anthem, “You’ll Never Walk Alone” has been hijacked by so many telethons and schmaltzy Vegas acts in the intervening years that it now sounds even more trite than when it first debuted. Not even a feigned sense of nostalgia can excuse Carousel’s syrupy excesses; once around and you’ll be begging to get off.

Carrington (UK 1995) (9): The highly unorthodox yet deeply felt love affair between promising young artist Dora Carrington (Emma Thompson) and the acerbic though congenial gay author Lytton Strachey (Jonathan Pryce) forms the basis of writer/director Christopher Hampton’s beautifully realized biopic. Introduced to each other just as WWI was breaking out, the impressionable painter and much older writer found a kindred spirit in one another which saw them sharing not only a home together but a bed as well, albeit quite chastely. Over the next several years Strachey would become the only constant in Dora’s life, patiently standing by as she drifted through a string of lovers and one ill-advised marriage while his own health and romantic interests wavered. But the somewhat skittish Carrington never realized just how much of a pillar Strachey provided her with until time and circumstance began to take their toll… Set in a post-Edwardian landscape of colourful country cottages and idle rich with the ravages of war reduced to the occasional explosion echoing faintly across the channel, Hampton’s biography skips over the minutiae of Carrington’s life (her lesbian leanings for one) to concentrate instead on the relationship between his flawed but gifted protagonists—their lovingly frank banter and intimate confessions taking place against a backdrop of changing mores and short-term dalliances. Strachey was the rock to which Carrington tethered herself, a fact that became more apparent as the years passed and both matured in age if not outlook. A bit bigger than life in parts as befits its characters, Hampton nevertheless manages to hold the reins steady by balancing his film’s many lyrical passages with doses of candour and wit while his two stars completely immerse themselves in their roles, especially Pryce whose portrayal of the quietly effacing author earned him a BAFTA nomination. Passionate, moving, and almost achingly beautiful.

Cartel Land (USA 2015) (7): The much feted “War on Drugs” is visited by yet another documentary filmmaker, but this time around Matthew Heineman skirts the usual exposé of official collaboration and failed policies and instead focuses his lens on two very different men on opposite sides of the Mexican border who have more in common than first appearances would suggest. In the north Tim “Nailer” Foley has formed a heavily armed citizen’s vigilante group dedicated to patrolling the no-man’s land in southern Arizona where smugglers regularly transport drugs and people while the underfunded border patrol is nowhere to be seen. A thousand miles further south Dr. José Mireles has launched his own crusade against the drug gangs who are terrorizing the small towns of Mexico’s Michoacán province—his own neighbours having been beheaded a year earlier for violating one of the cartels’ many unwritten laws. But both men gradually discover that even the best of intentions often go awry as Foley finds his ranks swelling with the alt right (not that he puts up much of a protest) and Mireles’ “Autodefensa” league, composed of working class men who share his passion, begins to fall prey to the very corruption it swore to eradicate—with the government’s tacit approval no less. Shot in the usual jerky handheld style one associates with guerrilla filmmaking and making effective use of night skies and a fortuitous thunderstorm or two, Heineman concentrates mainly on Mireles (no naïve innocent himself) as his vision goes from heroic liberator to disillusioned martyr and beyond while the drug trade itself seems to receive little more than an inconvenient dent. Cynical with just a touch of despair, Heineman offers no solutions to the endless cycle of poverty, greed, and corruption but rather showcases a few brief victories in an all-consuming battle which shows no signs of slowing down. The fact that he bookends his film with scenes of an outdoor drug lab where masked men stir steaming cauldrons of meth like Macbeth’s witches only heightens the sense of futility.

Carve Her Name With Pride (UK 1958) (6): Violette Szabo was a fair English rose who went from being a headstrong war widow and single mother to one of the most celebrated Allied spies during WWII, receiving a posthumous George Cross from the king himself. Unfortunately, although the exploits of the real life Szabo were remarkable, in director Lewis Gilbert’s gushing biopic she is raised to sainthood in a tale of watered down peril where star Virginia McKenna seems to spend more time falling in love with co-star Paul Scofield than actual spying. The brits display those famous stiff upper lips, the Germans snarl, and Szabo’s heroic last stand is appropriately backlit by sombre clouds pierced through with sunbeams while the strings section goes wild. Nice performances however (McKenna received a BAFTA nomination) and after a meandering start the story takes off at a decent pace.

Casanova ’70 (Italy 1965) (7): Not exactly laugh-out-loud funny, but Mario Monicelli’s little Italian sex comedy still carries you along on sheer exuberance alone. NATO major Andrea Rossi-Colombotti (the incomparable Marcello Mastroianni) is unable to become sexually aroused unless there is an element of danger present, a condition his whacked-out analyst (Enrico Maria Salerna giving a fair Peter Sellers imitation) warns him will only get worse unless he manages to curb his daredevil libido. Nevertheless, Rossi’s need for risky sex will see him getting shot at while pretending to be a burglar in order to frighten his lover, shagging a German beauty in the middle of a museum exhibit, and facing the wrath of a Sicilian vendetta when he poses as a doctor hired to determine whether or not a young bride is a virgin (she most assuredly is not). But he faces his greatest challenge when he runs afoul of two women—one a sworn celibate who’s celibacy is negotiable (Virna Lisi) and the other a seductive vixen (Marisa Mell) married to a murderously jealous nobleman. It’s all froth and bubbles of course with Mastroianni gleefully diving out windows or scrambling up rooftops as he flees cuckolded husbands and enraged family members in his never-ending search for forbidden fruit—namely women who are neither free, nor easy, nor available. The sexual politics may be dated and those sexy lingerie encounters may earn no more than a saucy PG-rating, but it remains a noteworthy example of a genre all but forgotten.

Case 39 (USA 2009) (6): Overworked social worker Emily Jenkins is incensed when her supervisor gives her yet another suspected child abuse case to investigate, but when she visits the Sullivan home for the first time and meets 10-year old Lilith, a pale and timid little waif living in perpetual fear of her dour-faced parents, alarm bells begin to go off. Hostile and taciturn, Lilith’s parents vehemently resent any outside interference, in fact dad can’t even bring himself to speak with Emily directly preferring instead to whisper prompts into his wife’s ear. Lilith, in the meantime, just sits like a terrified doe caught in a pair of menacing headlights. Deeply disturbed by the meeting, Jenkins sets about trying to get the child placed into foster care despite the lack of any real evidence to support her suspicions of abuse. But when the Sullivans try to seriously harm their daughter one night Emily takes it upon herself to sponsor Lilith until the authorities can find her a permanent home. Then things start getting weird. With bad things happening around her and Lilith’s cherubic smiles becoming increasingly decorative, Emily begins to suspect that there is far more to Case 39 than she is willing to accept. Like all supernatural thrillers one must take huge leaps of faith here and ignore the obvious gaps in logic. Having accomplished this you are left with a decent, if unexceptional, shocker featuring appropriately theatrical performances backed by some unsettling effects (a particularly grisly bathroom scene will have you reaching for the earplugs). Director Christian Alvart does show some degree of control as he slowly ratchets up the suspense; unfortunately he leaves no room for either doubt or ambiguity hence you know from the outset where this is all heading but the buildup is chilling enough that you take the journey anyway. Alas, the final series of showdowns is disappointingly predictable (and a bit silly)...luckily we’re not threatened with a sequel. As Emily, Renée Zellweger is convincing as she shifts from naive do-gooder to bewildered dragon slayer while BC’s own Jodelle Ferland’s understated portrayal of Lilith makes The Omen’s Damian look like Bobby Brady on a good day. But it’s Vancouver, in the role of Portland, Oregon, which ultimately shines the brightest.

Cash McCall (USA 1960) (6): By all rights this “corporate romance” from Warner Brothers should have been scrapped before it was even finished. The script itself is a mush of free market dealing and lovestruck clichés while the slipshod editing gives rise to some glaring continuity flubs. Thankfully a dream cast of character actors including E. G. Marshall, Dean Jagger, and Henry Jones, combined with lead stars James Garner and Natalie Wood are enough to make things pleasantly watchable if nothing else. Business maverick Cash McCall (Garner, sexy as ever) has built an empire out of buying ailing businesses for a song and reselling them for a profit. With lawyers, accountants, and consultancy firms in his back pocket he’s not exactly breaking any laws but his methods could use a little ethical oversight. His latest acquisition, a plastics moulding company run by tycoon Grant Austen (Jagger), hits a double snag however when Austen has second thoughts and a rocky romance is rekindled between Cash and Austen’s daughter, Lory (Wood, all aglow). It seems the two met at a party the year before and a budding affair ended rather unceremoniously—cue ridiculous flashback with Natalie’s dress billowing in the wind, a moment of fireside passion, and inexplicable close-ups of eyes, mouths, and noses (did the writers hire a temp?). Anxious to begin where he left off, McCall must now woo the girl anew while making things right with a host of business associates, beginning with Lory’s dad. For you see, at heart he’s not the financial barracuda everyone makes him out to be. Those not familiar with Wall Street machinations, myself for instance, will find the corporate side of the story a tad confusing. Those looking for romance will likewise be disappointed for although they sparkle on their own, Garner and Wood generate little more than a pilot light when they share the screen, their love affair coming across as forced and barely credible—a yearlong obsession after one dance and a flash of skin? But Garner’s character is oh so rich and handsome as hell, a real “man’s man” who knows how to handle women (apparently you have to grab them by the elbow and force them along), while Wood smoulders as a conflicted WASP torn between her love for daddy and a libido that snaps like a hungry pooch whenever Cash enters the room. Interesting as a snapshot of America’s zeitgeist circa late 50s, most notably in the way it tempers capitalist ideology with social awareness—for every white collar deal, blue collar livelihoods are literally at stake. It’s also a prime example of just how rigid Hollywood’s sex roles could be when you compare Garner’s confident bravura with Nina Foch’s portrayal of Maude Kennard, the assistant manger of the hotel where McCall is residing. In the film’s most powerful performance she plays a successful businesswoman who nevertheless dotes on Cash like a giggling schoolgirl only to implode into a thousand bitter shards when she realizes she can’t have him. But, seeing as it's James Garner and all, I can’t say I blame her.

Casino (USA 1995) (9): A gaudily dressed businessman sits behind the wheel of a Cadillac and as he turns the key the car explodes marking the beginning of one of Hollywood’s most iconic opening scenes—a burning body tumbling slowly through sheets of hellfire which gradually resolve into the gaudy neon of the Las Vegas Strip. In much the same vein as his earlier Goodfellas, Martin Scorsese’s 3-hour mafia epic set mainly in the 1970s and loosely adapted from actual headlines traces the rise and fall of two men—once childhood friends now bitter opponents—as they vie for a piece of America’s gambling mecca. Sam Rothstein (a suave Robert De Niro) is a successful casino owner trying to tread a fine line between legitimate entrepreneur and mob associate. His chum Nicky Santoro (a maniacal Joe Pesci) on the other hand is a sadistic, foul-mouthed gangland enforcer determined to own Las Vegas by any means possible. And as the two strong-willed men become increasingly estranged a wild card enters the fray in the form of Ginger (Sharon Stone, phenomenal), a vivacious but dangerously unstable call girl-cum-huckster who steals Sam’s heart…among other things. Scorsese admitted in an interview that “…there’s a lot of action, a lot of story, but no plot…” and to be sure, as the body count rises in various bloody ways it becomes obvious that this is a tale of shifting powers set against a landscape of bright lights and darker corruption where the only direction available is straight down. No epiphanies, no salvation, and no moral edicts to tie it all together. But what it lacks in momentum it more than compensates with pure style from the garish sets and flashy wardrobes to a non-stop soundtrack that wrings ironic counterpoint from the likes of Fleetwood Mac, The Rolling Stones, and Little Richard among others. Mirrors figure prominently, a case of golden baubles becomes an unholy grail, and twinkling facades fail to downplay the villainy of America’s own Sodom & Gomorrah. Sensitive viewers be warned, F-bombs fall like rain and despite being edited down for an “R” rating, the carnage is still visceral enough to put you off your popcorn. James Woods co-stars as Ginger’s manipulative pimp and Sorsese shows some cheekiness by casting former Las Vegas showstoppers in various bit roles: Don Rickles, Alan King, and Frankie Avalon all get their respective fifteen minutes.

Casino Royale (UK 1967) (6): A 007 spoof which is not really that funny despite a slew of in-jokes and an impressive budget. When the evil SMERSH organization sets in motion a plan to take over the world, international leaders convince a reluctant James Bond (David Niven) to come out of retirement by blowing up his country estate. Once on the case however, the staunchly celibate super sleuth finds himself inundated with scantily clad double agents, bumbling accomplices, and a whole lot of high-tech tomfoolery. But with time running out and evil SMERSH leader Dr. Noah about to unleash armageddon, James must use every trick at his disposal in order to save the world without compromising his own newfound virginity. A snappy musical score by Burt Bacharach keeps things lighthearted while some outrageous set and costume designs—a mod mix of German expressionism and Laugh-In psychedelia—practically defines retro kitsch. It’s too bad time has deflated most of the jokes and the sight gags look as if they were inspired by Benny Hill including a supremely silly casino showdown between good guys and bad guys…and cowboys and Indians…and busty models and kilted Scotsmen…and Frankenstein…and trained seals. A cold war schtick doesn’t even come close to Dr. Strangelove while a cast of comedy mainstays, gorgeous leading ladies, and surprise celebrity cameos elicit little more than a smile and a nod—Woody Allen, playing Bond’s inept nephew Jimmy, ends up getting all the best lines anyway. A fluffy bit of nostalgia for those so inclined. As an aside, apparently a psychotic Peter Sellers hated co-star Orson Welles so much that he refused to act alongside him prompting the need for stand-ins and some clever editing.

Casino Royale (UK 2006) (7): This first instalment of a whole new James Bond franchise starts, appropriately enough, at the beginning with the surly Bond (Daniel Craig looking real nice in and out of a dinner jacket) just one killing shy of attaining his coveted 007 status within the British Intelligence service. Assigned to bring down an evil financier whose been backing international terrorism (a perfectly cast Mads Mikkelsen), Bond weaves a path of destruction that stretches from Uganda to Miami only to wind up risking it all in a multi-million dollar poker game. So much for plot. The expected flash bang special effects are out in full force with an opening parkour chase through a construction zone that defies gravity to an airport runway rampage that defies belief to a novel take on Titanic played out on the Grand Canal. It’s all very thrilling to say the least especially with director Martin Campbell’s eye for widescreen mayhem, Stuart Baird’s hyperkinetic editing, and composer David Arnold’s hammering score to fill in the gaps. And Craig’s Bond is a refreshing departure from the suave sex machines of the 60s—here he plays Ian Fleming’s iconic good guy as a brooding conflicted egotist who seems to lose a bit of his soul with every shot he fires and whose relationship with his immediate superior, “M”, (a hard-nosed Judi Dench) is fraught with hostility and confrontation. But a hastily constructed side story involving an ill-advised office romance (enter sultry Bond Girl Eva Green) appears to have no purpose other than to stick a final pin in Bond and after watching Craig beat insurmountable odds over and over and over again—hails of bullets always seem to miss their mark and a ridiculous resuscitation scene commits medical sacrilege—you begin to wonder whether the writers were simply overzealous or did they really think we were that gullible. Still, once you get into the comic book mood of the whole thing it becomes oddly addictive viewing. Besides, watching a buff Daniel Craig saunter onto a Bahamian beach wearing nothing but a clingy bathing suit is even more exciting than watching bad guys blow up.

Casque d’or (France 1952) (8): In rural 19th century France Marie, a gangster’s cynical moll (Simone Signoret, breathtaking), weaves a dangerous web of seduction and jealousy when she becomes the object of desire for three men: her abusive boyfriend; the powerful crime lord who owns him; and the object of her own desires, Georges, a dashing ex-con (Franco-Italian heartthrob Serge Reggiani) now trying to live the straight and narrow as a village carpenter. As each man faces off against the others in an obsessive bid to win Marie’s favour (or else take it by force), tragedy seems inevitable… Panned by critics upon its initial release for a supposed lack of psychological depth, and the cause of some scandal due to its candid allusions to premarital sex, sexual assault, and implied nudity, Jacques Becker’s noirish tale of l’amour mortel is now seen as a classic of European cinema and a precursor to the natural style that would help define the French New Wave school of moviemaking when it emerged in the 60s. Signoret shines as a belle époque feminist, those doll-like crinolines undermined by her set jaw and defiantly mocking eyes—yet she still conveys a sense of vulnerability, even dismay, when events spin beyond her control and stand poised to crush her in the process. Regianni is set to slow burn throughout, his handsome features and soft voice belying a grim resolve to have Marie for his own—one should note he is the only man who doesn’t slap her around. And Claude Dauphin, as the crime boss, is a distinguished gentleman with the heart of a reptile to whom Marie is but one more trinket to be coveted. Shot in hazy tones of B&W that compliment its midsummer setting, Becker’s cameras accentuate every ray of dusty sunshine, every shadowed contour, and the bare emotions that play across his characters’ faces from deadly rage to the gentlest affection as two lovers playfully grapple in a meadow. In one expertly filmed piece of irony Marie and Georges steal into a church where a wedding is taking place, a seemingly happy event until the lens comes to rest on the bride and groom who seem anything but. This is not a Hollywood film however, despite its focus on corrupted lives and downcast romance, a fact made clear throughout by Becker’s lack of sentimentality and an ending which descends like a final curtain.

The Cassandra Crossing (Germany/Italy 1976) (6): Fresh from the attempted bombing of a clandestine European lab, a lone terrorist stows away on a train bound from Geneva to Stockholm. The twist is he’s been unknowingly infected with a highly contagious plague bacteria engineered by the West and now one thousand passengers are at risk. With sick people beginning to collapse in the aisles and the American government attempting a cover-up by diverting the train to a quarantined area accompanied by armed guards with orders to shoot anyone trying to disembark, nerves begin to fray as a host of main characters—including a famous neurologist, the eccentric wife of an arms dealer, a celebrated author, and an amiable Holocaust survivor—fight to save both themselves and others. But the train’s final destination involves crossing a treacherous mountain pass which may pose an even greater risk to the passengers than the bacteria itself… A not entirely successful thriller from the Irwin Allen school of trashy disaster epics which lies somewhere between The Andromeda Strain and The Love Boat, Cassandra nevertheless boasts such names as Sophia Loren, Richard Harris, Ava Gardner, and Burt Lancaster with a few B-listers along for the ride most notably Martin Sheen as a greasy gigolo and O. J. Simpson as a determined lawman (LOL!). A few scientific faux pas and logic potholes notwithstanding this is a brisk and enjoyable no-brainer with lots of high-speed mountain scenery, stagey emoting, and an unexpectedly tense finale that probably kept the special effects team up way past midnight. A worthy late-night popcorn feature.

The Cat and the Canary (USA 1927) (8): It’s a dark and stormy night when the greedy relatives of deceased millionaire Cyrus West gather at his gloomy mansion for the reading of the will—twenty years after his death as per his wishes. But the eccentric old tycoon never really liked his immediate family, knowing that they only saw dollar signs whenever they looked at him, so besides a will he also left a few cryptic letters with his lawyer designed to cast suspicion and unease in their ranks. To his chosen heir however, he also included one ominous proviso: if you are judged to be mentally incompetent the entire fortune will go to another as yet unnamed member of the West clan. Cue a night of intrigue, mayhem, and murder made all the more harrowing by the arrival of a guard claiming an escaped lunatic may be hiding on the estate. Unlike Radley Metzger’s horrid 1978 adaptation (also reviewed here) director Paul Leni creates a beautifully gothic setting of creepy hallways, cobwebbed rooms, and hidden passageways. Using tinted film stock that goes from midnight blue to radiant orange as well as some clever effects, he pays homage to the original stage play with his talented troupe of silent actors emoting amongst elaborate backdrops of billowing drapes and candlelit parlours; a crazy escape attempt on the back of a horse-drawn milk cart was especially well done. And true to the German expressionist school Leni also throws in a few surreal visuals, most notably the exterior shots of West’s mansion rising organically from the surrounding countryside like a haunted castle. Shot through with suspense and unexpected humour, this delightfully spooky classic from the silent film era still manages to hold its own.

The Cat and the Canary (UK 1977) (3): Porn auteur Radley Metzger tries his hand at mainstream entertainment in this limp and lifeless whodunit. It’s 1934 and the adult kin of deceased tycoon Cyrus West have gathered on his estate for the reading of the Will. Actually the “viewing” of the Will would be more apropos as the rascally Cyrus filmed himself reading it shortly before his death. According to his wishes the entire fortune is to go to one lucky heir with the following caveat: if that person is judged to be insane by the following morning the estate will pass to an unnamed next in line whose identity will be revealed in a second tape played over breakfast. And thus the stage is set for a long evening of mysterious hijinks and red herrings (with gay innuendos and implied incest for good measure) as someone begins bumping off the West clan one by one. All the obligatory ingredients are here: a dark and stormy night, creepy mansion, gaggle of eccentric relatives with secrets to hide, and just for good measure rumours that an escaped lunatic who likes to flay his victims alive may be prowling the grounds. Overflowing with genre clichés, this bit of tedium delivers all the thrills and chills of a Scooby Doo rerun despite the half-hearted efforts of its cast of British B-listers. The ending is somewhat satisfying however; not because the mystery is finally solved but because it’s The End.

Cat Ballou (USA 1965) (6): Columbia Studios takes Roy Chanslor’s novel about a Wild West frontier woman gone rogue and turns it into a corny knee-slapper whose comedic elements have dimmed significantly over the years. After her father is murdered by a hired gun for refusing to sell his ranch to a big development company, prim and proper schoolteacher Catherine Ballou (Jane Fonda, looking lost throughout) vows revenge on the company as well as the townsfolk who supported it. But not knowing one end of a rifle from the other herself, she winds up placing her trust in a sad trio of outlaws which includes a perpetually horny con artist and a veteran gunslinger who can only function if he’s sufficiently liquored up (Lee Marvin snagging his one and only Oscar for Best Actor). The generic frontier sets look good nestled against their Colorado backdrops and the addition of a Greek Chorus in the form of a pair of banjo-plucking minstrels (Nat King Cole and Stubby Kaye) who sing directly to the audience adds a touch of Vaudeville—but the story itself is more or less a distillation of every revenge-fuelled oater ever made; the inclusion of whimsical songs, a dash of slapstick, and an unconvincing romantic complication notwithstanding. Only Marvin manages to rise above the general mediocrity with a bit of theatre that combines mumbling outbursts and drunken contortions that come very close to performance art—at one point even his horse seems to share in his hangover as its head droops disconsolately over a pair of crossed hooves. At least his character’s transformation from grizzled alcoholic to polished antihero, filmed with all the solemnity of a papal inauguration, manages to garner a weak smile when his assistant struggles to lace up his corset. It’s a shoot-em-up Western farce with a feminist slant (Ballou finds her inner warrior!) that must have seemed fresh when it premiered. Unfortunately that was almost 60 years and three generations ago.

Catfish (USA 2010) (7): New York photographer Nev Schulman begins an online friendship with Abby, a talented 12-year old art prodigy living in northern Michigan, after she does an oil painting of one of his pics. But what starts out as innocent text exchanges turns more intimate when Abby’s older sister Megan takes a shine to him and the two begin exchanging phone calls and sexy emails prompting Nev to travel to Michigan for an impromptu visit. Meanwhile Nev’s brother Ariel and his friend Henry Joost, both budding filmmakers, decide to record the evolving romance after inconsistencies begin to emerge involving Abby, Megan, and their parents Angela and Vince… It’s pretty near impossible to critique Joost and Schulman’s grainy handheld documentary without giving away key points since both the medium and the message are so intertwined. With a running time evenly divided between mumblecore passages seemingly filmed on the fly and electronic screens displaying Facebook pages, a dashboard GPS, and Google searches (even the opening credits feature a roving cursor) it certainly addresses the meta-reality which has emerged with the advent of social media platforms wherein “likes”, “friends lists”, and smiley icons have replaced actual sensory input (or common sense). Unjustly billed as a “thriller”—mostly because of one late night foray into guerrilla filmmaking—what emerges is still highly watchable, though more pathetic than tense, and unfortunately completely predictable. It’s the layers of irony however which won me over, for one gets the feeling that the “documentary” itself is not above suspicion leading Digital Age viewers to further question exactly what the hell is real. “Not based on a true story. Not inspired by true events. Just true” blares the promo, a boast which eventually rings as meaningless as a Youtube clip. Think of it as the “B” side to Courtney Cox’s superior TalhotBlond, released two years later.

Catherine the Great [aka The Rise of Catherine the Great ] (UK 1934) (6): A sketchy and highly sanitized biopic of the little German princess who rose to become Russia’s most ambitious, controversial, and longest ruling Empress. Elisabeth Bergner plays the Tsarina as a headstrong dormouse wailing over her husband’s infidelities yet willing to overthrow his tyrannical rule while Douglas Fairbanks Jr (wearing more rouge than his co-star) runs hot and cold as the mentally unbalanced Tsar Peter. It’s Flora Robson however who ultimately delivers as the aging empress Elisabeth—an 18th century dowager with decidedly 20th century opinions on sex and politics. Despite the advent of sound, the actors’ emoting still hearkens back to the silent era and those fanciful sets and storybook costumes are more Babes in Toyland than grand empire. Still, the British censors must have had conniptions over the film’s frank (for the time) handling of extramarital sex and female empowerment (in and out of the bedroom). One final weak note of praise, although the script doesn’t do the historical Catherine much justice especially with Bergner’s feigned accent that seems to wander all over the place, it at least steers clear of the more salacious urban legends surrounding her sexual exploits.

A Cat in Paris (France 2010) (7): An Oscar nominee, this delightful animated adventure revolves around a little girl and her duplicitous pet cat who unwittingly cross paths with a criminal madman and his posse of bumbling thieves. Resolutely mute ever since her father was killed, Zoe lives in a comfortable Parisian apartment with her senior police investigator mother, her doting nanny, and Dino her big loveable feline companion. But Dino is not quite the lazy kitty he appears to be for when the sun sets he sneaks out of Zoe’s window and joins forces with Nico, a kind-hearted and strangely lithe cat burglar (haha!) whose been relieving Paris’ wealthier residents of their unwanted jewellery. Isolated both psychologically and emotionally (her mother is too involved with catching the evil gangster who murdered her husband to pay more than a passing attention to her silent daughter’s needs) Zoe follows Dino on one of his nightly rendezvous, meets up with a somewhat flustered Nico, and accidentally eavesdrops on the wicked thug Victor Costa as he plans the biggest heist of his career. What follows is a nicely imagined children’s story with kidnappings, daring rescues, and the kind of mild menace which always ends happily. Graced with bright cartoon energy and a jazzy musical score, A Cat in Paris has a wonderful retro look to its primitive animation—-picture Mike Judge studying under Picasso. A nice way to spend 70 minutes with the kiddies, and guaranteed not to cause nightmares.

A Cat in the Brain (Italy 1990) (6): Italian horrormeister Lucio Fulci turns the camera on himself in this deranged, and sometimes amusing, critique on his notorious body of work. He plays a director of unsavoury “sex & sadism” shockers (more of a cameo actually) who finds himself increasingly unable to separate reality from the lurid script of his latest film---did he really witness a topless woman being beaten to a bloody pulp, or was that just a curtain in the window? Unfortunately, the psychiatrist whom Fulci turns to winds up being more of a hindrance than an ally as the body count of dead lingerie models slowly continues to rise. A pretty thin premise for what amounts to ninety minutes of blood, boobs, and body parts all filmed in that delightfully cheesy misogynistic way that only Italian giallo directors seem capable of getting away with. Fulci does challenge our perceptions in a few clever “movie within a movie” ways while at the same time extending a middle finger to those critics who claim his brand of horror leads to real life emulation (are you hearing this UK censors?) Sure to delight fans of the genre while steaming hardcore feminists, it is clear that the grandfatherly Fulci had tongue firmly in cheek. Only in Lucio’s case the tongue is severed and the cheek crawling with maggots. Enjoy!

The Cave (USA 2005) (6): A group of scientists exploring a newly discovered series of giant caves deep beneath the Carpathian mountains are delighted when they stumble upon a strange new ecosystem. Their delight turns to terror however when they become trapped underground and realize they are no longer on top of the food chain… Pretty standard monster fare combining claustrophobic elements from The Descent with biological hocus-pocus from The Thing and 1974s The Bat People, but beautifully filmed nevertheless in subterranean shades of blue and grey lit only by portable lamps and sputtering flares. The underwater sequences (using a 750,000 gallon tank) have you catching your breath while those bogeyman sequences—effectively rendered in manic CGI and slimy prosthetics—do not disappoint. A passable creature feature with a nice little twist at the end.

Cemetery Man (Italy 1994) (5): Rupert Everett plays Francesco, the brooding live-in caretaker of a modest little graveyard which houses an awful secret. It seems the churchyard is cursed with a most inconvenient quirk which causes the newly departed to rise as flesh-eating zombies a few days after they’ve been buried. Afraid to alert the authorities lest he lose his job Francesco and his dull-witted assistant calmly do their nightly rounds, shovel and pistol in hand, dispatching the odd ghoul with a well-placed (and very messy) blow to the head. As a self-proclaimed guardian between the living and the dead, Francesco finds himself uncomfortably poised between both worlds; he can’t relate to the living, and the dead just piss him off. It all changes one day when he becomes infatuated with a voluptuous young widow and decides the living make much better company after all. But the dead, particularly the muppet-like Grim Reaper himself, are not so keen on letting him go. Soavi’s film is an inconsistent hodgpodge of gothic horror, bone-dry comedy, and macabre romance that too often spirals down into the absurd to be taken seriously. He does throw in some nice touches though; Francesco’s full name translates as “Francis of the Dead” (his mother’s maiden name being “of Love”) and his erratic relationship with the widow (she takes on a few incarnations along the way) is intriguing. Moreover, there are some exceptional visuals incorporating elements of the gruesome and the sublime; an erotic coupling takes place amongst the headstones, a fall of red silk brushes against a putrefying skull, and a tableaux of the earth and moon as seen from space resolves into something quite different as the camera pans around. Attempts are made to ruminate on both the relationship between love and death, and the paradox of free will vs. destiny. But, ultimately, the gory effects and twisted storyline (a French kiss with a severed head is particularly nasty) prove too distracting. Enjoyable for what it is, a failure for what it tries to become.

Chained (Canada 2012) (5): A nine-year old boy and his mother are abducted by a sadistic serial killer with an intense dislike of women. Driving them to his secluded home by the edge of an abandoned highway (a dreary cameo by Saskatchewan’s own Moose Jaw), “Bob” immediately sets about dispatching the mother while her terrified son cowers in the back of the car. Over the next several years a twisted mentorship gradually develops between killer and child, now nicknamed “Rabbit”, which sees the boy go from chained slave living off table scraps and cleaning up the aftermath of his master’s conquests to reluctant acolyte struggling with adolescent hormones and an increasingly troubled conscience. But when Bob decides it’s time for Rabbit to get a knife of his own and start meeting girls the young man’s already conflicted psyche goes into crisis mode leading to some drastic decisions and a most heinous revelation. On the plus side, director Jennifer Chambers Lynch proves adept at imbuing tight physical spaces with enough psychological dread that at times Bob’s spartan, boarded-up house (complete with makeshift basement graveyard) seems almost surreal. Vincent D’Onofrio’s burly soft-spoken yet implacable psychopath is the perfect human monster while Eamon Farren’s emaciated good looks and haunted eyes bring the character of Rabbit to sickly life. To her further credit Lynch keeps the most extreme violence off camera where muffled screams and the occasional puddle of blood deliver more impact than a cartload of entrails ever could…apparently this was not so much by design but due to some last minute editing in order to avoid the box office poison of an NC-17 rating. Too bad it all falls apart towards the middle with an already dicey scenario demanding ever increasing leaps of faith. Although D’Onofrio gives an incredible performance the reasons behind his rage, hinted at in grainy flashbacks, are so outrageous that I was more bemused than horrified while the film’s big reveal was just plain stupid. A highbrow slasher flick with dark overtones that barely conceal its shallow roots.

The Champ (USA 1931) (7): If ever there was a Hollywood flick designed to wring sobs from its audience it has to be this shameless heart-tugger which, despite all its blatant manipulations, is still able to generate a soft spot in all but the hardest of hearts. Wallace Beery won his only Oscar playing Andy “The Champ” Purcell, a one-time world champion boxer who in his declining years has succumbed to alcohol and gambling. His only saving grace is his son Dink (nine-year old Jackie Cooper mopping the floor with his tears), whom he raised single-handedly after his wife left him. Wise beyond his years and wanting to see nothing but the best in his dad, Dink has become the Champ’s nursemaid, confidante, and wee little voice of conscience every time he falls off the wagon—which is all the time. But after years of flubbed opportunities and broken promises—Dink’s pet horse comes and goes depending on dad’s luck at the casino—Purcell finally sees a chance to make it up to his son when he’s offered a chance to enter the ring for one final prize bout… Beery is perfect in the title role, his flabby dad bod making him look like a former athlete gone to seed while his rubbery features and soft grumble of a voice turn even scowls into endearing traits. Not surprisingly he’s upstaged at every turn by Cooper’s angelic little moppet, sweet as a bag of penny candy and able to shoot out teardrops like a lawn sprinkler. And though Gordon Avil’s cinematography may soften the rougher edges of Purcell’s world, once the cameras enter the ring the fight scenes fly by in an accelerated whirl of punches and bloody scrapes while the orchestra weeps. Diminutive Jesse Scott pushes the colour barrier as Dink’s best friend and constant companion, and Irene Rich hams it up as his estranged mother eager for a second chance—her maternal emoting sometimes bordering on creepy.

The Changeling (Canada 1980) (7): After suffering a horrible personal tragedy composer and music professor John Russell (George C. Scott?!) leaves New York and holes up in a rural mansion near Seattle (actually an amalgamation of Vancouver and Toronto). But his respite is short lived for the house has a grim history and something in the attic has started to demand his attention with loud bangs, slamming doors, and spectral moans…not to mention a persistent little antique wheelchair hidden behind a wall. Seeking the assistance of a medium (cue creepy seance scene) John begins to uncover the secret behind the haunting—a secret so horrible it stretches all the way to the offices of a respected senator… If you are willing to forgive the usual assortment of genre absurdities and dramatic stretches (this is a horror movie after all) director Peter Medak still manages to pull off a genuinely scary haunted house tale which relies as much on darkened hallways and cobwebbed staircases as it does on ghostly jolts. Russell’s decaying manor provides the perfect setting for all sorts of macabre mischief and an old fashioned score of piano riffs and shivering strings set your teeth on edge. Scott is his usually growly self—imagine General Patton as a Ghostbuster—while co-star Trish Van Devere as his sidekick and maybe love interest manages a convincing scream or two. Spooky stuff from the Great White North.

Changeling (USA 2008) (9): Based on a true story, Clint Eastwood’s gripping mystery concentrates on a botched missing child case which became a notorious cause célèbre in Los Angeles circa 1928. After her nine-year old son Walter disappears one afternoon single mother Christine Collins (Angelina Jolie, luminous) turns to a somewhat reluctant LAPD to help find him. Five months later news comes that the police have picked Walter up in Illinois and are returning him by train. But as an ecstatic Christine rushes to the station platform amid a sea of police and reporters she is horrified to discover that the little tyke waiting for her is not Walter at all. Insisting that she is simply distraught and that “kids change under stress” an increasingly hostile Captain Jones convinces Christine to quietly take “Walter” home and learn to reconnect with him. Refusing to let the matter rest however, Christine launches a one-woman campaign to locate her real son aided by Presbyterian minister and outspoken critic of official wrongdoing Rev. Gustav Briegleb. Unfortunately the LAPD of 1928 is a corrupt organization which doesn’t take kindly to increased public scrutiny and the more Christine pushes, the harder—and more dangerously—they push back. In the meantime Christine continues to care for the strange little boy under her roof while a few troubling clues regarding Walter’s actual whereabouts slowly emerge… A triumph of style and substance, Eastwood’s haunting period piece painstakingly recreates flapper-era Los Angeles with it’s tree-lined streets, concrete skyscrapers, and cherry red streetcars not to mention the detailed costumes and low-tech conveniences. His standout cast and a credible script firmly anchor the film in time and place while a wistful score (credited to Eastwood but sounding more like Vangelis) tinges everything with a sense of yearning and melancholy. Intelligently written and presented with flair.

Character (Netherlands 1997) (7): Dreverhaven the local court bailiff is dead and all suspicion falls on his illegitimate son Jacob whom he sired with Joba, his former housemaid. Hauled before a police inquiry Jacob, just recently graduated from law school, pleads his innocence and through a series of flashbacks we witness the destructive relationship between the deceased and the accused which began with Jacob’s birth. Dreverhaven was a cold-hearted bastard who followed the letter of the law without ever considering the ideals behind those laws. Taking grim satisfaction in evicting people from their homes regardless of their financial or physical limitations his villainy eventually extended to Jacob, the son he never openly acknowledged, when he came after him for a defaulted loan. Meanwhile, instead of rising to her child’s defense, the taciturn Joba offered him little more than criticism and silence. Eventually Dreverhaven’s apparent desire to destroy his son took its toll returning us once more to the film’s beginning, that decisive final encounter which saw the old man dead and Jacob covered in blood… Director Mike van Diem’s tense drama, set in early 1900’s Rotterdam, plunges its audience into one angry young man’s Oedipal rage and does so with gusto. Dreverhaven (brilliantly played by Jan Decleir) seems a force of nature, residing in a top floor office and coming forth only to dispense cruel justice like an Old Testament Jehovah. Hating him, yet perversely seeking his approval, Jacob thrusts and parries with the old man—his youthful passions mirrored by Dreverhaven’s icy contempt—while incomplete mother figures loom in the background whether it be Joba’s cold indifference or the troubling sexual temptations introduced by an office secretary. Explosive performances all around plus a kinetic energy reminiscent of a Wes Anderson production (only more focused). Unfortunately Diem’s attention to the smallest of details, while admirable, does cause the action to drag out in too many places while the central point is driven home with more force than it needed. Still an engaging piece of cinema which definitely earned its Foreign Language Oscar.

Charade (USA 1963) (6): The plot has too many holes and reaches and some of the performances fall flat, but there is something about this undemanding crime caper that keeps you watching and smiling just the same. Maybe it’s the lush Oscar-nominated musical score by Henry Mancini, or the glittering Paris backdrops, or maybe the whole production is just riding on the sheer star power of its two leads? After her husband is murdered aboard a French train, Regina Lampert (a sparkling Audrey Hepburn) is shocked to discover he not only led a questionable double life but he also managed to squirrel away a quarter of a million ill-gotten dollars. Now a trio of ruthless men are after her, convinced she knows where the money is, and her only allies seem to be a taciturn American bureaucrat (a bored Walther Matthau) and a mysterious stranger (a greying Cary Grant) who may or may not have her best interests at heart. Double-crosses and fake identities become the order of the day as an unnerved Regina must decide who to trust and who to run away from. Despite a few rather operatic murders, a bit of mild suspense, and George Kennedy’s hammy performance as a growling one-armed thug, Charade is essentially a contrived May-December romantic comedy with Hepburn and Grant not quite convincing enough to suspend disbelief. But they’re pretty to look at (those Givenchy fashions!) and Charles Lang’s opulent cinematography cashes in on snow-capped alps and twinkling Parisian boulevards. Perhaps it’s fitting then that the film reaches its climax in an ornate theatre all done up in red and gold—but devoid of any audience. Great opening credits sequence though.

Charley’s Aunt (USA 1941) (7): Lord Fancourt “Babbs” Babberley (Jack Benny!?) is the oldest sophomore at Oxford University and if he doesn’t get his degree soon his family will ship him off to a sheep ranch in New Zealand. His two roommates Jack and Charley meanwhile are trying to woo a pair of sweethearts who refuse to be seen with them unless they have an escort (this is 1890 after all). So, in exchange for a much needed academic favour Babbs agrees to pose as Charley’s eccentric aunt Lucia from Brazil, a wealthy widow only too pleased to chaperone the ladies long enough for Jack and Charley to propose to them. But when the girls’ overly protective uncle and Jack’s widowed father both decide to pursue Charley’s aunt—or rather her fortune rumoured to be in the millions—a farcical drag comedy ensues which sees Babbs in and out of petticoats while thwarting his would be suitors’ amorous advances. And then the real aunt Lucia arrives on the scene and an already screwball comedy threatens to fly right off the rails. At forty-seven Benny was already far too old for the part and it shows, as does his corny British accent which he finally abandons (along with everyone else) within the first twenty minutes. The sheer outrageousness of the story however, coupled with a manic presentation which sees everyone running around, slamming doors, and ducking behind walls, manages to keep you off guard just enough to elicit a string of smiles and the occasional guffaw. This is an old fashioned comedy after all, free of any improper innuendo or racy gender-bending—although ersatz Aunt Lucia’s familiarity with Jack and Charley’s fiancées is enough to raise a queer eyebrow or two. A good clean bit of buffoonery overall and certainly worth watching just to see Jack Benny dressed up like a Dickensian spinster.

Charley Varrick (USA 1973) (6): A gang of smalltime bank robbers looking for petty cash make off with far more than they bargained for when they knock over a modest little New Mexico Savings and Loan. It seems the Mob has been using the bank to store some ill-gotten loot, almost 800 thousand dollars’ worth, and they’re determined to get even with whoever took it. Pursued by both the police and the Mafia, the thieves find their options (and membership) steadily decreasing until ringleader Charlie Varrick decides to make one last desperate gambit… A watchable crime flick with some good action sequences, including a cat & mouse chase between a car and airplane, and a cheesy soundtrack of canned jazz that keeps it forever locked in the 70s. In the lead, Walter Matthau shuffles and mugs as usual while mob hitman Joe Don Baker scowls and smacks people around. But Matthau’s character never quite becomes the anti-hero the movie demands as it’s impossible to side with someone willing to kill people for the sake of a few thousand dollars. Strictly movie-of-the-week fare.

Charlie Wilson’s War (USA 2007) (7): By all accounts—including his own—Texas congressman Charlie Wilson (an affable Tom Hanks) was a hard-drinking womanizer who was not above a bit of dirty politicking or the occasional sexual fling. But when the Russians began invading Afghanistan at the beginning of 1980 he was both moved by the suffering of the Afghani people and incensed over what he considered to be America’s lackadaisical response to this latest provocation in the long-running Cold War. With the help of truculent CIA operative Gust Avrakotos (an unlikeable Philip Seymour Hoffman deserving his Oscar nomination) Wilson used his political prowess to not only secure a billion dollars in aid and weaponry for the Mujahideen rebels, he also managed to garner support from such diametrically opposed allies as Pakistan and Israel not to mention a wealthy faction of the Texas bible belt thanks to the interventions of savvy Houston socialite—and sometime lover—Joanne Herring (a tough-as-nails Julia Roberts). But despite his best intentions the fallout from “Charlie Wilson’s war” would have unforeseen consequences for the middle east in general and American foreign policy in particular. Overlooking all the swearing and nudity this fact-based comedy-cum-drama still comes across as a fanciful Disney revisionist piece replete with sparkling personalities and a clearly defined line between the good guys and the bad guys. The American halls of power, here seen as a jocular cocktail party, provide little more than a colourful backdrop to Wilson’s visionary campaign with Hanks downing whiskey shots between bouts of moral indignation and Roberts rattling off political strategies while primping her eyelashes. Hoffman’s character however cuts straight to the heart of the film as a cynical, acid-tongued agent who has seen the results of too many “good intentions” to take much delight in Wilson’s victories. It is Hoffman’s performance, along with the venerable Om Puri as Pakistani president Zia, which give the film a welcome dose of gravitas while history itself provides the scathing irony.

The Child in Time (England 2017) (4): Popular children’s author Stephen Lewis (Benedict Cumberbatch) takes his 4-year old daughter Kate to the supermarket where she promptly vanishes when he becomes momentarily distracted at the checkout. Now three years have gone by and the case has grown cold, much like Lewis’ marriage. Although still on friendly—even intimate—terms, the incident has caused such a rift between him and his wife (Kelly Macdonald) that she’s moved out and moved on leaving him alone to obsess over Kate’s disappearance…an obsession that has begun to colour every aspect of his life. I’m sure Ian McEwan’s source novel offers greater insights (not to mention much needed explanations) but Julian Farino’s screen adaptation takes an incisive piece on grief, guilt, and the effects of loss and muddies the waters with so much existential claptrap and political non-sequiturs that it becomes lost at sea. It would appear Lewis’ world is filled with “missing children” of one kind or another—his publisher inexplicably retreats into a second childhood; his mother recounts a bizarre prenatal experience involving an unborn Stephen; and both he and his wife have teasing visions of Kate. Even his current book about an unhappy young boy who wants to be a fish carries notes of emotional distress. But if his fruitless search for the little girl is meant to be a greater metaphor—innocence lost perhaps, or a way to emphasize the bewildered Stephen as a child “lost in time”—the message is misplaced amid the film’s temporal shifts (flashbacks render it a kind of psychological time travel tale) and sinister intrigues—a heartless Prime Minister with despotic attitudes towards child welfare probably plays a key role in McEwan’s book but is reduced to puzzling background noise in the film. Although well shot with an emphasis on “home” and sporting a fine pair of leads, the end product itself plays out like so many dots in search of a line to connect them. And that closing scene, smacking of absolution and transcendence, ends up pushing the envelope just a little too far.

A Child is Waiting (USA 1963) (8): Sadly, thanks to artistic differences with both the studio and producer Stanley Kramer, this early work from pioneering director John Cassavetes bears little of the psychological honesty he would later become famous for but it still provides an emotional punch that was far ahead of its time. Looking for some fulfillment in an otherwise unfulfilling life, middle-aged Jean Hansen (a remarkably demure Judy Garland) takes a job teaching music at a state-run boarding school for children with mental disabilities. Presided over by compassionate advocate Dr. Matthew Clark (Burt Lancaster playing Burt Lancaster) the children—diagnosed with everything from Down’s Syndrome to perinatal brain injury to all forms of autism—are ruled with a tough love policy designed to make them as independent as possible. But when Jean crosses a line and takes a personal interest in one particularly sad case, eleven-year old Reuben who was abandoned by his parents and now exists in a walking stupor, she realizes that hugs and kisses alone cannot save these children, in fact they can be dangerously counterproductive. Filmed quasi-documentary style in an actual state hospital and starring an impressive cast of children with all the disabilities mentioned above, there is a ring of authenticity to Cassavete’s film that neither flinches from some of the harsher realities of caring for high needs children nor downplays the often esoteric rewards (a Thanksgiving Play doesn’t go quite as planned and you can only smile at the chaos). It’s the parents however which give the story its underlying pathos. With reactions ranging from sadness to discomfort bordering on hostility you see the greater prejudices of society clearly reflected in their eyes. A meeting between Dr. Clark and the state budgeting committee reduces the children to dollars and cents while a visit to an adult psychiatric ward gives a stark example of where their futures often lead. Gena Rowlands and Steven Hill are especially effective as Reuben’s conflicted parents—she can’t bear to visit her son because she “loves him too much” while he feels Reuben would have been better off dead. Despite some soap opera moments and a cloying soundtrack of whiny violins Casavetes et al never stoop to condescension and the children (oh those kids!) take to the camera with unabashed zeal.

Children of God (Bahamas 2010) (8): Kareem Mortimer’s drama—an examination and condemnation of homophobic attitudes in his native Bahamas—gets off to a shaky start with initially unconvincing performances and a B&W script that promises all the usual platitudes. But once cast and crew hit their stride the film reveals an unexpected depth, addressing issues of race, identity, and desire with scenes that range from hard reality to fragile poetry. In the days leading up to a crucial parliamentary vote on equality the island paradise of Eleuthera is anything but as a trio of separate stories converge beneath its calm blue skies. A neurotic young artist comes searching for his muse only to find something more substantial in the arms of a stranger. An anti-gay preacher comes under the scrutiny of his wife, herself a homophobic crusader terrified that their little boy may be a “sissy”. And a lone reverend, still smarting from the death of his child and his wife’s abandonment, tries to sow peace among the thorns. With snatches of fire & brimstone condemnations competing with island rhythms in the background, Mortimer moves his characters with the utmost delicacy—fleshing them out using subtle changes in attitude, letting chance encounters occur naturally, and wrapping his pleas for tolerance in the most ordinary of dialogue. With an eye for colour and texture he also manages to turn Eleuthera’s natural beauty into something quasi-spiritual—the island’s crystal clear beaches becoming baptismal fonts and its lush greenery suggesting a divided Eden. And his cast evolve right along with the movie, those initial flat presentations blossoming into emotional performances which culminate in one of the most affecting final passages I’ve seen in quite some time. “So why you hating faggots so much?” asks one closeted man to another during a washroom hook-up. “I don’t…” the other man replies, “…but you have to give people something to hate. It brings them together.” And with Children of God Kareem Mortimer argues there just might be another option. An unpolished jewel of a film whose rougher edges fail to dim either its message or the sincerity of its author.

Children of Men  (UK 2006) (9):  In the near future the human race suddenly finds itself suffering from a plague of infertility.  With an aging population and zero birth rate society begins to come apart at the seams. Very well done.....excellent editing and sound effects, some remarkable performances and assured direction throughout. I was especially impressed with the undercurrent of dark satire that always seemed to be lurking just beneath the dramatics. I may disagree with some of the films rather facile politics but as a near-future thriller it succeeded admirably.

The Children’s Hour (USA 1961) (8): The two headmistresses at an exclusive girl's academy (Shirley MacLaine and Audrey Hepburn) find their lives turned upside down when one of their students, a spoiled vindictive brat with an overly active imagination, sees and hears more than she is able to process thus giving rise to a vicious rumour suggesting the two women are more than just friends. With students being pulled out of class by their concerned WASP parents and Hepburn's fiancee (James Garner) facing guilt by association, the teachers fight back any way then can. But society's rampant homophobia makes tragedy seem inevitable. Based on Lilian Hellman's play, which was itself based on a one hundred year old Scottish case, this controversial drama goes to great lengths to avoid the word "lesbian" which was still taboo in 60s cinema. Furthermore, a monumental meltdown by MacLaine only seems to reinforce the opinions expressed by the staunchly conservative parents. But taken as a discomfiting time capsule it certainly leaves you with a stark idea of where we were and how far we've come. As an aside, in the role of Mary, the child who started the ball rolling in the first place, diminutive Karen Balkin gives us one of filmdom's most hateful little bitches ever.

Child’s Play (USA 1988) (7): Poor little Andy…all he wanted for his sixth birthday was a “Good Guys” doll, one of those cuddly child-sized moppets with bright red hair, crystal blue eyes, and an electronic vocabulary of three happy sentences. He got the doll alright, but unfortunately his doting mother didn’t realize that this particular action figure was possessed by the soul of notorious serial killer and part-time voodoo enthusiast Charles Lee Ray who was gunned down in a toy store the night before. Now bent on killing everyone who wronged him, “Chucky” is on the loose in Chicago armed with an unusually sharp kitchen knife and no one will believe Andy’s wild tales about the homicidal birthday present with a thirst for blood… Not since Karen Black peeked under the couch in Trilogy of Terror has a creepy dolly elicited so much frightened laughter—but at least her wooden nemesis simply grunted. Child’s Play forces us to endure a huggable cabbage patch kid screaming “Fuck you bitch!” and “You have a date…with DEATH!” while throwing little plastic tantrums. The animatronic effects are pretty effective though and blend seamlessly with the few live stand-in performances. The script is beyond hokey however with 80s good girl Catherine Hicks playing the hysterical mother, Brad Dourif hamming it up as Charles Lee Ray-slash-voice of evil Chucky, and Chris Sarandon as the cynical cop who has a change of heart when Chucky decides to hitch a ride in the squad car. But it’s Alex Vincent, only seven at the time, who keeps things form spinning into total inanity by playing Andy with a supremely straight face and sense of childlike terror. Hicks wrestles a stuffed doll with wild abandon, Sarandon fires at it with all the solemnity of a wild west duel, and the skies above Chicago roil and rumble with matte lightning bolts. Schlock cinema doesn’t get much better than this.

Child’s Pose (Romania 2013) (10): Romanian directors have a knack for showing one thing while actually saying something altogether different. Case in point is Calin Peter Netzer’s Oscar-nominated drama, at once a dark family tragedy and a subtle indictment of societal corruption. When her good-for-nothing son’s reckless driving kills a fourteen-year old child Cornelia Keneres (a devastating performance by Luminita Gheorghiu) uses her wealth and social connections to clear his name. Successfully bribing a greedy witness to change his statement and calling in a few political favours, Cornelia then sets her sights on the child’s grieving family—ostensibly offering to pay for the boy’s funeral while secretly hoping her show of generosity will get them to drop all charges. But her desperate scheming goes awry when the ungrateful son’s vitriolic attitude towards her domineering ways underscores a lifetime of failed mothering and a visit with the dead teen’s parents further unravels whatever pretence she once had of being a “family”. Filmed without a musical score and using mainly handheld cameras, Netzer’s bitter pill of a movie works on more than one level—it’s no accident that Cornelia’s privileged urban lifestyle contrasts so sharply with the impoverished rural reality of the victim’s relatives (she drives up to the police station decked out in furs while the boy’s enraged uncle sports a worn cloth coat) or that the only witness to what really happened comes with a convenient price tag. Furthermore, Cornelia’s inability to cope when confronted with someone else’s grief speaks not only of her own personal disconnect but of a greater social malaise. A sad and unrelenting tale which slowly builds to its shattering climax. This is what the art of cinema is all about.

Chillerama (USA 2011) (5): When his Drive-In theatre is sold out from under him, Cecil Kaufman decides to reward his loyal customers with one final dusk-to-dawn horror extravaganza featuring some of the more obscure titles from his extensive library. In Wadzilla New York City is ravaged by a carnivorous 20-storey spermatozoa resulting in the world's biggest money shot. The innuendo-laced teen musical I Was A Teenage Werebear features a group of highschool outcasts who transform into hirsute leather queens whenever they get a boner. And in a supreme example of political incorrectness Adolph Hitler tries to win the war by creating a monstrous rabbi thanks to The Diary of Anne Frankenstein. Meanwhile, behind the scenes, some popcorn tainted with zombie spooge is turning theatre patrons into a mob of very horny undead (cue tasteless sight gags involving rotting dicks and tits). Directors Adam Green et al know their target demographic of college geeks and freaks well—the gross-out humour never rises above toilet level, the T&A quotient is fairly generous, and a few obvious movie references lead everyone to believe they're more clever than they actually are. There are some genuinely funny scenes for those so inclined, it's just too bad they're forced to take a back seat to a whole lot of juvenile antics. “The power of shit compels you!” yells one overly zealous priest in the feces-obsessed short film Deathication; an apt tagline if ever there was one.

A Christmas Horror Story (Canada 2015) (7): Director/Producer Steve Hoban was growing tired of the same old fluffy holiday fare being released around Christmastime so he decided to do something about it. The result is this weird homage to all those shockers like Gremlins, Creepshow, and Friday the 13th that had us flocking to the theatres in the 70s and 80s, eager to be scared and amused at the same time. It’s a quiet Christmas Eve in the town of Bailey Downs—but not for long—for this night is also known as Krampusnacht when Krampus, the demonic anti-Santa, comes hunting for naughty children (and adults). As the sun sets over snow-covered rooftops three intertwined stories unfold: a family is stranded in the woods after their car breaks down only to discover they are not quite alone; a husband and wife are terrorized by their eight-year old son who has become very naughty indeed; and history threatens to repeat itself when a trio of nosy students investigating a grisly double homicide become trapped in the very highschool basement where the murders took place a year earlier. Meanwhile, at the North Pole, Kris Kringle himself is having labour issues when an outbreak of undead zombie elves turn his candy-coloured workshop into a killing field. And as the camera jumps between storylines drunken DJ “Dangerous Dan” (William Shatner?!) spins the carols in between bouts of slurred holiday cheer. Calling to mind the twisted sentimentality of Tim Burton, directors Hoban, Grant Harvey, and Brett Sullivan go heavy on the twinkling lights, floating snowflakes, and crackling fireplaces which only makes the copious bloodletting and decapitations all the more side-splitting—right up to the final ninja showdown between Santa and a very hunky Krampus (real-life beefcake Rob Archer…woofers!) Of course it’s supremely silly—especially the basement ghost story—but the effects are wonderfully grotesque and the sense of tongue-in-cheek transgression is infectious. Besides, there’s a wonderful twist at the end which even I didn’t see coming and before the night is over Mrs. Claus get’s called a “reindeer-fucking snow whore”. Ho ho ho!

Christmas in July (USA 1940) (8):  Jimmy MacDonald is forever entering contests in the hopes of winning that elusive cash jackpot.  In the meantime he supports himself and his widowed  mother by working as an office drone in a nondescript company along with Betty, his fawning girlfriend.  Then one day his luck changes when he receives a telegram telling him he’s won the $25,000 grand prize in the Maxford House Coffee slogan contest and before you can say “money equals happiness” he’s off on a shopping spree buying gifts for the entire neighbourhood, including a diamond engagement ring.  “The terrible thing about being poor...”, gushes a magnanimous Betty sporting her new fur coat and shiny ring, “...is having to worry”.  And everyone’s worries appear to be solved...until the awful truth is revealed.  It seems the telegram was sent as a practical joke by some of his co-workers...  Preston Sturges delivers another sparkling spoof on capitalist manners and the cult of celebrity that packs more charm into 67 minutes than many feature-length films.  Much of the humour is derived from the way people’s perceptions of Jimmy change after he achieves notoriety;  he goes from a faceless employee to smoking cigars with the board of directors who hang on to his most innocuous comments as if they were Delphic proclamations of great import.  Retailers who wouldn’t have given him the time of day now fall over themselves trying to lick his boots, and the neighbours greet him as if he were the second coming of Christ.  Of course it all works out in the end, but not before Sturges throws a few well-aimed barbs at America’s corporate soul and Betty gives an uplifting sermon on the value of hope.  The black cat was cute too!

A Christmas Tale [Un conte de Noël ] (France 2008) (5): It’s Christmastime in Paris and at the home of the wealthy Vuillard family the clan is gathering with enough emotional baggage in tow to satisfy a convention of neurotics. Youngest son Ivan, still suffering from the effects of a teenage breakdown, is hiding an explosive marital secret from his trusting wife. Middle son Henri, a penniless grifter given to bouts of drunken lambasting, arrives with his latest girlfriend, a foreign beauty with an uncanny ability to cut through other people’s bullshit. And eldest daughter Elizabeth, with her occasionally present husband and suicidal son, is a veritable ball of conflicting angsts who once tried to banish Henri from the family altogether due to some unspoken faux pas on his part. Heading the family table are patriarch Abel, huffing and mugging like a congenial toad, and matriarch Junon (Catherine Deneuve resting on her star power) an ice-cold Medea with an ulterior motive behind her smiles and kisses—-she needs a bone marrow donor in order to combat a fatal blood disorder. And casting a shadow over everyone is the memory of eldest son Joseph whose childhood death still gives rise to thinly veiled recriminations. As the family arms themselves for the holidays reputations will be assassinated (again), accusations will fly, and angry skeletons will roam freely while Abel croaks out genteel non-sequiturs and Junon uses her cancer diagnosis as an excuse to be a bitch about everything. Arnaud Desplechin’s thoroughly unlikable dysfunctional family drama features awful people saying and doing awful things to each other for no readily apparent reason. With an overly large cast of characters vying for screen time the separate storylines soon become hopelessly entangled while one face blurs into another. He does try to impose some deeper meaning to his jumbled mess through the ironic use of Christmas music (both classical and contemporary) as well as a few glaringly obvious references to Shakespeare and the Bible…at one point the wee grandkids stage a play about a despotic knight who gets his comeuppance. The overall effect however is more patronizing than illuminating and with a 2½-hour running time all that nastiness and unresolved grief becomes really tedious really fast. Henri’s personal credo: “Don’t act beyond your capacity to repair” could, in this case, be just as easily applied to moviemaking. As an aside, the medical scenes do carry a certain clinical authenticity with actual hospital staff playing themselves.

Chronicle of a Summer (France 1960) (7): Heralded as one of the forerunners of the Cinéma-Verité school, Edgar Morin and Jean Rouch’s unadorned grass roots documentary encapsulates the zeitgeist of disaffected Parisians during the summer of 1960. With WWII still a fresh scar and the Algerian war already in its sixth year, the directors took their handheld cameras to the streets with one simple question: “Are you happy?” But that simple query gave rise to some very complex interviews as everyday citizens reflected on the crushing mediocrity of factory work, the downside of the capitalist dream, and their own personal life disappointments. Among the highlights are a pair of African students who share their takes on colonialism, a young Jewish woman whose horrifying past continues to haunt her present, and an Italian ex-pat whose dreams of big city living have spiralled down into alcoholism and despair—her sad eyes barely able to make contact with the camera lens. Remarkable in that all these years later people’s hopes and fears have changed very little with lack of funds being the main source of discontent while a combination of companionship, stability, and variety still a goal worth striving for. What is most striking however is the film’s denouement wherein the directors host a post mortem of sorts to discuss the role of cinema in either promoting reality or else distorting it beyond recognition. If they only knew where prime time television was heading…

The Chumscrubber (USA 2005) (8): Life sure is tough when you’re a group of overly privileged white teens pining away in the maddeningly dull suburbs of southern California where the streets are lined with identical split-levels and nothing ever changes. And it doesn’t help matters when your parents are self-obsessed middle-class WASPS with their heads perpetually embedded up their backsides. Enter Dean, a morose loner who discovers his only friend Troy has hung himself and doesn’t quite know how to cope with the boy’s suicide. Sadly, Troy’s mother is too busy throwing a party to notice her son is dead and Dean’s parents are too caught up in their own careers to care much—his mom touts better living through vitamins while his dad is a self-help guru who sees his son’s silent cries for help as fodder for his next book. But Troy was more than a friend, he was also the neighbourhood drug dealer and his death inspires school outcasts Billy (his military father punches first, asks questions later), Lee (his parents love the idea of what their son should be), and Crystal (her mom is the town cougar with a closet full of halter tops to prove it) to take his place—but first they must get their hands on Troy’s stash, a treasure trove of uppers and downers they believe Dean has in his possession and for which they will go to any lengths to acquire—even kidnapping and murder… Like an uneasy collaboration between Wes Anderson and Larry Clark, director Arie Posin’s darkly satirical send-up of America’s new generation gap turns a seemingly idyllic slice of suburbia into a toxic battleground where angst-ridden kids flounder while clueless parents grapple with their own neuroses. At times hilarious—a woman is so preoccupied with fears of abandonment that it takes her two days to realize her son has been abducted—at other times filled with barely suppressed rage—Troy’s passive-aggressive mother makes a point of telling everyone in the neighbourhood that she in no way blames them for her son’s death—this is an unsettling mix of offbeat humour and scathing social critique which doesn’t always gel yet still manages to pack a vicious punch or two. A sad tale of mid-life crises gone awry, prescription tranquilizers that no longer work, and a pervasive loneliness of epidemic proportions told with tongue in cheek and teeth firmly gritted. The title, fittingly enough, refers to a popular post-apocalyptic video game heavy on violence and alienation. This is the type of work Bergman may have envisioned had he flunked out of film school and moved to Orange County. Stars Glenn Close, Ralph Fiennes, and Allison Janney.

Cielo (Canada 2017) (4): Science and “spirituality” have never made for comfortable bedfellows and writer/director Alison McAlpine’s strong-arm attempts to force them through the bedroom door results in a hodgepodge of New Age prattle which is only occasionally punctuated by rational observations from astronomers and physicists. Filmed in and around an observatory in Chile’s famed Atacama desert, her documentary follows these scientists at work as they map the heavens amidst a landscape of jagged mountains and perpetually setting suns. Nice to look at, but natives telling tall tales about ghosts and aliens are given the same sober consideration as scientists talking about exoplanets and space travel, and McAlpine’s droning voiceover, accentuated by a tolling soundtrack, tries way too hard to wrestle some quasi-religious mystery out of endless time lapses of the Milky Way—panoramas of spinning stars that begin to look like outtakes from Reggio’s Koyaanisqatsi. “If we could ask the stars a question, what would it be…?” Deep thoughts for shallow thinkers.

Cinema of Death (USA 2004) (6):  A collection of five “extreme” short films exploring obsession, madness and suffering.  In Adoration we see a young man’s pathological desire for a woman lead to an ultimate consume-ation.  It is cleverly presented as a film within a film in which we become both observers and observed.  Dislandia  has no overt narrative and is only loosely linear in that it has a beginning and an end.  Its sole character, a painfully reserved child whose face is covered by a grotesque mask, wanders despondently through a sepia-tinged landscape of muted images and discordant sounds.  You can interpret the ending as being happy, but the film’s macabre aura never completely dissipates.  Pig  is a short S&M mind-fuck involving a group of faceless people, an abandoned house in the desert, some surgical equipment and lots of gauze.  Hollywood Babylon spends four minutes looking at a wall of framed photos...oh joy.  Le Poeme proved to be the most troubling for me.  The director films the dissection of an actual cadaver while a voice-over reads a passionate poem by Rimbaud.  He claims he was trying to show how pain and joy exist side by side; joy being the exuberant imagery of the poem, pain being the autopsy I suppose.  He then tries to justify the needless disfigurement of the corpse (the eyelids are sliced off, the heart removed) by stating he gave the dead man “life” by casting him as the narrator.  The body was made available for anatomical study afterwards so no harm done, right?  I’m not so sure the deceased, or his family, would agree.  Art?  Or stylized desecration?  The latter I should think.

The Circus (USA 1928) (7): A brilliantly conceived chase through a hall of mirrors; a magic show that devolves into a slapstick free-for-all; a harrowing high wire act beset by a troop of manic monkeys…these are just a few of the reasons why this Charlie Chaplin film, one of his last silents, has earned a place on so many “top” lists. When a backstage labour dispute threatens to close a traveling circus the unprincipled ringmaster recruits a troublesome vagrant (Chaplin, naturally) to fill in. Of course headaches ensue when the little tramp keeps stumbling into the ring by accident ruining everything from juggling acts to clown shows—but the audience, thinking his antics are all part of the evening’s entertainment, eat it up and demand more. And then the little guy meets lonely trapeze artist Merna, the ringmaster’s unhappy daughter, and love blooms—at least for him. The comedic sequences are perfectly choreographed—it took a lot of practice to make those pratfalls seem so chaotic—and the performances were not without a degree of danger especially when Chaplin had himself filmed inside a cage with a real live lion. But there is also an element of self-deprecation at work, for Chaplin’s little tramp certainly brings the house down through his own ineptness yet when he’s called upon by the ringmaster to be funny on purpose he freezes because, in reality, he’s not very funny at all. The laughter may not be as loud today as it was back in 1928, but there will always be something inherently likeable about this lumbering, blundering everyman as he persistently dodges fate’s slings and arrows, not to mention a bucking jackass. Ironically, Chaplins’ personal life was coming apart at the seams during the filming of The Circus leading to a nervous breakdown before it was even completed.

Citizen Kane (USA 1941) (8): A scandalous box office flop upon its initial release, co-writer/director Orson Welles’ signature opus is now considered one of the benchmarks in modern American cinema launching the careers of such stars as Agnes Moorehead and Joseph Cotten. If the story is simple enough—mega-billionaire Charles Foster Kane (Welles libelling William Randolph Hearst) spends his entire life amassing material possessions only to make a deathbed discovery that the one thing he truly desired was never for sale—its execution is pure cinema magic. Deep focus techniques render backgrounds and foregrounds with crystal clarity, cameras seem to melt through ceilings and table tops, and B&W matte paintings give Xanadu, Kane’s gaudy Florida estate, the aura of a haunted house. Told in post mortem flashbacks as a roving reporter anxious to decipher the meaning of “rosebud”, Kane’s final word, interviews everyone from the tycoon’s best friend to his business associates, butlers, and a drunken ex-wife (Dorothy Comingore libelling Hearst’s mistress Marion Davies), all of whom offer a different glimpse into the man behind the legend beginning with his impoverished childhood and ending with the lonely septuagenarian as decayed as his empty mansion. Big, brash, and unapologetic—much like its creator—and impressively filmed even if the cinematography does occasionally resort to flashy gimmicks and that much anticipated final reveal proves something of a let-down. An interesting pop-psychology foray into what makes a megalomaniac tick (Kane’s brush with politics seems frighteningly contemporary) and the fact that Welles was only twenty-five years old at the time is almost unbelievable.

City Lights (USA 1931) (8): Sir Charles Chaplin spent a great deal of his own money to produce and market City Lights, even going so far as to build a river and a small city (or at least the downtown core of one) on the grounds of his studio. The result—a slapstick comedy steeped in humanism and pathos—is on numerous “Best Of” lists and regarded as his greatest achievement by the likes of Woody Allen, Orson Welles, Andrei Tarkovsky, and Stanley Kubrick. Chaplin’s little tramp falls in love with a blind flower girl (Virginia Cherrill, luminous) who, through a series of misunderstandings, believes him to be a well-to-do millionaire. Meanwhile he also befriends a real millionaire (Harry Myers)—a drunken, suicidal depressive who gleefully fraternizes with Chaplin when he’s soused but loses all memory of him when sober. Determined to help the flower girl overcome her handicap in any way he can Chaplin, with and without his tycoon buddy, embarks on a series of misadventures that include a drunk driving odyssey through downtown Los Angeles, a most unorthodox boxing tournament, and an intoxicated melee at a swank nightclub. Billed as a “comedy romance in pantomime”, Chaplin ignored the advent of talkie technology thus allowing the silent era to end with a bang. Relying almost exclusively on physical comedy (the only sound being a quaint orchestral score and incidental noises) the perfectly timed sight gags come fast and furious—yet at its core this is indeed a bittersweet love story culminating in one of early cinema’s most moving final frames. Surprisingly pragmatic despite its uproarious tangents and keenly aware of truths both emotional and social (the Great Depression was in full swing) this is lighthearted farce with a passionate bite.

City of the Living Dead  (Italy 1980) (4):  With a title like "City of the Living Dead" and a director like Lucio Fulci I was ready for a great zombie splatter flick. Wrong. A hackneyed script (the gates of hell have opened...oh my!!) some cheap dramatics and abysmal sfx all add up to mediocre late-night cable fare. Think of it as "gore lite" for the brain dead.

City of Women (Italy 1980) (6): On a train bound for some unspecified destination, middle-aged rogue Snàporaz (Marcello Mastroianni greyer but no wiser) is nodding in and out of sleep when he suddenly notices the beautiful woman sitting across from him. After a few sad attempts to seduce her—while a gaggle of school girls mock him in the background—he follows her off the train and into a surreal landscape populated by emasculating feminists, seductive mother figures, and a whole lot of women who just plain need a man like a fish needs a bicycle. Not used to assertive females with minds of their own, a bullied and thoroughly discomfited Snàporaz makes his way to the home of the area’s sole male inhabitant Dr. Xavier Katzone, a brutish lothario who lives in a thrusting stone tower (naturally) and revels in weapons, vicious dogs, and phallic symbols of every kind. There, surrounded by bourgeois party animals including his bitter ex-wife, Snàporaz will receive one humiliating comeuppance after another as he searches in vain for the perfect woman while a host of unsympathetic ladies cut his male machismo into bite-sized pieces. Federico Fellini’s skewed celebration of female empowerment is a fantastical rambling circus of a film seemingly without beginning or end and filled with enough flesh and psychosexual sleight of hand to give Sigmund Freud a stiffy—Dr. Katzone’s photo gallery of sexy backlit females who moan and beg for it at the touch of a button was especially telling. There is no doubt but that Fellini loved women and was in awe of them, but whereas a director like Pedro Almodóvar expresses his own admiration for the fairer sex with dignity and warm humour, in City Fellini approached his subjects with some degree of trepidation often portraying them as avenging Valkyries or hypersexualized carnivores—or in the case of Katzone’s unnatural attraction to a stone bust of his mother, aloof goddesses. Overly long and filled with gaudy detours (a lustful salute to Hollywood’s Golden Age was cute) this is not one of Federico’s better films, but if you’re willing to take it as a dated feminist time capsule it will certainly give you something to talk about afterwards. In the words of an exasperated Snàporaz himself, “What kind of movie is this!?”

CJ7 (Hong Kong) (6): Writer/director Stephen Chow draws on a little bit of Roald Dahl and a whole lot of Steven Spielberg for this Chinese E.T. knock-off whose sense of whimsy is too often overshadowed by schmaltz and corn. It centres on little Dicky Chow, perhaps the sweetest boy in all of Asia (actually played by actress Jiao Xu) and his dirt poor day labourer dad, Ti (the director himself). Living in a one-room hovel the two exist on whatever dad can find in the local garbage dump, be it old clothes for the closet or rotten apples for dessert, and amuse themselves at night by seeing how many cockroaches they can smush. But Ti is determined to see Dicky succeed in life even if it means slaving away at a construction site in order to pay for his private school tuition. Then one night Ti brings home a mysterious green ball he found during his nightly scrounging, a ball which turns out to be a little alien with a furry face atop a squishy green body and a voice somewhere between cooing dove and chattering chipmunk. Comical mischief and a few life lessons follow as the space puppy, nicknamed “CJ7”, uses its extraterrestrial powers—channeled through a glowing antenna reminiscent of E.T.’s finger—to give father and son a new sense of purpose. Or something. B-grade CGI effects have you almost believing the actors are looking at something real and a cast of adorable classroom moppets (including an adult male in schoolgirl drag dubbed with a six-year old’s voice?!) cement the film’s demographic. But watching CJ7 strike Kung Fu poses and pull funny faces is barely enough to sustain an adult’s interest and those stretches of teary pathos, with the orchestra practically falling over itself trying to twist your heart, are a tad too manipulative to be effective. Completely inoffensive for all that, and some of the comedic elements actually work especially Dicky’s dealings with the pint-sized class bully and one high-tech daydream. Family fare that’s decent enough for a 90-minute commitment. And yes, there’s a toy franchise.

Clash by Night (USA 1952) (7): The misogyny may be dated and the pall of angst a little over-baked, but Fritz Lang’s seedy love rectangle practically snaps and pops off the screen thanks to a star cast and a script which apparently never met a noirish cliché it didn’t like. Weary with the world and cynical to the core after her affair with a married politician went south, Mae Doyle (Barbara Stanwyck, outstanding) returns to the little California fishing village she left ten years earlier. Taking up residence with her ill-tempered brother Joe (Keith Andes, ready to punch a hole in anyone or anything) she’s swayed by local fisherman Jerry (Paul Douglas, larger than life) a big lovable bear who adores her. But despite her best efforts to feign domestic bliss, it’s the rakish Earl (a snarly Robert Ryan) who eventually catches her fancy. Very unhappily married and angry at the world because of it, Earl’s deep-seated hatred for the fairer sex speaks to Mae’s own self-loathing in ways Jerry can’t begin to understand. Meanwhile Joe is having problems of his own with headstrong girlfriend Peggy (star performance from a still unknown Marilyn Monroe) whose progressive opinions regarding women have him undecided over whether she should be lectured or strangled. He attempts both. With Earl’s fragile chauvinism and Joe’s open-hearted decency forming opposite poles, Lang takes a somewhat sensationalistic look at how the two women in his film evolve emotionally over the course of a single year—helped in part by cinematographer Nicholas Musuraca’s pans of moonlit clouds and thundering waves, and Roy Webb’s plaintive orchestral score. But it’s the dialogue, adapted from Clifford Odets’ stage play, that will leave you either wincing or smiling appreciatively: “Don’t kid me, baby. I know a bottle by the label!” sneers Earl as Mae tries to wrestle from his unwanted embrace. They probably shouldn’t make ‘em like this anymore—but I’m glad they did in 1952. Silvio Minciotti co-stars as Jerry’s father—a man without direction ever since his own true love died—and J. Carrol Naish plays his Uncle Vince, a self-serving serpent who takes comfort in the unhappiness of others.

The Class of Nuke ‘Em High (USA 1986) (2): Tromaville Highschool is located directly in the shadow of the Troma Nuclear Power Plant (the film is produced by Troma studios....get it? Ha!) and over the years the steady exposure to radiation has taken its toll on the student body causing a teacher to become bald and turning a host of former honours students into a gang of rowdy drug-dealing freaks. But when a catastrophic leak of nuclear waste contaminates both the school water supply and the freaks' marijuana grow-op, it leads to all sorts of mutant mayhem including a homegrown radioactive monster in the school basement. Like an episode of Welcome Back Kotter, only with more blood and tits, this amateurish bit of 80's Drive-In fodder isn't even good enough to spoof. The mark of a good "bad" film has always been in the balance between clever and awful, but aside from some amusingly gratuitous gore this poorly made, poorly acted mess is just plain awful. A soundtrack of generic metal tunes plus the threat of a sequel didn't help matters either. Some movies should never have been made.

Cléo From 5 to 7 (France 1962) (7): Celebrated French songstress Cléo has a few hours to kill before a fateful appointment to discuss test results with her pathologist—are those vague stomach pains really cancer? In order to provide some comfort her superstitious secretary engages in silly good luck rituals while her best friend Angèle (get it?) offers good-natured sympathy and courage; but Cléo’s lover is too preoccupied with his own mundane problems to take much notice and an old fortune teller warns of turbulent times ahead. Escaping the conflicting voices around her Cléo seeks respite in the sunlit streets of Paris, now suddenly alive with enigmatic portents both upbeat and discouraging, where a chance encounter with a handsome soldier en route to Algeria not only gives her a new reason for hope, but also reveals an inner strength she never knew she had. Together they slowly make their way to the doctor’s office… Although not quite shot in real time, Agnès Varda’s freewheeling experimental film nevertheless manages to trace its protagonist’s two-hour journey from terrified anticipation to calm resolve with a heady mix of poetic license and crisp cinéma-verité. While friends and acquaintances try to distract her, Cléo’s inner monologue belies a childlike bewilderment as she talks herself into action rather than retreat. The picturesque B&W cinematography and track of pop ballads give an acute sense of time and place while Cléo’s emotional struggle is universal. An unexpected gem from the French new wave.

The Clock (USA 1945) (8): A naïve army corporal from a small town is granted a two-day leave in New York City and doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Then he accidentally meets a harried young secretary (she trips over his feet) and the two wind up spending the next 48 hours getting to know one another while Cupid works his magic… With a plot surprisingly similar to 1995’s Before Sunrise director Vincente Minnelli’s bubbly romance boasts endearing performances from stars Robert Walker and Judy Garland whose onscreen chemistry sparkles along thanks to a charming script and some innovative camerawork. Garland is a winning mix of big city girl and lonely heart, the boyishly handsome Walker is all innocent appeal, and they’re aided by a cast of seasoned character actors which includes real life husband and wife James and Lucile Gleason as a happily married elderly couple, Ruth Brady as Garland’s busybody roommate, and Angela Lansbury’s mother, Moyna MacGill, as an eccentric diner patron. Keenan Wynn also has a standout cameo as an obnoxious drunk in a perfectly staged single take that lasts almost four minutes. Overhead crane shots and meticulously choreographed crowds take in all of Grand Central Station (both real and recreated on MGM’s backlot) and in one impressive passage the camera dogs the happy couple as they repeatedly lose one another on various subway platforms. But it’s the ongoing dialogue that shines through whether the two are helping an injured milkman do his midnight rounds (cute plot twist) or sharing a private moment in Central Park where a sudden choir of angels treads dangerously close to syrupy overkill. However, as dashing soldier and wide-eyed career girl compare their lives thus far while love seems to bloom all around them one can’t help but feel like a sentimental fly on the wall. A heartwarming tonic for cynical times.

Closely Watched Trains (Czech 1966) (7): Milos is a slacker from a long line of slackers and eccentrics—his father sits on his ass all day collecting a pension and his uncle died when he tried to use his powers of hypnotism to stop a column of Nazi tanks from invading Prague. Now with the Germans firmly entrenched in Czechoslovakia Milos gets a job as a train dispatcher in the hopes that he can garner a paycheque for doing nothing. But what he really wants is to lose his virginity and despite ample opportunities he’s never quite “up” to it. In the meantime his fellow dispatcher Hubicka is getting laid on a nightly basis and his boss, a sexually repressed family man, is constantly going on about Sodom, Gomorrah, and Armageddon (with pet pigeons roosting on his head). Even the demands of the underground resistance take a backseat to Milos’ raging hormones until he is convinced to undertake a dangerous assignment with hilariously macabre consequences. A fine instalment from the all too brief Czech New Wave, Jirí Menzel’s absurdist comedy managed to poke fun at the Communist mindset in such a roundabout way that it snuck right past the censors. Tedious bureaucracy, boredom, and misguided nationalism are presented with such tongue-in-cheek finesse that at times it is hard to see the sting lurking just beneath the surface, especially with the Third Reich providing a convenient smokescreen. Alternately ludicrous and strangely sobering.

Closet Monster (Canada 2015) (7): Reality and make-believe vie for centre stage in Stephen Dunn’s capricious drama, an odd little coming-out story whose arthouse flourishes both keep it afloat and occasionally threaten to sink it entirely. Nine-year old Oscar Madly (get it?) is traumatized one summer by two separate occurrences: his mother walks out leaving him mostly in the care of his emotionally labile father; and he witnesses a vicious gay-bashing carried out in the local cemetery. Years later, a teenaged Oscar (beautifully layered performance from Connor Jessup) has set his sights on moving to New York City to study special effects make-up when his adolescent hormones are thrown a curveball in the form of fellow hardware store employee Wilder, a Montreal transplant whose smooth pecs and flirtatious mannerisms has Oscar banging on the closet door. But you can’t easily dismiss a lifetime of psychological abuse and the internalized homophobia it engenders, so when Oscar’s breaking point is finally reached it proves monumentally bittersweet indeed… Only twenty-six at the time, writer/director Dunn set out with a firm vision and enough chutzpah to almost pull it off. Making the tumultuous emotions of a closeted young man manifest on screen isn’t an easy task and Dunn pulls a few clever cinematic rabbits out of his hat in an attempt to do so—false faces abound as Oscar practices his make-up techniques on himself, his dad, and his BFF Gemma (a struggling wannabe model); nascent queer lust is given an edge of horror with some imaginary yet graphic body mortifications à la David Cronenberg; and Oscar’s inner dialogue is rendered a two-way conversation with his talking hamster Buffy (voice of batshit Isabella Rossellini), a sage rodent with a few gender issues of its own. When it works it sweeps you up in a moving, emotionally raw psychodrama powered by wishes and nightmares. But when it falters you’re left with so many film school conceits and empty pockets of air—for one thing Oscar’s petulant rage against the parents isn’t supported by dad’s few hissy fits or mom’s lacklustre nurturing skills, and Dunn relies a wee bit too much on slo-mo passages of emoting and staccato flashbacks. “If you don’t hate your parents you’ll become them…” says Wilder one night and although his advice seems unrealistically harsh the theme of having to move away in order to move forward resonates. The backdrops of Newfoundland and Labrador are gorgeous too (cliffs and restless seas always provide good metaphors) and that chill soundtrack of indie songs is impeccably chosen.

Cloud Atlas (Germany/USA 2012) (4): This bloated film adaptation of David Mitchell’s novel about a host of reincarnated souls crossing paths through the ages is so spectacularly awful in so many amazing ways that its three-hour running time practically flies by in a blur of inspirational Hallmark moments. A cadre of international stars headed by Tom Hanks, Halle Berry, Susan Sarandon and Jim Broadbent gloriously waste their time as they take turns falling madly in love and validating one another’s existence while at the same time waxing sanctimoniously on the undying power of love, the interconnectedness of all things, and the dignity of the human spirit. Meanwhile, just for good measure, Hugh Grant and Hugo Weaving get to be recycled as the perennial bad guys (or girls). Jumping back and forth across 500 years of history we see how small acts of kindness and villainy echo down the centuries: in 19th century Polynesia a kindly lawyer befriends a runaway slave; a brilliant gay composer suffers a doomed love affair in pre-WWII Britain; a crusading reporter discovers the truth behind nuclear energy in disco-era San Francisco (while across the pond a group of feisty Scottish seniors break out of a sinister nursing home); in a future totalitarian Seoul a rebellious clone plants the seeds of a new religion; and lastly (thank God), in a far flung post-apocalyptic America where everyone shuffles around in caveman drag spouting white trash pidgin, love finds a new foothold among the stars. Gag and barf. The widescreen cinematography is appropriately grandiose and some of the futuristic gewgaws are fun to watch, but the transmigratory connections get shoved in your face a few too many times (OMG, there’s that comet-shaped birth mark again! And that haunting melody!) and the teary-eyed soliloquies are enough to make Spielberg wet his skivvies. Still, film geeks will have a ball uncovering the more subtle background clues linking one storyline to another. I was just impressed I managed to stay awake.

Cloudburst (Canada 2011) (8): Hard-drinking, foul-mouthed octogenarian Stella (a thoroughly convincing Olympia Dukakis) is beyond angry when her blind and invalid lover Dot (Brenda Fricker…ditto) is placed in a nursing home by a meddling granddaughter. With no legal recourse at her disposal Stella decides to kidnap Dot and drive up to Canada where the two can become legally married and therefore inseparable. Along the way they pick up handsome young drifter Prentice who’s trying to make it back to Nova Scotia to visit his dying mother. In the big old lesbian road movie that follows Stella and Dot look back on their thirty-one years together and the prospect of finally tying the knot with a mix of cold feet, longing, and an abiding love which has seen them through more tough times than they can remember. Prentice, meanwhile, has a few heartaches of his own to nurse and as the odd trio slowly make their way to the border unexpected bonds are formed while others are changed forever. Besides the endearing performances of Dukakis and Fricker (Dot’s calm yet feisty Irish demeanour is the perfect foil for Stella’s rather imaginative sailor’s mouth), director Thom Fitzgerald’s ability for incorporating natural beauty into his film’s narrative give it an easygoing rhythm which makes the one-liners and sight gags all the more hilarious—for at its heart this is a bittersweet romantic comedy after all (Dot’s unfortunate bedroom encounter with Prentice’s estranged father deserved more than one rewind). Unfortunately it all culminates in the kind of exaggerated “sugar and tears” ending for which Canadian cinema is infamous for—but despite some unnecessary drama the film’s heartfelt message of enduring love (and laughter) still rings loud and clear.

Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs (USA 2009) (8): When budding scientist Flint Lockwood tries to help his small island community recover from an economic slump by inventing a machine that turns water into food, no one is prepared for the dire gastronomic consequences which follow. Launching his invention into the atmosphere Flint is hailed as a hero by the people of Swallow Falls who are delighted to have pizzas and sundaes rain from the sky, not to mention the millions they stand to make from curious tourists. But the town's greedy mayor decides that more is better and before you can yell "Alka Seltzer" he's pushed Flint's machine beyond its capacity resulting in a mighty edible hurricane of giant mutated victuals that not only threatens the island, but the entire world as well. Based on the children's book this is one of the cleverest and at time laugh out loud funny animated features I've seen since Despicable Me 2 had me chuckling non-stop. Filled with food-oriented sight gags, Hollywood jabs, and witty one-liners (not to mention a well deserved send-up of network sexism) this is one to delight the entire family. The formula may be familiar (failed achiever redeems self, gets the girl etc. etc.) but rarely has it been (re)told with such colourful ingenuity. Besides, where else can you see a talking monkey battle with carnivorous gummy bears on the wings of a speeding jet plane?

Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs 2 (USA 2013) (7): The original gang is back in this slightly too cute but nevertheless entertaining sequel. This time around über-dork Flint Lockwood has been recruited by television science guru Chester V who, along with a small army of mega geeks and personalized holograms, runs the fabulous “Live Corp Company” an institution devoted to the advancement of science. Flint’s assignment, return to the island community of Swallow Falls and deactivate his malfunctioning invention which turns water into food before the planet is overrun by mutated menu items. But there are two major obstacles in Flint’s path: first of all Swallow Falls is now an overgrown jungle inhabited by fearsome “food animals” (shrimpanzees, watermelophants, and wildebeets...oh my!); secondly, the great Chester V has a few diabolical plans of his own for Flint’s odd invention. Can Flint and company save the Earth yet again or will we all fall prey to a mad scientist and/or armies of toothsome appetizers? The premise may be rehashed, and the adorable factor turned up a notch (“Berry” the strawberry coos like a toddler and poops jelly) but the underlying wit and visual gags remain largely the same…especially those candy-coloured nods to Jurassic Park. You’ll never look at your cupboard shelves the same way again.

Cloverfield (USA 2008) (8): Godzilla meets the Blair Witch as a small handful of hapless yuppies record the ingestion of New York City while fleeing for their lives. It all begins at an upscale party where a loft-full of beautiful people have gathered to bid a fond farewell to the guest of honour. Walking among the clinking beer bottles and dazzling white smiles, video camera in hand, party animal Hud tries to capture every witty remark and drunken innuendo when suddenly...shit happens! Rushing to the rooftop the partygoers witness an enormous explosion in the distance which fills the sky with flaming debris necessitating a hasty retreat to the sidewalk below. But once they join the crowds of dazed pedestrians things start to get really interesting with toppling skyscrapers, monstrous rumblings and tantalizingly brief glimpses of something huge and reptilian wreaking havoc in downtown Manhattan. Reeves has fashioned a fiendishly clever film that combines a good old-fashioned monster movie with a satirical critique on post 9-11 hysteria. The sound effects and CGI-generated mayhem are impeccable while the amateurish video footage maintains a state of claustrophobic panic. Of course there are some awkward plot devices; Reeves doesn’t explain why people who are running in terror would decide to record an ongoing documentary, and we are expected to believe it would take the army only 15 minutes to flood NYC with tanks and battalions. But with a movie so chockfull of awesome destruction and deliriously chaotic action sequences it is easy to forgive. Be forewarned though, Cloverfield’s jerky handheld camerawork is not for the weak of stomach.

The Cloverfield Paradox (USA 2018) (5): With every country on Earth poised to go to war over dwindling energy resources, the multinational crew of on orbiting space station risk everything in a desperate experiment which, if successful, will harness the unlimited power of the universe itself. Unfortunately their unstable particle beam rips a hole in space-time propelling them into an alternate reality instead where an alternate Earth is having problems of its own. Will they be able to get back to their own planet before this new dimension traps them forever? And what other unpleasant side effects could this botched experiment have unleashed? Hint: a television interview with a luddite author warns of “demons”…ooooooh! Of course if you’ve seen the first two Cloverfield movies you already know what’s going to happen and if you haven’t then skip this farcical prequel altogether and consider yourself fortunate. Ultra-cool special effects and futuristic gewgaws fail to mask a comic book script so patently ridiculous that even if you do succeed in suspending your disbelief you’re going to find it all but impossible to suspend your IQ as well. Lots of flashing lights and buttons replace actual science (even if it’s only fiction); running, shouting, and sweaty close-ups stand in for drama; and crazy poltergeist stuff happens with only a few lame hints to give it any perspective (my favourite—a severed arm crawls in search of a magic marker). And what’s with casting Chinese superstar Ziyi Zhang as the vitally important and indispensable engineer who only speaks Mandarin? The interpersonal tensions—love, resentment, sacrifice, betrayal—seem like afterthoughts and that ridiculous resolution offers the film’s only real tie-in with its far superior successors. The slick effects and sheer momentum keep it just entertaining enough for a popcorn night, but you might want to rent Disney’s The Black Hole as a bad movie back-up.

Clown (USA/Canada 2014) (7): When the clown scheduled to appear at a little boy’s birthday party bows out due to a scheduling conflict the tyke’s father, a real estate agent, decides to fill in by wearing a dusty old clown costume he found in the dusty old basement of a house he is selling. But what dad doesn’t realize is that this particular outfit is cursed and slowly turns anyone who wears it into a floppy-footed, red-nosed carnival demon with an insatiable appetite for tender young children…muahaha! Writer/director Jon Watts takes an admittedly silly premise, contrives a novel backstory to explain it (you’ll never guess how Bozo and his ilk got their start…LOL!), and garnishes it with just enough blood, guts, and creepiness to keep us interested. What impressed me the most, however, were the pitch black comedic touches he threw in—a messy encounter at a kid’s arcade gives ball pits a bad name; try shooting a devil clown and you get a wall full of rainbow-coloured gore; and eating cursed props turns Fido into a very bad dog indeed. Simply put, Watts and crew have churned out a savvy tribute to those cheesy horror flicks from the ‘80s with plenty of canned screams, gross effects, and supposedly smart people doing stupid things (“wow, look at all the blood, let’s stay and investigate!”) It’s a silly mix of genre clichés, inappropriate yuks, and a few genuine heebie-jeebies which may not keep you up at night but at least you’ll have fun while it lasts. Pennywise could take notes.

Coco (USA 2017) (10): Ever since great-great-grandfather walked out on his wife and daughter in order to pursue a singing career, the Rivera family has banned all music from their lives. Three generations later, ten-year old Miguel Rivera is chafing at this ancestral prohibition especially after his desire to pursue a singing career similar to his B&W matinee idol Ernesto de la Cruz puts him in direct conflict with his unyielding grandmother. Then, on the eve of Mexico’s “Dia de Muertos”—the one time of the year in which deceased relatives can come visit the living—Miguel enters the Land of the Dead where he sets about trying to understand his family’s history by finding his errant great-great-grandfather with the help of a loveable street dog and a bumbling spirit named Héctor… Pixar Studios score one of their greatest hits with this gigantic candy box of a film that draws its inspiration from such diverse sources as Mayan mythology and medieval poetry (the dog’s name is Dante…wink wink!). Exploding off the screen in every colour imaginable Coco’s animators start small—Miguel’s little village is cartoon quaint without being cliché—and then outdo themselves to create a retro netherworld resembling an infernal Disneyland on acid. Houses in every rainbow hue perch atop each other while antiquated streetcars fly through the air and countless twinkling lights illuminate the sky, occasionally coalescing to form a grinning skull. The dead themselves, culled from Latino folk art, are exuberant stacks of bones in period costumes with a shock of hair here, a dab of make-up there, and rib cages like crazy xylophones as they cavort about, occasionally removing an arm to make a point or juggling a head suddenly come loose while psychedelic spirit animals slither, fly, or lope in and out of neon alleyways. Miguel’s own forebears, a slapstick collection of dour women and browbeaten men, seem determined to keep him from his goal leading to a few welcome twists and revelations. A visual treat for sure, complimented by a lively musical score (including the Oscar-winning song “Remember Me”), but the onscreen fireworks are tempered by an intelligent script and several intimate moments which tug at the heart as they stress the importance of family ties and following one’s dream. Will Miguel’s attempt to find the truth about his family’s roots end in disaster? Will Héctor’s dream of visiting his estranged daughter come true (the dead have to be remembered in order to exist)? And what secrets does Miguel’s wizened old great-grandmother hold in her dementia-wracked mind? A true multi-generational hit and sure to be one of Pixar’s crowning achievements.

Coco Before Chanel [Coco Avant Chanel] (France 2009) (5): Celebrated couturier Gabriel Bonheur aka “Coco Chanel” (1883 - 1971) was a pioneer on at least two levels—she was the first female to make a dent in what was then a male-dominated profession and her edgy sense of style practically defined women’s haute couture for decades. She was also an ambitious businesswoman and patron of the arts who courted some scandal during WWII for her dalliances with the German occupiers. But watching Anne Fontaine’s drab, lifeless biopic you get the impression of a mousy depressive with a taste for straw hats and unavailable men who stumbled upon fashion design when she was bored one afternoon. Beginning with a ten-year old Gabriel and her sister being dropped off at an orphanage by their penniless father, and then proceeding through her early years as a saloon singer, seamstress, and mistress to a boorish millionaire before ending on a lavish mirrored runway, Fontaine offers little insight and no emotional connection whatsoever but rather gives us a pedestrian Masterpiece Theatre rendering of an enigmatic person whose legacy certainly deserved more than a cursory melodrama. Lead actress Audrey Tautou (Amélie) does bear an uncanny resemblance to Chanel but aside from a few fierce words and that permanent scowl her performance lacks the fire one would expect from a woman who seemingly broke taboos as casually as she hemmed a skirt—in an age where appearances meant everything she took on more than one lover and defied fashion conventions with her masculine togs. The rest of the cast offer up readings as lacklustre as the dull countryside cinematography—attempts to disparage France’s idle rich as a bunch of shallow deviants elicit little more than a yawn and Coco’s “passionate” affair with a British opportunist not even that—but at least Catherine Leterrier’s Oscar-nominated costume designs add a splash of much needed colour and sophistication.

Code Unknown (Germany 2000) (7):  On the streets of contemporary Paris a casually cruel gesture has an immediate affect on a disparate group of people and sends emotional ripples across half a continent.  This engaging film uses several cinematic styles to chronicle the stories of these people while underscoring its central theme.....the misery that results from our inability to truly communicate with one another.  This lack of empathy is demonstrated in various subtle ways; from the many instances of misunderstandings to the jarring use of quick cuts, often in the middle of a sentence, leaving the viewer to guess as to what was actually happening.  As usual Haneke’s style is maddeningly cryptic and he delivers his sermon with the customary amount of smugness.  But if you’ve seen enough of his films you already know what to expect.

