Ray Liotta strikes again.
He could never entirely break free of the psycho/gangster/dodgy cop role, but he made the most of what scripts he got.
As Lt. Henry Oak, he’s a less flashy, more jaded and tortured Alonzo Harris in this relentless thriller. The plot is a bit too convoluted for what is meant to be a slice of realism, but it’s not silly and the style – ‘70s docu-style throwback – works.
And the opening is quite the shaky cam with a legit purpose.
This movie was so smug on a brutal level. All it does is throw in your face how successful these lads are, and it’s somehow our privilege to watch these glorious thesps pratfall and offer a surfeit of unremarkable one-liners. A crappy heist caper based on a crappy Rat Pack heist caper, this is another one of those films that should be trivial entertainment to pass the time, but is simply too annoying to enjoy.
There’s no comedy here, no drama, and nothing and no one to like.
Dull multiplex fodder with numerous sequels, I thoroughly hated it and hope you do too.
Hot on the heels of Top Gun: Maverick (2022), here’s another inevitable remake/reboot/belated sequel. Because these are for the most part guaranteed cash cows, you can understand the need for the movie bankers to hedge their bets and continue to pump out ‘distinguished IP’ movies or whatever they’re called – recognised characters and milieus.
Beverly Hills Cop (1984) is a wonderful motion picture of its time and still holds up – funny, thrilling, violent, smart enough, and with a protagonist who would entertain in any 90-minute premise. The sequel is a less good carbon copy but still serviceable and with the added bonus of Brigitte Nielsen yelling at folk to “eat the floor!”. Let’s not discuss the third one in the canon, as it does not exist, much akin to Rocky V (1990).
And here we arrive at Axel F (2024).
It’s not bad at all; moreover, it’s funny. The best part? It isn’t a PG-13.
Disregard the generic story and workmanlike direction as this isn’t worthy of recommendation aside from one factor: the ever perplexing, permanently dazzling presence that is Nicolas Cage. Star (or feature attraction) of what must be 4,000 movies, he transforms the mediocre into the mediocre … with a cherry (Cage) on the top.
And David Caruso appears in a leading role. He lost his way in that regard but he’s okay in this.
Talk about intensity (quiet and loud) from two leads – Jackman and Gyllenhaal not so much as going mano a mano but progressively losing their shit over the shared aim of finding the kidnapped.
Suburbia’s manky underbelly gets the full dissection here, law enforcement a rule-bend away from a jeopardised case. A despairing movie full of anguish and desperation, it’s not exactly a date-night gig with pizza and nibbles.
But that’s life.
The dialogue in this shitter was so bad – every goon spoke from the Brit gangster heyday, that putrid cesspool of movie tat.
The coarseness of the characters, their shamelessness, was just revolting, and Ray Winstone was truly terrible in this film, a Phil Mitchell impression that would belong in Stella Street. But let’s not delve into it too much as he’s usually more than reliable, sometimes dynamite.
Remember Heat (1995)? The bank robbery imitation is desperate in this stinker. It was unbearable viewing in a manky film that went on and on and on and on and reached such imaginative levels that “fack” or “facking” had to be inserted in the middle of every sentence. Example: “Stay in your facking rooms!” shouted by an armed cop.
It was annoying as fuck/fack.
And Brick Top from Snatch (2000) is in it.
Remake of the Sam Peckinpah half-decent flick from 1972, more famous for its tales-from-the-set production of booze chucked between production staff and off-screen hanky-panky than the actual thrills. It’s a decent movie, but I wouldn’t recommend it to a human being with a brain.
This was almost unwatchable.
The protagonist shows his own bank-robbing wife a gun as if she had never seen one before. Michael Madsen once again displays his supreme competence by necking a bottle of beer for no reason, slurring his words (for no reason) like Orson Welles in a Paul Masson wine advertisement.
This movie was completely without wit; the dialogue was unbearable. I watched it for James Woods. I turned this off as soon as his VIP cameo ceased.
Fucking awful.
Next.
Philip Baker Hall was around forever, starring in seemingly everything, the quintessential character actor, every eclipse given the opportunity to do something more than the dependable authority figure. You’ve got Seinfeld’s Library Cop and the jaded but wise Sydney in Hard Eight (1996) among the background roles, and this film would be worth it just for him alone but there are more treats (just check the supporting cast) in this first work from Paul Thomas Anderson.
Even for a debut picture, this shows his mastery of style – his films are never dull to look at, demand your attention, and there’s a reason behind every dazzling shot. And it’s the consistency that’s the key. You leave with an indelible impression of the narrative. The lad is the Scorsese of the San Fernando Valley.
Ford’s haircut, what might feasibly be deemed a Caesar, is the feature attraction but he pulls it off.
You can tell from two mins into this brutal courtroom gig that it was shot by Gordon Willis, his unmistakable visuals a pallet of shadows and claustrophobia; when cinematography had character.
No faffing on your phone during the Caesar Attraction for you must pay attention. And it’s got that genuinely shocking ending that defines the era of the glossy star-powered thriller.
Wildly entertaining, impeccably acted, Raul Julia rocks up and somehow becomes the most interesting character. What an inscrutable face, what a voice.
The last great Alan J. Pakula movie.
It’s risky with some of its jokes but they are actually funny (most comedies are joke-free affairs) and stem from the growing characterisation and chemistry of the two leads, and the bizarre credibility of the bit-part players, some of whom appear to have wandered off from the set of Lethal Weapon (1987).
Michael Keaton, eh. He can do no wrong in his Indian summer (I don’t wish to hear of this Batgirl … thing).
For a comedy/satire, it’s well choreographed in its action scenes, even more so than the majority of buddy cop movies out there.
And the late Ray Stevenson pulls off an Aussie accent. X.
Wanderings and ... wonderings. 