Saturday, 7 February 2026

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of January 30-February 1, 2025):

1 (2) Hamnet (12A) **
2 (1) The Housemaid (15)
3 (new) Shelter (15)
4 (new) Iron Lung (15) **
5 (5) Zootropolis 2 (PG)
6 (4) Avatar: Fire and Ash (12A) ***
7 (6) Marty Supreme (15) ***
8 (new) Primate (18)
10 (new) Is This Thing On? (15) **

(source: BFI)

My top five:
 

DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (new) Zootropolis 2 (PG)
2 (1) Sinners (15) ****
3 (7) One Battle After Another (15) ****
4 (2) 28 Years Later (15) ****
5 (3Wicked: For Good (PG)
6 (9) Bugonia (15) **
7 (5) Predator: Badlands (12) **
8 (6) Dracula (15)
9 (13) Downton Abbey: The Grand Finale (PG)
10 (4) The Running Man (15) **


My top five: 
1. One Battle After Another
3. Sketch
4. Keeper


Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. The Producers [above] (Saturday, BBC Two, 12.45am)
2. Deliverance (Monday, BBC Two, 11.50pm)
3. Marcel the Shell with Shoes On (Sunday, BBC Two, 6.05am)
4. Woman at War (Thursday, Channel 4, 2.20am)
5. The Woman King (Saturday, Channel 4, 9.30pm)

"The Strangers: Chapter 3" (Guardian 06/02/26)


The Strangers: Chapter 3 **

Dir: Renny Harlin. With: Madelaine Petsch, Gabriel Basso, Richard Brake, Rachel Shenton. 91 mins. Cert: 15

If you’re wondering how this shrug-along horror series has got this far, Renny Harlin shot all three instalments back-to-back in Bratislava in late 2022; reshoots followed the indifferent response to 2024’s first chapter, which didn’t much alleviate the even more indifferent response to last year’s second. We were getting them whether we wanted them or not: the modest resources had been spent, one and two were cheap enough to make some sort of money, and so we now arrive at the last knockings and the year’s most dutiful carnage. The mistake was to expand a morally gloomy universe that was better off self-contained; the more light Harlin and collaborators let in, the more their set-up presented as generic runaround, hopelessly out of place amid the recent horror renaissance.

We’re deep into Strangers lore now, but last girl standing Maya (Riverdale graduate Madelaine Petsch, who surely hoped this was her Neve Campbell moment) continues to scurry about a devout woodland community like a bloodied fieldmouse with resting iPhone face; those masked thrill-killers – previously three, now two – have gained ulterior motives for pursuing her. Also present: tatted survivor Gregory (Gabriel Basso, who must have been hoping for more to do) and the ever-shifty Sheriff Rotter (Richard Brake), whose link to the killers is finally made explicit here. New blood arrives in the form of Maya’s sister Debbie (Hollyoaks alumna and recent short-film Oscar-winner Rachel Shenton) who comes to town seeking answers, only to be drawn into another round of humdrum stalk-and-slash.

Somewhere in the background is the unnerving (and not untimely) idea of an all-American community that tolerates killers in its midst so long as they prey on outsiders, protecting their own. Yet Harlin ties up his loose ends in characteristically leaden, workmanlike fashion. His scene pacing might have seemed antiquated circa Wes Craven’s Scream; a full thirty minutes of pregnant pauses hardly shake the suspicion there wasn’t enough plot in play for a trilogy. The 2008 original will probably endure as a solid, sleepover-ready example of American ordeal cinema – but this final chapter, like its immediate predecessors, falls somewhere between footnote and outright detritus, a plastic bag being propelled through the multiplex by a stiff breeze.

The Strangers: Chapter 3 is now showing in selected cinemas.

