Saturday, 7 March 2026

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of February 27-March 1, 2026):

1 (new) Scream 7 (18)
2 (1) "Wuthering Heights" (15)
3 (new) EPiC: Elvis Presley in Concert (12A) ****
4 (2) GOAT (PG)
5 (3) Crime 101 (15)
6 (5) The Secret Agent (15) *****
7 (4) Zootropolis 2 (PG)
8 (new) The Audience - NT Live 2026 (12A)
9 (new) Pegasus 3 (PG)
10 (new) The Testament of Ann Lee (15)

(source: BFI)

My top five:
2. Hard Boiled [above]


DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (8) Predator: Badlands (12) **
2 (12) Wicked: For Good (PG)
3 (2) Zootropolis 2 (PG)
4 (24) I Swear (15) ****
5 (1) The Housemaid (15)
6 (5) Sinners (15) ****
7 (19) One Battle After Another (15) ****
9 (26) Scream VI (18)
10 (11) Jurassic World: Rebirth (12) **


My top five: 
1. Sisu: Road to Revenge
4. Keeper


Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp (Sunday, BBC Two, 12 noon)
2. The Last Black Man in San Francisco (Monday, BBC Two, 12 midnight)
3. Sound of Metal (Saturday, BBC Two, 12 midnight)
4. No Other Land (Monday, Channel 4, 2.15am)
5. Blade Runner 2049 (Saturday, BBC One, 11pm)

Friday, 6 March 2026

"Mother's Pride" (Guardian 05/03/26)


Mother’s Pride **

Dir: Nick Moorcroft. With: Jonno Davies, Martin Clunes, James Buckley, Mark Addy. 93 mins. Cert: 12A

The Fisherman’s Friends team have found a modestly profitable post-Brexit niche: tales of culturally endangered Anglo-Saxon endeavours, nudged towards gentle uplift via a few songs and laughs, dollops of sentiment and some rabble-rousing populism. First it was half-forgotten sea shanties; now it’s the dwindling pub trade, represented here by rival West Country premises. On one streetcorner, spit-and-sawdust local The Drover’s Inn, overseen by salt-of-the-earth (read: emotionally repressed) widower Martin Clunes, slowly being strangled by his grasping brewery’s supply chain. On the other, that same brewery’s poncy gastropub, owned and somewhat implausibly operated by posho Luke Treadaway, introduced sipping from one of those teeny cappuccino cups issued as standard to all metropolitan elites.

The scene may have shifted indoors – gone, alas, is the Cornish scenery – but the formula remains much the same: clunky exposition, upper-case Issues, variably groansome dad gags. Tension emerges between Clunes and prodigal son Jonno Davies, until the latter proposes a radical idea to save the business: homebrewing. Davies has an awkward reunion with old-flame Gabriella Wilde, who’s now shacked up with Treadaway, doubtless eating swan for breakfast. But the resolutions really are arbitrary: it takes barely ten minutes for the villager who sabotages the microbrewery to crowdfund its replacement, a rapid U-turn even for Starmer’s Britain. Co-writer/director Nick Moorcroft must be praying audience sympathy for rickety, no-frills structures like the Drover’s will extend to the film itself.

The cast nurdle matters along to the climactic Real Ale Awards, scene of recent cinema’s least surprising surprise result. Clunes at least troubles to cobble a character together out of whatever was set before him, while Mark Addy – as the town drunk – commits gamely to an asthmatic running gag involving disco-infused Morris dancing. Josie Lawrence and Miles Jupp, briefly glimpsed, could have improvised a funnier film between them. Would-be cheeky nods to TikTok and dogging are delivered in the manner of a backbench MP, and there surely has to be a stronger case for preserving our pubs than “last refuge for middle-aged depressives”. Ken Loach and Paul Laverty almost made it with 2023’s The Old Oak, but Moorcroft’s mild variant is weak beer, to say the least.

Mother's Pride opens in cinemas nationwide today.

The King is alive: "Baz Luhrmann's EPiC"


Elvis Presley is just about the only pop star in cinemas right now who isn't
 having a quote-unquote moment. Baz Luhrmann's characteristically brash EPiC: Elvis Presley in Concert returns us to a Presley at his post-'68 Comeback Special peak: relatively slender, visibly re-energised, sitting on top (or close to the top) of the showbusiness tree. (His moments were yet to come.) Stitched together from footage Luhrmann dug up while researching his Elvis biopic - outtakes from 1970's Elvis: That's the Way It Is and 1972's Elvis on Tour, archiving the star's Vegas residency in rich Metrocolor textures - the results merge two recent trends in music documentary. As per the title, it's first and foremost a concert movie, an "event", a designation that enables our beloved exhibitors to charge us double for the privilege of attending: not quite Ticketmaster-level gouging, admittedly, but a bit galling when you're sat in the same seats you'd sit in for any common-or-garden fillum, watching a performer who's been dead for the better part of fifty years. It's also another chance to hear a subject in his own words, and here EPiC starts to run in parallel with Man on the Run. Much as that film felt obliged to open with a brief Beatles recap, so too Luhrmann begins with a potted Presley history, a "previously on Elvis": the hips, the hits, the army, the movies (which appear every bit as trivial and silly in 2026 as they would have done in 1966). Having provided some context for newbies, the director resets the stage and proceeds to the night's main event. Ladies and gentlemen, all rise for the King.

Even before this Presley breaks into an ad hoc rec-room performance of "Yesterday" (a song choice that carries a poignant charge, given how some felt the Beatles had blown Elvis away), early Seventies Elvis is shown to have much in common with post-Beatles McCartney: mired in an increasingly unhappy contractual situation, yet determined to return to doing the thing he loves most after the distractions of the previous decade. The loveliest footage EPiC returns to us is that of Elvis in rehearsal, clad in a series of extraordinary shirts: after personally greeting band, backing singers and onlooking camera crew, he starts to exercise that voice, sometimes making arrangements in the manner of a Brian Wilson, often plain goofing off. Luhrmann must have known he was onto something magical here, because the rehearsal sequences are the first time this manic, antic assemblage takes a breath and appears to relax into its archive. This Elvis - unlike, say, Austin Butler's pouting pretty boy or Jacob Elordi's brooder - is funny, courteous and charming; personality-wise, he's the Elvis Nicolas Cage might have played in the immediate wake of Honeymoon in Vegas. The gig footage, which will do little to dissuade those who insist Seventies Elvis is the best Elvis, comes to seem like an extension of the interview footage: in both, a more rounded and seasoned version of the lean, thrusting whippersnapper Elvis presented as in the 1950s figures out how best to express himself, what works for him and what doesn't. One abiding memory of EPiC: watching Elvis stamping his own name - in fifteen-foot high, vibrantly sparkling rhinestone - on any number of songs previously recorded by other artists: "Yesterday", yes, but also "Something", "You've Lost That Lovin' Feelin'" and "Bridge Over Troubled Water". At this point, every song had the potential to be an Elvis song; those savvy arrangements repurposed a whole suite of tunes into jumpsuits he could effortlessly slip inside. Part of you wants to shout requests for the era's other popular standards at the screen: do "Son of My Father", Elvis! Try "Mama Weer All Crazee Now"!

