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Spiderhead (2022)   Spiderhead’s setup suggests a third-act revelation, or at least stunning dramatic development, one that never comes. It’s a deficit that may lead many to feel underwhelmed by Joseph Kosinski’s follow up to Top Gun: Maverick, currently flying high in the box-office charts. I wouldn’t say that of it, exactly, but this is undoubtedly a case where the short story lent itself more directly to the anthology show format, lacking sufficient meat for feature expansion. Abnesti: The time to worry about crossing lines was a lot of lines ago. Based on George Saunders 2010 New Yorker (short) story Escape from Spiderhead,

Easy Rider (1969)   There are probably ramshackle movies that can be considered masterpieces, but Easy Rider isn’t one of them. Culturally iconic – that part is uncontested – but also spliced together from raging ineptitude and ego on the part of its director. Reputedly, once he’d shot the thing, Dennis Hopper spent months failing to edit the film together coherently. It reached the point where he was ejected from the cutting room, and four hours was hewn down to the slender ninety-odd minutes we know. There are still longueurs in there, but the Easy Rider we finished up with actually remains largely compelling. Perhaps despite

Stranger Things Season 4: Volume 1   I haven’t had cause, or the urge, to revisit earlier seasons of Stranger Things, but I’m fairly certain my (relatively) positive takes on the first two sequel seasons would adjust down somewhat if I did (a Soviet base under Hawkins? DUMB soft disclosure or not, it’s pretty dumb). In my Season 3 review, I called the show “Netflix’s best-packaged junk food. It knows not to outstay its welcome, doesn’t cause bloat and is disposable in mostly good ways” I’m fairly certain the Duffer’s weren’t reading, but it’s as if they decided, as a rebuke,

Fantastic Beasts: The Secrets of Dumbledore (2022)   The general failing of the prequel concept is a fairly self-evident one; it’s spurred by the desire to cash in, rather than to tell a story. This is why so few prequels, in any form, are worth the viewer/reader/listener’s time, in and of themselves. At best, they tend to be something of a well-rehearsed fait accompli. In the movie medium, even when there is material that withstands closer inspection (the Star Wars prequels; The Hobbit, if you like), the execution ends up botched. With Fantastic Beasts, there was never a whiff of such lofty purpose, and

Raised by Wolves Season 2   The most impressive part of Raised by Wolves Season 2 is the way in which, at times, it is able to cast off the shackles of Ridders-brand science fiction and transform itself into something truly strange, boasting imagery that only ups the ante of the first and suggests the untamed psyches of Miyazaki or Jodorowsky. The least impressive part is also its most catnip quality; the show insistently pursues Lost mystery boxes, week after week, dispensing with one before setting up another (thought that snake was where it was at? Guess again). Will Raised by Wolves win a

Archive 81 (2022)   The latest in Hollywood’s apparently unwavering appetite for Lovecraftian horror, Archive 81 is also diligently magpie with regard to scooping up cinematic influences in the same. It’s nearest relative and Netflix stablemate is thus probably Stranger Things, with its parallel realms to our own nursing unspeakable horrors of an anti-life nature (that series’ Rebecca Thomas directed half the episodes here). On top of the HP source, Archive 81 embraces the found-footage conceit, one that has been very variable in value – The Blair Witch Project being the most prolific and most vastly overrated – and is employed here via a set of logistical

Moonfall (2022)   For a while there, it looked as if Moonfall, the latest and least-welcomed – so it seems – piece of apocalyptic programming from Roland Emmerich, might be sending mixed messages. Fortunately, we need not have feared, as it turns out to be the same pedigree of disaster porn we’ve come to expect from the director, one of the Elite’s most dutiful mass-entertainment stooges, even if his lustre has rather dimmed since the glory days of 2012. Brian: The Moon must survive. Everything depends on it. We’re part of an intergalactic war that’s been going on for millions of years.

Chinatown (1974)   One of the most poured-over classics, with even a recent book (The Big Goodbye: Chinatown and the Last Years of Hollywood by Sam Wasson) devoted to its undiminished lustre. Consequently, it can be more interesting to trawl rare divergent takes on such hallowed pictures. Not that Chinatown doesn’t deserve its rep, but the chorus of approval can drown out any other consideration, yielding a wash of rather vanilla views (look at The Godfathers I & II, and III – uniform in their yay, yay, nay consensus). Those who did offer an objection, did so on the basis of execution rather than content. Gene Siskel complained about Polanski’s direction: “The opening

The Salute of the Jugger aka The Blood of Heroes (1989)   The extreme-sports version of Number Wang, the rules of The Game at the heart of The Salute of the Jugger are so baffling, it’s amazing writer-director David Webb Peoples was able to muster any tension in the contests at all. But I guess hitting, mutilating and maiming one’s opponent will tend to have that cumulative effect, even when the objective (sticking a skull on a spike, loosely) is vague. It’s big in Germany, apparently (playing The Game, that is). The Salute of the Jugger is, in its own oddball way, kind of

Eternals (2021)   It would be overstating the case to suggest Eternals is a pleasant surprise, but given the adverse harbingers surrounding it, it’s a more serviceable – if bloated – and thematically intriguing picture than I’d expected. The signature motifs of director and honestly-not-billionaire’s-progeny Chloé Zhao are present, mostly amounting to attempts at Malick-lite gauzy natural light and naturalism at odds with the rigidly unnatural material. There’s woke to spare too, since this is something of a Kevin Feige Phase Four flagship, one that rather floundered, showcasing his designs for a nu-MCU. Nevertheless, Eternals manages to sustain interest despite some very variable performances, effects, and

