Why was this not rubbish? Why is it a decent movie with genuine scares? A script and crew working in tandem, I guess, and I’m not ashamed to announce that I did indeed shit my pants on several occasions.
Well done.
The Conjuring 2 (2016).
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Miguel Ferrer.
Profound statement:
I have just been informed that the actor Miguel Ferrer was not only George Clooney’s cousin but the son of the impeccably svelte José Ferrer, whom many of you will know as the Turkish Bey from Lawrence of Arabia (1962).
Every day is a school day and all that.
And Miguel was a top presence, a villainous aura fit for any drama, though he was also in a lot of dirge.
The Player (1992).
The master of the slow zoom and the overlapping conversation, frequently several happening at once, Robert Altman’s very amusing, freewheeling thriller is half satire, a director taking the absolute piss and slandering his own environment.
It’s peerless entertainment and one of his most enduring works.
Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence (1983).
Just brilliant, absolutely magical scenes, and that score is quite special:
The Conjuring (2013).
I’m always dubious when it comes to horror as there is so much detritus a mere click away; this genre is uniquely positioned to beat a successful premise to death, a running theme for all of celluloid and beyond.
This shocked me (horror!) by not being shit. It was disconcerting from the very start, an expert lesson in how to develop a creepy atmosphere and build chills. The director evidently studied the winning tropes of modern horror and all the usual pitfalls were avoided, as there are genuinely terrifying moments.
Cinemas are suited for fare like this, not a laptop screen smaller than a squirrel. I can only apologise.
Impressive movie.
Why Julianne Moore is almost top billing in The Fugitive (1993) – answered at last.
Thank you, IMDB. This has bothered me for decades:
The Conversation (1974).
With the films of Alan J. Pakula, The Conversation (1974) sits right in the middle of Watergate as a dark inspiration, and you couldn’t get a more clinical, claustrophobic portrait of paranoia.
Hackman is masterful. His character’s job and the perfectionism he demands is his entire life, and once he makes mistakes, succumbing to emotions that compromise his skills, he is at a loss, a petrified wreck, playing his saxophone in a torn-to-pieces-apartment.
It’s one of Coppola’s few original scripts and one wonders at the output if he did more of that. There is so much going on in this film, from the moody low-key jazz score to the extraordinary sound design, and it’s a movie obsessed with the peculiarities of its era.
The twist ending is just shocking and I must confess I never saw it coming.
And Harrison Ford is in it.
Fury (2014).
By its climax, it descends into the rather ludicrous in such a far-fetched way that even someone with no basic knowledge of warfare would be aghast at, though it never entertains the farcical.
But I forgive its transgressions as it’s so well put together, the action – no-holds-barred as one would expect from the trailers – is ferocious, and the characters all have their arcs. Most of them aren’t even likeable, which adds to the realism the movie achieves for much of its duration.
And stranger things have happened in war, so our five-member tank crew holding off what seems to be an entire SS division for half a day isn’t that outrageous and insane.
I think.
Dead Ringers (1988).
This is one of those gleefully macabre movies that upon reading the premise you know exactly who the director is. Yes, it’s David Cronenberg again proving that his oddball interests are not only weirder than yours, he’ll make a film about them.
Two Jeremy Irons for the price of one, and this is the only time he’s gone nuts in a movie. These days, he’s your token British supporting bore. He turns up and he’s the same in every film, phoning it in.
A shame.
Wanderings and ... wonderings. 