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Cinema, Classic Film Reviews, Cult Cinema, horror, Nickel Cinema, Reviews

Cult Film Review: The Cremator (1969) – Buddhism, Fascism, and Psychopathy of the Soul!

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Cult Film Review: The Cremator (1969)

Directed by Juraj Herz

Written by Ladislav Fuks & Juraj Herz

Produced by Ladislav Hanuš

Main cast: Rudolf Hrušínský, Vlasta Chramostová, Jana Stehnová, Miloš Vognič, etc.

Cinematography by Stanislav Milota

Music by Zdeněk Liška

Few films feel as spiritually diseased as The Cremator (1969). Directed by Juraj Herz at the height of the Czech New Wave, the film is not simply a horror story about fascism or madness — it is a suffocating psychological descent into moral annihilation. Released in 1969, shortly after the crushing of the Prague Spring, the film arrived like a nightmare smuggled out of a collapsing world.

At first glance, The Cremator (1969) appears grotesque, even absurd. Its protagonist, Karl Kopfrkingl, is a Prague crematorium worker obsessed with death, cleanliness, Tibetan mysticism, and social respectability. But as the film unfolds, its black comedy slowly curdles into something far more terrifying: an anatomy of how spiritual emptiness and ideological seduction can fuse into psychopathy.

Set during the backdrop of the political radicalization of Europe during the 1930s, and the installation of the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia under Hitler’s Germany in 1939, the events become a startling microcosm of the Nazi onslaught against humanity. The film’s power lies not only in its themes, but in the unnerving collision of performance, photography, editing, and tone. It is funny, horrifying, philosophical, and surreal all at once — a cinematic experience unlike almost anything else.

At the centre of the film is the extraordinary performance by Rudolf Hrušínský. His portrayal of Karl Kopfrkingl may be one of the greatest performances in horror cinema, precisely because he never behaves like a conventional villain. Kopfrkingl is soft-spoken, polite, articulate, even charming. He speaks in comforting aphorisms and philosophical musings. He adores his wife. He dotes on his children. He smiles constantly. Yet every sentence he utters feels faintly poisoned.

Hrušínský plays the character with such eerie serenity that the horror emerges not through aggression, but through calmness. He embodies a man who has entirely dissolved the boundary between compassion and cruelty. When Kopfrkingl speaks about cremation “liberating souls from suffering,” he genuinely believes himself to be merciful. That conviction is what makes him terrifying. The performance captures a specific kind of psychopathy rarely depicted on screen: not the explosive violence of rage, but the bureaucratic psychopathy of moral detachment. Kopfrkingl is capable of atrocity because he has transformed murder into an abstraction. He speaks of death with the same pleasant tone one might use to discuss gardening or architecture.

In this sense, the film becomes a chilling study of fascism’s psychological appeal. Fascism in The Cremator (1969) is not introduced through screaming speeches or military spectacle. It arrives through vanity, social aspiration, pseudo-spiritual rhetoric, and the desire to belong to something “pure.”

One of the film’s most unsettling dimensions is its use of Buddhist imagery and philosophy. Kopfrkingl constantly references the Tibetan Book of the Dead, reincarnation, liberation from suffering, and transcendence. Yet the film presents these ideas not as genuine spirituality, but as corrupted fragments filtered through narcissism and delusion. Real Buddhist philosophy emphasizes compassion, ego dissolution, and liberation from suffering through awareness. Kopfrkingl instead weaponizes spiritual language to avoid confronting guilt or empathy. He uses metaphysics to anesthetize morality.

Unlike many anti-fascist films, The Cremator (1969) does not portray Nazism as an external force invading society. Instead, fascism emerges as something already latent within ordinary life. Kopfrkingl is primed for it long before political ideology fully enters the narrative. He is obsessed with order, status, beauty, ritual, and cleanliness. He fears impurity. He wants social advancement. He craves meaning. Nazism merely gives structure to impulses already present within him.

The crematorium itself becomes the perfect metaphor for industrialized fascism. It is clean, efficient, mechanical, and emotionally sterile. Bodies move through the system with ritualistic precision. Death becomes administration. Kopfrkingl thrives in this environment because it allows him to feel spiritually important while remaining emotionally absent.

Visually, The Cremator (1969) is astonishing. Its black-and-white cinematography feels simultaneously elegant and diseased, full of warped close-ups, fisheye distortions, drifting shadows, and claustrophobic compositions. Faces loom unnaturally close to the camera. Rooms seem to bend inward. Mirrors fracture identity. The world feels unstable even before the narrative fully collapses into horror.

The editing in The Cremator may be its most radical achievement. The film’s montage structure constantly fractures time, space, and emotional continuity. At times, the film feels like it is edited according to subconscious logic rather than narrative logic. This creates a sensation of spiritual suffocation. The viewer experiences Kopfrkingl’s psychological fragmentation from the inside as he begins his reign of murder. The film itself begins to think like its protagonist. What is remarkable is how modern the editing still feels. The film doesn’t simply tell a story about insanity — it formally reproduces insanity.

Perhaps the film’s greatest achievement is its impossible tonal balance. The Cremator (1969) is genuinely funny. Kopfrkingl’s pompous speeches, obsessive vanity, and bizarre philosophical tangents often border on absurdist comedy. Some scenes play like dark satire, exposing the ridiculousness of authoritarian self-importance. And yet the laughter quickly becomes uncomfortable. This fusion of horror, drama, and comedy is what makes the film feel so original. Most horror films separate terror from satire. The Cremator (1969) understands that the truly grotesque often contains both simultaneously. The result is a film that feels spiritually corrosive in the best possible way — a nightmare that smiles while it strangles you.

Cinema, Classic Film Reviews, Cult Cinema, Films That Got Away

Classic Film Reviews: Sorcerer (1977)

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Directed by William Friedkin

Screenplay by Walon Green – Based on The Wages of Fear (1950 novel) by Georges Arnaud

Produced by William Friedkin

Main cast: Roy Scheider, Bruno Cremer, Francisco Rabal, Amidou, Ramon Bieri, etc.

