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Reviews
I Am the Pretty Thing That Lives in the House (2016)
Terrific title, great atmosphere, nothing else
This is a horror movie by and for people who think they are a little above horror movies. Framing is millimetre precise, plotting is minimal and the pacing is deliberate, *very* deliberate. It's like watching stalagmites form.
The main problem is that for all its artiness this is basically just another horror movie: every element is there to be creepy and nothing else, no depth, no emotion, no other layers.
And it is creepy, especially the opening moments with the image of a woman in Victorian clothes coming into shot, colours trailing like a slow-motion comet, her facial features smeared enough to make them indistinct. There is tension during the nurse's telephone call too, and at other moments, but it's not long before we begin to suspect that the extreme formality of the film-making is a cover for a lack of ideas.
Couple of other problems: the SFX make-up is poor, and when the phantom manifests itself at a crucial point near the end it looks so ludicrous that the mood is ruined.
Also, while it's great to see Paula Prentiss again, she actually looks too healthy for the role of a disintegrating old woman. I thought it was a sixty-year old actress trying to look twenty years older.
Chicago (2002)
Blame Harvey!
This is a very enjoyable filming of a truly magnificent and exhilarating stage show, but it's probably more valuable as permanent record of the original production rather than in its own right, because, as many have pointed out, the frantic editing of many of the routines comes close to scuppering the whole thing. It's incredibly annoying. Imagine if, say, the 'Moses Supposes' number in Singin' in the Rain had been shot that way - all its vitality would vanish. 'I Can't Do It Alone' suffers most, but only on 'We Both Reached For The Gun' is the approach a success.
I suppose it could be the result of a first-time director's lack of confidence, in either himself or his stars, but it's really surprising that he would choose to blunt the impact of his own choreography in this way. More likely he was bullied into the approach by Mr Weinstein who, notwithstanding his speech at the National Film Theatre in London earlier this year where he declared that "Chicago" would be a return to making musicals a la Arthur Freed, was worried that unless the production was MTV'd up a bit no-one would be interested. That's two good films he's spoilt in the last couple of months!
Blue (1968)
Worst casting ever
Terence Stamp is an actor of some range, but that range doesn't extend to playing naturalized Mexicans. His extreme unsuitability for his role is apparent as soon as he speaks: his first words - "I'll do that" - are delivered in what appears to be thick cockney; a little later his delivery has a Devon burr. Only when Blue gave an account of his upbringing did I realised he was meant to be American. The mystery is why, having kept their leading man silent for the first forty-five minutes, the film-makers should have allowed him to speak at all.
Ginger Snaps (2000)
If Ginger Snaps was a person, I would want to punch it for the rest of my life
I hated this film, absolutely hated it. I hated it because, in no particular order, of its pretensions to be saying something profound and original about teenage girls, because of its reliance on the most patronizing cliches when trying to 'establish' 'character', because of its godawful and unrelenting US high-school lingo (satirical? lazy, more like), because of the way it sloshed out gore by the gallon but not once, not even for a second, delivered one of your actual scares, because of the director's copping out of trying to generate any tension or excitement in the action scenes in favour of noise and frenzied cutting where it's absolutely impossible to make out what's going on, because of the waste of two clearly talented young actresses, and because of the idea that in the end, after all the sneering and attitude and posturing, it turned out that it was expecting us to find it all terribly moving.
But what got to me most of all, what really annoyed, was its crippling determination, exemplified in the opening minute when a woman's horror over the death of her dog is played for laughs, to be, above all else, 'cool' - not fun or exciting or intelligent or witty or wise, but 'cool', that indefinable and much-prized quality which - and could all would-be 'cool' auteurs please pay attention here - is not the artist's to assume but is the in gift of posterity.
Good points? All right: the two leads, handsome photography, the credit sequence, that line about "there's something wrong, I mean apart from you being female." (It's funnier in context.)
So, to sum up: I didn't much care for it.
Jack the Giant Killer (1962)
Brothers Grimm meet the Brothers Coen
It's such a shame that the stop-motion here is so slap-dash because the film as a whole is splendidly imagined. I can't think of any other which comes so close to emulating the vicious, merciless, no-holds-barred fantasy of the best fairy tales. The production is handsome, the cast plays it straight and Juran clearly wasn't worried about giving his target audience the screaming ab-dabs; what a pity he couldn't recruit Ray Harryhausen to do the job properly.
Spartacus (1960)
Stan Gets Lucky
One of those movies which somehow seems to improve as it ages (probably because, between viewings, we forget how many cliches it avoids), Spartacus is a terrific film, and one which, I think, would have been every bit as terrific even if Mr Douglas and Mr Mann hadn't had that little falling out which led to Mr Kubrick getting the phone call.
