There Ought To Be Rules About This Sort Of Stuff

I know it's silly but I do wrestle with my mind's meanderings on what constitutes a great film. For today I will say that as a minimum qualification it must be a first-class piece of work, that is to say that it must score at least seventy out of one hundred on the OG ratings - yes this is all about me - why else write a blog? That much is simple but lots of very good films qualify by this route, films that I would not call great. My current prejudice is to demand re-watchability as an additional signifier of greatness.

What got me thinking about this (it may be pathetic but it's better than worrying myself to death about that cultural vandal Trump) was watching Winchester 73 the other day. Anthony Mann is overshadowed by John Ford in the pantheon of Western directors (or dare we call them auteurs) but the five such films that he made with James Stewart are important. Winchester 73 is concise, taut and brilliant - film noir meets the Western. 86/100.

By that grading I am suggesting that Winchester 73 is, by some comfortable distance, a first-class piece of film-making. Rewatchable? Decidedly. 

All of which brings me to the title of this post. I am suggesting that aggrieved Hollywood stars might assert that there ought to be a limit on how many truly great films any one actor can be in. Stewart is in four I can reel off: The Philadelphia Story; It's a Wonderful Life; Winchester 73; The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. And yes I know I am wilfully striking out the four he made with Hitchcock, the Hitch not being quite my cup of tea.

Winchester 73 - great film.

I'm Sorry Dave

'I'm sorry Dave, I'm afraid I can't do that'. Plenty of keyboard warriors will have got there before me I know, but those words spoken by the supercomputer HAL 9000 in 2001: a Space Odyssey do now look brilliantly prescient. 2001 is a film I've spent plenty of time slagging-off in the past but it is, whether this weary writer likes it or not, the lodestone to which all sci-fi movies are compared. The HAL quotation is getting plenty of air-time at the moment as the eager beavers of Silicon Valley suddenly come to the realisation that shoving genies back into bottles is bloody hard work. There we have the dilemma of Artificial Intelligence in a nutshell. But don't worry, that prize tosser Donald Trump says that the AI scare is a 'hoax'. So that's ok then.

On my favourite (well nearly) subject of Trump, what follows is Stephen Greenblatt's estimation of Shakespeare's Coriolanus. Who does this remind you of:

Here we are dealing instead with an overgrown child's narcissism, insecurity, cruelty and folly, all unchecked by any adult's supervision and restraint. The adult who should have helped the child achieve maturity has either been completely missing, or if present at all, has reinforced the child's worst qualities.

There is a difference. Coriolanus, I would argue, has redeeming features, not least stupendous martial valour. No bone spurs. Coriolanus is killed by his erstwhile allies - last night Steve Bannon and Bernie Sanders shared a platform to advocate for curbs on AI. To jump to another realm of the Bard - misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows. 

On a brighter note, I ran four miles this morning. So when the end of the world is nigh, at least I can run away from it.

   

Musings On Romcoms

The Groupie and the Pig have been apart for much of the last month - this for reasons connected to the health of the Pig's materfamilias (pleased to report she's much better thank you). Anyway, last weekend the Pig's estimable brother (I only have the one) was on Mum-watch, so the Groupie and I watched Notting Hill. I've said this before but I rate this film as better than two of Richard Curtis's more trumpeted offerings, Four Weddings and a Funeral, and Love Actually. Notting Hill is wry, as amusing as it is implausible (the charm easily defeats the implausibility) and sent this punter off to his bed in a right good mood. You have to admit as well that Hugh Grant very efficiently cornered the market for foppish charm. 70/100.

Wagner/Polanski/Allen

The weather has been bloody boiling - successive days in the 30s and no respite on the horizon. OG/BFP/CC has been away from his desk and since his desk is at the top of Casa Piggy where the heat gathers, this gives a partial excuse for abandoning his/their public correspondence. Sorry about that - you must be in a state of grave yearning. I could bring the laptop downstairs and work there but this desk is my favourite prop. Pathetic isn't it because as that master of mischief (Lord of Misrule as GL so ably referred to him in his eulogy) Ian Marchant kept reminding me, the first thing that a writer must do (even a crap one like me) is bloody well write. So here comes something dredged up from my lousy memory.