Cinematography by John M. Stephens & Dick Bush

Music by Tangerine Dream

*** MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS ***

I love The Wages of Fear (1953). It is one of my favourite films of all time. I have reviewed it here. Yet, for years I had never seen William Friedkin’s adaptation of the same 1950 novel, titled, Sorcerer (1977), but thankfully it was screened on Film Four a few years ago, so finally caught up with it. Even better, during the first May Bank Holiday this year it was screened at the Prince Charles Cinema in central London. Amidst a packed crowd I marvelled in the crazed and majestic vision of Friedkin’s filmic adaptation.

Sorcerer (1977) represents one of the clearest examples of how a major studio film can become both a catastrophic commercial failure and, decades later, a revered cult masterpiece. Friedkin, who was at the height of his directorial power, unfortunately did not receive the deserved commercial or critical response during its release and the film disappeared from public view for years. A major reason for the film bombing is it ran directly into the release of Star Wars (1977).

Audiences suddenly wanted escapist fantasy, optimism, and spectacle. Sorcerer (1977) offered the exact opposite: bleak existentialism, sweaty paranoia, moral ambiguity, long stretches of tension and despair and no traditional heroes. Further, audiences were confused by the title, which sounded supernatural even though the film has nothing to do with magic. Many viewers assumed it was a horror or fantasy film and mixed initial reviews, a slow, demanding pace and the film’s nihilistic tone did not help.

The narrative is tension personified. Four desperate fugitives are handed what is essentially a suicide mission: drive two battered, barely functioning trucks 218 miles through a brutal Latin American jungle, carrying crates of decaying dynamite so unstable that every pothole, every jolt, every wrong move could ignite the sweating nitroglycerin inside and annihilate them instantly. The road is collapsing beneath them, the jungle is unforgiving, and death is riding in the back seat with every mile. This premise gave rise a series of double-crossing plot events and incredible action set-pieces, notably the crumbling bridge scene where you can virtually feel the stormy weather on your face while watching.

As such — the trucks crossing a collapsing rope bridge during a storm — became one of the hardest sequences ever filmed at the time. Friedkin refused miniatures or obvious effects work. The crew built a full suspension bridge over a real river in the Dominican Republic. Then the river dried up. They had to abandon the location, search for another river, rebuild portions of the bridge, and engineer artificial rain systems powerful enough to create a storm effect. Due to this and crew members falling ill in the tropical conditions, the production went over schedule and over budget.

The drama after release did not end. Sorcerer (1977) became trapped in rights issues and studio neglect where quality prints were difficult to find and television broadcasts were rare. Friedkin himself even left a comment on a DVD copy on sale on Amazon saying “DO NOT BUY THIS!” Thankfully a fully restored Blu Ray version was released in 2014 and The Criterion Collection released Sorcerer (1977) on Blu-ray and Ultra HD Blu-ray in June 2025. Thus, the story behind the film mirrors the narrative itself with obsessive men undertaking an impossible task, pushing beyond reasonable limits, suffering incredible stress and barely surviving the journey.

At the time, Hollywood treated Sorcerer (1977) as evidence that the auteur era had gone too far. In retrospect, many see it as one of the last uncompromising masterpieces before blockbuster logic transformed the industry permanently. Lastly, while the characters are all anti-heroic and difficult to root for in Sorcerer (1977), the sheer brilliance of the practical effects, epic Tangerine Dream soundtrack, nerve-shredding editing, stunning cinematography and insane effort make this one of the most suspenseful and incredible action films of all time.

Articles, Classic Film Reviews, Cult Cinema, Films That Got Away, Nickel Cinema

Films that Got Away #18 – Star 80 (1983)

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Films that Got Away #18 – Star 80 (1983)

Directed by Bob Fosse

Written by Bob Fosse – Based on Village Voice article, “Death of a Playmate” by Teresa Carpenter

Produced by Wolfgang Glattes & Kenneth Utt

Main cast: Mariel Hemingway, Eric Roberts, Cliff Robertson, Carroll Baker, Roger Rees, David Clennon, etc.

Cinematography by Sven Nykvist

*** CONTAINS SPOILERS ***

Bob Fosse remains one of the most singular figures in American entertainment — a director and choreographer whose style fused seduction, cynicism, theatrical precision, and emotional exhaustion into something instantly recognizable. Emerging from Broadway before conquering Hollywood, Fosse developed a visual language built around angular movements, tilted hats, snapping fingers, smoky jazz-club sensuality, and a relentless awareness of performance as both liberation and self-destruction.

Films like Cabaret (1972), Lenny (1974), and especially All That Jazz (1979) transformed the movie musical into something darker and psychologically raw, stripping away optimism in favour of obsession, ego, mortality, and the corrosive cost of show business. His influence can still be felt across modern cinema, music videos, and stage choreography, from contemporary Broadway revivals to filmmakers drawn to stylized performance and fractured antiheroes.

His final film, Star 80 (1983), stands as perhaps the bleakest expression of that worldview. Based on the true-crime murder of Playboy model Dorothy Stratten by her estranged husband Paul Snider, the film abandons glamour almost entirely in favour of a grim examination of exploitation, fame, misogyny, and possessive violence. Despite strong performances and critical admiration over the years, Star 80 remains comparatively difficult to encounter on television or major streaming platforms, partly because of the film’s emotionally punishing tone and its frank, lascivious depiction of the exploitation surrounding Stratten’s rise and death.

Unlike nostalgic Hollywood biographies that soften tragedy into inspiration, Fosse offers no comforting catharsis. The film ends not with redemption, but with the crushing inevitability of a young woman destroyed by the appetites of the men around her. That uncompromising darkness has contributed to the film’s lingering reputation as both a major work and an uncomfortable one — admired more often than it is revisited. So, thanks to the Nickel Cinema in London for screening this dark 1970’s based cult classic.

