Once Upon A Time In Hollywood

WFTB Score: 17/20

The plot: Washed-up actor Rick Dalton is given one last shot at the big time, starring as the heavy in a Sam Wanamaker Western; but he’s not in good shape and seems more likely to break down than deliver a masterful performance. Meanwhile, Rick’s stunt double/driver/buddy Cliff Booth seems to find trouble wherever he goes, whether that’s on set or accompanying young ladies back to their hippy-ish commune. Rick’s new neighbour Sharon Tate is oblivious to all these troubles as she prepares to welcome a new arrival in her life.

First of all – my occasional reminder that my reviews sometimes feature spoilers, so if you want to watch this film with completely fresh eyes, please do so (and then come back). Anyway, onwards…

Nobody would accuse Quentin Tarantino of being a lazy filmmaker and my first response to Once Upon A Time In Hollywood is pure admiration for the work that has gone into the film. Can you imagine the craft, the design inspiration, the hundreds and hundreds of hours of research, sourcing, design and so on that must have gone into re-creating Hollywood in the late ‘60s as convincingly as has been done here? Sure, technology can help with this sort of thing, erasing modern features that creep into the frame and whatnot, but everything looks so real and authentic that you are totally immersed in the culture of the time – it’s no surprise to learn that the film won Best Production Design at the Oscars. It’s not often that I mention crew before cast but the people that made OUATIH must be applauded for making a picture that evokes an era so beautifully.

My second response is also admiration, for the craft shown by Tarantino as director and writer, and DiCaprio and Pitt as actors, in bringing us the lives of two B-list Hollywood figures struggling not to fade into obscurity: Leonardo DiCaprio’s Dalton, intense and lachrymose; Brad Pitt’s Booth, cool and callous. Through numerous, fascinating and typically lengthy scenes they build a picture of the metaphorical death of one Hollywood dream, contrasted with their up-and-coming young neighbours. Of course, not everything is strictly relevant or advances the story, but the writing, staging and acting of every scene is so good that a little wallowing feels deserved; Rick and Cliff are characters who are rounded and complete in a way so few movie characters are in modern cinema.

I particularly like the filming of the scene that Dalton has been shown rehearsing for and struggling with, during which he occasionally dries. But then he zones into the scene and suddenly (if briefly) you see why he was a (sort of) celebrated actor (the scene reminded me of something vaguely similar in Mulholland Drive, another movie about the dream-nightmare that is Hollywood). It’s clear that Tarantino is fascinated by this world of nearly men, of almost-forgotten names and cheap B-pictures made while the ‘Summer of Love’ was turning into something darker.

The growing tension around the pivotal evening – the visit by Charles Manson’s murderous followers to the houses on Cielo Drive – is expertly handled, Cliff firstly paying a visit to the annexed Spahn ranch, giving a foretaste of the explosion of violence by which the tension is eventually released. The climax of OUATIH is not a particularly easy watch but, if you are a fan of these things, it’s highly effective and, for my money, it’s done far better here than the overly blood-drenched histrionics of The Hateful Eight.

My final and lingering response to the movie is a profound discomfort as to whether a revisionist tale of Sharon Tate’s murder, where Manson’s followers turn up next door and get what’s coming to them, is in poor taste. I understand this is basically the same rewriting of history that took place in Inglourious Basterds, but somehow this wish-fulfilment feels as though it might be out of place, where a less direct reference to what happened (a fictional actor who’s not, perhaps, pregnant) might feel a little less queasy. I’m deliberately hedging my bets here because I’m not totally sure how I feel; but nor do I feel that it’s something about which I have to fall on one side of the fence or another, at least not as a snap reaction.

The one line of argument runs that the use of the dreadful real-life crime is an exploitative and rather cheap way to build up tension, especially for the first-time viewer who doesn’t know which way the story is going to go. The other argument asks why should we not watch a timeline where the blameless Tate is spared and allowed to live her life, the only problem being that you’re then watching Margot Robbie playing Tate going about a mundane day, for no good reason – there’s nothing wrong with Robbie’s performance, as such, but she’s really there so that (in this timeline) nothing happens to her; she exists in a negative space that’s not altogether satisfactory, though this is balanced by the catharsis I’ve already alluded to.

Anyway, as I say, I’m not sure the viewer needs to make a decision about the film’s intent, and however uneasy you are about how real, tragic events are reinterpreted it’s only a very small factor in what is a seriously impressive film. Once Upon A Time In Hollywood isn’t flawless but from the director downwards it’s a marvellous example of the craft of film-making with some explosive moments of violence for good measure. He’s a strange bloke at times, is Quentin, but he sure knows how to make a movie.

Moana

WFTB Score: 17/20

The plot: Faced with a curse that results in dwindling food for her islanders, chieftain’s daughter Moana defies her father’s orders and sets sail in search of answers by commandeering the demigod Maui to put right an ancient wrong. Unfortunately, whilst Maui exploits are legendary, he’s strangely reluctant to help the young woman in her quest.

The island of Motunui seems like a Polynesian paradise to Moana (Aul’i Cravalho) and her family. Sure, crazy old Gramma Tala (Rachel House) keeps frightening the kids with tales of a thieving demigod named Maui and a stolen heart that will eventually blight the land, but for the most part the island has everything they need. Moana in particular is drawn to the sea, but her father, Chief Tui (Temuera Morrison) has reason to be wary, insisting that she stays on dry land to learn how to be a ruler.

