Film Reviews by Alphaville

For the first 45 minutes it’s a dud. Another dystopian urban Blade Runner future, recalcitrant robots and a downbeat investigator. Roberto Rodriguez whispers his lines in such stilted English that you may well need subtitles to understand him. It’s all so depressing, turning what could be an exciting set-up into a world-weary plod.

Then suddenly there’s a game-changer and we’re into a wonderful new film. Baby-faced sexbot Cleo makes an evolutionary breakthrough, the visuals become stylish, there’s a finely-shot night-time car chase and the action moves to a beautifully-realised bleak desert called the ‘sandbox’, all underscored by an exciting percussive soundtrack. Just when you were beginning to give up on it, everything begins to fascinate. There’s even some potted philosophy on which to ponder. Example: ‘Surviving is not relevant. Living is.’

The best scene, which works on many levels, is where Roberto teaches Cleo to dance to ‘La Mer’ (great choice of music, again for several reasons) and accidentally triggers her sexual programming. The plot builds to a gripping Western-style climax with the baddies in greatcoats like Henry Fonda’s in Once Upon A Time In The West. In all, this is a film of two halves: an abysmal first half and a beguiling second half that leaves you wanting more.

Avoid the trailer, which (as usual these days) gives the whole plot away.

Clint’s western was such a good film that this almost scene-for-scene Japanese samurai remake rarely rises above curiosity value. It’s not a bad film but you’ll spend more time comparing it with the superior original than enjoying it for its own sake. Perhaps this explains why critics liked it better than audiences. Ken Watanabe (the Clint Eastwood character) plays it po-faced moody all the way through and this is not helped by a mournful strings-heavy score. The other characters are varyingly convincing and so are the confrontations. Only Charles Bronson lookalike Koichi Sato brings excitement and fun to the piece with his swaggering ‘sheriff’ (the Gene Hackman character). As with multiple American remakes of Kurasawa films, this is a missed opportunity to match or improve on the original. Payback time.

A bunch of sweary charisma-free characters live out their empty lives in a high-rise. An ill-conceived grainy look adds to the ugliness of it all. The pace picks up when a sniper starts taking pot shots at them, and an insistent electro score does its best to rack up tension but, like Clark Gable in Gone With the Wind, it’s hard to give a damn. Attack the Block it ain’t.

This undemanding time-passer recycles the previous three films in the franchise. Dinosaurs run wild? Tick. And that’s about it. With production values as proficient as ever, Spielberg’s Amblin stable concocts its usual airbrushed thrills for the kiddies while adults might pine for something a tad less prepubescent. Whether the film-makers intended it or not, our heroine neatly sums up the whole affair early on when she announces ‘No one’s impressed by a dinosaur any more.’

The final ho-hum fight between peerless cgi dinosaurs produces a less than enthralling been-there-seen-that climax. It’s enough to make the discerning viewer close his eyes and recall happier times of a man in an ill-fitting Godzilla costume stamping all over a miniature Tokyo set. That was more fun on so many levels.

A blast of a motorised chase movie that exposes the Fast & Furious franchise for the macho posturing shell that it is. Forget George Miller’s first three attempts to get it right. This is a step up in class. Thank goodness it took 14 years to get to the screen as this enabled Mel Gibson to be ditched along the way. Tom Hardy is no great replacement but he has little to do anyway. The movie belongs to ice-queen action-woman Charlize Theron. The under-written Max is just along for the ride.

Almost the whole movie is one big motorised chase across the desert. Abandoning any pretence of realism, the more ridiculous and outlandish the action gets the more fun it becomes. It’s easy to dismiss as a glorified video game and it certainly won’t be to everyone’s taste, but this is proper show-don’t-tell cinema. Just sit back with Miller at the tiller and let those sweeping Namibian landscapes and glorious saturated colours wash over you. A feast not for the mind but for the senses.

How can a film about the rave scene in 90s Paris be so dull? What should have been fun and interesting becomes, in director Mia Hansen-Love’s hands, simply disjointed and pedestrian. Who wants to spend two hours with a bunch of boring people who do little but walk around, sit around and feed their nicotine habit in one incoherent scene after another? Where was the editor when he was needed? Mind you, cut out the superfluous scenes and this would be a very short film indeed. Drama is conspicuous by its absence.

Did I say ‘rave’? Was the music scene ever as bland as this? How many shots of nameless people jigging around in samey discos with their hands in the air is it possible to sit through? Don’t believe the unexpectedly warm reviews of critics who would no doubt believe the emperor had clothes. Just fast forward to the nauseatingly pretentious ending. Daft Punk deserve better than this.

Director Sylvain Chomet’s supposed animated homage to Jacques Tati is a travesty. Unlike many comedians, Tati understood the visual nature of cinema. As an actor he was a wonderful visual performer and as a director he filled his films with artfully visual gags. Animation has the capacity to expand and enhance reality but Chomet completely fails to understand this. The Illusionist diminishes both Tati and the medium. Chomet likes to hem in the frame and destroy all sense of wonder. Some scenes even place the Tati character on a stage, forcing us to watch animated theatre. The film deserves one star for a wonderfully intricate final aerial shot, which spirals out from Arthur’s Seat, the hill in the centre of Edinburgh, to encompass the whole city. This shot was tellingly sub-contracted out of the director’s hands.

It’s a crying shame because hand-drawn animation has the power to transport, as with Ghibli films. The blame lies entirely with Chomet, who describes his film as intentionally ‘anti-cinema’. Unbelievable. Watch and weep or enjoy M. Hulot’s Holiday again instead.

