
I’ve not seen it and most likely never will.
Are there awards for posters, though?

This should just be the Tom Cruise Show, 90 mins of him unravelling during an interview – think of Magnolia (1999) when his cocksure ‘Master of the Muffin’ gets exposed as a secret caregiver with feelings.
An ambitious fail, the two other stories in Lions don’t coalesce with this gripping centre.
A shame.
John Carpenter – and what happened to him? – is almost a student filmmaker with a broad canvas. He makes, or made as he’s seemingly retired from the director’s chair, entirely self-contained movies that are immediately identifiable in their style, and it goes without saying but I’ll say it, anyway – the music. He defines the B-movie and I could never imagine him making anything outside the parameters of the genre.
This is a good one. The social commentary and allegorical play on industrial decline isn’t exactly subtle, but it doesn’t matter. Piper’s sunglasses revealing pernicious subliminal content disseminated by the powers that be – I was almost expecting a Marshall McLuhan cameo, à la Annie Hall (1977).
Top movie. Daft, but with chuckles.
I mean, just look at Laurence Olivier.

What were they thinking? What was he thinking? Were they thinking?
I lasted 14 minutes.

This one has three narrative strands that go absolutely nowhere and by the one-hour mark the movie just descends into a parody of its own genre. I don’t even know what the title is referring to.
It’s crap but I liked it. There is good crap and bad crap. This is good crap. Maybe it’s the Michael Wincott voice.
Probably that.
Atmospheric, moody, and highly promising. For the first 15 mins.
Then it’s just a series of badly acted conversations. And Clive Owen is a zombie. For no reason. What else? The dialogue is dire and horrible to listen to. A thriller devoid of thrills, this was a fucking drag.
The entire movie is pointless.

How to describe this truly spellbinding picture without reeling off every platitude there is?
It’s a movie that is entirely relatable and in the ‘real world’, yet is so divorced from conventional narrative it may as well be non-cinema.
It’s a new kind of artform.
Is that cliché enough?
Pip: Welcome to Wanderings and … wonderings., where today we ask the eternal question: is anyone actually making good epic cinema anymore, or are we all just suffering together?
Mara: Ben Gould has been watching, and he has thoughts — on Roman spectacle gone wrong, and on biker drama that lost him before the halfway mark. Let's start with the films that aimed for grandeur.
Pip: Two films, two attempts at the kind of sweeping historical cinema that used to mean something — and both apparently fell apart before they even got going.
Mara: The Megalopolis review sets the tone early. The setup is a film based on the Catilinarian conspiracy, and the verdict is blunt: "Some of the images here catch the eye, but they never coalesce into anything resembling a coherent narrative."
Pip: So you have one of the most dramatic political episodes in Roman history — Cicero, Catiline, the fate of the Republic — and the film somehow drains it of all intrigue, political stakes, and, notably, any actual Cicero.
Mara: The characters, as the post puts it, "have arguments you can't even connect with or understand; they bicker for the director's benefit." It ran 56 minutes before the television was turned off. The closing line is: "Life is too short for this shite."
Pip: Fifty-six minutes is generous, frankly. That is a man trying his best.
Mara: Gladiator II gets even shorter shrift. That post calls it "pathetically, absolutely futile cinema" and argues it is essentially a verbatim copy of the first film, with a siege sequence lifted from Game of Thrones and a scene that mirrors the famous Ben Hur chariot moment — except here it just reads as cynical recycling.
Pip: The post's question — "Why does anyone still have dealings with this director?" — is not rhetorical.
Mara: It really isn't. Both reviews land on the same underlying frustration: these are films with resources, historical material, and recognizable talent, and they squander all of it on spectacle that never earns its scale.
Pip: From ancient Rome to open American highways — though the road ahead is equally bumpy.
Mara: The Bikeriders promised atmosphere and a committed Tom Hardy accent. The post is direct about what derailed it: "My ears are in pain. I hate folk on motorcycles."
Pip: That is a sentence that contains an entire film review.
Mara: The lead performance is described as "Marge Simpson scraped down a blackboard with a bit of Karen Hill from Goodfellas chucked in the vernacular mix" — and that was enough to end the viewing at thirty minutes. Hardy and Michael Shannon together, and it still couldn't hold.
Pip: When the scenery is the most praised element, and the recommendation is to remove the story, the bikes, and the accents, you're left with a landscape documentary. Which might actually be an improvement.
Pip: So: Roman conspiracies without intrigue, sequels without purpose, biker films without listenable dialogue. The bar is apparently on the floor.
Mara: And yet someone keeps making these. Next time, maybe something clears it.

This was fucking horrible! With an exclamation mark.
What is with this screenwriter’s obsession with a tracking camera fixated on high-velocity corridor conversations between wee sycophantic dweebs scurrying behind an authority figure? It’s pathetic. As is the film, which is pure Democratic propaganda and essentially a barely concealed Republican hit job.
I do find it amusing how it emanates from the Clinton era, a way for the filmmakers to back their peerless man. It’s right before or during his extramarital … shenanigans.
Clearly, this is a picture made by and for sleazebags.
I don’t think I’ve ever discussed this splendid thriller with anyone before, that’s how forgotten it is, overshadowed by Hackman and Freeman’s work in Unforgiven (1992). It’s as stylish as these movies get, and the late, very great Hackman is, of course, brilliant.
You’re welcome: