Friday, 26 June 2026

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of June 19-21, 2026):

1 (new) Toy Story 5 (PG) **
2 (1) Disclosure Day (12A) **
3 (2) Obsession (18) *
4 (3) Scary Movie (15)
5 (4) Backrooms (15)
6 (5) Masters of the Universe (12A)
7 (6) Michael (12A)
8 (7) Star Wars: The Mandalorian and Grogu (12A)
9 (new) Cocktail 2 (12A)
10 (9) The Devil Wears Prada 2 (12A)

(source: BFI)

My top five:
5. Swimming Pool


DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (1) Michael (12)
2 (2) Project Hail Mary (12) ***
4 (5) Avatar: Fire and Ash (12) ***
5 (4) Mortal Kombat 2 (15)
6 (new) The Magic Faraway Tree (U)
7 (18) The Good Boy (15) ***
8 (3) Scream 7 (18)
9 (6) The Super Mario Galaxy Movie (PG)
10 (27) Wicked: For Good (PG)


My top five: 
1. Hoppers


Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. Close Encounters of the Third Kind (Saturday, BBC Two, 4pm)
2. Licorice Pizza (Friday, BBC Two, 12 midnight)
3. Diego Maradona [above] (Saturday, Channel 4, 12 midnight)
4. Shiva Baby (Thursday, Channel 4, 2.25am)
5. Thunderball (Sunday, ITV1, 3.10pm)

"The Furious" (Guardian 25/06/26)


The Furious
****

Dir: Kenji Taniyaki. With: Miao Xie, Joe Taslim, Enyou Yang, Brian Le. 113 mins. Cert: 18

It keeps happening: every few years, usually during a run of especially lethargic American spectacles, the needle of screen violence gets recalibrated by a muscular wonder from the East. Thundering along in the bloody footsteps of the Raid films and the Hindi punch-‘em-up Kill, this martial-arts showcase from Japanese-born, Hong Kong-based director Kenji Taniyaki opens in generic dadsploitation territory: “somewhere in Southeast Asia”, as a caption has it, mute Chinese handyman Wang Wei (Miao Xie) tears off after the traffickers who’ve nabbed his daughter (Enyou Yang). Having Hulk-smashed its way out of the Taken box, though, The Furious starts to crank up. Boy, does it crank up: the closing half-hour achieves a pummelling intensity unlikely to be matched by any other 2026 release.

There are further developments: cribbing from John Woo’s buddy movies, Taniyaki has his hero run into an undercover journo (Danny Dyer lookalike Joe Taslim) with his own reasons for chasing the traffickers. Yet this route-one plot chiefly bears out the advantages of creatives following straight narrative lines while turning the dial to eleven. The complexities are reserved for the frame itself: here, jawdroppingly limber, seemingly boneless performers pull off bruising manoeuvres on concrete floors, Taniyaki’s well-placed cameras capturing unexpected delicacies and flourishes amid otherwise crunching dustups. It’s that deathless critical cliché for movie action – balletic – only someone’s brought a crossbow and a ballpeen hammer to the dance, and they’re intent on using them.

The Saturday night crowd won’t care, but Taniyaki doesn’t yet have the architectural sense that elevated the Raids, projects born of dojo and drawing board alike. And some may prefer their action more culturally specific: the film screens here in a base-covering polyglot version, part-subtitled, part-dubbed. The precision of its setpieces, though, is inarguable: wherever editor Chris Tonick cuts, he crafts soaring rhymes between bodies in motion. Climaxing with a royal rumble for the ages, Taniyaki’s film is never quite as bludgeoning as it might have been, tempering its ferocity with athletic and technical skill, matching that intensity with invention and delivering as much exhilaration as evisceration. One note of warning: you may require a long lie down afterwards. 

The Furious opens in selected cinemas from today.

Thursday, 25 June 2026

On DVD: "The Mastermind"


To the freewheeling mobility of the American independent cinema, Kelly Reichardt has introduced complication and obstruction in a series of droll anti-thrillers that also functioned as lucid, probing character studies. (
The Kelly Reichardt Obstructions would be a fine title for any monograph.) In her 1994 debut River of Grass, the lovers on the run didn't - and couldn't - get very far; her 2010 Western Meek's Cutoff stranded its characters in the middle of nowhere; 2013's Night Moves centred on system-smashing anarchists who, in succumbing to their own paranoia, couldn't follow through on their own best intentions. Things ain't easy in a Kelly Reichardt film - another monograph title there, perhaps - and her characters have a tendency to make life doubly difficult for themselves. The Mastermind - its title as ironic as you like - bears down on another of this director's drifters, a non-complimentary term in this instance, as the film's anti-hero is someone who really should have gained some sort of direction by the point we find him: thirtysomething deadbeat JB Mooney (Josh O'Connor), who's forsaken steady employment and responsible parenting in order to plot a heist on a provincial art museum. By complete coincidence, Reichardt's previous film, 2022's Showing Up, concerned the trials and tribulations of a working artist; here, by contrast, is someone aiming to get rich quick without putting in the hours, a career criminal for the age of A.I.. In the non-Reichardt version of this story, Mooney pulls it together in tense setpieces and redeems himself in the process, possibly even reuniting with his estranged family. In the Reichardt version, however, he messes up again: he just about gets the heist done - in the clumsiest, most half-assed way imaginable - but then falls to pieces, leaving JB Mooney with and as a big nothing.

So there's already a major caveat here: you will need to know what this filmmaker is getting at (and has long been getting at) in order to even partly vibe with it. (Were you to stick it on expecting another Thomas Crown Affair, you would likely be wholly underwhelmed: save your money for Michael B. Jordan's upcoming remake.) The perverse fun of The Mastermind instead lies in watching Josh O'Connor potter around aimlessly. This proves a markedly different pleasure from watching O'Connor in the recent Wake Up Dead Man, where his character was altogether more focused and purposeful under his cassock: that guy had the Lord in his heart. God only knows what JB Mooney's deal is. (I'm not sure even he knows beyond a certain point, though Reichardt floats the intriguing possibility that this lawbreaking may be Mooney's delayed adolescent rebellion against his father, a senior judge.) Time and again, this camera emphasises the physical aspect of the protagonist's pottering. A long stretch either side of the midpoint reframes Mooney as akin to a small woodland creature - a weasel, possibly - squirrelling his ill-gotten gains away for the winter while kicking soil over his own mess. It's a funny if somewhat deflating and anticlimactic gag that absolutely no good comes from all this huffing and puffing: like the lovers in River of Grass, Mooney doesn't get very far, either. (Not least as there are wilier predators on this trail.) Is there too much pottering, not enough plot? Almost certainly. And I couldn't quite shake the thought that Reichardt has paced similar mean streets before, albeit with the less saleable Larry Fessenden in the lead role. But The Mastermind is finally very indie in the old, oppositional sense of the word: what Reichardt means to say is that there is another way of looking at and telling these stories, and that the kinds of men our crime fictions lionise aren't always as aspirational as they appear.

The Mastermind is available on DVD through MUBI from Monday, and available to stream via MUBI.

Men with guns: "A Better Tomorrow"


The Arrow label continue their admirable project to dust down and recirculate the first, landmark movies of the Hong Kong action specialist John Woo, for so long locked up in rights limbo. We've already had the heaviest hitters: 1989's
The Killer, 1990's Bullet in the Head, 1992's Hard Boiled. Now we get Woo's local breakthrough: a none-more-1986 honour-among-thieves variation, all cigarette smoke, sharp suits and sunglasses, which on first release beguiled young audiences in Woo's homeland and spawned a franchise. What may have seemed especially fresh forty years ago was the lighter tone A Better Tomorrow initially strikes: jaunty strings accompany early scenes illustrating the downtime of chuckling dudes with criminal connections. (Tarantino had to have been taking notes.) The main event, though, is the intersection of - perhaps better: collision between - a handful of these men: a charismatic currency forger and occasional hired gun (Chow Yun Fat, already a movie star), an aspirant young cop (Leslie Cheung), and the latter's brother (Ti Lung), a sometime mobster - and confrere of Chow's - attempting to go straight upon his release from prison. These new faces were handed new ideas to play with: this is one of those genre pics that increasingly seems like a riff on the concept of brotherhood, an experiment to see which family matters most to these guys, and whether the blood we see being spilled at regular intervals in ambushes and shootouts is really any thicker than water.

As exemplified by a few scenes introducing the cop's klutzy cellist girlfriend (Emily Chu), that opening stretch now seems tonally awkward; there's a lot of forced jollification up until the moment the plot proper kicks off with a betrayal and a home invasion. (Rumours have long persisted that certain scenes here were filmed by producer Tsui Hark.) And I suspect even those viewers whose entry points into the Woo canon were The Killer, Hard Boiled or Face/Off might be taken aback by how melodramatic the bulk of the film is. Playing out in hospital wards and domestic kitchens, this is on some essential level a male-oriented soap opera, one that sporadically erupts into spectacular carnage. (Like the later Infernal Affairs thrillers, with their side-swapping antagonists, this set-up invites serialisation.) One could claim this volatile sincerity as proof of this filmmaker's commitment to character; unlike Tarantino, Woo genuinely cares - and wants us to care - about who lives and who dies. Crucially, and despite Woo's love for filming bullet casings pinging around in super-slow motion, the action proceeds at a still-thrilling clip, compressing the events and complications of a three-hour epic of the Leone/Peckinpah stripe into a mere 96 minutes. Some of the plot's finer detail is itself compressed in this process: any future DVD release would benefit from a map illustrating how the main and supporting players relate, although even here, Woo seems to be fostering a useful ambiguity as to who the true hero(es) of the piece will ultimately be. His eye for the stirring gesture is already in place: witness Chow keeping a toothpick in one corner of his mouth and a snout in the other, or later improvising with a mechanic's trolley amid a shootout in a multistorey carpark. The awkwardness would be ironed out over the next decade, replaced by the assurance of a master - Woo's getting there by the time of the dockside finale here - but A Better Tomorrow retains the air of a dynamic apprentice work.

A Better Tomorrow opens in selected cinemas from tomorrow.

Wednesday, 24 June 2026

In memoriam: Brian Johnson (Telegraph 23/06/26)


Brian Johnson
, who has died aged 86, was an Oscar-winning visual effects maestro and modelling specialist who contributed significantly to the look of modern science fiction. Emerging from the multitudes of craftsmen hired for Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: a Space Odyssey (1968), he worked weekly wonders on TV’s Space: 1999 (1975-77); subsequent designs helped elevate such genre touchstones as Alien (1979), its sequel Aliens (1986) and The Empire Strikes Back (1980).

In his mid-twenties, Johnson spent three years modelling for the lunar and moonbase sequences in 2001. Although he warmed to the film, he found production frustrating, later confessing “you could spend weeks talking about a problem before doing anything about it”. When the film won the Visual Effects Oscar, it was awarded to Kubrick, as was customary, rather than individual technicians.

Johnson did, however, develop techniques that proved crucial to Space: 1999, for which he designed the fondly remembered Eagle transporter. Here, his team faced challenges tied to the demands of serialised television: “If you look at earlier science fiction series, they had very few special effects. Star Trek, for instance, often just had a standard planet, and a standard shot of the Enterprise, and that’s it. We’ve had to create a new spacecraft every episode, and a new planet nearly every episode.”

Unknowingly, his influence was spreading. The young George Lucas felt obliged to redesign the Millennium Falcon, the spaceship central to Star Wars (1977), after seeing Space: 1999 while visiting the UK. Lucas and producer Gary Kurtz showed up one day at Bray Studios seeking assistance, only for Johnson to turn the pair down (“I didn’t know who they were”), being busy with the show’s second series.

