Film Reviews by Steve

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.

This is about how class diminishes us on either side of the divide. Stevens is an efficient butler at a prestigious English stately home in the service of a conservative aristocrat foolishly engaged in private negotiations to appease Hitler's Nazis in an effort to avoid another war; and so comes under the influence of British fascists.

The servant averts his gaze because his lordship knows best. Both are guilty of a misplaced sense of duty. Stevens suppresses his humanity because it's not in his job description. But while he grows old alone, his inhibition is provoked by a new housekeeper who may- even if fancifully- represent a romantic last chance.

This is a quality production in all the usual ways from camera to soundtrack. James Ivory's direction is extremely sensitive and faithful to Kazuo Ishiguro's novel. But in particular, credit is due to Ruth Prawer Jhabvala whose subtle yet deeply moving screenplay performs miracles on a source which is mostly first person narrative.

And there are perfectly modulated performances by Anthony Hopkins and Emma Thompson. The scene in which she accosts him while he reads romantic fiction is a heartbreaker in the book, but as potent on the screen... Presumably when Stevens saw Brief Encounter after the war he felt the lovers were guilty of vulgar ostentation!

Its reputation promises a near plotless sequence of beautiful photographic images. But that's not the case... There is a slim narrative about a calamitous love triangle set in rural Texas- 1916- between a couple of poor itinerant lovers (Brooke Adams, Richard Gere) and a rich landowner (Sam Shepard) who the woman marries for money...

Except she also continues the affair with the man she calls her brother. There's even a cross country manhunt! But certainly it's the Oscar winning cinematography that haunts the memory with the the ephemeral farmhands at work in the wheat fields, captured in the golden hours of dawn and dusk, wistfully scored by Ennio Morricone.

Everything feels eerily transient. This is about a moment in time when the machinery of modernism begins to leave its scars on the timeless pastoral landscape. We see the withered men come home from the industrial war in Europe, while the three lovers linger on in their unspoiled paradise, soon to be cast out of yet another Eden...

...And into a biblical apocalypse of plague and fire! Terrence Malick spent months in the editing suite and eventually held the story together with a voiceover; though it still feels erratic. While there's a hazy aura of mankind losing its innocence, yes, it's the honey yellow hues of Néstor Almendros' dreamy photography that captivates.

Ultra-violent gangster film whose inspired gimmick is to stage the plot of George V. Higgins' hardboiled crime novel (1974) against the 2008 US bank crash. So the black economy of the mob reflects satirically on the crooked legitimacy of Bush Jr's financial laissez-fair; then later on, Barack Obama's phoney one nation platitudes.

All the politics happens off screen in the news; the action is set on the shabby streets of Boston during a long recession. After a stickup at a high stakes mafia card game, a hitman/enforcer (Brad Pitt) is hired to deal out reprisals and bring the cartels back into status quo... Same as in Washington, but with a substantial body count.

There's some extreme bloodshed and an excess of dialogue, which is mostly idiot criminals telling anecdotes to fill in some backstory. But these are often quite amusing, especially with the decent ensemble performances of the all male cast. Scoot McNairy makes an impression as the only even halfway likeable lowlife.

Andrew Dominik directs with the occasional stylistic flourish, but aside from the CGI, this mostly feels like a bluff, tough '70s gangster film, which is pessimistic and brutal and macho. Except the unsubtle political context sets it apart. Brad's final line is extremely quotable: 'America's not a country. It's just a business. Now pay me!'

Melancholy romance set against the US moral inferno. The neo-noir atmospherics create a profound impression of urban desolation, though it's the last chance affair between a suicidal alcoholic (Nicolas Cage) and a Las Vegas hooker (Elisabeth Shue) which captured the public imagination.

Cage won the Oscar and Shue was nominated and they give their doomed love story some real heartbreak. And yet... it's the despair of a society which has lost its way which lingers. Where every human need is transactional, where the deal is paramount and the dollar is the ultimate good.

Desire is a component to be packaged and sold back to us at a premium rate plus tips. Only the incurable drunk and the tough-yet-vulnerable sex worker have any humanity worth a damn in the rising tide of sleaze, in the pitiful, nocturnal city. This feels like an end-of-the-world picture.

And it's an overwhelmingly gloomy experience. Mike Figgis wrote the script and directs with rare wisdom on a minuscule budget. He also composed the jazzy soundtrack, and plays trumpet! Sting sings a few standards for maximum nostalgia. It's about addiction but better on the ambient sadness.

Prime Americana from Hal Ashby's absolute peak as director in the '70s New Wave. This is loosely based on the 1943 autobiography of Woody Guthrie, the illustrious troubadour of the Great Depression. His own memoir only marginally reflects reality; it's suspiciously similar to John Steinbeck's classic novel, The Grapes of Wrath (1939).

So it's a case of print the legend. The story runs between 1936 and '39, from Guthrie's hobo journey from Texas through the dustbowl of the midwest to the fruit orchards of California, until his arrival in New York where he wrote This Land is Your Land. This is an extraordinarily beautiful picture with near magical capture of sunlight.

Perhaps that's a weakness as the horrors of the '30s may have been represented better in grainy b&w. Still, there's a realistic look at the social and political divisions; between fascism and socialism. We hear plenty of the songs performed by David Carradine who is exceptional as the legendary songwriter, as man, musician and myth...

