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The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (2011)   David Fincher returns to his favourite stomping ground of fear and degradation, only without either the conceptual twist or “true story” badge that ensured Seven and Zodiac stood out from the crowd. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo can’t even sell itself as a much-asked-for adaptation of a best-selling novel, as it had already been brought to the screen a few years earlier. It was thus instantly obsolete and unnecessary, while simultaneously encumbered with an absurd budget, increasingly quaint English-for-foreign-language (Swedish) choices and pedestrian “shock” tactics. This is Fincher on thematic autopilot,

Panic Room (2002)   David Fincher at his most pragmatic and ruthlessly efficient. You won’t find many of his favourite themes here – not a serial killer in sight, just a deep-fried American psycho – but he’s here to do a job this time, and he makes sure you know it, complete with sufficient bells and whistles to keep him happy. This was, after all, a practical exercise, an illustration of bankability after the failure of Fight Club (regardless of its burgeoning afterlife). Consequently, while one may overlay a variety of readings – feminist, surveillance state – Panic Room’s status

The Formula (1980)   The Formula’s mostly a footnote, if it’s remembered at all these days. One of only two 1980s movies featuring Marlon Brando (the other, A Dry White Season, positioned at the opposite end of the decade), and one of the ten finalists at the inaugural Razzies (never the most coherent or inspired of awards ceremonies – so rather like the Oscars, then – fellow alumni included Saturn 3, Raise the Titanic, Cruising and Xanadu. Can’t Stop the Music won. Kubrick’s direction of The Shining received a nod). The movie, slow, talky and ponderous, is not entirely uninteresting

Body Double (1984)   De Palma, backed into a corner, comes out biting. Or drilling. Pilloried for the excesses of Scarface, not least by the ratings board, he decided, very maturely, to go for broke. He’d double down on everything he’d been called out for. Violence? He’d give them violence. How about power drills, giallo style? Sex? He’d give them porn! With an actual porn star as his leading lady (he’d ultimately reconsider). Perversion? He’d make his hero a panty sniffer! Hitchcock homages? How about Rear Window and Vertigo! Body Double is his equivalent of a schoolboy dare. You’d hardly

Z (1969)   It’s easy to see why Z received the attention it did, including a rare Best Picture nomination for a non-English language film. Quite apart from being a compelling if rather dry conspiracy thriller, its fictionalised events preceded the then-current military junta in Greece, and if there’s one thing Hollywood can be relied on for – providing of course they have retired to a safe distance, brave Sean Penn aside – it’s sticking it to the fascists. Ultimately, Z is framed against one great Hegelian conflagration of left vs right and military juntas vs democracy; when all is said and done, the

Deep Water (2022)   Adrian Lyne’s belated return to cinema is par for the course with his erratic directorial resumé. His last film was two decades ago; now an octogenarian, Lyne’s industry standing was undoubtedly damaged by the crashing and burning of an ill-advised and costly Lolita remake. Obviously, his principle rep has been in the erotic thriller/drama genre – varyingly including 9½ Weeks, Fatal Attraction, Indecent Proposal and Unfaithful – and this Patricia Highsmith adaptation very loosely conforms to that template. Rumours circulated that Deep Water was unreleasable, such that it was being dumped on Hulu/Amazon Prime as a means of avoiding the humiliation of an outright bomb. Really,

The Osterman Weekend (1983)   One thing I’ll give Robert Ludlum is titles. As much as they’re resolutely formulaic, they’ve also innately memorable (at least, his first couple of decades’ worth). Titles – in rude contrast to titties – meant nothing to Sam Peckinpah, less still Ludlum’s novel, which he purportedly considered trash. Sam just wanted to get back in the moviemaking saddle, ailing and deemed an unsafe bet as he was by this point. So he willingly hitched his wagon to unsafe producers and (in his view) an unsafe script, and the results were promptly dismissed by critics, with

Body Heat (1981)   In retrospect, perhaps the most notable aspect of Body Heat is how stylistically distinctive it is from Lawrence Kasdan’s subsequent pictures. Admittedly, he was operating elsewhere in the drama or dramedy sphere most of the time – and occasionally in the “shit weasel” one: avoid Dreamcatcher – but even his westerns display little in the way of verve. Body Heat is precise and studied in its neo-noir flair, matching the screenplay’s studied dialogue and John Barry’s woozy jazz score with a hermetically oppressive mis-en-scène. Which makes it a curiosity, palpable in mood and atmosphere yet eccentrically heightened in sensibility. Kasdan

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

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 Star Chamber (1983)   Peter Hyams’ conspiracy thriller might simply have offered sauce too weak to satisfy, reining in the vast machinations of an all-powerful hidden government found commonly during ’70s fare and substituting it with a more ’80s brand that failed to include that decade’s requisite facile resolution. There’s a good enough idea here – instead of Charles Bronson, it’s the upper echelons of the legal system resorting to vigilante justice – but The Star Chamber suffers from a failure of nerve, repenting its premise just as it’s about to dig into the ramifications. It seems that was largely down

