Tag Archives: Movies

Cinema, Classic Film Reviews, Reviews

Classic Film Review: The Master (2012)

Leave a comment

Classic Film Review: The Master (2012)

Directed by Paul Thomas Anderson

Written by Paul Thomas Anderson

Produced by: JoAnne Sellar, Daniel Lupi, Paul Thomas Anderson, Megan Ellison etc.

Main cast: Joaquin Phoenix, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Amy Adams, Laura Dern, Jesse Plemons, Ambyr Childers, Rami Malek, etc.

Cinematography by Mihai Mălaimare Jr.

*** MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS ***

Of late, I have been watching, as research to develop a feature film concerned with religion, faith and complex human behaviour, many religious themed films. Indeed, I especially love films and documentaries about cults. Especially where religion is used to control human beings and make them do crazy things. What possesses another person to want to control others? Power, lust, greed or all of the above?

Cult leaders are often extremely charismatic and talented people too. Further, they can be dangerous people who use their influence to make money, commit crime, manipulate and abuse others. Thus from a human and dramatic perspective, cults and religious characters are always fascinating to write about.

In Paul Thomas Anderson’s The Master (2012), he explores the relationship between a lost soul drawn to a movement that may or may not be a reflection of Scientology. Freddie Quell (Joaquin Phoenix), a World War II veteran is pulled toward Lancaster Dodd (Philip Seymour Hoffman), a commanding leader of a cult known as “The Cause”. But, arguably, not much happens other than Quell having a series of breakdowns amidst post-traumatic stress and alcoholism, before taking his chaos and violence into Dodd’s church and family. Anderson is one of the great humanist and existential filmmakers working today, but The Master (2012), having watched it at least twice, I found it too impenetrable and alienating for me.

Yet, in my filmic research I have watched The Master (2012) a third time and have now identified a number of reasons why I have not connected with the film. They are both structural and thematic. My expectations were that this film would be a deep historical dive into the establishing of L. Ron Hubbard’s creation of Scientology. Albeit, it would be a veiled one to avoid the ire of the Scientologist organisation, who are known to attack people or companies that critique their ways. So, I am complicit there because ultimately one should not judge a work before watching it. Anderson’s choices and approach are way more personal than a traditional biopic and I should not be so arrogant to expect him to make a film just for me.

So, with my expectations on an in-depth analysis of the cult of Scientology quelled, structurally The Master (2012) further jars with me on a story level. Such narrative cracks appear all through the overall character arc of character Freddie Quell. If the film, as the first act establishes well, effectively delivered a character study of a sex-addicted, alcoholic, PTSD suffering, angry World War 2 veteran struggling to cope with existence, I could certainly have been compelled by that. Ultimately, The Master (2012) is a dramatic two-hander facing Quell’s out-of-control, human car-crash versus Lancaster’s intelligent and controlling patriarch. Anderson also once again, as he did in Hard Eight (1996), Boogie Nights (1997), and There Will Be Blood (2007), explores the father-son power dynamic between these two characters.

Yet, introducing Lancaster and “The Cause” to Quell’s character development has little or no effect on him. I understand Anderson may be saying Quell is a lost soul, but what emotional impact or feeling can the audience to take from this? Quell finishes the film relatively unchanged by Lancaster’s auditing, “spiritual” advice and fatherly tutelage. Yes, in real life, people often don’t change and behave the same throughout their lives committed to the same self-destructive behaviour. However, I felt that if Quell could not change for the better perhaps he could have gone even deeper into despair within his religious experience.

To conclude: Paul Thomas Anderson’s The Master (2012) is, on a purely cinematic level, close to technically perfect. It contains some of the finest acting ever committed to screen, particularly from Philip Seymour Hoffman as Lancaster Dodd. Hoffman manages to make Dodd charismatic, ridiculous, paternal, threatening and strangely vulnerable, often within the same scene. His performance is matched by Joaquin Phoenix’s extraordinary physical transformation as Freddie Quell, but it is Hoffman who fascinates me most: the booming confidence of the public performer repeatedly giving way to flashes of insecurity, anger and desperation whenever his authority is challenged.

