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The Doors (1991)   Oliver Stone’s mammoth, mythologising paean to Jim Morrison is as much about seeing himself in the self-styled, self-destructive rebel figurehead, and I suspect it’s this lack of distance that rather quickly leads to The Doors degenerating into a turgid bore. It’s strange – people are, you know, films equally so – but I’d hitherto considered the epic opus patchy but worthwhile, a take that disintegrated on this viewing. The picture’s populated with all the stars it could possibly wish for, tremendous visuals (courtesy of DP Robert Richardson) and its director operating at the height of his powers, but his

Barnaby and Me (1979)   A comedy showcasing one of Australia’s greatest national treasures. No, not Paul Hogan: the koala bear. This curiosity came from a writer and a director with long Hollywood careers, and was one of six pictures made by Transatlantic Enterprises and ABC with a view to expanding their international markets. Following the example set by the UK, such a formula involved transplanting American stars to local productions, hence one Sid Caesar appearing opposite Barnaby. Let’s face it, though, the real star of Barnaby and Me is Daws Butler. Barnaby: Careful. I am an endangered species! Butler being Hanna-Barbera’s go-to

The Razor’s Edge (1984)   I’d hadn’t so much a hankering as an idle interest in finally getting round to seeing Bill Murray’s passion project. Partly because it seemed like such an odd fit. And partly because passion isn’t something you tend to associate with any Murray movie project, involving as it usually does laidback deadpan. Murray, at nigh-on peak fame – only cemented by the movie he agreed to make to make this movie – embarks on a serious-acting-chops dramatic project, an adaptation of W Somerset Maugham’s story of one man’s journey of spiritual self-discovery. It should at least be interesting,

Juno and the Paycock (1930)   Hitchcock’s second sound feature. Such was the lustre of this technological advance that a wordy play was picked. By Sean O’Casey, upon whom Hitchcock based the prophet of doom at the end of The Birds. Juno and the Paycock, set in 1922 during the Irish Civil War, begins as a broad comedy of domestic manners, but by the end has descended into full-blown Greek (or Catholic) tragedy. As such, it’s an uneven but still watchable affair, even if Hitch does nothing to disguise its stage origins. Well, aside from a scene at the pub, in order

The Lighthouse (2019)   Robert Eggers’ acclaimed – and Oscar-nominated – second feature is, in some respects, a similar beast to his previous The Witch, whereby isolated individuals of bygone eras are subjected to the unsparing attentions of nature. In his scheme of things, nature becomes an active, embodied force, one that has no respect for the line between imaginings and reality and which proceeds to test its targets’ sanity by means of both elements and elementals. All helped along by unhealthy doses of superstition. But where The Witch sustained itself, and the gradual unravelling of the family unit led to a germane

Bad Santa (2003)   Full disclosure: I haven’t seen Bad Santa: The Director’s Cut. I suppose I should, in a show of solidarity for unsullied visions, regard it as the definitive version, particularly considering the wanton meddling, interference and upset Harvey Weinstein has caused filmmakers over the years. But the sad fact is, director’s cuts aren’t always the best version, and producer power sometimes – sometimes – can be a positive rather than negative influence. I’d doubtless watch the Director’s Cut if it was on hand, but I’ve been very happy with both versions of Bad Santa I have seen, and feel no urgent need for an

The Avengers 6.5: Get-A-Way   Another very SF story, and another that recalls earlier stories, in this case 5.5: The See-Through Man. I that one, Steed states baldly “I don’t believe in invisible men”. He was right there, but he’d have to eat his bowler here. Or half of it, anyway. The intrigue of Get-A-Way derives from the question of how it is that Eastern Bloc spies have escaped their incarceration, since it isn’t immediately announced that a “magic potion” is responsible. And if that reveal isn’t terribly convincing, Peter Bowles makes the most of his latest guest spot as Steed’s self-appointed nemesis

First Reformed (2017)   This uneven at best Roman Catholic – I know, it concerns a protestant church, but who are we trying to kid? – eco-guilt picture from Paul Schrader that has been hailed as his best in years. Which it probably is, but these things are relative. Schrader has made, for the first hour or so, a reasonably engrossing study of faith, doubt and despair, but his choices after that, particularly during the last half hour, undo much of the effort. As one of Hollywood’s go-to practising Catholics (step forward also Marty) it should be no surprise that

Colossal (2016)   There’s usually a sinking feeling attached to any movie when you realise you’re being preached at. And, by implication, it often doesn’t reflect that well on the storytelling skills of the preacher. Colossal’s a movie that works much better while you’re trying to figure out where it’s going, rather than once you know. Which means a good deal of it is very good, but also that its backend falls out. I’m no stranger to disappointing Nacho Vigalondo movies, though, or indeed ones that are acclaimed – as Colossal has been – that didn’t quite do it for me. I was