Big Fat Lazy Pig in the sun

Those of you who have been paying attention (believe it or not I encountered one such last week) will know that Overgradutae/Big Fat Pig/Chortley Chuckles together constitute this writer's unholy trinity. Some of you knowing my less than modest grip on life might have prepared yourselves for the OG to compare himself to the three cancelled artists listed in the title of this piece. Well, stand down, even CC isn't that self-involved. No, what brought this infamous trio to mind was reflecting on watching Hannah and her Sisters again (see this blog 27 June). I can offer no answer to the old conundrum of whether we must tie an artist's oeuvre to his/her morals and censor our enjoyment of them. I will say only this: I love driving my precious Jag with Wagner blaring on the stereo; Chinatown is possibly the greatest colour attempt at film noir; Woody Allen is indisputably very funny. I am weak.   

Powerful Dialogue

The Groupie and the Pig are making their way through The West Wing for the umpteenth time. It seems strange to be back in a time when pagers were still a thing and mobile phones were not so powerful, but the basic brilliance of the show still stands. It may be my advanced age and my carefully nurtured cynicism but I occasionally get weary at the perfectly formed liberal diatribes that pass for dialogue, but just when one wonders if Aaron Sorkin is not perhaps the genius one had thought him, he reels you back into the game (the thinking game I think we should call it) by puncturing the self-righteousness of the major characters. If you want to know what I mean then check out episodes 1 and 2 of Series 3. Toby and Josh are in full and seemingly unchecked arrogant spate until a minor character (Doug, a political consultant) finally cracks and lacerates them with a dose of angry realpolitik. Well done Doug and, of course, well done Aaron. A serious show about serious matters. A great game to play is to watch The West Wing and then to switch to CNN to witness the evil, witless drivel that emanates from the Trump White House (and, I'm afraid to say, from the bulk of the compromised GOP) - if it wasn't so important it would be funny.

Whilst I'm on the topic of television, we've found another show that we like. It rather more than tips its hat to the tropes of film noir and it is, of course, no secret that Big Fat Pig loves a good film noir. The show is Sugar. We're only a couple of episodes in but it all looks very promising.

Moving on - from television to film. The cancellation of Woody Allen is a topic on which I don't have strong opinions beyond the vague unease that, no matter the state of the criminal law, there are some things you don't do when in loco parentis. But Allen remains one of my favourite film-makers, one who deserves the over-applied label of 'auteur'. We watched Hannah and her Sisters last night. An excellent movie with superb dialogue (better than Sorkin). 86/100.

       

The Evil That Men Do - And An Uplifting Coda

Harriet is a biopic about Harriet Tubman, an enslaved woman who fled to freedom and became a ferocious activist in the liberation of many others. It is a tale of heroism and of human bondage. It is decorated by two stellar performances - Cynthia Erivo in the title role and Joe Alwyn as an adamantine slave-owner.

The film does nothing flashy or overtly clever - it lays the true story before us and if this sort of thing doesn't make you ponder man's propensity for evil, then you have a heart of stone. Find it on iPlayer. 70/100.   

The Search For The Good Nazi

I have been watching my way for the umpteenth time through the magisterial World at War (as an aside this reminds me that such compelling yet educational television just would not get made these days) and I am most intrigued by the contributions of that seismic fraud Albert Speer - a high-ranking Nazi who escaped from the Nuremberg trials with his life. It was the enigma of Speer that was brought to mind by recent cinematic encounters with interpretations of two other prominent National Socialists.

The Desert Fox is carried by James Mason's charismatic portrayal of Erwin Rommel, presented to us as an honourable and brilliant military man who came to see that Hitler was leading Germany over a cliff. When one considers that the film was made in the shadow of the War (1951) this is a balanced and generous work. 70/100. 

