Bill Forsyth could have made this charming flick, which is surprisingly well shot and not the TV movie aesthetic that I was expecting.
Nice wee story, characters you can root for, and the consummate thesp Ian Bannen gets a late career-defining role. The bloke was in literally everything, even turning up in Braveheart (1995) as the leper pops of Robert the Bruce.
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.
My attention was drawn to this as my ears were piqued, tickled even, by Tom Hardy’s bonkers accent in the trailer – whatever accent it’s meant to be, I was intrigued. That or the feeling it was picking up the aesthetic mantel of The Wild One (1953), that seminal exploitation movie that barely merits a second viewing because it’s shite. But it does have Brando being a committed Brando.
Sadly, and this is where my faith in peculiar accents was misplaced, I was annoyed beyond composure with the lead lassie in this and her grating, stomach-churning voice, Marge Simpson scraped down a blackboard with a bit of Karen Hill from Goodfellas (1990) chucked in the vernacular mix. The entire 30 minutes I could manage this film I was telling myself, “This is so bad. My ears are in pain. I hate folk on motorcycles.”
Nice bit of scenery in the picture, open landscapes and all that; it would have been better if you just jettisoned the shitty accents, all the motorcycles, and the story, which I gave up on.
This will be the only movie starring both Tom Hardy and Michael Shannon that I’ll turn off. Sorry, lads.
It’s the original trailer for Alien (1979), and it is up there with the best of them:
Sometimes trailers are art. If you watch the Star Trek (2009) one, for example, with its Two Steps From Hell accompaniment, it’s more accomplished than the actual movie.
There should be awards for trailers.
Survived an hour of Joker: Folie à Deux (2024).
I understand, after much research, it’s a self-reflexive flick that draws attention to the audience’s alleged complicity in the villain’s crimes, or our fascination in them – hence the tedium, the daft singing, the proverbial strangling-the-cat. If that’s the point, what’s the point? If I want karaoke, I’ll listen to any pub in Edinburgh on a Saturday.
This film is one of the most painful experiences I’ve had to endure this year. I can rustle up a more captivating, less infuriating shitter with £500, and this wouldn’t even be an arduous quest. And I’m a fabulous singer compared to these two sawdust-throated failed crooners.
I fucking hate this movie.
’50s Americana here looks like a repressive white-picket hellhole, and the trivialities of the dialogue lays bare the desperation of the characters in their staid conformity to societal norms. The style, all lush colours and impeccable static takes, has a refined and absolute purpose with nothing superfluous in the frame. It engenders a stillness which is rare in most of cinema.
A movie intent on capturing dignified sadness in its characters, and moments of quiet bliss all too fleeting, you come away from this feeling that you’ve been right in the middle of something special.
An outstanding work, 5/5.
Wow.
The exquisite and sweeping shots here, the depth of field, and attention paid to the sound design were an anomaly to see in a movie within this genre, which isn’t much of one. A breathtakingly beautiful film to look at and listen to, Gothic horror done right. This is how you do it (sorry, Montell).
This is proof that plagiarism can work.
And just so you know, Chris Finch from The Office is in it.
A barely cobbled together assortment of various grandiose ideas and sketchy performances, the acting is baroque, the standard mental stuff you get in a Baz Luhrmann film, except he generally makes interesting cinema. Some of the images here catch the eye, but they never coalesce into anything resembling a coherent narrative.
The characters have arguments you can’t even connect with or understand; they bicker for the director’s benefit, in a story based on the Catilinarian conspiracy but without any intrigue, political element, or a Cicero. If ever a movie needed an editor, or someone to just tell the director to grow up a wee bit, it’s this one.
I tried to give it a go as the lad has made some classics, but I was compelled to turn it off at 56 minutes.
Life is too short for this shite.
I’m off to watch Jack (1996) with a Blue WKD.
Wanderings and ... wonderings. 