Back to the Movies!

I’ve missed going to the cinema. A lot. In early 2020 it was unusual for a week to pass without my seeing five or six showings – sometimes at an Odeon (limitless subscription), sometimes at The Prince Charles (my spiritual home in London), sometimes at an occasional freebie screening courtesy of a friend who works in film programming. And then, on the 20th of March, all cinemas across England were ordered to close their doors. It was a gut-wrenching suckerpunch. Of course, more severe developments were to come, like the unprecedentedly draconian stay-at-home orders, but the forced closure of cinemas hit me hard. In the days leading up to the announcement, all major cinema chains already closed, all blockbusters postponed, I still clung to the dream that my beloved Prince Charles would keep going. Surely they would. But it was only a dream. A few days earlier, on my second trip to The Lighthouse (extraordinary and terrifying, mainly for the insight it gives into what it might be like to be trapped on a tiny island with Willem Dafoe), unable to stem the quiver of nerves in my voice, I asked the always-lovely staff, “you’re not planning to close, are you?” They reassured me that they had no plans to, but of course had to listen to daily government advice, which was continuously changing. But I could feel it in the air and in my heart. The rumblings were there, Boris was going to make an announcement. It was only a matter of time. I cycled to Leicester Square for the last time to watch The Godfather. Somehow it was a fitting last drink before the drought. There were only a handful of people in the audience. Cycling home, I was simultaneously elated and depressed. It was going to be a tough spring.

I am obsessed with cinema-going as opposed to watching films on the telly. It took me a long time to work out why, but a move to Japan (and the lack, therefore, of an all-you-can-see monthly pass) prompted me to examine what it was about actually going to the cinema that I loved so much. After all, I could have saved a few hard-earned Yen by frequenting the Toho multiplexes less often. But once settled in the cosy darkness – often alone, yet together with the crowd – I know what the next 100 or so minutes of my life is going to consist of. It’s a lock-in, a plan, and my attention will be focused on the film, I’m committed. If I put on a film on Netflix, or even chuck in a DVD or VHS (yes, I do that sometimes), there’s always the possibility that something else will come along and I’ll pause the film to finish later. I try not to do this, but the possibility is there. In the cinema, it isn’t. The only film I can ever remember leaving is Ip Man 4 and that wasn’t because I wasn’t enjoying it, it was because I had a friend arriving at Victoria coach station and I mis-managed the timing. Also, all-day film marathons at a Cineworld in Ashford, perhaps after a particularly beer-filled Friday night, (a different) friend and I would occasionally program films to sleep through (our second viewing of Quantum of Solace comes to mind). But generally speaking, if I start watching a film at the cinema, 99.9% of the time, I’ll finish it. I’ll take in the whole experience. Then there is the atmosphere, the sound quality, the immersive darkness, and the big screen. I even like the smell of popcorn (but not the extortionate price). To quote Christopher Moltisanti, “I get high off that shit”. TVs are also great, and of course a cosy marathon with home comforts has its own allure, but for me the gold standard method for imbibing movies must be at the movies. My brain operates differently at the movies, my antennae tune in more acutely, my frequencies more prone to absorption, more likely to glean that coveted ephemeral magic of cinema. And there’s always the chance you might get chatting about the film with other patrons or staff. I’ll do another piece on my favourite cinemas around the world at some point, there are some wonderful cinemas where this is always a possibility. So I suppose the last point is a feeling of community that can come along in a cinema, and this can happen in multiplexes as well as repertory cinemas or arthouses.

So the big cinema closure of 2020 was a great sadness, not just because I was temporarily unable to go, but because I feared (and still fear) for the very survival of the small cinema as a viable business model.

Today there is a lightness in my heart, and it has something to do with the beautiful string of oldies The Genesis cinema has been showing. And people turned up, hungry for the big screen, delighted to be back. The Prince Charles isn’t open yet, but I feel confident it will survive. I am less sure about other small cinemas, but I was delighted to see a full house at The Genesis for Back to the Future and The Goonies. What’s more, they’re only charging a fiver without concession, not at all bad for London. Something they (along with other cinemas) need to do now is make sure their websites don’t still say “closed until further notice” in the search result descriptions! Surely this is not good for business… Last night I watched Black Water: Abyss – a (gasp!) newly released film. It was terrible. I like the crocodile sub-genre of the monster movie, but this was not a good entry. Dull characters and dialogue, and duller scares. Just good enough to miss the so-bad-it’s-good category, though it raised the odd chuckle. Still, my spirits soared as the credits rolled. I was back.

