I’d gone to the multiplex to see Captain America: Winder Solider, which I really enjoyed. I had a little more time to kill so I went to see Divergent because it was the movie that was starting next. Yes, I paid twice. I’m a ComedyFilmNerd, and we hold ourselves to high standards. I hadn’t heard anything about it, so I had zero expectations.
At a slender 97 minutes, Filth, adapted faithfully from Irvine Welsh’s terrific 1998 novel, is 95 minutes too long. From the opening monologue by James McAvoy’s Bruce Robertson, decrying Scotland as the place that gave the world “deep fried Mars Bars,” you know you’re in terrible hands all around. Not only has that gag dated, so has the entire world these characters populate. Yet the film is set in the here and now, and its characters’ attitudes have moved from humorously cutting-edge to deeply offensive.
Once upon a time, in the galaxy far, far away, there was the Australian television network landscape of my boyhood. Hard to believe now, this consisted of a mighty four selections; three commercial networks and the government one. In these pre-cable, let alone pre-internet, days, those networks showed movies. A lot of movies. And movies spanning all decades and many continents. In fact, the television landscape of my boyhood, as seemingly limited as it was, was a great film school.
A weekend full of monsters and horrific creatures and people with dangerous and painful objects impaled in their bloody heads may not seem like a fun way to spend your hard-earned time off, but for some of us it’s better than lying on the beach for two days. And by ‘us’, I mean me.
Dom Hemingway isn’t a great film. It doesn’t really offer anything new in the way of stylish British ex-con films, but Jude Law makes an excellent case to look past that and revel in his performance.
It’s a pleasant surprise to be pleasantly surprised with a Hollywood “blockbuster”, but here I am, quite happy indeed, with Captain America: The Winter Soldier.
Bad Words is a surprisingly good little film. It’s chock full of off-color humor, and I do mean off-color. Ok, filthy. The language is colorful like an acid rainbow.
I have decided that Wes Anderson is now on my list of favorite directors. I liken him to the Coen Brothers; even their bad films are better than most people’s good ones, though there’s nothing bad about this one.
By the time Corey Feldman writes, in chapter 14 of his memoir Coreyography, “He was the only person in my immediate circle who wasn’t molesting me,” he’s already dished enough tawdry shenanigans among the young Hollywood set, and those who exploited them, to gain your trust. He’s telling the truth and he’s not holding back. Eminently, incessantly readable – indeed, compulsively readable, and digestible in one sitting if you’ve got the stomach – Feldman’s memoir has enough drug abuse, child molestation, and general sleaze for a month of miniseries.
Enemy begins with Jake Gyllenhaal’s heavily bearded character entering a room where a group of men surround some sort of sex show. A scantily clad woman cries out in what could be either pleasure or pain. The camera pans across the faces of the men. Some seem fascinated, some seem uncomfortable, some, almost weary. Two women wearing sheer robes and high heels walk out. One woman places a Sterling silver serving tray on the floor and removes the cover to reveal a giant spider. The other goes to step on it with her high heel, and the camera cuts away. Then, things get weird…