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*** This review may contain spoilers ***
It's really not fair to judge Cradle of Fear by the same standards as
other movies, as the undisclosed budget is clearly minimal, and many of
the actors and locations are there as "favours" to the director. Of the
actors credited on the IMDb, then 11 of them have three or less acting
roles to their name, with five of them having appeared in nothing more
than this straight-to-video offering.
A portmanteau movie in the style of the old Amicus pictures, it could maybe have worked if it was intentionally tongue-in-cheek. (Possibly it is, but the intent is so muddled it's never quite clear). Stuart Laing (Richard in the "sick room" sequence, one of the better segments) is one of the few actors involved to have a developed CV, and it does show. Wikipedia would currently have it that the film is "chiefly of interest to Cradle of Filth fans", though it's far more likely to attract a certain kind of clientele who wish to see TV presenter Emily Booth naked. On this level the film delivers, along with later gratuitous nudity of several anonymous actresses. That the likable but amateurish Booth gives one of the best acting performances in this film says a lot. Many of the cast wander into scenes like members of the public who are reading their lines for the first time.
Direction, continuity and production are all, sadly, quite laughable, including a camera clearly in shot during one of Booth's scenes. Perhaps worst of all is a tinny drum and bass soundtrack which completely works against the supposed mood of the piece, be it horror or sex scenes. Segments might end with a girl getting a bottle unconvincingly shoved into her eye, the blood dripping and splashing over her undulating, bra-clad breasts, or a mutant spider- baby emerging from Booth's bare stomach and spraying blood in the mouth of her friend. Said friend's severed fingers do bring to mind Vyvyan from The Young Ones, and the only reaction this film could seemingly produce is laughter (intentionally or otherwise) or mild titillation. The concept of it somehow working as a horror movie is almost unthinkable.
Cafe Society marked Woody Allen's first foray into digital filming and
became, at $30 million, his most expensive film to date. There are
times when the freedom of the digital medium, using a Sony CineAlta F65
camera, really aids his direction, the colour palette particularly well
considered. It's decently cast, with Jesse Eisenberg one of the better
Allen analogues of recent times, and yet it's just... okay.
Woody Allen making movies that are "just okay" is something to get used to of late. In recent times he'd developed a more extreme stance, whereby one good movie would be followed by a stinker, and he could never seem to put together two decent projects in a row. Since his last good, arguably even great, movie, 2013's Blue Jasmine, Woody has put together three "decent" movies, nearly all of them forgettable, which does suggest that he's settling into even more of a comfort zone.
2016's other big project was his first "television" series, the Amazon Prime six-parter "Crisis In Six Scenes". Allen himself admitted in interviews that he didn't know what he was doing and had regretted taking on the project. Had the series been put together as a film then it would have been his longest movie at around 135 minutes and would have been perhaps not as bad as they say, just, with a kind eye...... "okay".
Cafe Society has occasional new territory, such as Eisenberg remarking on how his former beau (Kirsten Stewart) married his uncle, making her his aunt... a rare discussion of the complications of relations through marriage, something not unlike Ronan Farrow's quips on Twitter suggesting he calls Father's Day "Brother-In-Law Day". There are some flaws, such as Allen's use of voice-over narration... a nostalgic and touching addition to Radio Days, but here intrusive, and often just explaining the plot. The overriding feeling is that the script wasn't quite completed, and he felt the need to bridge the gaps, at one stage even giving us a scene without any audible dialogue.
Ken Stott is an unlikely choice as a Jewish father, and Steve Carrell seems unable to breathe three-dimensionality into an underwritten part as the third cog in a love triangle. This can be excused, given that Carrell was cast on 28th August, 2015, sometime after the filming commenced on 17th August, a time when original actor Bruce Willis had had to leave, officially due to scheduling conflicts. Rather than a below-par performance by his own standards, Carrell can be looked on at helping to save the film at the last minute.
Lastly, amongst all the traditional Allen fixations and conversations that have become incredibly, almost wearyingly familiar over the previous 40+ movies, there's the obsession with jazz. It's a fine line to walk, where the beauty of the music can add class to a film that warrants it, or make a dud seem pretentious. It's also unfortunate that Woody seems obsessed not with its bluesier underside or more experimental areas, but with Dixieland jazz, which is arguably the most trite of its forms.
