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.

"John Cleese Packs It In" (Guardian 14/11/25)


John Cleese Packs It In
**

Dir: Andy Curd. With: John Cleese. 80 mins. Cert: 12A

The long and fabled history of Python reaches its footnotes and afterthoughts era. After years of interpersonal disputes, multiple forays into the culture war and one very expensive divorce, 85-year-old John Cleese goes solo in this thin 80-minute travelogue, undertaking a European mini-tour while enduring a rollcall of ailments (partial deafness, bone spurs, vertigo) which appears at least as substantive as his onstage material. Explaining his motivation, Cleese is not untypically blunt: a wheezy “I need the money” is the closest Andy Curd’s doc locates to a running gag.

What are we offered in return? Near-relentless gripes and grievances that mesh with Cleese’s recent media profile, ranging from endless repacking to being filmed at all hours. (Perhaps forgivable, given Curd’s often unflattering angles.) Also lambasted: audiences who refuse to titter at such routines as the one in which Cleese spends a small eternity hacking up phlegm. We get oddly little of the show itself, much B-roll filler in fish markets and cheese shops, and an unlovely photomontage of the comic’s battered big toe. (In fairness, he warns us: “If you’ve just had a mouthful of popcorn, look away now.”) 

Sporadically, the old silliness and joy poke through. Cleese is tickled to have had a lemur named after him, and his curiosity is reawakened by a Buddhist temple. (The most illuminating aspect is archival: footage of the comic’s 1991 sitdown with the Dalai Lama.) But sustained inner peace seems beyond him, and even his more jocular asides have an ungenerous edge. The Palin-razzing sounds far more sour than fond; on hearing of one ex-wife’s passing, Cleese quips “it was the wrong one”. 

Those wishing to swerve another Spinal Tap 2-level disappointment would do better sticking with their Fawlty boxsets, but this bathetic endeavour proves unintentionally revealing in one respect. This Cleese – still front-facing, but fragile and frazzled – is seen to inhabit a strange limbo that maps with the recent spate of texts chronicling Ozzy Osbourne’s final months. Can absolutely no-one now afford a long, happy and restful retirement? Is it capitalism or pure showbusiness compulsion ushering our erstwhile heroes towards the grave?

John Cleese Packs It In is now showing in selected cinemas.

Mother!: "Die My Love"


If I seem less convinced of Lynne Ramsay's genius than some of my colleagues - heresy, I know - it's because to these eyes she's never quite matched the magic, that peculiar alchemy of grit and wonder, which she conjured in her breakthrough one-two of 1999's
Ratcatcher and 2002's Morvern Callar. 2011's We Need to Talk About Kevin, so arresting on a first watch, stood exposed as brittle and more than a little silly in its paedophobia on a second, very much a work based on the writings of a once-respected literary figure who's since been revealed as a crank. And as someone who's always found Taxi Driver heavy weather at the best of times, I was unlikely to be much swayed by the Stars in their Eyes Scorseseisms of 2017's You Were Never Really Here. The gaps in the Ramsay filmography had grown so cosmically vast one sensed the diehards cheering for anything, however joyless. Ramsay's latest Die My Love is better, though; a properly prickly, black-comic anatomy of a doomed marriage, it suggests August's The Roses with the thorns left on and the volume cranked up to eleven. The couple at its centre, Grace and Jackson (Jennifer Lawrence and Robert Pattinson), are a pair of young and horny writers introduced installing themselves in a new, isolated country house in upstate New York. They dance in the kitchen, they fuck on the living-room floor, but no sooner has the title appeared than the honeymoon is over: they have a baby, which immediately changes the sexy, us-against-the-world dynamic, and her evident boredom with the trad-mom lifestyle rubs up against his disinterest in the woman she's become. Love can sometimes be a house of cards; for just shy of two hours, we watch this particular house of cards come crashing down.