Just as a stage presence, this Elvis really is box-office and VFM: simultaneously singer, stand-up, screen idol and stripper-in-waiting, forever poised to give the yelping ladies in the front row just what they've come for. (The only trouble with Seventies Elvis, from a contemporary perspective, is that he is very Seventies; the gaudy blue-and-yellow leisure suit he wears to perform "Burning Love" in rehearsals is so Dave Nice the singer should have been shot from the hairline up.) Luhrmann, ever the evangelist for all things camp and chintzy, revels in it; his creative choices are generally sound, though a few missteps reveal themselves. After the hellzapoppin first half - most of the hits, in enveloping Dolby surround - the second half leans heavily into Goddy Elvis and Gospel Elvis, which can only ever be a matter of personal taste. And Luhrmann messes up the ending: just when you think you've finally got through a 21st century music doc without encountering Bono, up the little fella pops to read us an Elvis poem. Amid the dazzling bright lights, though, the director also catches pools of darkness and signs of Elvises to come. A glimpse of Colonel Tom Parker cues a wry montage set to "(You're the) Devil in Disguise"; an end credits card points out that Elvis never toured outside North America. (Imagine having a live act like this on your books and not sending him overseas - but then touring doubtless entails some loss of control.) The star's vacillating weight is made only more conspicuous by Luhrmann's tendency to slap disparate performances of the same song together: a chorus started by Seraphim Elvis can be finished by (what looks like) Freddie Starr's Elvis. And every now and again, one or more of these cameras catches Elvis lapsing into something like self-parody, where he doesn't seem to be trying, where it's just another song in another show in another run. For the most part, though, EPiC honours its subject's unmatchable charisma and stagecraft. It's a fan's film, possessed of a fervour and intensity that means to convert agnostics into admirers. Yet it does more than anything I've seen for quite some while - including Luhrmann's own biopic - to bring Elvis back to life before our eyes. There is, finally, no acceptable stand-in or substitute for the real deal.

Baz Luhrmann's EPiC is now showing in cinemas nationwide.

Letting go: "Man on the Run"


A quirk of the release schedule means the new doc Man on the Run begs reading as Paul McCartney's The Moment. Scholar of pop Morgan Neville (20 Feet from Stardom) here revisits one of the most compelling stories in the Macca biography: what Paul did once the Beatles, surely the toughest ever act to follow, cracked and fractured at the turn of the 1970s. If you know your music history, you'll already know the answer (Wings, ultimately, hence the title), yet Neville recounts how it all played out month by month and year by year; by way of a guide, he has his subject's own words, McCartney having sagely devoted his golden years to setting the record straight once and for all. As the latter has it, this was both retreat and restart, the 27-year-old McCartney hunkering down on a farm in the Scottish Highlands with a young family and several fields' worth of sheep and chickens. Stepping away from the eyes of the world, the jostling entourage and the predatory hangers-on (notably the lawyer Allen Klein, busy sinking his teeth into the ex-Beatles), the singer could here turn his back on the pandemonium and restless experimentation of his former life, instead pledging to get back (as it were) to basics: writing songs - silly love songs, in some cases; songs for mums and dads like him and Linda, rather than for the kids or the heads - while starting a band to carry these songs out on tour, and hopefully coming to enjoy it once more. This McCartney is a man determined to put down roots and potter round inside his own wheelyard for a bit: the first track recorded in this new solo guise started with the sound of his kitchen door opening (not "Let 'Em In", but the same principle applies), his first hit was the Beatley "Another Day", and a press release for his first album, 1970's McCartney, asserted its maker's only ambition was "to grow up".

The key themes here, then, are maturation and settling down, which are arguably less grabby and sexy than breaking through and making it big; the film's soundtrack, certainly, is far more Radio 2 than Radio 1. (My theory remains that Wings couldn't have survived into the MTV era, with its heightened visual scrutiny: the haircuts alone are those of musos who've found their other half and no longer give a shit, a response - whether conscious or unconscious - to the rigorous image maintenance of the Brian Epstein years.) If this project isn't quite in the first rank of recent Beatles memorabilia, it's at least more dramatic than I was expecting. Before finding his sought-after peace, this Paul has to dodge critical brickbats and - perhaps more woundingly - the acid-tipped bullets being fired in his direction by his erstwhile writing partner. As the doc goes on to show, Lennon and McCartney would make up by the time of the former's murder in 1980, but an at least friendly rivalry persists even today: Man on the Run is surely McCartney's response to 2024's acclaimed One to One: John & Yoko, which retold the story of Lennon's Seventies. More arresting yet: the film's opening movement, a potted recap of everything you'll have seen when the Beatles Anthology appeared on streaming just before Christmas, leans heavily into those rumours that McCartney had died circa Sgt. Pepper in order to underline its subject's sudden absence from the limelight. While those rumours obviously proved unfounded, Neville floats the thesis that Paul had at least to die creatively - to embrace irrelevance, become someone other than Paul McCartney, Superstar Musician, see his singles chart for one week at #39 - so as to relieve the pressure and permit himself the time and space for a full creative rethink. For a brief while back there - thanks to the efforts of Messrs. Simon and Anka - he was no longer the most famous Paul in the universe.