Wrath of Man (2021)   Guy Ritchie’s stripped-down remake of Le Convoyeur (or Cash Truck, also the working title for this movie) feels like an intentional acceleration in the opposite direction to 2019’s return-to-form The Gentleman, his best movie in years. Ritchie seems to want to prove he can make a straight thriller, devoid of his characteristic winks, nods, playfulness and outright broad (read: often extremely crude) sense of humour. Even King Arthur: Legend of the Sword has its fair share of laughs. Wrath of Man is determinedly grim, though, almost Jacobean in its doom-laden trajectory, and Ritchie casts his movie accordingly, opting for more restrained performers, less

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

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

Marathon Man (1976)   Marathon Man’s one of those movies where the deficiencies become less easy to ignore the more times you see it. On first viewing, it’s an absorbing, visceral thriller with smart twists and occasionally surprising turns, lent a degree of conviction somewhat at odds with its Nazi war criminal on-the-loose mythos (for more of that, see The Boys from Brazil a couple of years later). There are various disagreements on record with regard to the better course of key production decisions, mostly based on screenwriter William Goldman being unimpressed with changes made by director John Schlesinger in concert with

Alfred Hitchcock  Ranked: 26-1   The master’s top tier ranked from worst to best. You can find 52-27 here.  The Lodger (1927) The first real sign of the director’s signature style, and by some distance, the best film of his silent period. The Lodger finds a – yes – innocent man under suspicion of being a murderer, a ripper-in-their-midst idea Hitch would still find appealing as much as 45 years later with Frenzy. Rather like Grant in Suspicion – well, in spite of the director’s intentions – the titular lodger couldn’t be the killer because he’s played by Ivor Novello. The first of his movies that could

Heaven’s Prisoners (1996)   At the time, it seemed Alec Baldwin was struggling desperately to find suitable star vehicles, and the public were having none of it. Such that, come 1997, he was playing second fiddle to Anthony Hopkins and Bruce Willis, and in no time at all had segued to the beefy supporting player we now know so well from numerous indistinguishable roles. That, and inane SNL appearances. But there was a window, post- being replaced by Harrison Ford as Jack Ryan, when he still had sufficient cachet to secure a series of bids for bona fide leading man status. Heaven’s Prisoners is

Narrow Margin (1990)   A lean, efficient little thriller, as you might expect from consummate journeyman Peter Hyams. As you might also expect from Hyams, Narrow Margin is unable to make that extra bound into the arena of a truly great lean, efficient little thriller. Nevertheless, this is quality B-material, with Gene Hackman doing his marvellously meat-and-potatoes darnedest to save a witness from hitmen on a train to Vancouver. Carol Hunnicut: Protect me? You’re the one who put me in danger. I’d suggest Hyams is permanently underrated, but I’m not sure that’s exactly right. It’s more that his talents are underappreciated; as a filmmaker, he

Family Plot (1976)   The master takes his final bow. Family Plot seems consigned by consensus to the “Yeah, it’s okay” Hitchcock pile. Even I do that mentally, although when I do revisit it, I invariably conclude it’s bit more than that, that it’s actually pretty good. But it has several things working against a resoundingly positive assessment. One is that it’s a Hitchcock comedy (well, dramedy), and when he stepped on that peddle, the results were occasionally regrettable. Another is that, in terms of production values and general presentation, Family Plot might easily be mistaken for a TV movie (all that’s missing are

I Care a Lot (2020)   And it starts so well too. J Blakeson’s movie sets out its stall as a merciless satire on greed; sociopath Marla Grayson (Rosamund Pike), from a line of sociopaths, makes her money manipulating the legal system to gain guardianship of the elderly, whom she then fleeces. Until she picks the wrong mark, that is: the mother (Dianne Wiest) of a Russian mobster (Peter Dinklage). The scenario’s potential, that of ruthless villain squaring off against ruthless villain, is fertile, and for a while I Care a Lot does indeed move along quite deliriously. And then it runs

Topaz (1969)   Torn Curtain was rocky going, a mostly-at-sea Hitchcock vehicle despite inhabiting the spy/thriller genre that made him famous. His follow up, Topaz, however, proved so deficient, it makes Torn Curtain resemble classic-era Hitch by comparison. An interminably dull thriller based around the Cuban Missile Crisis, it finding the director returning to a propaganda picture arena not really seen since his World War II features. The difference with Topaz being, it’s fairly difficult to feed audiences views if they’ve fallen asleep. Deveraux: I’ve got to see what the Russians are up to in Cuba! Hitchcock was adapting Leon Uris’ best-selling 1967 novel of the same

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

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,

Gorky Park (1983)   Michael Apted and workmanlike go hand in hand when it comes to thriller fare (his Bond outing barely registered a pulse). This adaptation of Martin Cruz Smith’s 1981 novel – by Dennis Potter, no less – is duly serviceable but resolutely unremarkable. William Hurt’s militsiya officer Renko investigates three faceless bodies found in the titular park. It was that grisly element that gave Gorky Park a certain cachet when I first saw it as an impressionable youngster. Which was actually not unfair, as it’s by far its most memorable aspect. That and the casting. Hurt is solid, but not really

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

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

Sabotage aka The Woman Alone (1936)   Hitchcock adapts Joseph Conrad (The Secret Agent) in another fruitful collaboration with playwright and screenwriter Charles Bennett. The result is shorn of any overt political leanings – Oscar Homolka’s cinema owner is acting for an unknown foreign power with undefined goals – thus making all the more room for the director to crank up Sabotage‘s suspense of suspicion, concealed identity and, in the shocking centrepiece, whether and where and when a bomb will go off. Hitch claimed to be dissatisfied with the result, although one might argue he was prepped to be negative by