Coma (1978)   Michael Crichton’s sophomore big-screen feature, an adaptation of colleague Robin Cook’s novel, and by some distance his best. Perhaps it’s simply that this a milieu known to him, or perhaps it’s that it’s very much aligned to the there-and-then and the present, but Coma, despite the occasional lapse, is an effective, creepy, resonant thriller and then some. Crichton knows his subject, and it shows – the picture is confident and verisimilitudinous in a way none of his other directorial efforts are – and his low-key – some might say clinical – approach pays dividends. You might also call it prescient,

The Matrix Resurrections (2021)   Warner Bros has been here before. Déjà vu? What happens when you let a filmmaker do whatever they want? And I don’t mean in the manner of Netflix. No, in the sequel sense. You get a Gremlins 2: The New Batch (a classic, obviously, but not one that financially furthered a franchise). And conversely, when you simply cash in on a brand, consequences be damned? Exorcist II: The Heretic speaks for itself. So in the case of The Matrix Resurrections – not far from as meta as The New Batch, but much less irreverent – when Thomas “Tom” Anderson, designer of globally

Free Guy (2021)   Ostensibly a 21st-century refresh of The Truman Show, in which an oblivious innocent realises his life is a lie, and that he is simply a puppet engineered for the entertainment of his creators/controllers/the masses, Free Guy lends itself to similar readings regarding the metaphysical underpinnings of our reality, of who sets the paradigm and how conscious we are of its limitations. But there’s an additional layer in there too, a more insidious one than using a Hollywood movie to “tell us how it really is”. Matt Lieberman came up with the spec script back in 2016. He has since

The X-Files 4.8: Tunguska   The usual two-part caveat applies here, of avoiding reaching a definitive appraisal before one has seen the finale. But obviously, I have, and obviously, it doesn’t live up to Tunguska. Actually, that’s something of an understatement. Nevertheless, much of this episode is really good, throwing in not-quite-ancient mysteries and reteaming Mulder and Krycek to engagingly conflicting effect. Plus, it throws in some simple-yet-starkly iconic imagery for the cliffhanger. If Musings of a Cigarette Smoking Man was borrowing from recent historic fiction for its lack of inspiration, Tunguska’s most obvious port of call is the previous year’s Outbreak. And also 12 Monkeys.

The Prestige (2006)   If you hadn’t heard, The Prestige’s ending is divisive. The very fact of this is something I find, frankly, bizarre. The idea that it’s somehow perceived as a cheat or cop out. The ending as it unfolds is everything to the movie. It’s intrinsic to it and makes explicit its thematic content in a powerful and resonant way. Without it, the film becomes an above-par Now You See Me (one with tricks that actually have some degree of coherence and less CGI). With it, it amounts to a classic. Whose fault is it when a movie (or any piece of art)

Squid Game (2021)   Once in a blue moon, Netflix does deliver something worth one’s time, purely as an exception that proves the rule. Inevitably, however, the level of attention and praise heaped on Squid Game is disproportionate to both its merit and originality. At its core, Hwang Dong-hyuk’s series, riffing as it does on a range of influences, from Battle Royale (one he cited), to Big Brother (itself predicated on individuals’ capacities for selfishness and turning on one another), to Utopia (the discordantly perky soundtrack and day-glow colour scheme, as carnage and violence erupts all around), is really very familiar and its targets – capitalism, huh? – disappointingly prosaic.

Batman Begins (2005)   I can’t say I was especially wowed by Batman Begins. It seemed to me the very definition of “solid”, “okay” and “respectable”, in much the same way Bryan Singer’s X-Men avoided shitting the bed. That view hasn’t really changed. All the requisite sturdy elements are there, including a (mostly) sterling cast, but very rarely do any of them pop, so determined is Chris Nolan to steer a “realist” course, and with it – along with his insistence on handling second unit duties – the first evidence of his vision exceeding his technical grasp. From here on out, with the

Point Blank (1967)   The Cliff’s Notes for Point Blank require one to note its nouvelle vague influence (fractured time lines and the ilk), but the likelihood is that anyone coming fresh to the film now will be fully au fait with its various stylistic and narrative devices, so assimilated are they into the mainstream. Still striking, however, is John Boorman’s stylistic sensibility, coming on like a noir comic strip brought to life, yet shot through with Technicolor purpose. It’s an existential mood piece, yes, but it’s translated into the language of an action spectacle, one with a particularly dark sense of humour. Steven

Resident Evil: The Final Chapter (2016)   I’m not sure I’d go as far as calling Iain Glen the saving grace of a billion-dollar-grossing movie franchise, but I suspect it’s no coincidence that the best two entries in the Resident Evil series feature him prominently. Unlike most of the characters in the run, he imbues Dr Isaacs with considerable personality, which can only serve to lift the proceedings, particularly in this concluding part. It helps too that Paul WS Anderson is genuinely attempting to pull out all the stops in terms of plot twists and set pieces. Which means Resident Evil: The Final

The Brotherhood of the Bell (1970)   No, not Joseph P Farrell’s book about the Nazi secret weapons project, but rather a first-rate TV movie in the secret-society ilk of later flicks The Skulls and The Star Chamber. Only less flashy and more cogent. Glenn Ford’s professor discovers the club he joined 22 years earlier is altogether more hardcore than he could have ever imagined – not some student lark – when they call on the services he pledged. David Karp’s adaptation of his novel, The Brotherhood of the Bell is so smart in its twists and turns of plausible deniability, you’d almost believe he had insider