And also as a hero of class struggle. The locations are well chosen and the set design feels authentic. The long running time and leisurely rhythm won't be a problem for anyone with an interest in Woody's legacy. And his ideology will always reflect on where the US is in the present time. Now is always the time for another revival.

The first of director Susanne Bier/screenwriter Anders Thomas Jensen's award winning collaborations. It was released at the back end of the Dogme 95 wave and is shot according to its rules, with the natural light, digital cameras and authentic locations...

Yet despite the ostentatious realism and out-of-focus camera wobble, this is really melodrama. Like all of Bier and Jensen's early pictures, there's a schematic narrative which is propelled by the chance occurrence of a life changing event.

It dissects forensically the consequences of a road traffic accident which leaves a young man as an incurable quadriplegic, while his traumatised girlfriend finds solace in an affair with the husband of the woman driving the car! Which is some premise...

Most of the interest is in the horrifying breakdown of the marriage which is incredibly 4real, mainly due to the Dogme approach and the raw, intense performances of Mads Mikkelsen and Paprika Steen. This deservedly broke Bier outside of Denmark.

Slow, dreamy exploration of the trauma-memories of a young woman who escapes from a clandestine rural commune. Debut writer-director Sean Durkin claims this isn't intended to be political but more of a reflection on the psychological process.

Though this is clearly an anti-capitalist cult, rather than, for example, neo-Nazi. The narrative cuts between the victim's troubled recovery with her sister (Sarah Paulson) and flashbacks to her ordeal of brainwashing, sexual abuse and even murder.

There's a central performance of startling quality from Elizabeth Olsen as the runaway who can't escape the insidious psychological control of the cult nor re-adjust to mainstream society which doesn't offer the same sense of belonging.

Nor will normal life replace the illusion of utopianism. Durkin looks at why misfits join cults, including mental illness and homelessness; it exposes the strategies of its malevolent leader (John Hawkes); and it is unsettling, and ultimately unresolved.

This is mainly remembered for its code-busting treatment of heroin addiction, which still stands up fairly well. It's a loose adaptation of a bestseller by Nelson Algren, who was sacked from the screenplay by director/producer Otto Preminger, which isn't so much a sign of malign studio interference as a reflection of the author's limitations.

The novel is hard to read, and not because of the challenging themes. Still, Otto has a reputation as a tyrant on the set and he doesn't get quality performances from the browbeaten cast. Including Frank Sinatra as the jazz drummer/junkie trying to get the monkey off his back while being dragged down into the criminal underworld.

This is well outside his range, and neither Eleanor Parker, as his neurotic wife, nor Kim Novak, as the other woman/cashier in a burlesque joint, are convincing ghetto rats. It's shot entirely on a soundstage which feels theatrical without boasting the Broadway level script which sometimes makes that work. Plus it's over-lit...

There are redeeming factors: Elmer Bernstein's jazz-blues score conveys a frisson of dangerous sleaze; and Saul Bass' title cut ups are cool. Maybe it's harsh to commend a film for its poster! What is best about this is still the groundbreaking depiction of the curse of addiction. But old Hollywood rarely went slumming with much authenticity.

This is the most habit-forming substance in modern cinema; lowbrow B-picture hokum made by accomplished professionals on a substantial budget. It's a wildly implausible neo-noir, but skilfully directed, edited, photographed... The script has the profundity of a magazine article, but is laced with addictive wit.

There's a well chosen cast from top to bottom, which helps smooth out some bumpy plot chicanery. Rosamund Pike is best as a sociopathic minor celebrity who plans to incriminate her unfaithful husband (Ben Affleck) by elaborately staging her own murder and then disappearing... like she's in an episode of Columbo.

It's the classic noir scenario of the femme fatale who manipulates the idiot male dupe, but rebooted for the age of social media. Its main strength is showing how the 24 hour news-entertainment cycle and smartphone opportunism immediately enclose the life of the mostly innocent (but inadequate) fall guy.

For an hour this promises to revitalise the Hollywood thriller, before opting for dubious melodrama and so many twists they eventually become tiresome. The buttons it pushes on gender politics are wilfully provocative, which may make it a fun date-picture, as well as a more-ish stimulant for noir junkies.

There can't be many Hollywood comedies about the war in Vietnam. There's MASH (1970) set in Korea, but that's about educated medics. So this irreverent Australian story of working class larrikins getting by in 'Nam while squeezed between boredom and bloodshed, brings a different mentality to the 1970s war picture.

William Nagle's source novel was a bestseller down under. His characters are in the Aussie SAS, though the author was a cook, which gives an idea of how unheroic this is. The soldiers are usually gambling or drinking Fosters from an esky, between a few brief forays into enemy territory, which seem to have no purpose.

There may be little of the soul searching and angst of the many US blockbusters about the conflict and its consequences... and there's no soundtrack of contemporary hits. But the themes are the same; the folks back home don't want to hear about the war and none of the soldiers will be acknowledged on their return.

The men make a likeable mob, with Graham Kennedy the purveyor of pessimistic wisdom, Bryan Brown as a laconic, inscrutable bogan while John Jarratt plays the new recruit whose letters from home are drying up. The knockabout banter leaves an impression of futility, and of working class kids getting stiffed yet again.