The Anderson Tapes (1971)   A cult curio. Simultaneously ahead of its time in its pre-Watergate grasp of all-pervading surveillance and behind it in its quirky technique, this second collaboration between Sean Connery and Sidney Lumet succeeds in both engaging and being vaguely dissatisfying. The essential problem is that Lumet probably wasn’t the ideal guy for the job. The Anderson Tapes needed someone with a much tighter control of the frame; indeed, this would probably be the Brian De Palma picture, if only it hadn’t been another half decade before he had the clout to command this sort of budget. Lumet commented of the

Secret Agent (1936)   John Gielgud, dashing (romantic) leading man? I’m unclear how many times Gielgud took the main protagonist role in earlier pictures – four, maybe? – but from the 1950s onwards, he’s chiefly known for his supporting turns. Which makes Secret Agent something of a rarity. As for Hitchcock, this finds him settling comfortably into the standard thriller format and is, relatively speaking, a lesser picture. Hitchcock pointed to a series of what he saw as failings in Secret Agent, although at least some of those make it a more interesting picture than it otherwise would have been: “in an adventure

The 39 Steps (1935)   Hitch’s gamechanger and still one of the most purely enjoyable pictures in his oeuvre. Much of that, beyond simply telling a breathless narrative with endless invention and style, is The 39 Steps‘ pitch-perfect casting; he’d rarely be quite as lucky again with both his leads. Of course, The 39 Steps gets all the attention, despite honing the elements established by the previous year’s The Man Who Knew Too Much; that’s probably because it does so in a yet lighter and frothier manner. Consequently, it cemented the thriller as the director’s synonymous genre, along with all the ingredients – mostly in the

The Mothman Prophecies (2002)   Movies tackling renowned supernatural or folkloric themes are prone to satisfy no one. Most certainly not the devotees, for whom the key features are inevitably dumbed down or simplified. And more than likely, not a general audience either, since despite all available concessions, attempts to convert such material into an accessible narrative still fall short. I remember seeing The Mothman Prophecies at the cinema and being unmoved by Mark Pellington’s snoozefest, the occasional atmospheric moment or two aside. Revisiting the film, I wonder if I might have given it too much credit. Pellington came on board after Carl Franklin

The Internecine Project (1974)   I underrated Ken Hughes’ sharp little spy thriller last time I saw it; probably, the quality of the battered, pan-and-scanned print didn’t help any. In pristine form, The Internecine Project – I think it’s a great title, in contrast to Glenn Erickson’s appraisal – reveals itself as commendably oddball and unlikely, but also a politically shrewd picture, if in a manner that is anything but heavy-handed. Plus, it has James Coburn, being magnificently James Coburn about everything. Coburn’s Robert Elliot is ostensibly the bad guy, yet in the best Hitchcock fashion, the tension of the piece derives

The Jigsaw Man (1983)   Michael Caine’s ’80s career increasingly looks much more respectable when set against the “really will do any old shit” latter-day approaches of John Travolta, Nicolas Cage, Bruce Willis and John Cusack. In particular, his recourse to Cold War thrillers when all else failed and he was at a loose end for more than five minutes is now surrounded by a rather nostalgic, muggy grey hue. That doesn’t make The Jigsaw Man remotely any good, occupying as it does the bargain bin of even that spy thriller sub-genre, but it does have its incidental pleasures. The prospect of

The Hunt for Red October (1990)   I’ve always wondered why The Hunt for Red October became such a big hit (sixth of the year in the US, eleventh worldwide), when it seems to function antithetically to the presumed goal of a tense, claustrophobic submarine thriller. Instead, it’s a highly glossy affair, courtesy of at-peak-cachet director John McTiernan and cinematographer Jan de Bont. Not for them, the gloomy, dank interiors associated with the sub subgenre. Perhaps audiences flocked to it because, with its 1984 setting (the year of Tom Clancy’s novel of the same name), it represented the first opportunity to be

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

Dragged Across Concrete (2018)   S Craig Zahler’s response to controversy surrounding his – unstated, but people draw their own conclusions from his cumulative body of work – politics is to double down. He casts Mel Gibson as a good-guy-really racist cop and has his characters, sometimes with extreme lack of finesse, espouse his own thoughts on having a freedom to traverse such rocky terrain. You might argue he’s trolling his audience, and you’d have some degree of justification there. Dragged Across Concrete shows once again that he’s a very talented filmmaker – if over-indulgent and offputtingly exploitation cinema-indebted – but it

Witness (1985)   Witness saw the advent of a relatively brief period – just over half a decade – during which Harrison Ford was willing to use his star power in an attempt to branch out. The results were mixed, and abruptly concluded with his typically too-late attempt to go where Daniel Day-Lewis, Dustin Hoffman and Robert De Niro had gone before (with Oscar-nominated results at bare minimum). That’s right, he did a disability turn – not quite “full retard” – in the much-derided Regarding Henry. And so, he retreated to the world of Tom Clancy, the point where his cachet began

