Det_McNulty

Ken Park is Larry Clark's second collaboration with Harmony Korine, following the success of Kids in 1995. Although it does not match the continuing social relevance of Clark's controversial debut, Ken Park does merit viewing. Returning to themes that can be found in his earlier photography work like Tulsa, Clark presents an extremely unsettling image of a skateboarding subculture struggling to overcome the monotony of their existences. By exploring the lives of a group of troubled teenagers and their dysfunctional backgrounds, Clark offers an insider's look into a community troubled by sexual abuse. Beginning with a suicide in the middle of a skate park, it then charts the lives of four different people who knew the individual who killed himself. Whilst there are moments of dark comedy to alleviate the bleak mood, this is mostly a painful study of fractured human relationships and bad parenting.

Struggling to acquire distributors for the film, Ken Park has permanently situated Clark outside of the mainstream film community. As before with Kids, Clark's intentions have been deemed suspect because of the film's explicit nature. In addition to this unfortunate assumption, Ken Park is sometimes wrongly labelled as 'pornographic' and although there is, admittedly, a voyeuristic aspect to the director's style, this cinema vérité approach is necessary when considering the context of his work. Clark is offering viewers a chance to see the unseen side of teenage life and gain an insight into the roots of moral corruption prior to adulthood. Many viewers are often bothered by Clark's lack of overt condemnation towards the decadent lifestyles of the characters in his films, but I feel this misses the point, as it is not for the director to be some kind of moral crusader; it is for him to execute his artistic vision. Providing viewers are aware of the challenging nature of Ken Park's content and are willing to watch it with an open mind, they might end up finding a highly perceptive vision of alienated American youth.

Little known director Christopher Nolan almost instantaneously claimed his place as one of modern cinema's most innovative directors when he released Memento to almost unanimous recognition. It caught the attention of many critics and filmmakers alike, establishing itself as something in the realms of "cinematic literature." It was a work that marked the appeal of new-wave noir, more commonly known as neo-noir. Not only this, but its alternate take on nonlinear narrative storytelling was a breath of fresh-air to the overuse of non-linear concepts that had aroused during the 1990s.

Starring Guy Pearce, Carrie-Anne Moss and Joe Pantoliano, Memento tells the story of Leonard Shelby (played by Guy Pearce), a man suffering from short-term memory loss following the murder of his wife. Following his wife's tragic death, Leonard begins seeking revenge on whoever murdered his wife, slowly piecing together clues with the help of a mysterious "detective" figure, named Teddy (Joe Pantoliano). Due to the memory condition he suffers from, Leonard has great difficulty collecting information and relies on tattoos and constant note taking to record his findings. Soon after, another questionable character is introduced, this being Natalie (Carrie Anne Moss), and like with Teddy her origins are practically unknown. A web of ambiguity and distrust soon entangles Leonard, never knowing if either Teddy or Natalie are genuine.

The narrative carefully revolves around these three central characters, playing out incidents in seemingly alternate realities and reverse chronology. It is the editing that enables the viewer to experience a similar sensation as Leonard, by essentially jumbling scenes, splicing colour footage of his investigation alongside black and white moments where Leonard is discussing an insurance case of a man who also claimed to suffer from short-term memory loss. It is these moments specifically, which reveal the characteristics and idiosyncrasies of Leonard, essentially painting the man's past. Memento cannot be classed as a mystery, such a term sounds far too throwaway; rather, it is more a vengeance/chase flick, but even placing it in such a category seems somewhat derogatory.

As noir goes, Memento does incorporate many of the distinctive elements; including voice-over, noticeable use of shadow, nihilistic themes and low-key lighting. The characters are very noir, as each one has a certain shady quality to their personality and hints at having ulterior motives. It is these things that make the film so thrilling, even on any revisit. Still, there are a few gripes I have, such as the reverse narrative being somewhat of a gimmicky disguise for a simple plot. Additionally, the plot becomes almost too convoluted at times, with a sense of repetition resulting in moments of complete perplexity. Then again, the perplexity is arguably a great feature for it allows the viewer becomes increasingly more agitated, and almost begs for your concentration.

The multiple narrative techniques used in Memento allow the intrigue to expand as the story progresses, and in a relentless manner that does not eschew till the climatic moments. As films about memory go, this is definitely one of the best depictions of memory trauma and obsession in recent years. It pulls all the necessary gears that craft an absorbing cinematic venture, and not only that but it explores the psyche of a man whose perception of reality has been completely disfigured. Combining the thoughts and actions through a voice-over and reverse narrative is an exceptionally difficult thing to conquer through writing; therefore the screenplay deserves much credit. In fact, the story was adapted from a novella by Christopher Nolan's brother Jonathan, entitled Memento Mori that was essentially an essay on memory and the individual's perception of reality.

An important element of Memento is the idea of recollection and how we often subconsciously chose the way we recollect one moment from the next. During the film, there is a scene where Leonard expresses how humans cannot rely on memory. In addition, paradoxes such as the notion of Leonard not remembering to forget his wife are in effect an example of what would cure his grief. Performance wise, the film is pretty much incredible, with the exception of some moments of sketchy wit uttered by the actors. It is Guy Pearce who steals the show though, proving that he can hold a film together, in what is his best performance since 1997's L.A. Confidential. As a viewer, I could feel great empathy for his character, acknowledging the difficulties associated with memory loss and the way in which one conceals memories through tragedy. This is a contemporary work not to be missed and remains the most important role of Nolan's ever growing career. In my opinion, he has come close to surpassing the film with his excellent takes on the Batman saga, but that is a different story entirely.

Opening to mass public scrutiny and critical acclaim, Brokeback Mountain is easily one of the most controversial American films in recent years. The fuss surrounding the production and eventual release was baffling, with religious groups campaigning for boycotts and cinemas even threatening to not screen the film. Such notoriety backfired, sparking worldwide attention and leading to a surprisingly large box-office reception. In retrospect, the controversy was baffling; it was not as though it was the first mainstream feature to have a narrative based around a homosexual romance. What "appalled" the conservative and religious sectors was that the John Wayne, rugged and raw cowboy image had been shattered. Nevertheless, a western setting does not make a western.