I had been increasingly worried about an austere and unappealing “new normal” of moviegoing – separation, the stench of disinfectant, mandatory masks. My fears were allayed, and it was pleasantly traditional (apart from a temperature check, which I’m willing to put up with, although those infrared sensors are apparently wildly inaccurate and therefore basically useless.)

I am completely sympathetic to anyone suffering from any malady, but at the same time I fear that when data is properly analysed, and the efficacy of the measures taken soberly scrutinised, it will turn out that the world went mad and we’re in danger of losing some pretty important stuff, including independent cinemas. I also worry about anyone suffering from any illness that is not “the illness” we have been told we must all worship and fear on a daily basis – the UK alone estimates over 30,000 cancer patients will die due to delayed treatment. I hope not. My experience this week was uplifting. If you want to see smaller cinemas survive, I urge you to go out and support your local cinema.

Considering the current climate, I feel compelled to make two things clear. Firstly, this has been a difficult time for everyone, and I don’t want to leave the impression that I am callously indifferent to the plight of the victims of the illness which led to such drastic change in our society. I see the blunt instrument of lockdowns as a misguided and catastrophic mistake which will cause far more harm than good. I could be wrong, this is simply my opinion. Here are two regularly-updated resources for anyone interested in an alternative perspective on the seemingly widely-supported lockdown measures: swprs.org/a-swiss-doctor-on-covid-19, lockdownsceptics.org.

The Prince Charles Cinema is just off Leicester Square, London, and I look forward to its reopening.

The Genesis is on Mile End Road, London, and is open.

I’ll leave you with a list of films which came to mind during the lockdown. They Live, Network, Paris Belongs to Us, The Matrix. All essential.

"Idyllic"

Nearly summer.
In the morning there was black tea, loud kitchen.
Later, we're lakeside.
Dusk isn't here yet, but it's in the post.
Lunch good, but not recent.
Grass fragrant, insect life set on comfortable hum, honey.
Yellow fruits nestle in some trees.
Ratty, browned, horror novel nestles into the ground.
Dress rustles, bare heel lazy on top of my calf.
Bottle of ale.
No work tomorrow.

My granny

My granny, who died in 2015, taught me how to play a frenzied, raucous game called Bagatelle (she seemed to like frenzied, raucous games - also being a demon at Racing Demon). She taught me how to open a bottle of wine, and introduced me to a bewildering array of terms coined by her family, many of which she had invented herself. She was someone for whom the preservation of English and its correct usage was of great importance (a value I believe she passed on to me, much to the chagrin of my friends), and yet she also revelled in her own phrases like the "bus conductor" lunch - meaning a lunch where she put out the cheese box (the bus conductor itself, I believe) and various bits and pieces like ham and Marmite (which she called "Mar-meet" for some reason best known to herself) with a loaf of bread, and you helped yourself to what you wanted. She had her idiosyncratic and traditionalist beliefs on "the proper way" to do things, but she was warm, and open, and she valued people. My granny was someone special, and as a young boy, as well as loving her unconditionally, I intuitively knew that she was an unusual, powerful person. She had a fiery spirit, and a gleeful zest for life which seemed quite rare for someone of her age. She outlived two husbands and though she did give up on romantic life after that (despite a few suitors), it didn't dull her enthusiasm to engage with the world and the things she loved - literature, sports, cinema, her family and friends, conversation, Strictly Come Dancing and The Weakest Link, a whisky at six o'cock and a bowl of salted almonds. She relished life, she was thoughtful, kind, and her mind was sharp. I loved talking with her, because unlike many adults I had encountered she was never, ever patronising. She treated me as her equal and took me seriously. I would count down the days to my visits with Granny with great anticipation, for they meant a week of fantastic fun with a caring, energetic, faintly eccentric old soul whom I loved dearly. My first night would always entail fish fingers, pasta and peas, and when I got a little older, a can of stout, cider or ale. She would listen with great care to the most outrageous ramblings of a young child, and give her honest opinion. Of course occasionally I would go overboard and get a "what rubbish!" as a wry grin spread across her face, knowing I was trying to get that very reaction, but she would never, ever dismiss me outright, she listened carefully to my wildest dreams and considered them carefully. I felt completely at ease with her. We watched The Simpsons, James Bond, Woody Allen and Hitchcock movies, and in the newly reopened Rex cinema in her town of Berkhamsted (an event for which she had vociferously campaigned), our old favourite, Some Like it Hot. During a lengthy speech the artistic director of said cinema made, her voice clearly rang out across the auditorium - "what a pill!" I shrank into my seat, hoping nobody would see me. She was my granny, but she was also my friend. I miss her.

