Film Reviews by Steve

As with many directors, Christopher Nolan's first commercial feature is a neo-noir. Normally this allows for a preliminary artistic calling card on a low budget. But apart from a counter-narrative in b&w this isn't the case. There is no visual expressionism. But we do get an exploration of genre themes and motifs.

Most obviously, there are the ostentatious flashbacks; its whole raison d'être is the backwards narrative. Plus there's murder, a male dupe and a femme fatale, a hero who can trust no one and an aura of futility and paranoia... The extensive voice over narration pulls it together, though there isn't much literary polish...

And the dialogue lacks noir-ish wit. Guy Pierce plays a bereaved husband searching for his wife's killers... with the significant impediment of having lost his short term memory! The performances are functional, but limited because the roles are cyphers designed to serve the concept. The gimmick is the whole show.

The story told forwards would be of little interest and the trick only really works once. Continuity must have been a challenge, but there are no obvious glitches. There's a moody score and the usual locations suggestive of transience: bars, motels and diners. It's an experiment which should appeal to curious noir fans.

This is easily the best of Takeshi Kitano's early run of bloody Yakuza films. We still get his offbeat approach, but with increased dramatic weight. This is more imaginative and assured and less formulaic.  While there is the same comic absurdity, it is also deeply melancholy in subject and tone.

Takeshi plays a similar violent cop as the one in Violent Cop (1989)... but grown weary of dealing with crime. He leaves the police after his idiosyncratic law enforcement methods lead to disaster. So he holds up a bank to pay off a mob debt, and spends a final few days with his dying wife...

Which is more narrative than usual...  But the impression of existential sorrow is familiar, deepened by the saddest score Joe Hisaishi ever wrote for Takeshi. Early on there is the intractable despair rooted in the eternal struggle between the law and the gangs, with the consequent loss of life...

And then later is the tenderness in the small acts of kindness for those we love. This is more arthouse than gangster film, while still being a Takeshi picture most of all. He even created the surreal paintings which offer a wistful commentary on the events! Certainly, this is his masterpiece.

This is the final release of legendary Hammer director Terence Fisher and the last of the studio's seven Frankenstein films. The credits still name-check Mary Shelley, and this is mostly a quick shuffle of the familiar motifs. The series had run out of new ideas, but it's still a reasonable variation on the classic tale.

The budget is either much smaller than the old days, or the crew are weary of making the most from not much. The lighting, models and sets are cursory and the monster is especially woeful. David Prowse can't be seen under his rubber costume that took minutes to zip up rather than the traditional hours in makeup.

And Peter Cushing's wig is infamous. This time the Baron is locked up in the madhouse, where he sets up a makeshift laboratory and gets up to his old tricks with body parts of the criminally insane, assisted by a posh medic played by Shane Briant whose luxuriant barnet is more Carnaby Street than gothic horror.

Madeline Smith plays a mute, as if to restate her decorative status. The series ends not with a bang or a whimper, but with forbearance as the formula holds up for anyone not in search of novelty. Cushing is now an old man, but still gives a performance. By the way, three years later, he and Prowse reunite in Star Wars!

The first of Krzysztof Kieslowski's three colours trilogy, which reflects on the ideals of the French revolution as symbolised by the tricolour; liberty, equality, fraternity. The concept has always felt tenuous to me... though the three films are clearly linked, and they individually and collectively explore the interconnectedness of our lives.

And this involves a spiritual dimension. The wife of famous musician loses her husband and daughter in a car crash and enters an extended period of shock. So her normal sense of interdependence goes into stasis. This is more profoundly felt rather than spoken, through Kieslowski's skilful manipulation of all the cinematic tools....

And this includes the use of visual expressionism, as when screen is occasionally saturated in blue. Though this seems to imply the widow's numbness and subliminal desire for rebirth rather than anything to do with liberty. Of the creatives, credit is most due to Zbigniew Preisner whose orchestral score is central to the narrative.