In Star 80 (1983), Mariel Hemingway gives an emotionally vulnerable performance of as Dorothy Stratten. Hemingway captures Stratten not as a caricature of Playboy fantasy, but as a genuinely sweet, almost painfully open young woman whose natural beauty and modest charm made her seem like the quintessential girl-next-door suddenly thrust into the machinery of adult celebrity. There is an innocence in Hemingway’s performance that never feels naïve or artificial; she understands Dorothy as someone eager to please, hungry for affection, and slowly awakening to her own independence just as the forces around her become more dangerous. Fosse frames her as both radiant and tragically exposed — a woman transformed into an object of desire by an industry that sees glamour as currency and vulnerability as weakness.

Opposite her, Eric Roberts delivers a frighteningly intense performance as Paul Snider, one that avoids simple imitation in favour of total embodiment. Roberts plays Snider as a man consumed by insecurity, narcissism, and desperate possessiveness, turning toxic masculinity into something sweaty, twitching, and deeply pathetic. He is not charismatic in the conventional movie sense; instead, Roberts makes him volatile and emotionally ravenous, a man whose entire identity depends on controlling the woman he helped “discover.” The performance becomes increasingly difficult to watch because of how recognizable the psychology feels — jealousy mutating into resentment, then humiliation, then violence.

Fosse refuses to sensationalize that descent in Star 80 (1983). The naked glamour of the Playboy world, the pornographic undercurrent of the entertainment industry, and the seductive surfaces of Los Angeles all become drenched in sordid, emotional decay. There is nudity and a sense of exploitative lingering on the feminine form, but there is understandable context. Cliff Robertson’s appearance as Hugh Hefner is not simply a caricature, but rather a caring, avuncular figure, despite building an empire out of, arguably, the exploitation of women. Further, Aram Nicholas (a thinly veiled, Peter Bogdanovich ) is a film director who tries to make Dorothy Stratten a movie star, but begins an affair too, sending Snider over the edge. Thus Stratten’s body and soul pinballs between these dominating men.

Overall, Star 80 (1983) lingers long after it ends. Fosse, Hemingway, Roberts and Sven Nykist’s cinematography contribute memorable work. Beneath its glossy imagery lies an overwhelming feeling of bleakness — the sense that every flashbulb, every photo shoot, and every promise of fame is shadowed by exploitation, stolen innocence, and inevitable tragedy.

Articles, Cinema, Classic Film Reviews, Six of the Best

The psychology of revenge cinema: incorporating Six of the Best #38 Revenge Films!

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Six of the Best #38 Revenge Films

Revenge is one of the oldest narrative engines in storytelling. Long before cinema, it powered myths and literature—from the blood-soaked cycles of Greek tragedy to the meticulous retribution of The Count of Monte Cristo. These stories hinge on a simple but potent question: what happens when justice fails, and an individual takes it upon themselves to restore balance? Cinema inherited this question and, over time, fractured it into multiple forms—some cathartic, others corrosive, and many deeply ambiguous.

A Brief History of Revenge on Screen

Early revenge narratives in cinema often mirrored their literary roots: structured, morally legible, and driven by transformation. A Woman Branded (1931) is sometimes cited as an early precursor of a woman seeking revenge. Films like Kind Hearts and Coronets (1949) or adaptations of The Count of Monte Cristo framed revenge as an almost intellectual exercise—precise, controlled, and, in the case of the Ealing classic, even darkly humorous.

While revenge is a foundational narrative theme dating back to early cinema, Ingmar Bergman’s The Virgin Spring (1960) is widely considered the earliest major film establishing the “rape-revenge” subgenre. It follows a father seeking brutal vengeance for his daughter’s murder, influenced by a 13th-century Swedish ballad and Japanese cinema.

During the late 1960s and 1970s, something shifted. Disillusionment seeped into cinema, and revenge stories grew harsher, more grounded. Neo-noir works like Point Blank (1967), Get Carter (1971), and the classic Western, Once Upon a Time in the West (1968), reframed revenge as something mythic yet emotionally compelling. Sergio Leone’s film in particular bridges classical and modern revenge—turning personal vengeance into operatic inevitability while still rooted in grief and loss. Further, the 1960 / 1970s “Spaghetti” and Clint Eastwood westerns were also heavily driven by vengeful characters, as well as brutal bounty hunters and mercenaries. Overall, the 1970s marked a surge in mainstream vigilante revenge films, with Last House on the Left (1972) and Death Wish (1974), to name a couple, are widely seen as cementing the genre’s popularity.

At the same time, exploitation cinema erupted with raw, confrontational narratives—I Spit on Your Grave (1978), Coffy (1973), Ms. 45 (1981), and Thriller: A Cruel Picture (1973)—often centring female vengeance in ways that were both provocative and controversial. Japanese cinema contributed key films like Lady Snowblood (1973), which would later echo through global cinema. Asian cinema embraced the brutality of the subgenre with revenge films like Vengeance is Mine (1979), Park Chan Wook’s The Vengeance Trilogy and the visceral I Saw the Devil (2010) which interrogated obsession and extreme violence in equal measures.

Thus, there are many faces to the revenge including: stage plays, classic literature, gangster, Western, arthouse, war, horror and even comedic ones such as 9 to 5 (1980). Each mode reflects a different cultural anxiety. Some seek catharsis; others deny it entirely. Some empower; others dismantle the very idea of empowerment. What remains is that revenge is a primal drive and offers clear motivation as to a characters’ wants. Above all else a good vengeance narrative offers high stakes satisfaction and entertainment when done right. Here are six filmic examples of this.

Six of the Best Revenge films

What unites the six chosen films is not just quality, but how distinctly each approaches revenge. The six films selected here demonstrate the breadth of what revenge can mean on screen: spectacle, despair, inevitability, and even self-annihilation.

I really wanted to include Revenge (2017), a film which revisits the roots of exploitation film but reclaims them with precision. Coralie Fargeat transforms the genre’s historically exploitative gaze into something confrontational, self-aware and sexual. Violence is stylised and glamorous, but never empty—it becomes a language through which the protagonist reasserts control over her own narrative. Alas, it does not make the list.

*** MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS ***

Dead Man’s Shoes (2004)

I’ve written about Dead Man’s Shoes (2004) before but for me it is one of the best British films ever. Shane Meadows classic low-budget revenger evolves a brother’s vengeance into something more intimate and tragic. Meadows reframes revenge as grief and guilt, culminating in a devastating reversal that questions whether vengeance can ever truly be directed outward. It is revenge turned inward, a psychological reckoning masquerading as retribution. Paddy Considine delivers one of the rawest and most angry performances ever put on screen.

Get Carter (1971)

Get Carter (1971) is cold, methodical, and stripped of glamour, like a Northern neo-noir. Michael Caine’s Jack Carter moves through a decaying Newcastle like an agent of inevitability. There is no triumph here—only the suggestion that violence begets nothing but itself. Caine’s performance delivers the dialogue with razor-sharp timing and dark wit. A violent gangster but relentless detective hunting down the thugs who killed his brother. The clever screenplay (based on a novel) ensures those Carter is after are even worse than him as ultimately Northern decay meets moral collapse.

Kill Bill: The Whole Bloody Affair (2025)

As revenge epics and Asian cinema homages go, Kill Bill: The Whole Bloody Affair (2025) is a staggering piece of synthesis from Quentin Tarantino. Beatrice Kiddo’s (Uma Thurman) quest isn’t just a trail of vengeance—it’s ritualised, almost sacred, each confrontation unfolding like a chapter in a blood-soaked myth. Tarantino fuses global influences—from Anime, samurai cinema like Lady Snowblood (1973) to grindhouse exploitation—into something heightened and unmistakably his own: a world of colour, blood, incredible choreography, and cutting precision. Violence here isn’t merely destructive; it becomes a form of expression, even purification. In this universe, revenge is not corrosive or self-defeating but clarifying, elevating Beatrice’s journey from victim to legend.

Mermaid Legend (1984)

Mermaid Legend (1984) stands as a startlingly powerful vengeance film, elevated by Mari Shirato’s ethereal, magnetic performance as Migiwa—at once woman, avenging angel, and elemental force. Her transformation drives the film into increasingly confrontational territory, where extreme violence and explicit sexuality feel less gratuitous than weaponised, forcing the viewer into a state of unease. What makes the revenge so compelling is its inevitability: this is not a quest but a metamorphosis, as Migiwa becomes something beyond human, guided as much by the sea and spirit as by rage. The film’s brilliance lies in how it fuses beauty and brutality into a singular vision. Lyrical underwater imagery and sacred, mournful music elevate the violence into something ritualistic, culminating in a final pier rampage that feels less like action than ceremony—hypnotic, relentless, and mythic. By the end, revenge is no longer just an act but a form of transcendence, pushing the film beyond exploitation into legend.

Old Boy (2003)

Oldboy (2003) is a film I can watch over and over and it still shocks me. The narrative feels like a perverse inversion of The Count of Monte Cristo. But, where Dumas offers revenge as a calculated, almost righteous act, Park Chan-wook and the source material it is based on presents it as something recursive and inescapable. The brilliance of Oldboy (2003) lies in its dual revenge structure: what begins as Oh Dae-su’s pursuit of answers gradually reveals itself to be the final movement in someone else’s long-orchestrated vengeance. Both protagonist and antagonist are locked into mirrored roles, each defined—and ultimately destroyed—by the same impulse. The film’s infamous twists don’t just shock; they reframe the entire narrative as a closed system of suffering, where revenge ceases to be cathartic and instead becomes a mechanism of obscene chaos. The antagonist’s revenge is meticulous, psychological, and total, while Dae-su’s reactive violence only tightens the trap. Both men are ultimately consumed, their identities hollowed out by the nihilistic revenge that defines them.

Once Upon a Time in the West (1968)

Once Upon a Time in the West (1968) is a great revenge film and classic Western. It precisely because it strips vengeance down to something elemental, patient, and almost mythic. Charles Bronson’s ‘Harmonica’ is not a conventional protagonist but a force moving through the landscape with quiet, relentless purpose. He speaks little, explains nothing, and yet every gesture feels loaded with intent. His pursuit of Henry Fonda’s Frank—a brutal mercenary introduced through shocking, child-murdering violence—is not driven by impulse but by memory, by something buried so deep it can only be expressed through action. What elevates the film is its methodical pacing and Leone’s operatic control. Violence is withheld, stretched out across long silences, close-ups, and Ennio Morricone’s mournful score, turning each encounter into ritual. When ‘Harmonica’ finally unleashes havoc, it is not chaotic but precise—measured, almost ceremonial. The eventual revelation of his motive reframes everything: this is not just revenge, but the completion of a trauma that has defined his entire existence.

Conclusion

To distil revenge cinema into six films is, inevitably, an incomplete task. The genre is too vast, too varied spanning everything from canonical works to obscure, difficult films that remain unseen or underexplored. There are countless other entries, including many lesser-known or unseen works, that could reshape or challenge this selection.

And yet, that is precisely why revenge endures. It is a universal impulse, endlessly adaptable to tone, culture, and form. Whether stylised, brutal, philosophical, or deeply personal, revenge remains one of cinema’s most powerful motivations—for characters and filmmakers alike.

Cinema, Classic Film Reviews, Cult Cinema

Films That Got Away #17 – Punishment Park (1971)

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Films That Got Away #17 – Punishment Park (1971)

Directed by Peter Watkins

Written by Peter Watkins

Produced by Susan Martin

Main ensemble: Carmen Argenziano, Harold Beaulieu, Jim Bohan, Stan Armsted, Paul Alelyanes etc.

Cinematography by Joan Churchill & Peter Smokler

** MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS **

Although Punishment Park (1971) itself is fictional, the documentary style is so raw and realistic you can almost smell the fear, blood, lead alloy and bullet-smoke on the screen. The film also highlights many of the elements found within parallel social and political events of the time, such as police brutality, counterculture rebellion, the trial of the Chicago Seven, the Kent State shootings, and political polarisation bordering on civil war. With the United States governments continually driving a “world police” agenda, perhaps they should look closer to home before starting external conflicts.