The Skulls (2000)   Any hopes of The Brotherhood of the Bell: The Early Years are soon dashed in this “exposé” of the influential, nefarious and elite-spawning Yale Skull and Bones Society. That should come as little surprise, given the qualitative mean of writer-director Rob Cohen’s preceding and subsequent work. He claimed to know what he was talking about, having mixed with these people. On this evidence, however, one could only conclude The Skulls was made with their full blessing and co-operation, such that any clear-headed viewer would dismiss the notion of a conspiratorially active group asserting preeminent influence over and within the corridors

Godzilla vs. Kong (2021)   I’d like to report I had a blast with Godzilla vs. Kong. It’s lighter on its oversized, city-stomping feet than its slog of a MonsterVerse predecessor, Godzilla: King of the Monsters, and there are flashes of visual inspiration along with several engaging core ideas (which, to be fair, the series had already laid the seeds for). But this sequel still stumbles in its chief task: assembling an engaging, lively story that successfully integrates both tiny humans and towering titans. Ilene: The myths say that their ancestors fought each other in a great war. Kong: Skull Island has fared best

The Naked Truth aka Your Past is Showing (1957)   We’re all – or should be – familiar with the idea that the Elite/TPTB have their claws embedded in the great and not so good via that old favourite of “the goods”, or dirt. For the most part, their goods, or dirt, are sure to make anything Dennis Price – himself rumoured to have been the victim of blackmail at various points – has his mitts on in The Naked Truth look positively innocuous. But what Mario Zampi’s movie may lack in authentic grimness, it more than makes up for by being very, very

Doctor Who Vengeance on Varos   It would be understandable, given how well written parts of Vengeance on Varos are – superbly written, even – to tend toward the reasoning that those aspects which aren’t must be intentionally bad. You know, as a commentary on the artifice of the medium, in a similar fashion to the way the story is commenting upon the medium generally. Unfortunately, I don’t think that explanation holds up (take a look at the synopsis for Philip Martin’s subsequent and aborted, except by Big Finish for whom nothing is ever aborted but instead an opportunity for a six-part box set, Mission

Frequencies aka OXV: The Manual (2013)   Low budget science-fiction movies are often among the genre’s most satisfying, since they have to rely almost entirely on their core ideas rather than showy effects or spectacle. Frequencies is one such, positing an alternate reality where we are defined by our frequency – high, low, somewhere in between – and positioned in society accordingly (everything from luck to romantic entanglements is affected – opposites here repel). At its root, this is a love story and rumination on freewill and determinism, but writer-director Darren Paul Fisher infuses the proceedings with such a rich conceptual framework

One by One (2014)   This first came on my radar last year, loosely labelled as “the film that got Rik Mayall killed” (although he managed to shoot another first). And more particularly, noting its importance as a portent of current times. I didn’t bite until now, as I didn’t think it sounded much cop. And… It is certainly topical, I’ll give One by One that. Unfortunately, however, it falls into the great yawning trap awaiting all dramatised polemics: being both patronising and preachy. And not very dramatic. It’s very rare that such approaches do work – JFK (1991) is an obvious exception –

The Grinch (2018)   A pot-bellied (okay, fat) curmudgeon with a twisted sense of humour and unruly hair attempting to destroy Christmas for everyone? Never has the noxious notion had more resonance. Actually, the nightmarishly unpleasant and saccharine 2000 Jim Carrey incarnation probably bears more resemblance to How the Boris Stole Christmas! But the subtitle And Didn’t Put It Back Again at the Behest of His Masters, the Elite, as Part of Their Plan to Cull, Sterilise and Reset the Entire Global Population doesn’t quite fit Dr Seuss’ tale of a character whose heart thaws in the face of basic goodwill of all men.

Rope (1948)   Rope doesn’t initially appear to have been one of the most venerated of Hitchcocks, but it has gone through something of a rehabilitation over the years, certainly since it came back into circulation during the 1980s. I’ve always rated it highly; yes, the seams of it being, essentially, a formal experiment on the director’s part are evident, but it’s also an expert piece of writing that uses our immediate knowledge of the crime to create tension throughout; what we/the killers know is juxtaposed with the polite dinner party they’ve thrown in order to wallow in their superiority. As

Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)   Kubrick’s masterpiece satire of mutually-assured destruction. Or is it? Not the masterpiece bit, because that’s a given. Rather, is all it’s really about the threat of nuclear holocaust? While that’s obviously quite sufficient, all the director’s films are suggested to have, in popular alt-readings, something else going on under the hood, be it exposing the ways of Elite paedophilia (Lolita, Eyes Wide Shut), MKUltra programming (A Clockwork Orange, Full Metal Jacket), transhumanism and the threat of imminent AI overlords (2001: A Space Odyssey), and most of the

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

Soylent Green (1973)   The final entry in Chuck Heston’s mid-career sci-fi trilogy (I’m not counting his Beneath the Planet of the Apes extended cameo). He hadn’t so much as sniffed at the genre prior to 1967, but over the space of the next half decade or so, he blazed a trail for dystopian futures. Perhaps the bleakest of these came in Soylent Green. And it’s only a couple of years away. 2022 is just around the corner. The secret of Soylent Green is, of course, everything about the movie. Like The Sixth Sense, it would probably be quite difficult to come to the

