Reviews

It's rare these days that you (out of the blue) find a minor gem of a film (maybe I'm just not looking in the right places!) .... one that captures the imagination, is original and made on a meagre budget, but first-time writer-director Anna Rose Holmer's short (70 minute) film may be just one such creation. The filmmaker takes the well-worn 'coming of age' drama - here featuring Royalty Hightower's 'life confused' 11-year old tomboy, Toni, looking to make the transition (feminisation?) from boxing to dancing - and turns it on its head, both stylistically with the film's distinctive (rather original) look-and-feel and narratively, as Toni and her fellow embryonic dancers succumb to a mystery 'illness' (with only tangential hints as to its potential underlying cause). Given the film's obviously limited budget, Rose Holmer's cast exude authenticity (OK, maybe, at times, belying their inexperience with line delivery) which, together with the film's depictions of intense physical activity, lend the drama an irresistible sense of youthful impetuousness and exuberance.

The authenticity at its most predictable end evokes Toni's longing to be accepted into the wider (and often more mature) clique of fellow dancers - whether it be the attraction of the glamour, banter, skill or (heaven forbid) talk of 'boys'. But it is Rose Holmer's overlaying of the film's sense of mystery - perhaps the epidemic of the 'fits' they are suffering is some sort of 'boyfriend disease', one of Toni's pals quips at one point (latent feminism at work?) - and this new directorial talent's obvious technical skill and originality that really separates The Fits from a more traditional approach to the genre. Rose Holmer demonstrates her visual sense repeatedly - Toni bopping away on a bridge in mesmerising fashion is a highlight, as is the film's 'climactic' sequence of Toni suffering her own 'attack', accompanied (quite brilliantly) by Kia Victoria's sublime song Aurora. Indeed, Rose Holmer's ear for atmospheric music is evident throughout, courtesy of Danny Bensi and Saunder Jurriaans' score, whose dissonance adds to the film's unsettling and mysterious atmosphere.

The most obvious comparator film that occurred to me is Carol Morley's 'mass fainting' equivalent in 2014's The Falling, but, in many ways (its visual innovation, for example), debutant Rose Holmer's film even outdoes Morley's creation for its originality.

Director Jacques Tourneur's highly inventive 1957 British horror film is not only genuinely unnerving but is also peppered with some darkly ironic lines such as that above uttered by Dana Andrews' US psychologist, Dr John Holden, upon hearing the phone voice (for the first time) of Niall MacGinnis' creepy 'satanic cult leader', Dr Julian Karswell. Night Of The Demon's core premise is based on the (admittedly not particularly original) intellectual debate between the 'rational' scientists (Holden) and the 'irrational' supernatural cultists (Karswell), a debate played out very skilfully courtesy of Tourneur and co-writers, Charles Bennett and Hal E Chester and on -screen as Holden travels to the UK to address a conference on paranormal psychology set to debunk Karswell's beliefs. Writer Bennett was a regular writer for Hitchcock and Tourneur had established himself as a considerable talent in the (more subtle form of the) horror genre, perhaps most notably via 1942's Cat People and the pair do a great job here, with no doubt relatively modest resources. The film's creepy atmosphere is evoked on screen by some impressive black-and-white cinematography by Ted Scaife and includes some notable location scenes, including those in the British Museum and at Stonehenge.

Tourneur plays up a degree of US/UK cultural rivalry with Andrews' involvement as Holden meets up with Peggy Cummins' fellow traveller, Joanna Harrington, returning to the UK following her professor father's death in suspicious circumstances. The film-makers also (at various points) skilfully manoeuvre audience sympathy against the narrow-minded, 'cold rationalist', Holden, in the face of (perhaps) a feeling of quaint British eccentricity, as the psychologist insists that (as a boy) he always defied the supernatural (walking under ladders, ignoring black cats, etc.). The film scores most highly in its (relatively) subtle signposting of an undercurrent of supernatural goings-on (a book going missing, Karswell appearing 'by coincidence', voices (seemingly) coming out of nowhere, Holden having visions, diary pages going missing, etc). The film also features a number of brilliant set-pieces, none better than when Holden visits Karswell at his mansion home (actually Brocket Hall in Hertfordshire), which is peppered with portentous statues/gargoyles, at which Karswell (bedecked in creepy clown costume) is hosting a children's party, before 'summoning up' a storm and placing a curse on Holden. Equally, the film is happy to perpetuate Holden's scepticism via some semi-comic moments, as the psychologist and Joanna attend a séance and struggle to get the police to take seriously their claims of nefarious practice ('Broomsticks and all that!').

The acting here is solid rather than spectacular, with MacGinnis and Athene Seyler as Karswell's mother probably being the standouts. For me, the film's weakest moments are those in which the 'demon' is actually shown in all its unconvincing tackiness (a decision taken by the film's producer Chester, in defiance of the views of Tourneur, Bennett and Andrews) As a result, the film loses some of the subtlety when compared with Tourneur's Cat People, but remains a genuinely unnerving film and one of the most impressive British films of the genre - alongside the likes of Jack Clayton's The Innocents, Michael Powell's Peeping Tom and the multi-director Dead Of Night.

First up, I should say that South Korean writer-director Park Chan-wook's 2022 film is a quite astonishing piece of filmmaking. As a 'genre piece', I notice Decision to Leave has been badged as a (neo-)noir romantic mystery film, but Park's creation is about as far from Casablanca (the film that sprang to mind in that category) as it is possible to get! Not only does Decision to Leave's 140 minutes running time not exactly fly by, but as essentially a subtle, extended character piece (rather than a 'cliché-ridden noir plot piece' - not Casablanca, obviously!), Park places unusually ambitious (some might say convoluted) demands on its viewer, as alongside the film's 'plot' of Park Hae-il's world-weary cop, Jang Hae-jun, becoming emotionally entangled with Tang Wei's carer and chief murder suspect, Song Seo-rae, the film-maker gives us a whole host of enigma-inducing plot devices, including non-linearity, flashbacks, allusion, wrong-footing, inter-cutting, hallucinations, non-sequiturs and even (as a Chinese national) Song's habit of playing back (on her phone) Korean translations of her native Chinese thoughts! Given the film's running time and its (overall) glacial pace, such narrative discombobulation could (and, arguably, does) have the effect of being a tad gratuitous - an observation that would potentially be a major (rather than, in this viewer's opinion, a minor) flaw - were it not for the director's skill in gradually drawing us in more and more deeply to Hae-jun and Seo-rae's emotional turmoil.

