carnivalofsouls

Borowczyk remains one of the least appreciated filmmakers of his era, inarguably an auteur, but one so erratic and unusual that he remains cherished only by a handful of critics for his early surrealist work and by cult movie devotees for his later, sexually-explicit films. While from the mid-seventies onward his films would range from the good (Behind Convent Walls, The Story of Sin) to the not-so-good (The Art of Love, Immoral Tales, etc), his film-making legacy rests with the bizarre La Bete, which unfortunately belongs to the latter category. However it is his early films (both animated and live action) that are undoubtedly Borowczyk's key works – Blanche, for instance, is one of the finest films ever made, while Goto the Island of Love is almost as good – and in many ways these films set up the themes that would be prevalent throughout much of his subsequent work, most importantly that sex is constantly linked with guilt, persecution and death.

This is perhaps why La Marge is so unjustly obscure. The casting of Kristel (not to mention the film's alternate title Emmanuelle '77) suggests the film was tailored to appeal to the softcore market, yet the emphatically gloomy atmosphere and subject matter, which includes death, adultery and suicide, is significantly at odds with this. Compared to the other Borowczyk films of this period, with perhaps the exception of The Story of Sin, La Marge is surprisingly restrained. The film works because of its minimalism and ambiguity – the dialogue is sparse, presumably because of the actors' inability to speak French, and their character motivation is vague to say the least. It is never made clear why Sigimond is driven to cheat on his seemingly perfect wife, though it is perhaps no coincidence that Diana more than slightly resembles her. Borowczyk as usual fills the movie with visual motifs, using reflective surfaces to signify the duality of Sigimond's life, and lingering, unerotic shots of female genitalia to convey what is at the core of his actions and desires, and what is, in essence, being a Borowczyk film, Sigimond's prison.

The film is beautifully photographed, full of the director's obtuse trademark framing, and, something rather unusual for Borowczyk, features a remarkable period soundtrack, from the first Kristel/Dallesandro sex scene played out to 10CC's I'm Not in Love to the stunning blowjob sequence set to Pink Floyd, and an incredible climax that employs Elton John's Funeral For a Friend. While La Marge is distinctively a Borowczyk film in many respects, it also possesses a sombreness and maturity that was rare for the director, for despite the occasional surreal moment (a dwarf watching television, a hotel maid examining her breasts in the mirror, a deranged old woman watching sex through a keyhole), it is primarily a straightforward examination of two doomed characters unable to escape the prisons of their existence. Fans of the director's early work may find the film overly conventional, while devotees of his later period may be disappointed by how restrained it is, yet La Marge is an unfairly neglected film, one of the director's most enduring and haunting works.

The most unusual entry in the AFT series was no doubt one of the least successful. Though it attempted to make the source material more cinematic through the use of flashy visuals and edits (think a somnambulistic Ken Russell circa Tommy and Listzomania), this only helped to date a production that, considering the music at its centre, had no right to be dated. Jacques Brel was a brilliant French songwriter and while his music found its way into the English and American pop charts thanks to various bastardizations (stand up Rod McKuen and Terry Jacks), his acerbic lyrical style and gallows humour were always lost in the translation. The intention of the off-Broadway musical was to no doubt make amends for this and to introduce an English-speaking audience to some of the finest songs ever written, yet the power of the songs, no matter how great they are, are reliant on the three performers, who, at least in this incarnation, are simply not up to scratch. While Elly Stone's shrill voice does not help matters, the worst culprit is Mort Shuman.

Shuman, a legendary Brill Building songwriter, was responsible for the English translation of Brel's songs and many will know that these translations were scattered across Scott Walker's astonishing first four solo albums of the late sixties. And herein lays Shuman's greatest misstep, as he, coincidentally or not, takes on the task of covering the same songs as Walker. Yet not only does Shuman lack Walker's powerful voice, he also manages to deliver the tunes in a misguided and frequently irritating fashion. Compare his pitiful rendition of Mathilde to the version on Walker's debut, and one will see how crucial the delivery of Brel's songs are to their power, Walker brilliantly straddles an intense line between ecstasy and despair, as compared to Shuman, who lifelessly pouts his way through the song.