Coherence (USA 2013) (8): As the nighttime sky above Los Angeles is lit by a rarely seen comet, four couples gather for a relaxed dinner party. Small talk gradually turns to the celestial spectacle overhead after one of the guests recounts an article she once read linking bizarre earthbound phenomena with passing comets. And then the lights go out. Scrambling for candles and glow sticks, the guests venture forth into a neighbourhood suddenly plunged into darkness and silence—except for one peculiar house down the street… Graced by a handsome and talented cast who flesh out their characters with complete conviction, this is one of those films that defy easy classification. It’s science-fiction to be sure but touches of humour and panic-stricken horror, all delivered with mumblecore spontaneity, help propel a story which manages to loop wildly about without ever tripping itself up. You won’t need a degree in quantum physics to appreciate Byrkit’s very clever little brain puzzler but the crazy paradoxes he begins to weave are enough to make Schrödinger’s cat crawl back into its box.

The Collector (UK 1965) (9): Ever since he came into some money, twenty-something Freddie Clegg (a chilling Terence Stamp) has indulged his passion for butterfly collecting so that now one entire room of his isolated country house is filled with trophy cases displaying the beautiful dead insects. But Freddie has another passion in the form of Miranda Grey, the London art student whom he’s been stalking for years (Best Actress nominee Samantha Eggar)—and when you’re a morbidly introverted sociopath the leap from collecting butterflies to collecting pretty young girls is a very small one indeed… Based on the novel by John Fowles, director William Wyler’s dark tale of obsession and paranoia easily bypasses all those “damsel in distress” clichés to deliver a truly unsettling psychodrama with Stamp and Eggar perfectly matched as childlike madman and the terrified focus of his sickness—his single-minded mania to possess her finding counterbalance in her frantic desire to escape even if it means playing his game. Already sporting a gothic edge thanks to the crumbling opulence of Clegg’s 16th century manor house, Wyler juxtaposes funereal organ chords with a recurring melody which is disarmingly wistful—the resulting disparity between sight and sound not only ramping up the overall sense of dread, but adding an undercurrent of melancholy as well. Highly controversial for its day (apparently it was accidentally passed uncut for British audiences because the chief censor nodded off during one particularly contentious scene) Wyler’s Collector is an effective blending of Hitchcock’s suspense, Haneke’s clinical observation, and just a touch of Von Trier’s taste for emotional cruelty.

Collision (USA 2008) (8): Is Christianity good for the world? Religious faith and secular humanism go toe to toe as “Anti-Theist” Christopher Hitchens squares off against evangelical theologian Douglas Wilson in Darren Doane’s gripping documentary. Doane follows the two men as they embark on a series of guest lectures promoting their collaborative book and engaging audiences in heated debates. While Wilson insists all things come from God including our fundamental concept of “right and wrong”, Hitchens steadfastly denies the idea of divine intervention in any aspect of the natural world instead referring to Christianity as a “wicked cult”. However, despite the often passionate verbal sparring onstage the two men share a surprisingly civil and respectful friendship behind the scenes as the camera catches them having a good-natured argument over coffee or exchanging favourite literary quotes in a smoky bar. Highly educated, scholarly, and possessing razor sharp wits, the two men raise the “Faith vs. Science” debate from the usual level of ignorant shouting match to an eloquent repartee which is both entertaining and intellectually challenging. Doane keeps the pace hectic with a choppy editing style, skewed camera angles and colour filtering which goes from harshly exaggerated reds to washed out blues although his MTV-style soundtrack of hip hop nonsense seems woefully out of place. “One of us has to lose the argument and admit moral defeat...” states Hitchens at one point and while viewers may disagree on who deserves the final trophy the arguments presented are fascinating to hear.

The Color of Money (USA 1986) (6): Aging pool shark Eddie Felson (Paul Newman) whose glory days are long over decides to take talented young rookie Vincent (Tom Cruise) under his wing and teach him a thing or two about playing to win. But the cocky young man has his own ideas of how to hustle the game and it isn’t long before a rift develops between master and pupil…a rift with unexpected consequences all around. Martin Scorsese mostly strikes out with this disappointing sequel to 1961’s vastly superior The Hustler even though Newman nabbed an Academy Award for revising his role from that earlier film. His portrayal of an over-the-hill pro—now suffering from poor eyesight and a mid-life crisis—grasping at one last chance for the spotlight (even if by proxy) is certainly convincing enough as he butts heads with an arrogant upstart who reminds him so much of his younger self. For his part, Cruise is an entertaining ball of energy, strutting around dingy pool halls crowing like a prize rooster and busting a few ninja moves in between wins. And balancing out the two is Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio who received an Oscar nomination playing Vincent’s hard-as-nails girlfriend, Carmen—her innate cynicism casting a sardonic eye on both men. But unless you’re terribly interested in billiards and don’t mind a threadbare plot with few twists and no surprises I’d stick with the original. The talents of B. B. King, Eric Clapton, Robert Palmer, Warren Zevon, and Don Henley do make for a cool soundtrack however.

The Color of Pomegranates (USSR 1968) (6): Sergei Parajanov’s biography of 18th century Armenian poet Sayat Nova eschews linear narrative and instead delivers a series of striking dioramas and snatches of performance art meant to trace the artist’s inner evolution from rebellious child to lovestruck adult to devoted cleric and, finally, Christian martyr. The eclectic blend of music, natural sounds, and spoken word compliments some wonderfully abstract staging and lead actor Sofiko Chiaureli’s delicate features seem lifted directly from a medieval icon as he plays multiple roles, both male and female. Unfortunately, unless you have a firm understanding not only of Armenian art, culture, and history but of the life and work of Nova himself, Parajanov’s ambitious opus becomes little more than a succession of beautiful but frustratingly enigmatic tableaux.

Color Out of Space (USA 2019) (6): Based on a 1927 short story penned by horror legend H. P. Lovecraft. When a small psychedelic meteorite crashes into the front yard of their country home, Nathan Gardner (a grizzled Nicolas Cage) and his family find themselves beset by all manner of supernatural phenomena from the sudden appearance of impossible flora and fauna to telekinesis and mental manipulation. It seems the extraterrestrial chunk carried an unwelcome passenger—a being composed of pure light—and it’s now intent on turning the Gardner’s quiet idyll into an alien nightmare even as it twists their minds and bodies. Lovecraft's mastery of the English language is mostly lost amid magenta strobe effects, splattered gore, and Cage's string of screaming meltdowns, yet director Richard Stanley has still managed to produce something watchable despite the derivative Hollywood padding which includes such genre shocks as demonic personality shifts (The Amityville Horror); grotesque physical morphing (The Thing); and crawly bugaboos (Alien). There's a Saturday matinee appeal to Stanley's big screen vision however, his macabre comic book flourishes so reminiscent of 1982's Creepshow. But whether the film’s comedic elements were intentional or not is anyone's guess. Cool ending either way.

Colors (USA 1988) (7): Los Angeles police officer Bob Hodges (Robert Duvall) is a veteran with the anti-gang squad where over the years he has managed to gain a grudging respect from gang members for his even temper and willingness to cut a guy some slack. But when he’s teamed up with overly zealous rookie Danny McGavin (Sean Penn) who believes in punching first and asking questions later, inevitable frictions develop as the old man tries to impart some street smarts into his young partner. Now, with a fatal drive-by shooting threatening to escalate into a full scale turf war, the two men must either come to trust one another or face potentially tragic consequences… In light of current attitudes toward policing, and given the fact Dennis Hopper directed this film back in ’88, it comes as something of a surprise that its decidedly touchy material is handled as sensitively as it is. Even though some gangland scenes look as if they could morph into a Michael Jackson video, Hopper avoids most of the clichéd stereotypes (here come the Bloods! here come the Crips!) and instead addresses both the root causes of gang violence and their sequelae. An incendiary neighbourhood meeting between police and frightened residents raises issues of poverty, joblessness, and the allure of easy money—a sentiment reflected in the film’s soundtrack of cynical rap—while cameras linger over the savage initiation of yet another demoralized youth hungry for a sense of community even if it means carrying a gun. Spray-painted graffiti wavers between inspirational platitudes, personal hubris, and open threats (painting over someone else’s initials is equivalent to a death warrant), and safe places are nowhere to be found, including church. Duvall and Penn are in perfect synch as the old guard and the new reaching for a sense of equilibrium amidst the busts, bullets, and vendettas, and they’re shored up by a strong supporting cast—some of whom were recruited from actual street gangs. Don Cheadle hits the mark as an ice cold killer, Randy Brooks breathes fire as a former gangbanger turned street-level advocate, and celebrated character actor Glenn Plummer brings depth to a conflicted street punk whose eyes show he knows all too well what his options really are. Hopper does hit something of a sour note with the character of barrio homegirl—and Penn’s love interest—Louisa (Maria Conchita Alonso) however, imbuing her role with strength and dignity only to snatch it away with a scandalous confrontation that comes across as tawdry and superfluous. Or was he merely taking a piss on our middle-class Hollywood expectations? A tightly paced policier which asks some tough questions only to answer them with a hardened silence punctuated by spates of gunfire.

Come Back to the 5 & Dime, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean (USA 1981) (4): Robert Altman’s big screen flop, based on Ed Graczyk’s broadway flop, is literally crammed with faux nostalgia and enough white trash melodrama to make Valley of the Dolls look like an episode of Gidget. At a dusty old Woolworth’s store in a small sunbaked Texas town which time seems to have forgotten, a small group of women slowly converge. It’s 1975, the 20th anniversary of the death of James Dean, and they are the last remnants of his local fan club come to reminisce and swap stories. There’s brassy town tramp Sissy (Cher sporting a padded bra) whose aspirations never got her past the city limits; overly boisterous Stella Mae (a grating Kathy Bates) whose thwarted dreams of motherhood are soothed somewhat by her husband’s big bank account; mousy Edna Louise; unhinged Mona (a berserk Sandy Dennis) with one foot forever planted in the past who swears her twenty-year old son is the result of a one-nighter with Dean himself; and the sultry Joanne (a ridiculous Karen Black) who holds the evening’s biggest secret—all overseen by shop owner Juanita (Sudie Bond giving the film’s best performance) an evangelical Christian whose pious ways hide her own secret shame. With cold beer on the counter and a storm brewing on the horizon, good natured ribbing slowly gives way to tawdry confessions and scathing cat fights as each woman lets loose a barrage of ever more ludicrous revelations. Lurching back and forth between 1975 and 1955 through the use of two-way mirrors and stagey lighting we see just how these women evolved into the drunken embittered bitches they are tonight. And frankly it’s hard to give a damn. Perhaps Altman and Graczyk had a loftier goal in mind—tying together a handful of broken dreams, a small town drying up in the sun, and the tragic death of an idol into a grandiose statement on the demise of idealism and innocence. But whereas Bogdanovich nailed this ethos in his masterpiece, The Last Picture Show, Altman presents us with a shrill and rancorous drag revue. A camp spectacle from a cast of seasoned actresses (including three Oscar winners) who should have known better.

The Comedians (USA 1967) (3):  About a third of the way into this torturous mess you get the distinct impression that someone misplaced the script and rather than rewriting it the director simply told everyone to wing it.  Burton and Taylor are especially disappointing as they mumble non-sequiturs while sucking on each other’s faces and poor Lillian Gish seems to have trouble remembering she’s in a talkie.  It’s amazing that Graham Greene took his own novel about Duvalier’s bloody regime and turned it into a sitting room drama complete with insipid love affair.  It’s 150 minutes of pure tedium.....if it had run any slower it would have been going backwards.

Coming Apart (USA 1969) (7): A psychiatrist of some renown, Dr. Joe Glazer is nevertheless unable to throw himself a lifeline when his relationship with his mistress comes undone. Filled with anger, seemingly towards women in general, Glazer—under the telling pseudonym of Dr. Glassman—sets up an impromptu office in his ex’s swank New York apartment building and begins baiting, bedding, and then cruelly dumping a succession of neurotic female patients, clandestinely videotaping each encounter with a hidden camera focused on the giant wall mirror behind his couch. Ironically, in capturing the ongoing emotional cruelty he ultimately records his own psychological disintegration. Controversial for 1969 where its ample nudity and (mostly) implied kink earned it an “X” rating, Milton Moses Ginsberg’s experimental B&W video diary, filmed in a tiny space using static shots and natural background noise throughout, still manages to impress with its sheer nerve if nothing else. Rip Torn gives a remarkable performance as a man pining for lost love yet unable to connect with another human being except on the most superficial level while the women themselves (and one sad transvestite) provide a range of hippy era angst from the childlike aspiring model willing to do “special poses” for fifty bucks to the neglected high society housewife whose sexual frustrations translate into destructive S&M impulses (Good-bye Mrs. Robinson). And throughout Ginsberg makes good use of that huge living room mirror, often showing us nothing but reflections of his actors as the amateur footage skips, jumps and occasionally fades in and out of black—its damaged reels undermining Glassman’s desire to “film the truth”. The impromptu dialogue falls woefully short of Cassavetes however, the stilted ad-libs consisting mainly of heated banter which only occasionally reveals a deeper truth. But there is an unpolished arthouse appeal to Ginsberg’s work, a hint of Warhol as it follows one man’s downward trajectory beginning with a smug close-up and ending with a literal crack-up.

Coming Home (USA 1978) (9): One of the quintessential films examining the effects of the Viet Nam War on those who served and those who waited at home. When Captain Bob Hyde marches off to battle with dreams of guts & glory his all-American wife Sally dutifully tends the home fires, even volunteering at a veteran’s hospital despite the disapproval of her husband who frowns on anything that threatens his role as man of the house. It’s there she meets Luke Martin, an embittered marine sergeant paralyzed from the waist down who channels his frustrations into the occasional angry outburst and act of civil disobedience. A friendship gradually develops between sergeant and housewife leading to a romantic liaison and eventual love affair. Meanwhile Captain Hyde, unbalanced and disillusioned by the horrors he’s witnessed, returns home a hollow man with nothing to show for his ordeal but a meaningless medal and a head full of ghosts. When Sally’s infidelity is finally exposed it proves to be the final straw for Hyde whose drinking binges and bouts of rage conceal an anguish far deeper than anyone imagined… Beautifully written and flawlessly performed (Jon Voight's and Jane Fonda’s Oscars were well deserved as was Bruce Dern’s nomination), Hal Ashby’s critical look at a system which sends men to fight then seems to forget them when they come back broken focuses on those internal battlefields that exist long after peace is declared; indeed, he restricts images of actual warfare to snapshots and grainy B&W news reports. The tone may be angry and sardonic at times, but his sense of compassion towards his main characters never wavers. There is a balance here with one man rediscovering his humanity while another loses everything he believed in, and in the middle Sally tries desperately to comfort both even though she can’t possibly understand what they’ve been through. The period detail is impeccable, including a brilliantly integrated score of 60’s rock anthems, and a few subtle touches add just the right amount of irony; a yuppie flashing a peace sign (the director’s brief cameo), a TV station going off air to the strains of the national anthem, and a bittersweet closing montage with Tim Buckley’s haunting Once I was playing in the background. As a side note, the love scenes between Luke and Sally, besides being groundbreaking in themselves (the sexual needs of the handicapped were never addressed so honestly before), were filmed with such piercing intimacy they border on erotic art. One of the better films to emerge from the 70s.

Coming to America (USA 1988) (7): In the small but extremely wealthy African kingdom of Zamunda, Prince Akeem (Eddie Murphy, who also co-wrote) is facing his upcoming arranged marriage with trepidation. Having grown up the ridiculously pampered son of an overbearing monarch (James Earl Jones) Akeem wants to marry a strong, independent woman and not some obsequious royal sycophant. With this in mind he travels to New York with his manservant (Arsenio Hall) where, posing as a penniless exchange student, he hopes to find the woman of his dreams. What follows is a completely predictable “reverse Cinderella” fairy tale chockfull of inside jokes and culture shock schtick as Akeem meets Miss Right and then must overcome obstacles including her meddling father (John Amos), her pushy boyfriend, and one very irate king. But Murphy and Hall manage to pull it off with a barrage of corny one-liners and expert comic timing which makes even the silliest joke seem funnier than it actually is. And the fact they portray multiple characters throughout is comedy genius with Murphy playing, among other things, a truculent middle-aged barber and feisty Jewish pensioner while Arsenio hams it up as an oily preacher and a brief but hilarious stint as a baritone-voiced barroom diva decked out in gaudy cocktail drag. And they’re backed up by a slew of surprise cameos from the likes of Louie Anderson playing a fastidious burger-flipper, Samuel L. Jackson as a wannabe armed robber, and a young Cuba Gooding Jr. making his debut as a barber shop customer. And a surprise Trading Places reunion is as funny as it is unexpected. From opulent African sets (with choreographed dance sequences by Paula Abdul) to a rat-infested hotel in Queens, director John Landis keeps the tempo brisk enough to prevent you from yawning while Murphy emits some of that old onscreen charisma which made him an 80s movie star. The plot may be tired, the ending a study in “happily ever after” clichés, but cast and crew (nods to the wardrobe people!) deliver what is essentially a silly old-fashioned Feel Good movie and for that I forgive them on all counts.

The Conjuring (USA 2013) (6): Ed and Lorraine Warren, the dynamic ghostbusting duo whose real life experiences at a New England farmhouse gave rise to the Amityville Horror franchise, tear yet another page out of their demonic scrapbook in order to tell the tale of Roger and Carolyn Perron. When the Perrons and their five daughters moved to a new home in rural Rhode Island they had no idea the place had a macabre history involving witchcraft and murder, nor were they aware that a dark presence still resided in the dusty nooks and crannies. No sooner had they settled in then the spooky hijinks began with banging walls and foul odours quickly giving way to eerie visitations and spectral assaults. By the time the Warrens were consulted the Perrons were living out of the downstairs parlour, the only relatively safe place in the entire house. Setting up shop with various paranormal detectors scattered throughout the building and a small team of demon watchers manning the controls, the Warrens and their hosts prepared for a series of spooky all-night vigils—but no one was prepared for the sheer malevolence they encountered…an evil with the ability to stretch far beyond the Perron’s front gate. There is a genuinely scary short film here. The first half of The Conjuring contains all the necessary ingredients for a week’s worth of nightmares with midnight treks into a dark cellar lit only by matches, haunted cabinets creaking open, and a little girl checking under her bed despite my whispered warnings to dive under the sheets instead. ”There’s something standing behind the door!” one child hisses to her little sister as my hand reaches for the light switch yet again. Unfortunately director James Wan decides halfway through that more is better than less and we’re treated to the usual string of Catholic clichés (the crucifix fell on the floor….oh nooooo!), leering rubber masks, and ridiculous images of a possessed Lili Taylor riding a bucking armchair and spitting blood. Not only did I (comfortably) turn the lights back off but the group hug finale had me wishing for a rematch. Where’s Max von Sydow and Jason Miller when you need them?

The Conjuring 2 (USA 2016) (5): Six years after their last haunted escapade demonologists extraordinaire Ed and Lorraine Warren are off to England at the behest of the Catholic church in order to investigate some strange goings-on at the house of single mother Peggy Hodgson and her four kids. It seems the ghost of a cantankerous old man has it in for youngest daughter Janet and his devilish temper tantrums are making the entire family’s life a waking nightmare. Despite evidence that this might be a hoax the ghostbusters sense that there is actually more to this particular haunting than just a few sensational headlines—a suspicion reinforced by Lorraine’s tragic premonitions. Naturally they spend a few nights in the spooky house with the frightened Hodgsons and that’s when all hell decides to break loose as director James Wan blows his budget on every creepy special effect he can muster. The first part is is the most effective as Wan relies on a creaking stair or half seen shadow in order to ice our spines, but when he rolls out the big guns the entire production falls prey to CGI overkill with exploding lightning bolts, walls rent asunder, and a pasty white nun leaping out of the woodwork like Marilyn Manson in convent drag. A plot twist left my eyes rolling and the usual Catholic mumbo-jumbo made it all seem so terribly serious (crosses crosses everywhere!), but Poltergeist did it better and The Exorcist did it first. Based on a true story (LOL!).

The Conqueror [Taras Bulba] (Russia 2009) (2): It's the 16th century and Mother Russia is threatened from all sides by her enemies. Enter the Cossacks, mighty warriors from the Ukraine whose sacred duty it is to protect God and country from the evil Polish warlords and their papist ways. First and foremost amongst these soldiers of Orthodoxy is the grizzled Taras Bulba who, along with his virtuous sons, will lead the fearless Cossacks against the loathsome Poles and their miserly Jewish cohorts. But will Bulba's dwindling army of ruffians and drunks be able to face down the enemy's well-armed and disciplined cavalry? And what happens when one son falls in love with a Polish noblewoman and defects to the other side? Let's leave historical accuracy to scholars of Russian antiquity and just concentrate on why this is such an awful movie. Weak acting, awful script hampered further by haphazard editing, and cheap-ass CGI effects on par with your typical SyFy channel filme-du-jour. It's amazing how many pointless slo-mo sabre fights one can cram into 133 minutes. Furthermore, with its endless train of last-breath soliloquies praising hearth and home, and crude racial/national stereotypes (leering Polacks, cringing Jews) the film's cloying sense of patriotism goes beyond simple propaganda and enters into the realm of pure myth. An epic failure on all counts.

Conquest of Space (USA 1955) (7): “This is a story of tomorrow...” intones the opening narrator, “...or the day after tomorrow.” Thus begins one of the more optimistic science fiction epics to emerge from the Cold War. After months spent training on “The Wheel”, a multinational space station orbiting Earth, a select crew of astronauts under the tutelage of hard-nosed military hero Colonel Sam Merritt and his dutiful son Captain Barney Merritt (blond hunk Eric Fleming) prepare for the human race’s greatest adventure; the first manned mission to Mars. Braving meteorites, privation, and their own personal demons the five plucky men finally set foot on the red planet only to experience a mixed bag of bitter disappointments and potential promise. Despite a few naive assumptions and forgivable scientific liberties, Conquest of Space features some great special effects for its time, a pinwheel space station whirling against a giant backdrop of Earth is quite well done especially when set to an original score faintly reminiscent of Holst’s “Neptune the Mystic.” Furthermore, director Byron Haskin demonstrates a sound understanding of what life in space might be like. “The Wheel’s” multiracial inhabitants must have been eye-opening for contemporary audiences and a couple of futuristic concepts are bang on; overpopulation, dwindling resources, big screen TVs, and the move towards one world government (“free trade” hadn’t been coined yet). But where the film excelled for me was when it explored the downside of space exploration; the longing for home, the interpersonal tensions, and the psychosis brought about by endless responsibilities and confined quarters here referred to as “space fatigue”. A colourful and visionary addition to the retro sci-fi genre.

The Conspirator (USA 2010) (8): Following the assassination of Abraham Lincoln by John Wilkes Booth, Northern authorities under the direction of Secretary of War Edwin Stanton (Kevin Kline barely recognizable in spectacles and muttonchops) charge seven of Booth’s acquaintances with conspiracy, including Mary Surratt (Robin Wright, brilliant), mother of missing conspirator John Surratt and owner of the boarding house where the men allegedly hatched their plan. Although the evidence against her ranges from purely circumstantial to downright questionable the State, eager to set a stern example by staging a mass execution, insists on trying Mary under a military tribunal thereby bypassing many of her civil rights. Enter Frederick Aiken (James McAvoy sans Scottish brogue), a Union war hero turned lawyer who reluctantly agrees to defend Mary despite his own personal bias against her and the South in general. But as Aiken delves further into Mary’s rather complicated story he begins to doubt her guilt, especially after the government repeatedly stonewalls his attempts to uncover the truth. Is Mary really a cunning conspirator or is the State simply seeking revenge by making her a symbolic scapegoat? Writer James D. Solomon weaves actual transcripts from Surratt’s trial into his script and director Robert Redford poceeds to film it all in shades of sepia and leached pastels against CGI backdrops of old Washington; the result is a painstakingly authentic historical drama which unfolds like a series of antique daguerreotypes. Supported by an impressive cast, McAvoy’s transformation from cynical doubter to zealous advocate contrasts beautifully with Wright’s portrayal of a disgraced widow whose downcast eyes nevertheless harbour an iron resolve (and perhaps a troubling secret or two). With the Constitution of the United States not even a hundred years old and the wounds of America’s bloody Civil War still fresh, The Conspirator is a damning exploration of that point where political expediency tries to eclipse the rule of law.

Contagion (USA 2011) (6): Beth Emhoff (Gwyneth Paltrow) returns to the States after a business trip to Hong Kong (and a sexual layover in Chicago) complaining of flu-like symptoms. Twenty-four hours later she is dead, and so are a lot of other people from Kowloon to Minneapolis and the numbers are growing exponentially. By the time the CDC and WHO come on board the mysterious epidemic has already reached around the globe and the race is on to isolate the organism responsible and control it before it’s too late. With civilized society slipping into anarchy, the sick and dying crowding into makeshift clinics, and governments scrambling to protect themselves the fate of millions rests with a small team of doctors and technicians (Laurence Fishburne, Kate Winslet et al) . Although Steven Soderbergh’s medical thriller doesn’t even come close to the controlled tension of The Andromeda Strain, he still manages to present a watchable drama with enough star power, techno jargon, and beeping machines to gloss over most of the film’s Hollywood hyperbole. Riding on the back of our SARS and ebola paranoia his microscopic McGuffin’s ability to produce a messy demise en masse exposes just how unprepared we are for a global pandemic both economically (“Who’s going to pay for all this?” blurts a health official examining a gymnasium-cum-field hospital); socially (deadly riots erupt when pharmacies run out of a purported herbal cure); and politically (the spectre of germ warfare is alluded to as elected officials scramble for cover and a CDC spokesman becomes a sacrificial scapegoat). And of course the internet fuels the flames with rumours and misinformation tweeted by a prominent douchebag conspiracy theorist (Jude Law) whose fear-mongering proves to be surprisingly profitable. All the ingredients for a modern day horror movie are here, but Soderbergh’s insistence on examining the emergency from every possible angle simply piles too much on to our plates resulting in narrative gaps and underdeveloped characters. Furthermore, attempts to humanize the crisis—a widower (Matt Damon) fights to protect his remaining child, a WHO doctor (Marion Cotillard) becomes a medical hostage in China, a researcher in Atlanta takes a leap of faith—seem tacked on. But the pulsating music score hits the mark and tight editing causes 106 minutes to fly by. Besides, it’s fun to watch a cavalcade of Hollywood darlings sweat, spew, and run for their lives.

Contamination [Alien Contamination] (Italy 1980) (4): It’s Alien served with a big helping of pasta as director Luigi Cozzi takes some outrageous liberties with Ridley Scott’s sci-fi classic in order to churn out this tepid thriller. When a mysterious, seemingly abandoned, freighter docks in New York the authorities are in for a very unpleasant surprise for not only has the ship’s crew been turned into sushi but the cargo hold is filled with big glowing eggs that have a nasty habit of spewing forth sticky clouds of greenish goo causing the abdominal cavities of anyone in the immediate vicinity to explode in sickening slow motion. As sexy special agent Colonel Holmes and her team investigate the unearthly cargo they slowly uncover a deadly conspiracy that stretches from the frozen wastelands of Mars to a steamy Colombian coffee plantation where they come face to face with mindless zombies, locked bathroom doors, and a final showdown with a malevolent head of broccoli. Even though it appears Cozzi was working with a slightly bigger budget than most Eurosplatter auteurs, all the familiar trappings of the genre are here; the cheesy soundtrack and dubbed dialogue go together beautifully while the attention to gory detail is delightfully apparent as showers of wet crimson guts gush forth from barely concealed chest prostheses. It’ll have you yelling “Mama mia!” even as you reach for the Fast Forward button.

Continental, A Film Without Guns (Canada 2007) (9):  A middle-aged man on his way home from work falls asleep on the bus.  He wakes up to find the bus deserted in the middle of a deep dark forest.  With no clue as to where he is or where he’s going he sets out into the woods, apparently lured by some mysterious siren song.  This wonderfully understated opening sequence pretty much sets the tone for the rest of the story as we see a handful of characters trying to navigate through their own emotional wildernesses.  Contemporary themes of loneliness, isolation and regret are expertly weaved together, sometimes with deadpan humour, often with sharp poignancy.  There is the hotel clerk, desperate to be needed by another person, who manufactures ersatz relationships using her answering machine; the insurance salesman who “sells peace of mind” while his own life falls apart; the elderly shop owner facing his mortality with a mixture of weariness and despair; and lastly, the missing man’s wife who suddenly finds her well-defined life drastically altered by her husband’s disappearance.  LaFleur layers these stories in some beautiful and imaginative ways.  His juxtaposition of the mundane with the subtly absurd makes for a refreshing and unconventional look at life, which brings to mind the films of Roy Andersson.  He even manages a sly reference to Lamorisse’s “Le Ballon Rouge”.  The film ends on a more or less happy note, but LaFleur is quick to point out that “happiness” can be highly subjective and often comes at a cost.  One of the better films I’ve rented this year.

Control Alt Delete (Canada 2008) (4): Lewis is a chubby socially awkward cyber-geek working at a computer security firm on the eve of Y2K. Recently dumped by his girlfriend after she discovered his extensive cache of internet porn he finds himself becoming increasingly attracted to the one constant in his life that truly accepts him for what he is....computers. With the help of a drill, bubble wrap, some duct tape and a bottle of lube he's soon banging away at more than just keyboards, a clandestine habit that has his disgusted fellow employees searching for the mysterious "computer rapist". Against a backdrop of Y2K hysteria this dry satire tries to say something about being marginalized in an increasingly tech-obsessed society but its lightweight script and cartoonish characters produce little more than a vulgar sitcom. A subplot involving a co-worker gradually becoming numb from the feet up was a wasted metaphor that went nowhere and the "toilet cam" twist was just stupid. Good thing star Tyler Labine is just so damn huggable looking.

Cook Up a Storm (Hong Kong 2017) (6): Ever since his father, a master chef, abandoned him when he was only ten years old “Sky” has been obsessed with becoming a culinary artist himself. Now the proprietor of a modest yet popular little eatery nestled in a Hong Kong suburb, Sky’s reputation comes under attack when a new restaurant opens across the street run by Paul, a Michelin-starred chef trained in France. Sky’s classical Cantonese cooking and Paul’s Western-influenced cuisine make for an intense rivalry which comes to a head when both enter an international culinary competition. However, unbeknownst to each other both men are dealing with personal issues that may torpedo their chances at ever becoming the next “God of Cookery”… Director Wai-Man Yip’s sentimental dramedy with a gourmet twist is a film I definitely shouldn’t have liked as much as I did—the heart-tugging is a bit too forced with slo-mo B&W flashbacks and a tinkling soap opera score, the cartoonish humour barely survives translation, and the plot pretty much writes itself. Add to that some horrid subtitling that strobes across the screen way too fast and you are left with a movie fraught with potholes (at least on this side of the Pacific). But there is a fairytale charm to the bright neon sets and equally colourful characters—that high-tech cooking competition studio is a riot of flash and bang—and stars Nicholas Tse (Sky) and Yong-hwa Jung (Paul) bring a fresh-faced fierceness to the dinner table that makes you want to stick around for dessert. Lastly, those mouthwatering kitchen scenes, filmed with all the brio of a music video, should have come with a warning, “Do Not Watch on an Empty Stomach!”. It’s definitely cinematic fairy dust, albeit fairy dust elevated to a large extent by an eager young cast and tightly choreographed camerawork that cashes in on all the vivid colours and aproned flourishes. Think of it as Iron Chef on estrogen.

Cop Car (USA 2015) (10): Ten-year old buddies Travis and Harrison are barely into their first hour of running away from home when they happen upon an abandoned police car hidden in the middle of a farmer’s field. At first reluctant to go near it, the precocious pair finally screw up enough courage to actually sit in the front seat where the discovery of a set of car keys prompts them to take it on a joyride over fields and onto the open highway despite the fact neither one of them knows the difference between a stick shift and a gas pedal. Their offbeat road adventure soon spirals into nightmare territory however for the sheriff whose cruiser they’ve just stolen (Kevin Bacon at his diabolical best) has several good reasons for not only getting the car back without alerting the authorities, but for ensuring the boys remain silent as well. Like a skewed redux of Stand By Me helmed by Quentin Tarantino, writer/director Jon Watts’ rip-roaring black and bloody comedy is a masterstroke of indie moviemaking. Filmed in the wilds of rural Colorado with nothing but wide open skies and tumbleweeds for props, his clueless naifs (remarkable performances from Hays Wellford and James Freedson-Jackson) provide a darkly humorous contrast to Bacon’s growling moustachioed villain leading to a climax that is both shockingly outrageous and oddly sympathetic. With a constant smirk at America’s appetite for guns and violence—the boys’ fascination with an onboard cache of police weapons leads to some harrowingly funny segments—Watts has produced a coming-of-age road movie that begins with a joke and ends with sirens blaring.

Coraline (USA 2009) (8): Good Mother versus Bad Mother when a neglected young girl finds a mysterious tunnel linking her new house (the aptly named “Pink Palace”) with its identical twin in an alternate reality. Constantly ignored by her yuppie parents and lost in a strange new neighbourhood, Coraline finds herself pretty much alone. She does manage to find some solace in visiting the wacky boarders living in her attic and basement but the only real friend she has is the decidedly geeky boy next door, Wyborne (pronounced “Why Born”...don’t you just love symbolism?) with whom she has a tentative relationship at best. Things change however when she discovers a small secret door hidden behind the wallpaper which leads to a much sunnier version of her own life complete with new and improved editions of her parents. In this happier world mom and dad are all good, completely attentive, and they let Coraline do whatever she wants. All they ask in return is that she become a little button-eyed dolly just like them; Good Mother, it seems, has a definite taste for young impressionable lives. Steeped in Freudian psychology and filled with appropriately macabre prepubescent imagery, Coraline is one of the more complex animated features I’ve seen thus far. As Coraline struggles to break free from the suffocating demands of her increasingly malevolent “other” mother an intense psychodrama unfolds in which childish fantasies give way to troubled nightmares; an adorable circus of dancing mice morphs into a pack of slinking rats, a childish snow globe turns into an icy prison, and an enchanted garden becomes a tangle of horrors. But, in keeping with the film’s underlying subtext of growth and maturation, a talking feline familiar will provide the clear voice of reason while a trio of unhappy ghosts will kindle a newfound sense of responsibility. Of course no work that offers more than a passing nod to Sigmund and Anna would be complete without a few sexual metaphors; an outrageous burlesque show staged by a pair of buxom grannies fits the bill perfectly and heralds our diminutive protagonist’s impending adolescence. The home 3D is pretty damn cool too!

Coriolanus (UK 2011) (7): Shakespeare’s final tragedy is given a contemporary facelift in this adaptation shot mainly in the Serbian countryside, an area still bearing the scars of its own recent conflicts. Having returned to Rome a war hero for his victory over the neighbouring Volscians, Caius Marcius (Ralph Fiennes, also making his directorial debut) is a shoo-in for a seat on the senate thanks to a grateful populace and the machinations of his domineering mother Volumnia (Vanessa Redgrave, strong as ever). But his arrogant disregard for the common people coupled with a headstrong pride leads to his being banished from the country instead. Joining forces with Rome’s enemies under the leadership of Tullus Aufidius (Gerard Butler whose garbled Scottish brogue proves to be the weakest link), Marcius, now called Coriolanus, descends upon his former homeland bent on revenge until the intercession of his wife and mother causes him to have second thoughts much to Aufidius’ displeasure… The bard’s meaty prose seems perfectly at home amongst tanks and machine guns; it’s allusions to prideful downfalls, reckless rage, and weaknesses of the human heart timeless since the day they were first set to paper. Fiennes directs with the eye of an artist rendering both tearful exchanges and bullet-riddled showdowns with equal passion, and his cast seems to be more than up for the task. Unfortunately this is not one of Shakespeare’s better plays and the somewhat facile plot, although engaging enough, rarely enthrals despite a host of superb performances. The clever twenty-first century touches are well placed however, with mass media taking on the role of Greek Chorus as the story unfolds. A must for every Shakespeare fan.

The Corpse Grinders (USA 1971) (1): The Lotus Cat Food Company (“For cats who love people!”) is compensating for poor sales by using cheaper cuts of meat courtesy of the nearby cemetery. But when household felines begin developing a taste for live human flesh after eating their product local physician Dr. Howard Glass and his buxom sidekick Nurse Angie decide to do a little undercover investigating. Managing to uncover Lotus’ macabre secret, Howard and Angie suddenly find themselves at the mercy of the company’s owners who are determined to see them become Fluffy’s next meal… A cheesy zero-budget groaner that’s not even good enough for the midnight circuit. Porn-level acting, bargain basement special effects (did that rubber arm just bounce?), and a couple of glaring continuity fails make for a grindhouse sleeping aid that had me nodding off throughout. And what was with the one-legged deaf secretary and her fake sign language? The tacky 70s decor was a hoot however, and the gratuitous “bra, panties and a Budweiser” scene was worth a rewind. Like Kibbles ’n Bits for your brain.

Corpus Christi (Poland 2019) (8): Light can sometimes shine forth from the darkest places and, conversely, even the brightest of lights can sometimes be consumed by that same darkness. Freshly released from Juvenile Detention, Daniel (Bartosz Bielenia channeling a young Christopher Walken) is on his way to begin a dead end job at a sawmill when a combination of mistaken identity and outright lying finds him serving as village priest instead. With the regular vicar, a crusty old cynic, off receiving medical treatments Daniel’s unvarnished and ad-libbed homilies and unorthodox approach (he encourages mourners to scream rather than sob) become something of a welcome scandal in a town torn in half by a recent tragedy. The ruse can’t last indefinitely however and when his past comes knocking at the rectory door all Hell threatens to descend upon him. Jan Komasa’s gritty interpretation of The Passion finds the perfect conduit in Bielenia, his boyish open-faced looks evolving from hard-bitten young offender with a taste for raves, cocaine, and fucking (yet who still says his rosary every night), to a soft-spoken mover of mountains drawing upon a strength rooted in his own pain. The biblical parallels are all too obvious to anyone who suffered through Sunday School: the carpenter on a mission who attempts miracles—in this case taking on a town divided—before succumbing to temptation, betrayal, and a very different take on Calvary (look for a brief but brilliant scene as “Pilate” washes his hands). But the body and blood of Komasa’s flawed Christ, while on full display, are purely secular in nature and glorious trappings of Catholic voodoo aside—Komasa doesn’t miss an opportunity to bathe the screen in ethereal sunlight or roaring hellfire—the only spirit moving through his film is ultimately human. Supposedly based on an actual incident, Corpus Christi is Poland’s official submission to this year's Academy Awards.

Corridors of Blood (UK 1958) (6): Boris Karloff is Dr. Thomas Bolton, a 19th century London surgeon sickened by the pain and suffering he witnesses in the operating room and determined to alleviate it by experimenting with different kinds of anesthetizing gases. Using himself as a guinea pig Bolton’s best intentions eventually transform him into an addict given to destructive binges and blackouts. Barred from practice due to his unorthodox activities the good doctor unwittingly falls in with a band of cutthroat body snatchers who promise to procure the chemicals he needs for his research-cum-habit providing he signs a series of questionable death certificates with no questions asked. Sadly, by the time a drug-addled Bolton finally realizes what he’s been doing it may already be too late to save his dream...and his life. With merry old England reduced to a few badly painted backdrops and a dingy pub of smelly threadbare cretins this low budget shocker relies on the star power of leads Boris Karloff (a most convincing pothead), hunky hirsute Francis De Wolff as the crooked ringleader, and a relatively unknown Christopher Lee as a homicidal henchman—and they succeed admirably. Scenes of Karloff’s laboratory manage to steer clear of “mad scientist” conventions although watching him huff nitrous oxide through a rubber hose is unintentionally amusing, and the hospital scenes are sobering enough with agonized screams, phlegmatic coughs, and the briefest glimpse of an amputation which was dutifully censored for delicate British audiences. Not memorable.

A Countess From Hong Kong (UK 1967) (4): A high seas romantic comedy written and directed by Charlie Chaplin and staring Marlon Brando and Sophia Loren should have been a sure thing. It isn’t. A complete flop on just about every level, Countess is so colourfully bad it’s actually watchable in a sparkling roadkill sort of way. Marlon, distracted and looking as if he’d kill to be anywhere but there, plays a wealthy businessman en route from Hong Kong to the United States where he’s just been awarded a government position. Sophia, acting as if she wandered in front of the camera by accident, plays the penniless descendant of Russian aristocrats who is intent on escaping to America by stowing away in Brando’s stateroom. She doesn’t want to be sent back and his public persona can’t withstand the scandal of being discoverd with a strange woman, so what follows is basically 120 minutes of the two of them trying to evade ship’s detection by running around his stateroom and slamming doors until they stop long enough to gaze into each other’s eyes. So poorly edited that the story leapfrogs rather than flows, and the uncomfortably wooden performances—Tippi Hedren plays her bit part as Marlon’s estranged wife like she just overdosed on Lunesta—leave you wondering just how much rehearsal time the cast was given before Chaplin yelled “ACTION!” Apparently Loren didn’t like Brando, Brando didn’t like Chaplin, and Chaplin didn’t like anyone, a three-way animosity which colours every frame. And those slapstick elements might have worked had the film been made in the silent era—a wacky episode of mass seasickness left me heaving along with the characters while a “wedding night” between Loren and Brando’s effete butler (Patrick Cargill) drags on like a particularly bad Laugh-In skit. In fact the film’s only saving graces are a truly funny 2-minute cameo from Margaret Rutherford playing a dowdy bedridden hypochondriac (look for future Monty Python regular Carol Cleveland as her nurse), and Chaplin’s musical composition, “This is My Song”, which became a number one single for Petula Clark. The rest is just one big shipwreck.

The Country Girl (USA 1954) (8): Former Broadway star Frank Elgin (Bing Crosby), now an alcoholic has-been eking out a living singing commercial jingles, is given a second chance at fame when director Bernie Dodd (William Holden) offers him the lead role in his latest play. But Dodd’s attempt to revive his one-time idol’s career puts him in direct conflict with Elgin’s much younger wife Georgie (Grace Kelly) whom he perceives as a dour and controlling shrew and the root cause of Elgin’s boozy descent into obscurity. But as his play prepares to debut in New York City Dodd slowly comes to the realization that Frank and Georgie’s precarious marriage is far more complex and piteous than he had imagined and now, with a waffling lead actor on his hands and a nervous producer yelling in his ear, he also discovers his contempt for Georgie is turning into something far more problematic… A profoundly unhappy story about a couple undone by past tragedy whose fragile equilibrium, based on lies and guilt, is now ironically threatened by the promise of a new beginning. Crosby shows he is more than just a sleepy-eyed crooner with his edgy portrayal of a whimpering drunk desperately clinging to rock bottom while Kelly steals the show as his perpetually angry wife, an intense woman whose haunted eyes barely conceal a deeper pain. And Holden, spitting fire and judgement, proves to be the perfect catalyst. Nominated for seven Oscars, including Best Picture, and winning two—one for Grace Kelly’s psychologically charged performance and another for George Seaton’s piercing screenplay—The Country Girl is marred somewhat by a soapy ending but its juxtaposition of cheery onstage musical numbers and offstage drama pulls all the right strings and its cast never miss a beat.

Coup de Grâce (Germany 1976) (5): On a country estate somewhere in the Baltics circa 1919 a small troop of German soldiers are waging a war against communist guerrillas hiding out in the nearby woods. Home to the countess Sophie de Reval and her brother Konrad (one of the soldiers) the manor house is now a ghost of its former glory with blown out windows, backed up sewers, and an amusingly senile aunt living upstairs. Taking an erotic interest in Konrad’s friend, the handsome yet taciturn officer Erich von Lhomond, Sophie is at first mystified then angered with the brooding man’s ambiguous response to her sexual invitations despite the fact he appeared genuinely jealous of her brief affair with yet another serviceman. But when she discovers that Erich only has eyes for Konrad, Sophie’s emotional desperation becomes political causing an already volatile love triangle to become deadly. Based on a popular novel, Volker Schlöndorff’s cinematic adaptation examines the futility of war both objectively (while aid from Berlin ebbs and floes, support for the cause also wanes) and subjectively (as the sounds of gun and bomb waft in through the windows the Reval home itself turns into a psychosexual minefield). Images of death are met with apathy, attempts at mirth appear sadly ridiculous, and an anxious exchange between Sophie and Erich through a locked door comes to resemble a Catholic confession. Filmed in bleak shades of black and white against a backdrop of frozen fields, the entire world seems lovelorn and weary; even the film’s shocking yet downplayed climax can be seen as either a callous act of indifference or the ultimate act of cruel revenge. Unfortunately its plodding pace is further hampered by some puzzling edits and a scattered narrative while a distinct lack of emotional conviction—perhaps intentional—frustrates all attempts to connect with the characters. Thankfully Schlöndorff would visit similar territory with much more zeal in 1979’s The Tin Drum.

La Coupure (Canada 2006) (3): As the film opens we’re treated to a lovely couple engaging in some hot and heavy lovemaking. It isn’t until later that we realize the woman is cheating on her husband, and later still we realize the “other man” is her brother. Christine and Christophe have been getting it on with each other since they were teenagers and twenty years later they still are, despite the fact she’s now married with two adolescent kids. Ignoring the dire warnings from their long-suffering mother and some suspicious queries from the husband, the two siblings go at it like dogs in heat whenever they get the chance. Afterwards they agonize and emote about what terrible people they are with flowing tears and heated recriminations flying indiscriminately; but try as they may they just can’t seem to stop loving each other. Things really get sticky however when Tamara, Christine’s pubescent daughter, develops a crush on her uncle sending Christine into an emotional tailspin. Chateauvert’s tawdry little bit of arthouse drivel is not even good enough to be accused of pretentiousness. It would appear everyone in this mess wants to be a victim as they glare accusingly at each other and speak in teary half sentences, but after watching the two leads spin their wheels and stare into each other’s navels for eighty minutes you realize that he’s simply taken 10 minutes of decent material and stretched it into a feature film. The result is stilted, repetitious and unconvincing. Despite Valerie Cantin’s noteworthy performance and a mercifully abrupt ending, it still wasn’t worth the three dollar rental fee.

The Court-Martial of Billy Mitchell (USA 1955) (6): A lacklustre biopic made all the more unremarkable by Gary Cooper’s timid performance. He plays the titular character, a decorated WWI general who, in the mid-1920’s, faced a military tribunal after he made a public statement accusing the War Department of criminal negligence, incompetence, and “almost treasonable administration”. He’d been advocating for more research and funding to bolster America’s fledgling air force which was facing extinction thanks to its antiquated planes and lack of regulations but both the army and the navy, not appreciating the importance of a strong air presence, ignored his pleas and ordered him to desist. And then two tragedies involving military aircraft made headlines prompting an outraged Mitchell to take his fight to the media, a move which resulted in court-martial proceedings for conduct unbecoming an officer. Despite an Oscar nomination for best screenplay, this is one of Otto Preminger’s less engaging films. Overly sentimental, it presents Mitchell as an “aw shucks” gentleman with a vision when the real character was in fact a charismatic firecracker—even Billy’s widow expressed her disappointment upon watching it. The cinemascope presentation is captivating enough as it swings from sinking battleships to courtroom tension but aside from a few worthy performances—namely Elizabeth Montgomery (in her screen debut) as a grieving widow, Rod Steiger as a vicious prosecutor, and Ralph Bellamy as his counterpoint for the defense—everyone else pretty much reads their lines especially Cooper who wavers between bland and distracted. One scene does stand out however when, during the trial, an overly zealous Steiger scoffs at Mitchell’s eerie prediction of an air attack on Pearl Harbor.

Cousins (Brazil 2019) (4): There’s no doubt but that the world needs more gay-positive love stories. What we don’t need is another pathologically upbeat teen romance regardless of orientation—and this, unfortunately, is primarily what we get from the team of Mauro Carvalho and Thiago Cazado. Sweetly dispositioned and courteous to a fault, young Lucas has spent most of his life being raised by his aunt Lourdes, a kindly guardian but a bit of a religious flake—she has a saint for everything and a crucified Christ keeps tabs from every wall. But when Lourdes goes away for a few days leaving Lucas to entertain his newly arrived cousin Mario, a cocky young man fresh out of juvenile detention, Lucas finds himself entertaining feelings he never realized he had—feelings that Mario most definitely shares. And then their aunt returns home unexpectedly… Being a Brazilian film there is no shortage of graphic nudity and unrestrained groping, what Cousins lacks however is passion and credibility. Leads Paulo Sousa and writer/director Cazado himself (looking like a young John Cusack) share very little onscreen chemistry which makes their sudden switch from adolescent horseplay to sex-starved rutting hard to believe regardless of how many sappy love ballads play in the background. The premise is further cheapened by the character of Julia, a good Catholic girl whom Lucas is teaching piano, who inexplicably turns into a psycho nympho stalker when she finds out that Lucas is definitely not available—an egregiously insulting performance all around. And then there’s aunt Lourdes (Juliana Zancanaro giving the film it’s only noteworthy performance) a contradictory muddle of charismatic Christian, lonely heart, and neo-liberal matron, who provides a consistent if somewhat puzzling presence to the movie from its bland opening scenes right through to its storybook ending in which the directors spend the final five minutes chasing rainbows with one sweetly contrived resolution after another. Too cloying to be taken seriously despite its relentlessly inoffensive message, this is the type of sentimental fodder that “enlightened” audiences like to be seen crowing over while their more conservative counterparts grumble about indoctrination and “normalizing perversion”. To me it brought to mind one of those After School Specials aimed at pre-teens that used to air on ABC back in the ‘70s—only with more tongue and dick.

The Cranes Are Flying  (Russia 1957) (9):  Striking use of light and composition coupled with an intelligent script lift this film far above the usual war-time weeper and turn it into a piercing study of the human heart.  Kalatozov uses the camera as an artist uses his brush, treating us to some of cinema’s more amazing sequences.....an attempted seduction during a night-time air raid; a dying soldier’s vision of the wedding he’ll never have; a woman quietly grieving her dead lover in the midst of a joyous crowd....the list continues, and it is impressive.  Free from the overt government propaganda of earlier Soviet films and staunchly avoiding maudlin sentimentality, “The Cranes are Flying” remains a powerful and mature work fifty years after it was first released.

Crazy Heart (USA 2009) (7): A washed-out alcoholic who also smokes too much, lives out of his battered truck, and barely gets by performing at bowling alleys and third rate dives, fifty-seven year old former Country Western superstar “Bad” Blake’s life has ironically become a sad C&W cliché itself. He’s hit rock bottom and if the booze doesn’t end what’s left of his career his inability to write any new material will—and to make matters worse the fact that his former protégé Tommy Sweet has skyrocketed to fame constantly eats away at his drunken ego. And then he finds a potential muse in Jean, a single mother trying to get her own journalism career off the ground, and a bleary-eyed Blake thinks he may have staggered into love . But the two of them are carrying enough emotional luggage to pack a pick-up truck and whiskey is a very demanding mistress… Movies about down-and-outers trying for one more kick at redemption are as old as Hollywood itself and director Scott Cooper’s hooch & cigarettes saga, based on the novel by Thomas Cobb, doesn’t really add anything new to the convention. But if the storyline seems all too familiar Jeff Bridges’ Oscar-winning performance manages to turn it into something extra special; his grumbling stumbling portrayal of a man who has done it all yet has nothing to show for it alternately exasperating and deeply compassionate. Hell, he even belts out those soulful T Bone Burnett songs as if he wrote them himself. And backing him up are Maggie Gyllenhaal as Jean, Colin Farrell as Sweet (his Irish brogue hidden behind a southern drawl), and a welcome cameo from Robert Duvall as Blake’s only remaining friend. Gritty as a dirty ashtray and with enough heartbreak to fuel a Tammy Wynette and George Jones duet, Cooper’s long lonesome highway of a film may be rooted in country truisms but his delivery is anything but trite and that final resolution is beautifully unsentimental.

Crazy Love (USA 2007) (7): “Fucked up” would be an apt summary of the decades-long relationship between New Yorkers Burt Pugach and Linda Riss who, over the course of their tempestuous entanglement, went from relative obscurity to infamous tabloid darlings and back again. Dan Klores and Fisher Steven’s noirish documentary doesn’t have to dig very deep to hit pay dirt either for their flurry of headlines, ‘70s talk show excerpts, and cynical talking heads (including Burt and Linda themselves) tell the story all too well. When they first met in the late 1950s Burt, a successful, slightly crooked Jewish lawyer from the Bronx was immediately smitten by Linda, barely out of her teens, who sported a classic beauty somewhere between Elizabeth Taylor and Sophia Loren. But the painfully naïve Linda was ambivalent at best which caused the unstable and dangerously obsessive Burt to escalate his attempts to win her favour—then she became engaged to another man causing those attempts to turn shockingly criminal. And that was just the beginning… Klores and Stevens start with the usual background bios—neither Linda nor Burt had particularly happy childhoods and they both suffered from varying degrees of social awkwardness, but whereas her good looks garnered attention he supplemented his geeky appearance by making lots of money—but once the stage is set, what follows is the stuff of tawdry romance novels (or snuff films). Suffice to say their on-again-off-again relationship was closer to an addiction than love with Pugach a monomaniacal Svengali to Riss’ indecisive damsel-in-distress. The devil, however, is in the details and as the directors hit us with one eye-popping revelation after another (no spoilers!) you begin to realize that the old adage, “There is someone for everyone” is not always a comforting thought. As sensationalistic as a Youtube exposé, as ghoulishly fascinating as a post mortem, Klores and Stevens lighten up their freaky fairytale somewhat with a camp background score that includes such hits as “I Put a Spell on You”, “You Call it Madness (But I Call it Love)”, and “Can’t Get Used to Losing You”. Like, crazy man!

Creep (USA 2014) (3): If one could take this “found footage” horror show as a parody of the genre it might get a weak pass, but writer/director/stars Patrick Brice and Mark Duplass don’t seem to have their tongues anywhere near their cheeks and the result is an insultingly facile shaggy dog story where the big pay-off arrives more like a dippy six-second youtube vine than a proper climax. Videographer Aaron (Brice) tapes himself traveling into the hinterland of California in response to an ad he answered offering a thousand dollars for one day’s worth of filming—“discretion appreciated”. Arriving at his destination, a remote mountain cabin, he’s met by his client Josef (Duplass) who wants Aaron to help him make a video diary for his unborn son, a child he may not live to see. Manifestly eccentric, Josef has Aaron film him taking a bath, frolicking in the woods, eating pancakes, and waxing philosophical about dying and regrets. But as the day wears on Aaron becomes uncomfortably aware that Josef may be a few bricks shy of a load and there may be more to the amateur footage they’re shooting than a simple fatherly memento… Devoid of any tension—its cheap shocks consist mainly of Josef jumping out from behind doorways…eek!—and with an annoying homoerotic undertone that grates like a squeaky hinge this is one gobbler that should never have left the drawing board. It’s not easy to watch movies about stupid people doing stupid things for stupid reasons and Brice’s character certainly deserves a few Darwin awards of his own…not that either one of the painfully ad-libbed performances are particularly believable in the first place. The fact that some promote this piece of work as “psychological horror” is laughable. On the other hand however the idea that there are two more sequels being planned did manage to keep me awake at night.

The Cremator (Czech 1969) (7): Either the blackest satire or most unsettling psychological horror film to emerge from Czechoslovakia’s New Wave. Kopfrkingl is a sombre, somewhat mousy family man given to rambling ruminations on cleanliness, godliness, and bourgeois values circa 1930s Prague. Overseeing the local crematorium he is perhaps a bit too tied up in his work which he regards as a divine calling, for in the flames there is an end to all suffering and a final liberation of the soul as the dearly departed are hastily returned to dust. In fact he sees his ovens as a final solution to all of mankind’s woes so it comes as no surprise that when Nazi forces begin to encroach on his “civilized” society, an increasingly unhinged Kopfrkingl is more than happy to offer up his expertise… With off-kilter camera angles and moody shades of B&W, Juraj Herz’s nightmarish allegory on the roots of fascism combines the visual excesses of Fellini with the mordant introspection of Bergman. The results don’t always fit together smoothly, and some of our protagonist’s observational rants sound more like cynical navel-gazing, but the oppressive sense of impending doom and despair is inescapable.

Cria Cuervos (Spain 1977) (9): Made towards the end of Franco’s regime, Carlos Saura has crafted a brilliant film that is both political allegory and psychological essay. Little Ana, mysterious and taciturn, is still quietly grieving the the death of her mother when she witnesses her father’s demise in the arms of another woman. Left orphaned along with her two sisters she is placed in the care of her strict but well-meaning aunt who moves into the family home bringing the crippled grandmother with her. It is a confusing time for Ana where the magical thinking of childhood meets the harsher realities of the adult world with its contradictory messages and baffling behaviour. She is set adrift in the isolated old house which is haunted with memories of the past whether they be faded snapshots or imaginary visits from her dead mother which bring a smile but little solace. Torn between her authoritarian aunt, her uncommunicative grandmother, and the kind-hearted yet gossipy housekeeper, Ana lashes out with childish abandon at those she feels responsible for her loss of maternal love...an act which inadvertently marks the beginning of her maturation. Saura’s convoluted story moves fluidly between past, present and future aided in large part by the wonderfully understated performances of its two main leads; Ana Torrent as the troubled child and Geraldine Chaplin’s dual role as both mother and adult Ana. Although the ghost of Franco is never far away...military uniforms abound, an air of repression is everywhere, and the ending hints at monumental changes to come...this is also a study in memory. Do we recall memories, or do we manufacture them after the fact in order to justify our actions? By concentrating on Ana’s inner turmoil as she reluctantly lets go of the past and takes her first awkward steps towards adulthood Saura quietly illuminates the many pains of growing up in a way that is universal. Excellent!

Cries and Whispers (Sweden 1972) (9): A woman’s impending death from cancer tears apart the already tenuous relationship she has with her two sisters in Ingmar Bergman’s unhappy look at sex, lies, and anxieties in a fin de siècle Swedish manor. As the dying Agnes (Harriet Andersson, magnificent) alternates between calm reflection and violent outbursts her sister Maria (a glowing Liv Ullman) becomes increasingly detached from her own life, engaging in a petty affair while barely tolerating her despondent husband. Sister Karin on the other hand shrinks from all forms of love and human contact, even taking a piece of broken glass to her vagina as if to mock her husband’s conjugal expectations. Only Anna, the family’s loyal maidservant, seems emotionally equipped to deal with Agnes, cradling the frightened woman close to her breasts while whispering soft comforts—could she be thinking of her own child whom she lost years earlier? As Agnes’ final hour approaches an ice cold chasm opens between each character with Maria and Karin going through the motions of sibling intimacy (the husbands relegated to mere background noise) while Anna dutifully dresses them and prepares their meals. And then Agnes dies and the family dynamics shift one final time… This is not a subtle film by any means—autumn stalks the backyard, sunlight ebbs and floes through curtained windows, and winds sigh around mossy statues. The sisters’ luxurious mansion itself becomes a powerful psychological space with off-white gowns fluttering past walls painted a lurid blood red and everywhere the incessant ticking of clocks. An adulterous kiss is exchanged in a shadowy doorway, a visiting parson’s prayer over Agnes’ body turns into an anguished cry for personal salvation, and in one particularly harrowing scene a post mortem visit between Agnes and her sisters drives home the final wedge. The theatrical flourishes may seem stagey to some, but for those of us accustomed to the master’s touch this is quintessential Bergman.

Crime of Passion (USA 1957) (6): In Gerd Oswald’s magnificently overdone noir melodrama ambitious newspaper reporter Barbara Stanwyck sacrifices everything for a taste of domestic bliss when she falls in love with easygoing homicide detective Sterling Hayden only to discover the crushing horror that is middle class mediocrity. Slowly losing her mind to meaningless dinner parties and the vapid conversations offered up by other policemen’s wives, Barbara realizes that her only hope for salvation lies in goading her staid husband into seeking a promotion. To this end she sets in motion an elaborate scheme involving deception, adultery…and worse! With its lurid jazz score, theatrical dialogue, and stark B&W cinematography that practically oozes sin and desperation Oswald’s potboiler comes dangerously close to being a parody of itself. Thankfully Stanwyck’s knockout performance as a modern woman raging against the social ties that bind manages to lend some gravitas to the proceedings while a few familiar Hollywood faces keep the hysterics to a muted roar.

Criss Cross (USA 1949) (7): Burt Lancaster and Vancouver’s own Yvonne De Carlo are amorous exes in Robert Siodmak’s dark tale of obsession and double-crosses. Returning to Los Angeles after wandering around the country Steve Thompson moves back in with his mother and gets a job driving an armoured truck. Against his better judgement he also begins dogging his ex-wife Anna, an opportunistic tramp who’s become a little too cozy with local crime boss Slim Dundee. As old passions are reignited Steve begins to see a new future with his former spouse—even after she unexpectedly marries the violent yet oh so wealthy Slim. Entering into a partnership with Slim, now his romantic rival, Steve plans to rob his own truck with the mobster’s help and then run off with Anna taking his share of the loot. Fate, of course, has other plans… Brimming with all the usual genre clichés—growling gangsters, sexy dames and smoking guns—and set to a pulsing rhumba beat (an unknown Tony Curtis makes a brief cameo as a dance hall gigolo) Criss Cross has all the makings of a film noir classic. Unfortunately a rather anemic script lacks crackle and the erotic potential between Lancaster and De Carlo fails to elicit more than a faint spark. But the handsome cast is easy to look at and the views of bygone Los Angeles are quaint.

Crónicas [Chronicles] (Mexico 2004) (8): While covering a fatal car accident in Ecuador where an enraged crowd tried to lynch the errant driver, Manolo (John Leguizamo) an ace reporter for a Spanish-language news program receives a tip regarding the possible identity of a serial killer who’s been murdering children throughout Latin America. But when he’s forced to make a tough journalistic decision—one which will have far-reaching consequences that impact his own career—he finds his ethical bearings are not as solid as he thought. Writer/director Sebastián Cordero’s understated thriller takes blistering aim at tabloid journalism and mob mentality as well as the false narratives that feed into both. Surface interpretations too often miss the mark (that opening accident was not quite what it appeared to be) and in an age of infotainment “Truth” is too often packaged as an easily digestible commodity—Manolo’s Miami-based program itself, An Hour of Truth, being little more than a lurid reality show. Cordero thus turns the idea of the heroic reporter on its ear with his protagonist’s personal and professional lives both lacking integrity while the surrounding countryside, as if to reflect this fact, is a mess of muck and weeds. Not really a whodunnit, Cardero’s film instead focuses on tragic ironies and the moral compromises people make when The Truth proves to be more trouble than they can handle.

The Croods (USA 2013) (9): In the dog-eat-dog and everything-eat-man world of prehistory live the Croods, a cave dwelling family overseen by neanderthal patriarch Grug whose paranoid motto of “Never Not Be Afraid” has kept the clan alive if not exactly happy. Daughter Eep is hungry for adventure, Granny spends her days thinking of new insults to hurl at her son-in-law, youngest toddler Sandy thinks she’s part wolf, and son Thunk couldn’t tie his shoelaces to save his life…if he had shoelaces…or shoes for that matter. But the world is changing, and with fiery meteorites lighting the sky and volcanic eruptions destroying everything they’ve ever known the Croods are forced to think outside the cave and reluctantly join forces with Guy, a young loner and his simian sidekick who are seeking safety in the distant mountains and the mysterious lands beyond. Beset by natural disasters and garish menageries of psychedelic carnivores including flying piranha-fish, pastel tigers, and giant man-eating pansies, the Croods and their worldly guide (he knows fire!) slowly make their way towards the dawning of a new age—but with the threat of total annihilation constantly nipping at their heels will they survive long enough to see it? One of the most visually gorgeous and meticulously rendered animated features I’ve seen in some time, The Croods revels in multicoloured pastel sets while herds of outlandish bugs and neon monsters practically leap off the screen (and onto store shelves no doubt). The engaging orchestral score by Alan Silvestri keeps pace with the prehistoric action which is further enhanced by some eye-popping “camerawork” including POV sequences, turbocharged tracking shots and lots of adorable close-ups (awww….reptile dog!). Although squarely aimed at youngsters there is still plenty here to make mom and dad smile and a happy-go-lucky ending actually leaves you looking forward to the inevitable sequel (already in production). A welcome little break from reality. Yabba dabba doo!

Crossed Tracks [Roman de gare] (France 2007) (7): A serial killer escapes from prison. A distraught woman is stranded at a remote gas station by her angry fiancé. A concerned sister calls the police when her husband disappears. And a meek, soft-spoken little man reinvents himself again and again. Meanwhile, in a different chapter, it’s been a while since bestselling author Judith Ralitzer (Fanny Ardant) has penned a hit novel and she is hungry for ideas—and what better place to record potential plot twists than the open road? The trouble is, one can get so caught up in “what ifs” that they fail to notice what’s actually happening right in front of their eyes. Thus life imitates art imitating life in Claude Lelouch’s character-driven dramedy revolving around issues of truth, identity, and artistic integrity with characters shifting their stories—or rather our expectations of them—while lines are drawn linking one to another only to be erased and sketched anew. Although not nearly as complicated as it sounds (Lelouch is no David Lynch) this is still a charming road movie with enough u-turns and false flags to keep audiences amused and a seasoned cast who take to their roles with a wink and a nod. A feigned romance hits a few hilarious snags; foreshadowing gives a momentary chill when a stranger takes a young farm girl for a walk in the woods while a butchered hog squeals in the distance; and an evening’s cruise begets a mystery whose resolution reveals more than one person can stand. There’s a few dangling threads and not all the pieces mesh but then again life, like any other rough draft, is never perfect the first time around.

Cross of Iron (UK 1977) (7): Sam Peckinpah, famous for his blood & guts treatment of everything from westerns to social commentary (The Wild Bunch; Straw Dogs) casts a critical eye on the madness of war in this his only WWII drama. Set along the Russian front during the retreat of 1943 the story focuses on the animosity between two very different German officers: highly decorated Sgt. Rolf Steiner (James Coburn) a legendary solider who secretly loathes his uniform and everything it stands for, and Capt. Stransky (Maximillian Schell) a pampered Prussian aristocrat whose cowardice is matched only by his obsession with obtaining the coveted Iron Cross, Germany’s highest military honour. While Steiner is willing to go to any lengths to ensure the safety of the men entrusted to him, Stransky hides in the background plotting to not only get his medal but bring the much lauded Steiner down by any means necessary… In true Peckinpah fashion violence and mayhem are omnipresent with exploding mortars forming a background score of their own and scenes of battlefield carnage rendered almost commonplace through sheer repetition as if the director, not content to simply decry the inanity of warfare, felt the need to rub the audience’s nose in it. Trudging through a forgotten circle of Dante’s Hell, the two leads face off against a landscape of blasted craters and muddied corpses, the one damning his soul with every bullet he fires the other vainly chasing a trinket he believes will restore his lost honour. Savage and almost farcical in its refusal to bestow a deeper meaning to the onscreen chaos, Peckinpah is not interested in fashioning heroes. Instead he shows us a world where men kill for political whims, youth is corrupted, and even the fairer sex is demoted to a tribe of vengeful valkyries. “What will we do when we have lost the war?” asks one weary officer of another, “Prepare for the next one” comes the curt reply. Also starring James Mason as a colonel desperately clinging to some sense of integrity and David Warner as his cynical captain.

The Crucifixion (UK/Romania 2017) (2): In 2004 a young Romanian nun, supposedly possessed by a demon, died while being exorcised in what has become known as the Tanacu Exorcism. Using this real life tragedy as a springboard, director Xavier Gens and his team of writers proceed to crap out a sophomoric mess of standard jolts from The Exorcist and patronizing “faith based” horse shit straight out of Sunday school. Upon hearing about a botched exorcism in eastern Europe, American journalist and staunch atheist Sophie Cookson (Nicole Rawlins displaying the emotional range of a potato) travels to backwoods Romania in order to expose what really happened. Her investigations lead to the usual glut of taciturn nuns, mysterious locals, and enigmatic priests including the handsome Fr. Anton (Corneliu Ulici trying to keep a straight face) who quickly becomes her de facto spiritual advisor. “God does not fail to answer [prayers]…” he intones over dinner as Sophie bitterly recounts the untimely death of her mother a few years earlier, “…we are the ones who have failed to receive…” And thus are planted the seeds of faith which come to full bloom once the special effects team swings into action. Windows slam shut, beds overturn, flies dive bomb into wine glasses, and musical cues prompt bugaboos to jump out of corners while flashbacks show the doomed nun sporting black contacts and squeezing spiders out of her vagina, all of which serve to make Sophie rightfully question her atheistic ways before the demon comes knocking on her own door. Heaven help us all. As a straight-up horror flick Gens’ heavy hand tries to steamroll over his audience as if pious platitudes and monster make-up are sufficient to suspend our disbelief—they’re not of course, and what shocks do occur are strictly by the numbers (Don’t turn around Sophie! Don’t go in that locked room!) At least a visit to a dreary psychiatric clinic where the nun was once hospitalized attempts to raise the question of mental illness vs superstitious fear, but that too is quickly drowned out by more scream scenes and a devilish nurse. “You can’t make sense out of something that makes no sense…” Sophie whines to her New York editor—probably the most polite critique anyone can muster.

Cruising (USA 1980) (8): Body parts found floating in the waters around New York City are identified as belonging to gay men who have gone missing leading NYPD detectives to suspect a serial killer is on the loose. And when more members of the community are found brutally stabbed to death those suspicions are confirmed. Now rookie officer Steve Burns (Al Pacino) is assigned to go undercover as a gay man in order to flush the murderer out. But as Burns navigates Manhattan’s seedy underside of leather bars and S&M sex clubs the line between work life and private life begins to blur… Based on the “Body Bag Murderer” who targeted New York’s homosexual community in the 70s, writer/director William Friedkin’s highly contentious (for the time) psychological thriller was accused of being homophobic by the city’s gay community who resorted to protests and onsite harassment before filming was even completed. They were wrong. What Friedkin created was a dark and moody American giallo, a Grand Guignol that was equal parts psychodrama and policier. With a resolutely heterosexual Burns dividing his time between the sunlit apartment he shares with his unsuspecting girlfriend (Karen Allen) and the nighttime world of dimly lit dives filled with raw sex and half-naked men, a psychosexual conflict begins to manifest itself in a series of troubling confrontations both personal and professional. In one telling scene he wanders into a club which is holding its weekly “Precinct Night” and finds himself surrounded by patrons dressed (and undressed) as cops—literal sexual parodies of himself. Friedkin relies heavily on dark shades of blue and black, a throbbing soundtrack of punk disco, and brief almost subliminal flashes of pornography (usually accompanying a murder) to create an atmosphere of menace and desire, a subjective maelstrom centred on one man while the actual killer is consigned to the periphery, a threatening yet obsessive metaphor much like the leather and jockstrapped extras writhing about in the background. One is even reminded of his earlier work, The Exorcist, in the way he frames his protagonist using light and shadow or turns a simple staircase into a descent of a different kind. Although Richard Gere was the director’s first choice, Pacino brings a raw fervour to his role, a vulnerability only partially dispelled by those intense eyes and bursts of temper…his final unnerving close-up giving us a study in chilled ambivalence before everything fades to grey. Yes there are moments bordering on cliché—homophobic cops and transvestite hookers make an appearance and little time is given to gay men who are NOT part of the leather subculture—but overall this is a mature piece of work bordering on arthouse. Some aspects may not have aged as well as others, but it’s still a fascinating snapshot forever grounded in a specific time and place. As an interesting aside, the man suspected of being the real-life killer was in fact an extra in The Exorcist which was released a year earlier.

The Cuckoo (Russia 2002) (6): Set in wilds of Finland during WWII, writer/director Aleksandr Rogozhkin’s three-handed satire provides one of cinema’s more astute metaphors for warfare. Two men from either side of the battle line—one a Finnish deserter, the other a disgraced Russian officer—wind up sharing space on a crude homestead run by a young Lapp woman. The Finn is an adamant pacifist despite his Nazi disguise; the Russian has doubts about the Soviet dream; and the woman is simply horny and desperate to get laid. And the punchline? Due to language barriers none of the characters can understand each other. The resulting misunderstandings make for some fertile comedy—the Communist cooks up a stew of poison mushrooms and the pacifist’s well-meaning gesture of peace is grossly misread—but as nerves fray and boiling hormones beget jealousy, things abruptly turn sour and then surreal after the woman breaks out her shaman’s drum for some spirit world tinkering. Sadly, much of the cultural allusions provide in-jokes lost on Western audiences causing us to scratch our heads almost as much as the protagonists.

Cul-de-Sac (UK 1966) (8): The privileged, if terribly dull lives of impotent businessman George and his generally frustrated wife Teresa are thrown into disarray when “Dicky”, a brusque and churlish gangster on the lam, decides to hole up in their crumbling seaside castle while awaiting the arrival of his cohorts. Immediately drawn to the alpha male’s coarse machismo, the milquetoast George finds himself becoming a neurotic lapdog while Teresa’s libido begins to tingle at the thought of finally having a “real man” in the chateau. Meanwhile the somewhat thick-headed Dicky remains perpetually baffled by his eccentric hosts’ increasingly odd behaviour. A tense psychological three-way ensues with destructive fun and games and a growing sense of menace which threatens to not only derail the couple’s orderly life but send it careening into the abyss as well. Under the guise of an absurdist black comedy, and it really is funny to be honest, Roman Polanski explores some weighty territory: the banality of the upper crust (an insufferable lunch party with some boorish friends and their hellish son is pure gold); gentility as a weak facade hiding our true natures; and the power of brutality to incite chaos and madness in even the most civilized settings. George and Teresa’s imposing estate, set conspicuously atop an isolated thrust of rock, speaks of affluence but in reality it is overrun with domesticated chickens and bad artwork while the couple themselves are practically penniless thanks to the cost of its upkeep. Dicky, on the other hand, remains oblivious to the faux opulence around him and instead helps himself to whatever the hell he wants thanks to a loud voice and loaded pistol (ah, symbolism!). But it is in the film’s blazing finale, dripping with violence and grim irony, that Polanski showcases his legendary directorial skills as he brings the story full circle before ending it with one of the more magnificently outlandish series of images I’ve seen in some time.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (USA 2008 ) (5):  A sincere, though misguided attempt to give new meaning to the old saying, "Youth is wasted on the young".  Through a series of deathbed flashbacks it tells the story of Benjamin, who was born with the body of an old man but the mind of an infant.  As he grew older mentally, his body grew younger which led to a few romantic complications as there was only one brief span of time in which mind/body were in synch with one another.  A very interesting premise which this overly long and lightweight drama fails to explore adequately.  Fincher concentrates on the trimmings of the story.....lots of pastel sunrises, "homespun" wisdom, and Brad Pitt's pecs but fails to deliver any real substance, instead distracting the audience with superfluous asides involving blind clockmakers ('cause you never know what's coming for you); dubious hummingbirds (their wings trace the symbol for "eternity" don't you know); and a protracted sequence showing the power of coincidence which reminded me of the opening scenes of "Magnolia"..... (gee, if only her friend had bought a better pair of shoelaces Daisy would still be dancing.....)  This is the type of cloying Hollywood crowd pleaser which lulls you into believing you are watching something profoundly moving, but as the houselights come up you realize you've simply been sold a bottle of cinematic snake oil.

The Curse of the Mummy’s Tomb (UK 1964) (6): Egypt, circa 1900, and a pair of British scientists have unearthed the tomb of Ra-Anteph, the enigmatic Egyptian prince who was murdered by his jealous brother just as he was on the cusp discovering the secret of immortality. Returning to England with the mummy and its treasures, the two men immediately find themselves at odds with their financial backer—a crass American showman eager to make a quick buck by turning Ra into a carnival sideshow. Of course, as with all things dead and Egyptian, Ra’s tomb comes with an obligatory curse damning all who desecrate his final resting place and it isn’t long before everyone is being stalked by one very pissed off (and very dusty) mummy. But what is it really after? And why does it spare the life of the party’s sole female scientist, French bombshell Annette Dubois, and her mysterious new boyfriend? Yet another delightfully hokey production from Hammer Films, the British studio that practically defined “B-Movie” back in the sixties. Despite the laughable plot and tacky faux Egyptian flourishes there is a comic book earnestness to the film which makes you want to laugh with it instead of at it. As Dubois, English actress Jeanne Roland’s gargling French accent (apparently dubbed) is oddly charming and the star of the show looks splendid as it shuffles and wheezes in its musty linen wrappings, especially while carrying an unconscious Dubois wearing her sexiest nightie. A fun flick for late nights in front of the telly!

The Curse of the Werewolf (UK 1961) (6): Poor little Leon; it’s bad enough his conception was the result of his mother being raped by an insane dungeon inmate, but he was born (and orphaned) on Christmas Day to boot and according to the film’s screenwriter any unwanted child born on Jesus’ birthday is practically begging for some evil mojo. It appears he was invaded by an animal spirit when he drew his first breath and by the time he was old enough to talk he was already licking dead squirrels and growing an impressive pelt on his little palms much to his foster parents’ horror. Advised by their parish priest to shower the child with love and affection in order to thwart his lupine proclivities, Leon eventually grows up to be a happy well-adjusted adult until a visit to a local brothel once again awakens the hairy beast within. Will he be able to live happily ever after with the local vintner’s pouty-lipped daughter whom he’s been wooing on the sly, or will his newly acquired taste for dead hooker cast a pall on their planned nuptials? Oliver Reed obviously graduated from the William Shatner School of Dramatic Arts as he shamelessly shrieks and emotes his way through Hammer Films’ one and only werewolf flick. The rest of the cast is suitably overblown while the studio sets, meant to evoke 18th century Spain, are a soothing mishmash of bucolic clichés and peasant argot. When we finally do get to see Reed in wolfman drag however he looks more like Gary Glitter after a week’s bender; he even barks like a little shih-tzu when he should be howling. A wonderful Saturday afternoon monster movie.

Cutter’s Way (USA 1981) (5): One dark and stormy night junior yacht salesman Richard Bone (Jeff Bridges, impossibly cute) inadvertently witnesses the aftermath of a young girl’s murder. At first suspected by the police he is later discarded when his recollections of the incident lead nowhere. Confiding in his friend Alex Cutter (John Heard), a Viet Nam vet whose experiences have left him an alcoholic cripple with a disposition that bounces wildly between embittered cynic and raging lunatic, the two men hatch a plan to solve the case. The guys eventually join forces with the dead girl’s oddly non-grieving sister, against the wishes of Alex’s wife—a lackadaisical sot draped in adulterous intentions and a perpetual nightie—and their efforts eventually lead them to a final shocking confrontation. Ivan Passer’s drama, based on a bestseller, fails on whatever level you choose to judge it. As a policier it lacks both suspense and mystery leaving you to wonder just where in hell the cops were while all this was going on and there isn’t enough cohesiveness for a decent character study: Bridges stares mildly into the camera (sans shirt thank God!); when Heard is not screaming or sulking, his grizzled croak and exaggerated limp make him sound like a white trash Long John Silver; and the women provide little more than window dressing. Finally, despite its pervasive sense of melancholy and staged outrage, as a moral allegory there is just not enough meat to separate good from evil causing a key love scene to go limp and making an avenging entrance sadly comical. Meandering, tedious, and dramatically overblown.

Daisy Kenyon (USA 1947) (6): Although she was at least ten years too old for the part, Joan Crawford’s bigger-than-life features still manage to dominate the screen in this weepy love triangle. Daisy is a successful commercial artist involved in a tempestuous affair with Dan O’Mara, a brusque and very married attorney. Tired of always being the “other woman” she begins seeing the soft-spoken Peter Lapham, a disillusioned and recently widowed veteran who is Dan’s opposite in almost every way. After marrying Peter on a whim Daisy begins to have second thoughts about Dan, especially after he undergoes a messy divorce and comes sniffing around her door again. Bothered by Dan’s persistence and shocked by Peter’s seeming indifference, Daisy flees to her country cottage where she receives a life-altering epiphany on an icy road which leads to a final confrontation with the two men in her life. With its ridiculous plot, snappy dialogue and fluffy musical score it would be easy to dismiss this film as just another chick flick, but beneath the overly polished exterior Preminger touches upon some contentious topics. The very idea of a strong woman with a fulfilling life and professional career who was not dependent on a man was novel enough; allowing her to explore her sexuality, with a married man no less, was downright shocking. In addition, the issue of child abuse is addressed as Dan’s sexually frustrated trophy wife (brilliantly portrayed by Ruth Warrick) takes out her aggression on the couple’s two daughters. And even though the term Post Traumatic Stress Disorder hadn’t been coined yet Peter’s psychological wounds, supposedly due to his wife’s tragic death, are tied-in to some unspoken wartime experiences. Lastly, America’s simmering post-WWII racism is ridiculed as we hear of a Japanese-American veteran returning from Europe to discover his home has been sold from under him. Along the way there are some nice touches; the way Dan turns off the music every time he enters Daisy’s apartment for instance; and it is all filmed in beautifully shadowed B&W. Fun to watch if you can get past it’s sillier elements.

Damnation (Hungary 1988) (10): Master filmmaker Béla Tarr creates yet another small masterpiece in B&W with this tragic tale of unrequited love between a downcast everyman and an ice cold nightclub singer. By day “Karrer” sits by his window facing a bleak and blasted landscape over which an endless procession of mining gondolas laden with coal make their rickety way toward the horizon. By night he listens to his favourite torch singer at the local watering hole, a married woman who has become the object of his romantic obsession despite her snarling animosity towards him and despite the dire warnings to avoid her which he receives from a weary coat-check woman who doubles as his guardian angel. Determined to win her over regardless, Karrer must first devise a plan to deal with her hulking brute of a husband—and then an opportunity presents itself… Tarr works with black and white celluloid the way a sculptor works with marble, using long static shots and slow pans to turn otherwise prosaic set pieces into tightly composed works of art suffused with meaning. And he shores up those austere visuals with ambient background noises that include mechanical clanking, wheezing accordions, a wailing infant, and assorted canine whimpers. Filmed towards the end of Hungary’s Communist rule, Tarr creates a world seemingly composed of concrete, mud, and drizzle, where dispirited dogs root among filthy puddles and locals huddle in a seedy dive (appropriately named “Titanic”) their still forms wreathed in cigarette smoke and despair, their eyes averted as if in mourning. Kafkaesque just begins to describe Tarr’s emphatically pessimistic tone, and it touches everything from a coital encounter devoid of human warmth to a sad parade of drunken dancers stumbling hand-in-hand to an out of tune band. Unlike the studied perplexity of Tarkovsky or Lynch however, Tarr’s work remains accessible even at its most enigmatic perhaps because it touches on that dark corner of the psyche we all share yet seldom acknowledge: the fear of being truly alone, the yearning for things to be something other than what they are, and the impotent fury that comes when dreams whither. Glacial and brooding, angry and despondent, with an ending that calls to mind the shrieks and ashes of Pasolini’s Teorema (in spirit if not in execution), Damnation’s icy touch is as decisive as last call and as irrevocable as a suicide note. Masterful.

The Damned Don’t Cry (USA 1950) (7): With her face cemented into an imposing rictus of eyebrows and acute angles, Joan Crawford was probably the last actress the studio should have considered to star in this maudlin noir about a bullied housewife sleeping her way into high society, but that doesn’t stop her from giving one of her most monumental over-the-top performances. She plays Ethel Whitehead, the impoverished midwest spouse of a surly oil field worker who leaves her husband after tragedy destroys what was left of their marriage. “I want something more than what I’ve got out of life and I’m going to get it!” she hisses from the doorway and in the next frame she’s doing just that in New York City—only in Ethel’s case “getting more” means playing lover to a series of increasingly powerful and dangerous men while recreating herself as Lorna Hansen Forbes, socialite widow of a multi-millionaire oil tycoon. But once a browbeaten housewife always a browbeaten housewife and when “Lorna” finds herself torn between two rival mobsters her precarious house of cards comes crashing down around her. With Steve Cochran and David Brian as the competing gangsters and Kent Smith as the milquetoast accountant who really really loves her (gosh darn), the stage is set for some deliciously corny B-movie lines and theatrical scowls. “He’s promised me the world, Marty, and I’ve got to have it!” laments Ethel-cum-Lorna; “I like a woman who has brains…” croons underworld kingpin George Castleman finding allure in Crawford’s mannish pout, “…but when she also has spirit, that excites me!” Joan goes from domestic naif to strong-willed moll and back again without smearing her signature slash of lipstick, Cochran and Brian beat their chests, Smith mewls like a trampled kitten, and it all ends with a scene of hackneyed pathos laid on as thick and heavy as Crawford’s greasepaint. Warped feminism, overblown morality, and camp overkill come together for one highly entertaining piece of B&W kitsch.

The Dance of Reality (Chile/France 2013) (7): Cult cinema icon Alejandro Jodorowsky maintains “reality” is not subjective but instead springs forth from our own imaginations. It’s therefore fitting that his fanciful autobiography would take the form of a Felliniesque circus awash in metaphors, both moving and profane, inspired by such diverse sources as the Tarot deck, evangelical Christianity, and Karl Marx. Set in the Chilean seaside town of Tocopilla where he was born in 1929, the director wastes no time setting the tone as we see his school-aged self torn between two conflicting parents. Dad (played by Jodorowsky’s own son) is a Jewish-Ukrainian immigrant and stalwart Stalinist determined to beat curly-locked Alejandro into his idea of what a man should be. Mom, on the other hand (bravely portrayed by soprano Pamela Flores), is a buxom Bohemian who counters her husband’s cruel authoritarianism with dabbles into religious mysticism and the Arts—indeed, she sings all her lines as if life were one grand aria. Thus perched precariously between earthbound travails and heavenly aspirations (with Death a constant sidekick), Alejandro can do little more than watch as his parents’ pas de deux plays itself out—dad’s communist zeal taking deadly aim at Chile’s ruling dictator (an obsession which will give rise to a most unexpected metamorphosis) while mom’s spirituality, equal parts faith and everyday magic, leads to a transformation of its own. The film’s stream-of-consciousness approach is sure to frustrate cinematic purists, especially when Jodorowsky himself makes onscreen cameos to share his personal insights directly with the audience while his characters freeze in place; and scenes of ample nudity—some in an emphatically vulgar context—will send others packing. But those intrigued enough to sit through its 133-minute running time will be rewarded with a kaleidoscopic trek through one man’s memories filled with joys and pain, miracles and freaks; where a small child wages battle with the sea, a crippled assassin assumes the colours of the Chilean flag as if it were a pox, and God is as likely to mock as he is to condole (in response to a request for alms from a destitute beggar a disgusted priest hands the man a live tarantula instead). Uncanny, unsettling, yet ultimately satisfying, this is Jodorowsky doing what Jodorowsky does best.

The Dancer Upstairs (Spain/USA 2002) (7): In an unspecified Latin American country Agustín Rejas, an idealistic police detective, is assigned to hunt down Ezequiel, the charismatic leader of a homegrown terrorist cell. Using children and rural peasants as his foot soldiers, Ezequiel has been waging war against the government through domestic sabotage and an increasingly bold series of assassinations which threaten to topple the state’s already tenuous democracy. But hunting down the murderous anarchist proves to be all but impossible for Rejas and his team for despite the absence of an official revolutionary manifesto (Ezequiel’s “platform” consists of little more than fiery Communist jingles) his followers seem to be everywhere. Frustrated at every turn the married Rejas finds some chaste comfort in the company of his daughter’s ballet teacher, a quiet and fragile woman who, in Agustín’s eyes, will eventually come to symbolize both the beautiful potential and tragic disillusionment of his country. Loosely based on the story of Peru’s “Shining Path” insurgency, John Malkovich’s dreamy noir policier, filmed in English, features an outstanding cast of Latin stars set against a nicely framed backdrop of generic palm trees, red-tiled roofs, and junta brass (actually an amalgamation of Spanish, Portuguese, and Ecuadorian locales). Although it works as a straight-up thriller there are great depths here, both political and psychological, as Malkovich examines the fractured mindset of a society in transition; while Ezequiel’s followers mindlessly parrot their leaders’ nihilistic slogans Agustín’s wife agonizes over whether or not to get a nose job, and the ruling government all too quickly decides to impose martial law...yet again. Despite an unnecessarily murky plot and some prolonged navel-gazing, Dancer still proved to be an intelligent and wonderfully stylized piece of filmmaking.

Dancing at Lughnasa (Ireland 1998) (8): Pat O’Connor’s screen adaptation of Brian Friel’s Tony award-winning stage play recounting one boy’s magical summer in Donegal is undeniably Irish in its heady balance of acerbic wit, homespun warmth, and sense of melancholia which seems to underly everything. Young Michael is the only male in a rural farmhouse run by the five unmarried Mundy sisters: spinsterish Maggie and simple-minded Rose who earn a meagre wage knitting woollen mittens; pragmatic Maggie who’s always maintaining the peace; Christina, Michael’s mother, still carrying a dimly lit torch for his seldom seen gadabout father; and eldest Kate (Meryl Streep) a schoolteacher who rules the roost with an iron will that barely conceals her own insecurities. Narrated by a grown-up Michael the story focuses on August, 1936, the month when everything changed forever starting with the arrival of his uncle Jack, a priest who’d been doing missionary work in Africa and was now suffering from the beginnings of dementia. No sooner had Jack begun threatening the family’s equilibrium with his impulsive wanderings and wild pagan tales then Michael’s father visited further chaos upon the home with an impromptu appearance of his own. That, coupled with some sorry economic turns for the sisters, marked a turning point in the Mundy house from which no one would ever fully recover. Gleaned mainly from young Michael’s memories, O’Connor’s gorgeously visual film frames its family drama in a bucolic setting of green hills and mountain lakes where prim Christianity vies with pagan bacchanals (the harvest feast of Lughnasa—pronounced LOO-na-sa—gives rise to drunken midnight revelries) and every heart seems to be tinged with one form of longing or another whether it’s Rose’s ill-fated attraction for a married man, Jack’s wistful stories of Africa, or Kate’s bitter suspicion that the best parts of life are now behind her. But throughout it all the sisters yearn to dance—albeit to music from a scratchy old wireless set—and stubbornly refuse to go gently. Anchored by Streep, yet never overshadowed, the supporting cast are superb as they present strong characters that somehow manage to meld into a greater whole without losing their distinct personalities. A simple story whose small moments of pain and abiding love make for captivating cinema.

Dancing at the Blue Iguana (USA 2000) (3): Michael Radford's improvised ensemble piece follows the loves, losses and heartbreaks of a group of strippers working in a sleazy L.A. dive. Among the familiar names are Darryl Hannah playing a gullible airhead, Jennifer Tilley overacting her heart out as a histrionic party slut, and Sandra Oh as the grinder with brains (she writes poetry in between lap dances). Radford's clumsy attempts to portray his female leads as more than just tits and a g-string simply downgrade them to a gaggle of neurotic stereotypes. The music is good, the dancing mechanical, and the emotional depths shallow indeed. Robert Altman would not be impressed.

Dancing Lady (USA 1933) (7): What’s a penniless young dancer gotta do in order to make it on New York’s Great White Way? Not much, at least according to Robert Z. Leonard’s frothy little Broadway fairy tale in which aspiring chorus girl Janie Barlow (a lithesome Joan Crawford before the eyebrows and shoulder pads) suddenly finds her affections torn between millionaire playboy Tod Newton (Franchot Tone) who’ll do anything to win her heart and aloof stage director Patch Gallagher (Clark Gable) with whom she’s secretly smitten. But the show must go on and when Janie gets offered the lead role in Gallagher’s latest extravaganza romantic entanglements will just have to sort themselves out. Corny and as camp as they come—a musical “salute” to Bavaria snubs its nose at Prohibition and a glittery mirrored carousel number is guaranteed to turn even the straightest man crooked—this is an easily digestible little confection from the pre-Hays days (note the skimpy costumes and sexual innuendo) which also marks the screen debut of Fred Astaire in a bit part. The Three Stooges make a surprise cameo and Crawford plays the starry-eyed hoofer with shameless abandon.

Dangerous Crossing (USA 1953) (8): Blushing newlyweds John and Ruth Bowman are taking a trans-Atlantic cruise for their honeymoon when John mysteriously vanishes just as the ship leaves dock. Ruth’s initial concern soon turns into full-blown panic however when she discovers all traces of her husband’s existence have been erased, their cabin has been changed and is now registered under her maiden name, and the crew denies ever having seen her in the company of a man. Are the hapless couple victims of a sinister plot? Or is Ruth carrying more baggage than meets the eye as her mental health is called into question? With a sea full of red herrings and a plot as murky as ocean fog this is a wonderful example of film noir excess. Newman never misses a chance for a shadowy close-up or sinister stare as he ratchets up the suspense, and Jeanne Crain plays the role of Ruth to perfection as a terribly naïve bride whose paranoia threatens to spiral out of control. The ending may be tied up a little too neatly but the pleasure lies in the journey itself, not its resolution.

A Dangerous Method (UK 2011) (7): Canuck director David Cronenberg plays it surprisingly straight in this fanciful drama tracing the increasingly antagonistic friendship between pioneering psychoanalysts Carl Jung (Michael Fassbender) and Sigmund Freud (Viggo Mortensen) in fin-de-siècle Europe. Once an admirer of Freud and his “talking cure” approach to psychotherapy Jung has his eyes opened to new possibilities when he has a longterm affair with a patient he is treating for severe neurosis—the brilliant and intense Sabina Spielrein (Keira Knightley) a troubled woman destined to become a groundbreaking psychiatrist herself. Diverging from Freud’s pragmatic vision of a human psyche buffeted by psychosexual forces, Jung’s forays into the esoteric fields of parapsychology and individuation would eventually see the two geniuses at loggerheads with a fiery Spielrein developing a few theories of her own regarding sexual politics. Historically suspect and with a melodramatic sheen not quite shaken off by its star cast and painstaking attention to period detail, Cronenberg’s film—based on a novel and subsequent play—is still a literate and engrossing work especially when it reverts to its stage roots and treats us to a meeting of minds as Jung and Freud belt out ideas and argue the finer points of what makes men tick. As the film’s weakest link Knightley’s frenzied faces and shifting accent become distracting especially since her character appears to be little more than a personification of Jung’s own troubled libido—Sarah Gadon is far more convincing as the prim and demure Frau Jung who quietly overlooks her husband’s indiscretions while still holding on to him with a lacy fist. And veteran actor Vincent Cassel brings an earthy contrast to the role of Otto Gross, a disgraced therapist whose libertine philosophy of free will and unbridled pleasure may just be the only honest voice around.

The Danish Girl (UK 2015) (6): Taken from David Ebershoff’s book, Tom Hooper’s somewhat histrionic biopic of Lili Elvenes who, in 1920’s Denmark, became one of the first transgendered women to undergo reassignment surgery is apparently so full of fabrications and crucial omissions that it may as well be fiction. Born Einar Wegener, a landscape artist of some note, Lili first began experimenting with crossdressing while married to portrait painter Gerda Gottlieb. At first willing to accept what she believed to be an eccentric kink, Gerda soon had to acknowledge that “Einar” had been nothing more than a cover as Lili began to emerge and assert herself. Cut to a succession of doctors, all of whom regarded Einar as one form of abomination or another thus prescribing everything from straitjackets to radiation therapy, until pioneering Dresden surgeon Kurt Warnekros offered the Wegeners the ray of hope they had been looking for…but not without some risk. Eddie Redmayne’s porcelain features and quiet voice are convincingly feminine as he undergoes the transformation from shy Einar to demure Lili and Oscar winner Alicia Vikander’s portrayal of Gerda is a fiery mix of devotion, jealousy, and unrequited love (for some reason her overt lesbianism was glossed over for the big screen). But the idea of battling personalities vying for Wegener’s soul threaten to turn the production into a queer take on The Three Faces of Eve (or The Exorcist ) and Hooper subjects his audience to a few too many tear-filled confrontations with handwringing and tortured gazes all around. She may not have been the first, but the story of Lili Elvenes (or Lili Elbe in the film) is nevertheless an important chapter in the history of transgendered people. Unfortunately Hooper irons out the complexities of her situation and turns the whole thing into a highly polished period drama with an “inspirational” ending that’s pure treacle.