When the island’s coconut harvest fails, Moana sees no option but to set sail in search of the demigod of  Gramma Tala’s tales, Maui (Dwayne Johnson), a massive, tattooed warrior who can take the shape of any animal he chooses – or at least, he could if he had his magical fishhook with him. The fishhook, it turns out, is in the possession of a hoarding crab called Tomatoa (Jemaine Clement), but he’s just one obstacle in the way of Moana restoring the heart of Te Fiti. Since Te Fiti’s island is guarded by a fearsome lava monster named Te Ka, Maui is in no hurry whatsoever to help Moana on her way.

You can say what you like about Disney. You can say that their apparent desire to monopolise blockbuster film-making, if not entertainment full stop, is an existential threat to the diversity of popular culture. If you’re feeling less hyperbolic, you can at least say that they’re utterly cynical milkers of their cash cows, and completely careless that much of their recent output (exempla gratia the live action re-imaginings of classic animation) blithely tramples over what made the originals special in the first place.

You can say all these things and the House of who-needs-that-stupid-Mouse-anyway will fail to hear you over the sound of in-house accountants laughing all the way to the bank (unless you prod them loudly about failures like Solo, presumably); whatever, even the most jaded reviewer must admit that when they get things right, they are brilliant at creating spell-binding family entertainment.

And Moana is just that. I could devote pages to the things this film gets absolutely right, from the pitch-perfect characterisations of Moana, Maui and the other Pacific Islanders to the jaw-dropping animation of the ocean, which becomes a character in its own right; from the energetic, uplifting and thoroughly catchy songs to the fast, flowing comedy of Moana and Maui’s relationship and high drama of the exciting action scenes; from the way the film nimbly touches on the traditions of Moana’s village to the way it’s scary without being too scary, in the best Disney tradition. But as with all the best movies, you can just watch Moana to appreciate how good these things are.

I’ll just touch on two scenes. The first is the death of Gramma Tala whilst decay starts eating into the island, compelling our heroine to undertake her perilous journey; what could be a really downbeat moment is transformed by Gramma’s instantaneous re-appearance as a luminous, leaping ray that provides Moana with momentum and hope, accompanied by the determination expressed in the finely-sung reprise of How Far I’ll Go, as well as foreshadowing a turning point later in the film.

The second comes at the film’s climax, so if you’re planning on seeing Moana you might want to skip this bit. As Moana realises Te Ka’s true identity and what she – she alone, Maui is out of the picture at this exact point – needs to do, time slows as she commands the ocean to separate to allow Te Ka to charge towards her. The high walls of the sea foam, Te Ka rages forward in a huge plume of smoke and ash, and Moana – hair billowing beautifully all the while – walks slowly, with purpose and dignity, singing a beautiful, quiet song to pacify the beast. This is masterful storytelling, using all the tools at the film-makers’ disposal to provide the most satisfying of climaxes, Moana being the epitome of agency without a hint of blatant gender politicking. It’s appropriate, deserved, and really quite a thing to behold.

Is there anything not to like? Well, Maui’s tattoos are a little bit Aladdin’s genie, Moana’s meeting with ancestors is something akin to that of Simba’s in The Lion King and her quest a pinch of Anna from Frozen, so you might argue that the film leans a bit on its own ancestry*. Also, Disney, please stop splurging naff pop versions of the hit songs over your credits: Alessia Cara’s How Far I’ll Go is just about passable but the version of You’re Welcome that follows is horrid.

I’m also not that keen on the song Shiny, a wordy and not instantly catchy number at odds with the Polynesian flavour of the rest of the soundtrack; in fact, Tomatoa in general feels like some strangely knowing humour slotted into an otherwise tonally sure-footed film. However, the first niggle relates to similarities that you’re bound to find in many stories, and the second is personal rather than an objective deficiency: so basically, I’m being ultra-picky (the comedy animals are unnecessary here, too, but Hei Hei is funny so we’ll let them slide).

So, whatever your feelings about Disney and the ever-more crowded field of family animation, you should put them to one side and rejoice in the fact that occasionally a truly superior film with real heart (excuse the pun, if that’s what it is) can emerge. Moana is a lovely film, and whether you’re young or old it deserves a watch.

NOTE: The estimable Lindsay Ellis has a persuasive essay detailing how Moana is in many ways a ‘sly remake’ of Pocahontas, a film I last saw 20 years ago and whose details are long forgotten in my mind.

Whiplash

WFTB Score: 17/20

The plot: Drummer Andrew Neyman is determined to be the best, while conductor/ professor Terence Parker is determined only to have the best in his studio band. When they meet, Parker’s abrasive methods mean that it’s not only Andrew’s kit that takes a beating.

For many young musicians, just getting in to the prestigious Shaffer conservatory is achievement enough. But not drummer Andrew Neyman (Miles Teller): no, he won’t stop until he’s right at the top, a modern day Buddy Rich*. When professor Terence Parker (J.K. Simmons) happens to hear Andrew practising, it seems to be the break Andrew’s looking for; however, Parker’s early warm words quickly turn into personal abuse in the rehearsal studio and it becomes painfully clear to the whole band that the professor conducts himself – and them – very forcefully.

Andrew’s father (Paul Reiser) does his best to ground his son, but the family don’t really understand Andrew’s esoteric talents; and even when he plucks up the courage to ask out cinema worker Nicole (Melissa Benoist), she’s little distraction to the big picture – if a nasty car accident on the way to a performance doesn’t stop him druming, what will? All the same, Parker’s intense ‘encouragement’ of his students does look an awful lot like bullying if you’re on the receiving end – bullying that has already had tragic consequences in the past.

If drumming isn’t your favourite thing – and let’s face it, whose favourite thing is drumming, unless you’re a drummer? – you may not be particularly enthused by the prospect of Whiplash. However, you shouldn’t be put off; because while the subject of the movie may be jazz drumming, the theme is a universal one that could equally apply to any other musical virtuosity, sporting excellence or, really, any field of human endeavour.

