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Snake Eyes (1998)   The best De Palma movies offer a persuasive synthesis of plot and aesthetic, such that the director’s meticulously crafted shots and set pieces are underpinned by a firm foundation. That isn’t to say, however, that there isn’t a sheer pleasure to be had from the simple act of observing, from De Palma movies where there isn’t really a whole lot more than the seduction of sound, image and movement. Snake Eyes has the intention to be both scrupulously written and beautifully composed, coming after a decade when the director was – mostly – exploring his oeuvre more commercially

Backdraft (1991)   Ron Howard, never one to recognise his profound limitations of talent, here attempts a big, special-effects-laden family-saga-cum-action-spectacle in the style of Tony Scott (Backdraft even has Hans Zimmer on the soundtrack). Some of his stylistic imitations land effectively enough; there are undoubtedly very fine shots in the movie, courtesy of DP Mikael Salomon. He has also assembled a mostly stalwart cast. However, his firefighting Top Gun attempt at a cash-grab blockbuster stumbles through biting off more than it can chew – it runs to two-and-a-quarter hours, and the last half hour is especially hard work – and having too little where it

Motherless Brooklyn (2019)   Edward Norton’s extremely loose adaptation of Jonathan Lethem’s 1999 noir pastiche is uber-liberal in intent, making it uber-ironic that Norton should wade brazenly into a quagmire of white-saviour tropes. I’m generally on board with checking out anything “notoriously difficult” Norton appears in, even if his choices are occasionally regrettable (Collateral Beauty). He is, however, nothing if not weighed down by piercing intellect and concomitant social conscience, one he feels compelled to massage (he’s the kind of prominent activist who declares celebrities should “participate quietly” in such matters). Motherless Brooklyn has a lot going for it, but it’s ultimately

The English Patient (1996)   I like The English Patient. In contrast to Elaine Benes. I’m more likely to concur with Seinfeld’s disrespectful attitude to Schindler’s List, actually. Any movie sacred cow is game for assault, of course, although Seinfeld granting permission to voice loathing for this one seems particularly unwarranted. The pantheon of lousy Oscar winners more deserving of opprobrium is immense; the winners either side of The English Patient, for example. But yes, I can see that some would find it boring. I can see some would find a David Lean film boring too, with which this is commonly identified. In places, Anthony Minghella

Green for Danger (1946)   A magnificently sure-handed piece from Launder and Gilliat – Sydney Gilliat receives the director credit, Frank Launder the producer, and Gilliat shares the screenplay with Claud Gurney – that plays superbly as a straight wartime noir murder thriller… until the inimitable Alastair Sim’s Inspector Cockrill is thrown into the mix. He’s an irreverent goofball, sharp of wit and intellect with a wonderfully twisted sense of humour and an abject terror of doodlebugs. The only slight you might lay against Green for Danger is that you’re likely to undervalue it because the duo make it all look so

The Birds (1963)   Perhaps the most impressive thing about The Birds is how palpably it succeeds in spite of itself. Other Hitchcocks have been beleaguered by a lead not quite delivering the goods, such that the overall piece has suffered (for example, Foreign Correspondent). Often with the consequence of drawing attention to supporting characters (the aforementioned, and also Stage Fright). Here, Hitch has two so-so leading players, and yet you could almost believe he was deliberately making that work in the material’s favour. Certainly, the horror movie where the setting and the horror is the star, and the players neither here nor there,

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes 1.7: The Blue Carbuncle   Sherlock Holmes does Christmas. Jeremy Brett Sherlock Holmes at that. An antidote to the ghastly likes of the nu-Who festive instalments, where the only thing going for them is provoking a gag reflex for those who have overdone the turkey dinner, The Blue Carbuncle eschews saccharine and fake tinsel. Indeed, it is possessed of a proper plot, the sort of thing rarely scene in Christmas TV special episodes post-80s. Of course, that comes courtesy of the 1892 Conan Doyle original, taking a very Christmassy element – the aforementioned dinner, albeit in this case