Chopping Garlic

Chopping garlic with Ken’s professional kitchen blade

Ken’s a farmer, moving into cheffery

I put the knife down for sudden mosquito combat

Clapping maddly

Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn…

Too late - a tiny, rotten needling

An anonymous Wednesday, but in mathematical terms

A very special day

Where a cloud of quarks, or waves, or matter

Shuffles across a small, humid kitchen in greater Tokyo

In search of Tobasco sauce

Because it wants to

Wants?

Mushrooms sliced now, ready to fry

Pasta simmering

Time to eat

And now for something completely different.

The other day, as I was unpacking my Pokemon bento box to chow down on a squashed pickled-plum rice ball and radish salad, I had a sudden yearning for a good sandwich. After moving to Japan I realised that I couldn't really manage to replicate any of the sandwiches I enjoy, as the bread is sugary and soft, the lunch meats intolerably expensive, and the cheese isn't really cheese. My state of lament was such that it inspired me to write this blog entry - my favourite sandwich I have invented (of many). I am sure it closely resembles the famous "tuna melt", which ironically I had always avoided as it sounded unappetising, and I was not consciously aware of how it was made.

This is perhaps the most important sandwich to me, as I invented it in my second year of university, and it remained a staple the whole year, I loved it so much. It also went down well with my housemates and girlfriend. Goes nicely with a packet of plain crisps and a bottle of ale.

1. Slice a good, mature cheddar finely (but not too much, this shouldn't be the main flavour in the sandwich, two or three very thin slices only).

2. Chop olives and pickled gherkins (I used to use green olives, but black work too). Chop them up roughly, but into fairly small chunks. If the pickles are large, cut into two or three length-ways sections first, before slicing.

3. Put a generous couple of tablespoons of good-quality mayonnaise into a bowl, and grind in pepper quite generously, as well as a small dash of Tabasco and a tiny splash of Lee and Perrin's. No salt required as ingredient are all salty.

4. Drain a can of tuna fish.

5. Add pickles and olives and tuna to mayonnaise and mix thoroughly.

6. Toast a bagel lightly.

7. Add cheese to one side of bagel so it melts a bit.

8. To the other side of bagel add salad leaves - like lambs leaf lettuce or something with a bit of crunch, but only a few, don't cram them on.

9. Spoon mix onto cheese side of bagel, and close bagel.

10. Eat straight away while warm. Fantastic!

Unfortunately, there's no way I can eat this until I leave Asia, but you enjoy.

Deafening silence

Deafening silence, and when good men do nothing, evil triumphs.
But here a fearless warrior, cheerful in her fiery tirade, splendid in her call for revolt.
The time is now, she cries!
And the famous podcaster's eyes glaze over dully, full of warm admiration but child-like terror, he is cocooned in a safe space of ambivalence, a facade of ignorance.
But she shouts out what he knows in his heart: the world is burning, and it's up to us all to put out the fire.

