Friday, 2 October 2026

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of September 25-27, 2026):

1 (new) Avengers: Endgame Encore (12A)
2 (1) Resident Evil (15)
3 (new) Heart of the Beast (12A) ***
4 (new) Sense and Sensibility (U)
6 (2) Practical Magic 2 (12A)
7 (4) Pressure (15) ***
8 (5) The Odyssey (15) ***
10 (new) The Paradise (18)

(source: BFI)

My top five:


DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (2) Disclosure Day (12) **
2 (1) Moana (PG)
3 (3) The End of Oak Street (12) ***
4 (4) Toy Story 5 (PG) **
5 (re) Scary Movie [2026] (15)
6 (14) Project Hail Mary (12) ***
7 (5) Obsession (18) *
8 (35) The Invite (15) ****
9 (6) Supergirl (12)
10 (7) Michael (12)


My top five: 
1. The Secret Agent


Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. Passport to Pimlico [above] (Saturday, BBC Two, 10.35am)
2. Till (Monday, BBC Two, 11pm)
3. The Order (Sunday, BBC Two, 10pm)
4. The Man Who Would Be King (Sunday, BBC Two, 2.45pm)
5. Shrek 2 (Sunday, BBC One, 2pm)

On demand: "Vernon, Florida"


Originally made for public television, 1981's
Vernon, Florida was an early taster of Errol Morris: an hour-long survey of the eponymous community - notionally, a small, quiet all-American backwater - which helped pave the way for countless Carl Hiaasen novels and the 'Florida Man' memes that came to circulate in the early 21st century. Characters proliferate, and we sense Morris didn't have to wait long for them to appear: the turkey hunters waiting out their prey, a traffic cop doing likewise with speeding motorists, a latter-day trapper of some kind ("I've been bit by everything there is in this country") who proffers what he swears is a gopher - but is clearly a tortoise - and insists that it's good for the eatin', a godly builder who extols the power of prayer in finding a van at a heavenly price, a veteran garage owner whose conversational opener is "you ever seen a man's brains?". (It could have got weirder and bloodier still: Morris originally came this way, on a ticket paid for by his mentor Werner Herzog, to investigate claims Vernonians were lopping off their own limbs for insurance purposes.) So this, apparently, is how men - and Morris's subjects are almost exclusively men, because who else would disappear so enthusiastically down such vertiginous rabbit holes? - spent their days in an America leaving the tumult of the 1970s behind in order to enter into Reagan's more leisured and leisurely 1980s.

Still, what's noticeable is how determinedly Morris avoids sneering of any kind, possibly because he realises pointing a camera at people for any length of time and fashioning a documentary from the results is itself a perilously niche activity; from the off, this documentarist was sincerely interested in his fellow humanoids, however curious their concerns, and he set about drawing out their stories, methods and peccadillos so as to demonstrate there is no such thing as ordinary or typical American life. What Morris wound up filming here was both proof of existence - several thousand feet of richly textured celluloid that showed such folks were once living here among us, whether for decades or just a fleeting afternoon - and a fine advert for showing up in a place with an open mind and allowing the folks you encounter to start shooting their mouths off. At the back of it all is a tacit understanding that our fellow humans are fascinating and sometimes magic, because they can give you material that even the greatest writer would be hard-pushed to script. This town's unofficial historian even goes so far as to gift Morris a worldview and methodology that would come to sustain the filmmaker over what's so far been a near-fifty year career. Looking out on Vernon's unusually marshy swamps, this unassuming subject is minded to recount a joke he'd once heard about two sailors at sea. Sailor one observes "there's a lot of water out there". Sailor two replies: "Yeah, and that's just the top of it".

Vernon, Florida is currently streaming via NOW.

Tuesday, 29 September 2026

Distress signals: "Queen at Sea"


We can't be certain that the UK release of
Queen at Sea has any direct correlation to Andy Burnham's plan to urgently reform social care, but this sure feels like the kind of film that would significantly shift a needle were someone with the right level of clout to see it. For what is his first feature in 18 years - and only his second in total, following 2008's notable Ballast - the American indie tyro Lance Hammer has holed up in Tufnell Park to monitor a situation that initially presents as awkward-slash-tricky, and then gets grimmer by the minute. The trickiness is this: university lecturer Amanda (Juliette Binoche) and her teenage daughter Sarah (Florence Hunt) show up one afternoon at the home Amanda's mother Leslie (Anna Calder-Marshall) shares with her second husband - and Amanda's stepfather - Martin (Tom Courtenay), only to discover Leslie and Martin in the bedroom, engaged in an act of congress. This would merely be regrettably awkward, except that Leslie has been diagnosed with dementia, and so cannot give informed consent; furthermore, this apparently isn't the first time this has happened. A distressed Amanda calls the police, intending to do the right thing, yet - it turns out - making everybody's lives immediately worse. Now there are men in hazmat suits in a marital bedroom designated a crime scene; now Martin is being led away from the woman he cares for in handcuffs; now Leslie is having to undergo a vital rape examination; and now, with Amanda away dealing with the consequences of the above, young Sarah is left to her own devices. At first, it feels as if Hammer is trying to top Michael Haneke's notoriously bleak Amour by adding a prickly accusation of marital rape to the equation, yet there's a key difference. Haneke wanted us to suffer, because we are the unthinking Western bourgeois and we deserve to suffer. Hammer, to his considerable credit, just wants to keep his situation real.