For years, Punishment Park (1971) sat just out of reach for me — one of those films you hear about in whispers, invoked in conversations about “the most confrontational cinema ever made,” but never quite encountered at the right moment. Now, having finally caught up with Peter Watkins’ 1971 film, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve been missing something essential. Not just a film, but an experience — raw, furious, and uncomfortably alive in a way that few works of cinema ever achieve.

What strikes first is its sheer lack of polish — and how vital that is to its power. Watkins doesn’t present a narrative so much as he detonates one. Shot in a pseudo-documentary style, with handheld cameras and overlapping dialogue, the film feels less like something constructed and more like something captured in real time. The performances — many from non-actors — are jagged, unpredictable, and often feel on the verge of spilling out of the frame. There’s no safety net here, no aesthetic distance to retreat into. It’s messy, chaotic, and utterly convincing.

That rawness feeds directly into the film’s political force. Punishment Park (1971) isn’t subtle, and it has no interest in being so. It’s angry — openly, unapologetically angry — at systems of power that disguise brutality behind procedure and patriotism. The tribunal sequences are particularly harrowing, not because they’re exaggerated, but because they feel so plausible. The language of authority, the casual dismissal of dissent, the bureaucratic calm in the face of injustice — it all lands with a chilling familiarity. Watkins doesn’t ask you to interpret; he demands that you confront.

And yet, what lingers most is how contemporary it feels. Despite being rooted in the tensions of its time, the film plays less like a historical artifact and more like a warning that never stopped being relevant. Its vision of a state turning on its own citizens, of media observing rather than intervening, of truth becoming something contested and fragile — all of it resonates with unsettling clarity today. It’s the kind of film that doesn’t age so much as it waits.

I’m grateful, genuinely, to have finally seen it. Some films entertain, some impress, but very few burn a hole in your mind. Punishment Park (1971) is one of those rare works that burns with purpose — a film that refuses comfort, refuses neutrality, and refuses to be forgotten. It makes one sad that, to be honest, the world hasn’t changed for the better since it was made. While there are many who strive for peace, there are so many who choose aggression, violence and war to control and destroy.

Punishment Park (1971) can currently be seen on YouTube.

Classic Film Reviews, Cult Cinema, Film Festivals

Romford Horror Film Festival 2026 & The Cannibal Man (1972) reviews!

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Romford Horror Film Festival & The Cannibal Man (1972) review

From 19th–22nd February 2026, Romford, Essex emerged not just as a venue, but as a creative crucible for genre storytelling as the Romford Horror International Film Festival — affectionately dubbed HorRHIFFic — returned to the Lumiere Cinema with its most ambitious programme yet – details can be found here: https://www.romfordhorrorfestival.com

This four-day celebration of horror cinema is rooted in the independent filmmaking spirit: championing works from emerging voices around the world, blending them alongside classic cult favourites, and generating an atmosphere of passion, community, and shared reverence for the genre. What makes this festival truly special isn’t just the size of its programme — though over 130 films certainly made for a thrilling schedule — but its wholehearted dedication to independent filmmakers who bring new ideas, daring vision, and personal passion to every frame.

Across its programme, the festival showcased a thrilling mix of guests and films that honour horror’s breadth including: Classic Retro Treats, Special Guests and Actors from Horror, New Independent Features & Shorts from countries such as South Korea, Canada, Spain, USA, and Italy, plus Creative Diversity — with screenings that embraced psychological depth, gory slashers, ghost stories, off-beat genre hybrids, and boundary-pushing work from both early-career filmmakers and seasoned indie pros.

Romford Horror Festival is also renowned for the community it builds. Horror fans come together not just to watch films, but to share experiences, meet creators, and feel at home in an environment that values innovation over commercialism. The Lumiere Cinema, itself a community-saved venue, became a home for filmmakers and fans alike — proving that in Romford, horror isn’t just screened… it’s commemorated. I for one am so grateful they screened my short horror film The Suicide Shift (2026).

As well as the short film showcases I watched a few retro classics including The Cannibal Man (1972) – (original title: La semana del asesino), directed by Eloy de la Iglesia. It is less a horror film than a slow, suffocating moral collapse. What begins as an unfortunate act of violence spirals into a weeklong descent into hell for Marcos, played with haunted fragility by Vicente Parra. Each subsequent killing feels less like cruelty and more like inevitability — the grinding machinery of fate closing in on a man already spiritually trapped.

Set against the decaying outskirts of Madrid in the final years of the Franco regime, The Cannibal Man (1972) doubles as a bleak portrait of a society rotting from repression. The slaughterhouse where Marcos works becomes an unsubtle but potent metaphor: under Francoism, bodies are processed, identities erased, dissent quietly carved up and discarded.

What makes the film especially daring is its undercurrent of homoerotic tension. Marcos’ wealthy, enigmatic neighbour Néstor hovers at the edges of the carnage, offering protection and silent understanding. Their charged glances and coded conversations suggest a longing that cannot safely speak its name under Franco’s moral authoritarianism. In this reading, Marcos’ spiral is not only about guilt but about internalized repression — desire twisted inward until it manifests as self-destruction. The horror is as much psychological as physical.

And yes, the gore is blunt and ugly. Bodies are dismembered with the same cold pragmatism as livestock. But de la Iglesia never lets the blood eclipse the tragedy. Marcos is not a monster in the conventional sense; he is a man cornered by circumstance, class stagnation, and a society that offers no mercy to the weak. By the end, his descent feels preordained — less a fall from grace than a revelation that grace was never available to him.

So, if you love horror films do check out indie film festivals such as – HorRHIFFic – whether it’s the electrifying surprises in the indie showcases or the nostalgic thrill of classic screenings, the Romford Horror Film Festival 2026 made it clear: independent horror cinema is alive, vibrant, and boldly inventive. This festival is a testament to the creativity and ingenuity of filmmakers who refuse to be confined by convention — and to the audiences who cheer them on.

BFI, Cinema, Classic Film Reviews

Classic Film Review: Bleak Moments (1971) plus Mike Leigh Q & A (Prince Charles Cinema, London.)