Don't get me wrong, I think Kubrick was a great director, perhaps even the best there has been, but not only had Spartacus been in pre-production for over a year by the time he was told to hop aboard, the actual shooting had already begun (that opening sequence in the quarry is all Mann's, I believe). On a project of this scale, made in the heart of the Hollywood machine, even the most tyrannous director would be hard pressed to shape it into something that reflected himself, and indeed, some sources suggest Kubrick all but disowned the film. He certainly wasn't involved with the '91 restoration.
The only conclusion is that, whatever contribution he made scene-by-scene, the film's many overall qualities (witty dialogue, an emphasis on intrigue, a political theme, very handsome look) were there regardless of Kubrick, not because of him.
Fight Club (1999)
Length
After an hour-and-a-half or so of 'Fight Club', things seemed to be drawing nicely to a close. "How refreshing," I thought, "a contemporary big-budget movie that doesn't feel the need to prove its importance by dragging its unwilling bulk across the two-hour line." Then all of a sudden there was a plot development straight out of 'The Twilight Zone' and the ruddy thing went on another 45 minutes! Hadn't been terribly impressed by it anyway.
The Blair Witch Project (1999)
Wimp in "too scared to visit the lavatory" shock.
Like many people have said, the film is just too long: 45 - 60 minutes would've been just fine. Plus, again like many people have said, the sheer amount of hype and comment detracts from the film, preparing you too well for what would otherwise have been a deeply unsettling experience. Nevertheless, it spooked me, and not just for the rest of the night, but into the bright sunny morning that followed. Embarrassing to admit, but I didn't want to leave my room, except when nature was calling too loudly to ignore!
Is it only me that detects the influence of MR James on the story? As with James, we learn of the horrors from 'found' material: in James's stories it's usually diaries, or newspaper reports, or letters, or an overheard conversation, arranged and presented by a disinterested narrator; here, of course, it's the tapes and negatives unearthed long after the fact, the 'narrator' almost invisible except for the opening crawl (and for the fact that someone had to decide how the footage would be presented). I'm not sure why this technique is so effective, unless it is simply the veneer of presenting facts, rather than creating a story. The more obvious Jamesian influence is in leaving the precise nature of the horrors unexplained, but giving just enough information to leave you in no doubt that whatever is behind the phenomena is very nasty indeed. Check out any James collection to see what I mean; 'A School Story', 'Count Magnus' and 'The Stalls of Barchester Cathedral' are perhaps the most typical examples.
But do you want scary? I mean REALLY scary? Oh, I can give you scary.
A couple of days after seeing the film, a friend of mine was talking to colleagues about it. A lady in her twenties had also been to see it, with a group of friends.
"Did you think it was scary?" asked my friend.
"Oh yes," she replied, "it was terrifying. I don't know how they got away with it."
"Got away with what?"
"Showing those poor people dying like that"
"You're joking."
"And the dead children, too. They shouldn't have had the dead children on there. I don't like that."
"Tell me you're joking."
"What do you mean?"
"You didn't really think it was real, do you?"
"Oh, it was."
"It was not!"
"Yes it was. My boyfriend was reading about it in the paper and they said it was real."
Actually, that's more depressing than frightening.
Bad Lieutenant (1992)
Forgiveness?
First off, it's only fair for me to say that the following jottings will give away the movie's denouement. But as 'Bad Lieutenant' is not exactly a plot-driven film anyway, and as I suspect the vast majority of people browsing this page will have seen the movie already (and quite rightly: the true function of criticism, positive or negative, is to send you back to the movie, book, whatever, with a fresh view of the material - these are REviews not PREviews; and anyway, there's not much to be gained from simply learning another person's opinion), I'm going ahead regardless.
There's a fundamental problem with the film's 'redemption' theme that no article or review I've come across seems to have noticed: it's the BL's confusion of forgiveness with leniency. This is clear when he asks the nun if she has the 'right' to forgive the men who raped her. What a ridiculous question! Of course she has the right: she was the victim, she is the only one who can forgive those men. This shouldn't necessarily mean that she thinks the men should go unpunished, that she thinks the interests of society should be disregarded; it means that she has no thirsting for retribution. But the climax makes it clear that the BL hasn't understood it this way, and that he believes by putting the rapists on a bus out of town he has attained a state of grace, when in fact he has only discovered a new pit of misery in which to immerse himself. (I'm sure when the nun learns of what she inspired the lieutenant to do, she'll clap her hands to her forehead.)
But - and here's the real mystery - there is absolutely zero sense of irony in this final scene; the viewer is not given any hint that the BL has found a yet lower deep. Could it be that it is Ferrera and Tamerlis who are confused about what forgiveness is, and that they truly believe their protagonist has started to redeem himself? I think that's the case. But this ethical muddle, far from detracting from the movie, only adds to its fascination and (and I make no apologies for using the word, because I think this is one of the very few films for which it is appropriate) its importance.
Mouchette (1967)
Forget your troubles, come and enjoy Mouchette's!
