Visually lush animation. Written and directed by Makoto Shinkai. I wasn't so enthralled that I didn't feel the echoes of American teenage classics Ferris Bueller's Day Off (1986) and Catcher in the Rye (1951). The synthetic mythos was probably mostly of a piece with Japanese lore (like Godzilla (1954)) but the literal doors between realms is a tired trope that doesn't hold up too well in the action sequences.
The plot has the teenage heroine somehow unplugging a god in cat form from a node that prevents earthquakes. She then traverses Japan (how much I do not know) in pursuit of the incoherent animal with a bloke who has been transformed into a chair; the chair put me in mind of Wall-E (2008). Along the way she has a few funny vignettes about Japanese life, which, like the rest of the movie, hint at dangers that we know will not matter. The conclusion is all schmaltzy love like Interstellar (2014). This mother-daughter (and/or self) love stands in stark contrast to the rest of the movie where (as far I could be bothered to remember) nobody is coupled up.
I don't think I've ever met a cat that wouldn't prefer to help destroy (at least parts of) the human realm. The theme of doors that need closing, the ancestor worship, the evocation of the firebombing of Tokyo (? — or Hiroshima or Nagasaki) suggest the auteur is pining for historically insular Japan.
Maya Phillips: leans on Miyazaki's Spirited Away (2001) and Howl's Moving Castle (2004). Brian Tallerico at Roger Ebert's venue: three stars. A Japanese movie that was big in China.
Apparently before Dan Brown there was Umberto Eco. Directed by Jean-Jacques Annaud (Seven Years in Tibet (1997)). Apparently this revived Sean Connery's career sufficiently for him to go on to greater heights in Highlander (also 1986)... or was it the other way around? A very young Christian Slater. Michael Lonsdale does his usual.
Rationalist Franciscan monk Connery arrives at an austere knowledge-preserving Benedictine monastery in wintry northern Italy in 1327 as bad stuff is happening. Supernatural or just a side effect of things having to change to stay the same? Or a foreshadowing of a debate about how much property Jesus had? Or perhaps merely an excuse for the Inquisition (in the form of F. Murray Abraham) to intervene? Slater is Connery's pupil, notionally recounting the events from old age. Without his entanglement with "the girl" (Valentina Vargas) I doubt it was all that memorable. So much effort was poured into something so humourless.
Roger Ebert: two-and-a-half stars. Connery as "the first modern man"; shades of Zardoz (1974) therefore. It could have been something. (And that was a barrel of pig's blood not wine!) Vincent Canby. Obviously Holmes and Watson.
Second time around with another vintage Mike Leigh. Since High Hopes (1988) the working class has been evicted from their townhouses and corralled into the projects. Ruth Sheen works at the supermarket with Lesley Manville. Both are fantastic though Manville sometimes gets too close to Blenda Blethyn's performance in Secrets and Lies (1996) for my comfort. She has two children with the very stable cab-driving Timothy Spall who mumbles his way to greatness; he shares a fantastic slow-burning scene with notional-Frenchwoman Kathryn Hunter (one of a montage of cab riders) and a tragicomic fundraising round with his family. Sally Hawkins is so young here. Mostly it's a bunch of character studies — Spall and Manville picking up where Sheen and Phil Davis left off in 1988 — until a crisis brings the stakes into sharp relief.
I have a feeling that Leigh pushed the winning formula a bit too far this time and perhaps he felt the same way; his next effort was Vera Drake (2004).
Roger Ebert: four stars. The final scene brings that dominant positive emotion of the twenty-first century, relief. A Critic's Pick by A. O. Scott. Lots of swearing. Four stars from Peter Bradshaw and a ranking of the caricatures.
#70 on David Stratton's list of marvellous movies. Directed by Paul Ireland from a script by Damian Hill who also stars. Astronomy Class provided the opening track (Four Barang In A Tuk-Tuk) but lead John Brumpton (Romper Stomper (1992)) prefers talkback radio on his commute to his pawnshop in Footscray.