Wings, for their part, would be conceived as a very Seventies travelling (sometimes flying) circus; an embrace of the hippy ethos, notionally communal and beardily self-sufficient, going from town to town for big bags of fifty pence pieces. (Cash in hand, while the Beatles were bogged down in Klein's contract snarl-ups.) Yet even here Neville reveals backstage interpersonal drama. Linda and Paul were all right, but the latter - still a megastar, even as he donned a farmer's dungarees - proved ever so slightly dismissive of those session musicians who helped to get this show on the road. One unexpected development the film catches: the emergence of Nasty Paul, or at least Steely Paul, the musician burnt by experience into looking out for his own interests. (If he emerges somewhat sheepishly from this portrait, it's because even as he freed himself from one set of contractual shackles, he surely realised he was in danger of turning into another Brian Epstein.) The more personally settled and financially secure Paul became, the freer he felt to pursue creative independence; you can feel him easing himself into going fully solo again as the Eighties come around. (Neville cues up the glorious promo for "Coming Up": very funny, yes, but also a virtuoso's fantasy of playing all the parts simultaneously.) "Mull of Kintyre" now looks like a wildly successful warm-up for "Pipes of Peace"; the animated talking mouse in the Wings Christmas special of 1973 is the creation of a young father heading to Rupert and the Frog Song. By staying close to home and playing relatively safe, McCartney gave himself a future that Lennon never got. Neville tells the story in established pop-doc style (lots of photomontaging, some of which has the unfortunate air of Saturday morning kids' TV), omitting "Give Ireland Back to the Irish", which might have contradicted any idea Paul was seeking the quiet life; any British or Irish filmmaker would have addressed that as well as Wings' wonky-naff pop-cultural legacy (Alan Partridge bellowing "Jet", say, or the Trigger Happy TV sketches). In his narration, however, McCartney continues his project of late-life generosity: having gifted us these songs (and the memories attached to them), now he gives us his memories of how they came to be. Sam Mendes' upcoming Beatles films are going to have their work cut out turning up anything new or revealing - although it strikes me there is an obvious gap in the market for a Ringo movie. Have the requests for a career-spanning interview been tossed out with all the fan mail? Peace and love, man; peace and love.

Man on the Run is now showing at the Picturehouse at FACT, Manchester and streaming via Prime Video.

Thursday, 5 March 2026

Swimming with sharks: "The Secret Agent"


The one unoriginal aspect of Kleber Mendonça Filho's generally astounding
The Secret Agent is that it takes place in the Brazil of the late 1970s. If you begin to feel as though we've ventured this way before, and recently to boot, we have: in last year's I'm Still Here, another Brazilian history lesson that crossed the border separating the Oscars' Best Foreign Language Film and Best Picture shortlists (and occupied more or less the same UK release slot). Yet that foursquare earlier film was what we might call a classical endeavour, the work of a seasoned movie veteran (Walter Salles) obliged to stay close to the contours of established biography and history. The Secret Agent, by striking contrast, is modernist fiction: expansive at 154 minutes, full of unexpected detours and deviations, an attempt not just to recreate and describe but inhabit a moment in which the country's democracy and citizenry were placed in supreme peril. This is unmistakably the bigger, fuller picture, undertaken by the same observant, story-hungry critic-turned-filmmaker who made the restless and rowdy Aquarius and Bacurau, emboldened here to take an even deeper rummage into and around his country's turbulent past. Mendonça Filho starts, however, with the simplest of images: a corpse lying on the forecourt of the Esso garage Wagner Moura's protagonist pulls into on Shrove Tuesday in 1977. ("A period of great mischief", as an opening title has it.) The corpse is the film's first sign of the craziness and carnage to come, and symbolic of what it might have felt like to pass through Brazil as it adjusted to and internalised military dictatorship. Life was going on all right - the film catches some two-and-a-half hours of it in a bottle, from carnival to chaos - but something somewhere was ever so slightly amiss. Any resemblance to life elsewhere in the West circa 2025-26 (or 2016-26, or - hell - 2001-2026) may not be entirely coincidental.

There are a lot of things in The Secret Agent that aren't where they're supposed to be, or where you'd expect to find them. In an early scene, the city of Recife's openly corrupt chief of police is called off a carnival float to investigate the case of a dead shark hauled into a classroom. The shark is revealed to contain a severed leg, which may have something to do with the shady types we encounter going around town tossing dead bodies into bodies of water. At the safe house to which Moura's Marcelo is travelling, there's a Janus-like cat with two heads, a trippy effect that may also be a cinema-obsessed filmmaker's arcane Jacques Nolot reference; Udo Kier pops up out of nowhere, in his final screen role as a German tailor who may have had reasons for fleeing to South America; and that severed leg will eventually assume a life of its own, booting film and viewer alike even further off the beaten path. In the meantime, you may even start to wonder what Marcelo is doing here, beyond being exceptionally charming to everybody he meets: the old dear who first takes him in, the upstairs neighbour he beds, the young son who's clearly been waiting for him, the colleagues at his new place of work, which happens to be a government building dressed up as something it's not. It's a puzzle, but the overall impression is that of a Brazil that's been forcibly stood on its head, shaking out all prior structures, mechanisms and certainties, the pieces left to fall where they may. It's down to Mendonça Filho to snap these scattered memories together, to find those internal connections that finally make The Secret Agent make sense. The shark, for starters, connects with the season's biggest cinematic hit Jaws, which has them queuing around the block at the Recife Odeon. A shifty-looking fellow, sat behind a desk, tells two hired thugs he wants someone to put a big hole in Marcelo's head at the very moment the latter is being checked for cavities by a dentist. Someone's in charge here, at least, and they're having a lot of fun making history rhyme, resonate and repeat itself in instructive ways.

The mischief of the period, then, extends to the filmmaking: it's infectious, and you catch it big time at the end of the film's first part - about 45 minutes in - upon the revelation that the above characters are being listened to on cassette by folks with smartphones. Mendonça Filho isn't here to torture or punish us - as so many contemporary arthouse directors do in hammering home a message - but he's also not averse to pulling the rug from under our feet or tossing in a sudden blindside. He needs us alert and on our toes, because something is unfolding before us, both on the cinema screen and in the wider world beyond it; the history bleeds through into present-day reality. Even so, The Secret Agent unfolds in such an idiosyncratic manner that it feels miraculous that it works. Its stroke of genius is to leave us to fend for ourselves for an hour or more in a world that's colourful and intriguing enough to keep us seated; let me tell you a story, the director states from the off, but I have to set the scene before I do. Only in the second hour, once a certain trust has been earned, does this script begin to explain what everybody's doing here, in the first scene where we see these characters sitting down for any length of time. Even the plot isn't where you'd expect to find it; as with the sunshine-yellow VW Marcelo putters about in, the film's engine is tucked away in the back. Still, what a caboose. You may well spend The Secret Agent's first half wondering where on earth this damn film is going. You will spend the second, and the gripping home straight especially, wondering why more films don't trouble to toss out the rulebook in such spectacular fashion.