Dante’s Inferno (USA 2007) (9): Sean Meredith’s outrageous little film uses meticulously drawn cardboard puppets on an elaborate toy stage to give the epic poem a very hip modern spin without losing any of its satirical wit. Dante, an unshaven twenty-something slacker, wakes up alone and disoriented in a decidedly low rent neighbourhood after pulling an all-night bender. He’s rescued from his predicament by the poet Virgil who proceeds to take him on a guided tour of the nearby city, which as luck would have it turns out to be Hell itself. What follows is a heady mix of camp horror and political satire as the two men journey deeper into a colourfully contemporary Hades where the souls of the damned suffer some updated punishments for age-old sins. The lustful are trapped in an endless red-light district; hypocrites are doomed to wander forever dressed up as corporate logos (Strom Thurmond in a Mrs. Butterworth outfit…priceless!); and in the infernal city of Dis, now a yuppie condo development, heretics such as L. Ron Hubbard and the Ayatollah Khomeini spend eternity immersed in boiling jacuzzis. It soon becomes clear where Meredith’s political sympathies lie as we see many of George Bush’s cronies suffering one indignity or another all under the malevolent eyes of a Fox News helicopter. This is a gorgeously executed work that incorporates low-tech effects and bright comic book action with an irrepressible energy that’s impossible to ignore. Meredith stays true to the original text while at the same time producing something highly original and fiercely intelligent. Two thumbs up!

Danton (France/Poland 1983) (8): During the “Reign of Terror” which followed the French Revolution two former allies find themselves on opposite sides of an ideological divide. As the head of the “Public Safety Committee” Maximilien Robespierre is a man of impeccable honour and a fierce supporter of the new republic who is obsessed with rooting out all enemies of the fledgling state through imprisonment and execution. Georges Danton (a fiery Gérard Depardieu) is a more left-leaning sympathizer who once held Robespierre’s position and now actively opposes what he sees as an emerging dictatorship. As tensions between the two men escalate the city of Paris stands divided causing the more radical elements of Robespierre’s camp to demand the arrest and summary execution of Danton and his followers—an idea which fills Maximilien with dread even as it becomes increasingly unavoidable. With the Reign of Terror in full swing and the population beginning to take sides the scene is set for a courtroom showdown which not only puts Danton on trial, but the entire government as well. While some have suggested Polish director Andrzej Wajda used this story of post-revolutionary France to reflect on his own country’s political turmoil in the early 80s (change Danton’s name to Walesa and you get the idea) Danton is still an engrossing character study-cum-philosophical treatise on its own. Filmed in grandiose widescreen shots as befits its subject matter and with meticulous attention to period details, Wajda’s political allegory is rife with small ironies—a child is repeatedly slapped as he struggles to recite the articles of the Constitution; a guillotine is reverently unveiled as if it were a religious icon—and weighty insights into the ambiguous nature of “freedom” itself. A seemingly incongruous soundtrack of sombre choral pieces, reminiscent of Kubrick’s 2001, ultimately proves to be a stroke of cinematic genius—their ethereal yet vaguely threatening harmonies adding just a touch of horror as each man marches towards his own fate. Well done!

Darkest Hour (UK 2017) (6): Joe Wright’s impressive piece of historical revisionism, covering one crucial month in the life of Winston Churchill, was met with criticism upon its release by those who felt the Prime Minister’s role in mobilizing Britain was exaggerated and those who felt Gary Oldman’s portrayal of Winston as a morally upright old curmudgeon ignored his track record of imperialism and bigotry. But you can only stuff so much into one month’s time and no one can begrudge Oldman his Best Actor Oscar for that fiery performance which fills the screen from beginning to end. The month in question, May 1940, saw Churchill assume the role of PM from an ailing Neville Chamberlain and unite a divided parliament under a banner of war aimed at halting Hitler’s encroachment across Europe. Filled with wide angle views of smokey round tables and a few shots both inspired—an aerial view over a bombarded countryside morphs into the face of a dead child, and insipid—Churchill rides the tube and smiles upon an interracial couple (something the real man is unlikely to have done), Wright’s fanciful epic treads that fine line between inspirational nationalism and blustery propaganda, often stumbling in its zeal to make his rotund protagonist seem larger than life. However, Bruno Delbonnel’s Oscar-nominated cinematography and Anthony McCarten’s script capture both the time and the national zeitgeist, and Oldman wears his pounds of make-up and prosthetics as if he were born into them thereby bringing to life a mesmerizing idea of what Winston Churchill could have been. The cast is rounded out by Kristin Scott Thomas as Winston’s wife, Lily James as his beleaguered secretary, and Aussie Ben Mendelsohn as a lisping George VI.

Dark Habits (Spain 1983) (6): Yolanda, a nightclub singer with a sordid past, finds herself on the lam from a couple of very determined detectives after a bit of drug dealing goes terribly awry. Seeking refuge in the Convent of Humble Redeemers she is at first content to hide out amongst the cloistered nuns and tacky Catholic decor but soon discovers this is not your ordinary priory. Adopting some rather peculiar names in order to increase their sense of humility, the nuns at Humble Redeemers seem to spend less time pursuing their religious vocation and more on indulging their own particular vices; while Sister Rat of the Sewers writes sexy potboilers, Sister Manure has visions of Christ thanks to a steady diet of acid and Sister Snake sews sexy evening gowns for the Virgin Mary. Meanwhile, Sister Sin is raising a tiger in the backyard and Mother Superior, a heroin-snorting lesbian, is engaging in a bit of high society blackmail in order to keep the convent solvent. But when the Supreme Head of the order crashes an impromptu party there is hell to pay all around. This early film by Pedro Almodovar is definitely not amongst his better ones; the pacing is erratic, the camerawork a bit sloppy and the ongoing jokes occasionally forced. But there is no denying that signature deadpan humour and sense of panache. As in all his films Pedro loves his female leads and presents them with a warmth and vitality that belies the film's ridiculous premise. Despite its flaws this is still a highly watchable and occasionally hilarious farce that kicks Sister Act right out the chapel door.

The Dark Knight (USA 2008) (8):  I found this latest entry in the Batman series tackled some surprisingly complex philosophical arguments in between the obligatory car crashes and things blowing up.  When Bale’s honour-bound caped crusader goes up against Ledger’s malevolently anarchic Joker it is no longer a simple good guy vs. bad guy scenario but rather the timeless battle between order and chaos played out with comic book characters.  Nolan fleshes out the principal players, bringing home the point that good and evil are inherent in all people, in fact it is the constant interaction between these two forces that makes up “human nature”.  Since Batman and the Joker each represent one aspect of this duality they are, by definition, incompletely human.  Indeed they seem to form a tenuous dependency on one another, neither one able to quite bring himself to kill the other even when the opportunities present themselves.  This twofold aspect of existence is further brought out in Aaron Eckhart’s District Attorney character’s striking transformation following a deep personal tragedy.  Unfortunately Nolan abandons the earlier visions of Gotham City as being a labyrinthine maze of decaying warehouses and noirish art deco skyscrapers in favour of a sunnier steel and concrete metropolis looking very much like contemporary Chicago.  This doesn’t fit well with the story’s dark subject matter and makes some of the more outlandish special effects seem out of place.  It’s a small drawback though and one easily overlooked.  The Dark Knight is one of those rare gems...an action flick that relies as much on brains as it does on brawn.

Dark Passage (USA 1947) (6): When prison inmate Vincent Parry (Humphrey Bogart) breaks out of San Quentin he only has one thing on his mind—find out who framed him for the murder of his wife. But after being on the lam for fewer than ten minutes his life starts taking a series of unexpected twists and turns involving death, blackmail, plastic surgery, and a beautiful stranger (Lauren Bacall) who seems convinced of his innocence. With the police closing in and his options running out Parry is going to need a miracle or two in order to avoid the gas chamber but fate seems intent on handing him one wild card after another… A study in Film Noir overkill, Delmer Daves’ film takes an already convoluted plot and peppers it with so many Hail Mary coincidences you get the impression the ending would have been the same had Parry simply sat in a coffeeshop and let the solution come to him instead. And the first person POV camerawork which dominates the first hour, obviously meant to show the world through Parry’s eyes without revealing his face, proves ultimately distracting as the cast self-consciously deliver their lines directly into the lens. But the wonderfully theatrical script manages to play it straight and there is no mistaking the screen chemistry between Bogart and Bacall as they slowly gravitate towards each other’s arms. However, it is Agnes Moorehead’s over-the-top portrayal of a screeching virago intent on making everyone’s life miserable that ultimately brings the house down. The scenes of 1940’s San Francisco are nice too.

The Dark Side of the Heart (Argentina 1992) (7):  A fascinating, if terribly uneven, piece of art house cinema about a frustrated poet’s search for his perfect Muse.  Oliverio is obsessed with finding the one woman who can satisfy his voracious appetites....for love, for sex, for inspiration....and he doesn’t give a damn who he steps on in order to do it.  Even Death herself is not spared his sarcastic barbs.  But when this brash, somewhat cocky artist finally does meet his match in the form of a beautiful yet shrewd hooker he suddenly finds himself outwitted and outclassed.  Subiela’s film possesses a rhapsodic beauty with some gorgeously surreal visuals paired with an eclectic soundtrack.  He surrounds Oliverio with images of both life-affirming carnality and sobering mortality, often with humourous intent, while a trio of topless cabaret performers provide a sporadic Greek chorus.  Unfortunately the film suffers from some muddled cinematography and erratic editing.  The dialogue often lapses into pretentious banter that may sound better in the original Spanish but makes for some pretty stilted subtitles.  Some glaring faults aside, it still managed to hold my attention to the very end.

The Dark Valley (Austria 2014) (9):  Clint Eastwood meets Sigmund Freud in Andreas Prochaska’s Teutonic oater set in the Wild Wild West of the Austrian alps.  When lone traveler Greider wanders into an isolated mountain village armed only with a box camera and a rifle he sends the tiny town’s already shaky equilibrium into a violent tailspin.  Ruled for decades by the bellicose Brenner family, the villagers hold some sinister secrets they would just as soon keep to themselves and they waste no time letting visitors know they are never welcome.  But the taciturn Greider has an explosive secret of his own, one that involves the town and several of its inhabitants, and as the first snows begin to fall his deadly agenda will send a series of shockwaves through the entire community.  Bleak and moody in tone (in other words, Austrian) Prochaska makes the most of his breathtaking alpine locations where every mountain peak looms like the hand of God and snowy shadows are steeped in menace.  His villagers, trudging about their wilderness home like disconsolate wraiths, are a study in rock bottom despair—the truth behind their predicament gradually revealed through flashbacks and whispered comments—while Greider (convincingly played by British expat Sam Riley) reflects their despair with a haunted gaze of his own.  Graced by a lean script whose meager dialogue and flashes of bloody violence are bolstered by amazing cinematography, whether it be a panorama of twilit crags or an angry face etched in firelight, this is definitely not your father’s Western.  These hills are alive with something dark and twisted. 

Dark Victory (USA 1939) (8): Bette Davis stares death in the face in this grandaddy of all tearjerkers. She plays wealthy New York socialite Judith Traherne, an impulsive and headstrong woman determined to make her own way in life until a malignant brain tumour threatens to cut that life short. Enter Dr. Frederick Steele, a brilliant and dashing young neurosurgeon into whose hands Judith reluctantly places her trust. Their relationship, at first adversarial, slowly develops into mutual respect and then, finally, romance. But with Judith's poor prognosis can the two lovebirds possibly find true happiness before those wedding bells turn into a funeral peal? Over-the-top in every way but with a supporting cast including George Brent, Humphrey Bogart and Geraldine Fitzgerald, a superb script adapted from an original stage play, and Ms. Davis' brilliant performance you'll be reaching for the kleenex anyway. Truly a cinema classic.

Dark Water (Japan 2002) (7): Pretty standard J-horror with beleaguered divorcée Yoshimi moving into a dingy apartment complex with her cute six-year old daughter Ikuko only to face off against a malevolent little waterlogged ghost haunting the flat upstairs. For reasons gradually revealed the wee, perpetually out-of-focus spectre has it in for Ikuko and in battling this mini-demon Yoshimi will also have to come to terms with some personal demons of her own. Predictable and lacking any real surprises, this moody campfire tale nevertheless comes with an impeccable peerage directed as it is by Hideo Nakata, the man whose Ringu movies elevated boring old VHS tapes into horror icons. And he still knows when to turn the screws and when to let his audience breathe, enhancing his creaky urban setting—a crumbling concrete building full of shadows—with multiple references to water, a common element which assumes malicious overtones as it drips from ceilings, spurts little grotesques from faucets, and puddles about a pair of phantom feet. Nakata’s capable cast is headed by Rio Kanno tugging heartstrings as the sweetly innocent Ikuku and Hitomi Kuroki as Yoshimi, her eyes often expressing more terror than the shrill cries of a hundred matinee scream queens. The jolts are mainly low-key and effectively backed by a spooky score, but when the grand finale arrives Nakata offsets the almost requisite supernatural showstopper (a wink and a nod to The Shining) with a sweetly melancholic coda as refreshing as it is unexpected. Definitely worth your time.

Dark Waters (Italy 1989) (9):  Wonderful piece of gothic horror about the mysterious goings-on at an isolated convent that is all the more impressive when you consider it was made on a shoestring budget with a largely unprofessional cast.  Baino proves to be quite adept at maintaining a macabre atmosphere full of menace and decay helped in large part by amazing lighting and sound.  Whether it’s a stone tunnel lit by hundreds of softly glowing candles or the sound of raindrops hitting a crucifix, everything here seems a bit larger (and louder) than life.  While the final climax is a bit disappointing (you can hear about all the difficulties they encountered in the extras section), the film itself, taken as a whole, was amazing.  Lovecraft would have cheered.

Darkon (USA 2006) (6):  Ever wonder what happened to those math club nerds that used to get beaten up for lunch money?  Well, some went on to become mass murderers, some founded computer companies, and others became......live action role-playing gamers!  Sporting cardboard breastplates and armed with nerf bats and mom’s ironing board, these weekend warriors transform vacant lots and high school playing fields into fairy-tale battlegrounds as they live out their sword & sorcery fantasies.  Dragons will be slain, damsels will be rescued and mighty empires will be forged; at least until Monday when everyone goes back to their part-time jobs at Starbucks and 7-11.  I suppose one could view their play-acting as a microcosm of human history with its alliances and betrayals, kindnesses and atrocities, all in the name of God...or power...or both.  But that would require a monumental stretch.  Instead we are left watching a bunch of well-meaning uber geeks in colourful costumes posturing and proclaiming, often in an awkward approximation of “mythical” English.  It’s harmless fun for the most part although it is sad to see some of the more ardent players trying to use their fictitious personas as a panacea for some significant emotional problems in their actual life.  A classic case of arrested development on a grand scale that is alternately embarrassing and oddly captivating.  Frodo would have been mortified.

Daughters of Darkness (Belgium 1971) (7): After a hasty marriage, newlyweds Stefan and Valerie are on their way to his family estate in the U.K. when train trouble finds them stranded on a stormy stretch of Belgian coastline. Now the sole guests at a posh seaside hotel it soon becomes apparent that the increasingly agitated Stefan is doing everything he can to postpone their arrival in England and thus a meeting with his mother—and for good reason. The two lovers are soon joined by a couple of new guests, the striking Countess Bathory (a gorgeously seductive Delphine Seyrig) and her pouting companion Ilona (centrefold extraordinaire Andrea Rau). As the days wear on the Countess begins to insinuate herself into the lives of Stefan and Valerie, her forced congeniality and bizarre moods hiding the fact that she and Ilona are starving for much more than simple companionship… An effectively gothic horror story presented in the style of European arthouse trash with generous dollops of nudity and sex, director Harry Kümel’s kinky vampire tale is practically carried single-handedly by Seyrig; her platinum coiffure, sultry voice, and endless supply of slinky sequinned gowns (including a crazy bat cape) dominating every scene. In fact the film’s original French title, The Red Lips, takes its cue from her signature lipstick. Tastefully tawdry as only the Europeans can do—although a violent S&M scene and a phone call home both push the envelope—Kümel’s use of soft focus close-ups and grand visuals make this one of the genre’s more striking works.

David Copperfield (USA 1935) (6):  Some glorious overacting by a very talented cast saves this rather flat and overly long production from being a total waste of time.  The characters are appropriately Dickensian as is the melodramatic tone.  Freddie Bartholomew’s portrayal of the young Copperfield as a fawning little milquetoast does get irritating pretty fast though. He pouts and whines with such shameless abandon that you want to whip a hairbrush at his head.  And I thought Dakota Fanning was the most annoying child actor to ever live.  I stand corrected.

David Crosby: Remember My Name (USA 2019) (7): Singer, songwriter, musician, and ‘60s bad boy, I must admit that although I enjoyed his music I never really thought much about David Crosby as a person until I watched this insightful autobiography by A. J. Eaton. Asking all the right questions—sometimes uncomfortably so—Eaton hands the mic to the 78-year old musical icon and lets him open up about his childhood memories and first forays into the entertainment industry right through to his tumultuous years with The Byrds, CSN, CSNY, and finally his own solo career. Still sporting his flyaway hair (now grey and thinning) and signature bushy moustache, Crosby comes clean about his self-destructive relationships with the women in his life and the personal pain which led to his near fatal addictions to heroin and cocaine. He also looks back on the glory days of CSN/CSNY with fondness and more than a few regrets admitting that he was never the easiest person to get along with. But that mordant sense of humour comes through in every take as do the remnants of his radical Left sixties politics whether it’s lingering bitterness over the Kent State shootings or the Peace & Love high he received at Woodstock. Now approaching 80 and living the life of a benign grandfather on the little ranch he shares with his wife—yet still fitting in tour dates despite advanced heart disease, diabetes, and a liver transplant—he remains a charismatic contradiction of artistic inspiration and self-doubt, a fact Eaton brings to the forefront using frank interviews and lively archival clips. And above all else, the music. Sadly, David Crosby died from COVID-19 complications four years after this documentary was made.

Dawn of the Dead (USA 1978) (6): The first of George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead spin-offs features a tired old plot that has become something of a cinematic cliché (although it was fresh enough when Dawn was first released): a group of people holed up together in order to survive a zombie apocalypse must face animated corpses, marauding gangs, and their own personal demons. The reason behind the hordes of hungry undead is never made clear...is it a virus? a curse?....but the effects on American society are all too clear as law and order give way to vigilantism and anarchy. The fact that the survivors choose a mega mall in which to make their last stand does provide a nice touch of social commentary though, giving us endless scenes of drooling, mindless ex-shoppers shuffling past flashy displays of consumer goods in search of fresh meat. Romero’s comic book vision is highlighted by some amusing visuals (zombie Hare Krishna, meet zombie nurse), fountains of fluorescent red blood, and an odd musical score of supermarket muzak and menacing chords offset by background television noise. I remember sneaking over to Detroit in order to see the uncensored version of this film because at that time the former Ontario Film Review Board was a little too eager with the scissors; but thirty-five years later the exploding heads and ripped guts are passé and the glut of sequels, remakes, and copycats have set my zombie tolerance to zero.

Dawn of the Planet of the Apes (USA 2014) (8): After homo sapiens are decimated by a manmade “simian virus”, a struggling group of survivors take shelter in the decaying ruins of San Francisco. Meanwhile, just north of the city, a colony of genetically modified apes who managed to escape their captivity when the human race fell have established a primitive civilization of their own complete with crude architecture, political manoeuvring, moral ethics (apes don’t kill apes), and a surprisingly advanced language consisting of manual signs and English words. Unfortunately, when human and ape eventually cross paths a gross misunderstanding results in bloodshed and the threat of interspecies war. Cooler heads prevail however, thanks to a small cadre of American scientists and Caesar, leader of the apes, whose pacifist yearnings are still tempered by a healthy mistrust of his people’s one-time captors. But apish malcontents on both sides of the evolutionary divide ensure that peace between man and monkey is short-lived: a hotheaded human mercenary pulls his gun one too many times, and Caesar’s trusted advisor Koba secretly plots his revenge on mankind in retaliation for the indignities he suffered as a lab rat. Will Caesar’s supporters and their hairless allies be able to save the day one more time or are both sides doomed to go out in a hail of bullets and bananas? A surprisingly effective thriller if one is able to accept a few leaps of faith and logic (in ten years time monkeys go from flinging feces to riding horseback with machine guns blazing from both paws?) The grandiose CGI effects are incredibly effective, lending a sense of nobility and piercing intellect to those rubbery chimpanzee features while at the same time creating some spectacular battle scenes either on the ground or raging atop a teetering skyscraper—and it’s all thrown at you in ear-splitting Dolby stereo and arrow-dodging “Real 3D”. Although director Matt Reeves is not averse to playing the sympathy card whether it be a man weeping over pics of his dead children or a tear rolling down a grieving ape’s cheek, his ability to humanize the inhuman (or make monkeys out of men) is uncanny and soon has you seeing past the special effects wizardry and straight into the heart of his characters. “We’re not so different…” says a charismatic Caesar to his human counterpart as Reeves pulls out all the stops for a finale approaching biblical proportions…and in the back of my mind I could see Jane Goodall beaming ecstatically.

A Day At The Beach (UK 1970) (7): Penned, but not directed, by Roman Polanski and then “lost” in a bureaucratic shuffle, this grim little arthouse oddity sticks with you even though it has not aged well. You know it’s going to be a bad day when Uncle Bernie swings by his brother and sister-in-law’s place to pick up his adorable little niece Winnie for a day at the beach. Not only is it pouring rain outside but he manages to knock back a couple of vodka shooters before the little girl has even put her raincoat on. Stumbling from one seaside tavern to another Bernie becomes increasingly intoxicated while Winnie tries to eke out what little enjoyment she can, comforting her uncle with a gentle forbearance that goes far beyond her single-digit age. An angry and self-loathing alcoholic, Bernie carries on an internal monologue as grey and cynical as the stormy weather around him. Not content to simply voice his rage to a deserted beach of seagulls and empty cabana chairs he begins to lash out at anyone who crosses his path, from a crusty old beach vendor to a soft-spoken gay cougar (Peter Sellers in an eye-popping cameo). Even a chance encounter with an old friend, now married and gainfully employed, turns into an afternoon of binge drinking and listless cheating. But as night descends and the shop lights wink out, Bernie’s self-destructive odyssey leaves a frightened Winnie cold and bewildered. In the role of Bernie, the late Mark Burns turns in a phenomenal performance as a man whose demons tarnish everything he touches. Although his character is a loud-mouthed intellectual prick he nevertheless manages to elicit some degree of sympathy even if it’s only a sense of sadness over a life wasted. But it is the diminutive Beatrice Eddy as Winnie who carries the most weight. Seeing everything, yet judging no one, her unaffected innocence and childish wisdom provide a beautiful counterpoint to the film’s glaring nihilism. Lastly, Taylor’s widescreen shots of bleak seascapes and slate-coloured clouds are balanced by a melancholic, almost wistful, score of flutes and harpsichord. But, although it aims for social realism the film often lapses into dramatic overkill thick with angry shouting and jarring close-ups that threaten to alienate an audience already averse to its bridge-burning protagonist. And what’s with the Danish signage in a supposedly English seaside resort? Vague artsiness? Deliberate quirkiness? Or cheaper production costs?

Daybreakers (Australia 2009) (6): Ten years after a plague has turned 95% of the world’s population into vampires, cities have become gothic landscapes where clouds of bats wheel over shuttered skyscrapers, chic cars with blacked-out windows speed down empty streets, and Starbucks offers a little extra hemoglobin to go with their famous lattes. But despite efforts to round up all remaining humans a worldwide shortage of fresh blood is looming and without a steady fix the earth’s new masters are reverting into mindless bat-like monsters. Furiously working to perfect a synthetic blood substitute before it’s too late, vamp-hematologist Edward Dalton (Ethan Hawke looking otherworldly sexy with pointed incisors and glowing eyes) is one of the few undead with a conscience. Despite the fact the company he works for, Bromley Pharmaceuticals, regularly harvests humans like cattle Dalton subsists on pigs’ blood and dreams of a day when vampires and mortals can co-exist. And then one night he accidentally crosses paths with a group of renegade humans whose charismatic leader (Willem Dafoe) may have the ultimate answer the world’s been waiting for—but not everyone is willing to listen, especially those vampires who stand to lose the most. Even allowing for a generous amount of horror-fantasy license, writer/directors Michael and Peter Spierig’s violent sci-fi drama-cum-black political satire is so silly it was sometimes hard to keep a straight face. But lapses in logic and common sense take a back seat to the film’s wonderfully noirish style and fantastical effects. Using dark shadowy shades the Spierig brothers envision a nighttime city of listless bloodsuckers, their skin ashen beneath harsh neon lights, decked out in retro-40’s fashions while electronic billboards predict impending doom between ads for sun-proofed windows and fang whiteners. The Bromley Corporation itself, all murky greens and whites, is a nightmare straight from the mind of Swiss artist H. R. Giger with post modern furniture and a vast picture window overlooking surreal mountains of machinery where humans are hooked up like milking cows. Everyone puts in energetic performances, including Sam Neill as an oily fanged CEO, and the gore factor is set to high—hapless vampires burst into flames, hapless humans are gutted, and it all ends in a wild ride of spurting blood, oozing entrails, and severed heads. Great fun, like a big budget episode of True Blood, but only if you don’t think about it too much.

Day for Night (France 1973) (8): Director Ferrand (real life director and co-writer François Truffaut) has his hands full. He’s in the south of France trying to film a mawkish drama all about lust and murder but his leading man is a lovelorn drama queen, his American actress (Jacqueline Bisset) is fresh from her latest nervous breakdown, and the champagne-soaked diva he hired to play the family matriarch has to tape her lines to the wall. Behind the camera the insurance company is getting cold feet, a series of rotating sexual liaisons mimic the onscreen action, and Ferrand is expected to literally turn day into night using special camera filters in order to capture a key scene. What else could possibly go wrong…? With huge salutes to everyone from Buñuel and Godard to Hitchcock, Truffaut’s gentle Oscar-winning film-within-a-film is both a loving valentine to the creative process and a comedic poke at the crazies and eccentrics who make it happen. “There is more harmony in movies than in real life…” says one production member to a distraught actor, and indeed as problems and budgets pile higher (much like the artificial “snow” blowing on set) those words become more prophecy than platitude. But this is the world of art and make-believe and even a final unforeseen tragedy which one character heralds as the end of cinema itself winds up being just another bump in the road. A cheerful little in-joke whose self-deprecating humour proves irresistible. And in the role of the drunken diva, Oscar-nominated Valentina Cortese pulls out all the stops!

A Day in the Death of Joe Egg (UK 1972) (10): Married couple Bri and Sheila’s ten-year old daughter Jo (nicknamed “Joe Egg”) has been in a near vegetative state since she was six weeks of age. Even though she is unresponsive to external stimuli, requires total care, and is wracked by frequent seizures, they nevertheless have her enrolled in daily physiotherapy and take turns caring for her at home where they employ dark humour and fanciful conversations (imagining what Jo might think or say) in order to cope. But the animated banter is tinged with cruelty and the perfunctory shows of affection barely conceal an underlying sense of despair and rage—rage against the medical establishment which let them down, rage against the hollow platitudes offered by the church, and resentment aimed at friends and family who seem unable (or unwilling) to recognize their pain. But there is a deeper divide forming in the home for whereas an exhausted Sheila still feels a maternal obligation to care for the life they’ve created however feeble it may be, an equally exhausted Bri is quickly coming to the end of his existential rope… Alan Bates and Janet Suzman both put in stunning performances as the suffering parents and they are shored up by an equally capable supporting cast: Sheila Gish and Peter Bowles as a visiting couple whose own difference of opinion—her cold pragmatism running afoul of his socialist idealism (look for the halo)—scratches an already festering wound, and Joan Hickson stealing every scene she’s in as the gossipy mother-in-law who can’t see beyond the tip of her perpetually lit cigarette. Based on Peter Nichols’ stage play, director Peter Medak limits most of the drama to Bri and Sheila’s two-story flat, a jumbled chaos of Bri’s eclectic artwork and Sheila’s menagerie of pets who, like Jo herself, require daily care and consideration. It’s in this domestic arena that the volatile topic of quantity versus quality of life is hesitantly alluded to against the backdrop of a marriage in turmoil. With Sheila grabbing at imagined straws (does Jo’s flexing fist signify awareness?) and Bri retreating into alcohol and sexual fantasies, a fuse which has been burning for ten years is slowly but inexorably inching toward an explosive climax made all the more poignant by flashbacks to happier times. A brutal, confrontational work which doesn’t demand you choose a side, but does insist that you listen to all sides. As an interesting note, Montrealer Elizabeth Robillard puts in an uncanny performance as Jo, spending the entire film either strapped into a wheelchair or else lying limp and spasming. No small feat for a twelve-year old.

Days of Being Wild (Hong Kong 1990) (8): Timepieces figure heavily in Wong Kar-wai’s early masterwork about lives adrift in mid-century Hong Kong, yet ironically his main character seems to be trapped inside a temporal bubble of his own making, growing neither older nor wiser. It’s 1960 and sullen Lothario “Yuddy” (the late Leslie Cheung channeling James Dean) has turned seduction into a cruel sport as he expertly woos and beds women only to dump them when they are at their most vulnerable. Breaking the heart of homespun ticket seller Li-zhen (a luminous Maggie Cheung), Yuddy nary blinks an eye before moving on to shrill cabaret dancer Mimi (Carina Lau, all fire and smoke) who ultimately receives the same treatment despite putting up a spirited fight. But despite his cold exterior Yuddy is shouldering his own emotional burden for his adoptive “auntie”, a former high-end courtesan now turned into a lacquered dragon, refuses to grant his singular heartfelt wish—to know the identity of his birth mother—out of fear that he will abandon her as well… Shot in the director’s eclectic style with off kilter cameras either hovering over players or else recording them at oblique angles—one amazing tracking shot zooms down an early morning street and bursts through a doorway before floating up a spiral staircase (kudos to cinematographer Chris Doyle)—Wong’s predilections for bright primary colours and splashes of light even in the grungiest of settings are already well developed. He presents the story in a similarly oblique, quasi-linear fashion. We know it’s one long flashback told from a train as it lumbers through a tropical jungle, but the why and wherefore are only revealed one small drama at a time. A sad tale of displacement, unfulfilled dreams, and hearts past breaking in which images and expressions speak as loudly as the spartan dialogue—Li-zhen’s quiet cry on the shoulder of a sympathetic neighbourhood cop (Andy Lau providing the film with ballast) carrying as much cathartic weight as Mimi’s destructive tantrums. Even the world which encircles Wong’s cast seems neglected and on the verge of decay despite an ironic soundtrack that includes Hawaiian melodies. The editing does get a little jarring towards the end and a final scene seems lifted from a different movie—to be fair it was supposed to be a set-up for an unrealized sequel—but still a wholly unique vision in Asian cinema. Then again, one could say that about most of Wong Kar-wai’s films.

Days of Darkness (Canada 2007) (9): Jean-Marc Leblanc is firmly ensconced in a soulless upper-class Montreal suburb; doomed to a sexless marriage with a high-powered realtor who treats him like an outdated accessory, and a complete stranger to his two daughters who’d rather interact with their iPods. At his low-level government job he is just another generic drone paid to listen to the tragic stories of clients as he automatically denies their applications for financial aid. His only escape is through a rich fantasy life where he is constantly the centre of attention, whether it be for winning a landslide election or authoring a bestseller based on his meaningless life. And of course there is a group of beautiful women eager to wait on him and fulfill his every sexual need. But reality has a way of intruding into even the most pleasant of reveries and it isn’t long before Jean-Marc must face the unhappy wreck his life has become. With it’s undercurrent of helpless rage, Denys Arcand’s follow-up to Decline of the American Empire and Barbarian Invasions goes beyond mere social satire; his bitter vision of a modern dystopia going down in flames is at once darkly comical and terribly unsettling. He populates his film with hordes of blank-faced commuters glued to their cellphones while the radio drones on about murder, plague and catastrophe. Meanwhile, the government is housed in a decaying concrete monstrosity (Montreal’s Olympic Boondoggle) where employees must dodge falling plaster while being harangued by pro-ministerial slogans. With nods to Brazil and 1984 (and a sly salute to Kill Bill ) Arcand uses fantasy and embellishment to draw attention to some troubling trends; from the sinister rise of political correctness to the crushing nightmare of government bureaucracy and the abysmal state of healthcare. But there is hope amidst the pessimism, for as his marriage disintegrates and his fantasy women grow tired of him Jean-Marc receives a delicate epiphany by the shores of a quiet lake. Aside from an overly long Renaissance Fair sequence which, while germane to the film’s central themes, strays into Woody Allen territory there is not much here that is less than brilliant. Very funny...and depressingly honest.

The Dead (UK/Ireland 1987) (9): In the bitterly cold winter of 1904 friends and relatives of a well-to-do Dublin family gather for a posh dinner party marking the Feast of the Epiphany. Hosted by a pair of spinster aunts and their niece, the evening is marked by music and dancing, idle gossip and poetry. But as the festivities wind down there will be a few personal epiphanies among the guests: one woman’s fiery politics will be met with indifference, an elderly mother will face yet another trying evening with her alcoholic son, and a random song will force married couple Gabriel and Gretta (Donal McCann, Anjelica Huston) to reevaluate what it is they mean to one another. And meanwhile, outside the home’s small circle of warmth and light, a dusting of snow continues to fall upon the frozen streets. In this his theatrical swan song, director John Huston gathers his family—daughter Anjelica is mesmerizing, son Tony received an Oscar nomination for Best Adapted Screenplay—to bring James Joyce’s short story to beautiful life and in so doing creates a gentle, candlelit reverie on love, grief, and the multiple little joys and sorrows that accompany the living while the dead are never far away be they buried in churchyards or in memories. At one point Gabriel refers to their hosts as the “Three Graces”, and Huston’s final opus is indeed a heady mix of mirth, elegance, and youth (or at least recollections of youth) given emotional weight by keen observation and a closing monologue which, when paired with Fred Murphy’s evocative cinematography, ends the film on a melancholic note so powerful I was still mulling it over long after the lights came up. One of the more sublime films to emerge from the ‘80s.

The Dead (UK 2010) (6): As western Africa succumbs to a zombie apocalypse the international community scrambles to evacuate all aid workers and military advisors from the area. Stranded in the midst of the plague when his plane goes down, American Lt. Brian Murphy must make a desperate cross-country trek to a distant army stronghold accompanied by his African counterpart, Sgt. Dembele, who is searching for his missing son. Traversing an arid desert while being menaced by the walking dead at every turn, Murphy and Dembele struggle to stay alive. But the scope of the problem may be greater than even they can imagine... To their credit, directors Howard and Jonathan Ford combine some striking cinematography with a mounting sense of desolation and dread as the two men scramble over parched Martian landscapes and shadowy forests littered with grisly human remains. Compared to George Romero’s vision of viciously animated zombies, their hordes of the undead seem oddly listless; shambling aimlessly through cornfields or silhouetted against blood red sunsets while seeking out their next meal of human flesh. Despite a few sudden jolts the horror factor is definitely diminished by this pervasive feeling of apathy, but perhaps the metaphor of unhappy corpses preying on the living is more apropos in a continent ravaged by political unrest, civil war, and AIDS. Unfortunately the Fords spend so much time on style they neglect substance; a few narrative strands are left dangling, some plot devices don’t add up, and the whole enterprise takes on the characteristics of a standard road movie albeit with a few more exploding heads and strewn guts. The film’s final visual however, before all fades to black, is truly haunting.

Dead & Breakfast (USA 2004) (2): Writer/director Matthew Leutwyler piles insult on to injury in one of the lamest excuses for a “horror comedy” I’ve witnessed in some years. On their way to a wedding in Galveston, an RV full of the usual teen scream mainstays (jock, stoner, slut, virgin, geek, bitch) end up spending the night at a creepy old B&B where, thanks to one guy’s clumsiness, they accidentally unleash some angry Oriental spirits which immediately set about possessing the entire town. Suddenly besieged by a mob of slobbering demonic hicks bent on stealing their souls, the remaining members of the troupe, aided by a mysterious drifter and armed with nothing but a chainsaw and some homemade shotguns, prepare for a battle royale because apparently the only way to kill the possessed is to separate the brains from the bodies. Now who didn’t see THAT coming? While the mediocre effects treat us to an evening of exploding papier mâché heads and fountains of red dye, Leutwyler tries to lighten things up by stuffing this turkey with enough grade school humour to give an entire playground a case of the giggles. But wait, as if our intelligence hasn’t already been mortally wounded, he then goes for “quirky” by adding a guitar-pluckin’, jive-rappin’ cowboy narrator, a few weak nods to vastly superior films, and one horrible parody of Michael Jackson’s Thriller video. “This is like a bad horror movie!” blurts one aspiring starlet as her character tries to register frightened disbelief. Touché Sweetheart, touché.

Deadfall (UK 1968) (2):  A mysterious woman and her elderly gay husband join forces with an ace jewel thief in order to pull off an elaborate heist.  That’s about it.  Whatever action the film contains lasts 10 minutes; the rest is bogged down by a stupid ponderous script filled with pointless musings, ridiculous plot twists and ominously screeching seagulls.  Then there’s the obligatory love affair between thief and wife, which robs the film of any credibility it may have had.  The character of the gay husband was handled very poorly of course, he is presented as a pathetic object of scorn....or pity, which is even more insulting.....and made the butt of some derisive “queer” comments.  The actual robbery is intercut with scenes of a wonderful classical guitar concert; the music is nice, the rest is just so much pretentious garbage.

The Dead Girl (USA 2006) (8):  When the mutilated body of a young woman turns up the discovery serves as a catalyst of sorts in the lives of four different people.  There’s the spinster living with her controlling bitch of a mother who finds the courage to start a life of her own; the med student working at the local morgue who believes the murdered woman is her long-lost sister and hopes the discovery will bring her family some closure; the bitter neglected wife who suspects her husband may have had something to do with the killing;  and, finally, the mother of the dead girl who ends up making some startling discoveries about her daughter’s secret life.    Even though they are not related, these women share one thing in common; each one is emotionally frozen as they struggle to deal with issues of unresolved grief.  Moncrieff makes excellent use of colour and composition with scenes going from sharp-edged reality to softly shaded reverie and the downbeat musical score keeps it together.  Unfortunately,  even though each story would make a fantastic short on its own, strung together they threaten to sink the film under the weight of their combined misery.  But thanks to an extremely talented cast and her own tight direction Moncrieff manages to keep things afloat.  This technique of storytelling may have been used before with greater effect, but The Dead Girl remains a decent drama that is both tragic and compelling.

Dead Man (USA 1995) (6): They’re often lovely to look at and their quirkiness is often a fair trade-off for genuine wit, but the films of Jim Jarmusch are largely ornate window dressings which play to a decidedly niche crowd. Case in point is this 19th century Wild West road movie whose tantalizing allusions to mysticism and Dante’s Hell ultimately prove to be less than skin deep. After receiving a lucrative job offer from a metal foundry out west, timorous accountant William Blake (Johnny Depp) travels from Cleveland to a godforsaken whistle stop only to find the position has already been filled. Finding some solace in the bed of a prostitute, William’s life becomes further complicated when her fiancé shows up leading to a jealous showdown, two dead bodies, and a bounty on his head when he’s blamed for the murders. Now on the lam with an errant bullet lodged in his own chest, William is rescued by a taciturn Native American calling himself “Nobody” (Canada’s own Gary Farmer) who takes the ailing accountant on a most peculiar journey—partly spiritual, partly slapstick—through a frontier landscape whose denizens grow more bizarre with each passing day. Infernal metaphors abound from the view outside Blake’s train window where verdant forests are gradually replaced by blasted deserts, to the hellish cacophony of the foundry itself, to fanciful set pieces that see totem poles emerge from the mist and the head of a fallen lawman wreathed in twigs like a sylvan halo. Is Blake already dead? Has the American hinterland now become purgatory (there’s certainly enough skeletons to go around)? And is the poetry-spouting Nobody (he was partially raised in Europe) a stand-in for Virgil? Jarmusch doesn’t quite reach for such lofty cinematic goals, giving us a series of amusing/puzzling/superfluous vignettes bookended by fade-outs instead. Depp, as confused as the audience I imagine, plays it deadpan all the way while Farmer ups the yucks as a feathered Indian guide whose persona hovers between contemporary hipster and foul-mouthed shaman—the fact he mistakes the accountant Blake for the soul of the poet Blake never really adding up to anything of substance. Along the way Jarmusch throws in some surprising cameos from the likes of Crispin Glover as a Delphic fireman, Gabriel Byrne as the jilted fiancé, John Hurt as a malevolent secretary, and Iggy Pop not looking very pretty in dress and bonnet. And screen legend Robert Mitchum gives his final performance as the foundry’s devilish CEO. Shot in a matte B&W that accentuates shapes and shadows without the distraction of colour, the film is constantly jolted out of its time frame by grungy electric chords courtesy of Neil Young, a wall of grating riffs that sounds as if he gave up composing and just started smashing his guitar against a steel pipe. For all it’s abstruse visuals and seemingly improvised dialogue—a trio of desperados fuss over their hair, a grandiose finale on the Pacific coast is all thunderheads and shafts of light—you’re left with the feeling you’ve just been entertained by two hours of smoke and mirrors. But you were entertained.

Deadpool (USA 2016) (8): A badly disfigured mercenary with superhuman powers (Ryan Reynolds hovering between leading man and stand-up comedian) must choose between joining the X-Men and becoming a crime-fighting hero or wreaking bloody vengeance on the evil technician (hunky Ed Skrein) who turned him into a mutant and destroyed his burgeoning romance with a sexy fellow mercenary. He chooses the latter. But if you think this is going to be yet another Marvel Comics matinee you’re in for a delightful shock for this very adult send-up of the genre is filled to the gills with kinky sex, spraying guts, and more F-bombs than a Chelsea Handler monologue. Right from the opening scene where cameras slowly revolve around a frozen mid-air tableau of mass carnage while Juice Newton croons “Angel of the Morning” and the credits inform us that the film is directed by “An Overpaid Tool” and stars “God’s Perfect Idiot” you know you’ve already left Green Lantern territory far behind. Ecstatic sequences of violent gore (shot on Vancouver’s own Georgia viaduct with the West End waving in the background) are spiced with hilariously rude, semi-improvised dialogue dripping with sarcasm and geeky in-jokes, Reynolds often breaking that fourth wall to address the audience directly with a wink and smirk behind his spider-man-ish body costume. Co-stars Karan Soni as Deadpool’s cab-driving chauffeur, T. J. Miller as a bitchy bartender, Stefan Kapicic as the voice behind a metallic CGI Russian superhero, and a spry 73-year old Leslie Uggams as Deadpool’s roommate who won’t let blindness prevent her from assembling an IKEA dresser. Be sure to leave the kids at home.

Deadpool 2 (USA 2018) (8): The novelty of the first film may have worn off, but the in-jokes, double entendres, and celebration of gore are just as fresh as they ever were in this worthy sequel to the 2016 anti-superhero blockbuster—and this time around Brad Pitt, Hugh Jackman, Matt Damon, and Barbara Streisand (sort of) lend a few cameos. Still reeling from a personal tragedy, Wade Wilson, aka Deadpool (Ryan Reynolds as hilariously snarky as ever), finds he must use his superpowers to save a mutant child marked for death by a heavily armed soldier from the future (hunky Josh Brolin providing cyborg fantasy fodder). To this end he assembles a team of inept X-Men wannabes (one vomits acid, one simply saw the ad in a newspaper) and sets about tearing up the streets of Vancouver—I remember them filming this!—as the body count inexorably rises in various imaginatively disgusting ways. That’s pretty well all you need to know because if you loved the first instalment you’ll at least like this one with its barrage of colourful language and Reynolds’ endearing habit of breaking character to address the audience directly. The CGI department certainly stepped up their game as well—the mutant fight scenes provide brilliant examples of comic book choreography while the music director dusted off some old CDs to offset the annoying cacophony of dubstep shrieks. Don’t worry, things will blow up and blood will paint the walls. A supernatural side story involving Heaven threatens to derail the fun with an overdose of schmaltz but it’s quickly dispelled once the final credits begin to scroll. Of course if you didn’t appreciate part one you can always stay home and watch old reruns of Spiderman cartoons.

Dead Reckoning (USA 1946) (7): Paratrooper Captain “Rip” Murdock (Humphrey Bogart) is accompanying his army buddy Johnny Drake (William Prince) to Washington where the latter is scheduled to receive a medal for his acts of bravery during the war. But en route Drake hops off the train and disappears for no apparent reason. Determined to get to the bottom of his friend’s odd behaviour, Murdock follows the clues and winds up in a small southern town where he becomes embroiled in murder, gangsters, and a femme fatale in the form of not-so-grieving widow “Dusty” Chandler (Lizabeth Scott). The plot doesn’t thicken so much as twist about itself in John Cromwell’s archetypal film noir, a picture so noirish that at times it comes awfully close to parody. The script is a marvel of “guys ’n dames” one-offs that would have made Micky Spillane green with envy (“Didn’t I tell you all females are the same with their faces washed?”) and Leo Tover’s pessimistic cinematography never misses a chance to cash in on a rain-soaked alleyway or stretch of lonely country road—a climactic car sequence providing a lesson in the dos and don’ts of rear projection. But it’s the cast who ultimately keep things poker-faced with the chemistry between Bogart and Scott crackling along despite their 23-year age difference, and studio heavies Morris Carnovsky playing a suave racketeer with Marvin Miller as his hired ape. Corny and cliched as it is—fragile viewers are sure to balk at the sexist language and that one subtle dig at gays—time and context has ensured that Dead Reckoning will remain one of the guiltier pleasures 1940’s cinema has to offer. Geronimo!

Dead Snow (Norway 2009) (6): It’s Easter Vacation and seven wild and crazy college students have decided to spend some time at an isolated cabin in the mountains. However, unbeknownst to them, the surrounding hills are home to a garrison of bloodthirsty Nazi zombies who are too dead to realize the war’s been over for almost seventy years and before you can yell “Sieg Heil” the kids’ boisterous horseplay has turned into a desperate, and very messy, fight for survival. Although the protagonists do a lot of yelling in Norwegian there isn’t a lot to distinguish Dead Snow from any other film in the horror/slasher/zombie genre; there’s the usual shocks and red herrings, ill-focused P.O.V. camerawork, and even a bit of tawdry Scandinavian sex (in an outhouse no less). Furthermore, even though the soundtrack of sombre orchestral riffs and screaming metal manages to keep pace with the onscreen action it sounds oddly disjointed at times. What sets this one apart from most of the pack however is the macabre sense of humour which seems to creep just below the surface of even the most grotesque scenes. An errant Molotov cocktail had me laughing out loud while the discovery of a shed filled with pointy tools and a chainsaw (oh boy!) set the stage for one magnificently overdone blood-soaked showdown involving flying heads, stretched intestines, and a couple of novel uses for a snowmobile. A few terse one-liners are well timed, some obscure movie references appeal to the inner geek, and a very funny (and very fleeting...don’t blink!) homage to Soviet propaganda is brilliant. It all ends on a surprisingly dark note with one final ironic twist that left me more amused than disappointed. Director Tommy Wirkola may have traded in much of the film’s suspense for an extra serving of gore and sick laughs, but I’d say he more than broke even.

Dear Zachary: A Letter to a Son About His Father (USA 2008) (9): In the Fall of 2005, 32-year old Dr. Andrew Bagby was found murdered in a Pennsylvania state park. The prime suspect Dr. Shirley Turner, his estranged girlfriend, promptly fled to Canada. While his parents fought for her extradition back to the USA Turner stunned everyone by claiming she was pregnant with Andrew's child...a boy she named Zachary. In this amazing documentary, Andrew's childhood friend Kurt Kuenne prepares a time capsule of sorts for Zachary so the child will know something of his father when he grows up. Following Andrew's grimly determined parents as they fight for custody of their only grandson, Kuenne casts a disparaging eye on Canada's pathetically outdated judicial system as it forces the grieving couple to jump through endless hoops. But he saves the final insult for last. The film's frantic editing style, composed of jump cuts and overlapping dialogue, is problematic at first but once the story really starts you will be glued to your seats.

Death at a Funeral (USA 2007) (6):  A generic “Dysfunctional Family Reunion” movie that delivers more smiles than outright laughs.  When the patriarch of an upper middle class family passes away his relatives gather at the estate for the funeral service.  As is typical in this type of comedy things don’t go exactly as planned.....long-held resentments come to the surface, bodies get misplaced and skeletons fly out of closets.....but when a malicious dwarf and a few tabs of acid get thrown in the mix all hell breaks loose.  The characters are pretty much two-dimensional cutouts and the humour lacks any real wit relying instead on funny faces and broad hysterics.  Still, there is a certain good-natured charm to the proceedings, which made for an enjoyable popcorn night on the sofa.

Death by Hanging (Japan 1968) (6): A national poll once revealed that 71% of Japanese adults favoured keeping that country’s death penalty. Addressing this segment of the population personally, director Nagisa Ôshima’s piece of B&W verité begins as a dry documentary showing the trappings of an execution in process—in this case that of a young man of Korean descent convicted of rape and murder—only to veer into absurdist comedy when the noose not only fails to kill him but also robs him of his memory. Now faced with an impossible conundrum, the execution team is torn: the court witness feels it would be immoral and possibly illegal to kill someone who can’t remember their crimes, the prison warden is hellbent on re-enacting those crimes in order to jog the condemned’s memory (cue farcical skits where each man takes a turn at being both rapist and victim), the Catholic priest in attendance is convinced the man’s soul has already left the body and what’s left is now innocent, and the Chief Prosecutor, smiling like a benign Buddha, seems unable to rule either way. Refusing to offer straightforward arguments in support of his anti-capital punishment stance, Ôshima instead piles dark absurdity upon dark absurdity so that the film’s sheer ludicrousness will drive the point home on its own. It’s as if Jean-Luc Godard shared a few lines of coke with Franz Kafka and the Monty Python gang while Bertolt Brecht shouted suggestions from the sideline. And for the first 30 minutes this bleak satirical farce works admirably, keeping the audience at an emotional distance yet still managing to land a few well aimed punches: “The prisoner’s awareness of his own guilt is what gives execution its moral and ethical meaning…” drones the court witness as the priest hides behind his robes and the attending physician tries to resuscitate an unconscious “R” so he can be properly killed. But Ôshima’s insistence on spreading his net wider and wider with references to Japan’s legacy of imperialism, the plight of ethnic Koreans, and a hint of incestuous obsession when R’s sister appears to enter the fray (her corporality a subject of debate since only select people can see her) becomes didactic and tedious to the extreme. And as the team gathers around a makeshift picnic (with R and sis forming the centrepiece) to deliver drunken confessions of their own things just get sillier and more mystifying leading to a final offscreen sermon dripping with condescension. Would have been far more effective as a one-act, one-set play.

The Death of Dick Long (USA 2019) (8): From the land of trailer parks, pick-up trucks, and pit bulls comes this tarnished example of White Trash Southern Gothic, a film with the uncanny ability to make you laugh, cringe, and stare aghast all at the same time. After a night of Jackass-style tomfoolery, good ol’ boy Dick Long (ha ha) winds up dead much to the discomfiture of his pothead buddies Zeke and Earl who, in a desire to distance themselves from the shocking cause of Dick’s death, anonymously dump his body in front of the local hospital. But the two rednecks are too inept to cover their tracks and keep what happened that night a secret for long in such a small town—Zeke has trouble lying while Earl is just plain stupid—especially after a little grey-haired sheriff and her deceptively green deputy start asking pointed questions. A perfectly trashy script which mixes comical backwoods dregs with momentous calamity is kept afloat by equally conflicted performances, most notably from Michael Abbott Jr. as the neurotic Zeke and Virginia Newcomb as his incredulous girlfriend who suddenly finds her comfortable world jarred off its foundations. Sure to draw comparisons to that other off-key classic, Fargo—although not necessarily favourable ones—director Daniel Scheinert nevertheless deserves credit for sheer chutzpah alone in delivering such an egregious plot with such a poker face. It’s a perverse episode of Trailer Park Boys presented as a drunken Greek tragedy proving once again Alabama ain’t such a sweet home after all…

The Deaths of Ian Stone (UK 2007) (6): A handsome American ex-pat living in London, Ian Stone has quite the cross to bear. Every day at approximately the same time he’s murdered by a gang of monstrous assassins only to wake up in the middle of a slightly different life where everyone he’s previously known is now a stranger to him. Aided by a mysterious old man who seems to pop up at just the right time, Ian slowly unravels the mystery behind his many deaths, but time is running out and this greatest of revelations may prove to be his ultimate doom. A likeable cast and intriguing storyline partially make up for a comic book script and general lack of any real terror. The bogeymen themselves are a nicely unpleasant cross between graveyard ghoul and swirling dust cloud with a nasty ability to morph their arms into very sharp lobster claws. It all threatens to fall apart towards the end with a prolonged hospital torture scene that borders on pure camp and an ending aimed straight at the chick flick crowd. Fun to watch just the same.

Death Proof (USA 2007) (8): Quentin Tarantino bypasses the usual testosterone for a kickass dollop of high octane estrogen in this grindhouse companion piece to Planet Terror. Kurt Russell turns on the oily charm as a psychopathic stuntman who gets his thrills dispatching young female motorists using his armoured muscle car with the skull and crossbones decal. With a number of kills already under his belt he turns his sick sights on a group of women taking an innocent road trip only to discover that not all girls play nice whether they’re behind the wheel or not. If the plot is pure exploitation its execution is nothing less than exhilarating with unbelievable chase & crash sequences sandwiched between tamer moments that combine just the right amount of sleaze, cheese, and enough bitchiness to melt celluloid. As in Planet Terror, Tarantino incorporates scratchy film stock and spliced jump cuts to give everything a low budget sheen but he spares no expense when it comes to highway mayhem with flipping cars, flying body parts, and one of cinema’s more harrowing games of road chicken featuring actress/stuntwoman Zoë Bell clinging to the hood of a speeding Dodge Challenger. The women are fierce, the music is hot, and Quentin throws in so many clever in-jokes using everything from magazines and billboards to license plates and posters that I lost count. And that final scene…! This is one “chick flick” you won’t be seeing on the Oprah Network.

Deathwatch (UK 2002) (7): Finding themselves behind enemy lines after a particularly bloody skirmish, the surviving members of a WWI British squadron happen upon a series of German trenches guarded by a trio of soldiers who seem to be more frightened than defiant. Killing two of the guards out of hand and taking the third prisoner, the Brits decide to hunker down and wait for help to arrive. Now surrounded by muck and rats and the rotting bodies of German infantrymen—too many bodies to make sense—their recent battle experience plus the perpetual drenching rain begin to take their toll as nerves become frayed and tempers snap. But when someone (or something) begins picking them off one by one it becomes terrifyingly clear that the Hun may be the least of their enemies… Using monstrous metaphors to describe the toll war takes on our basic humanity is not new, it’s been a literary mainstay for centuries from the Book of Revelations to Beowulf to F. Paul Wilson’s The Keep. Writer/director Michael J. Bassett’s particular Grendel however has a more subtle, quasi-spiritual edge to it despite the gruesome special effects and tortured screams—more a twisted mirror than scaly fiend. With grey drizzling skies and blasted landscapes he presents the battlefield as a psychological space haunted by rage and despair in which his nine protagonists, holed up like hunted rabbits, come to represent a microcosm of mankind, from the conscientious pacifist (Jamie Bell all wide-eyed and quivering) to the bellowing warrior (Andy Serkis mugging and swaggering). Some sloppy pacing and a few WTF? moments notwithstanding, this is still a decent film whose claustrophobic spaces and nightmarish cinematography manage to combine straight-up horror with loftier allegory. It’s “Give Peace a Chance” sung to the tune of The Twilight Zone.

The Decameron (Italy 1971) (7): Based on the 14th century writings of Boccaccio this series of ribald tales is crammed full of lusty nuns, murderous saints and adulterous housewives, all tied together with director Pier Paolo Pasolini's signature penchant for the scatological and the blasphemous. But, like an Italian take on "The Canterbury Tales", there is a finely honed satire at work beneath all the tasteless jokes and ample nudity. Pasolini's cast of unwashed amateurs lend an air of authenticity to the period sets, looking as if they just stepped out of Boccaccio's manuscript with all their warts and rotten teeth intact. Not for those with delicate sensibilities.

Deception (USA 1946) (6): Oh what a tangled web is weaved in this overplayed three-handed melodrama which sees Bette Davis trying to juggle Paul Henreid and Claude Rains at the same time while an elaborate string of lies threatens to leave her empty-handed in the end. Separated from her European lover, a gifted cellist, during the war and believing him dead at the hands of the the Nazis, a grieving pianist returns to America where she becomes the mistress of a wealthy composer. But four years later she is unexpectedly reunited with her sweetheart at a New York concert hall and forsakes everything in order to marry him on the spot. Unfortunately her rash decision does not lead to the conjugal bliss she had envisioned for her new husband still bears the psychological scars he suffered as a prisoner-of-war and the jilted composer, an arrogant and overbearing man, seems determined to sabotage her precarious happiness any way he can…even if it means destroying her husband’s fledgling musical career. Desperate to keep her sordid past a secret from her increasingly unbalanced spouse, the woman eventually gets caught up in her own deceit leading to a volatile confrontation which changes everyone’s lives forever. Whew! With Davis wavering between giddy romance and babbling neurosis, Henreid shouldering his cello like a cross, and Rains growing horns out of his his forehead, there is nothing subtle about this heavy-handed tale which is short on characterization and a tad generous on the moralizing. But these old B&W classics are supposed to be bigger than life and Deception’s theatrical dialogue coupled with a grandiose orchestral score (Beethoven never sounded so heartbreaking) will not disappoint fans of the genre.

The Deep (Iceland 2012) (6): Based on an actual incident, Iceland’s official submission for 2012’s Best Foreign Language Oscar is a tale of survival so unbelievable that it had the scientific community stumped. In the winter of 1984 a fishing boat with some half dozen men aboard sank off the southern coast of Iceland. Suddenly plunged into the freezing north Atlantic miles from land the survivors quickly succumbed to hypothermia except for one lone man who managed to make it to shore after swimming for six solid hours—a feat considered all but impossible. Presented like a modern day Norse saga, Baltasar Kormákur’s film starts out promising enough with a slow build-up to the sinking itself filmed in ice cold twilit shades of blue and grey, the rime so real it had me shivering. There’s just enough background story to introduce who’s who and then the sea odyssey begins with actor Ólafur Darri Ólafsson tossed about on frigid waves, his life flashing by in Super8 cutaways while cameras hover far overhead or swim just beneath his flailing feet—the cinematography really is amazing. Unfortunately the tone goes from chill to tepid once he makes landfall and the investigation begins. How did he manage survive for so long in conditions that should have killed him within minutes? The scientific inquiries stretch from Reykjavik to London without gaining any real momentum and God is given a passing nod although Kormákur thankfully skirts around any overt religious implications. Ólaffson’s downplayed performance as a likeable oaf given a second chance at life is endearing however, and the lack of cinematic hyperbole makes his ordeal all the more remarkable. But mysteries aside, this is very much a visual film that leaves you with one particularly haunting image—a despairing fisherman treading water, the northern lights blazing overhead while below the bodies of the dead drift with horrible grace down into darkness.

The Deep Blue Sea (USA/UK 2011) (3): With its cloying score of whiney violins and a script that sounds as if it were written by a third-rate romance writer who kept falling asleep at the keyboard, Terence Davie’s ridiculously lush weeper (based on a play by Terence Rattigan) is so badly executed it’s actually entertaining, but for all the wrong reasons of course. It’s London circa 1950 and teary-faced Hester, the chronically suicidal wife of diminutive milquetoast Sir William, is having a lukewarm affair with Freddie, a former RAF pilot who believes his participation in the Battle of Britain gives him permission to be a self-centred boor. Leaving her husband for Freddie’s ambivalent embraces Hester spends the better part of the film pouting and staring at drapes while Freddie screams and drinks, and Sir William piteously rubs salt in his own wounds. Aside from a few pithy observations on love made by Freddie and Hester’s stoic landlady, that’s pretty much it. Davie’s usual flair for poetic imagery does find an outlet of sorts with dreamy opening and closing sequences using long continuous shots of local street life to impart a delicate sense of time and place, but it's wasted everywhere else thanks to the horribly stilted dialogue and a complete lack of any empathy for his characters. This is not so much a melancholy romance as it is an uninspired drama about stupid people doing stupid things for no good reason. In one particularly indulgent passage Hester, waiting to fling herself in front of a subway train (yawn), is suddenly thrust into a wartime flashback featuring a cast of stiff upper-lipped clichés waiting out the Blitz by singing “Molly Malone” in a candlelit tube station. I just wanted her to jump and be done with it.

Deep in the Wood (Italy 2015) (7): Once every Winter the inhabitants of a little Italian town nestled in the heart of the Dolomites hold a nighttime revelry in which villagers, dressed up as demons, frighten little children into being good throughout the coming New Year. Legend has it that the devil himself, disguised as a partygoer, often joins the festivities in order to spirit away particularly naughty boys and girls. It’s during one such celebration that 4-year old Tommi goes missing without a trace, an unsolved mystery that almost destroys his guilt-addled parents—mom attempts suicide, dad is viewed as a suspect. Then, five year later, just as mysteriously as he disappeared Tommi reappears much to the town’s relief. But despite DNA evidence to the contrary, his taciturn ways and unexplained amnesia, not to mention newfound cruel streak, have some questioning whether or not this is the same child… Director and co-writer Stefano Lodovichi’s slow-burner is an engrossing concoction of puzzler and superstitious thriller propelled by its visuals as much as its dialogue—the mountainous settings are at once beautiful and treacherous, and scenes of devilled-up search parties combing the woods by the light of blood-red flares would be right at home in one of Dante’s infernal circles. As Tommi’s parents Filippo Nigro and Camilla Filippi are the very essence of guilty consciences and parental remorse—his drinking giving rise to uncomfortable memories of that night, her self-harm and blame-gaming rooted in something far deeper than mere grief—while Giovanni Vettorazzo, playing the overtly Catholic grandfather, greets the reappearance of his grandson with an incredulity that gradually slides toward outright horror. And for his part Teo Achille Caprio, playing 9-year old Tommi, gives an unnerving performance somewhere between sympathetic moppet and The Omen’s Damien. The answers, when they eventually arrive, are as unexpected as they are improbable but Lodovichi’s ability to misdirect and set up cunningly false narratives makes for one hell of a tall tale nevertheless.

Defenceless:  A Blood Symphony (Australia 2004) (3):  When a woman refuses to sign over her beachfront property to a trio of ruthless developers they decide to teach her a lesson by killing her husband.  Naturally this causes her to abandon her child, take an overdose, and become a lesbian.  The harassment doesn't end there however for they eventually come after her lover…and finally her. But everyone has a breaking point and when she reaches hers those men better look out!  I really wanted to like this movie, after all it does have some clever moments.  By presenting it as a silent film with a post-production soundtrack of classical music and natural sounds the director attempts to give it the theatrical feel of an opera—or highly eclectic interpretive dance.  Furthermore he drenches each scene with bright primary colours and highly composed mise en scènes as if to exaggerate the film’s mythological elements (there's a rebirth of sorts).  Unfortunately, despite his efforts, it ends up being just so much bad art.  With its overstated symbolism, terrible performances, and self-conscious attempts to gross out the audience Defenceless is ultimately little more than a splatter flick with attitude.

Deliver Us From Evil (USA 2006) (9): In the 1970s Catholic priest Fr. Oliver O’Grady was sent from Ireland to a parish in Lodi, California where he befriended a number of families, gained their trust, and then proceeded to rape their children. When complaints began to come forward regarding his sexual activities the Church, in an effort to avoid negative attention, began to shuffle him from parish to parish within northern California where he continued to prey on children—the youngest being a nine month old baby girl—well into the 1980s until the mountain of evidence against him forced a reluctant Church to take more definitive action. In this scathing documentary Amy Berg gathers a host of articulate voices from experts on church history and canonical law to psychologists, lawyers, and a few brave families willing to recount what happened to them over thirty years ago. The result in a damning critique on a Catholic hierarchy more concerned with saving face and money than protecting children from predatory priests. So murky was the official response to the allegations against O’Grady—indeed to all cries of molestation everywhere—that one lawmaker likened the Church to the Italian Mafia in its evasiveness and penchant to hide behind lawyers while making underhanded deals with the perpetrators. In one instance evidence suggests that former bishop Roger Mahoney, O’Grady’s immediate superior, took part in a massive cover-up in order to protect his own ecclesiastical aspirations; a shameful move which paid off when he was promoted to cardinal. Taped depositions of Church officials trying to squirm their way out of probing questions are infuriating enough until Berg interviews O’Grady himself and a deep chill sets in for it quickly becomes evident that behind the grandfatherly chuckles he is a sexual sociopath incapable of appreciating the emotional devastation he left in his wake. With a trail of culpability leading all the way to Vatican City Berg’s exposé is a study in rage and frustration, but when she turns her camera on a guilt-ridden father and his struggling adult daughter it’s enough to rip your heart out. In a postscript Berg mentions that to date the Roman Catholic Church has paid out one billion dollars in settlements and legal fees to victims of abuse, and one gets the sinking feeling that that is a mere drop in the bucket. Essential viewing.

The Demon [aka Kichiku ] (Japan 1978) (9): The spirit of Hitchcock blows through this harrowing tale of childhood misery, adapted from Matsumoto’s novel by director Yoshitarô Nomura. When his destitute mistress of seven years shows up on his doorstep with the three small children he fathered, shop owner Sôkichi Takeshita knows he’s in for a rough night. But when she flees without a trace leaving them behind his existence turns hellish indeed for not only is he already deeply in debt to the bank but his wife Oume, who knew nothing of his transgressions, takes it upon herself to make life for him and “the brats” as unbearable as possible. Thus, with Oume raging like a mad Medea and his resources stretched past their limit, a neurotic and increasingly unstable Sôkichi decides that it would be best for everyone if the children simply disappeared… Shot through with fairy tale archetypes and infernal imagery—the drone of stinging insects augment a sweltering summer; a blood red sunset illuminates a fiendish scene; Oume embodies every wicked stepmother, and the children wander through a concrete forest like two Hansels and a Gretel—Nomura banks the tension while exploiting our own innate fears of abandonment. Speeding trains and a restless ocean speak of fate and a higher power, but the demon of the title is deliberately left vague. Does it refer to the vengeful Oume? The morally confused Sôkichi who suffers from his own childhood traumas? Or is it to be found in eldest son Riiki, whose steady gaze and unusual resilience seem to mock the Takeshitas and whose very presence threatens to unravel them like a divine judgement….or a curse? Childhood abuse and loss of innocence are never easy subjects for a filmmaker to tackle, but with The Demon Nomura finds the right balance between pathos and horror and the result is a small masterpiece.

Demons 3: The Ogre (Italy 1988) (7): As a little girl growing up in Oregon Cheryl was troubled by awful nightmares. In her dreams she would find herself in a vast cellar where she’d witness a grotesque monster hatching from a giant cocoon suspended from the ceiling. Despite her attempts to escape the ogre would always catch her in the end and she’d wake up screaming. Twenty years later she is a famous horror writer vacationing in northern Italy with her husband and young son when her life takes a sudden macabre turn. It seems the abandoned castle they’re renting contains a cellar exactly like the one in her childhood dreams and before you can yell “déjà vu” doors are rattling, green goop is dripping from the ceiling and babysitters are being consumed. According to the creepy locals there is a legend associated with the old fortress which states it is inhabited by an ogre who is driven mad with lust whenever it smells the wild orchids that grow in the local countryside; and after 200 years it has one very nasty case of blue balls. Despite the terrible acting and hackneyed script there is a refreshingly childlike quality to this film, as if it were penned by a particularly vicious ten-year old. Bava also throws in an unexpected psychosexual dimension as events in the castle begin to mirror the steamy plot of Cheryl’s latest book. Does the horny beast really exist or is it merely the “sexual fantasies of a bored frustrated housewife” as her increasingly annoyed husband maintains? It’s this odd little twist, which is never truly resolved, that saves the film from total obscurity.

The Den (USA 2013) (8): Sociology researcher Elizabeth Benton receives a coveted grant to study contemporary online culture via “The Den”, a popular worldwide chat site. Initially suffering through the usual assortment of gawkers, perverts, and pranksters, she gradually builds up a list of contacts and begins writing notes on her new wired reality. But when she witnesses a possible murder taking place in real time her academic pursuits give way to a deadly game of cat and mouse after the psychopath responsible manages to hack into her private computer files. With neither the police nor her faculty providing much help, Elizabeth tries to solve the case herself—and that’s when her friends begin disappearing. It was inevitable that some smart cookie would produce a movie which takes place entirely in cyberspace with iPads, laptops, and smartphones plotting the action in a flurry of desktop screens and chat windows. With nods to Olivier Assayas’ Demonlover and another horror franchise whose name could constitute a spoiler, writer/director Zachary Donohue’s grisly thriller casts a pretty grim eye on our internet appetites for the sexual and the macabre even as he exploits them to his advantage. The voyeuristic action is fast and furious, the suspense menacing, and the obvious pitfalls mostly forgivable (people running for their lives do not worry about recording the action). But aside from the usual messy bloodletting it is a few low-key scenes (including a quietly horrifying “real world” denouement) that actually prove to be the most unsettling as Donohue shows us that the virtual bogeyman could be anywhere—or anyone.

Department Q: The Keeper of Lost Causes (Denmark 2013) (5): While aboard a ferry with her mentally disabled brother, a prominent politician mysteriously vanishes. Her disappearance is eventually attributed to suicide by drowning and the case is closed. Five years later a Copenhagen detective and his partner reopen the investigation after they discover a couple of discrepancies in the official report—never suspecting that their inquiries will not only threaten their professional careers but their very lives as well. In this first instalment of the Department Q cold case series, based on the novels by Jussi Adler-Olsen, director Mikkel Nørgaard gives us a cliché-riddled policier that ticks all the expected boxes—disgraced policeman looking to redeem himself, mismatched partners (good cop/bad cop), upper brass that refuses to listen, trail of convenient clues—and a revealing climax that pushes the credibility envelope even if you’re willing to grant a bit of artistic license given that it’s a police thriller. In the lead roles Nikolaj Lie Kaas and Fares Fares work well together without generating much chemistry and Nørgaard keeps the pace going at a fair clip. But given the subject matter the tension is not exactly palpable and a distinct dearth of red herrings means we’re not trying to guess who’s involved as much as we’re simply waiting for an explanation. And that explanation hardly seemed worth 96 minutes.

Departures (Japan 2008) (8): Daigo is a promising young cello player who suddenly finds himself unemployed when his modest Tokyo-based orchestra goes bankrupt. Returning to his childhood home with dutiful wife Mika in tow, Daigo reluctantly takes on a job as a nokanshi, someone who prepares the dead for burial through a highly ritualized series of actions involving washing and grooming the body, dressing it, and applying make-up before placing it in the coffin---all performed while the grieving relatives look on. At first squeamish about his new vocation (and sensitive to the negative connotations it carries in polite society) he gradually comes to realize that in honouring the dead he is able to appreciate life all the more, an increasing sense of inner peace which culminates in a bittersweet reunion with the father who abandoned him thirty years earlier. I shouldn't like this movie; it’s gushingly sentimental, mawkish, manipulative and completely predictable, like one of those cinematic Hallmark cards which always seem to win awards. But despite my inherent cynicism it won me over just the same. There is an unwavering optimism to director Takita's vision, a refusal to ignore the good in people, and a deeply felt sense of dignity which balances out the film's fluffier elements. The ceremonial wake scenes are sobering, the cinematography both sweeping and intimate, and the musical score sublime. Add to that a talented cast and deceptively simple storyline that plays out like a modern parable, and you have a sweet little tale that goes right for the heart.

Deranged (USA 1974) (6): There are movies so bad they’re actually good. Then there are movies so exceptionally bad in so many exceptionally good ways that they become classics. Somewhere between the two lies this tacky exercise in bloodletting very loosely based on the story of Wisconsin’s notorious mass murderer, grave robber, and all-around cannibal, Ed Gein. Middle-aged farmer Ezra Cobb was so devoted to his bible-thumping mother that even one year after her death he can still hear her rasping voice. So, with shovel and crow bar in hand, he visits the cemetery one night and brings what’s left of her home again. Then he starts digging up friends to keep her company. And then he sets his sights on the living… Although the gore is relatively tame unless you click on the “extras” section (well worth it, trust me. Ewww!), the R-rated version is macabre enough on its own that you’ll walk away feeling distinctly unclean. Special effects whiz Tom Savini wrings what he can out of a modest budget—a tea party of mouldering corpses wearing their Sunday best is both funny and off-putting—while a soundtrack of muffled organ music makes the whole production as comfy as a funeral parlour. What makes the movie endearing however is the small moments of sick humour throughout, for directors Jeff Gillen and Alan Ormsby insisted that this was in fact a comedy of sorts thus the inclusion of an onscreen narrator who regularly interrupts the proceedings to deliver a deadpan editorial, microphone firmly in hand. But the highlight for me was lead Roberts Blossom as crazy Ezra Cobb. An accomplished actor, playwright, and poet himself, Blossom’s malleable face and cadaverous features manage to carry even the most outrageous scenes to their conclusion with a combination of hangdog shrugs and insane malevolence. Whether he’s brandishing a rotting femur or gutting a young coed, his performance never waivers from pure psychotic perfection. Definitely not for the squeamish or the PC-sensitive, but for any cinephile who likes to occasionally slum it in exploitative B-movie territory Deranged offers a one-way ticket you won’t want to pass up…even if you regret it later.

Dersu Uzala (Russia/Japan 1975) (5): In pre-revolutionary Siberia a team of Russian army surveyors cross paths with Dersu Uzala, an affable tribesman who decides to tag along, teaching them the practical ways of his people in the process and saving the commanding officer’s life more than once. A few years later the commander returns to the taiga and meets up with Dersu, now an old man with poor eyesight, and decides to bring him home. But the grizzled aboriginal is not prepared for the confusing world of 1910 Russian society and so makes a decision which will impact both his life and that of his old friend. Actually penned and directed by Japanese legend Akira Kurosawa, this ham-fisted and all-too-predictable “meeting of cultures” film tries in vain to pair the noble savage with his city-dwelling counterpart and fails on virtually every level. Like a retro Soviet propaganda film without the overt political grandstanding, Kurosawa combines gloriously overdone cinematography (the Kremlin must have loved those blazing red sunsets) with manufactured pathos and a script littered with colourful native aphorisms and then expects us to nod sagely as we compare the wise old ways with silly modern contrivances. Not sure how this earned its Best Foreign Film Oscar…was it a sympathy nod to Kurosawa whose own career was flailing at the time? Or was Hollywood just blowing kisses at Moscow?

The Descendants (USA 2011) (8): When his party animal wife winds up on life support following a boating accident, Hawaiian real estate magnate Matt King is forced to examine some uncomfortable truths about himself, his marriage, and the tenuous relationship his many absences have engendered with his two daughters: Scottie, a bratty nine-year old; and Alexandra, an angry adolescent who seems destined to follow in her mother’s footsteps. On top of this, his relatives are pressuring him to sell the family trust...several thousand acres of pristine parkland on the island of Kauai. Alexander Payne’s psychological road movie plays equally well as both a warmhearted family drama and a study of one middle-aged man trying to wring some meaning out of his life as everything he once took for granted is now called into question. As he contemplates selling off his ancestral lands, King’s dilemma begins to mirror the tensions within his own family, for every decision we make comes with a price and sometimes it is others who must foot the bill. Despite a few lapses into preciousness, this is a solidly written and well-balanced film whose talented cast, capped by George Clooney, move easily from light comedy to passionate tears, sometimes within the same scene as evidenced by one especially heated hospital room confrontation. The lush tropical settings belie a certain irony while a buoyant soundtrack of Island pop tunes manages to keep things in proper perspective. A real charmer!

The Descent (UK 2005) (8):  Neil Marshall trades in the testosterone-drenched machismo of “Dog Soldiers” for a double dose of kick-ass estrogen in this shockingly effective horror thriller.  When a group of female spelunkers get trapped in a series of subterranean caves they soon discover that they are being stalked by some very nasty creatures with little brains and great big teeth.  But even as they desperately search for a way out the “crawlers” always seem to be just one step ahead.  It’s all here...claustrophobic spaces, creepy monsters, and a pervasive darkness that weighs on our protagonists as much as the tons of earth and rock above their heads.  Marshall’s underground world is a dimly lit succession of nightmare landscapes and bottomless chasms where any shadow could hide a pile of whitewashed bones or a pair of malevolently glowing eyes.  As friend turns against friend and reality becomes questionable a psychological dimension emerges that culminates in a bleakly enigmatic final scene.  A true “chick flick” in every good sense, from the cast of strong yet believable women to the prevalence of psychosexual imagery (despite Marshall’s statement to the contrary sometimes a cave is not just a cave).  If you’re looking for a film with shocks, gore, AND brains you need look no further.

The Descent: Part 2 (UK 2009) (5): If you can ignore a small plethora of ridiculous plot devices, Jon Harris’ lame sequel to Neil Marshall’s horror classic (read my review) still has enough jolts and claustrophobic chills to keep you mildly entertained. Sarah Carter, the sole survivor of an all-female spelunking expedition into the Appalachians (actually filmed around the UK with no one even trying to hide their accent) emerges from underground covered in her friends’ blood and babbling incoherently. Determined to get to the bottom of the mystery the local sheriff rounds up a posse, including a hospitalized Sarah, and descends to the bottom of an old abandoned mine whose machinery mysteriously still works. Once below ground the usual genre conventions take over as each member of the group comes up against hordes of blind cannibalistic gollums with a taste for clueless humans and Sarah must face a dark secret from her past (past meaning yesterday). Who will survive?! To be fair there are some genuinely scary parts to Harris’ horror fiasco as flashlights burn out and slimy heads pop out of nowhere—an underwater trek through a series of narrow tunnels left me gasping for air. Plus the whole idea of being trapped in the dark under tons of rock stokes a primitive fear in all of us. But Harris piles on so many ludicrous twists (subterranean ninja bitch?) and “oh no they wouldn’t” moments that I found my frights regularly interrupted by eye-rolling groans. And then he pulls one final twist out of his derrière and the whole house of cards comes crashing down. I didn’t need to keep the lights on…

The Desert of Forbidden Art (Russia/USA 2010) (7): After the Russian Revolution and into the dark years of Stalin, so-called “avant garde” art which went against the new Soviet school of socialist realism (read: agitprop) was blacklisted along with the artists who created it. What wasn’t destroyed was hidden by families in attics and studios or else catalogued by the government and left to moulder away in dusty warehouses. Ukrainian-born artist Igor Vitalyevich (1915–1984) made it his life’s work to rescue as many of these forbidden pieces as possible, often right under the noses of the Communist regime, and spirit them away to the wilds of Uzbekistan where he founded the State Art Museum near the city of Nukus. Tchavdar Georgiev and Amanda Pope’s elegant documentary examines Savitsky, the artists he revered, and their legacy through talking heads, propaganda film clips, and most importantly: the art itself. The oppressive politics highlights that eternal struggle between the creative mind and The State, but the artwork itself is what grabs your interest. Bold abstracts vie with hypnotic portraits and fanciful landscapes, and yes there is a vein of anti-soviet sentiment—one sobering ink drawing made it past the censors only after the artist claimed it was a Nazi concentration camp when in fact it was a memory of Stalin’s own Gulag. Several other pieces celebrate the Uzbek culture which was almost wiped out under the Kremlin’s watch. Today, with over 40,000 pieces either on display or safely in storage, the priceless Savitsky collection remains a testament to the enduring power of the artist. Given recent headlines however, the struggle goes on.

The Desert Fox: The Story of Rommel (USA 1951) (7): If we believe Henry Hathaway’s docudrama on German general Erwin Rommel’s final years we walk away believing that he was a man who lived up to his legend: a brilliant tactician admired by both sides, a person of high moral standards, and a virtually indestructible thorn in the Allies’ side. He is certainly remembered for having played an ingenious game of cat and mouse with British general Bernard Montgomery during Hitler’s north African campaign and he is known to have taken exception to the Führer’s megalomaniacal approach to world domination—even to the point of being implicated in an assassination plot. But despite the research done on it Desmond Young’s biography, on which the movie is based, fills in the holes with hearsay and personal opinions (some from Rommel’s widow herself) while historical records suggest Rommel was not quite the upstanding human being portrayed in the film. Nevertheless Hathaway knows how to spin a good yarn and with a dashing James Mason in the lead, Jessica Tandy as his adoring wife, and a cast of highly capable extras (Luther Adler doing a suitably unhinged Adolf) he gives us a decent wartime drama whose questionable facts take a backseat to big screen spectacle. Weaving actual battle footage into the story, Hathaway follows Rommel’s personal life and very public military career from his waning successes in Africa to the humiliation of D-Day (although Hitler’s advisors were more to blame for that fiasco) to his final falling out with the supreme commander himself. With wonderfully composed sets and nary a second wasted, this is an energetic movie that keeps you engaged right up to that wrenching final wave good-bye. Just keep a grain or two of salt within reach.

Despicable Me 2 (USA 2013) (9): Chrome-domed, needle-nosed Gru, former evil scientist now grumpy foster father to three little moppets has gone straight, using his formidable intellect and army of banana-headed Minions to manufacture a line of tasty jams and jellies. But when he’s recruited by the AVL (Anti-Villain League) to defend the Earth he reluctantly becomes a super spy aided by his overly neurotic AVL partner Lucy Wilde. It seems some mysterious arch-villain has stolen a cache of deadly serum which can transform people and animals (and Minions) into furry purple monsters and is now hiding out with his ill-gotten gains in a popular shopping mall. Could it be the diminutive Asian wig salesman? The boisterous Mexican restauranteur? The bungling teddy bear maker? It’s up to Gru and Lucy (and the MINIONS!) to uncover his identity and save the world before time runs out. Brilliant animation, candy-coloured graphics, and some very funny cartoon action make this sequel superior in every way to its nevertheless respectable predecessor—a “21 Fart Gun Salute” was pure juvenile comedy gold while a Village People parody was a camp delight for us aging boomers. And those little babbling, googly-eyed, hotdog-shaped Minions are one of the most endearing creations to ever pop out of a graphic artist’s head. Too bad they felt the need to tack on a love interest between Gru and the scatterbrained Lucy, in fact the entire film could have done without her shrill annoying antics. Perhaps in Despicable Me 3 she really will get thrown into a volcano…

Detective Story (USA 1951) (9): Although sanitized by the Motion Picture Office to remove references to homosexuality and abortion, director William Wyler’s screen adaptation of Sidney Kingsley’s stage play still retains much of its punch over seventy years later. Being raised by an abusive father has left New York police detective James McLeod (an angry Kirk Douglas) unable to see the world in anything but absolute black and white with no room for moral ambiguity—guilty is guilty and innocent is innocent. This brittle, unyielding mindset has led to a near fanatical obsession with law and order which despite an impressive confession record has nevertheless put him at constant odds with his commander who frowns at the detective’s often violent treatment of suspects. But over the course of one evening shift McLeod’s fixation with crime and punishment will threaten to be his undoing: starting with two defendants who cross his path—an unscrupulous doctor whom the detective has been pursuing for months; and an otherwise honourable young veteran accused of stealing from his employer—and ending with a fateful visit from his wife (Best Actress nominee Eleanor Parker) who has a few skeletons of her own. Filmed almost entirely within the cramped quarters of a police precinct, Wyler shifts from harsh close-ups to panoramic pans (which ironically heighten the movie’s sense of enclosed space) while his cast of stars and eccentric extras seems to be in constant motion. Casual banter gives way to inflammatory confrontations, officious sermons are offset by moments of casual brutality, and throughout we see the chinks in McLeod’s armour slowly being chipped away as he realizes the world is not quite as dichromatic as he needs it to be. Douglas implodes, Parker alternately weeps and condemns, and they are joined by character actor William Bendix as a fellow detective with a conscience; veteran song & dance performer Burt Mustin making his screen debut at the age of 67 as a cantankerous janitor; and a 26-year old Lee Grant, also debuting, who earned a Best Supporting Actress nomination for her role as a busybody shoplifter loitering about while awaiting her arraignment in night court. A seething character study—picture a noirish episode of Barney Miller without the yucks—whose big screen presentation doesn’t lessen it’s small stage intimacy.

Detention (USA 2011) (6):  The students at Grizzly Lake High School are facing their upcoming prom with varying degrees of trepidation.  Class jock Billy has vowed to beat up class heartthrob Clapton; prima donna Ione is commandeering the cheerleader team; and outcast Riley simply hates her life.  The adults aren’t faring much better either, especially Principal Verge who rules the hallways like an embittered nazi foreman.  And just to add more fuel to everyone’s angst an axe-wielding psychopath dressed up like a damaged beauty queen has begun dispatching the student body starting with self-proclaimed “bitch” Taylor ( it stands for Beauty, Intelligence, Talent, Charisma, Hoobastank) who gets carved up before she can finish her manic monologue to the audience on how to be cool at school.  Who will be next…and does anyone even care?  Joseph Kahn and Mark Palermo’s sloppy satire on teen movies throws drunken punches at everything from The Breakfast Club and Freaky Friday to Saw, Scream, and Prom Night.  But not content to simply rip off they also throw in such giddy nonsense as soul transference, mutant alien students, and an extraterrestrial time-traveling bear—and they serve it all up with a crazy disjointed energy that suggest lots of long caffeine-fueled nights in front of the keyboard.  From the imaginatively vulgar opening credits (a puddle of vomit parts to reveal “Directed By”) to the shaggy dog sci-fi ending, Detention is juvenile and unforgivably stupid.  It is also a fresh, oddly hip, and indecently entertaining little indie (drug abuse and teen suicide are just a few of the altars Kahn and Palermo piss on) which reduced me to self-conscious giggles more than once.  This is what we may have gotten had John Carpenter and John Hughes collaborated over a bowl full of methamphetamine.  Maybe they should have.

The Devil and Father Amorth (USA 2017) (1): Director William Friedkin hits a career low with this trashy piece of reality TV which strives to convince the incurably naive that the fiction he presented in 1973’s The Exorcist actually has a basis in spiritual fact. Following Rome’s “official exorcist” Fr. Gabriele Amorth as he casts the devil out of an obviously disturbed Italian woman we are treated to a stagy bit of Catholic voodoo with family members mumbling prayers while the afflicted woman snarls on cue for the handheld camera. “We are legion…!” she bellows in a voice reminiscent of Jurassic Park’s velociraptor—and then, as if plagiarizing the bible wasn’t enough, she adds, “She is OURS!” right from pen of William Peter Blatty. But the real insult to intelligence occurs afterwards when Friedkin presents his videotaped “proof” to medical professionals, spoon feeding them exactly what he wants to hear in a shameless montage of bad editing and baseless conclusions. “Demonic possession is a real medical diagnosis!” he crows after a roundtable discussion with psychiatrists even though no one said any such thing…and then he shores up his assertion by interviewing priests and a crackpot “demonologist” who blames his own mental health issues on too much hobnobbing with Satan. Employing every manipulative trick in the book, from dramatic cutaways to sonic jolts, but falling woefully short on any solid evidence (some supernatural stuff supposedly did occur but we have to take his word for it because it was the one time he left his camera in the car. LOL!) one gets the impression the only real possession taking place is Friedkin’s obsession with proving himself right. Pure unadulterated bullshit.

Devil in a Blue Dress (USA 1995) (7): Vintage bric-a-brac and a jazz score set the mood for Carl Franklin’s adaptation of Walter Mosley’s novel, a convoluted thriller set in 1948 Los Angeles. Army veteran Easy Rawlins (Denzel Washington) is having trouble making his mortgage payments despite being a qualified mechanic, so when a mutual friend introduces him to a shady character with deep pockets and a seemingly simple job offer he’s willing to listen. All he has to do, according to the man, is find the missing girlfriend of a mayoral candidate and bring her home. What Easy is not prepared for however is the sinister turn his innocent queries will take when murder, corruption, and sickening secrets begin to follow in his wake—not to mention the pervasive racism which stretches from the police department to the mayor’s office itself. Washington makes a decent go as an honest man wading through treacherous and unfamiliar waters while a supporting cast ranges from a monotone Jennifer Beals wearing the blue dress to a star turn from Don Cheadle as Rawlins’ trigger-happy gangster friend, a compelling study of loyal sociopath and rabid hound dog. The pieces don’t quite fit together and the script occasionally lapses into noir clichés (in his role as a crooked politician, an overweight Maury Chaykin brings to mind Dom Deluise’s spoof in The Cheap Detective) but the twists and turns were entertaining enough to keep me in the game.

The Devil is a Woman (USA 1935) (7): In 19th century Spain two former friends—a dashing vagabond (Cesar Romero) and a wealthy governor (Lionel Atwill)—lose their hearts to the same conniving man-eater (Marlene Dietrich), a bleached blonde siren whose sexual charms reduce men to putty in her hands. But even as they strut about each other they’re all too aware that only one suitor can emerge victorious…unless of course the headstrong lady has other plans. Told mainly in flashback as the governor recounts his disastrous dalliances with “Concha”, director Josef von Sternberg’s battle of the sexes may be terribly dated—apparently the only way to treat a problematic woman is to leave her, kill her, or beat her—but by placing the story right in the middle of a raucous carnival he turns it into a glittery costume ball where masked revellers add a touch of the macabre, flying party streamers trap the two rivals like spider webs, and Travis Benton’s elaborate gowns turn Dietrich into a series of gossamer wedding cakes. Marlene is no Theda Bara but her sultry voice and flashing eyes come as close to erotic as the censors would allow (they even bleeped out the word “lover” with a well-timed firecracker). Her character alternately pouts or whines, repels or seduces, running hot and cold so erratically that her mood swings could suggest bi-polar disorder to the more analytical members of the audience. Romero’s somewhat wooden performance still elicits a swoon factor especially with that skin tight Zorro outfit which comes complete with cape and mask, and Atwill’s handsome sugar daddy generates either sympathy or castigation depending how big of a fool you believe a man is allowed to make of himself over one woman. Reportedly Dietrich’s favourite of all her films, it’s a big silly dazzling circus of balloons, merrymaking, and broken hearts with the great Marlene Dietrich shining from every frame. Oh those eyebrows…

The Devil's Backbone  (Spain 2001) (8):  During the Spanish Civil War a group of abandoned orphans witness firsthand man's propensity to inflict suffering upon others. Nightmare visions of a ghostly child compete with macabre images of violence and death......an unexploded bomb in a playground, a dead fetus in a jar, burned bodies covered in rubble. The film seems balanced on the edge of a spiritual abyss and even the faint glint of humanity at the end does little to dispel the darkness. "The Devil's Backbone" is both haunted and haunting.....well worth seeing.

The Devil’s Doorway (Ireland 2018) (6): When a statue of the Virgin Mary reportedly begins shedding tears of blood, a cynical old priest and impressionable seminarian are sent to investigate the potential miracle. But when they arrive at the dreary Catholic-run home for “fallen women” where the statue is housed—camera and tape recorder in tow—they run into an even greater mystery, one whose roots appear more diabolical than divine. Something unspeakable has been happening at this institution, something that goes back decades, and the current Mother Superior—an embittered old shrew of a woman—is not about to cooperate with the priests’ investigation. And then they visit the basement… Borrowing excessively from films like The Exorcist, Blair Witch, and As Above So Below, Aislinn Clarke’s “found footage” shocker, set in 1960, treads over terrain now grown overly familiar to horror aficionados everywhere, and he offers no new twists to keep things fresh. Furthermore the spooky sound effects and requisite jump scares featuring aggressive nuns and ghostly urchins fail to deliver more than a momentary shudder—mind you a midnight trek through an underground maze filmed in shaky Super8 does ratchet up the creep factor especially when the camera light starts flickering on and off. But in the final analysis, as a straight-up supernatural chiller Clarke’s film is only mildly engaging yet there is enough meat to his script to allow for a few interpretations. Taken as the story of one man’s crisis of faith brought on by a lifetime spent witnessing manmade evil (the old priest’s weariness jars with the younger one’s childlike belief) the movie becomes a spiritual metaphor with allusions to Dante’s Inferno. And when viewed as an indictment against the shoddy way in which the Catholic church has failed women and children over the years (Mother Superior has more than a few bones to pick with Rome), the film’s horror trappings suddenly take on a tragic tone. Considering the impoverished workhouse in which the film unfolds—a place where unwed mothers and other such undesirables were kept under primitive conditions, their children confiscated—was based on historical fact, the inclusion of demonic influences seems almost superfluous.

Devil’s Island (Iceland 1996) (5): In the years following WWII, American soldiers stationed in Iceland slowly migrated home leaving their barracks of pre-fab quonset huts behind. One such abandoned outpost, nicknamed “Camp Thule” by its new inhabitants, is now home to families of squatters, petty thieves, and the marginally employed. Despised by the locals and largely ignored by the government (except for the occasional police incident) the residents’ lives consist largely of drinking binges and domestic squabbling—-although an odd sense of community keeps them supporting one another as best they can. When forty-ish Gógó sees a chance to escape to the USA with her new American husband she jumps at it, leaving her three grown children in the care of her henpecked father and bible-wielding mother, much to the jealous envy of her neighbours. But when her son Baddi (a prophetic name if ever there was one) goes to visit her stateside he returns to Thule a changed man. Now dressed up as a cross between James Dean and Elvis Presley, with a bad attitude to match, he swaggers around camp spouting snatches of American pop lyrics and getting into as much trouble as possible. Like an aimless rebel without a clue, Baddi enjoys his new sense of celebrity even as he bitterly criticizes everyone he once called friend and family. But his drunken brawls and dime-store machismo will have far greater consequences than even he can imagine… Set in the 1950s, Devil’s Island plays like a loud, white trash version of American Graffiti only with more mud and less whimsy. The cardboard characters and choreographed misery seem aimless at times with people yelling at each other as if on cue and the camp’s more eccentric inhabitants (namely Baddi’s spell-casting grandmother and the alcoholic ex-athlete next door) provide what passes for comedic relief. The resulting free-for-all tends to downplay the film’s more tragic elements while a poignant, and very beautiful, musical score of sad strings is lost amidst all the shouting and drinking. Some evocative cinematography aside, Devil’s Island proved to be a crass and unpleasant experience overall with very little dramatic redemption in the end.

The Devil’s Rain (USA 1975) (4): Of all the best worst movies ever made, Robert Fuest’s lurid tale of Satan worshippers hiding out in a desert ghost town certainly deserves an honourable mention. Corbis, the leader of this infernal congregation, has been waging a war with the local Preston family for a very long time, ever since one of their ancestors stole a magical book which he desperately needs in order to carry out his devilish plan. Now, with only two members of the Preston clan left to oppose him, Corbis and his followers are ready for their final assault to regain the book and fulfill a most evil prophecy… A pyrotechnic climax filled with wailing souls and melty-face special effects hardly makes up for the film’s hokey script and ham performances but there is a charming tackiness to the black mass scenes—especially when Corbis sprouts a pair of horns and billygoat beard (baa Lucifer, baa!)—and the whole cast seems so self-conscious you can only feel sorry for them. But the real blasphemy is seeing the likes of Ernest Borgnine, Ida Lupino, and Keenan Wynn sharing top billing with William Shatner—someone must have sold their soul for that one.

Diabolique [Les Diaboliques] (France 1955) (10): Two women form an unlikely partnership when they conspire to murder the cruel and despotic headmaster of a private boarding school—his wife…and his mistress. Finding solace in their shared misery Christina, the frail and very Catholic (read: guilt-riddled) spouse and Nicole, the fiercely determined “other woman”, have had enough of Michel’s violent outbursts and physical abuse. Despite the fact they all work at the same academy, an institution actually bequeathed to Christina by her wealthy family, the two desperate women manage to carry out their elaborate plan which not only leaves Michel dead but manages to make it look like an accident as well. But they are not prepared for the macabre twists which follow as their carefully laid plans for the “perfect murder” begin to come undone. First an unexpected delivery raises their suspicions, then a bizarre sighting throws them into a fearful frenzy leading to wild accusations as each woman threatens to frame the other for the crime. Meanwhile, the presence of a kindly old private eye investigating the husband’s disappearance looms ever larger… True to its name, director H. G. Clouzot’s masterful suspense thriller is diabolical indeed (the original title translates as “The Devils”). Watching these two women—one already suffering from interminable pangs of conscience, the other consumed with quiet rage—slowly unravel provides some of the most gripping cinema I’ve seen in some time. With a script that reads like a series of land mines and gloomy B&W cinematography which exploits all those narrow hallways and stuffy rooms, Clouzot establishes an air of anxiety and doubt then slowly increases the tension until it threatens to erupt into full blown paranoia. Things are kept in check however thanks to his assured hand and a powerful cast highlighted by the late great Simone Signoret as the angry mistress. Unfortunately the character of the fatherly investigator seems more of an appeasement to sensitive members of the audience rather than a crucial plot device, but Clouzot still manages to throw in one last eerie little twist before the final credits. Apparently when he bought the rights to the novel on which the film is based he narrowly beat out Alfred Hitchcock. But I doubt that even the great man himself could have produced a more effective yarn. Good devilish fun!