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Classic Film Review: Bleak Moments (1971)

Directed by Mike Leigh

Written by Mike Leigh – Based on 1970 stage play by Mike Leigh

Produced by Leslie Blair

Cast: Anne Raitt, Sarah Stephenson, Eric Allan, Joolia Cappleman, Mike Bradwell, Donald Sumpter etc.

Cinematography by Bahram Manocheri

Camera Assistant: Roger Pratt

Edited by Leslie Blair

One of the quiet yet profound joys of cultural life is finding a creative or sporting figure—or team—whose journey you follow from an early age, growing alongside their work as it evolves. Whether it’s the cinematic brilliance of the Coen Brothers or Mike Leigh, the ever-shifting energy of Primal Scream, or the lifelong, often agonising commitment to Tottenham Hotspur FC, these long-term relationships offer a deep sense of continuity. They become personal landmarks in our emotional and cultural landscapes, threading through decades of change and grounding us with shared history, joy, and—especially in Spurs’ case—a touch of heartache.

I was born just a year before Mike Leigh’s Bleak Moments debuted in 1971, and it became a defining cultural touchstone for me. First encountering it in the early 1980’s, I was captivated by its raw honesty and quiet power—a film I returned to again and again on that solid-format VHS tape over the years. It marked the beginning of a lifelong relationship with Leigh’s work, a body of cinema that has shaped and shadowed my own personal and cultural journey. That connection endures to this day, most recently renewed with his 2025 release, Hard Truths—a testament to a career and vision that continue to evolve with undiminished integrity.

Bleak Moments centres on Sylvia (Anne Raitt), a lonely, introspective young woman navigating the quiet desolation of her suburban life while caring for her mentally challenged sister, Hilda (Sarah Stephenson). Trapped between duty and desire, Sylvia reaches tentatively toward human connection—most notably with a shy schoolteacher—yet every encounter is marked by awkward silences and emotional hesitations. Mike Leigh crafts a delicate, unflinching portrait of isolation and unmet longing, where the most powerful moments are found in what remains unsaid. Indeed, I would say it would have a powerful influence on awkward cinema or television such as Gervais and Merchant’s, seminal show The Office.

I hadn’t seen the film for twenty years and in a packed Prince Charles Cinema, what struck me was how Bleak Moments, while raw and unvarnished in style, unfolds with a beautifully episodic structure that gently accumulates emotional weight. Each scene offers a quiet vignette—moments of everyday awkwardness, tentative exchanges, and domestic stillness—that together create a deeply human portrait of loneliness and restraint. Despite its sombre tone, the film is laced with dry, observational humour and a deep sense of pathos, revealing the absurdity and ache of unspoken lives.

Mike Bradwell’s Norman and his dryly hilarious songs, and the most awkward of “romantic” dinner scenes in the Chinese restaurant just stood out to me as deeply funny. Raitt’s performance too is a masterclass of comedic understatement. Overall, these qualities—emotional nuance, character-driven storytelling, and a commitment to realism—would become defining hallmarks of Mike Leigh’s oeuvre, already fully formed in this striking debut. Finally, it was great to see and hear from Leigh, now in his eighties, answering some great questions with sharp wit and batting away some stupid ones too with his usual intelligence and droll honesty. Leigh remains a hero in my life’s cultural journey.

Cinema, Classic Film Reviews, Reviews

THE CINEMA FIX: 10 FAVOURITE FILMS OF 2023!

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THE CINEMA FIX: 10 FAVOURITE FILMS OF 2023!

Happy New Year and welcome to 2024!

Thankfully 2023 was less turbulent year on the cultural landscape than the previous years impacted by THAT virus. Nonetheless, we remain in an era where streaming platforms continue to thrive. I have lost count how many there are now and have now drawn a line under the number of subscriptions I have.

Apple TV, BBC iPlayer, BFI, Channel 4 online, Disney+, MUBI, Netflix and Sky Movies subscriptions are enough!

I still have my ODEON membership and do attend the cinema too though.

So, here are my favourite TEN films of the year containing choices watched both at home and in the cinema. If they are new releases and I saw them in 2023, they qualify.

Obviously, I have not seen every new release from 2023, so if there are any glaring omissions from my list please recommend away! 

As an aperitif I include my ten favourite films of 2022. Good luck and bon voyage in 2024!

TEN FAVOURITE FILMS OF 2022!

THE BANSHEES OF INISHERIN (2022)
BONES AND ALL (2022)
CODA (2021)
DECISION TO LEAVE (2022)
DOCTOR STRANGE AND THE MULTIVERSE OF MADNESS (2022)
ELVIS (2022)
EVERYTHING, EVERYWHERE, ALL AT ONCE (2022)
THE MENU (2022)
RRR (2022)
TRIANGLE OF SADNESS (2022)

TEN FAVOURITE FILMS OF 2023!

ANATOMY OF A FALL (2023)

“. . . Anatomy of the Fall (2023) is an extremely complex film, both intelligent and thematically powerful. The courtroom exchanges between Sandra, her son Daniel, Samuel’s psychotherapist, the prosecution and defense lawyers are brilliantly written and acted. The flashback arguments between Samuel and Sandra are gut-wrenching and all too familiar to anyone who has been in or witnessed the crumbling of a marital or parental relationship. “

ASTEROID CITY (2023)

“. . .Asteroid City (2023) proves once again Wes Anderson is one of the most original filmmakers of this generation. Will he gain some more converts to his particular set of cinematic bag of tricks? Who knows. What I do know is that I was completely immersed in the colour, movement, pace, humour, aesthetics, performances and themes with the film. “

BROKER (2022)

“. . . Broker (2022) arguably has too many intertwining subplots as it strives to redeem all of the complex characters, but the wonderfully believable performances and a brilliant screenplay really grabs you and rarely lets you go. Kore-eda’s direction is, as usual, masterly and assured as he balances the various tones confidently. Overall, this film makes you laugh, cry and is really moving as it highlights that family units can be lovingly born from collective experience, as well as blood. “