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (2009)   I get the impression this sixth instalment might not be the most obviously crowd-pleasing one in the Potter-sphere – among fans, rather than critics – but my second visit only reconfirms it as up there in the top tier. Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince is certainly atypical, eschewing action for the most part (there are a couple of quidditch interludes, but they’re almost apologetic) and showing a keen aptitude for something the series has previous shown inconsistency towards: intrigue. For much of the running time, this is more like a spy movie – of

The Avengers 4.21: A Touch of Brimstone   An episode that sings from start to finish, and certainly a contender for the all-time-best Avengers. Also one with a wee bit of infamy attached, as its sadomasochistic elements precluded it from a screening in America (it wasn’t banned), and ITV trimmed it slightly before showing it. It still carries a frisson, and not only because of Diana Rigg’s “Queen of Sin” costume; Brian Clemens’ teleplay is a perfectly formed descent into risky business, just suggestive enough without going over the deep end. As is more commonly the case than not, our duo are onto

The Avengers  4.4: Dial a Deadly Number   Dial a Deadly Number features a number of memorable scenes and abundant witty dialogue, as well as a return by the then-in-everything Peter Bowles, but despite strong direction from series stalwart Don Leaver, it’s difficult to care very much about who’s doing what to whom in Roger Marshall’s teleplay. The title suggests something Hitchcockian, but the reality is more mundane, revolving around the then very contemporary, nay futuristic, use of bleepers, and their corruptibility as a means of murdering company CEOs. That there needs to be a means of conveying the signal to the

Dean Spanley (2008)   There is such a profusion of average, respectable – but immaculately made – British period drama held up for instant adulation, it’s hardly surprising that, when something truly worthy of acclaim comes along, it should be singularly ignored. To be fair, Dean Spanley was well liked by critics upon its release, but its subsequent impact has proved disappointingly slight. Based on Lord Dunsany’s 1939 novella, My Talks with Dean Spanley, our narrator relates how the titular Dean’s imbibification of a moderate quantity of Imperial Tokay (“too syrupy”, is the conclusion reached by both members of the Fisk family regarding this

Wake in Fright (1971)   Ted Kotcheff’s sweltering outback drama is positioned at the very beginning of the Australian new wave. Like Walkabout, it finds a non-Antipodean filmmaker casting a perceptive eye over the country, its baked mores and behaviours. Yet while both films base themselves on the contrasts between disparate values, tonally they couldn’t be more different. Nicolas Roeg’s study sets his characters against greater forces of nature and the tentative meeting of disparate cultures. Kothceff’s film is narrower in focus but no less insightful. While Roeg’s picture is mostly elegiac in tone Wake in Fright is rough and ready, its content

A Walk Among the Tombstones (2014)   I have to wonder quite what writer-director Scott Frank saw in Lawrence Block’s pulp novel, such that the project kept returning to him over the course of the last fifteen years. Even more, that it attained quasi-mythical status owing to a failed attempt to get it filmed with Harrison Ford during that period. Because there’s absolutely nothing in this material, as translated to screen at least, to justify such veneration and compulsion. A Walk Among the Tombstones is a well-made but generic potboiler, one that harkens back to standard issue ’90s serial-killer fare (making the

The Thin Man Goes Home (1945)   The penultimate Thin Man movie arrived after a four-year gap spanning the majority of the US’ involvement in WWII. This time Nick (William Powell) and Nora (Myrna Loy) visit the former’s parents in Sycamore Springs. The small-town New England locale is the antithesis of Nick’s preferred fast-living big city comfort zone. The juxtaposition is irresistible, and much fun is had with the couple snooping around a backwater. Slightly awkwardly, since character development wasn’t of great importance previously, the theme of Nick just wanting to please his father is caught lurking on the verges of the

Another Thin Man (1939)   It would be perfectly reasonable to assume the introduction of a sprog to a husband and wife detective duo would be the death knell for a series. A sign that sentimentality and generally goo-iness have taken over. Nothing could be further from the truth in this third outing for The Thin Man series, an adaptation of Dashiell Hammett’s The Farewell Murder. Nicky Jr. is absolutely not central to the story, and our couple are as refreshingly flippant in their discussion of him as they are towards their own relationship (i.e. they don’t need to keep saying they love him). This

After the Thin Man (1937)   Nick and Nora are back. There might not be quite as much investigative anarchy as there was first time out, and the booze is definitely not flowing quite so freely, but the chemistry between William Powell and Myrna Loy is as fresh as ever. This is the longest of The Thin Man series, and at times it does get a little too caught up in respectful plotting, but there’s more than enough wisecracking from Powell (and Loy) to see us along. W.S. Van Dyke returns to call the shots, while Goodrich and Hackett are back on scripting duties.

The Thin Man (1934)   I’ve watched The Thin Man before, but so long ago I’d forgotten much about it. So it was a surprise and delight to see such a consistently irresponsible depiction of consequence-free drinking. Not because I’m particularly prone to excessive indulgence in all things that are bad for one (or because I’m a raging alcoholic) and so identify with William Powell’s tipsy Nick, or because I’m a rep for the alcohol industry. But because it’s so different, confounding expectations of this kind of film from this era (and, let’s face it, no one would present drinking this way