The theme is this: is it possible to be the best – not just good, not even great, but the absolute best – without making sacrifices and suffering for your art? And if you’re the person trying to find and bring on the talent, to what lengths should you go to make sure that it’s discovered and honed to absolute perfection? Do the ends always justify the means? And is ‘good job’ really the worst thing you can tell someone?

Whiplash, in the terrifying form of Terence Parker, uses a slightly apocryphal tale of Charlie Parker having a cymbal thrown at his head as evidence that only the toughest form of love will bring out the best and inflicts it on the desperately ambitious Andrew. In doing so, the pair play out a brilliantly-acted and utterly fascinating character study, particularly on the part of Simmons’ Parker: is he truly in search of the absolute best and justified in being a hard, hard taskmaster? Or is he simply a masochist who gets off on inflicting pain and humiliation on others? Or is one just a handy by-product of the other? Simmons and the script masterfully keep us guessing, allowing Fletcher moments of tenderness and emotion that could be the real man beneath the tough teacher, or the crocodile tears of a sociopath.

As the subject of the abuse, Miles Teller is barely less effective, and if he is it’s because he doesn’t get the chance to showboat as much as his demented mentor. Teller portrays Andrew’s awkwardness and pent-up rage quite brilliantly, with director Damien Chazelle framing Neyman’s frustration at not perfecting his part as a lack of release (take that as you will). Between them, Simmons and Teller are utterly magnetic as their intense, and intensely uncomfortable, relationship builds and fades, then builds again in a tense but wonderfully satisfying climax.

Whiplash is a stunningly good exploration of a teacher-student dynamic where the student is almost as insanely driven as the teacher to achieve greatness, though there’s an inevitable imbalance in the relationship. Indeed, such is the intensity of the scenes in the rehearsal room that the tone seeps into what you might call ‘real life’: the car accident and its aftermath in particular stretch credibility about as far as it will go. I don’t mind the sequence at all – it fits in with the heightened atmosphere – but some may well find Andrew a bit indestructible. There are certainly few attempts to make him lovable, which is another plus point for the movie in my book.

Elsewhere, elements of Andrew’s life are marginalised. The ‘love interest’ in particular feels like something that has to happen in this type of film, the normal teenage life that Andrew could be living; but it’s played in such a low-key manner (we see one date, no kissing, no sex) that you never feel Nicole is of much importance or a potential point of conflict. She’s a luxury that – as Andrew tells her – he’ll resent as he develops, so there seems little point in having her in the movie in the first place.

Whatever its faults, Whiplash does what it sets out to do fantastically well. While the experience of watching is best described as tense rather than enjoyable, because of its unhealthy central dynamic, there is a real pleasure in dissecting the music and putting it back together again, and exploring the drama behind what eventually sounds like fairly easy listening. Whiplash isn’t easy viewing, but it’s very rewarding.

NOTE: For what it’s worth, I don’t know much about Buddy Rich, other than his famous drum battle with Animal from the Muppets, but from what I’ve been able to glean he was a preternatural prodigy from a ridiculously young age rather than someone who worked his fingers to a pulp practising. This isn’t to say that you shouldn’t try to be the best you can at whatever you choose to do: on the other hand, no power on earth can create gold from base metals.

Princess Bride, The

WFTB Score: 17/20

The plot: A sick youngster reluctantly allows his grandfather to read him a magical tale called The Princess Bride, which finds sweethearts Buttercup and Westley parted from each other. Assuming Westley to be dead, Buttercup is chosen to be Prince Humperdinck’s wife. Westley must fight for his true love and be with Buttercup – as long as it doesn’t involve too much kissing.

With a script written by William Goldman (writer of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Marathon Man and many others) from his own book, The Princess Bride is a rare thing: a children’s film that doesn’t talk down to its audience. Instead, after briefly introducing Fred Savage and Peter Falk as the poorly boy and his grandfather, the film gets straight on with the story, a tale of kidnapping, piracy and derring-do.

In a deliberate attempt to start a war against his enemies, Prince Humperdinck (Chris Sarandon) arranges to have his intended Buttercup (Robin Wright, in her film debut) stolen away by a trio of kidnappers. They have all reckoned without the heroism of Westley (Cary Elwes), just returned from five years at sea, having assumed the mantle of the Dread Pirate Roberts. In a series of battles of swordplay, strength and wits, Westley defeats the kidnappers and is reunited with Buttercup, only for the prince and his (six-fingered) right-hand man and willing torturer Count Rugen (Christopher Guest) to intervene.

And so on. I don’t want to explain the whole plot here, and there’s no need; suffice it to say that it is exciting, swashbuckling stuff with instantly likeable (or hissable) characters that will delight children. Just as importantly, the characters are given delightful things to say, in a script better than you will find in a dozen so-called films for adults. Partly this comes across in its invention – the cliffs of Insanity, the Rodents of Unusual Size – but mainly in its honesty, crediting the viewer with intelligence and understanding. Just one example, Westley to Buttercup: ‘Life is pain… anyone who says differently is selling something.’

The final piece of the jigsaw is the casting, and this is perfect throughout. Cary Elwes does handsome and dashing superbly, but the real treat is his knack for physical comedy, shown to best effect as he recovers from being mostly dead. Mandy Patinkin is also excellent as Inigo Montoya, one of the kidnappers whose thirst for revenge against (as it turns out) Count Rugen forms a thrilling subplot to Westley and Buttercup’s story. His accomplices, played by Wallace Shawn and Andre the Giant, are great fun too. Robin Wright is fresh and lovely but has a streak of determination, whilst Sarandon is a wonderful pantomime-style baddie, abusing his power but a coward at heart.