Eyes Wide Shut (1999)   Eyes Wide Shut’s afterlife in the conspirasphere has become so legendary, even a recent BFI retrospective article had to acknowledge the “outlandish” suggestions that this was Kubrick’s all-out exposé of the Illuminati, an exposé so all-out it got him murdered, 24 all-important minutes excised into the bargain. At the time of its release, even as a conspiracy buff, I wasn’t conscious of the film suggesting anything exactly earthshattering in that regard. I was more taken with the hypnotic pace, which even more than the unsympathetic leads, made the picture stand out from its 1999 stablemates. I’m not

The Laundromat (2019)   Steven Soderbergh’s flair for cinematic mediocrity continues with this attempt at The Big Short-style topicality, taking aim at the Panama Papers but ending up with a mostly blunt satire, one eager to show how the offshore system negatively impacts the average – and also the not-so-average – person but at the expense of really digging in to how it facilitates the turning of the broader capitalist world (it is, after all based on Jake Bernstein’s  Secrecy World: Inside the Panama Papers Investigation of Illicit Money Networks and the Global Elite). As per Traffic and Contagion, Soderbergh illustrates his big idea via

Toy Story 2 (1999)   Acclaimed as the Pixar high-water mark by many (a high accolade indeed) and one of the best sequels ever made, I’m afraid my response is more along the lines of “Well, yes, it is good, but…” Rotten Tomatoes can’t be wrong, though, with 100 percent fresh and an average rating of 8.67 out of 10. There’s not much nuance to a straight positive, however, and Toy Story 2, while raved over for its thematic depth and nuance, is basically more of the same, just more polished. Of course, more of the same is nothing to be sneezed at.

2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)   There isn’t, of course, anything left to say about 2001: A Space Odyssey. Nevertheless, the devoted still try, confident in their belief that it’s eternally obliging in its offer of unfathomable mystery. And it does seem ever responsive, to whatever depths one wishes to plumb in analysing it for themes, messages or clues, either about what is really going on out there, some around Jupiter, or in its director’s head. Albeit, it’s lately become difficult to ascertain which has the more productive cottage industry, 2001 or The Shining, in the latter regard. With Eyes Wide Shut as the curtain call, a final

The Discovery (2017)   The Discovery assembles not wholly dissimilar science-goes-metaphysical themes and ideas to Douglas Trumbull’s ill-fated 1983 Brainstorm, revolving around research into consciousness and the revelation of its continuance after death. Perhaps the biggest discovery, though, is that it’s directed and co-written by the spawn of Malcom McDowell and Mary Steenburgen (the latter cameos) – Charlie McDowell – of hitherto negligible credits but now wading into deep philosophical waters and even, with collaborator Justin Lader, offering a twist of sorts. As with Brainstorm, a noteworthy aspect of the movie – possibly more so than the relatively modest fact of its existence

The X-Files 11.2: This   Glen Morgan returns with a really good idea, certainly one with much more potential than his homelessness tract Home Again in Season Ten, but seems to give up on its eerier implications, and worse has to bash it round the head to fit the season’s “arc”. Nevertheless, he’s on very comfortable ground with the Mulder-Scully dynamic in This, who get to spend almost the entire episode in each other’s company and might be on the best form here since the show came back, give or take a Darin. Langly: Mulder, I need to know. Am I dead? If I

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).

Freejack (1992)   No, I won’t be making out that Freejack is an unfairly maligned, hidden classic or that it deserves cult status. It’s a movie I’d hazard got a greenlight off the back of the promise of sci-fi action with a dash of the cerebral, à la Total Recall (right down to a co-screenplay credit for Ronald Shusett) but stumbles resoundingly in both areas. Indeed, even its premise is only one-part good, such that Netflix’s forthcoming Altered Carbon, boasting a not dissimilar mind transfer conceit, is wisely not going with the daftly depicted time-travel element. Consequently, Freejack was rightly trashed on its release. Does it have anything to

Bright (2017)   Is Bright shite? The lion’s share of the critics would have you believe so, including a quick-on-the-trigger Variety, which gave it one of the few good reviews but then pronounced it DOA in order to announce their intention for Will Smith to run for the Oval Office (I’m sure he’ll take it under advisement). I don’t really see how the movie can’t end up as a “success”; most people who have Netflix will at least be curious about an all-new $90m movie with a (waning, but only because he’s keeps making bad choices) major box office star. As to whether it’s any good, Bright’s

Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone aka Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone (2001)   If you want a functional, serviceable, unremarkable version of Harry Potter, look no further than Chris Columbus’ chocolate-box, Hollywood-anglophile vision. It’s studiously inoffensive and almost entirely lifeless. I should emphasise at the outset that I’m not a Harry Potter fan; I don’t have anything particularly against the series, but by and large it failed to captivate me on screen, so I’ve had little inclination to reach out for the novels. However, I was curious to revisit each film successively, having seen them exactly once. Columbus’ offerings are much

A Cure for Wellness (2016)   Well, this is far more suited to Dane DeHaan’s slightly suspect shiftiness than ludicrously attempting to turn him into an outright action hero (Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets). It’s not, though, equal to director Gore Verbinski’s abilities. One of Hollywood’s great visualists but seemingly languishing without a clear path since he was cast adrift from collaborating with Johnny Depp, unfortunately, he must cop most of the blame for A Cure for Wellness, since it was his idea. There’s a whiff of Shutter Island’s pulp psychodrama tonally, as DeHaan’s unscrupulous finance company executive Lockhart