King of comedy: "R.E.M x Buster Keaton's Sherlock Jr"


In the coming days, cinemas across the UK will bear witness to the second stage in an ongoing experiment with the presentation of silent films. Last Hallowe'en, Silents Synced [sic] - an Austin, Texas-based outfit rescoring and rereleasing classic silents paired with noteworthy modern albums - gave us
Radiohead x Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horrors; this time round, it's R.E.M x Buster Keaton's Sherlock Jr, where the Athens, Georgia band are represented by songs from 1994's Monster and 1996's New Adventures in Hi-Fi. We are not a million miles away here from the outrage provoked by Giorgio Moroder's pop-promo Metropolis, all told: before the main feature, Synced's resident DJ/director Josh Frank offers a version of Keaton's 1923 short The Balloonatic remixed to Amon Tobin, complete with superimposed ravey visuals and bass-bin pulses, during which you begin to understand why the BFI, for one, hasn't booked these titles. (The bagmen would have a collective coronary, trailing decades of screening notes in their wake.) Not too far, also, from that head at the social gathering who still insists on putting Dark Side of the Moon on at the same time as The Wizard of Oz; nor, indeed, from the visuals projected onto the walls of your nearest hipster drinking establishment. Here are disparate works of art, made in very different eras, pulling your attention in two separate directions; the Silents Synced experience can seem like a movie screening and a listening party happening simultaneously, inviting patrons to try rubbing their stomachs in circles while also patting their heads. In this Balloonatic, you begin to feel Tobin's pounding techno overpowering Buster's deft delicacy: only a few choice sight gags survive the barrage.

The main feature, thankfully, is happier: it serves up a good new print with inventive tinting, and R.E.M's dreamy Americana, even amid this grungier period of their discography, meshes more agreeably with Keaton's vision of life on and adjacent to Main Street. (Frank may have taken the film's epigraph to heart: "Don't try to do two things at once and expect to do justice to both".) It makes sense to lay "How The West Was Won and Where It Got Us" over the opening scenes of Buster's daily graft, and (duh) "I Don't Sleep, I Dream" over our hero's projection-box reveries. Less literal, but no less effective: when Buster first enters the film-within-the-film - only to be almost immediately turfed out again - it's to the squalling, feedback-heavy first minute of "Star 69", and the siren-like guitar effects of "Leave" add an extra dimension to the exploding pool ball business. (A further serendipity, or big break: UK viewers can use this sequence, with its tremendous trick shots, to pay tribute of sorts to the recently deceased John Virgo.) It's canny playlisting above all else: silent cinema brought to you in association with Spotify, heading towards an inspired musical cheat come the final reel. (By which I mean a song that features on neither of the billed albums: you'll know it when you hear it.) The truth is it's another opportunity to sit before - and marvel at - one of the most inventive film comedies of all time; you could probably even play an Olly Murs or Bruno Mars album over the top of Sherlock Jr, and it wouldn't lose any of its vim, vigour or lustre. At the public screening I attended this past Thursday night, it was clear this approach had drawn people out to their local independent cinema - in appalling weather, to boot - to chuckle en masse at a movie made over a century ago. Purists may cavil, but in this economy, that's not nothing.

R.E.M. x Sherlock Jr is now playing in selected cinemas.

Wednesday, 4 February 2026

On demand: "Menus-Plaisirs - Les Troisgros"


