Unhinged (2020)

 

Director: Derrick Borte

Stars: Russell Crowe, Caren Pistorius

Short Review, no spoilers

Tight little B-movie thriller and another one capitalising on these crap times by opening with a society bubbling with barely controlled rage and violence, peopled by individuals who can’t say sorry and who, on this occasion anyway, pay an extreme price. Russell Crowe is huge (literally) but deftly plays an over-the-top character with admirable control.

Full Review (spoilers)

This film features one of the best tag lines ever (‘He can happen to anyone’) and unfortunately for Rachel (Caren Pistorius), a single mom with financial struggles, Russell Crowe’s ‘The Man’ happens to her when she impatiently pumps her car horn at his truck dawdling at a stop light. What ensues is the mother of all overreactions, even if her retort to his request for better manners is somewhat callous and self-involved.

Crowe is excellent, occasionally bearing an uncanny resemblance to John Goodman when he’s losing his shit. Freshly embittered by a recent divorce from his adulterous wife, we know this guy’s a problem from the opening scene when he uses a hammer to first batter the door of his former house down, then his ex and her male companion, before dousing the place with gasoline and sending it up in flames. Although weighed down by plenty of problems including her own divorce, stranger Rachel becomes his next random victim when, stressed by her lateness getting her kid to school, she fatefully blasts her horn at The Man. With the calculating manner in which The Man conducts the ensuing reign of terror, you come to suspect that this ticking time bomb may have been lying in wait for such a circumstance to embark on his crusade of life-destroying. Following what is an unremarkable and low-level incident of road rage, The Man pulls up alongside Rachel and initially comes across as an old-fashioned gentleman, with his softly spoken Southern accent and gently insistent request for acknowledgement of what good manners are, especially in the face of a snappy response from the dismissive Rachel. Although previously presenting as a disorganised but well-meaning woman with her own shit to deal with, refusing to apologise for her burst of frustration sets her on an excessively punishing path to learning about politeness and consideration for others.

Interestingly, The Man’s extreme measures don’t seem to have any particular effect in this regard – although Rachel fights to save and protect her and hers, it’s worth noting that wider society fall like skittles in the path of The Man’s ruthless rage without much acknowledgement from Rachel, who continues not to recognise strangers in an empathetic or grateful way. When Rachel first realises that this beef with The Man could be an ongoing concern, she barely even looks at the valiant guy who offers to walk her out of the gas station, outside of which The Man’s imposing Ford Dodge truck is spotted looming ominously behind her own station wagon. Done in a pleasingly non-macho or posturing way, the guy comes across as doing a small but nice thing to help a stranger out. A taut scene follows where you’re just waiting for the string to snap, which of course it does – the guy gets run over for his troubles and Rachel is naturally horrified. But this is quickly followed by the first of many car chases and a series of battles, the focus of which is how it affects Rachel and her family and friends as various individuals are caught in the crossfire. Later in the film, Rachel and son Kyle try to gain the assistance of a driving cop, who is obliterated by a cement truck in one of several moments when the film delivers a genuinely shocking moment of violence. Again, Rachel and her son react with horror, but briefly before continuing swiftly on with their escape from The Man. Despite the potential aid these strangers offer, Rachel only really affords these people the same level of recognition as is possible with the blurry figures seen in the CCTV footage at the start of the film and no more.

The film addresses a person’s sense of responsibility, pounding home the possible consequences of a simple lack of cordiality towards fellow human beings. It also critiques the contemporary dependence on communication technology, as blocking interactions between close relatives while simultaneously laying them bare to interference from those who would do harm. This is realised both in the difficulty Rachel’s live-in brother Fred has talking to their mother via video call when she can’t activate sound, and the ease with which The Man gains control of Rachel’s life just by getting hold of her mobile devices. Upon achieving this power over her via virtual means, The Man brings the physical brutality when he murders her lawyer friend in a particularly nasty diner scene, and rams home the responsibility theme when he pushes Fred’s fiancée on to his own outstretched knife, before forcing him to read out a letter of blame to Rachel - over the phone naturally.

As the film juggernauts on to the final showdown, the Nine Inch Nails-esque soundtrack with its electro-industrial tension building is excellent. There are some nice little narrative loops, one of which involves candy cane scissors striking the killer blow, and I enjoyed that the maze-like housing estate of Rachel’s mother’s home is cleverly used to lure and then lose The Man in the final stages of pursuit. Suspension of disbelief is generally managed well, with The Man’s ability to carry out this excessive crusade of vengeance contextualised credibly. Having handled the plot movements so well however, it’s disappointing that this falls down a little at the end in terms of nuts-and-bolts human physiology. Namely that the final showdown involves Rachel and her young son getting punched by the very hefty Man, something that they both recover from quite unrealistically. But hey ho, that’s the movies for you. The ending is also not as witty as it could have been. Naturally, as Rachel and son drive peacefully away, they find themselves in a similar situation to what got them in to this mess in the first place, but this time Rachel’s hand hovers over the horn and she exchanges a look with Kyle. Being that the central message revolves around the reluctance to say sorry (another contemporary concern in wider society), it would have been interesting to see Rachel in a situation where she had to do just that. But this is perhaps a pessimistic movie – as much as there is relief in seeing ordinary citizens drive away with their lives intact after a horrific ordeal, the subtle lessons that might have been learned from an albeit extreme experience are ultimately like dust in the wake of Rachel’s wheels.

Joker (2019)

 

Director: Todd Phillips

Stars: Joaquin Phoenix, Robert De Niro, Frances Conroy

Short Review, no spoilers

In commandeering an origins story of the DC comics supervillain to critique both the treatment of the mentally ill and the ever-widening gap between rich and poor in western society, Joker sticks out like a defiantly awkward thumb amongst the currently over-saturated but seemingly ever popular superhero movie market. However, enjoying its own unprecedented success, Joker is a powerful, important film, controversial to some, vital to others. Joaquin Phoenix delivers a sensational performance as Arthur Fleck, a socially awkward, isolated man with a condition which causes him to erupt in to uncontrollable bouts of laughter. As dumb and crass as the Hangover movies are, director Todd Phillips utilises the somehow simultaneously slick but dirgy cinematography from the latter, and puts his ability to be knowingly provocative to better use. Robert De Niro is also excellent, playing a passive-aggressive TV anchor with too much fake tan and Botox in a casting that, while more obviously references the influences of Martin Scorsese’s Taxi Driver and King of Comedy on the film, also brings to mind De Niro’s role in Casino when the once big time Vegas man turns cheesy TV show host.

