Reviews

A film which until a recent cinema screening I had avoided seeing, but now rather glad I have and on the screen as it was meant to be seen. (I felt much the same about seeing the Maltese Falcon on the big screen a few weeks back, although in that instance it was a film I know inside out and backward. Just nice to see it in the medium it was intended for. But I digress.)

Certainly an interesting film but, as with my limited experience of Lynch's work (this, Dune, and Twin Peaks), there is little substance beyond the imagery. The plot - if such it can be called - is little more than an excuse to bring a certain sequence of visuals to the screen with a tattered thread of a story, and the rather odd-ball rendition of a little violent sex and addiction is more to upset and provoke a response from the curtain-twitchers of upright middle-America than to convey any solid critique or understanding. The most charitable interpretation is that Lynch was, to use a phrase I offered during the after film discussions, tweaking the nipple of sleepy America just for the sake of stirring them up - some to be upset and some finding their interest piqued enough to explore for themselves. It is almost as if there's an attempt at subtlety that failed. But then (as I also said) this is a film by an American director for an American audience. This is the same America that needed a noiresque voice-over added to the original Blade Runner because they couldn't fathom the plot without it.

Some shots pay homage to the true noir of the 1930s and '40s, and some to the seedier more cynical reinvention of the crime film for the '60s and '70s, (a Dodge Charger being a direct link to the legendary Bullit) but the imagery is disjointed. Without giving too much away, it is interesting that the film circles back to its own beginning almost as if to indicate that whilst life-changing events have taken place for our protagonists nothing has really altered in the world. And in the grand scheme of things, that is probably true.

No. There really isn't.

Moreso than most, the plot based on Moore's story is a horrible mashup of different story mythologies, and chains disjointed set pieces which make no sense in their own right let alone within the context of the whole, and full of fundamental holes. The technological anachronisms jar - an automobile that with an engine with contemporary grunt at a time when Benz had only just perfected the two-stroke engine, talk of tracking devices - as does the dialogue which leaps between stilted and contemporary modern.

Given the money which has thrown at both the cast and the effects - the CGI is state of the art for the time, though still clearly recognisable as such - the film is a lost opportunity.

In conclusion the whole thing is just painful to watch.

In some respects this film feels really dated. Not surprising, given that (at the time of writing) it is 25 years old, and that (without giving anything away) the events the film revolves around took place another 15 years before that. It lacks the polish that overwhelmed the British film industry a decade later, but the end result is still watchable and in its own way fascinating. There are elements of almost slapstick comedy, but at the same time there are much darker themes.

Being more used to the ITV television series starring Peter Davidson, the casting of Bernard Cribbins as the lead character was at first a little jarring, but then as you get into the film it becomes clear that he was possibly the ideal choice. For one thing you get a much better understanding of Det. Constable Davies ironic nickname of "Dangerous" and the title "The Last Detective". He's a bumbling fool (or so his colleagues think), who only gets sent into a situation either as a last resort or as cannon-fodder to save the bruises of his fellow officers. Nevertheless, beneath his haphazard demeanour is a man obsessed, and with a combination of dogged - almost pig-headed - determination, keener observation than he is credited with by those around him he finds solutions to a case lesser officers have left long cold, and deemed irrelevant by his obstructive superiors.

Cribbins' portrayal of Davies leaves you understanding him as a man with a heart, determined to find justice for a long-forgotten victim. In some respects this has become a cliché in British police and crime drama, but unlike contemporary dramatisations this character is perfectly capable of callous brutality when he believes the recipient no longer worthy of consideration. The plot relies on a few awkward contrivances to create links in the chain of detection, but overall it's a surprisingly satisfying film.

I wouldn't say this film deserves a "family" categorisation, except with elder teenage children.

This film is a perfect demonstration that pretty young things and slick camera work can do nothing to retrieve a hollow, disjointed, plot less script. A real disappointment.

A young Angelina Jolie is dusky, cute and pouty, as only she can be. Jonny Lee Miller - born in my neck of the woods - is sullen and pouty. Matthew Lillard - possibly the most prolific of the principal actors - is plain bizarre. The set design and photography make at times for a near comic-book experience, which suited the material perfectly. And yet none of this saves the film from dreadful writing.

No story, pointless (and meaningless) technodrivel, lots of pretty graphics, and a bunch of kids strutting around in some bizarre costume designer's idea of "cyber trendy", and absolutely no substance. So much potential wasted. Frankly you'd be better off watching War Games. At least that had a story...

The original Batman had a good cast, and worked. The second was OK. The third slipped a bit, in spite of (or perhaps because of) a cast apparently constructed with hamming it up in mind. Of all the films this one had the best cast for building a really good film on. Unfortunately the script, the over-egged location effects, not to mention a plot that lacks much in the way of continuity or sense, all combine to make for a completely dreadful, but expensive, failure.

Movies, on the whole, depend on the viewer's ability to suspend disbelief. Batman Forever strained the limits, but this film breaks them beyond repair.

It's a shame because, given a better movie, George Clooney could quite possibly have been the best Batman yet. Unfortunately this abomination put paid to any likelihod of any more in the series.

"Marabunta: one of nature's greatest mysteries" intones one of the characters. Dead right - it's a mystery how the film ever got made, or released - even to TV.

This has to be one of the least plausible and most attrocious "nature gone berzerk" suspense flicks ever made. The cast consists of C-list actors (with the possible exception of the town's Sheriff, who's an X-Files escapee, and possibly B-list). The effects are obvious CGI, and very heavily handed in their application. And the plot... At best it's an exercise in how to fill time with set piece adversities and cliff-hangers, followed by hiatus. At no time are any of the outcomes surprising or unpredictable. If you've seen a handful of "classic" disaster movies you know what's going to happen to whom practically from the get-go. You'll have an itch to get up and do something else within minutes...

Best thing to say for the film? The scenery's nice.

William Petersen makes the perfect Will Graham. The visuals are stylised, in an almost comic-book fashion - high key, high contrast, carefully framed - but the plot is faithful to the written original, complete with transcription of major pieces of the finely crafted dialogue. Harris' later books are clearly written with film translation in mind, and lack something in consequence. This, on the other hand is clearly the visual rendition seamless book.

What a terrible pile of [expunged expletive].

No doubt scripted so that the American cast and crew could get a free sight-seeing tour to Britain, the majority of the action takes place in England, and London in particular. Some of it is clearly shot on London streets, but the rest is some sound-stage Hollywood cliché of "quaint little England", where every pub has a piano played all the time, where the trains still run on steam, and the sound of gunshots sends the police and Horseguards into a wild panic, leaving Sam McCloud to save the day, valiantly rescuing the damsel on a purloined Met Police horse, galloping down The Mall.

It's impossible to lay on too thickly how downright dreadful this pile of horse-manure is. McCloud was an entertaining series, bit a product of its time. It should have been allowed to stay dignified in death.

House boats don't moor at Westminster Pier (and didn't at the time it was filmed 14 years ago). Pawn shops don't handle firearms. There is an 8 hour time difference between the Great Britain and the mainland US. Dover is nowhere near the New Forest (as any goon reading an atlas could tell you).

Add to that a cheesy greenspeak monologue about the poor state of the planet and mankind's need to respect it, and it couldn't get any worse. (Yes it's true, but we don't need lecturing about it. Certainly not by some fictional prairie-wise New Mexico Marshal.)

Urrrch!