The man under the tree

Today I saw an old man napping under a tree.
He was wearing short black rubber wellington boots.
After a while he woke up, propped his head on one hand, and lit a cigarette.
When he finished his smoke, he got slowly up, rolled up his mat, picked up a bag of rubbish, and headed towards a van, which had another old man in the driver's seat.
Before getting to the van, he asked a fat man with a clipboard something.
The clipboard man had been striding around importantly.
The clipboard man prodded a phone and put it to his ear.
Lots of old men in short black or grey rubber wellington boots, some of whom wore brightly-coloured green or red safety hats, were standing or walking around the flower garden by the river. One was taking pictures. Two of them were chatting and a loud chuckle rang out.
They were having a good time.

Edogawa

Over by the reeds, a boy has set his shoes neatly down

Nearby, the purple grasses shudder in the late summer breeze

A bronzed old man picks his way across the meadow, hauling unknown cargo

And soon a train, on the slatted metal bridge, will shatter the quiet

Phoebe

Her hair grows long, wild and grey

There may be goose feathers in her smock

Some say she crazy - but she ain't

She just a cool old lady who seen a lot

Sometimes the kids come round her porch

She don't tell them to go away

She just give them that old Phoebe stare,

Wheezes on that black old cigar -

And starts on another yarn

That's what they been waiting for

Sometimes they leave her presents

They all love her, that old gal Phoebe

123-year-old Phoebe 

Ain't as active as she used to be

Her main activity be

Sittin' on her porch

Tendin' her bees

And swillin' that ol' cider

She been brewin'

That old gal Phoebe

Pigs trapping troubles

Stifled struggle
Selfish muffle
Trapping troubles
Why?

Told the way
Fold the way
Hold the way
Why?

Shiver notes loosen bones
Shiver notes gust the clouds
Shiver notes soar the gulls
I'm alive

Shiver music touch my feet
Shiver music rub my knuckles
Shiver music cradle ears
I am free

The Hateful Eight

Our cinema-eye ponders over a Jesus Christ crucifix, himself static against a desperate snowy wilderness, the camera wandering minimally yet lingering fixedly upon his stone stare as a deep, unearthly, score tingles the napes of our necks. Is this really a Quentin Tarantino film, or a David Lean epic, miraculously unearthed and polished to pristine, 70mm glory?

Here, the pop-funk-hip-hop cinema DJ seems to have abandoned his cosy home of scintillating pastiche concoctions and slowly, gracefully glided up the mountain into the arena of brooding, cinematic mastery. This is his Kubrick film.

Tarantino has always put his characters front and centre, so fascinated with the idiosyncratic minutia of their thoughts, philosophies and (oft-suspect) wisdoms, yet always they play out their stories in the context of a glorious genre mish-mash, a thick bubbling soup of thumping euphoria and old worn-out chestnut tropes remoulded and jazzed for our delectation. Murderous thugs groan about everyday hassles, set against an eclectic bubblegum mix-tape. His gruesome, funny characters are present and correct yet he has abandoned his gleeful mish-mashing in favour of a slow, sober stare, allowing them (and us) time, time, time to brood. This has a powerfully unsettling effect, as we find ourselves repulsed yet obsessed with each one of this murderous group, their broken psyches (and later, bodies) laid out all over the snow for us to examine and recoil at. Rarely in cinema are we given this chance to look into the hearts of such cold souls with such a grandly sedate magnifying glass. Morricone's score is glorious yet festering, eking out dread from every gnarled face. Arguably, The Hateful Eight can be considered a horror film. Indeed, during the final bloody climax, we are treated to a playfully sinister violin motif composed (by Morricone) for John Carpenter's classic snowy horror, The Thing (also starring Kurt Russel).

Walton Goggins must be heralded as perhaps the most convincing, disgusting villain to have graced any western of this era. Watching him drooling, snorting, grimacing and chuckling through dirty, mangled teeth had a peculiarly disarming effect, as though one had been transported to the late sixties, perhaps watching an unseen Dollars film. He is not of this time, a surviving relic, conjured up from celluloid dust lying on Sergio Leone's cutting-room floor.