Full Review (spoilers)

Like Kick-Ass, Joker removes the superhuman qualities from superhero movies, instead approaching the genre on a very grounded, ‘this could happen’ level. The choice to focus on a supervillain rather than hero is interesting here, presenting a criminal that is societally created rather than inherently evil, a villain that is arguably more human and relatable for his flaws and more dramatically dynamic for his bad behaviour. In Tim Burton’s brilliant adaptation, the arch rivals of Batman and the Joker were in fact comparatively weird. Here Bruce Wayne is still but a boy, leaving all of the complexity to his nemesis. The titular character is a poor man (economically and in terms of mental health) in contrast to Bruce Wayne’s familial background of wealth and power, and their destined rivalry, normally attributed to revenge for the murder of Wayne’s parents, is literally incidental to the wider socio-economic issues that produce them and polarise them as individuals. As such, Joker is brilliantly prescient – despite Arthur Fleck’s declaration that he ‘doesn’t believe in anything,’ and is not political, the film rams home that the personal is political when we see that Arthur’s deterioration is inexorably linked to societal indifference and mistreatment of the mentally ill.

Joker may have proved less popular with some comic book fans and Batman purists because it is in fact an indie movie in style and a powerfully, unapologetically downbeat and raw examination of living with mental illness in contemporary society, including damning condemnation of cuts to services, and the ongoing stigmatisation and isolation experienced by mentally ill individuals. It has been divisive on this issue too, pushing the well-used panic button of apparently appearing to justify and incite violence. What is undoubtedly provocative is that Arthur is seen to become physically more graceful and self-assured following the retaliatory killing of the Wall street-type bullies on the subway, along with his increasing embrace of his condition and the role of the Joker identity. Before, his uncontrollable fits of humourless laughter are met with awkwardness and disdain, addressed by Arthur himself in one of many quotable lines: ‘The worst part about having a mental illness is people expect you to behave as if you don’t.’ The scene in which Arthur dances in slow motion to a Gary Glitter song is enjoyably subversive, alluding to the current censorship of art in which separation between art and artist is increasingly troubled territory. It is also part of a deliberate but not mindlessly risqué approach that is behind the treatment of a subject so at odds with the current model of sanitising and ‘celebritising’ mental illness. Avoiding disability stereotypes of pitiful victim or remarkable genius, and instead taking the embittered villain and inviting us to empathise with him has proved a prospect uncomfortable for some. Nevertheless, we are expected to understand that the use of the Glitter song and the portrayal of a man driven to violence does not in and of itself condone criminality. As such, the responses by some reflect the kind of moralising at the expense of missing the point that is prevalent in today’s world and precisely what the film is driving at.

There is also great poignancy. In the context of an otherwise miserable life, Arthur’s escapes in to fantasy are sad and understandable. His foray in to stand-up comedy is a perfect example of how mental illness can directly stop you from doing what you want to do most, and the fact that it is his imagined girlfriend watching and applauding that spurs him on is tragic. The link between comedy and tragedy as it pertains to mental illness is deftly explored, Arthur himself perceiving his own life switching from one of tragedy to one of comedy, something that resonates with those that understand the sometimes simultaneously devastating and ridiculous ways in which one’s mind can direct one’s actions. Even as Arthur comes across as cool and nonchalant in front of the cops that are closing in on him, he turns and walks in to a door, a moment that captures perfectly the irony of a relentlessly demeaned individual striving to obtain some scrap of dignity.

We also see Arthur as mocked reality star when his filmed stand-up routine is held up by his TV idol as Murray Franklin’s proof of yet another talentless wannabe. What was once the realm of surrealism, as seen in Requiem for a Dream when Ellen Burstyn’s lonely old lady becomes obsessed with an increasingly deluded connection with her favourite TV show, is now something that actually happens in the public humiliation of ordinary, sometimes even disabled people on social media and television. Is the sufferer crazy or society or both?

The film is also streaked with an anti-austerity critique. When asked by reporters to comment on the murders committed by Arthur, mayoral candidate and billionaire Thomas Wayne makes a misguided comment about ‘clowns’ being envious of the rich, betraying acknowledgement of a deeply divided society and the underlying anxiety of those whose interests it is in to keep it that way. Riots that follow are inspired by the statement, and Arthur unwittingly becomes a symbol of social unrest.

With all the superficial, patronising, celebrity-endorsed lip service that does more harm than good and ignores the experiences of most people with mental illness, particularly those who are poor or suffer with ‘unfashionable’ conditions, Joker is a refreshingly hard-hitting, sensitively wrought and boldly critical depiction of living with mental illness in contemporary society. During the course of the film, Arthur discovers that his mother was a patient at Arkham Asylum, and her story has the familiar ring of Frances Farmer-type incarcerations, in which the confinements of young, ‘problematic’ women in the past could have easily been politically motivated as much as for the purposes of ‘treatment’. Fast forward to the present day and, although individuals like Arthur may not be institutionalised, they are victims of the new method of ‘care in the community,’ which in fact means that they are left to slip through the cracks in to isolated and unsupported existences.

In several reviews, Arthur is described as a narcissist, regarding a complex character with the same dismissal displayed by the character’s therapist in the movie. For many, it’s easier to push such problematic individuals to one side than to tackle the potential issues they face both within and around themselves. We hear the same mindless mantra to ‘talk’ about mental illness over and over again, as if this will automatically remove the stigma and magically make us all well again. Worse still, this command to talk is delivered by members of the royal family, and is accompanied by images of highly-paid footballers, pop stars, models or whoever else is happy to jump aboard the bandwagon and raise their profile. It seems nobody really wants to hear what people like Arthur have to say, both in and outside the film. This is why I believe Joker is in fact a significant entry in to the discussion surrounding mental illness and how it relates to wider social factors.

The Irishman (2019)

 

Director: Martin Scorsese

Stars: Robert De Niro, Joe Pesci, Al Pacino, Stephen Graham, Harvey Keitel

Short Review, no spoilers

This is vintage Scorsese tinged with poignancy - a deeply satisfying gangster movie that deals with lifelong friendships and the pains of growing old. The prospect of the legendary director working with not only Robert De Niro, Joe Pesci and Harvey Keitel again, but also Al Pacino is as rewarding as anticipated – they’re all a little older but as compelling as ever.