It takes as long as it takes, but you have to get it right would appear a credo shared by the veteran American documentarist Frederick Wiseman and the Michelin-starred chefs he films in his latest, typically meticulous four-hour project.
Menus-Plaisirs is the latest in Wiseman's studies of how things run, its true subject revealed over time as the detail-ravenous preparation that goes into the blue-riband dining experience offered by a hotel and restaurant complex set deep in the leafy Loire countryside. It will be an hour before anybody takes their seats to eat in Wiseman's film; in the meantime, the filmmaker captures la famille Troisgros - head chef Michel and his two sons - visiting a nearby market to forage for freshness and flavour, then returns with them to their establishment to eavesdrop and pry. The specifics are key here: Wiseman sets out his stall (or, if you will, lays his table) with what would in any other circumstance seem a ridiculously attenuated discussion about menus (what's in season, what's available, what's desirable), but one supposes that's how nitpicky these professionals have to be. Then it's back to the kitchens, where a small army of artisans operate in librarian silence, conjuring the delicacies you'd expect to find on a Michelin-starred restaurant's menu: "pigeon gravy with vinegar" (non merci), lamb's brains and kidneys (absolument pas), handcrafted lemon meringue mousses (okay, now you have my interest) and what would appear the western world's grandest cheeseboard to finish. (No frites anywhere as far as I could see, and believe me these hungry eyes were looking.) Along the way, Menus-Plaisirs comes to explain why certain places charge the fees they do for these plaisirs: it isn't just the finely calibrated taste, it's that these dishes are vastly more labour-intensive than, say, serving up pie and mash.

The film's appeal is twofold. First, yes, the food, often glorious looking and sounding food. (The ultimate proof, of course, would be in the eating, and Les Troisgros' healthy turnover of regular patrons indicates appetites are very much sated by the ever-changing menus.) Around these plates, however: the stirring sight of passionate people making a very good fist of doing what they do for a living. The first is the more immediate pleasure: in spending so long detailing how this restaurant's elaborate confections are assembled, Wiseman affords the viewer ample time to weigh up whether or not we'd want to try them. Yet the scenes of Troisgros admin introduced as between-course palate cleansers - meetings with suppliers, discussions about winelists, front-of-house briefings - expand Wiseman's field of study, and allow his film to feed our mind with some idea of how the world works: now we're thinking about pricing, ethics, farming practises, inherited traits, perhaps even elite privilege. As Michel recognises, Les Troisgros doesn't operate in isolation: it's part of a regionally sprawling ecosystem of consumption. As ever, Wiseman lets it all play out without intervention or interruption: this is the restaurant - more specifically: this restaurant - as it is, as it goes, as it happens. Don't book expecting the conflict of The Bear or Boiling Point or anything Gordon Ramsay-related, because Wiseman knows that living and working in this world is complicated enough: it's clear that everyone who sits down to eat at these tables will have their own idea of what a good meal is. (Among the clientele, you will encounter some dreadful wine bores, and one weirdo who flatly tells his waiter "I don't like chocolate". Who are these people?) That makes for a lowish-stakes Wiseman doc, granted, and it's still possible you will emerge heading towards Greggs rather than your nearest four-peas-on-a-plate place. Yet I found myself looking on in the knowledge that if I ever did want four peas on a plate, Les Troisgros would furnish me with the tastiest four peas, immaculately presented. One reason these chefs invited Wiseman in to cook alongside them: they surely knew he'd provide them with the best advert the proprietors of any Michelin-starred restaurant could want.

Menus-Plaisirs - Les Troisgros is now available to rent via the BFI Player.

Tuesday, 3 February 2026

Grand illusions: "Nouvelle Vague"


December's Blue Moon was all about endings: of a partnership, of a career, of a life. Nouvelle Vague - Richard Linklater's second film of 2025, held over for a January release in the UK - concerns the beginnings of things, principally (as that title indicates) the French New Wave. The first of the many funny jokes the new film has to venture is that its protagonist - the young Jean-Luc Godard (played, rather brilliantly, by Guillaume Marbeck), embarking on the twenty-day shoot of his 1960 debut Breathless - believes himself to be yesterday's man: several of his fellow critics at Cahiers du cinéma, including the emergent toast of Cannes François Truffaut (Adrien Rouyard), have already graduated to making feature films, leaving him holding a mere short in his hands. So this guy has a point to prove. But he also has a funny way of making it: starting from a treatment he doesn't initially seem all that wild about, throwing out the rulebook that had governed how films get made for the best part of fifty years, alarming his American leading lady Jean Seberg (Zoey Deutch) by making his script up as he goes, and eventually coming to blows with his own exasperated producer Georges de Beauregard (Bruno Dreyfürst). This Godard is a heedless punk who strides out into the world so as to conquer it, or at least to raise merry hell; it's amazing he returns with anything salvageable, let alone a modern classic. "We don't slow down!," he tells his actors as they're nudged and hustled and sometimes yanked from one impromptu set-up to the next. "Film is a revolutionary act!" As Linklater sees it, Breathless wasn't just a title, but an entire state of mind and being.

