Dragged to this and thoroughly did not like it.
Galling one-liners and self-referential in-jokes and dull characters constantly referencing they’re in a multiverse. What else? Superhero cameos galore, and fight scenes set to pop hits (how clever). And Ryan Reynolds and his inability to shut the fuck up for even 20 seconds. I suppose that’s the point, but his voice is too annoying to endure for a full movie.
I waited outside for the last half hour, so I don’t know how it ended.
And I don’t care.
Aesthetically perfect movie with a protagonist’s tunnel vision style that works, an actual reasoning behind it – it’s the antithesis of the self-indulgent. Much more than a ‘noble’, culturally significant picture, it’s as honest with its brutality as you can get, and vice versa. It did recall for me One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, and uses all the tools of cinematic technique to tell a story so gripping, relentless, and powerful in its immediacy.
A searing portrait of Hell on Earth, this is not a film you’ll forget.
Proper art.
Yet another doozy from the ’80s starring Kathleen Turner. She is synonymous with the decade and doesn’t exist outside of it in a cinematic sense, a fate shared by a rarefied club of period-tied stars like Burt Reynolds (1970s), a heyday of hits followed by relative obscurity and the occasional flourish. This movie is a swansong of sorts from the great John Huston; it’s a testament to his talents that he somehow made it from the The Maltese Falcon (1941) all the way to this, a career spanning, indeed making, the history of the superlative decades of cinema as we know them.
It’s a fine wee movie, even if the cast have way too much gravitas about them for starring in what is a bit of black comedy fluff. The score by the renowned Alex North is okay, the soundtrack less so. It’s a recycling of tunes popularised in other movies. Why do filmmakers do this? If a musical piece is in a seminal flick, just don’t bother appropriating it again.
Does my tits in.
The dinosaurs looked ‘lovely’ and I’m positive they continued to be so throughout this motion picture, but the 25 minutes I managed to endure were a pronounced pain in the arse – boring, derivative, pointless, and I suppose scraping a barrel that was no longer there.
News flash: dinosaurs aren’t interesting, people. Spielberg, once upon a time, made them so for 90 mins. And that’s the end of it.
This was shite. The next dozen will be shite as well.
For all the exceptional talents of Russell Crowe, he is simply wasted here in one of the most unwatchable biopics … ever. It’s a painful experience for many reasons, and the lackluster direction doesn’t help proceedings. The script, though, is fucking mince. The bloke here, John Nash, actually has his mental illness explained away with an imaginary pal in the punchable Paul Bettany and a make-believe government spook in Ed Harris.
If this embarrassing writing wasn’t enough to make you desire to gouge your own eyeballs out (or those of one of the muppets on screen), the movie has our resident genius’ mathematical theory put to the test in a bar scenario, with him and his wankpot pals applying their classroom discipline to pulling the local lassies.
Throw in some romantic schmaltz and a supporting cast of mainly irksome ‘characters’ and you have a really tedious, quite pointless, and completely shite movie that should be forgotten about.
Which makes this review seem quite unnecessary.
The intro could not be more pure ‘80s in its gratuitousness, Rob Lowe puck action synced to cheese. The bloke has not aged in 40 years (paper rounds did not exist for him). Keanu Reeves is in it as the goalie and he hasn’t aged, either. Patrick Swayze features also and he munches on a rose. This is not a metaphor.
The family breakfast scene a few mins in is straight outta A New Hope (1977), almost word for word, action for action; I had to rewind and repeat because, yes, I am that sad.
I don’t know what this movie thinks it is or what the intention was, but it’s an amusing, entertaining breed of shite, a silly primary source from a silly time. But they appear simpler times.
It’s the Mighty Ducks on drugs. Any and all kind of drugs.
This was shockingly not crap. Which was a bit funny. A decent wee movie.
You’d call it The Football Factory (2004) of its age, that and a who’s who of almost-made-it British acting talent. Spot Jay’s dad from The Inbetweeners in that snap.
The tale is what it is, to adopt the cliché. Ah, the ‘90s – when swaggering gremlins (sans Gizmo) on the sauce kicking the fuck out of each other in boozers and the terraces for no reason were bonding through a bit of the ol’ fisticuffs. How we’ve grown up since ….
And the bloke from Corrie who was based on the Lord Lucan-wannabe John Darwin plays the protagonist. He’s very good here and I’m mildly surprised he hasn’t been in anything better.
#Shadwell.
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.
Wanderings and ... wonderings. 