Only Joe Masiell's voice seems suited to the material and though many of his scenes are highlights, the undoubted triumph is Brel's haunted, French rendition of If You Go Away, where in a single, deeply moving take, the great man himself, approaching his death in 1978, tears a hole in the film that it has no chance of recovering from. If there is a single reason to view the film, it is for this, otherwise one is recommended to save your cash and purchase Brel's own recordings or the compilation Scott Walker Sings Jacques Brel.

Alex Cox will always be remembered for the astonishing one-two punch of 'Repo Man' and 'Sid and Nancy', yet his finest achievement was the daring, career-destroying 'Walker'. As if being exiled from the studio system wasn't enough, Cox then made the diabolically awful 'Straight To Hell' to seemingly bury any credibility he may have had left. 'The Winner' represents yet another oddity from Cox's years in the indie wilderness, but perhaps has the highest curio factor due to its eyebrow-raising ensemble cast. Yet what makes 'The Winner', ultimately, a loser, is in all fairness not attributed to Cox but rather its unimpressive, derivative, post-Tarantino screenplay (allegedly adapted from a play, presumably off-off-off-off Broadway). Cox and the cast struggle with its uneven tone and, despite Frank Whaley scoring in a hilariously slimy role, the unfunny nature of the script is barely able to justify the film's incessant stylistic zaniness. While it does work in small doses (an effective opening and a memorably odd ending), it simply isn't enjoyable enough to even warrant minor cult status. That said, it is at least a slight cut above the other interminable 'Pulp Fiction' clones that plagued the mid-to-late nineties. But what sort of endorsement is that?

'Maladolescenza' has the air of a dark fairy tale, with its child protagonists, forest setting, and the discovery of a castle's ruins. Yet at its core, the film is essentially an unusual psychosexual study of adolescents. Opening with a dream sequence employing the not-so-subtle metaphor of Fabrizio wrestling with his menacing hound, the film details his psychological persecution of Laura, the girl who has pledged her love to him, and his eventual romance with the equally malicious Sylvia. The film's psychological complexities do give the film merit, yet there's no doubting how unnecessarily exploitive the film is in its depiction of nudity and sex. The film's look relies more on its gorgeous locations rather than particular cinematographic skill, and there's no doubting the film's greatest asset is the creepy, children's choir-augmented soundtrack. With its odd dreamlike quality, the film is at best interesting, yet pales beside Louis Malle's surreal and brilliant 'Black Moon' from the same era. Certainly deserving of the art versus pornography debate, for unlike many banned films, Pasolini's 'Salo' or Larry Clark's 'Ken Park' for instance, the film is rather unremarkable from an artistic perspective. Cinema seems to be gradually losing its ability to shock, so perhaps 'Maladolescenza' should be admired for retaining that power thirty years after its release. However shock value is the one reason alone the film is memorable.

The film does have its defenders. Yet so does Nazism.

Let's face it, is there a worse horror sub-genre than the "exorcism" film? With the exception of the film that spawned it, 'The Exorcist', and maybe 'Ganja and Hess' and Blatty's underrated 'Exorcist III', these films have primarily been derivative trash along the lines of 'Beyond the Door'. Now then, 'The Exorcism of Emily Rose' provides us with an even less appealing sub-genre - the "courtroom horror film". Its title even clues you in that it is essentially 'The Exorcist' (young girl possessed by demon) meets 'Audrey Rose' (which has the lugubrious honor, in its final third, of being the first courtroom horror film). Nevertheless it is better than it should be, thanks to the casting of Laura Linney (wearing lots of make-up), Campbell Scott and Tom Wilkinson. Yet despite an eerie opening, it never really becomes its own film, too hung up on presenting a two-sided argument than creating atmosphere or chills, while the possession and exorcism scenes unfortunately recall Friedkin's classic, but without that film's technical brilliance. Perhaps an ambiguous character study, along the lines of Tourneur's 'Cat People', of Emily Rose descending into psychosis/possession would have been better advised than focusing on the aftermath of her death. Nevertheless the film should be given credit for attempting to make an intelligent horror film for grown ups, it's simply a shame it isn't a more effective one.