Diamonds Are Forever (UK 1971) (4): Someone is amassing a fortune in smuggled diamonds and it’s up to James Bond (an annoyingly cocksure Sean Connery) to not only discover how, but why. Following a trail of corpses that stretches from Amsterdam to Los Angeles to Las Vegas Bond eventually comes face to face with the brilliant madman whose megalomania will soon have the world’s superpowers at his mercy. I admit to running hot and cold when it comes to these 007 escapades but this particular exercise in swashbuckling overkill left me pretty much frozen. For those so inclined there are the expected sexual conquests (a disco-coiffed Jill St. John gets her crack at being the first American “Bond Girl”) only this time around they’re rendered slightly more palatable by racy innuendo which must have been mildly shocking for the time—“I’m Plenty!” says the buxom brunette shortly before her bra comes off, “Plenty O’Toole.” “You must be named after your father…” shoots back Bond. Gasp!! Testosterone-laced sexism aside however, it was the non-stop onslaught of ridiculous plot twists and miracle escapes (a moon buggy?!) that finally did me in. After being subjected to two hours’ worth of Playboy ninjas, psychopathic gay hitmen, and cartoonish special effects which looked as if they were drawn by hand I finally gave up even though my inner cine-masochist kept me watching until the mercifully short final credits. I do understand the adolescent fantasy factor so integral to these films but one’s intelligence can only be insulted so many times before the mind turns off. Austin Powers couldn’t have been much sillier but at least Mike Myers was in on the joke. Nice views of retro Las Vegas, and Shirley Bassey belts out the title song like a pro.

Diamonds of the Night (Czech 1964) (8): While being transported to a Concentration Camp two Czech teenagers manage to jump off the train and disappear into the German countryside. Already weakened from lack of food and now lost in the middle of a deep dark forest, their headlong flight will take on surreal dimensions when signs and visitations begin to emerge from the shadows: a blank-faced farmer’s wife causes psychological turmoil when she offers them a crust of bread; a colony of ravenous ants dog their every move; and fitful memories of happier times haunt their dreams. But their small taste of freedom is tenuous at best for not far behind them a heavily armed ad hoc posse of arthritic old pensioners has gathered to give chase like a relentless pack of toothless bloodhounds. With a running time of only 67 minutes Jan Nemec’s WWII fable (apparently based on a true story) turns a cross country chase into an existential nightmare as his young protagonists flee in every direction only to find themselves back at the beginning. Using silent flashbacks, repetitive sequences, and dreamlike tangents which may or may not be literal, Nemec challenges both his characters and his audience to separate fact from fancy—and a maddeningly cryptic final segment approaches metaphysical territory suggesting, as it does, that perhaps “escape” was the wrong word to use. Shot in bleak B&W, Diamonds of the Night boasts one of Czech cinema’s more famous sequences: a frantic, unbroken tracking shot over hills and through bushes as the young men scrabble through the dirt and bullets whine past their heads.

Diary of a Chambermaid (France 1964) (6): Director Luis Buñuel, bane of the bourgeoisie, is up to his old tricks again with this snide satire on the French mindset leading up to WWII. Parisian maid Céléstine leaves the city behind in order to work at the wealthy Monteil family’s country estate where it soon becomes obvious to the cunning domestic that things are not quite right with her new employers. Patriarch M. Monteil is a crusty old man who enjoys shooting butterflies with a shotgun and indulging in his fetish for women’s footwear, his daughter is a frigid shrew who values possessions above people, and her husband is an insatiable satyr desperate to hump the leg of anything in a skirt. Rounding out the roster is Joseph the handyman, an unrepentant fascist who takes great delight in reading defamatory articles about “wops and kikes”, and M. Mauger the left-leaning neighbour who shows his disgust for the right-wing Monteils by depositing his garbage in their backyard. At first amused by the perversions and political rhetoric around her, Céléstine is content to simply play one bastard off of another. But when a horrific crime is committed in the nearby woods, the perpetrator of which is well known to her, her moral outrage becomes a form of twisted collaboration served up with the best of intentions. There are no clear winners in Buñuel’s universe where self-serving fascists and liberals alike indulge in petty squabbles and meaningless ritual. On the other hand, the somewhat egotistical Céléstine is not exactly the “conscientious observer” she believes herself to be as she ingratiates herself with both sides. Lacking both the energy and sardonic wit of his other films this is definitely not Buñuel’s best shot, but it manages to inflict a few wounds just the same.

The Diary of a Teenage Girl (USA 2015) (9): “I had sex today…holy shit!” Thus begins the secret tape-recorded diary of fifteen-year old Minnie Goetz (22-year old Bel Powley) who’s just lost her virginity to her mother’s boyfriend, Monroe (Alexander Skarsgård). But this is San Francisco and it’s 1976 and mom (Kristen Wiig) is a coke-snorting Bohemian with enough problems of her own to not notice the fact that Monroe has begun dipping his stick in her daughter’s tank. At least until she finds the box of cassettes… No, Marielle Heller’s screen adaptation of Phoebe Gloeckner’s graphic novel is not a lurid potboiler about statutory rape and ruined lives but rather it traces the journey of one remarkable young woman as she manoeuvres her way through that emotional minefield called adolescence, and it does so with flashes of unexpected humour and a no-holds-barred candour sure to ruffle conservatives everywhere. Bel Powley’s pouty features and perpetual wide-eyed expressions perfectly capture the essence of what it means to be fifteen, horny, and awkward—her giggly girlish forays with best friend Kimmie offset beautifully by taped passages which transcend age and gender to stir up our own memories, both old and fresh. ”It feels like there are little weights hanging from my heart that swing and tug every time I move, every time the wind blows…” her diary reads while she assesses her naked body in a mirror and finds it wanting. Already a gifted artist, Minnie’s journey is punctuated by her Aline Kominsky-inspired ink drawings which Heller brings to animated life at just the right moments whether it be pre-coital butterflies scattering from her hair or an older, wiser Kaminsky offering up sage advice as she floats beside her down a busy street. Understandably, as this is told from the viewpoint of a teenaged girl just beginning to flex her sense of independence, the adults are more or less clueless with mom easing the pain of growing older with pot and partying, the ex (Christopher Meloni) trying petulantly to intellectualize everything, and Monroe himself a bag of neuroses which only becomes apparent when he and Minnie drop LSD (she imagines herself flying, he sees monsters in the window). And Abby Wait, in a small but crucial role as Minnie’s younger bespectacled sister, is there to provide the innocence against which everyone else is measured. Kudos as well to the art, costume, and set design crews who evoke a hazy golden vision of disco era San Francisco that would make Armistead Maupin himself feel homesick. A disarmingly honest, semi-autobiographical memoir featuring a self-imagined heroine who is both resilient and terribly naïve—a brush with drug culture films like a nightmare and her skewed body image sounds all too familiar. Refusing to either pass judgement or edit itself, the movie’s carnal passages are unapologetic as Minnie experiments with her newfound sexuality (first as a failed panacea for loneliness then as a route to self discovery) and the personal growth which underpins it all unfolds naturally and without hyperbole. Refreshingly free of soapboxes, rhetoric, and bombast, this is a simple tale of one young female skipping and stumbling towards maturity and as such it provides a fine example of what feminist cinema can look like. It’s about fucking well time too!

Die Hard (USA 1988) (8): When he crashes his estranged wife’s office Christmas party high atop one of Los Angeles’ swankiest skyscrapers, hard-nosed New York cop John McLane (Bruce Willis at his sexiest) is in for more than holiday cheer for her CEO has been targeted by a gang of murderous German thieves intent on stealing a fortune in bonds from the company vault and they won’t stop until they get it. Barely avoiding becoming a hostage himself, McLane embarks upon a dangerous game of cat-and-mouse with the ringleader (Alan Rickman giving us one of cinema’s vilest slimeballs) as he singlehandedly tries to save the day… In order to thoroughly enjoy John McTiernan’s explosive thriller—an instant classic upon its release—you’ll have to cease rolling your eyes at the constant barrage of impossible escapes and lucky coincidences and simply strap yourself in for what proves to be one deliriously bumpy ride. Adding just the right amount of dark humour to offset the copious bloodletting, and never letting his cameras sit idle for more than a few moments, McTiernan’s testosterone-fuelled bullet-fest starts off slow enough but once the bad guys get down to business his high-rise becomes a vertical remake of High Noon with shattering glass and stuff going up in great balls of fire. Willis scampers between floors like a heavily armed kid in a jungle gym while the background score keeps pace with orchestral jolts and snatches of Beethoven (a deliberate nod to Kubrick’s Clockwork Orange) punctuated by staccato bursts of machine gun fire. A magnificently silly and wholly unrealistic vigilante fantasy given some credence by Willis’ self-deprecating smirk and Rickman’s seriocomic Eurotrash fop. About the only letdown is the portrayal of the LAPD as bungling Keystone Kops led by a blustering inept (Paul Gleason reprising his Breakfast Club persona) and a pair of FBI agents who are more psycho than the terrorists themselves. The perfect non-Christmas, non-family film aimed squarely at the Rambo in all of us. Yippee-ki-yay motherfucker!

Die Hard 2 (USA 1990) (7): It’s Christmas Eve (again) and at Washington’s Dulles airport off-duty LAPD officer John McClane (Bruce! Willis!) is eagerly awaiting the arrival of his wife’s flight so they can celebrate the holidays together. But an encroaching blizzard proves to be the least of his worries for this is the night a crack team of mercenaries have decided to stage a violent takeover of Dulles, threatening mass destruction unless their demands—the handover of a deposed South American dictator currently en route to Washington on extradition orders, plus a getaway jet—are met. Now with dozens of incoming flights, including his wife’s, getting low on fuel as they’re forced to maintain holding patterns, and an airport security team run by an incredulous bonehead (Dennis Franz) who’s more of a hindrance than an asset, McClane must once again singlehandedly save the day by any and all means possible or impossible… I’ve always maintained that the only time a movie offends me is when the director treats me like a gullible idiot willing to swallow any nonsense they throw my way. Considering this film’s patently ridiculous plot devices, not to mention complete disregard for everything from the laws of physics to airport protocol, I should roundly condemn Die Hard 2 as one of the most offensive things to come out of Hollywood. But Bruce Willis’ wisecracking one-man strike force is just so damn loveable especially with that smug attitude, and the comic book action is so unapologetic as it dares us to roll our eyes at even the most egregious assaults on common sense, that I found myself having to stifle the occasional whoop and holler—much to my shame. So what if a dozen seasoned marksman firing machine guns from ten feet away fail to hit McClane? So what if an entire modern airport can be rendered helpless just by cutting a few wires? So what if a simple custodian just happens to have a treasure trove of classified documents? And forget depth, moral ambivalence is for wimps for these bad guys are slime personified and Willis’ good guy couldn’t be more glorious if he flew through the air with a cape (actually he does fly through the air a couple of times). Director Renny Harlin keeps things fast and furious as he alternates the action between cockpits and airport hallways, and an open-ended script manages a couple of twists while still allowing Willis ample opportunity to mug for the cameras and ad-lib a few good lines. “How does the same shit happen to the same guy twice?” his character ruminates while surveying an industrial setting just a little too similar to what he faced in the original Die Hard—one of many such in-jokes. It’s called “profit incentive” Officer McClane, and I for one am glad it was strong enough to produce this silly sequel. Bonnie Bedelia co-stars as the stoic Mrs. McClane, Sheila McCarthy is a determined reporter, and former U.S. senator Fred Thomson plays the tough airport manager.

Die Hard with a Vengeance (USA 1995) (8): In this third instalment of the franchise maverick police officer John McClane (Bruce Willis, yippee ki yay motherfucker!) is down and out in Manhattan having lost his job, his wife, and most of his sobriety. But after he’s targeted by “Simon”, the the leader of a terrorist group (a dyed and frosted Jeremy Irons proving blondes have more bombs), he’s quickly called back into service. Sent on one telephoned wild goose chase after another by Simon—failure to complete each task in a timely manner results in something blowing up—McClane and the audience are both left to ponder why he’s being targeted and what, exactly, is the terrorists’ ultimate goal… As in the previous two Die Hard films plot takes a distant backseat to personalities and special effects. Bedecked in grimy tank top and blood stains, Willis makes sarcasm sexy yet again with his wisecracking, ass-kicking character wreaking havoc throughout New York City commandeering automobiles, subway cars, trucks, and helicopters while loading and reloading whatever weapon he happens to be holding at the time. And he’s joined by Samuel L. Jackson as the ornery proprietor of a Harlem pawn shop who goes from innocent bystander to reluctant sidekick when he accidentally throws a wrench in Simon’s plans. Willis and Jackson mine a rather straightforward script for all the laughs they can get (although Jackson’s “angry black man” schtick gets a little tired) and watching them crash through rush hour traffic, jump off bridges, and tap dance around ricocheting bullets while tearing into each other one gets the impression that they actually enjoyed themselves. But of course it’s the explosive effects which make you want to stick around and director John McTiernan’s team doesn’t disappoint with car chases that rival The French Connection and an underground subway disaster that just doesn’t stop. Yes it’s a cartoonish caper which couldn’t have been any more improbable had its two protagonists sported capes and superhero leotards, but that is precisely what makes these films so damn endearing. Between Willis’ self-deprecating smirks, Jackson’s bug-eyed rants, and Irons’ menacing attempts at an eastern European accent, this is a big pyrotechnical comic book of a film that requires little more than a 2-hour suspension of disbelief—and maybe some popcorn. Canada’s own Graham Greene co-stars as an NYPD detective tasked with saving a whole gymnasium full of kids.

Dillinger (USA 1973) (7): Despite a few Hollywood embellishments writer/director John Milius’ bullet-riddled biopic of 1930’s bank robber John Dillinger stays surprisingly close to the facts. As played by Warren Oates, Dillinger was an emotionally unstable egotist who once bragged that no jail could hold him and actually proved it on at least one occasion. Along with his posse of colourful hoodlums like Baby Face Nelson and Pretty Boy Floyd, he waged a brazen campaign of violence and murder throughout the Midwest becoming a depression-era folk hero of sorts to the very people whose life savings he was stealing. And then it all came to an end at the hand of the now legendary “Woman in Red”. Made on a modest budget but starring an impressive cast (Harry Dean Stanton, Richard Dreyfuss, Cloris Leachman…) what Milius lacked in technical equipment he more than made up for with superb editing, authentic location shots, and a masterful use of sound—ominous footsteps ascend a staircase, machine gun fire shatters panes of glass, a dying breath gurgles wetly. Narrated in parts by Melvin Purvis (Ben Johnson), the G-man determined to bring the gang and its leader to justice—or an immediate grave—it becomes clear right from the start that Dillinger was a very bad person but that doesn’t stop Milius from painting an aura around his protagonist anyway, presenting him as a mad yet charismatic individualist determined to get what he wants or else go out in a blaze of glory. It is the myriad scenes of gunplay however that prove to be the most problematic, gripping images of bullets tearing through walls and bodies as policemen topple and bad guys shout defiance become almost fetishistic in their bloody detail. In that respect then, a truly American film.

Diner (USA 1982) (5): In American Graffiti George Lucas immortalized the year 1962 with a tale of friends on the brink of adulthood cruising southern California’s Sunset Strip one last time. Ten years later Barry Levinson tried to play the nostalgia card again, this time set in grungy Baltimore just prior to New Year’s Eve 1959, and the result is a tedious hodgepodge of adolescent ramblings and juvenile pranks that for some mysterious reason still garnered a fair degree of critical acclaim. Five college buddies facing their grown-up years with the usual mix of angst and befuddlement find solace in the local diner where they meet regularly to muse on sex, money, and gossip over burgers and fries. Conveniently sporting one glaring personality flaw apiece (one is a manic slacker, one an oily lothario, one a regretful new husband with OCD, yet another a timid virgin about to be married…you get the idea) the days leading up to 1960 will test both their friendship and individual mettle. Or so you’d hope. Only there isn’t much growing up to do other than the virgin letting loose at a strip club, the lothario developing a budding respect for women, and the married guy realizing his life isn’t so bad after all. The soundtrack of old tunes adds back-up without adding depth (compared to Graffiti whose soundtrack was as vital as any other character) although the period touches are impeccable—those cars! But Levinson leaves too many dangling threads and despite good performances from his cast of future somebodies (Steve Guttenberg, Mickey Rourke, Kevin Bacon, Paul Reiser, Ellen Barkin) there simply isn’t enough meat to a script which consists mainly of bullshit sessions, posturing, and the usual animosity between generations with slacker Kevin Bacon’s successful older sibling coming across as an unimaginative stuffed shirt. One scene did impress me however—a couple discussing a dire relationship problem in a television studio are uncannily mirrored by the dialogue between two lovers in an old film being aired at the same time. A rather paltry recommendation but it’s the only thing that stood out in an otherwise pointless and meandering mess.

The Dirty Dozen (UK/USA 1967) (7): Lee Marvin heads a cast of Hollywood heavies in this unexceptional combat tale which nevertheless manages to entertain. Towards the end of WWII American army officer Major Reisman reluctantly agrees to head a suicide mission against an opulent French château crawling with Nazi bigwigs. His goal: kill as many Germans as possible, blow everything up, and then try to get back to Allied territory in one piece. Since chances of actually surviving the exercise are practically nil no soldier in his right mind is willing to volunteer therefore Reisman is assigned a makeshift platoon of men not in their right minds…namely a dozen hardcore military prisoners willing to sign up in exchange for having their sentences commuted. With only a few months to turn this ragtag unit of murderers, rapists, and head cases into a squad of elite paratroopers Reisman has his work cut out. But will they be able to destroy one of the most heavily fortified German outposts in Normandy on the eve of D-Day? And who (if any) will survive to tell about it? Even if its standard wartime script lacks any real chemistry or tension and the action occasionally comes across as darker Disney fare (although a fiery “final solution” ploy is pretty grotesque) Dozen’s 2½ hour running time is nicely paced and some elaborate pyrotechnics provide an adequate payoff. Besides, it’s fun to watch some of yesterday’s stars doing what they do best; though in this case their best is not quite good enough.

Dirty Grandpa (USA 2016) (1): It’s hard to picture the great Robert De Niro being so desperate for a paycheque that he would debase himself for this vulgar, tasteless, and insultingly idiotic road movie. But he did and in so doing gave his career a low point so far down I doubt he’ll ever surpass it. The day after his grandmother’s funeral and a week before his own lavish wedding to a vapid socialite, budding lawyer Jason Kelly (Zac Efron, equally desperate?) is roped into driving his irascible grandfather, Dick, from Atlanta to south Florida supposedly to help the old man work through his grieving. Grandpa, however, has another agenda in mind—after forty years of being faithful to his now deceased wife he is hornier than hell and obsessed with getting laid. Enter Lenore, a slutty vacuous college girl with a fetish for wrinkled flesh (Aubrey Plaza giving the film its only funny lines) whom Dick happens to meet in a parking lot and before you can drop a viagra Dick and Jason are off to spend Spring Break in Daytona Beach with Lenore and her friends (one of whom is an old flame of Jason’s…cue plot twist!) where a meth-fuelled frat party, meth-fuelled rave, and run-in with a pair of meth-fuelled cops await… As if being subjected to a non-stop slew of juvenile jokes centred on pussies, cocks, and drugs aren’t bad enough director Dan Mazer ratchets up the insults with a tweaking Efron prancing about with a stuffed toy dangling off his dick, a tasered Dermot Mulroney (playing Jason’s uptight dad) with magic marker penises drawn all over his face, and an insufferably annoying De Niro masturbating into a kleenex (or doing “number three” as he puts it). But Mazer gives audiences their final black eye towards the end when he shifts gears and tries to turn this shit show into a warm fuzzy all about following one’s dreams and making peace with the past. And the ultimate insult? IT ISN’T EVEN FUNNY! The next time De Niro finds himself strapped for cash perhaps he should take the high road and start a GoFundMe account instead.

Dirty Mary Crazy Larry (USA 1974) (7): Peter Fonda proves once again that Jane inherited most of the talent and a pop-eyed Susan George hams her way through with all the emotional conviction of your standard muppet, yet there is something to this 70s drive-in movie that grows on you. In desperate need of funds to buy a new set of wheels, race car driver Larry (Fonda) and his faithful mechanic Deke (Adam Roarke) rob a supermarket and head out on the highway. But a huge wrench is thrown into their plans when Larry’s manic one-night stand Mary (George), decides to tag along—and she won’t take “NO!” for an answer. Essentially a 93-minute car chase, director John Hough keeps things clipping along with screeching tires, daredevil stunts, and a succession of crashing police cars as a no-nonsense sheriff (Vic Morrow) gives chase by land and air. The script is sophomoric at best (who commits kidnapping and robbery without hiding their face?) and the stagey ending arrives so abruptly I didn’t know whether to gasp or laugh out loud. I chose to laugh. Look for an uncredited Roddy McDowall as the supermarket manager. VROOM! VROOM!

A Dirty Shame  (USA 2004) (6):  It's a film about sex addicts that take over a sedate Baltimore neighbourhood. It stars Mink Stole and Johnny Knoxville (as the charismatic sex guru with the golden tongue). There's a cameo by David Hassellhoff taking a poop. It's directed by John Waters. That's really all you need to know. Choose wisely.

The Disappearance of Eleanor Rigby: Them (USA 2014) (6): Writer/director Ned Benson’s arthouse weeper about a short-lived marriage becoming derailed was originally presented as two separate features, each one exploring the reaction of one partner, which he proceeded to chop up and then restitch into this two-hour endurance test. With their relationship on the rocks Conor Ludlow (James McAvoy) throws himself into his failing restaurant business while at the same time trying to re-establish some connection with his thrice divorced father (Irish great Ciarán Hinds). His partner Eleanor Rigby (Jessica Chastain) returns to her privileged life in upstate Connecticut where she enrols in esoteric college courses and suffers through her white bread parents’ fumbled attempts at solicitude (William Hurt and Isabelle Huppert, both excellent). But the past is not so easily laid to rest and the wounded young couple—the source of all this painful recrimination is only gradually revealed in offhand comments and brief flashbacks—can’t quite bring themselves to cut those last remaining ties. Visually arresting with Manhattan’s many moods providing appropriately hip backdrops and featuring a score of soft indie croons you can’t help but like (a chill version of Bowie’s “Wild is the Wind” was beautiful), Benson's opus certainly has the makings of something great especially with a dream cast that also includes Viola Davis and Bill Hader. McAvoy alternately rails and despairs in a convincing American accent while Chastain’s porcelain features go from rage to remorse at the drop of a well-meaning platitude. But it’s the script which proves to be the production’s Achille’s Heel—its klunky metaphors and stilted sentimentality had me wondering whether or not Dr. Phil would receive a co-writing credit. “Tragedy is a foreign country…” drones Eleanor’s academic WASP of a father, “…We don’t know how to talk to the natives…” (huh?) and then there’s the haphazard scrawl of urban graffiti that offers up a deep thought, that titular Beatle’s song (“lonely people…blah blah”), and a strategically placed poster for Lelouch’s A Man and a Woman which practically leaps off Eleanor’s bedroom wall to smack you upside the head just in case you didn’t get the allusion. Commonplace for all its artiness, it’s still striking enough to keep you watching although come morning you may wonder why you bothered.

The Disaster Artist (USA 2017) (8): In 2003 a little indie drama called The Room premiered at a Los Angeles theatre and promptly died a quick and painful death. Cited by some as the Citizen Kane of bad films, it was such a perfectly awful mess that it’s co-star actually wrote a book about how it came to be, a book which director James Franco turned into this Oscar-nominated docudrama (oh sweet irony!) The film was the brainchild of writer/director/producer/leading man Tommy Wiseau, an enigmatic and downright batty auteur who claimed to be from New Orleans but instead resembled Vlad the Impaler with an accent like Bela Lugosi having multiple strokes. Drawing from a seemingly bottomless bank account (the film’s final budget was an estimated six million) Wiseau joined forces with fellow acting school failure Greg Sestero to create what was meant to be a window on his troubled soul (actually a directionless slapdash love triangle of sorts) but instead became a beacon of badness that continues to wow audiences in cultish midnight screenings. Real life brothers James and Dave Franco take the leads—Dave playing it straight as the committed but talentless Greg and director James owning every scene as the wildly flamboyant but equally untalented Tommy—with an impressive cast of A and B-listers taking up the slack (Seth Rogen is particularly good as the production’s bemused script supervisor and de factor director). But much like Ed Wood, Tim Burton’s 1995 paean to bad cinema’s best director, Franco manages to elicit laughs and amazement while at the same time remaining respectful to his subjects—so much so that Wiseau and Sestero actually have walk-on cameos and clips of their film appear over the closing credits. Wiseau’s opus may have been an abysmal and misguided stink bomb, but Franco paints the man himself as one having the passionate soul of an artist even if he is shackled with the creative means of a mere vassal.

Disconnect (USA 2012) (7): It’s evening in a nondescript American city and as people take to their smartphones, laptops, and tablets a collection of stories take shape. A couple still mourning the death of their infant son have grown apart causing the wife to seek solace in a chatroom support group—a decision which may destroy far more than her marriage. A journalist investigating the exploitation of minors on pay-per-view sex sites finds her own sense of ethical superiority challenged when one of her subjects crosses that fine line. And a malicious highschool prankster has a crisis of conscience when a bit of cyber mischief aimed at the class loner goes viral. Whether you take the title of Henry Alex Rubin’s hardwired drama to be a passive noun or imperative command depends on your own point of view but one thing is for certain: each one of his characters is broken in some way be it emotionally, financially, or morally. And in this age of the Internet, where reaching out to another human being has become a mechanical keyboard shortcut, their various attempts to connect more often than not achieve the exact opposite. Beautifully filmed, with chatroom text often superimposed over intimate close-ups as if to accentuate the degrees of separation between them, Rubin’s characters are perpetually logged in yet tuned out to the real people within arm’s reach. At one point a hospital monitor displays ghostlike images of a dying brain and you realize this could just as easily be a youtube curio. Regrettably, what could have been a great film is marred by a montage of slow-motion clips accompanied by crashing waves of passionate strings as Rubin tries to tie all his loose threads together in a series of highly unlikely (though dramatically cathartic) resolutions. After two hours of slow steady build-up this style of emotional manipulation comes across as studied and facile. Good performances from the likes of Jason Bateman and Alexander Skarsgård however, and the diverse soundtrack of grunge and chamber pieces seem oddly complimentary.

Dishonored (USA 1931) (8): During WWI Viennese war widow-turned-prostitute Marie Kolverer (Marlene Dietrich) is recruited by the head of the Austrian Secret Service who believes that, as a spy, her powers of seduction will be able to glean more information from the enemy than a mere undercover male. And he’s right. Easily cracking her first big case Marie’s next assignment will be to bag notorious Russian spy Colonel Kranau (Victor McLaglen) by any means possible (wink, wink). But Kranau’s own masculine charms and burly good looks—not to mention quick wits—may prove too much for even the sultry Marie to resist… Dietrich practically glows in B&W playing a pragmatic young woman whose hard life lessons have left her unafraid of either living or dying, yet whose libido is still very much alive and kicking. But there is a sense of vulnerability to her character for even as she leads spies and traitors to their executions one can sense a moral ambivalence behind those luminous eyes as she takes one nervous drag after another on that dangling cigarette. Perhaps director Josef von Sternberg meant her to be a kind of proto-feminist: Strong, resourceful, and unapologetic for her life thus far, and willing to sacrifice her own feelings for the greater good—at least up to a point. Unfortunately McLaglen is left in her dust, faced with Dietrich’s innate sensuality and big screen presence his character is little more than brawny huff and puff unable to even smile convincingly. Nevertheless, despite their mismatched allures the two still generate erotic sparks even if the camera stops just shy of the duvet, and it’s this sexual tension which adds a bit of spice to an otherwise formulaic espionage drama. Credit must also be given to cinematographer Lee Garmes whose imaginative lens goes from bird’s eye panoramas of battleground chaos to chaos of a different kind at an officers’ wild bacchanal to a striking moment of intimacy between Austrian and Russian with Kranau’s broad physique silhouetted against a windowpane lit by sweeping searchlights. A softly lit romance of sorts, but one with a hardened edge devoid of the usual sentimentality and an ending as cold as its wintry setting.

Distant Voices, Still Lives (UK 1988) (8): Using his own adolescent experiences as a template, writer/director Terence Davies deconstructs a British working class family circa 1940s to 1950s and reassembles the pieces to form a cinematic mosaic of short clips and frozen tableaux. Non-linear in its approach, this precursor to 1992’s The Long Day Closes gives us a series of impressions which gradually add up to a cohesive story about three teenaged siblings coming of age in a drab household ruled by a violently tyrannical father (Pete Postlethwaite) who indiscriminately bullied and beat them and their long-suffering mother (Freda Dowie). Weaving between moments of surrealism (Dad decorates the Christmas tree in a softly lit scene of familial bliss that probably never happened) to hyperrealism (weekly pub gatherings give way to spontaneous singalongs) to arthouse affectation (characters go motionless as if posing for an artist), Davies' visuals, made all the more rich by their sheer plainness, are further enhanced by a score that likewise shifts between pop songs, church chorales, and sombre dirges. It’s a heady mix for sure, but Davies directs with the eye of a poet and his cast perfectly matches the scenery: Postlethwaite’s dad lashes out like the impotent despot he actually is—a picture of him on the wall goes largely unnoticed—while Dowie takes his blows and still manages to smile past the bruises. As the kids Angela Walsh (Eileen) carries unresolved conflicts which become apparent when she chooses her own husband; Lorraine Ashbourne (Maisie) stares daggers despite dad’s painful humiliations; and Dean Williams (Tony) has a love-hate relationship with the old man which taints every aspect of his life, including his own wedding day. A deeply personal pastiche anchored in a specific time and place yet possessing a fluidity which leaves you feeling as if you’ve just flipped through a family album. Remarkable.

The Divorcee (USA 1930) (6): Norma Shearer stars as the sweet and effervescent Jerry, a “great girl with a man’s point of view” engaged to Ted, an equally doe-eyed and doting newspaper reporter. Three years into their blissful marriage however it all comes crashing down when Jerry learns of her husband’s one night stand with whore-du-jour Janice whose mouth is even bigger than her ample hips. Lamely trying to convince her that it didn’t mean a thing and suggesting she “snap out of it” Ted tries to carry on as if nothing happened, but Jerry is not so easily convinced. Angry and depressed, she winds up evening the score one night with Ted’s best friend. With the tables suddenly turned Ted’s reaction is anything but understanding; apparently a casual affair is okay as long as no male egos are harmed in the process. With her husband strutting around like a wounded peacock stubbornly refusing to demonstrate the same leniency that was expected of her, Jerry becomes all too aware of the double standard which permeates society and decides to rebel against it. One quickie divorce later and he’s a drunken boor while she reinvents herself as a born again party girl. An amazingly enlightened story for such an early film, The Divorcee crackles with some smart dialogue and over-the-top acting (it’s an early talkie after all). Unfortunately this is still 1930 and people weren’t ready for independent, sexually aggressive women who held their heads high while the final credits rolled. But while the ending may be a disappointing cop-out, at least Ms. Shearer’s character managed to rattle the cage a bit.

Dixie Ray Hollywood Star (USA 1983) (9): John Leslie, looking like Al Pacino overdosing on viagra, is a veritable one-man show in Anthony Spinelli’s impressive XXX homage to 1940’s film noir. He plays a private dick (ha ha) trying to discover who’s been blackmailing a former movie star with some compromising photos taken at one of her drunken sex parties. Is it the estranged husband? The crooked nightclub owner? The promiscuous daughter? And what’s with the dead lesbian on the floor? Full of double-crosses and double Ds, the movie excels with great performances, a tight script and striking camerawork. Set in 1943, Spinelli uses some very authentic looking sets as well as clothes and hairstyles, to create a time and place that is pretty remarkable for an adult film. Even the cliché-riddled closing dialogue between the private eye and his detective buddies would sound right at home in any noir policier from that era. And did I mention one of those detectives is played by Cameron Mitchell?! Will wonders never cease...

Django Unchained (USA 2012) (6): Writer/director Quentin Tarantino once again does what he does best—takes someone else’s idea and twists it into his own signature brand. This time it’s a crass revisionist parody of the Spaghetti Western in which psychopathic German bounty hunter Dr. King (Christoph Waltz) enlists the aid of angry former slave Django (Jamie Foxx) to help him track down three outlaw brothers. However, once the job is finished Dr. King (haha, get it?) takes Django under his wing and as mentorship turns into friendship the two embark on a high stakes quest, namely rescuing Django’s wife (Kerry Washington) who was sold to a ruthless Mississippi plantation owner (Leonardo DiCaprio). All the usual elements of a Tarantino opus are here: the bone dry humour as when a wardrobe malfunction causes a posse of would-be Klansmen to devolve into a catty bitch fight; the anachronistic soundtrack which colours the Wild West with rap, retro pop, and orchestral sweeps à la Ennio Morricone; the profanity-laden dialogue; and the rip-roaring gut-splattering violence as brains and entrails splatter across floors and ceilings. But this formulaic approach of ultra hip affectations and genre exaggerations which worked so well for Kill Bill, Pulp Fiction, and my personal favourites Planet Terror/Death Proof fails to gel into anything more than a thrown-together comic book of a film which will shock some sensitive viewers with it’s non-stop barrage of racial slurs and give others a reason to cheer as a freed slave sets his crosshairs on a cast of cardboard caucasians who are either sadistic ogres or drooling imbeciles. And that ridiculously over-the-top finale skips satire completely and goes directly to farce…albeit highly cinematic farce. Although he won Best Supporting Actor, Waltz’s character is annoying as hell with his obsessive mannerisms and overly articulated speech patterns while Foxx embodies cool cowboy chic in what is essentially a one-note performance. DiCaprio, for his part, spits and hisses like a gentleman cobra in a performance that couldn’t have been any more diabolical had he been wielding a pitchfork. Nice cinematography though, with backdrops that stretch from Wyoming and California all the way to Louisiana. Samuel L. Jackson dominates the screen as a foul-mouthed Uncle Tom and look for cameos from the likes of Don Johnson as an oily slave owner, Franco Nero (who starred in the original 1966 Django) as a fight promoter, and Tarantino himself as a dim-witted company man. Jonah Hill, Lee Horsley, and make-up artist Tom Savini also have fleeting walk-ons.

D.O.A. (USA 1949) (5): Frank Bigelow is horrified to discover he’s just been murdered. While vacationing in San Francisco the small town accountant was slipped a poison so toxic it glows in the dark (??) and now, with only a few days left to live, he’s determined to discover who wanted him dead—and why! Nothing in Rudolph Maté’s noirish mystery even comes close to subtle: the emotive performances go beyond the pale and the serpentine plot has so many twists and turns I finally gave up and just watched the scenery. And the scenery is worth a watch too, from twilit cityscapes to well orchestrated scenes of a panicky Bigelow racing around town—reportedly some passages where filmed on the sly so that the pedestrians being jostled on the sidewalk had no idea they were going to be immortalized in a B-movie. In the lead, Edmond O’Brien gives a protracted death scene to rival Swan Lake while co-star Pamela Britton, playing his clingy passive-aggressive blonde stalker of a girlfriend, is so annoying you want to slap her right off the screen. But it’s bit player Neville Brand as a psychopathic hitman who wins the Golden Ham award—his seething, bug-eyed sicko so overdone I actually found myself wishing he had more lines. A fantastic premise undermined by an unnecessarily convoluted plot and lethal doses of melodrama. Perhaps “D.O.A.” stands for “Death from Overacting”?

Doctor Dolittle (USA 1967) (7): In the quaint English town of Puddleby-on-the-Marsh circa 1845 successful doctor John Dolittle (Rex Harrison) grows tired of humans and decides to devote his life to treating animals instead. With the help of his verbose 200-year old parrot Polynesia he also learns to converse with them, mastering five hundred animal languages in the process from Anteater to Zebra. With his manor house now resembling Noah’s famous ark and patients flying, crawling, and slithering in to see him on a daily basis, Dolittle still has one more dream to realize—to set out in search of the elusive giant pink sea snail; a mythological mollusk who holds the answers to some of his most burning questions. To this end he joins a travelling circus where his star attraction, a two-headed llama or “pushmi-pullyu”, earns him enough money to buy a small ship for the journey. But his erratic behaviour and claim to speak in animal tongues does not sit well with the local magistrate necessitating a hasty escape from Puddleby with a crew of friends both human and non. And thus begins a high seas adventure replete with giant whales, lost tribes, and one very big bug… Twentieth-Century Fox’s expensive box-office bomb (and highly contentious Oscar nominee for coveted “Best Picture”) still stands head and shoulders above the Eddie Murphy travesties filmed thirty years later. Made before the advent of CGI the scores of animals are mostly real (filming proved to be a nightmare) with the glaring exception of a bizarre animatronic fox that jerks and snaps like a vulpine zombie. The sparkly musical numbers are generally painless, the pleasingly pastoral sets range from English hills to tame jungles, and the few fantastical creature creations are believable enough. Unfortunately a love interest between Harrison and female lead Samantha Eggar, over thirty years his junior, is a stretch and all those adorable cuddly extras threaten to push the cutesy factor past the critical mark. But having first seen it as a child when it premiered I was pleased to discover that I can still smile at a horse with glasses or an ailing elephant sporting a woollen scarf.

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (USA 1920) (8): One of the earlier screen adaptations of Robert Louis Stevenson’s psychological horror classic starring the legendary John Barrymore in a brilliant dual role. After being introduced to the world of earthly temptations by a couple of cynical colleagues fed up with his straitlaced morality, the kind-hearted yet maddeningly timid Dr. Jekyll is horrified at the carnal stirrings he feels within himself. Convinced that he can devise a potion to separate his baser nature from that which is good and benevolent, the good doctor holes up in his laboratory for weeks concocting just such a magical cocktail. But rather than rid him of all those sinful yearnings the elixir instead transforms him into the vile and slobbering Mr. Hyde, a creature consumed with lust and rage; the id to Jekyll’s superego. Unhindered by either conscience or empathy, Hyde takes up residence in a seedier part of town where he begins feeding his monstrous appetites for pleasure and cruelty on a nightly basis. In the meantime Jekyll’s persona, making an occasional appearance despite Hyde’s more powerful influence, appears increasingly wan and helpless. Tragedy, of course, is inevitable... Beautifully theatrical characters, a gothic organ score, and sets which run the gamut from sunny parlours to crumbling opium dens keep this silent shocker surprisingly effective almost 100 years later. As both Jekyll and Hyde, Barrymore gives one of silent cinema’s most amazing and versatile performances; his repeated transformations from proper Victorian gentlemen to sadistic brute, achieved with a bit of make-up, some primitive prosthetics, and a whole lot of grimacing, are genuinely creepy to behold. Rife with Freudian overtones and just a dash of drug culture, this B&W gem is one of the better literary adaptations I’ve seen.

Dr. Mabuse the Gambler (Germany 1922) (8): Evil genius Dr. Mabuse is well on his way to becoming one of the wealthiest men in Berlin by way of cheating , stealing, and vices of every kind—and chief inspector Von Wenck is equally determined to stop him. But how do you corner a cunning arch-villain who is not only a master of disguise but also possesses the ability to bend people to his will through hypnosis, including Von Wenk himself? Clocking in at 4½ hours—and not a minute wasted—Fritz Lang’s epic policier, based on Norbert Jacques’ novel, could stand shoulder to shoulder with similar films made today, maybe even more so since its many intricate twists and mad schemes were still fresh to theatre audiences forty years before the tomfoolery of James Bond. In the title role, Rudolf Klein-Rogge singlehandedly invents the template for all the unhinged master criminals which came afterwards, that burning gaze and monomaniacal lust for power (“Gambling with people and faiths!” as he puts it) dominating the silent screen with every close-up. By comparison, Bernhard Goetzke’s Von Wenck is the epitome of restraint and doggedness, always managing to stay one step behind Mabuse no matter what roadblocks the doctor throws in his way. Aud Egede-Nissen and Gertrude Welcker co-star—the former as a seductive stage dancer fallen under Mabuse’s spell, the latter a bored Countess looking for excitement and then regretting it. It’s cinematographer Carl Hoffman and the art department however who bring Lang’s aggressive vision to life with early camera techniques that snake along dirty alleys before bursting into teeming nightclubs and oddly appointed estates (the Countess’ milquetoast husband is a collector of questionable art). Always cognizant of where the light and shadows should fall, Hoffman must have dazzled early filmgoers with menacing pans that included a few surreal turns, most notably a sequence of guilt-riddled hallucinations as Mabuse starts to unravel. Using fantastic yet believable plot devices and a few contemporary tweaks (there’s nudity! and cocaine!) this lurid saga of sin and retribution burst onto European screens decades before the term “Film Noir” had even been coined.

Dr. No (UK 1962) (8): British Intelligence teams up with the CIA to try and discover who is sabotaging the American space program. But when one of their operatives goes missing in the Caribbean, special agent James Bond (Sean Connery with toupee) is sent to Jamaica to find out what happened—a trip that will bring him face to face with diabolical super villain Dr. No! It’s easy to forgive and enjoy this first instalment in the 007 canon since Connery’s smug machismo (men get pummelled, women turn to jelly) was still fresh and all those ridiculous narrow escapes hadn’t yet become predictably cliché. Free of the high-tech gadgetry which would later define the series, there’s a cartoonish appeal to this production with its high-speed rear projection car chases, impressive stable of buxom airheads waiting to get “Bonded”—including Ursula Andress in a pair of seashells—and one fantastical underwater laboratory run by the eponymous doctor—Canadian actor Joseph Wiseman as a passable Asian. It’s all adolescent nonsense of course, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing when presented with so much exuberance and flair. Apparently author Ian Fleming hated it. C’est la vie I guess.

The Doctor Takes a Wife (USA 1940) (7): When a bestselling feminist author and diehard chauvinist doctor are mistaken for newlyweds a complicated comedy of errors ensues which finds both parties reluctantly reaping the benefits of their sham relationship—her unscrupulous editor talks her into writing a new book about the “joys” of marriage and he finds himself promoted to full professorship by a dean who values holy matrimony above all else. The trouble is, not only can’t they stand one another but they’re already engaged to different people. Loretta Young and Ray Milland shine in this screwball comedy from Hollywood’s golden age where the one-liners come out of left field, the double entendres are as pure as snow, and the comic action is always one step ahead of reality—one particularly inspired scene has Milland wooing his fiancée in one apartment while trying to appear as Young’s faithful husband in front of a room full of guests in the suite next door (hint: there’s a lot of balcony hopping). And even though you can predict the romantic outcome before the opening credits have stopped rolling, this remains a great piece of innocent silliness that will have you smiling throughout.

Dodes'ka-den (Japan 1970) (9):  Life in an urban slum is never easy, but in Akira Kurosawa's colourful collection of ghetto tales neither is it dull.  Set amidst a jumble of ramshackle huts firmly located on the other side of the tracks, his camera follows several intersecting dramas as they unfold over the course of a few days.  Among the stories:  a slightly unhinged father who amuses his little boy by building castles in the air; a grief-stricken woman whose attempt to reunite with her estranged husband only leads to further anguish; and a pair of drinking buddies who regularly stumble home to each other's spouses.  And bridging the narrative strands are a philosophical old man with a knack for saying the right thing at the right time, and a mentally challenged son who indulges his obsession for trains by traversing the neighbourhood in an imaginary trolley bus.  Shot primarily on fanciful soundstages using bold primary colours and a lilting score which compliments both its comedic and tragic elements, this is a deeply human film, brimming with compassion, whose occasional moments of "preciousness" are completely forgivable.  Although deemed too depressing by fickle audiences upon its initial release, Kurosawa's first colour film would nevertheless go on to become Japan's official entry for best foreign language Oscar.

Dogtooth (Greece 2009) (7): When it comes to raising children, director Giorgos Lanthimos takes the whole “nature vs nurture” debate and turns it upside down in this scathingly dark satire which wowed the judges at Cannes. In a beautifully appointed country home, more of a gated compound actually, a well-to-do factory worker and his wife are holed up with three adult children, none of whom have ever been beyond the front yard. Determined to protect their brood from worldly evils, the couple have kept them under tight psychological control through elaborate lies and false information: apparently man-eating cats lie in wait beyond the house’s perimeter, the airplanes that fly overhead are actually toys which occasionally fall into the garden, and mom can give birth to dogs and baby brothers at will. Furthermore, any new words which fall outside the siblings’ frame of reference are assigned more familiar definitions, thus “the sea” refers to the big leather armchair in the den, and a salt shaker is called a “telephone”. Wholly ignorant of the world which exists past the giant hedge the three kids, approaching their 20s, while away the hours playing destructive games, watching tedious home movies, and listening to highly sanitized school lessons played on a tape recorder. But when dad starts paying a female security guard to satisfy his son’s carnal needs, the woman introduces the boy and his two sisters to some dangerous influences (like Hollywood films and oral sex), thus planting a small seed of rebellion in the older sister’s mind… Filmed in dispassionate wide angles which occasionally cut off people’s heads, and with a mundane script delivered in cold monotones, Dogtooth is a study in depersonalization and modern paranoia. This is a generic nuclear family (Christina the security guard is the only character with a name) in which the parents’ natural instinct to safeguard their offspring has been perverted beyond recognition leading to some psychological fallout both humorous and jarring. And as the big bad world continues to creep into their sheltered existence, the three young adults experience a breakdown in the social order which mom and dad have so rigidly maintained through the years. I suppose one could see allusions to the dangers of fascism in this dark family drama but its reach is not quite ambitious enough to make that leap. Instead we’re treated to an uncomfortable psychodrama fascinating in its premise and shocking in its delivery—-this is definitely not a movie for the squeamish and easily offended. Still not quite enough to make Michel Haneke blush.

Don’t Bother to Knock (USA 1952) (7): Notable for being Ann Bancroft’s big screen debut, Roy Baker’s noirish psychodrama—based on Charlotte Armstrong’s novel—actually belongs to Marilyn Monroe whose riveting performance gave critics a glimpse of her formidable talent. During a layover at a New York City hotel, airline pilot Jed Towers (Richard Widmark) gets the boot from his girlfriend, lounge singer Lyn Lesley (Bancroft), who has grown tired of his lack of empathy and cavalier attitude. Dousing his self-pity with a bottle of rye, Jed retreats to his room where he spies sexy babysitter Nell Forbes (Monroe) in another room across the hotel courtyard. A game of window tag leads to a series of cryptic phone calls which eventually find Towers hooking up with Nell. But what started out as a not-so-innocent flirtation turns into something dark and dangerous when he discovers Nell is not exactly whom she appears to be. Remarkable in that it unfolds more or less in real time, Baker sets the tension to simmer as Nell, under Jed’s lascivious attentions, comes unstuck one cog at a time. Monroe’s tightly reined performance conveys so much with so little—a troubled glance, a nervous gesture, a voice that slides between sultry and strained—that she’s able to generate a pall of anxiety just by standing still making her piteous backstory, when it’s revealed, almost superfluous. Widmark’s good looks work well for him as his character’s ice cold cynicism takes a hammer blow, and although Bancroft is relegated to the role of unhappily determined romantic—a fact indicated by her repertoire of fluffy love songs—she still exudes that screen presence which will work so well for her in later films. The cast is rounded out by veteran actress Verna Felton as a wealthy busybody, Elisha Cook Jr. as the hotel elevator operator who knows more than he lets on, and 10-year old Donna Corcoran who, cast as Monroe’s little charge, screams and cries like a pro. And look for Joan Blondell’s younger sister Gloria in a bit part as a nightclub photographer.

Don’t Breathe (USA 2016) (6): Three young thieves decide to relieve a blind veteran of the 300K he has hidden somewhere in his dingy old house—but when their simple heist suddenly turns into a deadly game of hide & seek they discover too late that the old man is neither as helpless nor as sane as they had hoped… As if portraying a sightless war hero as both pitiful victim and psychotic bogeyman isn’t hard enough to swallow (although Stephen Lang’s grizzled beard and milky contacts put him firmly in character), director Fede Alvarez offers the usual ridiculous twists and groan moments—I lost count of the number of times everyone could have escaped—and then tacks on a silly Silence of the Lambs backstory so full of implausible holes that the entire production should have sank. Only it didn’t. The film’s sheer chutzpah manages to propel it past its own potholes and Alvarez displays a real talent for turning the highly unlikely into a riveting thriller set in a funhouse full of way too many doors and hallways. A few clever tracking shots float past ceilings and walls as the three robbers try to get in (and then out) and night vision camerawork hasn’t looked this creepy since that little demon kid scraped her toenails along the floor in 2007’s [REC]. Hell, even a growling nod to Cujo is pulled off with a straight face that dares you to crack a smile. And it’s all fired off with so much suspenseful gusto that it isn’t until after the credits finish rolling and your heart has slowed down that you realize you’ve been had. A bit of advice however, if you’re squeamish about semen you may want to close your eyes—you’ll know when.

Don’t Breathe 2 (USA 2021) (6): Our favourite blind kick-ass Navy Seal with a talent for vengeance is back again, and now he’s the good guy. Sort of. This time around Blind Guy is leading a quiet existence in a brand new dilapidated house on the outskirts of Detroit when a gang of ruffians break into his home and try to kidnap the young girl he’s been raising. But even though they have eyes and vastly outnumber him in terms of manpower and firepower he still manages to give them the fight of their lives… As a rule the one thing I can never forgive a director for is treating me like a gullible idiot and Rodo Sayagues definitely crosses that line on multiple occasions. However, much like the first film, part two is slapped together with such slick, over-the-top temerity that its comic book ridiculousness actually becomes an asset. For starters, the cast is perfect: from Stephen Lang’s sightless warrior—all scars, guilt, and grizzled rage—to the psychotic methamphetamine appeal of gang leader Brendan Sexton III, with nods along the way to Fiona O’Shaughnessy as the mother of all crackheads, Madelyn Grace as the sword-wielding young girl, and some brief but very nice eye candy from martial arts hunk Rocci Williams giving us the hottest bad boy since Tom Hardy’s Bronson. Then there’s the set designs, an operatic mix of 80s “teen scream” flicks (creaky stairs, creaky basement, creaky attic, dust motes everywhere); Road Warrior accessories (the bad guys just look bad!); and Blade Runner decay (the climactic scenes were actually filmed in an old shabby-chic Serbian hotel). Effective use of lighting too with a flooded room bathed in cobalt blue and shafts of blood red sunbeams piercing through wooden slats to light up a whole swath of pain. But its the imaginative R-rated carnage that deserves the most applause (and appreciative laughs) as Sayagues’ sfx crew utilize everything from hammers, machetes, and gardening tools to keep the gore dripping at a decent rate—they even give the old phrase “two thumbs up” a macabre new meaning. A silly implausible premise with a couple of absurd twists thrown in just for the hell of it, but once I accepted the fact that cast and crew were not aiming for an Oscar I could appreciate it for the genre classic its destined to become. Cute dog too!

Don’t Drink the Water (USA 1969) (3): Jackie Gleason plays the stereotypical ugly American as he scowls, grimaces and grinds his teeth in this bland Cold War sitcom that’s heavy on the one-liners but woefully light on wit. He plays New Jersey caterer Walter Hollander (the “Potato Salad Picasso” ) returning from a European holiday with his shrill air-headed wife (an under-utilized Estelle Parsons) and oversexed daughter. En route their flight is hijacked to the Eastern Bloc country of Vulgaria (ha ha)...a dismal place filled with phoney Cyrillic signs and even phonier accents. Mistaken for spies, the family takes refuge in the American embassy which, as luck would have it, is currently being overseen by the absent ambassador’s inept son. What follows is a series of lame sketches involving riots, bombs, an irate oil sheik, and a zany Italian priest. As the Hollanders throw half-hearted barbs at each other and their daughter begins an affair with the ambassador’s son, an escape plan is eventually hatched which leads to a painfully unfunny finale. Despite some last minute yankee doodle sermonizing towards the end the movie utterly fails to deliver any satirical bite whatsoever. What we are left with instead is a 100 minute joke with no punch line.

Don’t Torture a Duckling (Italy 1972) (5): A string of child murders in a remote hilltop community has the police baffled. But the fact that all their prime suspects seem to have reliable alibis is not the biggest roadblock to the official investigation, it’s the backwoods superstitions—both Catholic and pagan—which have the townspeople pointing fingers and forming murderous vigilantes. While one obviously disturbed woman believes herself to be a witch, the local priest wields his own form of voodoo in the form of Sunday mass. And a spoiled millionaire’s daughter living on the edge of town has a few dark secrets of her own. Determined to crack the case himself, a crusading newspaper reporter embarks on an investigation in which the facts are clouded by fear, prejudice, and old wive’s tales… Horrormeister Lucio Fulci’s surprisingly tame giallo (the nudity consists of one lurid passage and the gore factor is limited to a few raw flesh wounds plus a repeatedly crushed skull) is reported to be among his personal favourites. Bypassing the usual sensationalism which marks the genre he fashions something of a thriller-cum-social critique that takes aim at ignorant adherence to myth and fancy be it a belief in black magic or the dogmatic teachings of the Church—the latter actually getting the film blacklisted in Europe and abroad resulting in a limited theatrical release. Unfortunately the film’s message, while worthwhile, is greatly outweighed by its many flaws: the haphazard editing wreaks havoc with continuity while the soundtrack pops and starts; studio dubbing tries to cover up the fact that none of the main cast actually spoke Italian; an inconsistent musical score too often sounds like it belongs in a different movie; and the special effects are not very special at all—the aforementioned crushed skull sequence is actually worth a rewind if only for a chuckle. Fun to watch just the same, but there are better examples of the genre out there. Greek screen legend Irene Papas co-stars as a troubled mother who fears for her own child.

Dorothy Mills (Ireland 2008) (7): Still mourning the death of her young son, forensic psychiatrist Jane Van Dopp nevertheless journeys to a remote offshore village in order to assess the mental status of Dorothy Mills, a fifteen-year old sitter accused of trying to murder a baby left in her care. But from the moment Jane steps foot on the island things go from bad to worse: the tight-lipped villagers are openly hostile towards her; the local vicar runs his church almost as if it were a cult; and she’s nearly killed when a carload of teenagers run her BMW off the road—-teenagers that continue to harass her even though the local magistrate swears no one matching their descriptions even exists on the tiny island. Despite this cold introduction however Jane finds her greatest challenge comes when she meets Dorothy herself. Shy and withdrawn, the diminutive girl flatly denies ever having been near the baby in question even though the child’s parents were eyewitnesses to the assault. Furthermore, the islanders regard Dorothy with a mysterious mixture of fear and resentment, reluctant to release her to the doctor’s care yet angrily accusing her of being a freak. But when Dorothy begins exhibiting different personas—-from a giggling three-year old naif to a drunken, foul-mouthed yob—-Jane realizes she may have stumbled upon the most extreme case of multiple personality disorder in her long career. And then Dorothy begins manifesting a brand new persona which shakes Jane to her very core… Despite some soft logic and the type of dramatic hyperbole one expects from the genre, director Agnès Merlet has fashioned a good old-fashioned mystery thriller where science and the supernatural take turns confounding our expectations. As doctor and patient, Carice van Houten and Jenn Murray breathe life and complexity into their characters without resorting to cheap theatrics while the remaining cast are near perfect as they play an entire village of grizzled countryfolk desperately trying to hide some nasty secrets. Although the final confrontation and round of accusations strain the believability quotient, Merlet caps it all off with a little twist that’s just clever enough to keep you from feeling cheated.

The Double (UK 2013) (7): Kafkaesque horror or Wes Anderson black comedy? Or perhaps a little bit of both? Richard Ayoade’s grimly whimsical adaptation of Dostoevsky’s short story certainly elicits uncomfortable chuckles as he tells the story of a clerk who runs head on into his own doppelgänger. Simon James (Jesse Eisenberg, perfectly cast) is a cowering ball of spinelessness inured to being stepped on by everyone—including Fate and his own institutionalize mother. Working days as an office drone in a dreary data collection agency, Simon goes home to a lonely flat where his only stimulation is to spy on co-worker Hannah, his secret crush who lives just across the street. His humdrum existence receives a kick however when his wheedling boss (Wallace Shawn) hires a bright new employee who just happens to look exactly like Simon (Eisenberg perfectly cast yet again). But although James Simon (get it?!) could be Simon James’ identical twin physically he is his polar opposite in every other way. Brash, cocky, aggressively assertive, and wildly popular with everyone he meets, James Simon soon becomes the darling of the company and a hit with all the ladies, including Hannah, and he’s not above using his ersatz twin to get whatever he wants. As Simon James starts losing the ability to distinguish between reality and lunacy—his life and that of James are entwined in some unsettling ways—it dawns on him that his small world is only big enough for one… Much like Stevenson’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Ayoade’s film examines the duality of human nature with one man split into two facets. But unlike Stevenson’s protagonist neither Simon nor James are so easily assigned to “good” or “evil” for one without the other is bound to fail (or go mad)—James tries to tutor an unbalanced Simon in the art of lying and seduction while Simon gets an overly ambitious James a fat promotion by sitting in on an aptitude test for him. Overflowing with idiosyncratic characters and a satirical bent bordering on smugness Ayoade’s psychodrama never ventures far from the shallows but it does raise some interesting discussion points—is Simon vs James an internal or an external struggle? is blind ambition as punishable as meek inaction?—and for that point alone it’s worth wading into.

The Double Hour (Italy 2009) (7): Newly arrived in Italy where she works as a chambermaid, Slovenian immigrant Sonia (Kseniya Rappoport) decides to try her luck at romance by attending a “speed dating” event. Hooking up with Guido (Filippo Timi), a somewhat taciturn ex-cop now working as a security guard, she finally goes out on her first real date in ages—a date which ends on a very devastating note. But nothing, it seems, can be taken at face value and in the ensuing days a string of impossible incidents and terrifying visitations will leave an increasingly disturbed Sonia questioning whether or not that ill-fated date is truly over. Why are the police now tailing her? Why is there a photo of her posing in a place she’s never been to? And why is she receiving phone calls from someone who is dead and buried? Director Giuseppe Capotondi’s puzzle box of a film weaves elements of horror and psychodrama into a most unconventional thriller which, despite an abundance of hints, doesn’t make much sense until a final reveal provides the key. Shot with an edge of paranoia sometimes bordering on full-blown panic, the director makes great use of mirrors, windows, and frosted glass to underscore his protagonist’s mental fog as she tries to distinguish reality from fiction. For their work both Rappoport and Timi nabbed best acting awards at the Venice Film Festival and deservedly so—her portrayal of a woman caught up in a waking nightmare successfully treads that line between quiet dread and outright hysteria while his dark features and downcast eyes hint at deeper motives. Ultimately, Capotondi’s torturous tale never really delivers on all the twists and turns it promises at the beginning but that’s okay for in the final analysis this is a crumpled love story aimed more at the heart than the mind.

Double Indemnity (USA 1944) (9): In Billy Wilder’s film noir masterpiece unhappy housewife Barbara Stanwyck (sporting a ridiculously blonde wig) seduces stalwart insurance salesman Fred MacMurray (in a most un-Disney performance) into helping her become a wealthy widow. The idea is to trick her husband into buying a lucrative accident policy and then arrange his convenient demise so that the two of them can collect on the huge settlement. Of course unforeseen complications arise in the form of Stanwyck’s overly observant stepdaughter and MacMurray’s co-worker, fastidious claims investigator Edward G. Robinson (stealing the show). As tensions rise and the two conspirators-cum-lovers begin to sweat, they quickly come to realize they may have underestimated one another—and that’s when things get really interesting. Told in flashback during a taped confession, Wilder pulls out all the stops with crackling dialogue and an undercurrent of restrained eroticism all taking place in a permanently twilit Los Angeles. MacMurray smirks, Stanwyck smoulders, Robinson growls, and it seems a bit exaggerated and corny by today’s blasé standards but to diehard genre fans this is the mother lode. Great fun!

A Double Life (USA 1947) (8): Ronald Colman took home the Oscar for his brilliant portrayal of an actor unable to distinguish between script and reality in George Cukor’s dark tragedy, co-written by Ruth Gordon. Anthony John is a celebrated Broadway performer with a long and successful career playing everything from dreary dramas to light comedies. Still sharing a mutual love with his ex-wife Brita (Signe Hasso), also a Broadway star, John seems on top of the world. But there is a grim secret behind his phenomenal success that only Brita is aware of—he becomes so deeply immersed in every role he plays that he loses all sense of self even after the curtain falls. When he stars in a comedy he is all lighthearted and boisterous, when he tackles a tragedy he becomes morose and despondent—he and Brita were actually divorced while they were playing opposite each other in Chekov’s The Seagull. It’s a recipe for disaster then when John, already somewhat jealous of his ex’s platonic friendship with a press secretary, accepts the part of the Moor in a lavish production of Othello with Brita playing opposite him as Desdemona. With heavy use of inner dialogue and overlapping imagery to illustrate his protagonist’s brittle psyche (at one point Colman looks into a mirror only to see Othello glaring back) Cukor blends elements of Film Noir with bleak fantasy sequences to create a brooding, almost gothic psychodrama wherein artifice and actuality blur and meld. In one key scene a group of buxom wannabes scramble for a part, their desperate voguing and self-promoting contrasting sharply with John’s hunger for reality and in another scene a pair of wigmakers weave fantasy hairpieces while exchanging banal gossip and Cukor once again plays with notions of truth and make-believe. Excellent cutaways to the ongoing play give Shakespeare’s prose an ironic slant, and stage curtains rise and fall almost as if the film itself were being presented in separate acts—which, I suppose, is only appropriate. Look for a very young Shelley Winters as a platinum siren who bears the brunt of Antony’s delusions.

The Double Life of Veronique (France/Poland 1991) (7): Legendary director Krzysztof Kieslowski excels at telling small tales with enormous implications as his beautiful protagonists are buffeted by forces beyond their control, whether they arise from random chance or preordained fate. In this his most commercially successful film he adds elements of the supernatural to explore issues of interconnectedness and personal freedom as two strangers unknowingly live parallel lives. Polish Veronica and French Veronique have never met nor do they know each other yet they could be identical twins. Both have been raised by single fathers, both find solace in music (one sings, one teaches), both suffer from congenital heart conditions, and both are troubled by the ambiguities of love—but whereas Veronique is cowed by life’s uncertainties, Veronica approaches it with enthusiastic abandon. Vaguely aware of their personal doppelgängers if only on an intuitive level, one woman’s tragic turn will have profound repercussions in the other’s life. Gorgeous cinematography filmed in muted pastels and accompanied by a soundtrack of plaintive baroque pieces certainly makes viewing Double Life a sumptuous experience—here a teabag slowly rotates in a steaming cup, here Veronique regards her potential lover (a puppeteer, significantly) through shifting panels of stained glass, and here a passing shadow falls across a sleeping figure as if it were a shroud. And throughout the film windows and mirrors offer up shifting reflections of our protagonists as if to emphasize the dual nature of their separate stories. Both a psychological treatise on the price we pay for every life choice made and a study in alternate realities or “what might have been” as one woman chooses safety while the other leaps towards her destiny. But despite Kieslowski’s solid reputation as a cinematic auteur, the film’s visual and auditory flourishes occasionally come across as so much arthouse affectation—arresting to see and hear but only serving to gussy up an already frustratingly opaque story. There’s no mistaking the star power of lead actress Irène Jacob however, her dual role as Veronica/Veronique bringing warmth and a depth of perception to an otherwise emotionally reticent work.

Double Lover [Amant Double] (France 2017) (7): Transference becomes crazy sexy (but mostly crazy) in François Ozon’s psycho-erotic mindfuck that manages to take 1988s Dead Ringers down a twisty path that even Cronenberg would find hard to follow. Suffering from years of phantom abdominal pain, twenty-four year old Chloé takes the advice of her gynaecologist and seeks psychiatric help. But after several sessions with Paul, her handsome therapist, a mutual attraction leads to a live-in relationship—and that’s when things take a distinctly bizarre turn, for Paul has a family secret and Chloé’s already fragile mind is about to take a nose dive even as her libido takes off… Obsessed with the idea of duality (darkness and light, love and hate, illusion and reality) Ozon fills the screen with mirrors and painstakingly symmetrical set designs as a progressively panic-stricken Chloé tries to sort clues from psychosis. And as if her world isn’t topsy-turvy enough the crazy cat lady next door is becoming more sinister each day, the museum where she works is featuring an exhibit of mutated grotesques, and Paul’s elusive behaviour has her convinced that at least one of them is mad. A slick and stylish presentation helps to hide what is essentially a series of silly plot devices followed by a psychologically suspect final twist that is nevertheless satisfying in a daft sort of way. If you follow the clues you can pretty well guess the ending, or you can just sit back and watch it all unravel.

Double Solitaire (USA TV 1974) (8): Part of PBS’ “Broadway Theater Archives” series. On the eve of his parents’ 50th wedding anniversary Charlie and his wife Barbara begin to examine the barren landscape their own 20-year marriage has become. A series of soliloquies ensue in which friends and relatives give the troubled couple their own spin on what constitutes joy and intimacy; from romantic getaways, to learning the art of emotional compromise, to a complete rejection of the institution itself. It seems no one is completely satisfied with their life partners and their relationships consist mainly of routine intimacies and a kind of loving forbearance. Charlie and Barb’s dissatisfaction eventually comes to a boil during a seaside retreat when a fiery confrontation destroys any marital illusions they may have had and forces them to see their union for what it has become. A pair of powerhouse performances from Susan Clark and Richard Crenna keep you riveted while a frighteningly honest script may leave you questioning your own conjugal priorities. This is what quality television used to look like.

Double Suicide (Japan 1969) (9): In modern day Osaka a troupe of performers is preparing to present a 19th century bunraku (traditional puppet theatre). Amid a flurry of backstage preparations the lifelike dolls, laborious constructions requiring multiple human operators, are carefully being assembled while the play’s director finalizes a few last minute changes over the phone. The story they’re enacting is a classic tragedy: despite having a loving wife and two small children, humble merchant Jihei is madly in love with the beautiful courtesan Koharu but he lacks the necessary funds to buy her freedom from the high class brothel to which she is indentured. Adding to the couple’s misery is wealthy businessman Tahei who intends to purchase Koharu for himself thereby separating the lovers forever. Realizing that they can never be together in life, Jihei and Koharu make plans to join each other in death… An intriguing storyline to begin with but as the opening credits finish Masahiro Shinoda’s transgressive master work scores an artistic coup when both puppets asnd puppet stage are replaced by live actors and fanciful sets employing giant woodcuts, hand-painted backdrops, and plywood frames that imply busy streets and solid buildings. And the puppeteers themselves, draped in black from head to toe, continually move among the actors quietly manipulating props like stage hands one moment and providing a robust Greek Chorus the next. Filmed in a boxlike 1.33:1 ratio to enhance its stage-like vibe, Shinoda also opts for classic B&W cinematography and a soundtrack of Kabuki notes. The overall effect is of a dreamlike space in which doomed love, crippling remorse, and dark redemption play out with all the operatic flourishes one would expect while the gloved hands of fate literally shadow the protagonists. Exquisitely staged from those playful opening scenes to that crushing final frame.

Double Wedding (USA 1937) (6): High-powered Manhattan businesswoman Margit Agnew (Myrna Loy) has made it her life’s work to control every single aspect of her younger sister’s life—choosing the foods she eats, the clothes she wears, and the man she will marry. But Irene and her milquetoast fiancé Waldo would much rather run away to Hollywood with Charles Lodge, the smooth-talking yet penniless movie mogul they’ve befriended (William Powell), and take control of their own destinies once and for all. Romantic sparks fly when a determined Margit butts heads with an equally pigheaded Charles while Irene and Waldo discover that personal freedom comes at a cost. This seventh pairing of Loy and Powell is a mostly unsuccessful screwball romp heavy on the hysterics but woefully short on laughs. Loy is a curly coiffed shrew whose icy heart is long overdue for a spring thaw; Powell plays a lovably animated vagabond living quite happily in a parking lot trailer; and Florence Rice as Irene is about as engaging as plain wallpaper. Only John Beal as Waldo shows any comedic substance, his perpetually stunned expressions and spineless monotone at once amusingly boring and oddly sympathetic—a browbeaten mouse getting ready to roar. Worth a look if you’re so inclined—the art deco touches are nice—but Hollywood has certainly done better.

Doubt (USA 2008) (9): “What do you do when you’re not sure…” intones Fr. Flynn during a Sunday sermon, “…doubt can be a bond as powerful as certainty.” This pretty much sets the tone for Shanley’s brilliantly executed drama about an embittered mother superior who accuses Flynn of molesting a child at the school where she resides as principal. Armed only with a misguided sense of righteousness, Sr. Beauvier begins a one-woman witch hunt designed to make her unfounded suspicions a reality, even violating her own moral code in order to do so…“In the presence of wrongdoing, one steps away from God” being her only justification. In order to truly appreciate what Shanley has done we must look at the period in which the film takes place, the early ‘60s. The nation was still reeling from the assassination of Kennedy, cold war paranoia was in full swing, and Pope John XXIII was trying to drag Catholics into the 20th century with the Second Vatican Council. While Fr. Flynn openly embraces the spirit of change sweeping the church Sr. Beauvier remains dour and rigid, not even allowing ballpoint pens into the classroom. Torn between these two extremes is Sr. James, a young novice who teaches history. Possessed of a certain naiveté, or maybe just a greater faith in the basic goodness of people, she is at first drawn into Beauvier’s web of suspicion then later horrified by the old woman’s monomaniacal crusade. Shanley’s use of natural elements to provide counterpoint to the film’s narrative is superb; storms and tempests battle overhead while a mighty wind buffets the church doors. He also employs subtler imagery to great effect whether it be the stained glass eye of God or a statue of the Virgin casting a shadow on a garden wall; and a simple burnt light bulb has never held such import. Lastly, despite all the empty hearsay and innuendo, he introduces just enough doubt into the story to make us question our own convictions as to what really happened. A completely engrossing drama highlighted by some magnificent performances including Viola Davis’ turn as the young boy’s mother whose reaction to the accusations took me completely off guard. Bravo!

Down by Law (USA 1986) (7): Two men from the wrong side of the tracks find themselves unwilling cellmates when they’re targeted by crooked police stings. Previously abandoned by their respective muses, unemployed D.J. Zack (a gravelly Tom Waits) and ambitious pimp Jack while away the hours getting on each other’s nerves until they’re joined by a third prisoner, Italian ex-pat Roberto (a brilliantly animated Roberto Benigni) arrested for accidentally killing a man with a billiard ball. Alternately amused and annoyed by Roberto’s broken English and childlike zeal for all things American, the two men gain a grudging respect for the little foreigner when he manages to concoct a successful escape plan. Finding themselves lost in the Louisiana wilderness the three mismatched prison mates embark on an oddball quest for freedom containing elements of Greek mythology (in one hilarious passage the ragtag Argonauts watch dispiritedly as their ship sinks into the bayou mud), a swamp rat version of Dante with Benigni’s half-assed Virgil providing all the laughs, and a true blue tribute to Frost as two roads diverge in a yellow wood. Stylishly framed in stark shades of black and white, Jim Jarmusch’s noir comedy has a gritty experimental feel to it heightened by a largely improvised script and just the right amount of absurdist humour. A character driven odyssey graced by spot-on performances and tight camera shots which balance the low-rent squalor of New Orleans with murky panoramas of steaming bogs. One of the more important films to come out of the 80’s.

Drag Me To Hell (USA 2009) (8): With her eye on the bank's new Assistant Manager position mild-mannered Loans Officer Christine Brown is determined to show her boss that she can be a hard ass executive type by foreclosing on the home of an old woman who was late with one too many payments. Unfortunately the gnarled phlegmy senior in question just happens to be a vindictive gypsy witch that seeks her revenge by sicking an evil demon on Christine who suddenly discovers she has only three days left before the hoofed and horned fiend drags...her...to...HELL! Aided by a pair of ESL spiritualists an increasingly desperate Christine wages battles against malevolent shadows and flying crockpots while her devoted boyfriend looks helplessly on. But will she be able to dispel the curse before time runs out? A midnight trek through a stormy graveyard may hold the answer but astute viewers will have guessed the "surprise" ending long before then. Sam Raimi returns to his gross-out roots in this deliriously overdone horror romp crammed full of spewing eyeballs, vomited maggots and mouthfuls of sticky green pus. He's fashioned a great old-fashioned splatter film whose outrageous effects and ghoulish sense of humour ("...here kitty kitty kitty...") had me jumping and chuckling throughout. A real hoot!

Dragonwyck (USA 1946) (9): When simple farm girl Miranda Wells is invited for an “extended visit” at the estate of her remote relative Nicholas Van Ryn, a fabulously wealthy patroon in upstate New York, she can barely pack her bags fast enough despite the misgivings of her devout parents. But her promised role of governess to Nicholas’ only daughter is not all it appears to be for Dragonwyck Manor’s gloomy corridors are filled with ghostly memories and dark secrets; secrets reflected in the arrogant Van Ryn’s angry outbursts and his timid wife’s pale haunted eyes. At first put off by the baffling social rituals of the upper class Miranda is inexorably drawn to the dreams of wealth represented by Nicholas while the one man who truly loves her, country doctor Jeff Turner, looks helplessly on. Slowly transformed from a country naif to a privileged pariah Miranda realizes too late that some dreams can become nightmares. But Dragonwyck holds one more horrible secret for her; a secret which may prove to be her ultimate undoing... Brimming with stormy nights and menacing shadows, Dragonwyck is a grand example of old school Gothic Kitsch. Leads Gene Tierney and Vincent Price manage to wring every nuance out of a brilliantly overdone script while director Joseph Mankiewicz keeps things bleak and brooding with a dimly lit attic here, a shadowed staircase there, and the occasional burst of pastoral charm to emphasize the darkness. For added depth a side story involving the desperate plight of tenant farmers working on the Van Ryn estate provides a clever political metaphor mirroring Miranda’s own dire predicament. An intelligent and artfully presented soap which manages to steer clear of camp excess.

The Draughtsman's Contract  (UK 1982) (9):  Rarely has the English language sounded so beautiful in a film as it does in this lavish period piece. From the sumptuous cinematography and exaggerated costumes to the razor sharp script it provides a sensuous feast for both eye and ear. Greenaway presents us with a seemingly straightforward murder mystery on a country estate then proceeds to obscure the proceedings with allegorical clues, enigmatic dialogue and the occasional red herring. Solving the crime, however, takes a back seat to the simple pleasure of watching a cinematic artist at work. Brilliant!

Dreamgirls (USA 2006) (8): Bill Condon’s Motown operetta, based on the 1981 Broadway play which was in turn inspired by the story of Diana Ross and the Supremes, is a rags-to-riches fairy tale whose songs and visuals are as dazzling as its script is shallow. But oh does it dazzle! Making their debut in a humble Detroit talent show, black female trio “The Dreamettes” believe their own dreams of stardom are lost when they lose the contest. Putting disappointments aside however, their performance does attract the attention of suave, Svengali-like car salesman and part-time producer Curtis Taylor Jr. (Jamie Foxx doing Berry Gordy) who ignites their career—first as back-up singers for an R&B star (Eddie Murphy channeling James Brown) and then as a headline act wowing audiences from Vegas to London. But their shining star comes with the usual snags in the form of racial barriers, broken hearts, and artistic differences between the group’s two powerful leads—soft-spoken and mainstream Deena (Beyoncé playing it down) and the loud and proud Effie (Oscar winner Jennifer Hudson playing for keeps). Several years later the successful Deena, now an unhappily married megastar, and Effie, just plain unhappy period, cross paths once more and their meeting will change everything… The plot is hardly complex nor are the characters especially profound in any way representing as they do the usual showbiz archetypes from breathless wannabe to disenchanted diva and from true-to-self artist to pop chart sellout—and every caucasian seems to be a variation of Pat and Debbie Boone. But music is the driving force here and in that respect Dreamgirls delivers as promised starting with bluesy Motown vibes which slowly give way to glamorous disco glitz (the women appearing to change wigs and fashions with each cutaway). In fact music is so central that characters switch between the spoken word and the sung sometimes within the same sentence, a tactic which generally segues into something memorable (as when Hudson tears the curtain down with her rendition of “I’m Not Going”) with only the occasional misstep. And the costume and art departments earn their paycheques as the story moves from 60s peach party dresses to tacky 70s chic. In the end “What Price Fame?” may be a story that grows older with each telling, but every now and then a production comes along that makes it all worth hearing just one more time.

The Dressmaker (Australia 2015) (6): Is it a romantic comedy? a comedic tragedy? a tragic satire? a satirical mystery? Jocelyn Moorhouse’s outback psychodrama starts out like a character-driven offering from Wes Anderson before devolving into a confusion of styles and genres, and the sudden shift in tone from quirky to macabre is puzzling to say the least. When she was just a child, Tilly Dunnage (Kate Winslet) was driven out of her tiny desert town under a pall of suspicion—were those terrible accusations really true? Now, twenty-five years later, she’s returned to Dungatar—a collection of shacks about as picturesque as its name—to get to the bottom of what really happened. Armed only with an iron determination and a sewing machine (?) she moves in with her crazy mother (Judy Davis giving us a complex madwoman) and begins making haute couture dresses which transform the town’s plain Janes into Dior-inspired butterflies. But there’s a reason behind the tailoring for her very presence soon begets a troubling, even deadly, sea change among the town’s eccentric inhabitants including the bible-spouting hunchbacked pharmacist and his crippled wife, the dour headmistress, and the philandering mayor whose own wife is a heavily sedated study in obsessive-compulsive overkill. And some of those surnames (“Pettyman”?) provide clever insights. Set in 1951, though rendered timeless by the sunbaked countryside, Moorhouse’s adaptation of Rosalie Ham’s bestseller is not so much about revenge (although revenge is delivered with great zeal) as it is about exoneration and self-forgiveness. Tilly has been carrying a great weight on her shoulders ever since she was ten and it’s the gradual, sometimes painful shifting of that weight onto its rightful owners (namely just about every adult in town) which gives the film both its raison d’être and its more memorable moments. Not an easy task, a fact marked by the town’s one prominent business sign—“The Golden Fleece”—(LOL), and one which carries a few unforeseen consequences. Hugo Weaving returns to his Priscilla days as the local constable with a taste for boas and sateen, Sarah Snook gives us a dumpy spinster turned vicious fashion plate, and Liam Hemsworth (brother to Chris and Luke) proves yet again that Mr. and Mrs. Hemsworth Sr. had no ugly children as he plays the hunky love interest. And a special nod to costume designers Marion Boyce and Margot Wilson whose creations, ranging from tacky prom to stunning runway, become characters unto themselves.

The Driller Killer (USA 1979) (6): In this his debut feature film Abel Ferrara, one of the crown princes of zero-budget shockers, creates a surprisingly effective psychodrama with low grade special effects that had British censors clutching their pearls. He plays Reno Miller, a meagrely successful New York artist whose life has become increasingly unbearable. His two female roommates are getting on his nerves, his agent has dismissed his latest “masterpiece” as so much junk, his landlord is demanding back rent, and a very loud rock band has turned the adjoining apartment into a 24-hour recording studio. Further goaded by a neighbourhood full of winos, head cases, and rotting garbage, a deranged Reno finally decides to take out his frustrations on society at large. His weapon of choice? A surprisingly powerful electric drill…bzzzzz! Shot on grainy low-res stock which enhances its black shadows and bright red gore, Ferrara turns his seedy NYC locations into one man’s psychological hell with a directorial style that gilds an 80s punk aesthetic and some disappointingly tame grindhouse carnage with passages of pure surrealism featuring showers of blood and a modest apartment which morphs into a madhouse. It’s like watching a grunge music video directed by Sigmund Freud—with a little help from Andy Warhol perhaps—and Ferrara wastes no opportunity to reinforce his protagonist’s mental deterioration with cleverly placed billboards (“New York WINS!”); grating guitar chords as the group next door screeches out yet another opus; and Reno’s own artwork featuring leering human and animal faces marred by painted slash marks. It’s trash cinema of course, with suitably trashy performances from the likes of ballet student-turned-stripper Baybi Day who plays Reno’s roommate, Pamela, like a coked-out Suzanne Somers. But despite the film’s many stumbles and missteps Ferrara nevertheless manages to capture a little of the zeitgeist surrounding Manhattan’s underbelly circa 1979 with its raucous club scene and legions of disaffected youth, and for that reason alone it deserves more than a cursory snub.

Drive (USA 2011) (9): Sometimes it takes a foreign eye to see something new in what most North American audiences take for granted. In the case of those “bullets ’n car chases” action flicks Danish ex-pat director Nicolas Winding Refn’s baroque touches elevate a pedestrian storyline into arthouse magic. Blank-faced Ryan Gosling is perfect as the nameless anti-hero, a preternaturally quiet mechanic and stunt driver who also moonlights by driving getaway cars for whoever has the money—and he’s very good at what he does since he knows the streets of Los Angeles like the back of his hand. Chaos enters his well ordered life however when he begins seeing his next door neighbour Irene (Carey Mulligan), the twenty-something mother of a young boy whose husband is about to be released from prison. When the husband’s past threatens the well-being of Irene and her son the Driver decides to intervene and that’s when everything starts to come apart despite his honourable intentions. Tragedy of Shakespearean proportions quickly follows… Whether it’s a midnight beach strobed by a flashing lighthouse, a tentative caress, or bullets ripping through a skull in excruciating slow-motion, Refn’s keen sense of colour and texture—not to mention that glorious techno-synth soundtrack—render every frame a small work of art. At one point a bad guy gets his comeuppance at a burlesque club and as the music soars and a host of topless dancers look on dispassionately like sequinned Valkyries you realize this is as far from Dirty Harry as one could possibly get and still remain in the genre. Bryan Cranston is superb as Gosling’s crippled sidekick and Ron Perlman and Albert Brooks excel as a pair of ice cold gangsters (you’ll never look at a knife and fork the same way again). America’s violent love affair with fast cars and big guns has rarely looked this beautiful.

The Drowning Pool (USA 1975) (6): In this so-so sequel to 1966’s Harper, Paul Newman reprises his role as the quietly determined Los Angeles private eye, Lew Harper, whose simplest investigations always seem to turn into something far more complex and deadly. In this instalment Harper is summoned to Louisiana by Iris Devereaux (Joanne Woodward) his ex-lover now unhappily married into a wealthy family who finds herself being blackmailed by a disgruntled former employee. But what at first appears to be a simple case of sour grapes quickly spirals down into a dangerous quagmire of corruption, sex, and murder that stretches from the impeccably manicured lawns of the Devereaux estate to the seedier dives of New Orleans. Heavy on bayou atmosphere but carrying little dramatic weight, director Stuart Rosenberg’s adaptation of Ross MacDonald’s novel is fun to follow along despite having all the punch of a dime-store paperback. Every citizen of Iris’ small town has something to hide it seems and the deeper Harper digs the more dirt he uncovers—and the more overdone the performances become with each character taking a turn at either having a theatrical meltdown or snarling from the business end of a revolver. Or both. It does have a pretty cool escape sequence however which required a specially designed set and thousands of gallons of water, and it’s always a pleasure watching Newman and his wife work together (especially when he’s clad in nothing but a pair of wet boxers). Finally, Charles Fox’s orchestral variations of Roberta Flack’s hit song, “Killing Me Softly” gives the production a poignant edge which makes it seem more profound than it actually is. Murray Hamilton co-stars as a ruthless oil baron with Tony Franciosa as a conscious-stricken chief of police, Richard Jaeckel as a crooked cop, and a 17-year old Melanie Griffith as Iris’ whiney Lolita of a daughter.

Drunken Angel (Japan 1948) (7): With his ramshackle clinic situated meaningfully between bombed out ruins and a toxic cesspool (across the street from the ironically named "Happy Market") gruffly compassionate doctor Sanada does his best to help Tokyo's downtrodden despite the fact he enjoys more than a drop of sake now and then. But when violent gangster Matsunaga (the great Toshiro Mifune) shows up at his door suffering from tuberculosis Sanada makes it his mission to not only cure the man's disease but turn his life around as well. Sadly, the past has a way of dogging people and sometimes the best of intentions cannot stop someone from continuing on the path they've chosen. Kurosawa's ruminations on the post WWII Japanese zeitgeist is evident throughout this brooding drama as Sanada's wry comments and occasional lecture on corruption and complacency speak more to the audience than the criminal in his office. Oppressive images of rot and chaos are lightened somewhat by a faint undertone of optimism as a minor character makes her own life-altering decision and one young schoolgirl, a former patient, proudly flaunts her clean bill of health. A classic.

Duck (USA 2005) (2): Full of mawkish sentimentality, mangled metaphors and a soundtrack overflowing with sugary folk ballads, this lightweight road movie-cum-social critique manages to lay one rotten egg after another. Set in a dystopian 2009 (Jeb Bush is president, recycling has been abolished and social security is bankrupt), it revolves around sixty-six year old Arthur, a newly widowed retiree who finds himself alone and penniless in a hostile world. After scattering his wife’s ashes in the park where they used to court—now the garbage-strewn site of a future shopping mall—he decides to end it all with a handful of prescription drugs when he is saved by the timely arrival of an orphaned duckling and thus begins a long (so very very long) journey of the soul as they slowly make their way to the coast. Crossing the dirty concrete wasteland of Los Angeles they meet up with the usual assortment of one-dimensional stock characters one expects in these schmaltzy knee-jerk sagas: the heartless authorities, the panhandler with a heart of gold, the blind vagrant who sees all, and the deeply philosophical immigrant (Amy Hill overdoing it with a fake Asian accent). Eventually Arthur and his little winged alter ego do make it to the shores of the sunlit Pacific just in time for the film’s sickeningly sweet finale and a mercifully quick fade to black. With its corny dialogue and clumsy attempts at eliciting sympathy this little turkey should never have been hatched. I must admit that the duck was kind of cute though, especially when it took an unscripted shit on the picnic table.

Duck Soup  (USA 1933) (4):  I suppose when it was fresh in theatres the humour in “Duck Soup” was considered innovative and risqué.  In the years since then however the Marx Brothers’ brand of Vaudevillian comedy has been emulated so many times that the original routines now seem very tired and very dated.  That said, Groucho’s witty ripostes can still make me smile and Margaret Dumont plays the perfect foil.  The antics of his partners however do get monotonous after a while, especially Harpo’s hyperactive idiocy.  A sterling example of slapstick comedy at its finest but definitely not for everyone, myself included.

Eagle vs Shark (New Zealand 2007) (6): Lily works at “Meaty Burger” where she’s the butt of everyone’s jokes. Jarrod works at an electronics store and fabricates a life that is slightly more interesting than his real one. And both are dealing with emotional baggage related to no self-esteem, family dysfunction, and zero social skills. In writer/director Taika Waititi’s offbeat dramedy these two outcast dweebs will find in each other a shared mediocrity which may not transform them, exactly, but will at least give bleary-eyed credence to the old adage that there really is someone for everyone—even at the bottom of the social barrel. Leads Loren Taylor and Jemaine Clement create the dullest of romantic sparks with their deadpan faces and mechanical delivery (Napoleon Dynamite and Clerks were definite inspirations) and the cast of supporting oddballs ensure the humour remains dry as dust, from nasty coworkers and maladjusted computer geeks to family members that range from evil to simply inept. The laughs are primarily of the clueless variety—Jarrod throws a wild and crazy house party that is anything but; Lily lets loose with too much booze and make-up; Jarrod’s custom made candles are…umm…”different”—yet Waititi weighs it down somewhat with a side story illustrating why Jarrod is so keen on being someone he is not, a story which culminates in a schoolyard showdown with a former bully that is more pathetic than cathartic. But the film’s relentless monotone wears thin long before the end credits—like a punchline repeated too many times—and Waititi’s attempts to provide subtext through the use of billboards, murals, and t-shirt slogans (wild animals, seascapes, and couples figure heavily) starts off clever before shifting into overkill. Joel Tobeck co-stars as Lily’s loyal brother who fancies himself a first-class artist and impersonator (he’s neither), and Rachel House, playing Jarrod’s mean sister with a smile that can kill at twenty paces, packs the most chuckles into the smallest role.

Early Man (UK 2018) (5): A tribe of primitive cavemen who were driven out of their once peaceful valley by the greedy emperor of a nearby Bronze Age kingdom decide to fight back in a most unorthodox way—with a winner-take-all game of football. Led by young visionary Dug (voice of Eddie Redmayne) the maladjusted troglodytes face an uphill battle all the way for the modern men have an A-list team and their emperor (voice of Tom Hiddleston) is not averse to stacking the deck in his team’s favour… It’s hard to believe that the people who introduced us to Wallace & Gromit, evil penguins, and the beloved were-rabbit, are also responsible for this middling collection of yuck-yuck jokes and stale puns where even the once brilliant CGI and claymation just look tired. The usual assortment of goofy faces bristling with popped eyes and buck-toothed grins are paired with the usual assortment of character quirks (this one is a klutz, that one talks to rocks, and another never misses a chance to strike a pose) yet the overall effect is one of mild tedium even with a supporting menagerie of tyrannosaurus ducks, palaeolithic crawlies, and Dug’s grunting sidekick Hognob—a sabre-toothed pig who ends up eliciting the film’s only smiles. In fact most of the wisecracks hinge on the audience being both British and soccer fans—I’ve never heard of a “zebra crossing” nor am I familiar with any of the personalities being spoofed. And those Stone Age gags (snapping baby alligators for clothespins!) were already covered by The Flintstones back in the primordial 60s. Uninspired for all it’s flash and completely predictable from the outset, this is one animated fossil whose humour could have stood a bit more evolution. Maisie Williams, Timothy Spall, and Miriam Margolyes also lend their voices.

Early Summer (Japan 1951) (8): Another wry exploration of Japan’s post WWII generation gap which saw children respectfully rebelling against their parents’ traditional values. This time around twenty-eight year old Noriko’s family are determined to see her marry their bachelor of choice; but the headstrong young woman has romantic ideas of her own. Supported by her liberated friend (they both wear western fashions, hold down jobs, and believe in female assertiveness) she resists the allure of conformity and decides to follow her own heart much to the consternation, and eventual illumination, of her mom and dad. Brilliant images of soaring balloons and waving kites are tempered by a few happily caged birds and scenes of everyday domesticity while Ozu’s signature use of trains, smoke, and a restless ocean gently underscore the fact that life is what it is and every decision comes at a cost. Meanwhile, the skewed priorities of Noriko’s two bratty nephews remind us all that a sense of humour is indispensable if we are to weather all those slings and arrows. The zen-like cinematography is serene and the opening/closing choral pieces are piercingly beautiful.

The Earrings of Madame de... (France 1953) (9): The pampered wife of a French aristocrat sells her diamond earrings to pay off some mounting debts. Over the next two years those jewels will mysteriously reappear in her life again and again and in so doing highlight the web of lies, hypocrisy, and infidelity which seem to define her existence. Technically sumptuous with its elaborate tracking shots and unexpected camera angles, Max Ophül's brilliantly filmed fin de siècle morality play moves effortlessly between light farce, biting satire, and desperate tragedy before the camera settles on one sadly ironic final scene. A classic.

East is East (UK 1999) (7): In 1937 George Khan immigrated to Britain from Pakistan with dreams of creating a better life. Now, in 1971, he owns a chip shop and he and his redheaded English wife Ella are busy raising their seven children. But despite Khan’s insistence on maintaining a traditional Moslem household his offspring are more interested in snogging, going to the disco, and enjoying the occasional plate of bacon and sausages while the long-suffering Ella tries to bridge the cultural gap between her very Pakistani husband and her steadfastly British brood. Aside from an inconvenient circumcision and the occasional lecture on Old World Values however, the kids manage to carry on their own lives right under George’s nose with a little help from their mom. And then he tries to arrange a marriage between two of his sons and the less-than-desirable daughters of a wealthy businessman and his snobbish wife and all hell breaks loose. Having already failed to marry off his eldest son (now disowned) this is George’s last chance at gaining some respectability—but one boy refuses to marry a “Paki” and the other would rather play the field himself. Heated words quickly lead to physical blows all around as an increasingly desperate Khan and a fiercely protective Ella try and do what’s best for their family. Starting off as a dry comedy of manners highlighting the cultural differences inherent in one immigrant family, Damien O’Donnell’s slice o’life drama slowly moves into more serious territory as issues of domestic abuse, xenophobia, and racial identity begin to rise above the laughs. It’s not that Khan is an unreasonable despot, nor that his kids are consigned to becoming delinquents, but after thirty-four years he is still very much a stranger in a strange land while his children have embraced the values of the only country they have ever known—even if the colour of their skin gets them barred from the odd club now and then. As husband and wife the great Om Puri and Linda Bassett are perfectly matched with his broken English and eccentric ways gaining little ground against her working class sensibilities. The rest of the cast, most reprising their roles from the original stage play, are spot on as young adults precariously balanced between two worlds. A rather bittersweet ending is sure to make western audiences feel more comfortable in their seats but Ayub Khan-Din’s screenplay adaptation still offers an illuminating glimpse into a reality few of us have ever encountered.

East Side, West Side (USA 1949) (8): Manhattan society couple Brandon and Jessie Bourne’s marriage is on the upswing after she forgives his extramarital indiscretion with slutty gold digger Isabel Lorrison. But all that’s about to change when Lorrison, who left for parts unknown after the affair ended, breezes back into town determined to rekindle Brandon’s libido despite the fact that another man is now paying her bills. Suspecting her husband has once again fallen off the monogamy wagon Jessie is torn between giving him a third chance or phoning a divorce attorney when fate sends her a curve ball in the form of Mark Dwyer. A government agent newly returned from Europe, Dwyer is a charming and charismatic man who takes an instant liking to Jessie when their paths cross at a busy airport. Although still in love with her errant husband, Jessie’s innocent flirting with Dwyer begins to cast a shadow on her resolve to mend her marriage yet again. And then tragedy strikes, as it usually does in these movies, and everyone’s game is suddenly changed… Graced by a crisp and intelligent script as well as a handful of star performances, Mervyn LeRoy’s tale of domestic despair among the idle rich is an overlooked B&W classic. As the beleaguered couple James Mason and Barbara Stanwyck are superb, while a seductive Ava Gardner plays the slutty temptress for all it’s worth. A fresh-faced Cyd Charisse as a New York model vying for Dwyer’s attention and Van Heflin as the handsome bachelor himself round out the cast. There’s even a surprise cameo by Nancy Reagan if you can catch it. LeRoy makes good use of his urban settings with the hustle and bustle of Manhattan contrasting sharply with quiet moments of household drama and a surprisingly erotic (for the time) seduction scene. But it’s Barbara Stanwyck who ultimately carries the show with her uncanny ability to portray women who are at once terribly vulnerable and fiercely determined. This is what a movie star looks like.

Eastern Promises (UK 2007) (7):  A dark and dismal glimpse into the inner world of the Russian mafia seen through the eyes of one of its soldiers is juxtaposed with the story of a young nurse trying to find the family of a newborn foundling.  Generally good performances all around further enhanced by a subtle soundtrack, tight editing, and a dark palette of colours ranging from blood reds to shadowy blues.  But while I did appreciate the fact that Cronenberg used the story of the baby as a counterpoint to that of the Russian protagonist....her final scene is awash with sunlight while he retreats further into darkness....the two tales did not fit together well.  The film was further weakened by an implausible Hollywood-style ending.  Despite these drawbacks I still found much to be admired here.

Easy A (USA 2010) (8): When grossly exaggerated and patently false rumours about her sexual escapades begin circulating around school mousy virgin Olive (Emma Stone) at first revels in her newfound infamy—even sewing a scarlet “A” onto her homemade bustier after reading Nathaniel Hawthorne’s novel in English class. As the gossip becomes increasingly savage however she finds herself targeted by an evangelical students group who’ve decided she’s the Whore of Babylon and a handful of male misfits who want to use her tarnished reputation to bolster their own. Now, with her name so besmirched that even her skanky best friend is avoiding her, Olive realizes that it’s going to take a desperate ploy to set things right… With themes of alienation, identity, and the need to belong softened by some very funny passages, Will Gluck’s coming-of-age lark pays homage to those 80s teen comedies which helped take the edge off our own adolescence if only for 90 minutes at a time. Yes, the supporting cast are mostly comical caricatures—Amanda Bynes’ born-again classmate is a study in Valley Girl frigidity, Thomas Haden Church plays the hot teacher, Fred Armisen is a neurotic pastor—but Stone’s charming performance is a fully fleshed (and often hilarious!) combination of social awkwardness and nascent teenage wisdom while her various epiphanies on adult duplicity and her own self-worth arrive like welcomed punchlines. Definitely light entertainment, not that that’s a bad thing, yet as you get caught up in its fresh-faced California shenanigans you can’t help but imagine that somewhere out there John Hughes is nodding his approval. Dan Byrd co-stars as a classmate in need of an extra special favour and he’s joined by Malcolm McDowell as the uptight principal, Lisa Kudrow as a guidance counsellor in need of guidance, and Stanley Tucci and Patricia Clarkson as Olive’s impossibly hip parents. Even Mark Twain winds up getting a sly wink and a nudge.

