This season is unfortunately a bit stale and diluted, and the elements which could have salvaged it – the first season’s unrelenting reverence for the ’80s and its accompanying cheese, the dark humour and the amusing SJW bashing – are in short supply. Johnny Lawrence is just not as interesting as an upstanding nice guy as he is as a fish-out-of-water shambles lost in the wrong century. The staid version of Johnny is one without an edge, and it’s as if the show has been robbed of its biggest star.
Other things are annoying, from the constant switching allegiances, the pointless cameos from past characters that go nowhere, and the moments of catharsis that are simply not earned. It had some decent craic in it and the choreography was great as always, but this show should probably end now.
And I’m probably taking it all a bit too seriously.
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.
Lee Marvin had a bonkers year in 1967, this thriller and The Dirty Dozen representing the peak of his cult, not that your random audience member knew it at the time. They are a curious twosome as Point Blank appears a blueprint for a future style of film aesthetics and the Robert Aldrich ripper a throwback or definition of the classical form, if not in its then-graphic onscreen violence. It’s a watershed 52 weeks. I wasn’t alive back then, and thank fuck. But it looks eventful (just watch The Graduate).
What a seductive picture, and even the jarring time jumps work to reinforce the dreamy atmosphere of the film. The precise framing and use of colour, it LOOKS AMAZING (CAPS LOCK ALERT). The overlapping sound is pre-Robert Altman but betters those seminal works because it’s more than a silly afterthought or accident. There are scenes in this which require so little dialogue they may as well be Godard in a traffic jam. It’s an exercise in stylistics. You get this with first-time filmmakers or those in the early throes of the game – the bold choices, the going with the instinct. Peckinpah retained it almost to the end. Scorsese – the last man standing – still has it.
This is peak Tarantinto three decades before peak Tarantino. But without the feet obsession.
It’s also hilarious. Marvin has to be the coolest bloke to ever be off his tits. He retains throughout a semi-plastered hangdog expression and even in his quietest rage barely looks interested in proceedings. It’s all too easy for Marvin. All he wants is his cash but not even the corporate pyramid semi-responsible for his fate are even capable of doing the basics. Almost everyone in this movie is useless. It’s a life lesson.
Point Blank is a relic and a template.
P.S. There is no relation between this and Point Break (1991), which I watched a few weeks ago.
And this is disturbing – back in the olden days when you took photos to Boots to be developed there will have been someone like Seymour “Sy” Parrish (Williams’ protagonist) inspecting your every shot, vicariously living his (it’s usually a creepy bloke) life through yours. I read a story years ago about some wee creep phoning the cops because he spotted a cannabis plant in the backdrop of a photo. How dignified.
Robin Williams is the business. We all knew he was hilarious yet his ‘serious roles’ really do demonstrate that he was an actor of the highest calibre, though comedy is acting too. He was in Christopher Nolan’s Insomnia (2002) in the same year and he’s creepy as fuck in that as well. It was a creepy year.
I can barely remember even seeing this before but I’m sure I would have remembered how great it is … so I suppose I hadn’t seen it before.
What a hoot! It’s a pastiche of cheese so well put together it transcends cheese and elevates itself way into the spheres above cheese. It’s what one deems a self-aware movie – it knows exactly what it is and that’s the foundation. The visuals and set design could have been absolute gash but for some reason they are not. The cartoon-like quality to them serves to amplify the admittedly silly story, but that’s what it’s all about. Not many films today have a sense of ‘world’ about them, as in a universe onscreen in which the environment and the backdrop actually means something and has a relationship, and vice-versa, with the characters. This is how fantasy should be done.
It has the psychedelic feel of a Pink Floyd music video, and for almost the entire duration I thought it was Roger Waters and chums on soundtrack duties. It turned out to be Queen. I don’t like Queen at all. But I liked them here. And Mike Hodges directed this cracker and Get Carter (1970)? I did not know this.
I’ve said on countless occasions to anyone and no one that the Bourne films easily supplant the modern Bonds in terms of a ‘hyper-realism’ because they are the right spy for this era – dodgy government agencies who are an extension of those governments, expendable employees prone to paranoia and literal identity crisis, a globalised landscape with overlapping institutions all out to screw you/each other.