There is a glimmer of hope at the beginning of 'The Wicker Man'. Aaron Eckhart appears fleetingly, and one is reminded that Neil LaBute was the brilliant playwright-turned-filmmaker that made two of the best films of the nineties with 'In the Company of Men' and 'Your Friends and Neighbours', before churning out the enjoyable yet comparatively undistinguished 'Nurse Betty' and 'Possession'. All these films starred Eckhart in memorable roles, but here, as he exits the first frame of 'The Wicker Man', so does one's hope that this will be as dark and disturbing as LaBute's other self-penned material, albeit in a different genre. A playwright (Anthony Schaffer) after all had adapted Robin Hardy's novel in the earlier film, and the results were, along with 'Witchfinder General' and 'Don't Look Now', one of the most memorable British horror films of its era. The new version suffers from both LaBute's inability to direct horror, with nothing resembling atmosphere or scares, and the surprisingly dull screenplay, which could have been churned out by any Hollywood hack. Sure, he gives us a matriarchal society this time around, a concept that allows him to waste an outstanding female cast (Molly Parker, Ellen Burstyn and Frances Conroy among them), but Cage's character is so irritating and the townsfolk so bereft of menace, that most viewers will simply persevere to see how the ending is staged. And, needless to say, there is nothing in the climax to rival the impact and tragedy of the original. Not as ill-conceived as the rumored remake of 'Don't Look Now' (which, one hopes, will never come to fruition), 'The Wicker Man' will nevertheless join 'The Fog', 'When A Stranger Calls', 'Black Christmas' and countless other pointless and insipid remakes of classic horror films that should never have seen the light of day. If Rod Zombie desecrates 'Halloween', it could be the death knell for the genre.

"Wolf Creek" seemed at first that it was too good to be true. Hailed by critics as the best Australian film in years and, even more significantly, a modern horror classic, even before it has been released in the USA or even its homeland. Yet all the hype turned out to justified, "Wolf Creek" is a truly disturbing experience, and not only one of the best films of the year but also the finest Australian film since "The Boys". Greg Mclean has clearly carefully studied two films, "Picnic at Hanging Rock" and "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre", and taken all the elements that made those unnerving classics and utilized them to perfection. Not since "Hanging Rock" and "Walkabout" has the Australian landscape been used to such a chilling effect (and much of the credit must go to the simply stunning cinematography). The film is packed with nods to both "Picnic" and "Texas Chainsaw", yet it transcends being a homage, "Wolf Creek" is indeed its own beast. All the performers are superb, particularly Morassi and Magrath and, of course, John Jarrat's amazing turn as Mick, a character that would give the hillbillies in "Deliverance" nightmares. If it wasn't for the morose fact that the ending was such an incredible let down, then "Wolf Creek" would stand as a true modern classic. As it is, it is still stands heads and tails above any horror film you're likely to see this year. Or most years for that matter.

To say Friedkin's career has had its ups and downs is an understatement, his eighties filmography inarguably has enough bombs to sink a oil tanker. Yet eschewing their performances at the box office, many of his films yearn to be rediscovered, from "Cruising" to "Deal of the Century" to "Rampage". Let's not kid ourselves, "Jade" is not a great film, and this is the fault of one man and one man alone - Joe Esterhas. If trash had a messiah, it would be him. For a fleeting moment in the nineties, Esterhas was paid by the bucketload to write formulaic movies for guys, and the erotic thriller has him to thank for its continuing lugubrious existence. "Jade" is interesting however, it is an erotic thriller without the erotic part. While Paul Verhoeven filled "Basic Instinct" chock full of the sleaze he had become renowned for, Friedkin's films are notable for primarily dealing with male characters, and are subsequently about as erotic as as a bowl of cereal. "Jade" is not about sex; it is about sexual jealousy. The talent of Linda Fiorentino cannot be underestimated here, giving depth to a part that amounts to no more than a typical male fantasy - part good girl, part whore - that's right, it's "Crimes of Passion" without Anthony Perkins and his bag of dildos. The leads are well cast and all give adequate performances, and Friedkin throws in all his usual directorial touches (subliminal images and, you guessed it, yet another bloody car chase). "Jade" is an enjoyable film, with delightfully silly twists and over-the-top violence (come on, you know you want to see Angie Everhart get run over again), and is given some class from it's cast and director, but, in the end, proves itself to be a guilty pleasure that makes one feel more guilt than pleasure.

