Wednesday, 19 November 2025

On demand: "The Night of the Shooting Stars/La Notte di San Lorenzo"


1982's The Night of the Shooting Stars was another of the Taviani brothers' studies of hardscrabble Italian life - this time, in and around a small, sundappled village as World War II nears its end. From a distance, San Martino appears deserted, its houses daubed with green crosses that signify they're set to be blown up by the occupying Germans. The people, though, are to be found underground, either in trenches dug into the surrounding fields or in the basements of local government buildings, awaiting liberation or some other all-clear. Here, a circumscribed form of life goes on: the movie opens with a hurried, makeshift wedding, bread rations being offered up for a post-ceremony feast, and we eventually proceed to watch the annual harvest being covertly taken in. While everyone waits either for the German threat to recede or for the Americans to arrive, wounds are tended, connections made, plans struck, losses mourned and the community collectively weighs up whether to stand and fight their corner or flee for cover elsewhere. 
Not for the Tavianis a bunker mentality; instead, they follow a strategy of incessant toing-and-froing. 

This camera roams alongside the milling villagers - hopping from group to group and huddle to huddle, a fellow traveller - the better to record what these people might be thinking, hoping and fearing, their memories of the homes they've been forced to flee. Forty years on - as far removed in time as the film was from the events it depicted - this Night now resembles an early iteration of what's now known as migrant cinema. The Tavianis fall in sympathetic, patient step with a small group who dress initially in mourning-black - the better to blend in with the night - as they come to wind their their way through the countryside, trying to make peace with the fact their pasts are behind them and their lives will never be the same again. (One especially vivid memory: close-ups of hands tossing aside the keys to homes that no longer exist.) All its shuffling and scrambling kicks up an extraordinary wealth of incident; what the filmmakers proceed from appears less a conventional screenplay than an authentically ragged, worked-over patchwork of anecdote, yarns passed down from one generation to the next, everyday reminiscences that assumed greater significance in retrospect. By 1982, the war years had started to be approached almost as folk myth, touched by magic and wonder as well as horror. The small miracle the Tavianis describe and commemorate here is that people still looked out for one another, making love as well as war; that goodness prevailed; and that some part of humanity lived to tell the tale.

The Night of the Shooting Stars is available to rent via Prime Video.

Tuesday, 18 November 2025

In memoriam: Tatsuya Nakadai (Telegraph 16/11/25)


Tatsuya Nakadai
, who has died aged 92, was an actor who became one of post-War Japanese cinema’s most significant leading men. Wide-eyed and sensitive of mien, often cast as older and wearier than his years, he was discovered by the director Masaki Kobayashi while simultaneously becoming a favourite of Akira Kurosawa, debuting as an extra in The Seven Samurai (1954) before triumphing as the Lear figure in Ran (1985).

Nakadai was working as a clerk when Kobayashi cast him as one of the Japanese soldiers imprisoned for crimes against humanity in The Thick-Walled Room (1956). The film would have been his debut – it was shot in 1953 – but studio Shochiku, facing government pressure, raised concerns over the still-raw subject matter and insisted Kobayashi made cuts; when the director refused, the film was shelved.

For the realist Kobayashi, Nakadai was a sympathetic, pliable presence. In the director’s acclaimed trilogy of WW2 films known collectively as The Human Condition (1959-61), Nakadai – cast as the pacifist Kaji, ever more isolated as his country gears up for war – found himself pummelled by his co-stars during one gruelling bootcamp sequence; he nearly succumbed to hypothermia after a scene that required him to collapse in a snowy field.

Further tests awaited him. In Kobayashi’s Harakiri (1962) – an unusually patient and textured bushido opus – Nakadai had to dodge actual samurai swords; he escaped relatively lightly as the woodcutter stalked by a spectre in Kobayashi’s folk-horror portmanteau Kwaidan (1964).

His best-known films, however, were those he made around the same time with “the Emperor” Kurosawa. The filmmaker initially regarded Nakadai with scepticism, giving him five minutes of direction for what proved a four-second background appearance in The Seven Samurai. After seeing the actor’s layered work for Kobayashi, however, Kurosawa afforded Nakadai another chance.