While Tarantino has here abandoned much of his trash-collage modus operandi, he retains an obvious playfulness with genre. More subdued perhaps, yet here is a grandiose 70mm (!) epic confined almost entirely to two sets - a cramped stagecoach and a large, messy "haberdashery". What the hell is going on? This is Quentin up to his old tricks, and while he may not have come to this bizarre juxtaposition of epic and tiny, weird mystery-movie (for structurally, much of The Hateful Eight embodies an Agatha Christie story) by creating something wilfully strange, I bet he was delighted when he realised just where he was going. After all, he is someone who has a track record of deep affinity with cinematic oddities.

The Hateful Eight contains many peculiarities, yet remains a satisfyingly grim, logically stately cinema-play, complete with sizzling dialogue delivered by a coterie of magnificent actors, all doing something entirely different, all portraying beautifully twisted, tortured individuals, hanging on to their grim reality with a steel grip. As we long to empathise with one of these miserable humans, our brains struggle to shuffle and re-shuffle an endless stack of their qualities, none of them really warranting any pity, yet all gleaning a little, here and there. Fascinating, beautiful, crazy, I loved it.

A selection of film tweets

"The shades come off at midnight." Re-watched #TheyAllLaughed. #Bogdanovich conducts camera and actors in virtuoso, magically comic dance.

youtube.com/watch?v=deTGYinacYg … - Peter Cushing Lives in Whitstable.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i1almB9zxX4 … - High Plains Drifter, AIM to see it.

Timothy Carey steals the show in Kubrick's (great) Paths of Glory - crazy, hilarious, disturbing, endearing - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AC_UO8k1CNA.

Last MA work - Humans as Monsters: An Investigation into Political Allegory in American Horror Cinema in the 1970s and 1980s is finished.

Man of Steel - peculiar if fun blend of doom and light-heartedness. Superman fine with killing countless humans despite supposed empathy.

During a long session of sorting, I came across a very poorly written film treatment from 2006. Title? "Dial N for Nun"...

"Take it easy! We're not making a western here." - Uncle Junior.

Made it, Ma! Top of the world! #JamesCagney #WhiteHeat

"Cinema is the ultimate pervert art. It doesn't give you what you desire. It tells you how to desire." #SlavojZizek, philosopher.

"I will perfect a race of atomic supermen which will conquer the world!" Bela Lugosi at his finest. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0cE1fzfOogo.

My new favourite song - by Morricone, from "Night Train Murders" - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QSe3oDNfBEM.

"I guess I'm just not used to being chased around a mall in the middle of the night by killer robots." #KarrieEmerson, #ChoppingMall (1986).

#Dinotasia - bizarre "documentary"/anthropomorphised look at the entire history of dinosaurs on Earth. Narrated by #WernerHerzog. Fun/weird.

#Jaws at the cinema last night. Bad fish. Not like going down the pond chasin' Bluegills and Tommycods. This shark, swallow you whole.

Just saw #DannyDeVito bumbling around the streets of Hackney looking lost.

#TheAwfulDrOrlof. A fun and atmospheric entry in #JessFranco's #Frankenstein-esque series. Particularly disturbing is monster Morpho.

Finally saw #LookingForEric - thoroughly satisfying and moving, and not a little bizarre. #EricCantona in a #KenLoach film, brilliant.

#Martin - this is a moving, bleakly atmospheric gem from George A Romero. Very interesting in comparison with #LetTheRightOneIn.

#PulpFiction at the cinema this weekend, excellent.

#JohnCarpenter has proven himself time and time again as the king of audio commentaries. #horror #film

#TheDisappearanceofAliceCreed - taught, tense, well-plotted and entertaining, with an excellent, satisfying ending. #EddieMarsan #Film

"I am an oil man!" #ThereWillBeBlood revisited on Blu-ray. As stunning, compelling and horrifying as I remember. #Film #DanielDayLewis

The Switch - surprisingly, very moving. And Jeff Goldblum is on top form, why isn't he getting better roles?

Going the Distance and Roger Corman's The Raven. What a double bill.

Piranha is a huge amount of fun - good job, Aja. The 3D didn't look nearly as bad as the trailer had suggested either.

