Saturday, 29 November 2025

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of November 21-23, 2025):

1 (new) Wicked: For Good (PG)
2 (1) Now You See Me: Now You Don't (12A)
3 (2) The Running Man (15) **
4 (4) Nuremberg (15) ***
5 (3) Predator: Badlands (12A) **
6 (6) The Choral (12A)
7 (7) Christmas Karma (12A)
8 (9) A Paw Patrol Christmas (U)
9 (5) Jujutsu Kaisen: Execution (15)
10 (10Bugonia (15) **

(source: BFI)

My top five:
3. Keeper

  
DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (1) Wicked: Part 1 (PG) **
2 (4) Nobody 2 (15)
3 (6) The Grinch (U)
4 (3) Jurassic World: Rebirth (12) **
5 (2) F1 The Movie (12) ***
6 (8) One Battle After Another (15) ****
8 (31) The Roses (15)
9 (5) Superman (12)


My top five: 
1. The Curse of Frankenstein


Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. The Graduate [above] (Friday, Channel 4, 11pm)
2. Gladiator (Sunday, BBC Two, 10pm)
3. Proxima (Saturday, Channel 4, 1.15am)
4. Mission: Impossible III (Friday, ITV1, 11.20pm)
5. The Ipcress File (Saturday, BBC Two, 2.45pm)

In memoriam: Udo Kier (Telegraph 27/11/25)


Udo Kier
, who has died aged 81, was a singular German character actor who became a fringe hero and a bizarro-world megastar over the course of his sixty-year film career; emerging from the Andy Warhol scene, he enlivened cult indies, Hollywood productions and arthouse hits alike with a signature blend of impish mischief and implied malevolence.

His life, however, almost ended before it began. He was born Udo Kierspe in Cologne on October 14, 1944, in a hospital that was bombed by the Allies hours later; both the newborn and his mother Thekla had to be pulled from the rubble. (Kier never met his father.) After modelling in his teens, Kier moved to London to study English; there, his limpid blue eyes were spotted by the director Mike Sarne, who cast Kier as a gigolo in his short Road to Saint Tropez (1966).

His international breakthrough came with a pair of films made under the Andy Warhol/Paul Morrissey aegis. As the crazed scientist in the knowingly garish, 3D-enhanced Flesh for Frankenstein (1973), Kier ventured one of cinema’s most forceful line readings (“To know death, Otto, you have to f**k life in the gallbladder!”); he pushed harder still for Blood for Dracula (1974), losing ten pounds in a week to play the prissy Count. On the first day of shooting, Kier was too weak to stand; he elected to play his scenes in a wheelchair.

Hopes of a serious acting career were partially dashed when the production shot under the poetic title Love is a River in Russia arrived in Cannes heavily recut and retitled Spermula (1976), but Kier was soon adopted by directors with vision and some idea of how best to deploy the bug-eyed madness he embodied: he played an ominous psychologist in Dario Argento’s Suspiria (1977) and became a go-to for Rainer Werner Fassbinder between The Third Generation (1979) and Lola (1981).

The actor had befriended Fassbinder as a teenager; the pair even briefly cohabited, although Kier soon retreated from the director’s speedfreak lifestyle and punishing work ethic: “I moved out because he was burning himself up in such a destructive way. I didn’t want to be part of it. He threw my suitcases down the stairs because he wanted to say that he’d thrown me out. He died two months later.”

He worked steadily in Germany through the 1980s, attempting a pop career with the 1985 single “Der Adler” and playing Hitler in the queasily comic The Fuhrer’s Last Hour (1989). By then, however, he’d encountered the ambitious young Danish filmmaker Lars von Trier, who asked Kier to retell his origin story in Epidemic (1987), then cast the actor in his made-for-TV Medea (1988) and Europa (1991).

Relocating to California in 1991, Kier revived an American career that was as curious as anything else in his filmography. He leered in photos for Madonna’s scandalous 1992 book Sex and raved in the singer’s “Deeper and Deeper” promo; he played an eccentric billionaire opposite Jim Carrey in Ace Ventura: Pet Detective (1993); he was unwigged by Pamela Anderson in Barb Wire (1996) and played a NASA psychologist in the Bruce Willis blockbuster Armageddon (1998).

Von Trier remained a fan, casting the actor in his career-making provocations: the visual highlight was the outsized baby Kier played in the surreal soap The Kingdom (Riget, 1994-2022), though he was also memorable as the wedding planner undone by the Apocalypse in Melancholia (2011). (The two became firm friends: Kier was also the godfather of Von Trier’s daughter Agnes.)

In the new millennium, he cropped up in films by Argento (Mother of Tears, 2007), Werner Herzog (Invincible, 2001 and My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done, 2009) and Guy Maddin (Keyhole, 2011); after voicing the scheming parrot Professor Pericles in Scooby-Doo! Mystery Incorporated (2010-13), he extracted a love rival’s eyeballs with a spoon in the grim WW2 drama The Painted Bird (2019).

In his final years, Kier earned an Independent Spirit nomination for his turn as a devoted hairdresser in Swan Song (2021); he played Hitler again in the short-lived streaming series Hunters (2023); for the Brazilian critic-turned-director Kleber Mendonça Filho, he appeared in the latter-day Western Bacurau (2019) and the upcoming The Secret Agent (2025). In recent months, he’d been voicing a character for Hideo Kojima’s much-anticipated videogame O.D. (2026 tbc). 

“I’m an aesthetic person who loves beauty,” Kier told The Guardian in 2002. “When I’m in London, I go to Leicester Square and visit the French church [Notre Dame de France] to see Jean Cocteau’s beautiful altar. I buy two candles, one for my dead friends and one for my living friends, and I go out in a good mood. Then I go and play the Antichrist.”