Nuremberg (2025) has an expert turn from Russell Crowe as the charming but malignant narcissist Hermann Goring. This is top grade acting. Rami Malek's efforts as the psychiatrist who endeavours to know Goring have attracted contrasting reviews (The Guardian is particularly hard on him) but I think he keeps just on the right side of manic. Juristically speaking the Nuremberg trials pose interesting questions for any sentient lawyer, particularly one like me who has always opposed judicial killing in the domestic setting. I still don't know where I stand on war crimes trials and I am grateful that I am not compelled to articulate one way or the other. Another worthy film. 70/100. Watch out as well for a fine subsidiary performance from Leo Woodall.    

Shining On The Self-Righteous At Plas Piggy

Here on the island for the first inspection visit of the year. All is well, in fact it seems even better than that. In marked contrast to last week's covering of snow at Casa Piggy, Benllech is bathed in glorious winter sun and the Pig is feeling very good about himself having run for forty minutes this morning. By way of climatological proof I reproduce the rather crappy photograph taken from the front window showing the waters glistening on Red Wharf Bay and the Great Orme looming in the distance. I can't give you any documenatry proof of my run - you'll have to trust me on that one, but why would I lie?

It is on a day such as this that one glimpses the illusion of the runner's high. Actually that is unfair - the high really does exist, it is just that you feel it less frequently as age and lassitude restrict activity. On the basis that the public sharing of a new year resolution makes compliance more likely (because failure is so much the worse when suffered in the open) I will admit that I have the ambition to get back to running for an hour by June this year. My other resolutions are for me alone.

I will say this - running here in Benllech is even tougher than back in the environs of Casa Piggy (which is atop a hill) as the village climbs steeply out of the Bay. Today I ran/staggered half-way down to to Red Wharf Bay and back. I feel good.

Another reason to feel content - I have realised that itvX harbours Once Upon a Time in America in its listings. I'm too mean to pay for the ad-free version but I may watch it tonight and put up with the adverts. I haven't seen the movie for a decade or more but I remember it as Leone's masterpiece. Am I right? 

Deep and Crisp And Even At Casa Piggy

I have started the new year with the usual slew of resolutions. More exercise, less eating, more reading, blah blah blah. Thus far I have been pretty good and I am even keeping a regular check on my blood pressure - this is going particularly well as it happens - the drugs seem to work. But plans for my third run of the week have been well and truly scotched by Storm Goretti (who thinks of these names?), as can be seen from the photograph of the drive at Casa Piggy taken by our staff photographer (aka the Groupie) yesterday evening.

I said last week that the film of Charlotte Gray is a bit of a dud. Instead you might look for Operation Mincemeat on iPlayer - a nice bit of staunch Britishness in the factual context of WWII. 63/100. 

I have now almost eaten my way through the remains of the Christmas chocolate (it would be impolite not to eat it all, resolutions or nay) and I shall next do some reading. I already have an ambitious literary project in mind for this year's Advent calendar but you will have to wait until 30 November to hear more! If that doesn't keep you reading, well what on earth will.  

Twelve Films At Christmas - 11 & 12

And so the story ends. With two films directed by the great David Lean as it happens, one his epic masterpiece and the other a much more constrained ensemble piece expanded from Noel Coward's theatrical text.

Let us start with the older monochrome film, This Happy Breed. Modern criticism latches onto what it sees as miscasting of upper-middle-class actors in the working-class leads. That is reductive. What we have is a taut journey through an England fractured by the aftermath of the Great War coupled with clues as to how that society had the sheer bloody guts to resist fascism. It is a happy film. 70/100.

I have reviewed Lawrence of Arabia before - 22 May 2013 to be precise. I did so then in a spirit of recrimination against a small man who had taken pleasure in belittling my intellect. I shall not name him but my rancour remains. He is part of that small class of people I wish I had struck. Even as I write that sentence I feel diminished by the sentiment and the victory is his. That is how small men triumph. Enough.

Lawrence of Arabia is a truly geat film. It is about faith; it is about betrayal; it is about masochism; it is about imperialism; it is about parochialism; it is about masculinity; it is extraordinary. I did not give it a rating in 2013 but I do so now - 96/100.  

Twelve Films At Christmas - 9 & 10

Christmas is officially over here at Casa Piggy - the lights and the trees came down at the weekend. There is a tinge of sadness in seeing them go but a greater urge (for the Pig at least) to look forward and to make 2026 a good year. As I now realise I have had a discreditably lengthy period of sunning myself in the minor glory of completing my PhD. This is not a good look and there is some catching up to do on some cherished projects. Onward and upwards!