This is a series of vignettes about some people centred on that shop. The suburb felt tiny, that everyone knows everyone, but without a justification like the house sharing of John Birmingham's He Died With a Felafel in His Hand (2001) or a life event as in Erskineville Kings (1999). (The bookshop here is a clanger, a built-yesterday outpost of inner-city clean living whereas Gould's there was a decades-long grimy landmark.) Or the hermetic asociality of boarding-house Brisbane and Sacha Horler in Praise (1998). The vibe is 1990s, a time when you could idle on the street all day, live on the kindness of rollies begged from strangers, bet on the dogs at all hours. The audience were all young smokers then and probably noticed the absence of pubs in this scenario.
The script is generally weak. I did not enjoy the time spent with the two blokes evoking Jay and Silent Bob; Malcolm Kennard aims for Spiteri but he's no David Wenham while Mark Coles Smith is saddled with a numpty of a character that prevents him using the skills he showed in Last Cab to Darwin (2015). Ngoc Phan, essentialised, WTF. Naomi Rukavina, WTF. The dialogue is often cringe worthy and I could often predict it, especially as the romance between pawnshop-employee Hill and bookshop-employee Maeve Dermody warmed up with seconds to go. (She seemed a bit lost so far from Mosman.) Many of the storylines dangled — Kerry Armstrong beamed in from another movie for a bit, one closer to Lantana (2001) — while suicide and sundry heaviness descended without much thought or motivation. (I read Hill committed suicide in 2018; he radiates unhappiness throughout. See Wikipedia for a link to The Rooster (2023).) It doesn't even function as a time capsule of the place or era.
Heavily pumped by Stratton and Margaret Pomeranz at the time. Luke Buckmaster: two stars. Russell Marks at brutal and tenderising length. Mike Leigh-adjacent, poorly executed. (I'm not sure I agree but this is obviously not The Pawnbroker (1964).) Marketed multiculturalism, nostalgia for the mythic monoculture. Ruther Scouller also got the Bryan Brown vibes from Brumpton. Rod Quinn: "I never thought that hanging out in a pawnshop all day would be all that interesting, and I think that this film proves that."
A pointer from Peter Sobczynski's review of The Surfer (2025) to a less hinged performance by Nicolas Cage. Directed by Robert Bierman from a script by Joseph Minion who also wrote the similar After Hours (1985). In two sittings. I should have known better.
As everyone knows NYC is full of office jobs but really it's about the nightlife. For unclear reasons literary agent Cage is going nuts and imagines he has a mutually-satisfying thing going with vampire Jenifer Beals (Devil in a Blue Dress (1995) etc.). Maria Conchita Alonso (The Running Man (1987)) plays his secretary, Elizabeth Ashley (Happiness (1998)) gamely and gravelly his shrink. Throughout I felt I was laughing at more than with when I wasn't bored. The misogynistic violence is misguided, uninspired, tasteless. There is no point.
Caryn James. Peter Travers. IMDB trivia: a source book for Christian Bale's performance in American Psycho (2000).
Another ozploitation pointer from Harry Windsor. Directed by Arch Nicholson from a script by Everett De Roche (Long Weekend (1978), Road Games (1981), etc.) derived from Gabrielle Lord's novel from 1980 which drew inspiration from the actual Faraday School kidnapping of 1972. And obviously Lord of the Flies.
There's not a lot to it. Somewhere out near the Grampians and/or Gippsland (the Buchan Caves) we meet Rachel Ward in a farmer's homestead, implausibly sleeping alone. She's the teacher at the local one-room all-grades school. After the customary horsing about by the kids four masked blokes get the action started with their sawnoff shotguns, hustling the cast into a rusty old Ford van. Things go as they must from there, incorporating enough gore and wildlife shots to meet expectations for the genre. Ward struggles with fractions but knows her high science. A very young Asher Keddie appears as one of the younger kids. Robin Gray's soundtrack is generally obtrusive. Essentially TV.
John J. O'Connor at the New York Times at the time: "Throughout, Miss Ward has the good sense to look as if she would rather be back in the mini-series The Thorn Birds." All the details at Ozmovies. "Mutton Dressed as Rambo." Ward lacks the conviction and dramatic range to pull it off. The novel has her character contemplating an abortion; "Without exploring, or perhaps suspecting, all the implications of its story, Fortress presents the most disturbing, pre-emptive strike of children against the older generation that Australian fiction has to show." But various aspects of it have many precursors. And a link to Mondo Exploito in 2013.