The film rounds out the cast with a number of cameo appearances, including an entertaining turn from Peter Cook as an impressive clergyman. To be honest, I’m not struck on Billy Crystal’s miracle worker or Carol Kane as his wife, as their shtick seems out of character with the rest of the film. This is a small complaint, however, and moments when the film is neither amusing nor dramatic are very few and far between.

It should also be noted that you won’t be wowed by any special effects, as polystyrene rocks and the like abound. Nonetheless, this only serves to emphasise the joy of storytelling, which the frame of the boy and his grandfather bring home abundantly; although Savage is initially doubtful about the story, he ultimately needs to hear it through to its proper conclusion, even if it does mean kissing.

Make no mistake, this story is a joy, and if you haven’t seen it make every effort to do so. It will make you laugh, go ‘aah,’ and also realise that the irreverence of Shrek owes a huge debt to more than Dreamworks’ legion of computer animators.

Inside Job

WFTB Score: 17/20

The plot: Filmmaker Charles Ferguson dissects the reasons behind the financial collapse of 2008 and wonders why those who caused it got to walk away with millions of dollars in ‘compensation’.

At the start of 2012, there can be little argument that the major Western economies of the world are in a bit of a mess, thanks (if that’s the word) in no small part to the credit crunch of 2008. But why did the financial catastrophe happen? And what – or who – caused it?

Inside Job, narrated calmly and persuasively by Matt Damon, explains what happened by speaking to many of the people who were closest to the action (and shaming those who declined to be interviewed). Beginning with Iceland, a tiny economy which exploded, then imploded, after being bitten by the banking bug, the film gives a potted history of how we got where we are.

In particular, it details how the appointment of Merrill Lynch bigwig Donald Regan as Ronald Reagan’s Treasury Secretary in 1981 sparked a massive deregulation of the banking industry, in America and elsewhere; for the first time, savings banks were allowed to use their depositors’ money for investment purposes, and the potential for massive bonuses drove bankers to take ever greater risks in the pursuit of profit.

New financial instruments were invented, such as packages of increasingly risky ‘sub-prime’ mortgages rolled into Collateralized Debt Obligations, which credit ratings agencies were persuaded (read ‘paid’) to rate as safe so that investors would buy, even though the bankers selling them knew they were rubbish. At the same time, insurance groups (specifically AIG) would guarantee against losses they had no hope of covering if the worst happened. Dissenting voices on the sidelines went unheard amid the clamour for cash and good times; but the bubble had to burst, and when it did the banks were considered ‘too big to fail’, requiring governments around the world to prop them up with taxpayers’ money, leading to cuts, unemployment and misery for millions.

Meanwhile, the men who brought their companies – and often countries – to their knees kept their millions and their cushy lifestyles, the former bankers stayed in powerful political positions, and dozens of criminal, fraudulent acts went unpunished.

If you’re one of those people who look upon the Occupy Wall St./St Paul’s/etc, movements with a sneer and ask ‘Why don’t these people get a job/life/can of deodorant?’, Inside Job may provide you with some answers. The sheer scale of the greed and malfeasance exhibited is literally jaw-dropping, from the fact that banks were allowed to leverage themselves to an insane degree to the fact that Congress were persuaded to pass a law banning the regulation of trading in CDOs.

The influence of banks, lobbying groups and ex-banking men over America’s fiscal policymaking is shown to be a corruption of what governments are for, namely to protect the public against vested interests (not vice versa). Inside Job makes its case superbly, making complex economic ideas easy to understand via graphs and colour-coded diagrams without ever patronising its audience, asking difficult questions of its interviewees, and making superb use of footage from Congressional Hearings to skewer the CEOs and VPs who refused to be interviewed.

The obvious point of comparison for Inside Job is Michael Moore’s Capitalism: A Love Story, and there are significant overlaps between the points the two films are making. But each takes an entirely different approach: Moore’s film is a broad assessment of America’s ills, which manipulates the emotions by showing us America’s oppressed workers; Inside Job is a cold, focused laser beam of interrogation about the financial meltdown, Ferguson the (unidentified) interviewer placing the focus entirely on the respondents’ answers or, significantly, the avoidance of answers.

Aside from the impressive roster of interviewees – Dominique Strauss-Kahn, Christine Lagarde – there are spiky discussions with academics about papers they wrote on the subject of, for example, the supposed stability of Iceland’s economy, without declaring who paid them or considering whether being paid could result in the slightest conflict of interest. Admittedly, Inside Job also features a few snippets from the disenfranchised, the unemployed, the people reduced to living in tents, but this only proves that the financial crisis has victims everywhere – except, of course, at the financial institutions, where the likes of Countrywide Finance’s Angelo Mozilo got to keep nearly all of his $470 million fortune from selling sub-prime mortgages.

The only false note you might point to is the prurient and moralistic exploration of Wall Street’s predilection for strip joints, prostitutes and cocaine, which further boosted the egos of the bankers as they went on their merry way. However, it’s not done to show that the men were devoid of morals or intrinsically sinful: unbelievably, their financial recklessness went as far as charging hookers as a business expense. And there you were thinking American Psycho was a far-fetched satire…

For the most part, film is an essentially escapist media, the cinema somewhere you go to forget the news. However, when a documentary gets things right, it can make a difference to your thought processes and perceptions in ways no blockbuster can ever achieve. For example, the next time you hear the names Standard and Poor’s, Moody’s or Fitch, you will almost certainly ask why the hell are ‘we’ allowing our economic futures to be decided by the incontrovertible diktats of the faceless credit ratings agencies, when their ‘opinions’ were – if not corrupt – at the very least hopelessly incompetent? And this is the triumph of Inside Job: whereas Moore’s very good film ends with a rabble-rousing exhortation for people to take action, Ferguson’s superb work, by simple statement of outrageous facts, provides enough ammunition to send any sensible viewer into an apoplectic – and entirely justified – rage.