That intense realism is what first strikes you about Queen at Sea, and it is, finally, what keeps Hammer's film on course. It extends to the casting of actual health professionals in literal supporting roles, hopefully earning more per diem than they would in the NHS while patiently, compassionately talking the leads through what they would in the course of their usual day jobs. This isn't some wild stab in the dark as to what the consequences of Martin's actions and Amanda's 999 call would be; throughout, Hammer strives to nail his drama down agonisingly close to the painful truth of such matters. TV's The Pitt received plaudits for a number of episodes that assiduously detailed how a rape kit should be gathered by a trained medical professional caring for a victim in full compos mentis; Queen at Sea's victim, by stark contrast, can't know why someone in latex gloves is prodding at her with unfamiliar instruments, and wouldn't likely understand even if a nurse attempted to explain. One reason Hammer has taken so long between projects is surely that he's seeking such an exacting level of realism you might come away never wanting to make films again - or simply not want to associate yourself with a medium that more generally peddles comforting lies. I started the film vaguely unhappy with the idea that wobbly seniors Martin and Leslie's bedroom should be on the very top floor of a North London townhouse, arrived at by perilous staircases - but Hammer even comes to connect that to the stubbornness of some elders: this pair won't leave this house, nor will they leave one another's side. It is, all told, a thoroughly unhappy situation - and yet at the same time a dramatist's ideal: a situation where everybody on screen appears to be in the right and in the wrong simultaneously. (You be the ref.) Hammer complicates matters further by casting universal grandad-of-choice Courtenay as an accused who is in all other respects a loving, devoted caregiver. Where it gets trickier still is that Martin sees sex both as a marital duty and a potential source of comfort for his befuddled partner: to have and to hold, in sickness and in health. Does a husband necessarily know better than anyone else what his wife wants? Would he know better than trained health care professionals? Again, Hammer hands us the gavel and lets us be the judge.

The conditions for studying these characters could scarcely be any better. Hammer pens them all into small, sparsely appointed frames under flat autumnal light, correctly reasoning these people are enough in themselves to hold the attention, and that they'll soon have problems enough to fill an IMAX screen. Just dramatically, nothing will top Queen at Sea this year: it's a whole series' worth of The Moral Maze, squeezed into two gripping hours. We see that Amanda's giving her everything to protect a vulnerable woman, but also that, in this instance, she may have overreacted (and Binoche, the doyenne of doubt, lets us know this). We see that Leslie is helpless and child-like, but also compulsively needy (such that you have to keep telling yourself that the astonishing Calder-Marshall is simply inhabiting a role to the hilt). We see that Martin is harried and shaken, but also defiantly old-school and possessive with regard to Leslie, carrying a swelling martyr complex that may or may not be justified. And we see that Sarah is away living an existence of her own, albeit without close parental guidance. These latter scenes present as somewhat less compelling, because the sight of two kids filming TikTok videos is automatically less compelling than that of conflicted grown-ups being pushed and pulled every which way. Yet they, too, have a purpose, letting some fresh (if reefer-tinged) air in on a largely domestic story, highlighting crucial generational differences and freedoms, conveying some sense of life going on regardless, for better and worse. Somewhere in here is an actors' ideal, too: every performer gets to fight their character's corner, however tough, shitty or bloody it gets. You very quickly sense this was a film that demanded elevated levels of care and attention offscreen: it's not just that Hammer pushes his veteran leads to go way beyond the boundaries of the average Silver Screen matinee, it's that provision also has to be made for those non-professionals who find themselves on the sharp end of a foul-mouthed Courtenay diatribe or that intense Binoche glare. So consummately good is the acting and direction on a scene-by-scene basis that, towards the end, Hammer almost gets away with finding an easy way out of his initial set-up: he lets himself off the hook, even as the rest of us are set to considering the messy outcome of a heinously messy situation. (Part of the film's honesty lies in its recognition there can be no neat and tidy resolution.) Queen at Sea is not a film anyone will want to watch over and over again: you may be too busy, as Andy Burnham has been, living a comparable situation in reality to want to see it reflected so sharply in your nightly entertainments. But then this is also one film you're not going to forget in a hurry.

Queen at Sea is now showing in selected cinemas.

Saturday, 26 September 2026

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of September 18-20, 2026):

1 (new) Resident Evil (15)
2 (1) Practical Magic 2 (12A)
4 (3) Pressure (15) ***
5 (4) The Odyssey (15) ***
6 (5) Spider-Man: Brand New Day (12A) ***
7 (2) Don't Look Back in Anger (15) ****
8 (new) Bad Apples (15) **
9 (new) Transformers: the Movie (PG) *
10 (7) Insidious: Out of the Further (15)

(source: BFI)

My top five:
5. Matilda


DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (1) Moana (PG)
2 (24) Disclosure Day (12) **
3 (new) The End of Oak Street (12) ***
4 (4) Toy Story 5 (PG) **
5 (3) Obsession (18) *
6 (2) Supergirl (12)
7 (5) Michael (12)
8 (6) Practical Magic (12)
9 (7) Minions & Monsters (U)


My top five: 
1. The Secret Agent


Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. The Lady Vanishes (Sunday, BBC Two, 2.05pm)
2. The Wicker Man (Friday, BBC Two, 12.15am)
3. The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp (Saturday, BBC Two, 10.35am)
4. Malcolm X [above] (Tuesday, BBC One, 10.40pm)
5. The 39 Steps (Sunday, BBC Two, 12.40pm)

Friday, 25 September 2026

A tonic: "Shaun the Sheep: The Beast of Mossy Bottom"


Finally, some good news this week: some small part of the British film industry is doing exactly the job expected of it. It may not be insignificant that this sector is as close as we now have to a cottage industry, the work of West Country artisans - Bristol's Aardman - making merry magic with vast balls of modelling clay. Where 2019's Farmageddon was the Shaun the Sheep franchise's bucolic alien-invasion movie, The Beast of Mossy Bottom - emerging in cinemas ahead of Hallowe'en - is more conventional mad science, being a cautionary tale on a subject these animators surely know all too well: the need to correctly label the containers in which you store your gloopy fluids. Our friend the farmer - part Eric Morecambe, part Robert Lloyd of The Nightingales; as voiced by John Sparkes, possibly the single funniest character in the British cinema right now - runs out of hair tonic ahead of a potential date with the local vet (Nina Sosanya). At the same time, young Shaun, in mad scientist mode, refills an empty tonic bottle with the formula he's concocted to revive the pumpkin patch he and his ovine pals have been secretly cultivating. On the plus side, the formula yields the biggest pumpkins known to man, or sheep; on a less positive note, Farmer mistakenly applies said formula to his own pumpkin (his baldy head), immediately transforming him into a hirsute glam rocker (massive ginger mullet, free-flowing 'tache), then some furry combination of Bigfoot, the Honey Monster and the Kukeri costume from Toni Erdmann, a look that prompts not the admiration for which he was hoping, but a combination of terror and chuckles wherever he stumbles.