It is the pairing (and slow-burn mutual obsession) of the Jang and Song characters that are undoubtedly at the heart of Park's film, but there are other things going on as well. Perhaps the most direct is the film's cross-cultural take on Hae-jun and Seo-rae's respective heritages, which 'come together', initially as Seo-rae reveals that her grandfather was a Manchurian independence fighter and, again, as the pair visit a Buddhist temple. Additionally, there is Seo-rae's societal position as young, foreign woman - three dimensions which Park is at pains to point out are the basis for Seo-rae's repeated mistreatment by the men in her life. In the end, though, it is the gradual morphing of Hae-jun and Seo-rae's take on their respective selves, particularly Hae-jun's view of Seo-rae as a potential crime suspect, inexorably changing to an obsessive object of desire that make Park's film unmissable. Acting-wise, outside of the film's main two protagonists, Lee Jung-hyun also impresses as Hae-jun's 'distant' wife, Jung-an, but it is Park Hae-il and Tang that turn in superb, emotionally subtle, turns. Tang Wei has, in my mind, assumed the position as another stellar female first-time (for me, at least) performance alongside the likes of Faye Wong (Chungking Express), Shu Qi (Millenium Mambo), and Lee Ji-eun (Broker). As it happens, I did see Tang Wei in Ang Lee's 2007 film, Lust, Caution but the actress clearly did not have the same impact for me in the earlier film!

A brief word on the film's music (by Jo Yeong-wook) which is sparse, but beautiful, throughout and which also features (personal favourite) excerpts from Mahler's 5th Symphony. As comparator films, for the film's slow-build approach, each of Lee Chang-dong's 2018 film Burning (the brilliance of whose ending is even surpassed by that of Decision to Leave) and Ryusuke Hamaguchi's 2021 film Drive My Car sprang to mind. Certainly, Decision To Leave bears little resemblance (from what I can remember of the film-maker's earlier work) to Park's earlier Vengeance Trilogy or The Handmaiden.

Japanese writer-director Hirokazu Kore-eda has been, IMHO, one of the greatest ever portrayers (arguably the best since his compatriot Yasujiro Ozu) of families on screen. In this 2022 (Korea-set and cast) film, we get a pair of 'ne'er do wells' (Song Kang-ho's separated father, Ha Sang-hyeon and Gang Dong-won's orphaned Dong-soo) now working a trade in baby trafficking, the abused prostitute mother of one such new-born, Lee Ji-eun's brilliantly portrayed, Moon So-young, plus a young whippersnapper picked up at Dong-soo's orphanage, Im Seung-soo's quick-witted young boy Hae-jin, all four sharing a clapped out van as Ha and Dong-so attempt to locate an appropriate (and lucrative) set of parents for So-young's baby Woo-sung (with a pair of female - the senior one, significantly, being childless - police detectives in pursuit). Such a set-up is not only fanciful (some might say absurd) but also highly contrived and were it not for the cinematic skills (particularly in the coaxing of his cast and editing touch) of Kore-eda, Broker would likely collapse under the weight of its implausibility. Instead, for a good three-quarters of the film's running time, Kore-eda brings us another perceptive and connecting human drama - with light references to the nature of family and feminism - subtle for the most part and infused with bursts of delicious, sometimes dark, humour. OK, the narrative arc - essentially of the road-trip quartet gradually bonding - is well sign-posted and in the final half-hour Kore-eda does admittedly overdo the sentimental content, but there is still much to be admired here.

At the very pinnacle of (at least, this viewer's take on) the film's positive elements (and worth at least one star by itself) is the performance of Lee as the increasingly regretful, but feisty, young mother who, under duress, abandoned her new-born in front of a 'baby box' in a church in which Dong-soo works part-time. Unsurprisingly, perhaps, as predominantly a Korean 'mega pop star' (IU), I had never come across Lee before, but her turn here is simply film-stealing, mixing street-smart defiance and the confusion of unexpected (and traumatic) parenthood, in roughly equal, convincing, measure. Lee's turn here, the actress being primarily from a music background, called to my mind that of Chinese-Hong Kong's 'pop star' Faye Wong's enigmatic turn in Wong Kar-Wai's 1994 masterwork Chungking Express or, equally, the first time I saw the brilliant Hong Kong-Taiwanese actress Shu Qi in Hu Hsiao-hsien's 2001 film Millenium Mambo. Elsewhere, Kore-eda's cast is consistently good, Song (familiar to us via Bong Joon-ho's Parasite) and Bae Doona as the senior cop, Soo-jin (the actress impressive as the blow-up doll in Kore-eda's 2009 film Air Doll) probably being the stand-outs for me. Other (for me, intriguing) points of detail include Soo-jin and her fellow cop's obsession with eating in their car (a nod to Tarantino?) and the sequence where Soo-jin's phone conversation refers to hearing Aimee Mann's song Wise Up and references its inclusion in Paul Thomas Anderson's masterwork Magnolia (personal favourites - song and film).

As an avid Kore-eda fan, I would certainly not put Broker on a par with many of the director's other films such as Maborosi, After Life, Nobody Knows, Still Walking, Like Father Like Son, After The Storm or The Third Murder, but it does have qualities, not least Lee's performance, that make it a must see for all Kore-eda fans.