For Yojimbo (1961), Kurosawa’s direction was even more idiosyncratic, telling Toshiro Mifune to play the hero as a wolf and Nakadai, as the smirking, villainous Unosuke, to imagine himself a snake. After the film’s success, the three reteamed, with Nakadai playing a new character in the sequel Sanjuro (1962) and then excelling as the detective quizzing Mifune’s businessman in the crime thriller High and Low (1963).

Approaching middle age, Nakadai was returned to Kurosawa’s orbit by happenstance. During pre-production on Kagemusha (1980), Kurosawa fired star Shintaro Katsu for bringing a video camera into rehearsals; Nakadai replaced Katsu in the dual lead role of a feudal lord and his thief lookalike. The actors, who had been friends, didn’t speak for several years.

Kagemusha won the Palme d’Or, though Kurosawa insisted it was merely a dress rehearsal for his dream project: Ran, his feudal reworking of King Lear, with Nakadai as octogenarian Lord Hidetora Ichimonji. While a grand success, the shoot recalled Nakadai’s demanding earlier work with Kobayashi: he spent four hours a day in make-up, while his beard caught fire amid the climactic castle-burning.

He was born Motohisa Nakadai in Tokyo on December 13, 1932, the second of four children to working-class parents. His father Tadao, a bus driver, died before his ninth birthday; his mother Aiko worked as a dressmaker’s assistant. Evacuated to Senkawa during the Pacific War, he eventually returned to Tokyo, where he completed his education, took menial jobs and found solace in the cinema. (He cited John Wayne, Gary Cooper and Marlon Brando among his acting heroes.)

Unable to afford university, Nakadai instead took acting classes at the Haiyuza Training school, eventually falling in with the avant-garde playwright Kōbō Abe, who’d written The Thick-Walled Room. He played the bar manager in Naruse’s When a Woman Ascends the Stairs (1960) and Hamlet on stage in 1964; he cut loose as a sociopathic samurai in The Sword of Doom (1966) and voiced the Devil in the cult animation Belladonna of Sadness (1973).

In 1975, he formed the Mumeijuku acting school, whose pupils included Kōji Yakusho, the star of Wim Wenders’ Perfect Days (2023). He starred in Hachi-ko (1987), the canine-centred tearjerker later remade with Richard Gere as Hachi: A Dog’s Tale (2009), before a rare venture into English-language cinema with the deeply unofficial sequel Return from the River Kwai (1989).

In the new century, he made a voice cameo in Ghibli’s animated The Tale of the Princess Kaguya (2013); he received the Japanese Order of Culture in 2015, and the Japanese Academy’s Award of Honour in 2016. His final screen appearance came in The Pass: Last Days of the Samurai (2020), although he gave his final performance on stage this May.

Asked why he’d played so many warriors, Nakadai said: “I’m quieter than average, and a bit solitary. I think maybe those characteristics have something in common with the positive elements of a samurai. I’m a loner.”

His 1957 marriage to the actress and screenwriter Yasuko Miyazaki endured until her death in 1996.

Tatsuya Nakadai, born December 13, 1932, died November 8, 2025.

Sunday, 16 November 2025

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of November 7-9, 2025):

1 (new) Predator: Badlands (12A) **
2 (new) The Choral (12A)
3 (2) Regretting You (12A)
4 (1) Bugonia (15) **
5 (new) Die My Love (15) ***
6 (4) Springsteen: Deliver Me from Nowhere (12A)
7 (5) Gabby's Dollhouse: The Movie (U)
8 (7) I Swear (15) ****
9 (new) A Paw Patrol Christmas (U)

(source: BFI)

My top five:
2. Hedda

  
DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (6) Wicked: Part 1 (PG) **
2 (1) Superman (12)
3 (2) Jurassic World: Rebirth (12) **
4 (re) Nobody 2 (15)
5 (14) How to Train Your Dragon (PG)
6 (7) Downton Abbey: The Grand Finale (PG)
9 (3) Weapons (18) ***
10 (27) The Grinch (U)


My top five: 
1. The Curse of Frankenstein


Top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. The Untouchables (Sunday, BBC Two, 10pm)
2. The Piano [above] (Tuesday, BBC Two, 12midnight)
3. Deliverance (Friday, BBC Two, 11pm)
4. A Thousand and One (Monday, BBC Two, 11pm)
5. Bad Times at the El Royale (Thursday, Channel 4, 2.10am)

We'll be right back: "The Running Man"