Full Review (spoilers)

The film opens in classic Scorsese style: a long, unedited tracking shot moving from room to room accompanied by a 1950s pop song. Wryly referencing a device previously used to propel the viewer in to an immersive, kinetic environment, following the movements of a young and ambitious protagonist, here the camera drifts ghostlike in to an old people’s home, eventually arriving at our aged hero, stationary in his wheelchair, waiting out death. As in Goodfellas and Casino, The Irishman revolves around the life of a criminal whose reward for surviving a violent existence, even as all those surrounding him fall, is to end up alone. The difference here is that we are taken right up to the end of Frank Sheeran’s life, even witnessing him picking out a coffin for himself, and a spot for his memorial stone.

Based on true events, the film takes Sheeran’s unproven claims that he killed union president Jimmy Hoffa in 1975 as truth, building a story around it of institutionalised corruption, political intrigue, and tested loyalties. In the film as in life, both Sheeran and Hoffa are shown to be associated with mob boss Russell Bufalino (Joe Pesci) and his superior, Angelo Bruno (Harvey Keitel), ties which lead Hoffa to run in to trouble with the Kennedys, and most likely were behind his mysterious disappearance. Spanning a timeline from the 1940s to the 1990s, and cutting back and forth between various eras within this period, the film explores the development of Sheeran’s associations with both Hoffa and the mob, and the build-up to Hoffa’s assassination, as imagined by Scorsese.

A little slow to get going and with a few unnecessary sequences at the end, Scorsese’s longest film could have been shorter. Where it does pick up pace is when Pacino enters the action, the best of an excellent cast on this occasion. In comparison to the last successful teaming up of De Niro and Pacino – Michael Mann’s Heat - here, Pacino steals the show, providing a performance as entertaining if not as brash and blustering. As for De Niro, he’s understated in this film, not in the icily cool way as he was in the aforementioned, but in a somewhat more underwhelming way. Nevertheless, as in Heat, this probably works well in allowing Pacino the room to act big, De Niro perhaps knowing that a subtler performance on his part compliments their work together much better than butting heads. As a result, the friendship between Sheeran and Hoffa is believable and moving. Most enjoyable is seeing the two discuss union and mob politics in shared hotel rooms in their pyjamas; and when Hoffa has to reassure his upset friend that a ball-out in his office was not aimed at him – “I didn’t even see you there!” Most heart-breaking is De Niro’s expression when he realises his role in Hoffa’s death, and their last embrace in the back of a car on the way to Hoffa’s demise.

Pacino is also at times very funny, contributing most to the humour that is not unusual amongst all the machismo and violence in a Scorsese movie. Following the unhesitating and emphatic beating of a would-be assassin by Hoffa’s son Chuck, Hoffa immediately launches in to enthusiastic praise for Chuck’s actions, and goes on to tutor the assembled journos on the best way to deal with an assailant depending on what weapon they have: “You always charge a guy with a gun! With a knife you run away.” Later, in a brief moment of what is surely unscripted, uncorrected improv, Pacino abruptly backs in to the unprepared actors behind him, showing Hoffa’s eagerness to demonstrate spirited bullishness to more photo-snapping journos. And in characteristic Scorsese fashion, whereby we bear witness to the potentially fatal danger in causing offence when involved in mob fraternities, there is a degree of comedy in Hoffa’s heated bouts with fellow union leader Tony ‘Pro’ Provenzano. During these tense exchanges the increasingly known threat to Hoffa’s life is a dark undercurrent to two men struggling to repress a trading of personal insults. Stephen Graham, as said thorn in Hoffa’s side, is brilliant as always, holding his own amongst the heavy-hitters and again demonstrating why he’s up there with them – an assured, fluid performance.

Joe Pesci is also excellent as Russell Bufalino, out of retirement and reunited again with Scorsese and De Niro, who broke him as a star way back in 1980 with Raging Bull. As with Hoffa and in real life, Sheeran/De Niro shares a friendship spanning several decades with Bufalino/Pesci, one which in the film forces him to choose between the two of them. Sheeran and Bufalino also share poignant moments, such as a flashback to their first meeting, and the sharing of bread as they grow old in prison together. Sadly, another moment is tinged with cynicism, when Bufalino gives Sheeran a ring to symbolise his acceptance as a ‘made’ man in the mob. Not coincidentally, the gesture immediately follows Sheeran’s heartfelt request that Hoffa speak at a testimonial dinner in his honour, and is in fact ushered in to complicate Sheeran’s loyalty, as the mob close in on the assassination of an increasingly mouthy and out-of-control Hoffa.

Anna Paquin as the adult Peggy, one of Sheeran’s daughters, doesn’t have much to do, but rather her character serves as a moral gauge. In quietly observing more than her father would like, she demonstrates an instinctive dislike of Russell while at the same time forming a warm, close bond with Jimmy, despite both lavishing her with attention and gifts. Her reaction foreshadows what the film suggests was the wrong way for Sheeran – with Russell and against Jimmy. Another very good performance, surprisingly, is Ray Romano (of US sitcom Everybody Loves Raymond) as Bill Bufalino, Russell’s cousin and lawyer to all involved. And Harvey Keitel regains dignity after the car insurance adverts, hence it would have been nice to see more of him in this film.

The use of technology to ‘de age’ the actors has had mixed responses; in the opinion of this reviewer, it was more successful than expected and, although imperfect, did not distract from the telling of the tale as a whole. What it did prove is that is less easy to restore the physical agility of youth, De Niro in particular moving with the stiff grace of an older man most apparent when stomping on the hand of a shopkeeper that had made the mistake of physically disciplining a young Peggy. However, discussions on how to manage the physical side of aging actors are less interesting than the manner in which the film engages with matters of the soul when growing old, particularly when reflecting on a life which, whether or not actual regret is there, there is much to repent for. Even at the end of his days, Frank tells a priest that he doesn’t regret the suffering he caused others in a life littered with violent deeds. What is alluded to however, is the pain of an unforgiving daughter, seen curtly closing her counter as a hobbling Frank attempts to approach Peggy at her job in a bank. This brief scene is another that is beautifully played out, and one sequence in the final segment of the film which is worthy of inclusion. The build up is slow and the significance unclear, as Frank queues for a lengthy period before ushering a fellow customer ahead of him. Then the camera spins right to show Peggy abruptly leaving her position before Frank can speak to her, literally closing the door on any final reconciliation.

In another darkly humorous aside, captions appear throughout the film which inform us of the violent deaths of various characters. Near the end, Sheeran is questioned by FBI men in a last-ditch attempt to get him to confess to which Sheeran demands to see his lawyer. The FBI inform him that Bill Bufalino is dead – they’re all dead. Sheeran’s immediate response is: “Who did it?” The punchline is that he actually died of natural causes - cancer. Like Bill, Frank and Russell are two of the few that avoid death by murder. The film appears like a swansong, about knowing when one’s time is up, something that, unlike most others, Russell and Frank are afforded. Russell dies in prison, seen wheeled in to church to finally confess when he realises his own end is nigh. Frank lives long enough to finish his time in ‘school,’ but subsequently goes through the process of addressing his own death in unavoidable detail, alone and with the pain of unforgiven sins.

