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BFI, Cinema, Classic Film Reviews

Classic Film Review: Woman in the Dunes (1964)

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Classic Film Review: Woman in the Dunes (1964)

Directed by Hiroshi Teshigahara

Screenplay by Kōbō Abe – Based on The Woman in the Dunes
by Kōbō Abe

Produced by Kiichi Ichikawa and Tadashi Ono

Main cast: Eiji Okada, Kyōko Kishida, Kōji Mitsui

Cinematography by Hiroshi Segawa

*** MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS ***

I’d never seen Woman in the Dunes (1964) before, but after watching the director’s cut on the BFI Player, it has now catapulted into one of the best films I have ever seen. This could be first-watch bias, however, thematically, emotionally, philosophically and stylistically speaking, it absolutely touched upon, connected and spoke to me greatly about my life’s experiences and the human condition.

Niki Junpei (Eiji Okada), a frustrated schoolteacher and amateur entomologist from Tokyo, travels to a remote coastal village in search of rare insects. After missing the last bus home, he accepts an invitation to stay overnight with a young widow (Kyōko Kishida) who lives alone in a hut at the bottom of a vast sand dune. He soon learns that her husband and daughter were killed in a sandstorm and that she spends every night shovelling away the endless sand that threatens to bury her home. Though Junpei initially sees himself as a temporary guest, strange comments from the villagers hint that something more sinister is unfolding.

The following morning, Junpei discovers that the rope ladder leading out of the sand pit has been removed. Trapped by the villagers, he realizes he has been chosen to become the widow’s permanent companion and labourer, helping her dig sand that the village secretly sells for profit. As he struggles to escape, Junpei learns that the widow is also a prisoner of the community, both of them controlled through dependence on the villagers for food and water. What begins as an accidental overnight stay becomes a nightmare of confinement, survival, and the gradual erosion of freedom beneath the relentless weight of the sand.

Hiroshi Teshigahara’s Woman in the Dunes (1964) is one of those rare films where image, character, theme and performance become inseparable. Shot in pristine black and white by cinematographer Hiroshi Segawa, it is visually astonishing: every grain of sand, bead of sweat and shadow across a human body is rendered with an almost microscopic intensity. The beauty of the photography is deliberately juxtaposed with the darkness of Niki Junpei’s predicament. What begins as an innocent expedition to collect insects becomes an existential prison, as he finds himself trapped by commerce, a surrogate marriage and, most powerfully, the natural wall of sand that pins both him and the unnamed widow to their strange subterranean existence.

The sand is both physical and metaphorical. It shifts, pours, consumes and rebuilds itself, turning Junpei’s captivity into a distinctly Sisyphean struggle. Every attempt at escape merely seems to return him to where he started, yet what makes Junpei such a compelling character is his absolute refusal to surrender. He builds ladders, devises increasingly ingenious escape plans, attempts to train crows to carry messages and continually tries to outwit the villagers who have ensnared him. Each failure intensifies rather than diminishes his determination. Like Sisyphus pushing the rock back up the hill, Junpei is condemned to confront an obstacle that endlessly renews itself.

Yet Woman in the Dunes (1964) is far more complicated than a straightforward story of imprisonment. Junpei is trapped by the villagers, but also by economic necessity, social expectation and an enforced domestic relationship that gradually begins to resemble a marriage. The villagers need the sand removed; the widow needs a man to help her survive; Junpei needs water, food and eventually human companionship. Teshigahara transforms this bizarre situation into a miniature society in which freedom itself becomes increasingly difficult to define. The more Junpei fights against his surroundings, the more deeply he becomes connected to them.

The relationship between Junpei and the widow, played with extraordinary physical and emotional commitment by Eiji Okada and Kyōko Kishida, gives the film its human core. Their intimacy moves between hostility, dependency, tenderness and desire without ever becoming conventional romance. Although sex is an important element of the film, Teshigahara rarely needs explicit imagery. Bodies appear as silhouettes, fragments and outlines; Kishida’s naked form is often suggested rather than displayed. A shoulder, a curve, a shadow or sand clinging to skin can communicate more than an explicit image ever could. One sees more from less throughout.