He is survived by his long-time partner, the artist Delbert McBride.

Udo Kier, born October 14, 1944, died November 23, 2025.

Friday, 28 November 2025

Angels with dirty faces: "Wake Up Dead Man"


The third of Rian Johnson's
Knives Out murder-mysteries is at the very least a step up from 2022's Glass Onion. Where that immediate predecessor proved as moneyed, slick and antiseptically surfacey as its chosen tech-bro milieu (and, indeed, the series' new Netflix platform), Wake Up Dead Man digs a little deeper and shows a willingness to get its hands dirty every so often. The theme this time is the stories we tell, and those we allow to proliferate; the first half benches Daniel Craig's wafty sleuth Benoit Blanc to trade in theological debate and religious schism. Mildly disgraced Catholic cleric Josh O'Connor is sent to a leafy new diocese to serve as second-in-command - and, it's hoped, liberal counterbalance - to fire-and-brimstone-preaching Monsignor Josh Brolin, busy bonding his dwindling congregation (devout organist Glenn Close, sottish doctor Jeremy Renner, cranky author Andrew Scott, disabled cellist Callie Spaeny, aloof lawyer Kerry Washington, right-wing vlogger Daryl McCormack) by inflaming their blood. This localised radicalisation project is halted one Good Friday when Brolin is discovered in a sealed side chapel with a blade in his back. Re-enter Blanc - his rationalism strong as ever, his travel bag loaded with locked-room whodunnits - so as to reaffirm the junior priest's faith and break up an apparently murderous personality cult. Any resemblances to real-world American politics in 2025 are for legal reasons coincidental, but you wouldn't be alone in spotting them.

The four words that lodged in my head early on - Jonathan Creek Christmas special - thereafter refused to budge. After three instalments, it's become clear the Knives Outs have become ultra-expensive TV movies, constructed in the manner of the longer Columbo specials or a half-season of Johnson's own, just-cancelled cable project Poker Face. Certain of this season's Netflix productions - del Toro's Frankenstein, Clint Bentley's Train Dreams - will lose a lot from being watched on an app. Despite the odd little touch that reminds you of Johnson's once-thriving theatrical career - some well-choreographed light changes in the chapel, say - Wake Up Dead Man won't. The money's gone on actors' fees and production design: the chapel's interplay of light and dark, a marble mausoleum that proves central to the mystery, a domestic basement roughly the size of a small warehouse. The idea with this series has always been to make more space for the pleasures of the ensemble: some of those pleasures endure here, but Johnson's never been able to match the fractious dynamism of his original cast. (This troupe does what's asked of them on a scene-by-scene basis, but the one player you really want to hang out with is church handyman Thomas Haden Church, and he's largely sidelined, watching baseball in his shed with a Coke in hand.) Even as telly, Wake Up Dead Man relies upon viewer indulgence: golden-age detective drama could tie up cases twice as tangled inside half of these 144 minutes. Much as Blanc comes over as a passive presence this time, bumbling around in the background while the energised O'Connor takes up the ecclesiastical and investigative slack, Johnson is himself cutting loose, stretching his legs and taking things easy with the Knives Out series. That's fine when the approach generates the entertaining fluff it does here, but there's no particular need to race to the cinema for it; you'll be able to watch it at home over the holidays - for free - with a big tub of chocolates on the sofa next to you.

Wake Up Dead Man is now playing in selected cinemas, and will be available to stream on Netflix from December 12.

Retreats: "Keeper"


After the deafening fuss around last year's
Longlegs and the box-office success of this February's Stephen King riff The Monkey, Keeper represents the first of Osgood Perkins' rapid-fire multiplex movies to have landed without much fanfare or popcultural trace. Possibly the trailers made it look overly familiar, like just another cabin-in-the-woods movie. In actuality, sitting with Perkins' latest reveals it to be less obvious in its line of creep and far less generically boilerplate. For starters, its protagonists Liz and Malcolm aren't the usual fresh-faced, carefree teens and college students, rather wary, lived-in thirtysomethings - played by Tatiana Maslany, late of The Monkey, and Rossif Sutherland, lesser-known son of the late Donald - introduced weighing up whether to take their fledgling relationship to a more committed level. The sources of tension they encounter on this weekend retreat are unusual, to say the least. The cabin itself, for one: all modernist wood and glass, its ceilings too high for comfort, its floorboards creaking underfoot, it could scarcely be any less homely or relaxing. The proximity of Malcolm's asshole cousin, holed up in an adjacent hut with a Slavic model, bodes very ill: Birkett Turton, in the role, both resembles and in many ways channels the younger Jeremy Piven. What of the mysterious chocolate cakes that so compel this camera's attention, and the occasional, Lynchian transposition of images, which appear to imply there's precious little boundary between past and present, between outside and in? What, in short, is going on here?, I found myself wondering, first after twenty minutes, again after forty minutes, and then once more around the hour mark, fully aware that Keeper is but a 99-minute movie.

In repeatedly asking that question - as you, too, surely will - one comes to understand why the reception has been so cool. Shelving the grabbier tactics deployed in Longlegs and The Monkey, Perkins here adopts a largely vibes-based approach that demands patience, moving his camera chiefly to obscure what kind of horror film this is until the closing minutes. He's not spoonfeeding or playing to the gallery this time; he's very much doing his own weird thing, which is bound to confound all those who queued up for The Conjuring: Last Rites. What kept me seated and largely intrigued was how this pared-back approach highlights this filmmaker's increasingly deft work with actors. (As the son of one notable performer, he may well be better placed than most to direct performance.) For the longest time, there's nothing much for anyone to go on save a vague sense of unease - but Perkins' leads are interesting personalities, and if Keeper is some Angela Carter-ish, overtly gendered fairytale about big bad men and the women they throw to the wolves, as one comes to suspect, neither Maslany nor Sutherland are playing it as such. She's alert and hypercontemporary, but also prone to distraction and drifting off; he's a little shambling and awkward, but in the way any late bloomer might be. Is the problem with these people or this place? All becomes clear amid Keeper's final movement, which shuffles through freaky and trippy to arrive at gloopy and oddly funny, while at every turn remaining intensely unpredictable. (To the last: what's going on here?) Whether Perkins really is the great white hope of American horror cinema, as some have posited, is anyone's guess. More so than the overcranked Longlegs, though, Keeper sustains itself while proving rather skilful besides: a yarn spun from doubts and undercurrents, backed up by subtly uncanny images.