Technically, the film is equally remarkable. Mihai Mălaimare Jr.’s 65mm cinematography gives the images an extraordinary richness and clarity, while the colours, period detail, compositions and use of light make virtually every frame feel meticulously constructed. There are moments when The Master (2012) is simply one of the most beautiful American films of the twenty-first century. And yet, for all that mastery, I have never enjoyed the film as much as its critical reputation suggests I should.

Its central problem for me is the almost broken-backed, water-and-oil combination of Freddie Quell’s under-nourished emotional journey and the film’s tantalising but ultimately limited exploration of Dodd’s movement, “The Cause”. The parallels with Scientology are obvious and fascinating, yet Anderson seems reluctant to investigate the psychology, mechanics and seductive power of cults with the depth the material promises. Instead, the film repeatedly retreats towards the relationship between Freddie and Dodd — a relationship performed magnificently but one in which Freddie’s emotional development can feel frustratingly elusive.

Comedy, Reviews

Cinema Review: The End of Oak Street (2026) – a fun and exciting Twilight Zone meets Jurassic Park movie mash-up!

2 Comments

Cinema Review: The End of Oak Street (2026)

Directed by David Robert Mitchell

Written by David Robert Mitchell

Produced by: J. J. Abrams, Hannah Minghella, Jon Cohen, David Robert Mitchell, Matt Jackson, Tommy Harper, etc.

Main cast: Anne Hathaway, Ewan McGregor, Maisy Stella
Christian Convery, etc.

Cinematography by Michael Gioulakis

** CONTAINS SPOILERS **

David Robert Mitchell announced himself as a filmmaker to watch with the amazing It Follows (2014), one of the most original and unnerving American horror films of the last decade. Its relentless, shape-shifting entity, dreamlike suburban landscapes and wonderfully simple central conceit turned teenage sexuality and anxiety into something genuinely nightmarish. Four years later came the altogether stranger Under the Silver Lake (2018), a bizarre, labyrinthine Hollywood conspiracy thriller that seemed determined to disappear down every rabbit hole it could find. Now, after an eight-year absence from directing, Mitchell lands somewhere between those two extremes with The End of Oak Street (2026)— a wacky movie mash-up, certainly, but one pitched on considerably safer and more commercial ground: dinosaurs destroying the neighbourhood.

The premise is gloriously fun. It is the early 1980s and the Platt family — Denise (Anne Hathaway), Greg (Ewan McGregor) and their children Audrey (Maisy Stella) and Brian (Christian Convery) — are already experiencing their own domestic extinction event when a mysterious cosmic phenomenon transports their suburban neighbourhood millions of years into the past. Suddenly the comfortable American cul-de-sac is surrounded by prehistoric vegetation and populated by creatures considerably less friendly than the people next door.

It is difficult not to think of Spielberg. Jurassic Park (1993) is the obvious reference, but there are also echoes of E.T. (1982), Poltergeist (1982) and the Amblin school of ordinary suburban families confronted by extraordinary events. Mitchell effectively reverses the Jurassic Park formula: instead of humans visiting the dinosaurs, the suburbs are dropped into their world. The result is part science fiction, part creature feature, part dysfunctional-family drama and part disaster movie — a cinematic pick-and-mix that rarely stops moving long enough for us to question how absurd the whole thing is.

And when the dinosaurs arrive, Mitchell has fun with them. These aren’t simply majestic CGI museum exhibits waiting for somebody to stare upwards in wonder. They are animals, predators and occasionally wrecking balls, turning driveways, kitchens, gardens and picket fences into prehistoric feeding grounds. There is something inherently amusing about seeing the reassuring iconography of American suburbia invaded by creatures that existed millions of years before the mortgage, the station wagon and the neighbourhood barbecue.