Emerging two years after his Hulk misfire, Ang Lee was determined to return to his directional roots, while experimenting with a story more challenging than anything else he had attempted before. Upon completion, Lee entered his finished product into the Venice Film Festival line-up, and eventually earned himself the prestigious Golden Lion award. Then the Oscars arrived, where the film earned Lee a Best Director award, along with Best Original Score and Best Adapted Screenplay. The film, adapted from a short story by Annie Proulx, revolves around two down n' out, drifting cowboys who fall in love while ranching cattle together. From then on in the two men secretly maintain their thwarted relationship, visiting each other while both remaining married with children.

Performances are the key ingredient to Brokeback Mountain's overwhelming emotional power. The most notable roles are responsible to the two lead male performances by Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal. Both actors prove to be above and beyond the generic acting standards found in mainstream cinema. Respectably, it is Ledger's performance which is to be cherished; the gentle humanity he brings to his rough and troubled character of Ennis Del Mar is beautifully conceived. The feelings of guilt, the troubled expressions and idiosyncrasies are beautifully mastered by Ledger, showing his ability to capture a man struggling to accept his inner desire to escape with the man he so loves. It is bound to leave a profound impression of imprisonment, and almost any viewer will respond with empathy.

Further developing his directional craft, Ang Lee succeeds in establishing himself as one of today's most important and resourceful directors. After the success of grand period-pieces, such as Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon and Sense and Sensibility you would not have expected trashy flops like The Hulk. Fortunately, Lee ended up producing a fine counter-piece to Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon and also evolving his reoccurring theme of characters coping with suppressed emotion in the confines of a judgemental society. What I admire most is Lee's ability to demonstrate the utmost respect for each character, especially valuing the perceptive nature of his camera. His attention to detail is tender and cordial, displaying a much needed humanity rarely found in today's pictures. On the contrary, there are specific moments of episodic allegory which tests the viewer's interpretive skills. Such a device also increases the intimacy and speaks for the questioning turmoil of the characters.

With its gorgeous score, striking location footage and motivated acting, Brokeback Mountain does everything a masterpiece should. It is films like Brokeback Mountain that have the capability to make individual members of society become more aware and accepting of homosexuality. Yet, more than anything else it proves that love is an uncontrollable force, whilst holding testament to the beauty of cinema and its ability to captivate the viewer like no other medium.

With his former directional effort, The Killing, Stanley Kubrick had established his talent as both a storyteller and visionary. In 1957 Kubrick released Paths of Glory, an anti-war film which was instantly banned in France and Spain for its negative portrayal of the military during World War 1. Nevertheless, the director has reportedly claimed that the film is not "anti-war", but is "anti-authoritarian ignorance." While not receiving much attention at the time of its release critical acclaim grew with each passing year and today it is often ranked among "the greatest films ever made." Director Steven Spielberg has even stated that it is indefinitely his favourite work from the late icon.

When people study Kubrick's filmography in retrospect there is a particular criticism which nearly always rears its ugly head; this being the accusation that Kubrick was incapable of capturing emotion or providing a sense of empathy towards his characters, therefore distancing the viewer. I for one consider Kubrick's detached manner intentionally in context with the nature of his work. Even so, this definitive anti-war outing is far from echoing the cold demeanour of those endless, symmetric corridors in The Shining and yet it still contains the theme of struggling to cope with a greater force.

Starring macho action star Kirk Douglas, the film boasts the greatest performance of the actor's lengthy career. It was the performance which developed the foundations of a two-film companionship between actor and director, the latter work being Spartacus. Douglas defied expectations, performing as a disillusioned French unit commander in WW1. His character's idealistic duty is to protect the human rights of three men who have been unjustly accused of cowardice and are consequently facing firing squad execution as an example for those who retreat while in the warzone. Douglas' performance is an acting showcase, displaying the utmost degree of empathy and moral insight.

Much of the narrative is spent with Douglas defending the three men facing death. Kubrick's trademark tracking-shot was introduced and utilised to the best extent during the scenes of trench warfare. The technique adds an enclosed, claustrophobic impression of unease. The meticulous manner of direction is directly impressionable and acts as a method of submerging the viewer in a story of delusions, ignorance and more than anything else, arrogance.

If you are yet to of seen this film, go and grab yourself a copy right away as you are almost certain to be blown away at the hands of an auteur. Plus, it beats the noticeably dated All Quiet on the Western Front any day, and you are unlikely to find a story with a more benevolent and worthy conclusion.

Director Stanley Kubrick's first masterpiece arrived in 1956, that certain "masterpiece" is evidently the seminal and always influential crime-doesn't-pay flick, The Killing. It revealed Kubrick as a director of mass potential and distinct talent, wholly displaying his ability to make polished pictures on a minimal budget. Yet more than anything, it was not purely a trial-run of amateurish talent as with his previous noir, Killer's Kiss. Instead it was something which would advance Kubrick's career from underground status to that of an emerging auteur. Numerous directors, such as Quentin Tarantino and Michael Mann, have been principally influenced by this early classic and even today, it ranks highly among the greatest crime films in cinema history.

It might seem cliché in this day and age, but the story of an ex-con returning to robbery for one last, meticulously premeditated heist was groundbreaking for its time. More than anything else, its method of storytelling was the most revolutionary element of all, with the use of retrospective, documentary narration pestering the ongoing story. Such an approach allowed the director to condense the narrative to a stringent, eighty-five minutes, without limiting the restless gist. Amusingly, such narration was allegedly incorporated due to studio insistence and Kubrick -never the man to concede to studio intrusion- used the narration as a means perplexing the viewer with mislead information. This lends the film its innovative, non-linear format and results in a more rewarding outing in viewer involvement.

Crammed with gorgeous cinematography, dizzying camera positioning and chilling lighting effects it is impossible for it not to be considered anything but unadulterated noir. The irreplaceable black and white film could not have been more appropriate for illuminating the character's sustained facial expressions and nervous idiosyncrasies. Arguably, this is the first of Kubrick's pictures where the "Kubrickian technique" adjective can be applied and although it does not feature a fully-fledged tracking-shot it certainly details the characteristics first experimented formerly in Killer's Kiss. Ever serious about his work, the director did not keep to the traditional film-making traits of the period, but throughout his career persistently expanded the facets which should make an individual's work instantly recognisable.

There is obvious weight placed on the characters who are dominant and those who are not, but even the most cunning of characters meet their match. The typical, Kubrickian formality was introduced here; showing little respect for those who meddle in crime and a disgust at humanity's gluttony. The majority of characters are double-sided, emotionless fiends who are merely using the other for financial gain. Typically, for a work of this genre, there is no compassion, solely a moral and an acidic manifestation of retribution. Dramatic irony will leave the viewer clinging and distantly hesitant over what they might encounter next, but with Kubrick no character is ever in safe hands. The Killing has a simple message of crime doesn't pay, but it says so without resorting to linear boredom.