It makes a hell of a noise. Grace and Jackson - loaded rock 'n' roll names - fuck and fight to prime album cuts; even after the baby arrives, the house is blasted and besieged by Alvin and the Chipmunks doing "Let's Twist Again" and Toni Basil's "Mickey". One characteristic Ramsay audibly shares with Scorsese, an exec-producer here: they both go through life with earbuds firmly in. Grace and Jackson, though, put their records on to drown out the eerie silence of the surrounding woods, and what it forces them to contemplate. I have to say they may not entirely need the background noise. Between senile in-law Nick Nolte smashing glasses, one of the screen's yappier dogs and the cries of the couple's undertended infant, this is one of the louder households you'll set foot inside, and that's before Grace's mom (Sissy Spacek) turns up wielding a loaded shotgun. (For her, motherhood means being permanently on guard.) The noise is, however, reflective of Ramsay's direction of travel in these recent, international endeavours. Part of the appeal of her British films was how dreamy and thoughtful they were: they were magical in their subtleties and asides, for what they turned up in the margins of their margins. Ramsay's American films, by contrast, have been blunter, grabbier and cruder, designed to catch eyes, assail ears and turn heads. She's not alone in this: what her career trajectory reflects above all else is how hard it's become to make a dent at the arthouse box-office in the quarter-century since Ratcatcher. Now she casts stars, strips them down and smashes them against one another as seven-year-olds do with Transformers toys; to survive, the dreamer has had to become a carnival barker. Roll up, roll up, Die My Love booms: come see Katniss Everdeen and Edward Cullen going hell-for-leather at one another, no holds barred.

This time, though, the stars really are worth the ticket price. Lawrence, a gifted comedienne whose ears could only have been fortified by working on David O. Russell sets, gets what's funny about this set-up; whether throwing herself through plate glass to avoid dealing with the kid (smash) or into the pool at a kids' birthday party (splash), she's absolutely on Ramsay's wavelength. (Asked by a checkout girl whether she's found what she's looking for, Grace snaps "in life?") This is actually a rare star vehicle that benefits from the fact our stars now skew younger. I don't think we buy either Lawrence or Pattinson as writers, particularly when there's zero physical evidence of writing in this house. But in those scenes where Grace is left to wonder the house and woods alone, Lawrence really does present as a child herself, desperate for attention and affection, for anything that might relieve the housebound boredom driving her out of her mind. More so than last year's compromised-seeming Nightbitch, Die My Love pushes new motherhood to an extreme, but - however tenuously - it remains tethered to some idea of lived reality. Pattinson seems slightly stuck in the stock useless-husband role female creatives have to write to back up their thesis, but he finds a crafty new way of playing it - something like Nicholson in The Shining, the insinuation being Jackson, too, finds this newfound responsibility deranging, even before the midfilm concussion that leaves him permanently on the backfoot. Ramsay, for her part, still looks to be finding her way back to full power. A late wedding-party flashback tells us nothing we didn't already either know or infer about this relationship; the fuck-it ending is as nihilist as anything in the Lanthimos film. If I remain reluctant to burden this filmmaker with the tag of genius, it's because we've still only seen half the picture. We know from her handful of films that she doesn't care much for kids, and that she finds even marriage a maddening chore. But what does she like? What does she thrill to? What does she find beautiful or stimulating or arousing, even? With the world in the state it is, does Lynne Ramsay still dream and wonder?

Die My Love is now playing in cinemas nationwide.

Wednesday, 12 November 2025

Strange harvest: "Bugonia"


This feels a weird question to ask - doubly so, given the weird state of the world - but is it possible Yorgos Lanthimos is running out of weirdness to film? Awards-circuit attention for 2023's
Poor Things has kept the money coming in, but Lanthimos may have made a rod for his own back in insisting on tackling only that material that vibrates at a very narrow, very strange frequency. (His rival for the title of most generously overfunded modern filmmaker, Luca Guadagnino, has afforded himself an easier ride, hopping from genre to genre, milieu to milieu like a confidence trickster skipping town after every grift.) After clearing his bottom drawer with 2024's patchy portmanteau Kinds of Kindness, Bugonia sees Lanthimos and writer Will Tracy pivot to pre-existing weirdness, attempting to freshen up and straighten out 2003's Save the Green Planet!, one of the millennial Korean New Wave's more frantic and pungent offerings. I say straighten out, but Lanthimos and Tracy muss up their source in different (I'm tempted to say superficial) ways, handing their leads a grungy makeover. As one of a pair of dimbulb kidnappers targeting an agribusiness CEO for the part she's played in colony collapse, Jesse Plemons is stuck with gnarly blond locks and ratty facial hair, and handed the kind of loopy conspiratorial chat one typically finds in the Internet's darker corners. Emma Stone, as the CEO her captors believe to be an alien, is introduced as yoga poses and vitamin pills poured into a Givenchy power suit, but she too is soon roughed up and yanked around: removed of her hair, smeared in antihistamine cream and shackled to a crummy camp bed. What's promising about this set-up is that Lanthimos is entering into weird thriller territory: a set-up with its own peculiar tensions. Even so, you will be given cause to wonder whether Stone in particular greeted Lanthimos's recent admission he plans to take some time off with a marked sigh of relief. How often can anyone, even an A-lister seeking to throw off a reputation as an all-American sweetheart, want to play a battered punchbag?