*** This review may contain spoilers ***
The first two "Hood" films by Noel Clarke were, if not without their
problems, genuinely enjoyable and suitably gritty.
Sadly, it seems somewhere in the eight years since Adulthood (6/10), Clarke has lost his way. He went on to write and direct 220.127.116.11., a movie I personally quite liked, but had lukewarm reviews, and then The Anomaly, one of the most shockingly poor sci-fi movies I've ever seen.
In September 2016 Clarke appeared on The One Show, comparing his achievements in cinema against those of Sidney Poitier, seemingly without irony, and therein lies the problem. Whereas the original Kidulthood (7/10) was an ensemble movie, this final chapter acts almost as a vanity vehicle, where Noel's Sam Peel (a relatively minor figure in the first movie) is now the sole focal point. Perhaps the sole lack of vanity not on screen is an opening which features Clarke looking at his pot belly in a gym mirror, surrounded by younger, more fit men.
Clarke's dialogue in the first two movies engaged, even though it often lacked naturalism. This was, after all, a series where the first film had a man shouting out the moral of the story after being hit in the throat by a baseball bat. But the level of "on the nose" dialogue increases here, with clunky lines like "You think you've got power because you've got a hammer? Getting a job... owning your own place... that's power."
"We don't riot because we want to, we riot because we have to" is one of two completely overt references to the 2011 London riots, something which was covered with rather more topicality and a little more subtlety in Plan B's superior 2012 movie Ill Manors. Finally, a girl talking about guys calling each other "pussies" notes "I'd appreciate it if you didn't insult other men by calling them an albeit now accepted colloquial word referring to the female genitalia."
Although the title "Brotherhood" obviously has a wider meaning, Sam gets a literal brother here, a previously-unknown sibling called Royston, played by Daniel Anthony. An underdeveloped part, there solely as a catalyst to propel Sam into some rather OTT and unrealistic "violence", it's a role that goes nowhere.
The humour so rich in the other movies is here absent, with clunky, unconvincing comic dialogue from Henry (Arnold Oceng). Adam Deacon claimed to have had uncredited contributions to the first two movies, and his much-publicised absence from this one is felt. Watching characters talk about crispy creme doughnuts in the middle of otherwise-dramatic scenes make it very believable that Deacon contributed heavily to the previous two entries. Either that or Clarke has completely lost whatever touch he had, delivering up completely unrealistic scenes like Henry deceiving a girlfriend who is the kind of gullible you'd only get in a mainstream sitcom.
What Clarke does next will be interesting to watch, and this film is not without some moments. But as a final part to a series that didn't require one, it's sadly something of a stain on an otherwise engaging film series. Perhaps someone needed to take Noel Clarke to one side and ask him the title quote?
I'm slightly surprised at this movie having a relatively high IMDb
score of, to date, 5.5/10 on 61 votes. All film appreciation is
subjective, of course, but there's very little that's objectively good
about this incredibly amateurish outing. The acting is, almost across
the board, abysmal, often hilariously so, the editing is chronic, and
the dialogue frequently lousy. ("I'm hurtin', sweet baby, I'm hurtin'
and it ain't for that big beautiful black dong o'yours.")
And yet it's all so much fun. As a bad movie, it never fails to entertain, even though 90% of the plot seems to be people having conversations on telephones and telling each other what's about to happen. Of the lead character, then it's claimed "he has a paranoia about phones", but if that's the case, he's the only one, with 17 phone calls being made over the short 87 minute runtime. Even scenes that don't feature calls include phones placed on restaurant tables, scenes opening with an unheard call being placed down on the receiver, or characters repeatedly talking about how they will/won't make a phone call, a tantalising glimpse of telecommunication-based excitement.
Direction and blocking of scenes is so bad it's unintentionally hilarious. This said, there's a very funny karate scene and a hotel receptionist who almost laughs on camera, so possibly all concerned were in on some great joke. The three leads are also members of Checkmates, Ltd., a group who provide the music. Thankfully they're far better musicians than they are actors, and many of the songs despite one being named after the film's unfortunate alternate title "Run, N*****, Run" are very catchy.