Pulp (1972)   Pulp has undergone something of a reassessment since its initial release, to a resoundingly underwhelmed response from audiences and critics alike. Some have even suggested it’s on a par with Get Carter, Mike Hodges and Michael Caine’s classic collaboration from the previous year. This is very much wishful thinking. Pulp isn’t a bad movie by any means, but it’s a pastiche doodle of detective fiction, never quite as clever or spry as it thinks it is, so leaving the viewer shrugging at it as much as Caine’s protagonist Mickey King does throughout when confronted by a succession of oddball – but

Dark City (1998)   (Director’s Cut) This return visit to Dark City: Director’s Cut bears out my previous takeaway. In extended form, Alex Proyas’ best film remains flawed but fascinating, never quite finessed enough in its mythology or execution to warrant the neglected classic status sometimes thrust upon it. It’s packed with ideas – a great deal more than most fare with David S Goyer’s name attached – ones often more striking than those of the thematically comparable and undoubtedly superior, game-changing Wachowskis movie released the following year. It’s easy to see why Dark City didn’t catch on while The Matrix did. Both have a protagonist

Knives Out (2019)   “If Agatha Christie were writing today, she’d have a character who’s an Internet troll.” There’s a slew of ifs and buts in that assertion, but it tells you a lot about where Rian Johnson is coming from with Knives Out. As in, Christie might – I mean, who can really say? – but it’s fair to suggest she wouldn’t be angling her material the way Johnson does, who for all his pronouncement that “This isn’t a message movie” is very clearly making one. He probably warrants a hesitant pass on that statement, though, to the extent that Knives

Witness for the Prosecution (1957)   Was Joe Eszterhas a big fan of Witness for the Prosecution? He was surely a big fan of any courtroom drama turning on a “Did the accused actually do it?” only for it to turn out they did, since he repeatedly used it as a template. Interviewed about his Agatha Christie adaptation (of the 1925 play), writer-director Billy Wilder said of the author that “She constructs like an angel, but her language is flat; no dialogue, no people”. It isn’t an uncommon charge, one her devotees may take issue with, that her characters are mere pieces

Jagged Edge (1985)   You might argue the only necessary tester of the Joel Eszterhas “Did-they-do-it?” is the immediate response. Once you know, it’s never going to have the same impact again. Obviously, such a reasoning would, in theory, negate rereading Sherlock Holmes or Agatha Christie. There, however, the pleasure is as much from a well-thumbed mystery well told. In contrast, Jagged Edge’s merits and failings are very much those of Eszterhas’ milieu; he provides enough slickness to attract a good cast, but they’re the ones who have to carry it through its more OTT and showy theatrics and plot extravagances. The screenwriter’s

The Sign of Four (1983)   The first of two TV movies featuring Ian Richardson as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s greatest creation. And a very upbeat, personable Sherlock Holmes he makes too, an effective contrast with the more burdened Jeremy Brett incarnation of a few years later. The Sign of Four is lightweight but efficient, its biggest stumble being the manner in which it reframes the plot so as to present most of the salient facts upfront, and as a consequence, impinge on the mystery and sleuth’s deductions. A huge contretemps surrounded the production of this and The Hound of the Baskervilles, with

Altered Carbon Season One   Well, it looks good, even if the visuals are absurdly indebted to Blade Runner. Ultimately, though, Altered Carbon is a disappointment. The adaption of Richard Morgan’s novel comes armed with a string of well-packaged concepts and futuristic vernacular (sleeves, stacks, cross-sleeves, slagged stacks, Neo-Cs), but there’s a void at its core. It singularly fails use the dependable detective story framework to explore the philosophical ramifications of its universe – except in lip service – a future where death is impermanent, and even botches the essential goal of creating interesting lead characters (the peripheral ones, however, are at least more fortunate).