The Book of Henry (2017)   Colin Trevorrow, already the object of abject enmity from some quarters for his Jurassic World sequel, and then more so due to the (eventually retracted) engagement to direct Episode IX, invited whole new levels of scorn for The Book of Henry, his smaller, more personal movie that now slots between Jurassic expeditions. While that response – the final one, although the second at least made some sense too, and as for the first, well it’s only a Jurassic Park movie – makes some sense, given the almost deliriously misconceived nature of the picture, it does tend to ignore that in

Ridley Scott  Ridders Ranked   During the ’80s, I anticipated few filmmakers’ movies more than Ridley Scott’s: those of his fellow xenomorph wrangler James Cameron, perhaps. In both cases, that eagerness for something equalling their early efforts receded as they studiously managed to avoid the heights they had once reached. Cameron’s output dropped off a cliff after he won an Oscar. Contrastingly, Scott’s surged like never before when his film took home gold. Which at least meant he occasionally delivered something interesting. But sadly, it was mostly quantity over quality. Here are the movies Scott has directed in his career

Red Sparrow (2018)   The biggest talking point in the wake of Red Sparrow’s release isn’t the movie itself. Rather, it’s whether or not J-Law is a bona fide box office draw. The answer is fairly mundane: about as much as any other big-name star outside of a franchise vehicle is. Which isn’t very much. Peg her alongside Dwayne Johnson, Vin Diesel, Tom Cruise and, on the lower end of the scale, the eternally-struggling-for-an-audience-when-not-Thor Chris Hemsworth. The movie itself, then? While it replicates the stride and demeanour of a traditional Cold War spy yarn with assuredness (as in, it’s a conscious throwback), Red

Salt (2010)   (Director’s Cut) Not so many years back, if you wanted a kickass female action hero, you called popular alleged Illuminati Satanist Angelina Jolie’s agent before Charlize Theron’s. She was Lara Croft – the big screen original, for what that’s worth (not much) – met Brad Pitt while trying to shoot him up, and tutored James McAvoy in the ways of the super assassin.  Salt was the last such vehicle she headlined and seems to have received its share of invective over the years. However, it’s one I rather liked, a ludicrously pulpy spy thriller – whatever surface comparisons

The Holcroft Covenant (1985)   There’s something oddly comforting about 1980s Michael Caine spy thrillers, not because they are any good – most aren’t – but due to his sheer reliability in simply showing up, baring his teeth at some point while grimly enraged, and generally behaving as if he’s still a viable lead in such fare. Caine came on board The Holcroft Covenant late in the day after James Caan fell out, and it might have seemed, at first glance, to possess a very faintly promising pedigree. An admittedly past-his-prime John Frankenheimer was helming. The source was a Robert Ludlum novel

Elle (2016)   Paul Verhoeven certainly loves courting controversy, and in a year’s time he’ll still be courting controversy as a rare octogenarian filmmaker (rare enough that there are octogenarian filmmakers who aren’t Clint Eastwood, rarer still that there are ones still fanning the flames of outrage). I didn’t find myself outraged by Elle, though, I suspect mainly because I was constantly aware of how calculated its provocative elements are; in a way, this is as precisely designed to elicit a response as his earlier Basic Instinct (with which it very loosely shares a genre bracket), with streaks of black humour and irreverence running through

Don’t Breathe (2016)   I passed on Fede Álvarez’ The Evil Dead remake; it seemed a tad too close to torture porn for my tastes, and besides, why redo Evil Dead if you’re eschewing a sense of humour? It’s what made it what it is. Consequently, this home-invasion thriller in reverse is my first exposure to his work (he also has a new Lisbeth Salander movie, baffling rebooting the series with the fourth instalment, and a remake of Labyrinth on his to-do list). Don’t Breathe is okay, effective within its highly exploitative bracket, rarely doing anything but serviceably pushing obvious shock buttons. I’ve seen reviews complain about

The Company You Keep (2012)   You can absolutely see why The Company You Keep would appeal to Robert Redford’s sensibilities, draped as it is in a soft-radical banner and culminating in easy-positive affirmations that even the movie’s inveterate zealot is ultimately swayed by (family over changing the world). As such, it’s a cop-out on a number of levels, but it’s also his most satisfying directorial effort in a considerable time, and when putting its best foot forward, Lem Dobbs’ screenplay (adapting Neil Gordon’s novel) juggles thriller elements with a sometimes-insightful probing of moral imperatives and action over complacency. Redford’s ex-Weather Underground

Sneakers (1992)   I hadn’t seen Sneakers since its original cinema release, when I pegged it as a likeable but ultimately rather too amiable conspiracy yarn. I mean to say, conspiracy yarns can be a lot of things – straight thrillers, satires, outright comedies – but you don’t usually associate them with amiability. After reading a recent Birth Movies Death piece singing its praises, I thought it might be time to give the picture another look, to see if I’d confess to a glowing reappraisal. Unfortunately, no. It’s the same rather amiable, well-made-but-slight piece. Director Phil Alden Robinson was coming off the high of

The Invitation (2015)   Discussion of Karyn Kusama’s movie has been roundly prefaced by admonishments not to spoil its plot. But really, if you’re more than fractionally familiar with genre trappings and tropes, you’d be hard pressed not to figure how this is all going to turn out within about five minutes. Indeed, as seductive as Kusama’s direction is, aided by a fine ensemble cast led by Tom Hardy, the only way The Invitation could have marked itself out as something truly other would have been to subvert expectations. Perhaps the point was not to do so, what with all the heavy pre-empting and foreboding, such

