Sometimes I like to put a filter on my iPhone and pretend I’m shooting an album cover for an indie band.
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Pieces of Her (2022) defines derivative.
A well-acted shitter (Toni Collette is marvellous in everything) but this descended into farce after about 30 unexpectedly disturbing minutes – I thought this was meant to be one of those quirky coming-of-age dramedies which can be quite therapeutic on occasion. The horrific MacGuffin had me almost turning the show off, such was its realism and relevance. I give it some kudos for that.
Things got messy thereon, however, and I’m referring to the script. It wasn’t going anywhere and I was losing interest with every gnawingly predictable moment, a pile-on of scenes from other thrillers. By the second episode I was lost in the world of far superior stuff demanding a second viewing.
I pulled the plug.
I hope you follow my lead (see what I did there?).
Rubbish.
Equilibrium (2002) is better than the Matrix sequels.
And I don’t know why it was ever associated with those mingers. It has guns and a similar theme. Wow!
There’s nothing particularly new or groundbreaking about Equilibrium (2002). It’s just a really well-made high-concept flick from someone straight out of a movie den who’s made it their quest to put into entertainment what they’ve absorbed from staples of the genre. All the usual tropes are here: regime offering order instead of chaos, Orwellian euphemisms and doublespeak, the conflicted civil servant.
“Who will guard the guards themselves?” will always provide plenty of movie material, and this is supremely stylish and flies by. It knows it’s shite. And that’s a good thing.
And Sean Bean dies in it. Which is inevitable.
Boiling Point (2021) is how you make a movie.
This was intense viewing, to say the least. The best thing about it is its reality – folk having a complete nightmare on the job and juggling like fuck. And it’s all over a bit of food.
It’s not a masterpiece, but Stephen Graham is fabulous in everything and I would watch him drive a milk float for 90 minutes.
Meet the Parents (2000) is forever hilarious.
It’s finally on Netflix, the streaming platform the excuse to watch once more what you’ve viewed 20-odd times already.
This is the ultimate comedy about Murphy’s Law, with one inane episode after another. But they are all credible and you believe every moment. It’s so well shot and edited, with the awkward reactions and expressions half of the hilarity. Moreover, it defines awkward. And there’s a seasonal quality to it, like it should be mandatory Christmas viewing.
Sadly, together with Analyze This (1999), it gave De Niro the impression he was first and foremost a comedian, and it kickstarted almost two decades of utter shite from the legend. This includes the truly horrid sequels to this masterpiece.
The Matrix Resurrections (2021). I turned it off.
I’ll keep this short.
I lasted 54 minutes but couldn’t take any more pain.
It’s nothing but a desperate parody of the original.
I wondered why or how Keanu Reeves was in it. It’s either blackmail material or the makers of this sorry sack of shit were in possession of another sad-with-a-sandwich meme.
It’s visually so anonymous and could be any derivative movie among a thousand.
It has nothing to say.
And every character in it I wished to flush down a toilet.
It’s pointless.
Bye for now.
Jules et Jim (1962) is on.
I’d like to think that the truly great François Truffaut would be disgusted with this sneaky snap I took from behind a bus window, a wee ‘Ned’ at the back of the vessel screaming into his mobile the pros of beating a rival thug into a “fuckin’ bin”.
Glen Clova getaway.
It’s the Overlook Hotel/the Dumb and Dumber (1994) palace with a surrounding … nature.
Great Outdoors Mission Accomplished.
Gunpowder, Treason & Plot (2004) is Robert Carlyle at his most Robert Carlyle.
For the exposition, I thought this one of the worst performances I’d ever seen. It was like Carlyle watched Richard III – play or any movie – and decided to limp about like Crookback for the duration of a gunpowder plot. And spice it up with a bit of Begbie. His James VI/I is a foul-mouthed little bastard with no grace or manners, an opportunistic cockroach who would murder an OAP for a bag of sugar.
I was thinking this and then I thought: this is 1603+. These creatures chucked one another onto bonfires and ripped their entrails apart. And the same sort would do the same today if they could. And then I got the genius of the performance.
Carlyle is keeping it real.
This is the only place I could find it. It’s very good, and with a young(ish) Michael Fassbender as Guy Fawkes:
Hutchison House, Edinburgh – the Beacon of the Southwest.
There are two of these towers so the plural is more apt but I prefer ‘The Beacon’. It’s less daunting when you’re up close, like many a monument.
The Beacon is better seen from afar.
Wanderings and ... wonderings. 