I was pleased to complete the credits for this movie on the IMDb, though one omission remains: the writer, or writers. Only a script superviser (sic) is included in the credits, with no screenwriter seemingly given the blame. I did stumble across a blog that had a post purportedly from star Bobby Stevens, who claimed he co-wrote it (not specifying who with) and that with all the behind-the-scenes difficulties they had, it was a wonder the film was made at all. Thank God you succeeded, Bobby, because this atrocious movie is a real gem.
A generous 3/10 for quality, but at least 8/10 for entertainment value.
*** This review may contain spoilers ***
Stanley Lupino seems to be largely forgotten today, or, if remembered
at all, more due for his daughter, Ida. Indeed, in February 2016 a
commemorative blue plaque, dedicated to both of them, was placed at the
house where Ida was born.
Finding information on Stanley is hard. He and his Happy co-star, Laddie Cliff (who went on to appear with him again in Sporting Love and Over She Goes) both died before their 50s, and both of them had film careers that finished before the end of the Second World War. Such a short time frame puts him several generations past being remembered, and it's only due to an afternoon screening of this movie on ITV around the late 1980s that, as a child of the 70s, I'd heard of him at all.
Of Lupino's 13 movies from 1931-1939, none of them have, to date, above 30 votes on the IMDb... five of them haven't even passed the minimum votes benchmark. While eight of his other films have a review on them, proving that he's not without his remaining fans (though the reviews are the work of only two people), a search on the internet reveals astonishingly little about him.
To date, Happy has just a dozen votes, and appears to have only been released on DVD as part of a collection, with the even more obscure "Invitation To The Waltz" on the same disc. 1933 was the year of King Kong and Duck Soup, of Laurel and Hardy and The Invisible Man. In among British output like The Private Life of Henry VIII, this lighthearted, lightweight musical about a down-on-his luck musician seems to almost completely forgotten.
Discussion of both comedy and song is highly subjective, though the film, based on a play and starring a musical hall comedian, is of a rhythm that may irritate some. Jokes are often so tired it's easy to forget they may have been new once: "I've got a screw loose somewhere" says Frank Brown (Lupino), only to hear the predictable rejoinder of "I've known that for years." An introductory discussion with the director reminds us that light sexism was also very much in vogue: "Adam took a rib from his side, and invented the first talkie and it's still in use."
Even the decent gags ("I can tell you how to sell twice as much lager [...] fill your glasses right up.") are accompanied by a long pause or reaction shot, there to give the audience time to get over the laughter. It does mean the movie initially drags along in fits and starts, any chucklesome moment then brought to a halt as pure silence fills the screen as a stop gap.
Yet once the romance plot kicks in, the film gets into gear, and there's a certain freshness elsewhere. Lupino and Cliff are two broke songwriters who live in an attic and have physical fights continually (which is where the title quote comes from) and living below them is their older friend, a man who collects geese. But, crucially, there's Lupino. Although the style of humour may be dated, there's a certain kind of charm about him, and with his enthused delivery and slightly effeminate appearance (including what appears to be heavy eye make- up) he's a delight. There's a nicely camp camaraderie between him and Cliff, where they're not afraid to dress each other, hold hands between fights, or Lupino can call him "sweetheart" without batting a mascara'd eye.
Then there are the songs. Despite being at least 25 years since I first saw the film, the title track is so instantly catchy that I had no problem remembering it. There are several idiosyncrasies that add to the charm: the film is set in France, though virtually none of the actors talk in a French accent; and although cast as a romantic singing lead, Lupino is perhaps neither what you'd call a traditional leading man, nor a classical singer. More Formby than Fred Astaire, there's something endearing about him, even several decades after his kind of humour was in fashion.
Although not high art, Frederic Zelnik clearly has ideas beyond "point and shoot" in his direction, and if there's nothing here that hadn't been done before, it's work put together with considerable effort, including dissolves, tracking shots and an animated sequence with the stars in the sky. Such a devotion to the craft of what is really just a throwaway entertainment make it easy to overlook the very occasional boom mike shadows that play over the actors.