Shia LaBeouf's 'confession' - LaBeouf being the writer in this semi-autobiographical 2019 film - is a rather remarkable piece of work. Honey Boy - with its 'in your face' trauma not letting up for its full hour and a half running time - is about as antithetical to the Hollywood mainstream as you can get. First-time feature director Alma Har'el should also be lauded for the work, giving us a visceral watch, interspersed with some beautifully dreamy sequences (accompanied by Alex Somers' equally beautiful, mesmerising score). The core of Har'el's film finds (actor) LaBeouf's manic, volatile father (and ex 'rodeo clown'!), James Lort, inhabiting a run-down motel complex with his boy actor son, Noah Jupe's Otis, and cutting between the pair's dispiriting 1995 existence and 10 years later in which the now twentysomething, Otis (here played by Lucas Hedges) has, in order to avoid prison on a charge of being drunk and disorderly, been obliged to go into rehab to re-evaluate the state of his life. As you may have guessed, Har'el's film and, in effect, LaBeouf's own rehab tale, is far from being a bundle of laughs, but the film does have an underlying (even if quite deeply hidden) sense of humanity, love and respect for its dysfunctional and marginalised community, as well as boasting an outstanding cast.

Undoubtedly at the top of Har'el's superlative cast is LaBeouf himself. I had hardly seen the actor in anything before but the conviction in LaBeouf's turn here is palpable, even if the character being portrayed is likely to attract little in the way of audience sympathy. Equally, each of Jupe and Hedges impress as the two versions of Otis - Jupe, in particular, featuring in two of the film's more 'positive' sequences, first as Otis befriends the older Tom (from the real-life Big Brother programme for mentoring young people) and second as Otis is attracted to FKA twigs' Shy Girl - even if James' defensive anxiety around his son (and his own reputation) eventually puts the kibosh on these relationships. The film's hard-hitting, relentless approach to tackling its subject matter head-on does have something of a draining effect, but the periodic dream-like interludes and the characterisations eventually (largely) won me over. Comparator films are, I would say, hard to find in Hollywood, certainly in mainstream films, but the closest indie film I would cite, dealing with a comparable level of trauma, would be Sean Baker's 2017 film, The Florida Project.

Spanish film-maker Pedro Almodovar has (in my book, at least!) a valid claim to be one of the world's finest (certainly over the past four decades) film-makers and this 2021 effort merely cements that place in film history. OK, the man's works have had their ups and downs and Almodovar's cinematic style has certainly changed (some might say, evolved) over this period, from his 80s/90s colourful (often comedic) extravaganzas, through his mid-period 'hybrids' (which include the 'cream', I would argue, of the film-maker's works, All About My Mother, Talk To Her and Volver) to his more 'mature' (read restrained) period. Parallel Mothers certainly belongs in this latter phase - the exquisite designs are still there, but with more muted colours - and, as with many of the man's later films, the core cast is outstanding. Almodovar is one of cinema's greatest (ever) directors of women and here we get Penelope Cruz as the 'mature' Janis Martinez and Milena Smit as the 'volatile youth', Ana Manso, both 'new' mothers, plus Aitana Sánchez-Gijón's mother to Ana, Teresa, who all turn in impressive turns. Parallel Mothers is, though, also notable in Almodovar's work for being his most explicit condemnation of the film-maker's home country's past (the Franco era) as Janis attempts to unearth the bodies ('disappeared') of her murdered family ancestors.

The film's themes of 'female emancipation' - Janis is from a long line of single mothers and her burgeoning relationship with Ana (and their ability to bring up 'their' young daughter) - and past atrocities often being 'swept under the carpet' are, of course, major (profound even). Such themes certainly add gravity to Almodovar's film, but I also found them to jar slightly against one another, the 'feminist-humanist' thread - which is by far the most substantive time-wise (representing around 90% of the film's running time) - being topped and tailed between Janis and Israel Elejalde's anthropologist, Arturo's, project to disinter deceased relatives. This jarring is, though, a relatively minor consideration in the mix of the film's level of ambition and other positives. As ever, the look and feel of Almodovar's creation is distinctively crafted - the artistic dimension reinforced by Janis' job as photographer (her photo shoots are visually immaculate) and Teresa's vocation as actress, whilst the chosen soundtrack features Miles Davis' version of Autumn Leaves and Janis Joplin's (linking to Cruz's chosen forename) heartfelt version of Gershwin's Summertime. The film's not inconsiderable emotional heft derives, of course, primarily from the tension around the true birth mothers of their respective daughters and Almodovar works this to moving effect. Switching babies at birth has, of course, been done plenty of times before on screen, including two outstanding examples in Hirokazu Koreeda's 2013 film Like Father, Like Son and Jaco Van Dormael's 1991 film, Toto the Hero.

By all accounts co-writers and lead actors, Daveed Diggs and Rafael Casal's 'project' - which focuses on the socio-racial backdrop of their shared San Francisco Bay Area home - was around a decade in its conception, and their 2018 film (directed by Carlos López Estrada) is clearly an authentically heartfelt affair. Unsurprisingly, perhaps, with Diggs and Casal both being local rappers, Esrada's film is driven by (and will likely last long in the memory because of) its pulsating rap-hip hop soundtrack, featuring a host of songs written by the pair of musician-actors, and it is this musical backdrop that dovetails with the film's fast-paced editing to brilliant effect. Thematically, the film is multi-layered, albeit being primarily structured around Diggs' Colin Hoskins counting down the three days left on his prison probation period for, in his job as a bar doorman, having assaulted a drunk white man. The underlying social backdrop to Diggs and Casal's film is Oakland's gradual gentrification and consequent (in the pair's eyes) loss of true identity - seen first-hand by Hoskins and Casal's Miles Turner in their jobs working for a house removals company. Elsewhere, despite the 'best buddy' basis for Hoskins and Turner's 'inter-racial' friendship, racial tensions are constantly simmering, Colin having witnessed a (white on black) police shooting, and the film also shines a light on the pair's masculinity - Hoskins, perhaps being tempered following his jailtime, in contrast to Turner's repeated bouts of violent hot-headedness.