As with Lorenz Hart, so with Godard: this is a great character to hang a movie on. (To the extent I was initially a little nervous that the scenes where Godard isn't around - those covering the byplay between Seberg, her husband François Moreuil (Paolo Luka-Noé) and co-star Jean-Paul Belmondo (Aubry Dullin), for instance - weren't going to fizz and pop in quite the same way.) He is, to put it mildly, an awkward fucker: blessed with some vision and a gift for phrasemaking and sloganeering, cursed with a thick strain of contrarianism and the loftiness of a Swiss aristocrat. (On Day One, he launches the shoot by declaring "time to enter the pantheon".) The script - by Holly Gent and Vincent Palmo Jr., nimbly translated into French by Laetitia Masson and Michèle Pétin - has Godard down as a combination of pickpocket, pinball-playing delinquent and luck-pushing chancer; Linklater doesn't strain the suggestion you may well need elements of all three to become a filmmaker, but it's there nevertheless. Marbeck, for his part, plays him as simultaneously the Godard of film lore, a character in one of the director's own movies (self-mythology being some part of the Godard project) and Rushmore's Max Fischer - and Linklater does appear to be explicitly connecting one wave of independent filmmaking to another. The Academy frame is true to the moment of the New Wave, but also a neat shop window for Wes Anderson-like sight gags and jokes of framing: key personnel are frontally introduced with their names stamped across the image. More broadly, Nouvelle Vague is a film about thrusting young go-getters finding their eye and voice while attempting to communicate something through their art, a theme as applicable to the Paris of 1959 as it was to Austin, Texas thirty years later. This Breathless is rendered much as the films-within-a-film of Alexandre Rockwell's In the Soup or Tom DiCillo's Living in Oblivion were: as something tentative, piecemeal and defiantly DIY, made on the hoof if not on the lam with whatever these creatives found around them.

So where Blue Moon was necessarily bittersweet, Nouvelle Vague is optimistic by nature - indeed, it may well end up as the most optimistic feature any of us will see inside a cinema in 2026. Partly, it's that we know this tale turned out happily for all concerned: Breathless did enter the pantheon, and Godard the revolutionary succeeded in bringing about something new. (It would have been a very different feature had Linklater alighted upon Godard after his rupture from Truffaut and the collapse of his political project in the late 1970s: Nouvelle Vague returns us to Godard at a good time.) But it also captures exactly that life Godard set out to film; it films Paris as Godard filmed Paris. It says a lot about the devaluing of the cinematic art that - despite a Netflix push - neither the film's production design nor its costuming have been recognised during this awards season (where the olde-worlde theme park of Hamnet has repeatedly), and it was a particular feat of casting to assemble actors who, without lapsing into flat impersonation, summon the spirit of both these individuals and their moment. Linklater's footage really does look remarkably like Breathless, or as Breathless would have been shot at the time - but it pulls back appreciably from Godard's singleminded-bordering-on-monomaniacal worldview in favour of a more compassionate and all-embracing perspective. Linklater films Godard as Renoir would have filmed Godard: he sees the youthful visionary, while also acknowledging the giant pain in the arse he might have been from time to time and celebrating the enduring art that he and his comrades created. True, it's a little inside-baseball, or whatever the Parisian equivalent would be. (Inside boules?) But if you have any love for these films, these names, these people, Nouvelle Vague is pure delight: one to show any students about to take their own creative first steps - alors voilà, mes amis, ceci is 'ow you make du cinéma - and the single best trailer Breathless has had in 65-odd years, a film to send you gambolling back to the source. "History gets richer," Truffaut notes late on, in a characteristically gentler attempt to form a Godardian pensée. As these last two films have amply illustrated, it really does when Linklater gets a hold of it.