But before anything else I need to tidy up the strand of films watched over the holiday. Thay have been a good bunch with only one dud and even that not too bad in truth. I refer to Charlotte Gray, which turned out to be a sadly uninvolving adapatation of Sebastian Faulks' well-received novel. I'm not sure that it is anyone's fault in particular but, you know how it is, some entertainments just never come together. This is one such. 58/100.

Now for something very different and very good. BlacKkKlannsman is directed by Spike Lee (not automatically a recommendation) and borders on the superb - actually I think it just topples into that category. It is strident and chillingly funny about the dangerous clowns in the KKK. Highly recommended. 82/100.    

Twelve Films At Christmas - 7 & 8

Mission Impossible: Dead Reckoning, Parts I and II. We watched these two films a day apart which probably helps in keeping-up (well to some extent) with the labyrinthine plot. I came to them with no great expectations other than for superb stunts and effects, and indeed you get plenty of those. However, much to my pleasant surprise, bubbling beneath all the crashing and banging there is a serious point trying to get out. I was put in mind of the stunning ending of the original Planet of the Apes, and of the gut-wrenching denouement in Fail Safe, two superb movies. Now the final fling of the MI franchise is not quite in the league of those classics, there is too much clowning inbetween the action for that, but on balance you have to say that this is adventure film-making with its brain left switched-on. No spoilers from me. You do need to watch both parts to get the full benefit. 75/100 each. To use my favourite word when it comes to criticism - these films have nuance.  

Twelve Films At Christmas - 5 & 6

Denzel Washington and Russell Crowe directed by Ridley Scott, no wonder American Gangster is such a good film. How had it passed me by for so long? Oh well, rectified now. Watched it at Plas Piggy (where I accidentally found out that the tele-box thing can record) in the company of a nice Italian red - is there any other sort, certainly when exposed to my stray-dog palate. The film seems to be in rotation on Film 4 so if you haven't seen it yet, set aside some time to do so. Some have incorrectly characterised it as the 'Black Godfather'. That is unfair to both films - The Godfather is a better film (but, of course, better than most other movies) and American Gangster is not a mere derivative. A fine take on the warping of the American Dream. 86/100.

Our children are of exactly the right age to have been caught up in the maelstrom of Harry Potter mania. DN1 and DN2 both read the books and I feel no shame in saying that I read them as well. There is some ghastly snobbery about these books but as ripping yarns they know few equals and if they brought a new generation to reading then so much the better. What about the films? Not quite on the same level but they do capture some of the atmosphere and for me they always have a Christmas resonance because I remember the excitement of taking the girls to see Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone on a chill winter's day. This is the first of the eight films and the child acting is patchy but not such as to stop you enjoying it. 64/100.

 

Twelve Films At Christmas - 3 & 4

Hollywood is an industry -  a very peculiar one tainted by much dross and rescued by occasional artistry. But today is about the dignity of filmic labour and artistry capably inserted into unashamed commercial product. It is a reflection on the work of two directors who are sometimes dismissed as mere technicians, their very capability masking their extreme gift. 

Ron Howard directs Solo: a Star Wars Story with particular panache. Not that it matters very much but this is an origin story for Han Solo, the best and most nuanced of the franchise heroes. It is, as with all the Star Wars episodes, at its best as a fast-paced shoot-em-up. These films are generic descendants of the Westerns that Hollywood used to churn out but importantly these are related to those special (and there are more than you might think) cowboy films that admit of nuance (there's my favourite word again). Great fun - and, oh, it hardly needs saying but Woody Harrelson is excellent. When is he not? 68/100.

Hans Detlef Sierck fled Germany in 1937. He was married to a Jewess. He was already established as one of Germany's leading film directors. Via neutral Europe he wended his way to Holywood where he changed his name to Douglas Sirk. He directed all manner of product but became best known for what were then regarded as schlocky melodramas, belittled as 'women's pictures'. Later criticism came to see the value of these films - fast-paced and touching on troublesome emotions - masterful product. Starring the estimable Barbara Stanwyck, All I Desire is a good example of his work. 69/70.  

