Category Archives: United Kingdom

These soaps need to die.

I was watching a soul-splintering episode of such cretinous drivel earlier, this viewing not of my choosing, me the captive audience.

It entirely consisted of a ‘character’ with a stubborn point of view being talked into having an apostate opinion by another ‘character’ doing the convincing. This happened four times in varying damp scenarios in under half an hour, and the rest of the ‘drama’ composed of pratfalling village idiots faffing around with mugs of tea and biscuits, these additions to the narrative just a tiny step above the bracket of lobotomy IQ levels.

Absolutely fucking hideous, how these shows still exist is just depressing.

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I, Claudius. I suppose it was seminal once.

Brian Blessed sans the beard and his general all-round formulaic Brian Blessedness was at least a shock. We also have shite costumes and dodgy wigs chucked into this insipid, very British mix/mess.

It’s essential history and for the time, I assume, it was event television. But bloody hell it isn’t half fucking boring. I couldn’t get beyond the embarrassing plastic sets and that did it for me. Did they shoot this in a prison? I had to pull the plug for I couldn’t suspend my disbelief.

The likes of Lars von Trier needn’t bother with an art department because that’s his obvious (oh so provocative!) intention; here, the skullduggery had the appearance of a school play. 

I’m sure it’s captivating but no thanks, I have a toga from a fancy dress shop I need to attend to. 

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The Sweeney (2012). Atrocious beyond belief.

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.

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Lady Macbeth (2016).

I do hope to never view this film again. This is not because it is in any way rubbish; the images are striking, the story clenching you from the off. It’s brilliant but oh so brutal, an exercise in putting the viewer through the Victorian wringer. And the protagonist manages to be both monstrous and worthy of your sympathy at the same time, a bona fide Lady Macbeth, I suppose. She reminded me of a far less avuncular, much more sinister approximation of Clint Eastwood’s quote in Gran Torino (2008) when he declares, “Ever notice how you come across somebody once in a while you shouldn’t have fucked with? That’s me.”

Just don’t bother with the popcorn for this one.

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U-571 (2000).

It is tremendously well made, never boring, nothing special, and no Das Boot (1981), but what ever could be? 

And I have no idea what happened to Jon Bon Jovi in this movie, or why he is in it. 

It’s a mystery but not that much of a mystery that I will commence an investigation.

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World War II: From the Frontlines (2023).

No revelations but the footage is immense.

It’s not The World at War (1973); it’s you experiencing the war as much as is possible from your sofa.

And the voice of Orson Welles makes an appearance.

Tom Wilkinson was the best.

In almost everything, he quietly steals the show. No histrionics or chewing the scenery, but an impeccable talent to convince in every role – mob boss, downtrodden miner, creepy CIA handler. I suppose that’s acting. He excelled at projecting an inscrutable authority, rarely perturbed, but you can see that he’s seething.

Go-to performance, a remarkable gig in Todd Field’s quite brilliant In the Bedroom (2000):

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Fool Me Once (2024).

Watching this hugely entertaining binge-ripe trash, I was always aware of Scream‘s Randy Meeks’ assertion that “Everybody’s a suspect!”. And they are, with the red herrings and reverse cul-de-sacs. Who can you trust? No one. Who is likeable? A few, but they’re probably dirty.

Cluedo on steroids, it’s very well acted for what is essentially the TV equivalent of a sordid airport page-turner, even if it’s another gruelling example of the ‘Americanisation of conversation’. Example:

“Come on, Maya.”

“What, Eddie?”

“You’re not yourself, Maya.”

“I’m fine, Eddie.”

And Brendan Brady from Hollyoaks is in it.

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FairyTale: A True Story (1997).

Harvey Keitel and Peter O’Toole in the same movie piqued my interest, and it’s all innocent and charming enough, the fairies a countryside escapism from the horrors of late modernity, WWI ruining the illusion for everyone.

It should be far more engrossing but it isn’t and just ends up being awfully British – rudimentary camerawork, score from a Sunday church service, barely competent actors who’ve littered a hundred other mediocre British films.  

Why I’m being so harsh on such a nothing movie aimed at kids I don’t know. 

That’s enough for today. 

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The Remains of the Day (1993). Just WOW.

Seen this four times now. It is impeccable and unexpectedly … devastating. I HOPED (to justify my hatred of the worst of mannered British cinema) this upstairs/downstairs malarkey to be balls but, oh no. 

Dr. L, sorry, Anthony Hopkins is an astounding thesp when he can be arsed and this wonderful film displays all of his gifts, how he can inject such a pitiful figure with pathos and something hidden but not quite revealed. What a heartless bastard this bloke is, dedicated to his duty – for folk who don’t give a tuppence about their servants’ well-being or advancement/adventures. He doesn’t know what else to do and it is purgatory witnessing it.

The Emma Thompson big-cheese housekeeper goes all-out to show how much she admires him and he is oblivious – what an infuriating fool of a character, but it’s explained why he is that way. He gets there in the end. Painfully. 

Tragedy in the best way. Get the tissues out.

And also, Fred Elliott from Corrie Street (1066-the end of the world as we know it) pops up as a district nurse in a tuxedo.

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