I say thriller, but Lanthimos remains a terminally contrary sod. After a run of name-making comedies that weren't conventionally funny and - with Poor Things - a feminist text, arrived at by men, which didn't seem especially feminist, Bugonia presents as a thriller in only the most numbly anaesthetised sense, one that from first to last holds its characters at some remove, as though they were bugs under glass, ripe for the squishing. Underengaged by Tracy's plotting, I found myself casting my mind back and wondering when the last time a character in a Yorgos Lanthimos movie was allowed to show recognisable flickers of humanity; I think it may have been Colin Farrell's sadsack in 2015's The Lobster, not coincidentally the point at which this filmmaker was promoted from an underground to a mainstream concern. If the films that followed have started to seem more than a little flat and one-note, that's largely because Lanthimos has resolved to do one thing - and one thing alone - with his camera: extend it towards his characters, like a pointed finger at the end of a raised and accusatory arm, while shrieking "look at these weirdoes! Aren't they weird?" The approach has carried him this far - in part because our fellow earthlings have got demonstrably stranger over the past decade - but Bugonia, shot on location in High Wycombe and Greece, seems more than anything an oddly reduced spectre of the maximalist weirdness one found (and maybe enjoyed) in, say, 2018's The Favourite; the mayhem of Save the Green Planet!, an indie that qualified as ramshackle yet cinematic, has here been scaled down into a small, bathetic theatre of cruelty.

Here, then, are the three days until an eventful lunar eclipse, during which time both captive and captors are largely held in place; a third-act twist confirms our suspicion we're no more supposed to care for these notionally flesh-and-blood creatures than we are for the chair the Plemons character smashes during one of his rages. You can't map this madness onto the real world as you could the action in Parasite, because the closed-off Bugonia is so clearly the work of a filmmaker boxing in his own characters to have warped fun at their expense; more than it is a reflection of anything going on out there, it's a cackling science experiment, pricking Alicia Silverstone (as Plemons' mother) with hyperdermic needles ahead of a predetermined conclusion. More damagingly, Lanthimos appears to have run out of ways to surprise, confront or confound us with his weirdness. Another insufferable Jerskin Fendrix score gets poured noisily over these frames like a bag of spanners so as to try and compensate for the lack of feeling and amplitude within the images themselves; you don't have to look too hard to spot the character who exists purely to stumble into the kidnappers' home at a crucial juncture and have his head stoved in with a shovel. In the film's closing moments, Lanthimos's nihilist streak arrives at its natural endpoint, yet what's intended as a final coup de cinéma - maybe even the primary reason this director took on this project, unsurprisingly ironic needledrop and all - seems barely distinguishable from the studied lifelessness that's preceded it. (Bodies contorted into poses; all vitality drained away.) Some contemporary directors are so keen to turn themselves into saleable brands - reliably weird, reassuringly quirky - that they get stuck in a rut. It's not the worst idea for Lanthimos to take a step back and have a creative rethink: if he digs any further into this furrow, folks will be calling him the new Wes Anderson.

Bugonia is now showing in cinemas nationwide.

Monday, 10 November 2025

On demand: "Kenny Dalglish"


After a pair of more experimental ventures - 2022's dance film
Creature and 2024's environmental speculation 2073 - Asif Kapadia returns to what he knows (and arguably does) best: the feature-length documentary portrait of a notable public figure. Unlike previous Kapadia studies Ayrton Senna and Amy Winehouse, however, the tragedy in Kenny Dalglish's life hasn't been terminal. From an early age, Dalglish was a winner, then a champion, skipping briskly past off-pitch challenges in much the same way he did opposition defenders. (If there's any past Kapadia subject he resembles, it's a thoroughly sober Diego Maradona.) This doubtless accounts for the new doc's initially jolly, Roy of the Rovers-like framing: comic-strip credits of the kind Dalglish's fans would have pored over by bedside light back in the Seventies and Eighties, football stickers as on-screen punctuation, key goals from his Celtic and Liverpool days scored to period rock, a brief recap of Dalglish's courtship of Marina Harkins, the Glaswegian barmaid he wooed during lunchbreaks from training and soon thereafter wedded ("the best signing I ever made", as he later quipped). Here, once more, is the upward trajectory of a simpler age, when top-flight teams played, roomed, socialised and commuted together like teams, as opposed to disparate multi-millionaires flown in from all points via charter jet. Here, too, an age when football was free-to-air, where the F.A. Cup final was still a big deal, and where the biggest perk available to Liverpool players were chocolate digestives (brought in for the exclusive delectation of the Reds' self-described 'Jock Mafia': Dalglish, Souness and Hansen) rather than plain. In courting the football nostalgists among us, Kapadia seems to be enjoying himself again, waving a cinematic rattle for an inspirational figure of his youth, revisiting key matches - and great goals - on Grandstand and Sportsnight.