MAY DECEMBER (2023)

“. . . what unfolds is a superbly acted and understated drama which really gets under the skin and into the mind. While watching the ever-shifting points-of-view and identification with the characters May December (2023) became so compelling to me. . . Acclaimed director Todd Haynes directs this tonally awkward story with a deft touch drawing on the constant grey areas of drama so expertly. “

OPPENHEIMER (2023)

“. . . Where the film truly blooms is when Oppenheimer makes his scientific breakthrough, builds his team of geniuses and the actual construction of the nuclear weapons at Los Alamos. There is palpable suspense (even though we know what happens) in the race with the Germans to make the bomb first. I mean, imagine if the Germans had won the race. It does not bear thinking about. The history of the world would have been irrevocably altered beyond comprehension. “

PAST LIVES (2023)

“. . . Without explosions, or car chases, or superheroes or fast-paced cutting or extraordinary heroes defeating powerful foes, Past Lives (2023), is one of the most impactful and memorable films of this year. Celine Song achieves this with a delicate hand in the writing and direction, plus a purposeful naturalistic cinematographic palette delivered by Shabier Kirchner. Above all else Song creates two characters who you root for from the start, willing them to be together, as the one feels the romantic electricity build on the screen. ”

SALTBURN (2023)

“. . . I cannot recommend Saltburn (2023) enough for its fantastically witty script, devastatingly brilliant cast and some quite disgustingly explicit, but contextually justifiable, character moments and scenes. Fennell takes the setting and structure of Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited and turns it upside down, spinning a devious tale of infatuation, love, privilege and social climbing. Through the character Oliver Quick, and I really don’t want to give anything away, there is a powerful and jaw-dropping character arc of upward mobility. Rosamund Pike’s and Keoghan’s performances are both amazing and award-worthy. “

TAR (2022)

“Tár (2022) is a film which works on many genre and narrative layers. It is a psychological drama, an absorbing character study, a backstage musical, a complex morality play, with suggestions of hallucinatory horror during the final act of the film. It is a triumph of filmic brilliance expertly delivered by Todd Field. It is incredible to think this is only the third film he has directed. “

TOTALLY KILLER (2023)

“. . . I realise Totally Killer (2023) seems so contrived and derivative, but I found it to be an absolute blast. The script is clever and knowing with energetic and fun characters. Kiernan Shipka as Jamie is especially brilliant with great comedy timing and delivery. The filmmakers embrace the joy of time-travel and horror film tropes, and there’s also some excellent set-pieces involving the obligatory 1980’s false-faced psycho with a grudge. “

THE WONDER (2022)

“. . . Is there a better actor around than Florence Pugh? I am not so sure. She is formidably brilliant in every role I have seen her in. I think that Pugh is so clever, emotional and magnetic in her screen performances, none more so than in this intense period drama. Rich in themes including religious control, Catholic guilt and the English stranglehold over Ireland between the dramatic lines in an intimate epic, anchored by Pugh’s dominant force-of-human-nature performance.”

Classic Film Reviews, My Cinematic Romance, Reviews, Under-Rated Classics

MY CINEMATIC ROMANCE #25: BURT LANCASTER

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MY CINEMATIC ROMANCE #25: BURT LANCASTER

Without planning it I watched a number of Burt Lancaster films over the last few months. It gave me a chance to reflect and re-evaluate this giant of the screen. I say “giant” because not only was Burt Stephen Lancaster physically a big guy, he also had a giant of an acting career. One which spanned fifty years in the business.

From his memorable first screen appearance in noir-classic The Killers (1946) to final performance in Field of Dreams (1989) he appeared in seventy films, as well as many television roles. Lancaster was a formidable actor, film star, producer and political activist. His fierce personality, intelligence and passion often explodes on the screen in so many classic films. But he was also capable of quiet and subtle power too. In keeping with the rules of the ‘My Cinematic Romance’ remit, here are just five of those said memorable acting performances.

** CONTAINS FILM SPOILERS **

SWEET SMELL OF SUCCESS (1957)

While this is not based around actual gangsters or career criminals you won’t find a bleaker or more cynical film noir. Morals are in short supply as Tony Curtis’ pushy press agent attempts to work his way up the greasy media pole in New York. His and many a character’s nemesis is Lancaster’s media kingpin, J.J. Hunsecker, who can make or break a career with the click of a finger. Hunsecker’s unhealthy obsession with his sister drives the downfall of all the characters where no one gets what they want. Lancaster is never afraid to play a flawed and complex personality. Razor-sharp dialogue and James Wong Howe’s stark photography, allied with Lancaster’s dominant presence, the Sweet Smell of Success (1957) is a striking morality tale warning of the perils of greed, fame and ambition.

ELMER GANTRY (1960)

Wow! I’d never seen this incendiary film adaptation of the Sinclair Lewis’s 1927 novel. Starring Lancaster, Jean Simmons, Arthur Kennedy, Shirley Jones and Patti Page, Lancaster is electric as the eponymous anti-hero. Gantry is a travelling salesmen-turned evangelist, who is down-on-his knees when he sees a golden opportunity to sell God instead of vacuum cleaners. Jean Simmons has never been better, but Lancaster delivers a devilishly complex characterisation of a man seeking wealth, sex, and adulation but without true belief. His firebrand sermons are powerful but without substance, and Gantry soon realises he cannot escape the emptiness of his soul. He preaches God without soul in a scathing damnation of organised religion set during the depression. Lancaster unsurprisingly won an Academy award for best actor in a risky role and intelligent film that rarely gets made these days.

BIRDMAN OF ALCATRAZ (1962)

I recall watching Birdman of Alcatraz (1962) when a teenager with my dad and being entranced by Burt Lancaster’s thoughtful, yet powerful performance of dangerous prisoner, turned ornithologist, Robert Stroud. Off-screen Lancaster rallied against the death penalty and argued for rehabilitation over eye-for-an-eye punishment. Thus, this story of a complex, rebellious personality who attempted personal absolution via education certainly would have had creative and thematic merit in Lancaster’s mind. From research the actual Robert Stroud was reported to be a brutal psychopath and beyond redemption. Yet, it’s a noteworthy film and stirring performance from Lancaster about a human paradox. Indeed, when did Hollywood ever let the truth get in the way of a great story. What is the truth anyway?