Love & Funghi (aka Now, Forager)

I wanted to like this film, I felt attracted to the premise, setting and genre. A love story set among the beautiful, wild forests one must visit if one is in the mushroom-picking business. Unfortunately, neither Jason Cortlund (who co-directed) as Lucien Echevarria or Tiffany Esteb as Regina Echevarria managed to move me into caring much about their plights with their work, or indeed their relationship. So concerned with projecting a sombre tone, the performances come across as simply morose, without interest or a foundation of reasoning behind their glum faces. The film needed a little infusion of subordinate characters, simply as a mechanism to ground our protagonist's lives in a reality we could understand or care about: we spend the entirety of the film mushroom-picking, cooking, or solemnly grieving an inexplicably broken marriage. The mushrooms look tasty and beautiful, and the photography, though markedly digital, at times suffering from artefacts, is excellent. Otherwise, there isn't much here to recommend.

Angel Face (Otto Preminger, 1952)

Understated, assured direction and two wonderful performances turn a beautifully simple premise into a devastating, albeit not humorless journey into the darkest depths of a manipulating and, ultimately, murderess mind. Jean Simmons is mesmerising, her eyes sparkling with faux-innocence, we cannot look away. Beautiful, dangerous, unstable, she plays the quintessential femme fatal Diane Tremayne, who ensnares the simple but not altogether moral Frank Jessop (Robert Mitchum). Mitchum is great value, his broad frame practically filling the screen as he sucks down cigarettes with weary, browbeaten nonchalance. Drinking tea with Tremayne, the cup appears comically minute in his great ham fists. Preminger teases his audience with a slowly unraveling tale of misdeed, and by the time the final, heartbreaking (and wildly brave) climax is upon us, we are trembling with astonishment and sadness at how a fairly innocuous flirtation has evolved into such grand tragedy.

The mysterious allure of Bangkok Dangerous

"With murky cinematography, a meandering pace, a dull storyline, and rather wooden performances, The Pang Brothers' Bangkok Dangerous is unsuccessful” says Rotten Tomatoes, giving it a measly 9%. By most accounts this remake of the filmmaking duo’s own 1999 action thriller was a failure, receiving poor reviews and even poorer box office takings. Seeing it with no expectations last year (2008), I thoroughly enjoyed it. I was, however, in a severe minority even among the group of friends whom had been with me in the cinema, and I found myself the object of playful ridicule following the showing. In this piece I want to attempt to delve into my enjoyment and find out why I liked it while no one else (that I know of) did. Do I have some bizarre fascination in cinematic failure, or was Bangkok (as I will refer to it from now on) in some way genuinely laudable? I am writing this the day after having re-watched the film on DVD.

On revisiting the film, having had many discussions with friends, I was much more aware of Bangkok’s flaws, which, I have to admit, are many. The dialogue is frequently silly to the point of hilarity, with lines like “Somehow when I looked into his eyes, I saw myself. So I became his teacher” and “The face has a million ways of tricking you, but the eyes never lie” peppered throughout the screenplay. Nicolas Cage looks awful, with weird stringy hair and a consistently morose expression (except when with his beloved deaf and dumb pharmacist). The combination of his demeanour, appearance and gravely, bored voice is very, very funny, particularly when saying things such as “uh, banker, yes” while sitting awkwardly in his love interest’s house. When he smiles at her mother, his face seems like it might crack with effort. Overwrought, ridiculous, sentimental – all appropriate adjectives when discussing the film’s scenes which deal with Joe and Fon’s relationship. A pounding, serious soundtrack adds to the unintentional humour.

So far, then, my pleasure in watching Bangkok has been derived from the films’ artistic failures. But so what? I maintain that this isn’t a “so-good-it’s-bad” film in the mould of Plan 9 from Outer Space (though I could happily write an article in the defence of that and Ed Wood’s other misunderstood work). This is something a particular friend of mine has a problem with when we discuss it. I genuinely like the way the film is shot, the atmosphere created, the action, the mise en scène. My unnamed friend cannot accept my stance – that a film such as Bangkok is capable of having both elements of unintentional humour created by poor creative choice or misguided filmmaking sensibilities and other aspects that work in the conventional sense.