Green Room (2015)   Jeremy Saulnier’s follow-up to the keenly studied Blue Ruin (what next, Red Rum?) lacks that picture’s depth of character and thematic epistle on the pitfalls of revenge, instead positioning itself as a very straightforward siege movie. Assault on Precinct 13, but with an Oregon bar as the police station, a punk band as the besieged, and a posse of rabid neo-Nazis as the remorseless menace. Saulnier imbues the proceedings with the tension-ratchetting precision of a master of the genre. Although, some have speculated over just what genre that is. Horror or thriller? It’s a bit semantic, really. Substitute zombies or

Sea of Love (1989)   It’s difficult to imagine Sea of Love starring Dustin Hoffman, for whom Richard Price wrote the screenplay but who bowed out over requests for multiple rewrites. Perhaps Hoffman secretly recognised what most of us don’t need telling; there’s no way he fits into an erotic thriller (I’m not sure I’d even buy him as a cop). Although, he would doubtless have had fun essaying the investigative side, involving a succession of dates on the New York singles scene as a means to ensnare a killer. Al Pacino, on the other hand, has just the necessary seedy, threadbare,

American Ultra (2015)   One would probably be mistaken to put the apparently unstoppable ascent of Max Landis down to Hollywood nepotism. After all, it isn’t as if anyone has been battering down his dad’s door offering him work over the past couple of decades. I suspect the truth is closer to the means by which Seth Grahame-Smith established himself, through readily recognisable gimmicks (of the Pride and Prejudice and Zombies genre mash-up variety); Landis has an aptitude for an easy (as in facile), high concept soundbite, of the sort studio execs love to hear, which firmly precludes any attempt to evaluate whether there’s

Someone to Watch Over Me (1987)   It isn’t too difficult to see why Ridley Scott (Sir Ridders to you) was attracted to what has become one of his least conspicuous pictures. He had, after all, completed a trilogy of sci-fi/fantasy opuses, all of which had been criticised to a greater or less extent for favouring style and setting over substance. Here was his chance to respond to his critics, to deliver a fully-explored character piece, and set foot on solid contemporary ground (his first feature to do so). The problem with Someone to Watch Over Me is, while it is indeed a character

Sicario (2015)   Maybe Denis Villeneuve ought to call on his first language being French as an excuse for the script quality of his forays into Hollywood. First there was the overheated, ridiculous revenge picture Prisoners, masquerading as a serious exploration of the repercussions of child abduction, and now he’s taken a repeat course, plunging into the world of shadowy CIA operations and Mexican drug cartels, only to pull back and reveal that the movie didn’t really have important matters on its mind at all. It was just about a cool guy taking out the baddies. The acclaim both have received

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

The Russia House (1990)   The Russia House was greeted with public and critical indifference when it arrived in 1990. It isn’t too difficult to see why. Topical movies often fail to catch a wave that has already been well surfed by the news media. Why would anyone go out to watch a fiction version too (see also the numerous War on Terror themed films of the past decade plus)? Particularly when it’s packaged in a thriller that doesn’t really thrill (and the intrigue is mild at best) and a romance that entirely fizzles. Fred Schepsi’s adaptation of John Le Carré’s

Blue Ruin (2013)   If Jeremy Saulnier’s gripping, low-key revenge thriller is guilty of anything, it’s underplaying. That’s not so much a criticism as an attempt to explain why it might not have found the widest of audiences. From its measured, assured unfolding to muted lead character, Blue Ruin is a finely crafted slow-burn suspenser. It’s also pretty much an anti-revenge flick. Vigilante justice is dispensed by one wholly ill-equipped for it, but so ravaged by the effects of loss upon his psyche that he is compelled to act. There is no uplift or catharsis resulting from the actions of Dwight (Macon

The Next Man aka The Arab Conspiracy aka Double Hit (1976)   In which Sean Connery plays an Arab. For the second time. His versatility when confronted by the challenge of portraying different nationalities and ethnicities is renowned, of course. Russians (The Hunt for Red October), Irish (The Untouchables), Greeks (Time Bandits), even Japanese (You Only Live Twice); they’re no problem for one of Sean’s calibre, all arriving fully bestowed with a recognisable Scottish burr. For some reason, this rarely matters (well, You Only Live Twice features an egregiously ridiculous makeover); Connery forces the world to reform around him by sheer dint

Cold in July (2014)   Cold in July might not have the most watertight of plotting. It relies on some fairly hefty coincidences, and certain developments are murky of logic at best, or make no sense at all at worst. Yet this ’80s-set thriller barrels along with an absurdly energised awareness of its chosen genre, and its ability to upend assumptions of what exactly may be going on, or indeed, what the movie is about, is irresistible. The eccentric plotting presumably comes straight from Joe R Lansdale’s novel of the same name.  I’m only otherwise familiar with Lansdale via Don Coscarelli’s adaptation

Black Rain (1989)   By 1989, a decade had passed since Alien, and Ridley Scott was yet to experience a bona-fide follow-up hit. Blade Runner had received an (at best) mixed response and its box office was underwhelming (a sci-fi movie, from the director of the most defining entry in the genre since Star Wars, and the biggest star in the firmament; how could it fail?) Legend outright bombed, and appeared to put a permanent dampener on the director’s more immersive approach to world-building. He then served the penance of Someone to Watch Over Me, a low-key thriller that failed to muster much interest. Scott found himself

