Wanderings and … wonderings.

This bafflingly brilliant movie is Anthony Hopkins at his apex, when he could pick any nonsensical script of his choice, revelling in his incarnation as the first ever middle-aged rocker thesp with a bashful edge.

Hopkins embodies every Walter Mitty’s conception of a bookish weirdo defeating the elements – our mild-mannered intellectual here casually surmounts a bird strike, a bear, a typically useless and insidious Alec Baldwin with a gun, and David Mamet’s inability to stop his juvenile faux-macho dialogue sourced from a thousand better scripts.

This film defines everyone in it.

What I liked most about this preposterous movie was how low-budget, small-scale and basically cruddy it came across despite the titanic cast. It’s like a made-for-TV thriller sketched off a napkin that was once owned by Clint Eastwood and tossed into a dustbin in Carmel-by-the-Sea.

This baffling, wholly ludicrous film somehow stars and is directed by Clint Eastwood.

The Crow (1994) is a good-looking affair with an outstanding score, but that’s all it is.

The rote plot and villains, and the unimaginative shoot-outs bore me very quickly, and by the end of the movie I was just thankful it was all over and the lad went back to his grave. All dressing on a thin story, it’s another example of a cult movie having that cult status mainly because of the circumstances surrounding its production. And that’s just wrong.

Watch it if it’s there; I wouldn’t recommend you go hunting for it. Set design doesn’t make a film.

A bad Scorsese movie is a depressing experience, and this was soaringly bad.

And then Danny Huston turned up and it just descended into beyond bad. This bloke sinks, or further buries, so many motion pictures you begin to wonder what goods he has on directors.

Pointless pish that must have cost a fucking fortune, it feels like a movie that Scorsese was contractually obligated to make, because I see no other reason for this lightweight embarrassment to exist.

I’ve had more interesting adventures in a B&M than this biopic of Howard Hughes.

This bloke, Hank Worden, is the worst actor that has ever ‘graced’ the silver screen, and his Mose Harper in The Searchers (1956) is what prevents that movie from being a masterpiece.