For Alien, shot at Bray, Johnson and Nick Allder provided model miniatures, notably the spaceship Nostromo; Johnson also offered practical suggestions for the film’s unforgettable “chestburster” sequence, which fitted John Hurt with an artificial torso, loaded with cow’s blood and intestines, through which an alien puppet could be thrust. Johnson won a Best Visual Effects Oscar for his work, shared with Allder, H.R. Giger, Carlo Rambaldi and Dennis Ayling.

He finally entered the Star Wars universe – winning a special achievement Oscar – with The Empire Strikes Back, for which Johnson relocated first to Lucas’s Industrial Light and Magic studio in California, then to snowy Norway to oversee the Hoth battle (and see off an on-set infestation of spiders). A sequence in which the robot R2D2 sinks into the Dagobah swamps was, however, realised closer to home: in Lucas’s own, half-finished swimming pool.

Already an industry go-to, Johnson proved a lifesaver for James Cameron during Aliens, helping to complete the project after the dissatisfied director fired a rival effects crew mid-shoot. Johnson shared the film’s Best Visual Effects BAFTA with Robert Skotak, John Richardson and Stan Winston; though he was omitted from the list of Oscar nominees, Cameron gifted Johnson a Tiffany crystal with a personal inscription as a show of gratitude.

Johnson’s work increasingly combined practical and digital effects, as he explained in Once Upon a Galaxy, a tie-in Empire Strikes Back paperback: “We are actually able to program a computer to ‘dirty down’ an electronic image. We start with a clean model and then program the computer to make it look well-worn and used… a spacecraft with scuffmarks and oil-streaks.” The goal was “convincing an audience to believe that what they’re seeing is real.”

He was born Brian Johncock in Surrey on June 29, 1939; he changed his surname in the 1960s. Childhood ambitions of becoming a pilot were dashed by a lack of maths qualifications (“I left school with one O Level, which was art, and I just scraped through on that”), but he found employment at the Cement and Concrete Research Association at Wexham Springs, where he mixed test concrete for bridges on the planned M1. 

After six wearying months, he walked into his local pub, the Dog and Pot in Stoke Poges, and fell into conversation with his neighbour, the Canadian effects artist Les Bowie: “Les said to me ‘Would you like a job sweeping the floor in a film studio?’ and I said yes […] I went to Anglo-Scottish Pictures in Addlestone, in an old church, on my Lambretta, which was all I could afford, and started doing camera work, loading magazines, sweeping the floor, that stuff.”

This apprenticeship was interrupted by a spell of national service in the RAF, where Johnson was assigned to instrument landing systems, but upon his release, he was welcomed into Bowie’s own effects studio, where he made uncredited contributions to such British sci-fi landmarks as X the Unknown (1956), Quatermass 2 (1957) and The Day the Earth Caught Fire (1961); he also provided matte paintings for the WW2 drama Dunkirk (1958).

In 1961, Johnson joined AP Films under Derek Meddings, building models for Supercar (1960-62), Fireball XL5 (1962-63) and Stingray (1964-65); Meddings assigned Johnson his own effects unit on Thunderbirds (1965-66). With Bowie, Johnson worked on Hammer’s Taste the Blood of Dracula and When Dinosaurs Ruled the Earth (both 1970), his first onscreen credits.

Johnson specialised in fantasy and horror, visualising the plane/skyscraper inferno in The Medusa Touch (1978), the mechanical dragon Vermithrax Pejorative in Dragonslayer (1981) and the flying canine Falkor in The NeverEnding Story (1984). His final effects credit was on the bawdy sci-fi romp Space Truckers (1996), though he later directed 58 episodes of the CITV cartoon Dream Street (1999-02).

After retiring, Johnson toured the convention circuit; last September, he appeared at the London: 1999 convention, which showcased a full-scale Eagle replica. He retained the optimism he’d displayed upon discussing The Empire Strikes Back in 1979: “Everything is possible. It’s usually a question of money… Top effects cost top money. Ingenuity can produce excellent effects for less.”

He is survived by Lucy-Kate Johnson, his daughter by an earlier marriage to Delia Tindall, a secretary on 2001.

Brian Johnson, born June 29, 1939, died May 25, 2026.

Sunday, 21 June 2026

Fruits of passion: "Cactus Pears"


Anand (Bhushaan Manoj), the tousle-haired, muddle-headed thirtysomething who serves as the protagonist of the new Marathi film
Cactus Pears, represents a very different idea of masculinity from that the Indian cinema has typically promoted in the Dhurandhar era. For one, he's vulnerable from the off. We first join him in a hospital waiting area, as he learns his ailing father has finally succumbed to complications of the kidney. Anand's complications, as soon become apparent, are those of the heart and the tongue. Over ten days of mourning in his father's leafy village, we cannot help but spot how this Mumbai-based IT wonk is at the mercy of protocol, rules and regulations, some societal, some entirely self-imposed. Relatives insist his unmarried status leaves him ineligible to perform key burial rituals; his father's passing means he must either marry within six months or wait three years, for reasons that can only be explained as local custom. All the conditions are in place for some sort of movie romance, perhaps even an unlikely romcom, but the film's mood initially seems too sombre to countenance much in the way of happiness. Instead, Anand sneaks away from the main event to spend more time in the company of Balya (Suraaj Suman), a gentle family friend - and contemporary of Anand's - who works as a farmhand. Balya is more assured than Anand: he knows who he is and what he wants, and is prepared to speak up for these in a way the more guarded Anand can't. He is, one could say, exactly the kind of stout and hardy fellow who might pull our guy out of his funk. But what about those blasted rules? And what on earth would the neighbours say?