Keeper is now showing in selected cinemas.

Thursday, 27 November 2025

On demand: "Dil Se..."


The first Indian movie to crack the UK box-office Top 10, 1998's Dil Se... was an intersection between three emergent masters of their craft: the gifted Tamil writer-director Mani Ratnam, the generational Hindi star Shah Rukh Khan and the increasingly prominent composer-auteur A.R. Rahman. Notice of significance was served by the opening song "Chaiyya Chaiyya" - the one on a train, granted overnight passage to the pantheon of great modern Bollywood numbers - although in retrospect this number serves as a signifier of where everyone's going, exhilarating forward progress and lushly romantic misdirection, bringing the mass audience on board before subsequent reroutings and derailments, with resulting mass casualties. The train is carrying Khan's All India Radio reporter Amarkanth Varma to Assam to interview the locals on the subject of fifty years of Indian independence; these locals prove altogether divided on how much progress has been made exactly. Here, Ratnam reveals a more critical project: weaponising a star - and a newly minted pin-up like Khan at that - to broach the story of the Tamil freedom fighters and the political violence of the 1990s. Khan can certainly put a charming face on this, setting out to court local beauty Manisha Koirala with good intentions and a boyish smile. But there are places and moments on this earth where even the best intentions and the most boyish smile offer little to no protection against the chill winds and ferocious storms of history. In many respects, it's remarkable Dil Se... became the blockbuster that it did.

This is, then, a complex text: simultaneously a love story and a political tract, Indian cinema's Titanic and Wuthering Heights as well as its Reds and Under Fire. In Rahman's title song, the two stars pitch woo while bombs go off around them: where Khan's early, starmaking vehicles saw the actor stretching his arms and legs on picturesque mountaintops, Ratnam dared to wonder what would happen if he was forced to pursue his beloved through a minefield. Given the violent tonal shifts, the film relies more than most on Khan's supreme adaptability, his abundant gifts as a storyteller: the latter are much on display in Amar's radio reports, with their on-the-hoof Foley work, as well as his interactions with those (non-professionals?) cast as the Assamese public. Yet Ratnam deploys Khan tactically, too: Amar is, for much of the duration, visibly just a boy, out of his depth and comfort zone, playing with fire. The opening scene - which finds him huddling on a railway platform, waiting for that train as a storm blows in - is but an early indicator he's going to be tested; he will spend much of the following two hours being beaten up, whether by his sweetheart's nearest and dearest, the local police, soldiers on both sides of this battle, his beloved herself, or simply the harsh realities of late 20th century India. The movies had made Khan famous, a dreamboat, an idealised swain; Ratnam, in one of those cruel but brilliant decisions on which great directorial careers often hang, made him a fool for love.

It is, then, a Mani Ratnam film above all else, the work of someone in fierce control of potentially explosive material that could, with less certain handling, have blown up in everybody's face. Almost thirty years on, we can say with some assurance that no-one - perhaps not even the laurelled Ritwak Ghatak - has shot the Indian landscape more comprehensively and more sensuously. That train song yields to a long hike through the desert, incorporating some lust in the dust; when the film does finally arrive among the mountains, Ratnam and his then-regular cinematographer Santosh Sivan (who went on to direct 1998's The Terrorist and 2001's Khan-starring hit Asoka) frame the peaks not as romantic reverie but an extreme in their own right, a place where people lose their lives. The pair eventually have to confine themselves to a more conventional destination - urban Delhi, where Amarkanth returns heartbroken come the second half - so as to tie this story up. If what follows the intermission proves more reined in than what's gone before - expressive close-ups replacing the expressionistic longshots - the film gains in tautness for it. Here, the political dovetails decisively (not to mention woundingly) with the personal, as Ratnam shows where his characters' misplaced passions finally carry them: Koirala does her most impressive work in a flashback that seeks to explain why she feels compelled to do what thousands of others have been driven to do before her. A teachable example of how to broach heavyweight social issues within a popular format - and curiously foresighted, given the especially fractious decade that followed - Dil Se... builds towards a setpiece on a par with any of the same era's Hollywood thrillers, before its unforgettable finale.

Dil Se... is currently streaming via Netflix, and available to rent via YouTube.

Tuesday, 25 November 2025

Germany in autumn: "Nuremberg"


As far as this awards season goes - and in as much as
Nuremberg can be considered an awards-season contender - this is as trad as it gets. A film based on historical events one can infer from that loaded title alone; a film where practically the first word to emerge from a fresh-faced American GI's mouth is a period-appropriate "jiminy"; a film where everything points and builds towards some form of courtroom activity. Pre-empted (at least on its UK theatrical release) by the Sky logo, Nuremberg is also the 2025-26 contender that most resembles a television miniseries, and may even have been pitched as such at some point in its genesis. That much becomes apparent from the surfeit of main characters jockeying for attention and screen time, and the levels of crosscutting and montage writer-director James Vanderbilt has had to maintain to lend his material cinematic shape, or to make ungainly history fit the template of stirring awards-season drama. Adapting Jack El-Hai's 2013 tome The Nazi and the Psychiatrist as a means of grappling with the Allies' prosecution of the German high command at the end of WW2, Vanderbilt adopts a two-pronged line of attack. His macro narrative concerns US Supreme Court judge Robert Houghwout Jackson (Michael Shannon) and his efforts to ensure German officials were fully prosecuted in a court of law - rather than merely executed on sight - while denied the opportunity to turn the dock into a soapbox. The micro narrative, playing out in a rabbit warren of underground prison cells, involves Douglas Kelley (Rami Malek), the hepcat psychiatrist pressganged into babysitting Nazi big fish Hermann Göring (Russell Crowe) following the latter's capture and before the ensuing trial. In this lopsided cut, one of these throughlines proves more compelling and convincing than the other.