Brainstorm (1983)   Might Brainstorm have been the next big thing – a ground-breaking, game-changing cinematic spectacle that had as far reaching consequences as Star Wars (special effects) or Avatar (3D) – if only Douglas Trumbull had been allowed to persevere with his patented “Showscan” process (70mm film photographed and projected at sixty frames per second)? I suspect not; one only has to look at the not-so-far-removed experiment of Ang Lee with Billy Lynn’s Long Halftime Walk, and how that went down like a bag of cold sick, to doubt that any innovation will necessarily catch on (although, Trumbull at least had a narrative hinge on which to turn

Penda’s Fen (1974)   Confession time: I wasn’t even aware Penda’s Fen existed before reading a recent Fortean Times piece on haunted childhoods of the ’70s: curious in itself, as Play for Today wasn’t exactly teatime, Basil Brush and Doctor Who, viewing (I guess they’re taking in inquisitive teenagers). But it’s very easy to see why the piece, directed by Alan Clarke from a teleplay by David Rudkin, had an impact on impressionable young minds. It’s just the sort of fare, with its open countryside and occult undertones, that proves indelible, in the manner of Children of the Stones or The Owl Service (or Alan Garner generally). That, and simply the way that

They Live!* (1988)   Don’t get me wrong, I’m a big fan of They Live! – I was a big fan of most things Carpenter at the time of its release – but the manner in which its reputation as a prophecy of (or insight into) “the way things are” has grown is a touch out of proportion with the picture’s relatively modest merits. Indeed, its feting rests almost entirely on the admittedly bravura sequence in which WWF-star-turned-movie-actor Roddy Piper, under the influence of a pair of sunglasses, first witnesses the pervasive influence of aliens among us who are sucking mankind dry.

Citizenfour (2014)   I can only put the Best Documentary Feature Oscar victory of Citizenfour down to voting for the issue rather than the content. Which is okay, as far as that sort of thing goes. The Academy Awards has long history of rewarding touchstone issues or sentimental plights over actual quality, and the Edward Snowden “revelations” that we are all surveyed all the time by the NSA, GCHQ or whoever it maybe are as deserving of getting behind as any. It’s just a shame Laura Poitras’ film is so shallow and undemanding, bringing of nothing new to what we already knew

True Detective 1.8: Form and Void   I registered some concern over the reappearance of Errol the Mower Man at the end of After You’ve Gone, and the early sections of Form and Void did nothing to dispel that. There’s something borderline perverse about the decision to devote so much time to the Spaghetti Monster’s domestic situation at such a late stage, particularly as it adds little of consequence to the overall picture. Indeed, the insertion of this scenario is somewhat awkward and wholly derivative. But, if the actual horrors encountered by Marty and Rust during the finale prove to be up

Zardoz (1974)   John Boorman’s Zardoz is virtually the definition of a cult movie. If not quite reviled by critics, it was at least ridiculed. Meanwhile, cinema-goers were indifferent. The passing years have lodged the film in the (not quite popular) wider consciousness as the “one where Sean Connery wears a nappy”. But it’s reputation as a film to seek out, for all its flaws, has grown. It’s a film brimming with ideas; charitably, one might even suggest there’s a surplus (it’s not often that such a charge can be levelled at a movie and Boorman certainly reflected that this was the

The Menu (2022)   Maybe I just don’t eat out enough. Possibly, anything with Adam McKay’s name attached, in whatever capacity, spontaneously causes me to regurgitate my movie lunch. Marky Mylod (Alig G indahouse – whatever heights he may achieve in his career, this will forever blight his CV) lends a veneer of exclusive-establishment style to the screenplay from Seth Reiss and Will Tracy (the latter has worked with Mylod on Succession), but like the ridiculous dishes served by Ralph Fiennes chef, The Menu offers a persistent lack of nourishment here. Chef Slowik: The menu only makes sense if you

Paths of Glory (1957)   While they’re genres apart, Kubrick’s first classic shares with his previous film The Killing a sense of intractability and inevitability with regard to the system. There’s no escaping its grip, and all one can do is moderate how one responds to it. In the case of Sterling Hayden’s Johnny, he arguably brings fate down upon his own head, whereas the accused in Paths of Glory are the victims of arbitrary (or, in one case, malignant) “justice”. The film shares a bleak cynicism in common with much of Kubrick’s work, and the sliver of light/hope found

The X-Files I Want to Believe (2008)   (Director’s Cut) This is such a profoundly odd choice for a big-screen take on the The X-Files, almost as if Chris Carter was doing penance for the empty vessel that was Fight the Future by reversing full speed in the opposite direction. That, or he’d been told to make damn sure there’d be no chance of an alien invasion-2012 third movie. You want difficult, gnarly subject matter? What’s that? You don’t? Tough. I’m giving you (heroic) paedophile priests and grisly organ transplants. Scratch that, not just organ transplants: head transplants! You want

Night of the Comet (1984)   Thom Eberhadt’s upbeat apocalypse movie was a modest hit – 65th for the year might not sound like much, but it grossed twenty times its budget – and has attained both cult and influential status; disgraced Joss Whedon cites it as a primary inspiration when coming up with Buffy. If Eberhardt’s subsequent career was unexceptional – Without a Clue, Captain Ron – it may suggest the limitations here were the mother of invention, as there’s a certain can-do brio to Night of the Comet. Kim Newman respected its blend of ’50s SF with ’80s