Twelve Films At Christmas - 1 & 2

Let us start on a high. We re-watched two brilliant seasonal films last week. I cannot promise that this annual thread will continue at such an exalted level but I urge you to catch both of these movies. Both have been reviewed here before, the second as recently as 2 January this year. The first of the two is a hackneyed choice but, as I have said before, there is usually a good reason why a cliche becomes a cliche.

It's A Wonderful Life earned the highest score I have ever given to a film. I stand by that.

I have revised my opinion about The Holdovers. I raved about it in last Christmas's thread. I was wrong. I should have raved even more noisily. It is a marvellous film and I underrated it. 89/90. Who would have thought it - OG has a change of mind. I am not guaranteeing that any precedent has been set but I recommend that you keep reading to check this out. I don't get paid but your attention feeds my vanity - a very hungry beast.

 

Not Everything Is About Me

The Groupie (the wisest person I know) frequently advises me not to keep reading about Donald Trump - it only makes me angry. She has a point. America's very public psychosis feeds my own.

All of which comes back to me as I contemplate, inter alia, five films recently watched. Four of them are American movies, one British. You  might not believe it but I do actually give it some thought before I put metaphotical pen to to virtual paper with these film commentaries. And recent cogitation has brought home the fact that any trace of decency in any film that analyses the human condition merely provokes me into observing either that Donald Trump should be made to watch it, or that he wouldn't get the point.

So here are those five films. First up is Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, a picture that has that ubiquitous Tennessee Williams atmosphere of strangulating heat. Has cinema ever deployed a more beautiful leading couple than Elizabeth Taylor and Paul Newman? They fight and tear at each other in the cage of their doomed marriage. Burl Ives plays the vile American patriarch with portly panache - I will resist the deployment of a Trump reference - oh no, I've done it already. In truth this film never fully escapes from its stage roots but it smolders nicely. 69/70. 

Burl Ives gives us another display as the vile patriarch in The Big Country. On this occasion he got an Oscar for his efforts. This film lives up to its name - it is big. The landscapes are big, the stars are big, the cinematography is big (Technirama), the fights are big. The humans almost fade to insignificance against the backdrops. It has pretensions to talk about the truth of Manifest Destiny and, given its age (made in 1958) it is probably making some heavy-handed points about the Cold War. Altogether glorious to look at. Its denouement suggests that bad men must die to allow civilisation to grow. Trump ... no too bloody obvious. 69/70. 

3.10 to Yuma (the 1957 original not the 2007 remake) is a taut Western notable for a superb performance of smooth menace by Gelnn Ford. Its ending is a surprising concession to decency in the midst of vicious singularity. [Insert Trump reference here]. 70/100. 

I will set the British film aside for now and instead turn to a very good American movie from a master of the medium that, for me, sits in the middle ranks of his oeuvre. Casino sees Martin Scorsese repeating much of the narrative technique of his (for me) masterpiece, Goodfellas. This time it is the Las Vegas casino industry of the mob-dominated 70s and 80s that comes under Scorsese's acute microscope. Joe Pesci, gives us his best Joe Pesci, Robert De Niro is compelling as the uber-clever gambler who becomes a casino boss but who finds himself undone by love and by the advance of the junk-bond ecnomy (a voodoo economy in which Trump crashed and burned but by the immoral rules of the game lived to fight on). However the star turn comes from Sharon Stone as de Niro's booze-addled nemesis. Great soundtrack as well - a recurrent element in Scorsese's films. 80/100.

I have bitter-sweet memories of a family holiday in Denmark. Sweet because I love my family and because I happened at that time to think (wrongly as things transpired) that I was at the peak of my powers as a businessman. At our coastal lodge I would rise early, go for a run, then swim in the sea before making myself some proper coffee and reading a management tome. Bitter because I returned to England and my professional life collapsed. That is s story for another day - or, perhaps better, a story never to be told. Denmark struck me as a peaceable country at ease with itself. Again I may be wrong. No matter, those memories were stirred by the modest British production, Denmark. Rafe Spall plays a down-at-heel Welshman who resolves that his best hope of a comfortable life is to earn himself a spot in Danish prison. From this unlikely conceit is spun a nicely beguiling redemption tale. 72/100. I'm pretty sure Trump wouldn't get it, but who am I to say.  