"Crackers" falls into that category of films that have failed quite inexplicably - helmed by a great director, starring a cast of assured veterans (Sutherland, Warden) and talented newcomers (Penn, Baranksi) and written by the screenwriter of one of the best films of the eighties ("Cutter's Way"). Then why is it that no one talks about the film anymore? Firstly, the film has been made far more successfully on two other occasions in the guise of "Big Deal on Madonna Street" and then recently "Welcome To Collinwood". Secondly, Malle must have been going through an eighties dance music phase when he made the film because it is effectively ruined by an utterly dated and abysmal soundtrack - with a proper film score it would have been a far better film. Lastly, Sutherland gives what is probably his most broad and embarrassingly unfunny performance in the lead, subsequently hindering any sympathy for his character. There are other qualms (what exactly is the purpose of Baranski's character, lets throw in a slut for some wacky comedy?) but it is nevertheless still quite watchable. Shawn, who would collaborate with Malle on the acclaimed films "My Dinner With Andre" and "Vanya on 42nd Street", is very funny as the forever-eating Turtle and Penn is amusing in a dumb hood role he would practically resume for "We're No Angels", another film with a great director, writer and cast that would be a critical and commercial failure. No film made by Malle could be truly bad, and this isn't, but it is neither as quirky or funny as it wants to be.

The original "Carrie" will forever remain one of the greatest horror films of all time, possessing two phenomenal performances and a talented director at the apex of his career, combining the stylistic flourishes of Hitchcock and Argento with amazing results. Yet expanding on the original might not sound like such a bad idea, particularly taking into account that the sequence, present in the novel, where Carrie destroys the whole town could not be filmed by De Palma for budgetary reasons. But it also begs the question, as did the made for TV remake of "The Shining", if it ain't broke why fix it?

The director clearly wanted to make the film stylistically the antithesis of the original, shooting it on digital video to give it a realistic, but nevertheless low-budget, feel. This doesn't work, for despite the odd inspired visual touch that transcends the format, it simply looks ugly here. The cast do provide some justification for its remake, notably the superb performance from Bettis who, as anyone who saw the underrated "May" will attest to, was a perfect choice for the role. With her unusual looks and twitchy, nervy mannerisms, Bettis makes the film worth seeing. As does Clarkson, filling in a big pair of shoes from the monolithic characterization by Laurie in the original, but instead infuses the character with a more subdued nature, giving her a humanity that was never glimpsed previously. Elsewhere however, the cast let the film down, most disappointing of which being Isabelle, who was so impressive in "Ginger Snaps", giving a one-dimensional performance as one of Carrie's foes. What destroys the film however is the screenplay. Too faithful to the original film in its first half then too jarringly different in the last reel (I won't spoil it but the ending is a travesty), the script's biggest crime is its interrogation framework, so cliched a filmic device that as soon as David Keith appears on screen all credibility flies out the window. "Carrie" is not a terrible remake, but it isn't a particularly good one either, so unless you're a Bettis fan just rent the original again or even the sequel, which isn't looking all that bad right about now.

Daniel Waters guaranteed himself a place in cinema history with his debut screenplay "Heathers", one of the sharpest, blackest and downright original films of the second half of the eighties. Yet in the meantime he has seemingly enjoyed his well-paid limbo in hackville, churning out scripts ranging from the what-was-he-thinking (yes "Hudson Hawk", we mean you) to the sublime (the second and best installment in the Batman franchise). Thus the phrase "Daniel Waters' directorial debut" immediately raises expectations, will it be a twisted and perverted return to his "Heathers" world view? The answer is yes.

The premise is as warped as one would expect - a black, and I mean black, satire on the banal summer camp genre, using it as a metaphor for the point in our lives when, as teenagers, our childhood innocence gives way to the disappointments and tribulation of adulthood. If this sounds pretentious that's because it is, wildly so, but one has to give Waters some credit for not simply churning out a "Heathers" clone ("Jawbreaker" did us that favor). And while the characters are nowhere near as nihilistic as in that film (more so they are skewered stereotypes), the film does, particularly in the second half, move into bleak territory. The film's primary saving grace, besides a typically biting screenplay from Waters, is his outstanding casting, notably Stormare, Swain, Renfro and, particularly, the underused Bergl, all of whom deliver fine performances but struggle with the main flaw in Waters' script, none of the characters are very likable. It's not a great film, in fact it is a very flawed one, but it is never anything but ambitious and frequently very funny. It also makes an interesting double bill with "Wet Hot American Summer", another off-the-wall satire on the genre released the same year. Let's just hope we don't have to wait so long for his next film.