In addition to this thematic sophistication, we shouldn't lose sight of the fact that Diggs and Casal's creation is frequently very funny, the film's admittedly very explicit (particularly racially) street vernacular, being peppered with plenty of razor-sharp quips. Miles, in particular, comes across as Oakland's 'Del Boy equivalent', selling off 'found items' to the highest bidder. The cast is also consistently strong, Diggs the standout as the man being a taught a tough life lesson, but the manic Casal also impressing, as does Janina Gavankar, in particular, in support as Colin's equivocating 'ex' girlfriend, Val. There are also frequent moments and passages of visual invention, such as the montage sequence retelling Colin's witnessing of the cop shooting, such interludes typically accompanied by the driving rap soundtrack.

In terms of comparators, with the film's dynamic editing, the black music soundtrack and the ever-present racial dimension, it was, unsurprisingly, Spike Lee's work that repeatedly came to mind. Having said that, Diggs and Casal's creation retains a distinctive mark of originality.

Francis Ford Coppola's 1974 masterpiece remains one of the most perceptive films ever made on the subjects of obsession, social alienation, paranoia and guilt and its focus on surveillance (and its unintended consequences) as practised here by Gene Hackman's loner Harry Caul is, arguably, even more relevant today. Coppola's film is particularly haunting in its subtle understatement and oblique suggestion (with discernible hints of a 'more subtle Hitchcock') - characteristics brought alive by Coppola (and cinematographer Bill Butler's) stunning visual sense - but, in the end, it is difficult to look beyond Hackman's all-consuming central performance, arguably his career best, and one for which he was inexplicably passed over for an Oscar Nomination (to be fair, Jack Nicholson in Chinatown also missed out that year!).

Hackman had, of course, won the Oscar three years earlier (for The French Connection) and, here, his depiction of the uptight, geeky, reserved and increasingly paranoid surveillance man is the absolute antithesis of the brash, outspoken Popeye Doyle, merely serving to confirm his place as one of the most accomplished, versatile actors of his generation. Hackman, whose facial expressions here could almost tell his story sans dialogue, is equally adept as the aloof 'technical obsessive' and the regretful loner, whose social alienation has led to his rejection by Teri Garr's platonic(?) 'girlfriend', Amy Fredericks, and, in another fine cameo for Coppola, John Cazale's friend and colleague, Stan. Similarly, Harry's increasing pangs of (Catholic) guilt are skilfully evoked, as he realises that his bugging of two 'anonymous' subjects might have unintended (fatal) consequences. The faceless nature of Harry's employers is also skilfully depicted by Coppola via the shiny, sterile modernity of their workplace, and the aloof nature of Harrison Ford's 'middle man' and his boss Robert Duvall's 'director'. Acting-wise, the film's other particularly notable turn is that by Allen Garfield's smooth-talking 'rival' to Harry, 'Bernie' Moran, who features in a memorable scene, piercing Harry's defences.

The understated (at times, almost surreal) mood of Coppola's film is also complemented brilliantly by David Shire's melancholic piano score and the jazz pieces featured. Memorable visual sequences abound, of course - particular personal favourites include the opening 'crane surveillance' sequence in San Francisco's Union Square, the hotel bathroom scene (where dreams and reality become blurred) and the final 'apartment ransacking' sequence.

Comparator films would include the 'Pakula paranoia films', particularly The Parallax View and Klute, Antonioni's Blow-Up and Boorman's Point Blank, and, for the social alienation aspect, Taxi Driver. Suffice to say, though, Coppola's film is pretty much unique and is, arguably, the film-maker's most innovative piece of work.

Tired of the (seemingly) endless cycle of Fast And Furious 27½ or Avengers vs. The Diddymen or even the plethora of depressing (often British) social-realist dramas? Then director Jim Archer's low budget, mini-classic 2022 film might just be for you. Here, David Earl's eccentric, but always optimistic, 'inventor', Brian, socially alienated in remotest Wales is about as far as you could get from a trendy teen internet influencer but Archer's film is as perceptive a drama on alienation and the need for real-life companionship as I've seen in a while. OK, the premise here is a tad corny (formulaic, even), as the shy Brian, comes out of his (romantic) shell with Louise Brealy's (similarly reticent) neighbour, Hazel, before James Michie's 'local bully' (and dimwit), Eddie, seeks confrontation with Brian, but Archer and writers Earl and Chris Hayward have delivered a degree of spontaneity and poignancy (subtlety even) that masks the film's familiar narrative arc. Of course, the subject of Brian and Eddie's confrontation is the former's 'most successful' invention (in amongst his flying cuckoo clock, pine cone bag, trawler nets for shoes , egg belt, etc.), the robot Charles ('surname' Petrescu), played by writer Hayward, whose quirky self becomes an instantly memorable cinematic creation.

Archer's film takes the (at least, part) form of a docudrama, with Brian speaking periodically to camera, with nervous laughs à la Ricky Gervais (despite being the spitting image of Ricky Tomlinson!). Archer's creation also has plenty of reflective and cinematically memorable interludes, focusing predominantly on the local Welsh wildlife, Brian staring into space and accompanied by composer Daniel Pemberton's subtle and magical score. Equally, Archer has his finger on the comedic pulse of 'modern youth' - the sequence in which Charles reverts to (a Harry Enfield-like) petulant teen is quite hilarious. As the film builds to its 'inevitable' climax, with Brian trying to rescue the stolen Charles from the malevolent presence of Eddie, a number of comparator films (or, at least, situations) occurred to me, Clint Eastwood 'inventing' his famed heart protector in A Fistful of Dollars (equivalent, in showdown terms, to Brian's cabbage cannon and his decisive supershover!) and Edward Woodward's fate in another cult film, The Wicker Man. But, the closest comparator that I was repeatedly reminded of for its recurring theme of the 'outsider' being cruelly persecuted and exploited, is David Lynch's masterpiece, The Elephant Man. It's a grand claim, certainly, and don't despair as Archer (and writers) clearly recognise the 'fairy tale like' quality of their film, leaving us on a much more positive note.

