Friday 30 August 2024

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of August 23-25, 2024):

1 (1) Alien: Romulus (15) ***
2 (2) It Ends with Us (15)
3 (3Deadpool & Wolverine (15) *
4 (5) Despicable Me 4 (U)
5 (new) Kneecap (18) ****
6 (new) Blink Twice (15) **
7 (7) Inside Out 2 (U) ****
8 (new) The Crow (18)
9 (4) Coraline (PG) ****
10 (8) Twisters (12A) ***

(source: BFI)

My top five:
5. Ocean's Eleven [above]


DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (new) Inside Out 2 (U) ****
2 (1) Furiosa: a Mad Max Saga (15) ****
3 (5) Barbie (12) ***
4 (2) The Fall Guy (12) **
5 (6) Dune: Part Two (12) **
6 (10) Wonka (PG) ***
7 (4) Ghostbusters: Frozen Empire (12)
8 (3) IF (PG)
9 (13) Coraline (PG) ****
10 (new) The Garfield Movie (U)


My top five: 
1. Furiosa: a Mad Max Saga

 
Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. Passport to Pimlico (Saturday, BBC2, 1.15pm)
2. Lady Macbeth (Friday, BBC2, 11.05pm)
3. Waves (Monday, BBC2, 11.05pm)
4. The Old Man & The Gun (Sunday, Channel 4, 12.30am)
5. Matilda (Saturday, ITV1, 6.50am)

On demand: "The Spider's Stratagem"


The Spider's Stratagem is one to stick on should you wish to appreciate anew just what a rich, complex melting pot the culture had arrived at by 1970. This was Bernardo Bertolucci, in the very same year he'd released The Conformist to great acclaim, dashing off an illustration of (or variation on) the Jorge Luis Borges short story Theme of the Traitor and the Hero; yet the film opens with a man getting off a train in a small town that reminds you its maker had taken a story credit on Once Upon a Time in the West only two years before, and it heads towards confronting the legacies of Italian fascism and World War II. Something was unmistakably in the air, under foot and in the walls and woods, and Bertolucci responded by finding the architecture he was filming every bit as compelling as the people who passed before it. (Two further influences reveal themselves: Antonioni and de Chirico.) The stranger in town is the resonantly named Athos Magnani (Giulio Brogi, a performer with something of the Bryan Ferrys about him), headed this way to learn more about the death of a father with whom he shares a name, age and physical resemblance, a left-wing hero reportedly murdered by fascists in the late 1930s. Except: our boy walks into a series of surreal encounters that indicate that thumbnail biographical sketch is - like much else around these parts, from the direction of a hotel to the sex of a rabbit and the continuity from shot to shot - not nearly as clearcut as he and we'd first assumed.

Where The Conformist, Bertolucci's masterpiece, formed a taut, psychologically penetrating study of a murderously confused protagonist, Spider proves a looser proposition, something akin to light relief: a puzzle-movie designed to bamboozle the viewer, being both blackly comic and cast in the brightest sunlight. Bertolucci regionalises Borges, writing scenes that might superficially appear familiar from a century of Italian cinema: mealtimes, dances, even a dash of opera. (The plot - in both senses of the word - hinges on an attempt to assassinate the visiting Il Duce during a performance of Rigoletto.) Yet everything is rendered unfamiliar and disconcerting by virtue of eccentric framing, blocking and cutting; the unresolved tensions our hero has come here to investigate are absorbed into the film's very form. Having been set to find the frames that best approximated darkening states of mind in the earlier film, genius DoP Vittorio Storaro here delights in capturing funny juxtapositions, sight gags and trompe-l'oeil effects, and lining up travelling shots that suggest something getting away from us or passing us by; these, finally, carry everybody off into the long grass. Editor Roberto Perpignani is set to stitching together the least congruous images and sounds, the impish hand of late Sixties Godard hovering over some mix-and-match music cues, pulled out from beneath the viewer as one might a rug. It's one of the babblier Bertoluccis, staffed by grizzled old buggers whose talk goes round and round and round, such that it might also start to drive you doolally; but it's intentionally babbly, and somehow still hangs together as an effective murder-mystery with real, lucid things to say about the madness inscribed into the landscape, the dormant threat of extremism, and the way history, like a long-running argument, begins to repeat itself. Still a tricky, slippery watch, but never less than fascinating, and quietly brilliant in how it came to anticipate a lot of (not just) Italian politics to come.

The Spider's Stratagem is currently streaming via rarefilmm.com.

Wednesday 28 August 2024

Robot dreams: "The Terminator" at 40


We owe it to ourselves to keep reissuing 1984's
The Terminator so as to show youngsters raised on Titanic and Avatar that James Cameron once achieved ten times the dramatic effect on point-whatever of the budget. This was Cameron, off the back of the instructive failure of 1982's Piranha II: The Spawning (an actual film, kids), reasserting control in staging a war of the machines, presaged by an opening scroll: "The final battle would not be fought in the future. It would be fought here, in our present. Tonight..." The addition of that one extra word was not only a stroke of genius, but the first real demonstration of Cameron's undeniable showman instincts, immediately alerting audiences that the trashy-looking B-movie they've walked into will, in fact, be something urgent, spectacular and potentially even universe-altering. (Roll up.) What will you witness again (or, if you're very lucky, for the first time)? In passing, exactly the leisurewear you might expect from a mid-Eighties movie operating on a tight budget, for one thing. Cameron figuring out how to produce as well as direct, and thereby get the best out of the limited resources allotted to him. Most significantly of all: the Rise of the Schwarzenegger. By 1984, Arnold had juiced and powerlifted his way to being the only effect a movie really needed to hook us: an unsmiling, apparently inhuman heavy, with muscles upon muscles and a distinctive yet unplaceable accent, beamed down onto the screen from who knows where. Here was someone who really needed figuring out, stat. Cameron rightly sensed thrills could be had just from putting his star in suburban and inner-city surroundings (which the actor would later govern over in reality), and letting him lumber through relatably cramped homes and modest backyards. (Historically, filmed intrigue has often been a matter of putting something somewhere it shouldn't be.) He is, of course, a terminator with a mission: to rid the world - or just downtown L.A. - of women called Sarah Connor, including the waitress played by Linda Hamilton, peering out from beneath a vast mane of poodle hair that forms a spectacle in itself. Only one other figure around matches this monomania, and that's Cameron himself, yanking this story along from sundown to sun-up, and trying to do it all fast, cheap and with the maximum possible impact.

