This belter of a human passed away a few months ago.
The hero was more than a mere teacher to me. I have never met a person so inspirational; I got crushed under the wheels of a truck once in 2004 and this lad actually phoned me up (Nokia 3310) and sent over DVDs. The little things mean a lot.
If there’s a heaven, and I fucking hope one exists, this bloke will be up there. He was a polymath teacher who had the rare ability to combine charisma with intellectual prowess; he structurally broke things down for students and demonstrated how things worked.
Best teacher I’ve ever had. He was so smart and his accent was nuts! Every single pupil at Edinburgh College was blessed by his utter selflessness, his empathy, his awesomeness.
He was an incredible person and everything he said and did was right.
This movie had so much potential; during its production I was sincerely anticipating the greatest motion picture event … ever. Upon first viewing I desperately wanted to love it but couldn’t help but make a mental note of everything about the shitter which vexed me. There was something seriously wrong with this movie.
It is pointlessly and relentlessly weird, depicting 1860s New York as something out of a comic book. I’m sure the experience of living in what was by all accounts a cesspit approximating a cartoon strip at times, but it simply can’t have been as baroque as the ludicrous fancy dress show on display in GONY.
The movie has this irritating tendency for revelling in micro details about stuff that has zilch to do with the overall narrative, as if it’s half history lesson and half entertainment. I see no reason for the Manhattan draft riots to be treated with such gravity. This is the only Scorsese film in which he appears overwhelmed by the material, which I find completely baffling as it’s about New York, crime, and religion, his cinema oeuvre.
Weirdly (again), it is bereft of energy. It feels like a painful Baz Luhrmann film, the cinematography and editing just jarring – insert bonkers Speedy Gonzales shot here, a rapid cut there. Even the voice-over is draining. And it ends with a U2 song and a shot of the Twin Towers. Is this MTV?
And why even insert Cameron Diaz in this? Her ‘accent’ (or whatever) is diabolical, as is Leo’s. The latter appears way out of his depth, evidently awed by the full-method Daniel Day-Lewis. I must also confess that I think it’s the great Day-Lewis’ worst ever performance. He’s just comedy, nothing else; I can’t take him seriously any time he gets … serious.
Sadly, I keep giving the film a chance every few years. The only parellel I can think of is when you open the fridge expecting a different result from when you opened it 30 minutes prior.
They’ve shut the pubs for two weeks because apparently COVID-19 has a special taste for alcohol. Parks, however, appear to be safe places. Hundreds of folk within an inch of each other. But it’s okay, COVID-19 doesn’t like parks.
My 2020 massacre of Netflix took in the refreshingly old-fashioned Ronin (1998) the other day. When I say old-fashioned, I refer to the non-CGI (as far as I could deduce) action sequences and car chases, the absence of silly comedy lines or winks to the audience in the dialogue, and the general maturity of proceedings. This is an anti-postmodern movie.
It doesn’t surprise me that the helmsman is John Frankenheimer as it does hark back to his earlier work in the ’60s and ’70s, decidedly ‘masculine affairs’ but which still retained strong female characters (Angela Lansbury, anyone?). Natascha McElhone is the woman calling the shots here, definitely not the damsel in distress among the boys.
And it’s some assemble, particularly Sean Bean who totally convinces as a bullshitter way out of his depth, and Stellan Skarsgård as your buttoned-down ex-Stasi (one presumes) tech expert who just happens to be a complete psycho. De Niro is … De Niro, but De Niro before he became a pratfalling big baby in all those godawful ‘comedies’ from the noughties and beyond.
Rather than simply recommending Ronin for its throwback action and characters, though, there’s a bit more subtextual depth to it, a sense that this is the real world for a lot of folk, independent contractors segueing from job to job, making transient connections but nothing ever more than the odd fleeting bond. It’s a story of existential loneliness and a relatable one.
And regarding the MacGuffin, the perpetually elusive case which drives the narrative. Like Pulp Fiction (1994), we are never privy to the contents. It doesn’t matter.
A few snaps from my Rome sojourn popped up on one of those memories/flashback social media feeds that continue to remind me to jettison the silly things. But here I am, to share my profound thoughts and sublime snaps with the world.
This was back in 2015 on a trip which also took in Milan and Venice. Rome was legit stunning to look at, but it could have been so much better without a few garish elements; rather than just have the actual remnants of antiquity remaining as … well, themselves, there loitered a whole parade of local cretins decked out in Praetorian Guard clobber and the like. It stank of tacky tourism.
The Colosseum would have also been that slightly more monumental if the local authorities (or UNESCO or whoever has ‘claim’) removed the shitty parked cars circling the arena. No one wishes to see a banged-up Fiat (or any other variety of motor) plonked outside Russell Crowe’s stomping ground.
I suppose all our venerated treasures are like this; they come with a side order of cringe. And yes, those are needless ‘vintage’ filters I stuck on the images.
That is, the 2012 version and not the mess from 1995 that always popped up on Channel 5 in the late ’90s. I was going to maintain that a movie featuring both Sylvester Stallone and Rob Schneider is a recipe for sci-fi disaster, but then Demolition Man (1993) was a decent film, probably because the intolerable Schneider barely speaks in it.
The 1995 one is pure cheese, but blue cheese. You can see the extent of Stallone’s ego during this time, his performance one of simple vanity. The film is Sly’s hero worship vehicle for … himself. And it’s so badly made, your bog-standard video game aesthetic.
Anyway, that was then, and this is the era of the pandemic and the search for cinematic treats; it’s more accurately been a period spent revisiting lost treasures. Dredd (2012) seemed to go under the radar and I can’t even remember it being released. My first encounter with the Judge’s reboot was in a Bangkok hotel room after a grand night of hammering Samsong Thai rum with a pal who broke 9/11 to me (true story).
This movie is cracking, and aye, he never does once take his helmet off, which I find baffling. I know the bloke isn’t a massive star but he’s certainly a widely respected and recognised thespian. It’s violence done right – it matters, has a visceral role in law enforcement, and is mandatory in certain circumstances. It’s so rare to find a comic book adaptation which portrays violence for what it is in all its explicitness.
One of the many reasons I cannot stand these Marvel movies is the sheer cheek of them; it is nonstop carnage but designed for kids. The audience rarely sees the graphic consequences of bludgeoning someone to fuck with a massive hammer. The cannon of silly films in essence trivialise their own existence.
Back to Dredd. It’s strikingly shot and choreographed, and the dystopian future on display seems reasonable as it merely amplifies the ghetto milieu of some present inner cities. It is also rather funny, most of the humour stemming from Dredd’s apparent complete nonchalance as to the dangers around him.
Wanderings and ... wonderings. 