If The Irishman is Scorsese’s own swansong on the other hand, it would be a regrettable loss to the film world, but also undoubtedly one composed gracefully and stamped indelibly with his unique style.

The Exorcist (1973)

 

Director: William Friedkin

Stars: Ellen Burstyn, Max von Sydow, Linda Blair, Jason Miller

Short Review, no spoilers

Shocking horror classic - banned on video in the UK from 1984 until 1998 - in which a young girl in modern day Washington becomes the victim of demonic possession and must undergo an exorcism.

Full Review (spoilers)

Over the decades, The Exorcist has been variously met with shock, disgust, applause, dismissal, and adoration, with its banning from video release by the BBFC in 1984 only adding to its notoriety. Perhaps one of the most fascinating things about the film is that it has been different things to different people at different times, shifting mercurially in people’s perceptions much like the demon at the centre of the story. In the wake of the original release of the film, the church condemned it, audience members fainted, and others ran out in terror. Following the lifting of the video ban in 1998 and subsequent re-release, there was much hype, including a celebration by Mark Kermode, who has always lauded it as his favourite film of all time. In fact, the hype probably inadvertently contributed to many of the reactions which were much less reverent, greeted as the film was by ‘how many killings’ types who were unimpressed by what was seen as dated special effects, and a film that works as hard on atmosphere and a sense of dread as the icky, pukey, head-twisting bits. Neither reactions do justice to what is in fact a complex and beautifully filmed work of art, which evolves every time you see it, and lends itself to multiple interpretations.

The Exorcist is a genuinely frightening film for less headline-grabbing reasons as well as for the overtly graphic horror that caused all the initial kerfuffle. The tension builds gradually and innocuously, complemented by the naturalistic acting and the scene-setting of a very grounded presentation of reality; although Regan’s mother is a Hollywood actress filming her latest in Washington, there is a high degree of authenticity which holds in perspective the more commonly advertised glamour of movie stars. It also serves to render the supernatural elements of the drama and Regan’s extreme behaviour that much more powerful, upsetting so drastically as it does an otherwise relatively serene and quite ordinary equilibrium. The film is balanced by creepy, unnerving sequences as well as the alarming scenes of Regan’s horrifying behaviour: an unsettling, abstract fear is built in the opening scenes, as Father Merrin unearths archaic deities in Morocco; the introduction of ‘Captain Howdy’ in Regan’s casual use of the Ouiija board; her mother Chris’ investigation of weird noises in the attic; Regan’s deadpan threat and urination in front of her mother’s party guests; her various ominous utterings and the revelation that she is speaking backwards; the almost subliminal flash of a demonic face in Father Karras’ nightmare; the description of Burke Jennings’ unseen violent death as described by Detective Kinderman; and the clouds of breath in Regan’s deathly cold bedroom when she has succumbed to the demon and awaits exorcism.

As for the more overt horror imagery, Regan’s transformation from sweet, cute young girl in to a grotesquely deformed, rasping monster remains as horrifying and perversely fun to watch as ever. There is undeniable feminist joy in witnessing a once good girl approaching a not insignificantly pubescent age in the messiest, angriest way ever, reacting to the pokes and prods of various male authority figures by grabbing their balls, puking in their faces and tossing out verbal obscenities with the purest, most unfettered rage and velocity. In 1993, Barbara Creed wrote excellently on this subject (amongst others concerning horror and ‘the monstrous-feminine’), identifying Regan’s physical and behavioural abjection as a spectacular resistance to female propriety and, at a deeper psychic level, the patriarchal order itself. She also points out that although a kind of equilibrium is restored at the end, the two male priests have died in the process, and mother and daughter are reunited in what is actually something of a symbolically incestuous relationship.

In a completely different reading, albeit one much less juicily Freudian, it struck me recently as also rather tragic. Seeing Chris’ face, fraught with worry and helplessness at her daughter’s increasingly out-of-character behaviour, and Regan’s visible pain, fear and discomfort at the hands of clueless doctors resonates with the dreadful reality many endure in the course of being diagnosed and treated for mental illness, including children and their parents. It also calls to mind the medieval quackery involved as, throughout history, various types of ‘physician’ have floundered around the human body, trying to find answers to its physical and psychological mysteries. The clash of the ancient and the modern in The Exorcist exploits the tension between the imaginings of contemporary society as civilised, scientific and certain, and those of the past that are mired in barbarism, spirituality and the ignorant meddlings of experimentalists, leading to the awkward question of how much further along we really are.

Whatever it does for you, The Exorcist is undoubtedly an unforgettable film that’s different every time you return to it, and deservedly an iconic classic of the horror genre.

The Blood on Satan’s Claw (1971)

 

Director: Piers Haggard

Stars: Patrick Wymark, Linda Hayden, Barry Andrews

Short Review, no spoilers

Cult British witchcraft horror produced three years after Witchfinder General and with an eye on the success of the latter; notable for its subsequent appreciation as an example of folk horror, its atmospheric location shooting, and effective soundtrack.

Full Review (spoilers)

The Blood on Satan’s Claw emerged in the wake of Witchfinder General (1968), exploring similar subject matter without receiving as much initial acclaim as its predecessor. However, it has gained cult status over the years, as recently acknowledged by Mark Gatiss in his tribute to its influence on the brilliantly disturbing The League of Gentlemen TV series. It’s also interesting for its differing position on witch-hunting to the Vincent Price-starring classic - here the witches are real, and the witchfinder is not as straightforwardly dastardly, ultimately saving the day as he does in a village riddled with young ‘uns corrupted by devil-worshipping witchery. This is perhaps due to the context of the Manson murders and trial (1969), reflecting as it seems the ‘free love’ hippy dream turned sour, and subsequent terror of radical, hopped-up, out-of-control kids easily influenced and corrupted by evil.

The film was shot entirely on location, predominantly in Oxfordshire, and captures the English rural landscape very well. Essential to the effectiveness of the film, it brings atmosphere and authenticity. The excellent soundtrack is also beautiful to listen to, and an example of film music that can be enjoyed in its own right. It is also interesting to note that composer Marc Wilkinson is said to have advised Paul Giovanni, who sound-tracked the more famous bedfellow of the so-called folk horror sub-genre, The Wicker Man.