Prompted by vague curiosity about what Rami Malek has been up to since Bohemian Rhapsody (2018) and Oppenheimer (2023). I think this proves that unless he's playing Freddie Mercury he's not leading man material. Also for Larry Fishburne who, despite being deep-sixed in the credits is on the IMDB poster. Directed by James Hawes (mostly TV) off a script by Ken Nolan (Black Hawk Down (2001) then downhill) and Gary Spinelli. Robert Littell wrote the source novel in 1981.
Much is lifted from The Odessa File (1974), though the international market destroying politics has been removed. Where Voigt got trained up to lethality by Mossad, Malek proves his incompetency with firearms to CIA dark op Fishburne and proceeds to rely on his epic IQ (170 genius points so recently in the service of the agency) to settle the score with some terrorists who have killed his wife in London for reasons. Those guys are Russians (or at least Eastern Europeans) and everyone in the target markets knows they are born bad. Where things deviate from the stock are the creative kills, perhaps echoing the Final Destination franchise that Di Rosso enjoys so much, with a geek standing in for Death. On the other hand all the office scenes are as dead as doornails, and there's far too much script kiddie and witless stuff like a burnt CD-ROM; I mean, who even has the hardware to read optical media in 2025?
The closing scenes intimate sequels, maybe even a franchise that replaces Jason Statham's notion of what the everyman can do with an office worker's or perhaps that of the last man on campus, now busy switching off lights; Matt Damon in his Good Will Hunting (1997) persona rather than Bourne, Malek as Ben Affleck's accountant without the build. (Incidentally Jon Bernthal appears for reasons unknown; he is squandered alongside those fabulous ancient cafes ala The Reluctant Fundamentalist (2012).) There's a dash of Reality (2023) in trying to mine the chasm between what the agency knows and what the media says which is remarkable for its touching faith in people still caring. Perhaps this is a red state, blue state thing too.
The cast is quite good. Holt McCallany is either having a moment or has debts no honest man can pay. Fishburne does what he can, as does Michael Stuhlbarg. I did not enjoy Rachel Brosnahan's vacuity as the wife of Malek. However the movie becomes something else when Irishwoman Caitríona Balfe steps out of a vintage John le Carré adaptation with a performance of heft and ballast. With her up front it could maybe have been something. The cinematography is rubbish.
Brian Tallerico: one-and-a-half stars at Roger Ebert's venue: "go watch Spy Game instead." Alissa Wilkinson: tries for 1970s paranoid thriller, misses. A remake of a 1981 film featuring Christopher Plummer. Peter Sobcynski.
Prompted by author Frederick Forsyth's recent passing. This was director Ronald Neame's followup to The Poseidon Adventure (1972). Kenneth Ross and George Markstein adapted Forsyth's book from 1972 which I haven't read. Ross did better with the earlier The Day of the Jackal (1973) and that is the better movie. Andrew Lloyd Weber provided the soundtrack.
Jon Voigt, two years after Deliverance (1972), played a German journo freelancing in Hamburg who, on the night of Kennedy's murder (1963), chances upon a suicide that suggests members of the SS are still present in the area. Devoted but underdrawn squeeze Mary Tamm (memorably the first Romana in Tom Baker-era Doctor Who) works in a cabaret that is only shown from the street. In flashback we're shown the activities of "Butcher of Riga" Eduard Roschmann (Maximilian Schell, name changed to protect the guilty) so all that remains is the timing of his comeuppance. Too much of the plot depends on coincidence; this is not a well-made plan unfolding like clockwork. There's a framing story of Israel's conflict with Egypt and Mossad's activities in Europe.
Nora Sayre at the time: being the only star, Jon Voigt must be invincible.
Prompted by some curiosity about what Nicolas Cage could do for ozploitation, how-bad-can-it-be and Jason Di Rosso's interview with the director, Irishman Lorcan Finnegan. He worked off a script by fellow Irishman Thomas Martin.