Nouvelle Vague is now playing in selected cinemas.

"Iron Lung" (Guardian 02/02/26)


Iron Lung
**

Dir: Mark Fischbach [aka Markiplier]. With: Mark Fischbach, Caroline Kaplan, Troy Baker, Elsie Lovelock. 127 mins. Cert: 15

Things change, even as William Goldman’s old showbiz maxim continues to apply: nobody still knows anything. The surprise hit of the past weekend wasn’t the much-trumpeted Melania, but a different type of horror movie: the independently financed Iron Lung, smuggled without the usual promotional hoopla into multiplexes, where it was keenly awaited by the massed followers of its Hawaiian writer-director-star Mark Fischbach, better known as YouTube gaming legend Markiplier. Most of us have long sensed culture is making a decisive break with the analogue in favour of the (perhaps terminally) online. Fischbach’s film makes that paradigm shift not just visible but visceral: it feels not unlike spending twelve hours on Twitch with all the curtains closed.

Though Markiplier’s approaching the genre from a notionally fresh angle – in adapting Dave Szymanski’s titular space-submarine sim – he lands on the narratively rusty idea of an astronaut straying beyond his depth: it’s Moon in dimmer light. Beset by ominous rumbles and mounting doubts about the state of mankind, the begrimed and squalid craft singlehandedly piloted by Fischbach’s straggle-haired convict Simon is indistinguishable from the average teenage bedroom; our hero staggers round this intergalactic deathtrap completing vaguely specified missions – ram this, repair that, download something or other – like a harassed dad ticking off his Sunday to-do list. In this, Simon proves more proficient than Fischbach’s offscreen self, either stumped by or oblivious to the film’s fundamental issues.

Hopes of discovering a new Dark Star are soon sunk by the depressive tone, leaden pacing and near-total absence of spectacle; a radio-play script insistently has to tell, because this barebones production has nothing much to show. (The achievement, chiefly entrepreneurial, is almost admirably perverse: Markiplier has steered folks towards content that makes Solaris seem like Con Air.) Even if it takes major Main Character Syndrome to centre yourself for two-plus hours while relegating your co-stars to voices off, Fischbach holds steady before the camera: more money and bigger sets will doubtless come his way. But he can’t pull off the dramatic heavy lifting required here to convert a short’s worth of plot into a beneficial feature. At least Mr. Beast’s stunts get him some occasional fresh air.

Iron Lung is now playing in cinemas nationwide.

Sunday, 1 February 2026

In memoriam: Jayasree Kabir (Guardian 29/01/26)


Few performers’ careers have encompassed both discovery by Satyajit Ray and working opposite sometime Likely Lad James Bolam. Yet this was the distinction the actress Jayasree Kabir, who has died aged 73, achieved while shifting between the southern and northern hemispheres as work and family commitments required. Launched while still a teenager in Ray’s 1970 film Pratidwandi/The Adversary, Kabir compiled a modest yet highly selective list of credits, including several key titles of the Bangladeshi cinema, before making her final screen appearance in a 2004 episode of the BBC’s primetime ratings winner New Tricks.

The Adversary – adapted from a Sunil Ganguly novel, and the first film in what became known as Ray’s Calcutta trilogy – found the revered Indian director pulling his cinema in a new direction and shape, seemingly under the influence of early Godard and New Hollywood films. Emerging in the same year as Bob Rafelson’s Five Easy Pieces, to which it suggested an Eastern equivalent, the drama pounded the city’s neon-lit streets in the company of Dhritiman Chatterjee’s Siddhartha, a disillusioned college dropout on a punishing quest for gainful employment and satisfaction besides.