The film itself is a very entertaining horror of its kind, although we do have the tired cliché of witch movies whereby a manipulative saucepot cries rape unjustly - against an honest schoolteacher priest no less! Also, typically of exploitation film there is an unnecessary big-titted temptress at the end, wobbling around daftly as a hypnotised youth wields a knife. Nevertheless, Linda Hayden as said saucepot is very good, suitably troubling and demonic.

It’s engaging throughout, making it a shame that the final confrontation is disappointing - the demon is revealed more thoroughly and subsequently looks ridiculous. The monster around which these disturbing events revolves is far scarier before with the less-is-more approach.

Star Wars: Rise of Skywalker (2019)

 

Director: JJ Abrams

Stars: Daisy Ridley, Adam Driver, John Boyega, Oscar Isaac, Carrie Fisher, Luke Skywalker, Harrison Ford

Short Review, no spoilers

Not as bad as The Last Jedi, but that would take some beating. Some nice moments, but ultimately sums up a disappointing return overall that seemed to have so much potential in The Force Awakens and the Rogue One spin-off.

Full Review (spoilers)

What we are told is the absolute last in the Star Wars saga (barring spin-offs), Rise of Skywalker occasionally hits the right notes but suffers from a shortage of inspiration throughout, as if made by someone who’s become bored of the whole damned thing in a way that, after The Force Awakens and the Rogue One spin-off seemed to promise a re-boot both more in line with the spirit of the originals while delivering something new, sadly makes me feel bored of it too. It appears that Disney ultimately got too firm a grip on the lucrative franchise, stifling what was darker, modern and so compelling about the aforementioned earlier films, suited to the adult generation that grew up with the original trilogy whilst not sacrificing the appeal to new and younger audiences.

It takes a while to get going, becomes strangely Indiana Jones-ish, before improving slightly when (deep breath) the gang get to Kijimi to retrieve a Sith translation from C3PO’s memory to find a ‘wayfinder’ to get to Exegol to confront and destroy the Emperor (who they seem to have just dredged up because they ran out of other super-villains and couldn’t be bothered to think up any more). No one seems to care that extracting the message from C3PO, veteran of the series, risks wiping his memory of everything that has gone before, perhaps something that directors wish they could do to fans of the franchise when tasked with delivering a Star Wars film that will please everyone. Nevertheless, without his buddy R2, they get to it with little fanfare, despite 3PO’s heartfelt final address to his ‘friends.’ On the plus side, I really liked the weird little backstreet robot lobotomiser that performs the procedure, and Zorii Bliss, the slinky masked blast from Poe Dameron’s past. Poe’s previous career is dubiously referred to as ‘spicerunner’ although, in response to Finn’s repeated bleatings about his shady past, Poe does rightfully remind Finn that he used to be a Stormtrooper, like comparing a drug dealer with a Nazi I guess. D-0, the little cone-faced robot is also a very likeable addition, nervously but politely rejecting Rey’s advances – “No thank you!” (voiced by director JJ Abrams). D-0’s role is also more akin to that of R2D2, nicely returning to a philosophy that often the most unlikely characters are in fact integral to the fates of everyone in this grand sweeping saga.

With all the relentless planet-hopping, and rushing feverishly from one mission to the next, the desperation to save each member of the group should they stray at any point also belies a regrettable departure from the adventurous spirit of the original films. Formerly, scenes of audacious bravery and loyalty in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds to help each other out were balanced with moments in which key protagonists were left to fight for themselves while the others went on to pursue greater goals, thus producing individuals that fought together but were also resilient and tough enough to get through on their own. I hate to say that, as one of the many beloved original characters, I was almost relieved at Chewie’s ‘death’, released as it seemed he would be from the miserable doofus role assigned to him in these watered-down Disney incarnations. No one would have worried about Chewie’s capture before because he was a tough mother****er, inclined to rip mens arms off if necessary. Likewise, lovestruck Finn frets over Rey’s safety when she’s the most powerful of them all, and is fortunate not to be yet another thing she has to deal with - namely rescuing him – while fighting all of her most formidable adversaries. Here the tension is missing from the first three films - the wonder at how our plucky heroes will find each other again when separated in battle, far apart and vulnerable with so many enemies in this vast and torrid space landscape; and the awe from when they do manage to find their way through individual hardships to be reunited with their comrades. Also missing is the sense of genuine camaraderie between Fisher, Hamill and Ford, with the friendships on screen here feeling forced. In contrast, Adam Driver deserves more plaudits than he is ever likely to get for maintaining a consistently compelling and charismatic performance, appearing to deliver as much dedication to Kylo Ren as any of his ‘serious’ indie roles. As such, unlike others, he betrays no intellectual snobbery at being involved in Star Wars. His role and the acting of it is also the most balanced thing in the film – as the tipping point between light and dark, his position on the dark side is seductively creepy and brooding, increasingly penetrating both Rey’s consciousness and physical reality with whispery but abruptly arresting interventions; and yet his delicately achieved turn to the light side is also believable.

Leia’s death has rightfully more gravitas than the ridiculous one she came back from in The Last Jedi, and Chewie’s fall to his knees on being told of her death did rip a tear from me. However, the delight at seeing old friends reunited has somewhat faded by now, to the extent that we are left with pointless cameos. By the time Lando Calrissien has turned up, it feels like This is Your Life! “Look who’s turned up now! It’s Lando Calrissien!” “Remember me guys?!” Han Solo pops up again as part of Kylo Ren’s dark side/light side rehab in a way that seems to take liberties with now familiar tropes in Star Wars, namely the appearance of a deceased individual to assist the Rebel Alliance in some way at key moments, which I thought was normally reserved for high-ranking Jedis. Still, it’s a nice enough moment, but one which reminds you that each former star has been afforded varying degrees of dignity, most criminally in the case of Mark Hamill, whose Luke Skywalker has been brought back to us in several shamefully ludicrous scenarios.

Quite a good job is done with the Emperor, although it’s worth acknowledging that the character was suitably frightening in the originals without needing a lot of flashing lights as is seen here. The discovery that Rey is the granddaughter of the Emperor is eye-rolling laziness in the form of yet another ‘shocking’ familial revelation. Nevertheless, it could have been interesting if explored in more depth – the possibilities of being related to that, barely human embodiment of all things nasty might have been quite tasty, but is ushered in amongst other plotlines in this tumble-dryer of a round-up.