Plus there's a signature role for Juliette Binoche as the bereaved mother/wife; a harrowing and exposing performance, completed by that heartbreaking final closeup. It's a deeply emotional experience and if Blue doesn't- for me- quite make the same exhilarating spiritual connection as Red (1994), then I believe for others it will.

In 1981, West Germany was known for arthouse directors like Herzog, Wenders, Fassbinder et al. This is different, a combat film set in WWII which was a success in global multiplexes. But which is relatively mute on Nazi politics. It takes a while to adjust to how empathetic this is to the German U-boat crew.

When they celebrate a hit, it is on allied ships. This is 1941 with the Kriegsmarine intent on sinking cargo in the Atlantic, to starve the UK to defeat. But events also illustrate why morale is so low in the German navy; whether the deluded commanders back in Berlin, or the usual grumbles about food and leave....

And most emphatically, the hardship of serving in a submarine crew, which we witness with astonishing realism via the excellent models and sound/visual effects. There are well staged action scenes, but much of the time we watch scared, homesick young men living in malodorous squalor and extreme danger.

There's isn't much of an overview, except an impression of the war going to hell. It's too long with hardly any plot, and aside from Jürgen Prochnow as the skipper, the cast doesn't give the crew much individuality. It's about experiencing the horror. This is widely reviewed as the best submarine war film ever made.

This melancholy neo-noir is adapted from a story by Georges Simenon already made as Panique by Julien Duvivier in 1946. This time the scope of the murder investigation is considerably reduced to concentrate on the unconventional love triangle which was difficult to explore back then because of censorship; even in France.

The title character is a prime role for a male actor of a certain age who isn't blessed with film star looks. Michel Blanc plays the brainy, irascible voyeur who spies on his beautiful neighbour (Sandrine Bonnaire) and so is aware that her lover (Luc Thuillier) is the murderer of a young woman; a crime for which Hire himself is suspected.

Plus he's a weird outsider who is persecuted by his community. For Duvivier this was an opportunity to reflect on wartime collaboration and antisemitism. But Patrice Leconte almost entirely excises the social context other than a few hints the neighbours may have legitimate concerns. This is about the psycho-sexual mind games.

There are deep, subtle performances from Blanc and Bonnaire as the lonely souls engaged in contrasting manoeuvres for control of the other. Probably the new ending betrays Simenon's intentions, and it's slow, even if short. But this is the sort of mature, moody, intelligent arthouse that Brits usually go to French cinema to experience.

Workmanlike social realism from Ken Loach set in the deep recession of the 80s-90s. There are no references to Westminster because the characters are not politically motivated, but this is obviously a polemic aimed at the devastation of many northern towns caused by successive Conservative governments.

It's not located anywhere specific, but shot around council estates in Manchester. No one works and the poor get by on cash-in-hand, petty crime and the family allowance. When a hard-up Catholic (Bruce Jones) borrows a few quid for his daughter's communion dress, the debt is bought by a small time gangster.

And he wants far more than the money owed. The initial comical tone as the feckless dad knocks around with Ricky Tomlinson suddenly darkens, as Loach and scriptwriter Jim Allen make this menace seem horrifyingly real. However, as socialists, they are not going to present a solution in religious dogma...

Though the family priest does prove unexpectedly broadminded! This is typical Loach and unlikely to crossover to those antagonistic to his ideology. For everyone else, it's a stirring vision of a nation in crisis. And well done Ken just for getting this stuff out there while his contemporaries flogged heritage to Miramax.

What was once called cinéma du look, now presents as an assortment of mannerisms lifted from contemporary Hollywood imports. Now it seems less satisfying- and more dated- than the previous generation of French cinema which Luc Besson was reacting against. Like the Hitchcock inspired thrillers of Claude Chabrol.

This is nominally in the same genre but the McGuffin is so spurious that it is essentially plotless. The concept is interesting; Christopher Lambert (in a dinner jacket) enters a labyrinthine network of subterranean crime in the Paris Metro; much like the mysterious tunnels and passageways of the Casbah in Pepe le Moko (1937)!