The template is Wake in Fright (1971) but less motivated. Cage arrives at the beach/bay of his youth only to find it has become locals-only to a clutch of neo-pagan menchildren who appropriate his surfboard. They write "sanctuary" on it and hang it above the door to their redoubt then claim it has been there for at least seven summers. Julian McMahon (offspring of Billy and Sonia McMahon) tries to locate his inner hardarse as the leader-guru. He spouts random platitudes (selected unoriginal cliches of toxic masculinity) mixed with degraded Christian tropes into a witless literalism that is supposed to degrade Cage's heavily financialised character into acceptance/acceptability/geekdom. A hobo living in a car! A handgun! — uncommon in Australia so it must go off. Some cute wildlife shots. All the blokes are childish and asinine and none of the actors come out looking good. The major flaw, edging out many others, is that it is never adequately established why Cage returns to the beach/bay after dropping his son off somewhere. Why does he never leave, even just to get some food or clothes? I was mostly waiting for Cage to go psycho but he never properly does. For all that they got the stakes right: Cage does it all for a house.
I can't see this film being made anywhere other than Australia; obviously it riffs on the Bra Boys and the (illegal/semi-formal) enclosure of the commons. That doesn't explain why Screenwest would fund it: why make your awesome beaches look so unfriendly? Is the great state of Western Australia full now, like Sydney was back in 2000? I guess they did also fund Last Train to Freo (2006) — this one should've been called Last Lexus to Margaret River.
Peter Sobczynski: two stars at Roger Ebert's venue, "resembl[es] a feature-length meme." Jamie Tram: the sermons regurgitate those of Fight Club. Glenn Kenny avoids assessment/judgement.
Kindle. I fondly remember reading McCann's This Side of Brightness (1998) about twenty years ago. One big part of that was his excellent use of his research and empathy for the people he encountered in the tunnels of NYC; the result was (as I recall) a powerful mix of history, engineering and present-day precarity. This gave me reason to expect he'd do the same for those who repair the fibre optic cables that now bind the world together.
And he mostly does, excepting an unnecessary binding of his tale to Conrad's Heart of Darkness (1899) and Apocalypse Now (1979). The style is first-person autofic and I guess (as with life) the author-narrator doesn't quite know what to do with his enigmatic free-diving lead character or even himself, a long-form journalist. I didn't feel he got to the heart of anything much but it was a pleasant read; the writing is great. I wish he had developed his thoughts on Samuel Beckett some more.
A week or two after a sneaky rewatch of The Accountant (2016) which proved unnecessary; there is no essential continuity with the first one. Once again directed by Gavin O'Connor from a script by Bill Dubuque. Once again Ben Affleck plays a man with autism who has the movie-trope mental gifts as well as being bulletproof and ultraviolent. There's no kink this time; it's a strictly linear buddy flick with Jon Bernthal once again playing the normie/less lethal/more vulnerable buddy-brother.
The opening scene has Affleck attending a dating meetup that he's hacked, and like most of the other comic relief it does not land. There's an extended sequence where Affleck's people (the children at this universe's equivalent of the X Mansion) engage in Bladerunner-ish enhancement of surveillance images that suggest the USA has cameras everywhere now, just like the U.K., but Hollywood has yet to move on from the Sneakers (1992) (etc) conception of or consistency in what computers can do.
After all the necessary buildup, where the law is found to be inadequately effectual (just like Dirty Harry did in 1971), things get Rambo-esque (or perhaps just generically action-McJackson) over some human trafficking from Mexico; the last 30 minutes is almost pure video game violence. Yes, having American men saving Latin American children with machine guns is served up straight. Alongside this we see Daniella Pineda discharge a few contracts (evoking the ultra capable femme of Logan (2017)). J.K. Simmons reprises his earlier role as an investigator and Cynthia Addai-Robinson is again the G-woman-in-distress, much like Emily Blunt in Sicario (2016/2018). There's very little to recommend it.
Manohla Dargis: don't think too hard, it works! Brian Tallerico at Roger Ebert's venue: two circumspect stars.
Ryan Coogler's latest; apparently the only other thing I've seen from him is Black Panther (2018). He wrote and directed. Long-term collaborator Michael B. Jordan led as gangster twins, just like Tom Hardy in Legend (2015) and Robert De Niro just now in The Alto Knights (2025).