After the critical and commercial failure that was Fear and Desire –a work Stanley Kubrick reportedly disowned- he released his second feature-length picture, Killer's Kiss. Although deeply blemished, it boldly paved way for the career of one of contemporary cinema's most beloved and greatest directors. As the tagline maliciously utters, "Her Soft Mouth Was the Road to Sin-Smeared Violence", as for its time it was reasonably bloodthirsty, with its intensely choreographed boxing match and gripping finale. Do not let this marketing tagline deter you into believing this is all about fight scenes, because there is a fervent element of romance additionally integrated and so it avoids becoming superfluous.

Concluding where it first began, this cold-hearted thriller weaves a noirish web of macho deceit and feverish obsession. Kubrick utilises his minimal budget of $75,000 admirably and displays his talent by making the low-budget appear nearly as costly as the Hollywood productions of the same period. Filming in his hometown of New York City, the city streets are deftly captured with naturalistic maturity and expressionistic manoeuvring. The camera places a morose gaze on its even moodier characters, observing their moping around in a way which echoes their botched ambitions, neediness and boiling frustration.

My fundamental gripe with Killer's Kiss is that it feels far too casually strung together, in a way which makes a lot of the scenes feel both useless and ineptly edited. This leads to a dispersal of tension, thus it does not feel as taut as it should do for a film-noir. If you are able to excuse the overly dramatic performances, bare screenplay and weak editing to the shoe-string budget then you will witness considerable vigour in its short running-time (falling little over an hour). Ultimately, it is all about the perishing style with Killer's Kiss because the narrative is far too iffy for much attention to be spared, let alone critically garnered.

Kubrick was not eager to "get deep" with his second-feature, but rather to make a name for himself in the industry with something which would allow him to have more control over his future directional attempts. For any aficionados of the man's career there are many examples of themes and imagery which is further studied in the director's later career. So, if you are willing to view this sketchpad of motifs, then prepare to witness the irrefutable promise Kubrick offered with his ominous noir.

Christian Bale is arguably modern cinema's most underrated actor. I sometimes consider hailing him as the greatest performer of this generation, particularly whenever I re-watch his leap-to-fame performance in American Psycho. On its release it erroneously received mixed acclaim; nevertheless, Bale was nearly always commended for performing in the remarkably charismatic role of Patrick Bateman. The character ranks among contemporary literature's greatest creations, and back in 2000 a young Bale somehow managed to embody the yuppie maniac. The character's slickly menacing demeanour, attentive idiosyncrasies, and always brewing revulsion is intuitively mastered in this offbeat satire. Patrick Bateman is both the definitive New York yuppie and the ultimate sociopath. He is masked by the Wall Street businessman persona, and his pastime activities are unnoticed by his self-obsessed associates- like himself. He thrives off a colossal maze of jealously, established on distaste for any minor, physical and social hiccup. Little do such men know that they are dehumanising any merit they once had.

Bret Easton Ellis' original novel contains possibly the most graphic depictions of sex and violence in any novel I have ever read. Appropriately, director Mary Harron places much of the novel's explicit content off-screen, similar to how the book simply lets the reader imagine the vivid nature of the content. For this reason, American Psycho is faithful to its source, and for a novel which includes such terminal violence there is still a huge amount of wit and charm. This owes to the book's satirical disposition, with its brazen accuracy and jagged humour. It is in many respects an absurdist's take on an already surreal culture; this lends the questionable theme of subjective reality to the protagonist's actions and experiences. Mary Harron utilises the satirical facets of the novel, and essentially uses satire as a device of ridiculing yuppie culture. Nevertheless, the component which is best suited is that this image of an alpha-male dominated society, which is directed from a female standpoint, but not an overtly feminist one. More than anything, American Psycho is a critique of ignorance, materialism and self-infatuation.

The cast play it cool throughout the feature, concurrently sinking their teeth into the bitter irony of cultural stereotypes. For those of you who might be put off by the sardonic title; don't be. This is a twisted and intelligent take on cultural archetypes, with much prominence being placed on whether the viewer deems Patrick Bateman's sociopath alter-ego a manifestation of sub-conscious monotony or that he is genuinely committing the murderous, masochistic acts shown on screen. Whichever way you look at it, there is no definitive answer, but one thing is for sure, that this cinematic assertion is a strong sentiment of yuppie narcissism. As dark as it may seem, there is no denying the indisputable entertainment quality of a film crammed with meaningful malevolence. This is a film which unsympathetically attacks the business world, implying that dumb people from wealthy backgrounds are groomed for slacker success. These white collar machines are not savvy, nor do they even so much as turn a blind-eye to anyone other than their materialistic statements of self-worth. In a way, this is their only means of clinging onto reality, for they hide behind their denial, with a reputable image of self-worth.

Before becoming a somewhat prominent figure in modern cinema's art-house scene, Larry Clark was a successful photographer. Clark was well into his '50s when his directional debut Kids hit cinemas in 1995. Controversial on release and still the same today, this tale of immoral, NYC teenagers garnered mixed acclaim and caused widespread uproar, with its taboo-breaking material and questionable intent. Some critics claimed the film was a product of the time, citing it as an accurate illustration of today's youth, while others sensed that the film's content was close to paedophilic. This is a topic open to debate, but one thing is for certain, I have now seen the film twice and am assured that it speaks nothing but irrelevant generalisations of today's "troubled youth." Revolving around a group of sexually promiscuous teenagers, Kids mostly centres itself around the intrepid lifestyle of HIV-infected skater, Telly. His aphorism is that along as he only has sex with virgins he will not become victim to sexual infection. Unfortunately, this fairytale is not the case and one of his former playmates soon learns she has the HIV virus, thus she attempts to track down Telly (the only person she has had sex with) in the hope that she can stop him having sex with any other virgins before it is too late. I am being sincere when I say that this is about as far as the narrative goes, with the exception of additional, o-so-shocking scenes of teenagers taking drugs, fighting, stealing and causing general mischief. The film simply spans the course of an ever-spreading and endless cycle.

