A Matter of WHO (1961) A peculiarly positioned comedy-drama from Don Chaffey (Jason and the Argonauts) and starring the incomparable Terry-Thomas. Essentially, it’s a propaganda flick for the World Health Organisation and their global “beneficence” – you know, at the vanguard of laying the ground work for the New World Order and all, along with the UN – while simultaneously expounding the fearsome attributes of Pasteur germ theory. Bechamp must have been turning in his grave. He’s doubtless been extremely restless over the last century. Apparently, A Matter of WHO was conceived as a straight thriller before T-T came
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The Best Years of Our Lives (1946) Something of a surprise, in that a movie made immediately subsequent to the concerted propaganda onslaught of WWII should be as open as it is to the lasting effects of conflict on those involved. There’s undoubtedly a degree of rhetoric in The Best Years of Our Lives, both in terms of boosting the prospects for veterans and extolling a “just” war, but William Wyler’s film (yet another Sam Goldwyn awards darling) treads its terrain with frequent care and attention, and it’s easy to see why this appeared on Oliver Stone’s All-Time Top 10
A Matter of Life and Death aka Stairway to Heaven (1946) Propaganda par excellence, if you wish to look at A Matter of Life and Death purely through that lens. And if you do, Powell and Pressburger’s earlier The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp hadn’t been nearly such a boon to the war effort, at least in the eyes of the establishment (as director Michael Powell recalled in A Life in the Movies, Churchill “would have stopped the film if he could, and when it was made he tried to stop it being sent abroad”. As it was, without War Office support, the
KIMI (2022) Steven Soderbergh’s latest impersonal, production-line effort – if only he really had retired – is pretty dumb but also highly efficient. Which counts for something when mounting a claustrophobic thriller. The director previously unleashed pandemic propaganda flick Contagion on a pliant audience and has more recently applied himself to whatever safe, popular, good liberal narrative exercises tickled to his rather eclectic fancy, be they the low-fruit Panama-Papers “exposé” The Laundromat or last year’s disastrous, uber-woke Oscar Ceremony. Here, he’s servicing more of the same – plandemic backdrop; a proliferation of obedient mask junkies; nominal threat of pervasive surveillance tech as a sub for
The Black Sheep of Whitehall (1942) Propaganda movies never die – lockdown flicks enjoining masked subservience have been just the latest incarnation – but at least a few have exhibited a healthy, anarchic irreverence amid whichever cause they were espousing. In this case, the war effort, and what could be better fodder for the impressionable masses (because no one – well very few – would cast doubt on its legitimacy)? The Black Sheep of Whitehall finds Will Hay’s “incompetent authority figure” – © Wiki – foiling a Nazi plot, with the help of dinky little John Mills. Sister Spooner: Do you do
2021-22 Best-of, Worst-of and Everything Else Besides The movies might be the most visible example of attempts to cling onto cultural remnants as the previous societal template clatters down the drain. It takes something people really want – unlike a Bond movie where he kicks the can – to suggest the model of yesteryear, one where a billion-dollar grosser was like sneezing. You can argue Spider-Man: No Way Home is replete with agendas of one sort or another, and that’s undoubtedly the case (that’s Hollywood), but crowding out any such extraneous elements (and they often are) is simply a consummate crowd-pleaser that taps
The House of Rothschild (1934) Fox’s Rothschild family propaganda pic does a pretty good job presenting the clan as poor, maligned, oppressed Jews who fought back in the only way available to them: making money, lots of lovely money! Indeed, it occurred to me watching The House of Rothschild that, for all its inclusion of a rotter of a Nazi stand-in (played by Boris Karloff), Hitler must have just loved the movie, as it’s essentially paying the family the compliment of being very very good at doing their very best to make money from everyone left, right and centre. It’s thus unsurprising
Equilibrium (2002) Kurt Wimmer’s dystopian sci-fi movie is a mash up of 1984, THX1138 and Fahrenheit 451, with added spangles in the form of The Matrix-inspired gun kata. Wimmer objected to such reductive categorisation, claiming it had a “different message”, but I’m blowed if I can find it. Equilibrium’s mostly an effective little B-movie, though, setting out its stall and succeeding within the range of its familiar tropes. John Preston: I’m alive… I live… To safeguard the continuity of this great society. To serve Libria. Wimmer has mostly won work as a screenwriter, although he would doubtless rather be a full-time director. The failure of his
News of the World (2020) I’d been looking forward to this. The full, unexpurgated, salacious story of Rupert Murdoch’s Sunday tabloid dedicated to topless tarts and tasteless tattle. Given the all-star treatment. Imagine my disappointment, then, when it turned out to be nothing more than a western starring Guantanamo Hanks and feted propaganda merchant Paul Greengrass. News of the World is a rousing tale of a man who travels a lawless land spreading real news to a thirsty population. A man who, because he’s such a kind, sensitive and caring gent, takes care of and eventually adopts a poor orphan child.