And he meets up with a gang of maverick hipsters, including Jean-Hugues Anglade as a roller skating purse snatcher and Jean Reno as a gnomic drummer. Isabelle Adjani is the cool love interest who follows the hero underground, evoking the period more through her cartoonish shoulder pads, than any thematic content.

When a dude with designer stubble in a sleeveless t-shirt and shades plays slap on a fretless bass, it may be the most '80s thing to ever happen on screen. What was once très chic is now a period piece with a surplus of awkward comedy and a funky soundtrack. It hasn't aged gracefully- and that is now the attraction.

The approach of writer/director/star Takeshi Kitano is a nervy mix of absurdist humour and neo-noir sadness. It's easy to imagine he was influenced the great stylists- like Sergio Leone- though he isn't exactly in that class. It's a Yakuza picture which fluctuates between extreme violence and farce.

Kitano plays the regional chief of a ruthlessly pragmatic gang of killers who is sent to the coast by the big boss to sort out a little local difficulty... and are picked off by an assassin. While established on a desolate beach the motley crew of dozy idiots engage in an extended interval of infantile horseplay...

...Until they return to the conflict for a bloody climax. A shootout in a lift is a particular standout. Much of the attraction rests on the inexpressive, laconic performances, the long languorous edits and the vacant panoramas, in Panavision. All this atmosphere is enhanced by Joe Hisaishi cool, ambient score.

It's possible the comic middle section was improvised to extend the running time to feature length, but Kitano is so impassively charismatic that it hardly matters. It's a low budget gangster picture which is beginning to show its age, but should satisfy curious genre fans in search of the strange.

Well mounted cold war spy thriller adapted from the debut Jack Ryan novel by Tom Clancy. Politically it was soon unmoored from history, as the Soviets are portrayed as sinister automatons, even though this was released during Glasnost. Whereas the CIA operative (Alec Baldwin) is a smart jock with an adorable child.

He must untangle the motives of the commander (Sean Connery) of a next generation Soviet nuclear submarine who has gone rogue off the coast of Florida. So both the US Navy and the Red Fleet seek to blow the Red October out of the water for contrasting reasons rooted in cold war paranoia.

Actually, there are unmissable echoes of Dr. Strangelove (1964)! Ryan is convinced the skipper wants to defect, but what if he is wrong? Mostly this is US propaganda with their secret services as the affable, knockabout good-guys. But it has value for the suspenseful underwater scenes on the hi-tec attack subs.

And it's fun to watch Connery as the whiskery naval captain in the period he was cast for an implied nonconformist authority, as well as his roguish star charisma. There's also a deep cast of distinguished (male) character actors. And for a blockbuster, the realism of its sealed, hermetical combat vessels is impressive.

This is a significant release in the Australian New Wave as it brings together its most auspicious director and biggest star. And because it has become influential in the evolution of the Aussie national identity. Peter Weir gives us a version of the slaughter at Gallipoli in WWI which is more mythic than historical.

In 1981 maybe the film spoke to a country looking for a way to independence more than reflect the experiences of those who lost their lives on a beach in Turkey. Mel Gibson stars as a footloose individualist/larrikin who reluctantly enlists with a naive country boy (Mark Lee) who believes in loyalty to the empire.

And after a few weeks of adventure, the mates are fed into the grinder of industrial war. They are an Aussie version of the golden generation of Edwardian youth who died senselessly in the trenches. To an outsider, this is an attractive period drama with superior production values and panoramic photography.

Gibson and Lee make an agreeable combination, but the support is unmemorable. The main weakness is the use of Jean-Michel Jarre's electronic music... Yet it still makes an impact as an anti-war film, with the famous, haunting climax... The internet informs me not much of this is factual, but it's still bloody horrific.

This is pitched as a dark thriller and a black comedy, and some of the extreme aspects of both are difficult to watch. It's not the sex and violence, because there isn't any on screen. It's the malign misogyny (and yes, the misanthropy) of the lead character which is hard to endure, though the audience's repulsion is factored in.