Much like the prosecution it describes, the film is unwieldy but noble: even those who won't see fit to applaud wholeheartedly will likely come away admiring the effort. Vanderbilt, an erratic writer-turned-director who will forever have the screenplay credit for 2007's Zodiac in his favour, has at least grasped both the importance and the implications of this particular historical moment: what it meant for Jackson to prosecute the likes of Göring, and what Kelley hoped to learn or otherwise gain from spending time in Göring's company. (An understanding of the evil the Nazis had wrought, for starters, though Kelley had also been recruited to garner the intelligence that might make that post-1945 shibboleth never again a reality.) As characterised here, Kelley is meant to be fickle and glib - as he freely admits, he's also intending to get a profitable book deal out of his endeavours - but Malek, giving by far the weakest performance here, elects to try and turn this ensemble piece into his own personal star vehicle. Introduced wowing a fellow train traveller with a card trick, this Kelley appears too busy thinking up business with props (coins, cigarettes, Aviator shades) to truly probe the darker recesses of Göring's psyche; Malek's default expression is a pop-eyed, self-satisfied smirk. I wondered whether he was the performer who first brought this book or script to the producers, making himself a non-negotiable consideration, an attached string. If not, this may well end up this season's foremost example of casting that unlocks valuable co-production finance (because - hey - Bohemian Rhapsody made the money it did) but is far from right for the role - or just wrong enough that we resent the pulling of focus. As it is, the film's most satisfying scene finds Army sergeant John Slattery dressing Malek-as-Kelley down for not comporting himself in the appropriate manner. If only Vanderbilt had done likewise.

It's a pity, because elsewhere Nuremberg upholds this filmmaker's tactic of standing back from his actors, awestruck, and allowing them to do what they do. It's a quiet, connoisseurial treat to watch Shannon, alternately grumpy and grave, feel his way through the various moral dilemmas the trial presents; the scenes with the Supreme Court judge share something of the brisk, lightly worn humanism of Matt Charman's script for Spielberg's Bridge of Spies, blessed as they are with an actor determined to keep any vulgar grandstanding or false notes at arm's length. And Crowe is terrific, giving his almost-avuncular Göring a credible accent, a sly chuckle and a growing gravitational pull. You still wouldn't cross him, but he's better company than you might think; worryingly - and as with so many of Crowe's heavyweight roles, from Romper Stomper's Hando onwards - there are points where you could convince yourself, as Kelley apparently did, that you know and maybe even like this guy. Here is a man disturbingly at ease with a world he's left in ruins, rational enough to realise he's better off behind bars and taking his chances with what he perceives to be lesser, weaker men. The viewer's reward for sticking with it for two-and-a-half hours is a last-reel showdown between these two extremes - Jackson tall and upright in every sense, Göring squat and seated - which yields the most foursquare of Nuremberg's matinee pleasures. The long path there takes in scenes that function and scenes that don't quite, and nothing in Vanderbilt's storytelling is as potent as the actual concentration camp footage the film enters into the multiplex record as evidence in favour of a guilty verdict. That may well be a given, though, and at the very least demonstrates the film's core of ideological seriousness - a useful holdover from the last century - which not even a preening dilettante like Malek can entirely obscure.

Nuremberg is now playing in selected cinemas.

Sunday, 23 November 2025

On demand: "Ravanaprabhu"


Written and directed by Ranjith, 2001's Ravanaprabhu was one of a pair of films the Malayalam superstar Mohanlal made in the guise of one Mangalassery Neelakandan. The character was first seen in 1993's Devaasuram (written by Ranjith but directed by I.V. Sasi) as a feckless rich kid engaged in gangland rivalry with fellow heir Mundakkal Shekharan (played by Napoleon; no, not that one); he returns here, older and greying of locks, as an entrepreneur whose feud with Shekharan, now operating as a one-armed property baron, is reignited by the actions of his own impulsive flesh-and-blood Karthi (Mohanlal again). The mass cinema, like history, repeats itself; the idea, underlined by the sequel's title, is that the two aging warhorses are the Ravana and Rama of the new, increasingly capitalist India, locked in battle to the death. This time, however, it's the bull-like Karthi - more Sonny Corleone than Michael - who takes up the fight: introduced smashing up a hospital to which Shekharan has donated, he's an agent of chaos and destruction wielding a peacocking catchphrase (savari giri giri), which is pure sound and fury, signifying nothing. Karthi became a fan favourite, but Mohanlal the foursquare character actor makes the older man by far the more interesting and affecting screen presence: uxorious yet bereft, regretful both that he cannot fully enjoy the fruits of his labours and that this turf war has re-escalated. It would be a stretch to suggest that Ravanaprabhu was a South Indian rebuke to the same year's Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham, the Karan Johar-engineered Hindi blockbuster that insisted the kids were all right - it opened four months earlier, and the two movies really have as much in common as, say, Unforgiven and Clueless - but its first half, at least, gestures wearily towards the fact that each successive generation of capitalists has proven more vicious, vulgar, entitled and grasping than the last.