I am aware that the above may make The Secret Agent sound tricky or hard work, yet nothing could be further from the truth; as with any good detective story, it takes some figuring out, but the clues are all there. Most visibly, Mendonça Filho retains a welcome eye for faces that tell half of the story before anyone's opened their mouth to speak. (The players deserve their 'You Have Been Watching'-style credits: Gabriel Domingues's kaleidoscopic casting makes Marty Supreme look like a late Nineties MTV movie.) And Moura - a little bit Ruffalo, a little bit Firth - does a lot with the codewords watchful and mournful; he's working harder than anybody else on the Best Actor shortlist to steady us, to provide a reassuringly fixed point, even as he shuffles through three different identities, distinguished by varying levels of hairiness. Like his Marcelo, who may also be known as Armando - as if his very name had been turned inside-out by all this brouhaha - you will still need to keep your wits about you: this is one of those grown-up, big-boy pictures your parents and grandparents may have told you about. But Mendonça Filho also pays us the compliment of recognising that history can be sprawling and complex and small and simple. A bust-up around a dinner table can have repercussions that last for years or decades; a life story can be told by two people either side of a desk. A whole nation can go doolally, and yet be brought back from the brink and restored to sanity by the actions (and sacrifices) of ordinary people. Take all that in your stride, and you will be entertained and stirred, perhaps even moved, by the sight of a small community uniting to resist tyranny, as well as educated as to why Brazil takes particular pains to lock up those authority figures who've been shown to engage in criminal activity: to deter others who would exploit and abuse, pillage and plunder. Draw your own conclusions - it's still, just about, a democracy - but there may be a wider lesson or two to be absorbed here.

The Secret Agent is now showing in cinemas nationwide.

Tuesday, 3 March 2026

No exits: "The Circle" and "Crimson Gold"


To consolidate the success of
It Was Just an Accident, MUBI have this week made the bulk of the Jafar Panahi back catalogue available to stream. One temptation is to revisit these films as historical texts, representative of that great wave of Iranian cinema that broke on these shores around the turn of the millennium: a wave headed by those generational auteurs Abbas Kiarostami and Mohsen Makhmalbaf, with Panahi - then an emergent talent, working from other people's scripts - somewhere in the middle, and younger female voices (Samira Makhmalbaf, Marzieh Meshkini, Mania Akbari) defying the country's status quo in making supremely eyecatching debuts. The other is to claim these films as historical markers. Panahi's early work invites positioning as equidistant between the Iran of the 1970s and the Iran of the 2020s: the bustling life of the old, liberal Tehran is still visible in these images, but behind the scenes the rules were now being applied with greater force. If it wasn't yet a full crackdown - Panahi was still relatively free to roam the streets and tell these stories, had no reason to dodge or fear the authorities - the pressure was surely being felt, the noose imperceptibly tightening; this was the right climate in which to make thrillers of a kind. Yet over and above all else, upon sitting down once again with 2000's The Circle and 2003's Crimson Gold, you're confronted with potent, urgent cinematic art - and it's that urgency which finally grabs and strikes you. These films aren't dusty artefacts; rather, they show recent history looping back around on itself.

Sensing a change of wind direction, the artful, politic Kiarostami had spent much of the 1990s drifting further into the Iranian countryside, seeking material that was either abstract or fabular: the stuff it's always much easier to get past the censors. Panahi would eventually be forced out that way, too, but around the millennium, he was making life harder for himself by remaining in the heart of the city, shooting lived reality and having his characters zig and zag between public spaces and backalleys. (Some shoots require built-in escape routes.) The Circle, co-written with Kambuzia Partovi, was a compendium of women's stories, presenting as either a doomy Arabian Nights or an A-grade on the Bechdel test. It opens with the sound of a new mother giving birth and the sight of a grandmother aghast that the child is a girl and not the desired boy, then falls into the orbit of a trio of young women - one of whom has barely registered before she's carted off by police - attempting to shepherd their youngest, who has a conspicuous (and never explained) black eye, on a bus out of town. From the off, it's a motion picture because its characters have to keep moving. We pick up some of their reasons as they go, but we grasp far more of the restrictions imposed upon them: they can't smoke (as their male counterparts can), they can't travel as freely as they'd hope, those movements are limited at every turn by the authorities, and doors are often openly slammed in their face. In the film's most terrifying sequence, two men on a bike burst into a family home housing a woman who's just been released from custody; God (or Allah) knows what's going on behind that closed door, but it's as forceful a metaphor as any for what was going on inside this country under this regime, away from the eyes of the world. As in most compendiums, certain stories here prove more immediately compelling than others, but the underlying insinuation of that title - a narrative route map that could just as easily describe a void - is bracing: this Iran is a country where it would be very easy for people - and for women, in particular - to disappear, never to be seen, filmed or heard from again.

Crimson Gold, Panahi's first out-and-out masterpiece, is in itself a circle, albeit in the Dantean sense. It opens with a botched jewel heist shot in such a way as to suggest that what's going on outside is at least as important as what's going on inside; from its arresting first moments, it's a thriller with more than half an eye on 21st century Iran. The task Panahi and Kiarostami (here on screenwriting duties) set themselves, in the extended flashback that follows, is to explain how the heavy-set robber Hossein (Hossein Emadeddin) got here, and was driven to take his own life at the scene of the crime. (An alternative title quickly suggests itself: No Way Out.) When we rejoin him, Hossein is a lowly pizza delivery driver (and, we learn, military veteran) being pushed towards petty crime by the direness of his personal circumstances. Notionally, as a man, he has greater mobility than the women of The Circle: his scooter affords him and us ample scope to case various neighbourhoods - again, tantalising glimpses here of Tehran as it once was and could still be - and determine the best areas and places to stick up. But it's still finally not enough. When Hossein first shows up at the fateful jewellers, to get his engagement ring adjusted, the door is slammed in his face by the suspicious proprietor. When he finally gets inside as a customer - because he and his bride have dressed up for the occasion - they're obliged to wait while a couple with more money receive the full VIP treatment. (There's an argument that the jeweller, redirecting Hossein towards the cheap gold of a nearby bazaar, is asking for trouble.) It's a sorry and sorrowful state of affairs: as an older colleague who seeds the idea of robbery puts it, "if you want to arrest a thief, you'll have to arrest the world entire".