Bullets over Broadway

WFTB Score: 17/20

The plot: Uptight playwright David Shayne writes the play of his life, but can only get it produced by way of a deal with the shady Nick Valenti. He puts up the money, on condition that his dumb moll Olive gets a part. As if this wasn’t torture enough, Shayne has to endure the interference of Olive’s ‘minder’ Cheech, though distractions are provided by the play’s domineering leading lady.

Woody Allen’s prodigious output has not always been accompanied by prodigious variety, and at first glance this story of a struggling playwright trying to put on a Broadway show may appear overly familiar. However, as the film is set in Prohibition-era New York and the part of the writer is taken by John Cusack (Allen himself does not appear in the film), Bullets Over Broadway feels different from most of Allen’s contemporary efforts and remarkably fresh.

Cusack is David Shayne, living in a humble apartment with long-suffering girlfriend Ellen (Mary-Louise Parker), determined that his new play Gods of our Fathers will be produced exactly as he sees it. But there is an insurmountable obstacle in the lack of money needed to put the play on, until his agent cuts a deal with mob kingpin Nick Valenti (Joe Viterelli) to fund the show. The only catch is, Valenti’s girlfriend Olive (Jennifer Tilly), a showgirl with a sharp tongue but not the sharpest tool in the box, has to have a part in the play.

The annoyance of this compromise is exacerbated by the muscular appearance of Cheech (Chazz Palmintieri), a thuggish hood sent to watch over Olive; but even though she turns out to be predictably terrible, the rest of the cast show promise: Eden Brent (Tracey Ullman) and her dog are both small and perky, whilst Jim Broadbent’s talented Warner Purcell is unable to resist his penchant for snacking or, disastrously, the attentions of Olive.

But more than these, fading star Helen Sinclair (Dianne Wiest) overcomes her initial distaste for the role to embrace the play – and the playwright. At the start, Cheech is an unwelcome presence at rehearsals, but he makes valid criticisms and reveals himself to be an instinctive playwright upon whom David eventually comes to lean on for advice and dialogue. Even so, he is disgusted by Cheech’s solution to the Olive ‘problem.’

The tight plot of Bullets Over Broadway is served up with convincing period detail, a predictably well-chosen jazz score, and a script packed to the gills with subtle, snappy jokes – as well as a number of very broad ones, such as the reveal of a beefed-up Warner on the Broadway stage. More than this, though, the film sparkles due to the performances: Ullman and Broadbent are entertaining, Tilly is perfectly cast as the squeaky, petulant Olive and reveals a talent for comedy, and Cusack is a funny and energetically jumpy substitute for Woody himself. Dianne Wiest commands centre stage and turns in a flawless performance as an old soak of an actress miraculously given a career-saving part, a diva in every respect of her life and hilarious when silencing the entreaties of her lover (“Don’t speak!”).

To be very, very critical, there is an argument to be made that the resolution of the film is a little rushed and predictable compared to the invention shown by the rest of it, in respect of Chazz’s treatment by Valenti and the undercooked relationship between David and Ellen (she gets her revenge by sleeping with Rob Reiner’s failed playwright Sheldon Flender); but in general the film feels exactly the right size and perfectly formed.

Allen is known for the analytical, neurotic nature of his films, and if you want to look for it, there is much in Bullets Over Broadway to inform pretentious discussions about the timeless value of art versus the value of a single human life, embodied in the brilliant but psychopathic Cheech (superbly played by Palmintieri). However, the film works because these themes are just themes, allowed to do their thing in the background whilst the main story drives on. The story is funny whilst retaining a palpable sense of threat (reminiscent of Some Like It Hot), and the effervescent script and marvellous acting mean this ranks amongst Allen’s best.

The Fisher King

WFTB Score: 17/20

The plot: DJ Jack Lucas commits professional suicide when his arrogance prompts an unhinged listener to a massacre in an upmarket New York eatery. A menial job and a relationship with long-suffering Anne is not enough to keep Jack going, but he’s rescued from his misery by down-and-out Parry, a man who should wish Jack dead but whose insane quest holds the keys to his salvation.

Callers to Jack Lucas’ (Jeff Bridges) New York radio show shouldn’t expect a cosy chat. Confrontation is more Jack’s style, and when regular caller Edwin calls in about a Yuppie woman he likes, the DJ’s harsh words result in Edwin shooting up a posh restaurant, killing seven innocent diners.

Three years later, Jack’s world couldn’t be more different: instead of the high-profile job, high-rise apartment and high-maintenance girlfriend, he’s drinking his life away in the flat above the Video Spot store run by unappreciated partner Anne (Mercedes Ruehl). At the end of a hard day’s drinking, Jack decides to end it all, but things go awry and he’s rescued from a vicious attack by the other-worldly Parry (Robin Williams).

Parry, homeless, is also apparently a few sandwiches short of a picnic, seeing gigantic, flame-throwing Red Knights on horseback, talking to fairies and intent on retrieving the Holy Grail from the imposing home of a billionaire, so it’s little wonder that Jack doesn’t exactly warm to him as a friend. However, Jack discovers that Parry’s wife was one of Edwin’s victims, tying their fates together and compelling the former DJ to help his unkempt and unpredictable saviour. With the help of Michael Jeter’s fey cabaret singer, Jack and Anne match-make Parry with lonely publishing worker Lydia (Amanda Plummer); though this good deed alone is not enough to cleanse his conscience.