British director Basil Dearden's 1944 film version of J B Priestley's play of the same name is a rather original 'philosophical tract' on post WW2 British reconstruction. As a group of (nine) strangers find themselves adrift, but coming together, in an artificial (almost A Matter of Life and Death-like) heavenly construction overseeing a 'city', Priestley (and co-writer Dearden) attempt to give us a representative microcosm of 1940s Britain (waitress, businessman, sailor, cleaner, bank manager, member of the aristocracy, etc.) split roughly, and particularly relevantly for the time, along class lines. We then get quite a wide-ranging discussion encompassing a range of issues, including mortality, marriage, fidelity, sexual politics, artifice, religion, catharsis, etc, but which, in line with Priestley's world view, essentially boils down to a debate on capitalism vs. Socialism in the context of Britain needing to 'rebuild' (and 'reform') itself post-war.

Such a premise may sound a little dry and, to an extent, it is! Nevertheless, some of the characters here, particularly Googie Withers' (typically for the actress) exuberant waitress, Norman Shelley's blustering narrow-minded businessman, Raymond Huntley's wavering bank manager and Ada Reeve's elderly and life-experienced cleaner, bring Priestley's drama to emotional (and political) life. Having visited the 'utopian city' Dearden's cast is left with the dilemma - who wants to stay and who to go? Of course, the leavers are, perhaps predictably, the more narrow-minded (i.e. Those with vested interests in the status quo) of the bunch. The film therefore suffers from a curious mix of overambition (in the scope of the philosophical discussion) and predictable outcome. That said, it is particularly the roles of (the great) Googie Withers (whose stolen just about every film I've seen her in) and Reeve's perhaps unexpectedly sage words of wisdom that cut though some of the more preachy content here. Dearden's film was criticised at the time for being 'uncinematic' which it largely is, but other play-based films, for example Twelve Angry Men and His Girl Friday, disprove this as a definitive criticism and it is rather They Came To a City's dry and esoteric subject matter that is its principal limiting factor. And on this latter subject I would certainly opt for I'm All Right Jack as a more effective and, of course, funnier depiction of a similar political spectrum.

Directing debutant, Welsh film-maker Prano Bailey-Bond's 2021 film mixes some more original elements with standard 'horror' genre fare resulting in a mostly intriguing watch. The 1980s 'video nasty' period setting and upcoming, highly promising Irish actress Niamh Algar's turn as 'prim and proper' and increasingly obsessive, film censor, Enid Baines (an ironic play on Blyton, anyone?), are, for me at least, Censor's big pluses. That Bailey-Bond only goes so deep into the potential issue (now perhaps 'old hat') of the extent to which on-screen horror and violence might influence human behaviour is (regardless of one's personal views) something of a shame, the writer-director instead focusing on the perhaps narrower, more 'manageable' plot line of Enid suspecting that she may have spotted her long disappeared sister featuring in one of her censor subject films. Indeed, the 'Mary Whitehouse issue' (of the direct influence of 'video nasties') is somewhat undermined here as, on one of 'Enid's films' seemingly prompting a copycat killing and the nervy censor then being in receipt of abusive, accusatory phone calls plus a hounding by the press, does call into question the likelihood of individual censor details finding their way into the public domain.

One of the more refreshing elements of Bailey-Bond's work here is that the film-maker is obviously not one to take her subject too seriously, Censor being peppered with nice moments of (often dark) humour. Enid's fellow reviewer likening their horror fare (à la Driller Killer or Cannibal Carnage) to Homer or Bunuel (Un Chien Andalou) or Clare Holman's role as Enid's concerned mother, June, quipping, 'Seen anything you'd recommend?' and, 'We definitely had some Jaffa Cakes', being good examples of the 'lighter' moments. Baily-Bond's cast is also consistently impressive, Algar giving a good, increasingly guilt-ridden account of her angst and her role as potential 'morality saviour', whilst there are nice cameos from Vincent Franklin, Felicity Montagu and, particularly, the always solid Michael Smiley, here as the suitably creepy, 'gore producer', Doug Smart. Indeed, as Enid gets closer to discovering a potential connection to her absent sister, Smiley features in the start of the film's more formulaic 'gore denouement' (perhaps wasting some of the actor's potential screen impact!). This denouement does, though, have a rather nice (and unexpected), Lynch-like, twist, which raises my rating of the film by one star. I didn't find Censor to be as impressive as (fellow female horror creator) Rose Glass' film Saint Maud (from two years earlier), but it is certainly a film worthy of interest.

Director Herk Harvey's 1962 film has all the hallmarks of a cult movie - low ($30k) budget, inexperienced cast, clunky 'special effects' (and dialogue) - but remarkably Carnival of Souls is one of those 'b' movies where absence of budget works in its favour! The (obviously) black-and-white cinematography - heavily ingrained with frequent 'blemishes' on the version I saw - plus Gene Moore's genuinely unnerving (and a little intrusive) pipe organ score are just two of the reasons why Carnival of Souls gets under your skin and makes it nigh on unforgettable. The narrative set-up here - as Candace Hilligoss's nervy, 'asexual' loner, Mary Henry, (miraculously) escapes a car crash before taking off for a job as church organist (with the parting missive 'put your soul into it') - is as offbeat as the rest of Harvey's cinematic concept, but it makes for some (maybe obvious) unsettling thematic content, not least of which is the potential subversion of the outwardly pious community in which Henry finds herself. Similarly unsettling (certainly for her!) is when Mary seemingly takes on a cloak of invisibility (as well as suffering repeated hallucinations) and we begin to think that the aftermath of Mary's accident may not have been all that it seemed. Undoubtedly, one of the film's masterstrokes is the setting for its titular goings-on - a bathhouse turned dancehall turned carnival pavilion (actually situated in Saltair, Utah) - which comes across as something straight out of Hitchcock in terms of its macabre potential.