There is a distinct and unfeasible curiosity found in Clark's appetite to convey as much young flesh as is legally possible. I find it quite unnerving as to how the performers seemed so care-free in their willingness to lay bare, to such an extent and at such a young age, for a 50-year-old man with a movie camera. Yet is there any worth to such a monotonous and self-indulgent work? It makes one ask if there is really any objective to viewing a film which so actively seeks attention, and what have I actually learnt from this supposedly educational drama? Kids is not an insightful work for those reasons alone, but also because we have long before acknowledged what is being shown. Clark seems to wallow in the notion that most people have never heard of sexually-infected teenagers or encountered teenage drug-abusers, and that he is the all-knowing eye –as an adult who is "down" with the street kids- to all teenage escapades.

According to a documentary I once saw, Larry Clark spent a lot of time with inner-city, teenage skaters; this was an attempt to research the lifestyle he wanted to show the world via the silver-screen. Many of the teenagers he met while doing this were cast in the film, therefore subjecting these people he supposedly respected to stereotypical showcase. In my opinion, this makes Clark's "message" lose all purpose, as informed as he might be and ultimately defines exploitation in the name of "art." Some of acting might be vaguely commendable (from the likes of Leo Fitzpatrick's chilling performance), but Harmony Korine's swear-and-spit screenplay makes a bunch of teenagers seem like wannabes. It does not define a norm of the period, but instead enables characters to spew ridiculously repugnant dialogue formed of "errs" and "ahs." His aimless, teenage caricatures are nothing more than a depiction of a selected individuals and it is the film's sweeping generalisations which infuriate me to no-end. How can characters that seem to have no concern of any consequences be convincing? For me, this leads to a detachment and eventual helplessness to lose complete care in the consequences these faceless drones are tackling. The fact that there is not even a glimmer of hope penetrating the coagulated surface muffles all honesty. With only one character (the girl who is infected by Telly) seeming even so much as remotely mature, everyone is made out to be the bad guy and even this female character becomes stilted because of some peculiar drug she "reluctantly" swallows.

Throughout the film the viewer is bombarded with an array of apocalyptic assumptions. If that is not all, it seems that Clark indulges himself in the lives of these degenerates, glossing over as many touchy and "pity them" topics as is humanely possible in a ninety-minute project. The message behind Kids is an overcooked and simplistic one; today's youth are evil and need to be tamed. You see, as a director Clark films, but fails to speak; denouncing nothing of society and culture, let alone of kids. Larry Clark truly is a born educator on the utmost degree of nihilistic incapability, and has obtained a longing knack for gross-out reactions.

Director Jonathan Demme's adaptation of Thomas Harris' best-selling novel swept across the globe in 1991, eventually winning five Academy Awards and becoming a prestigious topic of discussion among critics. Its moody influence crept across the popular '90s sub-genre of "serial-thriller." This lent The Silence of the Lambs a growing reputation for being an adult thriller (and drama) of horror-like capabilities. The mythically monstrous and deliciously manipulative Hannibal Lecter became an immediate household name, and now remains among the most popular fictitious villains in modern cinema. Such a figure could only be played by one man (has it become unimaginable to picture it any other way?), that man being Anthony Hopkins, who slipped himself into the role with matchless prestige, therefore giving birth to a cultural icon of both literature and cinema.

Disturbingly accurate in its portrayal of law enforcement, psychology and crime, The Silence of the Lambs stitches a tight, finely-tuned visage of the criminal psyche. Such a narrative instantaneously drags the viewer into the murky underworld of criminal investigation and dangerously murderous mind games. Jodie Foster performs as Clarice Starling, a trainee FBI agent, with extreme ingenuity and awareness. She is a feminist symbol and a woman rightfully fighting to succeed in the job she so deserves, but because of gender stereotypes she finds herself suffering from sexist reactions. Clarice gets employed by the FBI to question the captured serial-killer and ex-psychiatrist, Dr. Hannibal Lecter. He is believed to hold the key to capturing the uncaught serial-killer, nicknamed Buffalo Bill. Unfortunately for Clarice, Dr. Lecter is not keen on extracting information easily and for personal amusement, manipulates and interrogates Clarice for every ounce of information she receives.

One of the most important aspects of Jonathan Demme's seminal thriller is its subjective vision. Much of the camera-work deceitfully places the viewer in the shoes of Clarice, while occasionally reverting to even the killer's perspective of the unfolding events. Yet the key behind the ability to frighten is when one becomes witness to the meticulously considered process Dr. Lecter executes before providing Clarice with the information she so desperately needs. From these scenes we begin to learn that Clarice is suffering from her own inner-torment and childhood anguish. Dr. Lecter is not indirect with his queries, but deviously confrontational, allowing Clarice to unknowingly expose her past to the audience. Many parallels are distinctly demonstrated throughout; an example being Clarice's loss of her parents, in contrast with Buffalo Bill's abusive childhood. The scenes filmed between the two central characters define "mise-en-scène", a film-making technique used to convey emotion through set design. In this case, the clinical-looking prison ward emphasises a character's isolated, but systematically secured state.

The Silence of the Lambs is and always will be an exciting cinematic adventure, not only for its knack of sending sudden bolts of shock through the viewer, but for its admirable talent to tell a story. There are plot holes and clichés littered throughout the surprisingly unpredictable narrative; nevertheless, it will not distract you from being more-than-momentarily immersed over the two-hour running-time. Much of the time is spent periodically conceiving a bundle of well-earned scares, while also allowing time for the audience to ponder the possibilities over what will happen next. Boasting a tremendously taut screenplay, some abrasively framed visuals and a lingering score by composer Howard Shore, this 1991 classic is a treat for film-buffs and casual cinema-goers alike. Even with those brief, glimmering compliments, it is the performances which are showcase material.

There it was. My second viewing of Ran, and the one which made me acknowledge just how much of an auteur Akira Kurosawa was. I have seen numerous films from the director and literally all of them are essential viewing, yet one of those particular essentials is undoubtedly the director's concluding, 1985 epic. Set on the foundations of William Shakespeare's King Lear and produced on a –remarkably large by Japanese standards at the time- $12 million budget, Ran draws corresponding angles between ancient Japanese history and the classic literacy theme of tyranny.

Kurosawa's inspiration for the picture is as follows; "when I read that three arrows together are invincible, that's not true. I started doubting, and that's when I started thinking: the house was prosperous and the sons were courageous. What if this fascinating man had bad sons?" Those words describe the general premise of Ran, not just the beginning idea, but the focal-point. Also, the King Lear insight was something which fascinated Kurosawa, as he had always wanted to create a past for the characters in his version of the tale (something he similarly did with Throne of Blood).