The template is essentially From Dusk Till Dawn (1996) transplanted from dangerous present-day Mexico to lethal Mississippi in 1932. There's a cracker soundtrack that fuels a virtuoso bridging scene in the middle, encompassing Black music culture in the USA, warming up the jukes of all times. More of this would've been very welcome (c.f. Small Axe (2020)). Beyond that it's just what was widely telegraphed/spoiled: tired vampire tropes leavened by symbolism and gestures to history that, if you don't recognise them, are meaningless. For instance there's a staging scene where master vampire/Irishman Jack O'Connell is hunted by members of a Choctaw tribe only to be rescued by some people we later understand to be Klanspeople. O'Connell later engages in some mad craic just like a gospel meeting, suggesting that it wasn't just the Blues (at least as played by Miles Caton) that was the devil's music. I didn't try to unpick the commentary on Christianity. I was very happy to see Delroy Lindo (as always). And there's nothing to complain about in Jordan's performance, excepting perhaps that it lacks the humour and vulnerability of a Jamie Foxx.
A Critic's Pick by Manohla Dargis. Coogler is feted at least partly because he survived/elevated the MCU and Rocky. That opening scene, of Caton bursting into his father's church, echoed Kill Bill (2003/2004). Romance yielding to violence, the vampire's promise of taking the pain away. Wendy Ide: the threads of story get messy. Dana Stevens: Caton's "true power as a performer [is] to bring together musical spirits from the past and future in a delirious alchemy that transcends time and space." — and having summoned them, what a waste not to put them to more use. Reminded her of Jordan Peele's Us (2019) and Nope (2022), which I found far more opaque. Peter Sobcynski: "suggestive of one of the big-canvas works of Robert Altman." Lindo MVP!
Later the romance, doomerism and reliance on the soundtrack put me in mind of Crazy Heart (2009).
More ozploitation. Directed by Brian Trenchard-Smith (The Man from Hong Kong (1975)) using a script Peter Smalley derived from Peter Carey's short Crabs (circa 1974). The concept is that the state (?) turned drive-in cinemas into concentration camps for the economically useless. Really it's an excuse to update Mad Max to the mid-1980s conception of the apocalypse, one now decidedly urban.
The set is mostly cars, mostly 1970s classic wrecks (Holden shaggers, humongous Ford utes) excepting lead Ned Manning's brother Ollie Hall's 1956 Cadillac which is ridiculously pristine. (Actually the entire camp is remarkably clean.) Manning uses it to take squeeze Natalie McCurry to the drive-in but fails to realise the consequences of buying an "unemployed" concession ticket from Peter Whitford. He's keen to bust out but she prefers the hairstyles available in sheltered community life.
The strong themes (a white nationalism meeting seemed to get a 99.9% turnout) and weak plot prefigure Ben Mendelsohn's breakouts The Big Steal (1990) and Return Home (1990). This film's central flaw is that it lacks a star of his or Gibson's calibre. The early scenes are quite funny and a little cute as Manning jogs around a recognisable Port Botany while people take outre angle grinders to all sorts of things. The drive-in itself was apparently in Matraville. It looks like it was a fun and good-natured shoot.
Loads of details at Ozmovies. Tarantino's favourite of Trenchard-Smith's efforts.
A pointer from Harry Windsor's take on recent ozploitation movies, which is more retrospective than prospective. Also some minor Bruce Beresford completism; he directed his own script from a (semi-auto-fic?) novel by Devon Minchin (father of erstwhile Senator for South Australia Nick Minchin).
A bunch of blokes who work for Darcy's security company, headed by Frank Wilson (the same as always), get it into their minds that it'd be better to rob the place. It's murky as to who's working with or for whom for most of the runtime; clearly lead Terence Donovan is in cahoots with brother Bryan Brown, and the Tony Bonner/ex-cop Ed Devereaux pairing soon firms up, but toff Charles 'Bud' Tingwell's role is murky, as is detective Alan Cassell's (the canonical Gerry in The Club (1980)). The women are auxiliary: Jeanie Drynan was lumped with a reprise of her shrewish housewife from Don's Party (1976), while Candy Raymond is again reduced to little more than a sex object and handed some very trite dialogue. Stuart Littlemore was credited as the TV presenter in the graveyard.