Casablanca (1942) I’m not sure, way back when, that I went away from my first viewing of Casablanca recognising it as the all-time classic for which it is so acclaimed. Perhaps it was just too hallowed to be viewed with unprejudiced eyes. I enjoyed it well enough, but my reaction wasn’t comparable to first sight of the similarly lauded Citizen Kane. And as Humphrey Bogart movies went, I was much more persuaded by The Maltese Falcon. Nevertheless, subsequent visits have served only to elevate its status and confirm the hype was right. You can see very clearly that Casablanca was just another studio picture
Outbreak (1995) One thing in Outbreak’s favour: it’s unashamedly Hollywood. Contagion, might fool the unwitting movie peruser into believing it’s based on real, hard science, but Outbreak is so intent on throwing the kitchen sink of all-star moviemaking tics and tropes into the mix that it’s hard to take seriously. Even as it’s flourishing an Ebola-esque virus fully equipped to make you queasy (it’s interesting that Wolfgang Peterson is much less reticent that Steven Soderbergh in respect of the horror elements, even though this is a much bigger production. Perhaps because Peterson’s a much more imaginative director). Outbreak isn’t a good movie by any stretch,
Contagion (2011) The plandemic saw Contagion’s stock soar, which isn’t something that happens too often to a Steven Soderbergh movie. His ostensibly liberal outlook has hitherto found him on the side of the little people (class action suits) and interrogating the drugs trade while scrupulously avoiding institutional connivance (unless it’s Mexican institutional connivance). More recently, The Laundromat’s Panama Papers puff piece fell fall flat on its face in attempting broad, knowing satire (in some respects, this is curious, as The Informant! is one of Soderbergh’s better-judged films, perhaps because it makes no bones about its maker’s indifference towards its characters). There’s no dilution involved with Contagion,
Private’s Progress (1956) Truth be told, there’s good reason sequel I’m Alright Jack reaps the raves – it is, after all, razor sharp and entirely focussed in its satire – but Private’s Progress is no slouch either. In some respects, it makes for an easy bedfellow with such wartime larks as Norman Wisdom’s The Square Peg (one of the slapstick funny man’s better vehicles). But it’s also, typically of the Boulting Brothers’ unsentimental disposition, utterly remorseless in rebuffing any notions of romantic wartime heroism, nobility and fighting the good fight. Everyone in the British Army is entirely cynical, or terrified, or an idiot. At one
Soul (2020) Pete Docter was doubtless aware that, with a title this presumptive, Soul was asking to be written off with “It ain’t got none”. But he probably also knew that, excepting something going fascinatingly wrong – The Good Dinosaur – Pixar movies tend to get a free pass, from critics and audiences alike. And Docter, responsible for telling kids it’s good to be scared so that benign invisible monsters can feed off their loosh, or – hey, why not, if it’ll make them feel better about it – their laughter, is guilty of the same plodding literalism of all Pixar pictures. It’s
The X-Files 6.14: Monday Monday’s a little masterpiece. By rights, following as it does in the wake of the ever-burgeoning-in-reputation Groundhog Day, it ought to have come across as little more than a weak pretender, treading where many others have gone before – also 12:01 in that decade, along with a smattering of other eager TV shows – as a lukewarm Mulder and Scully encounter the same fateful events over and over again. But scripters Vince Gilligan and John Shiban, in tandem with never better or more attuned direction from Kim Manners, produce a forty-five-minute gem that counts as one of the
Cold War aka Zimna wojna (2018) Pawel Pawlikowski’s elliptical tale – you can’t discuss Cold War without saying “elliptical” at least once – of frustrated love charts a course that almost seems to be a caricature of a certain brand of self-congratulatorily tragic European cinema. It was, it seems “loosely inspired” by his parents (I suspect I see where the looseness comes in), but there’s a sense of calculation to the progression of this love story against an inescapable political backdrop that rather diminishes it. The canvas appears to unfurl organically at first, with an eye on the push-pull elements of
Doctor Who The Sun Makers Or The Sunmakers, if you first came to the story via its Target novelisation. I’ve generally regarded this one as not quite making it. Call it the Pennant Roberts factor, if you like, degrading any bite and sharpness into a slightly bland soufflé. That approach failed to dent the later The Pirate Planet, where the script’s knockabout energy is complemented by the outrageous performances, lending the whole a ramshackle spark. But departing script editor Robert Holmes granted The Sun Makers a shed load of wit and perversity, and it didn’t feel like it was being done justice. Revisiting
12 Monkeys (1995) Gilliam opts for maximum sell out. And yet, even though this is undoubtedly the soberest and least quirky film in his oeuvre, it’s much, much more satisfying than his Terry-Goes-Tinseltown The Fisher King. 12 Monkeys is the evidence that he could have been – not that I’m suggesting he should have been – an entirely creditable studio director had he taken the bit between his teeth and buckled down. As it is, 12 Monkeys still manages to exude enough of his personality and wide-angle visual sense that you’re never in doubt who is calling the shots, yet never to the
