This was magisterial and a joy to watch. It’s not exactly a ‘fun’ movie but it’s captivating in its sincerity and … power. There’s a sense that at any moment something awful could happen, and that’s mostly down to Cumberbatch, who is as unpredictable as he is scary. His Phil Burbank recalls Daniel Plainview in There Will Be Blood (2007), and The Power of the Dog is quite similar to that seminal film in atmosphere and lurid landscape.
Don’t be expecting a knockout punch moment because it’s not that kind of movie, more a series of jabs, each progressively harder.
He is nuts in this, a total riot, and clearly loving his epic life. Some scenes approach a scale of madness, and it’s almost a parody of a Jack Nicholson role, but not quite. The masterpiece revolves around the whims of this lad, every other character in awe of him. Even if he goes full-Joker, he still manages to imbue Frank Costello with pathos, and dare I say it, tragedy. You can’t picture anyone else in the role, and it’s a tragedy in itself that Scorsese and Nicholson only tangoed for the one motion picture.
Best scene? Jack impersonating a rat. A decent impression.
Is this the only movie ever made about the US invasion of Grenada? I’m not sure but I don’t think any others are warranted.
It’s highly entertaining stuff despite the jingoism when the invasion kicks off. In fact, they should have just ended the movie once Clint sorts out his grunts and turns the shambles of an ensemble into fighting men. I guess audiences craved/crave a shoot-out.
Clint is one hard bastard in this as usual but also funny. And I didn’t know that Mario Van Peebles could act. Perhaps I’ll give New Jack City (1991) a watch. And this wouldn’t be made today with the constant homophobic insults flying around the place. I suppose this was the go-to way to insult someone back then. A product of its time.
This was way ahead of its time, and quite the clever picture. It goes for moments of transcendence rather than thrills, but it mildly feels like a wasted opportunity despite how cerebral it is. You need some thrills to go with the admittedly effective navel-gazing. The casting doesn’t help; can you imagine a proper thesp in the lead, the intensity of a peak Clive Owen?
It’s a very good movie, though, despite the stilted performances. It’s about something. This is a rarity; most of the stuff blasted into cinemas these days – I don’t even know what these movies even purport to be. There’s a glimmer of a theme but in most cases it’s 20-odd topics mashed together by committee.
This has the odd effect of being a film without an obvious style; I can’t remember a single striking shot (SSS), but it somehow works in its favour, anonymity successful.
And Michael Nyman once again proves he’s the best at … Michael … Nymanesque scores.
It is not scary in any way; I’ve found the state of one of my jobbies to me more terrifying. What often puzzles me upon the viewing of atrocious movies is, did they realise they were making utter rubbish or were they under the impression that a masterpiece was in the works? The lunacy of the script aside, the ‘acting’ here is hysterically bad, with Owen Wilson giving perhaps the worst ‘performance’ of 1999. One does, however, feel some sympathy for the lad given that his dialogue is from the bargain bin.
So badly shot and edited, but hilarious in unintended ways, I would recommended this to film students. We could maybe have a module: ‘This is how not to make a movie.’
Edward Norton was the last zeitgeist of the 20th century.
It sounds risible but it isn’t if you look at the body of work – he somehow captured everything, hit every nail. It was most likely by accident; that or he was incredibly good at choosing projects. He’s not really hit those heights since but the talent remains. He just needs a director to take a chance on him.
This is a sometimes horrifying movie and there are moments you almost have to skip. The film is biblical in its capturing of the transitory nature of happiness. These very real characters are stuck there with no escape. But they have a few wee happy moments. A few. It’s a long time since 1998 but not really, in the sense that someone said to me the Berlin Wall has been down longer than it had been up. You couldn’t make a movie these days with Ed Norton emerging from a cathartic shower with a Big Bertha-sized swastika on his chest. Today, this narrative would have the compulsory strong-willed female, a disabled character, obvious life lessons, and a happy ending. Cinema today is essentially and only social politics.
Derek Vinyard is the pre-eminent example of charismatic authority – everything he says at the dinner table is incorrect but he captivates through the intensity of the delivery. Bloody hell, who got Best Actor (when the Oscars were relevant) over this lad?! I think it was that exasperating Italian bloke who thankfully disappeared from cinema after his Academy Award.
And what the fuck was happening with the director calling himself ‘Humpty Dumpty’? My research is limited.
But I found it slightly disappointing and for a good 30 minutes in the middle I was bored beyond belief; I won’t spoil why.
I regret not seeing it in the cinema, though, as it’s better than most films of this … variety. To a large extent reliant on spectacle (for that’s what it is), I suppose these aesthetic qualities demand a big-screen experience rather than a god-knows-what-inch £55 second-hand Chromebook.
It gets a lot right – the stunning visuals, the world-building, the casting, sandworms that aren’t ‘Pure LOL’, and the spirit of the book. And most importantly, it isn’t the David Lynch version.
This movie quietly defines the quietly adventurous. It’s so basic Mise-en-scène and placid and it should be boring but it isn’t because there’s a reasoning behind the dull stylistics. These were Edwardian times; apparently you couldn’t say what you think and lived a life of repressed longings (to speak) or whatever.
Hopkins is out of this world here; he is incapable of ‘normal’. He can barely hold a conversation with another actor; almost everything he does is a monologue. He is unique and he didn’t become Hannibal for no apparent reason.
Despite their apparent quaintness, Merchant–Ivory did make some crackers. The Remains of the Day (1993) is their undoubted masterpiece, a Hopkins masterclass again. This is the prototype for these type of movies, of which there are more and more these days because they are a safe bet. None are any good, however. I took one look at a recent upstairs-downstairs thing and turned it off after 178 seconds.
Most of this shite is just … shite we send to our former colonial subjects. They think we are actually like this.
Clint – we all go by first-name basis with the living legend (LL) – has perfected the ultimate grizzled angry old man with latent empathy. He long ago (even as early as the late ’70s) mastered fading masculinity and here especially he is thoroughly believable because of the asshole that he is. I’ve read many times that he goes for the ‘PC brigade’. I really don’t think he does; he’s just making movies about what he knows, the type of characters he does best, and he simply runs with his instincts as a filmmaker. He’s not exactly going to star in or direct a sequel to The Birdcage (1996).
He is extremely funny here, and the jokes don’t come from the racial slurs; it’s the fact he’s this hard-as-nails old geezer and no one in the movie either expects it nor can handle it.
“Ever notice how you come across somebody once in a while who you shouldn’t have fucked with? …. That’s me.”
He’s quite hit and miss as a director, but when he stars in a film, or one of his own, it’s usually very good.
It’s when Begbie goes zombie-Begbie and becomes a raging, snarling contagion, spreading the virus in the safe room in what is quite possibly the most terrifyingly claustrophobic sequence ever put on film.
And then immediately after this a certain Stringer Bell therefore decides to shoot them all.
It’s better than its precursor. Much better, and this is despite it getting a bit too silly towards the end. And I have no interest in the undead genre.
Wanderings and ... wonderings. 