It's hard to imagine Michael Winner was once a fine filmmaker ("Lawman", "The Sentinel"), yet somewhere along the way his career took a strange Faustian detour - the man became a corporate whore. "Death Wish 2" and "Death Wish 3" would look bad in the filmography of the worst of the worst straight-to-video hacks, to think that Winner helmed these smoking turds is more than a little troubling. It's even more tragic that the only film to bring Winner a slight glimmer of critical appraisal was the sick British "Death Wish" gender-reversing "Dirty Weekend". Nevertheless, perhaps we should cut the man a little slack, though while he probably spends his spare time rolling his fat naked carcass around in hundred dollar bills, he did manage to squeeze out one undeniable classic - the first and best "Death Wish".

There are many who are offended by the politics of this film, reading it as no-brain successor to "Walking Tall", yet the film is clearly a very bleak (though not entirely unrealistic) satire. I find no need to regurgitate the plot, we all know how Jeff Goldblum flashes his naughty bits and startles Paul Kersey's daughter into a state of perpetual vegetation. And while the original novel inarguably contained more bite in terms of social commentary, there is a heavy dose of dark humour inherent in the film, just look to the scene where a news report shows an old lady defeating a gang of thugs with a knitting needle. This isn't easy humour, this is the mediocrity of the international media machine.

This isn't an easy film to return to in a post-Columbine world; it's a film so politically incorrect, yet with the continuing politics and influence of Charlton Heston and the NRA, strangely politically correct also. Its also troubling in that while the actions of Bronson's character were deemed necessary in the first film and aided the depiction of struggling in a city gone completely awry (the film is in many ways is the brutal though less-pointed cousin to "Little Murders", which also happened to star Vincent Gardenia) the fact that Winner helmed the two ridiculous, commentary-free sequels makes one question what his original approach to the material actually was in the first place. Be that as it may, "Death Wish" is a great film, with Winner's haunting use of wide-angle photography and Herbie Hancock's score still resonating with power to this day. If they remake this one with The Rock, I'm denouncing God and moving to the mountains.

Adapted by the talented husband and wife team of Joan Didion and John Gregory Dunne from the latter's novel, "True Confessions" is not a film likely to please everyone. It is a character study dressed as a detective film, following two brothers, one a priest the other a detective. Both characters are flawed and corrupt in one way or another, but over the course of a murder investigation both men find their means of salvation.

Focusing on atmosphere and characterisation rather than suspense, "True Confessions" marked another triumph for director Ulu Grosbard, director of the two criminally underrated classics "Who is Harry Kellerman?" and "Straight Time". The performances in the film are excellent, with Duvall and De Niro simply superb as the two protagonists, particularly the latter in an effectively subdued role. Loosely based on the infamous Black Dahlia case, the film will madden those expecting the film to follow the structure and pacing of a conventional genre film. Yet for those who want something more intelligent and thoughtful, "True Confessions" is a rewarding experience.

Another sub-par bastard child of "Pulp Fiction" - a dark comedy/thriller ensemble piece where everything eventually comes together blah blah blah - only this time the writer/director replaces the usual suitcase of money with a stack of expensive comic books. Pure genius!

It's a shame that somewhere along cinema's evolution writers forgot how to write black comedy (and for those of you who know black comedy only from the Tarantino school of scriptwriting, there's more to it than mere violence and swearing), it seems these days only Todd Solondz and Daniel Waters have any real idea. Another strike against it is the casting of the annoying Logue in the lead - okay so he displays a greater range than one may have thought but he's still annoying - and the rest of the cast seem to have fun watching their careers go down the crapper (Rapaport vies for Most Annoying Supporting Actor award while the usually decent Elwes has one of the most overstated "look I'm a bad ass" performances committed to film). The film's only saving graces are, as expected, a very funny performance from the always-wonderful Lyonne as Rapaport's scheming wife while it's also nice to see Brennan in a supporting role again.

All in all, a showcase for the writer/director's knowledge of comic books rather than his talent as a filmmaker. But if you sat watching "Pulp Fiction" and thought to yourself: "I wish this movie was less clever, less stylish, had less interesting characters and was chock full of pointless comic book trivia", then this one's for you.

