I’ve started the Baby Driver soundtrack, spotify says it’s one hour 45 minutes long. The film clocks in at a tight one hour 43, including credits. I’ll allow you to feel however you’d like about that.
Oh man, this is way better than I was expecting. Like I thought it’s be some second tier gothic period thriller from a lesser known Daphne du Maurier title but heck, this one actually got some go to it.
It’s a bad dad tale. I guess the real tragedy is that he’s not even close to being the worst dad we’ve seen on the screen and even then he don’t get off too easy. At the same time, speaking as someone with they own daddy issues, he gets more than he deserves.
Okay, sure, Dead Man’s Chest is a incoherently structured trashpile and At World’s End is an overlong, overstuffed mess and with On Stranger Tides they realised far too late that Depp’s Jack Sparrow can’t carry a film on his own. But despite all that, despite all the self-indulgence and self-importance threatening to overwhelm it, there’s a core to these films which I can’t escape.
There probably exists a time in the future when there’ll be a critical reappraisal of Wonder Woman. People will be asking, ‘Was that it? People got so excited over that?’ There’ll probably be some sort of vindication for all the shitty complainy men who so frequently whine over this sort of thing. We’ll forget that there’s power to be had in coming first.
Michaël Dudok de Wit’s The Red Turtle is just sickeningly beautiful. Seriously. It’s like every frame is draped with so much perfection that it becomes impossible to glimpse the working parts underneath. It’s so striking, so mercurial that you really can’t deny the power of the thing.
The Levelling was shot on location in Somerset, which comes with the opportunity for me to swell up with pride. There ain’t too many films that explore our part of the world. Usually we’re just shipped to other places to ham up our accents and play the British equivalent of the yokel.
Let’s be frank here: at its best, Miss Sloane is a mid-tier, House of Cards level, sub-Sorkin-at-his-best tale of fictionalised (and mostly depoliticised) demi-ethical political manoeuvring and personal conduct.
I’m trying to calculate how much my wish for Clash to deal more directly with its politics is an extension of my own privilege. I mean, complaining that a film ain’t catering to my tastes as I sit in a nice seat in a art cinema with an almost entirely white clientele, seems almost hypocritical.… Continue reading Clash: Political hotbox
When I got to thinking about the original Guardians of the Galaxy and this new one, I keep coming around to the title sequences. The first one starts, as films irritatingly thought they could do for a while before, the production cards with that prologue about the death of Star Lord’s mother. Then it has the character walking through the remains of a destroyed alien city to some downbeat orchestral as the titles start to flick up, a nice fakeout to the point he puts on his headphones and Come and Get Your Love by Redbone starts playing and the title card flashes up. Course we’d all had the tone spoiled for us by the trailers before then.