If it hadn't become the phenomenon it did, we might more easily discern flaws in The Terminator. The future scenes appear an obvious victim of the shoestring accounting, most often resembling the first Mad Max movies rerouted inside a Laser Quest: it's to Cameron's benefit that he gets them out of the way as quickly as he does. And though Hamilton lays some of the foundations for what would be developed, over subsequent instalments, as the legend of Sarah Connor, you may still find yourself cringing at the basic conception of women as babes and babymakers: the waitress's flatmate Ginger (Bess Motta) gets to demonstrate but one characteristic ("wears Walkman", part of Cameron's wider warnings about encroaching tech) before meeting her fate. Still, we're barely allowed to notice, let alone consider. The pleasure of revisiting The Terminator in 2024 lies in seeing a SF/fantasy movie that properly moves, that shows rather than tells, and largely avoids big exposition dumps. (That opening scroll may be the only notable example of overwriting.) Yes, Cameron only shot in the real L.A. because he likely couldn't afford studio space, but he's breathlessly inventive in what he achieves there: peerlessly storyboarded and executed chase scenes, machine-honed timing (shrink leaves the cop shop, killer walks in), one tremendous fireball, and a sex scene that counts both emotionally and narratively - indeed, a sex scene on which the whole franchise was contingent. Was there a nightclub shootout before this, or was it just that Cameron's idea of a nightclub shootout was so exciting it made nightclub shootouts a thing? (Now you can't walk into a multiplex without seeing one.) Similarly, who else would pause for an aside in which the robot is seen repairing himself? Terrifying as this tech might be, Cameron was tinkerer enough to be fascinated with the way it worked. Paring its dialogue down to the tersest essentials, such that the entire plot could be summarised in eight words ("Come with me if you want to live") or three ("I'll be back") if you were pushed for time, it remains one of the few movies of this period that might be claimed as properly mythic. This critic rides hard for Aliens, but there is an argument Cameron - for all his riches and excesses, for all his very great successes - has never truly surpassed what he pulled off here.

The Terminator returns to cinemas nationwide from Friday.

Tuesday 27 August 2024

Men and motors: "The Italian Job"


Labour in government. Oasis announcing concert dates. The Italian Job restored to prominence. What year is it again? In fairness, Peter Collinson's film has reached 55 in marginally better shape than most of those blokes who've clutched these frames to their hearts over the decades. Never a canonical classic - too parochial for that - what we have here is a caper lent a carapace of class by Paramount money and overseas location work, a film that stresses only the importance of gleaming bodywork. Its plot remains negligible, being dashed-off, indeed finally unresolved B-movie business: a plan to smuggle gold out of Italy under the Mafia's noses. Yet its pistons were greased with a very British cheek and wit - the screenwriter's equivalent of Castrol GTX - and encased in enduring images: Lambos cruising Alpine roads and Minis rolling round like marbles (the writer in question was Troy Kennedy Martin, who'd broken through with TV's Z Cars and closed out his career with a posthumous credit on Michael Mann's Ferrari); a major Italian city reduced to gridlock; an introductory close-up of Michael Caine, as mastermind Charlie Croker, looking as though he had mischief firmly in mind. Much of The Italian Job would be customised to Caine's star persona as it was in the late 1960s. Croker's first stops, upon being released from prison, are to his tailor, then to a garage to retrieve another flash motor, then to a Dorchester surrogate's Dollybird Suite for a spot of rehabilitating how's-your-father. If I'm not mistaken, Caine even found the energy to lend his vocals to Quincy Jones' theme song "Getta Bloomin' Move On! (The Self-Preservation Society)", which continues to strike the ear less like its producer's "Ai No Corrida" than one of those cor-blimey knees-up F.A. Cup final songs Chas 'n' Dave recorded with Spurs ten years later.

Around Caine, a winning eccentricity holds sway. It's everything involving Noel Coward's Mr. Bridger, which even treats one old lag going to the lavs to perform morning ablutions as a matter of grave national pomp and circumstance. (Coward always had far more fun with his national treasure status than that miserable sod Olivier ever did.) It's Benny Hill and Irene Handl, two of a crop of familiar TV faces (John Le Mesurier, Fred Emney, Robert Powell) who explain why the film enjoyed such easy small-screen rotation in later years, in the roles of a sex-case professor ("Are they big? I like 'em big") and his enabler sister. The American remake of 2003 - prompted by the glorious new dawn of the Fast & Furious franchise - took Martin's chicanery very seriously, which missed the point: The Italian Job wasn't finally so much about the cars as it was the characters behind the wheel and cramming into the back seats. These were our budget version of Danny Ocean's slick hipsters: lopsided, asthmatic, distractible, disreputable, kinky, a bit crap, midpoints between Ealing's wheeler-dealers and early Guy Ritchie's shameless chancers who collectively embody the thick streak of perversity in the English national character. Wouldn't true classic car lovers squirm masochistically while watching those scenes in which convertibles get bulldozed down Italian hillsides? While we're at it, the sunkissed international shoot makes one wonder why on earth anyone would want to spend any more time on our accursed, rain-lashed isle, though Collinson stages one mournfully pretty tableau on the occasion of Aunt Nellie's "funeral". (Croker's gang only get as far as they do by exporting exactly the kind of traffic jam that was waiting to ensnare them back home.) The film remains an entertaining nonsense, though it's weird it became a sacred text of the Brexit set when what it so clearly illustrates is what we might call patriotic overreach: an inability to think through big ideas, and the capacity of flash Harrys like Charlie Croker to lead their followers over a cliff edge. One reason Britain is where it is in 2024: its people still regard The Italian Job not as cautionary but aspirational.

The Italian Job returns to cinemas nationwide from Friday. 