I will admit to having an intense love of cheap genre cinema. I maintain that many of these "trashy" films have an independent spirit and charm never found in more mainstream cinema, and that their flaws often shift into beautiful idiosyncrasies to be cherished and admired. I can’t categorize Bangkok in this way (the film cost $40m to make), I’m merely using my admiration for “cult” cinema as one possible explanation for my enjoyment of the film – I saw it as true exploitation, not the preening, self-aware graininess of the recent Grindhouse but an example of genuine, naïve genre cinema in the noughties. I found an honesty in Bangkok that attracts me to some of the cheapo films I like so much. There is little or no use of CGI, the film is self-contained, there are few characters, some inexplicabilities which I can engage with and enjoy. Perhaps this is a perverse kind of cinephilia, but I’m always filled with joy when I see bargain-basement bins, brimming with untapped craziness.

My admiration for Bangkok seems, therefore, to come from a combination of the two sets of reasoning I mentioned in my opening paragraph – firstly my fascination in flawed cinema, my admiration for enthusiastic and well-intentioned cinema, and also my enjoyment of the film as a whole, both in its humour derived in numerous flaws and its simmering, grim, atmosphere. Monte Hellman once said that when he sees a movie he comes out having had an experience unique to him – if someone asks him what the film was about, he may not be able to tell them, but he had a hell of a time watching it. Perhaps I went somewhere my friends didn’t while watching Bangkok.

Some capsule-style film reviews

Darling (1965)

Rating: 3/5

The hypocrisy of the privileged, sexuality, religion, fidelity and abortion are just some of the issues addressed in this overambitious drama from John Schlesinger. Overambitious maybe, but entertaining nonetheless. The story of Diana Scott (Julie Christie), a bored, selfish clinger-on, willing to be dependant but not pinned down, and her various lovers, the film flits between serious issues and flamboyant artiness. This mix is sometimes uncomfortable, and often misses the mark, but it travels at such a pace we don’t really mind – like Scott herself, the film never stays in one place for very long. Bogarde seems bored and unengaged, but in context this works well, and he is still a riveting presence. Christie is at times unbearably whiny, and the voiceover grates (some of the ‘clever’ devices now seem laboured). In all, a mixed bag, with experiments galore, both visual (with extensive use of documentary-style shots) and structural (hopping around from location to location). Just sit back and enjoy the ride – there’ll be something in here for you.

Three Days of the Condor (1975)

Rating: 4/5

Robert Redford is subdued throughout this twisting, snappy thriller, but Joseph “The Condor” Turner’s low-key demeanor doesn’t detract from the suspense, it adds to it. The story of an unassuming bookworm caught up in a CIA-sponsored assassination plot, Three Days of the Condor manages to be both playful and illuminating, a fun rollercoaster ride but one that hints at the darker side of America’s foreign policy in the 1970s. Today it retains relevancy, and even gains deeper meaning in light of current controversial military presence in the Middle East, something that Higgins emphatically denies is being planned. Slowish pace, but exciting intrigue and strong performances (Sydow is riveting) add up to a satisfying experience. Bizarre choices of music sometimes clash with the action, but if you enjoyed Klute, Marathon Man or The Conversation, you’ll forgive it and soak up the 70s style.

In the Loop (2009)

Rating: 4/5

Rarely-heard raucous gales of laughter surround me: this is something special. Seething, smart satire is rattled off by an outstanding cast in this political comedy from TV legend Armando Iannucci. Linton Barwick editing minutes to suit his bloodthirsty agenda is painfully funny, because its real. In the Loop impressively treads the fine line between comic genius and dark satire. Hellish depths of hypocrisy and corruption are alluded to, but not at the expense of the film’s humour. Watch Gandolfini heave the burden of war-lunacy on his broad shoulders with dignity, and marvel as Simon Foster’s personal tragic arc is crammed in – seduced by power, struggling with morality, it rings true as a bell. Shot with energy to match its buzzing performers, and sparkling with honesty, this is refreshing stuff in a world where the media tows the line, and accountability is a vague memory. Essential.