Talking of Hitch, the master of suspense is just one comparator-influence that springs to mind whilst experiencing Harvey's creation - the blonde Mary driving solo in a state of anxiety, whilst cars sink beneath the water's surface is, of course, redolent of Psycho. Looking forward, Moore's distinctive organ score predates David Lynch's score in the equally bizarre Eraserhead (with Harvey's 'idyllic' small town USA setting also overlapping with typical Lynch), whilst the (eventual) sight of marauding black-and-white 'zombies' seems to be a clear pointer to George Romero's 1968 classic, Night of the Living Dead. To me, together (perhaps) with the more restrained ghostly apparitions comparison to the 1961 British film The Innocents, these are the more obvious comparators for Harvey's film (for an exhaustive and 'more obscure' list of comparators I would refer you to 'horror expert', Kim Newman's list in the short booklet that comes with the Network DVD of the film). As the only professional actor in Harvey's film, Hilligoss is certainly worth a particular mention as delivering one of the more proficient turns here - most of the actress' screen colleagues are 'one-offs', screen acting-wise, but Sidney Berger as Mary's potential seducer is also worth name-checking, with his suitably creepy and offbeat neighbour, John Linden. The other notable thing about the film is its denouement which, even though Mary's 'status' should have become obvious by this point, still packs quite a convincing punch.

As a final 'influence' deriving from Harvey's film, in amongst numerous, typically obscure, musical references, the great (and equally weird) indie band Pere Ubu cited the film as the inspiration for their excellent 2014 album of the same name.

Chinese-American writer-director Lulu Wang's semi-autobiographical 2019 film is a quite brilliantly observed, poignant and often darkly comic, drama. At the heart of Wang's film is, of course, the family plan to keep from Zhao Shu-zhen's ageing grandmother, Nai Nai, the fact that she has a terminal condition with just months to live, but The Farewell is much more than this, being a particularly sharply observed depiction of culture clash - in effect, China vs. The 'West', each of Nai Nai's two sons having emigrated, one to the US, one to Japan. As the grandmother's family travel to her Changchun, China family home on the (family-arranged) pretext that Nai Nai's grandson is to be married, we learn that it is common Chinese practice (something that would be 'illegal' in Western societies) to withhold, with the knowledge of the medical authorities, details of terminal diagnoses, something that Nai Nai's grand-daughter, Awkwafina's New York-based, aspiring musician, Billi, is reluctant to comply with. As Nai Nai's wider family mix at the ancestral home, director Wang brings out themes of culture clash, generational differences and the nature of identity with a deal of perception and subtlety, with her consistently strong cast delivering an outstanding dose of naturalism.

The emotional heart of Wang's film is the portrayal of Billi and the close and now conflicted relationship she has with her grandmother and Awkwafina impresses greatly in the role. Even better, though, is the veteran Chinese stage actress, Zhao, (making her big screen debut here - in her 70s!), capturing quite brilliantly the (obviously internationally applicable!) 'elderly characteristic' of expressing forthright opinions on all manner of subjects (giving us some hilarious moments of dark comedy), as well as her (overly) caring and maternal nature for her grandchildren, in particular. The sense of 'jeopardy' Wang develops here, as family members strive to keep the truth from Nai Nai, is palpable and brilliantly conveyed. As Wang's drama proceeds, various comparators occurred to me, including the absolute master (well, for me at least) of the 'eastern family drama', Japanese film-maker Hirokazu Koreeda, but also, given the increasing domestic tension on display, the UK's own Mike Leigh. The scene in Wang's film at the wedding banquet and the familial frictions generated - including cross-cultural jealousies and resentment - is for me redolent of a film like Leigh's Secrets and Lies, the film title being, of course, a direct read across from Wang's drama. And, of course, a citing of Koreeda and Leigh as comparator is just about the highest praise it would be possible to attribute!

With his 1988 adaptation of Milan Kundera's lauded novel, director Philip Kaufman not only gives us an intensely passionate, highly cinematic three-way love story, but also marshals an impressively international team in doing so. France is represented by being the film's proxy location for Kundera's Prague 1968 setting (with some actual Prague footage edited in), as well as providing co-screenwriter (and regular Luis Bunuel collaborator) Jean-Claude Carrière and one of Kaufman's acting leads, a 23-year old Juliette Binoche as amateur photographer, Tereza, delivering a brilliantly moving turn in her first English-speaking screen role. Curiously, Sweden is also heavily represented via cinematographer (and regular Ingmar Bergman collaborator) Sven Nykvist, whose evocation here of 'Prague bohemia' is highly memorable, and actors Lena Olin, also delivering an impressively complex performance as artist, Sabina, plus Erland Josephson (another Bergman collaborator) and Stellan Skarsgard. Leading for the Brits is, of course, Daniel Day-Lewis again excellent as brain surgeon and womaniser, Tomas, whilst elsewhere in the cast we also get Dutch, Polish and (appropriately) Czech representation.

Kaufman's film is one of truly epic proportions, running to just short of three hours, switching 'location' between Prague and Geneva, and pulling off a successful cinematic 'marriage' of love story against the political backdrop of the Prague Spring (with Soviet tanks rolling in around mid-film). Indeed, the film's undercurrent of repressive political machinations and potential conspiracies adds another layer of uncertainty to the lives of Kaufman's central protagonists, as Tereza's shy innocent in love is pitched (optimistically) against the seemingly carefree hedonism of Tomas and Sabina, thus upping the ante on the trio's own existential crises. The aura of tension between the prevailing communist regime and burgeoning liberalism is never far away - there is a particularly memorable music concert/party scene in which That'll Be The Day is usurped by party apparatchiks - but (for me) it is the scenes involving Kaufman's central trio where the film really scores. Sexual symbolism is frequently to the fore, whether it be phallic cacti, Sabina's hat or the recurring use of mirrors, the latter also playing up the theme of transient identity and used to spice up Tomas and Sabina's couplings and to lend Sabina and Tereza's mutual photography shoot a touch of Welles' The Lady From Shanghai. Other particularly memorable sequences include that where Tomas' political humiliation is completed as we cut to him as window cleaner (with Prague's Church of Our Lady before Tyn enshrouded in scaffolding in the background) and, to reinforce Tereza's seeming despair in her search for 'spiritual' love, first she is confronted in a bar by a youth ordering 'cognac' (significantly recalling an earlier incident) and then where Tereza suffers a truly horrific coupling with Skarsgard's 'nice' engineer.