That principle extends to the entire film. Teshigahara makes the smallest details monumental. Sand resembles water, skin resembles landscape and the walls of the pit sometimes appear infinite. Extreme close-ups turn grains of sand into an entire universe, while wider compositions emphasise just how insignificant these two people are against the enormous shifting landscape surrounding them. The immaculate monochrome photography makes the film simultaneously beautiful and suffocating. The sand can look almost luminous in one shot and utterly threatening in the next.

There is also a wonderful irony at the heart of Junpei’s predicament. He arrives as an entomologist searching for insects, only to become a specimen himself: captured, observed and contained within a pit from which he cannot escape. The collector has become the collected. Teshigahara never labours the metaphor because he does not need to. It exists naturally within the imagery and situation, allowing the audience to discover its implications rather than having them explained.

Woman in the Dunes (1964) is virtually flawless in character, theme, cinematography, direction and performance. More than sixty years after its release, it remains startlingly modern and visually unlike almost anything else. Its central image — two human beings endlessly shovelling away a mountain of sand that will simply return tomorrow — is cinema distilled into an unforgettable metaphor for existence itself.

The only negative? Why didn’t I watch it sooner?

Mark: 10.5 out 11

Classic Film Reviews, My Cinematic Romance

My Cinematic Romance #26 – Robert Shaw

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My Cinematic Romance #26 – Robert Shaw

I often plan my reviews and retrospective pieces around thematically linked film subjects and on other occasions it can become a random or serendipitous process. Of late, the cultural gods have nudged me towards watching and rewatching works by Harold Pinter, including the Joseph Losey directed films, The Servant (1963) and Accident (1967). I then recalled that several of Pinter’s plays had been adapted for film and were readily available on YouTube to watch for “free.”

Moreover, as I have also been on a mild William Friedkin retrospective rewatch, I saw his adaptation of The Birthday Party (1968) which led me to an earlier Pinter adaptation called The Caretaker (1963) directed by Clive Donner. Both are oblique, ambiguous renditions of human nature with dark existential absurdity and an almost impenetrable subtext. Pinter’s works are highly acclaimed, attracting a litany of incredibly talented actors and directors. One such is Robert Shaw. His haunting and magnetic performances in Pinter’s work reminded of what an incredible talent he was.

Sadly passing away aged fifty-two of a heart attack, Shaw had a tremendously varied career on stage and screen. If you were not aware he was also a successful author and playwright. Indeed, his 1968 play, The Man in the Glass Booth ran in London and Broadway to critical acclaim, later being adapted for a film in 1975. It’s reported that Pinter assisted with the adaptation of Shaw’s novel for the stage, although Shaw retains the writing credit. Therefore their collaborative connection remained resolute.

This piece highlights five of Robert Shaw’s best performances. Shaw was famously known to favour the stage and his writing over the commercial grind of Hollywood. While big-budget films brought him money, international fame and financial security, he openly disliked celebrity culture and many of his co-stars. In interviews he is often stated he viewed genre movie paydays as a way to provide for his family and fund his true passion: writing novels and plays. So, apologies to Robert Shaw’s legacy for choosing some of those Hollywood roles he’s known for. Safe to say though he is a true artist who passed away way too soon.

The Birthday Party (1968)

I was going to choose Shaw’s memorable tough guy gangster performance in The Sting (1973), but it’s too easy. Instead, I have selected his intensely complex role as Stanley in The Birthday Party. His character is one of the most tortured souls out there, full of sweat, guilt, regret and paranoia. We do not know what he may or may not of done, but I drew parallels with characters such as Josef K from The Trial and No. 6 from The Prisoner. Arguably, these works are more accessible than Pinter’s “comedy of menace,” but Shaw’s Stanley is painfully mesmerising. The two men who come for him possibly represent death. At the same time his bizarre exchanges with Dandy Nichols’ landlady, Meg, add sex to the mix, making the whole thing a painfully uncomfortable watch.

The Caretaker (1963)

A quietly strange and devastating film adaptation containing three fantastic performances from Alan Bates, Donald Pleasance and Robert Shaw. It’s mostly a character study of mental illness, loneliness, bullying and hiearchal-driven power dynamics. Pleasance is a vagrant, Mac, taken in by Shaw’s quiet soul, Aston, as an act of apparent kindness. However, Alan Bates mischievous and verbose brother, Mick, enters the fray and spies and torments. Mac. The quietly spoken, Aston, seems unaware of his brothers’ negative behaviour. Like much of Pinter’s work, a lot is left unexplained, yet the monologue Shaw delivers describing his treatment in a mental institution is one of the most subtle and powerful speeches I have witnessed on the screen.