As a Liverpool fan himself, though, Kapadia has also internalised the significance of Heysel and Hillsborough to this particular story - and here tragedy does re-enter the picture; to contradict Bill Shankly, football suddenly appears something of far less import than life and death. After a first half of genial cheering up Wembley Way and down memory lane, Kenny Dalglish begins to gain in focus and rigour as its subject is confronted by off-the-pitch loss. Dalglish's comments to a reporter after Liverpool's eventual defeat at Heysel - "we did lose, but we didn't lose as much as some" - had already demonstrated an ability to hold the constituent elements of this world in proportion. Yet Hillsborough was the point at which a sporting figurehead fully assumed the mantle of statesman, Dalglish showing up time and again on behalf of the families bereaved that sorry afternoon, and insisting "it was our turn to be their supporters". (At one point, we even hear him directly overwriting Shankly, telling the press "football's irrelevant".) Kapadia offers a slightly more complete picture of Hillsborough's aftermath than did Stewart Sugg in his 2017 doc Kenny; indeed, the closing stretch here is so potent - and yet so compressed in its coverage of the institutional cover-up initiated by the Tory government in collaboration with West Yorkshire Police - I wondered whether Kapadia might have done better to make Dalglish at and after Hillsborough the whole film, rather than mournfully attaching it to a more conventional overview. The latter suffers from the fact Dalglish has remained to this day a somewhat guarded and private man - entirely new revelations are few and far between; the Sugg film may actually have benefitted from tempting Dalglish back out before the cameras, allowing us to parse his expressions - but the Scotsman's quiet decency in the face of outrageous slurs remains as stirring as anything his younger self achieved on the pitch. In times of turbulence for Liverpool Football Club, Kenny Dalglish stepped up and led by example; I don't doubt there are Reds fans who'd welcome him back in the dugout this very weekend.

Kenny Dalglish is now streaming via Prime Video.

In memoriam: June Lockhart (Telegraph 09/11/25)


June Lockhart
, who has died aged 100, was an American actress who became a household favourite off the back of two choice television roles: first as Ruth Martin, mother to Jon Provost’s Timmy (and his unusually intuitive collie dog) in the longrunning Lassie (1954-64), then as Maureen Robinson, the matriarch of the intergalactic clan in Lost in Space (1967-69).
 
Lockhart inherited the first role from an unhappy Cloris Leachman at the start of Lassie’s fifth season, landing an Emmy nomination at the end of her first year. But it was as Lost in Space transitioned from black-and-white into colour at the end of its first season that Lockhart’s star soared: blue-eyed and redheaded, she radiated maternal warmth amid the vast cosmic void.
 
In 1967, she was voted Favourite Female Star in the annual Photoplay Awards; for years afterwards, she would be approached by fans who told her the late Sixties’ other notable Mrs. Robinson had inspired them to become scientists. As she once quipped: “I did Lassie for six years and I never had anybody come up to me and say ‘it made me want to be a farmer’.”
 
June Kathleen Lockhart was born in New York on June 25, 1925 to actors Gene and Kathleen Lockhart (née Arthur). She made her debut aged eight in a Met Opera production of Peter Ibbotson; after the family relocated to Hollywood, the young June attended Westlake School for Girls, making an uncredited film debut – alongside her folks – as Belinda Cratchit in MGM’s A Christmas Carol (1938).
 
Prominent studio work followed as the hero’s sister in Sergeant York (1941) and society belle Lucille Ballard in Meet Me in St. Louis (1944). Anticipating things to come, she inherited Elizabeth Taylor’s Lassie Come Home role for the sequel Son of Lassie (1945); there was a very different brush with the furry side of life as the heroine of the Universal horror She-Wolf of London (1946).
 
She soon caught the Broadway bug, winning a Tony with the 1947 premiere of F. Hugh Herbert’s For Love or Money; “Lockhart has burst on Broadway with the suddenness of an unpredicted comet,” wrote one awestruck observer. She would return to the stage in subsequent decades: in 1979, she was directed by Peter Hall in a West Coast staging of Alan Ayckbourn’s Bedroom Farce.
 