The film was financed by the South Australian Film Corporation which meant that Adelaide had to stand in for much of Sydney. Near as I could tell they only got some shots of the money trucks on the Cahill Expressway and the vertiginous drop of the Gladesville Bridge; A proper NSW production would never have passed up the opportunity to shoot in Waverley Cemetery (cf Noyce's Newsfront of the same year). The aesthetic evokes prisons by contrasting lots of concrete, steel, grime and harsh artificial light with the airiness of the great outdoors and Australian suburbia of the era. Overall the cinematography by John Seale (Witness (1985), Three Thousand Years of Longing (2022)) is not flash. A classic instance of the fundamental flaw in many Australian films: essentially just television.
All the details and more at Ozmovies. Stobie poles! Oops. "The sexual politics and the alleged flaws now have the patina of a quaint period glow." Paul Byrnes at some later date. Ahead of its time, or at least Blue Murder (1995), Wildside (1997-1999), etc.
... and that'll about do me for Tarsem Singh movies. He kept me guessing all the way through: is this Robocop? Or perhaps Universal Soldier (1992)? I knew it wasn't Face/Off (1997) — he only hired one action star and there's nothing much in the way of effects. The mechanism is, once again, two minds in one body.
The plot has Trumpian NYC real estate developer Ben Kingsley realising that he has so much more to give when he receives a terminal cancer diagnosis. (His vocal performance is all Al Pacino.) His character notionally lives on in the body of Ryan Reynolds but there is no continuity in personality, mannerism, etc. Derek Luke climbed down from Antwone Fisher (2002) to play some basketball as a pseudo buddy. Matthew Goode deploys his trademark smooth psychopath to far less effect that in his signature efforts (Watchmen (2009), Stoker (2013)). Dean Norris! There's nothing of visual interest here, having been shot mostly in the realist mode.
Singh likes the high concept but has no faith in his audience; things are as telegraphed as advertisements. One of his ticks is the triple up (one up on Christopher Koch, one down on Christopher Nolan). The stakes are always a child's. He likes to cover faces with gauze or ornately framed masks.
A. O. Scott: "All of it unfolds in the atmosphere of gaudy, portentous vacuity that is Mr. Singh’s trademark." Ouch.
I was curious about what else Tarsem Singh made apart from his labour of love The Fall (2006). This seems to be his feature debut as well as for writer Mark Protosevich (partially responsible for the story for Thor (2011) and the script of the remake of Oldboy (2013)). The cast is a bit interesting: Dylan Baker (Happiness (1998)) and Marianne Jean-Baptiste (Secrets and Lies (1996)) got lumped with the scientific mumbo jumbo about the brain-sharing device that gives us excess access to the mind of dissociated serial killer Vincent D'Onofrio (Private Pyle in Full Metal Jacket (1987)). Out front though are Jennifer Lopez as an implausible shrink / neuronaut who seems to fall for Vince Vaughn's FBI agent. But the movie ends first.
Obviously this is a riff on (or homage to, or ripoff of) The Silence of the Lambs (1991) (dolls not butterflies!) and, to a lesser extent, Twin Peaks: there's something fatal in the pipe and the only solution is for Lopez to visit D'Onofrio's brain. Things go wrong before they go right. That's it. The best bits are, once again, visual; Singh's lurid colours really deserved oversaturated, glorious Technicolor. Somehow it reminded me of The Well (1997).
Roger Ebert: four stars. How did he give this 4 stars and not appreciate David Lynch? Se7en. 2001. Not a cop out like Hollowman. Elvis Mitchell at the New York Times: Spellbound (1945), Manhunter (1986). Evokes a Nine Inch Nails music video. Quake. No there there, just too many antecedents.
After watching The Fall I wondered what Guillermo del Toro had done recently (apart from remaking Pinocchio in 2022). Also I'd totally forgotten about the original. del Toro re-adapted the novel by William Lindsay Gresham with help from Kim Morgan.