The initial script meeting had to have been as short and sweet as Shaun himself: what's the set-up that could generate the most sight gags over the course of 80 minutes? This is it, or cheeringly close to it. So we get big sight gags: a transformation sequence straight out of a classic horror B-movie (only, you know, rendered in plasticine), a rollicking setpiece involving two tethered vehicles barrelling through a built-up area. We get smaller, blink-of-an-eye sight gags, too: throwaway observations about the behavioural patterns of delivery drivers, phone-obsessed youths, cats and angry mobs (topical); the farmer, attempting an impromptu body wax with electrical tape, lets loose a scream so loud and far-reaching it curls a shop's "NOW OPEN" banner so it simply reads "OW". And it squeezes all of the above in while remaining miraculously wordless - great for pre-verbal youngsters, even better for international markets; these filmmakers have built upon - and refined - what Richard Curtis and Rowan Atkinson were doing back in the day with Mr. Bean. Mossy Bottom yields some of Aardman's most gorgeous cinematography (care of Charles Copping): the autumnal forest 'the Beast' escapes into, a tableau of foggy desolation on the docks. Throughout - in the absence of spoken words - the sound designers work expressive wonders with gasps of wonder and terror, exasperated sighs and at one point even a sea shanty the sheep cobble together as part of their masterplan. Faced with further evidence of Aardman's collective fondness for Heath Robinson-like contraptions, you realise these films are themselves machines: they go like the clappers, emitting strange noises, while finding fixes or swerves for looming story obstacles. (There's a lovely moment towards the end here, as the creatives realise they've backed themselves into a corner with their 'no talking' rule and hit upon an ancient solution: hieroglyphs. Hey, if it worked for the Egyptians...) Carefully calibrated, lovingly maintained, its every ratchet falling in the right place, Mossy Bottom is a machine designed to throw endless custard pies and slap a smile on your face; it's too good, and too joyful, just to be left to kids.

Shaun the Sheep: The Beast of Mossy Bottom is now playing in cinemas nationwide.

Thursday, 24 September 2026

The dogs of war: "Heart of the Beast"


Heart of the Beast
 finds two grizzled, battle-scarred Hollywood veterans allowing a dog to guide them. For Brad Pitt, the goal is to continue the onscreen charm offensive that became urgently necessary the minute the details of his separation from Angelina Jolie became a matter of public record. For director David Ayer, twenty-year purveyor of muscular-to-macho filmmaking (End of Watch, Fury, Suicide Squad), matters are much simpler: he just needs a hit. The dog, a comparatively innocent party in all this positioning, is a three-legged German shepherd called Uber playing a retired service dog named Odin; he's first seen wandering out onto a road in the middle of an Alaskan nowhere with an expression that seems to indicate one thing: boy, the stories I could tell. The story Ayer's film elects to tell takes place one week earlier, when a plane piloted by Odin's owner, Special Forces vet turned outdoorsman James Belmont (Pitt), goes down in the state's mossy, swampy wilderness. As man and dog emerge from the wreckage, patch one another up and plot a route back to civilisation - a route that will involve careful negotiation of fast-flowing rivers and nocturnal predators alike - it becomes apparent what Ayer and writer Cameron Alexander are attempting to do here, which is to bring an all-American perennial into the febrile, conflicted, agonised present. Heart of the Beast is, at its heart, Lassie with neck tattoos and PTSD.

So it wags its tail and plays the adventure-movie hits, but it does so with an ultra-masculine, recognisably Ayerian terseness it wears surprisingly well: it's the story you expect, without any nonsense. Ayer arrives off the back of two Jason Statham vehicles - 2024's The Beekeeper and 2025's A Working Man - and you can't help but feel something of that bestubbled, generally monosyllabic star has rubbed off on this director, and certainly on his handling of this script. Odin gives up little more than the occasional warning bark or plaintive whine, and Belmont isn't much for talking, either (the things he's seen); Ayer has to send on a garrulous ex-prospector (JK Simmons, channelling Letterman channelling Walter Brennan) to get the character's backstory out. Mostly, we're watching that rare sight: a multiplex director allowing his images to do all his talking for him. The ominous beauty of these mountains and forests, with their shifting and treacherous microclimates; the scars on the leading man's body. In his better features, Ayer has presented as a capable mechanic, and heaven knows the commercial cinema needs its fair share of those. Here, he gets to engineer a series of involving, sometimes gripping physical setpieces, largely absent from that CGI which the prevailing, outdoorsy worldview would doubtless consider nerdstuff. We feel the propulsive speed of the initial crash, and the strain as Pitt dives into visibly freezing water to retrieve two heavy trunks of supplies (a smarter man might have done it one trunk at a time, but hey); one sublimely back-to-basics suspense sequence involves no more than two-legged star, three-legged dog and a fallen tree trunk bridging that river. True, some of the storytelling falls on the obvious side. We probably don't need this many flashbacks to an unspecified battlefield, though Alexander and Ayer would doubtless argue they underline - even before a final-reel ambush and a concluding Dear John letter - how the latter-day story is its own mission: leave no dog behind.