Hidden (Caché) (2005)

Rating: 5/5

Gripping from the first frame, Haneke eases us into his uncomfortable world with lingering shots that force us to ponder everything we see. We are given a question, a half-answer, and then time to think. Our brains work overtime to puzzle out the unfathomable, to powerful effect. Binoche is a strong anchor to Auteuil’s superb, riveting performance as the depressed and guilt-ridden bourgeois TV-man. As he strides the streets of Paris, grappling with demons from the past, seeking out an unknowable entity, we cannot look away. Unsurprisingly, Haneke’s confessed aim as a filmmaker is to force an audience to examine their own reaction to cinema, Hidden certainly does this. My intense desire for that tantalizing last piece of the mystery to be resolved cannot spoil the hypnotic quality of this film. Both infuriating in its incompleteness and masterful in its slow-burn, gloomy density, this is one to seek out.

300 (2006)

Rating: 2/5

David Wenham’s smug, unpleasantly nihilistic narration was just one of many problems I had with Zack Snyder’s silly comic-book adaptation. Too faithful to the source material, what worked on paper certainly doesn’t zing on screen: with an uncomfortable mix of inaccurate historical epic and half-baked monster stuff, 300 comes across like a clumsy oaf of a film, blundering and blustering, and ultimately drowning in its own quest for cool. Ideological qualms aside, the action left me cold. Plenty of spurting computer-generated blood (in tedious, overused slow-then-fast-mo), but even as Gerard Butler screams, no real pain is felt – these warriors are shining plastic action models, not people. A few brief thrills as metal crashes into tearing flesh are not enough to save it from indifference. At an unnecessary 117 minutes, this is a brilliant reminder of how even the glossiest of pictures is null and void without a soul.

The Devil Wears Prada (2006)

Rating: 3/5

As a stony-faced Meryl Streep strides through immaculate glass doors at the start of this fluffy fashion flick, we know just what’s coming, and if this is your thing, The Devil Wears Prada does not disappoint. Nothing revelatory, but a fun, escapist look at a world in which a grim tyrant can ultimately be melted by the naïve charms of Anne Hathaway’s sweet wannabe-journalist. Perhaps Emily Blunt’s English bitch wears a little thin, and the moral message is over-simplified and clumsy, but these are minor problems in a shamelessly sugary story. The fashion-concious will lap up the dazzling (or bewildering) array of colourful fabrics and handbags and whatnot, but there is enough charm here to entertain everyone else too. While other dressing-up movies (say Confessions of a Shopaholic) fail because there is nothing under the glossy surface, this has just enough heart to sweeten the bitter taste of materialistic overload.

Irréversible (2002)

Rating: 5/5

Gaspar Noé doesn’t want to shock, he wants to scorch: by the end of this excessive, nausea-inducing mindfuck, we have experienced a nightmare of the worse kind. In reverse. As the sickening, wheeling camera settles down for a five-minute rape scene, we are uncomfortable in our own skin, squirming in the darkness and wondering how long this can possibly go on. The point seems to be push the viewer until breaking point, subjecting us to a variety of unpleasantness including a gruesome beating that creeps into the shaking frame like snuff. As the opening credits start to tip, one is at a precipice, and as the grimy red light and the pounding bass whines into gear, we are falling, hooked, unable to look away until the final, insane, visual onslaught, leaving us exhausted, exhilarated, and dirty. Challenging and thought-provoking cinema: you can’t enjoy this, but you might love it.

Standard Operating Procedure (2008)

Rating: 3/5

Errol Morris’ examination of the notorious Abu Ghraib torture is unpleasant viewing, with the ghoulish photographs given much lingering screen-time. This is important subject matter, but perhaps Taxi to the Dark Side was more intelligent, and ultimately more successful in its quest for truth. Here the impact is dampened by being too grisly – like the zoned-out interviewees, we feel numb by the half-way mark. Not until the end do we get a sense of how these young men and women seem to be pathetic scapegoats for an unaccountable military system whose very policies involve creating chaos and confusion. Heavy use of reconstruction, and mixing actors with real interrogators doesn’t sit well but the interviews are powerful – desensitized souls, their faces stretched like masks, straining to understand their own terrible actions, we get a profound understanding of how easily soldiers can become psychological victims of a senseless war.