The vast cast looks great on paper but was given nothing to work with. What is it with Bradley Cooper and remakes? Against a backdrop of World War II he con(vince)s an inert Rooney Mara to join him in a dated-at-the-time mentalist routine only to be unmade in an entirely predictable and forewarned way by Cate Blanchett's shrink. (Mara's face is as blank as Kidman's, and Cooper's angsty performance only exacerbates her limitations.) Willem Dafoe tried to put some life into it, as did David Strathairn and Holt McCallany (memorable in Mindhunter and Fight Club, squandered here). Ron Perlman looked so worn out. Richard Jenkins, pro forma. Toni Colette did what she can. And so on. There's little of del Toro's signature, inventive grotesquery. Absolutely unnecessary.
Manohla Dargis: "[Blanchett's character] steps out of a different, less engaging movie." Stephanie Zacharek summarised it so you can give it a miss.
Raymond Chandler: The Big Sleep (1939), Farewell, My Lovely (1940) and The High Window (1942).
Mon, May 26, 2025./noise/books | LinkKindle. Inevitable after chewing through Dashiell Hammett's collected works and rewatching The Long Goodbye (1973). (I have yet to get to the novel for that; it's from 1953.)
Well, what can I say. He started strong with loads of similes and humour (c.f. Sarah Miles as a jazz weekend in The Big Sleep (1975)) but by the third book the rewards are diminished. All are structured like a collation of short stories; vast casts of characters with some overlaps, abundant scenic description, gnarly plots and not exactly satisfying conclusions. (I'm not here for the whodunit aspect; it feels like important details are withheld but perhaps he's fair by the standards of that genre.) Perhaps they function as a snapshot of the Los Angeles/Santa Monica region at the time. It's helped along by the odd bit of abstruse colour, e.g. a reference to Moral Re-Armament which is topical now. Fun.
Prompted by Jason Di Rosso's insightful interview with director Minh Quý Trương and some curiosity about the state of Vietnamese film making. There's a huge slate of production company credits so I guess raising means is still a chore. Over two nights due to a failure to enthral.
The focus is on two gay coal miners in an industrial town somewhere Việt Nam in 2001. (I can't find the filming location but am guessing from the director's bio, jungle warfare, etc. that it's somewhere in the Central Highlands, not so far from his hometown of Buôn Ma Thuột. Upon reflection the industrialism, urban scenes and some themes echo parts of The Deer Hunter.) The topics are the traditional ones deployed in Vietnamese films looking for international audiences: war remnants, lingering superstitions, long held secrets and guilt, people smuggling, exotic forms of intimacy, generalised poignant inconsequence. The narrative and characterisation are thin with loads of gesture and little critique or analysis.
Some of the imagery is very striking: the coal seam is shot to look like the night sky, an erstwhile battleground covered with flags (marking UXO or bodies?) and soldiers in frozen poses. This is countervailed by so many distended scenes of percussive banality.
A Critic's Pick by Lisa Kennedy at the New York Times. Her brief review is right to focus on the visual.
Some fantastic visual composition from co-writer/director Tarsem Singh, who clearly learnt all the right things from directing music videos. (This is presented by David Fincher and Spike Jonze.) The model is a two-track adult fairytale in the magical realism that Guillermo del Toro mines: somewhat romantic, like The Shape of Water, a little graphic like Pan's Labyrinth (also from 2006) and sharing the latter's juxtaposition of childish innocence and worldliness against learned hopelessness.
The main flaw is that neither story is particularly satisfying. Putting that aside the acting from lead Lee Pace and child/foil Catinca Untaru serves the movie well. Her grasp of English is shaky as one might expect of a child of Mexican migrants to California in the 1920s, and this mostly helps with her engagement with Lee's fatalistic silent-era stunt man as they both recuperate in hospital. His stories draw on the deep well of classic lore but it would seem that the visual imaginarium is hers, the scenes being populated with people he has not met. (She has no experience of Native Americans and so the "Indian" in the troupe is an actual Indian.) Both stories are uneven and neither has much of a moral; the stunt man survives it all and walks away, the child rejoins her kin in the orange groves. But the stakes weren't this low.
Roger Ebert: four stars. No CGI! (So that really was an elephant swimming? Amazing.) Dave Kehr on the making of. Less forgivingly, Nathan Lee at the New York Times: a remake of the Bulgarian Yo ho ho. Excess details at Wikipedia.