Easy Money [Snabba Cash] (Sweden 2010) (7): In order to maintain his upper class illusion, part-time cabbie and full-time student JW decides to dabble in his boss’ “other” line of work—drugs. Recently escaped from prison, low level smuggler Jorge, who also works for JW’s boss, is trying to evade both the police and the Serbian mafia who have a score to settle with him. When these two men eventually join up it will place them both in the crosshairs of Mrado, a ruthless enforcer sent to deal with Jorge. Now, with a multi-million dollar shipment of cocaine on its way from Germany to Sweden and a turf war looming these three separate narratives will run headlong into each other with destructive consequences. Manic editing makes it look as if Daniel Espinosa’s Scandinavian crime thriller were filmed on the run then hastily pasted together in-camera while an equally chaotic script jumps erratcially from one thread to another, occasionally in the middle of a conversation. There is a low level brilliance to his potentially off-putting delivery however for it gives us a story as emotionally charged and psychologically disordered as its characters—and those characters run deeper than the film’s opening scenes of vice and violence would suggest. JW is a yuppie wannabe whose romantic liaison with a beautiful heiress has left him addicted to appearances, a hunger for the good life which stands poised to destroy his real life. Jorge’s pregnant sister is dredging up uncomfortable childhood memories even as he tries to prove he’s nothing like their abusive late father. And Mrado finds himself the reluctant guardian of his 8-year old daughter after his drug-addled ex-wife is deemed incompetent to care for her. Staccato gunfire and bloody fisticuffs set to a volatile score of Euro beats remove any notions of romance (crime seems to pay but its currency is dirty indeed) and Espinosa’s three leads turn in exemplary performances especially when they find their individual lives becoming more and more constricted. The movie’s tangled plots and irregular assemblage may be seen as liabilities by some (you really do need to pay close attention) but it left a big enough impression on director Martin Scorsese that he was instrumental in bringing it to North American theatres. A bit of trivia: Dragomir Mrsic, who plays Mrado, stumbled upon acting after serving time in prison for bank robbery.

Ebola Syndrome (Hong Kong 1996) (5): Kai is a unrepentant psychopath. After murdering his lover and her husband, he flees to South Africa where he lands a job cooking at a Chinese restaurant. Being hypersensitive to even the most innocuous criticisms, it isn’t long before he develops an enormous grudge against the restaurant’s overbearing owner and his spoiled harpy of a wife; but how will he exact his revenge? Then one day, while driving home with a shipment of meat, he spies a semi-conscious African woman lying by the side of the road. Being the disgusting slimeball that he is, Kai naturally decides to drop his drawers in order to take advantage of the situation. Just as he’s finishing up however, the woman has a sudden violent seizure and dies; but not before spraying him in the face with copious amounts of white mucus. It seems the hapless native was infected with the dreaded Ebola virus which is 99.9% fatal with Kai being in the lucky 0.1% who simply become active carriers able to infect others. This is when the party shifts to high gear! Returning to the restaurant, Kai begins to unknowingly infect others especially when he grinds up the owners and serves them as “African buns”. Escaping back to Hong Kong he eventually learns the truth about his viral status and sets about infecting as many people as he can in a non-stop orgy of festering pustules, spraying blood and screaming hysterics. Playing like a weak Chinese giallo, Ebola Syndrome revels in its many excesses whether it’s a graphic dismemberment or violent rape. Unfortunately the special effects are below par, the editing weak, and Yau’s clumsy attempts at humour fail to survive the inept subtitling; “My sperm is spilling out from my mouth...” says a sexually frustrated Kai at one point. Furthermore, the character of Kai is so patently awful (he’s not above sucking out a woman’s eyeball or masturbating into a customer’s pork chop) that his gross-out behaviour actually becomes tiresome. An unimpressive splatter flick overdone in every way.

Eccentricities of a Nightingale (USA TV 1976) (10): Blythe Danner gives a standout performance as the long suffering Alma Winemiller, a delicate and flighty southern belle yearning for love, excitement, and a sense of having accomplished something with her life. Browbeaten by her father, an Episcopalian minister, for her dramatic affectations (she displays an unladylike zeal every now and again) and labelled an “eccentric” by the good people of her small Mississippi town, the only things that keep Alma from going completely mad are a small circle of equally eccentric outcasts and her unrequited passion for John Buchanan (Frank Langella), the handsome young doctor who lives across the street. But John is kept on a short leash by his mother who’s determined to marry him off to someone more suitable to his station in life (her constant doting carrying a disturbingly incestuous edge) and Alma is trapped between the social demands of her father and the day-to-day care of her mother, a woman whose own shattered dreams have already driven her over the edge. A background story involving an errant aunt who followed her heart with tragic results only serves to underscore the play’s inherent pessimism. Things finally come to a boil on New Year’s Eve when a desperate Alma finally confronts John with her feelings and proceeds to make him a most scandalous offer… Based on Tennessee William’s play Summer and Smoke, this television adaptation made for PBS’s Theater in America series is pure southern melodrama from the genteel banter which carries daggers to our heroine’s overwhelming sense of being smothered in a gilded cage. There is a sad romanticism to Alma’s plight, edged perhaps with a lunatic fringe, which speaks of the hopeless longings which nevertheless give us reason to keep plodding on. This is as close to a love story as Williams gets, and even though the ending is more tragedy than comedy it nevertheless presents us with an unhappy soul finally finding her solitary niche.

Eden [aka The Abduction of Eden] (USA 2012) (6): Hyun Jae, a 16-year old student newly arrived in America with her family, is out on the town with her best friend when she is kidnapped by a pick-up at the local watering hole. Driven to a remote storage facility in the middle of the desert she is first stripped of her belongings and her identity then forced into prostitution with a group of similar women. Housed like cattle by their male captors and kept docile through violence, intimidation, and drugs, Hyun Jae (now named “Eden”) and her cellmates endure a life of privation and hopelessness, knowing that their lives are only worth the money they’re able to bring in. Eden soon realizes that if she is to survive she will have to cooperate with her keepers, even aiding them when necessary, while constantly looking for a way to escape. But her desperate quest for freedom will not only threaten her own life but those of her parents as well, for this isolated prostitution ring is just the edge of an international human trafficking network run by some very dangerous people. Based on the real life memoirs of Chong Kim, a young woman who went through a similar ordeal, Megan Griffiths problematic film tackles the issue of modern day sex slavery as tactfully as possible—-avoiding lurid sensationalism (all sex and nudity occurs off camera) yet still managing to get her angry message across. Of course there is the usual assortment of brutish drooling men one would expect, as well as a few dispirited female collaborators, but allusions to poverty, neglect and domestic abuse indicate the root causes of this global tragedy are far more complex than bad men capturing good girls. Unfortunately, like all movies “based on a true story” it is impossible to separate fact from screenplay. There is an unevenness to the film with narrative gaps and improbable turns which at times made me feel as if I was watching a cautionary After School special. To her credit Griffiths avoids much of the Hollywood hyperbole a story like this could engender, and she does draw out some noteworthy performances from leads Jamie Chung as Eden and Matt O’Leary as her coked-out overseer…although Beau Bridges’ turn as a crooked sheriff looks more like a nastier outtake from Smokey and the Bandit. For her first time directing from the big chair however, she has created something that is well worth seeing.

The Edge of Seventeen (USA 2016) (9): For her debut feature writer/director Kelly Fremon Craig has channeled the spirit of John Hughes to produce a misfit teen dramedy of surprising depth and candour. “There are two types of people in the world: those who naturally excel at life and the people who hope all those people die in a big explosion” is pretty much the credo of perpetually depressed junior high student Nadine (Hailee Steinfeld) who, besides dealing with a bruised self-image, must also contend with her bi-polar mother and a handsome older brother, Darian, whom she detests because his wild popularity constantly mocks her own social ineptitude. Thank God for Krista, Nadine’s best (and only) friend, a sweet girl who’s had her back since second grade. But when the gregarious Krista starts dating Darian, Nadine’s already shaky life threatens to go atomic. Deriving much of her humour from those memories of adolescent awkwardness we all carry around yet never stooping to slapstick or crude innuendo, Craig’s fully fleshed characters live in a real world with real issues—from bad hair to mental health to sexual propriety. Nadine hovers somewhere between whiny teen and troubled woman while Darian quietly suffers through his own problems and mom occasionally goes off the rails (a heartfelt performance from Kyra Sedgwick). Woody Harrelson also stars as Nadine’s history teacher and sounding board—his mordant common sense giving her introverted ego a few much needed slaps—while Hayden Szeto plays a clumsy classmate who sees in Nadine all the things she can’t see in herself. But the film ultimately belongs to Steinfeld, her defensive lashings, self-sabotage, and embarrassingly realistic meltdowns hinting at a deeper vulnerability which touches a chord in those of us who spent our highschool years clinging to the shadows. Nice musical score too, and Vancouver always photographs well.

Edge of Tomorrow (USA 2014) (6): When evil aliens attack the Earth, Major William Cage (Tom Cruise) does his best to stay out of the line of fire. A pacifist who can’t stand the sight of blood, he’s content to head the media division of the US Military—until he’s railroaded into battle by an unscrupulous General. Now finding himself on the war torn shores of France with a platoon of high-tech jarheads, it’s only a matter of minutes before the wholly unprepared Cage gets himself killed. And then wakes up to relive the whole experience once more. Caught in a mysterious time loop which sees his life rewind itself by 24 hours every time he bites the bullet while everyone around him relives their own day seemingly oblivious, Cage must make sense of his new reality before it drives him crazy. Enter Special Forces agent Rita Vrataski (Emily Blunt) and cockeyed physicist Dr. Carter (Noah Taylor) both of whom just might have a troubling solution to Cage’s quandary… First the good news: director Doug Liman has made the archetypal “Summer Blockbuster” with appropriately awesome special effects and lots of stuff blowing up in teeth-rattling stereophonic sound. Meanwhile, against those green screen backdrops of London under siege and Paris in ruins, Cruise and Blunt manage to produce a likeable chemistry which morphs into an awkward romance (how do you woo someone who has to shoot you in the head in order to reboot each time you get into trouble?). But there is nothing fresh to offer here nor is the central premise—itself full of logical conundrums—particularly novel. Although based on a Japanese manga, Liman borrows rather heavily from too many obvious sources: Groundhog Day immediately comes to mind as does the gung-ho testosterone and armoured body suits of Starship Troopers. Then there’s the aliens, looking like spinning balls of angry yarn, who bear more than a passing resemblance to the jiggly squids from The Matrix. And Liman ends it all with a stretch so outrageous you have to give him credit for sheer chutzpah if nothing else. An entertaining no-brainer the first time around but not worth revisiting.

An Education (UK 2009) (7): It’s 1961 London and bright young highschool student Jenny Mellor (Oscar-nominated Carey Mulligan) is cramming for her final exams in the hope of being accepted into Oxford even as she dreams about living a beatnik lifestyle “wearing black clothes and listening to Jaques Brel”. A chance encounter with dashing businessman David Goldman (Peter Sarsgaard) seems to offer Jenny everything she’s been looking for—he’s handsome, worldly, and exhibits an endearing Bohemian sensibility which clashes beautifully with her own stuffy middle class reality. He’s also twice her age, a fact lost upon her parents—especially her square father—as David charms them into letting him woo their daughter. But there are no shortcuts to happiness and in director Lone Scherfig’s disarmingly breezy coming-of-age story one adolescent girl’s first brush with romance will cost her more than she had bargained. Everyone remembers their first big crush and Scherfig captures that magical time with bright colours, awkward silences, and a soundtrack of timeless pop tunes. There is an innocent eroticism to Jenny’s ongoing seduction and Sarsgaard plays the waggish older man to perfection. More than a simple teen love story however, Scherfig examines the generation gap with warm candour balancing Jenny’s wide-eyed enthusiasm for life with the more dampened outlooks of her female teachers (a short yet vital walk-on by Emma Thompson) and the constant aura of disappointment exuded by her mother. Not the deepest film on the subject, but well-written and easy on the senses. The cast is nice to look at too.

Eisenstein in Guanajuato (Netherlands et al 2015) (5): In the Fall of 1931, after being rebuked by Hollywood, Russian silent film auteur Sergei Eisenstein traveled to Mexico to film yet another epic bankrolled in part by American author Upton Sinclair and Soviet despot Josef Stalin. While south of the border—or so the story goes—the 33-year old Eisenstein also lost his virginity at the hands (and cock) of his Mexican guide, Palomino Cañedo. British director Peter Greenaway seizes this small footnote in the life of his cinematic idol and turns it into a demented biopic of sorts with Finnish actor Elmer Bäck as the wild-haired Sergei who can’t shut up even when he’s being ploughed from behind, and Luis Alberti as his quietly dapper sparring partner and fuck buddy Cañedo. As if his vision was too big for a humble theatre screen, Greenaway reaches deep into his bag of tricks to pummel audiences with endless cutaways, split screens, and a camera which too often spins in wide orbits whether it be around a breakfast nook or Eisenstein’s lavishly appointed hotel bedroom where he and Cañedo dispense semen and wry observations in equal measure. From their two countries’ respective political revolutions to the revolutionary act of gay sex to the ultimate conquest of death over life, the two lovers’ insights and verbal parries are accompanied by some striking visuals—a display of mummified bodies, a dance sequence with blow-up skeleton dolls, and widescreen snippets from Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin and October: Ten Days That Shook the World while an orchestra belts out Prokofiev’s “Dance of the Knights”. And in one literally cheeky segment Cañedo plants a red flag squarely on Sergei’s post coital butt (Viva la Revolución!). Unfortunately Greenaway’s personal glee does not transfer well reducing Bäck’s non-stop soliloquies to so much exhausting prattle against a background of arty affectations which grow tiresome from sheer repetition. There are depths to be plumbed here and its sheer audacity reflects on cinema’s ability to inform and confound, but Greenaway’s rush to heap too much onto a single plate had me losing my appetite before the halfway mark.

Electra Glide in Blue (USA 1973) (5):  Diminutive trooper John Wintergreen patrols the lonely stretches of highway that wind through the Arizona desert ticketing hippies and off-duty police officers alike.  He’s an honest cop who manages to avoid the petty corruption around him as he pursues his dream of becoming a homicide detective.  When he’s called upon to assist in the investigation of a suspicious suicide it appears his wish is about to be granted but it isn’t long before he realizes that not everyone shares his sense of honour.  Guercio’s simple film employs some beautiful imagery and imaginative camerawork; lots of wide-angle shots of mesas framed against brilliant blue skies and closer, intimate shots sometimes reflected in a mirror as if to challenge our sense of reality.  He also uses some clever cinematic allusions, which lend depth to the narrative.  In one scene Wintergreen uses a poster of Easy Rider for target practice, a segment  that  later injects a tragic irony to the movie’s finale.  In another scene reminiscent of Dr. Strangelove, he begins to suspect his new boss may be a bit crazy. Finally, the film ends with a highly effective tracking shot enhanced by a soulful closing song.  Where it ultimately failed for me however was in the weak script which often lapsed into tired genre clichés, and the blatant overacting; whether it was the local floozy delivering a histrionic monologue, the town schizoid’s wild-eyed ramblings, or John’s lunatic police partner having a monumental meltdown.  What could have been a richly textured study of one man’s noble struggle to achieve greatness without sacrificing his integrity winds up being a nicely filmed TV cop drama instead.

Elevator to the Gallows (France 1958) (9): Louis Malle’s debut feature film is a devilishly clever bit of pulp fiction brimming with dark irony and a pervasive fatalism. Florence and Julien are impassioned lovers whose desire to be together prompts them to concoct a foolproof scheme to off her husband—a wealthy arms dealer who also happens to be Julien’s boss. But as Florence waits for him in a nearby cafe Julien’s well laid plans hit a couple of serious snags when he gets stuck in an elevator while fleeing the scene of the crime at the same time a pair of juvenile delinquents decide to go for a joy ride in his getaway car. With Florence thinking the worst, Julien desperately trying to free himself, and the car thieves racking up one deadly complication after another, everyone is in for a long and bumpy ride. Despite some theatrical dialogue and a few improbable twists—or perhaps because of them—Malle’s freshman production, based on Noël Calef’s novel, is a savvy, suspenseful thriller that keeps you on edge right up to the ingenious Catch-22 ending. Briskly edited and filmed in crisp B&W, it’s headline stars Maurice Ronet and French New Wave darling Jeanne Moreau are in fine form as they sweat and agonize over a fate that seems all but sealed while a dark and stormy night heads toward an uncertain dawn. And having legendary jazz musician Miles Davis supply the largely improvised background score is the final cherry on top.

11:14 (USA 2003) (7): At precisely 11:14 pm, on a lonely stretch of highway, five disparate yet oddly connected stories converge for one brief moment. By the time 11:15 rolls around one exasperated policeman will have to contend with two dead bodies, a botched robbery, a mysterious hit and run, and a little severed penis. Laced with a grim sense of humour Greg Marcks‘ fatalistic drama begins with a straightforward plot device---a car accident; then, by rewinding his camera five separate times he proceeds to challenge our understanding of what we just witnessed as we see all the events which led up to that one opening crash. Buoyed by some good performances and with enough twists and tangles to keep you entertained, 11:14 does manage to flesh out its eighty minute running time. But the use of intersecting stories and repetitive timelines is hardly new, having been used in other films with much greater effect, here it comes across as a wee bit gimmicky. The story is pretty cool though, and Marcks certainly has enough surprises to spring on an unwary audience. An intelligently written no-brainer with a wicked heart.

11 Minutes (Poland 2015) (5): What can change over the course of a mere eleven minutes? Well, according to Jerzy Skolimowski’s muddled mess of intersecting storylines and crazy coincidences—everything. Between 5:00 and 5:11 pm the lives of a handful of people, each one contending with their own drama and unaware of the others, will converge in one of the most colourfully jarring chain reactions to come out of European cinema in some time. There’s a sexually conflicted actress and her jealous husband; a vendor with a criminal past and seven hungry nuns; an adulterous window cleaner; a drug dealer; a would-be thief; the paramedics responding to a 911 call gone terribly wrong; plus a few peripheral characters who nevertheless have a role to play. And the only thing any of them have in common is the brief sighting of a strange harbinger suspended in the sky above Warsaw. Jumping maniacally from thread to thread with no scene lasting more than a few minutes and a chopped up timeline given the barest sense of cohesion by the portentous tolling of a church bell and a jet plane which passes ominously overhead, Skolimowski leaves it up to his audience to decipher exactly what it’s all supposed to mean. As a treatise on randomness vs. predestination all of the coincidences seem to fall within the realm of blind chance—so why do the Father, the Son, and a fine feathered Holy Ghost make split-second appearances? As a comment on alienation in the age of smartphones there are certainly enough examples of people mugging in front of their personal lenses: a sleazy film director uses his digital camera to both seduce and intimidate; a couple watch laptop porn in the intimacy of an unmade bed; and everywhere security cameras record the lives of millions of people (one such montage receding into the distance to reveal an adroit twist). Lastly, a brief interlude involving a portrait artist inconvenienced when a man jumps off the bridge he happens to be painting not only makes a statement on artifice (it’s not what you think) but his ruined watercolour provides what may be the entire crux of the movie. With so much going for it (it was Poland’s official entry for the Academy Awards—it was rejected) I still could not engage with either the characters or their predicaments except on the most superficial of levels, and all that temporal jumping about wasn’t worth the big bang pay-off. It’s a clever parlour trick of a film but as the final credits came to a close I found myself uninterested in pondering the existential questions it posed.

Elizabeth: The Golden Age (UK 2007) (7):  Cate Blanchett once again dons the royal crown as Elizabeth I in director Shekhar Kapur’s big budget sequel to 1998’s Elizabeth.  It’s 1585 and an older, wiser Virgin Queen faces crises and intrigue both within the court and from abroad.  The imprisoned Mary Queen of Scots is laying claim to the English throne; King Philip II of Spain is planning an overwhelming naval assault; and homegrown Catholics view her as a Protestant whore.  Meanwhile, still unmarried and childless, Liz finds herself falling slippers over tiara for the dashing Walter Raleigh (Clive Owen)—an unrequited love which has the palace buzzing…  As usual with any big screen costume drama historical accuracy takes a backseat to sheer spectacle, and Kapur delivers spectacle in spades.  The palatial sets, opulent outfits, and computer-generated sea battles are breathtaking and a cast of A-listers (among them Geoffrey Rush as Walsingham; Samantha Morton as Mary; Jordi Mollà as Philip) are certainly strong enough to be heard above the visual din.  But the film’s gushing patriotism insists on bathing Elizabeth in ethereal light—at one point she literally glows as the camera spins giddily about her and in another scene she delivers an inspired oration atop a white horse, gathering storm clouds reflecting off her immaculate armour—while at the same time demonizing Philip and his papist hordes.  Coupled with a soundtrack of thundering orchestras and straining choirs that border on epic overkill, Kapur pushes his production dangerously close to Marvel Comics territory with England’s Wonder Woman facing off against Spain’s Darth Vader.  But the performances are superb, the sense of history in the making palpable, and the aforementioned spectacle flies right off the screen and into your face.

Elmer Gantry (USA 1960) (8): In the 1920’s midwest, traveling salesman and petty grifter Elmer Gantry (Oscar winner Burt Lancaster) is living hand to mouth selling vacuum cleaners and pop-up toasters in between bouts of drinking and carousing. Handsome and charmingly loquacious, he’s always looking for an easy buck no matter who he has to sweet-talk. One night he happens upon an old-fashioned Christian tent revival run by charismatic preacher Sister Sharon Falconer (a demure Jean Simmons) and when he sees the enraptured crowd hanging on her every word, not to mention handing over their spare change, he realizes that selling salvation may be the most lucrative scam going. Worming his way into Falconer’s confidence Gantry’s fire ’n brimstone sermons and showbiz panache soon have spellbound vigilantes waging a moral crusade all over town, filling his pockets and stoking his insatiable ego in the process. But when a shameful secret from the past suddenly resurfaces it threatens to smack the bible right out of his hand and causes him to see Sister Falconer in an entirely different light. Highly controversial for its cynical portrayal of organized religion as something of a con game (how little things have changed over the decades), Richard Brooks’ adaptation of Sinclair Lewis’ novel pits Sister Falconer’s steadfast faith against Gantry’s opportunistic blustering while an atheist newspaper reporter covering her ministry serves as a referee of sorts. What happens when the good Sister begins to question her convictions and the former salesman begins to believe his own sermons makes for one helluva show culminating in an apocalyptic finale which will have believers pondering deep thoughts and everyone else smirking over the pile of ironies.

El Norte (USA/UK 1983) (4): Enrique and his sister Rosa are Mayan indians working on a coffee plantation in Guatemala where the aboriginal labourers are treated like disposable slaves. After a planned uprising goes terribly wrong the two siblings flee their small mountain village and begin the long trek to America where, according to their aunt’s dusty collection of “Good Housekeeping” magazines, the streets are paved with consumer goods and everyone owns a flush toilet. Braving deprivation and predatory peasants (and a sewer full of belligerent rats) the two finally find themselves in the promised land only to discover that the life of an illegal alien is not much different than the life they left. Gregory Nava’s sophomoric attempt at pricking our social conscience plays out like a Grimm fairy tale with a little brown Hansel and Gretel wandering lost through the forest of Los Angeles while being taken advantage of at every turn by cardboard caricatures of gringos and chicanos alike. As Enrique proudly practices his English while serving caviar at a private club (and sounding like Manuel on Fawlty Towers) Rosa tries to decipher the arcane workings of a modern washing machine and ends up scrubbing her rich bitch employer’s laundry on the front lawn instead. Ha ha culture shock! Nava clearly has trouble deciding whether his film is a tragedy shot through with humour or a comedy with tragic overtones although either approach fails by the time the ending rolls around: a life-changing decision is tempered by a cheesy hospital scene lifted straight from a Mexican soap opera with Barber’s Adagio for Strings playing obtrusively in the background. His heart is in the right place but a facile script that relies on every cliché it can find and a host of embarrassingly bad performances ultimately undo whatever humanitarian message was meant to be conveyed.

El Topo (Mexico 1970) (5): Ostensibly a western featuring a black clad gunslinger and his nude 6-year old alter ego. After witnessing the murder of an entire town by a group of rowdies, El Topo (the mole) decides to seek revenge which leads him to the path of enlightenment as he defeats one master duelist after another until his death and rebirth as messianic leader to a tribe of cave-dwelling misfits. The grandfather of all midnight movies, Jodorowsky's spiritual allegory owes more than a passing nod to Catholic voodoo, 60s drug culture, and the director's pathological relationship with his own father. God, Messiah, Avenging Angel, and Sacrificial Lamb all rolled into one, El Topo's journey towards the light is at once an emotional catharsis rife with sex and violence, and a series of inner revelations (cue mystical bunnies and subterranean resurrection). But mostly it's just a lot of artsy tableaux and quasi-mystical banter which gives the appearance of tremendous depth depending on how long you hold the smoke... Like far out man!

Elvis & Nixon (USA 2016) (6): In the winter of 1970 Elvis Presley met with then president Richard Nixon at the White House. While there are no official transcripts of what was discussed there were a couple of firsthand accounts from presidential aide Bud Krogh and Elvis’ personal friend and P.R. man Jerry Schilling. Using their recollections plus a whole lot of imaginative filler director Liza Johnson turns this historic encounter into a droll exercise in “What if…?” As portrayed by Michael Shannon, Elvis is a mix of celebrity egotist, southern gentleman, and staunch supporter of all things right of centre who is obsessed with becoming an undercover federal agent so that he can protect America from communists and hippies and the drug culture they promote (even The Beatles are not above his suspicion). As portrayed by Kevin Spacey, Nixon is a gruff, dismissive square peg who shares Elvis’ concerns even though he has absolutely no grasp of either pop culture or the younger voting demographic. Despite meandering for most of its running time—Elvis charms the ladies, Nixon swears and blusters—when their meeting eventually does take place it is well worth the wait to watch Elvis violate every protocol in the book while a ruffled Nixon comes to admire him for it. Spacey perfectly embodies the president, from the stooped posture and gravelly voice to the brusque mannerisms all of which make his emerging hero worship hilariously awkward. Unfortunately, aside from the pompadour wig and flashy bling, Shannon’s performance robs The King of his essential charisma and screen presence giving us not much more than a second rate Elvis impersonation. But the dialogue crackles and Spacey’s noteworthy turn is reinforced by a pair of neurotic aides (Colin Hanks, Evan Peters) as well as a brief but funny appearance by Tate Donovan as Chief of Staff Bob Haldeman.

Emanuelle and the Last Cannibals (Italy 1977) (4): Yet another soft-core adventure featuring everybody’s favourite nympho photojournalist, horribly written and horribly dubbed just the way we like it! This time around Emanuelle is working undercover in a psychiatric hospital when the newest admission, a wild woman found wandering around the Amazon, decides to chew a nurse’s breast off. Armed with her unique talent for mixing business with pleasure, our scantily clad shutterbug manages to uncover a few clues beneath the woman’s hospital gown while simultaneously getting her fingers wet. Suspecting that the patient ran afoul of real life cannibals, Emanuelle immediately grabs her camera and a clean thong and heads for the wilds of South America accompanied by her anthropologist paramour-du-jour. There, in the steamy jungles of Brazil, she will have to contend with an impotent big game hunter and his man-eating wife, a pious nun in garters, and a forest full of hungry horny savages. But not to worry, for even though her clothes constantly desert her our salacious camerawoman manages to make her way back to America without being eaten (for a change). A sultry soundtrack of porn ballads clashes nicely with some low-budget gore effects, including one especially nasty scene which lends new meaning to the term “split beaver”. Ciao!

Emanuelle and the White Slave Trade (Italy 1978) (2): This time around our slutty shutterbug is on assignment in Nairobi where she hopes to infiltrate the carefully guarded hideaway of notorious Italian gangster Giorgio Rivetti. But first her blonde friend Ely insists on showing her the sights including an impromptu visit to a local garage where Ely receives a five-point inspection and lube job from a willing mechanic while Emanuelle gives herself a manual overhaul in the front seat. After a brief lesbian shower scene where Ely proves that she is in fact not a true blonde, the two girls dress up as stewardesses, latch onto a visiting European prince, and finagle their way into Rivetti’s compound. One wild animal safari and hashish-induced four-way later Emanuelle has her story and is bound for home when she hears of a white slave trade operating out of New York. Her investigations eventually lead to a private sex club in San Diego where she poses as a new trainee, ingratiating herself with the club’s stern madame and drag queen overseer. Her first assignment is to help an elderly senator work out a few kinks while Madame and a young protégée give each other a firm “thumbs up” from behind a two-way mirror. Upon discovering some awful truths about the establishment’s recruitment policy Emanuelle tries to escape only to be captured by the resident goon squad leading to a Kung Fu showdown in a bowling alley, an obligatory gang rape, an attempted lobotomy (I kid you not), and a personalized pap smear from a busty nurse. Things eventually do end on a happy note as Emanuelle straddles the plank with a boatload of horny fishermen while the newspapers print her incriminating photos. With its atrocious dubbing and choppy editing, obviously designed to keep things just this side of an “X” rating, this is one of the sloppier instalments of the series. Not worth the price of emission.

Emanuelle Around the World  (Italy 1977) (5):  Here's some fun stuff to do while watching "Emanuelle Around the World"! (1) See how many famous landmarks you can name whenever Laura Gemser spreads her knees...."Ooh, it's the Golden Gate Bridge....and isn't that the Trevi Fountain?" (2) Whenever a nipple appears onscreen try and be the first one to yell "ROSEBUD!" (3) After each nude scene try and predict how many minutes Laura Gemser will keep her dress on. Who says a bit of mediocre Eurosleaze can't be fun...and educational!

Emanuelle in America  (Italy 1977) (6):  Ten minutes into the film Emanuelle is threatened by a crazed gunman who wants to kill her in order to save the world from immorality. Luckily she manages to put her mouth where his money is and thus begins yet another carefree, clothing optional chapter in the life of our horny heroine. Whether she's enjoying a Venetian orgy or simply cuddling up with a good snuff film Emanuelle can't help but bring joy and a quick release to everyone she meets, even Mr. Ed gets a helping hand! The production values are above par, the theme song surprisingly wistful and the hardcore bits almost erotic (the "Tarzan" scene was my favourite). Not bad at all.

Emanuelle in Bangkok (Italy 1976) (5): Luscious Laura Gemser reprises her role of the beloved international photographer suffering from chronic overexposure in this poorly dubbed and flaccidly softcore tale of sex in high places. This time around she’s on assignment in Bangkok (no, I won’t stoop to cheap puns) ostensibly to do a photo shoot of the royal family even though her tight schedule seems to leave plenty of time for lesbian bubble baths, naked opium binges, and a congenial gang rape. But sinister forces are afoot as the King is imprisoned and her apartment is ransacked. Luckily a group of German mercenaries are able to lend her several helping hands and she manages to flee to Casablanca just in time to satisfy a tent-load of Bedouins before beginning a torrid affair with the American ambassador’s daughter. D’Amato incorporates some cool travelogue footage with impressive location shots and a surprisingly wistful storyline--think of a chick flick made for dirty old men--that explores Emanuelle’s inner feelings almost as much as her underpants. It’s too bad the whole thing ends up looking like it was pasted together using surplus footage from other films though, a better editor could have made a world of difference. Or not.

Embrace of the Serpent (Colombia 2015) (8): Nominated for a Best Foreign Film Oscar, Ciro Guerra’s doleful requiem on the plight of Amazonia’s indigenous peoples circa 19th century is a heady mix of spiritual parable and bitter history lesson. While exploring the Amazon basin in 1909, German naturalist Theo Grunberg became seriously ill—a situation which forced him to seek help from native shaman Karamakate whose knowledge of herbal medicine was the only thing that could save his life. But the horrors of colonialism had left Karamakate an angry hermit suspicious of anyone with white skin and his decision to help Grunberg find a rare psychedelic herb with quasi-mythical healing properties was fraught with mistrust and misunderstanding. Forty years later, spurred by Grunberg’s fantastical posthumous diaries (and harbouring a hidden agenda of his own), American botanist Evan Schultes traveled to Colombia hoping to rediscover the fabled plant—and in so doing met up with the aging Karamakate who’d become an embittered husk of his former self. Together they set out on a journey which would change them both. Using rich B&W cinematography which turns the rainforest into a waking dream, Guerra’s sad film unfolds in a string of languorous chapters as cameras drift over sinuous riverbeds and steaming treetops recording each man’s journey like they were a pair of solemn pilgrimages. From the slavery of the rubber plantations to the cultural genocide wrought by Christian missionaries, Guerra doesn’t balk at the truth yet he couches the bitterness in scenes of such pastoral beauty that one is never sure where reality gives way to dreamlike allegory. A madman declares himself Christ, a disfigured thrall begs for death, and an arcing fireball heralds a twist of fate as one scientist sees his dream unravel while his counterpart across the years is transformed by a dream he never knew he held. Meanwhile the film’s one constant, Karamakate, as if absorbing the atrocities around him, goes from proud warrior to piteous senior with one last quest to perform. A clash of both cultures and philosophies tinged with narcotic hallucinations (coca leaves figure heavily in native sorcery), Embrace of the Serpent’s gentle plainsong rhythm never quite conceals the poison dart hovering just below its surface.

Empire of Passion (Japan 1978) (7): In 19th century Japan the country wife of a lowly rickshaw driver is seduced by a dashing young officer, twenty-six years her junior. Consumed with passion for each other they murder her unsuspecting husband and dump his body down an abandoned well. But neither the living nor the dead will let them be for not only does the local magistrate come snooping around their village looking for the missing driver, the dead man’s ghost starts making regular visits to his guilt-stricken wife as well. Forced to continue their illicit affair in the shadows lest suspicious tongues begin to wag, the increasingly paranoid couple soon realize that sexual lust alone is no match for supernatural vengeance. An erotically charged tale of amour fou which manages to combine elements of horror with some surprisingly frank scenes of carnal abandon without diminishing either one. Although the story itself is rather straightforward (Karma is a bitch, man) director Nagisa Ôshima’s stagey presentation gives it the aura of a creepy campfire tale as his camera pans over clouds of mist wafting through a dark forest or a slow rain of autumn leaves obscuring the mouth of a moss-coated cistern. And, in typical Japanese fashion, the sex is both desperate and just a little twisted. Who knew you could be scared and horny at the same time?

Enchanted (USA 2007) (8):  Disney pokes fun at its own cutesy reputation in this playful satire on the fairytale formula.  The story concerns Giselle, a cartoon maiden in the animated land of Andalasia, who is about to marry Prince Edward, her one true love.  Edward’s wicked stepmother meanwhile, the evil sorceress Queen Narissa, schemes to block the marriage in order to keep the throne for herself.  To this end she banishes Giselle to the world of reality, namely New York City, where the winsome naïf must contend with muggers, freaks, and a cynical population that no longer believes in happily ever after.  It isn’t long before Giselle becomes entangled in the lives of a skeptical divorcee, his 8-year old daughter and his jealous fiancée; but when Prince Edward and his little chipmunk sidekick come looking for her things go from simply confusing to complete pandemonium...  Despite the sheer absurdity of the movie’s premise there is a seductive quality to the comical proceedings that caught me off guard and had me smiling like a kid.  The musical numbers are bright and lively, the allusions to Snow White and Cinderella are cleverly done, and the CGI effects are amazing....rats and cockroaches have never looked so darn cute!  And yes, there is a very happy ending for all.  Enchanted doesn’t try to be anything than what it is, a light and fluffy little treat.  It succeeds admirably.

The Endless (USA 2017) (7): Ten years after Justin and his brother Aaron (directors Justin Benson and Aaron Moorhead) escaped from a backwoods cult in the wilds of northern California, a strange videotape arrives on their Los Angeles doorstep prompting them to return to “Camp Arcadia” one last time. Met with smiles and an easygoing bonhomie by the camp members, Aaron settles in as if he’d never left. Justin’s simmering suspicions, however, continue to grow for despite being welcomed back by Arcadia’s placid ad hoc leader, Hal, he becomes all too aware of the inscrutable glances he and his brother are getting as well as the cryptic answers he receives whenever he makes pointed enquiries about the camp itself. And then signs and portents begin raining down—crows fly in endless circles, topography seems to shift with a will of its own, and the night sky is impossibly lit by the glow of two full moons—causing Justin’s initial unease to inch towards full-on panic. Both brothers are obviously suffering from faulty memories—Aaron recalls Arcadia as being a happy hippy commune, Justin remembers a malevolent death cult—but what is real and what is merely believed? The Arcadians themselves appear domestic to the point of being pleasantly bland yet one senses they have uncomfortable answers to some very dark questions. Benson and Moorhead’s little indie curio certainly takes you on a novel ride without actually breaking any new ground in the horror/sci-fi genre. Obviously shot on a limited budget, they still managed to gather a superb cast of B-list actors whose performances range from low-keyed nuance to shrill bluster and bluff (James Jordan is superb as “Shitty Carl”, a bellicose redneck with a taste for self-harm holed up in a nearby trailer). And although not quite up to big studio standards the film’s special effects are nevertheless effective especially when they aim for the small and unexpected rather than sky-splitting spectacle—a lazy afternoon on the lake turns monstrous using little more than light and shadow. Hardly the “mind-bending” experience some critics imply, but for the discerning viewer it’s sure to titillate a a couple of brain cells.

The End of Suburbia: Oil Depletion and the Collapse of the American Dream (Canada 2004) (7): There is a coming energy crisis, according to Gregory Greene’s cortège of solemn talking heads, which will make the shortages of the 70’s look like a golden age and the Iraqi war a minor skirmish. Gone are the days where oil and natural gas gushed out of wells and into our bottomless gas tanks and water heaters. As the earth’s supply of crude is used up it will become increasingly difficult...read expensive...to coax the black gold out of the ground necessitating deeper wells that produce fewer barrels. This law of diminishing returns is bad news to an America whose addiction to cheap energy and, by association, cheap prices on everything from food to detached bungalows has been nurtured by years of corporate propaganda and social manipulation. As the supply of oil slides down the wrong side of the bell curve, people will be forced to downscale their energy-dependent lifestyles and work/shop/play closer to home while economies become increasingly localized. And nowhere will this pinch be felt more than in those sprawling concrete salutes to conformity, the suburbs. “The ‘suburbia project’...” laments one author, “...was the greatest misallocation of resources in the history of the world...a living arrangement with no future”. Indeed, with energy prices predicted to skyrocket there will be a domino effect which will render the suburban dream unsustainable before Generation X gets its first grey hair. So where’s the upside? According to Greene there isn’t one unless you commit to the idea of “New Urbanism” which is essentially a nostalgic return to the multi-use urban environments of yesteryear. Furthermore, although research into alternate energy sources should have begun 50 years earlier one cannot discount the ability of human ingenuity to overcome the obstacles it created in the first place. The only question seems to be, will people leave their obsolete suburban “McHouses” willingly or be dragged out kicking and screaming? Bleak and unsettling, Greene’s glimpse into our future history makes you feel as if you’ve been kicked out of bed right in the middle of a pleasant dream. But is his cast of interviewees simply a pack of gloomy naysayers or true prophets of doom? I guess time will tell. *Gulp*

End of Summer  (Japan 1961) (9):  When you watch enough Ozu you realize a few things: all his movies revolve around the same themes---the transitory nature of life/love/happiness and the identity crisis of post WWII Japan. He uses the same ensemble cast, he uses the same images (smoke, trains, tombstones), and he uses the same sets (same house, same tavern). However, his mastery of these elements make each film a separate joy to watch. The End of Summer tends to be a bit heavy-handed in is symbolism but I still found it entertaining. It's a pleasure to see a true artist at work even if you are already familiar with his palette.

Enemy (Canada 2013) (7): Filmed in an appropriately monochromatic Toronto of faded buildings and yellow smog, Denis Villeneuve’s psychosexual phantasm of a film hovers somewhere between the twisted suspense of an older Hitchcock and the mental aberrations of a younger Cronenberg. History professor Adam Bell (Jake Gyllenhaal) is experiencing a premature mid-life crisis as each day seems to be a stifling repeat of the one before: he gets up, goes to work, comes home to a bare apartment, has mechanical sex with his distracted girlfriend, and wakes up alone. His life enters the Twilight Zone however when, while watching a DVD on his laptop, he spies a background actor who looks exactly like him. Obsessed with finding the man, Adam eventually tracks him down and realizes that the two of them share more than a carbon copy likeness of each other for the actor, also played by Gyllenhaal, appears to be living an alternate version of Bell’s life. But when actor begins stalking professor in turn, an already surreal situation turns ominous, perhaps even deadly. Shored up by Gyllenhaal’s bravura double performance and a worthy supporting cast that includes Isabella Rossellini as Bell’s enigmatic mother, Mélanie Laurent as his frigid girlfriend, and Toronto’s own Sarah Gadon as the actor's pregnant wife, screenwriter Javier Gullón’s adaptation of José Saramago’s novel knows just how much to reveal through delicate clues and how much to obscure beneath layers of jarring metaphor—a visit to a strip club resonates with id impulses, spiders make for some startling cameos, and Adam’s class lectures on despots and control wax prophetic. And throughout it all Villeneuve holds the reins with both hands, letting Gyllenhaal stretch his wings (he really does manage to play two different men thanks in part to some clever editing) yet never allowing the situation to spin into absurdity. Bell’s panicky confusion grows proportionally to his alter ego's oddly vindictive spite while the women in their lives face an identity crisis of their own leading to a host of closing images that confound even as they illuminate. “Chaos is order yet undeciphered” states the author in an opening quotation, a sentiment Villeneuve takes to heart as he hints and prods but leaves the final codebreaking to his audience.

The Enemy Below (USA 1957) (9): In the middle of WWII the new commander of a navy destroyer (a square-jawed Robert Mitchum) picks up the scent of a German U-boat in the south Atlantic and gives chase. Meanwhile the German commander (Curd Jürgens making his impressive American debut), sensing the pursuit, begins evasive action. What follows is a tense game of cat-and-mouse between ship and submarine as the two seasoned and battle savvy foes try to outguess, outsmart, and outmanoeuvre one another over the course of twenty-four hours. Amazing cinematography both above and below the waves couples with explosive Oscar-winning special effects and a script both sharp and literate to produce a film that abandons the usual “guts’n glory” flag-waving in favour of darker, psychological insights. Although the commanders have become inured to the dogs of war they are not without their individual scars for both men have suffered personal tragedies because of it and both have begun questioning the wisdom of armed conflict. The American sees warfare as something humans carry within themselves, the German laments the loss of honour among warriors, yet both have a mission to carry out despite their grudging respect for one another. Notable for its sympathetic portrayal of the enemy (no bloodthirsty Huns here), the intriguing plot was later recycled for an episode of Star Trek in which Captain Kirk squares off against an elusive Romulan commander.

The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser (Germany 1974) (8): In 1828 a strange young man suddenly appeared in Nuremberg’s town square. Unkempt and barely able to walk or communicate beyond a few words, the only clue to “Kaspar’s” origin was a letter clutched in his hand describing his lifelong imprisonment in a dark cellar, and his spoken desire to be a “cavalry officer” like his father. At first intrigued, the locals soon grew tired of Kaspar until a wealthy benefactor took him under his wing and taught him not only to read and write, but speak his mind as well. The results were both astonishing and ultimately frustrating for Kaspar’s perceptions of the world around him turned out to be…unique…to say the least. Writer/director Werner Herzog takes a historical incident and proceeds to fashion it into a series of satirical barbs as an increasingly verbose Kaspar is treated first as a novelty, then a financial burden, a trained monkey, and finally a tragic protagonist. The focus of Herzog’s critical eye is not on the man himself however, but rather the effect his appearance has on the staid German society into which he is thrust. Pursued by petty bureaucrats and bourgeois gawkers Kaspar’s unschooled (and therefore wholly innocent) mind is unprepared for the contradictions and meaningless conventions he encounters—a revered professor testing Kaspar’s mental capacity with a “problem in logic” has the rug pulled out from under him when the supposed idiot savant counters the accepted solution with one of his own and a pair of pious ministers turn blue after Hauser casually points out the inanity of their beliefs. And, just to further confuse the local gentry, Kaspar rattles off a few non-sequiturs involving desert nomads and an alpine danse macabre as if they were cryptic parables—“You must never tell a story unless you know how it ends” chides one woman. Using long takes and a soundtrack of classical chamber pieces, Herzog manages to keep his mordant sense of humour in check right up to the films amusingly ghoulish finale causing the chuckles, when they come, to be more self-conscious than we’d like. As an interesting aside, the life of lead actor Bruno S. was itself quite a sad enigma.

Entertainment (USA 2015) (7): In 2012 director Rick Alverson teamed up with Tim Heidecker (of Tim & Eric fame) to make The Comedy, one of the most brutal critiques of millennial mindsets ever set to celluloid. With Entertainment they inflict yet another angst-ridden wail of despair on an audience perhaps lured by the ironic title and promises of stand-up schtick from the film’s star, outré comedian Gregg Turkington. Turkington does don his onstage persona of Neil Hamburger—a dried up comedic has-been sporting a ridiculous tuxedo, perpetual cocktail and pathetic combover who looks as if he just crawled out of a months-long coma—only this time he stays in character throughout to show us the pain and boiling rage behind all those unfunny scatological one-liners. Ostensibly a road movie about a comic driving across the Mojave desert towards a big gig in Los Angeles and a possible reunion with his estranged daughter who never picks up the phone, Alverson turns the convention on its ear and instead delivers an unsettling study of one man’s gradual disintegration. With motel TV’s showing a mindless telenovela and the car radio blaring incongruous songs about hope and love, the comedian slowly makes his way stopping just long enough to perform in empty bars with his sidekick and alter ego, a pathetically untalented mime (Tye Sheridan), and take the occasional depressing side tour—an airplane graveyard, a ghost town, a blight of oil derricks. But with each failed show and each sad message left on his daughter’s answering machine his grip on sanity loosens one heckler at a time… Alverson makes use of his desert locales with empty highways and desiccated cacti emphasizing both his protagonist’s banality and growing disconnect. He then imparts a further sense of gravitas through the clever placement of primary colours and a unique soundtrack which includes everything from lounge to sacred chorales. Subtle as scorched earth and as pleasant as a razor blade across the wrist, Alverson’s film is certainly not for those easily offended or put off by long slow takes which show nothing yet scream volumes, and Turkington’s deadpan delivery doesn’t garner much sympathy when the fall eventually comes. But the point of the film is that it doesn’t have a point to make and the audience is invited to simply ride along at their own peril. John C. Reilly and Michael Cera co-star as a tediously dull cousin full of empty praise and a truck stop hustler looking for warmth.

Enter the Void (France 2009) (8): Gaspar Noe, the bad boy of French cinema, assaults our senses once more with this acid-tinged karmic mindfuck which makes up for its weak narrative with some dazzling visuals. Orphaned at an early age and then raised in separate foster homes, Linda and Oscar eventually find themselves sharing an apartment in a seedy section of Tokyo where they eke out an existence stripping and dealing narcotics respectively. But when Oscar is killed in a botched drug bust his sister's already unstable life takes a nosedive while Oscar's detached spirit embarks on a meandering tour through the now ethereal streets of downtown Tokyo which suddenly bear an uncanny resemblance to the netherworld described in his tattered copy of "The Tibetan Book of the Dead". Noe pulls all the usual tricks out of his sleeve for this one; vertiginous camerawork spins and loops seemingly at random, pulsating bass beats keep things anchored and everything is awash in lurid shades of neon light. There's the usual transgressive scenes one expects from Gaspar...a thrusting dildo here, an aborted fetus there...but a rough-edged lyricism slowly emerges as we see Oscar's soul buffeted between past and present aided by ubiquitous "portals" as it searches for its next destination. The ending is wholly predictable for anyone able to follow the clues (cryptic signage and artwork abound), but at 160 minutes the journey is breathtaking.

Equinox Flower (Japan 1958) (10): Businessman Hirayama has no trouble doling out words of wisdom to friends and colleagues alike, especially in matters of love and traditional values. But when his headstrong daughter Setsuko, sporting skirts and blouses in contrast to her mother’s kimonos, becomes engaged without his consent a showdown between the old ways and the new causes both sides to re-examine their priorities. There is not much here that Yasujirô Ozu hasn’t covered before as he once again examines Japan’s post WWII crisis of identity with timeworn customs slowly losing ground to all things Western, from clothes and music to female empowerment—but he does so with such finesse that it is worth watching all over again. Although this was only his first colour film he still manages to frame each scene with the eye of a painter: a cherry red kettle rests against a paper screen; a vase of flowers sits before a darkened window; and a gentle breeze stirs a line of drying laundry, their primary colours in harmony with the pale sky above. A master of light and composition, Ozu’s interiors are all squares and rectangles with doorways and bamboo panels drawing our attention to the unfolding drama within while his exterior shots of hard-edged skyscrapers and yielding trees provide fitting metaphors for father and daughter. Never one for melodrama, Ozu realizes that age must eventually give way to youth and this is highlighted by two standout images which remain with you throughout the final credits: a comfy chair beckons from the end of a sun-dappled hallway and a puffing train (one of his signature tropes) speeds towards a heartfelt reconciliation. This is what art looks like.

Erotic Daughters of Emmanuelle (France 1974) (1): After exploring the downstairs of his upstairs maid, Professor Mueller retires from the rat race in order to establish a rustic commune where “pleasure is all that matters”…<fast forward>…lusty lumberjacks take a breast break…<fast forward>…aphrodisiacs and blowjobs save the day when three reluctant businessmen refuse to sign a contract…<fast forward>…a woman makes out with a skeleton and an old man is led around on a leash…<fast forward>…a cowboy bags a pair of twins; John Holmes does a Frank Zappa imitation…<fast forward>…two couples discover a third position…<fast forward>…entwined lovers roll around in the grass, fall into a river, continue to roll around…<fast forward>…a drag queen’s wig falls off in the middle of a passionate kiss but the other guy doesn’t notice…<fast forward>…some gangsters rip off a woman’s bra…<fast forward>…officials show up in a limousine and get punched in the face…<fast forward>…lesbian action…<fast forward>…everyone ends up screwing in a ravine. The End.

The Erotic Rites of Frankenstein (Spain 1973) (1): Spanish schlockmeister Jesús Franco presents a challenge with this arthouse train wreck—how does one write an objective critique for a slapped together mess so incompetent on every level that it’s even too awful to laugh at? I guess you don’t. Dr. Frankenstein and his hairy assistant have created a human monster from spare parts using a magnetic “Life Ray” (flashlight suspended from the ceiling connected to a blinking file cabinet). But Cagliostro, the other evil genius who lives in the castle next door, steals the monster for his own despicable purpose. Tired of merely resurrecting cadavers, Cagliostro and his avian assistant—the mostly naked chirping vampire bird-woman Melisa (“I mixed human seed with a bird’s egg!” he brags…mwahahaha!)—have been gathering their own tits and pieces to create the “perfect woman” and now they are ready to have her mate with Frankenstein’s creation unless the town’s only normal doctor can stop them first. I’m not sure whether the entire film was edited in camera or the cameraman simply stumbled around the set in a drunken stupor and Franco had to make do…either way the results are the same: unstable framing, quick zooms that focus on nothing, and inexplicable jump cuts that flash by like a series of afterthoughts. Then there’s the musical score which sounds like a high school jazz band falling down the stairs and make-up that puts the “special” in special effects. Frankenstein’s monster is a monstrous muck of flaking prosthetics and silver paint (except for the bits they missed); Melisa looks like a mange-infested parrot as she flits about topless in cape and glued-on feathers; and the bug-eyed Cagliostro’s undead followers corner the market on bedsheets and skeleton masks. Not sure where the erotic fits in but there are certainly enough boobs to go around and those gynaecological close-ups of 70s-style pubes had me coining the term vagin-O-vision—and yes, there’s a limp dick for those so inclined. And for the final nail in this turkey’s coffin, a cast of badly dubbed European Z-listers produce nothing of note but Anne Libert is especially bad as Melisa (tweet! tweet!), Beatriz Savón displays the emotional range of a rock as Frankenstein’s mad daughter, and Howard Vernon’s Cagliostro spends most of his screen time staring directly into the lens with his big wet fish eyes. Bitch slaps all around.

Escape From Alcatraz (USA 1979) (7): Before it was decommissioned, San Francisco’s Alcatraz prison had a reputation for being “inescapable”. And then in the summer of 1962 four prisoners decided to challenge that assertion… Don Siegel’s jailbreak flick condenses months of ingenious plotting into a few hours and the results are technically competent especially with filming taking place in Alcatraz itself, now a tourist attraction. But aside from that there isn’t anything else of note in what is basically a formulaic plot replete with a tough-as-nails warden (Patrick McGoohan getting to be the boss instead of The Prisoner), deranged homosexual predator (cue shower room assault), and simmering racial tensions. Clint Eastwood gives his typical one-note performance while a supporting cast of character actors provide a bit of harmony.

Escape From Planet Earth (USA 2013) (4): When Scorch Supernova, superhero idol of the planet Baabs, is lost after responding to an alien distress signal from the mysterious “Dark Planet” (three guesses…) it’s up to his nerdy mission control brother Gary to set aside their longstanding sibling rivalry and rescue the big lummox. But things don’t go exactly as planned for Scorch and a host of other hapless aliens are being held captive by a mad general intent on using their advanced technology to develop an ultimate doomsday device, as well as everything else from touchscreen technology to social networking. Landing on Earth, Gary must use his formidable brain to not only free the aliens but prevent the paranoid army hawk from destroying every one of their home planets out of sheer spite. Gee, I wonder who will win? Rarely have so many cool celebrity voices been wasted as in this derivative mess of underdog clichés and stale E.T. pratfalls. With the exception of a few colourful scenes the visuals are mostly an uninspired mix of old View Master reels and Tomorrow Land miniatures populated by the usual assortment of marketable beasties and an insipid score of galactic muzak. The original songs suck too.

Escape from Pretoria (UK/Australia 2020) (8): In December of 1979 political prisoners Tim Jenkins and Stephen Lee (Daniel Radcliffe, Daniel Webber), serving sentences for their anti-apartheid activism, escaped from jail leading to one of South Africa’s biggest manhunts. Based on Jenkins’ own memoirs, writer/director Francis Annan has produced a good old-fashioned prison break thriller which combines ingenious scheming—the way they escaped makes for pure nail-biting cinema—with an unpleasant look back at the realities of South Africa’s strictly segregated past. Radcliffe plays the excitable Jenkins with total conviction, a man passionate for his cause yet prone to self-doubt and panic attacks; Webber takes up the slack as his equally committed friend and co-conspirator; and a capable cast of extras fill in the blanks as ambivalent fellow inmates and sadistic guards. Filmed in and around Adelaide, Australia, using real jail locations when possible, there is an air of authenticity to the action and Annan keeps the pacing tight, giving us just enough room to breathe, while his script never dips into genre clichés or bombast—the fact that their cause was just and their punishment indefensible is simply a given. Dynamic editing, meticulous cinematography (a single drop of sweat threatens disaster; the view from a keyhole ramps up the tension), and graced with some soaring passages from Mozart, this is a winning combo popcorn matinee and inventive history lesson.

Eternal Love (USA 1929) (6): The great Ernst Lubitsch helms this silent weeper, deemed by many to be one of the era’s more notable works. Set in a small Swiss village circa 1806 it concerns the doomed love affair between the headstrong Marcus (screen legend John Barrymore) and the virginally pious Ciglia (Camilla Horn). Attracted to one another as only opposites can, their budding happiness is threatened on all sides by vindictive villagers and the petty jealousies of others—not to mention a subtle reference to some drunken adultery—until heaven itself provides a convenient though somewhat messy deus ex machina. Terribly emotive even for the genre and that final twist has got to be one of silent cinema’s most contrived “tragedies” but the B&W alpine scenery is lovely (filmed in Banff, Alberta!) and Lubitsch puts those howling snowstorms and jagged crags to imaginative use. It’s a wonder everyone didn’t come down with frostbite.

Eugénie de Sade (France 1970) (4): A tawdry bit of “amour fou” originally written by the Marquis de Sade, overhauled by Spanish sleaze auteur Jesus Franco, and set in contemporary Berlin. As she lay bleeding in her hospital bed, Eugénie Radeck de Franval takes time out from dying to make a breathless confession to prying journalist Attilla Tanner (Franco, showing that he can act about as well as he can direct). Raised by her stepfather Albert, a frustrated author with a weakness for violent erotica, Eugénie led a fairly normal life until the day she came upon a very dirty book hidden in Albert’s study and was “jolted into another level of reality” much to her stepdad’s delight. Quickly indoctrinating his daughter into the joys of sadistic sex, Albert and the impressionable Eugénie embarked upon a series of conquests involving rape, murder and, of course, incest. But when Eugénie became smitten with Paul, a local jazz musician, Albert was thrown into a jealous rage. Armed only with a pocket knife, a pair of scissors and a hara kiri blade he ultimately succeeded in destroying Eugénie’s one shot at true love. I’m sure Franco’s legions of fans will see all manner of deep psychosexual nonsense at work in this panty parade; the ruinous effects of obsessive love, the complicity of the voyeur, and the arbitrary line separating pleasure from pain for instance. He certainly does try to inject an arty sensibility to the proceedings with bleak urban skylines and wintry landscapes set to a soundtrack of pretentious violins and warbling divas. However, despite the postcard visuals and inflated dialogue it all falls flat; a grandiose vision served up by a limited talent. Not enough flesh for the pervs, not enough meat for the rest of us.

Europa (Denmark/Germany 1991) (8): Wanting to make the world a slightly better place Leopold Kessler, the American son of a German expat, travels back to his father’s homeland shortly after WWII in order to work. Meeting up with his uncle, a gruff and taciturn old goat who dislikes Americans as much as he mistrusts Germans, Leopold lands a job as a first class sleeping car conductor where he meets and falls in love with Katharina, the railway owner’s enigmatic daughter. But despite his desire to “show Germany a little kindness”, Katharina’s shady connections to the underground partisan movement eventually bring about a crisis of conscience in Leopold when he is forced to make a moral decision between two equally repugnant options. Filmed in hallucinatory B&W with occasional splashes of grainy colour, and using a variety of gaudy cinematic conceits from rear projection to macabre montages, Lars von Trier’s unflattering examination of Germany’s post-war mindset looks like the brainchild of Guy Maddin and David Lynch after the two had shared a few lines of coke. With Kafkaesque sets and dialogue centred on rules, regulations, and conformity, von Trier presents a defeated nation scrambling over its own ruins while bowing meekly to the Allied forces which now control it. Trains, always a powerful metaphor, are used to great effect here whether it be a couple destroying a toy railroad set with their desperate copulating or Leopold’s own train, formally employed at Auschwitz, now refurbished with carefully segregated compartments: wealthy industrialists and military brass to the front, huddling peasants in the middle, and a makeshift concentration camp in the rear where emaciated inmates stare blankly from behind iron bars and chickenwire. And despite the faux elegance of its first class accommodations, the tattered curtains and grimy windows reveal nothing but passing scenes of death and destruction. Finally, as if to overlay an element of dark psychodrama, Max von Sydow’s grim voiceover plays hypnotist to our hapless protagonist’s sad struggles. A dystopian mindfuck and a fine example of what von Trier was capable of before he went off the deep end.

Europa Europa (Germany 1990) (6): Using the astonishing real life memoirs of Salomon Perel as a guide, Agnieszka Holland’s episodic tale of wartime survival became one of the year’s most popular foreign films despite Germany’s decision not to submit it for an Oscar nomination. After Hitler’s rhetoric results in his father’s shoe shop being vandalized, teenaged Salomon (Marco Hofschneider) and his family join thousands of other Jews seeking a better life in nearby Poland. But when the Nazis and Stalinists begin crossing the border into that country as well, Solly ends up having to fend for himself—first teaming up with one side, then the other, eventually bluffing his way into the Hitler Youth movement where he manages to convince the authorities of his shining Aryan lineage. But one can’t live a lie forever and Salomon’s complicity with evil, borne out of a desperate will to survive, will exact a price… Filmed in and around Lódz, Holland’s eye for time and place is impeccable as she uses the crumbling masonry and winding streets to elicit a sense of siege while a confrontation between Salomon (now hiding behind the name Josef Peters) and his Third Reich girlfriend (Julie Delpy) in a nearby Hebrew cemetery provides one of the film’s many sober ironies—Solly’s nightmare tram ride through a Jewish ghetto while decked out in Nazi drag providing another. Hofschneider’s striking features and ability to go from playful to terrified in the space of a heartbeat certainly renders Salomon a sympathetic character, but in concentrating on her main protagonist Holland fails to colour in everyone else causing secondary roles to seem mere backdrop or, in the case of a fantasy ballet between Stalin and Hitler, foppish cartoons. And having the sun stand in for Yahweh during a few scenes of implied Divine Intervention was a conceit both baffling and wholly unnecessary. How many personal values would you squash in order to stay alive? And how much moral weight does the statement “I didn’t know!” carry when you are faced with the consequences of those squashed values? Intriguing questions which Europa Europa approaches but doesn’t really answer, at least to my satisfaction.

Europa Report (USA 2013) (8): Sebastián Cordero has fashioned one of those rare cinematic achievements: an intelligent outer space thriller which favours genuine tension over cheap shocks and a keen sense of wonder over conventional horror clichés. In the near future a manned mission is sent to Europa, Jupiter’s enigmatic ice ball of a moon, in the hope of finding aquatic life under its thick crust of frozen water. En route the crew of Europa One loses contact with Earth thanks to a particularly violent solar flare which temporarily disables their communications equipment. With just weeks to go before their Jovian rendezvous Commander Daniel Wu decides to go ahead with the mission, meticulously documenting their journey for eventual transmission back to Ground Control once a radio link is reestablished. After several complications, including one tragedy, they eventually land on Europa and begin to explore the vast ocean beneath its surface. Needless to say they are not quite prepared for what happens next. Told almost entirely in flashback using “declassified” video footage beamed back from various onboard cameras, as well as earthbound talking heads offering explanations to an unseen audience, a frightening yet remarkable story gradually unfolds which keeps you on edge without resorting to standard monster movie tropes. Cordero’s manic directorial style, coupled with a few well placed auditory jolts, constantly catches you off guard. At times the screen is filled with multiple video feeds challenging viewers with a high-energy visual collage which suddenly narrows down to one single staticky frame before fading to black. At other times Jupiter hangs crazily in the sky as a shaky suit-mounted camera records something in the shadows of an ice cave and a remote underwater submersible relays scores of amazing data from just beneath the Europa One’s landing module. Although Cordero’s quick cutaways and jerky editing are highly effective in maintaining a skittish suspense, he does manage to smooth out the film’s rougher edges with regular flash-forwards to the relative calm of various after-the-fact press conferences. Well paced, beautifully photographed (nice to see a spaceship interior that doesn’t look like a Disney attraction), and filled with a subtle sense of awe. And those final scenes did not disappoint.

Even Dwarfs Started Small (Germany 1970) (7): Werner Herzog may have written and directed this grotesque oddity but it presents itself more like an unholy collaboration between Buñuel, Pasolini, and Harmony Korine. In a sere landscape of desiccated palms and lava beds populated entirely by midgets the residents of a remote institution (reform school? asylum? gulag?) have revolted causing the desperate camp commandant to take a lone hostage and barricade himself behind its concrete walls. But, unsure how to handle their newfound freedom, the diminutive rioters run rampant destroying everything in their path with sadistic zeal—plants are set on fire, furniture is smashed, farm animals are tortured, a pair of blind pacifists are taunted beyond endurance—before it all ends on a note of unhinged nihilism. But what is Herzog getting at? The attention given to the destruction of material possessions would suggest a critique of bourgeois values (a truck’s steering wheel is jammed so that it spins in endless circles much to everyone’s delight while a formal al fresco dinner turns into an orgy of smashed plates and flung peas). Yet there is an underlying meanness to the little peoples’ bacchanal that points a sardonic finger at mankind’s inherent fascination with vice and cruelty. At one point a woman proudly presents a shoebox diorama featuring a wedding party of dead insects and a man leads a mock religious procession solemnly waving a crucified monkey. Certainly the curious casting of little people has much to say about Herzog’s mindset for here we see humanity literally downsized to a mob of cackling imps while the world looms huge by comparison and all symbols of authority (the commandant, the police) are either completely impotent or non-existent. Herzog’s third feature film certainly deserves kudos for sheer balls and chutzpah, but the shots of suffering animals go beyond the pale.

Ever After (USA 1998) (7): Drew Barrymore shines in this unabashedly romantic, and refreshingly feminist, rewrite of Cinderella which forgoes magical interventions and talking mice for a more practical approach—even the requisite Fairy Godmother is replaced by a most unexpected Renaissance cameo. Set in 16th century France it tells the story of little Danielle, daughter of a minor nobleman, who is demoted to scullery maid when her father dies and leaves her to the mercies of his new wife and her two spoiled daughters. The stepmother, Baroness Rodmilla (an ice cold Anjelica Huston still managing to elicit a bit of pathos), soon runs the estate into debt thanks to her wild spending habits so when the palace announces young Prince Henry is searching for a mate she is determined to see her pouty daughter Marguerite on the throne no matter what the cost. Danielle in the meantime has already met the prince when he literally stumbled upon her in a field and romance has blossomed—but he thinks she is a wealthy courtier and through a set of elaborate ruses she has maintained the illusion. But when the Baroness discovers that Danielle has thrown a wrench into her royal ambitions the claws come out and only a miracle or two, along with Danielle’s own resourcefulness, will save the day. Filmed on location in the French Dordogne region where castles and forests nestle beneath perpetually blue skies, Ever After never strays very far from its fairy tale inspirations. All the characters are scrubbed clean, sunlight sparkles off every surface, and any sense of menace is quickly damped down to Disney levels—a roving band of gypsy cutthroats turn out to be just a bunch of party animals while Rodmilla’s scowling machinations are reduced to an unhappy woman’s mid-life crisis. It all ends happily ever after of course with nasty people getting their comeuppance and a gushing Royal Ball to rival any little girl’s (or boy’s) storybook fantasy. Light and fluffy throughout, but somehow satisfying just the same.

Everest (UK 2015) (8): Baltasar Kormákur’s docudrama on an ill-fated 1996 Mount Everest expedition led by a New Zealand adventure company exceeds the usual “disaster movie” clichés thanks in large part to its stunning widescreen backdrops of bottomless crevasses, howling storms, and frozen peaks—taking advantage of previous documentary footage. Josh Brolin, Jake Gyllenhaal, and Sam Worthington make the climb while Emily Watson, Kiera Knightley, and Robin Wright bite their nails and cinematographer Salvatore Totino continually dangles us over the abyss. A few intimate backstories add a touch of humanity—a staticky farewell is heart-rending, a Japanese woman’s ascent inspiring—but ultimately it’s Mother Nature who takes the final bow with scenes of blinding ice storms and blackened frostbite that make you alternately shiver and shudder.

Everlasting Moments (Sweden 2008) (6): Based on a series of memoirs, Sweden’s official entry for the 2008 Oscar is a mishmash of biopic, history lesson, and period drama that never seems to sit comfortably in any genre. Married to a violent, drunken lout, Maria Larrson tries to keep her family clothed and sheltered by shoring up her husband’s paycheques with money raised from housecleaning and sewing—but this is 1907 and opportunities open to women are already severely restricted. And then she takes an interest in photography using a camera she won in a lottery and suddenly her world opens up as the beauty around her comes into sharper focus, a beauty she now has the ability to capture forever. Or so the movie’s synopsis suggests. The acting is impeccable and the attention to period details is convincing enough, but Jan Troell’s film lacks any momentum or focus of its own: Maria and her husband Sigge move from one hot-tempered spat to another (taking time out for his affairs and her conceptions) while the kids go from puppy-eyed children to puppy-eyed adolescents and the only way one can mark the time is when the furniture gets rearranged, Sigge dons a WWI uniform, and intertitles occasional give us the year. Even the central theme (Liberation through art? The preservation of memory?) is consigned to Maria taking a couple of snapshots while the owner of a local camera shop fawns over her. Clocking in at over two hours in which not a whole lot happens one begins to wonder whether those memoirs were missing a few pages.

Everybody Wants Some!! (USA 2016) (7): Yet another bit of nostalgia aimed at the tail end of the Boomer generation, Richard Linklater’s entertaining booze ’n boobs college caper revels in authentic period details (the hair! the clothes!) and a dream soundtrack of classic rock anthems. It’s 1980 and freshman Jake is eager to start training with the baseball team at his nondescript Texas college. With just three days before classes start and an entire house to themselves, Jake and his horned up teammates are determined to party as hard as they can with beer, bongs, and a bevy of buxom coeds seemingly at their beck and call. Linklater clearly remembers the carefree tackiness of the 80s as the guys—sporting porn moustaches, shag cuts and tight jeans—go from discos to cowboy bars to punk rock clubs on a never-ending hunt for sex and stimulation while Blondie, Hot Chocolate, and The Cars blare from every radio. Juvenile entertainment to be sure with a boys-meet-girls plot thinner than a polyester shirt, but Linklater’s savvy script reminds us of what it felt like to be young, awkward, and horny and his cast of nice looking dudes play their respective roles (jock, stoner, Lothario, Geek, redneck…) convincingly without becoming total clichés. Not as sentimental as American Graffiti and certainly less crass than Animal House, this is still a likeable little distraction for those of us old enough to hum along with the soundtrack.

Everything Everywhere All At Once (USA 2022) (5): The premise is simple if somewhat tortuous: every decision you make, no matter how trivial, divides the universe in two—in one reality you chose “A”, in the other you chose “B”. Multiply this by billions of people making billions of decisions and you give rise to an infinite multiverse of different realities. Harried housewife and failing entrepreneur Evelyn Wang (Michelle Yeoh) is unceremoniously recruited to help save this multiverse after a malevolent force threatens to destroy everyone’s reality. Now finding herself living all the possible lives she could have led if our universe had taken a different turn—here’s she a ninja warrior, now a Hollywood diva, now a sausage-fingered lesbian in a very ham-fisted salute to Kubrick’s 2001—she must also deal with alternate versions of her wheedling husband, snotty daughter, senile father, plus a kooky IRS auditor (Jamie Lee Curtis) intent on bringing her down. Despite its manic effects and high-brow sci-fi aspirations this is essentially a witless Kung-Fu comedy with a sappy Love Conquers All message drenched in syrup and pathos. Yeoh does her best to look confused as she staggers from one inane scenario to another (there’s a battle royale over a butt plug), Curtis is little more than an SNL caricature (think "Krazy Tax Lady!"), and the whole production looks like a 30-minute short that got padded out to 2+ hours. Tiresome, silly, and vaguely embarrassing. I guess this is what the Oscars have come to…

Eve’s Bayou (USA 1997) (8): It’s 1962 and for ten-year old Eve Batiste, daughter of Louis Batiste “the most successful coloured doctor in Louisiana”, life is just one long lazy summer. Graced—or perhaps cursed—by her slightly eccentric family, life is never dull: there’s suave aunt Mozelle, saddled with perpetual widowhood, whose crazy voodoo visions have a tendency to come true; older sister Cisely pretending to be mature beyond her years, and mom Roz who’s finding it increasingly difficult to ignore her husband’s drunken philandering. But her childhood innocence begins its downward descent one night when Eve witnesses one of her father’s indiscretions, and as lies and revelations begin to pile up the ugliness of the real world begins to overwhelm her youthful idealism leading to anger, recrimination…and a fateful visit to a backwater witch. Softening his sometimes fatalistic sense of reality with charm and just a touch of the supernatural, writer/director Kasi Lemmons' keen eye for emotional nuances hits the mark thanks to a fine cast and a literate script. His bayou settings, festooned with Spanish moss and magical portents, at first reflect his little protagonist’s feelings of wonder, but as her eyes are slowly opened the snakes and spiders she once took for granted come to represent some of life’s darker aspects. A powerful and poignant coming-of-age tale.

Evil Dead (USA 2013) (6): Five young people descend upon a backwoods cabin in order to help one of their members go cold turkey. And then one dark and stormy night they happen upon a trapdoor which leads to a hidden cellar filled with the mummified corpses of forest animals. The underground vault also contains a mysterious book of black magic covered with hastily scrawled warnings begging whoever discovers it to leave well enough alone. Of course the warnings go unheeded and when one particular dipshit recites a spell he discovers on one of the blood-spattered pages he inadvertently releases a malevolent spirit leading to all sorts of messy dispatches and demonic mayhem. Will the survivors be able to undo the evil that’s been unleashed or is this truly mankind’s last stand? Brimming with squishy effects and spurting arteries Fede Alvarez’s high tech remake of the Sam Raimi horror classic certainly doesn’t want for blood (reportedly 70,000 gallons of fake gore were used) but a few extra brain cells would have been nice especially towards the end where a Hail Mary final solution is so patently ludicrous that I just stared dumbfounded. But the atmospherics are great—dark woods, dark cellar, flashes of lightning—and the grossness factor is creatively revolting with a nail gun, electric carving knife, and requisite chainsaw making special guest appearances. The underlying camp humour will appeal to those so inclined and a few ham-fisted references to the original (OMG! The drawing in the book looks just like the 1981 movie poster!) are sure to keep the Comic-Con crowd on their toes. I was pleasantly amused.

Excellent Cadavers (Italy 2005) (6):  Bleak and pessimistic look at the Sicilian mafia and its intimate relationship with Italy’s corrupt political system.  It would appear that the Cosa Nostra is so firmly entrenched in that country’s governmental affairs that any attempt to root it out results in bureaucratic stonewalling and a rash of cold-blooded assassinations.  The mafia itself is presented as a highly structured and ruthless organization that maintains its economic stranglehold through a mixture of intimidation, bribes, and murder.  Turco recounts the story of two brave magistrates who painstakingly gathered evidence in order to bring hundreds of Mafiosi to justice in Italy’s trial of the century.  They later paid for their honesty with their lives and most of the convictions they won were overturned.  He uses a combination of grainy news footage and still photos to give his documentary a gritty realism that is complimented by a handful of articulate talking heads.  Technically, it appears a bit disjointed in places and the narration is occasionally  choppy, furthermore it could certainly use some tighter editing.  Despite these flaws however it remains a fine example of objective journalism.

Executive Suite (USA 1954) (8): When Avery Bullard, the autocratic CEO of a Fortune 500 company, drops dead without having named a Vice President a power void quickly develops within the executive ranks as each man jostles for his shot at the Big Chair. The playing field is ultimately narrowed to two men: Loren Shaw, who represents the new business model of putting dividends ahead of innovation; and Don Walling, an old-fashioned idealist who believes net profits must take a back seat to corporate pride and quality workmanship. With corruption, adultery, and shady business deals swaying the others’ votes it comes down to heiress Julia Tredway, major stockholder and Bullard’s former mistress, to sway everyone’s opinion one way or the other. But Julia, distraught and suicidal over her lover’s death, wants nothing to do with either man. A well-balanced Wall Street parable in which the death of one millionaire comes to symbolize the death of an era. Throughout the course of the film we learn that Bullard based his career on demanding nothing but the best—-the best workers, best material, best product—-only to switch his focus to shareholder profits in his waning post WWII years; a legacy clearly demonstrated in the cold-hearted office politics which erupt even before his body has grown stiff. And with only one man to oppose this slide into executive greed and worker apathy (a fiery William Holden as Don Walling) the odds seem hopeless. A truly star-studded cast put in excellent performances and director Robert Wise’s decision not to tack on a musical score results in a film filled with sharp edges and heavy silences. Finally, a few brilliant touches add a sense of dramatic irony to the film’s fable-like quality: a boardroom wall of stained glass windows suddenly resembles a cathedral apse as Walling delivers an impassioned speech on corporate noblesse oblige to his fellow execs, and a nearby clock tower resounds with a funereal peal at crucial points throughout the film. Perhaps Executive Suite’s sermon on hope and industrial honour falls on deaf ears in today’s “Made in China” society, but it nevertheless remains one of Hollywood’s better tributes to the American Can-Do! ethos.

Exit Humanity (USA 2011) (2): A young frontiersman struggles to stay alive when the American Civil War is followed by a zombie apocalypse. Like a bad movie based upon a bad graphic novel (including some budget-saving segments of bad animation), this ponderous turkey vainly tries to breathe new life into a dead theme and fails miserably. Some of the wild west vistas are pretty, and star Mark Gibson is hunky enough, but the poor editing (enough with the teary flashbacks already), hammy performances, and distinct lack of zombie gore made us wave the white flag at the 30 minute mark. Should be renamed Yawn of the Dead.

Ex Machina (UK 2014) (7): When the reclusive multi-millionaire CEO of a computer research firm invites ace programmer Caleb (Domhnall Gleeson, Brendan’s son) to his high-tech Alaskan compound the young whiz is understandably delighted. Once there however, his delight turns to fascination when he discovers he’s been chosen to evaluate the latest model of artificial intelligence, a beautiful robot named Ava (Alicia Vikander, all transparent baubles and glowing wires). Tasked with determining whether Ava truly has a mind of her own or is merely mimicking human reactions, Caleb’s initial awe turns dubious when he begins to suspect his benefactor of having much darker motives… A breath of Stanley Kubrick blows through writer/director Alex Garland’s sci-fi brain teaser, a satisfying if occasionally predictable marriage of Oscar-winning CGI effects and compelling story that draws its inspiration from such diverse sources as Shelley’s Frankenstein and the Prometheus legend to Bluebeard and Christian Creation mythology. Gleeson and Vikander definitely share onscreen chemistry with his post-adolescent zeal offset by her computerized intensity. But Vikander is especially brilliant given the fact the special effects team rendered half her body as gears and blinking motherboards—her not-quite-mechanical delivery hinting at a self-awareness that may or may not spring from mere binary code. It’s the conversations between man and machine which ultimately provide the film’s backbone, so reminiscent of HAL from Kubrick’s Space Odyssey, as they proceed from data exchange to deeper waters. Unfortunately Oscar Isaac’s performance as the company CEO is a glaring misfire, his obnoxious character coming across as more of a slimy lounge lizard than either an aging prodigy or mad scientist. But given the film’s ultra-hip appearance (that house!) and a script that rarely stoops to clichés, one sour note is easy to overlook.

The Ex-Mrs. Bradford (USA 1936) (6): Screwball comedy and murder mystery make for an odd hybrid in this RKO studios production, a sometimes amusing whodunnit whose convoluted plot flounders from too many red herrings. Successful L.A. surgeon Lawrence Bradford (William Powell playing the usual hapless sophisticate) is being hounded by his pathologically cheery ex-wife Paula, a mystery writer whose overactive imagination reads villainy in everyday occurrences (Jean Arthur confusing Agatha Christie with Gracie Allen). Although the two obviously retain feelings for one another Lawrence is not taking kindly to Paula’s nagging ultimatum: either marry me again or I’ll take you to court for non-payment of alimony—this was obviously filmed back when stalking and blackmail could be considered whimsical. But after newspaper headlines announce the sudden death of a prized jockey during a contentious horse race Paula suspects murder and her reluctant ex-husband soon finds himself caught up in her hare-brained investigation. The story’s myriad twists and false leads eventually lead to a puzzling solution and the concurrent romantic complications are plain to see right from the starting gate. However, as an “oldie-but-not-entirely baddie” it still makes for a charming evening in front of the television as long as you’re not expecting The Thin Man.

The Exterminating Angel (Mexico 1962) (8): As Señor Nobile and his lovely wife prepare for a lavish dinner party at their mansion they are somewhat perturbed when the servants decide to beat a hasty retreat before the guests have even come through the front door. Keeping a stiff upper lip, the wealthy couple decide to wing it anyway with the aid of their chief Steward. Aside from some flying hors d’oeuvres things go splendidly until the guests retire to the living room and suddenly find themselves unable (or unwilling) to leave. There are no locked doors or physical barriers but an unexplained physical malaise keeps them rooted in the salon and try as they may they just can’t seem to make it past the threshold. As crowds gather outside the estate, equally unable to walk past the open gate, the dinner guests slide into a type of bourgeois savagery; angry recriminations are leveled at their hosts, adulterous urges are acted upon and a messy meal is made of a hapless flock of sheep that just happen to wander by. As their isolation drags on the affluent partygoers, desperate for material comfort and helpless without their maids and butlers to wait on them, begin to despair. Walls are ripped apart in search of water, rare Ming vases become toilets and, as a last ditch effort, a seemingly absent God is called upon. Once again Luis Buñuel takes aim at the pettiness of the upper class and scores a bullseye. By combining fierce wit with a parade of increasingly absurd plot twists he delivers a cruel satire that has you laughing even as you cringe. The mundane qualities of his subjects are brought out in some very clever ways with individual lines (and one entire scene) being repeated and an acid-tongued script laced with disparaging remarks about class and patriotism. Furthermore, aside from their all-consuming lethargy, there exists a spiritual paralysis with some guests taking cold comfort in meaningless ritual; as one woman offers up a showy prayer to the Virgin, another practices voodoo with the chicken feet and feathers stashed in her purse and a couple of well-dressed dandies eagerly exchange secret Masonic handshakes. Ever the atheist, Buñuel adorns the salon walls with faded religious icons, including one prominent painting of St. Michael battling the dragon which graces the makeshift latrine’s outer door. But his final jab at both church and aristocracy is saved for a deliciously irreverent ending involving raucous bells and a few persistent sheep. Wonderfully layered and impossible to pigeonhole.

The Extraordinary Adventures of Adèle Blanc-Sec (France 2010) (6): Lukewarm riff on the Lara Croft/Indiana Jones theme in which our eponymous heroine, globe-trotting journalist Adèle Blanc-Sec, regularly braves outrageous perils and narrow escapes in order to supply her publisher with the most fantastic tales. It is 1911 and Blanc-Sec is currently scouring the Sahara desert searching for the final resting place of Patmosis, the brilliant physician to pharaoh Ramses II, in the hopes that his mummified remains will somehow provide a clue to treating her comatose sister back in Paris. But the evil Professor Dieuleveult is hot on her trail and the one person who can help her has a date with the guillotine. And as if that is not enough, upon her return to France she is romantically pursued by a lovestruck zoologist and her plans are constantly being dashed by a posse of bumbling detectives and a rather persistent pterodactyl. Yes, a pterodactyl. Although pretty to look at, lead actress Louise Bourgoin lacks both the edgy sensuality of Croft and the droll self-effacing humour of Jones making her swashbuckling adventures seem strangely pedestrian. Furthermore, although director Luc Besson makes excellent use of some very clever CGI effects (a gaggle of wise-cracking mummies brought a smile to my face) the film’s comic book inspiration becomes painfully obvious as everything starts to get very silly towards the end; his final scene is a narrative misstep of titanic proportions. Entertaining for what it’s worth, but I think I’ll pass on the promised sequel.

Extraordinary Tales (Luxembourg/Belgium 2013) (8): Director Raul Garcia brings five Edgar Allan Poe stories to life in this thoroughly enjoyable collection which employs a variety of rich animation techniques set to an orchestral score. A crumbling mansion mirrors the madness of its inhabitants in The Fall of the House of Usher narrated by the late Sir Christopher Lee and looking like a construction paper pop-up book. A scratchy recording of Bela Lugosi reads The Tell Tale Heart in a presentation which borrows heavily from the edgy black & white illustrations of Alberto Breccia. Death takes a macabre turn in The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar rendered like a pulp comic book. And finally, the gothic horror of The Pit and the Pendulum comes across as a split-screen X-Box game while Poe’s rumination on human vanity in the face of mortality is rendered in glorious art deco swirls in The Masque of the Red Death. Loosely tied together by pithy exchanges between Poe, here reincarnated as an obstinate Raven, and Death as a demure graveyard stele, this is storytelling of the highest order. Poe would have been proud.

The Eyes of Laura Mars (USA 1978) (6): Laura Mars is a celebrated New York photographer whose provocative fashion lay-outs involving scantily clad lingerie models in scenes of murder and mayhem raise the ire of feminists and social conservatives alike. But when she begins having psychic visions of close friends being killed by a mad stalker, murders that become all too real, she finds herself gaining a notoriety she hadn’t bargained on. With the killer on her tail and a romance blossoming with the rugged detective assigned to her case (Tommy Lee Jones with big poofy hair and bell bottoms!) Laura finds her personal and professional lives thrown into a tailspin. Kershner poses some tough questions about the role of art in society; does it simply reflect a reality that already exists, or does it play an integral role in shaping that reality? In our media-obsessed culture should artists be held accountable for their creations, or does “freedom of expression” trump all even if it’s solely for monetary gain? Laura stages mock tragedies as part of her work, but at night she retreats to a posh penthouse appointed with serene statuary and calming earth tones where she can detach herself from the chaos far below. “Murder exists already...” she protests, “...physical, spiritual, moral...I just show it...”. And as an ironic rebuke sales of her photographs skyrocket after news of the killings become public. There are a few such clever touches throughout the film; Laura’s bedroom is lined with floor to ceiling mirrors which reflect fractured illusory images of herself, several of her more controversial spreads bear an eerie resemblance to actual crime scene photos, and her “visions” are presented as grainy commercial video footage. Is art imitating life, or have the roles reversed? Unfortunately Kershner is too busy throwing red herrings at us to explore these tantalizing questions in any depth and we are left with an above average police thriller with extraneous love story instead. Faye Dunaway is certainly radiant in the title role, and the film’s colourful blend of 70s fashion, bad hairdos and disco snippets is effective. But it could have been so much more.

Eyes Wide Shut (UK 1999) (8): Completed just before his death, Stanley Kubrick’s final film is also his most enigmatic dealing as it does with issues of love, lust, and fidelity. Prominent Manhattan physician William Harford and his wife Alice (Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman, dynamite together) are in their bathroom primping for a swank Christmas party being thrown by one of his wealthiest patients. “How do I look?” she enquires while sitting on the toilet in her sheer black designer gown, “Fine” he replies without taking his eyes off of his reflection in the mirror. Thus the tone is set for a night of flirtatious games—she slow dances with an alluring stranger, he hobnobs with a pair of models who offer to take him “to the end of the rainbow”—which leads to a heated argument when the tipsy couple return home. Then Alice makes a shattering confession just as William is about to leave for an emergency house call and rather than return straight home afterwards he winds up wandering the midnight streets of Manhattan where carnal temptations will form sudden roadblocks to his own sense of propriety. From the advances of a grieving daughter to a teenaged Lolita to a soft-spoken prostitute, William’s erotic yet chaste odyssey will eventually find him sneaking his way into an isolated mansion where an elaborate masked orgy involving some very powerful—and very dangerous—members of New York’s elite is unfolding. But his prurient interests quickly turn to fear when his presence is discovered. Of course, as with all of Kubrick’s films, the script merely provides a story while the multiple layers of meaning are to be found in the window dressing. Taking place as it does around the holidays, the sets are festooned with radiant Christmas lights—most notably in passionate reds and frigid blues—a palette which will literally colour each scene whether it be the stainless steel indifference of a city morgue or a quasi-religious sex ritual drenched in crimson. Artwork and incidental objects figure prominently throughout with a large oil painting of a seductive nude overlooking an overdosed partygoer and a newspaper headline adding an ironic note to an otherwise tense stalking sequence. Masks are used to great effect feeding into the central motif of secrets, primal impulses, and illusion whether between consenting strangers or husband and wife. And Kubrick also manages to sneak in subtle references to his previous films with a likeness of Ryan O’Neal’s face from Barry Lyndon and the elevators from The Shining—if you look closely you might catch the iconic bedroom scene from 2001. Alternating images of life-affirming sensuality with the finality of death as he examines a couple suddenly finding themselves at a crossroads, Kubrick weaves a hazy dream pattern wherein truth becomes fluid and fantasy often weighs heavier than actions. A soundtrack of classical music and liturgical chants (played in reverse!) combine with modern chic and rococo set designs to further heighten this feeling of being not quite connected to reality, and Kubrick ices the cake with his usual flair for bold colours, crisp symmetries, and Steadicam shots that seem to flow organically. A fitting swan song for one of the industry’s greatest voices.

Eyes Without a Face (France 1960) (9): Brilliant yet slightly unbalanced plastic surgeon Doctor Génessier will stop at nothing to restore the face of his daughter which was left horribly disfigured as a result of his careless driving—even if he has to make unwilling skin donors out of a couple of unlucky young women. Aided by his equally unbalanced assistant, a former patient who now adores him, and a stable of very vocal canine guinea pigs Génessier wields his scalpel with intellectual abandon in the makeshift operating room he has set up in the garage. Meanwhile his daughter Christiane, sporting a flesh-like mask and Givenchy gowns, wanders the estate like a despondent wraith unsure as to whether or not her father’s grotesque experiments are worth it… Director Georges Franju plays this wickedly camp horror story completely straight making you feel the doctor’s burden of guilt and Christiane’s growing sense of anguish as all attempts to make her “normal” again end in disaster. Beautifully staged with shadows and staircases evoking more pathos than tension and a poignant musical score which underlines the film’s overall sense of sadness and loss. As an aside the rather intense surgical scenes, shocking for 1960, threw European censors into a tizzy and reportedly had people fainting in the aisles at its Edinburgh premiere.

Faces (USA 1968) (7): The war between the sexes is a bleak battlefield indeed in this early experimental work by John Cassavetes. As his marriage deteriorates into a series of angry clashes, Richard Forst tries to seek some comfort in the arms of Jeannie, a prostitute half his age. His wife Maria, meanwhile, has her own disastrous fling with Chet, a young dance floor gigolo. But with the morning light fantasies give way to cold reality and each partner is forced to confront the loveless mess their relationship has become. Themes of alienation and illusion run strongly throughout Cassavetes’ film as characters gasp for air between bouts of loneliness and rage; each one bearing the scars of living yet none capable of sharing their pain openly. Drunken banality and sexual games replace actual communication, and as the night wears on both become increasingly destructive. While one of Jeannie’s intoxicated clients proudly declares his love for “Aesop’s fables and Walt Disney”, one of Maria’s elderly friends, terrified of her own mortality, makes a pathetic fool of herself fawning over a blond youth. Even the Forst’s own adulterous transgressions are shown for the desperate acts of denial they are; in trying to ignore their marriage’s impending demise they form the most tenuous of bonds with people who are essentially idealized strangers. As Chet sagely observes, “Nobody has the time to be vulnerable to each other...” Cassavetes’ use of B&W coupled with severe camera angles which pit foreground against background, often across a table or flight of stairs, highlights the movie’s confrontational tone. Furthermore, as characters go from room to room flicking switches on and off, shifting panels of light and darkness are created which offset the film’s heavy realist approach. Lastly, the use of artwork is both subtle and powerful; while Jeannie’s apartment is decorated with images of solitary nymphs, the Forst’s have a painting of a couple playing an intense game of chess and a photo of multiple streams flowing aimlessly over a barren landscape. If the drama is a wee bit overdone in parts the powerful performances almost make up for it.

Factory Girl (USA 2006) (7): Messy and disjointed—much like its subject, apparently—George Hickenlooper’s psychedelic acid-tinged bio tracing the rise and fall of socialite Edie Sedgwick may be factually suspect but it still makes for some fascinating cinema. Leaving the stuffy confines of Radcliffe for the bright lights of New York City circa 1965, oil heiress and bohemian artiste wannabe Edie Sedgwick quickly fell in with a struggling Andy Warhol and company whose unconventional pop art and even more unconventional short films were just starting to break out into mainstream arthouses. Exerting a Svengali-like influence over the naive party-girl, Warhol soon transformed her into an underground superstar whose waifish good looks eventually attracted the attention of fashion maven Diana Vreeland. But Warhol’s hippy trippy tribe also introduced Edie to barbiturates, LSD, and heroin which marked the beginning of her sloppy downfall—an ill-fated affair with a famous folk singer (Bob Dylan’s name is never mentioned due to a threatened lawsuit) providing the final nail. Told in flashbacks from a California halfway house Sedgwick is presented as the archetypal poor little rich girl, surviving abuse and neglect at the hands of her WASP parents only to find exploitation and a moral vacuum amid Manhattan’s “beautiful people”. Flipping from B&W to colours that waver between dirty realism and drug-addled kaleidoscope, Hickenlooper certainly captures something of the beatnik zeitgeist—the bold make-up, dangling accessories, and mod threads all bolstered by an awesome soundtrack. But it’s a veneer of glittering non-conformity barely hiding the despair and emptiness beneath, a paradox perfectly captured by Guy Pearce’s portrayal of Warhol as a man compensating for his own perceived shortcomings through disengagement and cruel cynicism. Hayden Christensen, on the other hand, produces a nasally-voiced caricature of Dylan sporting the harmonica and leather jacket but dispensing little more than vapid platitudes about being “real” and “true”. And why they chose Jimmy Fallon to play Sedgwick’s confidante-cum-social pimp is anyone’s guess. In the end it’s Sienna Miller who outshines everyone playing a terribly needy, terribly lonely young woman who had it all only to lose it in a whirl of narcotics and manic abandon.

Factotum (USA 2005) (8): Hank Chinaski is your typical “beat generation” antihero; a frustrated street-level poet drifting from one dead end job to another, broke, angry and perpetually hung over. His brutally honest essays about life on the edge are filled with rage and despair yet even as he shakes his fist at the world he seems forever destined to stagger in its shadow. One could almost see him as a tragic martyr to his art if it were not for the fact his stigmata are entirely self-inflicted; between the alcoholic benders and destructive love affairs he manages to sabotage every chance he gets to rise above the gutters and dives that seem to demarcate his life. But even as the piles of rejected manuscripts and empty beer bottles get higher, he doggedly pursues his only dream; to be a published author. The film ends much as it begins with Hank, down but not quite defeated, drawn towards yet another elusive muse as she saunters seductively across a smoky bar... Matt Dillon is superb; he brings a complex intensity to the role of Hank that is further enhanced by strong supporting performances from Lili Taylor and Marisa Tomei. His character may not elicit much sympathy but his passion is unmistakable. Ultimately it’s Hamer’s assured direction that manages to keep things gritty and believable; his portrayal of a life set to slow burn is at once wholly captivating and oddly inspiring. Well done.

Fail-Safe (USA 1964) (9): When a suspicious computer glitch accidentally sends six American fighter jets into Russian air space with a nuclear payload marked for Moscow a desperate round of telephone negotiations begin between the president (a deadly serious Henry Fonda) and the Soviet premier. Unable to recall the squadron both men must find a way to prevent them from reaching their target or else face the spectre of WWIII--a nuclear holocaust in which no one will emerge victorious. With time running out and war hawks on both sides itching for a confrontation (Walter Matthau as a pathological pentagon advisor with a taste for commie blood is the very embodiment of Eden’s serpent) it isn’t long before fear and ingrained nationalism begin to take their toll on those gathered in their underground bunkers. And then the president and his Soviet counterpart begin to ponder the unthinkable… If the plot bears more than a passing resemblance to Dr. Strangelove it is not by accident. Both films were released by Columbia in 1964 and both were filmed in much the same style--tight claustrophobic camera shots, grim B&W cinematography, and an idealized War Room dominated by a computerized map on which the fate of the world is played out like a game of PONG. But whereas Kubrick chose to mock atomic paranoia with mordant satire, Sidney Lumet exaggerates it then uses it as a podium from which to deliver a fiery sermon on the insanity of nuclear stockpiling….Fonda’s harsh condemnation directed at both the White House and Kremlin are clearly aimed at the audience instead. Some overly dramatic background drama notwithstanding, this is a tense and unrelenting Cold War horror film with a stellar cast and a pervasive sense of doom that has barely dimmed in fifty years.

The Fall (UK 2008) (8): While languishing in a Los Angeles hospital circa 1915 a suicidal Hollywood stuntman passes the time entertaining a little girl with tall tales regarding the evil Governor Odious and the five eccentric bandits who've sworn to kill him. Presented from a child's point of view this is one of the most beautifully visual films I've ever seen with its amazingly surreal sets (it was filmed in 18 countries) bathed in rich primary colours and framed with the eye of a poet. As man and girl enter into the story's narrative an unexpected psychological depth emerges that sets this one head and shoulders above the pack. A few melodramatic lapses are easily overlooked and the little actress is just too cute for words.

Fallen Angel (USA 1945) (5): The angel in question is con man Eric Stanton (Dana Andrews) who breezes into a small California town one night and immediately becomes smitten with slutty waitress Stella (Linda Darnell), a man-eater whose already had every guy in town—chaste and fully clothed of course, 1940s style—yet secretly yearns for that one special sugar daddy to give her a ring. With only a dollar in his pocket Stanton is going to have to up his game if he’s ever going to win Stella and that’s where local heiress June Mills (Alice Faye) comes in. Wooing the naïve June in order to get his hands on her bucks, Eric sets in motion a deadly love triangle which can only end in disaster… Despite a stellar cast which also includes John Carradine as a fake medium, a pushy Charles Bickford as Stanton’s romantic rival, and Anne Revere as June’s spinsterish sister who can smell a rat before he even gets off the bus, director Otto Preminger’s noirish melodrama never rises above the prosaic with its threadbare plot and a script that fizzles more than it sizzles. Lacking both the erotic tension and air of menace so important to the genre, Preminger’s main characters are mere cutouts pigeonholed into either good or bad—Darnell’s midnight tresses and smokey eyes contrasting rather self-consciously with Faye’s sunshiny curls and blank-faced virginity. Unimaginative despite a little twist at the end and devoid of any onscreen chemistry, this is strictly paint-by-numbers Film Noir for beginners.