THE SWIMMER (1968)

Well, this was something of a surprise. I had never watched this adaptation of John Cheever’s short story, The Swimmer (1968) until I recorded it on Talking Pictures TV last month. At fifty-five, Lancaster is in incredible shape as middle-class American alpha-male, and seemingly popular, Ned Merrill. He decides one day he can “swim” across a series of Connecticut pools and back home to his wife and children. It’s certainly an original premise and peculiar take on the road movie subgenre. Merrill’s journey is peppered with both friendly and unenthusiastic meetings with his neighbours, friends and former lovers. Although it soon becomes apparent that something, despite his carefree confidence, isn’t quite right with Merrill. A progenitor to John Hamm’s Don Draper, Merrill is such a nuanced iceberg of a soul; charismatic yet with dubious ‘of-the-era’ morals. I think this could be Lancaster’s finest performance in a truly memorable masculinity-in-crisis cult character study. It’s an odd film, but worth staying with until the incredible ending.

ATLANTIC CITY (1980)

As he aged, Lancaster’s continued working with abandon. He wasn’t averse to taking a paycheck in B-movies such as The Cassandra Crossing (1977) and The Island of Dr Moreau (1979), but he also struck critical gold in Louis Malle’s romantic crime drama, Atlantic City (1980). Both Lancaster and Susan Sarandon are impressive. They have an intense chemistry in this ‘May to December’ love story, as two characters thrown together amidst the malfeasant underbelly of the gambler and gangster strewn ocean city. It’s a morally ambiguous, powerful and complex story of two characters fighting their way out of a dangerous place. Again, Lancaster proved he wasn’t fearful of taking risky roles, even in the latter stages of his career. Atlantic City (1980) would deservedly receive several Oscar nominations, including Lancaster for Best Actor.

Cinema, Classic Film Reviews, Films That Got Away, Reviews

CLASSIC FILM REVIEW: THE BATTLE OF ALGIERS (1966)

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CLASSIC FILM REVIEW: THE BATTLE OF ALGIERS (1966)

Directed by Gillo Pontecorvo

Written by Franco Solinas

Story by Franco Solinas and Gillo Pontecorvo – Based on Souvenirs de la Bataille d’Alger by Saadi Yacef

Produced by Antonio Musu and Saadi Yacef

Main Cast: Jean Martin, Saadi Yacef, Brahim Haggiag, Tommaso Neri and ensemble.

Cinematography by Marcello Gatti

Edited by Mario Morra and Mario Serandrei

Music by Ennio Morricone and Gillo Pontecorvo

*** MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS ***

The Battle of Algiers (1966) was one of the greatest films I had NEVER seen. Now, The Battle of Algiers (1966) is one of the greatest films I have EVER seen. I’m embarrassed to admit that I had, for some unknown reason, not found the time to watch it. But wow, the “best films of all time” lists it appears on are NOT wrong. For sure, I don’t always get on with the critics’ list released by respected publications such as Sight and Sound, nevertheless with this incendiary work of cinema I am in total agreement of its deserved high ranking. In fact it could be higher.

The Battle of Algiers (1966) is set during a particularly brutal period of the Algerian War of Independence which occurred between 1954 and 1962. It is not a conflict I am too familiar with historically, nonetheless, I am aware of the desire by the Algerian National Liberation Front to decolonize themselves from French rule. Their demands were rejected by French leaders, thus the Algerian people took to the streets to wage a guerrilla campaign against both civilian and military targets.

Like many a bloody conflict lives, families, businesses, homes, properties and animals were savagely hurt and left irreparably damaged. As the prolonged fighting ensued in Algiers both sides resorted to more extreme combat measures. But with Algiers becoming a politically adverse battlefield, France’s external allies, such as the USA, moved their support away and eventually the Algerian people would overcome the hostile landlords. For the French, the Algerian rebels were terrorists. But remember, one person’s terrorist is another person’s freedom fighter.

A short review on a humble film blog cannot pretend to imagine the currency of horror, grief and pain encapsulated within this brutal conflict. Yet, incredibly, Gillo Pontercorvo, as well as producing a searing indictment against the barbarity of war, has in The Battle of Algiers (1966) made palpable such horror, grief and pain through sheer formal cinematic ingenuity. In two hours, Pontercorvo and his production team, employ a stark black-and-white-film-documentary-style, non-professional actors, chopping episodic narrative, percussive and beating sounds, handheld cameras, vérité production design and dynamic, dialectic montage to spectacularly bring the psychological power of war to the screen. Not to mention the iconic Morricone and Pontercorvo composition which pulsates throughout the soundtrack.

Intrinsically focussed on events in the Casbah, Algiers between 1954 and 1957, as the story is bookended from the perspective of Ali la Pointe (Brahim Haggiag). La Pointe is a petty criminal who is politically radicalized while in prison, but becomes a formidable force in the fight. The narrative events display a variety of bombings he organizes against the French and his attacks lead the French to bringing in experienced soldier, Lieutenant-Colonel Mathieu (the sole professional actor, Jean Martin). The paratrooper commander is tasked with bringing down the Algerian Liberation Front and his methods of torturing prisoners soon begin to turn the bloody tide.

I cannot overstate how moved I was emotionally and intellectually by The Battle of Algiers (1966). It is momentous filmmaking and made me feel both a fraud and horribly depressed at how evil human beings can behave. I am a fraud because I am safely able to live out my privileged life thankfully free of the horror I have witnessed in the film. Moreover, it is so depressing that we never learn as conflict continues to blight this poisoned planet we exist on. Lastly, Pontercorvo, redefines for me the job a what a director does. The Battle of Algiers (1966) is a pinnacle of how filmmaking style and form can match the heartfelt agony of the narrative themes on show. It is not only one of the greatest anti-war films of all time, but simply one of the most complete films ever made.