Michael Gioulakis’ cinematography gives Mitchell’s suburban apocalypse considerably more visual personality than the average effects-driven blockbuster, while Michael Giacchino’s score understands exactly when to embrace the grandeur and when to undercut it. Mitchell even deploys split-diopter compositions during comparatively mundane family conversations — an indication that, beneath the expensive dinosaur spectacle, the director of It Follows hasn’t entirely disappeared.

Hathaway and McGregor also prevent the human story from being completely trampled beneath giant reptilian feet. Denise and Greg’s marriage is already in trouble before prehistoric nature intervenes, giving the film a neat central joke: sometimes it takes being transported millions of years into the past and nearly eaten by dinosaurs to put your domestic problems into perspective. Hathaway is particularly good at giving Denise the necessary toughness without turning her into a generic action heroine, while McGregor brings warmth and vulnerability to Greg.

There are some surprisingly brutal moments too. Mitchell hasn’t forgotten his horror roots, and when the film wants its dinosaurs to be frightening rather than spectacular, they genuinely are. The neighbourhood becomes a hunting ground where screams, gunshots and sudden silences remind us that families in the surrounding houses are experiencing their own unseen horror stories. One major mid-film development is especially effective because Mitchell briefly allows us to believe that this apparently family-friendly adventure might be prepared to become something much nastier. Plus, I have to say that gigantic prehistoric snake is a seriously terrifying predator, especially when wrapped within the rooms and doorways of the house.

The later time-warp mechanics allow Mitchell to play with paradoxes, alternative outcomes and some intriguingly strange ideas, but they also provide the screenplay with convenient escape routes. The film constructs a wonderfully impossible situation and then becomes noticeably more generous toward its characters as it approaches the finishing line. That choice makes for an audience-friendly conclusion, but there is a tantalisingly darker version of this movie buried somewhere underneath — one in which Mitchell follows his premise to a more apocalyptic and cruel destination.

Still, the neat, wrapped up conclusion totally makes sense and Bad Robot’s J.J. Abrams crowd-pleasing, commercial sensibility has clearly reined in Mitchell’s more risky storytelling approach. Overall, The End of Oak Street (2026) knows exactly what kind of Saturday-night movie it wants to be. It has movie stars, monsters, scares, humour, family melodrama, science-fiction, time travel and enormous prehistoric creatures smashing their way through suburbia. Sometimes cinema doesn’t need to reinvent the dinosaur, even though some conspiracy theorists believe dinosaurs never existed. But, that’s another film altogether.

Mark: 8 out of 11

BFI, Cinema, Classic Film Reviews

Classic Film Review: Woman in the Dunes (1964)

1 Comment

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

2 Comments

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.

Cinema, New Releases, Oscar Bingo, Reviews

Cinema Review: The Odyssey (2026) – a loud, proud and phenomenal cinematic voyage!

1 Comment

Cinema Review: The Odyssey (2026)

Directed by Christopher Nolan

Screenplay by Christopher Nolan – Based on Homer’s Odyssey

Produced by Emma Thomas & Christopher Nolan

Main cast: Matt Damon, Tom Holland, Anne Hathaway, Robert Pattinson, Lupita Nyong’o, Samantha Morton, Zendaya, Charlize Theron, Himesh Patel, Jon Bernthal, John Leguizamo, Bill Irwin and many more!

Cinematography by Hoyte van Hoytema

Edited by Jennifer Lame

Music by Ludwig Göransson

*** REVIEW CONTAINS SPOILERS ***

I’ve been weirdly reluctant to review Christopher Nolan’s rendition of Homer’s epic poem, The Odyssey (2026). Being honest, what I think of the film is pretty irrelevant. I mean, it’s an incredible feat of big budget filmmaking from, Sir Christopher Nolan, who remains one of the most brilliant filmmakers of the modern era. The film is likely to make more money at the box office than the debt of a small country as it sails the cinema seas. But I have to say amidst the incredible entertainment, stellar cast, jaw dropping sound and visuals and lengthy running time it does contain some dubious creative decisions, mainly where accents and casting are concerned.