Beginning with an extended scene set against the expansive and luscious background of Mount Aso -during the historic period of Feudal Japan- and ending in full-scale war. This contrast depicts how easily broken a "peace" can be, and the escalating tension slowly builds until the land's ageing Great Lord flees his own land to avoid his children's bitter quarrelling. Almost all the characters in the film are after some sort of power; the Lord recognises the yearning his own family have to take the land from him and expresses his disgust towards their selfishness, gluttony, deceptiveness and disrespectful nature. Yet the youngest son observes the evil taking place and attempts to rescue his father from the wrath of his deceitful brothers. Keep in mind; this is based on a Shakespearian tale, so tragedy is always inevitable.

Ever since its release, Ran has garnered practically 100% unanimous praise and is often denounced as a modern masterpiece, along with the previous and far less polished work, Kagemusha (Kurosawa called it "a dress rehearsal for Ran"). There is something about the to-be classic which –for me personally- offers more satisfaction than any other picture by the Japanese auteur. Many would argue that the film is not as entertaining as Kurosawa's '50s and '60s outings, such as Yojimbo and Seven Samurai, but I would disagree, as much as I adore such classics. In retrospect, nearly every finished Kurosawa product was and continues to remain a great film, if not a masterpiece. Only a collected minority of directors have ever held such unmatched stability.

The symbolic use of individually coloured clothing accentuates the emotions of each character; primary colours, yellow, red, blue and white are worn by the principal characters at the start of the piece. Heavy weight is pressed on conveying four predominant and reoccurring themes; turmoil, age, nihilism and warfare. The violence obviously existed throughout the Lord's reign, as an increased inner thirst (predominantly from his children) for control had been looming over the elderly Lord each day he grew older. Kurosawa is said to of intentionally made the chaos displayed a metaphor for an apocalypse of modern nuclear warfare. Well, it sure works.

More than anything else, Kurosawa proved his ability to craft films which were in touch with contemporary cinema, but still included all the elements which develop a classic. Without hesitation I would cite Ran as the film which employs the finest use of long-shot cinematography. This is a mere sampling of my feelings towards the technicalities, let alone the film as a whole. Eruptions of unqualified chaos have never been so intoxicating.

David Lynch is a director I am very fond of and have been for a fair number of years. Ever since the '70s (when his debut film Eraserhead was first released) Lynch has been churning out a least one standout achievement for every decade, something few directors can muster and one of the numerous reasons as to why I consider Lynch an auteur of the modern surrealist scene. Over the years the director has received continually mixed reviews, with renowned film critic Roger Ebert developing a frustrated distaste for the man's work, while other film critics have hailed many of his pictures as "modern masterpieces." In the '80s, Lynch wrote and directed Blue Velvet; he was at the prime of his career, after crafting the unexpected, Oscar-winning The Elephant Man and the big-budget flop, Dune. Six years after his Oscar-winner, Lynch found his mojo and released Blue Velvet, to mostly unanimous approval.

Explaining the general premise, themes and filming techniques used throughout Blue Velvet is reasonably tricky (sorry to sound informal, but it is). At least, in simple terms, Blue Velvet is a film set in the picket-fence town of Lumberton, North Carolina; a place where everything "seems" perfect, until one day the illusion is shattered when a young college student stumbles upon a severed ear (the "bodily hole" is a persistent metaphor). Sound peculiar? Well, it is relatively normal when compared to other Lynch films, and ranks among the "three accessible features" (a.k.a. The Elephant Man, Blue Velvet and The Straight Story). Such a piece was crafted long before depictions of the inner struggles, nightmarish realities and dishonesty behind suburban life became a generic and clichéd premise, and so such an image has persistently influenced film-makers from all generations. The underlying perversions conveyed during the film is what makes it all the more intriguing, showing that the seemingly good-natured, yet dangerously inquisitive protagonist is lured by a battling sense of danger and sexual discovery.

Lynch was once quoted to have said "the home is a place where things go wrong"; this is a recurring theme which plagiarises a fair few of the director's projects. The constant battle of good vs. evil in modern socialisation is also commonly found, repeatedly displaying a clear winner, while keeping a lurking sense of the prevailing force in close proximity, but with the objector merely concealing itself. The dysfunctional lifestyle found in today's culture echoes through a heavy use of symbolisation and meticulously-weaved narrative. Our anxieties in life are hinted through our mannerisms; Jeffrey Beamount (the central character) is not simply out to solve his curiosities, but to awaken his sexual desires, as shown via his avoidance to become reluctant and the fulfilling of sexual instincts. Many individuals are oblivious to the troubles of life and choose to treat severed ears as normal, rather than a case for fearfulness. Is this an example of desensitisation, or a sheer longing to shy away from the bitter truth? Personally, I will opt for the latter interpretation, but with the additional idea that innocence and curiosity are two emotions that can be easily confused and preferably warped.

The infamous opening, whereby Jeffrey's father is seen collapsing from a seizure on a clear summer's day, in the postcard-perfect environment speaks so much. I think Lynch pinpoints the naïve lives led by those who exist in close-knitted, all-too-perfect communities, saying how danger is always present and volatile. Accusations of Blue Velvet being misogynistic can be endlessly discussed and all I can say for the matter is that Blue Velvet is allegory for domestic violence, particularly the violence women face in the supposed "safety net" of the home. Violence is everywhere and even if we are not apart of it, the threat is still ongoing, meaning that a true level of contentment cannot be reached. At least, this is what Lynch seems to boldly implicate. The dualities of the themes are open to discussion, but the opportunity to freely interpret is available to. Upon viewing please note the use of reversing roles, shown through the depiction of one character dominating the other when faced with varying situations of dilemma.

Told in a way that closely establishes a tone of film-noir, Blue Velvet uses the reoccurring features found in the genre, enabling the piece to become a neo-noir. Components include femme fatale and a case of mixed morals directed towards the viewer from the dubious outlook of the central protagonist. His deep-seated desires remain unspoken, but physically visible. This beautifully hypnotic, dangerously perverse and infuriatingly honest take on life will forever be foreseeable (like the foreshadowing shown through repeated imagery). Are we all in search of a distant and implausible normality? Many of us are, particularly when living in a blurred reality fuelled by its own false ideologies. If more truth be told, it is a strange world.