Lockhart bolstered her growing TV popularity with appearances in such popular Western series as Have Gun, Will Travel (in 1957-8), Rawhide (in 1959) and Wagon Train (between 1958 and 1960); she also served as a hostess on televised Miss USA and Miss Universe pageants, while advertising Campbell’s soup and – inevitably – Gravy Train dog food.
 
She cameoed as herself on the postmodern sitcom It’s Garry Shandling’s Show (1987), advising the star on how to care for a stray collie, and described a 1995 guest spot on Roseanne as “the highlight of my career”. Later, she returned to familiar territory, playing a holographic schoolmarm in the big-screen Lost in Space (1998) before voicing the computer in Netflix’s 21st century revival of the show, her final credit.
 
Away from the cameras, she was a politics junkie from the moment she asked Harry Truman what life was like in the Oval Office (“He looked at me and said ‘it’s just like being in jail’”). She travelled with both Dwight Eisenhower and Adlai Stevenson before the 1956 election, and regularly used her lifetime pass to White House press briefings, using her platform to speak out against the Vietnam War and champion progressive causes.
 
She remains among the few to have two stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame – one for her film work, one for TV – but confessed entertainment wasn’t everything: “I’m not really affected whether or not the phone rings asking me to do a job. When you’re working, you’re very professional and you do the work. You know your lines and you hit your marks and your collar’s clean. [But] there is a wonderful world out there besides what you do on screen.”
 
She married twice in the 1950s, to John F. Maloney and the architect John Lindsay; both ended in divorce. She is survived by her two actress daughters with Maloney, Lizabeth and Anne.
 
June Lockhart, born June 25, 1925, died October 23, 2025. 

Sunday, 9 November 2025

Monsters inc.: "Predator: Badlands"


Writer-director Dan Trachtenberg eased his feet under Hollywood's table by finding the tools to unlock long-dormant franchises. His reward for his surprisingly sinuous and profitable work on 2016's Cloverfield sequel 10 Cloverfield Lane was taking possession of the keys to the Predator series, starting with 2022's prequel Prey, a late-lockdown favourite that pitted a young Native American tribeswoman against much the same monster that had bedevilled Arnie, Carl Weathers and co. back in 1987. More so than that small-screen predecessor - a Fox production emitted into the world via Disney+ - this weekend's Predator: Badlands forms a byproduct of Disney Corp's ongoing Muppet Babyfication of all its IP. Trachtenberg and co-writer Patrick Aison have folded into the Predator universe elements of the Alien, Star Wars and Avatar franchises, much as Disney+'s recent TV hit Alien: Earth saw Noah Hawley recycling some of Blade Runner's more intriguing themes and ideas. Nothing overturns the general sense these series are done and dusted, their most compelling stories long mined, told and sold; the corporate hope is that the franchises remain big enough to generate sufficient light, heat and cash when two or more of them are bashed together like flints. Badlands' first and biggest jumpscare comes before the film's even begun with the revelation the BBFC have seen fit to award it a 12A certificate. A 12A-rated Predator spinoff is surely no right thinking person's idea of a good time at the movies, but then the new film - less Alien vs. Predator than Alien x Predator; a collab, as those who are now young enough to see it might say - isn't interested in bloody tooth-and-claw conflict so much as peacemaking and saleable synergy. Overseeing an alliance between a damaged Weyland-Yutani android (Elle Fanning) and wide-eyed, boyish Predator Dek (Dimitrius Schuster-Koloamatangi), Trachtenberg's film dares to suggest the real Predators are the friends and deals we made along the way.