I’m a big Nolan fan, but not all of his films land fully with me. My favourites remain: Memento (2000), The Prestige (2006), The Dark Knight (2008), Inception (2010) and Dunkirk (2017). Conversely, The Odyssey (2026) matches Oppenheimer (2023) for the array of Nolan’s ensemble of stars, confident and masterly direction, plus the sheer seismic scale of what his production team have committed to screen. Similarly though, while Cillian Murphy and Matt Damon give compelling performances as leaders in their field having to make tough choices to win wars, am I meant to care about these characters, who are effectively, “destroyers of worlds.”

Well, in J. Robert Oppenheimer’s case , dependent on your point of view, a huge debt of gratitude is owed to him and his team for producing a weapon to end all wars. If you ignore all the subsequent actual wars, proxy wars, invasions, conflicts and the blasted ‘Cold War’ which ensued after World War II ended, nuclear weapons have meant no other wars have occurred. So, The Odyssey (2026) is another Nolan film about war. But it’s also about duty, family, love, honour, comradeship, guilt and making the perilous journey home. Let’s be honest though, Odysseus is either a hero of Troy or a war criminal. Further, he’s a sneaky so and so – hiding in a gigantic hollow horse, and making the Trojans pull it into the city too! At least the Trojans got some cardiovascular exercise before they were all slaughtered.

Told in a non-linear fashion from shifting character perspectives, The Odyssey (2026) shows our hero and his crew facing a dangerous voyage back to Ithaca, questing the Gods, fighting nasty weather and meeting creatures like the Cyclops Polyphemus, gigantic metal knights, the Sirens, Charybdis and Scilla along the way. Furthermore, as well as focusing on Odysseus’ hazy, drugged memories, poisoned with lotus flowers by Calypso (a shrinking, Charlize Theron), we get woven historical flashes from Telemachus (Tom Holland) as he searches for his father, Penelope (Anne Hathaway) as she recounts their romantic commitments before the war, and Menelaus (Jon Bernthal), as he provides revelation on the post-war fate of his brother, King Agamemnon. I watched the stories-within-stories unfold totally enthralled and feeling like this was the Citizen Kane (1941) of epic mythical cinema.

While the action and spectacle are undeniably compelling, it’s Nolan’s gift for weaving ancient myth into gripping cinema that impresses just as much. The casting, too, is full of intriguing choices. As expected, Nolan reunites with several familiar collaborators, and Matt Damon is superb as an ageing Odysseus – a battle-scarred general worn down by years of war but still determined to get his men home. Unfortunately, a string of catastrophically bad decisions ensures the gods have other ideas. In the world of The Odyssey (2026), poor judgement is practically a death sentence, and every time the crew think they’ve caught a break, another vengeful deity or monster appears to remind them who’s really in charge. None is more delightfully capricious than the witch Circe (Samantha Morton), who transforms the crew into pigs simply because… well, she can. Morton’s wonderfully imperious performance, thankfully delivered in her own British accent amidst an ocean of American ones, is a genuine scene-stealer.

Which does raise an interesting question. Why does Tom Holland, playing Telemachus, sound American? Is he following his on-screen father? Fair enough—but then what about the suitors, led by Antinous (Robert Pattinson), who’ve spent years occupying Ithaca while pestering Penelope and circling the throne like particularly persistent estate agents? Nolan famously pursued authenticity elsewhere, filming extensively in Greece, utilizing full-sized wooden ships, combining practical effects (Jet-Skis for the killer whirlpool) with discreet CGI, even building an enormous Cyclops model for Polyphemus. Yet somehow Jon Bernthal still sounds as though he’s just wandered in from a Brooklyn deli. (I know he’s not actually from Brooklyn… but, hey, what are ya gonna do?) The quest epics I grew up with often great British Shakespearean actors in them. While Laurence Olivier and Maggie Smith are not Greek either, they paradoxically somehow seem more authentic.