It's still mostly fathers, sons and the line of succession - everything the 21st century cinema would subsequently begin to back away from, in search of fresher themes - but Ravanaprabhu stands as a vivid, not to mention punchy reminder of the pleasures of the traditional, and why audiences kept faith with such stories for so long. Mohanlal has never been the most athletic or limber screen presence, but in the younger man's action sequences, he figures out a compelling way to use his bulk; despite his passing resemblance to a hairier Willie Thorne, he does look like he could do some damage. Around him, Ranjith's script fleshes out this intrafamilial struggle with various courtiers, hangers-on and lawmen, themselves torn between the old ways of doing business and a desire to forge a more peaceable future. His material may be time-honoured, but he shoots everything like a comic strip: big, emphatic close-ups, whiplash whip pans, Godardian zooms into signs and signifiers. The roadside fistfight that pre-empts the intermission - or "tea break", as it's rather charmingly styled here - finds Karthi trading blows with a police assailant in the direct path of oncoming trucks. (It also yields an especially cherishable grace note: the star casually leaning against a jeep as police reinforcements show up, as if to say "Fighting? What, me?") It softens in the second half, as Karthi - consumed by affection for Shekharan's doctor daughter (Vasundara Das) - redeems himself to some degree. Yet the whole remains fiercely entertaining right through to its fiery petrol-tanker finale, elevated by some of the period's most poetic songwriting, possessed of the intrigue and incident of a great novel or play. For a few months back at the very start of the millennium, Mohanlal appeared to be on top of the world, playing a withered Lear and a baseball bat-wielding Hamlet simultaneously, and knocking both roles clear out of the park.

Ravanaprabhu is currently available to rent via Prime Video.

Friday, 21 November 2025

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of November 14-16, 2025):

1 (new) Now You See Me: Now You Don't (12A)
2 (new) The Running Man (15) **
3 (1) Predator: Badlands (12A) **
4 (new) Nuremberg (12A) ***
5 (new) Jujutsu Kaisen: Execution (15)
6 (2) The Choral (12A)
7 (new) Christmas Karma (12A)
8 (3) Regretting You (12A)
9 (9) A Paw Patrol Christmas (U)
10 (4) Bugonia (15) **

(source: BFI)

My top five:

  
DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (1) Wicked: Part 1 (PG) **
2 (new) F1 The Movie (12) ***
3 (3) Jurassic World: Rebirth (12) **
4 (4) Nobody 2 (15)
5 (2) Superman (12)
6 (10) The Grinch (U)
7 (re) The Naked Gun (15) ***
8 (new) One Battle After Another (15) ****
9 (6) Downton Abbey: The Grand Finale (PG)


My top five: 
1. The Curse of Frankenstein


Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. No Bears (Saturday, BBC Two, 1.35am)
2. Planes, Trains and Automobiles [above] (Sunday, BBC Two, 10pm)
3. Wagon Master (Saturday, BBC Two, 2.15pm)
4. C'mon C'mon (Wednesday, Channel 4, 2am)
5. She Wore a Yellow Ribbon (Saturday, BBC Two, 3.35pm)

In memoriam: Henry Jaglom (Telegraph 20/11/25)


Henry Jaglom
, who has died aged 87, was an actor-turned-filmmaker who became a snappily dressed mainstay of the American independent scene. Though he generated few hits, his talky, testy, largely improvised pictures – notably the arresting Tracks (1976) and Can She Bake a Cherry Pie? (1983) – demonstrated an idiosyncratic creativity that bore the influence of his friend and mentor Orson Welles.

Jaglom first emerged amid the free-ranging New Hollywood of the 1970s; alongside fellow traveller Jack Nicholson, he’d helped edit Dennis Hopper’s landmark Easy Rider (1969). “The possibility opened up that you could really do serious and interesting work and survive commercially,” he later told the author Peter Biskind. “We wanted to have film reflect our lives.”

His directorial debut A Safe Place (1971), starring Tuesday Weld as a dreamer falling under Nicholson’s spell, was far beyond the ken of the old studio system, not least as Nicholson agreed to participate in return for a new colour television set. Village Voice called the results “experimental, audacious, demanding, arrogant and vulnerable”; at the New York Film Festival, the film sparked shouting matches. (One fan was Anaïs Nin, who called it a masterpiece.)

Shot without permits on the Amtrak network – a process that saw director and star being sporadically ejected mid-shoot – Tracks cast Hopper as a Vietnam vet transporting a fallen comrade’s coffin across America. The comedy Sitting Ducks (1980) proved a surprise arthouse success; while critic David Thomson dubbed Can She Bake a Cherry Pie?, a lonely-hearts romance featuring Welles, Karen Black and a young Larry David, “a new kind of film”. 

Jaglom’s subsequent, semi-autobiographical features often burrowed down into moments of transition. Always (1985) dramatised the end of his first marriage to Patrice Townsend; Someone to Love (1987) proved Welles’ cinematic swansong; the romance Déjà Vu (1997), starring Jaglom’s second wife Victoria Foyt, marked the only time Vanessa Redgrave appeared on screen with her mother Rachel Kempson. “I don’t direct,” Jaglom insisted. “I take away. I extract. Orson said I was like an old Eskimo carving away at a walrus tusk, trying to find what’s inside.”

Henry David Jaglom was born in London on January 26, 1938 to Simon M. Jaglom, a Ukrainian Jew who ran an export business in Danzig, and his German wife Marie (née Stadthagen). The family fled Europe after the Nazis offered Simon honorary Aryan status (“he realised when they want to make you an honorary of what you’re not, it's time to leave”); they settled in Manhattan, where Henry attended Columbia Grammar and Preparatory School.