From Russia with Love (1963)

While Shaw was known for his intelligent mind, his appearance as the nemesis, Red Grant in the second Bond film, requires him to demonstrate his considerable muscle too. From Russia with Love (1963) is one of my favourite Bond films as it retains that gritty Cold War spy style and Sean Connery is in prime form too. One could argue the villains are often more interesting than Bond, and Shaw’s steely assassin certainly matches Bond for physicality and charisma. Indeed, they are effectively mirrored characters on opposing teams. The fight-to-the-death on the train remains one of the most iconic battles in all of the Bond franchise.

Jaws (1975)

One of the greatest characters in one of the greatest films of all time. Not only that, Quint, has one of the greatest character introductions and greatest monologues in film ever too. How Shaw wasn’t nominated for best supporting actor at the Academy Awards I will never know. It’s a big performance and you could say, over-the-top, but to me it is so authentic in physical and verbal delivery, even Shaw’s sweat could have been given an award on its own.

The monologue itself comes as Quint and Hooper share “war stories” from their past experiences at sea. The men share a laugh before Brody asks Quint about a particularly nasty scar. Then the mood darkens and the old sea dog recounts a story about the U.S.S Indianapolis on which he was aboard when it sank in 1945. The chilling tale of a sinking ship and over one thousand men at the mercy of the sea, hunger, dehydration and shark attacks, is eerily recounted by Quint; loss and bitterness in his eyes. Shaw is incredible during this classic monologue as he not only establishes why Quint hates sharks, but also builds palpable suspense prior to the frenzied final shark attack on the doomed Orca.

The Taking of Pelham 123 (1974)

Another 1970s classic and again, Shaw, plays another memorable antagonist. His ‘Mr Blue’ is military, battle-hardened with a disciplined plan of action. His fierce precision and icy delivery finds a perfect counterpart in Walter Matthau’s more congenial and witty transit cop, Zachary Garber. Their exchanges are tense but laced with hard-boiled, sardonic humour, which add a hint of colour to the grim and grey New York underground sequences. While the well-constructed plot and rapid action raises the pulse, the film’s quality is critically raised by Matthau’s and Shaw’s committed performances.

Film Festivals, horror

Thanks to Horror Con 2026!

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Thanks to Horror Con 2026!

Earlier this month – appropriately running from 06.06.2026 to 07.06.2026 – myself and my wife attended the Horror Con 2026 event in Sheffield, England. My short film The Suicide Shift (2026) screened alongside many other great indie horror shorts there amidst a plethora of other wonderful happenings and people.

If you are a fan of all things horror from films, television, comic books, music, theatre, literature, posters, cos-play and also a memorabilia collector then this is definitely an event you should visit. As well as meet, greets and talks from horror stars, actors, writers, directors and musicians of now and yesteryear there are a myriad of stalls containing all manner of fantastic merchandise and collector’s items.

For more information check out their website here!

As well as the screening of The Suicide Shift (2026), the event was an opportunity to meet and hear from the legends of horror, cinema and TV more generally. I specifically met Fred Williamson, former American football star, actor from Black Caesar (1973), From Dusk til Dawn (1996), The Inglorious Bastards (1978) and many more blaxploitation and action films. He’s 88 years young and was so full of energy and it was amazing to meet and get his autograph.

Further, I also had the pleasure of meeting and speaking to self-proclaimed genius horror author, TV writer/producer/actor, Garth Marenghi, whose Channel 4 horror-comedy show Garth Marenghi’s Dark Place (2004) was an essential early-millennium watch. I spoke with him about his experience and knowledge working on the weird horror film Possum (2018). Garth remarked that was done by the ‘other guy’, Matthew Holness, and it nearly broke him as the writer and director of that feature film. It was a highly amusing experience, even just chatting for a short time, to a performer so fiercely staying “in character.”