It was throughout the late '80s and '90s that Gary Oldman rose to tremendous fame. A British actor famed for performing as villains and undesirables, while also often being mistaken as American due to his treasured ability of crafting a pitch-perfect accent. It was not until 1997 that Oldman decided it was his turn to shine behind the camera, and managed to have past collaborator Luc Besson produce the incredibly personal, Nil by Mouth. In some respects the film is a social-commentary, speaking to Britain's Labour government at the time and arguing that politicians are doing little to help improve such areas as those displayed in the film. On the other hand, it is merely a portrait an unthinkable lifestyle.

Domestic violence, drug abuse and a general sense of depravity fills such a story, but none of it is in any way gratuitous because everything shown is the bare-knuckled truth. It is the stuff which is kept relatively quiet in the media, only glossed over and never showing the full perspective, yet Nil by Mouth directly tackles depravation from an insider's perception, someone who experienced the relatively unthinkable during childhood and adulthood. In such an environment innocence is destroyed at an early age and the realisation that life will be –for such people- an endless struggle until death. It is a cynical take on life, which cannot be ignored, since there is little redemption and only a recurring cycle of the inevitable. Told through a first-person narrative; Oldman revisits his past through the photographic lens and finally lays his memories to rest through the art of still, long neglected scrutiny (but with unsurprisingly frantic camera work).

Ray Winstone performs with the utmost level of conviction in the film's centrepiece performance. As per-usual, Winstone's ferocious mannerisms and contagiously aggressive language is a recognisable acting trait. The only performance in 1997 which surpassed the one at hand was Takeshi Kitano's performance in Hana-bi. It is the fragile self-loathing and longing for pity which makes Winstone's role all the more recognisable, let alone excitingly unpredictable. He pinpoints the moment of one man's realisation that his masochistic self is tearing apart the lives that surround him; nerve-shattering stuff. Then you have the leading female performance from Kathy Burke, who avoids –by every means- a begging desperation (which would be deserved) for sympathy, but instead holds the ability to evoke such feelings due to her profound and defiant image of a mother caged by her inescapable surroundings. Both performances did not even receive the courtesy of even an Oscar nomination, and after seeing Nil by Mouth you may possibly loose hope in the academy (providing you have not lost it already).

See the rain patter London's streets, see the tears behind the violence and see the sorrow disguised by the naturalistic humour. Oldman has rid himself of a demon and has allowed us to witness his fearless and sympathetic honesty. As with most work of such a fierce and uncompromising nature, Nil by Mouth is by no means an enjoyable experience, but rather a fascinating one, which should be admired and not indulged in. British cinema has –partially due to culture- always been of the gritty kind because of its reoccurring focus on distraught lives, and Oldman's seminal study of urban squalor could easily be mistaken for a documentary. Alas, none of what is shown is photogenic, but there is beauty behind the void of hellish activity and the slow-burning cycle of immorality.

It is often argued that the last "traditional western" was Clint Eastwood's Unforgiven in 1992; the final farewell to the genre, as such. Nonetheless, some notable westerns have been released since, an one of those is Dead Man, a spiritual western which ranks among my favourite films. When released in 1995, the film gained a vastly mixed critical verdict and although the film's reputation is constantly improving, many opposing opinions of greatness still exist. Often cited critic Roger Ebert infamously said "Jim Jarmusch is trying to get at something here, and I don't have a clue what it is." Dare I say that Ebert could simply have been oblivious to the film's metaphorical ideas, offering viewing interpretation? Personally, I believe so.

Built on existential motifs and experimental film-making procedures, this is a western which relies on its heavy use of symbolism. Covering what is ultimately a man's longing to escape death and the inability to accept one's fate, Dead Man opens with a train ride, which I consider a metaphor for the protagonist's journey towards pre-spiritual enlightenment. Set against a jarring instrumental score performed by Neil Young, the twanging guitar chords burrow beneath the viewer's senses and subconsciously etch a permanently recognisable sound into the viewer's mind. As the title so subtly suggests, the central character (William Blake, played by Johnny Depp) is established as a "dead man" from the opening sequence. The opening sequence is comprised of a tiresome and seemingly endless train journey, whereby nobody speaks and Blake drifts wearily between observance and slumber. During this extended opening, the train's fireman speaks to Blake, describing his destination (the town of Machine) as "hell" and a town where you are "just as likely to find your own grave."

On arriving in Machine –a factory-ridden town of garish mechanisms- Blake realises that the job of which he was given a letter for does not require his services at that present time, since he is supposedly late on arrival. The scenes shot within the town represent a community which is experiencing a steep progression of technological advance; essentially depicting the pollution and greed caused by modern labour in the Western world. Exhausted and disappointed, Blake meets a young woman selling flowers, who is a contrast of beauty in a land fuelled by ugliness and bitter consumerism, but she too seems rather bitter and lifeless. It should be noted that the flowers she sells are made of paper, meaning that although they will never rot, they are fake and inert. Plus, the paper is from the trees, which have been killed for financial and consumerist obligations.

Upon meeting this young girl, Blake becomes entranced and sleeps with the woman. Unfortunately, her ex-lover returns the next morning to find them both in bed together; the situation escalates into a clumsy gunfight, whereby Blake gets mortally wounded. Realising that he has to flee the town, he meets a Native American (named Nobody, played by Gary Farmer) who thankfully saves his life. From this moment onwards, Blake becomes a wanted man, embarking on a surrealist mission of self-discovery with his newfound friend. This is used as a means of preparing for death and helps him to acknowledge his foreseeable conclusion upon witnessing the fragility of life.

Filmed in black and white, Dead Man is a film which defines visceral and audacious beauty. The black and white photography tones the film in a way which is bleakly mesmerising and places a potent prominence on the protagonist's restless and consistently lingering emotions. I cannot begin to stress how important it is that a viewer recognises that it is up to them to dissect and interpret what is laid bare before them. Pondering many of life's questions through weighty symbolism and a subtle combination of wit and wisdom, Dead Man does what many films cannot and succeeds admirably. This is meditative viewing, the kind of which will become a reoccurring memory during those restless and weary nights. Allow Dead Man the courtesy to question and enlighten you to the splendour of sorrow and the transformation of life to death.