There is a reason "Shock Treatment" is as obscure and reviled as it is - it refuses to cater to its predecessor's mammoth cult. The film ditches the previous film's camp value and opts instead for (shock horror!) satire. Having much in common with the superb "Melvin and Howard", "Shock Treatment" is a scathing satire of the manipulating powers of television and eerily preceeds the recent onslaught of soap opera-style reality TV shows. While a million "Rocky" fans continue to bemoan the fact it is bereft of Tim Curry hamming it up or even a mere hint of sexual androgyny, they are simply not seeing the film for what it is - a more intelligent and mature film, and, in my opinion, a superior one.

Firstly, the presence of the amazing Jessica Harper immediately cancels out any chance of missing Susan Sarandon. Though Sarandon was sexy, she couldn't sing. Harper on the other hand is both extraordinarily beautiful as well as being an amazing vocalist, having already proved this in De Palma's "Phantom of the Paradise" (a campy film much in the vein of "Rocky Horror", but better in all departments). Harper's solos are show-stoppers and she makes Janet's journey from girl next door to knockout sex symbol wholly credible. De Young is also a better performer than Barry Bostwick, while Curry's camp value is somewhat supplanted by Humphries in a rare non-Australian film appearance. My only complaint is that Nell Campbell, who is almost unrecognizable and looks simply amazing in the film, is tragically underused.

Technically the film is something of an achievement, from the colorful sets, lighting and costume design, right down to the camera work (check out the opening long shot). Visually the film makes "Rocky Horror" seem like a dimly-lit Z-grade Hammer flick. The soundtrack is another component of the film that doesn't receive the attention it deserves, being much more diverse and mature in terms of the musical ground covered. From the country-tinged "Bitchin' in the Kitchen", the discofied "Me of Me" to the punk-lite "Breaking Out", the songwriting is more ambitious this time around but is nevertheless equally successful. Particular highlights include the sombre "Lullaby" (a wonderful sequence which was undoubtedly an influence on music videos in the decades to come) and Harper's brilliant rendition of "Looking For Trade".

"Shock Treatment" was a definite miscalculation, too ambitious to appeal to the "Rocky" crowd and not campy or funny enough to attract any cults of its own (audiences dressing up in hospital gear? I think not), yet on its own merits it is a far superior film. So for now, as the film awaits its belated DVD release, "Shock Treatment" continues to roam the sullen void of cult film that failed to find a cult.

I had high hopes "Tattoo" would be a minor gem. The ingredients were there - Bruce Dern doing what he does best: playing a psycho, the superb Leonard Frey has a minor role, a script is by a Bunuel and the plot concerns the rarely explored world of tattoos. Yet what we get is soft porn, bad acting and a ridiculously pretentious ending. Okay, so Dern is great as the masturbating, obsessive tattoo artist but the casting of Maud Adams as the object of his obsession is incredibly off. Looking like someone who just crawled out of an airbrush-laden mid-seventies Playboy issue, Adams is about as attractive as drying paint, but not quite as talented.

The script is heavily misjudged also, constructed so we come to sympathize with Dern, yet halfway switches to having Adams the protagonist, which fails as attributed to her shallow and bitchy portrayal. And there is the film's major flaw, with no-one to sympathize with the film lacks the power and suspense it so desires. On the plus side it looks great, with wonderful cinematography which somehow even manages to evoke atmosphere from the proceedings on occasion. Also we get a cameo from a teenage Cynthia Nixon, Miranda from "Sex in the City", who impresses with what little screen time she has. "Tattoo" ends on a symbolic note which some may find profound, but most will see it for what it really is - turgid and pointless.

Rent "Magic" or "The Collector" instead.

One and a half out of four.

Araki's most overtly heterosexual film, and hence painfully mainstream, is undeniably a dissapointment for fans of his previous films, particularly the brilliant twosome "Nowhere" and "The Doom Generation". In fact in many ways "Splendour" is like a John Hughes remake of "The Doom Generations" but without the explicit sex and violence, severed heads, castrations and Parker Posey in a bizarre wig - Araki has tossed his nihilism out the window, and come up with a frustratingly conventional romcom. It continues his repeated fascination with the three-way relationship, perhaps for obvious reasons he can only portray a heterosexual relationship with two males present, and his unique visual and editing style is still apparent though toned down. Not a bad film by any means as it is enjoyable and the performances are good, but one can't help but feel underwhelmed following the daft "Graduate"-style ending. Let's hope this is a one-off for Araki.