My wife, Melissa, would herself meet and get the autograph of comedy and horror great, Reece Shearsmith on the Sunday. His creative partner, Steve Pemberton (Saturday only), was also in attendance along with such luminaries as Ian Ogilvy, Heather Langenkamp, Caroline Munro (who I met at Romford Horror Festival 2026), Camille Keaton, Nancy Loomis (Kyes), plus the most intriguing appearance from composer and longtime Lucio Fulci collaborator, Fabio Frizzi. Most pleasing of all was Fabio and a fellow guitarist gave a classical guitar performance in the event hall of many of his horror film compositions. Along with the talks from the hilarious, Garth Marenghi, and brilliant, Reece Shearsmith, Frizzi’s musical performance was one of the major highlights of the weekend.

If you love horror I can certainly recommend making the annual pilgrimage to the Magna Centre in the Rotherham area of Sheffield in the future. It has been going for over a decade now and grows ever popular.

Here is a slideshow selection of photos from the event.

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.

Articles, New Releases, Reviews

Cinema Review: Project Hail Mary (2026) – the end of the world has rarely been so much fun and bromantic!

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Cinema Review: Project Hail Mary (2026)

Directed by Phil Lord & Christopher Miller

Screenplay by Drew Goddard

Based on Project Hail Mary by Andy Weir

Produced by Amy Pascal, Ryan Gosling, Phil Lord, Christopher Miller, Aditya Sood, Rachel O’Connor, Andy Weir, etc.

Main Cast: Ryan Gosling, Sandra Hüller, James Ortiz, Lionel Boyce, Ken Leung, Malachi Kirby, etc.

Cinematography by Greig Fraser

*** MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS ***

There’s a version of Project Hail Mary (2026) that could have been cold, clinical, and overly procedural—a hard sci-fi puzzle box drifting in the vacuum of its own cleverness. Instead, what Christopher Miller and Phil Lord deliver is something far more disarming: a big-hearted, funny, surprisingly emotional crowd-pleaser that turns the apocalypse into an oddly uplifting experience.

Adapted by Drew Goddard from Andy Weir’s novel, the film follows Ryland Grace (a perfectly cast Ryan Gosling), who awakens alone aboard a spacecraft with no memory of who he is or why he’s there. The early stretches lean into disorientation—Gosling playing confusion with a twitchy, almost comic anxiety—but as Grace pieces together his past, the film cleverly shifts into a dual-track narrative: one part interstellar survival story, one part Earthbound scientific scramble to stop a cosmic catastrophe.

Gosling is the film’s main weapon. He plays Grace not as a conventional hero, but as a reluctant participant—anxious, self-deprecating, and often hilariously out of his depth. His charm keeps the exposition buoyant, especially as the film dives into dense scientific concepts. Where the story could feel heavy, Gosling makes it breezy and Project Hail Mary (2026) is certainly more emotionally stimulating than the dreadful action thriller The Gray Man (2022) and the weak remake, The Fall Guy (2024).

But the film’s most unexpected triumph is its central relationship: a deeply entertaining and genuinely moving “bromance” between Grace and an alien Xeonite – christened Rocky – he encounters in deep space. What begins as cautious interaction evolves into one of the most delightful interspecies friendships in recent sci-fi. Their communication—built from math, sound, and trial-and-error—becomes a source of both comedy and emotional resonance. It’s rare to see a blockbuster hinge so successfully on companionship rather than conflict, and the film is all the better for it.

Visually, Project Hail Mary (2026) is spectacular without being overwhelming. Lord and Miller balance scale with clarity; the vastness of space never drowns the intimacy of the story. The alien design is inventive, the astrophysical phenomena are rendered with awe-inspiring detail, and yet the film always remains grounded in character. It’s science-forward filmmaking that never forgets to entertain. Back on Earth, Sandra Hüller provides the film’s emotional anchor. Her performance carries a quiet intensity, grounding the global stakes in something human and immediate. Where the space sequences soar, her scenes remind us what’s at risk—and why it matters.