Writer-director Rohan Kanawade sets about telling this story with some of All We Imagine As Light's hushed, attentive naturalism, although we're a long way from that film's enchanting urban sparkle. Instead, Kanawade proposes a rural alternative. Cactus Pears is a slower and quieter endeavour, as befits a setting where the characters can often be seen taking mid-afternoon naps in the shade of a tree. We, too, are afforded ample time to feel the breeze blowing over the hills and to hear the birds singing in those tree branches. But we're also attuned to those tensions creeping into these frames: between the individual and the family (and, indeed, between the individual and wider society), and - more specifically - between two men trying to speak their truths, but not so loud as for anybody else to notice. Nature, again, provides some solace and shelter: Ang Lee's Brokeback Mountain has to have been some influence. But Kanawade, in an impressive feature debut, proves more worldly than dreamy. He knows the farm life can be a tough one, and he presents us with a genuinely complex character in Anand: a shy, sensitive, secretive, rather scared soul who's put up walls, kept his head down, lost his way and now sorely needs some form of shepherding. The title refers to a sweet fruit Balya brings in from the fields for Anand, having removed its thorns for easier consumption, but it's just possible Anand himself is the real prickly pear here: someone determined to keep the world at arm's length, who hardly appears an obvious recipient of life's happier endings. The film around these two men is simple, unflashy, somewhat unfashionable within the context of today's Indian cinema. Yet its anchoring bedrock of restraint preserves what's essential here: real-seeming people, with aching, bruised and yearning hearts.

Cactus Pears is now showing in selected cinemas.

Friday, 19 June 2026

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of June 12-14, 2026):

1 (new) Disclosure Day (12A) **
2 (5) Obsession (18) *
3 (1) Scary Movie (15)
4 (4) Backrooms (15)
5 (3) Masters of the Universe (12A)
6 (7) Michael (12A)
7 (6) Star Wars: The Mandalorian and Grogu (12A)
8 (re) BTS World Tour 'Arirang' in Busan: Live Viewing (12A)
9 (9) The Devil Wears Prada 2 (12A)
10 (8) The Sheep Detectives (PG)

(source: BFI)

My top five:
5. Swimming Pool [above]


DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (new) Michael (12)
2 (1) Project Hail Mary (12) ***
3 (22) Scream 7 (18)
4 (new) Mortal Kombat 2 (15)
5 (2) Avatar: Fire and Ash (12) ***
6 (3) The Super Mario Galaxy Movie (PG)
7 (10) Hoppers (U) ****
8 (re) One Battle After Another (15) ****
9 (24) Sinners (15) ****
10 (11) Jurassic World: Rebirth (12) **


My top five: 
1. Hoppers


Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. My Darling Clementine (Saturday, BBC Two, 10am)
2. Psycho (Friday, BBC Two, 11pm)
3. The Producers (Monday, BBC Two, 11pm)
4. From Russia with Love (Sunday, ITV1, 6am)
5. Goldfinger (Sunday, ITV1, 4.20pm)

Overload: "Toy Story 5"


These late-in-the-day
Toy Story sequels and spinoffs may have spoilt the neatness of the original trilogy, but they've been far from shy about addressing social and systemic change. If you were feeling academic, you could compile a more than workable thesis out of the ways the franchise's toybox favourites have been deployed - and rearranged, and redeployed - to illustrate shifts in progressive Hollywood thinking over the past thirty years, away from those trad masculine fantasies of cowboys, spacemen and soldiers (the prime movers in the 1995 original) and towards cowgirls and ragdolls. Show us where the industry hurt you. Toy Story 5 effectively completes this transition. Now Woody and Buzz (voiced, once again, by Tom Hanks and Tim Allen) play second fiddle to Jessie (Joan Cusack), sent away from the other toys to work through her formative abandonment trauma; and with Andy and Sid long out of the picture, proprietory ownership of the toys has fallen to young Bonnie (Scarlett Spears), an awkward, friendless tot so desperate for connection to her peers that her angsty parents invest in a digital device, the frog-shaped Lilypad (Greta Lee), which starts to hog all our girl's leisure time and relegates the old gang to the cold of the family garage. The new film is at its most illuminating in examining the impact of such tech on its humanoid characters' lives: coming just a week or so after Spielberg's phone-smashing Disclosure Day, it suggests the studio suits have been properly rattled by the online barbarians amassing at the gates, in the same way their Fifties predecessors were by television. Show me how the Internet is eating into your market share.

This is also, alas, the source of one of the core frustrations with Toy Story 5. Where previously this series has offered the universal pleasures of good stories with engaging characters, dazzling setpieces and funny jokes, this instalment sometimes feels like an elaborate PowerPoint presentation being given by producers to similarly concerned parents (perhaps with support from Keir Starmer's government): the messaging precludes any lasting merriment. It is, at any rate, another cluttered late sequel, having to stretch and strain to find something for earlier fan favourites to do, following a small army of Buzz Lightyears (presumably survivors of 2022's spinoff Lightyear) through a vaguely determined B-plot, while shuttling on new characters, generally American toys ("Combat Carl", some sort of pottytraining device voiced by Conan O'Brien) who will mean no more to overseas audiences than those nightly cutaways to American sports stars watching on from corporate sponsors' boxes at the World Cup. Previously, this series gave us one story at a time, told well; now, however, we've arrived at the (monkey) barrel-scraping stage, which means three or four half-ideas - some cut from earlier scripts, others retrieved from bottom drawers - worked through half as well. The writing has dulled: the jokes aren't as funny, smug callbacks predominate, and the stories being told by the grown-up creatives in charge - here, Pixar veteran Andrew Stanton (Finding Nemo, WALL-E) and newcomer Kenna Harris - prove barely more coherent than those the kids tell within the film itself.