The Guest (2014)   What if Michael Myers were a personable young man with excellent manners and piercing blue eyes? Would you let him in your family home? That’s at least part of what director Adam Wingard and writer Simon Barrett are angling for in this blackly comic ’80s genre binge. The Guest is a well-made little B-movie, and has been audibly embraced by film geeks and critics alike. I wanted to like it more than I did. It is certainly, like a great many (too many?) movies at the moment, upfront with its influences, but it isn’t as rapier sharper as

’71 (2014)   TV director Yann Demange’s big-screen debut depicts a tense, claustrophobic struggle for survival in unknown alien territory. There’s danger at every quarter and only ever limited respite. Such tales are a subgenre unto themselves, from the backwoods versus civilised man of Deliverance (and its spiritual remake Southern Comfort) to comedy of urban disarray After Hours. The difference with ’71 is that its backdrop generally inspires stern tones and serious discussion; the Troubles. Accordingly, some might regard the film as in poor taste. Yet, despite rejecting overt political or moral debate, this doesn’t make the mistake of proceeding in a shallow or irreverent manner; ’71 does

Nightcrawler (2014)   A meticulously constructed thriller, at first glance Nightcrawler appears to position itself as a media satire in the vein of Network; only with a 21st century makeover. Yet, as biting as the chunks it takes out of the TV business are, it becomes ever clearer as the film progresses that the target is really the unfeeling soulless executive and the corporate mentality that will screw anyone over without a second thought in the name of profit and getting ahead. At the centre of the Dan Gilroy’s movie, one of the best and most unsettling of the year, is a startling, mesmerising

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

Capricorn One (1977)   As far as ultimate conspiracy theories go, ones that have captured the zeitgeist and simultaneously the opprobrium of any who view talk of such sinister intrigues and machinations as conclusive evidence of tin foil hat-wearing detachment from a reality in which we are always told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, the Moon landings are in the top tier, jostling with JFK for primacy. Certainly, there are far more people willing to admit to doubts over the official account of the assassination of President Kennedy than whether the trio of Apollo 11

Sitting Target (1972)   Oliver Reed, still relatively youthful (his early thirties, so mid-fifties in liver years), before the booze pickled his brains, is a powerhouse of simmering rage in this stylised thriller from skilled journeyman Douglas Hickox. Oli’s an ’orribly unsavoury animal, busting out of prison just so he can knock off his old lady. It’s matter of honour, or pride, or something. Oli’s steaming pissed and it’s going to get messy. This thriller has been compared to Get Carter, but Alexander Jacobs’ screenplay (from Laurence Henderson’s novel) lacks the same cool precision. Jacobs contributed to a number of decent

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

Enemy of the State (1998)   Enemy of the State is something of an anomaly; a quality conspiracy thriller borne not from any distinct political sensibility on the part of its makers but simple commercial instincts. Of course, the genre has proved highly successful over the years so it’s easy to see why big-name producers like Jerry Bruckheimer and Don Simpson would have chased that particular gravy boat. Yet they did so for some time without success; by the time the movie was made, Simpson had passed away and Bruckheimer was flying solo. It might be the only major film in

Escape from Alcatraz (1979)   Escape from Alcatraz holds particular allure within the prison break genre. Not only is it based on an actual (successful) escape but it relates to the most famous prison of them all. The Rock has featured in other successful films; Burt Lancaster romanticised the Birdman of Alcatraz and Sean Connery was a silver-locked escapee in The Rock. But Escape’s merits lie in its stripped-down, unglamorous approach. It may feature an immaculately coiffured Clint Eastwood at the centre but it’s his star power that enables the story to unfold with slow-but-sure confidence. This was Eastwood’s fifth time out with Don Siegel, a

The Parallax View (1974)   As with a number of more self-evident candidates, The Parallax View was inspired by the spate of assassinations of prominent political figures during the 1960s. A particular spur was the 1968 shooting of Robert Kennedy. Brother John’s murder was a decade old when the film entered production and the web of conspiratorial theorising regarding that case was just as complex then as it is now, only a little fresher. Director Alan J Pakula, star Warren Beatty and writers Lorenzo Semple Jr. and David Giler did not adopt the tack of a “straight” telling (seen with the 1973

Captain Phillips (2013)   Captain Phillips is exceptionally well made (provided you are not shakycam-phobic), edge-of-the-seat storytelling. On that level, it’s pretty much what you’d expect from the director of the latter two Matt Damon Bourne films. But that’s also the problem with it. A degree of topicality or political sensibility has informed most of Paul Greengrass’ big screen ventures, and this seemed poised to follow suit. Yet, on leaving the cinema, I was left puzzling over his reasons for adapting this real-life drama. He has turned out a gripping action movie but one that ultimately amounts to little more than that. When

Eagle Eye (2008)   I’m a sucker for a good conspiracy movie, but this most certainly is not it. One might, at a stretch, hold that there is a daring subtext beneath the glossy fireworks and routine action. But, if there is, it is insufficient to overcome a plot that takes a “dangers of the surveillance state” premise and almost perversely surrenders any of its potency to the most familiar and stale of science fiction trappings. Eagle Eye’s opening sections suggest it might be angling for a latter-day version of Three Days of the Condor; a (relative) everyman thrust into a