Monday 26 August 2024

Rules don't apply: "Blink Twice"


First, a small but significant observation: I understand why the producers went in this direction, but retitling a project known at script stage as
Pussy Island as the vastly more generic Blink Twice strikes me as almost as sad a loss to the world's marquees as when Ben Wheatley steered 2018's Happy New Year, Colin Burstead away from its initial Colin, You Anus. Beyond that: while making a watchable - possibly, as we shall see, too watchable - directorial debut, the actress Zoë Kravitz has delivered between 55-60% of a worthwhile film. Blink Twice opens with a fullscreen trigger warning, then proceeds with a half-hour of set-up that neatly captures what it may well be to get pulled into the orbit of someone with unlimited resources. In this case, party boy tech billionaire Slater King (Channing Tatum), handing a pair of lowly caterers working his latest function - Frida (Naomi Ackie) and Jess (Alia Shawkat) - the golden ticket of an all-expenses-paid trip to his sunkissed private island for a weekend of drug-fuelled R&R. In these early scenes, Kravitz demonstrates two gifts. First, she has an eye for screen-filling faces you're only too happy to watch: King's entourage - a ragtail mix of crypto bros and app developers, reality starlets and washed-up hangers-on - is fleshed out by such welcome, long-overlooked performers as Christian Slater, Geena Davis (as a klutz of a PA), Haley Joel Osment and Simon Rex. Second, she deploys a thoughtful, distinctive editing strategy that consciously pushes towards discombobulation, if not outright incoherence. Nothing squares up as we expect once we get to the island; it's day, then suddenly it's night; we get but glimpses of the good life, alluring flashes of the big brass ring, rather than the full picture you and I might need to reassure us. That back-up title comes from a line Frida jokingly puts to King's grinning shrink (Kyle MacLachlan, one symbol of the movie's aspirations to Lynch) early on: "Blink twice if I'm in danger." The shrink duly blinks, twice. Our girls are in trouble, all right, but so are we, and - like our starstruck heroine - we're too caught up in this glitzy demi-monde to back out slowly and head home. By staying seated, however, what we witness is the degree to which Kravitz herself is flirting with disaster.

Blink Twice turns out to be three movies for the price of one, and you will have to weigh the success the writer-director makes of the first two against the anticlimactic mess she makes of the last. The freshest material here comes in the guise of a hangout movie, a loaded portrait of the idle rich that must have come easily to the switched-on daughter of showbiz royalty. Whether handing Ackie and Shawkat studio-money wardrobe changes or gilding scenes with the James Brown back catalogue, Kravitz is nothing if not alert to the many ways money throbs, thrusts, dazzles and seduces. The middle stretch is a decent enough bad trip, evoking what it is to be removed from reality and off the clock: immense fun at first, clearly, then disconcerting and even disturbing, the women waking up with bruised arms and dirt under their fingernails. (Those offbeat cuts suddenly correspond to blackouts.) Only in its final third does Blink Twice fall apart, revealed as a rather cartoonish, sometimes silly film to have made about what it's actually about; like a lot of Hollywood responses to the #MeToo moment, it doesn't really feel up to the task of correcting the behaviour it wants to indict. Some part of the film has been torn from the headlines - without giving too much away, it's dramatising what it is to become the plaything of rich and powerful men - yet despite that pre-emptive trigger warning, those headlines have been milked for mid, recent Shyamalan-level suspense (sneaking around offices, third-act reveals) rather than the flesh-creeping horror one felt watching Kitty Green's The Assistant and The Royal Hotel. Everything, not just the title, has been softened for ready multiplex consumption, any hint of chill countered by sunny surrealism, more pop, jokes, Tatum swag, even comedy chickens. This tactic of making-nice with regard to the film's big issue arguably corresponds to the position of women in the real world, compelled to avoid making too great a scene so as to stay employed - but it also sneaks into the film's botched ending, in which this status quo is decisively preserved. Best not upset the suits; keep calm and business as usual. Green - whose confrontational fictions have been informed by her documentary work, and depend on us seeing abusive behaviour for what it is - would likely have gone further and retitled Blink Twice as Rape Island. You don't need to open with a trigger warning when you call a movie that.

Blink Twice is currently playing in cinemas nationwide. 

High spirits: "Stree 2"


2018's original
Stree had the advantage of stealth. A spry two-hour horror-comedy, launched into a moment when the Indian mainstream was thumping out far burlier, heavier (would-be) entertainments, it found emergent young talent (the irreverent screenwriting duo known as Raj & DK, director Amar Kaushik) enlivening what might have seemed a careworn horror premise (village haunted by vengeful wraith) with progressive thinking (the wraith was another victim of the patriarchy), funny situations and agreeably goofy playing. Few analysts saw it coming, and yet - like one of those Blumhouse titles pitched as crowdpleasing counterprogramming in the pell-mell of awards season - it proved a major domestic hit at a time the industry was crying out for them. Stree 2, perhaps inevitably, turns out to be twenty minutes longer, logistically bigger (hundreds of extras for the opening song-recap, widespread supernatural activity, no less than four post-credit scenes in the MCU style) and starrier with it, two notable cameos confirming a general sense the sleeper proposition of old has become a runaway gravy train even A-listers are newly keen to board. Though Raj & DK have moved on, doubtless busy trying to drum up new ideas for their roughly 407 streaming series - Niren Bhatt assumes scripting responsibilities - both Kaushik and the core cast have been retained, as has a faith in old-school story and character that steadies Stree 2 whenever it threatens to succumb to full-on sequel bloat. For the village that plays host to still-virginal tailor Vicky (Rajkummar Rao, ever-game as these films' equivalent of slasher cinema's fabled "final girl") is now being stalked by a new threat: a fast-rolling furball that reveals itself as a severed head disappearing the local womenfolk. Once again, these mysterious events are rooted in past injustice that has to be righted in the present-day; once more, our hero is almost too busy mooning over his unnamed spectral sweetheart (an appropriately ghostly Shraddha Kapoor, drifting on and off set from adjacent shoots) to achieve that. This is very much one of those sequels that does the same thing again, winding up on the exact side road the first Stree did; it just takes slightly longer to get there, is all.

In the meantime, what becomes apparent is that this is going to be a shits-and-giggles franchise (or "kicks-and-giggles", as one character chastely rewords the phrase), specifically targeted at a brain-in-first-gear Friday and Saturday night crowd. (I caught it on the Sunday of a Bank Holiday weekend, which just about counts.) Stree 2 undeniably gives good spook. Though the mythology this time is vastly more torturous (some of the extra space gets filled with exposition), the severed head is a genuinely unnerving effect, dispatched by its headless master like Oz's flying monkeys to nip at quarries' behinds and/or drag them away, using suddenly sprouting tendrils, to an uncertain fate. It's pure coincidence that the film should have opened in a month of especially heinous real-world crimes against Indian women, but the monster here gains in resonance for seemingly doubling for any nogoodnik trying to exert control over the female form, be they Tate, Trump or Taliban. The gags are more mixed this time, though: second-string situations that really need the pep provided by Rao and his ragtag brothers-in-arms (Pankaj Tripathi, Aparshakti Khurana, Abhishek Banerjee), set to shouting at or talking over one another at high speed. (This is a louder film than its predecessor, which isn't really an endorsement.) One extended mix-up involving a character called Chitti and the Hindi word for letter (chiththee) has comic roots that extend, like the severed head's tendrils, back in the direction of the "Who's on first?" routine; I saw something of those much-rented Eighties texts Vamp, The Monster Squad and Beetlejuice in the first Stree, but Stree 2 reminded me this yammering kind of comedy-horror actually dates back almost a century, to The Old Dark House and Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein. Whatever novelty the first film possessed has been trampled well underfoot, then, but Stree 2 remains broadly amusing and, no matter how boysy and noisy it threatens to become, treats its women with respect, which is heartening in the context of latter-day Hindi cinema. In its more inspired sequences (some business with a ceremonial elephant costume, and non-buff Rao's efforts to pull a sword from a stone amid the closing stretch), it even begins to approach the leftfield charms of those Malayalam crowdpleasers that set the box office alight earlier this year. Story plus stars plus savvy: it's not a radical nor complicated formula, but it's surprising how many of our mass entertainments - and how many of our bigger mass entertainments - seem to have forgotten all about it of late.