The 17-year-old Kabir, then billed by her maiden name Jayasree Roy, was cast as Keya, the wide-eyed family friend who calls a passing Siddhartha into her family’s home to repair a blown fuse, briefly lifts the clouds from the protagonist’s head (“what is the point of seeing the darker side of everything?”) and offers him renewed reason to persist, even as he’s finally driven into exile. Her beguiling stillness contrasted with her swain’s restless agitation: as Kabir later told the writer Bulbul Hasan, Ray “expected precision, but he also made you feel that the camera would capture exactly what you offered — nothing more, nothing less.”

The film proved a success, winning three prizes at India’s National Film Awards, including Best Director and Screenplay for Ray. (It was also voted the second best Indian film of that year, after the Kannada social drama Samskara.) Yet Kabir admitted that this professional breakthrough owed a great deal to chance. 

She had been born in Calcutta on June 22, 1952; towards the end of her studies at the city’s South Point School, she entered the Miss Calcutta beauty pageant on a whim – “the event was being held in [the restaurant] Firpo’s, where my father had taken me for dinner” – and promptly won, catching Ray’s eye during his search for new faces.“Winning Miss Calcutta opened doors,” Kabir recalled, “but it was only a beginning. Cinema demanded something different — something deeper. I was fortunate to meet remarkable people early on.” 

In the wake of The Adversary, she continued to work in the Bengali-language cinema, appearing in Dinen Gupta’s Ajker Nayak/Today’s Hero (1972) and opposite local star Samit Bhanja in Ajit Lahiri’s Ek Bindu Sukh/One Point Happiness (1977). Yet her most important films of this period were made in conjunction with the Bangladeshi critic-turned-director Alamgir Kabir, whom she met through Ray and married in 1975. 

After collaborating on Surjo Konna/Daughter of the Sun (1975), a romantic fantasy about an artist looking for love, the pair began work on the enduring Shimana Periye/Across the Fringe (1977), a riff on Lina Wertmuller’s Marxist melodrama Swept Away (1974), which saw Jayasree’s privileged Tina wash up on a desert island opposite a lowly boatman in the wake of a cyclone. The film was a notable success, winning four awards at Bangladesh’s National Film Awards; Jayasree’s lipsynched performance of the keening love song “Bimurto Ei Ratri Amar” – written by Bhupen Hazarika, sung by Abida Sultana – passed into regional cinematic legend.  

A further success followed with the urban corruption drama Rupali Shaikate/The Loner (1979), yet the pair’s personal and professional bonds had begun to fray. Upon separating from her husband, Jayasree left Dhaka to return to Calcutta, before uprooting to East London with Shourov, her son by Kabir; in the UK, she initially supported herself by teaching English at a higher-education college and providing voiceover work for the BBC and Channel 4. It was while in England that she learnt of her husband’s death, after a 1989 accident in which his car was pushed off a ferry by a speeding truck.

Adapting to British life proved a challenge, as she recalled in a 2003 interview: “I had cut myself off from acting and the media… I was finding it difficult to juggle a demanding career [while] bringing up my son as a single parent. Now, with my son settled in his career, I can consider projects which have long been buried in my mind.” She went on to take two further supporting roles on British TV: in the BBC’s white-nationalism drama England Expects (2004) and in “Painting on Loan”, the second ever episode of New Tricks, where she appeared huddled and scarified – and speaking Bengali – as the victim of a racist firebombing.

Thereafter, Jayasree shied away from the spotlight, although she maintained a regular presence at and eventually became a patron of the Rainbow International Film Festival – held annually at the Genesis cinema in Mile End – where she kept a watchful and nurturing eye on cinematic developments in her former homeland; as late as a 2010 interview, she noted “it shouldn't be difficult to improve the standard of Bangladeshi films with the aid of technology. Young filmmakers need to take the initiative towards that end.”

She is survived by Shourov.

Jayasree Kabir, actress, born June 22, 1952, died January 12, 2026.