The Fisher King (1991)

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Obnoxious NYC shock jock Jack Lucas (Jeff Bridges) is doling out advice as per and looking forward to a part in a TV sitcom when the news mentions his name – a man was inspired by his rant against yuppies to go on a shooting spree in a restaurant and then killed himself. Jack spirals into a suicidal depression and we find him three years later working in the video store owned by his girlfriend (a fiery Mercedes Ruehl) and about to kill himself when some youthful vigilantes decide to do some street cleaning – he’s rescued by Parry (Robin Williams), a Grail obsessive and homeless loner whose wife was killed in the restaurant massacre. How their lives intertwine and they both chase the objects of their affection (and each other’s obsession) while battling mental illness is the backbone of this comedy-drama-fantasy that is told in the usual robust and arresting style of Terry Gilliam, who was directing a screenplay by Richard LaGravenese. There are iconic images here – the Red Knight appearing to Parry as his hallucinations kick in, and the chase through Central Park;  the extraordinary Grand Central Station waltzing scene in which Parry meets the weird Lydia (Amanda Plummer);  Jack and Parry watching the stars. Gilliam’s own obsessions are all over this despite his not writing it, with references to the Grail (obv) and Don Quixote.  It’s all wrapped into four distinctive performances which embody oddball characters in search of a role for life in a very conventional time, with emotions riding high while personal circumstances contrive to drag them to the very pit of their being. There are some outstanding performances in small roles by Tom Waits, Michael Jeter and Kathy Najimy in a film that proves that dreams do come true.

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Terminator 2: Judgment Day 3D

Terminator 2 3D

You just can’t go around the streets killing people. Well, you can actually. James Cameron has revisited one of the key films of the 90s and possibly the greatest action film ever made. It was re-released for one night only – 29 August –  the date the T-1000 was released to an unsuspecting world. In this time-defying work Sarah Connor (Linda Hamilton) is whiling away the months in a state mental health facility while her kid John (Edward Furlong) is in foster care practising those sneaky skillsets that his mom has taught him because in the future he’s the leader of the humans in a machine-led dystopia. While T-1000 (Robert Patrick) has been sent back to kill John, The Terminator (Arnold Schwarzenegger) has been sent to protect him in one of the greatest face-offs (literally) you will ever see. Once the computer boffin (Joe Morton) has been engaged rather forcibly to help destroy his creations (in a philosophical 360 these will destroy too) there is nothing for it but fight to the death. I didn’t like the 3D and it actually added nothing but migraine in this 4K edition. This is sensational from concept to execution. And you don’t need me to repeat the lines or the warmth between Der Ahnuld and Furlong or the genius of casting Hamilton who is ripped to the max in the greatest action role outside of Sigourney in Aliens. Robert Patrick gives me nightmares. This is future shock like no other. No need to tamper with brilliance so the visual jolts bothered me greatly:  a weird choice given that this is a warning about technology, a fever dream that has particular resonance today.  Written by Cameron and William Wisher Jr. This is intense.

Thunder On The Hill (1951)

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You did not come here. You were led here by Our Lord. Sanctimonious Sister Mary Bonaventure (Claudette Colbert) is leading the team at the convent/hospital of Our Lady of Rheims, a hillside refuge for a community in Norfolk during a terrible flood. Her colleagues dislike her intensely – but Mother Superior (Gladys Cooper) knows that she is motivated by guilt over the death by suicide of her sister. When Valerie Cairns (Ann Blyth, the wicked daughter from Mildred Pierce) arrives accompanied by the police it takes a while for the penny to drop as to why she’s rejecting Sister Mary’s kindness:  she’s a murderess en route to the gallows at prison in Norwich. She’s due to be hanged the following morning but the breaking of the dyke and the downing of telephone lines now mean her execution is delayed. She insists on her innocence and Mary believes her – because she knows what guilt really is. There are a number of people at the convent who are hiding guilt relating to the death by overdose of Valerie’s crippled composer brother including the wife (Anne Crawford) of the doctor on duty (Robert Douglas) who reacts with shock to a photograph of the murdered man. Her husband promptly sedates her.  As Sr Mary researches the newspapers and is given an unsigned letter by slow-witted handyman Willie (Michael Pate) that implicates a third party in the murder, Sr Mary determines to bring Valerie’s fiance Sidney (Philip Friend) from Norwich by boat with Willie.  The handyman destroys the boat so that Valerie cannot be taken to be hanged. The police sergeant is now going to charge Sr Mary with interfering in the course of justice and the guilty party is closing in on her while she is reprimanded by Mother Superior … Slickly told, atmospheric thriller directed by Douglas Sirk with an unexpected take on the melodrama combined with an Agatha Christie group of conventional characters hiding something nasty all gathered in the one building.  There’s a marvellous scene in a belltower when the murderer reveals themselves. The contrasting figures of the desperate and hysterical Blyth and calm but determined Colbert make this a fascinating spin on a crime thriller with a play on the concept of divine intervention which would also be pivotal in Sirk’s later Magnificent Obsession. An engaging, stylish tale adapted by Oscar Saul and Andrew Solt from Charlotte Hastings’ play Bonaventure, enhanced by some very fine performances and sharp dialogue particularly when it’s delivered by Connie Gilchrist as the acerbic cook Sister Josephine whose insistence on saving newspapers (preferably The Sunday Times) saves the day.