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (2007)   The beginning of the homogenisation of Harry Potter, assuming you didn’t think he was a wholly homogenised product to begin with. And by that, I’m not necessarily levelling a charge –Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix is qualitatively second only to Prisoner of Azkaban at this point in the running – but rather pointing out that David Yates has been the appointed ship’s captain ever since, even into the new prequel quintilogy. It means you’re going to get a reliably similar result. Fine, if you adore what’s on offer, but if you’re

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (2005)   Significant, ante-upping events occur in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, but so much of the movie is filler, or prelude, that it would have taken a director truly worth their salt to make it seem something more than it was. Mike Newell wasn’t that director. The best you can say about his work is that it’s serviceable, efficient, and you wouldn’t know his ballpark hitherto resided mostly in romcoms. He plays with the second unit and the effects department surprisingly well, never a given in the history of journeymen embarking

Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (2002)   More of the same, really, continuing Chris Columbus’ unswerving mode of following Steve Kloves’ sticking like glue to JK Rowling’s early structural template. Another mystery on the Hogwarts premises (you’d have thought the teachers would try to keep the kids clear of mortal peril until they’d at least graduated) that inevitably ties in to Voldermort. It’s marginally more honed this time, though, which means that when Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets – even the title is eminently resistible – finally knuckles down, it flows better. Unfortunately, it also has several major

Murder on the Orient Express (2017)   Sydney Lumet’s 1974 adaptation of Murder on the Orient Express could scarcely be called the pinnacle of his career, but (Sir) Kenneth Branagh’s latest version of Agatha Christie’s (probably) best known novel (in the world) invites new-found appreciation of its merits. Ken’s film is a bauble, and like much of his work in cinema, it’s big and showy and overblown and empty. You need to fill that space with something, but unfortunately, neither his Poirot nor Michael Green’s screenplay does the job. His Mr Poirot, then. I commented of Albert Finney’s (Oscar nominated) incarnation that it

The Avengers 4.14: The Hour That Never Was   Roger Marshall pens and Gerry O’Hara directs a memorable episode, big on location work and atmosphere, and small on guest cast members. At least, for the majority of its duration. When Steed bashes the Bentley, swerving to avoid a dog, he and Mrs Peel head off for his old RAF base on foot, his car clock having stopped at 10.59. He tells Emma he’s driven the stretch of road a hundred times (“Well, since you know it so well, it’s remarkable you couldn’t stay on it”), amid further anecdotes about his

Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets (2017)   In the aftermath of Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planet’s floundering US debut (unlike The Fifth Element, it seems doubtful that an international bonanza will compensate) and (mostly) critical mauling, there have been numerous post-mortems, ranging from the reasonable to the desperately lazy (audiences didn’t know the property; it wasn’t a sequel; it didn’t have stars; it had a weird title – none of which are an issue when something is a hit, Baby Driver, for example). Valerian was one of my most anticipated pictures of the year, in spite of what

Lost Highway (1997)   ’90s David Lynch might have been “purer” in its distillation of weirdness, but generally speaking I found it less satisfying than his ’80s experimentations with studios and pre-existing source material. There was Twin Peaks, of course, several of the episodes he directed ranking among the best things he has ever done. But his features lacked something, revealing themselves as either a hip, pop version of his sensibility (Wild at Heart) that would predict much of the “colourful” pulp revelry of Tarantino and his imitators, or a distended, half-masterfully dark, half-distractingly ungainly bookend to his cancelled TV show

Blue Velvet (1986)   Revisiting Blue Velvet, what’s most striking is how this is really the start of Lynch’s career proper. Admittedly, a great many will tout Eraserhead as his masterpiece (I’m not one of them), and in perma-hallucinatory form it certainly sets up his stool, both tonally and audibly, but its sprawling doodle of a severely-leaking cranium doesn’t provide the insight into his subsequent approach to narrative that Blue Velvet exemplifies. And The Elephant Man and Dune, as merit-worthy as the former most definitely is, are high class director-for-hire affairs; it’s as if, no sooner had he begun his career proper, than he took a decade out

The Last Boy Scout  (1991)   I only became aware of the production nightmare that was The Last Boy Scout in the last few years. It didn’t come as that much of a surprise, however, as although the movie was an instant favourite, it was instantly obvious that some extremely choppy editing had occurred, even for a Tony Scott movie, which couldn’t always quite make elegant sense of the action. It also didn’t come as enormous surprise as the other Bruce Willis would-be blockbuster of the year, Hudson Hawk, had been a much documented (at the time) production nightmare. This was at the height of Bruno’s stardom

Looker (1981)   Edgar Wright’s recently revised, gargantuan list of favourite movies (a more interesting and economical rundown might have detailed what didn’t make it on) included many I haven’t seen, and a good few I thought “Oh, I must revisit that”. Of the latter, one such was Michael Crichton’s uneven science fiction thriller Looker, which typically for the author includes prophetic warnings of technology allowed to rampage unchecked. It’s also loaded with satirical swipes at the beauty myth, TV addiction and our capacity to be influenced by advertising. The movie arrived at the perfect moment, predicting a decade that would wear shallowness

The Nice Guys (2016)   The strong reputation of an artist can be a two-edged sword. It rightly results in anticipation for a new offering, but conversely can lead to greater disappointment when they fail to live up to past form. I had tempered expectations for Iron Man Three, expecting a watered-down, Marvel-isation of its author’s imprint, yet came away thrilled by just how much of a Shane Black movie it turned out to be. Kiss Kiss Bang Bang arrived as a fully-formed, instant classic, but I still knew I’d need several viewings to take it all in. The Nice Guys may also require further

10 Cloverfield Lane (2016)   JJ Abrams lets fly a little Tommy Squeaker from his celebrated – or vilified – mystery box, and – waddaya know? – he has another hit on his hands. 10 Cloverfield Lane was on no one’s radar until a trail unfurled in the middle of January, and since then its behind-the-scenes moviemaking mythology has quickly snowballed into a discussion of cynical marketing that one might believe has eclipsed the movie itself. If one hadn’t actually seen the movie. Originally known as The Cellar, then Valencia, it was rejigged during production when the Bad Robot team recognised thematic ties with

Mr. Holmes (2015)   Ian McKellen’s prominent proboscis needs no adornment – after all, no one spurned Robert Downey Jr’s Sherlock over his decidedly non-Roman nasal fixture – but one can at least appreciate that his Mr. Holmes prosthetic honk is a seamless, if superfluous, special effect. Much like the mystery at the heart of Jeffrey Hatcher’s adaptation of Mitch Cullin’s novel A Slight Trick of the Mind. The key to this nonagenarian incarnation of Holmes is his much-caricatured emotional dimension (or rather lack thereof, as divested of all merit in Steven Moffat’s fatuously overplayed Sherlock version) and, as antithetical to the character as it

The Leftovers Season Two: Episodes 1-6   You don’t hear many people talking about The Leftovers, less still raving about it. It would be nigh on a miracle that it was commissioned for a second run, if not for the fact that HBO generally look kindlier on the prospects for fledging fare than the networks (but not John from Cincinnati, alas). The Season Two partial reboot’s change of setting has enabled the continuation of the show’s most vital elements and characters, and indeed introduced new ones just as arresting. If it’s disappointing that some of the first season’s better characters have fallen by

Sliver (1993)   It must have seemed like a no-brainer. Sharon Stone, fresh from flashing her way to one of the biggest hits of 1992, starring in a movie nourished with a screenplay from the writer of one of the biggest hits of 1992. That Sliver is one Stone’s better performing movies says more about how no one took her to their bosom rather than her ability to appeal outside of working with Paul Verhoeven. Attempting to replicate the erotic lure of Basic Instinct, but without the Dutch director’s shameless revelry and unrepentant glee (and divested of Michael Douglas’ sweaters), it flounders, a