Every now and again, something clicks as it used to, the muscle memory kicks in. As Woody and Buzz duke it out in Bonnie's bedroom over which of them Jessie deputised first, Hanks and Allen fall back into their winning comic rhythms; but they're sidelined for much of the film and total bystanders in the most potent scene, as Bonnie turns down a reunion with Jessie and her horse Bullseye out of shame. Visually, the new film is still impressive - but it would be even more impressive if we hadn't already seen so much of these characters and this world. A sequence on a hilltop involving Jessie, a tree, Bullseye and another, actual horse sits among the loveliest this franchise has ever given us - but then it's back to pell-mell, half-arsed plotting, faux hand-drawn fantasias, a hundred thousand pixels a second. Here is a digimation that knows from creative experience how hard it can be to step away from the CPU and the laptop: the tech has clearly made this plenitude of imagery possible, but it's also made it far less special, much less of an event. Five films down the pipeline, we're left with a mechanical reproduction of former glories. So this, then, is summer 2026: a Star War that resembled two episodes of telly, Spielberg not quite meeting the moment, and Toy Story: The College Years. Something really is shifting before our eyes: you can bet a lot of fingers are presently being crossed that Christopher Nolan, at least, has got it together - or that one of those YouTubers they have nowadays will hop off their Lilypad long enough to pluck a compelling new idea out of the ether.

Toy Story 5 is now showing in cinemas nationwide.

Sunday, 14 June 2026

On demand: "Bugsy"


Written by the subsequently disgraced James Toback and directed by Barry Levinson, 1991's
Bugsy opens with scattered snapshots from the life of Thirties mobster Benjamin "Bugsy" Siegel: saying goodbye to his wife and children in New York, performing speech exercises in his car, availing himself of the finest shirts, picking up a chick in a lift and whisking her off to bed, enjoying some quality time with a sunlamp on a train to L.A.. As he's played by producer-star Warren Beatty, it allows Toback and Levinson to establish a parallel between Depression-era mobsters and the more contemporary heavies of showbusiness. Even before Siegel is seen feeding tough-guy lines to movie star pal George Raft (Joe Mantegna), and long before his grand opening (of the hotel-casino complex he builds in Vegas) proves a total flop, it's a case of same racket, different era. This Siegel is a man with a lot on: monitoring the toings and froings of the Mob game, keeping his wife onside, while simultaneously initiating an altogether tumultuous affair with the one woman of this period who dared stand up to him - the actress Virginia Hill, played by Annette Bening, a.k.a. the soon-to-be Mrs. Warren Beatty. So it's a self-portrait of sorts. But here's the curious thing about Bugsy, and the thing that short-circuits any idea we're watching an entirely selective and largely romanticised portrait of a mass murderer: it's not a terribly flattering self-portrait. Watching Beatty-as-Ben strut into an opera singer's Beverly Hills home with a bag of cash in order to seize what he believes should rightfully be his dream house, he appears less a bug than a parasite. Sure, he may be superficially appealing, but we long - as certain of the real Bugsy's associates surely longed - to see this guy squished.

It being a Beatty project, there remains a certain vanity in play: there's barely a scene that doesn't feature Bugsy front and centre, stopping traffic, pitching woo, making a fuss. But the movie also appears well aware its protagonist is a vain chump, and it's often funny in describing his vanity. Above all else, this Bugsy is a big blabbermouth ("do you always talk this much before you do it?," asks one sexual conquest) whose dealings most often manifest as farce: conducting business over the phone with his wife while ushering his latest flame into the boudoir, having his head scrambled when Hill takes up with other men, making haphazard plans to assassinate Mussolini before swanning off to try and conquer Nevada. Beatty is hardly convincing as a tough guy: he can't throw a serious punch, and you suspect the supporting cast could get the better of him by pointing out a pretty girl on set and then blindsiding him with the other hand. But he's certainly qualified to play a character who's bitten off more than he can chew. No-one back in 1991 was better suited to embody ego, hubris, overreach, a fly-by-night engaged in a fruitless quest for permanence, and Levinson makes the inspired decision to surround this goofball gangster - setting out his vision for the casino while still clad in the same chef's hat he donned to ice his daughter's birthday cake - with serious actors whom you feel could at any moment snuff Beatty out like birthday candles (Harvey Keitel, Ben Kingsley, Bening, the latter every bit as memorable as this role demands). This script arms them all with tough, snappy, salty dialogue - it's a Forties movie with Nineties cussing; its critical and commercial success might well have sparked the subsequent neo-noir revival - and something unsaid besides. It does now seem telling that Bugsy's screenwriter was later busted for demonstrating comparably unbalanced, unhealthy appetites: say what you like about Toback - and you probably can nowadays - but he knew whereof these characters spoke.

Bugsy is now streaming via Netflix.

Friday, 12 June 2026

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of June 5-7, 2026):

1 (new) Scary Movie (15)
2 (new) The Amazing Digital Circus: The Last Act (12A)
3 (new) Masters of the Universe (12A)
4 (1) Backrooms (15)
5 (4) Obsession (18) *
6 (2) Star Wars: The Mandalorian and Grogu (12A)
7 (3) Michael (12A)
8 (6) The Sheep Detectives (PG)
9 (5) The Devil Wears Prada 2 (12A)
10 (7) Tuner (15) ***

(source: BFI)

My top five:
2. Strictly Ballroom [above]
5. Swimming Pool


DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (2) Project Hail Mary (12) ***
2 (4) Avatar: Fire and Ash (12) ***
3 (1) The Super Mario Galaxy Movie (PG)
4 (6) The Housemaid (15)
5 (new) Avatar: 3 Movie Collection (12) ***
6 (5) "Wuthering Heights" (15)
7 (7) A Minecraft Movie (PG)
8 (10) Wicked: For Good (PG)
9 (15) Mother's Pride (12) **
10 (9) Hoppers (U) ****


My top five: 
1. Hoppers


Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. Strangers on a Train (Sunday, BBC Two, 12.25pm)
2. From Russia with Love (Sunday, ITV1, 12.30pm)
3. The Magnificent Seven (Saturday, BBC Two, 3.15pm)
4. BlacKkKlansman (Sunday, BBC Two, 12.25am)
5. Letter to Brezhnev (Tuesday, BBC Two, 12.05am)