The Prisoner of Second Avenue (1975)

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Normally I have issues with Jack Lemmon playing serious – he’s such a superb comedian I get nervous when he’s doing pathos. However this Neil Simon adaptation skirts those potential problems – the writing is just so good every time you fear the worst he goes for the laugh and boy does it work. Even if Lemmon doesn’t – he’s the exec made jobless in a purge and just loses it – wife Anne Bancroft is incredibly pragmatic and understanding even when he stops shaving and washing and getting dressed and going out.  He stays in except when he’s picking fights with neighbours in the apartment block during the summer heat wave. By the time he’s going to a shrink and his wife returns to the workplace his brother Gene Saks (can you really see HIM as Jack’s brother?! Me neither!) wants to get involved and their childhood issues are resurrected while their older sisters sob. There’s a brilliant payoff to a mugging at Central Park – by Sylvester Stallone! And it’s wrapped up very well when Anne starts to go off the rails as SHE is fired. NYC looks great. Look sharp for F. Murray Abraham and M. Emmet Walsh. Directed by Melvin Frank.

Candyman (1992)

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Your friends will abandon you. So true. Clive Barker’s stories terrify me and The Forbidden in The Books of Blood series is a brilliant conflation of fairytale and horror, laced with social commentary about contemporary urban life in the parts of town you drive by pretty damn quick. Transferred by writer/director Bernard Rose to the Chicago Projects, this takes on a terrifyingly current resonance. Rose said when he recce’d Cabrini Green he sensed ‘palpable fear.’ The wonderful Virginia Madsen is researching urban legends with her postgrad colleague Kasi Lemmons while her sceptical lecturer hubby Xander Berkeley is carrying on with another student. The legend of Candyman exerts a hold over a ghetto building whose architecture mimics her own apartment block so she can forensically experience the way the idea literally infiltrated a drug-infested black community where vicious murders are taking place. She befriends a young mother and the graffiti pointing her to the origins of the story lures her back and she encounters the man whose name you do not want to say five times …. Bloody, sensual, exciting and a trip for the brain, this story of a tragic monster born of slavery is incarnated in the elegant, noble charismatic form of Tony Todd, blessed with a deep voice, a fur-trimmed greatcoat and a hook for a hand and boy does he use it to win the woman of his life, hypnotising her into his romantic history. Incredible from start to bloody  finish, this is a brilliant exercise in genre, tapping into primal fears and political tensions and putting the sex into bee stings. Thrilling, with great cinematography by Anthony B. Richmond – get that titles sequence! – and an urban legend of a score by Philip Glass. Poetic and fabulous. Sweets to the sweet!

Fathers and Daughters (2015)

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Russell Crowe’s the famous novelist who was driving the car in which his beloved wife died. His little girl and he survive but his injuries cause psychotic episodes so he goes away to get his mental status sorted out for a long 7 months and she’s parcelled out to his wife’s sister and her husband. Then when he returns they make his life miserable attempting to gain custody as revenge – because the women hated each other. The wealthy brother in law (Bruce Greenwood) provokes Crowe at every opportunity until he lets loose as his spasms contract his muscles and his temper flares … We’re in the present day and Amanda Seyfried is the screwed up daughter all grown up and practising paediatric psychological counselling during the day and screwing every man in sight at night until she meets her late dad’s biggest fan (Aaron Paul). The fallout from her past and her behaviour impacts on their romantic relationship in embarrassing fashion. So what’s wrong with this picture? Pretty much everything. It’s disconnected. It’s calculated to make you empathise but you don’t. It was one of those famous Hollywood Black List screenplays (by Brad Desch) that got picked up and made by an Italian director Gabriele Muccino and has an amazing cast that also includes Jane Fonda, Octavia Spencer, Diane Kruger and Janet McTeer and yet it doesn’t matter. At some level it’s dissociated from its own content and does not make a lot of sense despite the title being the name of the Pulitzer writer’s most famous novel. Weird.

High Anxiety (1977)

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Mel Brooks’ Hithcock spoof is great fun, in fits and starts, and in those sequences where the laughs are thin, the action is silly, which is pretty good too. Look out for wholesale ripoffs (okay, homages to) of Psycho, Vertigo, Spellbound, The Birds, Notorious, The Wrong Man, and, oh a pile more. Mel’s the renowned psychiatrist deployed to an Institute for the Very, Very Nervous where his own fear of heights is treated and he becomes aware of long-term patients who, on the face of it, are pretty sane. Until Dr Hedley Lamarr puts in his wolf-teeth. Mel sings, Madeline Kahn swoons and Mrs Danvers-a-like Cloris Leachman administers Nazified S&M (but mainly S). There’s even a spoof soundtrack, with John Morris riffing on Herrmann’s classic swoops. Co-written by Ron Clark, Rudy De Luca and Barry Levinson, all of whom appear in small roles. Dedicated to Hitchcock, who sent Brooks wine and a note that read, “A small token of my pleasure, have no anxiety about this.”