The seventies was a decade so overpopulated with great films that hundreds of truly great films went unheralded, and "Electra Glide in Blue" is one of these, sadly the singular film directed by the former Chicago manager, who penned the superb "Tell Me" sung by Terry Kath that plays at the end of the film. Like many late sixties/early seventies film the plot is insignificant, but rather a vehicle for lots of character development and social commentary. Blake is great as Wintergreen and the Conrad Hall cinematography is simply stunning, with the haunting lyricism of the ending beholding one of the finest closing shots in the history of cinema. Somewhere between the poetry of "Zabriskie Point " and "Easy Rider" (which it is frequently compared to but in many ways is the antithesis of) and the downbeat cop dramas that would follow during the decade like "The New Centurions" exists "Electra Glide in Blue", a gem certainly worthy of being rediscovered.

Remember in "A Clockwork Orange" when Alex is forced to watch horrible footage while his eyes are clamped open, well they should have shown him "Dog Park"!! - It's THAT bad! - Warning for the extreme Janeane Garofalo fans ... only watch it if the mere utterance of her name exacerbates your heart rate (who are probably thirty-five plus and live in their mother's basement and watch "Star Trek"). They probably screen this film in concentration camps. About as funny as a burning orphanage! In fact I'd rather be in a burning orphanage than watch this diabolical excuse for a film again ...

"Flesh and Bone" remains to be one of the great films of the nineties, sitting alongside "Bright Angel" as one of the decade's most tragically neglected classics. Perhaps the fact it contains such a high degree of subtlety was why it wasn't appreciated when it was first released, the most frequently stated criticism being that its climax is dramatically unsatisfying, yet its somber ending works perfectly. Outside of "Hurlyburly" it is unquestionably Meg Ryan's finest performance, the same going for Quaid who gives his character a quiet desperation that becomes quite devastating by the end. Caan is great as always, but it is Paltrow who really impresses, playing a role bereft of the sugary sweetness that plagued the majority of her roles that followed. Scott Wilson also shines in a small but memorable role. "Flesh and Bone" may never receive the attention it deserves, which is a shame because it is unquestionably a lyrical masterpiece, beautifully shot and acted, recalling those low-key gems of the seventies like "The Rain People". Highly recommended.

There is no doubt "Unbreakable" is the finest film to draw its inspiration from the comic book medium, but perhaps this is because the film is more a subtle character study than an all out action pic, which is perhaps why it has been dismissed by so many. The film is also a lot less accessible than "The Sixth Sense" and more ambitious, it is not a "popcorn movie". The acting is nothing short of superb, with Willis, Jackson and Penn all excellent, but it is the sombre mood and excellent photography that linger in the mind, and while "The Sixth Sense" was overshadowed by its overly clever twist ending, here the twist makes sense and sits nicely with the rest of the film. Why the ending was criticized by so many critics still baffles me, although I do agree the captions at the end are unnecessary. Critics are always whining that action films are short on characterization, yet when one does come along it is dimissed, which is a shame. Certainly not a film for everyone but it certainly doesn't deserve merely cult status. Without a doubt one of the most underrated films of the last decade. Four out of four.

I read Jules Ffeifer's play a few years ago and was struck at how brilliant it was, a superb mixture of pitch black comedy and biting social commentary it remains to be one of the most seminal plays of the late sixties/early seventies. While the film is perhaps slightly less powerful than the play, it is nevertheless brilliant stuff. Gould is perfect as the semi-comatose protagonist, completely numb to the desolate environment around him, and Gardenia is hilarious as the neurotic father. Yet it is the cameos the basically steal the film, Sutherland as a barmy priest and especially director Arkin as an even more barmy detective provide some of the most memorable scenes. Yet the need to expand the film from the plays one setting does detract from its power, (SPOILERS) particularly the scene where the heroine is shot by a sniper, the film ruins the surprise of the shooting by showing the sniper's POV. Yet this expansion does add one of the films most powerful images, a blood drenched and shocked Gould riding on the train. The ending still packs a punch and is simply unforgettable. Certainly in the same league as fellow black comedies "Where's Poppa?", "Boys in the Band" and "Harold and Maude" if not better. In a decade of underrated gems, "Little Murders" is still crying out to be rediscovered. A personal favorite. Simply brilliant.