Thursday, 11 June 2026

American dreamers: "Boogie Nights"


Paul Thomas Anderson has finally won his Oscar for three decades of mostly solid-gold work, so this would seem as good a time as any to go back to 1997's
Boogie Nights and see where it all began. It wasn't, of course, this filmmaker's first time: that was the previous year's Hard Eight, a taut, two-handed gambling fable that very few people saw, and even Anderson himself wasn't entirely happy with. His follow-up was something much more ambitious: a film as big (and, indeed, as long) as its central character's career-making manhood. When I wrote last year that One Battle After Another was Anderson's most Tarantinoid film, I should have qualified it: it was Anderson's most Tarantinoid film since Boogie Nights. Much as Tarantino made his name with Seventies-scored tales of how bandits and bank robbers occupied their downtime and days off, Anderson here announced himself by considering what 1970s porn stars, porn producers and porn crews might get up to on those rare afternoons when they weren't fucking or making arrangements to fuck. The crucial difference was that Anderson was a Tarantino with empathy and imagination: amid the carefree pashing of the adult film business as it was in the San Fernando Valley of the late 1970s, he located a mutually protective, quasi-familial unit whose palace of earthly delights - the home-cum-studio (and I do mean cum-studio) of pre-eminent porn producer Jack Horner (Burt Reynolds) - is threatened by a sudden technological shift (the transition from the permanency of celluloid film stock, Horner's preferred medium, to cheap and unlovely video) and their own personal foibles.

As we open, all of that is in the future. Boogie Nights' secret is that it's really a hangout movie with characters who sometimes hang out naked. As generously endowed busboy Eddie Adams (Mark Wahlberg) makes contacts and friends in the wake of his Horner-engineered rebranding as the scene's hottest new stud Dirk Diggler, so too we as viewers make contacts and friends. (And Anderson starts assembling his ultimate turn-of-the-millennium ensemble: it's fantasy football for indie-film heads.) Here's John C. Reilly as porn stablemate (and part-time magician) Reed Rothchild; here's Julianne Moore as scene elder Amber Waves, giving the performance that makes fullest sense of Britney's current predicament; here's Heather Graham, perfect casting as the wide-eyed ingenue known as Rollergirl on account of the skates she never takes off; here's William H. Macy as the sad-moustached Little Bill, working a minor miracle in giving a running cuckold gag a genuinely tragic dimension; here, belatedly, is Philip Seymour Hoffman as poor old Scotty, besotted with the broadly heterosexual Eddie from the first moment he claps eyes on him. As Eddie climbs the porn-biz ladder, we're happy for him; it feels like an indictment of 21st century Hollywood that Wahlberg was rarely this sharp and never this charming again. As the character succumbs to the druggy excesses of the early Reagan years, we back away and hope for the best. As he finds his way back to something like the light - in a truly genius close-up, to the unlikely strains of Rick Springfield's "Jessie's Girl" - we smile, laugh and maybe even tear up. In the meantime, we have time to marvel at the high-end craft credits: between the rich period production design, costumes and hair, and the deep-dive Seventies supercuts gracing the soundtrack (I mean, Sniff 'n' The Tears' "Driver's Seat": seriously, come on now), Boogie Nights is as deluxe and as layered as indies of this period got. From the outset, this was a filmmaker in visible search of excellence.

The key to it all may be that Jack Horner (a terrific late Reynolds performance, even if the actor himself was far from sure about it) isn't merely an avatar of vulgar, cigar-puffing capitalism, nor the sketchy idea of a porn producer we possibly all have in our heads. Instead he is - rather like Anderson - a self-improving auteur: a filmmaker with an eye, good ideas and some sense of what the audience want, recruiting the best available talent and clinging to the hope of making more than just money - of making something that lasts. (Was the film-versus-video debate in the film Anderson's response to seeing the uptake of cheap, smeary digital video on sets around him?) So yes, Boogie Nights is a film with boobs and bums and bits, but it's also a story about the struggles of someone trying to elevate their chosen art form in the face of commercial realities, told by a creative found in the process of elevating his chosen art form. Anderson makes the industry politicking at least as stimulating as the fucking, by casting such compelling performers as Philip Baker Hall (as a rival impresario) and Robert Ridgely (as the deviant moneyman The Colonel); he makes the sex properly sexy, at least for a while; and he already seems to know exactly what to do with the camera, raising us up amid the highs while never overlooking the lows, of which there are many in the second half. (One thought on this rewatch: Boogie Nights contains the first great Anderson phone call, but it's on a prison phone, and it captures Horner distancing himself from The Colonel after the latter admits his predilection for underage girls. Again, Jack has standards the wider industry doesn't.)

At a certain point, Anderson even begins entertaining and amusing himself. (Is this any different from Tarantino's self-gratification? Yes, because increasingly the latter isn't giving anybody else any pleasure.) Alfred Molina's final-reel cameo as the movie's sort-of big boss - a twitchy, gun-toting drug kingpin in a towelling dressing gown - is an obvious loose-end of a scene that's just too good (and too well-directed) to be left on the cutting-room floor, a prodigy's holler of look what I can do with cinema. In the lead-in to the business with Don Cheadle's Buck in the doughnut shop, you can spy 1999's Magnolia coming into view. And what's with the sonic mystery Anderson stitches into the very end of the closing credits? (The Internet, inevitably, has its theories.) He sets about all this with an optimism that might well be impossible for a filmmaker to summon thirty years later, with the whole world on OnlyFans: while acknowledging the darker side of pornography, he also spots that for a while, it found a place and provided some kind of home for everyone. (Here's Luis Guzman as the nightclub owner turned background artist in Dirk Diggler's first investigations.) Boogie Nights proved sex positive in a way the New Extreme Cinema emerging from Europe around the same time just wasn't: whether noting the quirks and peccadillos of the porn set or eavesdropping Jack Horner's lighting instructions to cameraman Ricky Jay ("there's shadows in life, baby"), it demonstrated a worldliness the American mainstream never really picked up on, and eventually - as it retreated into teenage bedrooms with comic books - backed nervily away from. This is the kind of public statement that needs to be appended with Diggler-length asterisks, caveats and get-out clauses, but there are points in Boogie Nights where you find yourself wondering why the legitimate motion picture business of the 2020s can't be more like the L.A. porn scene of the 1970s. Paul Thomas Anderson made saucer-eyed dreamers of us all.