In recent pictures, i.e., the Daniel Craig shit-bombs, Bond has essentially imitated Bourne, jettisoning some of the more ludicrous gadgets of the later Pierce Brosnan entries and going back to basics. Unfortunately, the filmmakers have missed the point and also lost the plot. Bond is Bond. Bourne is Bourne. Skyfall (2012) and the like are so schematic it’s embarrassing.
But enough about 007. What the Bourne movies did so well was capture that post-9/11 zeitgeist – expanded government powers, loss of individual freedoms for reasons of national security (or whatever), the sense that the rule of law is entirely flexible. They are also thrillingly unpredictable. You actually believe the carnage on display, and believe in the character and his mission to remember yet atone. It’s convincing.
The Bourne Supremacy (2004) is the big one for me. It’s the dazzling city-hopping angle of it, the Berlin centrepiece, the unexpected death of a central character which is ruthless but entirely necessary in motivating the protagonist. And that bonkers Moscow car chase.
These movies are more than mere thrillers; they are as much about a bloke’s weary relation to his time and place as they are his mission objectives. Someone once described the pictures to me as ‘existential’.
The first trailer was released the other day for the latest adaptation of the Frank Herbert classic (1965). As promising as it looks, one is wary. Has there ever been ripe source material so consistently ruined by the moving image? Aside from a few pedestrian made-for-TV films, we have the rotten behemoth, the stupor-inspiring megaflop that is Dune (1984).
Even as a child I hated it and could articulate why it was so terrible. It was like a lesson in how to make a movie boring. The screenplay is all over the place, extended scenes existing for no apparent reason, characters possessing zero capacity for thought, all washed down with ropey special effects, hammy acting, and just a general … stylistic weirdness completely out of sync with the bare bones of the story.
David Lynch, with all his auteur talents, is not a director one associates with epic spectacle and character development mirroring the vistas. He cannot help himself here, insisting on going full-Lynch. God knows why he was handpicked for this, or why he accepted the mission. And what was Sting doing there?
It was pathetic. I fucking hated this stinker, then and now. Everything about it is vile. It’s like Nick Cotton every time he returned to Albert Square.
The current liberal/woke/SJW mission – they are in the tentative throes of an unofficial alliance these days – is their war on the past, their need to chop and change, to ‘fix’ that which does not conform to their present-day ‘world view’, to erase artefacts from another age which were celebrated in that age. Their fascistic ways are influential: we have it here with the latest act of cowardice by BBC-owned UKTV in their pulling of Fawlty Towers episode The Germans, an iconic staple of British TV originally aired in 1975 yet now derided by the aforementioned Axis of Intolerance. It has since been reinstated following counter-protests by what must be, and I hate to appropriate a Nixonian term, the Great Silent Majority.
Someone is offended! Phone the police! This war on … everything is the modus vivendi of hysteria culture. In the middle of a pandemic we now have folk trying to tear down statues of slave traders, these protesters (or whatever) wearing clobber made in Indonesia by slave children. The lack of self-awareness is almost funny.
I expect the following will soon appear on their proscriptions: anything Nazi-related, lauded TV series The Wire, the Crocodile Dundee movies, motion pictures featuring cross-dressing, The Silence of the Lambs (1991) because Buffalo Bill likes to put his willy between his legs, and Gone with the Wind (1939). Oh, wait a minute ….
More highly addictive utter trash binged on Netflix again, this eight-episode thriller a cross between a ’90s peak Joe Eszterhas number and those seedy Hollyoaks specials that were broadcast after the watershed. The appeal of this kind of show is in its cliffhanger formula; every chapter has a spanner chucked in the works or a new revelation.
Unadulterated rubbish it may be, but the sordid spectacle is worth it for trying to pinpoint where the fuck in England Michael C. Hall’s ‘accent’ is meant to descend from. It’s eight different counties mixed in a verbal blender, Owen Hargreaves meets Gillian Anderson.
This started off so well. For seven episodes I was gripped. It was so intricately put together and had a masterful Breaking Bad cliffhanger quality to it. Like most contemporary dramas, though, it crumbled into the nonsensical at its denouement. The last episode was so dire it ruined the preceding madness. Depression kicked in and I was then reminded of how Lost completely … lost the plot.
Stay away from this rubbish. Anyway, there’s always a good doc about Nazis to help ease the melancholy.
Wanderings and ... wonderings. 