The Forgiven (2021)   By this point, the differences between filmmaker John Michael McDonagh and his younger brother, filmmaker and playwright Martin McDonagh, are fairly clearly established. Both wear badges of irreverence and provocation in their writing, and a willingness to tackle – or take pot-shots – at bigger issues, ones that may find them dangling their toes in hot water. But Martin receives the lion’s share of the critical attention, while John is generally recognised as the slightly lesser light. Sure, some might mistake Seven Psychopaths for a John movie, and Calvary for a Martin one, but there’s a more flagrant sense of attention seeking

20,000 Leagues Under the Sea (1954)   One of the seminal Disney movies. Although, it’s easy to see why its legacy has diminished somewhat, as the kind of spectacle and imagination it offers is now both ten-a-penny and supplied in incrementally more spectacular fashion. That said, I would have first seen the movie more than two decades after its release, and it slotted in seamlessly with the brand of ripe Doug McClure fare rife during the mid-1970s. Revisiting 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, the salient question becomes one of just what Disney, and by extension Jules Verne (or should that be

Morbius (2022)   Generic isn’t necessarily a slur. Not if, by implication, it’s suggestive of the kind of movie made twenty years ago, when the alternative is the kind of super-woke content Disney currently prioritises. Unfortunately, after a reasonable first hour, Morbius descends so resignedly into such unmoderated formula that you’re left with a too-clear image of Sony’s Spider-Verse when it lacks a larger-than-life performer (Tom Hardy, for example) at the centre of any given vehicle. Dr Morbius: As a result of my procedure, I have the overpowering urge to consume blood. Human blood. In the wake of Spider-Man: No Way Home, there was talk that

The Music of Chance (1993)   You won’t find many adaptations of Paul Auster’s novels. Original screenplays, yes, a couple of which he has directed himself. Terry Gilliam has occasionally mentioned Mr. Vertigo as in development. It was in development in 1995 too, when Philip Haas and Auster intended to bring it to the screen. Which means Auster presumably approved of Haas’ work on The Music of Chance (he also cameos). That would be understandable, as it makes for a fine, ambiguous movie, pregnant with meaning yet offering no unequivocal answers, and one that makes several key departures from the book yet crucially maintains

The Lost City (2022)   Perhaps the most distressing part of The Lost City, a Romancing the Stone riff that appears to have been packaged by the Hollywood equivalent of a processed cheese plant lacking its primary ingredient (that would be additives), is the possibility that Daniel Radcliffe is the only viable actor left standing in Tinseltown. That’s if the suggestions at least two of the performers here – Sandra Bullock and Brad Pitt – are deep faked in some way, shape or form, and the other name – Channing Tatum – is serving hard atonement time. If the latter’s choices generally weren’t

The Pentaverate (2022)   Soft disclosure, or a hard pass? In last week’s So I Married an Axe Murderer review, I speculated why Mike Myers might choose to return to comedy now, almost a decade and a half since his last effort, and considered the context of his picking the conspiracy subject – when it has never held greater currency – yet flipping the malign elite control on its head to present a positive secret society. That he was an identified visitor to Langley didn’t really make such a great case for his approaching the material with autonomy. But what if The Pentaverate is

Doctor Who The Time Monster   Fifty years of The Time Monster. A cause for celebration? With no prior experience of the story, one might have been conditioned by The Discontinuity Guide’s perverse smackdown: “Like watching paint dry while being whipped with barbed wire: immensely dull and painful at the same time”. Of course, ripping the Pertwee era a new hole circa the mid-90s was very fashionable – Paul Cornell, the movement’s chief architect, was one of the book’s three authors – and you can find similarly jaundiced responses towards stories in the latter four Pertwee seasons, not least its predecessor The Mutants. Both

So I Married an Axe Murderer (1993)   An unlikely choice for an extended universe, even if unofficially. But with Mike Myers’ imminent return to original comedy, his first outing since The – unfairly maligned – Love Guru, So I Married an Axe Murderer gets a chance to be recognised as more than simply a fizzle, one best known for featuring the by-then-ancient The La’s’ There She Goes as its theme song. Charlie: Hard-hearted harbinger of haggis. The Pentaverate finds Myers heading straight to Netflix, bypassing the potential for another box-office disaster (the critical response remains to be seen). It seems the six-episode series won’t be featuring his So I

Old (2021)   Par for the course from M Night Shyamalan. Old is by turns confidently crafted and ham-fisted, confirmation that, while premise (and twist) is everything to the writer-director (and exasperatingly persistent cameo artiste), it’s very rarely been enough to see him through to journey’s end. In some respects, Shyamalan’s latest twist-horror is a thematic variant on his world-in-a-microcosm The Village, where the nature of reality is concealed from the participants. It foments less opportunity to incur the indignation of its audience when the truth is revealed, however, because there are only so many possible answers, most of which will likely have

My Fair Lady (1964)   As an adaptation, My Fair Lady is hardly a cinematic triumph. George Cukor brings none of the acumen Robert Wise did to The Sound of Music (or West Side Story), or even the comic-strip brio Robert Stevenson daubed across Mary Poppins. It’s (very) expensive, sumptuously costumed, shot and lit, and rather inert. But as a performance piece, this take on the 1956 Lerner and Loewe stage musical, itself an adaptation of George Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion, is irresistible. I certainly can’t countenance the idea that Julie Andrews was robbed of the part. I mean, yeah, she didn’t get to repeat her stage performance,