Asian cinema director Wong Kar Wai received a triumphant amount of critical acclaim throughout the '90s with works such as, Days of Being Wild, Chungking Express and Happy Together, but it was not until 2000 that he had unknowingly crafted and successfully executed his magnum opus, In the Mood for Love. Four years later, Wong Kar Wai released 2046 (a follow-up), which I consider his unsurpassed masterpiece, further proving himself as an artist who gradually improves with age. While I am not particularly fond of his debut feature, As Tears Go By and mid-90s "music video", Happy Together, I still consider him one of the most reputable directors working today. Filming In the Mood For Love took time, fifteen months to be exact and when it premiered at the Cannes in May 2000 it had only just been completed. The reason for such a huge amount of time being spent on one picture was due to the director's appropriate love of improvisation, something which should be noted upon viewing.

When an American film deals with romance, sex often becomes a strategic selling point. In the Mood for Love somehow manages to avoid this by keeping a restrained and highly sensual milieu in constant view, while still remaining subtle. Essentially, In the Mood for Love is about trapped memories and the yearning to follow one's instincts. Set in Hong Kong during the '60s, a newspaper editor (played by Tony Leung) and neighbouring secretary (Maggie Cheung) develop a close, yet momentary friendship on finding that they both doubt the loyalty of their own lovers and share a similar sense of urban alienation. Nonetheless, it becomes noticeable that the two so-called –sociologically middle-class- "friends" do not just relate, but each hold an overwhelming and unspoken desire for the other. Unlike their extramarital lovers, the two "friends" confine themselves from becoming impulsive, however the film argues whether or not this is for the better. It would be naive to not recognise the fierce –almost foreboding- lust they both have for each other. With all the implications and suited loose-ends, In the Mood for Love carries traditional film-making procedures and leaves the viewer in an almost paralytic awe through its transcendent and always relevant photography. Wong Kar Wai has an expert ability in making every little thing count; nothing can be deemed inappropriate, but only fundamental in developing the themes. Evidently, In the Mood for Love suffered a great deal of pre and post-production stress, fortunately none of this can be seen on the film's radiant surface.

It might just be me, but the film seems to have a worn look about it, whereas its successor has a noticeably more polished look. Could this be a way of representing the varying kinds of memories, or an added bonus towards the grand, lyrical set-design; personally, I believe so. Arguably, memories change with time -and therefore fade-, so subconsciously one's mind manipulates the past, only to make the original memory more distorted. I feel that this theory is similar to how the film is presented (e.g. the sudden fade-outs and strangely positioned cuts), and Wong Kar Wai's intention was to depict a story through recollection, rather than from the present moment. The claustrophobic staging is also a means of characters implying their feelings for one-an-other. Toned down shots (sometimes in slow-motion) of cramped alleyways, noodle bars and offices show characters attempting to merely greet the other in unity, while often intentionally allowing the opposing individual the chance to share a brief moment of intimacy. In this case, restraining emotion is the performer's most significant factor in capturing the loss, regret and struggle of acceptance for that of the protagonist. After all, it is a tale of doomed romance, told on an epic scale and the art of physical expression (body language) is a prominent and textbook feature for such situations. Yet in the end the film is ultimately a replaying of events, possibly through the subconscious. In the end, who knows, only time will tell, and in reference to memories dare I quote those immortal, final lines from the Rutger Hauer in Blade Runner? Indeed, films of this sort are so scarce that the pontification of romance and sensuality will linger with you for days ensuing the original viewing. It may be a strenuous viewing experience, but there is no denying the cathartic sensibility found in what is a snapshot of the fragile memories we so strive to retain.

Charlie Kaufman is a screenwriter who I have always considered egotistical, yet one film showed me how addictively clever and intelligently humorous the man can be. His ability to craft highly original and often deconstructed narratives is an admirable talent, but something of an acquired taste. The most famous of his critically acclaimed screenplays was Being John Malkovich, which did nothing except infuriate me. I then saw Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, a film I absolutely loathed from start to finish. Thankfully, a friend bought me the DVD of Adaptation, something I unexpectedly began to admire only minutes into my initial viewing. Famous music-video director Spike Jonze (who also directed Being John Malkovich) reunited with Kaufman once again for Adaptation; the result was an invigorating blow to the senses.

Adaptation is an exceptionally personal film for Kaufman, since it was written as "therapy" due to his own struggle of dealing with writer's block. While attempting to adapt a best-selling novel ("The Orchid Thief") Kaufman encounters the inability to find a relationship with the convoluted material which seems to echo his own troubled feelings. Little does Kaufman realise that the familiarity with the eccentric material is what is blinding him from being able to adapt it. From here, Kaufman begins to indulge in his self-loathing, cynical and neurotic nature. It is only as Kaufman begins to doubt his craftsmanship that he becomes considerably more aware of his surroundings, and how he –as with every human- relies on something, let it be memories, people or inanimate objects.

In this half-biopic, fictionalised account of Kaufman's struggle, he essentially argues that we are all pretentious to a certain degree. This is an idea which I disagree with, as notions of grandeur and pretension block the ability to comprehend, something which is shown in the film, resulting in the concept being contradictory. Nonetheless, everything in the film is scrutinized beyond recognition, showing just how intricate each person's life truly is. Edited in a scrambled, jolty manner and ridden with back-and-fourth cutting, Adaptation is by no means a generic, clichéd example of modern, American cinema.

Befuddling storytelling, and crammed with enough ideas for an entire series of films, it is tricky business not being able to admire the film from a writer's standpoint. Nicholas Cage performs in multiple roles (once again, see it to believe it) and executes a noteworthy performance, which maintains a sensitive level of honesty and dissatisfaction. Chris Cooper captures the wild eccentricities of his wacky character and further proves his versatility at being cast in mentally demanding roles. In fact, it is his finest performance to-date and the acting highlight of the picture. Meryl Streep is the embodiment of loneliness, spiritual awakening and reliance on others.

Sometimes dreadfully confusing, but always fascinating, Adaptation is a triumph of wisdom, originality and sharp wit. If like me, you are not a fan of Kaufman or Jonze, at least give this understandably questionable outing a chance. You might just be surprised at what you find. Recommended viewing for those who question life's endless happenings, such viewers will be in for a treat.