The Fallen Idol (UK 1948) (9): The precocious son of a French diplomat stationed in London has his innocence eroded by the lies and secrets told to him by his adult caretakers. With his parents away, little Phillipe treats the enormous embassy in which he lives as one big playground; his only adult contacts being the kind-hearted butler Baines, and Baines’ wife, a severe and unhappy woman who rules Phillipe’s life with an iron fist. Finding solace in Baines’ friendship, Phillipe tags after the man whenever he can, even sneaking outside to follow him on his rounds. One day the child happens upon his friend getting cozy with the house stenographer at a local cafe and thus finds himself entrusted with the first of many lies. Convincing Phillipe that the woman is in fact a niece whom his wife cannot stand, Baines swears the boy to secrecy, even sealing the deal with ice cream and a trip to the zoo. It isn’t long however before the mentally unstable Mrs. Baines catches wind of the affair and a bewildered Phillipe suddenly finds himself at the centre of an emotional storm he cannot understand. But when a heated argument between Mrs. Baines and her husband ends up with her lying dead at the bottom of a staircase Phillipe, the sole witness to the altercation, discovers that telling “the truth” is far trickier than he imagined. Did he actually see a murder being committed or, as Baines’ conflicting testimony insists, nothing more than a tragic accident? Carol Reed’s knee-high noir thriller uses an impressionable child to highlight the fabrications and half-truths adults utilize to either get what they want, or avoid that which they don’t. Filmed through a kid’s eyes with meticulous attention to the interplay of light and shadow, Reed presents us with some strikingly images; an elusive game of hide-and-seek toys with our perceptions, a nighttime journey through the streets of London takes on a nightmarish quality, and a wee pet snake becomes a metaphor of biblical proportions. As he peers down at the adult world below him, usually from the vantage point of a bannister or balcony window, Phillipe’s observations on the contradictory nature between words and actions lends him a childlike wisdom which is both comforting and ultimately unsettling. An ironic coda wherein a truthful confession goes largely unheeded provided the perfect capstone.

Fall From Grace (USA 2007) (7): Disgraced attorney-turned-preacher Fred Phelps and his Kansas-based Westboro Baptist Church have made headlines around the world with their vitriolic message of hellfire and damnation aimed squarely at homosexuals and their supporters whom they blame for everything from hurricanes to wars. Masters at self-promotion, their infamous “God Hates Fags” picket signs—proudly displayed at both public events and the private funerals of gays and fallen soldiers (if you defend a country that protects fags then you’re going to hell too)—have gone on to become something of a dark evangelical cliché. In this short but daring documentary, K. Ryan Jones interviews Phelps, his congregation (composed almost entirely of the Phelps clan), and their detractors both secular and religious, in order to wring some sense out of the church’s monomaniacal obsession with all things LGBTQ and the results are as baffling as they are infuriating. So lost in Old Testament mythology and their belief in an angry merciless god, the Westboros can do little more than proselytize and (mis)quote scripture while those opposed simply scratch their heads and try to offer up rebuttals which you know will fall on deaf ears. In this respect Jones’ production presents the same intellectual stand-off between moderates and BELIEVERS we’ve already seen on countless newscasts and Youtube videos. And he muddies the water even further with a clip of the libertarian ACLU defending the harassment of mourners as an expression of free speech. But it’s when he conducts a couple of phone interviews with ex-members of the church that we begin to appreciate the depth of Phelps’ pathology which often expressed itself through violence and an “addiction to rage”. Suffering from sloppy editing and rants which become repetitive (not entirely the director’s fault as his subjects are of a one-track mind), Jones does give audiences a few seriously disquieting moments when he focuses his cameras on the children. When one sees precocious little boys and girls playing by the pool while simultaneously reciting their grandfather’s hateful mantras about “dead fags” you can’t help but reassess that fine line between church and cult.

Falling Down (USA 1993) (3): Determined to make it home in time for his daughter’s birthday party, a beleaguered everyman (Michael Douglas looking like a disgruntled Clark Kent) finds himself boxed in an interminable L.A. traffic jam on the hottest day of the year with no air conditioning and no patience. Abandoning his car on the freeway he decides to set out on foot but his walk soon becomes an infuriating odyssey across a landscape of failed capitalism and rude people behaving badly which causes his already creaking mind to completely unhinge. A surly Korean shopkeeper refuses to give him change for a dollar, a latino gang shakes him down, a batshit white supremacist makes a mockery of the Bill of Rights—and with each encounter his rage increases while his deadly arsenal grows exponentially from a baseball bat to a switchblade to a machine gun... And “home”, in actuality, is his ex-wife’s house and she already has a restraining order on him. Meanwhile, his trail of increasingly violent outbursts have attracted the attention of a soft-spoken, soon-to-be-retired police detective (Robert Duvall) with a few domestic problems of his own. Glaring racial stereotypes aside, this story of an angry white man with a gun lamenting over the fact that America is no longer great does touch a contemporary nerve, but director Joel Schumacher’s ham-fisted delivery is so insultingly facile that its deeper message of disposable lives and postmodern angst is lost in all the cinematic hubris. Douglas’ character is known only by his personalized license plate “D-FENS” (he works in a missile factory…get it?) and Los Angeles is conveniently reduced to a bubbling cauldron of country club elitists, lazy panhandlers, and unruly minorities—when D-Fens runs into his doppelgänger, an equally angry black man, I almost hit the eject button. And then, as if to make sure the stupider members of his audience get the message, Schumacher heaps on the ironies with outdoor murals of war and the Crucifixion strategically placed in the background along with garish signs blaring out “Kill! Kill! Kill!” and “No Matter, Never Mind”—and of course Old Glory makes several cameos in various stages of disrepair. Duvall and Douglas do put in admirable performances considering what they had to work with, but casting Tuesday Weld as Duvall’s wife—a former beauty queen whose fading looks have transformed her into a psychotic cow—seemed vaguely insulting. The rest of the cast put in performances that are just too awful to dwell upon. It did succeed in making me madder than hell though, but for all the wrong reasons.

The Family Fang (USA 2015) (6): Siblings Annie and Baxter Fang had a unique childhood. Living under the shadow of their parents Caleb and Camille, a pair of avant-garde artistes, they were often used as little more than props for a series of outlandish public performance pieces which saw Annie sitting in Central Park singing a song about killing your parents and Baxter staging a mock bank robbery (complete with realistic handgun) while mom and dad gleefully filmed from the sidelines. Praised as groundbreaking guerrilla art by some critics, shallow pranks by others, the Fang’s antics nevertheless earned them an international reputation. Now adults, Annie and Baxter (Nicole Kidman, Jason Bateman—who also doubled as director) are still dealing with the fallout of their eccentric upbringing: she’s a B-list actress who drinks too much and he’s a one-hit author with a crushing case of writers’ block. But when their estranged parents (Christopher Walken, Maryann Plunkett) suddenly go missing and foul play is suspected old wounds are reopened and the past comes alive, for Baxter is convinced this is the real thing but an upbringing of subterfuge and staged humiliations has Annie doubting the evidence… Despite a host of good performances (Walken’s railing egotist steals every scene) and some colourful flashbacks, Bateman’s comedy/drama about a dysfunctional family living under the microscope—or camera lens—doesn’t have any new logs to throw onto the fire. Dad staunchly defends his past decisions, mom is browbeaten, the adult kids waver between angry recriminations and self-destructive depression, and it all ends with the usual epiphanies and weeping wounds. As a critique on the purpose of art however Fang does set forth a few tepid questions as to where the boundaries lay, but one fiery monologue from Caleb on the responsibility of the artist notwithstanding it all pretty much fizzles into so much pretentious gabble. Definitely not the best work of anyone involved, these fangs elicit little more than a superficial scratch.

Family Nest (Hungary 1979) (7): Due to a chronic housing shortage a young couple is forced to live with the husband's overbearing authoritarian father; a move that proves to be their undoing. Using a stark verite style composed of long intimate close-ups and heated monologues Bela Tarr uses the petty lies and everyday hypocrisies of one extended family to cast a jaundiced eye on life under Communist rule. The acting is flawless and despite some muddled subtitles the characters' underlying frustrations ring loud and clear.

The Family Stone (USA 2004) (8): It’s Christmastime and uptight Manhattan yuppie Meredith (Sarah Jessica Parker) has severe trepidations about traveling upstate to meet her boyfriend Everett’s (Dermot Mulroney) eccentric family for the very first time. Of course she’s barely out of the car before she starts putting her designer heels firmly in her mouth—over and over again—alienating herself from the entire household in record time. Family matriarch Sybil (Diane Keaton) thinks she’s a flake; youngest daughter Amy (Rachel McAdams) is a caustic bitch with a personal vendetta against her; and brother Thad (Ty Giordano) is gay, deaf, and dating a black man (Brian White) a trifecta which causes a well-meaning Meredith to ram her foot even further down her throat and giving rise to a most uncomfortable game of Charades followed by a Holiday Dinner from Hell. Only Everett’s stoner brother Ben (Luke Wilson) senses something worthwhile beneath Meredith’s social floundering and tries to come to her aid… Misleadingly marketed as some kind of “Holiday Chick-Flick Rom-Com”, writer-director Thomas Bezucha’s dysfunctional family soap pairs sharply observed wit with a warm heartbeat to give us a slice of life that may be a little on the sparkly side but never stoops to cheap manipulation even as it moves us to tears and laughter. Parker is amazing, her character simultaneously off-putting and painfully piteous in a way that’s totally relatable to anyone who’s felt like a fish out of water—yet she also has a backbone which occasionally asserts itself before being snapped in two. Keaton dominates the screen as the adoring but terribly candid mom, setting up some of the film’s best jokes before bringing everyone back to reality with a holiday bombshell (keep the Kleenex handy). And the cast is further bolstered by Craig T. Nelson whose role as dad apparently includes being peacemaker and referee; a neutral Elizabeth Reaser as pregnant daughter Susannah; and Claire Danes as Meredith’s level-headed sister who arrives at Meredith’s request to offer emotional support but winds up muddying the eggnog even further. And it’s all filmed in an idyllic Christmas card town with softly twinkling lights and Judy Garland crooning on the TV. It may not be realistic—especially with that string of tenderhearted codas—but the intelligent writing, ardent performances, and snow-globe backdrops go together like a mug of cocoa and a sugar cookie. Pure motion picture comfort food.

Fandry (India 2013) (8): It’s difficult to pinpoint exactly when Nagraj Manjule’s distinctly Indian tale of unrequited teenaged love transitions from wistful romanticism to angry cynicism, but what begins with daydreams does eventually end in something much angrier. Dark-skinned and dirt poor, Jabya nevertheless pines away for classmate Shalu even though the beautiful young woman outranks him in every respect. For Jabya, unfortunately, was born into the lowest rung of India’s lingering caste system and seems doomed to take over the family “business” of demeaning odd jobs including the rounding up of wild pigs which the Hindu villagers are unwilling to touch lest they too become unclean. Desperate to save enough cash for a new pair of jeans with which to impress Shalu, and composing love letters to her every night by the light of a kerosene lamp, Jabya also sets his hopes on a semi-mystical quest—to slay and cremate a very special blackbird for he’s heard that the ashes, when sprinkled on the object of your desire, will cause them to love you in return. Reality, however, has no interest in either magic or a young man’s fancy… Filmed in the dusty hinterland of Maharashtra, with a palette ranging from desiccated ochers to bright carnival balloons all set to a background score of staccato drumbeats, Majule’s downbeat parable employs a troupe of relatively unknown but nevertheless talented actors most notably freshman Somnath Awghade whose awkward mannerisms and husky adolescent voice bring Jabya to full-fleshed life. In this his first full length project as both director, writer, and actor (he plays the compassionate town drunk, a tragic figure in his own right) Manjule shows a remarkable talent for composition, arranging his sets and actors in order to achieve just the right effect whether it be a romantic aside with the setting sun resting in the branches of a tree, or a satirical rebuke when everyone stops for the national anthem—the well-off students in neat rows proudly wearing their spotless school uniforms, the “untouchables” standing awkwardly beside the outdoor latrine. And a scene in which a trussed-up swine is carried past benevolent portraits of historical dignitaries pretty well speaks for itself. Both a tender coming-of-age tale and a bitter critique of injustice shored up by outdated tradition, Manjule has managed to take one of his country’s more insidious social ills and reduce it down to the story of a young man whose eyes are on the sky even though his shoes remain covered in pig shit.

Fanny and Alexander (Sweden 1982) (9): Set in 1907, Bergman’s kaleidoscopic swan song (his last theatrical movie), part autobiography part child’s eye fairy tale, follows the changing fortunes of Alexander Ekdahl and his little sister Fanny. Born into a wealthy family of show business eccentrics the two children were raised in a loving atmosphere of colourful hedonism filled with animated gossip, small infidelities and just a touch of madness. Things change for the worse however when, after the sudden death of her husband, Mrs. Ekdahl marries the local bishop, Edvard Vergerus, a dour unhappy man whose spartan home is ruled by “punctuality, cleanliness, and order”. Taking an instant dislike to his new stepfather, urged on perhaps by ghostly visitations from his late father, Alexander finds himself involved in a battle of wills with the austere cleric; a battle which eventually spreads to the entire Vergerus household with violent and unforeseen consequences. Bergman’s love for the theatre, and mistrust of religion, are evident throughout this grand period drama. Whether it be a children’s slide show, an ornate Christmas pageant, or a series of loving soliloquies extolling the virtues of stage and actor, there is a touch of magic to his film which manages to buoy his young protagonists even in their darkest moments. A midnight creep through the fantastical home of Alexander’s Uncle Isak, culminating in a most dramatic encounter with “God”, is pure cinematic wizardry. Furthermore, to his credit, Bergman does not demonize the Reverend Vergerus but rather shows him as a fully fleshed and tragically flawed human being who desires to do what is right but is crippled by his uncompromising religious convictions; a broken life-sized crucifix hidden away in his attic speaks volumes. But gloom and despair aside this is ultimately a comedy in the literary sense, replete with candlelit celebrations, loving smiles and a storybook ending. Originally filmed for Swedish television, Bergman’s original version had to be cut by more than two hours for this theatrical release and all that editing does take its toll on the story’s sense of continuity. Despite that however, Fanny and Alexander remains a true testament to his genius and a fitting capstone to a fascinating career.

Fantasm (Australia 1976) (6): Filmed in L.A. by an Aussie film crew, this little foray into softcore sexploitation explores the wacky world of female sexual fantasies. Host and narrator Dr. Jungenot A. Freud (get it?) introduces a series of vignettes designed to titillate those audiences down under who were just beginning to appreciate that country’s new “R” rating. Starting with a young woman who gets a very close shave from a trio of unusually hetero hairdressers the film’s mood seems to waffle between a low-keyed eroticism and outright burlesque. An altar-full of devilish monks stage their own version of the Burning Bush; a horny vixen wishes upon a banana and ends up having a food fight with John Holmes; a proper southern mother entertains some incestuous yearnings when her handsome military son comes home for a bath; and a bored housewife finally finds a use for that strap-on dildo when a cross-dressing thief tries to make off with her panties. And of course there is the prerequisite girl-on-girl action as two women compare bust-lines in a steamy sauna. Aside from a troublesome “rape fantasy” the film approaches its subject matter with a lighthearted tongues-in-cheeks sense of fun underscored by some unexpectedly graphic nudity. Beats the pants off of Crocodile Dundee.

Fantasm Comes Again (Australia 1977) (6): This sequel to the 1976 softcore sensation once again tested the limits of Australia's new "R" rating by offering more skin, more simulated couplings, and more dubbed slurps. A fledgling journalist and her cynical mentor burn the midnight oil at a local Melbourne newspaper office preparing the next "Dear Collette" column—a sexual advice feature run by a fictitious therapist who responds to the steamy letters sent in by her avid readers. With a bottle of tequila firmly in hand the two ghost writers begin poring over the latest batch of one-fisted tales while the camera eagerly reenacts each author's exploits in a series of smutty vignettes. Among the film's highlights: an aspiring gymnast practices the horizontal bars on her coach's thighs; a virile lifeguard perfects his breaststroke with a trio of watery nymphs; and a guilt-ridden Catholic girl discovers the backdoor to salvation when she accidentally confesses her impure thoughts to a church janitor. Despite the bad 70s hairdos and some lifeless performances there is a sense of playfulness to the film which is genuinely erotic when it works, amusingly stupid when it doesn't. Aside from one glaring misstep (no guys, women DO NOT fall in love with their rapists) the tone is kept to a lighthearted hedonism. Plenty of female flesh for those so inclined, plenty of full montys for the rest of us.

The Fantasticks (USA 1995) (6): Even though the off-Broadway mainstay loses much of its small stage charm in this silver screen adaptation, there is still enough here to elicit a few wistful smiles. Two neighbouring widowers will stop at nothing to foster a romance between their teenaged children, Matt and Louisa. The desperate fathers even feign an ongoing feud and forbid the two youngsters to see each other in the hope that “kids will always do what they’re told not to do”. But when a mysterious carnival blows into town the two men decide to enlist the aid of its dashing, and decidedly devilish, proprietor El Gallo whose elaborate business cards promise to make “dreams come true”. Hatching an outrageous plan involving kidnapping and sword fights, El Gallo does manage to draw the fledgling sweethearts closer together until one of the dads accidentally spills the beans and the path of true love experiences its first big bump. As a disenchanted Matt is led astray by the temporal pleasures of the outside world, Louisa becomes seduced by El Gallo’s oily charms and the despairing fathers begin to lose hope... Teeming with bright candy colours and deliberately exaggerated performances, The Fantastick’s light fairytale feel belies its scholarly origins. Inspired by centuries of romantic tradition, from Roman mythology to Shakespeare and beyond, the play’s deceptively simple script is rife with literary archetypes that tickle the intellect while its unapologetic sentimentality appeals to the dreamer in all of us. Ritchie keeps the sets and effects simple enough, a giddy boat ride through the “Tunnel of Love” has a delightful vaudevillian edge to it, but the cast seems uncomfortable with the quirky dialogue and the widescreen cinematography dilutes much of the play’s more fanciful elements. Even so, the songs are just as wonderfully corny as ever and still manage to make us pause and remember that certain September...

Fantastic Planet (France/Czech 1973) (8): On the distant planet of Ygam, ruled by the gigantic blue-skinned Drogs, swarms of tiny humans co-exist like vermin. Occasionally kept as pets and regularly exterminated as pests in the wild, the “Oms” nevertheless maintain a thriving stone age culture in abandoned city parks and buildings. One such domesticated Om manages to escape from his owner taking with him a valuable tool with which he can tap into the Drogs’ vast library of technical information. Joining up with a tribe of wild Oms, Ter shares this new knowledge and together they devise a most ingenious plan to not only escape their oppressors but destroy them outright. However, with greater knowledge comes deeper wisdom and thus both Oms and Drogs find themselves at a crucial turning point in their individual destinies…can they resolve their differences or is mutual annihilation inevitable? Winner of a special jury award at Cannes, René Laloux’s hippy trippy animated adaptation of Stefan Wul’s novel—itself a thinly disguised critique on the plight of the Czech people under Soviet occupation—certainly captures the essence of early 70s psychedelia. Like Salvador Dali reimagining Yellow Submarine the fantastical sets of nightmarish flora and impossible fauna form the perfect backdrop for some of the film’s more esoteric elements: the Drogs (quite literally) fly high on meditative trances or are prodded into “chimerical visions” by motile tree roots while the Oms flit like pixies underfoot, often taking part in quasi-religious ceremonies involving animal sacrifices and glowing brownies. And thanks to the ubiquitous mystical magical mumbo-jumbo the underlying political message, though loud and clear, is rendered more parable and less polemic. Like, far out man!

Farewell My Concubine (China 1993) (9): Using the tumultuous friendship between two stage performers to illustrate fifty years of Chinese history, Kaige Chen’s sweeping epic is as intimate as it is grand. First linking up in 1924 as students at a rather austere Chinese Opera school, the quietly effeminate Douzi and his boisterous counterpart Shitou begin a hesitant relationship despite the differences in their demeanours. They eventually make a name for themselves in the Beijing opera circuit, their close yet chaste offstage partnership reflected onstage with Douzi (now renamed Dieyi) forever playing the faithful mistress to Shitou’s (now called Xiaolou) noble Chu king in the popular opera Farewell My Concubine. But Xiaolou’s budding romance with a local prostitute (the luminous Gong Li) will not only test his loyalties to Dieyi and the stage, but forever alter the course of everyone’s life in the process. Weathering some of modern China’s most turbulent times, from the external horrors of the Japanese occupation to the greater internal horrors of Mao’s Cultural Revolution, the two “stage brothers’ ” constant clashes, shifting allegiances, and various betrayals come to represent the fractured sociopolitical mindset of their homeland right up to the film’s heartbreaking denouement as the two men, now on in years, reprise their famous roles to an empty house. Filled with lush widescreen images awash in reds and gold against the cacophonous bang and clash of Chinese Opera, Chen’s love for the art of cinema (as well as an abiding sympathy for the suffering of artists) is evident in every frame. Running just under three hours his masterful film unfolds with a composed patience, each scene imbued with layers of meaning whether it be a brainwashed mob shouting revolutionary rhetoric or an abandoned pair of silk slippers softly underscoring a greater tragedy. Deeply human and overtly political (which is probably why it didn’t receive the Oscar it rightfully deserved) Chen’s masterpiece is a sterling example of cinema’s ability to transport and transform.

Farewell, My Queen (France 2012) (6): Benoît Jacquot’s sumptuous period piece, based on Chantal Thomas’ novel, examines the final days of Marie Antoinette (a solid performance from Diane Kruger) as seen through the eyes of her devoted servant Sidonie Laborde. With whispers of civil unrest in the background the grand court of France carries on with the usual small intrigues, sexual indiscretions, and extravagant parties. Nowhere is this more apparent than with the Queen herself, a frail and flighty creature whose days consist of scandalous novels (read to her by Sidonie) and poring over fashion magazines. But when the Bastille is stormed and the mob begins their pogrom of beheadings, the crystal and gilt interiors of Versailles quickly become an oppressive warren of frightened nobles and scurrying rats. With only her sometime lover the Duchess Gabrielle and faithful Sidonie at her side, Marie Antoinette is forced into a series of fateful decisions—one of which will finally reveal her true nature to an increasingly cynical and disenchanted Sidonie. Filmed on location, Jacquot painstakingly recreates the pre-revolutionary French court from the intricate wigs and costumes to hallways littered with artwork and tapestries. His nighttime scenes are especially gorgeous seemingly lit using nothing but glowing candles and moonlight. The fact that advancing hordes of angry peasants are only alluded to in monstrous rumours is a nice touch which forces us to concentrate on the chaotic elements of a royal household in dissolution—this is not a historical epic but rather a study in various reactions to historical events happening offscreen. However, despite the elaborate touches and capable cast there is a distinct lack of momentum to a story already hampered by too many details for those of us not familiar with La Révolution. Furthermore a handful of noteworthy performances fail to elicit much energy resulting in lots of running around and hasty embraces but no passion. A gold-plated treat for the eye, a humdrum exercise for the mind.

The Farewell Party [aka Mita Tova] (Israel 2014) (8): Inveterate tinkerer Yehezkel and his wife Levana are residents in a modern retirement home where he busies himself in the workshop, she makes house the best she can, and they both try to downplay her encroaching dementia. Their lives are forever altered however when, aided by a few fellow residents, Yehezkel builds a machine to help a friend’s terminally ill husband end his life. With a rift now developing between them—Yehezkel saw it as an act of compassion; Levana saw it as murder despite the wishes of the suffering husband—the couple’s troubles are just beginning for word of what their group did is spreading and others are now seeking their “service”. Like the flip side of Ron Howard’s Cocoon, writer/directors Tal Granit and Sharon Maymon use a group of retirees to explore issues of aging, illness, and mortality as it relates to the highly contentious “right to die”. Mixing pathos and angry rhetoric kept in perspective by the occasional flash of gallows humour, The Farewell Party is not quite the preachy polemic you would expect—although the directors’ bias is never in question—but instead a study in how its characters (and thus society at large) react to lives with zero quality and rapidly diminishing options. With a cast of seasoned stage performers the script’s spotty theatrical flourishes (there’s a tacked-on gay tryst; a mock Voice of God; and at one point everyone breaks into song..?!) are smoothed over and lead Ze’ev Revach, as the grizzled moustachioed Yehezkel, gives a beautifully shaded performance as a man convinced he’s on the right side until circumstances bring things a little too close to home. A cinematic icebreaker that approaches its taboo subject with candour and just enough comic timing to provide a bit of breathing space.

Far From Men (France 2014) (5): In colonial Algeria circa 1954, Dura, a former French soldier now teaching in a remote one-room schoolhouse, is tasked with accompanying an Arab prisoner to the closest police station—a two day hike through mountainous wasteland—where he is to be tried for murder. Reluctant to lead someone to their death yet curious as to why the man accepts his fate so meekly, Dura has no choice but to follow orders. En route the men become entangled with various factions of Algeria’s ongoing civil war, from zealous opposing forces to compassionate prostitutes, and each encounter strengthens the growing bond between them leading to a moral crossroads—literally and figuratively—when they finally reach their destination. Despite rather anemic performances, leads Viggo Mortensen and Reda Kateb do manage to create a simmering onscreen chemistry but the story itself becomes lost amid the monotonous grandeur of parched hills and desert sunsets. Furthermore, a spare script adapted from a short story by Camus isn’t able to ignite much drama while the film’s jaundiced view of how conflict (whether military or cultural) turns allies into enemies and family into strangers has already been done before to much greater effect. The evocative musical score, however, is beautiful.

Far From the Madding Crowd (UK 1967) (8): Julie Christe, Terence Stamp, Alan Bates and Peter Finch headline this gorgeous adaptation of Thomas Hardy's 19th century novel. Stubborn and headstrong Bathsheba, just recently come into a large inheritance, finds herself being pursued by three very different suitors; a dashing cavalry officer with a heart of ice, an aging landowner desperate for one last chance at love, and a simple shepherd who has all but given up on her. Aided by Nicholas Roeg's sumptuous widescreen vistas of the Dorset countryside this 3-hour epic practically drips tragedy, heartbreak and romance from every frame. It doesn't quite reach the level of passion it was aiming for but all is easily forgiven.

Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! (USA 1965) (7): It’s tits ahoy as director Russ Meyer indulges his lifelong breast fetish with a lurid tale of homicidal chicks gone wild. A trio of violent go-go dancers on the lam are content to get their kicks from fast cars and slow men, but their psychopathic leader Varla (leather-clad Tura Satana looking like someone punched her in the face with a bag of mascara) has more sinister aspirations. Already guilty of murder and kidnapping—hence the bound and gagged Lolita in the front seat—Varla decides to take the girls on a detour when she hears rumours about a crippled recluse who’s hidden a mountain of cash somewhere on his tumbledown desert ranch. When the buxom desperados arrive, however, they’re not quite prepared for what the crazy old man and his two virile sons have in store for them… With but a few drops of blood and nary a nipple to be seen (but plenty of awkward fisticuffs and gaping cleavage) this is one of grindhouse cinema’s tamer offerings, yet Meyer’s three leads offer performances so beyond the pale that PG has never looked so deliciously sleazy. Besides Satana’s one-woman wrecking crew, the single-named Haji belies her British-Filipina heritage playing the feral Rosie with a ridiculous Italian accent, and Lori Williams is a walking treasure trove of blonde jokes as Billie, a rattle-brained nymphomaniac whose hydraulic hips jiggle almost as much as her boobs. It’s aggressively camp sexploitation all around with a script that’s nothing but gratuitous violence paired with a string of clumsy innuendos (Billie calls out Rosie’s sexual ambivalence with, “You really should be AM and FM. You one-band broads are a drag!”) and skin-tight fetish wear that offers tantalizing flashes of flesh—even bodybuilder hunk Dennis Busch, cast as the mentally deficient son, gives his pecs a needless workout so that the “other half” of the audience will having something to drool over. This is female empowerment jacked on testosterone and running on sheer horsepower. Or in the words of the film’s opening narrator, “Ladies and gentlemen…while violence cloaks itself in a plethora of disguises, its favourite mantle still remains…SEX!” Hell yeah!

Father and Son (Russia 2003) (6): In a dusty old apartment in a quaintly crumbling soviet town (actually Lisbon) young adult Alexei lives with his widowed father. The two have grown close—perhaps too much so—and while their familiarity has not exactly bred contempt, it has certainly given rise to an ambivalence which runs hot and cold from physical sparring to tender caresses. “A father’s love crucifies…” blurts Alexei at one point, and it is this ongoing crucifixion that fuels director Aledsandr Sokurov’s sequel to 1997s Mother and Son. In that film a son clings tenaciously to his dying mother, in this virile follow-up a son attempts to let go of a father who refuses to budge. the intensity of the relationship, coupled with the fact that both actors look as if they just stepped off the cover of GQ, caused many to see a homoerotic element at play. Certainly an opening scene showing their two naked bodies entwined lends some credence to that interpretation until our perspective widens and we see that the father is in fact comforting Alexei after a particularly unsettling nightmare—not so much lovers then as an adult and his child. Subsequent close encounters (with or without t-shirts) carry similar overtones of sensuality which are quickly extinguished by the look of defiance in their eyes—competitiveness seems to taint every aspect of their relationship. They are mirror images of one another: Alexei takes interest in a local girl (the only female character of note) while dad contemplates remarrying; each takes his turn strutting and preening about the apartment; and both have army backgrounds (father is a veteran, Alexei a cadet) giving rise to some discomfiting parallels between paternal love and militarism. Impressionistic and suspended somewhere between the real world and a dream state, Sokurov’s film doesn’t provide a straight-up narrative, instead it pieces together a psychological mosaic examining those ties that bind, sometimes too tightly. And he illuminates it all in gauzy ochre light as if the entire world were stalled in a perpetual sunset, images often distorted by windows and severe camera angles or else softened by twilight while variations on Tchaikovsky play in the background. Sadly, despite the film’s striking appearance, Sokurov falls in love with his own vision making for too many drawn out flourishes and a plodding dialogue which may carry more weight in the original Russian. But this is still a solid and soulful look at a young man’s realization that before he can grow into an adult he must first put dad in his proper place.

Father Goose (USA 1964) (6): Despite garnering an Oscar for best screenplay, Ralph Nelson’s jungle comedy of manners featuring two mismatched adults and a troop of precocious kids turns out to be not much more than a mildly amusing and wholly predictable romp in a Walt Disney vein. In the middle of WWII irascible American opportunist Walter Eckland (Cary Grant) is reluctantly inducted by the Australian Navy to serve as a civilian “spotter” on an uninhabited South Pacific island. With nothing but primitive amenities (including a case of his beloved whisky) and a short wave radio, his job is to report on any Japanese activity in the area. Already at odds with the commander who shanghaied him into “volunteering’ for this position as well as his effeminate aide (Trevor Howard, Jack Good), Eckland’s frayed nerves are further stretched when he suddenly has to share the island with a teetotaling teacher (Leslie Caron) and her seven impressionable schoolgirls who were abandoned when their pilot was called away to assist with military duties. Now, no longer able to drink, swear, or walk around in his underwear, and with the chances of rescue becoming unlikely as the war heats up, it’s only a matter of time before Eckland and the professor come to verbal blows. Meanwhile, the Japanese fleet is practically knocking at their backdoor… Grant’s hard-drinking, amoral charmer is the film’s only highlight thanks to his star power and several good lines of script but he shares no screen chemistry whatsoever with Caron whose prim and proper professor quickly becomes tedious—and those bratty moppets grate on you almost from the very first scene. Of course he cools down, she warms up, and the girls become more adorable with every Japanese fly-by while Howard’s pragmatic, slightly acerbic radio presence gives the entire production its only adult voice. Not exactly “fun for the whole family” but at least it won’t shock the grandparents.

Faults (USA 2014) (6): Formally one of the nation’s top authorities on cults and an expert in the field of deprogramming individuals caught up in them, Ansel Roth PhD. (Leland Orser) has fallen on hard times thanks to a grave professional misstep which caused him to lose everything—his wife, his house, his reputation, and his self-respect. Now a disagreeable little ball of neuroses pursued by a ruthless creditor and living out of his car, he’s trying to stay afloat by hawking his latest non-seller at poorly attended seminars held in third rate hotels. Luckily a chance at redemption comes in the form of an elderly couple whose only daughter has joined a shady cult and they are willing to pay whatever it takes to have her back. But when Roth finally gets “Claire” (Mary Elizabeth Winstead) under his wing the question of who is in charge of whom becomes dangerously indistinct… Offbeat performances and a few cinematic tricks distinguish Riley Stearns’ peculiar little indie feature dominated by Winstead’s poker-faced cultist and Orser’s highly physical portrayal of Roth, a role which snaps erratically between slapstick farce and bone-crushing angst—at one point the two verbally spar while behind them a wall lamp and an open window cast halo-like auras around their heads (genius!). And the rest of the cast follow suit with Claire’s mom and dad alternately anguished parents and clueless marionettes while a host of bizarre extras up the “quirky quotient”—from an irate restaurant manager to an enraged seminar guest. But these constant changes in tone ultimately work against the film. As the script bounces from absurdist humour to highbrow psychodrama, metaphysical menace to tragedy laced with a whiff of horror, you become all too aware of Stearns’ rather heavy hand on the stick shift. This air of imbalance may work for the film’s darkly amusing first half when no one is quite sure what is happening, but it detracts in the more pensive second half thus robbing the big twist of much of its impact. Yet one more take on the pitfall of conjecture vs reality which may not take you by surprise, exactly, but it’s still an interesting walk around the block.

Faust: A German Folk Legend (Germany 1926) (7): F. W. Murnau’s screen adaptation of Goethe’s defining work is a phantasmagorical mix of high tragedy and dark expressionism whose eroticism and flashes of nudity were quite daring for the time. As the Plague ravages his medieval town the scholarly Dr. Faust becomes increasingly despondent when Heaven appears to turn a deaf ear to his fervent prayers for a cure. Enter Mephisto, a cunning envoy from Hell who offers Faust eternal youth and all the power in the world in exchange for his immortal soul. Eager to alleviate the suffering around him, the good doctor agrees to the demon’s terms and turns his back on God. But as the saying goes: “The devil is in the details”, and Faust’s good intentions quickly backfire as Mephisto’s treachery plays on his vanity, leading him down a path filled with corruption and wickedness—for the doctor is merely a pawn between God and Satan who have made a secret wager over whether or not the powers of Hell can corrupt a mortal man’s soul. With an unlimited budget and a crew of cinematic visionaries, Murnau’s silent masterpiece alternates scenes of domestic tranquility with horror and heart-rending sorrow—a leering devil spreads his wings over the spires of a sleeping village while a woman cradles her dying infant and smiling children weave garlands of daisies unaware of the evil set to pounce upon them. With his open face reflecting an aura of melancholy Gösta Ekman is perfectly cast as the betrayed Faust—playing him as both a grizzled senior and doe-eyed young man—while Camilla Horn has you reaching for the tissues in her role of Gretchen, an innocent virgin despoiled by Faust’s unchecked libido. But it is screen legend Emil Jannings who ultimately owns the film, his portrayal of the impish Mephisto a master class in fawning seduction and diabolical guile. A tad long at almost two hours and with a few narrative detours that were unnecessarily padded, this is still a sterling example of pioneer cinema before the advent of CGI, Technicolor, and Dolby Surround.

Fausto 5.0 (Spain 2001) (7): Dr. Fausto is an eminent surgeon specializing in terminal cases, mainly cancer patients in the final stages of their disease. Although committed to his work, dealing with pain and tragedy on a daily basis has not only blinded him to life’s happier elements it has also given rise to a deep-rooted fatalism bordering on suicidal. His life takes a turn for the surreal however when he travels to Barcelona to attend a medical conference and crosses paths with Santos, a former patient whom he had left for dead eight years earlier. Now the very picture of health despite having been handed a previous death sentence, the perpetually cheerful Santos dogs Fausto’s every step determined to make him happy by any means possible. But as Santos’ displays of camaraderie become increasingly sinister Fausto begins to suspect the little man’s easy smiles hide darker motives…a suspicion which quickly turns into a living nightmare as the old adage “Be careful what you wish for…” threatens to become an epitaph. Penned and presented by Spain’s controversial theatre group “La Fura del Babus” this contemporary take on Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus (later reimagined by Goethe) is an unnerving mix of psychological horror and modern angst. Working within a modest budget, Fausto’s small cadre of directors manage to transform Barcelona into a bizarre netherworld awash with images of death and temptation: an anatomy class becomes a lesson in mortality, a hotel is wrapped in shroud-like scaffolding, and an underage coquette seduces Fausto in an abandoned operating room surrounded by jars of surgical specimens. Of course those familiar with the source material will already have an inkling as to where this is all heading, but a few welcome twists prevent things from becoming too predictable and lend an unexpected pinch of optimism. Confrontational and vulgar at times, overtly operatic at others, there nevertheless remains an underlying vein of dark poetry throughout the film which holds you in your seat until the final enigmatic scenes.

Fear and Desire (USA 1953) (2): There’s a reason legendary director Stanley Kubrick wanted all copies of this early work destroyed—it’s embarrassingly awful or, in his own words, amateurish like a child’s drawing on a fridge. Six generic soldiers are stranded behind enemy lines in a war that seems to be more metaphysical than actual. Trying to find their way back home they ruminate, cogitate, and regurgitate on the senselessness of war by substituting hackneyed soliloquies and jarring close-ups for actual profundities. Bad acting, worse writing, and a whole lot of hot air.

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (USA 1998) (5): It’s 1971 when stoner journalist Raoul Duke (Johnny Depp ripped to the gills and out of control) and his buddy Dr. Gonzo (Benicio Del Toro, ditto)—who also serves as his lawyer and agent—pack up their suitcase with every narcotic known to man and head out on a drug-fuelled road trip from Los Angeles to Las Vegas in order to investigate a motocross race…or the death of 60’s idealism…or something. Upon arriving however, their pharmaceutical pursuits get the better of them leading to all manner of exaggerated mayhem, paranoia, and bemusement. To be fair, it couldn’t have been easy shooting a POV film about two men who chow down on mescaline and cocaine for breakfast and director Terry Gilliam, never known for his subtlety anyway, gives it his best shot with tight sweaty close-ups, hyperkinetic dialogue, and a host of CGI hallucinations which include melting carpets and a bar full of polyester lounge lizards who morph into a viciously amusing Jurassic Park parody. The neon extravagance of Sin City also provides the perfect backdrop for Duke’s musings on where America went wrong, its soulless spectacles and gaudy patrons taking centre stage while Viet Nam flashes on the television and images of Richard Nixon float in and out of reality. When our two addled protagonists crash a convention of narcotics officers it’s impossible not to laugh at the sheer irony of it all. But the manic energy wears thin after a while, as does Depp’s machine gun narration, and trying to glean the meat of Hunter S. Thompson’s source novel from all those trippy detours becomes tiresome. A runaway merry-go-round of a film which insists on feeding you just one more hit of blotter acid when all you want to do is slow down and get off.

Fear(s) of the Dark (France 2007) (6): Four animated shorts from various directors take aim at all things creepy and unsettling with limited success. A college student plays reluctant nursemaid to a host of nasty bedbugs; a young girl has a questionable run-in with a vengeful spirit; a village is terrorized by something in the woods; and in the film’s best segment, a wayward traveller seeks refuge in a mysterious house with a murderous secret. Loosely tying the stories together are a series of vignettes involving a mad hatter and a pack of wild dogs with a taste for innocent flesh while a faceless narrator provides an endless litany of her many phobias, among them a fear of indigestion and becoming “irredeemably bourgeois”. Drawing artistic inspiration from a variety of sources including Japanese manga, Italian artist Giorgio de Chirico, and American illustrator Edward Gorey, the directors take us to places live actors simply cannot. There is a macabre, dreamlike feel to the primitive B&W animation which relies more on shadow and texture than graphic carnage yet, in the end, it ultimately fails to deliver the icy frissons it promises. Mildly unnerving and then easily forgotten, rather like an episode of Fear Factor for the terminally timid.

Feed the Light (Sweden 2014) (3): Every now and then I come across a film so imaginatively awful that I can’t bring myself to hit the “eject” button. Such is the case with Henrik Möller’s ultra low-tech sci-fi/horror disaster based very loosely on a story by H. P. Lovecraft. While searching for her missing daughter, single mother Sara winds up in a subterranean maze beneath the streets of Malmö where wild-eyed janitors tend to perpetually flickering light bulbs while fastidiously mopping endless floors, all under the malevolent gaze of a female overseer who keeps a crazy naked man as a pet. Descending deeper into this underground multi-universe (which looks conspicuously like an unfinished industrial parking garage filmed from different angles) Sara eventually uncovers the terrifying secret behind all those faulty light fixtures… Slapdash editing and emotive performances that come across as really bad improv fail to elicit any suspense (or appreciable mystery) and what special effects appear are strictly of the “Film School 101” variety (shadowy bogeymen, blackened eyeballs, squishy rubber heads). Filmed haphazardly in static-ridden B&W with the occasional fountain of chocolate-red stage blood and one passage of psychedelia, Möller does leave us with one notable visual: an extreme rectal close-up which would have brought an appreciative tear to John Waters’ eye. Plays like a hacked version of a much better film.

Fellini Satyricon (Italy 1969) (9): Loosely based on the ribald satire written by first century Roman courtier Petronius, the remaining text of which only exists in random fragments, Fellini’s phantasmagorical traipse through ancient Rome follows the misadventures of hot-tempered Encolpius, his nemesis and sometime lover Ascylitus, and Giton, the pretty boy whose affections they constantly vie for. Their adversarial relationship will take them from the steamy confines of a Roman bathhouse, to a gay wedding aboard a slave ship, to a watery oracle where Encolpius is afflicted with impotence after he accidentally kills the resident god. And throughout it all is Fellini’s signature talent for incorporating the absurd and the grotesque in a manner that is at once dreamlike and nightmarish with images of pagan decadence and casual brutality competing with passages of artistic genius: a gigantic stone bust of Caesar is dragged through a public square, a Minotaur’s maze is ablaze with sunlight and bloodstained frescoes, and an old fashioned bacchanal filled with boorish noblemen and their elaborately coiffed and painted wives suddenly resembles an antique frieze as everyone pauses to stare into the camera. This is a bored and weary society whose insatiable appetites for lust and cruelty has deadened their ability to comprehend the omnipresent art which adorns every wall, and the artists which create it. Like its source material, Fellini’s masterpiece is itself fragmentary and episodic consisting of brief vignettes and elaborate tableaux which jump back and forth through time giving us the impression of an epic rather than a sequential narrative. Casually throwing out thoughts on art, love, and mortality along the way, he manoeuvres his characters through an increasingly surreal Roman Empire before abruptly consigning them back to the pages of history in what has to be one of cinema’s more clever endings. In Fellini’s own words, “I am examining ancient Rome as if this were a documentary about the customs and habits of the Martians.” Pure joy from start to finish!

Fellini’s Roma (Italy 1972) (8):  Fellini’s decidedly skewed homage to the Eternal City  , circa WWII to 1972, is less a love letter than a collection of outrageous postcards.  Through a series of disjointed narratives and giddy flashbacks he presents us with a city full of spectacles and absurdities, where silent monuments to past glory stand cheek to jowl with raucous images of contemporary excess.  But even as Romans lose touch with their past they seem doomed to repeat it with images of “Il Duce” standing in for Julius Caesar and drunken revelers taking part in modern bacchanals.  In one sobering scene ancient frescoes in a newly discovered catacomb fade and disappear upon being exposed to “modern air”...but as the last painted face turns to dust we see that some of the ancient Romans bore an uncanny resemblance to their modern counterparts.  In another episode, my personal favourite, an ecclesiastical fashion show meant to highlight the latest in Vatican wardrobes begins as an hysterical satire on the church’s affluence but gradually turns into something far more caustic with the pope himself becoming an object of pagan idolatry.  There is no doubt that Fellini loves his city with all its illusions and chaos.  Scenes of debauchery and hedonism are offset by quiet moments of contemplation and innocent humour.  The final scene in which a mob of young people on motorcycles circle the city like a plague of locusts brings the whole work to a satisfying, if somewhat abrupt, conclusion.  Loud, crass and self-indulgent for sure, but an exhilarating trip nonetheless.

Female (USA 1933) (3): When Alison Drake inherits the family car company from her father she suddenly finds herself surrounded by hundreds of handsome male employees more than willing to grease her gears for the sake of a promotion. Not one to worry about other people’s opinions she eagerly takes them up on their offers but, after a vodka-fuelled roll in the hay, unceremoniously dumps them back into the secretarial pool. “I’m merely treating men the same way they’ve always treated women” she admits to an old highschool girlfriend and one can’t help but marvel at such a frank and liberated attitude in 1933. However, upon meeting the cavalier and oh-so-manly engineer Jim Thorne she suddenly realizes that all she really wants is to be a woman. Boo! Hiss! The art deco sets, however, are beautiful.

Female Trouble (USA 1974) (8): John Waters followed the scandalous success of his cult hit Pink Flamingos with this equally trashy soap opera about a bad girl gone worse and his trailer park muse, Divine, never looked so awfully good. It’s Christmas in Baltimore, 1960, and the only gift juvenile delinquent and all-around slut Dawn Davenport wants is a pair of black cha-cha pumps to go with her big cha-cha hairdo. But when Santa fails to deliver, the resulting temper tantrum (mom ends up wearing the tree) marks the beginning of her downward slide into crime, exploitation, single motherhood…and murder! Cheesy sets, cheesy costumes, and enough offense to put woke viewers into a catatonic stupor, this is vintage Waters in the years before he was “discovered” and subsequently tamed by mainstream audiences. He had a gift for elevating garbage into something approaching art (anti-art, perhaps?) and it’s this ability to immortalize tackiness that makes his early films as repulsively fresh today as they were fifty years ago. Shamelessly camping it up in ratty wigs and thrift store drag, Divine (the late Harris Milstead) is a one-woman acid rush whether she’s turning roadside tricks, repurposing carpentry tools as sex aids, or lampooning the American Dream with an ill-fated—and just plain ill—nightclub act. Milstead was Divine and he enters into her persona with such absolute abandon that you hardly even recognize him in his dual role as a rapist with dirty underpants (the less said about that, the better). And he’s joined by Waters regulars David Lochary as an unscrupulous salon owner with a peculiar violence fetish; Edith Massey as an oversexed rat-bag who blames Dawn for turning her nephew straight (apparently it took four people to squeeze her ample body into that leather dominatrix outfit); and Mink Stole who steals the show as Dawn’s screeching maladjusted daughter, Taffy—when it comes to abusive mothers Joan Crawford was a saint compared to Dawn Davenport. All in all it’s a noisy and chaotic dive into filth and arthouse sleaze that leaves us with one of underground cinema’s more toxic lines, “I wouldn’t suck your lousy cock if I was suffocating and your balls were full of oxygen!!” Please proceed with caution.

Fences (USA 2016) (9): Denzel Washington moves August Wilson’s play from stage to screen, taking most of the cast with him, and the result remains almost as powerful as a live performance. Now 53 and with all of his good years behind him, Pittsburgh garbageman Troy Maxson (Washington) is angry. He’s angry that his once promising baseball career was cut short by age and race, he’s angry that his other dreams have crumbled into dust, and he’s angry that his black skin is still an issue in 1950s America. Weathering his discontent is Rose (Viola Davis, amazing) his loving wife of 18 years who long ago substituted Troy’s dreams for her own, and his two grown children (from different mothers)—one a struggling musician, the other a wannabe football star—on whom he regularly projects his own fears of failure. But when Troy tumbles from grace in a big way the family dynamic is forever altered as Rose compares what she’s gained to what she’s had to give up and the boys begin to see the man behind the bluster. Pride and folly walk side by side in this powerful character-driven family drama wherein the eponymous fence—a backyard project Troy never seems able to complete—comes to stand for so much more: Rose’s attempt to corral whatever happiness she can glean, the emotional barrier between father and sons, and Troy’s defiance of Death itself which already tried to claim him once with a bout of pneumonia. True to its Broadway roots, the action rarely strays from the couple’s modest working class house where a likeness of Christ shares wall space with photos of Martin Luther King and John F. Kennedy. Confined, yet never claustrophobic, the home is both a haven and a psychological battlefield where issues of racial identity, self-esteem, and familial obligation are bandied about like like so many darts, giving rise to a host of piercing monologues be they Rose’s list of blessings and grievances, Troy’s hollow bravado, or his youngest son’s nascent rebelliousness. A beautifully realized story of one stubborn man’s stumble towards a light which always seems just out of reach and his family’s realization that fathers live on in their children (one son bound by duty, the other a troubled spirit following his dream) and spouses mould each other in a thousand subtle ways. Stephen McKinley Henderson co-stars as Troy’s best friend, Bono, whose keen eye and soft voice provide counterbalance to Troy’s outbursts and Mykelti Williamson stands out as Troy’s brother Gabriel (complete with trumpet in tow), a brain-injured veteran whose childlike religious delusions reflect the best and worst of his older brother while foreshadowing the film’s enigmatic final scene.

Fermat’s Room (Spain 2007) (6): In response to a series of mysteriously enticing invitations, four brilliant mathematicians gather in an abandoned warehouse for a night of intellectual fun and games. But as the evening progresses they quickly realize they have been caught in a most ingenious trap involving hydraulic presses and moving walls; if they are to survive until dawn they will have to work together in order to solve a number of mathematical puzzles posed by their enigmatic host, Mr. Fermat. With time running out and tensions mounting it soon becomes clear that the four reluctant guests were not brought together randomly. The reason for their current predicament may very well lie in their past, but what are the common threads? And why does Fermat hold them in such low esteem? Interesting premise stylishly presented but it lacks both the wit and claustrophobic camerawork essential to make it work; I’m thinking of the brazen audacity of Saw or the Kafkaesque paranoia of Cube. Furthermore, in a vain attempt to repeatedly throw us off the trail the directors pile on so many red herrings and ludicrous plot twists that Fermat’s Room winds up being a victim of it’s own inflated sense of cleverness. The mathematical word problems are fun however and sure to be a hit at geeky dinner parties everywhere.

Fifth Avenue Girl (USA 1939) (8): If you look beyond her legendary dancing prowess, Ginger Rogers was also an accomplished actress whose comic timing was impeccable—and she puts that talent to good use in this bubbly upper-class comedy from Gregory La Cava. Tired of being taken for granted by his ungrateful family, business tycoon Timothy Borden (a huffing Walter Connolly) hires Mary, a wisecracking young woman he met in Central Park (Rogers), to pose as his live-in mistress hoping her presence will finally get him noticed. It does—but not without a few complications along the way starting with a nightclub brawl and a couple of romantic entanglements… Despite the script being a little bland on its own it’s the asides, delivered sotto voce, which produce the biggest smiles as Mary delivers a running commentary on what she really thinks, and her uneasy introduction to the Fifth Avenue lifestyle is one very droll case of culture shock—although who’s shocking whom the most is up for debate. Grand interiors apply the finishing touches for this was a time when the select few could still afford multi-room mansions in the heart of Manhattan and the set design department doesn’t hold back with rococo furnishings, pretentious airs, and an opulent staircase that puts Scarlett’s Tara to shame. Verree Teasdale co-stars as Borden’s neurotic wife in a performance bordering on farce, Tim Holt and Kathryn Adams bring up the rear as the couple’s spoiled adult brats, and James Ellison injects a bit of social critique as a Marxist chauffeur with a portable soapbox.

The Fifth Horseman is Fear (Czech 1964) (7): Dr. Braun is a Jewish physician living in Prague at the height of the Nazi occupation. Stripped of his right to practice medicine he is relegated to the role of inventory clerk, cataloguing the mountains of personal property confiscated from Czech Jews. Ignoring the suffering around him he diligently performs his repugnant task while downplaying his identity and claiming to be a “realist”. But when he is called upon to help an injured partisan hiding in his building he is faced with an ethical dilemma of monumental proportions which pits his desire to remain invisible against his growing need to take a stand. Brynych offers a scathing look at fascism and the fear and moral apathy which fuel it. He uses Braun’s apartment complex to give a cross sectional view of a totalitarian society; from it’s winding stairway filled with hushed whispers and suspicious stares to the endless repetition of rules and regulations punctuated by ringing bells and flickering lights. In one apartment an old woman mourns past glories; in another a self-obsessed housewife poses before a mirror while ignoring her crying child. Upstairs, a wealthy physician wrestles with his conscience while below him a collaborator convinces himself he’s just following orders. At one point Brynych makes ironic comparisons between the numbed alcohol-induced bonhomie of a local tavern and the drugged anarchy of an insane asylum. And when the police lock the building’s tenants in the cellar while their apartments are searched it quickly becomes a nightmare warren of shadowy corners as neighbour turns against neighbour in a frenzy of accusations, pleading and half-finished prayers. But as Braun alone is singled out for his role in aiding the criminal his altruism is ultimately rewarded with a strange mixture of sadness, fear, indifference and relief. With its jarring score of blaring horns and pounding pianos as well as some overly dramatic passages bordering on the absurd, this example of Czech “new wave” cinema is definitely an artistic challenge. There is great beauty here however; at one point as Braun moves through a warehouse packed with stolen goods he pauses by a wall of silent musical instruments and stopped clocks; in another scene his inner turmoil takes the form of a passionate soliloquy directed at the audience while in the distance we see a smokestack spewing out noxious black clouds. An acquired taste for sure, but one to savour slowly.

Fillmore: The Last Days (USA 1972) (6): In the summer of 1971 rock promoter and owner of San Francisco’s celebrated Fillmore West theatre, Bill Graham, decided to mark the closure of the historic venue with an indoor music festival. This shaky handheld documentary is the result and while the production values are rock bottom (I hate those Woodstock-style split screens) and everyone seems all too conscious of the camera—except Graham himself who seems to love a podium—the music is amazing. Headlined by The Grateful Dead and Santana, Graham gathered together a wealth of Bay Area talent for five days of electric guitars, piercing vocals, and dilated pupils—you can practically smell the grass wafting off the screen It’s a bit of psychedelic history told on the fly by a man who was clearly passionate about what he did, and when Graham reflects on the death of 60s idealism his sad insights become a fitting eulogy.

Film Stars Don’t Die in Liverpool (UK 2017) (8): As illness brings his passionate yet thorny May/December affair with faded American movie star Gloria Grahame to an end, aspiring Liverpool actor Peter Turner takes time to reflect upon the ups and downs of their two-year tryst. Thirty years his senior, Grahame was not an easy person to get close to. Prone to scandal and already divorced four times, she was a labile and needy middle-aged woman who couldn’t accept growing old—gracefully or otherwise. But Peter, aside from being initially starstruck, found something within her that resonated with his own free spirit no matter what emotional roadblocks she set up… Based on the real Peter Turner’s memoirs, Paul McGuigan’s bittersweet biopic covering the last few weeks of Grahame’s life when she showed up deathly ill on Peter's doorstep, augments its straightforward narrative with some clever conceits gleaned, appropriately enough, from stage and screen: flashbacks appear organically while turning a corner or opening a door; a romantic walk in front of a green screen sunset turns into a film loop; and life slowly ebbs away in a series of scratchy celluloid images. But the film’s ultimate strength lies in Annette Bening’s powerful performance. Her portrayal of Gloria Grahame as a conflicted force of nature who could go from docile lamb to haggard invalid to raging dragon with a single word is pure artistry. She is able to illuminate her complicated character without overshadowing anyone else’s performance, not that the rest of the cast are pushovers. Jamie Bell portrays Peter Turner as a young, somewhat naive young man discovering the agonies of love for the very first time; Julie Walters, as Peter’s mother, gives a fine turn as a working class woman whose gruff rebukes belie her inner warmth; and Vanessa Redgrave makes a brief appearance as Grahame’s eccentric mother. A complex film with one foot firmly rooted in old school melodrama while the other makes a bold statement on one of the many forms love can take.

Filth (UK 2013) (9): At an Edinburgh police detachment the coveted job of Detective Inspector has become available and of the six potential candidates only Bruce Robertson is desperate enough to go to any lengths in order to secure it—his bloated ego demands this promotion and his sexy siren of a wife has promised him a host of carnal delights if he gets it. Setting in motion a series of dark and underhanded schemes meant to discredit his competition Bruce lies, cheats, and manipulates his way to the front of the line and it doesn’t hurt that the police chief who’ll make the final decision is also a fellow Mason. It quickly becomes apparent that Robertson is not only a bad person he is a sociopathic bully lacking any conscience or empathy. But as much as we grow to hate him it soon becomes equally apparent that he hates himself even more hence the cocaine binges, the emotionally sadistic affairs, the countertop full of psychiatric medications, and the inability to accept any compliments—when the widow of a man he tried to save tells him what a good person he is her words hit him like physical blows. Furthermore it’s revealed that his home life is not quite the way he describes it and an unpleasant childhood memory has been festering in his psyche for years. Consumed by rage and self-loathing Robertson is a man who has been falling for some time; his erratic behaviour is becoming more troublesome and a host of threatening hallucinations are now dogging his every waking hour. Morally bankrupt and lost in a haze of sex and drugs he’s about to hit rock bottom and the impact, when it comes, will be epic. Based on Irvine Welsh’s novel, screenwriter/director Jon S. Baird spends the first part of this harrowing tragedy trying to convince us we’re watching a black comedy instead with whacked-out characters, cynical asides (Bruce extols the virtues of Scottish culture as he passes a trio of slack-jawed yobs), and surreal fantasy sequences reminiscent of Wes Anderson on crack. But as the film proceeds we realize this is the story of one man’s disintegration and the laughs quickly give way to sympathetic head shakes until we’re finally hit with a closing scene so bleakly sardonic that it bothered me for hours afterwards. Perhaps Baird tries a bit too hard at times—a lingerie twist towards the end pushes the envelope and a host of fanciful encounters with psychiatrist Jim Broadbent approach overkill—but the cast is magnificent especially a phenomenal performance by lead James McAvoy (he can even vomit on cue) and the pervasive sense of a waking nightmare never lets up. An eclectic soundtrack featuring everything from Motown to Jingle Bells provides the icing on the cake.

The Filth and the Fury: A Sex Pistols Film (UK 2000) (7): Part of a generation fed up with rising unemployment and a growing police state, a group of young men stumbled into each other, taught themselves to play the instruments they had stolen, and became "The Sex Pistols"...and in so doing launched the so-called "punk music" phenomenon of 1970s Britain; a volatile mix of angry nihilism and civil confrontation. Not so much a documentary as a pastiche of grainy concert footage, television spots, and home movies narrated by the now middle-aged Johnny Rotten and company, The Filth and the Fury waxes surprisingly philosophical on the meaning behind the spectacle ("Punk Rock" became an unfortunate pigeon-hole term for many) and what it set out to accomplish in its brash and undisciplined way. Of course the conservative dictates of the time (Thatcherism was just around the corner) are cast in an appropriately demonic light while industry bottom-feeders are personified by the band's slimy pseudo-manager Malcolm McLaren. A rollicking, frenetic barrage of sight and sound which gives you a distinct impression of a time and place almost forty years ago. The group may have lasted just a few years but their spit-stained legacy continues to this day.

The Final (USA 2010) (1): It’s the geeks vs. the jocks when a group of highschool misfits fed up with being constantly harassed devise an elaborate plan to even the score. Sending out anonymous invitations to a super hip costume party the nerdy underdogs manage to subdue their unwitting nemeses (and their totally hot stuck-up girlfriends) thanks to a bowl of drugged punch and several feet of leg irons. What follows is a study in psychotic overacting and insultingly gratuitous cruelty as each big bad bully is disfigured, maimed, tortured and crippled. But one-dimensional stereotyped characters and a juvenile script obviously penned by a teenaged loner with rage issues are the least of this shit pile’s faults. While it’s no secret that I’m a fan of the “slasher” genre of film, those movies have always possessed a certain dark, tongue-in-cheek approach never meant to be taken seriously and easily brushed aside upon exiting the theatre. This smug little revenge piece however is not only terribly made but traverses some very dangerous ground, namely the justification of outrageous acts of murder and violence as an answer to classroom taunts. Of course the jocks and bitches are just so excessively awful that our little goth victims have no choice but to don nazi outfits and horror masks before severing spines and burning faces off while spouting angry rebukes. “I’m the monster you made me!” emotes one little freak waving a machine gun in the head jock’s face and we’re supposed to....what? Cheer the little fucker on because we all know what it’s like to be teased? The phenomenon of deadly violence in schools has been examined with far greater skill in movies such as the darkly satirical If... and Gus Van Sant’s disarmingly passive Elephant. Joey Stewart’s sophomoric little foray into this most serious territory on the other hand plays more like a crack-fuelled hissy fit which makes 1984s Revenge of the Nerds look like a masterpiece.

Finding Dory (USA 2016) (7): One year after they find Nemo, loveable scatterbrained sidekick Dory has a sudden inspiration to find the parents she lost so long ago. The problem is she is one small fish in a very large ocean and thanks to her memory problems she has trouble recalling what happened five minutes ago let alone a lifetime ago. Nevertheless, accompanied by Nemo and his reluctant dad Marlin, the trio set out on a trans-Pacific trek that will see them chased by giant squid, flopping on a highway, and manoeuvring the water pipes of California’s Marine Life Institute where the recorded voice of Sigourney Weaver welcoming tourists doubles as the voice of God. Lively 3D animation and vibrant primary colours propel the story briskly enough to avoid boring the small fry (a bucket of dead fish makes for a rather macabre scene however) and the humour is advanced enough to make mom and dad chuckle along—the greedy seagulls are here replaced by a grumpy old octopus, a brain-damaged duck (cue indignant letters to Pixar), a mob of cuddly-wuddly otters, and two cockney sea lions. For those so inclined there are tons of animated cameos and tie-ins from Finding Dory to Inside Out and a scene involving Dory, a nearsighted whale shark, and timid beluga whale will remind older audiences of a similar scene from Alien. Ellen DeGeneres reprises the title role with her usual comedic timing and the voices of Albert Brooks, Ed O’Neill, and Eugene Levy (among others) provide capable back-up. Of course you’ll have to stay for the closing credits as the Pixar team tosses out a host of funny snippets while Sia sings “Unforgettable”. Awwww!

The Firemen’s Ball (Czechoslovakia 1967) (9): Originally banned by the Czech government and then later submitted as that country’s official contender for the 1969 Best Foreign Film Oscar, Milos Forman’s rip-roaring parody on the foibles of Communist rule packs more sarcastic merriment into 75 minutes than most films twice its length. A small town fire brigade decides to host a gala in honour of it’s retired chief, now 86 years old and missing a few marbles. But the evening’s highlights—a fund-raising raffle and beauty contest—are derailed when the prizes keep disappearing and the female contestants are either too plain, too clueless, or too disinterested to participate requiring some strong-arm tactics by the brigade’s befuddled ad hoc ruling committee. And when, at the height of the festivities, a nearby home actually does go up in flames the term “Chinese Fire Drill” gets a brand new Slavic slant. Stressing the importance of goodness, kindness, and…solidarity…this is an acerbic and unrelenting lampoon aimed directly at Moscow by way of Prague. Very funny!

Fireworks Wednesday (Iran 2006) (8): Traditionally the Persian New Year is ushered in with a bang as people spend the entire day setting off fireworks. In this solidly made family drama, only his third feature film, writer/director Asghar Farhadi makes excellent use of those pyrotechnics—both visually and auditory—as sparks fill the night sky and onscreen tensions are matched by a background of distant pops and bangs. Blushing bride-to-be Roohi (a luminous Taraneh Alidoosti) is sent by her temp agency to do some light housework for wealthy couple Morteza and his wife Mozhde (Hamid Farokhnezhad and Hediyeh Tehrani, both burning up the screen). But the naïve young woman barely has time to remove her chador before she becomes embroiled in the throes of a disintegrating relationship with accusations of adultery, lying, and possible mental instability being tossed back and forth like hand grenades. On the eve of their departure for a holiday in Dubai, Morteza has convinced herself that Mozhde is having an affair with the woman across the hall. Mozhde, protesting his innocence, feels his wife’s unbalanced fits of tears and scathing recriminations are tearing their marriage apart. Caught in the middle, Roohi is repelled yet oddly fascinated as she’s called upon to be both a spy and an alibi for the warring spouses, a position made even more precarious when neighbourly gossip enters the fray and her weak attempts to intervene—made with the best of intentions—backfire miserably. Filmed almost entirely in the couple’s dishevelled apartment (they may be getting ready to emigrate) Farhadi uses the physical disarray, as well as those incessant firecrackers, to emphasize the psychological turbulence tumbling off the screen. There is a hint of Cassavetes, or possibly Robert Altman, to this ensemble piece with its overlapping dialogue, twists of perspective, and a fidgety camera that seems to prowl as it catalogues every nuance and outrage. Are Mozhde’s suspicions, based on the most circumstantial evidence, correct or is she truly descending into paranoia? Farhadi keeps the answer close to his chest right until the end, but his tight direction and phenomenal cast ensure that this is one bumpy ride worth hanging on for—beginning, as it does, with a sunny interlude in the mountains and ending with a metaphorical jaunt through Hell and beyond.

The First Day of the Rest of Your Life (France 2008) (8): “Families are machines that destroy feelings!” So reads an impassioned diary entry by irate teenager Fleur Duval after yet another row with her mother in writer/director Rémi Bezançon’s remarkable drama following the Duval clan through two generations. Patriarch Robert is a taxi driver still browbeaten by his tyrannical father, matriarch Marie-Jeanne finds herself increasingly at sea as the family nest empties, and the three children have their own baggage to drag: youngest Fleur seems to be raising herself as she repeatedly loses her heart while rebelling against every societal dictate she can find; middle son Raph is a slacker whose dreams are slowly smothering his reality; and despite being a successful med student, eldest son Albert is bearing the brunt of his grandfather’s legacy as Robert carries his own childhood resentments forward. Loosely divided into five chapters beginning in the late 80s and ending in the new millennium, Bezançon concentrates on those frictions inherent in every family especially when the kids realize that mom and dad were never perfect to begin with. Small disappointments snowball into enormous roadblocks, grudges become set in cement, and physical distances turn into emotional isolation until a pair of tragic turns cause the pieces to rearrange themselves yet again. But despite the sobering subject material Bezançon manages to inject healthy doses of sympathy and humour into his story—if families can destroy feelings they can also save the occasional soul. Filmed with flair and imagination, not to mention an awesome soundtrack, First Day may not touch the emotional chords of Vallée’s C.R.A.Z.Y. but its uncomfortable truths will still have you laughing even as it touches a nerve or two.

Fitzcarraldo (Germany 1982) (6): Werner Herzog and his nemesis Klaus Kinski return to Wrath of God country in this tale of man vs. nature, but this time around Kinski trades in Aguirre’s bloodthirsty megalomania for an obsessive, just slightly unhinged, romanticism. He plays Brian Sweeney Fitzgerald, a near penniless frontiersman in 19th century Amazonia whose love of opera hatches a crazy plan to build a grand theatre in the heart of the jungle. But first he has to acquire sufficient wealth. Borrowing heavily from his mistress Molly (Claudia Cardinale), a successful bordello owner, “Fitzcarraldo” buys a promising but extremely isolated rubber plantation as well as a second-hand steamboat to transport his future harvests. But getting to the plantation proves more difficult than he thought for not only must he calm a group of savage headhunters who believe he may be a god, he must also deal with a mutinous crew and the fact that a small mountain lies between his ship and its final destination. His solutions, needless to say, are as harebrained as his ambition… Notorious for its production problems—Kinski was a raging lunatic, the elements refused to cooperate, and there were deaths, disabilities, and disease—Herzog’s film is a surprisingly lucid, at time pastoral, rumination on man’s eternal struggle, the power of art, and the legacy of colonialism (ironic considering how he exploited his small army of Indian extras). A by-the-numbers plot is lifted into the surreal by a series of striking tableaux: Caruso blares from an onboard gramophone as native drumming answers from the surrounding jungle; a ragtag flotilla of rickety motorboats transport an opera company across the Amazon—with costumes and props on full display; and straining natives haul Fitzcarraldo’s multi-ton ship through the forest (no special effects used, just an unseen bulldozer). Unfortunately dubbed and in need of a good editing, this is still a charming Quixotic tale of one man who set out to tame the wilderness with Strauss and Wagner only to return full circle to where he began only wiser if not exactly richer.

Five Easy Pieces (USA 1970) (6):  Jack Nicholson takes his job and shoves it in this rather overrated character study released at the beginning of the “ME” generation.  Robert “Eroica” Dupea is not happy:  he hates his dead end job, he’s grown tired of his whiney girlfriend, and he looks upon his bourgeois family with arrogant contempt.  He’s forever running away from responsibilities yet, at the same time,  he’s searching for some sense of permanence.  Robert’s life seems to encapsulate the growing dissatisfaction and restlessness that ushered in the 70’s.  He doesn’t fit in with any crowd and society’s restrictions are a constant source of irritation for him---hence the famous “diner scene” as well as an amusing interlude with an acid-tongued hitchhiker.  It’s when he reluctantly returns home to visit his ailing father and estranged sister that he receives an emotional comeuppance which forces him to face some uncomfortable truths about himself. But will the subsequent soul-searching be enough to make him change his ways?  There is some depth here with action taking place on more than one level.  The spare soundtrack (Tammy Wynette and Chopin?!) is effective as is the use of music to add definition to the key characters.  The performances are impressive and the understated ending was perfect.  Unfortunately, this is a true period piece forever stuck in the 70s.  Much of the initial impact it had 40 years ago has not withstood the test of time and even though I can appreciate what it said to a past generation I still found Nicholson’s character tedious and petty.  It was one of the defining films of its decade however, and that alone is worth the rental fee.

Five Minutes of Heaven (UK 2009) (9): In 1975, at the height of Northern Ireland’s Troubles, seventeen-year old protestant Alistair Little shot and killed catholic Jimmy Griffin as part of an initiation of sorts into the Ulster Volunteer Force, or UVF, a Loyalist paramilitary group. The murder cost him twelve years in prison. But there was another victim that night, Jimmy’s little brother Joe witnessed the assassination and the experience not only destroyed his childhood but forever fractured the relationship between him and his parents who were never able to get over their grief. Thirty-three years later, as part of a media-sponsored reconciliation initiative, the two men were brought face-to-face for the first time… Headlined by stars Liam Neeson and James Nesbitt, Oliver Hirschbiegel’s wrenching drama recreates not only the murder and its immediate fallout but the explosive encounter between Little and Griffin which was supposed to play out before eager cameras at a posh Irish estate but instead turned into something far more raw and ultimately cathartic. Neeson presents the grown Little as a haunted man whose burden of guilt—and the sobering insight into blind sectarian devotion it fostered—led to a worldwide campaign aimed at encouraging dialogue between warring factions from South Africa to Kosovo. Nesbitt, on the other hand, gives a fierce performance as a man so torn with unresolved pain and rage that he even frightens himself. And Hirschbiegel highlights this difference with cameras that focus steadily on Little while Griffin’s scenes are handheld and chaotic, his reality occasionally lapsing into flashback memories and angry inner monologues. Romanian actress Anamaria Marinca also deserves particular praise for her role as a studio gofer assigned to look after the needs of both men, her cool presence and honest answers providing a crucial link between the two. Finally, a somewhat cynical eye is cast upon the media itself whose eagerness to present “The Truth” too often relies on rehearsed lines and multiple takes. “In most cases, asking for forgiveness is more about the needs of the perpetrator than the needs of the victim…” wrote Alistair Little once, and in Hirschbiegel’s small thunderclap of a film the truth of that simple sentence arrives with the impact of a ricocheting bullet.

5 x 2 [aka Cinq fois Deux] (France 2004) (6): Told in reverse chronological order, François Ozon’s profoundly melancholic study of a disintegrating marriage is buoyed by a soundtrack of European torch songs and a highly photogenic pair of leads. Starting with Gilles and Marion finalizing their divorce—and then engaging in a violent farewell fuck bordering on rape—Ozon takes us backwards in time to show what went wrong. Divided into five chapters we see their disastrous dinner party, the emotionally fraught birth of their first child, a lurid (and rather silly) wedding night secret, and finally their problematic initial meeting on the Italian riviera where they literally swim off into the sunset. Stéphane Freiss portrays Gilles as a one-note boor who keeps his wife at arm’s length for reasons not fully explained while Valeria Bruni Tedeschi’s Marion comes across as a perpetual victim, her eloquent features too often frozen in an expression of tearful bewilderment. And a background cast of dysfunctional extras simply mirror the couple’s disengagement especially Marion’s bickering parents and Gilles’ gay brother who plays emotional doormat to his much younger sluttier boyfriend. The aforementioned song list does provide some soul however as does the roving cinematography which turns closed bedrooms and sun-drenched beaches into psychological statements. But despite a literate script that keeps things moving at a brisk pace this is a story that’s not only been told many times before but told with more conviction as well.

Flamingo Road (USA 1949) (7): “There’s a Flamingo Road in every town...” intones a faceless narrator at the beginning of this wonderfully overbaked noir soap, “...it is the street of social success...the avenue of achievement...the golden goal for all who struggle and aspire to reach the top...” And thus begins the odyssey of Lane Bellamy, a down-on-her-luck carnival girl who finds herself stranded in the small southern town of Bolden. At first romanced by the local deputy, all-American Fielding Carlisle, Lane begins laying down a few tentative roots until she crosses paths with Sheriff Titus Semple, the very embodiment of corruption. Titus has plans of his own for the naive Fielding; he’s to marry the daughter of a local tycoon and then ascend to the state senate where he’ll become yet another elected puppet for Semple to manipulate. With her dreams dashed at every turn by the conniving Titus and her reputation in tatters thanks to a false morals charge, Lane finds solace in the arms of construction magnate Dan Reynolds, himself a political schemer involved in an uneasy truce with Semple. But the crooked sheriff has friends in places higher than Lane had imagined and she soon discovers that not even an address on Flamingo Road can keep him at bay for long. Michael Curtiz’s brooding potboiler casts a critical eye on America’s faith in democracy; his politicos are portrayed as spineless toadies for sale to whichever alpha male happens to be in the room, whether it’s a slimy southern cop with a drawer full of dirty secrets, or a self-interested businessman with an aggressive attitude and violent temper. Representing the common man (and woman) caught up in this bureaucratic maelstrom, Lane goes from powerless victim flinching at every blow to indignant avenger who’s fed up and not going to take it anymore. Joan Crawford’s ballsy performance is pure joy to watch especially since the script gives her some of the film’s snappier lines; her piercing eyes and chiseled features registering teary heartbreak or spitting rage with consummate skill. But it is Sydney Greenstreet’s portrayal of the quintessential backdoor slimeball, Titus Semple, that steals the show; his doughy features and rotund body encasing a heart of pure Machiavellian evil. Add to that some wonderfully brooding B&W camerawork paired with a suitably dramatic score, and you have a true golden oldie!

The Flat (Israel 2017) (7): After his grandmother dies at the age of 98, filmmaker Arnon Goldfinger helps his mother clean out the old woman’s Tel Aviv apartment—no easy task for she was a bit of a hoarder. A lifetime of knickknacks soon pile up including some letters and photos which shed a troubling light on grandma and grandpa’s activities during WWII and immediately afterwards. Having had roots in Germany stretching back generations, Goldfinger’s Jewish grandparents never really considered themselves Israelis and this fact becomes clearer the more he delves into their past. Traveling between Israel and Europe Arnon tries to make some sense out of the few clues left him, but his investigations yield as many questions as they do answers… A very personal documentary which starts out as an exercise in family history yet soon touches on issues of selective recall, repressed memories, and the kind of apathy which results from being taught at an early age not to make too many inquiries. His mother knows shockingly little about her own parents and grandparents, a distant cousin living in Germany makes a jarring accusation, and the aging daughter of a former SS officer has real trouble sorting fact from fancy. It takes three generations to start asking questions about what happened during the war, according to one interviewee, because the second generation simply doesn’t want to talk about it. Intellectually stimulating yet resolutely informal—Goldfinger is not above letting people mug at the camera or film himself filming others—this is not so much a lesson in genealogy as it is a glimpse at a generation gap turned into a chasm by secrets and circumstances.

Flesh for Frankenstein (USA 1973) (8): Written and directed by Paul Morrissey and “presented” by Andy Warhol, this scandalous arthouse monster romp mixes soft-core porn, cheap but plentiful gore, and camp special effects to produce a bit of satirical horror so magnificently overdone it would have made Mary Shelley leap from the nearest window. Mad doctor Baron Frankenstein (Udo Kier, barely intelligible) is having problems: his sister Katrin (aging sex symbol Monique van Vooren) who also happens to be his wife and mother to his two decidedly bizarre children, is being unfaithful with the new stableboy Nicholas (Warhol darling Joe Dallesandro); his meek lab assistant Otto is starting to assert himself; and his life’s work—a pair of gorgeous zombies sewn together using parts from unlucky townsfolk—are refusing to mate. But when Nicholas recognizes the male zombie’s head as belonging to his recently murdered friend his desire for revenge turns Frankenstein’s bad day into something completely intolerable… Definitely not for cinematic purists or those easily offended, Morrissey’s movie revels in bad taste and sheer overacting, as if Nicholas’ sleazy sexcapades and the Frankenstein’s incestuous marriage weren’t enough he proceeds to push the envelope even further with piles of steaming offal and a bit of cringeworthy necrophilia—“To know death, Otto…” barks the Baron as he removes his pecker from a corpse’s innards, “…you must first fuck life, in the gallbladder!” Eeek. Originally released in 3D Morrissey doesn’t waste a single opportunity to throw whatever he can at the lens whether it’s a handful of fresh dripping guts or a pair of jiggling tits at the local brothel—the film’s dark and bloody finale featuring a bouncing kidney-on-a-stick aimed directly at your face is so blatantly cheesy you just have to give it three cheers! Changing social norms may have reduced its original “X” rating to a more nondescript “R”, but Flesh for Frankenstein still remains a fine example of underground filmmaking at its most exuberant—seeing the Baron’s 70’s gothic laboratory complete with anatomical figures and mason jars filled with sticky body parts alone is worth the rental price. Yuck!

Flesh Gordon Meets the Cosmic Cheerleaders (Canada 1990) (1): When the nefarious black-hooded Evil Presence renders the men of their planet terminally flaccid with his “impotence ray”, a group of sexually frustrated women led by Robunda Hooters decide to kidnap galactic stud Flesh Gordon in the hopes that his legendary manhood will thrust new life into their neglected crevices. Naming themselves S.C.R.E.W. (Society of Cheerleaders to Rehabilitate Erections Worldwide) the desperate damsels in undress prepare for a little creative lap dancing on an eager Gordon suitably bedecked in a towel and mind control helmet. Meanwhile back home, the henpecked Evil Presence has plans of his own for Flesh’s man gland thanks to the surgical skills of his resident mad scientist, Master Bator! But Flesh’s girlfriend, Dale Ardor, is hot on their trail accompanied by Dr. Flexi Jerkoff and his phallic spaceship powered by copulating chickens. Along the way they will do battle with a belt of flatulent ass-teroids, a greasy mob of malodorous Turd People, and a giant bitchy transvestite cock... I made it to the 30 minute mark before I started hitting fast forward. It’s one thing to make a godawful low-budget flick and have it catch on, like the highly creative original Flesh Gordon, or even The Rocky Horror Picture Show for that matter; but intentionally making a bad movie filled with stupid puns, cheap sets and acting that goes beyond the pale simply results in a bad movie. Like a brainless porno without the porn, this softcore embarrassment is yet another black eye for Canadian cinema, albeit a tiny insignificant one. And, as a personal insult, Vancouver’s own Sun Tower gets a cheap cameo because...like...you know...it kinda looks like a wee-wee.

Flower Drum Song (USA 1961) (6):  When a young Chinese stowaway shows up in San Francisco’s Chinatown with her elderly father in tow she winds up complicating the lives of everyone she meets in this sparkling Rodgers & Hammerstein musical of romantic misunderstandings and happy endings.  Petite Mei Li originally came to meet nightclub owner Sammy Fong for a prearranged marriage masterminded by his mother.  But Sammy is already involved with his star performer so he tries to pawn her off to Mr. Wang, a staid businessman looking to pair his increasingly Americanized son with a traditional Chinese wife.  His son, meanwhile, is pining away for someone else...   Based on the novel (and subsequent stage play) by C. Y. Lee, Flower Drum Song takes a rather lighthearted look at the generation gaps and culture clashes in an immigrant Chinese community circa 1958.  From the bright colourful sets to the wonderfully camp songs and lively dance numbers this is one of the more striking widescreen musicals.  It also broke a lot of racial barriers for Asian-American actors who were no longer content playing stereotypical roles (never mind that many of the “Chinese” characters here are actually played by Japanese-Americans and one African-American).  Unfortunately the film’s cloying sentimentality has not aged well in the 50 years since its release and what was once considered groundbreaking theatre now seems somewhat bland.  Still worth renting if only for the vibrant song and dance routines.

Following (UK 1998) (8): Although Christopher Nolan’s first full-length film clocks in at a mere seventy minutes he packs it with more twists than many features twice its length. An unemployed slacker with hazy dreams of becoming a writer looks for inspiration by following strangers on the busy streets of London. Not so much a stalker, but rather a bland tabula rasa looking for meaning in his own life by vicariously taking part in the lives of strangers. Things take a turn for the macabre however when he begins following a professional burglar on his rounds while at the same time falling in love with one of the people he’s been tracking—a beautiful damsel in distress with a very dangerous ex-boyfriend. Filmed in old school B&W on a budget of only six thousand dollars this is not only a remarkably astute character study but a wickedly convoluted thriller to boot. Shifting the narrative back and forth through time Nolan thwarts any attempts to place his story in sequential order, forcing us to rely on little cues instead: a change in hair style or clothing; a bruised eye that comes and goes; fleeting snatches of a police confession… The result is a giddy, disorienting, and highly voyeuristic short film that hints at better things to come.

Footlight Parade (USA 1933) (8): When talking pictures threaten to kill Broadway, famous stage director Chester Kent (James Cagney, acting and dancing!) decides to fight back by producing a string of big budget “prologues”—live song and dance numbers that precede a motion picture. Gathering a string of eager chorus girls and talented nobodies (including Ruby Keeler and Dick Powell) he sets out to wow cinema audiences with one audacious extravaganza after another. But a rival producer is hellbent on stealing Kent’s best ideas and a platinum blonde chiseler (Claire Dodd) is after his money. Thankfully his faithful secretary (Joan Blondell) is there to keep things from flying apart but she is more interested in winning his heart than in saving the show. The corny performances may hearken back to the silent era but the musical numbers are pure Hollywood gold with a delightful “Cats” routine filmed fifteen years before Andrew Lloyd Webber was even born, a racy rendition of “Honeymoon Hotel” with sliding walls and half-naked virgins, and the pièce de résistance, an amazing aquatic sequence with underwater cameras, synchronized swimmers smiling through all the chlorine, and a glitzy human fountain that goes beyond camp. Breathtakingly choreographed by the legendary Busby Berkeley and featuring a great deal of risqué, pre-code humour—not to mention glaring allusions to adultery, drugs, prostitution, and a whole lot of female flesh—this is a grand old fossil of a film from the beginning of Hollywood’s golden era.

Forbidden Games (France 1952) (10):  Delicately observed with impeccable performances all around, director René Clément's wartime drama is one of the most moving films about children ever made and rightfully deserves its place on the list of "1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die" compiled by Steven Schneider.  In the summer of 1940 six-year old Paulette (Brigitte Fossey, simply amazing) is fleeing from a German air strike when a strafe of bullets kills both her parents.  Wandering the French countryside cradling her dead puppy (another victim of the attack) she is taken in by a poor family of farmers where she becomes fast friends with their youngest son Michel (Georges Joujouly, also amazing).  With a child's eye view of mortality Michel tries to help Paulette cope with her loss by creating a secret cemetery for  all the dead animals they come across--a few chicks, a worm, some birds, a cockroach--stealing decorative crosses from the nearby graveyard to mark the tiny little plots.  But the thefts do not go unnoticed, nor does the question of what to do with a little orphan girl, leading to both children discovering a few unhappy truths about the adult world.  Shot through with moments of  genuine warmth and rustic humour, Clément uses his small cast of characters to produce a film of unexpected depths.  Michel and Paulette studiously observe the rituals of death without really understanding it, much like the horrors of war playing out in the newspapers, and their concept of God is little more than baffling prayers and vague promises of Paradise.  Meanwhile, the inanity of battle is reduced to a ridiculous ongoing feud between Michel's parents and the family next door, a feud which culminates in a crazy graveside face-off.  A beautiful film, touched by magic and a child-sized sadness.

Forbidden Zone (USA 1980) (7): Alice in Wonderland meets Flesh Gordon and H. R. Pufnstuf for a week-long cocaine binge in this seriously fucked up performance piece penned by the founding members of Oingo Boingo. When the outrageously dysfunctional Hercules family enter a mysterious door in the basement of their new home they find themselves transported to the sixth dimension where diminutive King Fausto (Fantasy Island’s Herve Villechaize), his busty wife Queen Doris and their perpetually topless daughter are at constant odds with the fantastical denizens of their subterranean kingdom. Falling in love with young Frenchie Hercules, King Fausto tries to keep the jealous Doris from killing the entire clan until they have a chance to escape back to their own world. Or something like that. Among the many drug-fuelled highlights are a frog-headed butler, a human chandelier, and a snappy Big Band number performed by Satan and his chorus of jazzy zombies. There’s also a machine-gun toting Sunday School teacher, cross-dressing twins, and a chatty decapitated head. Filmed in austere B&W with badly drawn cartoonish sets and cheap cardboard props Forbidden Zone has all the production values of a 70s porn film minus the porn but with lots of tits. The sheer audacity of it all proved irresistible however and some of the musical numbers (yes Virginia, it’s a musical) are pure camp delight. It’s lots of fun for those with a penchant for anything underground and cultish.

Force of Evil (USA 1948) (7): Bullets, dames, and double crosses abound when crooked lawyer John Garfield’s loyalties are torn between helping his small-time racketeer brother remain solvent, appeasing his syndicate boss, and wooing the quintessential girl next door. Filled with shadows and despair, Abraham Polonsky’s stock noir thriller boasts wonderfully gritty New York locations and the kind of tough-as-nails dialogue that has become synonymous with the genre. The use of light and camera angles is especially noteworthy as cold concrete buildings loom over empty streets and a city bridge yawns towards a distant shore. Although the plot occasionally runs in circles, watching the seasoned cast rip into each other is almost worth a second viewing. Almost.

A Foreign Affair (USA 1948) (6): In a divided Berlin following WWII occupying U.S. forces are given the task of maintaining law and order in the “American Section” with strict orders not to fraternize with the populace, especially the women—a rule many soldiers heartily ignore. Snubbing this order himself is Captain John Pringle (John Lund) whose secret dalliances with former gestapo mistress turned cabaret singer Erika Von Schluetow (Marlene Dietrich) could get him courtmartialed—especially if it was discovered he’s been doctoring files in order to help her escape her past. A wrench is thrown into his comfortable arrangement however when a visiting delegation of U.S. senators arrive to observe how the GI’s are holding up in their new role as peacekeepers. One such senator, a headstrong old maid from Iowa, Phoebe Frost (Jean Arthur), takes an instant liking to Pringle unaware of his already established affair. Comedic complications follow when the grasping Schluetow and lovesick Frost begin vying for the Captain who would just as soon bail then commit. Despite director Billy Wilder’s personal grudge against the Nazis (the Holocaust took a heavy toll on his family) he presents the besieged citizens of Berlin as a resourceful lot, mindful of their suffering yet unforgiving of the regime so many of them supported—an offhand comment about gas chambers goes by almost unnoticed. Actually filmed among the ruins of the city, one of the first major motion pictures to do so, he doesn’t try to hide the devastation surrounding his characters as they scheme and cavort past piles of rubble and crumbling walls. Dietrich is in fine form, lisping her way through a few original songs while casting her smokey eyes on a sheepishly attractive Lund whose very self-effacing attitude makes him all the more sexy. Unfortunately Jean Arthur’s nasally voice and obsessive ramblings come across as a really bad Gracie Allen imitation and an otherwise clever script loses steam before the final frame leaving us with a silly ending that is too predictably tidy. At least we’re not subjected to an overdose of Uncle Sam and apple pie. Definitely not one of Wilder’s best.

The Forgiveness of Blood (Albania 2011) (7): A longstanding feud between pig-headed neighbours Mark and Sokol over a piece of contentious land erupts in a heated exchange of insults one day. Angry words quickly lead to a violent confrontation in which Sokol is stabbed to death—Mark swears it was self defense but the dead man’s family claim it was cold-blooded murder. With Mark now hiding from the authorities his family is left to face the harsh penalties imposed by the Kanun, an ancient code of justice used for centuries to settle disputes, punish wrongdoers, and preserve honour. Now confined to their home the family must eke out a living as best they can—only eldest daughter Rudina is allowed to leave the house in order to continue her father’s bread delivery business while the younger siblings are homeschooled and her older brother Nick tries to keep himself occupied building a backyard gym, its brick walls echoing his own sense of isolation. But Sokol’s relatives, especially a hot-headed cousin, are not content with the arrangement and as long as Mark remains free they wage a campaign of intimidation and vandalism against his family. And even as Rudina proves to be a somewhat shrewd entrepreneur Nik, now cut off from his friends and sweetheart, slowly begins to unravel… In a village setting of striking contrasts (smart phones and horse drawn carts) American director Joshua Marston’s low-keyed parable examines the cost of pride and the equivocal nature of honour; the serpentine requirements of the Kanun appearing as just one more anachronism—albeit a deadly serious one for to defy its precepts is to invite fatal retribution. As both Mark and Sokol’s family dig their heels in the question of guilt or innocence takes a back seat to revenge and saving face. And, as always, it is the bystanders who bear the brunt. Alas even the promise of a mediator (with a lucrative agenda of his own) and Nik’s own act of selflessness (goaded by a sense of guilt perhaps) fail to move this particular mountain leading to a glum ending as needless as it is sad.

For Love of Ivy (USA 1968) (7): Taken from a story by Sidney Poitier, Daniel Mann’s wee romantic confection is a dated though still entertaining rom-com with a dash of social awareness thrown in for good measure. When their black maid Ivy (Abbey Lincoln all class and sass) announces she’s quitting her job in order to make it on her own in New York City, an upstate WASP family goes into critical mode. Mom (a neurotic Nan Martin) panics over not being able to make gravy, dad (a pre-“Archie Bunker” Carroll O’Connor) can’t find his own clothes, and their grown kids, hippy Tim (Beau Bridges) and flower child Gena (Laurie Peters) feel as if they’re losing a sibling. Then Tim and Gena hit upon an ingenious idea—find someone local to woo Ivy and her wanderlust will dissipate. Using a bit of leverage—or blackmail if you like—they recruit Jack Parks (Sidney Poitier), the rakish owner of a trucking company who has a few secrets to hide. But what starts out as a staged relationship between an idealistic young woman and a cynical bachelor becomes complicated when genuine feelings begin to surface… Featuring an Oscar-nominated score by Quincy Jones and rolling in 60s kitsch (the family home is a riot of mismatched colours and tacky accent pieces while a trek through “mod” Manhattan is hilarious), this is a delightful time capsule of a film for those of us old enough to remember when retro was au courant. Yet there is some meat to be found beneath all the fluff as Poitier delivers a few sharp pokes at race and stereotypes—in an effort to impress Ivy and Jack the two white kids gush over Civil Rights and the NAACP as if they were nothing more than fashion statements, “I even got arrested once!” boasts Gena to the less-than-impressed couple—“Just because he’s coloured do you have to talk about coloured things?!” shoots back Ivy when the two are alone. Like I said, it’s dated, but what survives is a sparkling little film about following one’s dreams in whatever form they may appear.

For the Use of the Hall (USA-TV 1974) (8): Part of PBS’s “Broadway Theatre Archive” series. Having failed in their attempts to secure the American Dream, Allan (a mediocre painter specializing in forgeries) and Charlotte (a wannabe socialite) break into an old woman's Long Island house and set up home with the aid of some stolen groceries. Meanwhile the old woman's adult children; Terry (a backsliding nun) and Martin (a failed playwright) pay an unexpected visit along with the Martin's current wife (a successful children's author). What follows is a long dark, and very funny night of the soul as each character is forced to realize just how far their dreams have diverged from reality. Charlotte fumes over what should have been, Terry longs for heavenly reassurance, Martin faints at bad reviews, and Allen longs for a love that never really existed. Only Alice, the author, seems to comprehend what is going on...but then again she is used to spinning fantasies. A well rounded cast and sharp script make this a television classic aided in large part by Bess, the old woman herself who, as the play's narrator, provides some well needed dramatic links. "Do not feel sorry for these people..." she states at one point, "...for what is a wasted life? Only one that hasn't been lived." If our lives are little more than a stage production, or so the play infers, we shouldn't fret over how it will end or whether or not it will be a success......just be thankful for the use of the hall. Amen.

The Fortune Cookie (USA 1966) (5): When TV cameraman Harry Hinkle is accidentally tackled while filming a football game his shyster brother-in-law Willie, a two-bit ambulance chasing lawyer, tries to talk him into feigning partial paralysis so that he can launch a million dollar personal injury lawsuit. At first reluctant to take part in the fraudulent scheme, the habitually honest Harry eventually agrees after Willie convinces him that playing the sympathy card may very well get him reunited with his ex-wife, a failed nightclub singer for whom he still carries a torch. But with a battery of insurance lawyers out for his blood, a private detective with a nose for fraud filming his every move, and the prospect of being confined to a wheelchair for months while he “recuperates” all weighing on his mind, not to mention his own guilty conscience, will Harry be able to keep up appearances or will the prophetic message in his lunchtime fortune cookie, “You Can’t Fool All of the People All of the Time” prove to be all too true? Billy Wilder’s cynical comedy certainly throws a few well aimed punches at America’s corporate mentality as crooked lawyer, conniving ex, and soulless agency types go at each other like dogs fighting over a crippled bone. Meanwhile Harry’s own moral compromise, emphasized by his mother’s theatrical wailing and the remorseful eyes of the quarterback who ran into him, sets him up as a bewildered cog in a machine more heartless than he could have imagined. There’s even a few weak attempts at addressing issues of racism and racial stereotyping that probably carried more weight back in 1966. But for all that the film is just too bland and predictable and not very funny at all. Stars Walter Matthau and Jack Lemmon do their usual mugging and verbal sparring while Wilder keeps the pace going, but the film’s moralistic message seems hopelessly naive today (alas) and its tidy little ending just a bit too trite.

42nd Street (USA 1933) (6): The story is older than Broadway itself: a young ingenue from the cornfields of the midwest travels to the big city seeking fame and fortune and winds up becoming a star overnight when she is called upon to replace an injured leading lady. Filled with the usual assortment of backstage bitching, flippant one-liners and romantic intrigues (this was filmed 50 years before "A Chorus Line") it all seems a bit stale by today's standards. Although Ruby Keeler's dazed performance gives the impression she took one too many hits off the bong the rest of the cast is adequate, including a young Ginger Rogers. But it is the wildly camp closing number, staged by Busby Berkeley himself, that makes it all worthwhile; the rest is just preamble.

Forty Shades of Blue (USA 2005) (1):  An autocratic record executive, his neglected Russian mistress and his estranged son spend a few days staring at each other and biting their knuckles in this plodding overblown drama that attempts to say something meaningful about loneliness, alienation and the need to feel connected.  After 60 minutes of blank looks and lifeless dialogue I started hitting the fast-forward button hoping there would eventually be some point to the tedium.  Apparently there wasn’t.  Poorly made and boring beyond words.

Four Flies on Grey Velvet (Italy 1972) (8): When musician Roberto Tobias accidentally kills a man in self defense the entire confrontation is caught on film by an ominous stranger wearing a child’s mask. Putting the incident behind him Roberto tries to get on with his life but it isn’t long before incriminating photos begin popping up in his apartment and a series of late night visits from the masked psycho promise worse things to come. With a neighbourhood full of suspects and a wife becoming increasingly overwrought Tobias finally hires a private investigator (played with gay abandon by Jean-Pierre Marielle) to discover both the identity of his disguised tormentor and the motive behind the escalating harassment. With the body count rising however could it already be too late for Roberto? Teeming with claustrophobic spaces, hissing cats and eccentric characters set against an atmospheric score of hip 70s muzak and sinister strings, Dario Argento’s overplayed psychological suspense thriller is a sterling example of the Italian giallo style of filmmaking. There is a definite visual flair to his work with its exaggerated editing and menacing shadows which is reinforced, oddly enough, by a comparatively innocuous script. Although not as bloody as you’d expect from a work helmed by the great Italian goremeister the violence is still taut and believable while the film’s final death scene, an elaborately overdone slow motion sequence, is pure cheesy elegance. Lastly, as a means to solving the mystery (and provide his movie with a title), Argento introduces a plot device so outrageously macabre that I found myself laughing and cheering at the same time. It’s good bloody fun all around! NB: Unlike most foreign fare giallo films are best viewed in their English dubbed versions, it’s all part of the experience!