I managed to get through my recent review of L.A. Story without using the term ‘magical realism’, but I don’t think it can be avoided in any evaluation of The Fisher King. The film presents a head-on clash between the bleak grittiness of Jack’s destructive self-pity (and its effects on those around him) and Parry’s escape from tragedy into an elaborate medieval fantasy; and while that could easily have resulted in a terrible mess, it in fact turns out a masterpiece, helped by the unbreakable connection between Jack and Parry formed in Richard LaGravenese’s clever, witty screenplay.

The appearance of the Red Knight in various New York locations is fascinating, but (for me) two scenes stand out: the first is the famous waltz at Grand Central Station, a beautiful visual metaphor for how Parry’s heart dances when he sees his muse; the second is Michael Jeter’s extraordinary performance of Everything’s Coming Up Videos to Lydia’s stunned colleagues. Dragged up to the nines (except for his ‘tache), Jeter’s voice, costume and demeanour are quite unique and, juxtaposed with the boring office, extremely funny.

Terry Gilliam’s films have always had a striking visual style (there are tropes here from Jabberwocky and things that would crop up again in Twelve Monkeys), but he’s not always had the stories (or budget) to match his vision. The Fisher King has no such problem, brilliantly melding together Jack’s difficult journey and Parry’s mental turmoil, uniting them with the overarching theme of the Fisher King whilst remaining accessible; Parry explains the myth in simple terms, and I particularly like how the sarcastic sitcom catchphrase ‘Forgive me!’ becomes a genuine plea for redemption.

Then, of course, there are two separate love stories in play: Lydia and Parry’s courtship is eccentric and comical, though not in a mocking way, while the refreshingly adult relationship that plays out between Jack and Anne gives equal prominence to both. In the capable hands of Bridges, Jack is an incredibly complex character, a charming bastard who can barely contain his self-confidence and self-loathing within the same body; and Oscar-winner Ruehl is just superb as Anne, fully fleshing out a character that could have been a blousy ‘tough broad’ stereotype.

If Robin Williams doesn’t quite hit Bridges’ heights – too much of Williams the comic pokes out of Parry’s outlandish clothes – he’s still very good when it matters, and plays well off Ruehl, Plummer, Bridges or whoever he’s with at the time. Plummer is funny and kooky, sympathetic and abrasive at the same time, and though I’ve already mentioned Jeter, I’ll say it again – he’s fabulous in the short time he’s given.

I won’t pretend that The Fisher King is flawless. Like most of Gilliam’s films, it goes on longer than it needs to; it’s also vaguely condescending about New York’s homeless, presenting them as happy-go-lucky crazies (except for Tom Waits’ pious beggar at Grand Central) as opposed to the soulless and empty rich. The conclusion is rather pat, too, the film drawing to a close abruptly with an ending that’s (almost literally) “With one bound, Jack was free”, sending everyone home redeemed, sane, loved and humming a showtune (what about the other six people Edwin kills? What about Jeter?). However, some movies deserve a super-happy ending, and I was touched by the realism of The Fisher King every bit as much as I was enthralled by its magic. How about you?

The Shawshank Redemption

WFTB Score: 17/20

The plot: Given two life sentences for murders he insists he didn’t commit, banker Andy Dufresne looks for ways to make his existence in prison bearable. While his professional skills make him useful to the warden, they bring him no closer to freedom. Andy turns to ‘fixer’ Red to obtain some products which will make his time more productive.

Andy Dufresne (Tim Robbins), discovering that his wife is having an affair with a golf pro, takes matters into his own hands and kills them both. At least, that’s the verdict the jury arrive at at his trial, resulting in two life sentences to be served at Shawshank jail. To begin with, Andy’s overwhelmed, his rough treatment at the hands of “the sisters” causing him to be pitied by long-term inmate Ellis Redding (Morgan Freeman), known as Red – especially since neither brutal guard Hadley (Clancy Brown) nor warden Norton (Bob Gunton) have the slightest concern for their charges’ welfare.

Andy strikes up a friendship with Red and uses the older man’s facility for smuggling items into prison to obtain a rock hammer and, later, a poster of Rita Hayworth, while Andy’s own skills at moving money around become increasingly useful to the guards and especially to the warden, who amasses a small fortune from Andy’s efforts. Little wonder, then, that while Norton indulges Andy’s efforts to improve the prison library – named after tragic old lag Brooks (James Whitmore) – he’s reluctant to let Andy go, even when newcomer Tommy (Gil Bellows) appears to offer Andy grounds for appeal. Nonetheless, Andy maintains his hope, his dignity, and a plan in which Red becomes a key player.

If it’s a self-evident truth that a film about a man living a regular, uneventful, troubled life would offer little to audiences, it’s reasonable to believe that the opposite – a protagonist going from the degrading depths of imprisoned despair to the exhilarating joys of freedom – would offer an enormous amount; especially if the imprisonment and despair are caused by injustices, some more calculated than others.

The huge gulf between the peaks and troughs of Andy’s journey inform the viewer’s own experience of The Shawshank Redemption, guided by the terrific storytelling abilities of Stephen King and Frank Darabont. We instinctively understand the parallels between Red’s repeated parole hearings and Brooks’ short-lived freedom; we instinctively react to Andy’s care of Tommy, and the way Andy’s glimpse of freedom is dashed by vile, violent corruption. We also appreciate a number of beautiful and memorable moments, such as Andy broadcasting The Marriage of Figaro to stunned inmates or the revelation of Andy’s plan, the swells of emotion emphasised by Thomas Newman’s excellent score.