The Prince of Tides (1991)

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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.

A Tale of Love and Darkness (2016)

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Natalie Portman returns to her homeland of Israel for this touching adaptation of the Amos Oz memoir of their country’s  violent post-WW2 transition to statehood after the ending of the British Mandate. She plays his mother, a Polish woman whose relationship with her own vicious mother is more than a little tricky and finds her suffused with survivor’s guilt;  her husband is an academic writer, a weak-minded man envious of a novelist friend’s success and tempted to play an active part in the forthcoming actions to create Israel;  young Amos observes and listens; being told stories; and creating his own impressions of adults, their relationships and rivalries, and what they do to survive; and how marriage works. There’s even a budding romance with an Arabic girl who talks to him of poetry. The performances are uniformly good but remarkably, given her busy behind the scenes role (adapting and directing) it’s Portman who surprises in her interpretation of a woman who finally goes off the rails in the most understandable way possible.  Strangely, it is her voice that alerts you:  she speaks Hebrew in an entirely different and lower register than in her English-language performances and her persona achieves a different kind of depth as a result. Who knew? A beautifully made and fascinating piece of work.

להסתגלות נגיעה זו של הזיכרונות העמוסים העוז של המעבר שלאחר WW2 האלים של נטלי פורטמן חוזרת למולדתה ישראל  ארצם למדינה לאחר סיום המנדט הבריטי. היא משחקת אמו, פולני שיחסיה עם אמה הקסמים שלה הוא קצת יותר מסובך ומוצא אותה רווי האשמה של הניצול; בעלה הוא סופר אקדמי, יתפתה לשחק חלק פעיל בפעולות הקרובות ליצור בישראל; צעיר עמוס מעירה ומקשיב, להיות סיפורים ויצירת יתרשם בעצמו של מבוגרים, יחסים ויריבויות שלהם, ומה הם עושים כדי לשרוד. ואיך נישואים עובדים. יש אפילו רומן ניצנים עם נערת ערבית מי שמדבר אליו שירה. ההופעות הן אחיד טובות אבל להפליא, בהתחשב עסק אותה מאחורי קלעי התפקיד (התאמה ובימוי) זה פורטמן מי שמפתיע בפרשנות שלה של אישה סוף הסוף הולכת מהפסים באופן המובן ביותר האפשרי. באופן מוזר, זה קולה שמתריעה: היא מדברת עברית ב מרשם שונה לחלוטין ונמוך בהופעות שלה בשפה האנגלית והאישיות שלה משיגה סוג אחר של עומק כתוצאה מכך. מי ידע? חתיכה יפה עשתה ומרתקת של עבודה.

Mommie Dearest (1981)

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Joan Crawford said in the early 1970s that the only young modern actress who had what it took to be a star was Faye Dunaway. Maybe she planted an idea …. This quasi-delirious festival of camp Hollywood eating itself boasts a stunning – and perhaps fatal – performance by Faye Dunaway. Her impersonation of Crawford as a bat shit crazy obsessive compulsive derives from ingrate adopted daughter Christina’s infamous memoir, which she waited to publish until after the star’s death although there were signs she had been writing it beforehand. Being the cuckoo in the nest (one of four, in fact) of a narcissistic exhibitionist and likely bipolar cannot be easy (it’s not!) but doing it in the public eye must have been a certain kind of hell.  For Christina as played by the bizarre little Mara Hobel (who won a Razzie!) there is a kind of fascination in watching the mad mother take revenge, over and over again against the child’s perceived slights. The big scenes are the ones everyone knows – the beating because of wire hangers in the kids’ closet;  the midnight rose-cutting after she’s fired by MGM; wanting the child to eat rare meat; the brutal attack on a teenage Christina which was witnessed by a trade journo (who confirmed it.) However the narrative is damaged by a performance that takes it a little de trop, as Celeste Holm might aver, and Dunaway merely said of it that a director other than Frank Perry might have reined her in at times (even if the likeness is uncanny).  Her boyfriend, then husband, photographer Terry O’Neill was one of the producers. There was no reining in those shoulderpads though and the adaptation by Robert Getchell, Tracy Hotchner, Frank Perry and producer Frank Yablans loses steam every so often, especially in the second half when mother and adopted daughter were more or less reconciled (Diana Scarwid plays the adolescent and adult Christina) and she just appears like a Mean Girl to alkie Mommie. It’s not quite mad enough to be trash nor lurid enough to be exploitation. But there is great chutzpah in the opening montage when we watch Crawford prepare herself without once seeing her face – right up until the point where she’s ready for her grand entrance. And it is literally unbelievable but true that this sixty year old drag queen replaced her twentysomething daughter on a daytime soap when the girl was hospitalised with an ovarian tumour. That’s showbiz! And boy would I love to have her closet and get her round to scrub my floors!