The film's ever-present cultural content (literature, music, photography) is reinforced by Kaufman's excellent use of music, principally by Leos Janacek, whose use in some of the more comedic sequences called to my mind Kubrick. The other cinematic comparator that occurred to me, partly given the communist content and presence of Binoche was that of Krzysztof Kieslowski, oddly though not Three Colours Blue (in which Binoche appeared), but more the innocence, against a political backdrop, of Irène Jacob in The Double Life of Véronique.

Writer-director Jane Campion's award-winning (or mostly nominated) 2021 film certainly has its moments, being a well-acted, atmospheric, moody, sometimes (typically for this film-maker) offbeat play on the western, but, for me at least, the film is only partially successful. The film's (and indeed Thomas Savage's book on which it is based) main theme of male emasculation in this 'most male' of film genres is still (even after Brokeback Mountain) relatively original, but is also at the root of my reservations. Campion's cast is certainly uniformly strong as 1920s Montana ranch-owning, 'chalk and cheese' brothers, Benedict Cumberbatch's brash, uncompromising Phil Burbank and Jesse Plemons' reserved and kindly, George, come across Kirsten Dunst's widow mother, Rose Gordon, and her 'effeminate', sensitive son, Kodi Smit-McPhee's Peter. The film's main weakness is its switch from Phil and Peter's (in particular) rather stereotypical characterisations to Phil's later attempts (even if based on the 'mentor-pupil' relationship Phil had previously with Bronco Henry) at befriending Peter. Given the extent to which 'machismo' is expected in Phil's traditional cowboy role (viz. The 'respect' of his workforce), such a switch does not ring true.

This is a shame because the performances here all impress, particularly the main three male roles. Probably the standout for me is Jesse Plemons, whose character's subtlety stands in contrast to that of Phil and Peter (good though both actors were in these roles). In particular, the scenes between the two brothers revealed the characters' complexity most effectively, with George, because of their mutual history, being able to get beneath the skin of Phil's showy, superficial machismo. The other standout sequence, in which Campion explores elements of class and which is a masterclass of psychological tension, is that of the dinner party with the governor, at which Rose (here Dunst is quite brilliant) is unable to perform on the piano. Elsewhere, the film strikes positive notes both for its overall looks - Ari Wegner's cinematography impressing with the Otago, NZ landscapes (standing in for the US) and the apparent nods (repeated shots through doors and windows) to Ford's The Searchers - plus its score written by Jonny Greenwood, whose sparse, haunting staccato notes add to the film's psychological impact (both Wegner and Greenwood were Oscar-nominated).

Director and co-writer Darius Marder's 2019 film is an original and visceral piece of film-making, featuring a stellar central performance from Riz Ahmed as the rock (metal) drummer who loses his hearing. It's a subject that was no doubt close to the heart of Marder - since he was close to his deaf grandmother - and the director made an astute choice to cast Ahmed as drummer, Ruben Stone, who turns in a deeply felt, passionate turn. Technically, the film is also memorable as its sound design - for which it won the Oscar - effectively puts us inside the head of Stone and his affliction, translating first-hand the man's hopes and frustrations in what is an emotional rollercoaster ride. Equally, as Stone takes refuge (as a form of psychological rehabilitation) in a centre for deaf recovering addicts, Marder's film represents an enlightening lesson in the experiences of the deaf community (non-actor members of which were cast for the film), shining a light on sign language teaching and the educational challenges of a marginalised group in society.

Marder's cast is consistently strong, if tightly focused on a core group of players. Noted 'veteran' French actor, Mathieu Almaric, and Olivia Cooke both impress as father and daughter (the latter Ruben's girlfriend), Richard and Lou Berger, in addition to Ahmed, who was Oscar-nominated for his role. The film also features another lauded turn by Paul Raci as, Joe, ex-alcoholic and the 'leader' of the new-found community in which Stone finds himself. Veteran (now mid-70s) character actor that Raci is, his portrayal of Joe is quite simply superb - a beautifully judged foil, thoughtful and mature, to Ruben's more animated and driven self. Indeed, it is Joe's role which highlights the film's other big theme, that of the illusory (and transitory) nature of fame - something that Stone clearly feels is critical to his very existence, not wanting to be simply a forgotten character in history - a concept that Joe attempts to educate Ruben on. And it is Joe's more contemplative approach to life that leads to what is a superb denouement scene for Marder's film.

Further plaudits should go to Ahmed for helping (as Executive Producer) to get the film made and to a performance which sits alongside other impressive turns by the actor in films like Shifty (an early outing alongside fellow newbie Daniel Mays), Trishna, The Reluctant Fundamentalist, Four Lions and Nightcrawler.

Orson Welles' 1962 film seems to have passed under the radar, certainly my personal radar and perhaps more widely given that the film was not readily available on DVD until a couple of decades ago. Welles famously stated, immediately after completing the film, that it was 'the best film I have ever made' and, taking due regard of things film-makers are prone to saying about their personal creations, he may just have a point! I had not read Kafka's classic novel of the persecuted Josef K, on trial for he knows not what but subject to a seemingly endless 'legal' process, for a good three decades, but Welles' take, which sticks closely (with a bit of re-ordering) to Kafka's original, conjures up in my head precisely the impression (visual, verbal, psychological) I would have imagined. First and foremost, the film is a visual masterwork, in keeping with Welles achievements in films like Citizen Kane and Touch of Evil, with stunning black-and-white cinematography by Edmond Richard (even if the film's visual approach is no doubt rooted in Welles himself) and amazing set designs (in, amongst other places, the disused Gare d'Orsay in Paris), alternately conjuring up claustrophobia and the (illusory) grand design of the process engulfing K. The abiding impression is that every single shot in the film has been carefully crafted for a purpose. The film's music score is also worthy of mention, being composed and arranged by Jean Ledrut - a mix which includes jazzy moments and various arrangements of Albinoni's famous Adagio in G minor.

