Two men start a fighting for fun club because you never feel more alive as when you’re nearly killing someone. Fincher’s film is much more of a comedy than a philosophical think piece on modern masculinity. A powerful first hour but it’s basically “Buy A Big Fucking Television: The Movie.”
This most British of farces has a comforting quality but is overwhelmed by its huge and talented cast. Leonard Rossiter, Irene Handl, Peter Sellers, Tony Hancock, Michael Caine and Ralph Richardson have nothing to do. It’s a frustrating mess, a case of too many cooks and not enough Cook (Peter).
An apocalyptically bleak and beautiful film comparable to Taxi Driver but only in terms of greatness; perhaps the 700th review of this movie to mention Travis Bickle but it’s a lazy reference; pain and suggestion, hammers and jellybeans are far more important than rage. Ramsay knows our imaginations are psychopaths.
Francis Ford Coppola
It’s Francis Ford Coppola. The cast is notorious for their talent. But it’s total mince. This is a failed experiment. The street gang look like they’re going to burst into a beautifully choreographed song and dance routine at any moment. The fact that they don’t is the best thing about it.
The story of a Spanish magistrate and colonialist somewhere in 18th century South America, the specifics left deliberately vague suggesting a Beckettian purgatory. Beautiful and slow, tense and odd this film washes over you like stinging jellyfish-filled waves on the beach of your millennia-long holiday in a boiling, glaring paradise.
Famously, Andrew Jarecki was making a film about children’s entertainers in New York when one of his subjects told him about his family’s horrible history. Fascinating, it’s also unsettling and creepy; like a disgraced piano teacher. This documentary leaves you with the uncomfortable feeling there’s something it’s not telling you.
John Cassavetes plays a small time gangster wanted dead by the mob over a lousy thousand bucks; Peter Falk is his best friend. Essentially a two-hander set over the course of one night this is a strangely forgotten gem of 70s noir. Think: My Dinner With Andre with sweaty violence.