Despite three long movies worth of sexual tension between Ben/Kylo Ren and Rey, Rey is kept virginal by the Disney-owned franchise, as the minute they finally get together, Ben literally disappears after sacrificing his own life force for hers. In fact, there’s a quite firm denial of any suggestion of sexuality, bar a tokenistic lesbian kiss in the background of the final scene of celebration (a very limp affair by the way, considering they’ve just won the most epic of battles imaginable, as brought to us in the form of a decades-old franchise that has achieved legendary status like no other in film history). This is epitomised perfectly when Zorii Bliss literally shakes her head at Poe Dameron in response to his gesture that suggests: “Shall we?” Although it refreshingly thwarts the cliché of a woman succumbing unequivocally to a bit of an arrogant dick’s attentions, it nevertheless highlights a weirdly prudish summing up of affairs. Finn’s obvious desire for Rey and intentions to tell her of it is hinted at throughout the film but is oddly and completely forgotten about by the end, whereby he seems happy to share a friendly threesome hug with his former love object and sort-of rival, and that’s the end of that. Finn’s affections appear to be misplaced anyway, as Rey and Ben’s shared intensity made more sense. Better for him would have been the excellently spunky Jannah, who fights valiantly by his side in the final battle, but she’s left with a bit of a creepy Lando Calrissien by the end. Otherwise, the desperation to deny any previous hint of desire between the central characters keeps it clean and passionless.

The film also seems to have a peculiar regard towards the past. After his initial horror at discovering that Vader was his father in that iconic scene, Luke works by degrees to reconcile with his heritage, the film engaging with the ethos that facing the past can be important, whereas here is a drive towards denying the past to the point of erasing it. In a move which seems to be the reverse of such soul-searching, Rey ultimately chooses to deny the past by rejecting her real name rather than reclaiming it. Rather than acknowledge the muddy waters of her lineage, she chooses to be called Skywalker and identify only with all that is now considered light and good and pure. Even the costuming reveals the full circle we have come to, whereby exploring complexity is out and strictly good vs bad is back in: where Luke’s innocence-symbolising light-coloured clothing of the first film is later replaced by black and other colours, signifying his emotional growth through internal conflict, Rey remains in whitish colours throughout. This ties in with the fact that her psychological journey appears relatively less troubled, allowing her past to be literally whitewashed. Beware box-ticking apparent inclusivity – beyond the (rightful) casting of non-white actors, and allusions to diverse sexualities, you often don’t have to look too deep to see that ultimately the same old stories are being rolled out time and time again.

Night of the Eagle (aka Burn Witch Burn) (1962)

 

Director: Sidney Hayers

Stars: Peter Wyngarde, Janet Blair, Margaret Johnston

Short Review, no spoilers

When psychology professor Norman Taylor (Peter Wyngarde) discovers that his wife Tansy (Janet Blair) is a witch, he orders her to destroy all of her magical paraphernalia, cynical as he is to her protestations that they are needed for protection from hostile forces. What Norman doesn’t realise is that he owes Tansy and her sorcery more than he can imagine. This excellent slick and scary witchcraft horror from the 1960s is beautifully shot, engagingly performed and a valuable addition to any cult enthusiast’s collection.

Full Review (spoilers)

Like John Holden (Dana Andrews) in Jacques Torneur’s 1957 cult classic, Night of the Demon, Norman Taylor is a cynical psychologist determined to discredit the power of witchcraft. However, despite their best efforts, in both cases their scepticism is eventually quite vividly expunged throughout the course of these respective films. What Norman doesn’t know is that he is married to not only a believer, but a practising witch who conducts her rituals right under his nose! Furthermore, black magic is real in this movie so Norman’s dismissals come across as arrogant and, unlike Tansy, he is completely oblivious to the fact that their perfect life is under constant threat.

Tansy is edgy from the beginning, her furtive glances making apparent that a game of bridge played with fellow campus dwellers is far from innocuous. Later, she breathlessly scurries around while her husband prepares for bed, eventually finding the source of her anxiety – a poppet tied to the fringe of a lamp, which she immediately removes. This, and the fact that everything starts going weird and bad when Norman finds Tansy’s witchy artefacts and orders her to destroy them, tells us that Tansy’s fears are not ill-founded. Without the protection of her magical meddling, things go from bad to worse for Norman – a student accuses him of rape, another threatens him with violence, and unnerving stuff happens at home to do with telephones, tape recordings, thunderstorms and rattling doors. Quite touching though is the fact that Tansy is prepared to sacrifice more than most for the man she loves, even to the point of sacrificing her life.

As much as feminists may well roll their eyes at this, it is nevertheless interesting to place Tansy in a sub-type of modern day/housewife witch, as seen in comedic mode in the Bewitched TV series two years after this film, and projected through art horror angst in George A. Romero’s Season of the Witch ten years after that. Perhaps because of the popularity of Bewitched, this character type seems more familiar than the actual number of examples would seem to support. The not strictly housewife model, but fulfilling the idea of an attractive witch transported from medieval England and fairy-tales to the heart of modernity was also seen previously in I Married a Witch (1942) and Bell Book and Candle (1958). The dramatic tension these types seem to provide is in the idea of formerly conceived wicked ugly women from another world re-imagined in ways that interrogates women’s roles in terms of sexuality and power. They also frequently support notions of women, particularly housewives, of having secrets and double lives – careful men! What’s the missus really up to when you’re out all day at work?! There’s got to be a lot of things worse than finding out she’s a witch, right? In Night of the Eagle, there is both a good and bad witch - the good is a beautiful, homely and exceptionally self-sacrificing wife and the bad is a viciously jealous manipulator. What both do is appeal to the housewife witch fantasy of women who secretly have more power than anyone expects, including their husbands.

As well as gender politics, Night of the Eagle also offers some excellent horror imagery, culminating in a spectacular and surprisingly scary scene in which Norman is attacked by a giant eagle transformed from a statue above one of the university buildings. Yeah I know it’s just a real eagle shot to look like it’s huge, but it’s done remarkably well and in such a way to be genuinely frightening. If you’ve seen an actual bald eagle, they’re massive anyway so I wouldn’t fancy my chances with even a regular one. The influence of this scene can be spotted in Suspiria when the character Daniel is killed in an empty square at night – just before, a shot-reverse-shot shows the statue of an eagle atop a building disappear in one of many creepy moments in the film.

There are nice details too, such as when Norman has survived the eagle attack, a blackboard is seen with the ‘not’ rubbed from a chalked phrase reading ‘I do not believe’ – Norman unwittingly re-writes his own words, with no choice but to abandon his previous scepticism. Also clever is how Norman discovers that his wife has been possessed by Flora – by her characteristic limp as displayed by Tansy when she attempts to murder Norman.