Overarching the whole film is Andy’s quiet stoicism, his insistence on retaining hope while others are prepared to throw in the towel: not only does he sustain himself, he inspires Red, Tommy and dozens of others who benefit from his efforts to make the library – and the prison – a true place of redemption. The theme ‘Get busy living, or get busy dying’ shines through; and while the super-happy ending is undeniably over-the-top, it feels right given the decades of pain Andy has suffered.

At least as important is the credible and heart-warming friendship between Andy and Red. Tim Robbins keeps Andy’s secrets well-hidden, whilst Freeman is simply magnificent as Red, his good humour and wisdom covering up his own pain at being constantly overlooked for parole – who wouldn’t want a friend as resourceful and philosophical as the old jailbird?

That said, these strong, archetypal performances also hint at why I can’t agree with the voters of IMDB who routinely put this film at the top of the Top 250. Andy always seems a little too much in control, maintaining his icy composure even as terrible things are done to him. And while it’s by no means to the detriment of this film, the laconic Morgan Freeman voiceover has now become such a cliché that it’s difficult to hear without a small roll of the eyes.

More damagingly, there’s very little shading to the villains of the piece: Norton hides his sins behind outward adherence to the Good Book, while Kurgan Hadley is a trademark thug with almost no redeeming features, apart from keeping his word in respect of the beers. Anyone who’s seen an episode of Porridge could tell you that the screws are the enemies and the lags the good guys, regardless of their crimes.

That last observation may be facetious, but it cuts to the heart of what I feel about The Shawshank Redemption. In terms of subject, theme, script, score, performance, cinematography and so on, it doesn’t put a foot wrong; and if you’re not thoroughly moved by Andy and Red’s (eventually) uplifting travails, there’s probably something wrong with you. On the other hand, it really doesn’t tell you much you haven’t seen before, and there’s just a whiff of misplaced mawkishness about its (slightly) simplistic sentimentality and the way it doles out of karmic justice at its climax. Handsome? Of course. Touching? Absolutely. Best film ever? For me, far from it.

Toy Story

WFTB Score: 17/20

The plot: The idyllic life of young Andy’s favourite toy Woody is turned on its head by the arrival of newcomer Buzz Lightyear, who is not only brighter and bolder than the old Sheriff but doesn’t even know he’s a toy. Woody’s resentment of Buzz leads to both going missing on the day Andy’s family is due to move: can the arguing duo overcome their differences and avoid being lost forever?

It’s Andy’s Birthday, D-Day for the toys who have spent a happy year organising themselves whenever Andy himself is not in the room. Leader of the gang – anointed by his owner’s name on his foot – is Woody (voiced by Tom Hanks), an old-fashioned sheriff figure with pull-string phrases, and Woody marshals the troops together to eavesdrop on potential competitors for himself, Mr Potato Head, Rex the dinosaur and so on. All appears to be going swimmingly until a surprise toy is brought out and soon after introduced to the group in the stocky form of Buzz Lightyear.

Buzz (Tim Allen) is a plastic Space Ranger with electronic insides, wings and absolutely no idea that he’s a mass-produced toy; which Woody would find hilarious, except for the fact that everyone else – including Andy – finds Buzz irresistible, leaving Andy’s former favourite sulking on the sidelines. In a reckless moment Woody causes Buzz to fall out of the window, much to the horror of the other toys; and in the effort to rescue Buzz and restore his own reputation, Woody inadvertently leads them both into the lair of their next door neighbour Sid, a brat and renowned toy-torturer. Woody regrets the repercussions of his jealousy and Buzz makes an alarming self-discovery via a television advert, but there are more pressing matters at hand since Andy’s family is moving house and the two toys are still next door, Buzz due to be blown apart in Sid’s latest experiment. A combination of help from unlikely sources and sly bending of the rules is needed to prevent Woody and Buzz from the terrible fate of being permanently separated from their owner.

Were it dismal in every respect, Toy Story would still have a place in cinema history as the first feature-length film to be created entirely by computer animation. Happily, though, it’s not just a magnificent technological achievement but on any terms a rattling good film, from the central idea outwards. Since children are upset when they lose precious toys, it’s only natural that the toys should feel the same way, and the creative team at Pixar use this concept to craft a story that’s full of emotion, boosted by the two leads’ journeys of self-discovery.

And this is an important aspect of the film. There are plenty of animated comedies that play on the set-ups for laughs, though few of them match the sharp jabs of Toy Story’s script or its excellent sight gags (Don Rickles’ Mr Potato Head providing many of the laughs); very few explore their subject as thoroughly as Pixar’s first feature, with Buzz’s depression after realising he is ‘just’ a toy proving a particularly poignant and philosophical moment. The thought that has gone into little moments like this (there are others: where is Andy’s father? Why is Sid such a neglected child?) elevates Toy Story from a bright children’s film into something that can be savoured by all ages, especially when it is packed with other non-childish moments such as the funny horror of Sid’s ‘cannibals’ emerging from their hideaways and the not-so-funny terror of Woody coming to life in Sid’s hands.

The acting talents of Hanks and Allen make for lively sparring and invest Woody and Buzz with enormous amounts of character, a feature that also applies to the supporting toys: apart from Rickles, there’s good work from Jim Varney, Wallace Shawn and John Ratzenberger as (respectively) Slinky, Rex and Hamm the piggy bank. But at the end of the day, you have to go back to the graphics, which are little short of magical as they bring a roomful of toys to life. The computer animation is so good that you often forget that you’re watching a collection of pixels, the three-dimensional world filled with light, depth and texture, with some of the more difficult effects (Woody’s reflection in a spoon, a puddle of muddy water) still holding up today despite massive technological advances. The pastel colours and caricaturised human forms remind us that we are in a cartoon world, but it is a world that for the most part feels absolutely real. If there is to be a criticism, it would be of the occasionally stiff movements of the humans and especially of Sid’s dog, Scud; but it would be harsh to knock the film too much for simplifying something that could have taken years to perfect when the film was released (six years later, Shrek still cut corners when animating some of its characters). I’m also not too keen on the slightly intrusive nature of Randy Newman’s songs, but I don’t think they bothered me when the film was first released so the opinion is probably skewed by Family Guy (if you’ve seen the relevant episodes, you will know what I mean).