For the better part of ninety minutes, Panahi gets us to walk several miles in some old, worn-out shoes, and realise why someone might be driven to the end of their tether like this. In an early sequence, a broken lift obliges Hossein to climb four full flights of stairs to reach one customer's swanky apartment - and Panahi's camera tracks every weary, exhausted step. Even when our guy's doing his job, there's no guarantee of payment: one night, he gets caught up in a police crackdown on parties, affording him a front-row seat to state oppression (and the fun that forever appears several floors out of reach) while his pizzas turn cold in their box. Much of this fits the Manny Farber definition of termite art, scrabbling around unfussily at street level while somehow summoning an existential sense of despair: our weary footsoldier's conversation with the young cop carrying out orders could be Hamlet and the gravedigger, transposed to the Middle East. Emadeddin, who'd been diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic in real life, reportedly made life hell for Panahi during filming, but his casting is key to the whole film. Hossein is kind of a stooge - someone who wants what he cannot have, as made clear by his late-film interactions with the misogynist rich kid who seems like an Iranian equivalent of Jeremy the landlord in Mike Leigh's Naked - and even if his instincts and impulses become more legible as the film proceeds, he does look like someone carrying a far greater burden than mere margaritas, who might at any moment retreat into sullen immobility or start throwing his weight around. Unlike De Niro in Taxi Driver, however, he's not entirely putting this on. The Iranian authorities knew they couldn't cut Crimson Gold, because it was oppositional to its very bones; instead, they refused it a theatrical release, rendering it ineligible for Academy Award consideration among other slights. Soon, they'd be targeting not just the films, but the man who made them. What we know now is that Panahi not only endured this persecution, he outlived his persecutor-in-chief: you do wonder what he's feeling this week, heading to America for the Oscars with his country in the state it now is.

The Circle and Crimson Gold are now streaming on MUBI.

In memoriam: Tom Noonan (Telegraph 02/03/26)


Tom Noonan
, who has died aged 74, was a gentle giant of an actor who excelled as author Thomas Harris’s second most terrifying creation: Francis Dollarhyde, the so-called “Tooth Fairy” killer in Michael Mann’s ambient thriller Manhunter (1986). The role hinged on the unnerving contrast between Noonan’s imposing 6’5” frame and his softly spoken, quasi-professorial manner; critic Roger Ebert would describe the actor as “tall, balding and born to play Death in The Seventh Seal”.

As Noonan later revealed, he landed the part after channelling his anger at seeing his audition repeatedly delayed: “[Mann] said, ‘You’re really scary. How do you do that?’ I said, ‘Michael, the secret to being scary is to be really scared. Because when you’re really scared, people are really scared of you.’ I was really poor and desperate, and this [was] a real part. I proceeded then to turn it down about five times. I said, ‘I’m not doing it for under $100,000.’ My agent said, ‘You’re crazy.’ Somehow, they ended up giving me that amount of money.”

Though Mann kept Noonan away from his co-stars to heighten tensions, the actor proved a wily foe. “I found out later that Noonan was acting in a very spooky way,” Mann recalled, “[He was] kind of creeping around and spying on some actors almost as if he was stalking them.” Noonan’s performance was a lesson in the sly craft of the character actor: appearing around Manhunter’s halfway point, Dollarhyde promptly grabs film, lead William Petersen and indeed the viewer by the throat.

The impression was so forceful that Noonan immediately fell subject to typecasting: Frankenstein’s monster in the teen horror The Monster Squad (1987), the villain in RoboCop 2 (1989). More inventively, he was also cast as Tom Noonan, the actor portraying serial killer The Ripper in the postmodern Arnie blockbuster Last Action Hero (1993), though Noonan confessed to some bemusement as to his newly illustrious circumstances: “It was not easy for me to fake being a movie star.”

That sizeable payday, however, allowed Noonan to finance and direct What Happened Was… (1994), based on his own play. Shot in eleven days for $300,000, this disarming two-hander followed co-workers (played by Noonan and Karen Sillas) navigating an awkward first date. After winning Sundance’s Grand Jury Prize, the film fell victim to spotty distribution, but its admirers included a young Charlie Kaufman, who declared himself profoundly influenced by a film Noonan described as “what’s happening in the dark inside your heart”.

Thomas Patrick Noonan was born in Greenwich, Connecticut on April 12, 1951, one of four children to dentist John Noonan and his maths teacher wife Rita (née McGannon). At St. Mary’s High School, his height made him a natural basketball star: “A lot of the skills that you would need for acting come through that... [It’s] a life-and-death struggle in front of people that you hope to impress.”

He won raves as the oldest son Tilden in the original 1978 production of Sam Shepard’s Pulitzer-winning Buried Child, then caught the New Hollywood’s coattails. After debuting on screen in Paul Mazursky’s Willie & Phil (1980), he befriended John Cassavetes while making Gloria (1980), but clashed with Michael Cimino during Heaven’s Gate (1980): “He pointed a blank gun at my face… He was really crazy.”

In 1983, Noonan founded the Paradise Factory theatre in Manhattan, funding it via roles in such studio filler as the Dudley Moore vehicle Best Defence (1984). But he was getting somewhere: prior to Manhunter, he’d auditioned for the Dennis Hopper role in Blue Velvet (1986). Post-Manhunter, he worked constantly, notably shaking De Niro down for better pay as the hacker Kelso in Mann’s Heat (1995); in “Paper Hearts”, a 1996 episode of The X-Files, Noonan played John Lee Roche, a killer teasing information about Agent Mulder’s missing sister. 

Long-time fan Kaufman cast Noonan as Philip Seymour Hoffman’s onscreen double in Synecdoche, New York (2008) and the voice of every supporting character in the stopmotion Anomalisa (2015). Noonan’s final directorial credit, The Shape of Something Squashed (2014), was inspired by his experience standing in for Donald Sutherland during rehearsals for a Hunger Games sequel; his last appearances were on TV, lending his voice to HBO’s adult animation Animals. (2018) and playing the Pallid Man in the rebooted 12 Monkeys (2015-18).

In 2021, Noonan revealed he’d pitched a What Happened Was… sequel to Netflix, reuniting the central couple thirty years on. Though the project was never realised, he held firm to an idea that art should offer something more than mere escapism: “I don’t think you go to a play to forget or to a movie to be distracted. I think life generally is a distraction and that going to a movie is a way to get back, not go away.”

He married twice, to the actresses Karen Young and Talia Lugacy; both ended in divorce. He is survived by Felix and Wanda, his two children by Young.

Tom Noonan, born April 12, 1951, died February 14, 2026.