Stree 2 is currently playing in selected cinemas.

Saturday 24 August 2024

In memoriam: Ángel Salazar (Telegraph 23/08/24)


Ángel Salazar
, who has died aged 68, was a Cuban-born actor and comedian best known for playing sidekick to Al Pacino in two defining modern crime movies: Scarface (1983) and Carlito’s Way (1993), both directed by Brian De Palma.

In Scarface, a torrid Florida-set update of Howard Hawks’ Depression-era drama, Salazar was Chi-Chi, the pintsized footsoldier who rescues Pacino’s migrant-turned-kingpin Tony Montana after an ambush by chainsaw-wielding rival Hector the Toad (Al Israel). Cast to assist Pacino with his Cuban accent, Salazar was rewarded with the role of the last of Montana’s gang to die, shot down after a Colombian cartel attack the protagonist’s cocaine-dusted Miami mansion.

The film set an early watermark for 1980s excess, going way beyond its initial shooting schedule: “We were meant to film for two months,” Salazar told a podcast in 2022, “We end up filming seven months.” Yet its pop-cultural footprint was sizeable. Montana’s command “Chi-Chi, get the yayo” (anglicised Spanish for cocaine) adorned T-shirts and memes, and Salazar reprised his role in the video for “I’m Not a Player”, rapper Big Pun’s US hit of 1997.

Carlito’s Way, drawn from novels by the Puerto Rican judge-turned-author Edwin Torres, was comparably rife with Latin colour. Draped in gaudy scarlet, Salazar played Walberto, an old associate who welcomes Pacino’s ex-con Carlito Brigante back to New York’s streets following his release from prison (“Should have figured I’d find you walking around up here. Doing a little memory lane”).

Another dazzling display of De Palma’s virtuosity, the film served as an unofficial Scarface reunion: Pacino, Salazar and Israel were joined on set by Michael P. Moran, a.k.a. Nick the Pig in the earlier film. Though a slower burn than Scarface’s hair-trigger fireworks – reviews mixed-to-positive, receipts solid rather than spectacular – it was another tale of the American melting pot with some basis in Salazar’s own experience. 

Born March 2, 1956, Salazar had left Cuba aged eighteen, swimming to the U.S. Navy base at Guantanamo Bay where he claimed political asylum. He settled in New York, where he began performing stand-up and auditioning for film roles, initially playing toughs and scrabblers in the urban dramas that were then in vogue; his screen debut came among the delinquents of Boulevard Nights (1979), Warner Bros’ attentive portrait of L.A. gang life. 

Post-Scarface, he was seen soliciting the voluptuous Kitten Natividad at a stripjoint (“I have Visa! Master Charge!”) in teen pic The Wild Life (1984), and playing a stand-up in Punchline (1988). In later life, he lent stocky support to microbudget features, often with Hispanic performers and themes: he followed the Dan Brown spoof Da Pinche Code (2012) with separate roles in vampires-versus-zombies sequels Vamp Bikers Dos (2015) and Vamp Bikers Tres (2016).

Working at this level could be frustrating. “The industry has changed completely,” Salazar lamented in 2017. “I’m an old school actor, and I work with a script… These days I ask the young filmmakers: ‘where is the script?’ and most tell me that it’s in their minds.” There were also brushes with the law: a drunk-driving charge in 2012, followed by an arrest in Arizona in 2016 for defaulting on child support.

Yet he expressed pride in certain ventures, not least his collaborations with Nelson Denis, the New York State assemblyman turned filmmaker with whom Salazar made the political satire Vote for Me! (2003) and Make America Great Again (2018), where Salazar played a Dominican navigating the iniquities of the US immigration system. These liberal endeavours ran counter to his own stated politics: a lifelong Republican, Salazar became a vocal Trump supporter online.

His final role will be in The Brooklyn Premiere (2025), an indie comedy about the making of a Scarface parody, further indication that one role can loom over a performer’s entire career. No matter that, as Salazar pointed out in his stand-up set, Chi-Chi ultimately bore little relation to lived reality: “If a bunch of Colombians are coming up to me with machine guns… man, I would not give a f*** about Al Pacino.”

Ángel Salazar, born March 2, 1956, died August 11, 2024.

Friday 23 August 2024

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of August 16-18, 2024):

1 (new) Alien: Romulus (15) ***
2 (1) It Ends with Us (15)
3 (2Deadpool & Wolverine (15) *
4 (re) Coraline (PG) ****
5 (3Despicable Me 4 (U)
6 (4) Trap (15)
7 (7) Inside Out 2 (U) ****
8 (6) Twisters (12A) ***
9 (new) Stree 2 (15) ***
10 (5) Borderlands (12A)

(source: BFI)

My top five:
3. Coraline


DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (31) Furiosa: a Mad Max Saga (15) ****
2 (1) The Fall Guy (12) **
3 (11) IF (PG)
4 (5) Ghostbusters: Frozen Empire (12)
5 (6) Barbie (12) ***
6 (3) Dune: Part Two (12) **
7 (2Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes (12)
8 (20) Back to Black (15)
9 (4) Horizon: An American Saga - Chapter 1 (15)
10 (9) Wonka (PG) ***


My top five: 
1. Furiosa: a Mad Max Saga

 
Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. Casablanca (Saturday, BBC2, 2.45pm)
2. Spellbound [above] (Saturday, BBC2, 1pm)
3. Decision to Leave (Saturday, BBC2, 12.55am)
4. The French Connection (Bank Holiday Monday, BBC2, 10.30pm)
5. The Magnificent Seven (Sunday, BBC2, 12.55pm)

Thursday 22 August 2024

The play's the thing: "Pulp Fiction" at 30


MIA WALLACE: Who told you?
VINCENT VEGA: They.
MIA WALLACE: They talk a lot, don't they?
VINCENT VEGA: They certainly do. They certainly do.

