Author Archives: Ben Gould
Touch of Evil (1958) is barking mad.
An entirely and completely odd movie, this one. It is a riot and for 1958 pushes it to the limit. I keep hearing B-Movie but it’s got an A-list cast, a combination of the past and the future. You’ve got a washed-up, bloated (to be polite) Welles looking just dreadful and Marlene Dietrich seemingly popping in and out of an opium haze. I have no idea why she is in this movie but she’s there. As is Zsa Zsa Gabor.
With Welles it’s once again the bravura cinematography and sound design. I always thought of Orson as Howard Hawks with a lot more edge, that within the confines of a bog-standard script he could unearth, indeed inject, a bit of madness and run with it like no other.
The border town here is the seediest wee town. It just defines sleaze. Almost every character is nuts or says something so silly it had to be Welles doing it for a laugh. The roaming camera is an addiction, and there is always something going on at the back or edge of frame. The story is constantly in motion yet we get hints of another narrative kicking off beyond the mise en scène. That’s a talent.
And I did not know until today that the character of Al Schwartz (District Attorney’s Assistant) is played by the same bloke who was the creepy Highway Patrol Officer in Psycho (1960). Take a bow, Mort Mills.
And I’m not the only one who can say that The Player (1992) and Get Shorty (1995) brought me to this wonderful motion picture. Cinema is a land of allusions.
Riot!
Edinburgh rubble.
The new St. James Centre still under construction. I refuse to go in. The former crime against architecture defined eyesore but was imbued with wee personal memories.
The Virgin Megastore, for example. I stole a manky copy of Sliver (1993) from a car boot sale once and ‘returned’ it to the shop. Got £18 in vouchers and bought The Phantom Menace (1999) and Das Boot (1984) on DVD.
It might be possible today. Experiment incoming.
And what happened to Sgt. Barnes?
Bad Lieutenant (1992) and Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans (2009).
If you’re going to watch ‘companion piece’ movies then these two barking mad features are the ones for you.
The only thing really connecting them is the title, the film from 2009 the most loose ‘remake’ ever. Harvey Keitel goes Full-Harvey and Nicolas Cage goes Full-Cage. You can’t choose a winner. The films aren’t about plotting or themes; they are just an opportunity for the actor to do a Brando, go a wee bit nuts. And it’s a joy to watch. Stay off the drugs, people!
Somehow, Kietel and Cage both wound up in an appalling feature named National Treasure (2004), phoning it in in the worst way. They look bored shitless. As was I. But one has to pay the bills so I forgive them.
The Dumb and Dumber (1994) soundtrack is an event.
The movie is a masterpiece that would not get made today; can you imagine what the hysterics would do to Twitter? I will write all about this some other time.
The soundtrack, though. Oh my. It’s quite possibly the best compendium of ‘tunage’ ever. 1994 was a grand year for all involved, even if Jeff Daniels got blown up by Dennis Hopper.
Sunshine (2007) went apeshit.
And for no apparent reason.
An hour in and you’re thinking that if the movie can keep it together the experience could quite possibly be up there with the best of them, a thought-provoking sci-fi masterpiece for the ages. But then it descends into sub-slasher ridiculousness, a third act that feels like the team behind Event Horizon (1997) rejected it. This happens quite a lot with these movies, and even more so when it comes to TV shows. There’s so much expertly paced build-up that goes … nowhere. Why try and turn it into a horror? The makers simply didn’t know how to fulfill all the promise or how to end it so resorted to cheap genre ‘thrills’, frenzied cutting and pointless bombast.
But for 70 minutes this is great. I highly recommend turning it off once it gets silly. And then proceed to stick 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) on.
Sorted.
Haymarket, Edinburgh – the shit of dreams!
Haymarket is a bit of a toilet at times but a charming one. And that bar you see, Ryrie’s. So many fond memories, life moments! We used to (and might intend to in the post-pandemic future) get utterly fucking wasted there on a Sunday school night and end up on an unscripted adventure with a troupe of travelling actors (Shakespeare in Murieston Park) or tourists on a three-week bender.
I’ve met some good pals in that bar. And that’s what bars are for.