Inherent Vice (2014)   I can quite see why Inherent Vice hasn’t been clutched to collective bosoms in the way some of Paul Thomas Anderson’s previous pictures have. It isn’t funny enough to be designated an all-out comedy (like The Big Lebowski), or intriguing enough to be termed a fully-fledged mystery (like Chinatown), too disinterested to be a commentary on any kind of times (like The Long Goodbye) and insufficiently whacked out to be celebrated as a intoxicated space ride (like Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas). But it’s definitely got something and, in Joaquin Phoenix’s Larry “Doc” Sportello, relishes a protagonist who may not be

True Detective Season Two   Season Two of True Detective has received a hard time of it, dragged through the dirt even well before the first episode aired.  Certainly, I found the casting, premise and trailers fairy unpersuasive, such that I waited until I could see the entire thing in one burst. I’m glad I did, as Season Two definitely lacks the compelling plotting and thematic undercurrents that made the first so addictive, and the commanding characters (or character; that’s Rust Cohle right there) that brought you back for more. Yet even as a lesser beast, I found Season Two diverting viewing, particularly from

Twin Peaks 2.9: Arbitrary Law   Even though Tim Hunter does an admirable job here, one can readily see how matters would be even more improved if Lynch had been available. There are moments where Arbitrary Law oversteps its marks, where it collapses into unnecessary exposition for the dumb viewers at home (presumably) at the behest of dumb execs worried it will all be a turn-off. Yet 2.9 also features Ray Wise fully off the leash, and Coop returning to the firmer ground of the properly intuitive FBI agent. Which closes the door on the reason he showed up in the

Twin Peaks 2.7: Lonely Souls   David Lynch returns as director (and, briefly, as supporting actor) in an episode that serves to bookend his season opener. Cooper’s vision has closure as his ring is returned, and Laura Palmer’s murder is revealed in an episode positively dripping with red herring. Nadine: Are you in our class at school? Shelly: I don’t think so. Even Lynch can’t make it all work. The Nadine with a mental age of seventeen plotline isn’t getting any better and it won’t in the foreseeable (as a signifier of what is to come, Lynch brings back Mike – the

The Last Wave (1977)   Peter Weir’s perception- and reality-bending third feature may not hold quite the same level of foreboding or uncanny resonance as Picnic at Hanging Rock, but it is very much kindred. The Last Wave comes at a point when Weir’s cinematic explorations were neither bound nor fully-informed by the strictures of the traditional Hollywood narrative, at liberty to take his tales wherever he felt they needed to go. In terms of premise, you might be forgiven for regarding The Last Wave as one-part cautionary eco-parable and one-part white man’s guilt espoused over the treatment of Australian Aboriginals. Certainly, Pauline Kael tore the picture

Twin Peaks  2.2: Coma   Lynch’s pre-penultimate episode in the director’s chair, penned by Harley Peyton, continues with the high standard set by the opener, and you have to think that’s mostly down to the extra quirk instilled by the show’s co-creator. Albert: Your former partner flew the coop, Coop. He escaped. Vanished into thin air. Agent Cooper: That’s not good. On the other hand, there are significant advances in the show’s mythology to help the episode along. Top of the heap is the first mention of Windom Earle, who won’t be seen in the flesh for another nine episodes. But, with

Twin Peaks 1.8: The Last Evening   The Season One finale was written and directed by Mark Frost. He’s rarely strayed into the latter camp, with only two other credits to his name (one being 1992’s Peaks-lite Storyville). Frost has clearly been studying some of cinema’s greats at times, and he throws some nice flourishes in the mix, but the episode as a whole continues the trend of the last half of this first run in being solid but unspectacular. The first show of visual pizazz occurs near the beginning. Jacoby gets boshed on the head and lies prone. Frost tracks into

