While I Live (1947)

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The full-on Gothic/noir fusion that was Rebecca birthed a cycle of imitators throughout and after WW2 and this British MGM production belongs to that list. Sonia Dresdel is the nasty but guilt-ridden older sister who can’t overcome her obsession with her composer sister Olwen’s early death leaving her greatest work, a tone poem, unfinished. A wild girl (Carol Raye) enters her home on the 25th anniversary of Olwen’s death, just after her cousin and ward (Clifford Evans) is home from WW2 to be reunited with his wife, a Land Girl (Patricia Burke), whom Dresdel despises. She tries to break up their marriage and persuade everyone that the girl is her sister, Olwen and outfits her in her image. With the full panoply of Gothic tropes – a vaguely Lesbian villainess, a portrait, a staircase, a cliff, a seaside mansion, obsession and a haunting piece of music, this is a welcome and mysterious visit to the genre, with Dresdel recreating her stage role from Robert Bell’s play This Same Garden.  Adapted by director John Harlow and Doreen Montgomery, photographed by Freddie Young,  The Dream of Olwen theme composed by Charles Williams was a big hit.

The Prince of Tides (1991)


They f*** you up, your mum and dad. So wrote Philip Larkin. Well that’s their parental duty. And they certainly did that to Tom Wingo (Nick Nolte, in a wide-ranging and delicate performance) and his twin sister Savannah (Melinda Dillon). He goes to NYC to speak to Savannah’s psychiatrist Susan Lowenstein (Barbra Streisand) after her latest suicide attempt and he tells her about their abusive background and painful family memories emerge. Pat Conroy adapted his novel with Becky Johnston, and director/star Streisand crafted a rich, deeply moving, sweeping romantic drama that will leave you sobbing the words, Lowenstein. Lowenstein. as you hit the Play button again. A comfort blanket to envelop you on this cold January night. And if you haven’t read the novel – do so straight away.

Emmanuelle Riva 02/24/1927-01/27/2017

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How sad that the legendary French actress Emmanuelle Riva should die just a few weeks before her 90th birthday. But how wonderful that this marvellous talent should be remembered principally with the word ‘amour’ attached to her name. She made history in every sense in the landmark Hiroshima mon amour (1959, Resnais); and again by being nominated aged 85 for an Academy Award for her performance in Amour (2012, Haneke). Both are extraordinary films in so many ways but Hiroshima holds a special place in my heart as my full introduction to French modernism – what a jaw dropping film, especially for a teenager. Pretentious, moi? Mais oui! Riva was a darling of the French auteurs and acted for Melville, Franju, Pontecorvo, Kieslowski, Bellochio and those great ladies Tonie Marshall and Julie Delpy. But she was an actress with a hinterland, boasting an impressive theatre career, taking exhibit-worthy photographs and she published poetry too. She said, I wanted to live another life and many lives at once. Acting makes you live plenty of lives. She did just that. RIP. With amour.

Jackie (2016)


Did I really see this film?! That’s an appropriate afterthought given its hallucinatory quality, a narcotised morphine fever dream about a woman with a flip haircut, boiled wool suits and a voice from the Marilyn playbook. Natalie Portman doesn’t remotely resemble the upperclass journalist who married into the crass Kennedy family and wound up First Lady with her husband’s brains spattered into her lap on an ill-judged trip to Texas, home to LBJ. Yet that doesn’t matter because after a half hour of her narration you are sucked into this Warholesque meditation on fame and public approval. She lies constantly to journalist Theodore H. White (Billy Crudup) interviewing her for Life after the assassination and then tells him things she insists cannot possibly go to print. She will edit the image and control the myth – which she calls Camelot. That record spins as she cascades into a vortex of desperation and disbelief. This will be her version of events. She crashes around the White House, drunk; argues with Bobby and Jack Valenti about the funeral and changes her mind back and forth about how much of Lincoln’s leavetaking should be imitated, while the clodhopping Kennedy sisters try to manipulate the situation;  when her husband’s casket is put on public view she sympathises with LBJ that this should be the terrible beginning of his Presidency. One suspects it is precisely the beginning he desired. Real footage of her White House restoration tour for TV is intercut with a grainy impressionistic copy where she is coached and cheered from the sidelines by Nancy Tuckerman (Greta Gerwig). Suddenly Portman’s embodiment doesn’t seem as mad. She retracts all the truthful statements from her account to White – what she did with her husband’s skull, the sound of the bullet – but it is to Father Richard McSorley (John Hurt) that she speaks about her loveless marriage, her insecurities, her need to have her dead children interred with their father. Their burial in the rainy hillside at Arlington feels like the ultimate cruelty. Archive footage is impeccably interwoven with this recreation of events in which we all have an investment, even those of us born long after they occurred. As she leaves the White House for the final time she passes Hamiltons department store and sees rows of window mannequins wearing her wigs and two-piece Chanel imitations. What is real? What is performance? she muses. One gets the distinct impression she knew more than most. And off she goes, homeless, to an unknowable, husbandless future. Written by Noah Oppenheim with a visceral arrest of a soundtrack created by Mica Levi, undercutting the sense of camp that this sad and crazy brilliance otherwise imparts. Andy Warhol is alive and well and still making movies. There is just one word for this: astonishing. Directed by Pablo Larrain. Oh!