Goddard’s script is sharp, witty, and structurally satisfactory. It juggles timelines, scientific jargon, and character development with impressive ease, finding humour in the bleakest situations without undercutting the stakes. There’s a rhythmic confidence to the storytelling that keeps the film propulsive even as it pauses for introspection. What ultimately makes Project Hail Mary (2026) stand out, though, is its tone. This is, unmistakably, a feel-good end-of-the-world movie. It finds optimism not in denying catastrophe, but in confronting it with curiosity, cooperation, and friendship. By the time the credits roll, what lingers isn’t just the spectacle or the science—it’s the warmth. A book and film about extinction becomes, improbably, a story about connection.

Mark: 8.5 out of 11

Cinema, New Releases, Reviews

Cinema Review: The Bride (2026) – impressive visuals and Jessie Buckley’s stunning performance cannot resuscitate a patchy and holey screenplay!

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Cinema Review: The Bride (2026)

Directed by Maggie Gyllenhaal

Written by Maggie Gyllenhaal

Based on Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus
by Mary Shelley

Produced by: Maggie Gyllenhaal, Emma Tillinger Koskoff, Talia Kleinhendler, Osnat Handelsman-Keren, etc.

Main cast: Jessie Buckley, Christian Bale, Peter Sarsgaard,
Annette Bening, Penelope Cruz, Jake Gyllenhaal, etc.

Cinematography by Lawrence Sher

** May Contain Spoilers **

Maggie Gyllenhaal’s THE BRIDE! (2026) is a film bursting with ideas—sometimes thrillingly so, sometimes to its own detriment. Drawing inspiration from Bride of Frankenstein (1935) and ultimately Mary Shelley’s seminal novel, Frankenstein, Gyllenhaal transplants the myth into a Gothic vision of 1930s Depression-era America, filtered through the anarchic spirit of outlaw cinema like Bonnie and Clyde (1967) and Natural Born Killers (1994). The result is frequently intoxicating. The film opens with an inspired flourish—Mary Shelley herself narrating from beyond the grave—immediately signalling the director’s playful ambition. Visually, the film is extraordinary: lavish period design, smoky Gothic textures, and a lurid romanticism that feels both classic Hollywood and defiantly post-modern.

At the centre of the mayhem is Jessie Buckley, delivering yet another unforgettable performance. Her ‘Bride’ is feral, seductive, and volatile—an electrifying feminist creature of impulses and contradictions. Buckley plays her with a kind of joyous unpredictability, veering between danger, sexuality, and sudden jolts of manic dialogue that feel almost Tourette-like in their intensity. Opposite her, Christian Bale lends gravitas as her monstrous partner, and together they rampage across a mythicised America in a lovers-on-the-run narrative that often feels gleefully unhinged.

Yet for all its invention, THE BRIDE! (2026) often collapses under the sheer weight of its ambitions. Gyllenhaal’s screenplay seems determined to juggle too many ideas at once—meta-narration, Gothic tragedy, outlaw romance, and genre pastiche—without giving any one of them the structural discipline they require. The direction follows suit, veering between tones so abruptly that the film begins to feel atonal rather than daring. Key twists arrive with little groundwork, leaving major emotional beats feeling strangely hollow.

By the final act, the film’s wild energy begins to resemble narrative confusion. Plot holes emerge, character motivations blur, and revelations arrive as pure payoff without the careful setup that might have made them land. It leaves an odd lingering question: was this an $80 million piece of audacious cinematic art, or an extravagant misfire? Perhaps it is a little of both—a fascinating, chaotic vision whose brilliance flashes intermittently through the fog of its own excess.

Mark: 6 out of 11

Articles, Cult Cinema, Nickel Cinema, Reviews

Cult Film Review: American Movie (1999) – a bittersweet documentary profiling the ups and downs of a low-budget filmmaker!

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Cult Film Review: American Movie (1999)

Directed by Chris Smith

Produced by Sarah Price & Chris Smith

Main “Cast”: Mark Borchardt and Mike Schank

Cinematography by Chris Smith

Edited by Barry Poltermann & Jun Diaz

Music by Mike Schank

*** MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS ***

Given I am a low-budget filmmaker myself I am amazed I had never seen, American Movie (1999) before. Thankfully The Nickel Cinema in London screened it at the weekend and I really enjoyed it. Filmed between 1995 and 1997, this cult classic documentary American Movie (1999) chronicles Borchardt’s heroic, chaotic, and deeply Midwestern quest to finish his indie horror short Coven (pronounced ‘COH-ven’, and yes, he will correct you). The short is meant to raise money for his real passion project, a feature called Northwestern. But first? He has to survive reality. And reality is brutal.