After studying English at the University of Pennsylvania, Jaglom rejected his father’s pleas to follow him into business, instead taking an allowance to study at Lee Strasberg’s Actors Studio; later, he wrote and directed off-Broadway, debuting on TV in the CBS social drama East Side/West Side (1963). He relocated to L.A. in 1965, appearing in several key New Hollywood texts – including the Nicholson-directed Drive, He Said (1971) – before making A Safe Place.

In the new millennium, Jaglom puzzled away at an industry he’d been increasingly forced to observe from the margins, yielding such curios as Festival in Cannes (2001), starring Anouk Aimée, and Hollywood Dreams (2006) and Queen of the Lot (2010), showcases for his third wife Tanna Frederick.

Though these dogged endeavours were true to a filmmaking ethos conceived decades earlier, the money was drying up and critical enthusiasm waning, while the distribution models had changed beyond recognition. Jaglom’s final film Train to Zakopané (2017) – a black-and-white period piece, inspired by his father’s stories of an anti-Semitic travelling companion – premiered at L.A.’s Jewish Film Festival, then practically disappeared.

Drawing altogether more column inches were Jaglom’s gossipy conversations with Welles, transcribed for Biskind’s 2013 book My Lunches with Orson, and Netflix’s reconstruction of Welles’ The Other Side of the Wind (2018), in which Jaglom cameoed as himself. His final screen appearance will be in the indie Everyone Asked About You (2025), released to streaming this October.

Jaglom wed three times; his marriages to Townsend and Foyt ended in divorce, while his marriage to Frederick was annulled in 2019. Speaking last year to the author Mary Tabor about Always and the end of his first marriage, Jaglom recalled: “I was crying and on the floor and I was desolate. And [Orson] said to me, ‘Look, if you were a songwriter, you’d be writing songs about this. If you were a poet, you’d be writing poems. You’re a filmmaker, make a film about it.’”

He is survived by his two children with Foyt, Sabrina and Simon O. Jaglom.

Henry Jaglom, born January 26, 1938, died September 22, 2025.

Thursday, 20 November 2025

"Sisu: Road to Revenge" (Guardian 19/11/25)


Sisu: Road to Revenge
****

Dir: Jalmari Helander. With: Jorma Tommila, Stephen Lang, Richard Brake, Sandy E. Scott. 88 mins. Cert: 15

2022’s Sisu had the look of a one-hit wonder. A Finnish indie pitting a grizzled prospector against an entire platoon of Nazis, it found writer-director Jalmari Helander heeding the lessons of George Miller’s Mad Max: Fury Road: principally that convoluted plotting stirs no man, and that there is cinematic value in going pedal-to-the-metal along a single, straight narrative line. That profitable sleeper now yields this choice continuation, which somehow feels more expansive while still clocking in under 90 minutes. Having seen off the SS, indomitable hero Aatami (Jorma Tommila) gains both a tragic backstory and a new, vicious post-War foe in wily James Cameron fave Stephen Lang, playing the tremendously named Red Army butcher Ivan Draganov.

Again, the economy of Helander’s approach proves striking and thrilling. No unnecessary obstacles have been placed between the audience and a good time at the movies: we get one scene of Aatami dismantling his family home beam by beam and one scene of Draganov being sprung from jail before the pair intersect on the backroads of Soviet-occupied Finland. Cutting to the chase grants Helander time to craft setpieces in which Aatami outthinks and outflanks the Red Army’s might; in this respect, Sisu 2 is a more-of-the-same sequel. The good news is that what’s repeated remains terrific: punchy, old-school stuntwork, crisply uncluttered cutting, and varied, inventive baddie-splattering, from the moment Aatami deploys one of those beams to take down a jetfighter.

Revelling in his homeland’s gorgeous, sundappled scenery, Helander manoeuvres with the boyish enthusiasm of kids playing war games in the woods: you half-expect someone’s mum to call everybody in for tea. Yes, it’s cartoonish – look sharp for one regrettably misplaced mousetrap – but that comic-strip simplicity serves as a rebuke to our knottier blockbusters. You don’t need excessive CGI or exposition with effects as potently compelling as Tommila’s bloodied, defiant face, while the writing gathers grace notes at pace: those beams become a memento, then a liferaft, then a new beginning. Like his protagonist, Helander holds onto the essential, torches the rest, and goes harder and faster for it. His film should raise huge cheers in Kyiv – and, indeed, everywhere else it plays.

Sisu: Road to Revenge opens in selected cinemas from tomorrow.

Wednesday, 19 November 2025

On demand: "The Night of the Shooting Stars/La Notte di San Lorenzo"


1982's The Night of the Shooting Stars was another of the Taviani brothers' studies of hardscrabble Italian life - this time, in and around a small, sundappled village as World War II nears its end. From a distance, San Martino appears deserted, its houses daubed with green crosses that signify they're set to be blown up by the occupying Germans. The people, though, are to be found underground, either in trenches dug into the surrounding fields or in the basements of local government buildings, awaiting liberation or some other all-clear. Here, a circumscribed form of life goes on: the movie opens with a hurried, makeshift wedding, bread rations being offered up for a post-ceremony feast, and we eventually proceed to watch the annual harvest being covertly taken in. While everyone waits either for the German threat to recede or for the Americans to arrive, wounds are tended, connections made, plans struck, losses mourned and the community collectively weighs up whether to stand and fight their corner or flee for cover elsewhere. 
Not for the Tavianis a bunker mentality; instead, they follow a strategy of incessant toing-and-froing. 