The filmmakers are savvy enough to introduce the dog in the present tense as a still-standing survivor of all these war stories, thereby reassuring that ever-swelling demographic of nervy animal-lovers. Odin's fine; it's his owner you worry about. Pitt presents here as bulked out in a way that seems far from entirely healthy; you buy instantly that this is a man who's seen combat, but you also come to suspect he may well have started to let himself go in retreating into silent near-solitude and removing himself from the world. (His peregrinations are the difference between a restorative nature walk and putting yourself out to pasture, perhaps permanently.) Certainly, the star allows himself to appear more beaten-up than a Cruise would or Redford in 1972's Jeremiah Johnson did, even before the first of the multiple heart attacks that determine the course of this plot. It's a smarter performance than I expected, informed by a horrible, nagging irony: that a warrior who survived the hell of a foreign battlefield may just perish in an extension of his own backyard. On the surface, then, Heart of the Beast presents as the kind of outward-bound flex every Hollywood gymbunny feels obliged to undertake at some point, but the fresh air and scenery Ayer works into these frames feels good for us, and actually not at all bad for the cinema: it's the American action movie reverting to old habits, rather than persisting with the bad habits it's lapsed into. (It's funny it should be opening in screens adjacent to the reissued Avengers: Endgame, the apotheosis of those bad habits: next to that, Ayer's film can only seem like detox, a guys' spa weekend.) Even after its Winalot Prime ad finale, you emerge with a sucker's misty eyes, having picked up the odd survival skill, such as what to do when confronted with a bear in its natural habitat. (Hint: it's not what Leo DiCaprio did in The Revenant.) More impressively, you leave with a sense of having seen something less pumped-up and hoo-rahing than it appeared from the outside. I can't be sure how much Ayer intended this, but his film offers the viewer a stark choice of takehomes. Is the moral of Heart of the Beast that Odin - stoic, steadfast, loyal - demonstrates all the characteristics Pete Hegseth could want in a soldier? Or is it that America is so comprehensively traumatised as a society that even its domestic pets are starting to wake up at 3am with a bad case of the terrors?

Heart of the Beast is now showing in cinemas nationwide.

Wednesday, 23 September 2026

Elementary errors: "Bad Apples"


A quiet crisis in filmmaking: the industry that once gave the world
To Sir with Love, Grange Hill and Clockwork Mice seems to have completely forgotten how schools work. I'm tempted to assign any blame for this to Netflix's hit Sex Education, which taught us that viewers would be willing to accept some mid-Atlantic fantasyland idea of schooling if a show's ultimate curriculum got us onto the good and fun stuff. Since then, we've had last year's floundering Steve, set in a place of education that made no sense whatsoever (two hundred rampaging teenagers in a leafy back of beyond, overseen by four understandably rattled members of staff); now we have the pure piffle of Jonatan Etzler's Bad Apples, relocating the events of a novel by Etzler's fellow Swede Rasmus Lindgren to a British nowhere-in-particular. Former Casualty apprentice Jess O'Kane's script holds to a familiar idea of school as battleground: we meet our heroine - wet-liberal wallflower Maria (Saoirse Ronan) - copping flak from all sides. Her primary problem is marauding malcontent Danny (Eddie Waller), a pre-teen hothead who spends lessons attempting (more often than not successfully) to pick a fight with everyone around him; but Maria is also being harassed and harangued by parents wondering why their little angels aren't receiving the same attention, and by colleagues who insist problem children like Danny are their teacher's responsibility. Ahead of a surprise Ofsted inspection, Maria decides to take special measures: locking Danny up in her spacious basement. There may well be an element of fantasy in here for working teachers crawling out from any marking generated by the long first week of term: the crowd I saw Bad Apples with gave up frequent chuckles of recognition at the sight of, say, a PTA meeting spiralling out of control. Yet the rest of us will spend the film wondering where exactly this school is meant to be, given the myriad accents in play, and how its secondary location - that basement - connects to Maria's improbably lavish home. Is it a shared storage space, as it first appears? If so, isn't Maria in danger of being found out? We end up doing more thinking than any of the creatives who've so obviously dashed the film off.

Steve went for a realism it couldn't sustain because nothing about it was remotely realistic. From the word go here, Etzler can be observed cranking everything - Danny's classroom-trashing tantrums, Maria's flustered responses, Chris Roe's hectoring, florid score - up past eleven, where it might have served everyone better to build gradually and thereby generate some measure of plausibility; it leaves Bad Apples with nowhere to go except off the rails and over the top, and us watching the sorry knock-on effects. Ronan, for one, is obliged to dial down (and occasionally abandon) her usual winning intelligence: her Maria is a klutz and a fumbler, outmanoeuvred by not just one but two kids, and thereafter shown scrabbling around on the hoof - as when she orders a restraining device for Danny that will be delivered by the lad's overworked (thus absent) father (Robert Emms). It's not the only point where the little editorial voice in your brain openly wonders 'is this not a bit too on-the-nose?'. That inner editor has already had enough to quibble with, not least some shaky casting. Waller is credibly snarly - taken in isolation, his might be the most credible performance here - but you soon clock he could easily overpower his diminutive captor. Stephen Graham and Anson Boon were a closer physical match in the recent, not dissimilar The Good Boy - but then that film heeded the lesson that sometimes a thriller needs to abandon realism in order to function as dark comedy; it swapped one logic for another, where this dithers between the two. Bad Apples can't go too dark, because on some level Etzler, O'Kane and Ronan want us to like Maria, and they want us to like Maria because they, too, are operating on the hoof. Yet right through to a school-hall finale that gave me PTSD flashbacks to those godawful Nativity! films, all that approach leaves us with is intensely annoying characters doing incredibly stupid things. Too haphazard to function as the latter-day Hitchcock it was surely pitched as, the film plays like homework someone's done on the bus in, its every twist an emoji shrug of "will this do?" No; no, it really won't. You've let yourselves down, you've let this school down, and - worst of all - you've let the entire British film and TV industry down.

Bad Apples is now playing in cinemas nationwide.