For a film of the time, there's also a certain racy quality to some of the humour. The loose plot has Lupino attempting to sell a rich businessman his invention of a car alarm, with the businessman looking at glamour magazines before his arrival. Eventually Lupino hosts the businessman at a large party, pretending it's his own house for show, and some of the various goings on allude to jokes that were close to the line for 1933, even if they sound tame 83 years on. One lady explaining that she and her husband used to live in "Cincinnati" hiccups on alcohol after the first syllable, drawing a shocked response.
With his slightly cocky persona, only a man of Lupino's likable qualities could make it work, and highlights include his geese owner friend's drunken dance at a party, plus Lupino and Cliff having a fight while performing a tap dance routine. Eventually the plot ties together and Lupino marries the businessman's daughter, Cliff marries his own love, and their friend buys two female geese for his two ganders, who understandably hadn't laid any eggs. They all drive off into the sunset, and everyone is, as the song goes, happy.
*** This review may contain spoilers ***
A so-so spoof of the classic Blackboard Jungle that does sadly outstay
its welcome even at less than seven minutes.
The problem is that, despite a likable characterisation on the Southern-accented wolf (a rare example of a positive Southern American character in the media), the plot relies on repetition. The wolf goes into a classroom situation with earnest albeit dim-witted intentions, only for the kids to turn the tables and cause him physical harm. Over and over.
A customary racy joke is the wolf's cry when a missile accidentally penetrates him anally, and a suspect joke is the wolf, having been blown up, being transformed into blackface. However, this is thankfully understated compared to other instances in cartoons of the period, such as Bugs Buggy in 1953's "Southern Fried Rabbit".
In all, this isn't a bad short, and the one thing that stands out is how endearing the wolf character is, even if the animation now appears primitive and crude, even for the time. Yet it's a one-joke short that quickly becomes tiring.
*** This review may contain spoilers ***
Like Guardians of the Galaxy and the two Avengers movies before it,
Deadpool shows a worrying amount of smugness, its own self-amusement
only equalled by its disregard for the intelligence of the audience.
There's not a single one of the "instant reverse" jokes in The Avengers
that even a very credulous small child wouldn't see coming, and
Deadpool's scatological humour aims for little higher than the lowest
(or broadest) common denominator.
It's a crowdpleaser, and not awful, but if fart jokes, genital punching and a plot that resembles a 15-year-old's masturbation fantasies aren't your thing, you may find it all a little wearying. The gags are predictable and relentless... which, in fairness, is kind of the point for "the merc with the mouth", but doesn't make it any less tiresome.
In an age where scarcely any film lacks postmodernism, Deadpool's constant fourth wall breaks seem almost passé. While a reasonable conceit in and of itself, there's nothing particularly intelligent done with it, the fourth wall just used as another vessel for some masturbation gags.
The best jokes in the film - Deadpool frequently commenting on why A-List X-Men don't appear - lose lustre when you realise it's made by Fox and so they could well have. Current voting on the IMDb sees it just inside the top 50 all-time greatest films, comfortably edging out Citizen Kane, M, Rashomon and Taxi Driver.
Plot-wise, then a thug also being the brains behind the bad guy's operation lacks credulity, though this is a film where Stan Lee urges prostitution, so all bets are very much off.
*** This review may contain spoilers ***
Not that often, it seems, as Beverly Todd's minor character Sally
Carter claims to have named herself after Dorothy Dandridge and asks
Poitier's character if he's a fan. As he starred with Dandridge in
Porgy and Bess, Todd never wonders why the man in her bath tub looks
just like Sidney Poitier, but it's a nice tribute to Dorothy, who had
died just four years previously.
Based on the same source novel as the artistically superior Odd Man Out (1947), this drama sees wholesome Sidney Poitier retooled as conflicted black militant Jason Higgs. Somehow it doesn't quite gel, despite Poitier's considerable thespic skill, as by this stage his general screen persona was too rigidly defined. The upshot is it's a little like watching Lionel Richie sing Fight The Power, or seeing Extremities remade starring Bill - er, well, you get the idea. That said, it's hard to imagine another actor making the character of Higgs so ultimately sympathetic, with his tendency towards reluctant violence.