Nothing but Trouble (1991)   Valkenvania’s a better title. Dan Aykroyd had that part right. He had to get something right in this monstrous misfire, which fails to ring the laughs or the horror, yet succeeds in being extremely grotesque, to the point of unpleasantness. Nothing but Trouble was a famous bomb, although one that’s now largely forgotten, since there were other more enormous bombs the same year, including Hudson Hawk and Highlander II: The Quickening. It also rather helped, along with Eddie Murphy’s Harlem Nights, to draw a line under that generation of SNL players as movie superstars (fortunately, Mike Myers was waiting in the

Pig (2021)   Per Metacritic, Pig was among critics’ 2021 Top 10 lists’ ten most-mentioned films. Of course, so was The Green Knight, so the statistic doesn’t necessarily mean very much, except to suggest it wouldn’t have been so outlandish had it been granted a slot among this year’s Best Picture Oscar nominees. Rather than, say, Nightmare Alley. That it didn’t, again, isn’t necessarily indicative of anything, but one has to consider that its essential ethos is antithetical to everything Hollywood espouses. Pig can’t even boast a WEF-ratified subtext like last year’s winner Nomadland. After all, Nicolas Cage’s Rob Feld may have gone off grid, but he has a home – he owns something

The Batman (2022)   There are more than enough first-rate scenes and sequences in The Batman to make a classic movie, and like director Matt Reeves’ other pictures, it has a very deliberate, confidently realised sense of time, place and mood. Unfortunately, like his other pictures – in particular his Planet of the Apes reboot prequel sequels – it’s cumulatively exhausting through its lack of focus. This is a reboot that sprawls, absent of discernible highs and lows, desperately in need of a binding structure borne from internal momentum and delineated acts, and forfeit the imprimatur of the epic necessary to justify the three-hour

Midnight Mass (2021)   Midnight Mass, Mike Flanagan’s “deeply personal” Netflix horror, at least comes to the party with something to say. The problem is that its discourse is neither terribly original nor insightful, and it proceeds to rehearse it again and again, to diminishing effect, in ever longer monologues throughout its characteristically luxuriant (some might say a little baggy) runtime. It’s probably more interesting, then, as a metaphor, albeit one that wasn’t Flanagan’s express intent. I’m unconvinced by Flanagan’s growing rep as the second coming of the horror auteur. He seems to veer closer to a more proficient Mick

Infinite (2021)   It’s as if Mark Wahlberg, his lined visage increasingly resembling a perplexed potato, learned nothing from the blank ignominy of his “performances” in previous big-budget sci-fi spectacles Planet of the Apes and, er, Max Payne. And maybe include The Happening in that too (Transformers doesn’t count, since even all-round reprobate Shia La Boeuf made no visible dent on their appeal either way). As such, pairing him with the blandest of journeyman action directors on Infinite was never going to seem like a sterling idea, particularly with a concept so far removed from of either’s wheelhouse. Occasionally, Wahlberg has justified his movie career; he’s one of those actors

No Time to Die (2021)   You know a Bond movie is in trouble when it resorts to wholesale appropriation of lines and even the theme song from another in order to “boost” its emotional heft. That No Time to Die – which previewed its own title song a year and a half before its release to resoundingly underwhelmed response, Grammys aside – goes there is a damning indictment of its ability to eke out such audience investment in Daniel Craig’s final outing as James (less so as 007). As with Spectre, the first half of No Time to Die is, on the whole, more

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

Videodrome (1983)   I’m one of those who thinks Cronenberg’s version of Total Recall would have been much more satisfying than the one we got (which is pretty good, but flawed; I’m referring to the Arnie movie, of course, not the Farrell one). The counter is that Videodrome makes a Cronenberg Philip K Dick adaptation largely redundant. It makes his later Existenz largely redundant too. Videodrome remains a strikingly potent achievement, taking the directors thematic obsessions to the next level, one as fixated on warping the mind as the body. Like many Cronenbergs, it isn’t quite there, but it exerts a hold on the viewer not dissimilar to

Black Widow (2021)   To suggest the MCU largely comprises a production line in which homogeneity is key is stating the obvious, but that hasn’t prevented it from occasionally coming up with something sufficiently distinctive to merit praise. Nor has it, for the most part, detracted from the series being largely watchable, if also largely undemanding. It may have suffered exits of those insufficiently on board with its general directive – Edgar Wright, more recently Scott Derrickson – but it’s also been quite rare for the formulaic nature of Kevin Feige’s visions to get in the way of a serviceably

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

The Wizard of Oz (1939)   There are undoubtedly some bullet-proof movies, such is their lauded reputation. The Wizard of Oz will remain a classic no matter how many people – and I’m sure they are legion – aren’t really all that fussed by it. I’m one of their number. I hadn’t given it my time in forty or more years – barring the odd clip – but with all the things I’ve heard suggested since, from MKUltra allusions to Pink Floyd timing The Dark Side of the Moon to it, to the Mandela Effect, I decided it was ripe for a reappraisal. Unfortunately,

Falcon and the Winter Soldier (2021)   The demolition – at very least as a ratings/box office powerhouse – of the superhero genre now appears to be taking effect. If so, Martin Scorsese for one will be pleased. The studios that count – Disney and Warner Bros – are all aboard the woke train, such that past yardsticks like focus groups are spurned in favour of the forward momentum of agendas from above (so falling in step with the broader media initiative). The most obvious, some might say banal, evidence of this is the repurposing of established characters in race

The Day of the Triffids (1981)   1981 was a banner year for BBC science fiction. Doctor Who had taken delivery of a new burgundy coat – and hat, scarf, troos, and, er, shirts adorned with question marks on the collars – and then a cricket blazer. On top of which, a rare season of vintage repeats was shown. Blake’s 7 went out in a blaze of glory. The Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy latest incarnation was on television. Robert Holmes’ The Nightmare Man haunted a Scottish island. And the BBC gave John Wyndham’s novel the adaptation it deserved, twenty years after the last one and thirty after