The low bar for 21st century remakes of Arnie vehicles by directors who spent their formative years in videoshops was set by Len Wiseman's 12A-rated
Total Recall of 2012, a colossal squandering of resources that not even ITV2 has much bothered to revive in the years since. (Why bother scheduling that, when you can stick the grabby and exhilarating original on again?) The latest rethink of The Running Man, nothingburger though it ultimately is, clears that sorry hurdle, in large part because co-writer/director Edgar Wright grasps what made Paul Michael Glaser's 1987 film such a home-rental mainstay. As Stephen King framed it all along, this is one man against the media-industrial complex; a blue-collar protagonist so badly snookered by the system he feels compelled to sign up for a murderous reality TV extravaganza - in which contestants are pursued across America by gun-toting terminators and a general public whipped into a baying mob - so as to care for his sick child. In 2025, there may be no reason to tinker radically with that premise. Wright has a bigger budget at his disposal than Glaser ($110m, as opposed to $27m); it buys him more production design, hundreds of extras, big fucking explosions. (Oddly, the world it builds hews closer to Arnie's Total Recall.) And Glen Powell's hero Ben Richards is angrier than one recalls Arnie ever being: pissed off at his bosses, the system, the format of the show, smirking showrunner Killian (Josh Brolin), his fellow contestants, perhaps even himself, he's obliged to figure out some way to focus, weaponise and monetise that rage on the run. In the future, King and Wright propose, everything will be hyped to the max, and everyone will be vastly more agitated for it. This, at least, scans.

Even so, persisting with television as the enemy feels like a very 20th century position for the new film to take. I mean, yes, whole stations broadcasting fake news 24/7 probably will radicalise your grandma, and Wright also massages some tacky, Kardashians-like flaunting of dynastic wealth into the show's adbreaks. But as noted by a rather more timely (not to mention distinctively 21st century) variation on this theme, the Korean hit Squid Game, it's the Internet that's now making the world worse faster; a show like Naked and Afraid starts to seem almost quaint when set against the cash-in-hand predations of Mr. Beast. While Wright's film dashes briskly enough between setpieces, as satire and/or social critique, this Running Man remains wholly insubstantial. This is a B movie where the B stands for bubblegum: you slop it in your holes, chew it over for a bit, realise it's rapidly losing its flavour, and then dispose of it altogether easily. Powell's aggressively one-note performance suggests this isn't the star for which some people have been so desperately looking; I spent most of the running time lamenting how the one true star turn of the autumn movie season - Channing Tatum's in Roofman - has gone so inexplicably underseen. Around him, Wright casts familiar and welcome faces - David Zayas, William H. Macy, Katy O'Brian, Lee Pace (eyebrows muffled under a balaclava, which in itself seems a waste) - only to give each of these participants almost nothing of lasting interest to do.

Unlike in the honourably bleak The Long Walk, which has (somewhat surprisingly) emerged as the year's strongest King derivative, zero dramatic weight is accrued in the picking off of the hero's fellow runners; the racial aspects of Wright's film are so cursory they make One Battle After Another seem James Baldwin-rigorous. The source was a neat idea briskly executed, but more airport novel than a piercing state-of-the-nation address. This adaptation, recognisably a byproduct of a delulu industry that still believes there's something to be gained from returning to all things Hunger Games, slaps an A-movie budget on a B-picture premise and hands it to a creative who encountered the original at a formative moment and afforded it greater import than it merits. That premise cries out for taut and nasty handling; instead, Wright's fondness for goofy asides - the kind of sidebar gags he'd cut away to in Spaced and the Cornetto trilogy - gradually removes that premise of its urgency. That this version still runs to 133 minutes seems born less of narrative necessity than of a willingness to keep filming until the money had been spent, Powell had huffed and puffed around every last one of the sets constructed for the occasion, and each of those big fucking explosions had been set off. The result? So-so multiplex timekiller, no better or worse than the first adaptation; another shrug from a system prepared to splash vastly more cash to achieve much the same middling effects. It's not worth getting Ben Richards-angry about, but a system that thinks like this doesn't deserve any big autumn hits.

The Running Man is now showing in cinemas nationwide.

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


John Cleese Packs It In
**

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mother!: "Die My Love"


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

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

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

Die My Love is now playing in cinemas nationwide.

Wednesday, 12 November 2025

Strange harvest: "Bugonia"


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

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

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

Bugonia is now showing in cinemas nationwide.