Ameri
can Beauty (Sam Mendes, 1999)
It’s been much parodied since release but Sam Mendes’ film debut is still excellent. Waffle over floating carrier bag aside, it’s an intelligent film that is aimed at adults with terrific performances by all as well as one of the best screenplays in years. Despite a British director, this really is an American beauty.
5/5
The Frighteners (Peter Jackson, 1995)
A more subdued effort from the man that had made his name on hardcore splatter flicks, the Frighteners is a full blown studio film that takes all the best of Jackson’s demented sensibilities to create a funny, frightening and deliciously entertaining horror yarn. There are moments that reek of compromise (it feels like there’s a more hardcore version out there somewhere) but the key word here is fun and The Frighteners delivers it in spades.
Jeffrey Coombs is the highlight as Detective Dahlmers. An irritating character to be sure, but he amuses me greatly.
4/5
The Princess and the Frog (Ron Clements & John Musker, 2009)
It’s sad that old school animation is named as such. There was a nostalgic joy to be found as the hand drawn characters charmed more than their CG brethren.
The story of The Princess and the Frog is typical Disney but the key thing here is its aforementioned charm. Despite my like of Tangled, it had a tendency to wallow in the on-the-nose romance and emotional core. The Princess and the Frog, however, feels more like a Pixar effort where comedy and emotion are dealt with subtly and care, never feeling forced. There’s an almost organic quality to the mushy stuff that also leads to some moments of gut busting hilarity. Raymond the firefly is the best comic sidekick since Sebastian in The Little Mermaid.
It’s terrific. Had this been released in the early 90’s it would be considered a classic in the same vein as Beauty and the Beast and The Lion King.
5/5
I Spit on Your Grave (Steven R. Monroe, 2010)
I have never seen the original but if this remake is anything to go by, there’s no wonder it created such a shit stink. I Spit on Your Grave 2010 is awful. Whilst the moral guardians will have you believe it’s because of the influence it’ll have on the viewer, they’re just as ignorant as the people who made this morally bankrupt piece of shit. Whilst it’s clear that there is no pleasure to be had during the rape segment, why do the filmmakers insist on here revenge kills being so over the top it becomes cartoony? We are obviously supposed to revel in her bitterness as she dispatches her attackers in more elaborate ways but when compared to the harrowing first half, it’s a joke.
Since when could a half dead woman lift an unconscious man twice her size over a bathtub full of lye?
I hated this film. Hated it, hated it, HATED IT.
0.5/5
Almost Famous (Cameron Crowe, 2000)
I haven’t seen Jerry Maguire so I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that Almost Famous is Cameron Crowe’s best film. It carries an instant likability that wins you over immediately.
It also helps that the music is terrific. It really makes you want to be a rock band in the 70’s.
5/5
The Lovely Bones (Peter Jackson, 2009)
Oh dear.
Having given into indulgences before (the last 20mins of Return of the King, a 3hr long King Kong), Jackson unleashes his wildest fantasies in The Lovely Bones. On the face of it, it screams Oscar contender yet, for all its good intentions, it just doesn’t work. Self-indulgence turns to pretentious as moments intended to be angelic fall flat on their face. It’s heart is in the right place but it doesn’t half waffle on.
I lost it when Suzie’s murder was peppered with her family talking about beans.
1.5/5
Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street (Tim Burton, 2007)
I can’t say I’ve ever rated Tim Burton as highly as some and, as a result, my favourites among his work tend to be the lesser entries such as Big Fish and this underrated gem.
Whilst the songs lack the punch of the greatest musicals, the film is paced within an inch of its life and goes into places darker than Burton has ever delved before. It carries an atmosphere that very successfully creeps under your skin and is really very, very nasty. Splatter-tastic if you will. And bleak. Really freaking bleak.