Monday, 2 March 2026

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of February 20-22, 2026):

1 (1) "Wuthering Heights" (15)
2 (2) GOAT (PG)
3 (3) Crime 101 (15)
4 (6) Zootropolis 2 (PG)
5 (new) The Secret Agent (15) *****
6 (new) Cold Storage (15) ****
7 (4) Send Help (15) ***
8 (new) Wasteman (18) ***
9 (new) The Moment (15) **
10 (new) Good Luck, Have Fun, Don't Die (15)

(source: BFI)

My top five:
5. A Knight's Tale


DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (1) The Housemaid (15)
2 (2Zootropolis 2 (PG)
3 (7) Dracula (15)
4 (12) We Bury The Dead (15)
5 (4) Sinners (15) ****
6 (16) A Minecraft Movie (PG)
7 (25) Sisu: Road to Revenge (15) ****
8 (3) Predator: Badlands (12) **
9 (29) Dogma (15)
10 (5) Anaconda (12)


My top five: 
1. Sisu: Road to Revenge
4. Keeper


Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. The Lady Vanishes (Sunday, BBC Two, 12.10pm)
2. Raiders of the Lost Ark (Sunday, ITV1, 3.30pm and Thursday, ITV1, 10.45pm)
3. Spider-Man 2 (Sunday, BBC One, 3.35pm)
4. Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol (Saturday, Channel 4, 10.15pm)
5. The Simpsons Movie [above] (Saturday, Channel 4, 12.25pm)

Friday, 27 February 2026

Human traffic: "Sirāt"


So here, finally, is Sirāt, 2025's most heralded item of experiential cinema: cheered at Cannes, propelled around the secondary festival circuit on quite the wave of hype, and thereafter ushered up the awards-season red carpet as an example of what a more adventurous cinema can do. On some level, the new film forms a continuation of its Galician director Oliver Laxe's investigations into states of being. 2019's Fire Will Come set us down in the middle of countryside set ablaze, leading me to conclude my review by wondering whether Laxe was the Red Adair racing to the movies' aid or perhaps its sensation-chasing Keith Flint, armed with a camera and a large box of matches. Sirāt, which takes its name from the bridge said to connect heaven and hell, describes what it is to find yourself in the Moroccan desert for whatever reason; for any kind of enjoyment, take bottled water. This time around, Laxe sets us down among sweaty ravers - played, as we deduce from some of the haircuts and movements, by actual scenesters. They're here to party, as demonstrated by an opening setpiece that shows the group assembling and tesselating vast bass bins along a desert plain and thereafter unleashing a thumping wall of sound. (All of a sudden, my throwaway Prodigy reference in the earlier review doesn't seem so arbitrary: take bottled water and ear protection.) But there's also someone else in the mix: a portly, greying middle-aged man, played by the unmistakable figure of arthouse talisman Sergi López, who's pursuing a very different agenda. He's ventured this way, young son in tow, to search for a daughter who went missing from this scene some time before. This line of dramatic inquiry would be compelling enough in itself - here's a gatecrasher, someone where they wouldn't ordinarily be - but there's also something else going on, over the heads of the ravers and over the film's immediate horizons. All of a sudden, military vehicles show up to halt this apparently illegal gathering; as some part of this circus breaks off to roll ever deeper into the desert, the radio talks of explosions in the city, of refugees and war. Is it possible we've just been watching the last party on Earth?

That's quite some question for a film to pose, and at its best, Sirāt proves as rattling as everybody's said. (To put it in ravers' terms: it's ultimately a bad trip, but its highs are pretty high.) It's not merely what emerges from those bass bins, the sternest test of your local cinema's sound system since the last Michael Bay film; it's those devil-may-care partygoers, endlessly pursuing the next thrill. One sequence here, in which this party traverses the mountains via several miles of perilously bad road, triggered an ultra-specific stress response in me: memories of being on a nightbus caught up in chest-high flashflooding during a Spanish holiday in the 1990s. Then there are the bad vibes that follow, the growing sense everything's going to hell, via mountain pass, celestial bridge or other means entirely. (Does anyone remember when going to the movies was fun, rather than a test of nerve?) Laxe, in fairness, is keeping one eye out for companionship - a friend for the end of the world - in this case the unlikely companionship the genial family man, huffing and puffing his way up and over these hillsides, finds among angular shapethrowers with tattoos and piercings. In such stretches, Sirāt shapes up as among our more oblique migration movies: it recognises that, in times of upheaval, different worlds become fellow travellers, pooling money, intelligence and resources to ensure their survival. Yet even here, we're led to wonder whether the missing daughter fled because she found the normalcy the father represents too stifling, and whether any good can possibly come from a reunion. 

What the film centres, then, is a tentative alliance, riven with tensions at every turn: Laxe has basically found his way to filming those areas in Glastonbury where folks prepared to spend £1000 a night to house their family in a yurt while attending wellness sessions intersect with/rub up against those anarcho-syndicalist stalwarts who've shown up for the Corbyn speech and the Runrig reunion. Still, the film tails off badly; I'm amazed quite how seriously some have taken Sirāt, given the abject silliness of its closing section. At a crucial point - roughly once these drifters reach salt flats improbably studded with landmines - Laxe's film becomes less spiritual than logistical, veering into genre territory without understanding the terrain. It gets booming in a different way here - bombastic, really - and Laxe's po-faced direction finally strands his performers at the border of absurd and ridiculous: you half-expect Graham Chapman to wander on in the guise of corporal or copper, telling everyone to wrap things up and go home. The film's achievement lies in using its enervated characters - zonked figures in a landscape, looking off into the middle distance - to square the arthouse and the club, to find the unlikely centreground connecting, say, Antonioni with Tony De Vit. It's a fairly niche achievement, granted - some measure down on the countercultural landmarks of the 1960s and 1970s - but then the movies are fairly niche at the moment, so here we all are: there's a reason Sirāt hasn't leapt from the Best Foreign Language Film shortlist and onto the season's Best Picture lists as The Secret Agent has - and as It Was Just An Accident, a far more assured journey into the heart of authoritarianism and the desert of human despair, really should have.

Sirāt opens in selected cinemas today. 

Thursday, 26 February 2026

The real green menace: "Cold Storage"


Here's an unexpected comeback. Twenty years ago, a youthful British TV director, Jonny Campbell, made an abortive leap from the small to the big screen with the largely nondescript Ant & Dec vehicle Alien Autopsy. (I say largely nondescript because the supporting cast featured a bemused Harry Dean Stanton and a pre-tax, pre-surgery, pre-Riyadh Jimmy Carr, together at last; it's streaming on Prime, if you really must.) Maybe Campbell - who's spent the intervening decades compiling increasingly ambitious and impressive telly credits (Ashes to Ashes, Doctor Who, Westworld, Am I Being Unreasonable?) - felt he owed it to himself to give it another go, or maybe he's one of those single-issue filmmakers: either way, his spry, splattery B-movie Cold Storage, adapted by David Koepp from his own novel, hinges on a parasitic alien fungus that fell to Earth with Skylab in 1979 and has taken the form of an extra-malevolent pesto, finishing off everyone it garnishes. A prologue offers an unlikely Ordinary Love reunion, with a hazmat-suited Liam Neeson and Lesley Manville poking nervily around an Outback town whose residents have succumbed to these deadly green globules; the samples they take away are quarantined in a Kansas military facility that, as the years pass, gets haphazardly decommissioned and thereafter converted into the kind of self-storage facility that now provides the backdrop to countless locker-raiding reality shows on Bravo and Quest. We rejoin the action on one very eventful night shift, as the quarantine period conclusively expires and the facility's bored staffers - chatty slacker Joe Keery and conscientious single mom Georgina Campbell - go exploring with grisly yet funny consequences.