This camera roams alongside the milling villagers - hopping from group to group and huddle to huddle, a fellow traveller - the better to record what these people might be thinking, hoping and fearing, their memories of the homes they've been forced to flee. Forty years on - as far removed in time as the film was from the events it depicted - this Night now resembles an early iteration of what's now known as migrant cinema. The Tavianis fall in sympathetic, patient step with a small group who dress initially in mourning-black - the better to blend in with the night - as they come to wind their their way through the countryside, trying to make peace with the fact their pasts are behind them and their lives will never be the same again. (One especially vivid memory: close-ups of hands tossing aside the keys to homes that no longer exist.) All its shuffling and scrambling kicks up an extraordinary wealth of incident; what the filmmakers proceed from appears less a conventional screenplay than an authentically ragged, worked-over patchwork of anecdote, yarns passed down from one generation to the next, everyday reminiscences that assumed greater significance in retrospect. By 1982, the war years had started to be approached almost as folk myth, touched by magic and wonder as well as horror. The small miracle the Tavianis describe and commemorate here is that people still looked out for one another, making love as well as war; that goodness prevailed; and that some part of humanity lived to tell the tale.

The Night of the Shooting Stars is available to rent via Prime Video.

Tuesday, 18 November 2025

In memoriam: Tatsuya Nakadai (Telegraph 16/11/25)


Tatsuya Nakadai
, who has died aged 92, was an actor who became one of post-War Japanese cinema’s most significant leading men. Wide-eyed and sensitive of mien, often cast as older and wearier than his years, he was discovered by the director Masaki Kobayashi while simultaneously becoming a favourite of Akira Kurosawa, debuting as an extra in The Seven Samurai (1954) before triumphing as the Lear figure in Ran (1985).

Nakadai was working as a clerk when Kobayashi cast him as one of the Japanese soldiers imprisoned for crimes against humanity in The Thick-Walled Room (1956). The film would have been his debut – it was shot in 1953 – but studio Shochiku, facing government pressure, raised concerns over the still-raw subject matter and insisted Kobayashi made cuts; when the director refused, the film was shelved.

For the realist Kobayashi, Nakadai was a sympathetic, pliable presence. In the director’s acclaimed trilogy of WW2 films known collectively as The Human Condition (1959-61), Nakadai – cast as the pacifist Kaji, ever more isolated as his country gears up for war – found himself pummelled by his co-stars during one gruelling bootcamp sequence; he nearly succumbed to hypothermia after a scene that required him to collapse in a snowy field.

Further tests awaited him. In Kobayashi’s Harakiri (1962) – an unusually patient and textured bushido opus – Nakadai had to dodge actual samurai swords; he escaped relatively lightly as the woodcutter stalked by a spectre in Kobayashi’s folk-horror portmanteau Kwaidan (1964).

His best-known films, however, were those he made around the same time with “the Emperor” Kurosawa. The filmmaker initially regarded Nakadai with scepticism, giving him five minutes of direction for what proved a four-second background appearance in The Seven Samurai. After seeing the actor’s layered work for Kobayashi, however, Kurosawa afforded Nakadai another chance.

For Yojimbo (1961), Kurosawa’s direction was even more idiosyncratic, telling Toshiro Mifune to play the hero as a wolf and Nakadai, as the smirking, villainous Unosuke, to imagine himself a snake. After the film’s success, the three reteamed, with Nakadai playing a new character in the sequel Sanjuro (1962) and then excelling as the detective quizzing Mifune’s businessman in the crime thriller High and Low (1963).

Approaching middle age, Nakadai was returned to Kurosawa’s orbit by happenstance. During pre-production on Kagemusha (1980), Kurosawa fired star Shintaro Katsu for bringing a video camera into rehearsals; Nakadai replaced Katsu in the dual lead role of a feudal lord and his thief lookalike. The actors, who had been friends, didn’t speak for several years.

Kagemusha won the Palme d’Or, though Kurosawa insisted it was merely a dress rehearsal for his dream project: Ran, his feudal reworking of King Lear, with Nakadai as octogenarian Lord Hidetora Ichimonji. While a grand success, the shoot recalled Nakadai’s demanding earlier work with Kobayashi: he spent four hours a day in make-up, while his beard caught fire amid the climactic castle-burning.

He was born Motohisa Nakadai in Tokyo on December 13, 1932, the second of four children to working-class parents. His father Tadao, a bus driver, died before his ninth birthday; his mother Aiko worked as a dressmaker’s assistant. Evacuated to Senkawa during the Pacific War, he eventually returned to Tokyo, where he completed his education, took menial jobs and found solace in the cinema. (He cited John Wayne, Gary Cooper and Marlon Brando among his acting heroes.)

Unable to afford university, Nakadai instead took acting classes at the Haiyuza Training school, eventually falling in with the avant-garde playwright Kōbō Abe, who’d written The Thick-Walled Room. He played the bar manager in Naruse’s When a Woman Ascends the Stairs (1960) and Hamlet on stage in 1964; he cut loose as a sociopathic samurai in The Sword of Doom (1966) and voiced the Devil in the cult animation Belladonna of Sadness (1973).

In 1975, he formed the Mumeijuku acting school, whose pupils included Kōji Yakusho, the star of Wim Wenders’ Perfect Days (2023). He starred in Hachi-ko (1987), the canine-centred tearjerker later remade with Richard Gere as Hachi: A Dog’s Tale (2009), before a rare venture into English-language cinema with the deeply unofficial sequel Return from the River Kwai (1989).

In the new century, he made a voice cameo in Ghibli’s animated The Tale of the Princess Kaguya (2013); he received the Japanese Order of Culture in 2015, and the Japanese Academy’s Award of Honour in 2016. His final screen appearance came in The Pass: Last Days of the Samurai (2020), although he gave his final performance on stage this May.

Asked why he’d played so many warriors, Nakadai said: “I’m quieter than average, and a bit solitary. I think maybe those characteristics have something in common with the positive elements of a samurai. I’m a loner.”