       

Spirit Of Monochrome

The first time I saw Alastair Sim's performance as Scrooge was in a lamentable 'colorized' version of the movie. I next saw it in a sharp, restored monochrome edition. The second viewing was all the better for restoration to its original format.

I mention this only because I am a bit of a fan of black and white film stock. Amongst the many things I tell myself I am going to get around to doing, is to buy a decent camera and use it to take atmpospheric black and white pictures. Of course I will probably never get around to this but a man can/should dream. 

All of which brings me to four excellent monchrome films I have watched recently. I may be an old romantic but I think each of them is better for being shot in monochrome. I will turn first to David Lean's 1946 adaptation of Great Expectations - this is a top grade movie, previously reviewed here and I confirm my past prejudice to give it 85/100.

Lean was at it again in 1953 with the screen rendition of Hobson's Choice. Atmospheric monochrome magic. The quietly brilliant John Mills is once again the youthful hero. As for Hobson himself (a part for which I would break my unlamented stage retirement) this role falls into the hyper-capable hands of Charles Laughton. 86/100. 

Another reliably excellent actor is Henry Fonda and he has the conscience-stricken lead in 1957's Twelve Angry Men. This is a claustrophobic masterpiece that speaks gradually louder as to the importance of the rule of law. In an age where the President of the United States clearly has no conception of the rule of law, this is a film that cries out to be re-watched. Innocent and not-gulity are not the same thing. 88/100. 

I have talked of reliable imprimaturs - Lean, Laughton, Fonda. Today's last film comes courtesy of another such, or more accurately another two such - Powell and Pressburger. The Small Back Room. Although not nearly in the class of their gloriously colourful classics, A Matter of Life and Death, and Colonel Blimp, The Small Back Room is a taut monochrome dissection of trauma and courage. 79/100.

Monochrome. all that glisters is not gold.   

The Bankruptcy Of A Genius

The genius of whom I speak is Jacques Tati and his financial catastrophe was brought about by the financial demands of his magnificent comedic confection, Playtime.

This film invites you to laugh at the noble silliness of Tati's M. Hulot as he winds in and out of the widescreen modernity of Paris. The dialogue is a glorious mishmash of English and French but the spoken word operates merely as a backing track. I will not spoil any of the recurring gags by describing them because if you get the chance to see this film, I fervently urge you to do so. In the end modernity cannot quell the very human ability to have a good time. In our scarred present, this is a bold tonic. 90/100.   

The Tolkien Franchise

If J.R.R. Tolkien is looking down on us, I wonder if he is rueful about the abundance of riches that have been showered on the hugely significant but lesser literary figure of J.K. Rowling. This (admittedly not very novel) thought occurred the other day as I watched the Japanese Anime stylings of Lord of the Rings: the War of the Rohirrim. 

I have ben immune to the Anime bug but I have to admit that this bit of cartoonery was perfectly passable fun. Nuance and violence nicely mixed, which seems to me to be a fair description of Tolkien's lore. 69/100.
  

A Better Space Odyssey

I have been looking back at the various mentions I have made over the years of the alleged masterpiece 2001: A Space Odyssey. I addressed my difficulty with that film in an entry dated 11 October 2019 and gave it a rating of 6.5/10. More interesting than that is the fact that I trace references to it in most other reviews I have posted of science fiction movies. So whatever I have to say (which I accept is of minute significance) about 2001, I have to concede that its influence is far-reaching and that, even to a sceptic like me, it is the reference point for sci-fi.

All of which is a very round-about way of introducing a space movie that I think is better than 2001. Ad Astra (2019) is not without its longeurs but it holds its own as an odyssey played out in the vastness of outer space. It has Brad Pitt giving his best performance and it has the highly estimable Tommy Lee Jones in support playing the enigmatic father Pitt goes in search of. 79/100.