Monday, 21 September 2026

The gathering storm: "Pressure"


Well, British film industry, you've really outdone yourself this time. The season's first example of the well-made British period film - it won't be the last -
Pressure is a WW2 movie about the weather on D-Day; it could only be more British if it had a subplot about squaddies queuing to get onto the landing crafts, or if the final scene found Paddington standing on a Dover clifftop pointing angrily at the boats. Director Anthony Maras has adapted David Haig's 2014 play about a difficult, semi-forgotten figure who, working against the clock and under the conditions enshrined in that punning title, made a crucial difference in the run-up to the Normandy landings. The figure is Group Captain James Stagg (played here by Andrew Scott), a hypersensitive meteorologist who first shows up at Allied commander Eisenhower's UK base late (his pregnant wife has just been rushed to hospital), snappy and - as his surname seems to suggest - primed for combat. Within moments of his arrival, he's bellowed at a carpenter, turfed Lieutenant Kerry Condon out of her office, and demonstrated a withering disdain for his American equivalent Irving Krick (Chris Messina), a boogie-woogieing flash Harry whose anecdotes from the set of Gone with the Wind - on which Krick advised producer David Selznick - Stagg shoots down in tatters. So: very British film, very British hero - a buttoned-down stickler whose MO, as Eisenhower (Brendan Fraser) leans on him to correctly forecast the conditions for D-Day, gets summarised in an early command he issues to one of his underlings: "Get me the data... That's what counts". Stand down, Paddington: patriotism quota successfully met.

As a film, Pressure seems to be attempting two things simultaneously. The bigger picture forms a Stagg-like rebuke of that "the public are sick of experts" line proposed in the run-up to Brexit by Tory cabinet minister Michael Gove, and demonstrated to be utter horseshit by everything that subsequently came down the pipes. (Gove, by the way, can be observed playing war games for a big fat Sky cheque this very week, the speccy hypocrite.) On a scene-by-scene basis, Maras is trying to make cinematic and involving the work of a Forties equivalent to Ian McCaskill (Stagg even shares the lilting Caledonian accent) or Tomasz Schafernaker. In the matter of the first mission, Pressure proves a resounding success. For the second, the data proves patchier, albeit with bright intervals. This version never quite escapes its theatrical origins, despite Daniel Taylor's high-level production design and plentiful urgent-seeming cutaways to nervy-looking men manning telephones or poring over tidal maps. (It's a notable example of sleeves-rolled-up cinema, and Working Title's budget for braces alone must have been considerable.) But it's well acted by proven pros who mesh well together over these 100 minutes. Isolated in rooms staffed by barking, PT-honed alpha dogs, Scott wisely underplays, drawing us in to some extent. What we observe is that Stagg's prevailing insecurity - professional as much as personal; as he puts it, "you can't be certain about the weather" - was actually his and his country's great strength, obliging him to think beyond the blithe complacency of the slicker Krick and the ill-founded bravado of Damian Lewis's Montgomery. Settling nicely into his second act as a rumpled, lived-in character actor, Fraser fills out an appreciably managerial Eisenhower: a man with a job to do and rank he can pull, but also a willingness to learn from past failures and to hear everybody out if it ensures a better outcome.

Some of its stiffness is built-in: the play hymned analytical rigour, tenacity, holding firm to the facts no matter how disappointing or grim they might be. (Even as Haig and Maras take more than their share of liberties, most obviously with the pregnancy subplot.) Some of it is generic and industrial: even 2021's Operation Mincemeat, which narratively may be as close as the British WW2 movie comes to the business of a caper (or practical joke), felt obliged to play its chosen chapter of history with a very straight bat. (Anything else, presumably, just wouldn't be considered cricket.) Pressure remains watchable without ever becoming especially thrilling: we know the result going in, for starters, while Maras's direction falls somewhere between steady and workmanlike. He pulls off one good sequence as the weather decisively changes on the day initially earmarked for the landings, though even here you're aware you've been watching a British film where, for a long time between shots of old cars and uniforms, the most dramatic setpiece involves a cloudfront coming in. His reluctance to leave second gear does, however, allow him to strike the right balance during the climactic recreation of Normandy, where Stagg's knowledge (and the knowledge of the many other meteorologists) factors into what sports fans refer to as marginal gains: as per Spielberg, if there was a bullet with your name on it, you were clearly a goner, but Stagg helped put enough men onto the beaches at the right time to ultimately turn the tide. The moral would be that science can help shore up democracy, and sometimes proves the difference between life and death. There'll be no showings of Maras's film at the current White House - the screening room was demolished in 2025 so that Gramps can hole up in his ballroom-bunker watching AI slop - but I'd be very interested to hear how Pressure went down with Army families in America's redder states.

Pressure is now showing in cinemas nationwide.

Saturday, 19 September 2026

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of September 11-13, 2026):

1 (new) Practical Magic 2 (12A)
2 (new) Don't Look Back in Anger (15) ****
3 (new) Pressure (15) ***
4 (2) The Odyssey (15) ***
6 (new) Fall 2 (12A)
7 (3) Insidious: Out of the Further (15)
8 (new) Runner (15)
9 (re) Raiders of the Lost Ark (12A) ****
10 (9) Coyote vs. ACME (PG) ***

(source: BFI)

My top five:


DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (new) Moana (PG)
2 (8) Supergirl (12)
3 (2) Obsession (18) *
4 (1) Toy Story 5 (PG) **
5 (4) Michael (12)
6 (11) Practical Magic (12)
7 (3) Minions & Monsters (U)
8 (new) Barbarian (18) ***
9 (12) Batman: Knightfall Part 1 (15)
10 (6) The Super Mario Galaxy Movie (PG)


My top five: 
1. The Secret Agent
4. Tuner


Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. Kidnapped (Saturday, BBC Two, 1.40am)
2. His House (Friday, BBC Two, 11.20pm)
3. Back to the Future Part III [above] (Sunday, BBC One, 2.20pm)
4. Origin (Monday, BBC Two, 11.05pm)
5. Proxima (Thursday, Channel 4, 1.55am)

Wednesday, 16 September 2026

In memoriam: Jeremy Thomas (Telegraph 14/09/26)


Jeremy Thomas
, who has died aged 77, was an independent British film producer whose cosmopolitan tastes, keen instincts and vast industry nous enabled prominent world cinema directors to make some of the most demanding features of their entire careers. He won a Best Picture Oscar for Bernardo Bertolucci’s China-shot The Last Emperor (1987), a project that proved as much logistical feat as artistic vision; he also steadied David Cronenberg during the controversies around Crash (1996) and backed Jonathan Glazer’s debut feature Sexy Beast (2000).