It's all a bit unlikely, in truth: corner-cutting awards-season counterprogramming shot many miles away from where it's notionally set (the end credits suggest nobody ventured further than continental Europe), with a ragbag cast drawn from the available and willing. But it's a production founded on long-lost multiplex virtues; viewers of a certain vintage could be forgiven for believing they were sat watching it at the Showcase circa 1995. (Just after Koepp's breakthrough with the Jurassic Park script, in other words.) The MVP here is production designer Elena Albanese, an MCU survivor who hands Campbell a non-virtual set that keeps revealing new levels and depths from the moment Keery decides to take a sledgehammer to the foyer wall. Koepp, though, runs her a close second. As evidenced by the initially gruff back-and-forths between Neeson's aging hero and his rookie Homeland Security pointwoman (Ellora Torchia) or Keery and Campbell's more genial badinage, this script is simply much better written than these things tend to be - and certainly far better written than Sam Raimi's Send Help, the movie's current box-office rival. Collectively, Campbell and Koepp have packed a lot into these 99 minutes, not least a witty brevity; the VFM quotient here is quite something. The storage facility also attracts, in no particular order, a larcenous biker gang, a suicidal Vanessa Redgrave (yes, that Vanessa Redgrave), a crazed deer and a CG cockroach (thereby establishing this cursed building's altogether batty ecosystem) and, come the finale, an old-school nuclear device with big red numbers ticking down on its side. That the whole proves a vast improvement on Alien Autopsy is almost a given; the surprise is that Cold Storage is more enjoyable than anything else currently stalking your local Odeon.

Cold Storage is now showing in cinemas nationwide.

Evanescence: "The Moment"


Movies and pop music snuggle up once again. First there was Barbie summer, then there was Brat, in which Letterboxd's most illustrious contributor Charli XCX proposed a Muppet Babies variant of the messy-women's lib pop culture pushed into vogue (and, doubtless, Vogue) as this century gathered pace. Now Brat's creative prime mover offers an A24-backed mockumentary, The Moment, composed along postmodern, Kneecap-like lines as simultaneously artistic self-mythologising and an insider's guide to What Charli Did Next. As Aidan Zamiri's film has it, this mostly involves the singer retreating behind Dylanesque dark glasses (don't look back) and reacting with varying levels of Brat (and Grump) to the idea of doing anything - perhaps unsurprisingly, given the options being set before her by a label desperate to capitalise on all things Brat. In order of the priority The Moment affords them, these include an Amazon-sponsored concert film overseen by a "visionary" director (Alexander Skarsgård) who proceeds to make a total nuisance of himself, and copious branding opportunities, most disastrously a Brat credit card targeted at Charli's queer fanbase that serves much the same narrative purpose as Krusty Burger's LGBTQBLT ("How can a ploy this cynical and shameless fail?") did in The Simpsons. Last and least on the list of priorities, to the extent no-one in the movie even thinks to talk about it: new music. (One surprise awaiting fans is how little Charli there is on the soundtrack; perhaps she was clean out of inspiration post-"Wuthering Heights".) If the Charli we see on screen is keen to resist positioning - going so far as to whisk herself away to an Ibizan health spa when it all gets too much - the Charli making the film is doing nothing but. The Moment exists principally to raise the possibility that whatever she does next may be Brat, but may not be anything like as hot, happening or indeed successful. Zamiri's film may have already borne this out by opening at a lowly number nine at the UK box office, albeit in a competitive week for new releases.


For fullest enjoyment, you may need to be more invested in Brat as a concept than this viewer, who still thinks of Roger Kitter whenever he hears that particular B-word, and to find the machinations of the music industry (or of the music industry as presented in The Moment) inherently fascinating. As it is, I spent most of the film's 103 minutes wondering whether Charli might have been better off playing a character with autobiographical traits, as Gaga surely did in A Star is Born, rather than merely playing herself (or "herself"). That might have proved both a riskier and more rewarding strategy; in this version, the singer is all too visibly playing the kind of diva-in-waiting that Madonna - an even savvier performer in matters of public image - was being in 1991's In Bed with Madonna, her pre-rehearsed tantrums carefully controlled, her mid-strop breathwork impeccable. Zamiri's film is above all else a document of a moment where the bulk of our popstars have been stage-schooled. Dotted around Charli, we get celebrity hangers-on (Rachel Sennott, Kylie Jenner, Julia Fox), interspersed with actors who've fared better in mockumentaries with far funnier, more purposeful scripts (Jamie Demetriou, Alex Macqueen). At least Skarsgård, whose moment this may ultimately be, is enjoying himself, albeit in the stock role of the clueless male creative; the one distinction is that you won't have seen that role filled by someone quite this handsome. What's semi-interesting about The Moment is its foundational sourness about the music business: exhausting and malformed when not plain opportunistic, geared predominantly towards snuffing out original or personal expression, this is not an industry anyone would choose to get into or stay within for long. (One way of explaining the film to those over the age of fifty: it's Charli XCX's Slade in Flame. Or even Charli's "Radio Musicola".) The movie business, for once, has stepped up in this respect, enabling this particular performer to do what she wants to do and say what she wants to say. Still, the moment Zamiri chronicles here for Charli has passed; so too, by the time you read this, will The Moment.

The Moment is now playing in cinemas nationwide.

Monday, 23 February 2026

Lock up: "Wasteman"


Wasteman
 is the New British Realism mob that gave the world Adolescence shifting their attention from schooling to the prison system. David Jonsson's Taylor is a manslaughter inmate who's been trying to get through his sentence in a narcotics-induced haze; the fug around his head lifts momentarily after he's informed he'll be released on parole - as part of Government plans to relieve overcrowding - if he can stay out of trouble for just a few more weeks. The trouble is he finds this out at precisely the point his own cell becomes overcrowded: his new cellmate Dee (Tom Blyth) is a ne'er-do-well with a neck tattoo who walks on bellowing "The Good Life" in a bloodspattered sweatshirt, turns the pair's notionally shared space into a hectic combination of tuckshop and import-export business, and promptly vows to initiate a turf war with rival dope pushers in a bid to take over the facility entire. In some ways, Dee's not unlike the movie he's in, one of those modestly budgeted Britpics that looks like an expansion of pre-existing TV: muscling past Jimmy McGovern's recent BBC hit Life - and towards the realms of HBO's Oz - with its 18 certificate, Wasteman also retains an air of especially brutal sitcom in describing what proves, for both of these young lags, a most unfortunate (and untimely) flatshare. (It's Porridge with a pool ball in a sock.) Weirdly, it'd even make an unlikely but lively double-bill with last year's crossover hit Pillion, in that it's about two men wrestling - sometimes literally - for position and power. (For motorcycling leathers, swap in drably institutional duds.)

