Friday, 23 August 2024

For what it's worth...




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

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

(source: BFI)

My top five:
3. Coraline


DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

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


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

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

Thursday, 22 August 2024

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


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

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

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

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

Pulp Fiction returns to cinemas nationwide tomorrow.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wednesday, 21 August 2024

The Irishmen: "Kneecap"


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

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

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

Sunday, 18 August 2024

Parasites: "Alien: Romulus"


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

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

Alien: Romulus is now playing in cinemas nationwide.

Saturday, 17 August 2024

For what it's worth...




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

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

(source: BFI)

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


DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

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


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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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