Twin Peaks 1.4: Rest in Pain   Another damn fine episode, and one with neither Frost nor Lynch credited in writing or directing. Harley Peyton was a producer on Twin Peaks, and would script no less than fourteen episodes (including uncredited work on 1.3). He wrote screenplays for Less than Zero and Heaven’s Prisoners, and most recently was attached to the still born Jonathan Rhys Myers Dracula show. Tina Rathborne directed (and returned for season two) but has done nothing since. Sheriff Truman: Who killed Laura Palmer? It will be interesting to note which Season Two episodes Peyton penned, as here he takes to Lynch and Frost’s

Twin Peaks 1.2: Traces to Nowhere   Lynch passes the baton to Duwayne Dunham for the first regular episode (I should point out, I’m using the unofficial episode titles as a means of identification, although I don’t necessarily think they’re up to much) a director with little else of note on his CV, aside from a remake of The Incredible Journey. The transition is seamless, however, perhaps because Jimmy Stewart from Mars and Frost co-scripted both this and the next instalment. In terms of the elusive murder mystery, they take time to set up a selection of suspects, just as they knock several

Twin Peaks 1.1: Northwest Passage (Pilot)   It’s unlikely that the first thing one thinks of, when one thinks of Twin Peaks, is intricate plotting. This, despite the “Who killed Laura Palmer?” hook that heralded its first (truncated) season and just short of the first half of the second. No, it’s a safe bet that the David Lynch trademarks of mood, atmosphere, surrealism and eccentricity will be front and centre of one’s thoughts. And what the hell befell Agent Cooper after his encounter in the Black Lodge, of course. Those aspects have not diminished in the 25 years since, despite the

Gone Girl (2014)   A David Fincher film is always a seductive treat, even when the greater whole proves something of a misfire (The Game, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo). Gone Girl finds the director’s technique ever more refined, seamless and subtle, yet as with his previous picture he has chosen to unleash his virtuosity and microscopic attention to detail on subject matter that is overtly lurid and provocative. In contrast to Tattoo, Gillian Flynn’s adaptation of her novel is at least imbued with multiple layers themes, adding substance – but let’s not overstate this – to what is at first sight just

The Leftovers Season One: Part 2   The second half of Season One of The Leftovers evidences a series that has found its feet, and then some. Each episode is a standout in its own way, from Nora’s strange encounters at a departure conference, to Kevin’s mad dad running loose, and his National Geographic fixation (very Lindelof, that), to the stunning encounter with Patti in a cabin in the woods, to the inevitable flashback episode that explains everything and nothing, and on to the finale with its tenuous optimistic note. Doubtless that still point is set to be shattered in 2015; HBO has confirmed

Odd Thomas (2013)   Writer-director and all-round auteur Stephen Sommers’ latest movie wasn’t greeted with the box office reception that he’s used to. It wasn’t greeted with critical acclaim either, although he ought to be familiar with that by now. Sommers is one of Hollywood’s most unbridled “talents”, unleashing attention deficit disorder puke of unmartialled images and edits onto cinema screens and then having the cheek to advertise the results as coherent movies. Odd Thomas is visually of a piece with this typical lack of restraint but, in contrast to the resto of his post-Mummy output, the big thing it has going for

The Leftovers Season One: Part 1   (Episodes 1-5) I’m a sucker for punishment, I guess. I can’t resist the Lindelof Lure, that now renowned storytelling style in which a screenwriter (first name Damon) entices viewers to watch his TV shows (or movies) by dropping in choice mysteries, and themes and ideas of a phenomenally and spiritually nebulous order. The weekly fix is addictive, while the promise of an ultimate hit, the pay-off to it all, never arrives. I should have learnt after Lost, of course. All those promises of a planned-out story came to nothing, unless the plan was just

Song of the Thin Man (1947)   Gangsters on a Boat is not exactly Snakes on a Plane, which is probably for the best. The final bow of Nick and Nora is their weakest outing but, like mother’s flit gun, it is by no means devoid of charm. There is the feeling that the spark and enthusiasm has been slightly dulled, however. In particular, William Powell seems more stolid than before. And then there’s the willingness to indulge the hepcat musical numbers. With such detours anyone would think this was one of the MGM Marx Brothers comedies (appropriately, or perhaps not, Edward Buzzell also