It's fan fiction, then, evident as early as a deathly prologue conducted in the Predators' native tongue, and chiefly of interest for what it reveals about the insecurities of those fanboys being paid handsomely to write it. Dek is dispatched on his mission by an overbearing father - tough even by Predator standards - who doesn't believe his boy has what it takes to be a warrior; some discussion of the differences between alpha and beta males ensues. Ominous references to "the company" would indicate Trachtenberg and Aison are no less aware of the compromises that result from leaping into partnership with corporate paymasters, even as their film shruggingly signs off on every last one of them. The lateral thinking Trachtenberg brought to his Cloverfield project has gone awry here, certainly: a stray, questionable writers' room spitball - what these Predators really need is a girlfriend - accounts for the shuttling on of the angelic Fanning, with her snub nose, can-do attitude and undying fascination with the finer points of Predator lore ("that plasma sword is interesting"). The absence of any real dramatic weight stems from a sense all of this is happening on - or has been generated by - a messageboard far, far away. The action is heavily digitised; the kills kept forever out of shot. We know the razor grass and the plants that fire paralysing darts won't do too much harm, because a) we're deep in franchise territory, where everybody gets out alive and b) that certificate serves as both spoiler and as good a review as any. This is Predator only, you know, for kids. If Badlands functions at all, it's as corporate housecleaning - allowing a studio to fold its franchises together - and/or mere technical exercise: the VFX wonks push the buttons that yield yet more merchandisable bugs, while the audience is once more reimmersed into the same virtual sci-fi environments as James Cameron's third Avatar film, opening next month and prominently trailed beforehand. Yes, some screenings of Badlands are in 3D; yes, you'll need glasses for that; yes, you'll have to pay extra for something that appears so conspicuously reduced. This kinder, gentler, live-laugh-prey confection - which ends, I kid you not, with a Predator forming his own clan with a possible wife and a big furry cat creature, and only the prospect of some future Disney+ sitcom (Predator's Nest?) lurking around the corner - operates under the misapprehension that everyone who thrilled to the 1987 original emerged thinking well, that was good, but I hope someone eventually does a version of it for children and nerds (if, indeed, there's now any distinction between the two). Make Predators fearsome again, that's what I say.

Predator: Badlands is now showing in cinemas nationwide.

Friday, 7 November 2025

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of October 31-November 2, 2025):

1 (new) Bugonia (15) **
2 (2) Regretting You (12A)
3 (re) Back to the Future (PG) *****
4 (1) Springsteen: Deliver Me from Nowhere (12A)
5 (4) Gabby's Dollhouse: The Movie (U)
6 (5) Black Phone 2 (18)
7 (6) I Swear (15) ****
9 (8) Pets on a Train (PG)
10 (7) One Battle After Another (15) ****

(source: BFI)

My top five:
2. One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
3. Hedda

  
DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (13) Superman (12)
2 (1) Jurassic World: Rebirth (12) **
3 (25) Weapons (18) ***
5 (6) Practical Magic (12)
6 (5) Wicked: Part 1 (PG) **
7 (3) Downton Abbey: The Grand Finale (PG)
8 (38) It: Chapter One (15) **
9 (22) It: Chapter Two (15) **
10 (8) The Conjuring: Last Rites (15) **


My top five: 
1. Battleship Potemkin


Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp [above] (Wednesday, BBC Two, 2.35pm)
2. In Which We Serve (Tuesday, BBC Two, 3pm)
3. Men in Black (Sunday, Channel 4, 6.10pm)
4. Star Wars: Episode IV - A New Hope (Saturday, ITV1, 4pm and Thursday, ITV1, 11.20pm)
5. The Wooden Horse (Friday, BBC Two, 2.45pm)

"The Run" (Guardian 03/11/25)


The Run
***

Dir: Paul Raschid. With: Roxanne McKee, George Blagden, Dario Argento, Franco Nero. 90 mins. Cert: 15

The 32-year-old writer-director Paul Raschid is surely too young to recall the multiple endings of 1985’s Clue and those hotly traded Choose Your Own Adventure books; perhaps subsequent, digitised RPGs left this filmmaker with his penchant for interactive cinema. Either way, intrepid souls heading to Whitechapel’s Genesis between now and New Year will once more take up glowsticks to determine their path through the woods of Raschid’s latest horror-thriller. Again, The Run demands split-second judgement calls one may not be accustomed to making slumped under a half tonne of popcorn. Again, there’s a 50/50 possibility you won’t get what you vote for; as our own Phil Hoad wrote of Raschid’s 2022 endeavour The Gallery, this feels an appositely post-Brexit format.

The path here is literal: we’re redirecting fitness influencer Zanna (Roxanne McKee) as she circles Lake Garda on what proves an eventful morning jog. Further synopsis would inevitably be provisional, but the interactive element begins with some light stretches – choices of music or podcast while running, and whether to greet passing locals – before turning existential as our heroine attracts masked pursuers. As your Guardian correspondent, I was both contractually and constitutionally bound to propose kindness wherever possible, but my lively Saturday night crowd chose anarchy at most junctures, yielding several chastening false starts and dead ends. Again, each audience’s mileage will vary; I will say that, collectively, we just about got what we deserved.

As a 21st century artefact, The Run can seem clunky: there’s still scope for Raschid to tighten the cause-and-effect, and some of his dialogue feels rough-edged when not purely functional. As an experience, it falls somewhere between uncommonly adaptable test screening and dropping by a R&D lab (or friendly D&D game). An athletic McKee makes her big moments count as the one character who comes into closest focus; huntsman Franco Nero and priest Dario Argento lurk in dispatches. Unlike some of the technological deviations now plaguing us, this one does feel hand-turned and human-derived, its narrative crowdsourced by definition. Any bad losers can always return the following night and make better informed choices – not least profiling their fellow voters going in.