Mark has not just zero money; zero organization; a rotating cast of confused friends and relatives as crew; functioning alcoholism; mounting debts, but also has the gift of the gab and a never ending passion for filmmaking. What unfolds is less “behind-the-scenes documentary” and more Shakespearean comedy AND tragedy staged in Milwaukee houses, static caravans, cars, junkyards and local woods.

Borchardt is equal parts Ed Wood and tortured auteur — passionately explaining his artistic vision one minute, begging his elderly uncle for production money and picking up his editing assistant from prison the next. His crew ranges from loyal-but-clueless to openly skeptical, yet somehow the production lurches forward. Barely.

The documentary crew shot over 90 hours of 16mm footage, capturing every awkward take, every blown line, and every moment of Mark’s delusional optimism. We watch as Coven repeatedly derails thanks to bad planning, worse luck, and the universal law that says: if something can go wrong on an indie film set, it absolutely will. But here’s the twist — it’s weirdly inspiring. Because underneath the chaos is something pure: a guy who just refuses to stop making movies. No money. No resources. No safety net. Just pure passion and obsession.

What’s most hilarious is the double act comedy exchanges between Mark and his best friend and Mike Schank. Mike, a very capable musician, has a permanent grin and the look of an acid-trip casualty, yet almost-perfect comedy timing. He clearly loves Mark’s passion and helps as best he can. I was sad to read Mike had passed away in 2022 from cancer.

If you stumbled into American Movie (1999) blind, you’d swear it was a proto-sitcom about delusional dreamers armed with a battered 16mm camera, a camcorder and misplaced confidence — a spiritual ancestor to Trailer Park Boys and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. It plays like a painfully funny hangout comedy about a self-proclaimed auteur and his band of well-meaning screw-ups trying — and repeatedly failing — to make something “serious.” The arguments are petty, the ambition is sky-high, and the incompetence is operatic. You laugh, you cringe, and somewhere along the way you realize this isn’t scripted chaos — it’s just raw, unfiltered obsession captured on camera.

Mark: 9 out of 11

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.

Cinema, New Releases, Reviews

Cinema Review: Send Help (2026) – a riotous survivalist horror treat!

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Cinema Review: Send Help (2026)

Directed by Sam Raimi

Written by Damian Shannon & Mark Swift

Produced by Sam Raimi & Zainab Azizi

Main cast: Rachel McAdams, Dylan O’Brien, Edyll Ismail, Xavier Samuel, Chris Pang, Dennis Haysbert, etc.

Cinematography by Bill Pope

** MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS **

Having watched the trailer for survivalist horror-comedy, Send Help (2025), starring Rachel McAdams and Dylan O’Brien, I thought the blend of bloody chaos and desert island class warfare was right up my street, well, beach. But when I knew one of my favourite directors, Sam Raimi, and film composers, Danny Elfman, were involved, I realized it was not just a recommendation but a personal summons to the cinema.

Send Help (2025), takes inspiration and feels spiritually indebted to the extended final act island meltdown of Triangle of Sadness (2022). But this is an all the more riotous, funny and gory battle of survival. Overlooked for promotion by new-CEO-son-of-deceased-boss, Bradley Preston (O’Brien), Linda Liddle – a fantastic McAdams – is full of downtrodden and bubbling rage. Preston, an arrogant, apparent-alpha wants to sack her, but the business needs her prodigious work ethic for an upcoming business summit to Bangkok. Following an exhilarating plane crash set-piece, that Raimi rinses brilliantly for suspense and surprises, the two become the only survivors. With Linda armed with survival knowledge, and Preston’s leg smashed, the tables, in terms of power, are turned, resulting in all manner of twisted, mental and bodily torture.

What starts as survival thriller territory quickly mutates into full-blown horror farce, complete with makeshift weapons, crustacean poison, tropical storms, shifting power dynamics, and the kind of escalating insanity that feels one chainsaw away from Evil Dead 2 (1987) territory. Not only do the horror beats land, but the tit-for-tat power struggle and verbal sparring between Linda and Preston also heighten the the conflict and dramatic stakes. Indeed, Linda inhabits the alpha-hunter role on the island, culminating in a bloodening and sacrificial slaying of a wild boar. Preston, once he is on his feet, is keen to even up the power balance and challenges Linda’s authority in a desperate attempt to get off the island.