Somewhat improbably, Pulp Fiction has turned 30, which seems far too old for a work that served as a cornerstone of so many people's youth. This was, of course, the sophomore film that confirmed Quentin Tarantino, after 1992's eye- and ear-catching Reservoir Dogs, as the great white hope of the American popular cinema; its vast commercial success - raking in $213m on a $9m budget - kept Harvey Weinstein in place as head of Miramax, allowing both him and his prodigal talent to dominate the motion picture landscape for most of the next three decades. We watch it, then, in a very different context to that of 1994, yet some elements of the film haven't changed. From the off, you can sense why actors were so buzzed to sign up for the project: this was a feast of moving parts, arming its players with enduring monologues and punchy lines, audition pieces for starrier Tarantino films to come. Windy and verbose, revelling in its own language, this stuff must have read like Shakespeare for actors who'd never been invited to the RSC. There are fun games for the audience, too, whether puzzling out how exactly these achronological scenes connect together, ranking those performers in a Buzzfeed list from MVPs (Samuel L. Jackson, Harvey Keitel, Bruce Willis) to not-very-good Ps (Tim Roth, Ving Rhames, Tarantino himself), or deciding which actor would make the best (i.e. most surprising, because least well remembered) answer on an edition of Pointless. The contenders come thick and fast: Frank Whaley, Eric Stoltz, Maria de Medeiros, Steve Buscemi (the diner scene's Buddy Holly), Kathy Griffin (playing herself, apparently). The top Pointless answer may still be Bronagh Gallagher from The Commitments, only briefly glimpsed, but some indication of how everyone was being sucked into Tarantino's orbit circa 1994.

The element of play is central to Pulp Fiction. Miramax had been bought up by Disney the year before, and Tarantino promptly gifted Weinstein a film that effectively served as a theme park for the over-18s, complete with its own themed restaurant (Jack Rabbit Slim's), whose extravagant, budget-blowing design was its own display of the confidence studio chief had in favoured film son. Here were scenes as rollercoaster rides, looping around on one another and gradually constructing an idea of something bigger, a Tarantinoland or Tarantinoworld. This was the writer-director's gift, for leftfield accelerations of word and deed; for scenarios that demanded the viewer strap in and hold on tight. Two jobbing hitmen (Jackson and the re-emergent John Travolta, finding himself at the centre of things for the first time in a decade-and-a-half) start talking about burgers and wind up covered in blood. Two loved-up bank robbers (Roth and Amanda Plummer) decide to rob the diner they're idly chatting in. A gold watch leads to forced sodomy and murder in the backroom of an L.A. pawn shop. By way of variation, one of the hitmen takes a gangster's moll (Uma Thurman) out for milkshakes and ends up in a dance-off - though even this diversion leads, eventually, to bloodshed. It's all heading in one direction, which is why nothing seems overly complicated or mystifying; Pulp was really no more than an expansion of the tight, self-contained Dogs, another movie that started with ne'er-do-wells yakking in a diner, but there the theatre of cruelty had been limited to five (or so) guys in an austere warehouse. What was new (and thrilling) at the time was the especially roundabout way Tarantino outlined and filled the extra space, the chatting and chewing that stalled the inevitable confrontation. With the knowledge of Tarantino's subsequent gabfests, this now seems a mixed blessing. Jackson and Travolta's back-and-forths still crackle appreciably - you like hanging out with them - but the draggy Willis/de Medeiros scenes might well have been cut by a director working for a less forgiving employer.

The whole now stands as a mouthily American monument to consumption, be that the stories Tarantino had gobbled up in his youth or the junk (cereal, cocaine, milkshakes, Pop Tarts) his characters pump into themselves. (Even the joke Thurman tells Travolta centres on ketchup; these scripts must have arrived full of crumbs, and smeared with who-knows-what substances.) Yet what finally leaves Pulp Fiction no more than Disneyland for movie nerds, a second Planet Hollywood, is that it at no point brushes against the painful life experience of the previous year's Short Cuts, by which Robert Altman and Raymond Carver underlined their claims to being artists rather than merely fanboys. Not a single one of these bullets is felt; the action takes place not in actual L.A., but a vast, sterile, self-sealed safe space, cushioned by ironic quotation marks. Tarantino would push beyond chicanery and heartlessness for his next trick, 1997's Jackie Brown, but after its commercial failure, he put it down as a failed experiment and shut himself back in his teenage bedroom for the Kill Bill diptych. So Anthony Lane's concerns that this creative was essentially trading in trivia, that we risked elevating to prominence no more than a garrulous hamburger fetishist, still apply. (If not burgers, then other plates of meat: clock the way Thurman is introduced, and how quickly the conversation turns to foot massage.) In the matter of Pulp v. Gump, first litigated at Oscars 1995, I would have voted Quiz Show, or Shawshank if I were feeling sentimental. There is still enjoyment to be found amid this compendium: you'll get to see Jackson quote Ezekiel, where that "John Travolta entering a room" GIF and those bizarre Harvey Keitel life insurance ads came from, and there are points where Tarantino's narrative facility still wrongfoots us, pleasurably. Yet I think we might now healthily approach this canonical text with an ambivalence that extends beyond its maker's altogether casual licensing of the N-word: though artfully arranged, these profane breezeblocks might equally have been assembled in such a way that Pulp Fiction didn't result in Tarantino becoming an insufferable windbag, and in Weinstein being further empowered to do what he did. Playtime's over, boys.

Pulp Fiction returns to cinemas nationwide tomorrow.

In memoriam: Sergio Donati (Telegraph 20/08/24)


Sergio Donati
, who has died aged 91, was an Italian screenwriter who served among the architects of the spaghetti Western genre with his work on Sergio Leone’s Dollars sequels and the monumental Once Upon a Time in the West (1968); later, he helped chisel muscular newcomer Arnold Schwarzenegger’s screen persona with the action thriller Raw Deal (1986).
 

Donati provided uncredited rewrites on For a Few Dollars More (1965) and The Good, The Bad and the Ugly (1966), where he was instrumental during a lengthy editing process. For Once Upon a Time in the West, Donati developed Bernardo Bertolucci and Dario Argento’s story outline into a 420-page screenplay, written like a novel: “Leone explicitly asked me to spell out every character’s emotional state, to facilitate the actors’ task of penetrating their minds.”