Only slightly less critical to the film's success than its visual qualities is the casting of Anthony Perkins as K. Recollecting Perkins' nervy, shifty-eyed depiction of the 'put-upon' Norman Bates in Hitchcock's Psycho from two years earlier, it is easy to see why Welles cast him here. I really can't imagine a better choice and Perkins delivers a career best performance here, surpassing his Bates turn if for no other reason than I would estimate his on-screen time here to be three or four times that in Hitchcock's masterwork. K's nervy vulnerability is further played up by Perkins' known sexual ambiguity, as K becomes subject to the attentions of Jeanne Moreau's 'promiscuous' night-club dancer, Miss Bürstner, Else Martinelli's wife to a court-room guard, Hilda, and, most memorably, Romy Schneider's highly seductive, Leni, assistant to Welles' (the actor) Advocate (supposedly acting on K's behalf). Welles' idiosyncratic cast is consistently good and (generally) just right for their parts, Akim Tamiroff being probably the standout performer as the feeble, dishevelled fellow 'defendant', Bloch.

In the end, it is difficult not to come back to the film's often disorientating visuals and, specifically, their transition from the film's claustrophobic opening sequence as two constantly questioning 'policemen' unsettle K in his apartment, through to the series of spectacular, vast ensemble scenes - first, in K's workplace, filled with hundreds of robotic typists (reminiscent of a more troubling version of that in Wilder's The Apartment), then as hundreds of frail, elderly prisoners(?) wander through the dystopian landscape, emblazoned with numbers as if in a mega-version of the totalitarian-inspired (communist, Nazi - take your pick) TV series, The Prisoner, and, finally, the stunning spectacle of the vast court-room in which K faces his 'accusers' (followed by the brilliant scene of K exiting through a vast, belittling doorway). Throughout, Welles and Richard give us plenty of memorable close-ups, including of menacing 'henchmen', intriguing camera angles and shots down corridors, through doorways, etc. Two other set-pieces also stand out particularly - that where K visits the court artist Titorelli (played with a degree of camp by William Chappell) theoretically in order to obtain insight to his advantage for his case, whilst girls bait the pair through wooden slats and, second, the scenes, seemingly in a cramped storage cupboard/room, where K witnesses the punishment of someone he has 'informed' on (a noir-like scene straight out of Touch of Evil).

Although Welles did stick quite closely to Kafka's original narrative, whilst also maintaining that his film was only 'inspired' by Kafka's original, the film-maker did incorporate changes - 'updated' to modern times to include a scene with massive computer which K's Uncle Max (an excellent Max Haufler) suggests K might interrogate to find out what he is accused of (Welles actually deleted a much longer scene with the computer on the basis that it didn't work). Welles also tops and tails his film by narrating Kafka's parable Before The Law to pinscreen scenes created by artist Alexandre Alexeieff and then narrates the cast list over the closing credits, finishing (as was the film-maker's wont) with 'I wrote and directed this film, my name is Orson Welles'. Even if Welles himself expressed surprise that he (or, indeed, anybody) was making a film of Kafka's novel, subject matter-wise - given its clinical, psychological nature and linking to grand themes - it doesn't surprise me at all that the man should elect to undertake the task. The other film-maker who I would have thought would have been equally attracted to a potential adaptation, given the nature of the beast, would have been Stanley Kubrick, though I am not aware Kubrick ever considered this (the fact that Welles had got there by 1962 would likely have put paid to any Kubrick ambitions, had they existed, in that direction).

This 1990 film effectively marked a breakthrough in the career of Hong Kong's adopted son Wong Kar-wai and whilst disappointing rather at the box office was lauded by the critics. On reflection, these two facts are probably not that surprising - whilst Wong's film featured a whole plethora of rising (and established) stars from Hong Kong cinema of the time, its innovative visual and narrative style (subsequently to become, in large part, the basis of Wong's cinematic appeal) was not such a dead cert with mainstream cinema audiences. For me, Days Of Being Wild is (like all Wong's films) a film that benefits from repeat viewings, principally to allow the film's mood and atmospheric visuals to work their effect, and is a film with clear pointers to his later masterworks such as Chungking Express and In The Mood For Love.

At the centre of Days Of Being Wild is Hong Kong megastar (actor and musician), Leslie Cheung's vibrant and convincing portrayal of Yuddy, a self-obsessed womaniser, emotionally distant, discarding women like confetti, but subconsciously troubled by the fact that his mother abandoned him as child, leaving him to be brought up by ex-prostitute Rebecca (Rebecca Pan). Yuddy's latest beau is the mercurially flirtatious, playful and violently jealous nightclub dancer, Mimi (brilliantly played by Carina Lau), but the lothario is also haunted by memories for his ex, the reserved and vulnerable country girl Su Li Zhen, played with beautiful tenderness by Maggie Cheung. In fact, for me the film's most endearing (but ultimately unfulfilled) relationship is that between Su Li and passing cop (a recurring Wong character) Tide, also brilliantly played by (yet another Hong Kong film star) Andy Lau.

Wong's film is shot by (now) regular cinematographer Christopher Doyle using his trademark lush colour palette, albeit with reduced use of hand-held cameras in this case, giving rise to Wong's now distinctive dark, claustrophobic tones (I'm sure at least 80% of the film's screen time is shot at night). Indeed, the latter part of the film during which Yuddy travels to the Philippines in search of his birth mother is visually quite jarring with its lighter, airier hues (albeit Doyle's overhead jungle shots are still impressive). The film's predominantly sleazy atmosphere is crowned by Wong's chosen soundtrack, which features the (frequently languid) Latin sounds of Xavier Cugat and the nascent noir feel is further hinted at by Wong's use of voiceover narrations by a number of his characters.

Although Days Of Being Wild certainly does not feature a conventionally strong narrative, Wong's vignette-like approach becomes increasingly infectious and engaging as the film progresses, and, together with the strength of the acting performances, is largely successful in depicting its major themes of memory and loss. Wong also includes a brilliantly enigmatic recapitulation of his main characters at the end of the film and, for good measure, throws in a sublime (and totally unexplained) cameo from (regular collaborator)Tony Leung as a 'smooth operator' readying himself for a night on the town (reportedly a scene Wong included as a teaser for a 'never to be realised' sequel).

As essential film for anyone interested in the work of this innovative film-maker.