Final Analysis (1992)   Richard Gere and his tiny, tiny eyes. An invitation not to see a movie if ever there was one. And yet he endures. Often, he seems barely awake. In Phil Joanou’s busy but unengaging Hitchcock homage he occasionally signals his alertness by studiously blinking, like a mole under a UV lamp. I wasn’t 100 percent sure if I’d seen this movie before, and even the wave of familiarity that washed over me as I viewed it left me confused; was I feeling this purely because it is so derivative? Final Analysis was released in the same year

Into the Night (1985)   “I was taken aback because I did everything I always did. I didn’t do anything different. People just did not show up.”  Into the Night was John Landis’ first brush with movie failure, but for a time it would be merely a blip on his résumé. Until the end of the 1980s he would keep on making hit movies. You only have to glance at the book from which that Landis quote is taken (John Landis, by Guilia D’Agnola Vallan) to see that there are a good few out there who vouch for it as one of

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

Side Effects (2013)   At first, it appears that Steven Soderbergh’s final cinematic release (for the time being) may be taking the Traffic approach to the pharmaceutical industry. It wouldn’t be a surprise, as the director likes his issue-led films (which also include Erin Brokovich and Contagion). But Side Effects veers from such a path so preposterously that it leaves him with nothing to say on the subject. It ends up as an above average thriller, but completely forsakes discussing prescription dependency for easy twists and cheap thrills. It’s near to the reverse of how he treated Contagion. There he had a wonderful opportunity to make a truly

Premium Rush (2012)   One wonders at complaints of absurdity directed at a film like this, as if its title isn’t warning enough of what’s in store. Premium Rush most definitely does not have believability high on the list of its priorities but, with plot and characters as amped up as its direction, if you’re willing to go with it this is a highly enjoyable, taut little thriller. For some reason, I get the CVs of writer-directors David Twohy and David Koepp confused. Twohy edges Koepp, perhaps because he has concentrated more on a directing career lately. He’s best known for the Riddick films,

A Perfect Murder (1998)   Dial M for Murder absolutely did not need remaking, and any attempt to go near something that Hitchcock made indelible is a fool’s mission. That said, Andrew Davis’ update is a surprisingly stylish affair, blessed with strong performances and knowing just how to mine each development for maximum tension. Nevertheless, the modern touches (in 1998 mobile phones were still exciting) can’t disguise the movie’s very traditional “classic” murder plot origins. Some of the changes are cosmetic, such as replacing scissors with a meat thermometer, and refocussing Michael Douglas’ husband as a dodgy Wall Street hedge fund

The Whistle Blower (1987)   The appearance of Michael Caine’s name in a film’s billing has never been an indication of quality. He’s always been known for somewhat arbitrary tastes, and it’s only really since his second Oscar that there has been an upswing from the fifty-fifty chance that he’d appear in something decent. Much of that is down to Christopher Nolan, who positions him in each new film as a lucky charm. Appreciation of the actor was probably at a low point for much of the ’80s. He received (justified) plaudits for Educating Rita and Hannah and Her Sisters (and his first Oscar

Trance (2013)   National Treasure Danny Boyle is currently riding a wave of goodwill. The feting he received for his work on the Olympics* cemented a reputation that evolved from slightly arty populist to establishment darling (in the wake of his Oscar for Slumdog Millionaire). Despite the distracting surface details of his penchant for genre hopping and a magpie attitude to sound and vision, he’s known as a filmmaker informed by social conscience and, by consequence or distinct sensibility, the impulse of a provocateur. He gains credibility for turning down a knighthood and remaining entrenched in Britain (despite the occasional

Air Force One (1997)   President Harrison Ford takes down the terrorist. This year’s “terrorists take over the White House” movies require the President to be saved by brave Special Forces types. Not so back in the ’90s, when Russkies assumed control of Air Force One. Back when Indiana Jones was a ‘Nam vet President and recipient of the Medal of Honour, more than qualified to kick-ass. Wolfgang Peterson’s Die Hard-on-the-President’s-plane was such a big hit (and not just in its core US market) that I wondered if I had missed something when I came away from seeing it nonplussed. I’m

Executive Decision (1996)   Die Hard has yielded, and still yields, numerous “on a/in a… “ clones, including a minor “terrorists on a plane” ‘90s sub-genre. Passenger 57, Air Force One (which is part of another subgenre, “president in peril/action president”) and this, by some distance the best of the trio. While it can’t summon up any of the sophistication or wit of the first Die Hard, neither is the script quite as knuckleheaded in construction as the credit to Jim and John Thomas (the first two Predators) might suggest. The characterisation is every bit as crude as you might expect and the terrorists are all-purpose

The Constant Gardener (2005)   A not-quite-great John Le Carré adaptation, but one that confirms that filmmaker’s have been consistently much more astutely than they did in previous decades (in the last decade or so we have seen this, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy and The Tailor of Panama). Director Fernando Meirelles boarded this project after his reputation-making (internationally at least) City of God. It further cemented his status as a thoughtful, intelligent filmmaker tackling big themes with skill and insight. Since then, he’s been tarnished by falling short of his aspirations in Blindness and 360. But what he brings to the genteel, reserved world of Le Carré is immediacy