This is a tense, closely observed thriller that develops into an enthralling watch. As usual these days, avoid the tell-tale trailer because if you think you know where this is going you’ll be wrong. Minor quibbles are a terrible title and a lack of oomph in places, although a dramatic electro score does wonders to up the ante. There’s also a clichéd family-man-finds-his-mojo subtext, most of which thankfully appears to have ended up on the cutting room floor.

Against this, it’s a pleasure to see Don Johnson still strutting his stuff. He turns up half-way through as a pig-farming private eye and steals every scene he’s in. It’s no spoiler to sat that the climax would be worthy of any western. Jim Mickle made one of the great vampire movies in Stakeland and this is on a par.

A refreshing antidote to the usual creepy filmic view of a relationship between an adult man and a teenage girl (eg the peculiarly overrated An Education). This is a comedy in which the man is the one who is manipulated. Doesn’t sound like a barrel of laughs but director Marielle Heller, greatly helped by lead Bel Powley, treats the sexual relationship with the same lightness of touch that Louis Malle did mother-and-son incest in Murmur of the Heart. Warm-hearted, funny and truthful. Going against the grain of standard Hollywood produce, it’s also great to see a film that portrays sex as fun and drugs as seedy rather than vice versa.

Opening with epic landscapes and portentous titles about a Roman legion on the Silk Road, this risible nonsense immediately descends into the usual Jackie Chan play-fighting hokum and from then on it’s impossible to take seriously. All the fight scenes are lengthily choreographed past the point of boredom, John Cusack is difficult to believe in a thankless role as a legionnaire, there are long stretches of east-meets-west détente and the widescreen vistas soon deteriorate into middling cgi. Looks like it would have been fun more to make than watch. Thank goodness for baddie Adrian Brodie, who turns up after an hour to add some much-needed gravitas, but by then it’s too late to save the movie. One star for those vistas.

A talentless young French writer finds a dead man’s brilliant unpublished manuscript and passes it off as his own. No spoilers – this all happens in the first ten minutes. The book is a first-hand account of soldiering in the 1950s Algerian war. What could possibly go wrong? Finding out will keep you glued to the screen. The more dangerous and ridiculous his predicaments become, the more you’ll squirm with him. The suspense is akin to watching Kevin Costner becoming increasingly cornered in No Way Out. Great stuff, with a doozie of an ending that will make you both laugh and cry.

Kingsman is the best Bond film since Goldfinger… and Bond isn’t even in it. With current Bond movies mired in gritty realism and the Bourne franchise ruined by Greengrass wobble-cam, Michael Vaughn gives us an uproarious genre-savvy secret service movie that thrills as much as it amuses. From the opening set-piece with Jack Davenport as an urbane action hero, you know you’re in good hands here. As for Colin Firth… who knew that behind that stiff Darcy exterior lurked such effortless action-man potential? The set-piece where he slaughters a whole church full of rednecks to a soundtrack of wailing guitar from Free Bird is one of the most astonishing pieces of pure cinema in recent years.

Beside Colin Firth and scenery-chewing baddie Samuel L. Jackson, wannabe agent Taron Egerton cuts a somewhat lacklustre figure, but the movie’s only ‘bum’ note comes at the end, where the notion of anal sex as a reward for saving the world leaves a sour taste. Don’t let that put you off. See our heroes tackle the hench-woman with razor-sharp blades for legs!

For anyone who loved the TV series the spin-off film will come as a real disappointment. Kit Harrington lacks charisma as the leading agent and Peter Firth (reprising his role as spy boss Harry) pouts his petulant way through proceedings as though auditioning for his next role of Pontius Pilate in Risen. The plot makes the same mistake with Harry as Skyfall did with M. These are backroom overlords not field agents. Getting them out from behind their desks merely exposes their limitations when involved in an action plot. Harry’s completely out-of-character behaviour makes the whole narrative unbelievable, and there are insufficient thrills to lure a Spooks-ignorant new audience. The TV series lost its way in its final episodes, with the emphasis more on Harry than the agents, and the film does nothing to redress the balance.

An inexplicable multi-Oscar winner in 2009, this is one of the few films that blatantly gives away its climax even before you set foot in the cinema. Structured around the famous TV quiz show, the plot is constantly interrupted by lengthy flashbacks of the contestant's upbringing in the slums of Mumbai, as depicted by the usual rent-a-cute street urchins. Any tension is provided not by the narrative but by the audience-manipulating TV quiz itself, and we know how that’s going to end. Boyle directs with his customary verve, hence its two star rating, but a more realistic depiction of Indian life will be found in the tedious but more informative films of Satyajit Ray.

Matters are not helped by a lacklustre central performance. The only interesting characters are the morally ambiguous quizmaster and the detecting investigating cheating. It all ends in the expected rousing climax that you’d have to have a heart of stone not to vomit at. Oscars? All boxes are ticked. The Academy comes over all warm at the prospect of cloying sentimentality and political correctness, and it just loves a happy-clappy ending. Whoo! Whoo!

This derivative 2014 actioner, entitled ‘Rage’ in the States, is simply monotonous. As too often these days, Nicolas Cage plays it dour as he goes on the rampage in search of his missing daughter. Numerous shoot-outs merely up the yawn-count. There’s even a bog-standard frenetic car chase. Have today’s directors learned nothing from Bullitt? One star for a thunderous score that tries to inject some life into affairs, otherwise it’s B-movie fare that wastes the talents of all concerned.