The Run is now playing at the Genesis, Whitechapel. 

Wednesday, 5 November 2025

Bleak moments: "Dragonfly"


A few years back, Ben Wheatley announced plans for a series of films that would take the pulse of the British nation post-Brexit - a project that seems to have been put on hold after 2018's spirited
Happy New Year, Colin Burstead (f.k.a., as I'm duty-bound to append, Colin, You Anus), possibly as the BBC no longer has the cash. The similarly adventurous Paul Andrew Williams now picks up that line of thought with his new state-of-the-nation drama Dragonfly, centralising as it does everyday life in those squashed provincial towns (here Castleford, passing for any number of equivalents in the South) left behind amid the death march of austerity. These particular lives are initially observed in abject isolation. A painfully frail-seeming Brenda Blethyn hobbles into shot as Elsie, a widow who sees no-one save a care worker who typically has six other clients to make time for on her daily rounds; an especially drained Andrea Riseborough, who at least has a gruff mastiff terrier to keep her company, is twitchy and tattooed as her neighbour Colleen. Two lonely women, then, two representative Brits, living side-by-side but otherwise entirely separate existences. Interventions and transgressions ensue. The dog goes hog wild on Elsie's prized flowerbeds; Colleen, in an atypically magnanimous gesture, offers to do Elsie's shopping for her by way of apology. No man is an island, even on an island where - both politically and spiritually - the people have done just about all they can to wall themselves off.

As you'd maybe expect from the above, Dragonfly shapes up as small and self-contained: visibly the kind of project you can still get made with the finite funding of the British indie sector (and with European funding starting to dry up), it finds Williams attempting to recreate the domestic bathos of certain Mike Leigh endeavours, poking around inside poky houses, tying himself to the kitchen sink. (Where this filmmaker's 2006 breakthrough sprinted breathlessly from London to Brighton, here he can barely summon the resources to go to the end of one street.) One crucial difference, however: this is a Mike Leigh scenario shot like a Michael Haneke film, as if to accentuate how unhealthy the state of play is. Williams sets the action under dishwater-grey skies, offering little in the way of sunshine; he zooms in on the two women's bungalows from the other side of the street, like the unknown cameraman in 2005's Hidden; he lingers on a table loaded with cakes and biscuits as Elsie potters offscreen to answer her front door. You may well start to dread the general direction of travel, and you'd be right to dread the direction of travel. With its 15 certificate, Dragonfly is never quite as jolting as Williams' previous film, 2021's violent revenge thriller Bull, but it's also far from the conspicuous cosiness of Williams' Silver Screen favourite Song for Marion: it forever feels more of an Andrea Riseborough film - chippy, vaguely confrontational - than it does a cuddly Brenda Blethyn vehicle, an intuition borne out by the film's closing moments.

It's not that this Britain is rotten beyond redemption: for a while, the two women strike up an alliance of sorts. It's just there's nothing much going on here: no jobs, no prospects, no sign of improvement any time soon. (In the end credits, Williams thanks his antidepressants, which scans.) For much of its running time, Dragonfly proves subtly disconcerting. The women's bond is set against a wider backdrop of carelessness; what Williams is describing is a recognisable sense of abandonment and stasis, of people being left to their own devices. Yet to demonstrate just how little is going on, he has to commit to a perilously low level of onscreen activity: an hour of scenes go by featuring nothing more dramatic than Elsie succumbing to a sneezing fit, or feeling her arthritis flare up again. Right through to January's Hard Truths - arguably the most potent Brexit movie, despite never once mentioning the B word - Leigh has actively shaped his scenes of the humdrum: his methodology identifies the conflicts in play and points his characters in a particular direction, be that tragic, comic or both. Williams, by contrast, merely shuffles his performers back and forth between bungalows, attempting to kill time before final-reel developments. The film, like the country it mirrors, ends up in limbo: neither one thing nor the other, neither here nor there. (One thing it could be: Williams' audition for Channel 5's incoming Play for Today revival.) Nudged along by its two rocksolid leads, Dragonfly is much like life, and very much like British life as it is today - but you may also start to wonder why you've paid to see it, when you can get much the same suffering at home for free.

Dragonfly opens in selected cinemas from Friday.