McAdams and O’Brien’s combative chemistry on-screen adds to the enjoyment and at one point I even wondered if Raimi and the screenwriters were going to redeem their battle with a potential romance. Instead they double and triple down on the twisted violence in the final act to much eye-gouging hilarity. Lastly, like Triangle of Sadness (2022), the film weaponizes the underdog’s survival against privilege, flips hierarchies and skewers toxic masculinity in the process. The final act becomes particularly frantic, pushing the horror genre framework, and the class satire into a brilliant pay-off of Linda’s ascendant arc. This ensures Send Help (2026) launches a flare into the sky as an early contender for one of my favourite films of the year.

Mark: 9 out of 11

Articles, Cinema, Reviews

Cinema Review: Pillion (2025) – a fantastically acted and directed erotic rom-dom-com!

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Cinema Review: Pillion (2025)

Directed by Harry Lighton

Written by Harry Lighton – Based on Box Hill by Adam Mars-Jones

Produced by Emma Norton, Lee Groombridge, Ed Guiney &
Andrew Lowe

Main cast: Harry Melling, Alexander Skarsgård, Douglas Hodge, Lesley Sharp, Jake Shears, etc.

Cinematography by Nick Morris

Edited by Gareth C. Scales

There’s a tender audacity to Pillion (2025), an erotic rom-dom-com that sneaks up on you with the gentleness of a confession. What begins as an off-kilter meet-cute blooms into something far more vulnerable: a rites-of-passage story about sexual awakening, self-recognition, and the courage it takes to accept pleasure without apology.

At its heart is Colin, played with exquisite restraint by Harry Melling. Melling has always been an actor of intelligence, but here he finds a new register—soft-spoken, watchful, quietly aching. His performance never reaches for easy beats; instead, it accumulates detail. A look held a fraction too long. A smile that arrives late. Colin’s desire isn’t announced; it’s discovered, moment by moment, and the effect is deeply empathetic.

Opposite him, Alexander Skarsgård’s Ray is all smoulder and swagger on first impression—an insouciant masculinity that seems effortless, almost cocky. But Skarsgård is doing something more interesting beneath the surface. The sexuality is undeniable, yes, but it’s armoured. Pain leaks through the cracks, giving Ray a bruised romanticism that complicates the dominant energy he projects. The push and pull between the two men becomes the film’s most potent charge.

Director Harry Lighton deserves enormous credit for navigating this tonal tightrope. His direction is fantastically nuanced, allowing intimacy and humour to coexist without deflating either. The film understands that eroticism can be funny, awkward, even faintly ridiculous—especially when it’s new—while still honouring its emotional stakes. The explicit moments are handled with confidence rather than coyness, lacing the heartfelt beats with risqué shocks that provoke gasps, laughter, and the occasional wince. The physical opposites of Harry’s mild-mannered traffic warden versus Ray’s macho biker also add characterful humour to the mix.

The contemporary setting, rooted in the London suburb of Bromley, is another inspired choice. This is not a glossy, aspirational London; it’s resolutely unglamorous, familiar, and quietly stifling. That ordinariness makes Colin’s awakening feel all the more radical, a private revolution unfolding in plain sight. Furthermore, strong support comes from Lesley Sharp and Douglas Hodge as Colin’s parents, whose love is real but imperfect, shaped by generational discomfort and unspoken fears. Their scenes add texture rather than judgment, grounding the film in a recognisable family dynamic.

Be warned: Pillion (2025) doesn’t shy away from explicit sex scenes or moments of leather-adorned domination (including BDSM), and those elements may provoke strong reactions. But they’re not there for provocation alone. Lighton uses them as part of the emotional grammar of the film, insisting that tenderness and risk, humour and heat, can occupy the same frame. Ultimately, Pillion (2025) reveals itself as something quietly radical—a deeply touching romantic comedy that treats sexual self-discovery with empathy, intelligence, and a disarming lack of shame. It lingers not because of what it shows, but because of how carefully it listens to its characters while they learn who they are.

Mark: 8.5 out of 11