In terms of performance, both leads are very good – Wyngarde in his dissolution from self-righteous science-head to feverish panic, as the extent of his wife’s self-sacrifice and the danger she is in becomes fully apparent; and Blair conveys well the subtle flutterings of restrained worry as she strives to keep the wolves from the door. Stealing the show for me though, is Margaret Johnston as Flora Carr, a deliciously nasty adversary who would fit right in at one of Dario Argento’s covens had she come along ten or so years later.

Knives Out (2019)

 

Director: Rian Johnson

Stars: Daniel Craig, Ana De Armas, Jamie Lee Curtis, Don Johnson, Michael Shannon, Toni Collette, Christopher Plummer, Chris Evans

Short Review, no spoilers

Star-studded ensemble murder mystery directed by Rian Johnson, persistent critical darling despite being responsible for the nosedive in quality of the recent Star Wars reboots. His clever-clever approach hits the right notes on several minor keys but otherwise is typically not nearly as smart as it tries to be. Worth watching for performances by Curtis, Johnson, and Shannon – more time spent on them than thrusting smartphones at the audience for blatant product placement would have helped.

Full Review (spoilers)

This is an entertaining enough thriller but not worthy of all the hype. The trailer suggests something quirky and original much like other films by the same director, and it is sporadically littered with some amusing asides along with a nice spin on the classic murder mystery whereby a suicide is naturally more complicated than initially suspected. Ultimately however, it is something of a disappointing event, while a pleasant enough way to kill a couple of hours.

An interesting cast at least promised a spectacle of performances, but there is nothing exceptional here. Daniel Craig does a good deep south accent and his performance is accomplished but there continues to be something frustratingly reticent about him, like he needs to let go, lighten up a bit. He is being given opportunities to break out of the Bond mould but comes across as passionless, needing instead to inject his characters with some life and warmth, particularly here where a typically eccentric super sleuth could have been fun. The best of the bunch is Jamie Lee Curtis, demonstrating the assertive presence of an experienced but seemingly underused actress, however we don’t get enough of her to power the film any further along than average. Likewise, Don Johnson is enjoyably cavalier and the funniest of the lot but only able to raise laughs in brief spurts. It’s not that some got better lines than others, but that some did better with the material.

Michael Shannon, who can over-eggs things a bit, balances his role very well here – his part as the needling weakling of the family doesn’t descend in to cliché. Toni Collette is less successful, but who could blame her for running out of inspiration in the crap, neurotic mother department. Chris Evans is perfectly sleazy as the arrogant grandson of Harlan Thrombey (Christopher Plummer), who is the victim and perpetrator of a murder mystery the likes of which he himself has made millions writing, and whose vast will his entire family are desperate not to be written out of.

Despite flaws, the generic flourishes and starry cast are some of the more successful aspects of a film which, in actual fact, revolves around Harlan’s South American nurse, Marta, in terms of plot and in politics. Held up as a Little Orphan Annie type pawn in a classically neo-liberal two fingers up to Donald Trump, the film troubles racial politics before finally reinforcing the divisions it thinks it’s interrogating. As the heroine of this intellectual white man’s protest, Ana De Armas is insipid, but what can you do with a role in which you’re sold down the river? She is delivered to us as the only truly caring individual amongst a bunch of selfish brats and yet, she ain’t too smart. Her character’s integrity is sacrificed for the sake of the plot – she’s presented as intelligent and a worthy companion to her wise employer (in that she beats him at the board game Go more than anyone else), something taken for granted by his blood kin. And yet she follows the writer’s plot to a tee and allows herself to be manipulated repeatedly by dastardly rich Americans. Marta obediently follows Harlan’s instructions to cover up a murder they both believe she accidentally committed and, right from the beginning, her actions are humiliatingly foolish. In obeyance to the demands of the plot, and within the narrative her master’s orders, her character’s supposedly positive qualities are immediately questionable – surely a truly moral, sound, intelligent, and well qualified nurse would call a bloody ambulance if she thought she’d accidentally poisoned someone, rightfully disregarding his ridiculously elaborate ploy to cover it up. Also, would she be so dumb as to fall for the conniving Ransom (Evans) and confess all to the wrong guy so naively?

As an example of the aforementioned plus points, what does work are the variously satirised ways in which the ‘social bubble’-occupying Thrombeys lazily misidentify Marta, in terms of her nationality and her role in the family. During one scene, the siblings are seen to be split roughly down the middle of each side of the Trump divide. Richard (Johnson) invites Marta in to a heated debate after vocalising his support for tough immigration policies (‘not you though, Marta’), before absentmindedly handing his empty plate to the nurse (not ‘the help’) as he speaks.

Although somewhat cliché, and actually a surprisingly ill thought out move that is nearly Marta’s downfall, Harlan really twists the knife posthumously by leaving all of his property and money to Marta. It is nevertheless enjoyable to watch the smug faces of his expectant brood disintegrate rapidly in to horror and rage when it is finally revealed, and then the sneaky ways in which, one by one, they try to cajole, threaten and manipulate Marta in to giving it all up to them, the ‘rightful’ benefactors. Naturally, Walt (Shannon) exploits the illegal national status of Marta’s mother, nasty right-wing bastard that he is. Even granddaughter Meg (Katherine Langford) finds herself imploring Marta when she finds out her own mother Joni (Collette) can’t afford tuition fees for her ‘Marxist, feminist teaching’ college course (as witheringly described by Curtis’ Linda). This was an excellent opportunity to skewer neo-liberal hypocrisy and explore how ALL types of people are vulnerable to corruption when faced with the possibility of great wealth - no matter their political inclination - however Johnson quickly retreats back to the left with Meg swiftly repenting, she and Marta sharing a gooey cuddly moment in which all is forgiven.

Overall, the film is stylishly but not imaginatively shot and performed - the prop of an elaborate sculpture made of knives looks cool but is pointlessly overused until the end, when the bluntness of its point becomes the point. As for its politics, as amusing as the ending is, it is yet another woefully naïve liberal flag wave which will sadly date many films made during this divisive era (said in the hope that at some point we will all grow out of it).

 

Gangster Squad (2013)

 

Director: Ruben Fleischer

Stars: Josh Brolin, Sean Penn, Ryan Gosling, Emma Stone, Nick Nolte

Short Review, no spoilers

Rife with unapologetic clichés but nevertheless an entertaining gangster romp with lots of flash.

Full Review (spoilers)

Going in to this film with a healthy level of cynicism, I found myself enjoying it as a harmless, knockabout genre piece that I really don’t think is trying to be anything more than it is. Far preferable to such pretentious neo-noirs as Brick, Gangster Squad is at times old school in a way that many films before it have been forgiven for, some of which are even considered classics. I hasten to add that that does not make this example a classic, but just that a bit of macho posturing and brawling (albeit balanced neatly with some decent-ish lady roles) carries as much nostalgia as all of the retro stylings.