Tuesday, 4 November 2025

The tender trap: "Plainclothes"


There haven't been many legitimate thrillers that have staked out the gents' loos as a possible site of tension and unease, so the very least we might say for Carmen Emmi's feature debut Plainclothes is that it's breaking new if somewhat insalubrious cinematic ground. Emmi's protagonist, fresh-faced Officer Lucas Brennan (Tom Blyth), has climbed the macho ranks of his New York state police department thanks to his undercover work in a bland shopping mall, where he entices gay, curious and closeted men alike into the stalls, initiating the illicit activity for which these cruisers can be arrested and charged. (An early blast of OMC's "How Bizarre" pegs the action to some time in the mid-to-late Nineties, that era when George Michael became the most illustrious modern arrestee for the eternally Victorian-sounding crime of importuning.) If Lucas appears unduly conflicted, it's because - unbeknownst to his jockish colleagues - he leans this way himself, and thus intuits more than most the psychic and reputational damage his dirty work might be bringing about. Worse follows after he finds himself tumbling for one of those he tempts into the bathroom: Andrew (Russell Tovey), a self-assured married man who's played the DL game before and would seem to know his way around. The sexuality may have changed - because we're 40 years on, and the movies can be more open about such matters nowadays - but Plainclothes really isn't so different, narratively, from those sweatily heterosexual police thrillers of the late Eighties and early Nineties: once more, we're watching a cop being driven by desire to abandon the taut moral and ethical codes he'd previously set for himself. It's Someone to Watch Over Me with a janitor standing by.

Less glossy than that sounds, perhaps: the new film is, after all, a product of today's thrifty American independent sector. Rougher-edged, too, for Emmi's script proves far stronger on context than it is on scene-by-scene plotting. The action unfolds around a chilly, conservative commuter town, far from the warmth of any latter-day Gay Village; Lucas sporadically returns home to a sprawling, bickering Irish-American family (loving mother Maria Dizzia, homophobic dipshit brother Gabe Fazio). One peculiar formal conceit wouldn't have seemed so out of place in the New Queer Cinema of the early 1990s: Lucas's memories and POV shots are rendered as glitchy video footage, almost as if he's decided to turn himself into a walking surveillance camera, a detached observer of desires he cannot personally fulfil. Here, and yet not for the last time, Plainclothes feels overemphatic. It's a film that often seems somewhat torn itself, unsure whether to catch the eye or walk a more downcast, realistic beat, using sharp montage to cut around the slack in sometimes wobbly material. The hook's strong enough: two men with secrets to keep moving closer and closer, with all the danger that entails. Yet the 15-rated handling offers nothing that wasn't done more forcefully in the 18-rated Stranger by the Lake and Femme, and some of the underlying psychology struck me as rather pat. Is it not a bit insulting - or at least decidedly on the nose - that our boy should fall for daddy Tovey at precisely the moment he loses his actual father? (Are gay men this easily typified?) Granted, you might say anything is plausible in the halls and bathrooms of human desire; you might also cling to the fact there is still psychology of a kind here. In its final reel, however, Plainclothes succumbs to Sundance Lab plotting - using an incriminating letter, plucked out of nowhere, to conclusively raise the stakes - so label it a mixed bag: a film that shows promise in fits and starts, even as it begins to squander its own compelling set-up.

Plainclothes is now showing in selected cinemas.

Friday, 31 October 2025

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of October 24-26, 2025):

1 (new) Springsteen: Deliver Me from Nowhere (12A)
2 (new) Regretting You (12A)
4 (1) Gabby's Dollhouse: The Movie (U)
5 (2) Black Phone 2 (18)
6 (3I Swear (15) ****
7 (5) One Battle After Another (15) ****
8 (new) Pets on a Train (PG)
9 (4) Tron: Ares (12A)
10 (6) Roofman (15) ****

(source: BFI)

My top five:
2. One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
3. Hedda
5. The Descent [above]

  
DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (3) Jurassic World: Rebirth (12) **
3 (2) Downton Abbey: The Grand Finale (PG)
5 (6) Wicked: Part 1 (PG) **
6 (8) Practical Magic (12)
7 (7) How to Train Your Dragon (PG)
9 (11) The Bad Guys 2 (PG) **
10 (10) 28 Years Later (15) ****


My top five: 
1. Battleship Potemkin


Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. The Remains of the Day (Sunday, BBC Two, 10.45pm)
2. Trainspotting (Saturday, Channel 4, 11.20pm)
3. One Fine Morning (Saturday, BBC Two, 12.50am)
4. Letter to Brezhnev (Monday, BBC Two, 11.05pm)
5. Whisky Galore! (Sunday, BBC Two, 12.40am)