Four Lions (UK 2010) (8): Sure to offend sensitives on both sides of the ethical divide, Christopher Morris’ absurdist satire about a group of terrorist wannabes planning to blow something up in London plays like an episode of The Three Stooges Call a Jihad. Fed up with what he perceives as Moslem-bashing Western decadence, hot-tempered and ideologically muddled Omar jets off to Pakistan with the dimwitted Waj in order to study the fine art of explosives but instead winds up inflicting more damage on Al-Qaeda than the ubiquitous American drones flying overhead. Meanwhile, back in London self-appointed leader Barry (a fanatical convert unable to tell the difference between a bullet and a brain cell) recruits ambivalent rapper Hassan to join the brotherhood mainly because his dad owns a van. With Omar’s abrupt return a round of infighting ignites over the best way to employ all that bleach and peroxide provided by coconspirator Faisal who acquired the explosive components from unwitting shop owners by donning various disguises, among them a terrorist and a bearded lady. Omar wants the group to blow themselves up at a public event; Barry wants to blow up a mosque in order to “rally the moderates”; Faisal wants to strap bombs to crows and blow up drug stores because “...they sell condoms that make you want to bang white girls.” With hilariously inappropriate dialogue and slapstick timing Morris deftly peels away the many layers of fanatical chinwagging to reveal the often idiotic and contradictory nature of fundamentalist rhetoric. His angry men in search of a cause are as unfocused and impotent as the police entrusted to stop them while the general public shuffles along hobbled by political correctness. Ironically it is Omar’s brother, an ultra Orthodox Moslem, who provides the only voice of reason. But Morris saves his blackest and most problematic humour for the film’s final frames leaving us with two haunting images: Omar reinventing The Lion King as a Mujahideen bedtime story for his young son, and a cadre of would-be bombers scurrying panic-stricken around London dressed like cartoon characters. Lines were crossed.

The 400 Blows (France 1959) (7): Basically good-natured but headstrong and impetuous—some might say “free-spirited”—young Antoine Doinel (breakout performance from future star Jean-Pierre Léaud) is on a collisions course with the despotic school system, his quarrelling parents whose affections for him and each other too often run cold, and the murky French judicial system itself when, out of desperation or boredom (or both) he begins to dabble in petty crime. That about sums up François Truffaut’s debut feature film, considered by many to be one of international cinema’s greatest achievements. But if the storyline seems derivative its execution is a masterful blend of verité camerawork and textured performances which owe a debt to Italian neorealism even as those wide tracking shots and an upbeat score herald the French New Wave. Never stooping to maudlin sentimentality, Truffaut’s camera doesn’t concentrate so much on domestic squalor and dirty alleyways (the Eiffel Tower looms ominously over rows of flats during the opening credits) but on the tenacity of its inhabitants who laugh and bicker, love and cheat, and generally survive—qualities embodied in Antoine no matter where his actions land him, his only concession being the occasional tear staining an otherwise impassive cheek. A telling interview between the boy and an offscreen psychiatrist is both sad and wryly candid (and wholly improvised) while his headlong rush towards whatever future awaits is brilliantly summed up with a simple tracking shot that shouts volumes. With references to literature (Balzac is a personal hero) and the magic to be found at the local cinema wherein Antoine finds a release of sorts, this is a low-keyed piece about a boy facing his impending adulthood with all the temerity that comes from feeling one has nothing left to lose.

The Four of the Apocalypse (Italy 1975) (6): Horror maven Lucio Fulci tries his hand at the Spaghetti Western and proves he is no Sergio Leone. In 1873 Utah (Spain), Card sharp Stubby Preston (Italian heartthrob Fabio Testi) is run out of town by an overzealous sheriff and slowly makes his way to the sin capital of San City (?) accompanied by three fellow outcasts: a prostitute, a drunkard, and an amiable crazy guy who sees dead people. On they way they are joined by Mexican gunslinger “Chaco” (Cuban-American heartthrob Tomas Milian looking like he just stepped off the set of Hair). At first content to ride along and show off his shooting skills, Chaco eventually reveals himself to be a sadistic psychopath intent on taking what he wants and leaving no witnesses. In true Fulci fashion there will be a bit of blood! Eastmancolor panoramas of mountains and scrubland are strangely enhanced by an anachronistic soundtrack of groovy ballads while a series of clapboard sets give the impression of an American frontier fallen into rot and disarray with corny dialogue (oh those death scenes!) and snatches of bad dubbing all around. But the international foursome—Testi is joined by England’s Lynne Frederick, New Jersey’s Michael J. Pollard, and British Guiana’s Harry Baird—work so well together that later scenes of heartbreak are actually moving in their own way. And when a visit to a village populated solely by sexist male braggarts brings about a sea change—an odd take on The Nativity—it really does seem plausible (unless you overthink it). Noteworthy spots aside however, it’s ultimately hamstrung by a derivative storyline rife with oater clichés and a forced pathos that leave your eyes resolutely dry. Was that final salute to High Plains Drifter a joke or an homage?

Fox and His Friends (Germany 1975) (7): Writer/director Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s bitter tale of a little proletarian worm who thought he could be a bourgeois butterfly is perhaps more cutting today than it was upon its initial release. Not very attractive and not particularly bright, gay carnival worker Franz (Fassbinder) is blown out of his humdrum rut when he wins a small fortune in Deutschmarks playing the lottery. But, like the proverbial lamb being led to the slaughter, he is not prepared for a world where literally everything suddenly comes with a price tag attached: friendship, family ties, and most notably…love. Now in a one-sided relationship with Eugen, the heir to a failing bookbinding factory, Franz’s bank account is slowly being chipped away by a new condo, upscale furniture, and a sports car as Eugen tries to turn him into a replica of his own snobbish, class-conscious self. But you can’t fashion steak from cold mutton and as the money dwindles so too does Eugen’s affections leaving a flummoxed Franz more vulnerable and unhappy than he ever was before his windfall… With all the moral gravitas of a fable, Fassbinder takes an emphatically dim stance on the relationship between material wealth and perceived status as well as a privileged class who regard their social inferiors as commodities to be used and discarded. The director himself puts in a fearless performance as the tragic naif, including an unabashed full monty to show off the results of a preparatory crash diet, while Peter Chatel (as Eugen) is the embodiment of slime and Christiane Maybach’s portrayal of Franz’s embittered alcoholic sister becomes a metaphor unto itself. With a satirical ending as bleak as they come, Rainer assures us that money actually can buy happiness after all—just not your own.

Foxtrot (Israel 2017) (9): Fate and Grief take to the dance floor while God claps his hands in Samuel Maoz’s bitter pill of a film, at once gently compassionate and blisteringly cynical. When they’re told that their son Jonathan was killed while on military duty, Michael and Daphna Feldman’s solid middle class life falls to pieces. While she lays sedated in bed, he wanders aimlessly through his apartment complex unable to mourn yet desperately needing to feel something. And then there’s another knock at the door and their life takes yet one more turn. Cut to Jonathan the day before, stuck with manning a roadside checkpoint in the middle of nowhere with a crew of slackers. Trying to alleviate the crushing boredom by sketching in his notebook, Jonathan’s life takes a few turns of its own when a routine traffic stop goes terribly wrong… Framed with geometric precision and a palette of colours that range from candy pastels to sober blues and greys, Maoz’s beautifully realized film offsets harsh reality with surreal passages that call to mind the best of European arthouse. With a disorienting POV that hovers over people’s heads, crawls through a muddied puddle, or careens down a desert highway, he is constantly catching us off guard—Michael’s dazed wandering takes him to a dance class where seniors twirl in shafts of sunlight, images of women (on truck panels, magazine covers, and tattoos) seem to mock the men around them, and a lone camel comes and goes like a divine portent. Much like the protagonists in Eran Kolirin’s Beyond the Mountains and Hills, Maoz’s characters are obsessed with their own sharply delineated circle of reality and unable to grasp the bigger picture—in one wry passage Jonathan’s grungy roadside bunker, ironically adorned with a tropical motif mural, is slowly sinking into a mud puddle yet no one seems unduly concerned. A film about sorrow, disconnect, and the need for absolution (both Michael and Daphna are burdened with guilt for very different reasons)—there is also a vein of sarcasm running through Maoz’s work, an angry fatalism heaped with cruel twists that takes no prisoners either civilian or military which prompted Israel’s Minister of Culture to condemn it out of hand even as it received accolades from Los Angels to Venice.

Foxy Brown (USA 1974) (7): After her undercover narc boyfriend is gunned down by a Los Angeles mob boss, Foxy Brown (Pam Grier letting her afro and 36Ds do most of the talking) poses as a high-end escort in order to infiltrate the syndicate and exact her revenge. But when her plans begin to unravel she decides to even the playing field by recruiting a neighbourhood vigilante group and that’s when things go from bad to badass… As the resourceful pistol-packing femme noire, Grier proves time and again why she is the undisputed queen of blaxploitation flicks—her acting may be wooden and those Kung Fu moves a little hammy but she compensates by doling out pure onscreen sass not to mention a closet full of slinky 70s-style wigs and wraps. Filled to the rafters with gratuitous tits and corny one-liners (“The darker the berry the sweeter the juice, Honey”), writer/director Jack Hill spices things up even further with a couple of wonderfully violent non-sequiturs including a man reduced to chop suey by a spinning airplane propeller and my personal favourite, a smack-down barroom brawl involving a gang of butch dykes. With the good guys composed of jive-talking brothers and the bad guys mostly uptight WASPs in cheap suits the acting is likewise cardboard and clichéd—Kathryn Loder is especially mediocre as mob boss-slash-madam Katherine Wall (yay female empowerment!) as her expressions run the gamut from pout to frown—but Hill never set out to make Citizen Kane. The result, however, is still a classic in its own right.

Frank (UK 2014) (4): Songwriter wannabe Jon Burroughs (Domhnall Gleeson) is stuck in a permanent creative roadblock when a fortuitous seaside encounter lands him a gig playing keyboards for an eccentric American alt-rock band with an unpronounceable name. Presided over by lead singer “Frank” (Michael Fassbender) an enigmatic performance guru whose face is permanently hidden beneath a huge papier-mâché robot head, the group heads to Ireland to record their first album at a secluded cabin-cum-madhouse where inner demons and artistic muses are given full rein (sex, fisticuffs, and a viking funeral intrude upon rehearsal time) while Burroughs secretly records it all for his growing social media audience. But when Jon’s personal dreams of fame and fortune leads to a once-in-a-lifetime chance for the obscure band to perform at SXSW in Austin, Texas, the newfound notoriety has disastrous consequences for an already mentally fragile Frank and his troupe of social misfits… Loosely based on the career of British comedy character Frank Sidebottom (Chris Sievey 1955-2010) who also wore a Mardi Gras head as part of his schtick, Lenny Abrahamson’s arty-farty paean to artistes and poseurs alike confuses clunky metaphors with dramatic depth leading to a host of emotive performances that go nowhere and comedic passages which offer little levity. Frank’s entire band is self-consciously unorthodox (one rapes mannequins, one only speaks French, one regularly lashes out physically—an irritating Maggie Gyllenhaal) as if idiosyncrasies alone are enough to convey creative impulses, and the idea of popularity destroying artistic integrity is so old it’s become something of a movie cliché—gee, I guess we all hide behind one mask or another!! Furthermore, the fact that Abrahamson’s cast played their own instruments is hardly noteworthy when you listen to the resulting cacophony of grunge racket and mumbled word salad although Fassbender tries his best to add life to the lyrics using body language alone. A kind of crap Cinderella story with a mental health chaser told in reverse that’s sure to wow Liberal Arts students and budding auteurs who still believe “quirky” is always a good thing.

Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed (UK 1969) (7): In this fifth instalment of Hammer Horror’s Frankenstein series the evil baron (I love you Peter Cushing!) is on the lam due to some unsavoury “brain transplant” research he was conducting. Holing up in a boarding house he manages to bully and blackmail the lovely owner (sex kitten Veronica Carlson) and her drug-dealing physician fiancé into helping him continue his nefarious work. But first he must break into the local insane asylum and free his one-time associate and collaborator who was locked up after he went crazy… Embellished 19th century sets and costumes set the mood—from ostentatious parlours and colourful crinolines to a mad scientist’s cellar—and the cast seem to enjoy hamming it up, especially Cushing as the monomaniacal genius with the piercing gaze, and character actor Thorley Walters as a befuddled chief of police who always seems to be two steps behind the baron. Of course the science is sketchy at best (who knew you could transplant a human brain using garden tools and a dish towel?!) but director Terence Fisher achieves unexpected depths when Frankenstein and his heartbroken monster find themselves on opposite sides of an ethical divide, and that hellish ending works on several levels. Unfortunately the production hits a sour note with a totally unnecessary rape scene which was tacked on at the last minute to appease studio bigwigs who felt that, along with the somewhat tame gore, the film needed a bit of sex. Thankfully Cushing, who was appalled at the idea, demanded modifications to the script before he would agree to it.

Frankenweenie (USA 2012) (10): In the sleepy town of New Holland, populated by cadaverous children and their clueless parents, where dark secrets abound and thunderstorms are a nightly occurrence, lives young Victor Frankenstein. A genius by nature, a loner by choice, Victor spends his days filming 8mm horror movies on a backyard set assisted by the only friend he’s ever known…his faithful lapdog Sparky. Sadly, one day the unthinkable happens when Sparky chases a ball into the street and winds up mangled beneath the wheels of a truck leaving Victor devastated and completely alone. All seems hopeless for the depressed lad until a science class lecture on electricity gives him a most ingenious idea—if a weak electrical current can cause the legs of a dead frog to jump, could a whole lot of electricity bring a small dog back to life? Quickly constructing a crazy laboratory out of Christmas lights and his mom’s best pots and pans, Victor soon has a hastily sewn together Sparky jumping and yapping once again. Keeping his pet’s resurrection a secret lest his parents freak out, Victor hides Sparky as best he can but it isn’t long before a handful of mad scientist wannabes are hot on his trail and New Holland is turned upside-down. This is Tim Burton at his finest doing what he does best: clever works of gothic animation replete with quirky characters and a dark fairy tale aesthetic. The B&W photography and pasty white puppets perfectly capture the look and feel of all those Saturday afternoon monster movies. Look closely and you will see brilliant nods to the likes of Frankenstein and company, the Wolfman, Count Dracula, and the Mummy while a few townsfolk bear uncanny resemblances to Boris Karloff and Vincent Price. Plus, as a hilarious update, there is a clever take on one of Toho Studios more loveable creations complete with screaming Japanese victim. It’s all good gruesome fun, definitely not for the littlest family members, which will leave older kids amused while the rest of us howl at the literary allusions and Hollywood in-jokes.

Franklyn (UK 2008) (5): In contemporary London three lives are about to converge: a suicidal artist (Eva Green) whose controversial pieces mask a lifetime of pain; a heartbroken divorcé (Sam Riley) infatuated with a woman he hasn’t seen since they were both children; and an anguished father (Bernard Hill) searching for his son who went AWOL from the military. And in an alternate reality a masked assassin (Ryan Phillippe) wanders the grimy, mist-shrouded streets of a fantastical metropolis ruled by religious zealots—imagine a steampunk version of Gotham City populated with thousands of colourful cults like the “Seventh Day Manicurists”. Going by the name of “Preest”, the assassin is riddled with guilt over a tragedy he was supposed to have prevented and he’s determined to punish the party responsible—if he can only find them. In writer/director Gerald McMorrow’s highly imaginative but persistently flawed urban fantasy desire and regret are made manifest by a group of despondent people so desperate for a measure of “happily ever after” that it consumes their present. And as each narrative strand progresses towards its conclusion connections, however tenuous, will be made and broken only to be revealed in a very different light for the final curtain. It’s a cerebral mix of psychodrama and fantasy tropes with arresting visuals—hellish skylines calling to mind the twisted landscapes of Hieronymus Bosch tower above a citizenry of infernal harlequins (kudos to the set and costume departments)—and McMorrow makes good use of light whether it be a sunlit street, a shadowy baroque cathedral, or a fog-choked urban maze. But the film’s emotional impact runs skin deep shaped as it is by pop psychology and a string of Hallmark moments which threaten to scuttle the whole production. And that big twist can be seen a mile off as the director doesn’t so much drop hints as shout them from the rafters causing the Grand Finale to lose much of its punch—in fact I think I may have groaned a bit. An intriguing concept nevertheless (though not exactly original) which ultimately flounders under the weight of its own cleverness.

Free Fall (Germany 2013) (4): Marc is a rookie cop who loves his family and his live-in girlfriend Bettina. But when fellow rookie Kay, a handsome pot-smoking rogue, begins making passes at him Marc's initial shock soon turns into confused lust as everything he's thus far taken for granted about his life and sexuality begins to unravel. In between bouts of tawdry gay sex (they do it against the side of a car, they do it in a bathroom stall) Marc's guilt-riddled moping soon has Bettina thinking the worst despite his heated denials that it's not "another woman". And then love rears its problematic head and it's melodrama all around... If this film had been released thirty years ago I could forgive its glaring transgressions. In this day and age however the idea of a predatory homosexual loner taking advantage of a poor confused family man (Bettina is expecting their first child, of course) is not only a tired cliché it's just plain tired. Bettina and Marc make love, Kay and Marc rut like drunken sailors, and confronting one's latent feelings is a potentially life-ruining proposition with rampant homophobia coming from all sides. Writer/director Stephan Lacant does try to inject some humanity into the mess (the men kiss tenderly before popping Ecstasy and fucking) and their jogs along a forest trail are an interesting metaphor (is Marc running towards something or away from something?) but while this type of wet dream seduction fantasy makes for great gay porn, as a piece of mature cinema it fails at that first uninvited smooch.

Free Fire (UK 2016) (9): It’s 1978 and in a crumbling warehouse on the outskirts of Boston an illegal arms sale is taking place between representatives of the IRA and a band of international gunrunners led by a highly emotional inept. Trouble begins to simmer right from the start when the Irishmen are less than pleased with the assault rifles they’ve ordered—but when a personal vendetta escalates into gunfire it’s every man (and woman) for themselves as the entire evening descends into a chaotic clusterfuck where hurled taunts raise tempers even further and whizzing bullets find their mark more often by accident than design. And then things get even more complicated… Drawing his inspiration from video games as well as FBI reports of an actual shootout in Florida, director Ben Wheatley channels the likes of Quentin Tarantino and John Woo, adds his own mordant brand of humour, and serves up one of the bloodiest guilty pleasures I’ve seen in a very long time. Ammo goes off like a constant barrage of fireworks, impromptu missiles sail across the screen, and as the disheveled participants drag themselves across dirt floors and up and down staircases Wheatley deftly pushes the envelope to farcical heights bolstered by a soundtrack of funky pop tunes, crazy keyboards, and…John Denver? It’s a free-for-all riot of cerebral one-liners and bullet wounds, a satirical Mexican standoff so expertly staged and edited that it’s only after the lights come up that you realize you’ve basically sat through a one-note play. Cillian Murphy and Michael Smiley are perfectly cast as the Irish—their accents alone giving every line a twist—with Sam Riley and Enzo Cilenti bringing up the rear as their bumbling hired goons. Sharlto Copley’s caricature of an arms dealer is drier than a Taika Waititi character—and all the funnier because of it—and he’s balanced by a deadly serious Babou Ceesay who proves to be both foil and lynchpin. The cast is further rounded out by towering hunk Armie Hammer as an unscrupulous American mediator and Brie Larson as the lone female forced to hold her own with the big boys. An entertaining balance of gore and yuks, lethal realism and unhinged absurdity (there’s a zombie! sort of) which celebrates the genre while at the same time giving it a stiff middle finger. It may not be art, but it’s sure as hell artful.

A Free Soul (USA 1931) (5): Jan Ashe, attractive debutante and daughter to celebrated lawyer Stephen Ashe whose career is on a downhill slide thanks to rampant alcoholism, is engaged to be married to Dwight Winthrop, a man even wimpier than his name (did Leslie Howard ever play anything but spineless mouseburgers?) Enter the criminally dashing Ace Wilfong (Clark Gable, oh swoon!), a notorious racketeer being defended against murder charges by Ashe Sr. When society deb and rakish mobster lock gazes it’s lust at first sight as Jan turns her back on all things decent in order to enjoy Wilfong’s indecent attentions, much to her class-conscious father’s horror. It isn’t long however before Jan’s walk on the wild side begins to take its toll. With Wilfong’s increasing possessiveness threatening to destroy her nice girl image and her mortified father crawling further into the bottle Jan strikes a bargain with the old man; she’ll give up her Ace in the hole if he’ll stay on the wagon. But can father and daughter overcome their individual addictions or will vodka martinis and freaky gangster sex prove too alluring? And what of Dwight, Jan’s milky former fiancé? Will he sit idly by while the girl of his prim and proper dreams is transformed into some ruffian’s sluttish moll? With a stellar cast rounded out by Norma Shearer and Lionel Barrymore I expected more but aside from some implied raciness this is pretty standard melodramatic fare with all the usual ingredients; fallen woman, guilt-addled parent, and one erotically charged bad boy who, if this were filmed today, would probably be cast as a sexy misunderstood vampire.

The French Connection (USA 1971) (7): William Friedkin’s high-speed crime thriller swept the Oscars in 1972—including Best Picture, Best Director, and Best Actor for Gene Hackman—and even though it has aged considerably over the years it is still an exhilarating ride. Set in 1971 but loosely based on an actual drug seizure that took place ten years earlier, it follows the exploits of maverick New York narcotics officers Jimmy “Popeye” Doyle and Buddy Russo (Hackman and Roy Scheider both intensely believable) as they deal with that city’s lowlife drug dealers. And when they hear that a huge supply of heroin is bound for New York harbour from parts unknown Doyle and Russo put out every feeler they can in an effort to stop the multi-million dollar shipment from hitting the streets. But the crooks behind the operation, including the ruthless French connection, are equally determined to see them fail… Often filmed on the sly without all the proper permits, Friedkin’s Brooklyn is a decaying urban jungle of crumbling brick and dirty alleyways where criminals and cops play deadly cat and mouse games—except for Doyle who’s explosive personality and obsession with taking bad guys down has made him something of an anti-hero among his fellow officers, including his partner Russo. Employing quick edits and camera angles which never seem to stray far from the gutter Friedkin’s film has a gritty improvised feel, less polished than the usual Hollywood fare yet more immediate than simple vérité. Today’s crop of PC viewers may balk at the casual racism (different time, different place folks) but the film moves along like a runaway train culminating in one of cinema’s most famous sequences: a subway car containing a sniper careens along an elevated track while Popeye Doyle keeps pace in the streets below, weaving in and out of traffic at breakneck speeds (one of the resulting collisions was actually unplanned). Time has rendered the film’s good guys vs. bad guys mindset faintly anachronistic (as well as those racial stereotypes), and the no-tech approach definitely hearkens from another era, but this is still a classic of the genre and entertaining as hell.

Frenzy (UK 1972) (7): Hitchcock’s penultimate film, a curious mix of bleak humour and disturbing violence, actually garnered a British “X” rating upon its initial release--the only one of his films to do so. After his ex-wife is found brutally raped and murdered by London’s notorious “Necktie Strangler” former RAF hero and now unemployed bartender Richard Blaney finds himself on the lam from Scotland Yard who believe him to be the prime suspect. Even though he didn’t do it (the identity of the actual serial killer is revealed early on) a small mountain of circumstantial evidence plus his own history of alcoholism and domestic violence suggest otherwise. Eventually captured and convicted, Blaney’s vehement claim that he was set up by the real culprit give chief inspector Oxford reason to question the evidence he so painstakingly presented in court. Prodded by his eccentric wife’s “female intuition”, Oxford sets his sights on a new suspect while an escaped Blaney rushes to exact his own revenge. Darker and more explicit than the usual Hitchcock fare with nudity, swearing, and intense close-ups of strangulations in progress, Frenzy nevertheless exhibits the biting wit of its director: the staunch British-ness of the characters provide a stream of in-jokes: Mrs. Oxford’s attempts to foist “continental cuisine” upon her husband have him running for the mash and bangers and a macabre tussle with a stiffening corpse in the back of a potato truck threatens to go beyond the pale. An opening credits sequence features a fly-over of London accompanied by grandiose travelogue music—a score repeated throughout the film with ironic effect. Good grotesque fun all around!

From a Whisper to a Scream [aka The Offspring ] (USA 1987) (7): Voodoo, necrophilia, cannibalism, and zombies—as well as all manner of inventive bloodletting and dismemberment—are presented for your puerile entertainment in Jeff Burr’s horror anthology which takes the comic book pizzazz of Creepshow and bumps it up to an “R” rating. Interested in covering the backstory of a murderess recently executed in the small hamlet of Oldfield Tennessee, a persistent reporter calls upon the deceased’s elderly uncle (Vincent Price!) and winds up getting more of a scoop than she intended. The old man is convinced that it’s Oldfield itself which is to blame for the killings because the the surrounding countryside has been a repository of evil and madness dating back a hundred years—and to prove his point he regales her with four macabre tales gleaned from the town archives. Muahahaha! Despite its low-budget schlock and overplayed hysterics, Burr and his team of talented writers have nevertheless slapped together a good old-fashioned yarn reminiscent of those Saturday afternoon treats from Amicus studios with a dollop of Eerie Tales magazine thrown in for colour. In the first vignette “Til Death Do Us Part” holds little meaning for a meek office worker determined to win the heart of his lovely supervisor (if you liked Trilogy of Terror’s rampaging Tiki doll you’ll love what comes crawling out from under HIS sofa). “Be Careful What You Wish For” could be the motto of the second tale when a conman on the run stumbles upon the secret for eternal life. And “Ain’t Love a Bitch” resounds throughout story number three after a lovestruck woman runs away with a handsome carnival freak only to discover his contract is more binding than she thought. But it’s the final chapter which proved the most chilling as Burr puts the “gory” in “allegory” to tell the tale of three Civil War soldiers who stumble upon a town populated by orphaned children and ruled by a mysterious Magistrate—a grotesque anti-war parable if ever there was one. If you’re willing to forgive its occasional misstep (the opening execution is worth a rewind) and the tacky 80s touches, this is prime movie night popcorn fare all the way even if Vincent Price ultimately hated it. Welcome to Oldfield!

From Beyond  (USA 1986) (7):  Sinister things are happening at 666 Benevolent Lane. It seems the perpetually horny Dr. Pretorius has opened a doorway into an evil dimension using a machine he built by putting a gazing ball and some tuning forks on top of an old hot water heater.... Soon the air is filled with floating tapeworms and carnivorous jellyfish while the doctor himself is transformed into a giant play-doh phallus. Great campy fun full of bad acting and revolting special effects. Strictly B-movie fare but oddly watchable.

From Here to Eternity (USA 1953) (9): Based upon James Jones’ novel, Fred Zinnemann’s multiple award-winning romantic tragedy is set in the days leading up to Pearl Harbour. Newly transferred to Schofield army base in Hawaii, Private Robert E. Lee Prewitt (an intense Montgomery Clift) immediately gets on the wrong side of his commanding officer Capt. Holmes when he declines to use his fighting skills in order to help the company win an annual boxing competition. Not used to having his requests denied, the egotistical Holmes sets about making the young private’s life extra miserable. Refusing to be broken by Holmes’ sadistic tactics, Prewitt finds solace in the arms of a local escort (Donna Reed’s Oscar performance) and the drunken camaraderie of his best friend Angelo (Frank Sinatra’s Oscar performance). But when Angelo’s impudence and cocky attitude lead to deadly consequences, Prewitt’s life takes a tragic turn of its own. Meanwhile, Holmes’ marriage is on the rocks prompting his embittered wife (an unexpectedly sultry Deborah Kerr) to embark upon a romantic indiscretion of her own. And then the Japanese attack and everyone’s life is thrown back into the blender one final time… Although the original earthiness and cynical army-bashing of Jones’ book was toned down considerably by the censors, Zinneman’s film still manages to cast a few stones at the military mindset while a handful of carefully edited embraces, including Kerr and Lancaster’s famous beachside tussle, merely suggest a far deeper eroticism. The closing scenes in which war finally rears its ugly head over our lovers’ tropical idyll are an incredible blending of big screen chaos and personal horror. A true classic.

The Front (USA 1976) (8): In the early 1950s the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC) headed by the infamous senator Joe McCarthy was convinced that the entertainment industry was crawling with communist sympathizers. In order to root out these subversive “reds” a series of political witch hunts ensued which saw scores of people from the film and television sector lose their jobs, victims of harried informants and an unofficial “black list”. Opening with a montage of 50’s video memorabilia including scenes from McCarthy’s wedding and bombing raids over North Korea, Martin Ritt’s angry film, drawn largely from his own recollections of that time, follows the story of Howard Prince (Woody Allen playing it straight), a meek cashier at a New York diner who poses as an author in order to help a trio of blacklisted writers sell their screenplays. Taking credit for the scripts himself (and later splitting the royalties with the three men) Prince is initially drawn by the easy money—but when he witnesses the decline and fall of a once respected comedian thanks to the gestapo-like tactics employed by the HUAC his political apathy quickly turns to anger putting him squarely in the crosshairs of the commie hunters who had had their suspicions about him all along… Rife with bitter ironies and just a touch of seditious humour, The Front features some heartfelt performances (especially Zero Mostel as the beleaguered comedian) backed by an intelligent and literary script. A dark period in contemporary American history made all the more touching after the closing credits reveal that many of the people involved in its making, including Ritter and Mostel, were blacklisted themselves.

The Front Page (USA 1974) (7): Caustic satire masquerades as screwball comedy in Billy Wilder’s remake of the classic Broadway play. Set in Chicago, 1929, it follows the thorny relationship between unscrupulous newspaper editor Walter Burns (Walter Matthau) and his veteran ace reporter Hildy Johnson (Jack Lemmon). A notorious cop-killer is scheduled for execution in the morning and Burns wants Johnson to turn the hanging into a sensationalistic headline. Johnson however, sick of the journalistic rat race, is hellbent on leaving the business altogether and marrying his sweetheart (Susan Sarandon). But when the murderer manages a dramatic escape from prison Johnson’s weakness for getting the scoop is tempting him to return to the typewriter one last time and Burns exploits that weakness with every dirty, underhanded trick he can think of. In the meantime Johnson’s fellow reporters, all eager to beat each other to the publishing deadline, are pulling a few deceptions of their own including making up stories based on nothing more than innuendo and imagination—the term “fake news” not having yet been coined. Matthau is a cavalier prick, Lemmon is a ball of neuroses, and when the sparks begin to fly they are augmented by a cast of effective, if somewhat two-dimensional, stock characters: Sarandon’s jilted naif is all taffeta and tears, Harold Gould plays the city’s slimy mayor, Vincent Gardenia gives us a bumbling sheriff straight out of The Dukes of Hazzard, and Carol Burnett is cringeworthy as the condemned man’s hooker girlfriend in an overwrought performance that wouldn’t even have been good enough for her TV show. Austin Pendleton, on the other hand, channels the best of Woody Allen in his portrayal of the bumbling, benign killer who is more concerned about his head cold than he is of the gallows. Showing newspapermen as cynical vultures for whom death and tragedy are simply tools of the trade—this particular case made even more tasty by the fact the dead cop was black—Wilder wrings much humour out of their singleminded zeal to outdo one another. But it is the ambivalent relationship between editor and reporter that holds things together especially when the script slips into slapstick territory after the escaped convict lands right in Johnson’s lap. An entertaining period comedy with some nice visuals and a bit of crusty language—not to mention some tired old gay clichés—that would have shocked original audiences.

Frost/Nixon (USA 2008) (8): After resigning from the office of president following the Watergate revelations, a disgraced (and officially pardoned) Richard Nixon retreated to his California estate without ever having confessed to any wrongdoing despite the damning evidence against him. But in the spring of 1977 an amazing thing happened; a British talk show host with practically no journalistic credentials and very little financial backing convinced Nixon to sit down for a series of taped interviews centering on his career including his controversial foreign policies and, most importantly, Watergate itself. Squaring off like a pair of mismatched boxers a young and somewhat naïve David Frost was at first bowled over by the ex-president’s uncanny ability to dominate the conversation, twisting words and steering things away from uncomfortable territory. Convinced that they had gained the upper hand, Nixon’s team of advisors sat smugly by while Frost floundered at a loss for words. But when it came time for the final and most crucial interview, Frost and his team were prepared; the resulting verbal showdown went on to make television history. Reprising their stage roles as Frost and Nixon, Michael Sheen and Frank Langella are thoroughly convincing as a tabloid gadabout in way over his head and an unnervingly intense politician weighed down by too many guilty secrets. Their onscreen chemistry, at first cool and courteous, develops an unexpected depth and complexity until that final David & Goliath confrontation which sees a broken and contrite Nixon gaining some semblance of peace while Frost receives the validation and respect that had long eluded him. Aside from Langella and Sheen’s powerful presence, Kevin Bacon in the role of Nixon’s faithful lapdog, Jack Brennan, was also memorable. A bit of Hollywood hyperbole aside (a volatile nighttime conversation between the two men never really happened) this is still an absorbing drama with excellent performances all around and enough cleverly placed period touches to convince you it is indeed the late 70s. Good cinema.

Frozen (USA 2013) (10): After she inadvertently freezes the kingdom of Arendelle in the middle of spring with her secret ability to summon winter at will, a horrified Queen Elsa flees into the arctic wilderness where she plans to live out the rest of her life in a castle of ice. But her sister Anna, refusing to give up on her, pursues Elsa to the perilous summit of North Mountain accompanied by the handsome Kristoff, his puppy-dog of a reindeer Sven, and a piecemeal snowman named Olaf. Alas, the sisterly reunion Anna was expecting ends tragically when Elsa accidentally sends a bolt of freezing energy straight into her sister’s heart—an inevitably fatal complication which can only be reversed by an act of true love. Quickly returning to Arendelle, an ailing Anna not only discovers that “true love” is harder to come by than she thought but when Elsa tries to rectify all the damage she’s wrought things threaten to get unimaginably worse… Featuring fairy tale vistas of twilit snowflakes and enchanted palaces, as well as some of the most amazingly nuanced performances to ever be wrung from animated characters, Frozen is truly one of Disney’s better cinematic achievements to date. A grand cartoon epic addressing issues of faith and empowerment that somehow manages to avoid all the tired clichés these productions usually engender: there are no bumbling lovestruck half-wits here (okay, maybe the snowman but he’s just too cute for words), the women ultimately find strength from within, and the abundant comic relief is more cerebral and less slapstick (though that too is handled very well). And the surprisingly catchy musical numbers would be right at home on any Broadway stage—which I suppose is already in the works.

Frozen River (USA 2008) (7): Ray Eddy is barely able to support herself and her two kids on the part-time wages she earns working at a discount dollar store. But when her deadbeat husband takes off with the final down payment on their new double-wide mobile home her precarious financial position becomes downright disastrous. With mounting debts and nowhere to turn, the family’s outlook looks increasingly grim until a chance encounter with a young Mohawk woman provides Ray with an opportunity to make some much needed money smuggling illegal aliens across the border in the trunk of her car. Lila Littlewolf has been involved in the human trafficking business for some time, using the frozen St. Lawrence as a makeshift highway between her reservation and the one in Canada. Justifying her actions as being nothing more than “trade” between two Indian nations she offers Ray several hundred dollars for every successful drop-off providing she keeps her mouth shut. It isn’t long before their nighttime trips raise the suspicions of a state trooper however, leading to some complications neither woman is prepared to face. Hunt’s gripping indie film carries itself with a confidence that belies its modest budget. Her use of frozen landscapes highlight the protagonists’ own dilemma as they try to eke out an existence in a world which leaves little room for moral qualms. Each woman carries a heavy burden, whether it’s Ray worrying about where her children’s next meal is going to come from or Lila trying to regain the baby stolen by her mother-in-law. Some of the scenes may be a little contrived, a Christmas Eve miracle proves a tad too symbolic for my tastes, but for the most part Hunt keeps things grounded and credible. I especially admired the small touches she employed to convey the older woman’s quiet despair; her silent tears, the broken makeshift carousel in the front yard, or the unopened packet of “Romance” bath salts sitting next to a rusted tub. The dialogue is genuine and the powerfully downplayed performances, including Melissa Leo’s Oscar-nominated portrayal of Ray, turn an otherwise pat ending into something almost beautiful. Well done.

Fruitvale Station (USA 2013) (7): On New Year’s Eve 2008, after being pulled off a San Francisco BART train for questioning regarding an onboard altercation, a 22-year old black man named Oscar Grant was fatally shot by a transit officer—his detention and subsequent death captured on numerous cellphones. In this his first feature length film, writer/director Ryan Coogler presents a fictionalized account of Grant’s final 24 hours as he interacts with friends, his mother (Octavia Spencer), his common-law wife (Melonie Diaz) and their young daughter. As portrayed by Micheal B. Jordan, Grant was a flawed character—sketchy employment, a stint in prison, drug dealing, infidelity—who nevertheless had just decided to turn his life around on the afternoon of December 31st. A generic story proceeds to unfold with the usual posturing and recriminations (a flashback to prison shows a wedge driven between Oscar and his mother, his wife is fed up with the dealing and cheating) as well as some emotional manipulation with slo-mo pans of dad and daughter and a wholly unnecessary foreshadowing involving an injured dog. Even a woman he chats up at the local supermarket makes a highly improbable cameo later on while the officer in charge that night (Canada’s own Kevin Durand) is a caricature of evil. And that’s a pity for with the tragic shooting and its immediate aftermath—filmed right where it actually happened—Coogler effectively shifts into an intense montage of handheld verité and enraged chaos. But the resultant trial and social fallout—both germane to truly appreciating what happened—are limited to a closing string of cue cards accompanied by a couple of family photos. Still, for an inaugural feature Coogler demonstrates he has what it takes to tell a story and his casting choices were impeccable.

Funeral in Berlin (UK 1966) (7): Berlin has never looked so uninviting—and sinister—as in this Cold War thriller which once again casts Michael Caine in the role of smug British spy Harry Palmer, a sort of poor man’s 007. This time he’s been assigned to a very thorny case: a high-ranking soviet officer stationed in East Berlin wishes to defect to the West but he’s being closely watched by his superiors and getting him out is going to be next to impossible. But the logistics of helping the colonel over the wall turns out to be the least of Palmer’s worries for the British government is not the only player in this tense game of spy vs spy, and the colonel himself may have a secret agenda of his own… Filmed mostly on location, director Guy Hamilton’s backgrounds are comprised mainly of grimy concrete cityscapes and blasted ruins with the occasional flash of neon (or decadent nightclub) to let us know when we’re in the West. And if the atmosphere is decidedly downbeat so too is Caine’s poker-faced performance as he smirks and bluffs his way through one tortuous plot twist after another, his delivery as blandly conservative as his horn rimmed glasses. Thankfully the film is given a bit of colour from co-stars Eva Renzi and screen legend Oskar Homolka—she playing a femme fatale who insinuates herself into Palmer’s bed and he playing the inscrutable gravel-voiced Russian defector. Konrad Elfers musical score maintains a suitably sombre tone throughout and the script, based on Len Deighton’s novel, has enough surprises to keep you guessing even though it spreads those Cold War conventions a bit thick as stiff upper-lipped Brits square off against Communist agents who always seem to be pursued by their own jazzy horn section. Not a perfect film, but still a stylish peek into the rampant paranoia of the time.

The Funhouse (USA 1981) (5): Four teens (Jock, Nerd, Slut, and Virgin respectively) head out to the carnival on a double date despite rumours associating the traveling fair with some grisly murders in the past. On a dare they decide to sneak into the funhouse after hours in order to smoke dope and make out little realizing that this particular midway is also home to a murderous mutant with a taste for flesh and pretty girls. Thus begins a night of terror for the hapless adolescents as they become trapped in a mechanical house of horrors while a vile slobbering fiend prepares to have a little fun of its own. From the recycled thrills and chills to the gratuitous opening shower scene of soapy teenaged tits, horrormeister Tobe Hooper doesn’t have one single original idea to spin in this wholly derivative 80’s monster flick—every jolt arrives right on time and you can pretty much guess who’s going home at the end. But it’s still fun to watch for the nostalgia if nothing else.

Funny Face (USA 1957) (6): Jo, a bookish ingénue (Audrey Hepburn) is “discovered” by middle-aged commercial photographer Dick Avery (Fred Astaire) and Maggie Prescott, the pushy editor of a woman’s magazine (Kay Thompson) who decide to make her the next big model whether she likes it or not. Whisking her off to Paris for an exclusive fashion shoot Maggie can’t wait to cash in on the mousy naif’s natural beauty but an innocent kiss between model and photographer quickly (somewhat too quickly) blossoms into romance leading to all sorts of complications when Jo’s fascination for a local beatnik philosopher throws Dick into a jealous tailspin. Although buoyed by a few hummable Gershwin melodies and some lively dance numbers (Hepburn twerks it out beat-style in a smoky nightclub while Astaire does what he does best) this remains pure widescreen fluff that’s easy on the eye then quickly forgotten. The camp humour and 50s decor is pure kitsch, the Parisian backdrops suitably dreamy, but the forced love affair between Hepburn and Astaire (thirty years her senior) is both awkward and ludicrous (unless you’re Celine Dion).

Funny Girl (USA 1968) (7): Barbra Streisand’s award-winning musical vehicle chronicles the life of performer Fanny Brice, a plain Jewish girl from New York’s Lower East Side who rose to be the toast of Broadway thanks to her fearless determination and an uncanny talent to make people smile. Her personal life, on the other hand, was less than stellar with a string of failed marriages and a particularly heartbreaking love affair with a charming gambler, here played by a very dapper if somewhat tone deaf Omar Sharif. The period touches sparkle, as do Streisand’s interminable gowns, but one soon gets the impression that all that choreographed pathos and comedy schtick is mere padding between Babs’ showstoppers. Apparently she was not very funny to work with either.

The Furies (USA 1950) (8): In the New Mexico territory of 1870, cattle baron T. C. Jeffords (Walter Huston giving a worthy swan song) uses his iron will to rule an estate that seemingly stretches from horizon to horizon. Matching him in ruthless ambition is his daughter Vance (Barbara Stanwyck), a savvy businesswoman who stands to inherit the old man’s empire with eager hands. Complications arise however when Vance sets her romantic sights on the one man her father considers a mortal enemy, and T. C. in turn alienates his daughter’s affection by bringing home a new bride—an unctuous fortune hunter able to outwit her at every turn. Love quickly turns to hate one night when angry words lead to darker deeds and Vance hatches a revenge which may very well destroy everything… Ostensibly taking its name from the ranch itself, “The Furies”, Anthony Mann’s big B&W epic has at least one foot rooted in Greek mythology where the three daughters of Uranus and Gaea—collectively known by the same title—stalked the Earth embodying vengeance, jealousy, and constant anger. Certainly there is something of a legend at work here given the heightened dramatics—Stanwyck especially knows how to turn her passions from fire to ice in the blink of an eye—set against cinematographer Victor Milner’s oscar-nominated sweeps of explosive sunsets and distant mesas. If the accompanying moral message is nothing new—yes, pride (or in this case unchecked ambition) does indeed precede a fall and violence always begets itself—Mann’s gift for storytelling ensures that the ending, when it arrives, still satisfies. Beulah Bondi co-stars as a no-nonsense banker’s wife and Gilbert Roland pokes yet another thorn in T. C.’s side as a Mexican squatter and Vance’s BFF.

The Future (Chile/Italy 2013) (5): Dead performances and equally lifeless dialogue aside, Alicia Scherson’s adaptation of Robert Bolaño’s novel gets distracted by so many literary and psychological allusions that it ultimately drowns in a puddle of metaphors. After their parents die in a car crash, teenagers Bianca and Tomas find themselves alone in the family condo with only dad’s meagre pension to keep them afloat. Then Tomas brings home a couple of meathead friends from the gym who convince the siblings to take part in a get rich scheme, namely having Bianca pose as a prostitute for faded film star “Maciste” (Rutger Hauer) now a wealthy recluse who never leaves his crumbling baroque mansion and is rumoured to keep his fortune locked up in a wall safe. Blind and mourning his lost laurels, Maciste takes some perverse pleasure in oiling up Bianca’s naked body while Bianca, for her part, begins to have feelings for the sad old man… With influences ranging from The Shining (a tracking highway shot promises horror which never comes) to Last Tango in Paris (fumbling sex countered by angst-ridden dialogue, “What colour is my cum…is it black?” whines Maciste) The Future never quite finds a comfortable groove especially given the oh-so-symbolic red herrings Scherson throws our way. Even at midnight the orphans are bathed in pearly light the colour of a saint’s halo because, according to Tomas, “Accidents release so much energy they alter the universe..” Okay. Maciste made his money playing Hercules in low-budget epics and Bianca likes to cut men’s hair (are we getting confused with Samson & Delilah?). Bianca’s daily walks always seem to take her past Rome’s iconic Cinectitá movie studios as if to remind us that all is artifice—even the Coliseum is reduced to a dirty souvenir ashtray. And finally, touches of magic realism predominate as brother and sister try to find a fresh balance between the clinically optimistic ramblings of the social worker assigned to them (she literally fades in and out of existence) and the carnal id impulses of Tomas’ musclebound buddies (who take turns bedding sister while spinning brother’s moral compass). Three lost souls in search of a berth then, but the zombie-like acting clunks along while the plodding journey itself seems interminable. Doesn’t hold a candle to 2003’s Last Life in the Universe.

The Gangster, The Cop, The Devil (Korea 2019) (8): A serial killer is on the prowl in Seoul and only one victim has managed to escape his knife-wielding clutches, musclebound crime boss Jang. Vowing to avenge the attack which almost killed him Jang draws upon his underworld connections in order to track down the murderer—a course of action which puts him in direct conflict with underdog police detective Yeol (whose own boss is on Jang’s payroll). Realizing that the only way they’re ever going to find the madman is to pool their resources Jang and Yeol reluctantly share clues and manpower, but can a gangster and a cop trust each other long enough to catch a devil? With cameras firing on all cylinders, Won-Tae Lee’s violent joyride of a film careens down alleyways and races across rooftops with flying fists and spurting blood ensuring the action never slows for very long. As Jang, hunky tattooed Don Lee out-punches and out-growls everything in his path without so much as a raised eyebrow yet is not so tough that he can’t give an umbrella to a young college girl in need. Providing a somewhat geeky counterpart as Yeol, Mu-Yeol Kim is all hard talk and police procedural even after he gets his ass handed to him by a startled female jogger (and Jang, repeatedly). Nobody does cop dramas like the Koreans and this gritty odd couple policier is no exception. Vroom, vroom!

The Garden of Allah (USA 1936) (7): Ridiculously overplayed yet oddly irresistible technicolor melodrama exposing forbidden passions beneath the fiery desert sun! Wealthy spinster Marlene Dietrich, still mourning the death of the invalid father she nursed for years, travels to northern Africa seeking solace and a spiritual recharge. She meets Charles Boyer instead, a disgraced Trappist monk who has fled the monastery for a bit of earthly temptation. When lonely socialite and bewildered friar eventually lock eyes temperatures rise and vows are shattered (after a hasty marriage of course). But when Dietrich discovers Boyer’s true identity all heaven breaks loose and the naive couple must come to a heart-rending decision. Despite a studio backlot vision of the “mysterious orient” (including some running around in Californian dunes), a supporting cast of gaudily dressed extras spouting gibberish, and a few glaring examples of sloppy editing, this remains a lush and highly watchable weeper seventy-five years after it was first released. Perhaps it’s the operatic performances and extravagant dialogue, or the cloying orchestral score highlighting a sensuous world of starlit oases and gauzy close-ups, or maybe it’s just the sheer audacity of the plot which places two of Hollywood’s greatest stars smack in the middle of an American housewife’s fever dream. Obvious religious metaphors aside (Dietrich’s character is named “Domini” after all) this is one of those romantic oldies you simply have to accept on its own terms. Frankly I enjoyed every frame!

The Garden of Earthly Delights (UK 2004) (7): Written, directed, and filmed by Polish Renaissance man Lech Majewski, and based on his own novel, this free-form meditation on life, death, and art is definitely a study in patience—but for those willing to give it time the metaphysical payoff is well worth any initial squirming. Claudine and Chris are English ex-pats residing in Venice where she is finishing her thesis on the works of 15th century painter Hieronymus Bosch while he studies shipbuilding as part of his own PhD pursuits. Composed entirely of choppy home movies shot on Chris’ new handheld camera, we see the two lovers explore the city and cavort like school kids in between sobering asides where they talk passionately about everything from artwork to the vagaries of life. Claudine, it turns out, is dying of cancer and these videos are to be the only legacy she leaves for Chris who obsessively records their every waking moment including the occasional erotic embrace. Drawn to the fantastical imagery in Bosch’s triptych masterpiece, The Garden of Earthly Delights, Claudine ruminates on the middle panel’s underlying message of heaven on Earth where the concepts of good and evil are neutralized and absolute freedom makes us the equals of God. Meanwhile Chris, perhaps owing to his background in marine architecture, is more inclined towards symmetry and balance than transcendent mysteries. Pretty heady stuff, especially when paired with long studied pans of moonlit canals, haunted faces, and poignant outbursts both private and very public. Heavy with seemingly incidental symbolism—at one point an icon of the risen Christ peers from an open window while in a separate segment Chris tenderly holds Claudine’s favourite dress to his face as if to breathe her essence into his lungs—we are left to ponder which images carry the most spiritual weight. Coolly academic at times and presented in an erratic nonlinear fashion that may alienate some, Majewski’s intellectual foray nevertheless revolves around a heart beating with empathy and purest compassion. The artwork comes to glorious life under Claudine’s ardent scrutiny while a sad score of tinkling piano keys (written by Majewski) provides counterbalance to Bosch’s vision of Paradise. This is the human condition, told in miniature.

Garden of Evil (USA 1954) (4): “I guess if the Earth were made of gold, men would die for a handful of dirt” philosophizes one cowpoke in director Henry Hathaway’s corny Western, and despite the film’s sheer star power a handful of dirt is just about all we get. Three American fortune hunters stranded in Mexico—an oily card shark (Richard Widmark), a quarrelsome gunslinger (Cameron Mitchell), and the requisite “good guy” (Gary Cooper)—are hired by a wealthy woman (Susan Hayward) to rescue her husband who’s been trapped and injured inside a gold mine the two of them were excavating. But there’s a catch, the mine is located right in the middle of hostile Indian territory and there’s no guarantee they will live long enough to spend the bag of nuggets she’s given them. During the long trek inland each man will face various temptations as they learn to trust one another (or not) while the woman—a veritable Eve waving a golden apple under their noses—will slowly reveal her true self… Terrible acting all around with Cooper’s blank face and wooden delivery leading the pack while Widmark turns every line into a hiss, Mitchell yee-haws his way through, and Hayward pouts and glares with all the conviction of a cartoon siren. A fight scene is laughable as fists miss their targets by a foot (for some reason Mitchell’s character seems determined to land squarely in the campfire again and again) and of course there’s the usual bloodthirsty Hollywood injuns (Apaches with Mohawk haircuts??) whooping and hollering as they fall off horses and careen down cliffs. Some will succumb, some will be redeemed, and it’ll all come to a close beneath a gaudy Technicolor sunset while Bernard Herrmann’s orchestral score punches audiences in the face. Repeatedly. Look for a 23-year old Rita Moreno in a brief appearance playing a sultry cantina singer—arguably the movie’s best performance.

Gaslight (USA 1944) (9): After her legal guardian, a famous opera singer, is strangled in her London flat heartbroken Paula Alquist (a luminous Ingrid Bergman) takes up residence in Italy. Ten years later, with the murder still unsolved, she returns to England accompanied by her new husband Gregory (a perfectly slimy Charles Boyer) in order to take possession of her late aunt’s richly appointed home. But her wedded bliss is short-lived when disappearing objects and bumps in the night bring her sanity into question; odd occurrences which somehow seem tied to her increasingly coldhearted spouse. A masterpiece of mood and suspense in which a young wife’s fear of impending madness is highlighted by claustrophobic interiors (her opulent quarters are stuffed to the rafters with a dead woman’s memorabilia) and exterior shots of lamplit fog. With her signature sense of grace, Bergman’s Oscar-winning performance traces Paula’s descent from a fresh-faced ingenue ready for life and romance to an emotionally battered hausfrau afraid of every shadow while Boyer (a weak leading man at best) throws everything he’s got into the character of Gregory, a smooth-talking despot whose underlying cruelty creeps forth with each passing scene. Joseph Cotten’s turn as a Scotland Yard inspector tends to fade into the background but an impossibly young Angela Lansbury (just seventeen!!) makes her remarkable screen debut as Nancy, the shiftless maid with loose lips and looser morals. An instant classic!

The Gatekeepers (Israel 2012) (9): Tasked with protecting Israel from terrorism and espionage the Shin Bet has been at the forefront of intelligence gathering in the occupied territories since 1967’s Six Day War. Cloaked in secrecy and operating quasi-independently, only its leaders are known by name. In a journalistic coup director Dror Moreh manages to gather some half dozen former heads of the organization for a series of taut and revealing interviews in which they shed a bit of light on what went on behind the scenes from 1967 to the ill-fated Oslo Accord of 1995 and beyond. Emphasizing tactics and intel over actual strategy and occasionally overstepping the letter of the law, Shin Bet sometimes found itself at odds with elected officials who tried to distance themselves from the organization’s more questionable decisions. But as these men reflect on political ineptitude, vast ethical quandaries, and missed opportunities (the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin by Israeli nationalists and the rise of Hamas pretty well buried Oslo) Moreh manages to put a very human face on what is now a very inhumane situation and in doing so poses some very troubling questions to his audience regardless of where they stand on the Palestinian situation. With mistrust and escalating violence from both sides fuelled in large part by revenge, diplomatic apathy, and governments who can only think in terms of binary solutions, all of Moreh’s erudite talking heads agree on one thing—ignore the Occupation at your own peril. “Victory is simply the creation of a better political reality” states one former Shin Bet director quoting 18th century Prussian general Carl Clausewitz, and when applied to Israel’s public security debate he is quick to add that his country has won every battle even as it lost the war. Calling to mind the very best of Errol Morris, this is a fascinating insight into a very murky affair aided by intelligent Q&A sessions, a tense score of minor chords, and amazing visuals which go from dingy interrogation cells to infrared satellite images.

Gates of Heaven (USA 1978) (6):  An early documentary by Errol Morris covering the founding of the “Bubbling Well Memorial Park and Cemetery for Animals” in Napa, California.  Presented as a series of ongoing monologues in which grieving owners and dead animal entrepreneurs alike tell their stories to an unseen interviewer.  The results are sometimes amusing, sometimes sobering, and sometimes downright baffling.  Much of Morris’ signature style is evident here...the clever editing, the static camera that catches every subtle gesture, and an unobtrusive, non-judgmental approach that puts his subjects at ease and loosens their tongues.  What the film lacks though is the focus that is so evident in his later films.  There are several instances where people go off on tangents, like the two old dog owners having a catfight, or the grandmother grumbling about her ungrateful grandson and his sluttish ex-wife.    Furthermore many of the talking heads are just plain boring and add very little to the film’s narrative.  An interesting little oddity, but certainly not in the same league as “The Thin Blue Line” or “The Fog of War”.

The Gay Divorcee (USA 1934) (8): Another paper-thin plot takes a backseat to the dancing talents of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers in this slightly racy tale of romance and infidelity. She plays an unhappily married society girl living in London with her scatterbrained aunt. Since her husband refuses to grant a divorce her lawyer hires an Italian fop to pose as her lover so her spouse will have no choice but to accuse her of adultery. Complications arise however when she mistakes the lawyer’s friend (Astaire), a man already smitten with her, for the hired Lothario. Spectacular song and dance numbers inevitably follow. Edward Everett Horton and Erik Rhodes are the perfect foils as lawyer and gigolo respectively, and Alice Brady manages to steal every scene she’s in as the crazy aunt. But it is the music and dancing that make it all worth watching—a seaside rendition of Cole Porter’s “Night and Day” is as refreshing now as it was then and a grand eighteen minute extravaganza of swirling extras and spinning doors set to “The Continental” managed to nab the Academy’s very first Oscar for Best Song. As inoffensive as a cookie and twice as sweet.

The General (USA 1926) (8): Although it wasn’t a box office success upon its initial release, Buster Keaton’s Civil War comedy is now counted among the greatest American films ever made. Loosely based on an actual incident, the premise is very simple: when his beloved locomotive is stolen by yankee spies as part of a sabotage plot, a meek confederate train engineer (Keaton) goes to extraordinary lengths to get it back especially when he discovers they’ve kidnapped his sweetheart. The comedic elements are classic Keaton with hefty doses of deadpan slapstick augmented by eye-popping (and downright dangerous) stunts which he performed himself: from running in front of—and on top of and beside—an actual moving train to hopping over a fire and falling into a river. And his split second choreography makes it all appear so seamless that you can forget he’s using real several ton engine cars as if they were mere props for this was in the days before CGI and green screens. In fact The General boasts the most expensive scene to emerge from the Silent Era—a destructive confrontation between North and South involving a bridge and explosive effects that actually sparked a forest fire. Meticulously directed and fearlessly staged, Keaton’s thrilling railroad caper is still a marvel to watch one hundred years later.

A Generation (Poland 1955) (7): At the height of WWII Stach, a young man living in a slum on the outskirts of Warsaw, falls in with the Youth Resistance Movement—and its enticing female recruiter—along with a handful of his friends including the hot-tempered Jasio and timid Mundek (a 23-year old Roman Polanski). With his youthful idealism tempered by both a Communist sympathizer and the hardened ways of the Polish Underground, it will take a double tragedy to propel Stach into adulthood. Director extraordinaire Andrzej Wajda’s first feature film (he was only 29 at the time) successfully treads a fine line between party propaganda—Communism is treated with kid gloves while the Catholic church gets a delicate middle finger—and wartime coming-of-age story. Hampered by a few stiff performances and a score that briefly strays from the action, it’s Jerzy Lipman’s sober B&W cinematography that leaves you with a string of lasting impressions: children enjoy a makeshift carnival while smoke from Warsaw’s incinerated Jewish ghetto rises behind them; a wounded rebel stands atop a spiral staircase contemplating his options; and dispirited citizens make their way to work while above them telephone poles are festooned with the bodies of hanged dissidents. Of course the Nazis and their Polish collaborators are portrayed with disdain, but one scene in which an escaped Jew fails to find succour in the one place he most expected it is especially poignant. Considering the time and place in which it was made, Wajda’s homage to lost innocence (and found maturity) remains a story well worth hearing.

Generation Wealth (USA 2018) (5): So what do a porn star, a six-year old beauty queen, and a disgraced hedge fund manager have in common? An awful lot if you subscribe to Lauren Greenfield’s skewed documentary—a directionless mash-up of anti-capitalism catchphrases, self-indulgent autobiography, and True Confessions video magazine. We live in a “pornified” culture where everything has become a commodity from women’s bodies (porn star) to children as accessories (beauty queen) seems to be the consensus, and television is there to make sure we yearn to keep up with The Kardashians at the expense of hard work, frugality, and a sense of purpose. This is not news, and highly selective interviews with plastic surgery junkies, stock market casualties, and Las Vegas escorts are hardly earth-shattering no matter how many snapshots of anorexics or decadent nightclubs get tossed at the camera. Then Greenfield turns the lens on herself growing up in 1970s Los Angeles to tell how hard it was having two absent Harvard PhDs as parents even though history seems to be repeating itself with her own two sons. And finally we sit down with fallen moguls, grown offspring of the rich and famous, and former valley girls for some tear-stained reflections on how money just can’t buy happiness…sniff sniff. But we’ve seen the bling-bling excesses before and we’ve heard the dire warnings of Capitalism’s imminent demise ad nauseam. An exercise in preaching to the choir given a sheen of insincerity when she closes an already biased exposé by plugging her new book. I think I’ll buy me a lottery ticket.

Genevieve (UK 1953) (7): It’s time once again for the annual London to Brighton Vintage Car Rally and an excited Alan McKim is busily doting on his old jalopy, Genevieve. Not sharing Alan’s obsession with cars, his wife Wendy is steeling herself for yet another 48 hours of tedium, potholes, and being bounced about as she dutifully accompanies her husband. Alan’s best friend and fellow car enthusiast, Ambrose, is also eagerly anticipating the big day although his current femme-du-jour Rosalind has a few misgivings of her own especially when Ambrose objects to her taking her pet St. Bernard along for the ride. But as the rally commences a good-natured competitiveness between Alan and Ambrose gradually spirals into a war of words and sabotage as each man tries to best the other’s time by whatever means necessary. Of course it doesn’t help that both their cars seem determined to break down at the worst possible moments. In the meantime Wendy and Rosalind can only look on helplessly as the men make bigger and bigger fools of themselves... While this lighthearted road movie elicits little more than an occasional smile, its amiable cast and animated direction manage to keep things flowing smoothly. There are a few standout moments as when an indignant Rosalind is forced to push Ambrose’s car through a muddy pond or the McKim’s check into a shabby hotel run by an eccentric old maid (“hot water is provided between half-past two and six o’clock”), but aside from a few adult innuendos that left me blinking, the humour is squarely aimed at the geriatric set. Mild and inoffensive, like a nice glass of warm milk.

Gentlemen Broncos (USA 2009) (6): The writing/directing team of Jared Hess and his wife Jerusha had a hit with 2004’s Napoleon Dynamite, a slacker comedy whose winning formula of suburban eccentrics, vacant expressions, and deadpan deliveries practically redefined “quirky”. Sadly, they try way too hard to score a similar bullseye with Gentlemen Broncos and the result is an occasionally very funny but mostly contrived mess with laughs that rely more on juvenile diarrhea and genital jokes than true wit. Home-schooled dweeb Benjamin (Michael Angarano, one of the film’s bright spots) lives in nowheresville Utah with his ditzy mother, a self-proclaimed fashionista who churns out creations that not even a hippy would be caught dead wearing. Fancying himself a sci-fi author, Benjamin has accumulated a stack of manuscripts including his latest opus “Yeast Lords”, an epic space opera about a rogue hero whose testicle has been stolen by an evil clone. Hoping to be published someday Ben attends a local writers’ convention (cue a plethora of the usual geek jokes) where he enters his novella into a contest judged by legendary science-fiction author Dr. Ronald Chevalier (Jemaine Clement from The Chonchords, the film’s other bright spot), a prissy narcissistic boor who promptly steals Ben’s work and claims it as his own—and you can pretty well guess what comes next. Using this bare bones plot as an excuse Hess wallows in visual gags as a succession of cretins and misfits parade before the lens: Ben’s mom fixes him up with a new friend from church, a long-haired snake handler with a penchant for poison darts; a master class on how to choose names for your characters puts Chevalier’s ego on hilalrious display; and a zero-budget movie adaptation of Yeast Lords is launched by outré director Lonnie Donaho (Héctor Jiménez grimacing like a fish choking on a mouthful of hooks). Snippets of Donaho’s amateur film are pretty funny (flying deer with missile launchers?), especially when compared to Ben’s cinematic daydreams where his hero Bronco, played by Sam Rockwell, is a hirsute brute and Chavalier’s rewrite where Bronco become Brutus, a nelly prancer looking like Hulk Hogan in pink drag. In the end artistic egotism is lanced, Comic-Con sensibilities are lampooned, and an eclectic soundtrack treats us to the likes of Cher, Kansas, and Black Sabbath. But whether you’re laughing with the movie—or at it—is entirely up to you.

Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (USA 1953) (9): When gold-digging showgirl Lorelei (Marilyn Monroe showing us the star she could have been) and her stage partner Dorothy (an ample Jane Russell) embark on a trans-Atlantic cruise the suspicious father of Lorelei’s millionaire fiancé hires a private eye to tail her. Onboard complications ensue when Dorothy tries to date the entire men’s olympic team before falling for the undercover detective and Lorelei sets her sights on an elderly diamond tycoon much to his dour wife’s displeasure. But when the two women find themselves alone and penniless on the streets of Paris a series of lucky breaks and mistaken intentions soon put them back in the driver’s seat again. A laugh-out-loud spoof on sexual politics which sees a background cast of virile all-American guys play second fiddle to two strong female leads while Marilyn’s “dumb blonde” winds up outsmarting every man in the house. A solid script provides an endless stream of comebacks and double-entendres while the lively song & dance routines, filmed in romantic technicolor, are highlighted by Miss Monroe’s iconic rendition of “Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend”. But for my money Russell practically steals the show with “Who’s For Love” sung in a gymnasium full of glistening half-naked men pulling a series of Rockettes moves. “Camp” doesn’t even come close…

Gentlemen’s Agreement (USA 1947) (7): The fact that director Elia Kazan’s multiple Oscar-winning drama about anti-semitism in America was banned in Spain by an ecclesiastical member of that country’s censorship board on “moral grounds” lends an ironic credence to the whole production. When roving reporter Schuyler Green (Gregory Peck) is sent from California to New York City in order to investigate anti-Jewish discrimination he decides to pose as a Jew himself to see first hand what it’s like. With only his high society girlfriend Kathy (Dorothy McGuire) and his uber-liberal magazine editor aware of the ruse Schuyler, now calling himself Philip Greenberg, quickly discovers that anti-semitism wears many faces. Starting with idle gossip and progressing into cold stares and outright hostility aimed at him and his family, he suddenly finds doors closing in his face whether he’s pretending to apply for a job or trying to book a room at a “restricted” upstate hotel. Even Kathy, a self-described liberal, gets cold feet when news of her Jewish boyfriend threatens to usurp her social status. Most surprising of all however is the reactions he receives from the few Jewish people he crosses paths with, ranging from resignation to passive resistance and not the soapbox outrage he was expecting. Although Moss Hart’s screenplay skirts dangerously close to sermonizing at times—“Am I anti-semitic?” whispers a teary-eyed Kathy to Schuyler’s Jewish buddy (John Garfield) in a scene that carries all the gravitas of a highschool hygiene film—he does manage to balance it out with some humour and a few novel points of view such as Sam Jaffe’s character, a renowned scientist and atheist who carries the Jewish moniker more out of defiance than religious conviction. But Peck lacks the passion he would show years later when facing down racism in To Kill a Mockingbird and his rocky love affair with McGuire is merely a tacked-on vehicle for highlighting liberal hypocrisy. Still a groundbreaking film for it’s frank depiction of post-WWII bigotry notable for the fact it doesn’t shy away from ethnic and racial slurs like “kike” or “coon” when poking around the darker recesses of America’s dream. “Equality and freedom remain still the only choice for wholeness and soundness in a man or a nation” reads Schuyler’s proud mother from his newly printed article—words that continue to ring loud and clear seventy years later. Celeste Holm won a Best Supporting Actress statuette for her role as a fellow journalist and a very young Dean Stockwell is impressive as Green’s little son.

Gervaise (France 1956) (9): Director René Clement brings Émile Zola’s novel, L’Assomoir, to tragic life in this Oscar-nominated film, a study in human suffering and cruelty that is near perfect on every level. Despite being poor, lame, and a single mother, Gervaise (Maria Schell, Best Actress Venice Film Festival) finally realizes her dream of owning her own laundry business. But her downfall seems inevitable thanks to three people: her useless sot of a husband still wallowing in self-pity after an accident ended his own career, a conniving ex who has mysteriously re-entered her life, and a vindictive woman from her past who is determined to settle an old score. Set in a convincingly grimy working class Parisian neighbourhood circa 19th century, Robert Juillard’s B&W cinematography creates a world of soot and cobblestones, where freshly laundered sheets contrast with muddy boots and urban peasants fill the gaps in their day with vicious gossip and petty flirtations (the latter toned down for the sanitized American version). In one telling scene a drunken wedding party tracks dirt through the Louvre as they go in search of painted breasts to giggle at. Schell gives us one of cinema’s most wrenching performances as a woman determined to rise above her station only to be undone by one fatal flaw—a habit of putting everyone else ahead of herself. Schell’s ability to mould her facial features in synch with the dialogue is mesmerizing to watch, going from pitiful to enraged and resolved to despondent with just a curve of her mouth or a cast of her eyes. Conversely Franćois Périer, playing her husband, gives us one of filmdom’s most hateful drunkards as he staggers and slurs his way through Gervaise’s life with nary a thought for anyone save himself—one scene of him snoring in a pool of his own vomit while Gervaise looks on in horrified disgust is almost unbearable to watch. And playing Gervaise’s female nemesis and ex-lover respectively, Suzy Delair and Armand Mestral personify greed, wrath, envy, and pride, with false bonhomie and smiles which resemble striking vipers. In fact, aside from Schell’s tragic antiheroine, the only other characters to garner any sympathy are Goujet (Jacque Harden), a blacksmith whose chaste love for Gervaise is more heartbreaking than comforting and Francoise Hery as Gervaise’s daughter Nana, a little girl with downcast eyes that come to reflect all the wretchedness in the world. An overlooked arthouse classic.

Get Carter (UK 1972) (6): Awarded an “X” rating from the BBFC upon its initial release thanks to ample amounts of female nudity and some bloodletting, Mike Hodges’ screen adaptation of the Ted Lewis novel seems relatively mild by today’s standards. Michael Caine plays Jack Carter, a London thug who travels back home to Newcastle in order to solve the mystery of his brother’s death—an apparent drunk driving mishap which Carter doesn’t believe. Meeting up with his brother’s former associates as well as his teenaged daughter, Jack’s occasionally violent investigation quickly spirals into an enraged vendetta as all the clues come together to form a very distressing picture. But despite his role as self-appointed judge, jury, and executioner Jack’s own hands are far from clean and karma always has a way of evening the score eventually. Despite being on several “must see” lists including the BFI’s list of Greatest British Films and Steven Schneider’s “1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die” there is nothing much of note here aside from Caine’s intense performance, some 70’s kitsch, and a few darkly poetic metaphors as when a hired assassin hovers like the angel of death or an aerial coal scuttle crosses a stygian shoreline bearing one of Carter’s victims. An odd and wholly gratuitous episode of phone sex between Carter and his boss’ moll (Britt Ekland) is hopelessly out of place but fun to watch just the same. All in all a dark and entertaining tale of revenge couched in a gangster motif which certainly stands tall alongside its contemporaries without ever rising above them.

Get Low (USA 2009) (6): Reviled by the nearby townsfolk and the butt of many disparaging tall tales, curmudgeonly Tennessee hermit Felix Bush (Robert Duvall) nevertheless derives some lonely satisfaction living by himself in his comfortably primitive backwoods shack. But Felix is also harbouring a tragic secret from the past which he needs to get off his chest before the Grim Reaper comes knocking in earnest and with no friends to turn to he hatches a most outlandish plan—he’ll host his own “funeral party”, invite everyone within four counties, and finally shed some light on all those mean-spirited rumours which have been dogging him for forty years. But first he has to convince the local mortician… Based somewhat on the exploits of Felix Bushaloo Breazeale, a real life hillbilly recluse, but padded out for theatre audiences, Aaron Schneider’s low-keyed slice of life dramedy has but a few things going for it. Robert Duvall is exceptional as the taciturn Bush who goes from grumbling loner to articulate philosopher at the drop of a shotgun shell while Sissy Spacek keeps pace as an old flame who is just finding out she never really knew the man she once loved. Bill Murray rounds out the cast as a befuddled funeral director along with Lucas Black as his too honest assistant and Bill Cobbs as a reluctant eulogist. The 1930s touches are nice too with old jalopies, dusty country streets, and a soundtrack of original music complimented by scratchy old records. But aside from being a somewhat engaging character study nothing really takes off—the anticipated climax is more lifeless than an actual wake and the ending is hardly surprising even with the last few pieces of the puzzle plopping into place. Would have been better as a short story.

The Ghost and Mrs. Muir (USA 1947) (7): Longing for a life of her own the recently widowed Lucy Muir (a radiant Gene Tierney) packs up her young daughter and housemaid and moves into a modest seaside home where she plans to live off the dividends from her late husband’s gold mine shares. But the picturesque Gull Cottage already has a tenant, the previous owner Capt. Daniel Gregg (Rex Harrison looking the part), a crusty old mariner who died a few years earlier and now haunts the property taking great delight in scaring off potential buyers. At first alarmed by his phantom presence, then intrigued, the plucky Mrs. Muir slowly develops a friendship with Gregg leading to a chaste (he can’t be touched) inter-dimensional love affair of sorts which sees him soften while she grows a backbone. But one can’t really love shadows and when Lucy falls for a man with an actual heartbeat (George Sanders, unctuously charming) Gregg’s spectral longings are dashed—at least for a little while. Make no mistake, this is pure gothic treacle with dollhouse interiors set against postcard seascapes and a swelling orchestral score keeping time with magnificently crashing waves. But director Joseph L. Mankiewicz doesn’t blink an eye as he shamelessly pours on the romance and heartbreak (the final scene is almost too much). Thankfully Tierney and Harrison are more than up to the challenge, their unaffected performances and onscreen chemistry save the day more than once. Highly watchable and, if I’m to be honest, capable of eliciting one or two wistful sighs. As an interesting aside, “muir” is the Gaelic word for “sea”.

Ghost Town (USA 2008) (6): Following his near death experience during a medical procedure, curmudgeonly Manhattan dentist Bertram Pincus (Ricky Gervais) discovers—much to his irritation—that he is suddenly able to commune with the dead. Never a people person to begin with, he must now contend with a mob of pushy New York ghosts who dog his every move demanding that he sort out the messes they left behind so that they can move on. But one particular spirit, philandering yuppie Frank Herlihy (Greg Kinnear), won’t take no for an answer. Frank’s widow, Gwen (Téa Leoni), is getting ready to marry someone he despises and his insistence that Pincus throw a wrench into their nuptial plans backfires when Pincus discovers he actually has a heart after all leading to emotional complications on both sides of the grave. Gervais delivers the same acerbic stand-up routine that worked so well for him in After Life (Pincus really is an insufferable asshole) while Kinnear, all dapper in tux and bowtie, gives a sympathetic performance as the unhappily deceased husband slowly coming to terms with his mistakes. Leoni provides a character sketch of the conflicted widow torn between grief and anger, and co-star Kristen Wiig basically acts out an SNL skit as the scatterbrained surgeon who almost killed Pincus in the first place. The trouble is, after watching such genre mainstays as The Sixth Sense and 1990’s Ghost there is a pervasive sense of déjà vu to writer/director David Koepp’s little urban dramedy especially since it doesn’t have anything new to add anyway. The funny bits are enough to elicit a smile or two given Gervais’ expert sense of sarcasm and eye-rolling comebacks—an exchange with Leoni (whose Gwen is an archaeologist) over some mummified remains is one of the highlights. However, the film’s attempt to plumb deeper depths of love, loneliness, and healing falls prey to a cast of two-dimensional extras and a script that too often substitutes schmaltz for substance. Clocking in at just over 90 minutes, Ghost Town leaves you feeling like you’ve just watched three back-to-back episodes of a doomed sitcom: it’s sweet and charming but not much else.

The Ghost Writer (France/UK 2010) (7): Roman Polanski wades into political intrigue in this highly polished but slightly too fantastic tale of ugly Americans and international corruption. Entrusted to finish the memoirs of former British Prime Minister Adam Lang (Pierce Brosnan) after the first man assigned to the job mysteriously dies, an unnamed ghostwriter (Ewan McGregor) is at first delighted with the opportunity to interview the once influential world leader. But when Lang is publicly indicted by the World Court for crimes against humanity committed during the Iraqi war the ghostwriter begins to suspect there is far more to the man than meets the eye. Traveling to a small island off the coast of Massachusetts where Lang and his entourage are staying at the lavish home of his publisher, the writer’s initial unease turns to outright panic when his discovery of some potentially damning evidence puts his own life in danger. Not knowing who to trust or where to turn, the writer makes a series of desperate gambits as dark forces slowly gather around him. Gorgeous scenes of windswept dunes and restless seas belie the film’s escalating tension and a deeper cynicism. In the PM’s household McGregor’s character comes to resemble a sacrificial lamb among slavering wolves with Lang’s fastidious personal secretary and fiercely opinionated wife squaring off while Lang himself wavers between placid statesman and enraged egotist. Of course all the requisite twists are neatly in place leading up to a sombre finale which, although visually striking, lacks sufficient logic to convince an entire audience. Good performances though.

Gia (USA 1998) (6): Made-for-cable biopic on the tragic life of Gia Marie Carangi who left her modest Philadelphia neighbourhood to become one of the hottest supermodels the 80s had ever seen before losing it all to heroin and her own personal demons. Angelina Jolie gives a knockout performance as the troubled beauty, a volatile mixture of smart-ass insolence and emotional neediness whose fear of abandonment drove her to increasingly desperate measures. She brings a pathological intensity to the role as we follow Gia from spiky-haired naif ready to take on the world to tweaked-out diva having a monumental runway meltdown. Unfortunately the film's flat presentation and lifeless supporting cast are not able to keep up with Jolie's performance, especially when the camera focuses on them in a series of post-mortem talking head interviews scattered haphazardly throughout the movie. The 80s soundtrack rocks though, and the quotes from Gia's own diary are sobering.

Giant Little Ones (Canada 2018) (7): Franky and Ballas have been best friends since they were tots. Now, as highschool seniors, they’re still joined at the hip—competing in the school swim team together, getting into trouble together, and working on losing their virginity (Ballas already has a willing girlfriend, Franky is working on it). But on the night of Franky’s big birthday bash a little too much alcohol and pot leads to some sexual experimentation between the two boys that will change their relationship forever. Riddled with fear and guilt Ballas lashes out with vocal lies and personal denial while Franky—still unable to deal with his dad’s coming out years earlier—begins pondering some difficult questions about himself, a task made even more difficult when rumours begin to fly around the classroom. Too often overbearing, overblown, and filled with derivative clichés, English-Canadian cinema—most notably those “movies with a message”—is not known for nuance which makes this delicate coming-of-age tale from Saskatchewan’s Keith Behrman something of a revelation. Filmed against the suburban greenery of Sault Ste. Marie and graced by an eclectic soundtrack of Techno chords and soft Trance, Behrman’s unadorned script remains largely believable throughout, certainly to anyone who has ever had to sort through their own identity in the scheme of things. Locker rooms can become battlegrounds, friendships can cut to the bone, and the family home can become something less than a quiet refuge and Behrman’s talented cast of young performers respond to this as if by instinct. But this is not a gay film per se even though homophobia does show its ugly face on occasion. It’s more a story about defining oneself with honesty and courage during one of life’s most turbulent periods. Adolescence. There are a few stock characters to be sure—Franky’s friend “Mouse” is a loveable little dyke (possibly trans) who spouts queer-positive maxims, and a horrendous experience in her past has Ballas’ sister philosophizing more than any teenager has a right to—but leads Josh Wiggins and Darren Mann register angst without having to spell it out, Maria Bello does a fine job as Franky’s mom whose awkward attempts to confront her son ring all too true, and Kyle MacLachlan plays the gay dad with such aplomb he gets his point across without the need for a lectern. Lastly, Behrman doesn’t insult his audience with tidy resolutions nor does he insist on pigeonholing his characters into being either this or that. Life is an ongoing exploration fraught with uncertainties and to highlight that fact he concludes with a soft epiphany backlit, quite literally, by a rocket’s red glare.

Gidget (USA 1959) (4): Sandra Dee is America's favourite piece of jailbait in this breezy tale of slick surfboards and raging hormones. Just turned 17 and afraid she'll never find a guy that turns her head, Gidget winds up hanging ten with Big Kahuna, Loverboy and the rest of the surfer crowd instead. Despite almost drowning twice and flipping her board repeatedly she soon masters the waves but it's Moondoggie who really makes her bikini itch... With it's cornball dialogue and whiter than white cast Gidget floods the screen with enough fluff and apple pie to choke a whale while a few awkward attempts at sexual innuendo almost garner it a "PG" rating. Like wow man!

Gidget Goes Hawaiian (USA 1961) (5): A bland and inoffensive little confection featuring a cast of talented adults and horny teenagers. After breaking up with her boyfriend Moondoggie, Gidget reluctantly accompanies her parents on a Hawaiian vacation where she befriends a backstabbing bitch, kisses a nightclub entertainer, and gets accused of being a slut. Of course hilarity erupts thanks to a series of zany misunderstandings but it all ends happily ever after and Gidget returns to Moondoggie with her hymen still intact. About as complicated as a bag of popcorn but the dance moves were far out.

Gidget Goes to Rome (USA 1963) (6): Sandra Dee and Deborah Walley pass the torch to Cindy Carol as she takes a stab at playing America’s perennial virgin in what is arguably the series’ best written instalment. As Gidget and the gang plan a trip to Italy her father arranges to have her shadowed by Paolo Cellini, a Roman friend of his who promises to keep the wide-eyed teenager out of harm’s way. But once in Rome everything is thrown into disarray as Gidget’s boyfriend Moondoggie falls for a local guide, Gidget develops romantic feelings for the very married Paolo (posing as a journalist), and the group’s supposed chaperone, elderly Aunt Albertina, proves to be an insufferable eccentric. Before her vacation is over Gidget will have her heart broken twice, disrupt a fashion show, and in a weak spoof on Fellini’s La Dolce Vita go for an impromptu dip in the Trevi Fountain. Of course it all ends on a happy note and everyone piles on the plane for home a wee bit wiser. This one is actually entertaining despite the obligatory sugar and spice--the aforementioned fashion show disaster is well done while a side trip to a swank party crawling with jet-setters borders on the surreal. And we even get to see Gidget stripped down to a bra and slip; who knew she actually had breasts?!

Gifted (USA 2017) (6): A predictable and almost indecently cloying heart-tugger, Marc Webb’s little Hallmark card of a film is saved by two things: a powerful cast and a script that occasionally trips over its own mawkishness to say something profound. Ever since her mathematical genius mother killed herself Mary Adler (a star turn from Mckenna Grace) has been living in a Florida trailer park with her uncle Frank (an “aw shucks” Chris Evans). Now, at the age of six, Mary has become a precocious math prodigy herself and Frank is determined to give her a normal childhood lest she also become an emotionally damaged academician like her late mother. Enter Frank’s own estranged mother Evelyn, an wealthy and controlling Boston WASP who is equally determined to see her granddaughter achieve her full intellectual potential. With Frank blaming Evelyn for his sister’s death, Evelyn accusing Frank of negligence, and no one listening to Mary, it will take a messy custody battle to sort things out. Or maybe not. Marred by lapses of sentimental treacle (including a ridiculous maternity ward scene and a nod to God set against a glaring sunset) as well as a sobbing violin section hellbent on wresting those tears from our eyes, writer Tom Flynn nevertheless manages to inject a much needed empathy into characters which never quite descend into one-note props. Frank is not the rural hick one expects—although his own sketchy brush with academia is a bit of a plot hole—and Evelyn is not the monstrous all-consuming bitch audiences can delight in hissing at. And Mckenna Grace, bless her little doe-eyed heart, manages to tread that fine line between engaging moppet and insufferable midget, carrying the entire weight of the film in the process. A bit of humour, a couple of clever “oh-no-she-didn’t” retorts, and a warm chemistry between Evans and Grace all serve to make Webb’s quiet film about choices and self-determination appear brighter than it actually is. And that proved good enough for me…but just barely.

Ginger and Fred (Italy 1986) (7): Federico Fellini sends another love letter to the beautiful chaos that is cinema, only this time it also contains a colourful middle finger pointed directly at Italian TV culture. It’s been more than 30 years since the dance team of Pippo Botticella and Amelia Bonetti (Marcello Mastroianni, Giulietta Masina) have performed together although at one time they were considered Italy’s answer to Astaire and Rogers. Now they’re slated to appear on a popular television show, part of a retro salute, and the culture shock is almost enough to bowl them over. Gone are the Hollywood-style sets and glamorous costumes replaced instead by freaks, geeks, and gaudy spectacle where video announcers peer through television screens like minor deities, scantily clad skanks hawk everything from “sexy” sausage and olive oil to couture shoes and political propaganda, and the only spotlight Amelia can get is the neon strobe light that pierces her hotel blinds. Pippo’s failing health is sabotaging his dance moves, Amelia’s wig is out of date, and their new audience represents a generation barely able to tear themselves away from the warped realities of the small screen. But the show must go on and it does, after a fashion, even though it’s not quite the glorious reunion either one was expecting. Part carnival midway, part Dantean Inferno (an opening sequence places us firmly in the first circle of Hell), Fellini doesn’t exactly give way to despair but amid the swirling costumes, manic dialogue, and tasteless pageantry one can sense his attempt to balance warm nostalgia for bygone days with a cool disdain for contemporary aesthetics. If life is a circus then Ginger and Fred represents a rollicking side trip through the Hall of Mirrors, and the reflections therein provide enough pop culture satire to keep the film afloat.

Ginger & Rosa (UK 2012) (6): Ginger and Rosa’s mothers gave birth to them in a London hospital just as The Bomb was being dropping on Hiroshima. Seventeen years later, at the height of the Cuban Missile Crisis, the effects of that explosion are still being felt by Ginger (a phenomenal Elle Fanning) who has become a neurotic activist convinced that the world will end tomorrow. Rosa, on the other hand, has become a bohemian who still believes in “eternal love” even as she bums free cigarettes and the occasional snog from willing strangers. Yet the two are the best of friends, sharing a free-spirited delinquency much to the consternation of Ginger’s frustrated artist mother and the delight of Roland, her anarchist father who still nurses the cross he acquired when he was jailed for being a conscientious objector. But when Rosa’s quest for love everlasting goes too far a rift develops between the girls causing Ginger to contemplate mushroom clouds of a different variety. There is some psychological meat to this teen drama especially when Ginger’s paranoia about global destruction is taken for the emotional metaphor it’s clearly meant to be. The carefree relationship between the two friends is realistically portrayed making the final fireworks and resolutions all the more believable. But there is a lack of momentum as the story gets bogged down in a series of bombastic exchanges whether it’s Ginger going off the rails with her “Ban the Bomb” rhetoric, mom’s bleeding martyr lamentations, or dad’s pretentious prattle on freedom from societal conventions which he selfishly uses to justify some unjustifiable behaviour. Even a surprise cameo by Annette Bening as a raspy-voiced American agitator amounts to little more than liberal clichés and feminist musings. Only Ginger’s gay godfather Mark (Timothy Spall) seems to have any practical sense about him and he’s relegated to a supporting character. Unevenly edited with a script that wavers between family drama and adolescent soap, but the sense of teenage angst—a cliché in itself—set against a backdrop of civil unrest is handled with aplomb.

Ginger Snaps 2: Unleashed (Canada 2004) (8): The best grunge werewolf movie since the original Gingersnaps, Brett Sullivan’s winning mix of gore, bleak humour, and depressive teenaged angst looks like it should have been based on a graphic novel. In the first movie Brigitte (a sour Emily Perkins personifying Goth misery) was forced to dispatch her sister Ginger after the latter snapped and became a voracious lycanthrope. Now cursed with the same supernatural malady, her attempts at self-medication have landed her in Canada’s dingiest rehab ward. Run by a savvy ex-addict and staffed with a platitude-spouting social worker and a sexual predator orderly, Brigitte must find a means of escaping before the next full moon puts her over the edge. Meanwhile, as if things couldn’t be worse, Ginger’s ghost has begun egging her on and an amorous male werewolf has come sniffing for her… Perkin’s sullen, unkempt performance finds its perfect counterpoint in co-star Tatiana Maslany who plays sidekick and fellow inmate “Ghost”, a suspiciously chipper tween whose unhealthy obsession with comic books has made her determined to help Brigitte with her hairy predicament. Wintry Albertan exterior shots are complimented by shabby interior sets to give the entire production an aura of wrack and ruin further accented by a score of morose ballads and minor riffs. From the opening carnage in a motel parking lot to a final comeuppance at grandmother’s house (literally!) both cast and crew know they are fashioning a B-Movie shocker, but they do so with such gusto and wit (oh that crooked wink at “grrl power”, and that group session which goes off the rails) that I found myself cheering them on despite the occasional misstep.

A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night (USA 2014) (8): Bad City, Iran (actually shot in southern California) is a suburban wasteland where manicured lawns and mid-century homes exist side by side with oil derricks and spewing smokestacks. Trying to eke out a living in this dead end town by trimming rich people’s hedges, Arash barely manages to pay off the bills and keep his junkie father supplied with heroin at the same time. Meanwhile, on the other side of the tracks aging prostitute Atti is beginning to feel the despair of a wasted life—a fact not lost upon Saeed, her cruel and violent drug-dealing pimp. But everyone’s game is about to change when a new face enters the fray—a mysterious nocturnal woman with a penchant for skateboarding and a thirst for human blood who mercilessly stalks the unwary citizens of Bad Town until a chance encounter with a very stoned Arash (stumbling home from a Halloween rave in Dracula drag) opens her undead eyes to another possibility… Written and directed by newcomer Ana Lily Amirpour (but looking as if it was helmed by David Lynch wearing a burkha) this is the world’s first feminist Iranian vampire flick shot in ultra-hip B&W and sporting a phenomenal soundtrack of techno cuts and 80s-style dance tunes. Amirpour’s lovelorn bloodsucker is a refreshing mix of heartless monster and avenging activist (hint: no misogyny goes unpunished) while the town’s human inhabitants are more or less resigned to a fate of broken hearts and empty dreams—no one even seems to care about the growing pile of corpses lining the local culvert. Terribly avant-garde with its off kilter edits and use of fast and slow motion, this little arthouse oddity contains just enough self-effacing humour to avoid being labelled pretentious while at the same time wowing us with some cool visuals and a host of convincingly deadpan performances. But something tells me this won’t be opening in Tehran cinemas anytime soon.

The Girl Who Leapt Through Time (Japan 2006) (6): When teenaged Makoto discovers she has the ability to leap several hours back through time she immediately sets about making her life a little easier; sleeping in, making Saturday nights last forever, and manipulating the people around her. But she soon discovers that temporal tampering not only comes at a cost, but she is not the only one playing the game. Pretty standard anime aimed squarely at lovestruck Japanese girls which nevertheless contains some entertaining passages (Makoto’s first few “practice leaps” are worth a chuckle) set to a wistful musical score. An early trip through time is particularly impressive, coming across as a series of animated Van Gogh canvases. Just a little too cute for my tastes.

The Glass Bottom Boat (USA 1966) (8):  I loved “The Glass Bottom Boat” when I first saw it at the age of ten.  This light and fluffy little confection is definitely one of the better Doris Day romantic comedies ever made.  It’s also the film that turned me gay.  I mean, really, with scenes featuring Rod Taylor’s hairy chest, Doris fawning over a cake, and Paul Lynde in drag I didn’t stand a chance.  Be sure and watch “Every Girl’s Dream” featuring the “Maid of Cotton” in the extras section....what a hoot!

Glass Lips (Poland 2007) (7): Like his earlier work, The Roe’s Room (also reviewed here) Lech Majewski’s painfully intimate account of one young man’s brush with mental illness refrains from simple linear narrative and instead presents us with a collage of impressions and highly symbolic tableaux. Opening with an austere landscape of jagged mountain peaks and rolling thunder the camera eventually settles on an abandoned child, bloody umbilical cord still hanging limply by his side, mewling piteously to an empty sky. Thus begins the sad story of our nameless protagonist, now a patient on a psychiatric unit, as he reflects upon his life. It was a childhood filled with humiliations and abuse at the hands of his domineering father while his sympathetic mother, still the object of an unresolved Oedipal complex, looked on helplessly. Of course, being a Polish film, religious tyranny and the rage it can beget figure prominently with Catholic metaphors popping up in every frame; a First Communion suit morphs into a straitjacket, women are seen as both Madonnas and temptresses, and the story of Abraham and Isaac is re-enacted atop a roadside shrine. The asylum itself comes to represent a warped view of the outside world as the young man’s fellow inmates play out events in his life with unsettling effect, in one instance they appear as patrons in an art gallery who suddenly don period costumes in order to mimic a painting of the crucifixion with the boy himself playing the role of Christ. Majewski’s visual poetry is a heady admixture of the miraculous and the sacrilegious. His images, at once breathtaking and visceral, expertly convey his subject’s sense of isolation and moral bewilderment without a single word being spoken. Not one to leave his audience without some sense of resolution however, he brings events to a beautifully enigmatic finale hinting at redemption both sacred and secular. Not as seamless as Roe’s Room (a deliberate attempt to mirror the protagonist’s chaotic mind?) but a mesmerizing experience all the same.

Glen Campbell: I’ll Be Me (USA 2014) (8): For those of us who grew up in the 60s and 70’s Glen Campbell was a radio mainstay. Selling millions of records in a career that spanned fifty years he was a devilishly handsome, multiple award-winning singer, songwriter, and actor—and one of the first country stars to make that crucial crossover into the pop charts. He was also a virtuoso guitar player with a quick wit and a keen mind. So it came as something of a shock when, well into his 70s, he went public with his diagnosis of Alzheimer’s Disease, a condition which was slowly destroying his memories and making life for his family a daily challenge. But rather than go gently he fought back, releasing one more album and embarking on a final coast-to-coast tour. Documentarian James Keach was invited to join the Campbells, including wife Kim and a handful of adult children who now play in the band, as they performed at over 150 venues and the result is an insightful, playful, and at times unbearably sad testament to a music legend whose powers are quickly fading. Scenes of domestic life are intercut with grim doctors’ visits where an obviously ailing but resolutely brave Campbell smiles and jokes his way past the gaps in his memory while Kim gently guides him in the right direction. But on stage, surrounded by cheering fans, he somehow comes back to life whipping out one hit after another from Los Angeles to New York until the ravages of Alzheimer’s bring the tour to a quiet but no less dignified end. An assortment of famous talking heads from the music industry give the usual words of praise you’d expect—a few of them even opening up about how the disease affected their own family—but a trip to D.C. where the Campbells were slated to testify before a house committee on Alzheimer’s research provides an unfortunate opportunity for the likes of John Boehner to gush and posture in front of the camera. Still powerful despite a few false steps, Keach’s film opens with an intense collage of old film clips set to Glen’s stirring rendition of “Classical Gas” and ends, appropriately enough, with his prophetic final song, the Oscar-nominated “I’m Not Going to Miss You”. Tragic and triumphant in equal measure.

God on Trial (UK 2008) (9): With half their number slated for extermination the following day, a group of Jews imprisoned at Auschwitz decide to hold a rabbinical court with none other than God himself as the defendant. Charging Adonai with willfully breaking the covenant that he himself made with the Israelites, the inmates are divided into two camps—those who hold steadfast to their belief that he has not abandoned them and that Hitler’s gas chambers serve some ultimately divine purpose, and those who cite biblical evidence and personal experiences which call into question God’s “goodness” and the strength of his commitment to his Chosen People. In this PBS “Masterpiece Contemporary” production, Director Andy De Emmony and writer Frank Cottrell Boyce address deep-seated issues of Jewish faith and identity unfolding in the midst of a Shoah which was designed to destroy both. With the immediacy of a live performance De Emmony’s cast, which includes such notables as Rupert Graves, Eddie Marsan, and Stellan Skarsgård (all suitably shorn and grimy), are superb as they passionately wrangle their way towards a verdict—one man sobs as he describes the fate of his children, another pits science against dogma, and still another takes this attack on Yahweh to a personal level. But the narrative stumbles somewhat in the fact that, with the exception of a few detractors, no one outright accuses God of not existing in the first place. One inmate, a physicist, questions why a deity would create a vast universe just to dote on one particular tribe. Another inmate, a professor of law with no particular religious affiliation, realizing that the Nazis have stripped everything else from them, including their very humanity, urges Adonai’s biggest critic to at least hold on to his god, “…even if he doesn’t exist”. But these asides are overshadowed by a prayerful coda in which past and present overlap to give God (or the idea of a god) the final word. The religiosity is baffling, at least to this former Catholic, but as a purely intellectual debate it proves to be an intelligent exercise well written and fiercely performed.

Gods of Egypt (USA 2016) (6): Two-dimensional characters, lukewarm CGI effects, and a plot thinner than a comic book is not much to go on but somehow director Alex Proyas manages to churn out something entertaining enough thanks to a bit of star power and sheer chutzpah. The gods of ancient Egypt love the Nile kingdom so much they’ve taken up residence among mortals despite being nine-feet tall and having liquid gold for blood. Osiris, the current god-king, is about to pass the crown to his layabout son Horus (Game of Thrones’ Nikolaj Coster-Waldau) when he is usurped by his wicked brother Set (Gerard Butler looking buffed but sounding like he’s in the middle of a Glaswegian pub crawl). Robbed of most of his powers and sent into exile, Horus joins forces with master thief Bek (an annoyingly cocky Brentan Thwaites) in order to wrest the throne of Egypt back from his uncle Set whose tyrannical rule threatens to destroy the world. But Set’s evil runs deeper than either mortal or immortal anticipated and as the remaining gods join in the fray the future of humanity hangs by a thread. Or something like that. Reducing the Egyptian pantheon to a swashbuckling sitcom of bickering couples and colourful eccentrics then throwing in a pair of doe-eyed adolescent lovers—Bek wants to retrieve his girlfriend from the Netherworld—and dropping them all into a make-believe world culled from every DVD fantasy game ever invented (with more than a passing nod to Indiana Jones) should have yielded more groans than smiles yet it is this very cheesiness that ends up making the film so darn watchable. Everyone delivers their lines with a smirk—Geoffrey Rush as supreme god Ra looks like he’s about to break into giggles—and the flashy effects combined with that grandiose music makes two hours fly by in a whirl of gilded wings and computer-generated monsters. Let’s just pray there isn’t a sequel.