The resulting epic proved a spaghetti highpoint, powered by searing star turns, dynamic direction and terse, witty dialogue (“People scare better when they’re dyin’”) that survived the necessary overdubbing. Donati became known as a Western specialist, with credits on such lively second-string artefacts as Sergio Sollima’s The Big Gundown and Face to Face (both 1967). But after a disagreement with Leone over Duck, You Sucker! (1971) – Donati saw it as a tight thriller, Leone a rambunctious epic – he branched out into other genres with mixed results.

He was set to direct his own script for Slap the Monster on Page One (1972), only to row with lead Gian Maria Volonte, who had Donati replaced by Marco Bellocchio. Pairing with prominent producer Dino De Laurentiis boosted Donati’s bank account but not his reputation: there were only brickbats for the Jaws rip-off Orca, the Killer Whale (1977) and Raw Deal, which starred a post-Terminator Schwarzenegger as a sheriff pursuing the Chicago mob.

Though Variety called the latter’s script “irredeemably awful”, Donati maintained he was attempting something new: “We were the first to make a Schwarzenegger film with a little irony… Schwarzenegger made three or four films prior to that but was also very serious. Dino gave us some videos of his earlier films and we said, ‘Hey, it’s funny!’ That terrible English with that German accent. It was funny. So we wrote for him and that was the beginning of his success.”

Born in Rome on April 13, 1933, Sergio Donati studied law at the city’s Faculty of Law before finding success as a crime writer; his 1956 novel Il sepolcro di carta was filmed by Tinto Brass as I Am What I Am (1967). It was during this period that he met Leone, who hired Donati to write an Alpine crime thriller, yet after the project petered out, a disillusioned Donati relocated to Milan and began copywriting.

Leone, however, wasn’t giving up: “[He] kept calling me saying, ‘What are you doing in Milan? Come back to Rome and make films.’ One day he called me and told me to go and see a Kurosawa film, Yojimbo. When I asked him why he said that we could do it as a Western. I told him he was crazy. I said to my wife that if a man named Leone calls to say that I wasn’t home. That is why I didn’t write A Fistful of Dollars.”

Later Western-adjacent undertakings included the first adaptation of A.J. Quinnell’s novel Man on Fire (1987) and period piece North Star (1996), with James Caan and Christopher Lambert. Yet from the millennium, Donati worked exclusively within Italy. His final credit came on The Sicilian Girl (2008), a torn-from-the-headlines drama about a daughter who testified against her Mob boss father.

He penned a memoir, Once Upon a Time in the West… I Was There Too, in 2007, but otherwise maintained a droll gunslinger’s wit about his relative anonymity: “A script is like a spermatozoa. When the movie comes out it is like they are baptising the child and it is in bad taste to talk about that night, nine months before, when the child was conceived. That night was the script. But nobody talks about it.”

Sergio Donati, born April 13, 1933, died August 13, 2024.

Wednesday 21 August 2024

The Irishmen: "Kneecap"


With the noble exception of Chappell Roan, our musicians still want to be moviestars, yet very few acts can claim to have achieved that crossover at the exact right moment with the exact right project. The Beatles, of course, whose A Hard Day's Night continues to demonstrate the band's preternatural combination of timing and good judgement. Prince with Purple Rain, certainly. Maybe Supergrass, if the Monkees-style TV show Steven Spielberg reportedly had planned for them had come to fruition in the first phase of their ascendancy. Yet for every one of these musical unicorns, there is a dead horse being flogged somewhere: Vanilla Ice in 1991's Cool as Ice, 1997's sadly unforgettable Spiceworld: The Movie ("they don't just sing"), the already dwindling S Club 7 in 2003's Seeing Double. With the wholly disarming Kneecap, the titular new white hopes of Irish hiphop strive to print their own legend before the truth has had chance to get its trainers on: youthful rabblerousing, inspired by an IRA fugitive father figure (Michael Fassbender in the movie, porting over traits from 2008's Hunger) who insisted his boys watch Westerns on TV from the perspective of the Injuns, prolific effing-slash-jeffing and drug use in adolescence, followed by overnight success only after their music and gigs started being banned for subversion by the powers-that-be. Crucial to the entire project - the music and now the movie - is their insistence on doing much of the above in the Irish language, the line of Da's that stuck with them long enough to find its way into this script being "every word of Irish spoken is a bullet fired for Irish freedom". (They are a very 21st century phenomenon, looking to speak those words and attain that freedom without having to fire the literal bullets their forefathers did.) The results add up to that rarest of pop-movie beasts: a film that ticks off all the necessary promotional work - replaying the hits, getting those who know nothing of Pitchfork and 6Music up to speed with the story so far - while feeling persistently rebellious and touching on so much else besides. Kneecap has smart, witty, substantial things to say about national and personal identity, intergenerational trauma, even the dwindling revenue stream of today's non-megastar performer. The mystery the critic has to unpick is how a pair of scamps in tracksuits who might otherwise resemble Jedward with eight-pound haircuts, and an older fellow who serves as the pair's MC but looks like a civil servant of some kind, pulled it off.

The solution, it strikes me, is an exceptionally well-integrated script, credited to director Rich Peppiatt and the band, which highlights the boys' evident facility with words - what's already been amply demonstrated on record - within an immensely satisfying and revealing structure. Every last one of these scenes and sidebars forms its own comment on who this act is and where they came from, and a very high percentage is extremely funny indeed. True, some of it is crude, 18-rated, boys-will-be-boys malarkey (misadventures with ketamine, a sex scene where the lovers egg one another on - and get each other off - with Republican slogans and taunts), but there are also wry cracks at the expense of Michael Collins, and - almost unimaginably - a choice sight gag involving an actual kneecapping. Even the dialogue between the film's normies - headed by conflicted teacher turned translator (JJ Ó Dochartaigh) who enters Kneecap lore as the group's cokehead DJ Provai - has a certain irreverent crackle and fizz: "You're like the man who discovered the Beatles," Provai is told by a cop tailing the band, "if the Beatles were shit". Having caught the British tabloids with their trousers down in 2014's documentary One Rogue Reporter (a DVD of which makes a cameo here, perhaps inevitably as a means of drug smuggling), Peppiatt looks to have fully understood the assignment - get an unlikely story on film - while also opening the film up via improvisation and riff: false starts and animated inserts, fastforwarding past the rote (the boys' torture at the hands of a group calling themselves Radical Republicans Against Drugs) to get to the fresher material. He does something especially deft with a tricolored balaclava: a relic of Ireland past, initially co-opted for a sex game, then as a mask and essential item of stagewear (and now, presumably, hot-potato merchandise). Yet Kneecap is never solely about the band: the supporting characterisation is unusually generous, and Peppiatt's old idea of what constitutes good journalism informs the attempt to school us - via radio and TV inserts as much as written drama - as to the state of play in post-millennial Ireland, what leads its kids to pop pills and dream of becoming the voice of a nation. The movie wears its history and politics lightly, but that underlying seriousness of purpose dispels the faint air of Kurupt FM/Goldie Lookin' Chain novelty hanging over this collective. Even so, Kneecap remains by some distance the cheekiest and most surprising film of the summer months; for fullest enjoyment, bunk off something important to see it.