The success of Toy Story has been a blessing and a curse for the movie industry, with the march of technology making it much easier in successive years to churn out progressively cheaper (and often far inferior) animated films, though thankfully Toy Story 2 was also a notable success. I lament a little the mania for creating CG films to the almost total exclusion of traditionally-drawn animation (or even films that use both sympathetically, like The Lion King), but Toy Story cannot be blamed for what came after it. It stands on its own as both a landmark and a masterpiece.

Withnail and I

WFTB Score: 17/20

The plot: At the fag end of the ‘60s, two house-sharing, unemployed actors decide to get away from their troubles by taking a trip to the Lake District. The remote accommodation is sorted, courtesy of rich Uncle Monty; but the strings attached to the favour are too much for one of them to bear.

It’s 1969 in London’s Camden town and the outlook is not good for ‘resting’ actors Withnail (a cadaverous Richard E. Grant) and our narrator, who for argument’s sake we’ll call Marwood (Paul McGann). Sick of freezing and drinking themselves to death in their grotty digs, and wound up by the paranoia induced by Danny’s (Ralph Brown) dodgy drugs, the pair decide they need a break; but how can they get out of London whilst spending next to no money?

As luck would have it, Withnail’s rich Uncle Monty (Richard Griffith) has a tumbledown cottage in the Lake District, and Monty’s rather taken with young Marwood, which secures them the keys; however, when they arrive in Penrith, they find the experience is no less miserable than the squalor they left behind. The weather is awful, the cottage damp and cold, the locals unfriendly or downright threatening, and readily edible food hard to come by. When Monty arrives unexpectedly, he brings money, food and fine wine to the desperate actors; on the other hand, his aggressive pursuit of Marwood brings a whole new set of complications to the needy – but not that needy – young men.

Reviewing films frequently leads you from the sublime to the ridiculous, or in this case vice versa. For, having spent a dismal ninety minutes on Mr Bean’s Holiday, I watched this film immediately afterwards – and what a relief it was to be back in a land where script, character, story and themes all had a place on the screen. It’s worth commenting on each. The script has all the sharp writing of a play, peppered as it is with imaginative swearing and inspired, frayed lunacy: ‘How can we make it die?’, ‘You can’t threaten me with a dead fish’, ‘Why have you drugged their onions?’ and my all-time favourite, ‘We’ve gone on holiday by mistake!’ (There’s also the brilliant follow-up to Withnail’s ‘Are you the farmer?’ which I won’t repeat here for modesty’s sake). Withnail and I is easily, endlessly quotable for anyone who has found themselves way out of their comfort zone, in a spectacularly louche mood, hung over beyond tolerance or any combination of the above.

The script, helped by uniformly superb performances, creates unforgettable characters. Grant’s monstrous, selfish, cowardly yet altogether magnificent Withnail is obviously head of these, but he’s by no means alone. Griffith in particular invests Monty – aggressive bugger though he is – with a tragic, almost childish sensibility; and Danny is a wonderful creation in Brown’s hands, with his semi-comatose delivery and thousand-yard stare lending credibility to his crazy ideas. If Marwood is bland by comparison, it’s surely a deliberate and necessary move; his anxiety and relative normality is the viewer’s insight into an otherwise bizarre and alien world.

The story, coming from Robinson’s own experiences, is a unique amalgam of period piece, road trip and long day’s journey into night (in a beaten-up Jag). It’s funny, tense, tender, and occasionally creepy; ultimately, it’s the tale of friends, one of whom needs the other but, even on the borders of depravity, is too proud to admit it. When the friendship has to come to an end, it’s a tragedy that literally takes on Shakespearean dimensions.

More than that, and this is where the theme comes in, it represents the end of a decade that started with new ideas and music, and appeared to offer endless possibilities, yet finished with drug dependency, burnout and decay: “They’re selling hippy wigs in Woolworths” laments Danny, ruefully acknowledging that the dream is over. So when Withnail/Grant bursts into his speech from Hamlet, its connotations are both individual and universal and the scene forms an almost perfect moment of pathos.

If it were merely well played, written and so on, Withnail and I would be a really good film, but perhaps too short on content to be thought of as really great. The details bring it to greatness: the costumes and set design, which are utterly convincing – at no time do you ever believe you’re anywhere but the 60s – and make it all too easy to forget that the film was actually made in a time of Ford Sierras and compact discs. It’s topped off by its powerful, evocative soundtrack, starting with King Curtis’ wonderful live arrangement of A Whiter Shade of Pale and boosted further by Hendrix’ magical version of Dylan’s All Along the Watchtower.

There are Withnail deniers out there, and I’d readily admit that the film isn’t shot with great panache; though it has to be largely intentional, it does have that dreary, grey Handmade (pun intended) look of Britain on a particularly dull day.  To be completely honest, there are small stretches in the gloomy bed-hopping middle section that I could do without, if I were to watch the film ten times in a row; but I set that statement against the fact that I’d gladly watch most of it on a near-continuous loop. If you’ve seen Withnail and I, you’ve probably made up your mind already. If not, seek it out for, amongst other things, its wonderful use of language, some superb acting and British cinema’s defining anti-hero.