Tag Archives: Thriller

Snake Eyes (1998).

After a grand opening sequence shot that showcases all of Brian De Palma’s predilection/fetish for needless aesthetics with an absence of characterisation or an acknowledgement of any world outside his own wee wanky technical exercises, this descends into a non-movie student project.

Apologies for the length of that sentence.

The most intriguing aspect of this legit pile of crap is that the excellent character actor Kevin Dunn is in it and interacts with a character named ‘Kevin Dunne’ played by Gary Sinise. But once again this is De Palma being all clever and self-referential instead of crafting a story.

Avoid.

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The Conversation (1974).

With the films of Alan J. Pakula, The Conversation (1974) sits right in the middle of Watergate as a dark inspiration, and you couldn’t get a more clinical, claustrophobic portrait of paranoia.

Hackman is masterful. His character’s job and the perfectionism he demands is his entire life, and once he makes mistakes, succumbing to emotions that compromise his skills, he is at a loss, a petrified wreck, playing his saxophone in a torn-to-pieces-apartment. 

It’s one of Coppola’s few original scripts and one wonders at the output if he did more of that. There is so much going on in this film, from the moody low-key jazz score to the extraordinary sound design, and it’s a movie obsessed with the peculiarities of its era. 

The twist ending is just shocking and I must confess I never saw it coming. 

And Harrison Ford is in it. 

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Woman of the Hour (2023).

This kind of nails the age – or how I imagine what this glitzy but grotty period was like. 

I do enjoy a wee slice of ’70s kitsch, even if it features creepy, sleazy men in their element. That and the obligatory strangler. It’s quite depressing viewing when you’re reminded of the media of bygone ages, three networks and no other alternate content. All folk did back in the day, it appears, was supinely plonk themselves in front of a box every evening like veggies, not a modicum of purpose in the endeavour. I’ve been there; I was a cabbage.

Any fool who appears on a game show has to be hampered with serious deep-seated issues, and this includes Ronald Reagan on ‘What’s my Line?‘. And on the serial killer stuff, never trust a stranger possessing the hair of Meat Loaf. 

Good movie.

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Longlegs (2024).

Delightfully throwback opening credits, recalling a time when cinema recognised the importance of setting the tone, immediately caught the eye – a rarity. And it all looks incredible, every shadowy frame an image that could have been from David Fincher. 

It suffices to say that I was fully engrossed in this splendid horror, which was as unpredictable as they come. 

We also have a barking Nicolas Cage. 

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The Hitcher (1986).

The landscape offers a lot to work with, ripe vistas aplenty, but there’s no enduring image from the cinematography side of things. 

I was expecting tension and chills; this was mainly boring and unimaginative. Nothing seemed to be at stake despite all the bloodshed, and the lack of any dynamic between the driver and the demented hitchhiker is a letdown. I couldn’t locate a personality in anyone here in what in essence is a variation of the same violent road encounter occurring every 10 minutes.

The laziness of writing pisses me off, be this in a slimy thriller like we have here or a mega bucks operation. It’s not difficult to insert a few character traits and attempt to build depth but nah, apparently it’s too much of a Herculean task. 

Rutger Hauer could be a scary man, though. And what happened to C. Thomas Howell? 

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Under Paris (2024).

Movies concerning sharks are usually a bit of fun, aren’t they? 

The material will either be masterpiece-level cinema (Quint monologues), or guiltily enjoyable schlock (genius sharks swimming backwards). Actually, there is no middle ground in what is after all a genre about sharks.

And this frightfest from the deep? 

Brainy people acting most stupidly through their unchecked arrogance, the treat their comeuppance. 

I jettisoned the subtitles for the dubbing, just so it would be that wee bit more amusing. It was rubbish but funny, even if the premise trumped the end result. 

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Hit Man (2023).

This was awful.

Nothing else to add.

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Ripley (2024). Excellent.

The cinematic travails of Tom Ripley have given us the quite barking The American Friend (1977), The Talented Mr. Ripley (1999), and the little-seen Ripley’s Game (2002) – a multifarious holy trilogy of sorts linked by the amoral antihero. I have not seen Purple Noon (1960), nor the Barry Pepper number. And what the fuck happened to that actor? He was on the cusp but now operating in the AWOL stakes.

And this TV first, it’s exceptional, a throwback continental thriller with vistas galore. Ripley epitomises the self-effacing weasel; you need to watch out for these creeps for they lurk in the shadows.

It’s a 5/5 from me and I couldn’t find a flaw in it.

And Patricia Highsmith used to smuggle snails through airport customs ….

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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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The Killer (2023).

I fell asleep.

It wasn’t memorable.

Nothing else to report.

Bye for now.

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