Kneecap is now showing in cinemas across Ireland, and opens in selected UK cinemas from Friday.

Sunday 18 August 2024

Parasites: "Alien: Romulus"


In the absence of new or better ideas, this is probably all we can expect Hollywood to squeeze out of the Alien IP in years to come: would-be visionary spinoffs in which obsessive tinkerer Ridley Scott expands the series mythology while leaving the fanboys varyingly grumpy, and straightforward runarounds of lowish ambition, directed by self-identifying fanboys, which remind us all of why we thrilled to this franchise in the first place. (Essentially, it'll be two kinds of films to do what the far less grandiose Planet of the Apes update, another Disney reboot of what was once a Fox mainstay, has done in the course of individual movies.) Alien: Romulus falls squarely and plainly in the latter camp: it sees Fede Alvarez, the Uruguayan import who oversaw 2013's Evil Dead reboot and initiated a franchise of his own with the Don't Breathe films, pitching up with a story that slots chronologically between Alien and Aliens, thus limiting any baggage and allowing the film that results to travel relatively light. In as much as Alvarez brings new elements to the series mythology, it's the suggestion there may still be populated planets within the prevailing quietness of the original film's space: in this case, an overpopulated mining colony where the grime, abundant hardware and marked absence of sunlight more immediately recalls Scott's Blade Runner than Aliens. (You instantly see why Ripley and co. might have signed up for an away day.) Furthermore, Alvarez posits, a younger generation are labouring under the same oppressively indifferent system that allowed the creature(s) to run amok in earlier movies: these sons and daughters of Veronica Cartwright and Yaphet Kotto, led by a colourless Cailee Spaeny and her android "brother" David Jonsson, are prompted to raid a decommissioned craft to pay their way after the official channels are firmly closed off to them. If stealing the lead off the roof of an abandoned spaceship sounds like a bad idea, best avoided, within the context of the Alien universe, well... like, duh.

The problem the non-Scott Alien derivatives face is that they're bound to seem less like a long-term passion project than parasitic and/or opportunistic fan fiction. (This series may finally have reached the same stage its exact contemporary Star Wars did when Disney signed off on Rogue One and Solo: the franchise is entering its Years of Annotation, and possibly dwindling pop-cultural significance.) That Romulus is New Aliens™ is discernible from the bald fact none of the broadly interchangeable supporting cast can credibly suggest having worked down any mine outside of cryptocurrency. As recently as twelve years ago, Prometheus was employing such grizzled troopers as Sean Harris and Michael Fassbender; the moviegoing demographics can't have shifted that radically in the meantime, but Romulus leaves us watching what often resembles the Muppet Babies variant of Alien. (Alvarez has turned to CG or AI to regenerate some notion of seniority for a key cameo, and the plasticky effect ranks among the film's least persuasive.) That said, accept these limitations and commercial compromises, and much of the new film still works - which is to say it reminds us that, getting on for fifty years ago, Scott and screenwriters Dan O'Bannon and Ronald Shusett alighted upon a copper-bottomed premise for suspenseful cinema. Usher a ragtag of patsies and grunts, scrappers and scrabblers, into a dark, confined, unwelcoming space; have them picked off one by one; wash, rinse and go again. Gorehounds get their fix; scholars of postcolonial and gender studies are invited to make a greater case for this artful exploitation than perhaps it deserves. Everything hinges on the setpieces the chief creative has planned for when the airlock doors close on their characters, and Alvarez, a proven suspense technician, engineers gantry-based action with a little of TV's The Crystal Maze about it: sneak through a room raised to human body temperature, past beasties who track your heat; cut a pregnant crewmate from a nest before the alien mother clocks you; dodge aliens in zero gravity, an idea so inspired both Scott and James Cameron will be kicking themselves when they see it. (So inspired, indeed, that it should really have been the pièce de résistance, rather than just another bit to be burned through.) Nothing here contradicts the sense Hollywood has gone backwards again this summer, but Romulus at least goes back to a formula that has reliably delivered one type of Alien movie - and along the way, liberated by low expectations, Alvarez even alights on one of my favourite images of the series entire: hundreds of appreciably rubbery facehuggers, loosed from cryo, bouncing up off these sets like triggered mousetraps.

Alien: Romulus is now playing in cinemas nationwide.

Saturday 17 August 2024

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of August 9-11, 2024):

1 (new) It Ends with Us (15)
2 (1) Deadpool & Wolverine (15) *
3 (2Despicable Me 4 (U)
4 (new) Trap (15)
5 (new) Borderlands (12A)
6 (3) Twisters (12A) ***
7 (4Inside Out 2 (U) ****
8 (5) Harold and the Purple Crayon (PG)
9 (6) Longlegs (15) **
10 (re) Spider-Man 2 (12A) ****

(source: BFI)

My top five:
1. Coraline [above]
2. Lone Star
4. Spider-Man 3


DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (2) The Fall Guy (12) **
2 (1) Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes (12)
3 (9) Dune: Part Two (12) **
4 (3) Horizon: An American Saga - Chapter 1 (15)
5 (8) Ghostbusters: Frozen Empire (12)
6 (24) Barbie (12) ***
7 (13) Anyone but You (15)
8 (4) Meg 2: The Trench (12)
9 (28) Wonka (PG) ***
10 (6) The Bikeriders (15)


My top five: 
1. Furiosa: a Mad Max Saga

 
Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. Strangers on a Train (Sunday, BBC2, 12.20pm)
2. Psycho (Sunday, BBC2, 10pm)
3. Collateral (Friday, Channel 4, 12.50am)
4. Mission: Impossible III (Sunday, ITV1, 11.10pm)
5. The Mask (Sunday, BBC1, 4.30pm)

In memoriam: Gena Rowlands (Telegraph 15/08/24)


Gena Rowlands
, who has died aged 94, was a hardy, versatile actress lauded for her excoriating collaborations with her husband of 45 years, the independent film pioneer John Cassavetes. In a decade-spanning run of projects that redefined American screen acting – starting with Faces (1968) and ending with Love Streams (1984) – Rowlands embodied women who were tough, troubled and only sporadically sympathetic. 