From the off, he relished a challenge. His Recorded Picture Company ventured into production with Mad Dog Morgan (1976), a latter-day Western shot in the Outback with the hard-drinking Dennis Hopper in the lead. “A lot of the people who worked on the film were complete amateurs,” Thomas later recalled. “We ended up getting a $500,000 contract for a film that cost $400,000. It was a fantastic deal but then we didn’t get the money so it was poetic. But it was very good learning.”

Thomas subsequently fell in with equally questing filmmakers. He enjoyed early festival success with the Pole Jerzy Skolimowski’s The Shout (1978), which won the Cannes Grand Prix, while developing a rewarding creative partnership with Nic Roeg, for whom he produced Bad Timing (1980), Eureka (1983) and Insignificance (1985): “I had a ten-year lesson from him about everything,” Thomas reflected, insisting Roeg stood among the greatest directors he’d worked with.

Other candidates presented. While promoting The Shout, Thomas had been introduced to the Japanese director Nagisa Ōshima, whose In the Realm of the Senses (1976) had been a global sensation. Neither could speak the other’s language, but they bonded over cinema, and the result was Thomas’s first commercial hit, the POW camp drama Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence (1983), shot on the Polynesian island of Rarotonga, with musicians Ryuichi Sakamoto and David Bowie in the leads.

After these cultish successes, The Last Emperor proved colossal: arguably the 20th century’s last true movie epic, it required 19,000 extras, a $25m budget and continual, complex behind-the-scenes negotiation. Exploiting a brief window in East-West relations, Bertolucci’s magnum opus became the first Western production shot in China since 1949, and the first feature shot inside the Forbidden City. The leeway was such that Queen Elizabeth II, then on a state visit to Beijing, was denied entry to the Forbidden City while Bertolucci was shooting the coronation sequence. 

Critics were understandably bowled over by the film’s scale – Roger Ebert deemed Bertolucci’s location work “astonishing” – as were awards voters: at the Oscars, the film won all nine categories in which it had been nominated. For Thomas, it was both a high watermark and, he confessed, “a difficult film to emulate”; his subsequent Bertolucci projects – the Tangiers-shot Paul Bowles adaptation The Sheltering Sky (1990) and the spiritual drama Little Buddha (1993) – struggled to emerge from their predecessor’s shadow.

Yet Thomas’s talent portfolio kept expanding. To the sensual Bertolucci, he added the cerebral David Cronenberg, resulting first in the bugged-out, free-associating William Burroughs adaptation Naked Lunch (1991), then Crash, the Canuck’s polarising take on JG Ballard’s tale of jaded fetishists who engineer traffic collisions in a bid to feel something. This, too, was a challenge: Thomas described the source as “one of those books you have to look away from as you are reading it.”

Drolly detached though it was, Cronenberg’s film proved no less provocative, having to swerve aggravated press campaigns and localised censorship restriction to emerge as a minor hit. Yet Crash exemplified Thomas’s policy of backing directors to the hilt: “All the choices I still defend as being from taste, not market driven… When you look at a painting by an artist you normally recognise their style of painting. When you make film you should be somewhat able to recognise the filmmaker as well.”

Jeremy Jack Thomas was born in Ealing on July 26, 1949, one of two children for director Ralph Thomas and wife Joy. He claimed to have been “born with a silver reel in my mouth”: Ralph’s Doctor in the House (1954) launched a series that provided the British film industry with its post-War backbone, while his uncle Gerald directed all thirty Carry On movies. The young Jeremy spent his holidays in studios or out on location; from the age of ten, he was set on making films.

Upon leaving school, he took a job in film processing before being promoted to the cutting rooms. His first assistant editor gig was a brush with the old Hollywood: the trippy folk horror Tam Lin (1970), directed by Roddy McDowall and starring Ava Gardner. Subsequently, he worked on Ken Loach’s Family Life (1971), the landmark Jamaican reggae film The Harder They Come (1972) and the Great Depression collage Brother, Can You Spare a Dime? (1975); the latter’s Australian director Philippe Mora then enlisted Thomas to produce Mad Dog Morgan.

As the millennium loomed, Thomas bolstered his internationalist credentials. Upon founding the sales agent Hanway Films in 1998, one of his first projects was the Bhutanese sleeper hit The Cup (1999), written and directed by Khyentse Norbu, about two young monks attempting to source a television on which to watch the World Cup final; it was, said Thomas, “a very happy story for everybody involved”.

Back at home, Thomas took a chance on the emergent ad maven Jonathan Glazer; the result, the electrifying Sexy Beast, proved the standout title of the British gangster cycle, as visually striking as it was profane. The producer rejoined Bertolucci for the Paris ‘68 drama The Dreamers (2003); he ventured into the American heartlands with Terry Gilliam’s Tideland (2005) – which passed off British Columbia as a flyblown Texas – and Richard Linklater’s Fast Food Nation (2006).

Increasingly, Thomas’s credits alternated established names with fresh talent. He reteamed with Cronenberg for A Dangerous Method (2011) and with Skolimowski for Essential Killing (2010) and the Oscar-nominated EO (2022). Yet he also backed emergent visionaries, ranging from the agitated Japanese genre specialist Takeshi Miike (13 Assassins, 2010; First Love, 2019) to the elegant Italian fabulist Matteo Garrone (Tale of Tales, 2015; Pinocchio, 2019).