John Hurt 01/22/1940-01/25/2017

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I am very sad to learn that the great British actor John Hurt has died. It is all the more upsetting because I just saw Jackie last night and he gave his customary performance – authentic, technically perfect, emotive, affecting. I had the great good pleasure of interviewing him some years ago and he couldn’t have been a more perfect subject:  witty, erudite, gentlemanly, thoughtful,  insightful about his own approach to work and his contribution to cinema – and all delivered in one of the greatest voices you could ever hear. Vaya con dios.

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot (2016)

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If you put one foot in front of the other you have less chance of losing both feet when we hit an IED. That’s one of the pearls to take away from Robert Carlock’s adaptation of Kim Barker’s embed memoir of her time in Kabul from 2003. We catch up with Kim Baker (inventive!) (Tina Fey) as an unmarried childless TV news producer which makes her obvious fodder to drop into the danger zone. It feels somewhat bitty, even though the mainly comic (if pretty low key) first hour is entertaining and Fey’s whip smart retorts to her situation and Billy Bob Thornton’s comments in a supporting role as a marine general are pointed. Margot Robbie is the sex-starved Ozzie BBC reporter who knows her way around and Martin Freeman is the lecherous Scots photographer with whom the newly single Kim becomes embroiled whilst fending off her sexy security guy. That’s when she’s not dealing with the incoming Attorney General (Alfred Molina) running the Talibanesque Interior Ministry who shows her the bed behind a curtain when he learns of her boyfriend’s cheating back home: Fey’s reaction is great. She gains the trust of the soldiers who share their stories onscreen and she gets the stories the channel needs. There’s a really good sequence when she dons a full mailbox rigout to shoot material at a Taliban gathering in Kandahar. The going gets tougher in the second hour and we’re really not very prepared for an affecting drama so while on one level it’s a fascinating insight into the addiction to chaos that drives war reporters it never gets to be the real McCoy. WTF indeed.  Directed by Glenn Ficarra and John Requa.

Touch of Evil (1958)


Newlywed Mexican narcotics officer Mike Vargas  (Charlton Heston) arrives with wife Susan (Janet Leigh) in his part of the world in the most famous travelling shot in cinema history and a car explodes ahead of the border checkpoint. That’s the audacious start to one of the best films Orson Welles ever made, in this tale of police corruption, gangs and drug running along the Mexican border. An unrecognisable Welles himself plays the crooked cop Quinlan, Marlene Dietrich shows up as trampy but honourable Tana and we have a preview of Psycho when Janet checks into a motel where a twitchy Dennis Weaver admits her as his only guest … Look out for Joi Lansing and Zsa Zsa Gabor, and Mercedes McCambridge makes a very welcome appearance. A classic that took far too many years to restore to its intended version.

Erin Brockovich (2000)

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A true story about a hard-scrabble twice-divorced unemployed mother-of-three who became a legal assistant and wound up helping win a class action suit to the tune of a third of a billion dollars for the citizens of Hinkley CA who were being poisoned by the water in their area. This is anything but a Sickness of the Week movie. The sharp as a tack screenplay by Susannah Grant is beautifully structured, with snappy dialogue to die for – when biker Aaron Eckhart asks Erin what would he have to do to be different to her former husbands, she says, Stay – this is anchored by good aesthetic decisions and a great performance by Julia Roberts who gives it her all. Albert Finney is her long-suffering lawyer boss (she persuades him to hire her after he loses her traffic accident suit) and this is never less than totally believable in a marvellously judged production about going up against corrupt corporations, directed (and photographed) by Steven Soderbergh. That’s the real Erin B ten minutes in, taking Julia’s orders at a restaurant.

Baxter ! (1973)


Scott Jacoby plays the titular kid who cannot pronounce his own name – Roger – because of his speech impediment. His argumentative Hollywood parents have divorced and his emotional problems overwhelm him when he moves with his narcissistic mother to London, where he attends the American School. A jerk of a teacher Paul Eddington, irritated by the boy’s  inability to pronounce R,  sends him to a therapist, Patricia Neal. Despite his ability to make good friends including neighbour Britt Ekland and her fiance Jean-Pierre Cassel (also named Roger, but, you know, in French) Neal observes him sliding into total anxiety and he is ultimately taken into psychiatric care. This sounds like a chore but the screenplay adapted by Reginald Rose from a novel by Kin Platt is very balanced by its sensitive and unsentimental treatment of the situation and Jacoby’s performance as the charming, humorous kid is astonishing. Really well handled by director Lionel Jeffries, whose Railway Children star Sally Thomsett makes a funny appearance as a voyeuristic teenage neighbour, this is a pleasure from start to moving finish.