A Midwestern blonde who modelled her younger self on Marlene Dietrich (Cassavetes nicknamed her “Golden Girl”), Rowlands had to wait until her late thirties for these roles, making her a trailblazer within an American cinema growing ever more obsessed with youth. Yet she was as adventurous as her husband, and devoid of actorly vanity: she could look radiant or ravaged, as the camera demanded.

She earned her first Academy Award nomination as Mabel, the housewife whose stiflingly settled world collapses in on her in A Woman Under the Influence (1974), which Cassavetes originally conceived as a play before a rethink at Rowlands’ behest. On being confronted with such draining setpieces as a 20-minute breakdown under medical supervision, Rowlands remarked: “John, I would be dead in two weeks if I played this on stage every night.”

The pair elaborated on that idea with Opening Night (1977), in which Rowlands’ grande dame Myrtle Gordon finds herself beset by demons after witnessing a fan’s death during previews for her latest play. Pushing Cassavetes’ trademark psychodrama into explicitly supernatural territory – at a time when The Exorcist (1973) and The Omen (1976) had made horror big box-office again – the film landed its star the Best Actress prize at the Berlin festival.

Cassavetes then took a left turn into action territory with Gloria (1980), where Rowlands played the eponymous moll, forced on the lam while protecting a young murder witness. The couple revived the project after it had been dropped by another actress: “John was much more serious than I was, I said “No, I doubt he’ll want to do this.” But then… I talked [him] into directing, we did it, and I had a great time shooting people and dodging people and running after taxis.” Such exertions landed Rowlands a second Oscar nod.

The pair first met in the early 1950s at the American Academy of Dramatic Art: “At the auditions, other students could drop in to watch the new actors, and John was there when it was my turn. He saw me, and he said to the friend who was next to him, ‘I'm going to marry her.’” At first, Rowlands rebuffed Cassavetes’ advances: “Once in a while, we would meet and get coffee, and he’d ask if I'd like to go out, and I said, ‘No, I'm not interested in going out with anyone. I'm going to be an actress.’ It just went along that way until I graduated.”

Despite marked differences in personality and taste – as Cassavetes observed, in equal parts exasperation and awe, “She thinks so totally opposite to anything I could conceive!” – the two married in 1954, and their ambitions quickly intertwined. Rowlands made one of her first screen appearances in Cassavetes’ debut Shadows (1958) and was at her husband’s side during A Child is Waiting (1963), the fractious work-for-hire that sparked fights with producer Stanley Kramer and a complete rethink of the director’s methodology.

In Cassavetes’ subsequent work, Rowlands served a dual role as both onscreen focal point and resident den mother, reassuring performers unnerved by her husband’s rigorous, sometimes punishing approach to making art. With relations further complicated by Cassavetes’ drinking, it wasn’t always easy. As Rowlands herself once confessed: “He’s the most terrifying perfectionist about what he wants. As an artist, I love him. As a husband, I hate him.” 

Yet by the time of Love Streams – their final collaboration, where they played ageing siblings – the pair were inseparable. As Roger Ebert noted while revisiting A Woman Under the Influence in 1988: “Movies are such a collaborative medium that we rarely get the sense of one person, but Cassavetes at least got it down to two: himself and Rowlands. The key to his work is to realize that it is always Rowlands, not the male lead, who is playing the Cassavetes role.” They remained together until the latter’s death from cirrhosis in 1989.

She was born Virginia Cathryn Rowlands in Madison, Wisconsin on June 19, 1930, the second of two children for Edwyn Rowlands, a banker of Welsh descent who became an assemblyman and senator, and his wife Mary Allen Neal, a talented amateur painter. (As “Lady Rowlands”, a nickname provided by her grandchildren, she provided artwork for several Cassavetes features.)

It was an itinerant childhood, the family relocating to Washington and Minneapolis upon Edwyn’s appointment to the Department of Agriculture and the Office of Price Administration. Rowlands herself seemed restless, dropping out of the University of Wisconsin, before finding a home on stage and television.

She performed in the touring version of The Seven Year Itch and enjoyed an early triumph as a replacement for Eva Marie Saint in Paddy Chayefsky’s play Middle of the Night (1956). After catching eyes in TV’s science-based procedural Top Secret (1954), she appeared in several major hits, including Alfred Hitchcock Presents (1960) and Peyton Place (1967).

Her film debut came in the José Ferrer vehicle The High Cost of Loving (1958), but she initially preferred to work within a close circle of trusted associates. She rejoined Cassavetes in the Rome-shot crime saga Machine Gun McCain (1969) and the thriller Two-Minute Warning (1976) and reunited with her Woman Under the Influence husband Peter Falk on a 1975 episode of Columbo.

Other directors were soon calling, however. She made The Brink’s Job (1978) for William Friedkin; she and Cassavetes were the couple at the centre of Paul Mazursky’s ripe Shakespearean romp Tempest (1982); she played Michael J. Fox’s mother in Paul Schrader’s musical drama Light of Day (1987), and enjoyed one of her stronger non-Cassavetes roles as the philosophy professor eavesdropping Mia Farrow’s therapy sessions in Woody Allen’s Another Woman (1988).

After Cassavetes’ death, she worked more widely, both in the flourishing indie sector – Night on Earth (1991), The Neon Bible (1995) – and in the mainstream as a warm, nurturing presence, playing mum to Julia Roberts in Something to Talk About (1995) and Sandra Bullock in Hope Floats (1998). Her children with Cassavetes had themselves reached directing age: she collaborated with daughter Zoe on the indie Broken English (1997) and with son Nick on Unhook the Stars (1996) and the wildly successful weepie The Notebook (2004).

Her hallowed status among cinephiles was underlined when Pedro Almodóvar dedicated All About My Mother (1999) to her; two years later, Cahiers du Cinéma dubbed Rowlands “A Woman for All Seasons”. In 2015, she collected an honorary Oscar, the Academy acknowledging “an original talent [whose] devotion to her craft has earned her worldwide recognition as an independent film icon.”

By then, she’d remarried (to the businessman Robert Forrest, in 2012) and all but retired, devoting herself to tending her first husband’s legacy. Retrospectives in London in 2001, L.A. in 2014 and New York in 2016 prompted renewed discussion of Cassavetes’ achievements, and of Rowlands’ part within them. Reflecting on A Woman Under the Influence in later life, Rowlands concluded: “It was sort of a difficult role. But I like difficult roles.”

She is survived by Forrest, and her three children by Cassavetes, the actor-directors Nick, Xan and Zoe.

Gena Rowlands, born June 19, 1930, died August 14, 2024.