He worked until the end: his Werner Herzog drama Bucking Fastard (2026) premiered in Venice a week before his death, while his latest Miike production, Bad Lieutenant: Tokyo (2026), premiered in Toronto this week. He even tried directing himself: All the Little Animals (1998), adapted by his wife Eski from a Walker Hamilton novel, concerned a troubled young man (Christian Bale) who finds solace in nature. Thomas claimed it was his only production to go over budget: “I was arguing with myself, so I always won either way.”

He received BAFTA’s Michael Balcon award in 1991, served as Chairman of the BFI between 1992 and 1997, and was made a Fellow of the BFI in 1998; in 2006, he received the European Film Award for Outstanding Achievement in World Cinema; and he received a CBE in 2009 for services to film. He also inspired the affectionate tribute The Storms of Jeremy Thomas (2021), in which director Mark Cousins joined the producer as he made his annual road trip to Cannes in his Alfa Romeo.

In 2017, Thomas told Cineaste: “I never merely make a film because I think it’s going to hit the market. I’m making it because I like the people and the subject involved and I think it’s going to hit the market, but it’s not made for the market — it’s made for a passion. I join somebody’s passion or they join my passion. And it’s worked: I’ve managed to have a long run, a longer run than many... I still wake up every day thinking about the movies.”

He married twice; his first marriage to Claudia Frohlich ended in divorce, his second was to Eski (née Vivien Coughman), who died in 2023. He is survived by Jack and Joshua, his two sons by Eski, and by Jessica, his daughter by Frohlich.

Jeremy Thomas, born July 26, 1949, died September 11, 2026.

Tuesday, 15 September 2026

Oh brother: "Don't Look Back in Anger"


So it goes. Blur reunite, successfully, and document the occasion with not one but
three separate documentaries. Oasis do likewise, no less successfully, and go as far as to hire the directors of Blur's first and best comeback movie (Will Lovelace and Dylan Southern, late of 2010's No Distance Left To Run) to put them up on the big screen. Is nothing the Gallaghers do original? Don't Look Back in Anger opens with a "previously on Oasis" potted history: the supersonic - nay, stratospheric - launch and success, the tabloid feeding frenzy, the wibbling rivalry, the thousand-yard glares and stares, the bust-ups, "The Hindu Times", the semi-inevitable split (announced on stage in Paris by a heroic fonctionnaire who advises the jeering fans to log onto oasis.com to find out more), the far less potent solo projects (yielding literally one good song over sixteen years), the years of stubbornness, the will-they-won't-they, the rising plumes of nostalgia stoked by such docs as 2016's Supersonic and 2019's Liam Gallagher: As It Was and the scenes after every recent England football victory. It was, after all, the songs that persisted. Scrappy, patchwork beerhall and terrace anthems, really no more lyrically meaningful than, say, Andrew WK's "Party Hard", their very porousness proved a virtue, and indeed Oasis's saving grace: these circuits were only fully completed once The People™ started to sing or howl along with them, their integral retroness allowing everybody to reconnect with some half-forgotten, perhaps even non-existent heyday. She's electric. He's electric. Together, we are only more electric. At some point in the long and drawn-out reunion process, that's what Noel and Liam - two individuals famously not given to reflection - began to realise themselves. And gradually, unexpectedly, Lovelace and Southern's film itself becomes electric, too.

It takes a while, granted, and there are stretches where the emotional current flows brighter and more freely than it does elsewhere. At its strongest - and as with No Distance Left to Run before it - DLBIA functions as an event-cinema study in modern British masculinity, swapping in bluff Manc lads for effete Essex art-schoolers. When Liam finally shows up at the rehearsal rooms, it's as a parka-contained cloud of displaced grievances, refusing to address his brother directly, getting in a huff with some innocent drum baffles, tearing the plastic cap off one of those woke water bottles they have nowadays. We knew things were bad; Lovelace and Southern show us how bad things could be when one brother or another had a right cob on. For a while here, it's touch-and-go, strictly business: this first day of rehearsals as the Oasis of old ends with Liam swaggering out of the room before his bandmates can even bring "Champagne Supernova" to an end, Noel offering an older brother's sage nod that seems to say "let him go". The techies look on nervily. How can this possibly work over the course of one gig, let alone a whole world tour? It's the songs, of course. It was always the songs. On the soundtrack, one unidentified Gallagher - probably Liam, but as with most siblings, their voices tend to merge - insists he's sworn off the drink because the songs demand that level of respect. (We don't hear "The Hindu Times".) Suddenly, Noel and Liam are recast as an estranged couple having to put their interpersonal differences aside for the benefit of their offspring, in this case their musical legacy. And as the tour plays out, that wibbling rivalry is transformed into a sibling synergy that falls somewhere between magical and miraculous: now they're on the same stage and the same page - and it doesn't seem quite so absurd when the directors cut in a Manchester priest's sermon about Jesus telling Peter to forgive his brother. They may not be Biblical, but one can draw lessons from these events.