Boogie Nights returns to selected cinemas from tomorrow.

Wednesday, 10 June 2026

Close encounters (but no cigar): "Disclosure Day"


Whether you're going on the movies or the British weather, I think we can say it's been a funny sort of summer so far. With the major studios scaling back production, there was very little opening in the course of May that resembled an event movie of the old vintage - the tardy toy nostalgia of last week's Masters of the Universe, already written off as the summer's first flop, hardly counts - leaving the multiplex wide open to attack from ever-ready and always-grinding YouTubers. As I write, three of the UK's Top Five films owe their existence to online content creators, the much-discussed Backrooms and Obsession joined this past weekend by the grand finale of larky YouTube hit The Amazing Digital Circus, which - with zero in the way of pre-publicity - nevertheless pulled in more spectators than Sony's shrugging He-Man/Skeletor reunion. The studios' big idea - and, really, their last throw of the dice before the dubious spectacle of a Trump World Cup hoves into view - is to recall the now 79-year-old Steven Spielberg to four-quadrant business, and to fund him (to the tune of a reported $115m) to continue his inquiries into extraterrestrial activity. Yet Disclosure Day - written by Jurassic Park's David Koepp from a story idea by Spielberg himself - actually proves to be far less about aliens than it is about we earthlings: our doubts and fears, the lies we tell, the secrets we keep. Thematically, at least, it's not as far removed from Spielberg's recent memoir-movie The Fabelmans as you might expect.


It starts rather better than it ends: no preamble, no messing about, dropping us almost directly into the lap of a whistleblower on the run through contemporary America. Daniel Kellner (Josh O'Connor) has his girl (Eve Hewson) at his side and a metallic doohickey in his pocket; the first fear Disclosure Day touches upon is that this thingummyjig will at some point prove crucial to the plot. Kellner is being pursued by a bearded Colin Firth, in stiffly patrician mode as a private security overlord, and he's being assisted, via burner phone, by Colman Domingo, heading up some kind of resistance movement in a comfy cardigan. More immediately compelling are the backdrops Spielberg sets his characters against. Kellner is introduced handing over a rucksack full of USBs amid the baying crowd of a wrestling match; Domingo conducts his business out of what appears to be a regional playhouse where a set is being constructed. Everything, instantly, is either sport or theatre, and another form of spectacle presents itself after a breakfast-table encounter with a strange bird leaves Kansas City weatherwoman Emily Blunt speaking first fluent Russian, to the understandable bemusement of goofball beau Wyatt Russell; then Korean, allowing her to make a critical intervention in an ongoing diplomatic crisis before the morning forecast; and then - once the camera turns her way - speaking in tongues to baffled viewers across the Midwest. It's a nice, sublimated gag on Koepp and Spielberg's part: what if a lowly weathergirl became the fount of all knowledge? But this development also speaks (if you'll pardon the pun) to what Spielberg is getting at here: people at loggerheads, talking at cross-purposes, not at all on the same page. What if aliens, by insisting on complete transparency, made their own fateful intervention in the culture wars? And what if a filmmaker best known for inspiring (and hymning) togetherness instead turned his attention to the thornier subject of today's social division?

For ninety of these 145 minutes, that's an intriguing enough hook for us to go along with, and we do feel in safe hands. Given this story's somewhat mechanical nature, Spielberg's primary task here is to reassure us: we may not initially be in possession of all the key narrative info - as Blunt is - but it will be revealed to us in time. We surely need that reassurance: this is, after all, one of this director's chillier, more paranoiac films, its atomised characters falling subject not just to remote surveillance (so that's what the doohickey does) but also passing flurries of hail and snow and the steely blue-grey palette of 2005's War of the Worlds. Spielberg's judicious flow of information actually meshes well with this plot. Whether brought about by alien bird or metal bar, alien contact here involves a bad case of TMI, downloading not just those languages but a century's worth of crashlandings and cover-ups to the cerebral cortex; as Spielberg frames it, this is not unlike mainlining everything on social media in a matter of seconds, so, y'know, best be careful, like. Disclosure Day deviates from current cinematic trends in its marked ambivalence towards tech: Spielberg even makes a scene out of two characters crushing a smartphone with a car, a fantasy many viewers outside of the Backrooms demographic may well have had in their desire to reject all cookies for eternity. But the film is old-world in other respects, too: in its sincere handling of the test of faith faced by the Hewson character, a former novitiate pressured to turn in the man she loves (she even contracts stigmata at one point), and in its cosy belief that local TV news - perhaps, after all, the right, digestible level of information - may yet come to spare us from nuclear annihilation. It should be rallying. So why was it that I came away from Disclosure Day so disappointed, and despairing all the more about the future of the American event movie?