Luis Tosar is effectively creepy as a depressed/psychopathic concierge in a swanky apartment building who wants to make his residents miserable because he can't feel any pleasure himself. His biggest challenge is a fun/sexy/vulnerable señorita living alone, and to make her sad he has to be really bad. So he maliciously stalks her.

Marta Etura plays the woman-in-peril and her sunny day charisma is a release. But when the obsessive surveillance of the male oppressor grows into sexual assault then it goes too far for mere escapism. And the final twist offers no compensation. The story soon runs out of logic, though this is hardly unusual in a psychological thriller.

As a suspense picture, it is directed by Jaume Balagueró with some real flair; this is edgy stuff. For a while the comedy doesn't register, but the events are so absurd that eventually an unsettling comic resonance can be detected. Actually, if I was the sort who does, I might have pulled the plug; but maybe I'm easily offended...

Violent but philosophical WWII action drama set among the residual German stragglers on the Russian front as they are rolled back through the Caucuses by the Red Army and process their inevitable defeat. It's based on a novel which draws on real life events, but the subtext is a counterculture narrative which tells us not to trust the Man.

James Coburn is charismatic, but- at 49- too old to play the insubordinate maverick whose ragtag mob of dissidents is the only resistance left now the disillusioned Nazis have abandoned the cause. Maximilian Schell is a fearful but entitled Prussian aristocrat whose obsession with winning the Iron Cross wilfully jeopardises his own men.

The psyche of the defeated army constantly evokes All Quiet on the Western Front (1930). The state-of-the-art action is more characteristic of its directer Sam Peckinpah, with the explosions, blood squibs, subliminal flashbacks and all the slo-mo. The cast's handling of authentic weaponry is impressive, but then Peckinpah was ex-US Marines!

The production ran out of money, though this is only evident in the perfunctory climax which was shot while the creditors confiscated the set. What is most persuasive is the impression that there is nowhere for these traumatised survivors to retreat to once the fighting ends; psychologically they will never leave the insanity of war behind.

This is an actors film, a three hander faithfully adapted from Ariel Dorfman's acclaimed stage play which is hardly opened out at all; it's a photographed version of a night at the theatre. And it's a condemnation of the torture and oppression of the citizens of Chile during the regime of Augusto Pinochet...

But it is fashioned into a potent political thriller. The location isn't stated but can easily be deduced. Sigourney Weaver plays a liberal survivor of police torture and rape who means to take an eye-for-an-eye when she has a key perpetrator (Ben Kingsley) strapped to a chair in her remote country ranch house.

Or is she delusional, provoked by a desire for revenge? The mediator is her husband (Stuart Wilson), a lawyer who leads the inquiry into state sanctioned atrocity. So it's schematic, but still a functional vehicle for an exhumation of official secrets which gives a voice to the dead and the traumatised survivors.

The hostage's speech about the addictiveness of brutality is horrifying, though we are spared flashbacks. As a static production of a stage play this is extremely good, if not cinematic. The greater reach of the medium gets the politics to a different, broader audience. It's yet another a warning from history.

Typically droll policier from Claude Chabrol's late period, which aims a few satirical barbs at the corruption of the provincial bourgeoisie- one of his standard preoccupations. The story might have been written for a murder-mystery on daytime television, with its familiar plot twists... plus a soupçon of very dry comedy.

But the writer-director also creates interest with the eccentric characters, who are an odd combination of the whimsical and the intimidating. Particularly Jean Poiret as the inspector who is introduced as a classic, self-effacing Columbo style detective, but then beats up the suspects under interrogation...

A postal worker (Lucas Belvaux) in a conservative small town is being maliciously coerced into giving up his home by a trio of respectable professionals (including Chabrol stalwart, Michel Bouquet) who want to build on the land. Then the charred bones of a prostitute are found in a car crash that looks like it was worked on...

And we all know what an unrecognisable corpse means... It's a Chabrol film, so there's a role for his ex-wife Stéphane Audran- as the postman's volatile mother. Pauline Lafont is best as his screwball co-worker who lends a hand... and yes, she's the craziest of all! So... no surprises but still a must for Chabrol enthusiasts.