Inevitably, some of the old familiar hubris remains in place. We hear Liam opining that Oasis's splitting was responsible for the world going to hell in a handcart, as Lovelace and Southern lay on a montage encompassing Brexit, Trump, Johnson, Musk and Covid. (I don't think Oasis splitting was responsible for any of that. Though the older, wiser Noel is heard maintaining Oasis is "not some right-wing thing", I do suspect some of the group's fans might be.) And the film isn't blind to the hyperbole and hoopla that accompanied these gigs: one attendee, a middle-aged man in (not inaptly) a Beatles tee, insists the comeback is on a par with the resurrection of Christ. What's interesting about DLBIA - what makes this by far the strongest Oasis film yet - is that there are stretches where we can't be sure Lovelace and Southern are the biggest Oasis fans, and their ambivalence allows them to take a step back and a good look around; they're not entirely swept up and swept along by proceedings, until the point where they (and we) are. In the meantime, they couldn't help but spot what these gigs meant to the fans, captured in an elevated form of concert-movie portraiture, crying, praying, hugging and - yes - singing. What's more surprising is what these concerts clearly meant to the band: hitherto never the most emotionally expressive individual - unless that emotion was "peeved" - Noel is caught fiddling anxiously around backstage before the first Cardiff gig ("we've got a chance here to fix the narrative"); he appears, by his own admission, in something of a trance as the gig itself plays out; he looks visibly relieved at how well it all went afterwards; and is finally observed with tears in his eyes as he sets about the title song with a new, middle-aged mellowness. There is, after all, so much to look back on, for better and worse.

The concert footage, which starts to dominate from around the halfway mark, will obviously depend on personal tolerance for, say, Liam's gravel-gargling vocal on "Roll With It"; there's still only so much Lovelace and Southern can finesse. And in the second half, you can feel these directors - possibly egged on by writer-producer Steven Knight, who takes a bizarre "created by" credit - giving in and giving the fans what they may ultimately want, even if that's something those fans will likely have already experienced. The extended fan portraits - here a Korean oyster diver who hums "Acquiesce" to herself underwater, there a Brazilian who named her dog after Bonehead - prove far less compelling than whatever was going on in those rehearsal rooms and backstage on this tour; I'll give the directors credit for going international with these segments - it's not all tubby middle-aged men in bucket hats - but they leave DLBIA as a concert film with a terrific opening act, a rousing finale, and some bland filler in between. Still, the plain truth is these shows did fix the pop-cultural narrative, while simultaneously repairing something fundamental to the brothers' relationship. What that middle stretch quietly flags is that nobody in their right mind would pay this much to see Noel performing "Wonderwall" solo (you'd be better off catching Mike Flowers for nowt at the local village fete), but put him on guitar and stick Liam upfront, and you've got something. With newfound humility and self-awareness, they realised they needed one another, too - or at the very least to see one another anew through the eyes of their adoring (and forgiving) crowds. Maybe it's inevitable that the foremost Beatles copyists of our time should have arrived at their own Get Back - but this Get Back wonders what it's like when a band gets back together, and then take whatever message they're carrying to the masses once more. The dates have just been announced for Oasis Live '27, with tickets retailing in the vicinity of £150-200. They will almost certainly sell out within minutes. So it goes.

Don't Look Back in Anger is now playing in cinemas nationwide.

Eye of God: "Leviticus"


The ongoing horror renaissance here brings off something genuinely radical: installing an unabashedly queer chiller at the heart of the multiplex. (Last month's
Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma felt intrinsically arthouse, and not much of a horror movie in the end; and although certain corners of the Internet might long for it, I still think you have to do a fair bit of critical heavy lifting to draw 1987's A Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors out of its much-discussed closet.) Australian writer-director Adrian Chiarella's Leviticus puts at its centre two gay teenagers attempting to hide their love from their elders in a small industrial town. It's a small Australian industrial town, to be more specific, pulling us back into the rough-and-ready territory of 2022's Talk to Me. As we first join them, young Ryan (Stacy Clausen) and Naim (Joe Bird) are watching a Biblical serpent devour a frog in the fields surrounding their tumbledown home; later, they'll break into one of the area's many abandoned factories to lob stones at one another. They're at the displacement stage of young love, where desire tends to manifest as horseplay and roughhousing - although a full-mouthed kiss, one pinning the other down on the factory floor, would appear to signal this displacement is no more. But this is also, to further specify, a small, predominantly Christian town, which both explains that looming title - Naim's mother Arlene (Mia Wasikowska) is a big deal in the local revivalist church - and why these boys feel they have to keep their affections secret. Some people out this way would consider such affections unnatural. But they're nothing like as unnatural as what follows: a Judas-like betrayal, a spell in conversion therapy overseen by a steely-eyed Nicholas Hope (from 1993's Bad Boy Bubby) and the emergence of a new threat that turns these boys against one another, once more leaving them feeling watched, judged, hounded.

Leviticus is one of those rare horror films that feels broadly original even as it encompasses elements you may well have encountered elsewhere. Conversion therapy, for one, was central to the recent Oz-shot, US-set streaming title Diabolic; we also get an unexpected revival for that classic expositionary scene in which our harried heroes have to track down a mental patient with close personal knowledge of how their demons operate. Yet Chiarella's assured storytelling takes these staples in its stride, and he's eloquent indeed in his shotmaking. That dreamy prologue, for starters, establishes a wordless contrast between the wide open skies and spaces Ryan and Naim are framed against and the cold, dark houses of God the boys' elders retreat inside; thereafter, an altogether oppressive atmosphere takes hold. Accusatory glances are fired from the pulpit and the pews; the youngsters are penned in by pylons and wires, unable to communicate as they would prefer; and Jed Kurzel's score, scattering unresolved notes and tensions, keeps threatening to fuse with the opening moments of Dire Straits' "Money for Nothing". Quite some threat, then, even if the real demons here are shame and self-loathing, threats from within. As a result, Leviticus maybe doesn't have the blunt-force impact of other recent Aussie breakouts, but it's quietly impressive all the same, both as horror and as a film. Chiarella proceeds with a scuffed-up sincerity that manifests wherever you look: in his gripping and unnerving narrative developments, forever rooted in painful human experience; in his largely analogue effects work, specialising in trauma registered on bodies and faces; and in the Gregory Crewdson-like eye DoP Tyson Perkins displays for distressed and dishevelled locations. This shouldn't be the ultimate horror litmus test, but you sense Leviticus would work almost as well without its central supernatural conceit - as a latter-day parable on the evils men are perfectly capable of doing unto themselves.

Leviticus is now showing in selected cinemas.