Still, The Odyssey (2026) is a glorious reminder of what cinemas were built for. It is loud, proud, unapologetically epic, and although it runs for three hours, the time flies even as it threatens to blow your eardrums out. This is filmmaking on the grandest possible scale—war, monsters, storms, impossible voyages and heroes—designed to overwhelm an audience in ways no living room ever could. Nolan understands that some stories demand the biggest IMAX screen imaginable. In an age when entertainment is increasingly consumed in fragments, The Odyssey (2026) insists on total immersion. It isn’t subtle, and it isn’t trying to be. It’s spectacular cinema in the truest sense of the word.

Perhaps that’s what cinema has always been for: gathering in the dark to watch wars, death and monsters on a screen, if only to distract ourselves from the wars, death and monsters waiting for us in reality. As the philosopher Guy Debord observed, “The spectacle is not a collection of images, but a social relationship between people that is mediated by images.” And as Heraclitus famously put it, “War is the father of all things.” The Odyssey (2026) reminds us that, three thousand years later, humans are still captivated and bombarded by both.

Mark: 9.5 out of 11

Cinema, Cult Cinema, documentaries, Nickel Cinema, Reviews

Cult Cinema Review: The Gods of Time$ $quare (1999)

Leave a comment

Cult Cinema Review: Gods of Time$ $quare (1999)

Written, filmed, edited and directed by Richard Sandler

As a cultural and spiritual journey I am currently on a pilgrimage of watching many faith-based or what can be classed as religious films. This is because I am intrigued as to why I never really believed in God. Plus, I am writing a feature film screenplay that centres around a religious character whose faith is tested in the face of extreme adversity and violence.

I personally am not religious in the traditional sense and have no specific faith or God to worship. While at school I was asked to join in prayers, sing hymns during assemblies, and take part in Easter and Christmas services. But at home I was not brought up in any particular faith or religion. I did not find faith independently either. As a younger person my logical mind could not grasp the concept of an almighty being existing. For the simple reason: I could not see or hear them. Moreover, while the Bible has many, many incredible stories I was more drawn to the narrative power of film, VHS videos and television more. In certain regards, the cinema was my church growing up and continues to be.

I have begun watching and rewatching many religious films and hope to write an article or essay outlining the different kinds of stories there are within the subgenre. I am likely to create a video essay too, similar to the recent one about revenge cinema. Ultimately, as I have got older I have grown more open-minded about spirituality so perhaps I will find faith and spirituality from within these films.

The Gods of Times Square (1999) is more than a documentary; it’s a time capsule for a vanished New York. Filmed over six years, Richard Sandler captures the final moments of a Times Square that was chaotic, democratic and gloriously unpredictable—a place where preachers, prophets, philosophers and eccentrics all claimed a corner to share their truths.

As Disney’s corporate redevelopment swept through the city, those voices were drowned beneath the bright lights of global brands, transforming one of the world’s great public stages into a polished, commercial spectacle. The old gods of faith, protest and free speech gave way to new deities such as Mickey Mouse.

Sandler deserves enormous credit for preserving this disappearing world with such curiosity and compassion. His camera lingers on an unforgettable cast of believers, zealots, outsiders and dreamers, each wrestling with their own ideas of God, society and identity. Though its restless handheld style and rapid-fire editing can occasionally feel rough around the edges, those imperfections become part of the film’s authenticity.

The Gods of Times Square (1999) endures not simply as a documentary, but as an invaluable portrait of a city—and a spirit of public expression—that can never truly be recreated. Did it create a sense of belief and faith in me where God could exist? Unfortunately, not. However, it did explore many different warts-and-all aspects of human behaviour and the personalities who do have faith.

For more information check out his website: https://www.richardsandler.com/gods-of-times-square

Support independent cinema by visiting the Nickel Cinema – https://thenickel.co.uk

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

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

Leave a comment

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, horror, New Releases, Reviews

Horror Cinema Reviews: Hokum (2026) and Obsession (2026) – a double-bill of modern film terror not for the faint-hearted!

Leave a comment

Cinema Reviews: Hokum (2026) and Obsession (2025)

It is a testament to the continued popularity and money-making ability of the horror genre that it is now receiving prime release dates throughout the year at the multiplex cinemas. While Halloween is a favoured release period for horror films at the cinema, as well as the many streaming platforms, the genre is now a staple of the spring and summer schedules. Two films released within a week of each other, namely, Hokum (2026) and Obsession (2025). While both films differ in themes, it kind of made sense to offer a dual review.

*** MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS ***

Hokum (2026)

Directed and written by Damian McCarthy

Main cast: Adam Scott, Florence Ordesh, Peter Coonan, David Wilmot
& Michael Patric

Damian McCarthy’s previous film Oddity (2024) was a genuinely unnerving mix of ghostly, vengeful and creepy doll manifestations. While drawing on familiar horror elements it felt fresh and is definitely recommended. McCarthy’s new film, Hokum (2026) is similarly unsettling and slow burn in approach, however, the narrative elements are far more recognizable. Indeed, Adam Scott is Ohm Bauman, a grizzled and successful writer suffering from creative block. So-far-so-Stephen-King. In an attempt to break his inertia he takes a trip to rural Ireland to lay-to-rest his parents ashes, while also dealing with a festering childhood trauma.

The blocked writer overcoming grief and trauma within the ghostly trap of an old building, in this instance a hotel, has been done many times before. Yet, Damian McCarthy is an ultra-talented director and he creates atmosphere, startling images, shivering scares and a pervading sense of dread throughout. The main issue I had was Scott’s Ohm is unlikeable and I did not really care if he lived or died. I cared even less that he finished the novel he was working on. The most empathetic character, Fiona, meets an early demise becoming a plot point and victim, despite Florence Ordesh’s memorable screen presence. Overall, Hokum (2026) contains some fantastic visuals and chilling moments despite not wholly reconciling the themes of grief, ghosts, witches, toxic masculinity, guilt, trauma, murder and nefarious hotel staff.

Mark: 7.5 out of 11

Obsession (2025)

Directed, written and edited by Curry Barker

Main cast: Michael Johnston, Inde Navarrette, Cooper Tomlinson, Megan Lawless & Andy Richter

Another horror film and another ultimately unsympathetic male protagonist where late-twentysomething, Bear (Michael Johnston), finds himself deservedly terrorised by a primal and horrific cycle of events. Unlike the confident, Ohm from Hokum, Bear is a low-self-esteem-Beta-male who is obsessed with, but “friend-zoned” by his work colleague, Nikki. Unfortunately he is so crippled by shyness he cannot ask her on a date for fear of rejection. When Bear desperately makes a wish using a “One Wish Willow”, (monkey paw equivalent), his desire for Nikki to “love him more than anything in the world” completely backfires as she succumbs entirely and frighteningly to the wish. While I empathised with such romantic anxiety it’s incredibly painful to watch.

But that is Curry Barker’s thing! He is committed to creating as many awkward, sickening and shocking moments as possible. He takes this horror / gag set-up and runs the plays ensuring the conceit gets sicker and sicker with each scene. Using Inde Navarrette’s phenomenally psychotic performance, gross bodily outpourings, satanic smiles, and severe moments of self-harm Barker delivers terror of the highest order. His use of shadowed figures, head-smashing violence and sound effects especially created a heady mix of nervous laughter and palpable tension. My main criticism is that many scenes were TOO dark and I could not see the characters. Yeah, I know I this was deliberate but it’s a recent lighting style many cinematographers choose that I really dislike.

Zach Cregger, the Philippou brothers and now Curry Barker have moved from short film, sketch, viral video and comedy content to the horror genre with incredible success. Sudden shocks, surprises, and powerful punchlines work brilliantly for both comedy and horror although, of the three, the Philippou brothers have delivered the more emotionally resonant films compared to Cregger and now, Barker. Still, Barker’s propensity for sickening gore and humour is to be admired. Further, the true horror is in Barker’s exploration of toxic masculinity and the desire to trap femininity. The place where Nikki’s consciousness was imprisoned is where the resonant evil of Obsession (2025) truly remains.

Mark: 8.5 out of 11

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

Classic Film Reviews: Sorcerer (1977)

Leave a comment

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)

3 Comments

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.