The X-Files 1.1: Pilot   Where one of the most influential TV shows of the last thirty years began. The Pilot impresses on revisit for just how many pieces of the mythos and general tone are perfectly formed from the get-go. The X-Files is a show that hits the ground running, so much so, the storyline could be easily sequelised in Season 7. Crucially too, since I’m in part returning to the main conspiracy arc with a mind to consider what – if anything – is the mix beside the overt UFO lore that earned the show such a following, both cult and mainstream,

The Asphyx aka Spirit of the Dead aka The Horror of Death (1972)   There was such a welter of British horror from the mid-60s to mid-70s, even leaving aside the Hammers and Amicuses, that it’s easy to lose track of them in the shuffle. This one, the sole directorial effort of Peter Newbrook (a cameraman for David Lean, then a cinematographer), has a strong premise and a decent cast, but it stumbles somewhat when it comes to taking that premise any place interesting. On the plus side, it largely eschews the grue. On the minus, directing clearly wasn’t Newbrook’s

Vertigo (1958)   I’ll readily admit my Hitchcock tastes broadly tend to reflect the “consensus”, but Vertigo is one where I break ranks. To a degree. Not that I think it’s in any way a bad film, but I respect it rather than truly rate it. Certainly, I can’t get on board with Sight & Sound enthroning it as the best film ever made (in its 2012’s critics poll). That said, from a technical point of view, it is probably Hitch’s peak moment. And in that regard, certainly counts as one of his few colour pictures that can be placed alongside his black-and-white ones. It’s also clearly a

Conspiracy Theory (1997)   Mel Gibson’s official rehabilitation occurred with the announcement of 2016’s Oscar nominations, when Hacksaw Ridge garnered six nods, including Mel as director. Obviously, many refuse to be persuaded that there’s any legitimate atonement for the things someone says. They probably weren’t even convinced by Mel’s appearance in Daddy’s Home 2, an act of abject obeisance if ever there was one. In other circles, though, Gibbo, or Mad Mel, is venerated as a saviour unsullied by the depraved Hollywood machine, one of the brave few who would not allow them to take his freedom. Or at least, his values. Of

V for Vendetta (2005)   In terms of iconography, the Wachowskis’ adaptation of Alan Moore’s 1980s broadside against Thatcherism has been of undoubted significance. As a movie, it is much less impactful, if not to say clumsy and ill-conceived. V for Vendetta’s sub-1984 messaging hits a number of easy targets in its raging against fascism while simultaneously flirting with anarchy (targets, to be fair, that Moore was also liberally hitting). As a consequence, it come across as somewhat insubstantial, depicting a totalitarian regime too indebted to previous illustrations of the same to have much resonance in its own right, while as

Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986)   John Hughes’ greatest, most lasting contribution to western civilisation. Time Out’s Ferris Bueller’s Day Off review opined that it was unfortunate no one got to ring the little bastard’s neck, and a number of critics have taken issue with the movie’s apparent unchecked materialism: a teenager running amok, unfettered, in the avaricious ’80s and getting away with it. Which is fair comment; one might regard Ferris, his aspirations and achievements, as the inevitable end product of such self-involved, me-centric “progress”. Which is also why the movie is both hugely satisfying and simultaneously entirely empty. What

Ice Age: Collision Course (2016)   Five hasn’t been the charm lately, underlining, as if it were necessary, that studios never know to quit while they’re ahead. True, Fast Five found its franchise propelled to new box office heights, but this summer’s Transformers: The Last Knight looks like it will have to settle for about half the gross of its predecessor (pretty awful considering Paramount set up a writer’s room in order to spew out a whole universe of robot spin-off movies and sequels). Pirates of the Caribbean: Salazars Tell No Tales has actually done okay, but that’s still a $300m drop on On Stranger Tides. And

Westworld Season One   The debate over whether TV should be consumed in bite-sized, weekly chunks or gorged in box-set style season binges occasionally gets a jolt when one of the enthroned architects of the medium vouches for the former (Joss Whedon, Damon Lindelof), but it’s most especially pertinent when a show itself creates a “water cooler” atmosphere. The irony of Westworld is that the waves it has created, fuelled by Lost-esque speculation over what was really going on amid its multiple timelines and potential identity crises over which humans were really robots, has been somewhat dampened by the stark realisation that its creators

Alternative 3 (1977)   The legacy of Alternative 3 vastly overwhelms its actual content. As writer David Ambrose notes in the interview on Soda’s DVD release, despite the many pointers to its hoax status (not least the cast list running over the end credits), the fake documentary has been credited as an exposé and even a suppressed text, with an unforeseen life far beyond its initial status as an elaborate (and delayed) April Fool’s joke. The general gist of such arguments even now is that, while the makers weren’t knowingly putting the truth out there, they had unwittingly hit upon an actual (alternative)

True Detective 1.4: Who Goes There   I’m going to go against the grain here and suggest that, in spite of the bravura seat-of-the-edge fireworks of the final section (including a six-minute take), the fourth is the weakest episode so far (although, given the quality of this series, that still means it’s very good). It feels like a cynical switch of gears, a self-conscious ratings-grabber by way of a huge set piece gun battle. It takes the show out of the police procedural and into the territory of an action movie, as Rust relives his undercover days. The opening interrogation