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

Oldboy (2013)   I’m not averse to remakes so long someone has a good reason for going there. Generally, I wouldn’t regard “It was in a foreign language” as a valid motive. Just occasionally however, even a straight retelling can provide the lazy distraction of a different-but-the-same iteration, although one invariably ends up reaching the same conclusion; why did they bother? Most of non-English language films picked by Hollywood for a remake fail at the box office, and yet the lesson is never learned. If there’s a whiff of a name property, even from a somewhat insular bean counter standpoint,

Shadow of the Thin Man (1941)   Nick and Norah’s fourth outing, seven years after the first, and incredibly there is little sign of a drop off in quality.  If the premise has the air of writers clutching for ideas (the murder of a jockey at a racetrack), the mystery unfolds engagingly, with sufficient diversions and red herrings, including a reporter pal of Nick’s accused of the crime, to more than satisfy. Unlike last time, the murderer is fairly easy to guess through a process of elimination, but as I’ve noted of the other sequels, and no doubt will again, 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

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

Blow Out (1981)   Blow Out is one of Brian De Palma’s best films, and one whose status has grown in the years since its release. It’s a movie about the craft of making movies, and deconstructing them. As such it pays homage to specific earlier pictures (Blow-up, The Conversation) while maintaining the stylistic flourish that is so thoroughly De Palma. It’s a movie all about the establishing idea, which it explores with astonishing virtuosity. The only side effect of this is there’s a natural deflation when the bag has run out of gas. Still, this is one of the director’s wittiest

Rising Sun (1993)   I probably give Rising Sun an easier ride than it deserves. It isn’t really much cop even as a murder mystery (it certainly fails to deliver a satisfying resolution) and the attempts to dilute Michael Crichton’s paranoid, xenophobic message about the encroaching Japanese are only partially successful. It also lacks a sufficiently intriguing plot to justify its excessive length. But, as iffy and unlikely as much of the movie is, and riddled with plot holes, I do find it vaguely entertaining. Much of that is down to Sean Connery, whose wigmaker was trying out ever more daring variations

Passion (2012)   Compared to a number of his contemporaries (John Carpenter, Joe Dante, John Landis, David Lynch), Brian De Palma’s post-millennium CV looks relatively robust; five films, where some of those names are lucky to be able to claim two. Sure, it’s half the tally of Spielberg, but you can count the filmmakers as prolific as he is on one the fingers of one hand (Woody, Clint). De Palma’s almost on a par with Robert Zemeckis. The difference being that Zemeckis’ name holds cachet. De Palma’s harbours cult-appeal, but in a slightly past-it, still-playing-in-the-same-sandbox kind of way. It’s not

Clue (1985)   Any movie based on a board game that isn’t Battleshit instantly has something going for it. But I’m not sure Clue was received with any greater approval when it was released back in 1985. The general feeling was that director (and writer) Jonathan Lynn was slumming it (it was sandwiched between the series Yes, Minister and Yes, Prime Minister). The broad, slapstick tone and predilection for crudity had more common with producer John Landis. If the film wasn’t a disaster, neither was it a big hit. That wasn’t the end of it, though. As with a later farce directed by Landis and also starring

White Mischief (1987)   There is surely a great film to be made from the incident that precipitated the demise of Kenya’s “Happy Valley” set, but White Mischief misses the boat. Here is a murder mystery amidst against a backdrop of supreme aristocratic decadence, so why is all so tame and respectful? Michael Radford has to take the lion’s share of the blame as director and co-author of the screenplay. He injects the film with all the vigour of a TV movie (apologies to DP Roger Deakins), with only the occasional spillage of bare breasts or murmur of discreet outrage to indicate