4.5/5
The Rules of Attraction (Roger Avery, 2002)
“Took a charter flight on a DC-10 to London. Landed at Heathrow. Took a cab to the city center. Don't let people lie to you: hostels are for the ugly. I'm staying in Home House, the most beautiful hotel in the world. Called a friend from school who was selling hash, but she wasn't in. Met a couple of Brits who take me to, of all places, Camden Street. I flirt a bit at the Virgin Megastore, buy some CDs, then follow some girls with pink hair. I wandered around trying to get laid, until it started to rain, then went back to Home House. Ministry of Sound is dead, so I go to Remform - but it's Gay Night. I find the one hetero girl in the place and we dry hump on the dance floor. We cab it back to Home House. I strip her clothes off, suck her toes, and we fuck. I hung out for four or five days. Met the world's biggest DJ, Paul Oakenfold. Kept missing the Changing of the Guards. Wrote my mom a postcard I never sent. Bought some speed from an Italian junkie who was trying to sell me a stolen bike. Smoked a lot of hash that had too much tobacco in it. Saw the Tate. Saw Big Ben. Ate a lot of weird English food. It rained a lot, it was expensive, and I'm jonesing... So, I split for Amsterdam. The Dutch all know English, so I didn't have to speak any Dutch - which was a relief. I cruise the Red Light District. Visit a sex show. Visit a sex museum. Smoke a lot of hash. I meet a Dutch TV actress and we drink absinthe at a bar called Absinthe. The museums were cool, I guess. Lots of Van Goghs and the Vermeers were intense. Wandered around. Bought a lot of pastries. Ate some intense waffles. We bought some coke and I cruised the Red Light District, until I found some blonde with big tits that reminds me of Lara. I gave her a hundred guilders. In the end, she pulls me out, and I cum between her tits, even though I'm wearing a rubber. Afterward we made small-talk about AIDS, her Moroccan pimp, and herself. I wake to the sound of a wino singing. It's 8 AM and hot as blazes. I pretend to ice-skate around Central Station, while someone plays the sax. Trade songs with a Kiwi girl... Then split for Paris by train. Wander the Champs-Elysees. Climb the Eiffel Tower for only seven francs, because the ticket machine was broken. Got the hang of the Metro, took it everywhere. Went to a Ford model party and hooked up with a Romanian model named Karina. She chugs my cock at the Mariott Champs-Elysees, which is good. We played billiards, went shopping. I think she gave me mono. Drove a Ferrari that belonged to a member of the Saudi royal family. Made out with a Dutch model in front of the Louvre. Saw the Arc de Triomphe and almost became road-kill crossing the street... "Oakie" invites me to Dublin, so I catch an Aer Lingus flight and stay at the Morrison. Dublin rocks like you can't imagine. Oakenfold lets me spin some discs with him. Irish girls are as small as leprechauns. I swap hickeys with a drunk woman. After groping my abs and calling me "Mr. L.A.", she strips for me in the bath room of the club. Sneak into the Guinness factory and steal some stout so good my dick goes hard... I fly to Barcelona, which was a low-rent bust. Too many fat American students. Too many lame meat markets. I dropped acid at the Sagrada Familia, which was a trip to say the least. Cruise up the coast to the Museo Gala Dali, but had no more acid, which sucked. Some girl from Camden calls me on my cell, so I let her listen to the church bells in Cadaques. Canta Cruz is beautiful, but there are no girls here, just old hippies... So, I went to Switzerland where I, ironically, couldn't find anyone who had the time. Took the Glacier Express up the Schilthorn, which is beautiful in a way I can't describe... Euro Pass into Italy and ended up in Venice, where I met a hot girl who looks like Rachael Leigh Cook and speaks better English than I do. She's living for a year on only five dollars a day. We gondola around, buy some masks. She think's I'm a capitalist, because my hotel room costs more for one night than she's spending her entire trip. But she doesn't mind it so much when I pay the bills... I ditch her and hook up with a couple who obviously want a 3-some. Too much tension there, but the doofus offers to drive me to Rome, an offer I jump at. Traffic is bad and we're stopped for hours without moving. The wife turns out to be a freak. The guy starts to wig out on me. It's like a Polanski film... We stop for a while in Florence, where I see some big dome. A bomb goes off and I lose the weird couple, which is probably for the best... Ended up in Rome, which is big and hot and dirty. It was just like L.A., but with ruins. I went to the Vatican, which was ridiculously opulent. Stood for two hours to get into the Sistine Chapel, which - now that it's been cleaned - looks fake. I meet two under-age Italian girls who I try to talk into fucking each other while I jack off onto them. Bored, I buy them some ice cream instead. My hotel has a gym, so I work out. I bump into some guy from Camden who says he knows me, but I'm sure that he's a fag, so I lose him. I try to fart and instead shit my pants. Back in my hotel room, I masturbate and have a pain in my groin. That night, I dream about a beautiful girl, half in water, stretching her lean body. She asks me if I like it and I tell her she can clean fish with it. I don't know what it means, but I wake well-rested, masturbate in the shower, and check out... I make my way back to London and hang out in Piccadilly Circus. Hmm. Palakon. I swap shirts with some upper-crusty Cambridge chick. Hers was an Agnes B., mine a Costume Nationale. She acts stuffy and prudish, but is really wild underneath it all. She barely looks at my abs, though she wants to. The next day, I drop some acid and get lost in the subway for a full day and can't find my way out. I meet a cute girl who lets me jack off onto her as long as no cum gets onto her Paul Smith coat. We get stoned while listening to Michael Jackson records and the next morning I wake up talking to myself. I have a big bump on my head from flailing in my sleep. I get my stuff and barely make my plane back to the United States... I no longer know who I am and I feel like the ghost of a total stranger.”
4/5
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