The film closes the chapter on Poitier's 60s output, just two years on from his commercial peak; only forgettable comedy "For Love Of Ivy" coming between it and him being the biggest draw at the box office. After this, it's largely downhill: patchy Virgil Tibbs sequels, four one-off movies (including the underrated The Wilby Conspiracy), three comedies with Bill Cosby(!) and then retirement. Poitier would of course come back in the 80s for bit parts and then get involved in TV movies... while these comeback films weren't, generally, awful, it's astonishing that both the artistic and commercial appeal of Sidney Poitier could be squandered so drastically.
As a closer to the decade, this isn't a bad one to go out on, possibly scraping in as one of his 15 best movies, if only just. One-time director Robert Alan Aurthur gives a bleak outlook to the exteriors, though the studio work, including the lighting and colour palette, does unfortunately look flat and like the aforementioned TV movies that Sidney would drift into during the 90s. And as excellent a musician as Quincy Jones is, his soundtrack does sometimes seem at odds with the content; or possibly it's just dated in an unappealing way.
Poitier gets some considered lines of dialogue in his lead role, though the near-2 hour runtime is perhaps at least a quarter of an hour overlong, and a romantic subplot with Joanna Shimkus feels artificially grated onto the narrative. Shimkus' involvement is perhaps the most famous element of the picture, as she became Poitier's second wife seven years later. Her input does ultimately lead to a tragic ending, as her love for Poitier's humanised militant elicits an emotional response from the audience, though the more the film turns into a straight thriller, the less vibrant the dialogue.
Cheaply made and often badly staged, The Mark of the Hawk is
nevertheless a worthwhile venture despite its failings.
With its wordy script, in some hands it can seem poetic, notably Sidney Poitier's. (Still a year off his first star billing, despite being the nominal lead in this, his tenth movie). Yet in lesser hands it can seem leaden, ham-fisted and trite. Certainly David Goh was unlikely to take any Academy Awards for his work here, and he's not alone. Parts of the film look like one of the best dramas Poitier was ever involved with... other parts look like an amateur home movie.
The film begins with an air of sophistication, but the longer it runs, the more it starts to unravel. Poitier's intelligent militant Obam begins to turn his back on the idea of independence when he learns of the love of Jesus, the film's concept of exploring all sides of the argument evaporating for a syruppy get-out. While many of the themes are looked at from a mature perspective, the film's tagline "Against Voodoo Fury... The Flame of Faith!" was something which set out to unintentionally undermine it.
We go from a manor house party with elegantly crafted lines and gradually descend through the ranks of amusingly kitsch flashbacks, all the way down to Eartha Kitt deciding to make this political message film a light musical. A rare British movie appearance for Poitier, his future forays into this arena - A Warm December, The Wilby Conspiracy and, particularly, To Sir With Love - all reaped richer rewards. Ultimately The Mark of the Hawk goes from a lesser- known gem in his career and down to something of a missed opportunity.
*** This review may contain spoilers ***
Terrific two-hander with Poitier as a prison psychiatrist playing
opposite Bobby Darin's Nazi prisoner. Poitier's counsellor doesn't get
the opportunity for many flourishes - he takes on the role by wearing
glasses, basically - so it's up to Darin to get the showy stuff. While
beautifully shot, it does touch towards broad melodrama at various
Like a theatre production, Darin's nameless prisoner gets his childhood flashbacks recreated. At some points we see Darin as a boy on the psychiatrist's couch, then cut to scenes with Darin's mother, lipsynching the words the boy is speaking. There are scenes where he threatens to stab his imaginary friend, and all of the flashbacks occur within flashbacks, as Poitier's character is relating events to Peter Falk in the present day. If all this sounds confusing, then it isn't on screen, where an odd Twilight Zone vibe is disrupted by somewhat melodramatic incidental music. With a more sympathetic score this could have been a more expressionistic movie; as it is, it can be somewhat laboured in intent, the broadness of the Hollywood machine, yet still great despite it.
The climax is somewhat underdeveloped, however, the prisoner's story getting a fixed ending where perhaps none was needed.
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