Foreign Correspondent (1940) There are two basic problems with Foreign Correspondent, conspiring to make what could have been a top-flight Hitchcock only second rank. The first is the vague and unconvincing MacGuffin, not simple and graspable enough to put one’s faith in and roll with and thus making the narrative rather obviously deficient between set pieces. The second is Joel McCrea’s lead. McCrea’s likeable enough, and would pair effectively with Preston Sturges a couple of years later, but he manages to inject little sense of urgency into the proceedings. Indeed, during the second half, you’d be forgiven for mistaking a
Nineteen Eighty-Four (1984) Michael Radford finally delivered the Orwell adaptation we all deserved. But was it, perhaps, just a little too reverential? It’s no coincidence that Terry Gilliam’s Brazil (1984 ½), released the following year, entirely eclipsed Nineteen Eighty-Four while dealing with many of the same themes (albeit taking its swipes more satirically, by way of an attack on the suffocating bureaucratic state). Radford’s film deliberately delivers an Orwellian future as seen from the era of the novel’s release, give or take the odd helicopter, and is visually striking in its desaturated lack of glory (courtesy of ace DP Roger Deakins) as well
BBC Sunday-Night Theatre: 1984 (1954) The BBC’s relatively quick-off-the-bat adaptation – just not as quick as Studio One in Hollywood’s – of Orwell’s novel roused some vitriolic responses at the time. It’s hailed by many as still the best screen version of 1984. Coming to it soon after a read of Nineteen Eighty-Four, however, I found it generally lacking, despite being buoyed by several strong performances and a diligent approach from Nigel Kneale. As told by Dorian Lynskey in The Ministry of Truth, this version’s broadcast led to hundreds of viewers complaining to the Beeb about its “unusual amount of sex and violence”,
Escape from L.A. (1996) It seems it was Kurt Russell’s enthusiasm for his most iconic character (no, not Captain Ron) that got Escape from L.A. made. That makes sense, because there’s precious little evidence here that John Carpenter gave two shits. This really was his point of no return, I think. His last great chance to show his mettle. But lent a decent-sized budget (equivalent to five times that of Escape from New York) he squandered it, delivering an inert TV movie that further rubs salt in the wound by operating as a virtual remake of the original. Just absent any of
Inglourious Basterds (2009) His staunchest fans would doubtless claim Tarantino has never taken a wrong step, but for me, his post-Pulp Fiction output had been either not quite as satisfying (Jackie Brown), empty spectacle (the Kill Bills) or wretched (Death Proof). It wasn’t until Inglourious Basterds that he recovered his mojo, revelling in an alternate World War II where Adolf didn’t just lose but also got machine gunned to death in a movie theatre showing a warmly received Goebbels-produced propaganda film. It may not be his masterpiece – as Aldo Raines refers to the swastika engraved on “Jew hunter” Hans Landa’s forehead, and
Starship Troopers (1997) Paul Verhoeven’s sci-fi trio of Robocop, Total Recall and Starship Troopers are frequently claimed to be unrivalled in their genre, but it’s really only the first of them that entirely attains that rarefied level. Discussion and praise of Starship Troopers are generally prefaced by noting that great swathes of people – including critics and cast members – were too stupid to realise it was a satire. This is a bit of a Fight Club one, certainly for anyone from the UK – Verhoeven commented “The English got it though. I remember coming out of Heathrow and seeing the posters, which were great. They were just stupid lines
Doctor Who The Armageddon Factor Even within a season as unadored as the sixteenth, the grand finale is one marked out by an abject lack of appreciation. Most stories have their champions, even in the Williams era, but The Armageddon Factor‘s are few and far between. The previous outing, the much-derided The Power of Kroll gets more love – significantly more love – due to its glorious B-movie campness. Kroll be praised. Yet I come here to defend The Armageddon Factor and lend my support to its worthy cause. For me, it’s no more than a marginal notch down on the first four (classics)
Body of Lies (2008) Sir Ridders stubs out his cigar on the CIA-assisted War on Terror, with predictably gormless results. Body of Lies‘ one saving grace is that it wasn’t a hit, although that more reflects its membership of a burgeoning club where no degree of Hollywood propaganda on the “just fight” (with just a smidgeon enough doubt cast to make it seem balanced as a sideways glance) was persuading the public that they wanted the official fiction further fictionalised. Ridley Scott and politics really shouldn’t mix. Black Hawk Down found him firing on all cylinders as a director, albeit in service