A grittier effort with the same cast and source material would have been more rewarding, maybe even awards worthy, as proven by LA Confidential with the same subject matter. Nevertheless, Sean Penn is fun as a snarling Mickey Cohen; Ryan Gosling uses his lines very well whereby his characteristic lazy smugness becomes charisma; Emma Stone riffs off him nicely and does well with what could be a nauseatingly two-dimensional moll character; and the back up in Anthony Mackie, Giovanni Ribisi, Robert Patrick and Michael Pena are all good considering their limited resources and screen time. At the head of things, Josh Brolin is suitably gruff and attractively buff, but yet to fulfil the promise of his subtly excellent re-emergence in No Country for Old Men. To be fair to him, his character’s missus is more interesting – after a horrifyingly cringy intro, the invaluable influence of a heavily pregnant hero cop’s wife in the selection of a super squad assembled to destroy gangster influence in LA is potentially the film’s most gratifying offering.

The Shining (1980)

 Director: Stanley Kubrick

Stars: Jack Nicholson, Shelley Duvall, Danny Lloyd, Scatman Crothers

Short Review, no spoilers

One of the greatest horror films of all time and an enduring masterpiece of filmmaking itself, this haunted hotel adaptation of Stephen King’s novel contains some of the most iconic images in the history of cinema, it’s centrepiece a glorious and artful portrayal of a maniac as delivered by star Jack Nicholson. Every element – music, cinematography, performance – is precisely and passionately realised to its fullest impact by genius of the medium, Stanley Kubrick.

Full Review (spoilers)

40 years of The Shining and 37 of me - it’s mine and The Shining’s birthday today and this weird coincidence that I stumbled upon recently is realised in the fact that it has been my favourite film of all time for years (I guess I’ve always been the caretaker). So, to celebrate the anniversary of its UK release, here’s my gushing review of a seminal film that has grown in stature since the wobbly critical reception it received in 1980:

As observed by Pauline Kael at the time - in a predominantly lukewarm response to the film - almost every scene takes place in cold, sunny daylight and interiors are starkly lit throughout. The ghosts are solid, appearing in very human and unnerving banality even as they darkly speak of and provoke diabolical violence. These disorientating aspects that work in direct opposition to traditional horror tropes only add to the eeriness of the film, and are offset by a remarkable soundtrack that amplifies the horror of the mundane mixed with mental disintegration and supernatural interference - the resounding echoes of a baseball thrown in isolated frustration; the relentless rhythm of a surround sound heartbeat bleeding in to a tinnitus ring as another ghostly encounter gradually unfolds. Soaring above it all is the score of nightmares, combining the doom-laden riffs of various pointedly chosen classical pieces with original music by synth whizzes Wendy Carlos and Rachel Elkind. A powerful element that is as integral to the film as anything else, without dialogue The Shining could be a lyric-less opera. The set design is equally stunning, with Kubrick having had rooms built to evoke the imposing grandeur of the hotel, interlinking them to exploit the possibilities of Steadicam technology, as little Danny Torrance weaves around on his humble tricycle.

The explosion of repressed family tensions and madness - so easily provoked by the evil spirits of the hotel - and Jack Nicholson’s shades of grotesque, as his deranged brooding develops in to all-out mania, is irresistible to behold. Criticised by some for overdoing it and by others for being too restricted by control freak director Stanley Kubrick, I think the balance is perfect - Nicholson’s natural gift for full-blooded craziness is expertly and subtly manipulated to keep it from spilling in to farce. Shelley Duvall as Wendy has also been similarly undervalued, again seen as victim of Kubrick’s dogged perfectionism and as left with nothing much to do but scream. However, just as no one has given us madness quite like Nicholson, no one has shown sheer terror as convincingly as Duvall, most exquisitely when Jack’s axe famously bursts through the bathroom door. With fear as powerful an emotion as rage, the best scream queen ever is a perfect foil to the screen’s best maniac. And speaking of scream queens, Wendy is also a nice twist on the cliché big-breasted-horny-teen-girl, instead a heroic mother in a dowdy dressing gown battling against weather, a raving husband and murderous ghosts to save the life of her son. It’s significant to note that Jack’s increasingly warped sense of responsibility as caretaker of the hotel is completely at odds with reality, which is that it is Wendy that does all the work. Scenes of Wendy carrying out various practical duties around the building seem banal but are actually pointed in their repetition. Jack is never seen outdoors until his demise, and is never seen doing any actual caretaking – this is all done by Wendy because he is in fact a prisoner of the hotel, heading inexorably to a dreadful eternal sentence. As such, and as always with Kubrick, the villains and heroes in his movies are presented as ‘us’ – ordinary and hugely fallible human beings with what turn out to be ridiculous ideas of self-possession and superiority over their natural and spiritual worlds.

In terms of style, The Shining is representative of a director who repeatedly realised his distinctive visions through various genres, including sci-fi, period drama, satire, war film and in this case horror, but always with every frame unmistakeably Kubrickian. Like other Kubrick films, it features cold, distanced but not inhuman performances and interactions between characters, which in fact heighten the tensions between them. Every set and shot is highly stylised and meticulously composed; and it explores the follies of deluded men that overstate a perceived power over their immediate environments, resulting in death, destruction, and their own demise. Although Kubrick may have turned to the source material of Stephen King’s typically pulp novel because he needed a hit following the commercial disaster of Barry Lyndon, my own (possibly controversial) opinion is that this film is his best. In an interview at the time, Kubrick pondered where the source of a films ability to engage lies - in the story or how a story is conveyed. It is perhaps his attention to this quandary that results in a film that in fact delivers so satisfyingly on so many levels: a tour-de-force in terms of aesthetic beauty and sonic audacity that taps in to our most primal fears, all to deliver a relatively simple but therefore relatable story of identity in crisis and family dysfunction. As one would expect, Kubrick cannot help but bring an audaciously artistic flair to a genuinely scary movie, while tapping in to Freudian fears of the uncanny through a story stripped to its most basic and impactful elements. I would argue that it’s got it all - a perfect combination of his characteristic obsession with aesthetics with an entertaining, accessible film that deals with deep-seated philosophical themes without getting bogged down in intellectualism. In seeming to regard The Shining as something of a sell-out, critics at the time appeared not to appreciate the beauty of the film, and that Kubrick going (relatively) commercial might not have been such a bad thing.