His 1957 marriage to the actress and screenwriter Yasuko Miyazaki endured until her death in 1996.

Tatsuya Nakadai, born December 13, 1932, died November 8, 2025.

Sunday, 16 November 2025

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of November 7-9, 2025):

1 (new) Predator: Badlands (12A) **
2 (new) The Choral (12A)
3 (2) Regretting You (12A)
4 (1) Bugonia (15) **
5 (new) Die My Love (15) ***
6 (4) Springsteen: Deliver Me from Nowhere (12A)
7 (5) Gabby's Dollhouse: The Movie (U)
8 (7) I Swear (15) ****
9 (new) A Paw Patrol Christmas (U)

(source: BFI)

My top five:
2. Hedda

  
DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (6) Wicked: Part 1 (PG) **
2 (1) Superman (12)
3 (2) Jurassic World: Rebirth (12) **
4 (re) Nobody 2 (15)
5 (14) How to Train Your Dragon (PG)
6 (7) Downton Abbey: The Grand Finale (PG)
9 (3) Weapons (18) ***
10 (27) The Grinch (U)


My top five: 
1. The Curse of Frankenstein


Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. The Untouchables (Sunday, BBC Two, 10pm)
2. The Piano [above] (Tuesday, BBC Two, 12midnight)
3. Deliverance (Friday, BBC Two, 11pm)
4. A Thousand and One (Monday, BBC Two, 11pm)
5. Bad Times at the El Royale (Thursday, Channel 4, 2.10am)

We'll be right back: "The Running Man"


The low bar for 21st century remakes of Arnie vehicles by directors who spent their formative years in videoshops was set by Len Wiseman's 12A-rated
Total Recall of 2012, a colossal squandering of resources that not even ITV2 has much bothered to revive in the years since. (Why bother scheduling that, when you can stick the grabby and exhilarating original on again?) The latest rethink of The Running Man, nothingburger though it ultimately is, clears that sorry hurdle, in large part because co-writer/director Edgar Wright grasps what made Paul Michael Glaser's 1987 film such a home-rental mainstay. As Stephen King framed it all along, this is one man against the media-industrial complex; a blue-collar protagonist so badly snookered by the system he feels compelled to sign up for a murderous reality TV extravaganza - in which contestants are pursued across America by gun-toting terminators and a general public whipped into a baying mob - so as to care for his sick child. In 2025, there may be no reason to tinker radically with that premise. Wright has a bigger budget at his disposal than Glaser ($110m, as opposed to $27m); it buys him more production design, hundreds of extras, big fucking explosions. (Oddly, the world it builds hews closer to Arnie's Total Recall.) And Glen Powell's hero Ben Richards is angrier than one recalls Arnie ever being: pissed off at his bosses, the system, the format of the show, smirking showrunner Killian (Josh Brolin), his fellow contestants, perhaps even himself, he's obliged to figure out some way to focus, weaponise and monetise that rage on the run. In the future, King and Wright propose, everything will be hyped to the max, and everyone will be vastly more agitated for it. This, at least, scans.

Even so, persisting with television as the enemy feels like a very 20th century position for the new film to take. I mean, yes, whole stations broadcasting fake news 24/7 probably will radicalise your grandma, and Wright also massages some tacky, Kardashians-like flaunting of dynastic wealth into the show's adbreaks. But as noted by a rather more timely (not to mention distinctively 21st century) variation on this theme, the Korean hit Squid Game, it's the Internet that's now making the world worse faster; a show like Naked and Afraid starts to seem almost quaint when set against the cash-in-hand predations of Mr. Beast. While Wright's film dashes briskly enough between setpieces, as satire and/or social critique, this Running Man remains wholly insubstantial. This is a B movie where the B stands for bubblegum: you slop it in your holes, chew it over for a bit, realise it's rapidly losing its flavour, and then dispose of it altogether easily. Powell's aggressively one-note performance suggests this isn't the star for which some people have been so desperately looking; I spent most of the running time lamenting how the one true star turn of the autumn movie season - Channing Tatum's in Roofman - has gone so inexplicably underseen. Around him, Wright casts familiar and welcome faces - David Zayas, William H. Macy, Katy O'Brian, Lee Pace (eyebrows muffled under a balaclava, which in itself seems a waste) - only to give each of these participants almost nothing of lasting interest to do.

Unlike in the honourably bleak The Long Walk, which has (somewhat surprisingly) emerged as the year's strongest King derivative, zero dramatic weight is accrued in the picking off of the hero's fellow runners; the racial aspects of Wright's film are so cursory they make One Battle After Another seem James Baldwin-rigorous. The source was a neat idea briskly executed, but more airport novel than a piercing state-of-the-nation address. This adaptation, recognisably a byproduct of a delulu industry that still believes there's something to be gained from returning to all things Hunger Games, slaps an A-movie budget on a B-picture premise and hands it to a creative who encountered the original at a formative moment and afforded it greater import than it merits. That premise cries out for taut and nasty handling; instead, Wright's fondness for goofy asides - the kind of sidebar gags he'd cut away to in Spaced and the Cornetto trilogy - gradually removes that premise of its urgency. That this version still runs to 133 minutes seems born less of narrative necessity than of a willingness to keep filming until the money had been spent, Powell had huffed and puffed around every last one of the sets constructed for the occasion, and each of those big fucking explosions had been set off. The result? So-so multiplex timekiller, no better or worse than the first adaptation; another shrug from a system prepared to splash vastly more cash to achieve much the same middling effects. It's not worth getting Ben Richards-angry about, but a system that thinks like this doesn't deserve any big autumn hits.

The Running Man is now showing in cinemas nationwide.