Partly, it's a personnel problem: none of these performers disgrace themselves, but these characters - cardboard cutout goodies and baddies; moving parts, devoid of depth - just don't stick in the mind the way Roy Neary and Elliott do. Mostly, though, it's a story issue. Disclosure Day gets much less persuasive the further it goes along this path and, at some point of no return, even turns its director against itself: what you end up watching is one-third the best of Spielberg and two-thirds the worst of him. Given the prime June release date, absolutely nobody should have been expecting anything as revelatory as The Fabelmans, which seemed like a big, liberating step forward in this filmography. Even so, this feels like well-trodden ground: Spielberg's not the only person to have headed this way in this manner. (A question the film silently poses: how many X-Files reboots does any one civilisation need?) With its oddly muted thrills and spills - one good car chase through a rural farmhouse, but that's about it - the whole looks and feels like a slightly wearied attempt to get back up to full blockbuster speed, or an effort to update some lost Amblin runaround of the 1980s. I spent the entire second half wishing I was rewatching Jeff Nichols' underseen Midnight Special, a limber Spielberg homage that proved more emotionally resonant than anything the real thing arrives at here. Is it not significant that Disclosure Day should hinge on a flatpack reconstruction of an old image, familiarly lit by Janusz Kamiński, mechanically scored by John Williams, in such a way as to tell us what to feel? It's the exact moment the savvy Spielberg gets overruled and undermined by the sappy Spielberg, certain in his belief that what one character - and the world - needs now is more comforting fantasy, an echo of the past. Disclosure Day is mostly muscle memory, a twinge of something, inspired in places, laboured in many others. So this curious non-summer persists - and the old world continues to perish before our eyes.

Disclosure Day is now showing in cinemas nationwide.

Tuesday, 9 June 2026

Eastern promises: "Erupcja"


Where February's
The Moment found Charli xcx representing what she knew - the vagaries of the modern music business - the new indie curio Erupcja, which may not have been made or distributed as widely here without the singer's participation, offers a slightly bigger challenge: an attempt on the singer's part to walk a few hundred miles in another woman's shoes. Pete Ohs' film revives that Nineties strain of American peregrination - think Before Sunrise or Barcelona - which travelled in search of some greater perspective on the follies of romantic youth; it has good ideas and sound instincts, even if the overall execution left me shrugging for much of its 71 minutes. Charli plays Bethany, one half of a vaguely hipsterish London couple who've booked a weekend break to Warsaw in Poland. Unlike boyfriend Rob (Robert Popper lookalike Will Madden), who hopes to propose on the couple's last night in town, Bethany has been this way before - as, surely, has Ohs, sweeping us up on a guided tour of one of Europe's less filmed and therefore less familiar cities. ("I never thought Warsaw would be this green," the wide-eyed Rob remarks, although nothing in the film proves as green as Rob himself.) Bethany's reasons for returning soon become clear. In passing, we meet Nel (Lena Góra), a reluctant florist who lives and works in the city, with whom, we learn, the lovestruck Bethany once had a fling and hopes to reconnect; yet Nel has another lingering ex in Ula (Agata Trzebuchowska, the young nun of Pawlikowski's Ida). Round and round they all go, to the accompaniment of what sounds like a fairground calliope and beneath the all-seeing eye of a Polish narrator (Jacek Zubiel), until the sudden eruption of Mount Etna plays havoc with European air travel and strands everybody in place. Moral of the story: you can't fight nature.

You can see what Ohs is getting at. Erupcja has the neatness of a short story Rohmer might have filmed, coupled to the openness of those early Godard features; it's one of the few films set over a weekend that you can imagine actually being shot over a (busy) weekend, on the hoof, with a skeleton crew gathering at Stansted around a pop star travelling without make-up so as to prevent any onlookers making a fuss. As a drama, it's fairly conventional: young woman caught between dull security (as represented by poor old Rob, with his deeply trad ideas of couples activities and his longing glances at the nearby Novotel) and the romantic possibility Nel embodies. Taking it out onto the streets freshens this material up, as it did back in Godard's day; but I'm less certain that Ohs succeeds in bulking this anecdote out. As so often with early, microbudget works, the performances are variable, governed less by clear and sharp direction than by who's in town or willing to travel and how prepared they are to work for scale (or less). Ohs is at least fairly shrewd in the way he co-opts Charli's emergent screen persona - here's a gal who cares not for the bourgeois restrictions of the brassiere, and really doesn't want to be pinned down elsewhere else; Bethany, indeed, is such a flighty character the film allows her to vanish from sight for much of its second half - but the supporting characterisations come off somewhere between colourless and wan. Much as Charli's not yet a film star in the way she absolutely is a pop star, so too Erupcja isn't an entirely satisfying movie: increasingly, it seems slight - even jejune - in comparison with the films with which it enters into discussion, gesturing towards rich Rohmerian wisdom, but ultimately stuck at an A24 level of depth. It's a pity, as the stronger scenes and stretches here suggest a semi-promising miniature, fashioned in the right adventurous spirit: at this point in time, it's just reassuring to know there are American filmmakers who've retained possession of a passport.

Erupcja is now playing in selected cinemas.

Friday, 5 June 2026

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of May 29-31, 2026):

1 (new) Backrooms (15)
2 (1) Star Wars: The Mandalorian and Grogu (12A)
3 (2) Michael (12A)
4 (3) Obsession (18) *
5 (4) The Devil Wears Prada 2 (12A)
6 (6) The Sheep Detectives (PG)
7 (new) Tuner (15) ***
8 (9) The Super Mario Galaxy Movie (PG)
9 (new) Power Ballad (15) ****
10 (7) Passenger (15) ***

(source: BFI)

My top five:
5. Tuner


DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (1) The Super Mario Galaxy Movie (PG)
2 (2) Project Hail Mary (12) ***
3 (10) G.O.A.T. (PG)
4 (5) Avatar: Fire and Ash (12) ***
5 (7) "Wuthering Heights" (15)
6 (11) The Housemaid (15)
7 (15) A Minecraft Movie (PG)
8 (6) Ready or Not 2: Here I Come (15)
9 (9) Hoppers (U) ****
10 (12) Wicked: For Good (PG)


My top five: 
1. Hoppers


Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. Great Expectations (Saturday, BBC Two, 10.20am)
2. Unforgiven [above] (Sunday, BBC Two, 10.45pm)
3. BlackBerry (Saturday, Channel 4, 11.35pm)
4. Nomadland (Sunday, Channel 4, 1am)
5. Ali & Ava (Tuesday, BBC Two, 12.05am)