There is something horribly sadistic about the way Bresson makes the title character suffer. As if her basic situation wasn't bad enough, she is shown to be such an outcast at school that her peers can't even be bothered to torment her; she is raped by a drunken poacher who also forces her to provide him with an alibi for murder; even her mother's death only provokes the villagers to direct insults at her. This heaping of indignity upon misery seems to at least one viewer to be no more profound and just as dishonourably manipulative as anything with Robin Williams, never mind Bresson's unique and meticulous style (and even that has mixed results: his amateur actors, particularly near the start, often look lost). Every scene finds a new way to thwart the girl's chance of happiness, every frame is there to induce a patronizing pity for her. It's titillation for the tear ducts, emotional porn.
Ghostbusters (1984)
The Difference an Audience Can Make...
I saw this film on its first weekend in the UK, in Dec 1984. Of course, it had already been a huge hit in the US, and the waves of enthusiasm had been lapping at our shore for months; then there was that splendid theme tune which had been sat in the Top Twenty throughout late summer and the autumn, so by the time the pic finally arrived there was a tremendous amount of expectation.
That Saturday night there were hundreds of filmgoers in the centre of Cardiff, but all to see the one film (I can still remember the deafening silence that greeted the cinema manager's enquiry, shouted down the length of that great queue, "Is there ANYONE for 'Bachelor Party'?"). Lord knows how many were turned away, but those that made it in cheered as one when the lights dimmed. Moments later, we were cheering again, whooping our appreciation of the library ghost's horrifying transformation, and then we were singing - well, shouting really - along to the theme song, and this mood of festive celebration (it was Christmas, after all) was maintained throughout the next two hours, and it was one in which I joined as enthusiastically as anybody, despite a bladder which had been demanding urgent attention since even before the trailers had finished (and despite the slight disappointment of that giant doughman, which meant nothing to us in the UK), and long before the film's conclusion, I realised that I hadn't had so much fun on a cinema visit before, and nor have I had since.
And when it had ended, and we had filed back out into the winter night (some of us via the gents), with each of our group almost taking turns to ask the rest if they had enjoyed the movie as much as he had, we began the ritual of recalling favorite moments from the film. But something odd happened. "Remember that bit when...when..." When what? Hmm. Try again. "How about when he said...when he said..." Said what? Did what? Hmmmm.
Long before we'd reached home, we'd realised that the only highlights the film had were moments of spectacle, that there hadn't been any really good jokes, or plot twists, or weird little moments of invention; less than 30 minutes after leaving the cinema on that high, we'd realised that the movie had been thoroughly mediocre.
A paradox, surely: how could we have enjoyed it so if it was a poor film? Simple: the audience made it fun; we'd acted like our own warm-up act. We were there to enjoy ourselves and enjoy ourselves we did, all the film did was provide us with a few cues so we could keep the vibe up. I said it is the most fun I've ever had at the cinema, and so it is: it's the same sort of fun I've had on a fairground ride when there's a load of people all screaming in mock terror - wouldn't be as good if you were alone, and so it is with 'Ghostbusters'; I've seen it since on TV, and it passes the time if you've absolutely nothing else to do, otherwise...
Oh, and I saw the sequel in a cinema, but one that was nine-tenths empty. It didn't stand a chance.
Der Name der Rose (1986)
Connery's adventure
I don't think 'The Name of the Rose' is a great film, but it is two hours of solid entertainment for grown-ups that deserved a lot better than its dismal b.o. performance in the US and the UK (tho' it was a big hit in continental Europe, apparently) and its subsequent languishing in semi-obscurity. This is all the more surprising since it contains what I believe to be Sean Connery's best - certainly his most surprising, most atypical - non-Bond performance. 'The Name of the Rose' is, as far as I'm aware (and I'm willing to be corrected) the one and only time in his screen career where Connery has played a man of thought rather than a man of action, a man who depends on his mental rather than his physical prowess, a man who would rather talk himself out of trouble than fight, a man who acts like he's the age he is; and as this man Connery is entirely convincing - entirely. When Brother William is trapped in the burning library (and what other Connery character would risk his life over some books, for goodness sake) we are seriously worried: he's an old man, how on earth can he save himself? And indeed, he has to rely on others to bring him to safety.
I have read a number of reviews and articles about this film, and not one has acknowledged the radical departure Connery made from his regular persona. Perhaps this, plus the fact that, that same year, when Hollywood finally decided to salute Edinburgh's most famous ex-milkman, they chose to honour him for his lazy, charisma-reliant performance in 'The Untouchables' (of course, that was a big hit), is the reason why Connery has played it so boringly safe ever since: after all, if people aren't going to notice when you do something different, why do it at all? Thankfully, the British Academy (BAFTA), in their last brave decision before turning into the blandest of all movie awards, gave him top prize for this film, despite its b.o. disappointment. That was their bit to ensure that posterity doesn't ignore his work here, and this is mine.