The Interpreter (2005)   Sydney Pollack’s final film returns to the conspiracy genre that served him well in both the 1970s (Three Days of the Condor) and the 1990s (The Firm). It also marks a return to Africa, but in a decidedly less romantic fashion than his 1985 Oscar winner. Unfortunately, the result is a tepid, clichéd affair in which only the technical flourishes of its director have any merit. The film’s main claim to fame is that Universal received permission to film inside the United Nations headquarters. Accordingly, Pollack is predictably unquestioning in its admiration and respect for the

Red Dragon (2002)   So you have a strong script from Ted Tally, Oscar winner for adapting the follow-up novel ten years previously. And you’re working from a novel that is arguably even better than the one that resulted in awards glory. You have Oscar winner Anthony Hopkins, reprising his most iconic role for the second time. You have a dream supporting cast of well-respected actors, from Edward Norton and Ralph Fiennes to Philip Seymour Hoffman and Emily Watson. What could go possibly go wrong? I guess, employ Brett Ratner. Dino De Laurentis was nothing if not opportunistic. His 1986

No Way Out (1987)   Kevin Costner’s best year was the one in which he found fledgling success, with the double-header box office hits of this and The Untouchables. Crucially, they were both very good movies. No Way Out is undoubtedly lodged as an artifact of the era in which it was made, with its Maurice Jarre synth score, and unavoidable dose of Sean Young. But as a thriller it stands the test of time extremely well, maintaining pace and tension throughout; this is easily journeyman director Roger Donaldson’s finest piece of work. It’s based on a novel by Kenneth Fearing that was

Presumed Innocent (1990)   Harrison Ford’s star power was at a peak when he appeared in this adaptation of Scott Turow’s novel. The 1980s had seen Ford’s defining presence in two franchises (from Lucas and Spielberg) solidified by a shrewd balancing act with material aiming to be both artistically and commercially compelling. As such, he aligned himself with interesting directors (Peter Weir, Roman Polanski) and material (literary adaptations in the form of Paul Theroux’s The Mosquito Coast and Philip K Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?) He didn’t over-commit (averaging a film a year, this approach would only see him come unstuck

Three Days of the Condor (1975)   Sandwiched between two grittier, but equally star-powered, conspiracy thrillers (The Parallax View and All the President’s Men, both from Alan J Pakula), Three Days of the Condor essays a shift from the bleak resignation of the machine (be it corporate or state) consuming all resistance that was found in the 1974 Warren Beatty picture. There, a dogged journalist finds himself completely ill-equipped for the truths he uncovers. In contrast, Condor finds its protagonist already part of the system. And, only being a lowly “bookworm” (reading manuscripts from across the Globe to sniff out hints of spy code and communication

Jack Reacher (2012)   Blessed with one of the worst movie posters in recent memory (a Photoshop job that makes Cruise look like one of those giant bobbleheads; not the one heading up this review, mercifully) and a blandest of the bland title, this turns out to be a highly enjoyable back-to-basics thriller. Sophomore director Christopher McQuarrie (also adapting Lee Childs’ novel One Shot) brings a welcome visceral quality to the action, making a fairly straightforward detective plot seem like a breath of fresh air when the competition tends to be CGI’d up to the eyeballs. Ex-military policeman, now Littlest Hobo-like drifter,

Dirty Harry (1971)   Right-wing tract or a more ambivalent study of two extreme characters (as the tagline said, “Dirty Harry and the homicidal maniac. Harry’s the one with the badge“)? There is evidently an element of wish-fulfillment in terms of identification with the Callahan character; he is pro-active in a world where bureaucracy and injustice are endemic. As such he is presented, initially at least, with situations in which it is easy to be u unperturbed by his casual dispensation of violent justice (recounting how he shot a would-be rapist) or setting up iconic scenes of coolness (dealing with

Dressed to Kill (1980)   We follow ostensibly the lead female character, who embarks on an activity that she has moral qualms over. But the first act ends with her murdered by person unknown, apparently a woman. An associate of the woman is in contact with her, aware of her crime. It falls to a relative of the female character to investigate her death, leading to a dramatic revelation of the murderer’s true identity. In the denouement, a rather cod-psychology explanation of the murderer’s motives is offered up. Yes, it’s Brian De Palma’s Hitchcock fetish operating in full effect as

To Catch a Thief (1955)   As lightweight and breezily enjoyable as Hitchcock’s third collaboration with Cary Grant is, it is maybe a little bit too pleased with itself. With all the ingredients for success present, there’s a sense of not needing to try very hard to win the viewer over. John Michael Hayes’ script is rife with innuendo-laced (censor-baiting) dialogue, which means the cast simply have to show up in the Riviera (or on the sound stage) and deliver their lines. The flipside of this is that it doesn’t get credit where it’s due for making it all seem so effortless.

Notorious (1946)   This is one of the very best Hitchcock films, thanks to the alchemy of a fine script from Ben Hecht (who had just worked with the director on the less enchanting Spellbound) and perfect casting in Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman. It could so easily have been less auspicious as it was developed by David O. Selznick, whose approach had been one of interference on his previous collaborations with the British auteur.  Fortunately, the producer was in financial difficulties with Duel in the Sun so to ensure that project’s safety he sold the package of the Notorious script, director and Bergman to RKO.