Captain America: The First Avenger (2011) I suppose you have to give Kevin Feige credit for turning the least-likely-to-succeed-in-view-of-America’s-standing-with-the-rest-of-the-world superhero into one of Marvel’s biggest success stories, but I tend to regard Steve Rogers and his alter ego as something of a damp squib who got lucky. Lucky, in that his first sequel threw him into a conspiracy plotline that effectively played off his unwavering and unpalatable nobility. And lucky, in that his second had him butting heads with Tony Stark and a supporting selection of superheroes. But coming off the starting block, Captain America: The First Avenger is as below
The Lady Vanishes (1938) Alfred Hitchcock’s penultimate UK-based picture, The Lady Vanishes can be comfortably paired with The 39 Steps as a co-progenitor of his larkier suspense formula (watch these two and then jump to North by Northwest, and the through line is immediately obvious). Part of its great blessing is Hitchcock being handed a screenplay by Frank Launder and Sidney Gilliat, latterly directors themselves, and knowing to make the most of the very funny dialogue, including arguably the picture’s greatest gift (well, other than Hitch himself): Basil Radford and Naunton Wayne as ultimate English cricket enthusiasts – to the exclusion of all else
Darkest Hour (2017) Watching Joe Wright’s return to the rarefied plane of prestige – and heritage to boot – filmmaking, following the execrable folly of the panned Pan, I was struck by the difference an engaged director, one who cares about his characters, makes to material. Only last week, Ridley Scott’s serviceable All the Money in the World made for a pointed illustration of strong material in the hands of someone with no such investment, unless they’re androids. Wright’s dedication to a relatable Winston Churchill ensures that, for the first hour-plus, Darkest Hour is a first-rate affair, a piece of myth-making that barely puts
Black Hawk Down (2001) Black Hawk Down completed a trilogy of hits for Ridley Scott, a run of consistency he’d not seen even a glimmer of hitherto. He was now a brazenly commercial filmmaker, one who could boast big box office under his belt, where previously such overt forays had seen mixed results (Black Rain, G.I. Jane). It also saw him strip away the last vestiges of artistic leanings from his persona, leaving behind, it seemed, only technical virtuosity. Scott was now given to the increasingly thick-headed soundbite (“every war movie is an anti-war movie”) in justification for whatever his latest
Full Metal Jacket (1987) If there’s a problem with appreciating the oeuvre of Stanley Kubrick, it’s that the true zealots will claim every single one of his pictures as a goddam masterpiece (well, maybe not Killer’s Kiss). I can’t quite get behind that. Every single one may be meticulously crafted, but there are rocky patches and suspect decisions made in at least a handful of them. Full Metal Jacket is something of a masterpiece when set against the other Nam flick released in a similar time frame, certainly. Or rather, its first half is. The first half of Full Metal Jacket can stand proud against anything
Survivor (2015) If James McTeigue’s sub-Salt agent-on-the-run thriller had a self-awareness and sense of humour about its unbridled idiocy, it might feasibly have become really good fun. Instead, it’s left to Pierce Brosnan’s assassin, “the best operative in the business” to bring the entertainment value. He thunders through the proceedings as if a permanent bad smell is lingering just under his nose, while Milla Jovovich’s titular Survivor is left wearing a permanent startled expression, the only one her rictus face seems able to convey. Presumably no one thought much of Survivor’s box office prospects as it went to video on demand in the
One of Our Aircraft is Missing (1942) Noel Coward went on to employ most of the crew from this Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger film, following a set visit that mightily impressed him (including editor David Lean and cinematographer Ronald Neame). He’d have been better to just ask Powell to direct In Which We Serve, which is both stagey and mannered; it hasn’t aged nearly as well as Aircraft, the first production from P&P’s The Archers production company. The Archers was formed as a result of a bet between Powell and cinema mogul Arthur Rank, who informed the director that the
In Which We Serve (1942) Noel Coward’s WWII naval propaganda film is frightfully stiff upper lip, almost to the point of unintentional self-parody in places. Coward’s captain is so very, very, awfully proud of his men. Apparently, there were concerns that showing the sinking of a British vessel would damage morale (Coward persuaded the supportive Ministry of Information that it would not), but you’d be hard pressed to find a more blatant example of the indomitable British spirit. As a first-time director Coward shows little flair; his blocking is basic and compositions unimaginative. It seems he found the task
Zero Dark Thirty (2012) It’s interesting to note that Kathryn Bigelow and Mark Boam were planning a film based on the unresolved hunt for Osama Bin Laden when the 2011 raid on the compound in Abbottabad took place. One can only conclude that, if they’d been denied the godsend of action-packed climax, the whole film would have been as boring as a dog’s arse. Serendipity, eh The sudden switching of gears could explain the cobbled-together structure of the ZD30, but it leaves a larger question. Was there really a story to tell here? Leads apparently going nowhere. Great leaps of several
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