God’s Little Acre (USA 1958) (7): It’s lust, sweat, and beers under the hot Georgia sun in Anthony Mann’s entertainingly trashy adaptation of Erskine Caldwell’s novel, a film that sits somewhere between funny tragedy and tragic comedy. Eccentric patriarch Ty Ty Walden (a hyperactive Robert Ryan) is a dreamer who’s been digging pits on his property for the past fifteen years convinced there is a hoard of gold coins buried somewhere under all that dirt. Determined to uncover this white trash El Dorado Walden has allowed his once thriving cotton plantation to turn to dust leaving precious little for his family who already have enough troubles of their own. Sultry daughter-in-law Griselda (a pre Gilligan’s Island Tina Louise all heaving bosoms and pursed lips) is lusting after her brother-in-law Will (Aldo Ray) who has been perpetually drunk ever since the local cotton mill went out of business; youngest daughter “Darlin’ Jill” is a seductive Lolita who has the local sheriff wrapped around her moistened finger (Buddy Hackett….Buddy Hackett?! ); middle son Buck (Jack Lord), Griselda’s hot-tempered husband, is consumed with jealousy; and eldest son Jim Leslie married a wealthy widow and moved as far away as he possibly could. With adultery, alcoholism, and Buck’s mounting insecurities coming to a head in the heat of summer, tribulations can’t be far behind. Laughably inept southern accents and overbaked melodrama—such drama queens!—are counterbalanced by a script that sparkles with down home humour and enduring love, for despite its lurid patina this is an unapologetically sentimental film about family strength and Quixotic dreams whether it’s Ty Ty’s search for treasure or Will’s misguided determination to see the bankrupt mill reopen. If Tennessee Williams had written an episode of Roseanne it might have looked something like this. Look for a very young Michael Landon as a lovelorn albino—I kid you not.

The God Who Wasn’t There (USA 2005) (7): Writer/Director Brian Flemming grew up in a religious home where he was indoctrinated into the fundamentalist mindset at the local Christian Academy. Now a happily born again atheist he sets out to shake the very foundations of his former beliefs armed with a bit of logic, some historical trivia and a handful of university scholars. Starting with Jesus and working his way up to God, Flemming highlights biblical inconsistencies, the lack of scientific evidence and the intellectual apathy among Believers themselves. Along the way we meet a young philosophy student who shows how this cold inhospitable universe is actually geared more towards the formation of black holes than life; a Berkeley professor specializing in folklore who makes several uncomfortable comparisons between the alleged life of Christ and the lives of countless mythical heros (virgin birth, God made flesh, earthbound ministry, execution, resurrection...); a doctor of neuroscience who fears the rise of religious extremism in this day of nuclear weapons; a "Christian Atheist" who laments the rise of dogma and biblical literalism; and the co-founders of snopes.com, a website devoted to debunking urban myths. Flemming himself interviews the principal of his former school who begins to squirm a wee bit when asked to separate faith from fact. It's during this interview however that we catch a glimpse into Flemming's true motives. Like Michael Moore, he has a bone to pick and a vendetta to accomplish. There is a resentment in him towards the lies he felt he was taught and although I can sympathize with him I was still left with the impression that this wasn't a documentary so much as it was a personal catharsis. "I reject the Holy Spirit..." he whispers conspiratorially while skulking in his former school's chapel, and by invoking this one "unforgivable sin" he invites us to celebrate his new found freedom. Nevertheless, the arguments put forth by the film's talking heads were both intelligent and highly compelling.

Godzilla (USA 2014) (9): Stretching from the jungles of the South Pacific to the neon streets of Las Vegas, Gareth Edwards’ rip-snorting monster smackdown is the perfect summer no-brainer…a heady blend of CGI devastation, sci-fi silliness, and the most awesome incarnation of Toho Studios’ beloved saurian yet. When an international team of scientists based in Japan unwittingly resurrect a horrifying MUTO (Massive Unidentified Terrestrial Organism), a prehistoric nightmare with wings and too many legs that feeds on atomic radiation, it naturally escapes their clutches and heads out to sea where the bright lights (and surprisingly fragile buildings) of the West Coast beckon it. Meanwhile, in another corner of the ocean, the film’s gigantic armour plated namesake decides to pay mankind an impromptu visit even though the army tried to blow him up sixty years earlier. Luckily Godzilla doesn’t take kindly to MUTO’s screeching presence and before you can shout “Evacuate!” the ultimate Battle Royale is on and it’s every man and monster for himself. Although a familiarity with the “Gojira” mythos is helpful, if only to appreciate some of the little in-jokes, it’s hardly necessary as Edwards deftly leads his audience through the film’s wildly suspenseful first half wherein creatures are anticipated but not yet seen, filling in background information as needed, before leaving them to fend for themselves as death rays erupt and skyscrapers topple. The original Godzilla was meant to be a metaphor for the horrors of nuclear war with his fiery breath repeatedly laying waste to Japan’s economy, but in this latest reboot he provides the trumpeting bellow of nature itself warning mankind against tampering with the unknown while at the same time trying his catastrophic best to set things right again. An appropriately cartoonish script is elevated somewhat by a pounding musical score (including an eerie version of Ligeti’s Requiem not heard in theatres since apemen danced around Kubrick’s monolith) although one wonders what the casting crew were thinking with dull-faced hunk Aaron Taylor-Johnson eating up screen time as the hero while Oscar calibre actresses Juliette Binoche and Sally Hawkins hover unimportantly in the background. But Godzilla has never looked so terrifyingly sexy with his new bulked-up body and thunderous roar. Now if he’d only work on those table manners...

Godzilla: King of the Monsters (USA 2019) (7): It’s been five years since a newly revived Godzilla accidentally ate San Francisco and even though he and the rest of the Titans (a collective term for great big monsters) are being studied by the conservationist Monarch corporation, things are about to heat up once again. A group of eco-terrorists led by psychopath Alan Jonah (Charles Dance not straying far from his GOT character) are intent upon waking every single Titan and siccing them on an unworthy world. Caught in the middle are estranged couple Drs. Mark and Emma Russel (Kyle Chandler, Vera Farmiga) who are not seeing eye to eye, and their perpetually conflicted daughter Madison (Millie Bobby Brown). Now, with gigantic creatures straight out of mythology crawling, flying, slithering, or stomping their way out of everything from volcanos to icebergs starting to develop a taste for city blocks and screaming civilians, it’s going to take one helluva effort to put the genie back into the bottle—but will Godzilla help or hinder? All of Toho Studios’ major kaiju characters take a bow in this wanton celebration of toppling skyscrapers and incandescent death rays—Godzilla looks (and sounds) more regal; Rodan sports a pair of killer lava wings; three-headed Ghidorah makes Smaug look like a frightened newt; and Mothra, my personal favourite, hovers like a deadly goddess on a colossal pair of neon wings. The script does suffer from the usual over-reaching drama and Hallmark philosophizing (“…the only way to heal our wounds is to make peace with the demons who created them…” Umm, OK, sure) and everyone dutifully ticks the boxes as they register wonder, horror, anger, and resolve. But the film’s lulls are thankfully few and far between as the big guys hog centre stage. Carnage and mayhem set the screen on fire both in the air, on the ground (it’s Boston’s turn!), and underwater when a nuclear warhead sinks Atlantis for a second time. In fact kick ass sound and visual effects make the human actors seem like an annoyance at times—get out of the way Chandler, Ghidorah’s about to knock the shit out of the Federal Reserve Bank Building!! And, of course, the army provides its usual glut of exploding hardware. In the end, like most monster flicks, it’s short on logic and long on sermonizing—in 1954’s Them! it was atomic proliferation, in KOTM it’s the environment—but the film’s decidedly green eco-stance does produce a novel end credits montage. They’ve undergone major makeovers since the days of rubber body suits and little miniature Tokyos made out of balsa wood, but Toho’s army of leviathans have achieved a level of immortality unmatched throughout the world. Even if they do keep trying to destroy it, bless them.

Going Attractions: The Definitive Story of the American Drive-In Movie (USA 2013) (6): Family-friendly novelty to sinful pit of teenaged hedonism, the Drive-In movie theatre went through many transformations since the first one opened in the early 30s. Finding a niche in post WWII car culture and a new generation of pampered little boomers, they reached their zenith by the end of the 50s when there were an estimated five thousand screens across the USA. April Wright’s documentary, truly a work of love, examines the rise and fall of Drive-In Theatres from glittery quasi-amusement park destinations to shabby purveyors of third-rate flicks and porn as their owners tried to weather pressure from land developers and shifting societal mores, not to mention the increasing competition from indoor multiplexes. Interviewing film historians, theatre proprietors, and devotees alike, she gives us a colourful first-hand account of the myriad reasons behind the Drive-In’s meteoric success and sad decline—and possible renaissance?—which will spark nostalgia in anyone who ever sat through a double feature sprawled out in their pyjamas on the backseat of the family sedan. Unfortunately the rapid fire editing doesn’t give you much time to absorb the historical images she provides and her talking heads, although engaging enough, really have no groundbreaking revelations to offer as they share their own fond memories and a little technical trivia. They were truly a cultural icon however, even spawning their own film genre—mention “Drive-In movie” and you’ll conjure up B-movie visions of softcore schlock, fast cars, and rubber monster suits in anyone old enough to remember. And for that reason alone Wright’s well-meaning ode is essential viewing for cinephiles of all stripes.

Going Clear: Scientology and the Prison of Belief (USA 2015) (8): Quasi-spiritual journey of self-healing by confronting past traumas or lunatic fringe cult which regularly relies on brainwashing techniques in order to separate the gullible from their families, friends, and bank accounts? According to director Alex Gibney and his surplus of ex-members The Church of Scientology is firmly rooted in the latter camp. Began by prolific author L. Ron Hubbard in 1950 with the publication of his his pseudo-scientific bestseller, “Dianetics: The Modern Science of Mental Health”, Scientology has gone on to become a multi-billion dollar international corporation whose profits are protected by its status as a religion (a concession reluctantly granted by a bullied IRS) and which defends itself from damning accusations through blackmail, harassment, and public smear campaigns aimed at detractors. But how could the science-fiction delusions of a charismatically unhinged guru swell to such enormous proportions? In an attempt to answer that question Gibney et al first examine the movement’s seductive message of personal fulfillment and universal brotherhood as well as it’s protracted and laughably unorthodox (not to mention very expensive) methods of obtaining both using a combination of woo-woo science, hack psychology, and space aliens. Next he casts light on the church’s mind control techniques with former members coming forward to share horror stories of abuse, manipulation, and vigilantism meant to keep converts in the flock and silence apostates—even going so far as to suggest that Hubbard’s manic mouthpiece, Tom Cruise, may not be an entirely willing spokesman. Lastly comes the dubious yet lucrative business investments and a church hierarchy more concerned with maximizing profits than liberating souls—apparently they’re not above using believers as cheap labour. But at the heart of Gibney’s documentary lies the same sad commentary on mans’ search for serenity amidst the chaos and the charlatans who are more than willing to offer a shiny solution…for a price. Kool-Aid by any other name.

Going My Way (USA 1944) (6): Taking over the beleaguered St. Dominic’s parish in New York City, Father Chuck O’Malley (an incessantly agreeable Bing Crosby) not only has to contend with the church’s unpaid mortgage and other mild disasters, he also finds himself at odds with crusty old Father Fitzgibbon (Barry Fitzgerald giving the film its only highlight) who has been the rector at St. Dominic’s ever since it was built forty-five years ago and is not about to entertain the modern ways of a priest half his age. Never one to flee a challenge O’Malley eventually charms his way into everyone’s life as he performs a bevy of everyday miracles: a street gang turns into a choir of castrati, a mean-spirited banker has his cold heart melted, and a desperate young runaway decides to save her hymen for marriage. But he saves his best miracle for last when Fr. Fitzgibbon receives the greatest gift of all. With sentimental schmaltz and Irish accents to spare, director Leo McCarey’s fluffy little Catholic confection went on to win no fewer than seven Academy Awards including the coveted “Best Picture” statuette. But despite its cloying sweetness this still ranks as one of Hollywood’s golden oldies and Crosby’s crooning renditions of seven songs including “That’s an Irish Lullaby”, “Swinging on a Star”, and “Ave Maria” (accompanied by opera great Risē Stevens and the Robert Mitchell Boy’s Choir) are memorable if not exactly earth-shattering. The real miracle however is that Crosby’s somnolent performance managed to steal the Best Actor Oscar from the more deserving Barry Fitzgerald who had to settle for the “supporting” category.

Going to Pieces: The Rise and Fall of the Slasher Film (USA 2006) (7): According to the talking heads in this nostalgic look back at the “dead teenager” films of the late 70’s and 80’s, man has always had a dark fascination for the violent and macabre. While I find it somewhat difficult to draw a straight line linking primitive cave paintings and gladiatorial spectacles to Freddy Krueger and Jason Voorhees, I must agree that these films did indeed strike a chord with a generation suddenly thrust from the breezy hedonism of the disco era into the conservative dictates of the Reagan years. With their strict, if somewhat warped, adherence to traditional moral values (past sins are punished, sluts are slaughtered and righteous virgins live to tell the tale) movies such as Friday the 13th and A Nightmare on Elm Street moved horror from dusty Transylvanian castles and placed it squarely in the previously sacrosanct backyards and summer camps of middle class suburbia. No longer were America’s privileged children safe from the bogeyman; he stalked them in their homes, their private schools and even in their naughtier dreams. And, like all things truly evil, he was immortal and unstoppable. Heavily influenced by both the charnel excesses of Italian splatter films and the claustrophobic camerawork of Hitchcock, the American Slasher Film quickly became a genre unto itself until cheaply made knock-offs with increasingly formulaic scripts heralded its demise; or rather its descent into self-mockery and parody. Reviled by critics who branded them as gratuitous exercises in blood-drenched misogyny, defended by filmmakers who saw them as an artistic catharsis appealing to that “reptilian” part of the human psyche which delights in violence, and still adored by fans who just want some moist entrails to go with their T&A, these films continue to carve out a niche on late night cable and dusty VHS collections everywhere. Personally I just enjoy the cheesiness of it all as time and fashion slowly turn one-time ghouls into camp icons.



Gold Diggers of 1933 (USA 1933) (8): As America slowly recovers from the Great Depression unemployed chorus girls Carol, Trixie, and Polly (Joan Blondell, Aline MacMahon, Ruby Keeler) find themselves in a pickle. Renting a Manhattan apartment they can no longer afford the three women desperately wait for that big break while avoiding bill collectors and the landlady. And then their luck seems to change when they are cast in a huge Broadway production along with Polly’s songwriting sweetheart Brad (Dick Powell). Unfortunately Brad is harbouring a very big secret which, if exposed, could bring down the curtain before it ever goes up ruining everyone’s career in the process. But the three resourceful friends are not about to let that happen as they launch a harebrained scheme to not only save the show but garner themselves a trio of little nest eggs to boot. Although the plot is so formulaic it’s become a Hollywood cliché, director Mervyn LeRoy’s screen adaptation of Avery Hopwood’s play is a riot of snappy one-liners and spirited performances, not to mention all those racy costumes and sexual innuendos that must have given early censors more than one restless night. But it is the song & dance routines helmed by legendary choreographer Busby Berkeley which give Gold Diggers its timeless pizzazz—from the campy optimism of opening number “We’re In The Money” featuring platinum blonde beauties decked out in gold coins to the sombre and socially conscious closing act “The Forgotten Man” which shines a light on the soldiers who risked their lives in WWI only to lose everything, including their dignity, with the crash of ’29. Between these two disparate bookends the cast seems to have a ball cutting each other up while the musical interludes are aswirl with indoor snowstorms, neon violins, and tinfoil bikinis (causing one frustrated lover to reach for a can opener). But it was the rollerskating midget in baby drag which left me scratching my head. Listed in Steven Schneider’s “1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die”, and by all means do so!

Gold Diggers of 1935 (USA 1935) (7): One of Busby Berkeley’s earlier romps featuring the usual grandiose sets and a couple of memorable songs. It’s the beginning of high season at the luxurious Wentworth Plaza Hotel in upstate New Hampshire, an exclusive getaway for the very wealthy, and love and intrigue are already in the air. A millionaire widow is having trouble controlling her two wilful adult children; a devious stenographer sets her hooks on a scatterbrained tycoon; a flamboyant conman (Adolphe Menjou) kicks off his latest get rich scheme; and an engaged hotel manager (Dick Powell) and his fiancée come to realize the grass is always greener on the other side of the financial divide. But the screwball storylines are mere pretence for like all of Berkeley’s productions the real star of the film is the staging—in this case a big charity extravaganza highlighted by two famous sequences: a sea of swirling white pianos spin about to the Oscar-nominated tune “The Words are in My Heart” (you can see the legs of stagehands struggling under the ungainly instruments), and the Oscar-winning song “Lullaby of Broadway” begins with a disembodied singing head followed by an elaborately interactive diorama of New York City before turning into a multi-tiered tap-dancing spectacle with a macabre twist. As the fussy widow, Alice Brady is a neurotic fireball determined to keep her kids in check while pinching every penny that passes through her fingers and Hugh Herbert matches her energy as the tycoon, a twitchy forgetful ball of confusion with a taste for snorting snuff. And look for 25-year old Gloria Stuart as a platinum love interest—yes that’s the same Gloria Stuart who, at the age of 87, received a Best Supporting Actress nomination for her role in Titanic. Ah, Hollywood!

Gold Diggers of 1937 (USA 1936) (6): By hook or by crook the show must go on in this addition to the Warner Brothers Gold Diggers series of musicals. Cash-strapped chorus girl Norma and her cocky insurance salesman boyfriend Rosmer (Joan Blondell and Dick Powell, both as cute as newborn puppies) become unwitting accessories to a life insurance scam when Broadway mogul J. J. Hobart (a scene-stealing Victor Moore) is tricked into taking out a million dollar policy by his crooked partners. It seems the partners secretly squandered Hobart’s fortune on shady investments and now they’re counting on the aging producer, already a neurotic hypochondriac, to kick the bucket sooner than later—with a little help from them if need be. But the clueless Hobart is too busy organizing his latest stage extravaganza to notice anything amiss and once Norma and Rosmer discover the partners’ evil plot they do everything they can to make sure J. J.’s show is a box office success. With a plot so thin you can see right through it and songs that are forgettable before they even finish, this is definitely one of the weakest links in the series despite Moore’s vaudevillian antics and the combined glitz of its two star-crossed leads. The film ultimately does rise above sheer mediocrity thanks to a couple of show-stoppers choreographed by the legendary Busby Berkeley himself: a swank country club soiree turns into a camp revue when co-star Lee Dixon straps on his tap shoes, and a grand finale has white-clad starlets doing a meticulously synchronized dance routine involving spinning flags and giant rocking chairs. It’s a tinsel town sundae for sure, but it could have used a bigger cherry.

Golden Earrings (USA 1947) (6): On the eve of WWII a British Intelligence officer (Ray Milland) on a secret mission is caught behind enemy lines and must rely on a sultry gypsy woman (Marlene Dietrich) to not only help him complete his assignment but evade the Nazis long enough to escape back to England. But his gypsy disguise winds up having an unexpected effect as romance begins to bloom… There is a magical “Once upon a time” realism to director Mitchell Leisen’s movie with its enchanted forest, swastika-bedecked ogres, and cast of sylvan nomads spouting ridiculous accents in Bohemian drag. Milland and Dietrich, decked out in baubles and brown face, supply the necessary star power—her bewitching ways clashing with his British pragmatism—and even though their performances tend to be a bit studied they nevertheless generate a couple of onscreen sparks through sheer doggedness if nothing else. And they’re helped along the way by Ivan Triesault and Dennis Hoey as Gestapo heavies, Reinhold Schünzel as a conscious-stricken German scientist, and Murvyn Vye as a scowling Gypsy king whose band of musical vagabonds dance and sing and carouse like a ragtag host of full-sized munchkins. It’s pure Hollywood all the way of course, yet Leisen does manage to make a few vague yet chilling allusions to the Nazi pogrom that was to come as Third Reich officers look upon the gypsies with an increasingly hostile disregard.

The Golden Voyage of Sinbad (USA 1973) (4): Standard “Sinbad” fare involving a magic amulet, an evil sorcerer, and a deadly race across sea and land to discover a hidden temple which holds all the secrets. Along the way we’re forced to endure yet another host of shaky stop-motion monsters, bad matte screen backgrounds, and the usual bargain basement performances including those horrific attempts at an Arabic accent (”Is it not written that...” ad nauseam). The confusing jumble of Indo-Greco-Roman-Celtic-Whatever cultures is amusing however; imagine a Thai temple housing a Greek oracle and cyclopean centaur while a ragtag mob of green bushmen worship a Hindu deity. Awesome!

The Golem (Germany 1920) (7): Based on a Jewish folktale yet bearing more than a passing resemblance to Shelley’s Frankenstein, this intriguingly odd silent film remains one of the finest examples of German Expressionism right alongside The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. It opens in 16th century Prague where the citizens of the gated Jewish quarter are bracing for yet another round of anti-semitic decrees from Emperor Luhois. Having already foretold the coming tribulations thanks to his powers of divination, the learned Rabbi Loew decides to use his mystical powers in an effort to save his people. Drawing upon the darkest of magics he breathes life into a giant clay statue thus creating an infernal servant known as the Golem. At first content to use the Golem for household chores, Loew eventually presents him to the palace where the creature makes such a deep impression on Luhois and his court that the Emperor reverses his oppressive edicts and spares the Jews. But when one makes a deal with the devil there is always a string or two attached so when the monster begins to turn on its creator there is indeed Hell to pay all around… There are no right angles or straight lines in directors Carl Boese and Paul Wegener’s stagy production—houses lean and twist like melting candles, staircases spiral like snail shells, and Hassidic protagonists cavort in wizard gowns and pointed hats, their spirited temple ceremonies looking more like solemn jazz revivals. At one point a summoned demon, all bulging eyes and smoking mouth, emerges from the shadows like a bobbing Mardi Gras mask and the Golem itself (played by Wegener) is suspended somewhere between horrific and ridiculous in smudgy clay-face and bricked wig. Backing up all the onscreen action is an updated ensemble score which segues from boisterous clamour into darker chords while some strategic tinting washes the actors in hellfire reds or celestial blues, saving the more golden hues for a racy (though wholly implied) sex scene and a smarmy Christian ending. A clever little fable told with a great deal of exuberance.

Goldfinger (UK 1964) (5): High profile millionaire Auric Goldfinger (get it?) is the mastermind behind a highly lucrative smuggling operation specializing in gold bullion and it’s up to secret agent James Bond 007 (sexy Sean Connery sporting that signature toupee) to gather enough evidence to shut it down. But Goldfinger has an even more nefarious plan underway, one involving no less than Fort Knox itself, and Bond soon finds the stakes higher than he had anticipated. With a small arsenal of high-tech gadgets including a souped up Aston Martin equipped with machine guns and smoke bombs, as well as his own sexual prowess (he’ll hump anything in a dress) Bond pursues the evil genius from Miami to Geneva. Goldfinger, however, has a few surprises himself including ice cold henchwoman Pussy Galore (smirk!). As with all of these early flicks based on the fevered writings of Ian Fleming one must be able to completely suspend one’s disbelief in order to enjoy the cartoonish action and adolescent sex fantasies. It certainly starts out promising enough with a cool opening montage sung by Shirley Bassey and that iconic image of a nude woman completely covered in gold paint. But with this third instalment in the James Bond franchise I was only able to maintain that suspension for the first twenty minutes before the ridiculous narrow escapes and even more ridiculous sexual conquests (can no woman resist him?) left me shaking my head and uttering WTFs under my breath. It certainly has flash, I’ll give it that, with an action sequence played out in a gold-laden underground vault proving to be a triumph of choreography and editing though no less silly. And this movie has actually found its way onto respected “Best Of” and “Top 100” lists? I suppose these films did serve as a kind of template for the genre, combining overt sensuality with fisticuffs and things blowing up—and Connery’s hairy chest certainly deserved an Oscar of its own—but throughout this spectacle I admit to wishing Bond would eat a bullet, just once. Or at least experience erectile dysfunction.

Gomorrah (Italy 2008) (8): The infamous Neapolitan crime syndicate, known collectively as the “Camorra”, is responsible for forty thousand murders over the last thirty years and has financial interests which reach clear across the globe. So reads a rapid-fire postscript at the end of Matteo Garrone’s bleak and angry opus (the title’s biblical play on words is more than appropriate). Set in and around Naples’ Scampia district—the Camorra’s epicentre of power—Garrone foregoes the usual shoot-em-up narrative of The Godfather and instead presents a series of parallel stories highlighting the realities of everyday life under mafia rule. Among his characters are a young boy who marks his adolescence by aiding in a friend’s murder; a lowly “money carrier” who believes he can serve his criminal overlords without being tainted by the bloodshed around him; a housewife and a tailor who have no idea how deeply the Camorra control their lives until they cross them; and a pair of violent simpletons whose dreams of leading the thug life, fuelled in large part by Hollywood scriptwriters, end in the usual way. With unembellished performances and a camera that never sits still for long Garrone offers very little in the way of explanation but instead throws us headfirst into the maelstrom leaving us to figure out what’s happening on our own. The result is a violent, bewildering, and often very sad collage of images and fractured storylines expertly linked together and given a dour irony with subtle religious references: a future killer sports a pair of cross-shaped earrings; a car crashes through a lot filled with statues of grieving saints following a high speed assassination. A deeply cynical film where everyone carries a price tag and the few conscientious objectors know when to shut up. Little wonder then that the author on whose book this movie is based is now under permanent police protection.

Gone Baby Gone (USA 2007) (8): When the aunt and uncle of a missing toddler enlist the aid of private investigators Patrick Kenzie and Angie Gennaro (Casey Affleck, Michelle Monaghan) the couple find keeping their emotional distance increasingly difficult. The little girl’s mother, a haggard denizen of one of Boston’s poorer neighbourhoods, is hardly a role model (Amy Ryan receiving an Oscar nomination) and her volatile extended family is a contradictory mess of supportive hugs and hurled insults. But when Patrick and Angie hook up with the two police detectives investigating the case (Ed Harris, John Ashton) as well as their no-nonsense chief (Morgan Freeman), Patrick, whose conscience has already taken a beating, finds his moral centre point shifting under fire when he faces an ethical dilemma of monumental proportions—for the distinction between “right” and “wrong” is not always settled by quoting the law. Taken from Dennis Lehane’s novel, Ben Affleck’s directorial debut is a gripping thriller set in the underside of Boston with a pitch perfect cast (the background faces are all locals) and a serpentine plot which challenges your sense of morality with every dark twist and loop. Just as you think you know what happened—and what needs to be done—he pulls the rug out yet again forcing you to reexamine your own convictions with everything from crooked cops to underworld gangsters muddying the waters. Unfortunately the film is sometimes a little too clever for its own good, asking you to jump over narrative gaps and stretch your disbelief lest you dwell too much on its few illogical plot devices. But Casey Affleck’s portrayal of an ethically torn everyman bewildered by the mixed messages coming from his partner-lover, the police, the little girl’s family, and a mass media hungry for the next big headline, is spot on in an underplayed performance he would later revise with greater effect in Manchester by the Sea. And, of course, screen mainstay Morgan Freeman provides the calm centre to a story wracked with emotional turbulence. You may or may not agree with the final resolution, but such is Ben Affleck’s skill that he will have you second-guessing yourself all the way home.

Gone Girl (USA 2014) (9): On the day of his fifth wedding anniversary Nick Dunne (Ben Affleck) comes home to find that his wife Amy (Oscar-nominated Rosamund Pike) has disappeared amid telltale signs of a violent struggle. Both New York transplants now living in rural Missouri Nick, a columnist for a men’s magazine, and Amy, an Ivy League author of popular children’s books, are the seemingly perfect couple—but as the ongoing police investigation uncovers more and more damning evidence Nick becomes the prime suspect in what could very well be a homicide case. Already tried and convicted in the resulting media frenzy, Nick insists he is innocent although a series of flashbacks show us that life in the Dunne home was anything but perfect… Based on Gillian Flynn’s novel, director David Fincher uses shifting timelines and parallel stories to deliver a taut intellectual puzzler which slowly builds to a most ingenious conclusion despite a few potholes in its logic along the way. Affleck plays the fallen husband to perfection while Pike’s intellectual snob is a rich blend of fire and ice. In supporting roles Carrie Coon as Nick’s sister shifts effortlessly between comic relief and emotional meltdown while Neil Patrick Harris, Lisa Banes, and Kim Dickens shine in their respective roles of jilted lover, waspish mother-in-law, and investigating detective. But it is the manipulative power of mass media which gives the film its edge of caustic satire. As news vans, roving reporters, and angry vigilantes perch like vultures outside Nick and Amy’s home, the airwaves are filled with a non-stop barrage of innuendo and hearsay á la CNN or FOX—Missi Pyle is especially superb as Ellen Abbot, a self-righteous news analyst whose shrill television tirades call to mind the best moments of crusading muckraker Nancy Grace. A fast-paced and engrossing mindfuck with a chilling soundtrack by Nine Inch Nail’s Trent Reznor and an ending that sends the creep factor through the ceiling.

Goodbye Columbus  (USA 1969) (5):  Generic "anti-establishment" love story from the 60's. Young Neil is a man of great integrity---we know this because he is inordinately proud of his dead-end nowhere job AND he talks respectfully to a black child. Brenda comes from a family of nouveau-riche boors---we know this because they have lots of money and they yell at their black maid. Seen in retrospect, the movie's somewhat smug sense of moral superiority seems ironic when you consider the audience of boomers it was aimed at went on to become the yuppies of the 70's. Still, the wedding banquet scene is pretty funny and the 60's fashions are fun to watch

Goodbye, Mr. Chips (UK 1969) (7): Set in the years leading up to and beyond WWII, Peter O'Toole and Petula Clark headline this bittersweet musical adaptation of James Hilton's novel concerning a dour and lonely schoolmaster who finds true love in the arms of a West End showgirl with a questionable past. Their wonderfully naturalistic performances also save it from completely sinking into a sea of syrupy excess even though director Herbert Ross does his best to yank at our heartstrings...who knew the German blitz could be so darn romantic yet tragic at the same time? The location shots of crumbling ivy-covered alma maters and sun-dappled Roman ruins are appropriately academic and do contrast comically with a few rather hedonistic party scenes; it is clear from the outset that these two lovebirds come from very different nests. The airy musical interludes, complete with floral overload, may be as subtle as a blast of air freshener to the face but they're mostly agreeable background noise to what is essentially a sweet, if unremarkable love story.

Goodbye Solo (USA 2008) (8): Recently arrived from Africa and now working as a cabbie in North Carolina, the soft-spoken yet ebullient Solo has had to put his dream of becoming a flight attendant on hold due to the demands of his new wife and family. And then one night he picks up an unusual fare and his life takes a slight turn from its established path. Weather-beaten and trucluent, septuagenarian William becomes a regular customer of Solo’s, taking his cab to the nearby movie theatre and back on an almost nightly basis. But William’s reluctance to divulge personal information coupled with his permanent sad scowl worries Solo who begins to suspect the old man is planning something drastic… Ramin Bahrani packs a couple of blockbuster performances into a shoestring budget giving us one of 2008's more powerful indie films. Deftly avoiding stereotypes, Souleymane Sy Savane’s Solo is indeed a stranger in a not-so-strange land restless for something more while Red West’s portrayal of William is a master class in body language—his haunted red-rimmed eyes and sagging jowls implying unspoken tragedies that Solo can only guess at. A bittersweet road movie mixing geography with psychological undercurrents—what’s behind William’s fascination with the movie theatre? why does he want Solo to undertake a two-hour drive into the heart of a national forest?—and like a true artist Bahrani tosses out a few hints, trusting his audience to connect the dots themselves. An expertly downplayed two-handed drama in which one man’s ruined dreams spark another to reach even harder for his own.

The Good Shepherd (USA 2006) (6): In 1961 the “Bay of Pigs” invasion of Cuba, backed by America’s Central Intelligence Agency, goes terribly awry leading to speculations that Castro’s regime had been tipped off. It falls to high-ranking CIA official Edward Wilson (a monotone Matt Damon bordering on catalepsy) and his department to root out the traitor, but as Wilson’s investigation progresses he begins to reflect upon his professional career—starting when he was recruited as a young political idealist to aid British Intelligence during WWII to his current position overseeing American counter-intelligence. And as old memories resurface they give him pause to reevaluate his life’s work… Not so much a political thriller, director Robert De Niro (who also stars as a no-nonsense General) instead follows the trajectory of one man’s moral evolution as he goes from fresh-faced Yale graduate to cynical and slightly paranoid spy-catcher able to look the other way as his country commits crimes for the sake of national interest. Alas, we’ve seen this film countless other times and De Niro, despite a noteworthy cast, doesn’t have anything new to add. The moral quandaries, the evil Russian counterpart (Oleg Stefan, cold as ice), and the personal tolls all loom large especially with Angelina Jolie cast as Wilson’s estranged wife and an impressive though miscast Eddie Redmayne as the couple’s emotionally fragile son. To his credit De Niro does an adequate job of juggling the film’s parallel timelines with action jumping from Wilson’s college years—where he was first indoctrinated into the halls of privilege—to 1940s London, to Washington during the Cold War. But along the way a few narrative potholes are never adequately filled in and when the rat is finally revealed there is much irony but little in the way of plausible backstory. One scene does linger in the mind however: Wilson, stuck in a loveless marriage and suspicious of everyone, looking small in his trench coat and fedora as he recedes down a hallway of the newly constructed CIA headquarters. Power may corrupt, but if one believe’s The Good Shepherd’s underlying message, it can also divide and isolate—even on the most personal level.

The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly (Italy 1966) (8): From Ennio Morricone’s iconic theme music filled with operatic brass, electric twangs, and primeval chorus, to that brilliant standoff in the middle of a graveyard, this grandaddy of all Spaghetti Westerns has become something of a legend. A feat made even more impressive when you consider the fact that the international cast and crew were barely able to communicate and many of the secondary characters had to have their lines dubbed into English. The promise of a fortune in buried gold attracts the attention of a sham bounty hunter (a good Clint Eastwood), his ruthless sidekick (an ugly Eli Wallach), and a hired assassin (a bad Lee Van Cleef all decked in black). Trying to outwit each other yet conversely relying on one another at the same time, the three leave a trail of bodies in their wake as they wend their way towards a final showdown. Taken as a straight-up oater, Sergio Leone’s masterful direction (and Morricone’s aforementioned score) makes for an intensely watchable “blood ’n bullets” saga with central Spain standing in nicely for America’s Wild West. But there are deeper layers to be plumbed here for the film also resembles a cosmic morality play with influences ranging from the Tarot Deck (The Fool, The Magician, The Hanged Man, Judgment, Fate, and Fortune are among the cards Leone tosses out) to Eastern mysticism and a nod to Carl Jung for as the trinity face one another in the middle of a cemetery the headstones come to resemble nothing less than an intricate mandala. Even the Civil War, constantly raging in the background, personifies ultimate futility after both sides wreak annihilation on one another over a rickety old bridge. All these years later it’s still hard to believe it wasn’t even nominated for one single Academy Award.

The Good Thief (France/Canada 2002) (7): An adequate remake of Jean Pierre Melville’s 1956 classic Bob le Flambeur, Neil Jordan’s colourful heist flick follows the exploits of Bob Montagnet, a kind-hearted master thief and inveterate liar now fallen on hard times thanks to his twin appetites for heroin and gambling. Content to haunt the seedier dives along the French Riviera making small talk with his underworld pals and scoring enough dope before shuffling back to his comfortable suburban apartment, Bob’s life seems to be circling the drain, especially after he suffers a major financial loss at the racetrack. His luck takes a turn for the better however when he’s approached for one final lucrative job involving a fortune in artwork locked away in a casino vault. Gathering a crack team of fellow thieves and one computer whiz, Bob plans the heist of a lifetime but various complications soon arise in the form of a hot-tempered accomplice, a pair of conniving twins, and a painfully young Bosnian prostitute who takes a shine to the aging criminal. And then there’s Roger, the police detective with whom Bob shares an obligingly adversarial relationship. When Roger catches wind of Bob’s plans the wheels of justice are set in motion...but who will emerge victorious? As the hulking raspy-voiced Bob, Nick Nolte puts in a convincing performance complimented admirably by an international cast of supporting actors (Emir Kusturica!?). Like a big craggy-faced teddy bear, his character may rob from the rich while fabricating elaborate stories along the way, but he is not a malicious man by nature. Fashioning himself after “the good thief” in the gospels whom Christ welcomed into Paradise, Bob tries to live a charitable life despite his chosen profession. It’s all a glitzy fairy tale of course, heightened by some gorgeous Côte d’Azur settings and an eclectic soundtrack of Cohen ballads and Arabic beats. We’re well aware that one doesn’t shake off a heroin addiction in three days then leave the house a new man, nor does a Slavic peasant with a crack habit become a refined lady after only a few lessons. Some big stretches aside, The Good Thief remains a stylish and highly polished bit of entertainment, well written and nicely acted.

Goosebumps (USA 2015) (6): It’s no easy task to get all of author R. L. Stine’s monsters into one movie but Rob Letterman gives it his best shot in this rather silly horror show which doesn’t even try to hide the fact it’s based on a series of children’s ghost stories. New kid on the block Zach makes friends with Hannah, the reclusive girl next door, despite her stern and rather creepy father’s warnings to stay away (Jack Black in full parental meltdown). You see, dad likes to pen spooky books but he suffers from a very different kind of writers’ block, for every creepy crawly thing he writes about has a habit of coming to life unless certain precautions are taken. Of course Zach and his buddy Champ wind up bypassing those precautions one night while trying to visit with Hannah and before you can turn the next page their small town of Madison, Delaware is overrun with nightmarish creatures including a snarling werewolf in gym shorts, giant carnivorous plants, and a great big bug with a taste for people—and they’re all controlled by one very devilish dummy. Neither frightening nor particularly unsettling for anyone over the age of nine, Letterman’s cool retro style (think old school 80s shocker with Disney frosting) and above par CGI effects keep things palatable especially with Black mugging bug-eyed for the camera and a healthy dose of self-deprecating slapstick—a kitchen interlude with homicidal garden gnomes calls to mind a similar scene from 1984’s Gremlins. A surefire treat for any kid who’s read the books and a bit of updated nostalgia for the rest of us. Just try not to think too much.Coco (USA 2017) (10): Ever since great-great-grandfather walked out on his wife and daughter in order to pursue a singing career, the Rivera family has banned all music from their lives. Three generations later, ten-year old Miguel Rivera is chafing at this ancestral prohibition especially after his desire to pursue a singing career similar to his B&W matinee idol Ernesto de la Cruz puts him in direct conflict with his unyielding grandmother. Then, on the eve of Mexico’s “Dia de Muertos”—the one time of the year in which deceased relatives can come visit the living—Miguel enters the Land of the Dead where he sets about trying to understand his family’s history by finding his errant great-great-grandfather with the help of a loveable street dog and a bumbling spirit named Héctor… Pixar Studios score one of their greatest hits with this gigantic candy box of a film that draws its inspiration from such diverse sources as Mayan mythology and medieval poetry (the dog’s name is Dante…wink wink!). Exploding off the screen in every colour imaginable Coco’s animators start small—Miguel’s little village is cartoon quaint without being cliché—and then outdo themselves to create a retro netherworld resembling an infernal Disneyland on acid. Houses in every rainbow hue perch atop each other while antiquated streetcars fly through the air and countless twinkling lights illuminate the sky, occasionally coalescing to form a grinning skull. The dead themselves, culled from Latino folk art, are exuberant stacks of bones in period costumes with a shock of hair here, a dab of make-up there, and rib cages like crazy xylophones as they cavort about, occasionally removing an arm to make a point or juggling a head suddenly come loose while psychedelic spirit animals slither, fly, or lope in and out of neon alleyways. Miguel’s own forebears, a slapstick collection of dour women and browbeaten men, seem determined to keep him from his goal leading to a few welcome twists and revelations. A visual treat for sure, complimented by a lively musical score (including the Oscar-winning song “Remember Me”), but the onscreen fireworks are tempered by an intelligent script and several intimate moments which tug at the heart as they stress the importance of family ties and following one’s dream. Will Miguel’s attempt to find the truth about his family’s roots end in disaster? Will Héctor’s dream of visiting his estranged daughter come true (the dead have to be remembered in order to exist)? And what secrets does Miguel’s wizened old great-grandmother hold in her dementia-wracked mind? A true multi-generational hit and sure to be one of Pixar’s crowning achievements.

Gosford Park (UK 2001) (7): In pre-WWII Britain a throng of frightfully privileged heirs (as well as a few titled yet desperately poor hangers-on) gather at the sprawling country estate of Sir William, a brusque industrialist whose only kind words are directed towards his pampered pooch, for a weekend of snobbish conversation and pheasant hunting. Meanwhile, ignored for the most part by their lords and masters, the household servants enjoy their own intrigues and idle gossip while ensuring the silver is properly polished and all the ridiculous minutiae of Britain’s strict social code are observed (even the seating arrangement at their humble dinner table is based upon the rank of their employers). But when Sir William is found murdered—not once but twice—his unseemly demise threatens everyone’s fun as the resulting investigation casts suspicions every which way. It appears that several guests, and a few hired hands, had good reason for killing the old chap and sifting through the various clues and motives proves to be beyond the expertise of the local detective. Robert Altman’s affected dramedy features a veritable constellation of British stars in top notch form as they skulk and scheme in full period drag: Maggie Smith is especially fine as Sir William’s pretentious old maid sister while Stephen Fry’s bumbling inspector looks like an extra from a Python sketch. Unfortunately, despite its opulent touches and a smart script awash with satirical barbs and deliciously scathing bon mots, it still seems like an overly long episode of Upstairs Downstairs played out like a game of Clue—was it Lady Sylvia…in the library…with poison? Altman’s signature roving camera and overlapping dialogue manage to keep the various narrative threads from becoming too muddled but it all leads to a disappointingly obvious finale with characters rarely rising above colourful drawing-room stock. The inclusion of a visiting American director and his ersatz valet does provide some much needed perspective however, their naïve observations serving to highlight the inanity of their hosts. Fun to watch yet charmingly forgettable.

Gospel According to Harry (Poland 1994) (5): Lech Majewski’s rather minimalist contemporary parable based loosely (very loosely) on writings from the old and new testament goes to great lengths to say relatively little. Karen and Wes are an emotionally estranged couple living, literally and metaphorically, in a desert; their small living space delineated by a few throw rugs and some furniture surrounded by endless dunes and a piercing blue sky. One gets a sense of post-apocalyptic disaster with images of half-buried lampposts and a vague reference to the Pacific ocean “drying up” but it is the couple’s growing malaise, that desert within, which proves to be the story’s focal point. The reason for their cooling relationship seems to be maternal--she wants a baby, he doesn’t. In fact he doesn’t seem to want to do much of anything aside from hitting golf balls and watching television while she whines to her mother and vainly attempts to keep the ever-present sand from encroaching on their personal space. Using this nuclear relationship as a vehicle Majewski attempts to critique a host of modern woes, from yuppie narcissism and TV culture to stifling governmental bureaucracy and spiritual angst. With his trademark gift for the obscure metaphor he treats us to some dazzling sequences: two corporate CEOs battle to the death; the president of the United States delivers a patriotic speech amidst so much wind and blowing sand; and a political dissident is crucified in the distance while a disinterested Wes and Karen host an impromptu brunch for some friends including the titular Harry, a heartless tax collector. In one scathing scene, my personal favourite, the cast ignore an apparent miraculous resurrection in order to prostrate themselves before an ersatz Liz Taylor seen wandering aimlessly amongst the dunes with her entourage in tow. There is definitely some meat here but, unfortunately, Majewski tells a tale best using nothing but sound and imagery (see my reviews for his later films, The Roe’s Room and Glass Lips). Harry’s script comes across as awkward and clunky, its beautifully enigmatic visuals seriously hampered by all attempts to force them into a linear storyline. It’s these narrative constraints that dam up what should have been a free-flowing stream of consciousness and turn a potential work of cinematic poetry into so much psychobabble. A real disappointment.

Go Tell the Spartans (USA 1978) (7): In 1964 when U.S. involvement in Viet Nam was officially limited to “military advisors”, a ragtag platoon of American soldiers and South Vietnamese nationals are given orders to occupy a long abandoned outpost which the top brass believes still has some minor strategic importance. Situated ironically next to a cemetery full of French servicemen who died trying to defend that same piece of land during the Indochina war, Muc Hoa is now little more than a handful of decaying huts and a watchtower which the Americans set about restoring to some semblance of combat readiness for an enemy they hardly expect to encounter. But thanks to a series of oversights and the grinding gears of army bureaucracy, they suddenly find themselves outnumbered and outgunned by a tide of Viet Cong intent on recapturing Muc Hoa for themselves. Like a deadly serious episode of M*A*S*H without the laugh track and sanctimonious posturing, director Ted Post’s film, based on veteran Daniel Ford’s novel, uses one tragic military fiasco to encapsulate everything that went wrong with the full-scale Viet Nam War—from crossed lines of communication and administrative chaos to the cultural divide between the Vietnamese and their would-be American liberators. Tame when compared to the deeply cynical ‘Nam films which followed, Go Tell the Spartans nevertheless delivers a striking commentary on the true costs of armed conflict especially with images like a wounded soldier limping through a blasted graveyard trying to find his way home. Sadly, star Burt Lancaster delivers a lukewarm by-the-numbers performance as Major Asa Barker—the lone voice of dissent.

Gothika (USA 2003) (5): Forensic psychiatrist Dr. Miranda Grey (Halle Berry, really?) is on her way home from the maximum security asylum where she deals with the criminally insane when her car runs off the road. Waking up in the same institution where she once worked she is horrified to discover that she is not only a patient but she has also been charged with an unimaginable crime—yet she remembers nothing. Certain of her own sanity yet unable to convince her former colleagues, now her caregivers, that she is innocent Miranda resorts to desperate measures in order to prove that there is more to her case than meets the eye. But a host of frightening encounters leaves her wondering whether her mental faculties have taken a hit after all. Director Mathieu Kassovitz’s chiller certainly lives up to its name with an opening thunderstorm transforming the surrounding countryside into Transylvania and the fortress-like hospital (looking exactly like the prison in which it was filmed) into Vlad’s spooky castle. And when the lights begin to flicker and things begin jumping out of corners you settle in for a good old-fashioned psychological horror yarn. You soon realize however that generic jolts and mood lighting is really all this slick gobbler has to offer as Kassovitz insists you swallow one whopper after another until the “big twist” at the end reveals Gothika for the supernatural shaggy dog story it actually is. Creepy cinematography and a star cast overacting their hearts out (Penelope Cruz as an insane murderer?!) can’t compensate for a ridiculous plot riddled with inconsistencies and a silly Sixth Sense coda. In the words of Dr. Grey, “Logic is overrated…” No girl, it is not.

Goya in Bordeaux (Spain 1999) (7): Not so much a biopic as a dying man’s parade of fanciful recollections, Carlos Saura’s stagey production is set in 1828 where artist Francisco Goya, once the toast of the Spanish court, is now an old deaf curmudgeon living out his final days in France where he was exiled along with other outspoken liberals. Looking back on his life and loves a still truculent Francisco drifts in and out fever dreams—arguing with his only surviving daughter one moment, reliving a night of youthful passion with the Duchess of Alba the next. Memories are never linear and Saura tries to convey this stream of consciousness with some highly theatrical conceits—walls become transparent, paintings come to grotesque life, and the enfeebled Goya walks side by side with his younger, more fiery self past a series of ethereal lithographs. Saura seems more fascinated with the artist’s troubled mind, warped by illness, personal tragedies, and wartime horrors, than he is with examining historical watersheds. As the lights in Goya’s room either dim or burst into blinding radiance figures from his past march nonchalantly by, sometimes blending into a painting sometimes fading into air, and even Napoleon’s murderous rampage across the Spanish countryside becomes a mere host of models writhing against watercolour backdrops. And cutting through these visual excesses a wordy script delivers monologues on everything from the dangerous power of creativity to government’s inherent corruptibility. “The imagination without reason brings forth impossible monsters…” states Goya at one point as his own oil-painted demons glare from the walls of his rented manor. Sure to turn many off with its arty indulgences and meandering storyline, but as a visual experiment it certainly grabs one’s attention. The lush historical touches and glut of baroque music don’t hurt either.

Grand Hotel (USA 1932) (9): Based on a German play, MGM’s opulent ensemble piece follows the exploits of a handful of privileged guests at Berlin’s swank Grand Hotel while a small army of bellhops and telephone operators struggle to keep things under control. Among the colourful characters are a ruthless business magnate facing bankruptcy who decides his personal secretary should take more than dictation, a terminally ill office drone who cashes in his life’s savings for a weekend of champagne and caviar, a penniless Baron turned jewel thief, and an eccentric ballerina consumed with stage fright (Greta Garbo insisting she wants to be alone). Over the course of two nights love will be lost and found, some dreams will be shattered, and one unexpected tragedy will set everyone in a new direction. Gorgeously shot on elaborate sound stages with a dream cast of studio superstars and a script that crackles with wit and romance, 1932’s Oscar-winning blockbuster more than lives up to its name. A grand old film indeed!

The Graduate (USA 1967) (10): Mike Nichols’ coming-of-age comedy not only launched the careers of fresh-faced Dustin Hoffman and Katherine Ross, it also helped to define a generation of baby boomers. Following a successful stint at college, twenty-year old Ben Braddock returns home to his parent’s upper middle-class lifestyle in suburban Los Angeles without any goals or ambitions yet still “worried” about his future. Unable to communicate these mixed feelings to his proud parents and their bourgeois friends Ben tries to feign delight in the pointless chatter and trivial games around him until a chance encounter, and subsequent affair, with the sexually aggressive wife of his father’s business partner jars him out of his complacency and sets his life in an unexpected direction. At first his dalliances with the older Mrs. Robinson give Ben a newfound sense of confidence—if no real purpose—but as their clandestine trysts become increasingly predictable, Ben’s attempts at getting to know the person behind the unflappable facade slowly reveal a worn and world-weary woman who regards him as little more than an inferior plaything. Then he commits an unforgivable transgression—he falls in love with the Robinson’s daughter, Elaine—and when her mother’s claws finally come out they not only serve to highlight the social gulf between her and Ben but the ever widening generation gap of an entire country. A masterpiece of deadpan humour laced with irony and wit which speaks volumes on the mindset of its protagonist without the usual bombastic sermons. Numerous encounters with adults only serve to heighten Ben’s confusion while images of pools and aquarium-bound fish (and that famous alfa romeo) serve up ambivalent metaphors as he finds himself torn between the expectations of his WASP parents and his own innate desire to be something different. It’s no coincidence then that his bedroom sports a dart board while a painting of a sad clown hangs over the staircase—nor is it happenstance that his odyssey should begin in the conservative burbs of southern California but end in radical Berkeley. Aside from its award-winning script and timeless score of Simon & Garfunkel ballads however, the enduring success of Nichols’ film ultimately rests on the sheer star power of his cast especially the pairing of Hoffman’s hesitantly monotone naif and Ann Bancroft’s predatory cougar. He has also given cinema two of its most iconic scenes: the surreal hotel seduction between Ben and Mrs. Robinson, and Ben’s crashing of Elaine’s wedding in a desperate attempt to prevent her from marrying the privileged suitor of her parents’ choosing. Certainly dated, but an American classic nevertheless.

The Grand Budapest Hotel (USA 2014) (9): Wes Anderson’s signature penchant for idiosyncrasy and convolution are on full display as he spins one of his tallest tales to date. High atop a mountainside in the fictional republic of Zubrowka sits the Grand Budapest Hotel. Once one of the swankiest retreats in Europe it is now a mere shadow of its former glory with peeling wallpaper, cracked tiles, and only a few curiosity seekers and dreamers haunting its hallways. In the winter of 1968 one such guest, a young writer, is invited to join the hotel’s reclusive owner, the mysterious Mr. Moustafa, for dinner in the main salon. During the course of their meal Moustafa regales the spellbound man with the story of how he came into possession of the Grand Budapest beginning in 1932 when, as a young impoverished immigrant, he was hired to be a “Lobby Boy” by the hotel’s impeccably eccentric concierge, M. Gustave. In the delightfully realized alternate reality that follows man and boy will brave fascist coups, pull off a master theft, and evade homicidal heirs (not to mention a fantastical prison escape and Gustave’s lecherous liaisons with a string of wealthy dowagers). It’s a storybook saga of sorts, like most of Anderson’s work, with larger-than-life characters and improbable feats of derring-do—although a sober ending and some rough scenes mark this as a decidedly adult fairy tale. Finally, a marvelous script and inventive staging make the most of a string of celebrity cameos including Anderson mainstays Bill Murray and Edward Norton, although an outrageously coiffed and spackled Tilda Swinton playing an 84-year old lovestruck patron owns the show for her entire five minute walk-on. Despite an annoying change in aspect ratios meant to represent a change in timelines—box screen for 1932, widescreen for 1968, and 16X9 for 1985—which comes across as mere gimmickry this is a fine example of Anderson at the height of his creative powers. Applause!

Grand Illusion [La Grande Illusion] (France 1937) (9): There are many illusions in writer/director Jean Renoir’s pacifist film, arguably his masterpiece: the idea that enemies can be friends; happiness lasts forever; and, sadly, every war is regarded as “the last”. As WWI rages offscreen (scenes of combat are noticeably absent) two French officers, Captain Boeldieu and Lieutenant Maréchal, are taken prisoner by the Germans. But after several unsuccessful attempts to break free the two are finally sent to a high security fortress where they plan one final escape with the help of a fellow French POW. But their scheming is merely a backdrop as Renoir explores the senselessness of war, undercurrents of European anti-semitism, and class politics. Boeldieu enjoys special privileges after his German jailor, Captain von Rauffenstein, discovers they have much in common: both have aristocratic backgrounds, both are decorated heroes, and both have an unwavering respect for military discipline—yet the ideological gulf between them ultimately proves to be too great. Maréchal, meanwhile, falls for a widow who has lost all the men in her life to “heroic deaths” yet in the end is only able to offer her empty promises. And fellow plotter, Lieutenant Rosenthal, enjoys the goodwill of his peers as long as he’s of some use but when adversity strikes he becomes just another “dirty Jew”. A brilliant cast including Jean Gabin as Maréchal and Erich von Stroheim as Rauffenstein breathe life into Renoir’s script (Stroheim was involved in the final tweaks) and the film’s gritty sets—using actual barracks and châteaux—bring an air of authenticity that makes the officers’ ruminations on warfare all the more biting. “We’ve got to end this damn war and make it the last!” seethes Maréchal, “What an illusion!” shoots back Rosenthal, while Boeldieu observes, “Out there children play soldier…in here soldiers play like children.” Finally, Christian Matras’ cinematography and Eugène Lourié’s production designs are cutting edge with moving sets that allow for seamless camera pans, aerial shots that heighten the sense of frozen desolation, and a single potted geranium wasting away in front of a barred window that gives the film its most striking metaphor. In one particularly poignant scene a young POW tries on drag for an upcoming prisoner-produced burlesque review and the mere sight of a woman—even a fake one—causes everyone to pause and stare. It’s a sad irony that this passionately humanist call for peace should be released just as Hitler was rising to power—in fact it was banned by the Nazis for being “anti-German” and the French government for being “anti-war”.

Grandma (USA 2015) (7): When high school senior Sage (Julia Garner) finds herself in need of six hundred dollars for an abortion she decides to forego telling her overbearing mother and instead seek out help from her grandmother Elle (Lily Tomlin, amazing!) a cantankerous old lesbian and unapologetic 70s-era feminist. Although sympathetic towards her granddaughter’s plight, Elle is also financially strapped and with the clinic appointment a mere eight hours away she and Sage embark on a rocky road trip through southern California as Elle tries to call in favours from every person she’s ever been close to from a transsexual tattoo artist (viva Laverne Cox!) to an embittered heterosexual ex (Sam Elliott, greyer and still sexy). But as her less than exemplary past is dredged up Elle—still mourning the loss of her longterm partner—is forced to reappraise her life while a discomfited Sage eyes the clock… Tomlin is pitch perfect as the confrontational foul-mouthed grandma whose barrage of F-bombs and sarcastic one-offs fail to completely conceal her own insecurities, especially in matters of the heart. And Julia Garner proves to be the perfect foil, reflecting her gran’s vitriol back at her and showing Elle just how old and nasty she’s become. Even though a side story about Elle’s damaged relationship with her own daughter (Sage’s mom) occasionally sinks to reproachful clichés, writer/director Paul Weitz’s snappy script coupled with Tomlin’s breakneck delivery ultimately save this one from becoming just another bitchy gay soap opera. A seasoned supporting cast that includes Marcia Gay Harden and Elizabeth Peña manage to hold their heads high throughout.

Grave Encounters (Canada 2011) (6): Toting a trunk full of ghost detecting equipment, the cocky members of a reality TV show specializing in paranormal phenomenon agree to be locked inside an abandoned insane asylum in upstate Maryland for an entire night (a cameo from BC’s own abandoned Riverview Hospital) to see if rumours of demonic influences within its walls are true. With the windows barred and the front door chained, the team eagerly sets up shop in the hopes of capturing a few bumps in the night to bump up their television ratings. But when the sun sets those bumps turn into something a little more insistent as the asylum’s twisty corridors turn into hellish Möbius loops and the team’s staged bravado inches towards panicked horror. And of course it’s all caught on tape… Just when you thought the whole “found footage” gimmick finally burned itself out for good along come writer/directors Colin Minihan and Stuart Ortiz—aka “The Vicious Brothers”—to take one more kick at the can and the result is a mixed bag of shocks, facepalms, and a lot of déjà vu ( [REC] and Paranormal Activity come immediately to mind). Mouldering hallways and dark doorways limned in night vision green ramp up the creep factor, some well placed jolts put you on edge when the camera whips around yet another sharp corner, and the supernatural effects, when they finally arrive, do have a nightmarish quality to them. But even though a few spooky twists promise a novel resolution to one unusually long night of screams and handheld jostling, it all descends into a stagy mishmash of haunted schlock and bedevilment instead. A worthy popcorn flick if you like the premise but the Vicious Brothers obviously didn’t set out to reinvent the genre.

Gravity (USA 2013) (7): Never before has such a mediocre story been told with such visual bravura as in Alfonso Cuarón’s whirling vertiginous thriller concerning two NASA scientists stranded in outer space. After a shower of debris from an exploded satellite wipes out their shuttle and kills the rest of the crew, veteran astronaut George Clooney (hunky and charismatic as ever) and medical doctor “with six month’s training” Sandra Bullock (unexpectedly palatable) find themselves stranded thousands of miles above the home planet. With only their space suits for protection, and with oxygen supplies dwindling, the two embark upon a desperate, and highly improbable, gambit to stay alive until help can arrive. The first film that actually made me feel weightless, and slightly space-sick in IMAX 3D, Gravity’s spinning robotic camerawork constantly toys with our perspective----here we see a wheeling universe of endless stars through a fogged faceplate, now we’re caroming amongst a space station’s struts and girders, and now we see man and his inventions reduced to mere motes of light against a twilit Earth. And all the while a musical score of strained strings and subsonic bass hints at elements of horror and heroism. Unfortunately, although one expects a certain degree of artistic license in these types of movies Cuarón plays the credibility card a few too many times with plot devices that go from far-fetched to outright impossible culminating in a dazzling finale which nevertheless proves to be the final straw (even if you take it as the quasi-religious metaphor it is clearly meant to be). Furthermore, he tries to shore up an unexceptional script with some mystical nonsense involving ghostly hallucinations, crying babies, and Bullock displaying her nascent independence (or rebirth) by floating in a fetal position. Go for the visuals but don’t expect a deep conversation afterwards.

Grbavica (Bosnia & Herzegovina 2006) (8): Bosnian war widow Esma (a brilliant performance from Mirjana Karanovic) is living in a low rent district of Sarajevo where, between sewing, waitressing, and meagre government subsidies she manages to support both herself and her rebellious teen daughter Sara (a star turn from newcomer Luna Zimic Mijovic). But when a school outing requires Esma to provide details of her late husband’s military career the already tense relationship between mother and daughter is shaken to its very core—for there is something about her father that Sara was never meant to know. Jasmila Zbanic’s gut-wrenching drama shows the various ways in which war can inflict casualties long after the guns themselves have gone silent. With cameras rolling between scenes of domestic anxiety and wide-angled views of a city rising from the ruins (shot appropriately enough in the dead of Winter) this is not so much a political polemic but rather a film about women, its male figures relegated to minor, often violent roles but both trying in their own way to put the past to rest: some try emigrating, some try rewriting their memories, and others haunt the morgues looking for a familiar face disinterred from yet another mass grave. Against this backdrop the strained bond between Esma and Sara comes to represent a greater schism in a society where past atrocities can still inflict trauma upon the living. An engrossing film whose emotional punch belies its modest budget.

The Great Beauty [La Grande Bellezza] (Italy 2013) (9): On the eve of his 65th birthday, journalist and failed author Jep Gambardella feels the weight of his years more acutely than ever before. The pointless intellectual sparring and sexual dalliances of his past can no longer fill the existential void he feels growing within himself. His once exuberant insights now turned to smug cynicism, he rails against the artifice and petty hypocrisies of Italy’s intelligentsia (including himself) while Rome becomes little more that a wearisome distraction. But beneath the hedonistic parties and vain pursuits of lost youth moments of grace and calm are still to be found—cloistered nuns smile enigmatically within their garden walls, Jep’s diminutive editor, born a dwarf, revels in her lifelong ability to see the world from a child’s height, and everywhere the Eternal City offers up visions of ethereal beauty as ancient statuary seems to beckon from alleyways and hidden galleries. But it takes the sudden death of a childhood sweetheart and the arrival of a “living saint” to shock Jep into reexamining the path his life has taken. Paolo Sorrentino’s glorious rumination on vanity and mortality revisits Fellini’s Roma using many of the old master’s flourishes yet adding a very human coda all its own. With his apartment poised between the Coliseum’s iconic grandeur on one side and a tranquil convent on the other, Jep is likewise torn between an earthly desire for esteem and a deepening spiritual need as he enters into his final years. With a gorgeous soundtrack that goes from whispered chorales and guitar ballads to crashing arias, Sorrentino’s camera lingers over drunken partygoers at an all-night rave and silent worshippers alike as each character slowly wends their way toward whatever light they’re drawn to; one woman spends all her money on “medical procedures”, a widower mourns over a love that was never his, and a frustrated poet realizes he has to leave the City before he loses his soul. In one piercing juxtaposition we see a wizened nun painfully ascending a flight of stairs on her hands and knees as she slowly makes her way toward a vision of Christ while in another time and place we see a very different set of stairs on which an exhilarated young man gazes longingly at the object of his desire, her breasts faintly illuminated by the rays of a distant lighthouse—for beauty, like love and faith, is where you find it. “It all ends in death…” an older and wiser Jep assures us, “…but before that there is life.” And life is one thing Sorrentino’s grand opus has in spades. Breathtaking.

The Great Dictator (USA 1940) (7): Charles Chaplin’s Third Reich spoof predates Roberto Benigni’s Life is Beautiful and Taika Waititi’s Jojo Rabbit by decades and is notable for the fact it was released while Hitler was still waging his campaign across Europe. Chaplin himself plays Adenoid Hynkel, the supreme leader of the militaristic nation of Tomainia who is engaging in anti-semitic terrorism at home while at the same time sizing up the fertile fields of neighbouring countries. His fledgling plans for world domination run into a couple of snags however when he comes up against the tyrannical ruler of nearby Bacteria (Jack Oakie giving a slapstick impersonation of Mussolini) and a bumbling Jewish-Tomainian barber (Chaplin again, resurrecting his Little Tramp persona) who always seems to wind up exactly where he’s not supposed to be… From battlefield screw-ups involving fog banks and defective missile launchers to Hynkel’s famous dance routine with an inflatable globe of the world, the comedic elements are pure farce rife with bad puns and silly sight gags. And both Chaplin and Oakie throw themselves into character while an impressive cast of extras provide the straight-faced foils, especially Billy Gilbert’s unflattering send-up of Göring and Paulette Goddard’s feisty Jewish maiden-cum-love interest. Chaplin revels in his Nazi regalia with toothbrush moustache, strident temper, and autocratic aspirations—his outbursts often delivered in a rickety faux German—giving the world a performance which got his film banned in Germany (although Adolph supposedly snuck a peek) and mixed reviews among the Allies where some saw it’s anti-war message as unpatriotic while others accused him of disseminating Communist propaganda when he side-stepped that fourth wall to deliver an impassioned monologue on egalitarianism directly to the audience. But now that the dust of WWII has long since settled it can be seen for the scathing satire it was originally intended to be even if those sanitized scenes of strife in the Jewish ghetto only hint at the horrors that were eventually revealed.

The Great McGinty (USA 1940) (8): Preston Sturges not only directed this cutting satire on American politics, he also took home a much deserved Oscar for Best Original Screenplay to boot. When pugnacious vagrant Dan McGinty (Brian Donlevy) catches the eye of the city’s powerful mob boss (Akim Tamiroff) he quickly finds himself climbing the social ladder: from mob enforcer to city alderman to mayor, and finally the governor’s mansion itself. But an arranged marriage to his former secretary—the “boss” insists McGinty pose as a loving family man—proves to be his undoing when the well-meaning woman convinces him to turn his back on crooked politics and try the straight and narrow for a change. Needless to say there is no room in the state capital for honesty and integrity, a lesson everyone soon learns the hard way. Donlevy is perfectly cast, his hard lines and gruff voice never quite concealing the soft centre underneath while Tamiroff puts his soviet accent to good use as a career gangster constantly outraged to find that his bite never quite matches his bark. Mixing near slapstick farce with some pithy observations on the allure of corruption, Sturges serves up a dry martini of a film whose laugh-out-loud moments fail to dull its final kick. Muriel Angelus makes her last screen appearance as the secretary/wife, My Three Son’s William Demarest scowls and growls his way through as the boss’ main henchman, and Esther Howard hams it up like a pro in a small but sparkling performance playing a lecherous fortune teller in debt to the mob.

The Greatest Showman (USA 2017) (9): It’s only fitting that a musical biopic about the life of P. T. Barnum, whose ability to mix hype with spectacle earned him the title “The World’s Greatest Showman”, should consist of a string of bigger-than-life MTV music videos, each one more dazzling than the one before. And director Michael Gracey pulls it off with aplomb thanks in part to a first-rate cast headed by Hugh Jackman and an Oscar-nominated score that’ll have you stomping your feet and snapping your fingers. The story’s trajectory is nothing new to cinema—a young boy from humble beginnings rises to fame armed only with vision and ambition, almost loses it all, then triumphs in the end—but it’s the “how” that leaves you humming and smiling. The set designs alone are a feat unto themselves with a colourfully old-fashioned circus transforming itself into a contemporary rock concert when the needle hits the record and 19th century New York City spread out like a collection of antique dollhouses beneath an impossibly full moon. Within this fantasy milieu Barnum (Jackman, not just a pretty face as he sings and dances up a storm) scandalizes New York society with his much-touted museum-cum-circus of stuffed oddities and living freaks. But full houses of paying customers soon have their morbid curiousity turned into cheers of joy at the sheer exuberance of it all while outside angry mobs, taking aim at a pair of black trapeze artists and the show’s troupe of “unique” humans, eventually have their bigotry slammed back in their faces when the Bearded Lady (Keala Settle) belts out a comeback before dropping the mic. Michelle Williams holds her own as Barnum’s loving wife, Rebecca Ferguson pours her heart into the role of opera diva Jenny Lind (her Barnum-financed American tour introducing a romantic wedge), and Zac Efron does a great job as Barnum’s soft-spoken partner—his blossoming interracial love affair with the girl on the flying trapeze (Zendaya) providing one of the film’s many highlights as the two of them embark on a twirling aerial duet. It’s only when the final show-stopping ensemble piece brings the house down yet again that you realize Gracey has been conning you with razzle-dazzle right from the beginning—but that made me love it even more. This is “Feel Good Entertainment” on steroids.

The Great Lie (USA 1941) (7): When hard-drinking playboy Peter Van Allen (aging heartthrob George Brent) goes on a high society bender he wakes up married to the insufferably egotistical concert pianist Sandra Kovak (Mary Astor) much to the chagrin of his on-again off-again fiancée Maggie (Bette Davis). However, when he discovers the marriage is null and void thanks to some sticky red tape involving Kovak’s latest divorce he and Maggie decide to tie the knot for real. But Sandra is not about to release her hooks on him so easily for not only does she have a long simmering animosity towards Maggie, unbeknownst to Peter she’s also carrying his child—a bomb she drops on his new wife with apparent glee. And then, while on a business trip, Peter’s plane goes down over the Amazon jungle and he is presumed dead. Now with the object of their romantic rivalry out of the picture Maggie strikes a decidedly unorthodox bargain with the pregnant Sandra and both women eventually go their separate ways. And that’s when a telegram arrives from Brazil… Although Edmund Goulding’s big screen soaper is little more than a dramatic house of cards ready to fall apart at the slightest prod, babies and dead husbands take a backseat to the gloriously hostile charisma of its two female leads. Davis and Astor (who took home an Oscar for her troubles) couldn’t be any cattier if they arched their backs and spit estrogen at one another. The verbal sparring and smouldering stares contain some the bitchiest barbs to grace the silver screen and even a temporary truce at an isolated Arizona backwater comes dangerously close to low camp. Fun to watch despite its oh-so-serious aspirations and legendary Hattie McDaniel leading a cast of jive-talkin’, shoe-shufflin’ coloured domestics is pure gravy. Oh Hollywood!

The Great Mouse Detective (USA 1986) (6): When her famous toy-making father is kidnapped, an overly precious little mouse goes in search of the legendary “Basil of Baker Street”—the greatest mouse detective in all of London. Accompanied by Basil’s new friend and confidant, Dr. Dawson, the three mice discover the abduction is actually part of a much larger and more evil plot hatched by Basil’s archenemy Professor Ratigan; one that has links all the way to Buckingham Palace itself where the Mouse Queen resides in a hole in the wall. Can the three sleuths foil Ratigan’s plans in time to save the Empire? Some nice old-school animation and a couple of bright songs fail to raise this one above the level of Saturday morning cartoon. Still a treat for the little ones despite a few (implied) messy deaths and an evil crippled bat. For older folks it’s fun to hear Vincent Price hamming it up as the voice of Ratigan though, and an old recording of Basil Rathbone (as an animated Sherlock Holmes) elicits a twinge of nostalgia.

The Great Silence (Italy 1968) (5): The frontier town of Snow Hill, Utah is under siege both from nature as a blizzard settles in, and from man with bandits living in the nearby hills and a posse of resident bounty hunters killing anyone with a price (real or imagined) on their head. With the local magistrate running his own crooked operations the townsfolk turn to a mysterious mute gunman (Jean-Louis Trintignant giving his best Gallic impression of Clint Eastwood) for salvation. Named Silence not because of his lack of speech but because “everywhere he goes the silence of death follows him!” Silence meets his greatest challenge in Loco, the bounty hunters’ bloodthirsty leader (Klaus Kinski basically playing himself). Not all Spaghetti Westerns are created equal and this is quite evident in director Sergio Corbucci’s abysmally dubbed, plodding parade of wild west clichés that neither the great Ennio Morricone’s evocative score nor Silvano Ippoliti’s breathtaking alpine cinematography can raise above “so-so”. Corbucci may have Sergio Leone’s vision but he demonstrates none of the master’s style and sophistication, treating us instead to random acts of violence drenched in fake blood and slapdash editing that jumps about, occasionally zooming in for a melodramatic close-up. Two passages do manage to work however, a love scene between Silence and a grieving widow is genuinely erotic without going beyond PG-13, and that infamous finale which is sure to shock anyone raised on American westerns. The rest is just hay.

The Great Ziegfeld (USA 1936) (7): One can forgive the cinematic excesses of Robert Z. Leonard’s three-hour biopic spectacular, after all it follows the ups and downs of legendary Broadway producer Florenz Ziegfeld Jr., the creative mind behind the Ziegfeld Follies which wowed live theatre audiences back when motion pictures were still silent. William Powell captures the essence of the man—the egotist, the visionary, and the womanizer (his indiscretions highly sanitized for the big screen)—as he goes from carnival barker hawking “The World’s Strongest Man” to New York mainstay introducing the world to some of its most beautiful women. Frank Morgan co-stars as fellow producer and friendly lifelong nemesis Jack Billings while Myrna Loy, Virginia Bruce, and Luise Rainer play some of the loves in Ziegfeld’s life—Rainer eventually taking home the “Best Actress” Oscar for her stagey portrayal of melancholy French chanteuse—and Mrs. Ziegfeld #1—Anna Held. But the facile plot (rags to riches to rags) is swept aside by a glut of outré musical numbers highlighted by an outrageously camp fashion show and Dennis Morgan crooning “A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody” in front of a monstrous rotating wedding cake covered with cherubs, chandeliers, two miles of silk, and dozens of cavorting chorus girls. Fanny Brice (the original “Funny Girl”) provides a bit of schtick, Ray Bolger does a tap dance cameo which he would reprise three years later as the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz, and Eddie Cantor lookalike Buddy Doyle causes contemporary audiences to gasp as he struts about in blackface. It’s a glittery potpourri of fantasy girls and gaudy set designs barely held together by the thinnest of plots and all designed to amaze without actually teaching anything about the man behind the myth. Winning the Academy Award for Best Picture of 1936 it’s a grand old entertainment to be sure, but perhaps it’s a good thing they don’t make them quite like this anymore.

Green for Danger (UK 1947) (7): During the Blitz a mild-mannered mailman is injured by falling debris and rushed to the nearest hospital, a gloomy old renovated mansion on the outskirts of town. But despite his injuries being relatively minor he dies on the operating table under very mysterious circumstances putting the entire surgical team of two doctors and four nurses under immediate suspicion. What was the deceased’s relationship to the team and who would have wanted him dead? And then one of their own is found murdered and Scotland Yard steps in to solve the mystery! Windswept moors and V-1 buzzbombs form a backdrop for this noirish thriller whose outlandish devices and host of overly dramatized red herrings provide one of the guiltier pleasures I’ve seen in some time. Smouldering desires, guilty wartime secrets, and a pair of hysterical suspects provide all the melodrama while the incomparable Alastair Sim adds a welcome splash of humour as the dour Inspector Cockrill, a cynical detective with a flair for irritating everyone around him. The writing/directing team of Sidney Gilliat and Claude Guerney never miss an opportunity to exploit a banging shutter or moonlit copse and the whole production is infused with that proper stiff upper lip which practically defined the golden age of British cinema. “If I were you I’d have a nice cup of cocoa and go to bed…” says one suspect to another and it’s all you can do to keep from drawling “Ra-ther old sport!” Trevor Howard and Judy Campbell co-star.

Green Room (USA 2015) (8): As their haphazard cross-country tour winds down, a struggling punk rock band is booked to play at a remote venue in the Oregon woods. Unbeknownst to them the grungy club is actually the headquarters of a neo-Nazi cell and when one of the band members witnesses something he shouldn’t have an intense all-night game of cats and mice ensues with the four musicians squaring off against a murderous gang of paramilitary skinheads. With a believably off-kilter script and expert camerawork that has you staring into the barrel of a rifle or tip-toeing down dimly lit corridors, writer/director Jeremy Saulnier uses the club’s confined spaces to produce a violent thriller which keeps you enthralled even as it avoids the usual genre devices. There are no sudden heroes in the band, nor are the bad guys as organized as you first think despite the growled orders from their leader—Patrick Stewart successfully cast against type as a malevolent sociopath whose deceptively soft voice somehow manages to sound colder than steel. Saulnier tinges everything with panic and mayhem—the band is barely keeping it together, the Nazis’ grim determination is giving way to desperation—yet he maintains a tight directorial control, propelling the story towards a brutal conclusion laced with unexpected drollness. Perfect performances all around, especially from Imogen Poots as the band’s unexpected ally and Anton Yelchin (R.I.P.) as its slacker guitarist. And that soundtrack of classical interludes and headbanging thrash blend together seamlessly. Definitely not for the squeamish.

Green Zone (USA 2010) (7):  Following George Bush's invasion of Iraq, Chief Warrant Officer Roy Miller (Matt Damon) is assigned to hunt down and expose that country's arsenal of "weapons of mass destruction" or WMDs since their presence was the main reason for going to war in the first place.  But when repeated raids fail to uncover anything more sinister than a dusty toilet seat he begins to question the military's chief source of intelligence--an Iraqi national kept under strict lock and key by the State Department and known only by the code name "Magellan".  Stonewalled at every turn Miller begins to suspect that the American government is hiding something, suspicions brought into sharp focus when he becomes caught in a titanic struggle between Washington representative Clark Poundstone (Greg Kinnear) and the head of CIA operations in Iraq Martin Brown (Brendan Gleeson sans accent) as both men desperately search for General Al Rawi, a kingpin in Saddam's disbanded army and the one man who may very well hold the answers Miller's been searching for...  By now Bush and Blair's myth of Iraqi WMDs is established fact, they existed only as a propaganda tool and after the lie was uncovered a round of official denials and regrets were quickly rattled off and just as quickly forgotten.  But that doesn't lessen the dramatic impact of Paul Greengrass' aggressive and highly kinetic film with its flashes and bangs and swooping cameras speeding down gutted alleys or soaring over suburban ruins.  The gathering storm between Poundstone and Brown is expertly conveyed through tight shots and a mounting score while scenes of destitute civilians add a bitter irony to images of Westerners sipping cocktails by the pool in Baghdad's secured "green zone".  Only Damon's stone-faced search for the truth seems over-baked---at any moment I expected to see him waving a six-gallon hat from atop a white steed.  An angry, accusative film, equal parts fabricated thriller and political polemic.  The names may have been changed and the politics oversimplified (the infighting between various Iraqi factions is given a mere footnote) but then again, in times of war "the truth" is more elusive than peace and more volatile than bombs.

Gregory’s Girl (UK 1981) (7): When the newest member of his highschool’s formerly “boys only” soccer team turns out to be the hottest girl on campus, Gregory, an ungainly smart-mouthed senior, makes it his life’s mission to win her heart. After making several lame (and pretty funny) attempts to woo the headstrong Dorothy she finally agrees to meet up with him one evening after class where, armed only with his roommate’s best shirt and some sage advice from his kid sister, Gregory learns an unexpected lesson or two about the vagaries of love and desire. This lighthearted little charmer from Scotland may not be as polished as all those John Hughes brat pack movies which helped define the 80‘s, but its sparkling script and refreshingly natural performances still ring true 30 years later. Unlike the privileged suburban whinging of Sixteen Candles or tortured soul-searching of The Breakfast Club (both fine films in their own right) Bill Forsyth’s gentle foray into teen angst is disarmingly playful while remaining resolute and truthful, at least in the context of a light comedy. An opening scene of adolescent voyeurs willing an unsuspecting nurse to remove her bra assures us this will not be a sophisticated film while a series of cute vignettes including Gregory and Dorothy having a one-on-one soccer practice and a clandestine student market in the boys room selling fresh doughnuts and candid girlie pics provide just the right amount of cheery smiles. There may not be a lot here to chew on, but it’s a winner just the same.

Grey Gardens (US TV 1975) (2): Edith and Edie Beales, aunt and cousin of Jaqueline Kennedy Onassis, are the subject of this made-for-teleivision documentary. Living in a squalid 28-room East Hampton mansion overrun by cats, fleas, and raccoons, the eccentric mother and daughter have managed to eke out an existence despite being perpetually broke and in violation of several building codes. Eccentric, mentally suspect, and seemingly unaware of the decaying remnants of past splendour which surround them, the two women squabble and reminisce as the cameras roll. If the idea of being locked in a room with a pair of crazy old cat ladies with high shrill voices who pop in and out of clothes, ramble out non-sequiturs ad nauseam, and yell at each other while their pets pee on the carpet appeals to you then you're sure to enjoy Grey Gardens. Or maybe you just like poking at roadkill. Otherwise run away.

The Grim Reaper (Italy 1961) (5): The body of a dead prostitute lies in a field next to the Tiber, her corpse surrounded by the castaway detritus of Roman society. One by one, five suspects—a delinquent teen, a henpecked pimp, a lustful soldier, a lovestruck adolescent, and a surly bouncer—are hauled in for questioning and as their testimonies give rise to flashbacks we gradually come to see exactly what happened that night. Directed by a 20-year old Bernardo Bertolucci and written by Pier Paolo Pasolini this is at best a clumsy amateurish stab at Kurosawa’s Rashomon in which a horrible crime is recounted from four different perspectives. But unlike the Japanese classic which used faulty memories as a springboard for exploring the nature of morality and societal norms, Bertolucci simply parades a host of unsavoury lowlifes before the cameras to beat their breasts and wail injustice to an offscreen interrogator before he finally gives up and just shows us who did it. There is very little subtext to draw upon, no interpersonal connections to add depth, and the dramatic non-sequiturs simply add to the repetitive tedium. Aside from one or two striking pans (at one point the camera pulls away to reveal a covey of strangers huddling beneath the Coliseum as a rainstorm drenches Rome) and a dose of humour (a bitch fight between a mother and daughter involves bread knives and an iron) the abrupt editing mostly grates on the nerves while the two-dimensional characters do not engage the audience at any level save for Bertolucci’s surprisingly charitable portrayals of streetwalkers and one prowling homosexual whose character is almost, but not quite, sympathetic. Worth catching if you’re a fan of the genre, but set your expectations low.

Grotesque(Japan 2009) (2): A pair of young twenty-somethings are returning from their first date when they're kidnapped by a maniacal doctor and taken to his secret torture chamber. Strung up and helpless they are told by the madman that only their "will to survive" will keep him from killing them outright. What follows is 60 minutes of nauseatingly graphic carnage which comes as close to a pornographic snuff film as I care to go. Limbs are hacked off, eyes gouged out and testicles are nailed to a tabletop. At one point his lower bowel is tied to a meat hook and he is forced to walk across the room while his intestines are slowly pulled out; later on she is sexually assaulted with a chainsaw. A macabre bond eventually forms between victims and tormentor but will it enough to save their lives? Unbelievably gruesome, sadistic and cruel, this fucked-up mess is just one long train wreck. What's up with those Japanese anyway?

The Gruffalo (UK 2009) (10): A mother squirrel entertains her two children with the tale of a hungry little mouse on a quest for acorns who must use his wits to avoid being eaten by a trio of equally hungry predators. But the clever rodent’s cunning tactics backfire on him when he comes face to face with a nightmare of his own making. Adorable computer animation and rhyming dialogue create a storybook world of sunlit forests and dandelion fluff while a low-key musical score of strings and piano make this perfect bedtime viewing. Not bad for a 30-minute television special.

The Guard (Ireland 2011) (7): The Irish penchant for political incorrectness is dark indeed in John Michael McDonagh’s comedic policier set in a small backwater on Ireland’s west coast. Full of piss and tall tales, local police sergeant Gerry Boyle (national treasure Brendan Gleeson) is not above taking an occasional snort or indulging his kink for buxom prostitutes—sometimes two at a time. But when a ruthless international drug smuggling operation comes to town and he finds himself having to work with black FBI agent Wendell Everett (Done Cheadle), his caustic humour and irritating peccadilloes not only jeopardize the operation but put him at odds with Everett who is already feeling like a fish out of water among the bizarre Gaelic-speaking locals. Muddy waters run deep however and Boyle may not be quite the country blockhead he appears to be… Shot through with trenchant wit delivered in a barely comprehensible brogue and a few uncomfortably funny scenes (no sense letting a stray hit of Ecstasy go to waste even if it just rolled out of a dead motorist’s pocket), McDonagh’s humour is definitely aimed at a hometown audience: Englishmen are the butt of frequent wisecracks, “big city” Dubliners don’t fare much better, and the oddball townsfolk are clearly punchlines to jokes North Americans would never understand—even a farmer’s white mare gets in on the act. Despite all that there is still more than enough funny stuff here to keep everyone smiling and enough tension to keep you on your toes right up to that sly final twist.

Guardians of the Galaxy (USA 2014) (10): Intrepid fortune hunter Peter Quill (a very funny-sexy Chris Pratt) stumbles upon a dangerous alien artifact and suddenly finds himself involved in a deadly intergalactic game of cat-and-mouse as very powerful players vie to steal it from him no matter the cost. With a ragtag ship and motley crew of E.T. outcasts—an animated tree stump, trigger-happy raccoon, tattooed ogre, and green-skinned female assassin—Quill will have to survive everything from an alien prison camp to a fantastical aerial dogfight in order to deliver the artifact to its rightful place before it destroys the universe. I have never been a fan of the Marvel Comics universe (I actually walked out of Iron Man) but James Gunn has scored a major coup with this slap-happy amalgam of CGI wizardry, adult humour, and whizz-bang pyrotechnics. Teeming with geeky in-jokes (Howard the Duck makes a cameo!) and a supercool soundtrack of retro hits ranging from Glen Campbell to Ziggy Stardust, Gunn’s manic energy splashes the screen with so much comic mayhem that I found myself smiling without even knowing why. And that cast (both flesh and graphics) produces a synergy seldom seen in the movies. A little bit of Star Wars, a dash of Raiders of the Lost Ark, and a touch or two of Lara Croft all make for one hugely entertaining—and very funny—space opera.

The Guest (USA 2014) (7): The Petersons are still grieving for their son Caleb who was killed while on duty in the Middle East when a stranger shows up on their doorstep claiming to have served with Caleb. At first charming and chivalrous, “David” (Dan Stevens, a long long way from Downton Abbey) starts exerting an unhealthy influence on the family, especially Caleb’s troubled brother Luke (Brendan Meyer) who’s being bullied at school, and skeptical sister Anna (Maika Monroe) who begins to suspect that David is not the person he appears to be. And then a handful of violent deaths strike their small town causing Anna to launch her own investigation into mom and dad’s peculiar houseguest. Apparently Stevens went on a crash workout regime for his role and it shows—those intense blue eyes and chiseled chest making him one helluva scary-sexy antagonist. Undermining the looks however is a reptilian smile and a preternaturally calm demeanour which chills more than it charms. Monroe’s character, on the other hand, combines dogged pessimism with a trashy chic wardrobe to create a working class antiheroine reminiscent of a young Jamie Lee Curtis but without all the screaming. And for their parts, director Adam Wingard and writer Simon Barrett pull off an exciting thriller/horror hybrid whose credibility stretches get steamrolled under a barrage of grisly homicides and dark humour, even playing the tired old “government conspiracy” card in an effort to explain away some of the film’s more cartoonish action sequences. And action sequences are in abundant supply—bullets rip through flesh and wood paneling alike, grenades go skittering across the floor, and fountains of bright red blood paint walls and windshields. It’s strictly popcorn matinee fodder of course, from Stevens’ disarming first smile to that amusingly overdone Halloween finale (Easter eggs galore for you cinema geeks!), I just wish Wingard hadn’t ended it with one of the cheapest gimmicks to be found in the Filmmakers’ Handbook, a “twist” that you can see coming from a mile away.

Guinea Pig 2: Flower of Flesh and Blood (Japan 1985) (5): As a rule, whenever I review a movie based on a manga comic I generally dismiss any notions of common sense or narrative logic. Case in point is this 45 minute exercise in poor taste, part grisly performance piece part misogynistic snuff film in which a bound woman is sliced, diced, and gutted like a trout by a psychopath in samurai drag. Supposedly based upon an 8 mm film sent to a famous cartoonist by an anonymous fan obsessed with “aesthetic paranoia” (huh?), this direct-to-video recreation begins with the late-night abduction of a young woman in an abandoned park. Waking up in a blood-spattered studio adorned with grotesque artwork the hapless victim is first anesthetized and then methodically divided into her various components, each series of chops filmed in a different coloured light. Starting with her hands and ending with her eyeballs, our ersatz butcher delivers a terse monologue on the artistic merits of his work; not only do the endless fountains of blood and torn flesh come to resemble graceful flowers to his sick mind, he also assures us that the woman is in a state of erotic ecstasy thanks to the narcotic he injected her with beforehand. Her dismemberment, then, becomes a consensual and highly sexualized sadistic ritual. Zoinks!! Flower lacks both the dark satire of Hostel and the playful stupidity of Saw. Director Hideshi Hino and his college buddies seem to have no higher purpose than to gross out their audience, a task they take to with enthusiastic abandon (the “making of” doc in the extras section is actually kind of cute). On that note it does feature several graphic, if relatively dated, special effects. The perverse visuals are further heightened by some nauseating acoustics; for every snapping tendon and disarticulated bone there is a wonderful soundtrack of dolby-enhanced pops and squishes. The final scene, in which we are given a V.I.P. tour of the madman’s maggot-ridden “collection” while he recites a perverted Buddhist mantra is pretty impressive and obviously a source of great pride for the fledgling film crew. Juvenile, gratuitous and devoid of any artistic value, Flower takes its rightful place atop my pile of oh-so-guilty pleasures.

Gumshoe (UK 1971) (4): Unhappy with the way his life is going, nightclub comedian Eddie Ginley (Albert Finney) decides to realize his Bogart fantasy by hiring himself out as a private investigator à la The Maltese Falcon. But his first case almost ends up being his last when he gets entangled in a convoluted plot involving drug dealers, kidnappers, and a foreign revolutionist or two. Did I say “convoluted”? It’s more like writer Neville Smith took every cliché Chandler, Hammett, and Spillane ever put out, tossed them into a blender and meekly accepted whatever dribbled out. As an homage to yesteryear’s Film Noir it bombs at every turn—the dialogue cracks more than it crackles, the femme fatales (in this case Ginley’s duplicitous ex-wife and a mysterious American) are D.O.A., and the ham-fisted attempts at wit are delivered with all the finesse of a stubbed toe, in fact the only clue that it might be a satire of the genre is the fact it says so on the DVD jacket. Even the music provided by an aspiring Andrew Lloyd Webber (say what?!) sounds like it was lifted from a mediocre radio station. Klunky, boring, and sophomoric, this is one mystery that should have remained a cold case.

Gun Crazy (USA 1950) (10): Nothing captures America’s preoccupation with sex, power, and violence quite like this stylish noir about two zealous firearms enthusiasts shootin’ and smoochin’ their way across the land in what amounts to NRA pistol porn. Ever since he was a child Barton Tare has been fascinated by guns—shooting up the barnyard, proudly displaying his revolver at school (oh how times have not changed!), and eventually stealing a gun he couldn’t afford to buy. Four years in reform school followed by a stint in the army have now tamed his fondness for firearms and turned him into a model citizen. But when he crosses paths with gorgeous carnival performer Annie Laurie Starr, a fellow gun fetishist within whose heaving breast beats the heart of an ice cold predator, an intense case of amour fou develops which sees the grasping Starr and reluctant Tare embarking on a Bonnie & Clyde odyssey throughout the midwest. “We go together like guns and ammunition!” gushes a conscience-stricken Barton at one point—and so they do. Penned anonymously by blacklisted writer Dalton Trumbo, this quintessential film noir thriller revels in elaborately staged B&W cinematography and tense, wholly believable dialogue delivered by stars Peggy Cummins and John Dall as if they were actually living their parts. Hyper realistic at times (most of the road scenes were filmed in a real car with either Cummins or Dall at the wheel and one bank heist was so true to life it had an unwitting bystander screaming for the police) yet ending on a surreal note that borders on gothic horror, Gun Crazy is a sobering fairy tale in which nary a word or camera shot is wasted. Riddled with bullets and steeped in suspense (not to mention a bit of muted eroticism), this is one B-movie that scores an A+.

Gunga Din (USA 1939) (3):  When a fanatical death cult begins terrorizing colonial India with sabotage and murder the British army assigns three officers to neutralize them:  suave Ballantine (Douglas Fairbanks Jr.), dashing Cutter (Cary Grant), and lovable gorilla MacChesney (Victor McLaglen).  Together with their faithful water boy Gunga Din (forty-seven year old Sam Jaffe looking ridiculous in loincloth and brown face) the three amigos will brave certain death, bizarre pagan rituals, and a hostile landscape (California standing in for India standing in for the Wild West) before the week is over.  From the outset it is painfully obvious that director George Stevens cut his teeth doing Hal Roach comedies for not only do the exploits of his leads border on slapstick—they spike a punch bowl with “Elephant Elixir” and toss around sizzling sticks of TNT as if they were cream pies—but many of the tiresome battle scenes seem penned by the Keystone Cops with turbans flying and a bouncy musical score glossing over death and victory alike.  However, it is Hollywood’s narrow-minded insistence on stereotyping anything that isn't white and apple pie that ultimately gives the film it’s short shelf life as Jaffe does for Hindus what minstrel shows did for black Americans and an entire continent is peopled by bumbling kowtowers.  A tearjerking finale obviously meant to honour the heroic Gunga Din merely drives home the final nail.  

Gun Hill Road (USA 2011) (9): Newly released from prison, vehemently homophobic Enrique Rodriguez returns to his small Bronx apartment to discover a few changes have taken place during his absence. First off, his wife Angela has been having an affair while he’s been away, an indiscretion he can overlook since going without a man for three years “ain’t natural”. However, when he discovers that his teenaged son Michael, his pride and joy, is well on his way to becoming a beautiful young woman named Vanessa the perceived insult to his own masculinity proves to be more than he’s able to deal with. Raised in the machismo culture of the barrio where arguments are settled with fists and a man’s honour is directly related to his wife and family, Enrique looks upon his son’s emerging femininity with a mixture of horror and personal humiliation. But after his sad, and occasionally violent attempts to turn Michael into the man he needs him to be fail, Enrique is finally forced into an emotional showdown with a vulnerable yet increasingly self-confident Vanessa. A beautiful and finely nuanced three-hander which refuses to stoop to cultural and sexual stereotypes, Gun Hill Road’s nuclear family explosion examines issues of identity, love, and familial bonds with a depth rarely seen in mainstream cinema. Although his actions are abhorrent, there is a sense of fragility to Enrique as he tries to cover up his own feelings of inadequacy with macho posturing and petty crime; his deep-seated homophobia is never fully explored but one gets the impression his stint in prison had something to do with it. Angela, meanwhile, is torn between her love for her husband, the need to protect her child, and her own personal desire for a mature relationship. But it is Michael/Vanessa, superbly played by transgendered actress Harmony Santana, who proves to be the focal point around which everyone else revolves. An accomplished slam poet (her delicate verse gives the film its heartbeat), she is an intriguing blend of naïveté and street smarts. There is a flow to her character, a human being in the process of becoming, which underscores her father’s own crumbling rigidity; a fact driven home by the movie’s heartbreaking final coda. One of the better films I’ve seen this year.

Gwen (UK 2018) (8): In the mountainous hinterland of 19th century Wales, teenaged Gwen lives with her mother and little sister. With dad away fighting in a war, mom suffering from bouts of melancholia, and little Mari not yet old enough to pull her weight, it falls to Gwen to look after the day-to-day running of their small rustic farmstead. But adversity lurks in the form of a nearby mining operation whose lordly owner possess the locals like a plague and has managed to run everyone else off their land except Gwen’s family—and the longer her mother resists his demands that she sell the farm to him, the more mysterious tragedies seem to befall the family until their very lives are in jeopardy… For his debut feature writer/director William McGregor combines the encroaching nihilism of Tarr’s The Turin Horse with the suggestion of diabolical evil from Eggers’ The Witch to fashion what at first appears to be a slice of gothic horror but for one glaring difference: in this dark tale the devil in the doorway is all too human. In a story propelled more by imagery than its sparse script cinematographer Adam Etherington shows consummate skill in evoking a sense of bottomless despair, for Gwen’s world of crags and mist seems locked in a perpetual tempest where even a roaring fireplace (infernal imagery abounds) fails to dispel the gloom and God’s own house offers more menace than solace. In the title role, Eleanor Worthington-Cox portrays a timid young woman cowed by the machinations of the adult world which threaten to undo her. As the wraithlike mother, Maxine Peake is a study in contradictions—strong yet dangerously fragile; resolute yet unpredictable; loving, in her own way, yet carrying within her a secret that could destroy the family. And, as the owner of the mine, Mark Lewis Jones encapsulates all seven of the deadly sins, a fact heightened rather than lessened by his soft voice and gentlemanly attire. Simply told and without flourish, McGregor has created a wretched folk tale—sadly rooted in historical truths—in which goodness is unable to comprehend evil; madness takes on a supernatural sheen; and a little girl’s fervent prayers are cast into the whirlwind only to fall upon deaf ears.