Above all, however, this is that rare kind of Britpic that appears to work for everyone. For those of us looking on, the premise is familiar but inherently dramatic, often tense. Writers Hunter Andrews and Eoin Doran and director Cal McMau get to nudge their way into the industry conversation - and, indeed, last night's BAFTAs - by showing they've absorbed the many recent newspaper exposes of prison life (drug-drop drones! Prohibited cellphone use!); the plot here is by definition self-contained - 90 minutes, much of that time spent on lockdown with bunkbound protagonists - but McMau opens the drama up via mobile-phone footage of what's going on beyond the boys' cell. (Mostly gangland posturing, as it happens, with the occasional grace note: the weariness of a seasoned guard as he's called in from his break by an alarm, the eerie quiet of a riot's aftermath.) The distributors can slap an eyecatching title on all this and sell it to that strain of agitated youth who are permanently cruising cinemas for a bruising. And the actors get to attempt something swaggering and street-tough in close-up, a chance actors generally leap at, given some of the names they were called during their time at theatre school. Casting supremo Kharmel Cochrane calls in all those day players who've been chased away from other auditions for looking like they might steal off with the producer's car, and the leads are (perhaps perversely) a good match. Blyth, who broke through in last year's Plainclothes, captures the mannerisms of a small and not terribly intelligent individual trying to be big and clever: he has to trade in swag because he has nothing else to offer, but he's charismatic company until he turns. And Jonsson, continuing his early-career quest to play every type of role under the sun (Rye Lane, Alien: Nemesis, The Long Walk), gives us a new type of inmate: a nerd, essentially - a scientist incarcerated for getting his sums wrong - who now has to use his brain to keep himself alive. He has a great face for fatigue and suffering, both of which are much in demand here: I hope he can pick up a few cheerier roles along the way, but he could well become this generation's John Hurt.

Wasteman is now playing in selected cinemas.

Fantasy island: "Send Help"


See, 2026 isn't all bad news: we got a new Sam Raimi film - his first standalone since 2009's
Drag Me To Hell - and it even briefly topped the box office while the rest of us were glued to the Winter Olympics. Send Help proceeds from a script by two men (Damian Shannon and Mark Swift, past crimes: Freddy vs. Jason, the 2009 reboot of Friday the 13th, the Baywatch movie) which suggests a post-#MeToo rewrite of Nicolas Roeg's Castaway: it describes the circumstances whereby an entitled corporate asshat (Dylan O'Brien) ends up stranded on a desert island in the Gulf of Thailand with one of his lowlier employees, a workaholic numbers whizz (Rachel McAdams) possessed of the comic-book name Linda Liddle and the limpest bangs ever dangled on screen. This being Raimi, they've not been put there for sunkissed romance, rather a knockdown drag-out battle of the sexes, fought to the death. It does, however, involve a makeover. In this new environment - a sandy leveller - the previously meek, downtrodden and generally overlooked Linda can reap the benefits of the many lonely nights in she's spent bingeing Survivor with her pet parakeet; she is, inevitably, better suited to this scenario than her feckless, whiny, incapacitated alpha dog of a boss. One of Send Help's more obvious flaws is that it wildly overrates what reality TV teaches us on a nightly or weekly basis, but then - as a 20th Century Fox production - it too emerges from the entertainment-industrial complex.

Mostly, we're watching a creative heading back to basics after surviving the indifferent multiverse chicanery of 2022's Doctor Strange sequel: this is two characters, one location, a self-contained narrative worked through with a smaller budget than you get - with hand-tying caveats - on an MCU movie. (You can even imagine it being done in less exotic climes with a smaller budget still.) That story is simple enough for a director to feel as if he can impose himself upon it: here extreme close-ups that exaggerate first Linda's dorkiness, then her boss's helplessness, there buckets of blood, projectile vomiting and maggot-eyed zombie nightmares, towards the end a neat match cut that at least suggests Raimi is having a measure of fun making movies again. I will concede it all still feels fairly superficial, one of those 15-rated items that spiritually feels more 12A (adolescent, perhaps) than it does 18 (or adult). Raimi can open his box of tricks and apply lipstick to this wiggly pig of a script, but he can't really dress it up with themes, ideas or anything else much. However hot and steamy the weather, whatever desperation or isolation these characters are feeling, sex - to name one possibility - doesn't enter the picture: Linda briefly cops an apparently appreciative eyeful of the O'Brien derriere, bringing on a thunderous storm, and the next minute she's threatening to chop off this dude's goolies. (The transitions between these scenes don't make a lot of sense, but they may unintentionally reflect Hollywood's muddled thinking in the matter of male-female relations, with newly empowered women running up against male creatives' longer-standing castration complexes.)

For much of its 113 minutes, Send Help seems happy enough to remain at or around the level of a live-action cartoon, which is why the conspicuously shoddy CGI (a crashing plane, a charging boar) didn't bother me unduly: if it's some considerable way down on the practical VFX Raimi engineered on his breakthrough Evil Dead films forty years ago - and reads as the groggiest of visual hangovers from the director's time in the Marvelverse - it's broadly of a piece with everything else around it. These antagonists aren't a real, flesh-and-blood couple; they're either abstract ideas of man and woman, almost certainly the result of writers spending too much time on social media, or mere characters in a movie. (Call them "Man" and "Woman": Raimi should have rented out Emerald Fennell's quotation marks for the opening weekend.) She's the kind of sleeves-rolled-up adventuress your agent advises you to play after your big Oscar shot playing a homemaking sweetheart comes to naught (Linda's hair bounces back to life on the island, which is almost as much a relief for us as it must have been for McAdams); he's the kind of asshole you sign up to play in a film by a name director that will get you into the multiplexes; and as Send Help approaches the ninety-minute mark, both run into a plot development that makes you think "ah, this must be the third act now" rather than "gosh, this is exactly how all this would play out in the real world". A throwaway sketch rather than a fully committed picture, from a filmmaker himself found swimming back to the mainland from choppy waters: semi-enjoyable, but minor Raimi, and finally all a bit too cynical for this viewer's liking.

Send Help is now playing in selected cinemas.