"Heroic bloodshed" and "gun fu" were sub-genres coined by John Woo during the mid-80s, starting with A Better Tomorrow. This was a film that marked Woo as a rising artist within Hong Kong cinema of the modern age. After making a sequel to A Better Tomorrow, Woo went and directed The Killer, followed by Bullet in the Head and Hard-Boiled, these films proved his talent as a director who was able to illustrate ultra-violence, through what closely resembled ballet (a.k.a. in this sense, a dance of death). These outrageously stylised methods of film-making hastily became noted by Hollywood producers and Woo –via a mistake on his behalf- decided to make his move to the place where financing was merely an accessory. Ever since this move, Woo has crafted numerous well-known works of commercial success, but critical failure (unlike his earlier pictures), including the likes of Broken Arrow, Face/Off, Mission Impossible 2 and Windtalkers. Shame, considering these lacked everything that his trademark works created, but can be expected with the restrictions Hollywood producers commonly put in place. Fortunately, his '80s legacy lives on and still has an acute influence on many mainstream directors of today.

The Killer propelled Woo's career, as well as that of Chow Yun-Fat, who took the title role of Ah Jong. Although, he plays an assassin, he is the kind who is out to get "the bad guys", and follows a strict code of honour and ethics. Compassionate, sympathetic and remorseful of the way in which he leads his life, Ah Jong begins to become more cynical of the brutality he savours. After accidentally blinding an innocent singer (who he later falls in love with) during a gunfight, Ah Jong's remorse overwhelms him to such a degree that he becomes determined to get a vital donor that could potentially save her eyesight. In order to finance this, Ah Jong settles a final hit, which soon spirals out of control. Law enforcement inevitably becomes aware of the destruction wreaking its way throughout Hong Kong because of the triads. Nonetheless, the cop on the case happens to be understanding of Ah Jong, and as both relate to each other they start to unexpectedly develop an unexpected partnership.

In 1992, Quentin Tarantino's Reservoir Dogs was released; now, it should be noted that the white suits used in The Killer admittedly inspired those now-infamous black suits. I bring this up because I wish to present one of the main techniques utilised in Woo's 1989, action classic. Such a procedure is contrasting the lashings of blood (shown during the countless fight scenes) against the calm, white clothing. Waving a white cloth, for example, is a sign of retreat, or peace and placing blood on white is an opposing confliction. Transcending everything that most action films can only dream of, The Killer combines a compulsory fusion of intelligence and entertainment. Then there is the paradox (as such) of both the cop and the killer using guns, but for differing reasons. Essentially, both are committing the same acts, through similar methods, but for different reasons. The two men have a certain confidence and an explicit willingness to seek fulfilment and justice, which enables a parable to be crafted between the two individuals.

Edited with a glaring visual stance, filmed through bright colour filters and following bare-knuckled narrative management, The Killer packs a well-placed gut-punch. Engaging the viewer through ultra-cool protagonists and beautifully choreographed fight scenes, this grand, wry take on the idealistic assumption of decency within the world of organised crime remains a work of bloodshed which holds artistic significance. Even with the overly dramatised screenplay (echoing a consistent waft of unsuited, moralistic sentimentality) and the dated '80s soundtrack, the piece is an extravagant and exciting take on a temperamental genre. Containing metaphors (the doves extinguishing the flames on a collection of candles) and the use of a church for a set-piece, the film is vastly unique for what is adrenaline-based action. Saying that, most directors would opt for endless cuts as a means of groping the viewer's attention, Woo on-the-other-hand avoids such an amateurish technique, choosing a cultivated approach. The finished result is a concoction of mind-boggling stand-offs and humanistic undertones, enabling it to become a motivating take on a seemingly predictable genre and an ode to the classic westerns (who said The Wild Bunch?). Remember, Chow Yun-Fat is for action, what John Wayne was for the western.

Danish director, Paul Verhoeven, released his first American film in 1987; this was RoboCop, an action film which has since become situated in a league of its own. Not only was it a hit in the Western world, but a global box-office bragger and a critically acclaimed triumph. Subsequent to the success, Verhoeven was chosen to direct a film adapted from a novella by Philip K. Dick ("We Can Remember It for you Wholesale") and turned it into the 1990 action classic, Total Recall. Two surprisingly intelligent action films made in succession allowed Verhoeven to become an established film-maker, who was at liberty to take the content of mainstream films distinctly further.

Arnold Schwarzenegger took leading-man once again for Total Recall, just like the majority of films he starred in during the '80s and '90s. As with The Terminator, Predator and even Commando; his artificial and easy-to-mock acting went centre stage once again. Even though Schwarzenegger is far from being named a great actor, he is certainly situated as one of the most likable and satisfying (from a Blockbuster standpoint). His deadened approach is what makes his roles so true their form, and he is nearly always playing characters with seemingly robotic personalities. Growing up watching "Arnie actioners" is something I have always treasured, which is why his films are cherished memories and also the reason for making re-watches such an electrifying event.

Fusing reality with delusion (in what is essentially a case of identity crisis) is the core theme of Total Recall. Recurring -the now too-close-to-home- ideas of technological corruption reluctantly controlling a man's livelihood is hardly a topic which lacks the option of philosophical debate. In fact, for the action/science-fiction genre Verhoeven works wonders in making what seems to be a relatively stable, easy-going mainstream archetype into something which speaks out on politics and technology. Indeed, with the rapid increase and reliability on technology there is no doubt that us consumers will eventually resort to purchasing faulty, radioactive brain implants. Sadly, I am not joking, as I do believe that the foreseeable future of technology's control over our lives is inevitable.

Total Recall worked wonders for special-effects and make-up during the beginning of the '90s. Lifelike mutants and grand set-pieces, including architecture resembling art-deco and prefabricated design drove the film's ambiance. As with most action films the average shot length (ASL) is visibly short, but is acceptable for a film of its kind and works adequately when put in conjunction with the ultra-violent fight scenes. Villains are stereotypical, heroes sprout graciously eccentric one-liners ("Consider it a divorce!") and the array of characters are befuddling, but these are mere reasons why Total Recall is a cinematic product of its time, which still foreshadowed future possibilities.

If you are a person who takes everything far too seriously, then Total Recall is not appropriate viewing. However, if you are prepared to have an open-mind and realise that action films can still be clever (in this case due to a fantastically wrapped screenplay) you are likely to acquire a barrel of rip-roaring violence and furtive intellect. All too regularly is the film misconstrued as a meaningless American blockbuster, something it actually refrains from potentially becoming.

Renowned for crafting incredibly bad films and often cited as the "worst director ever", Edward D. Wood Jr. has become a cult icon inside the world of film. Although his films are entirely detestable, they are rarely a chore to watch because of the comedic value which is on offer. It could be argued that he was the man who gave birth to "Z movie horror." It is widely acknowledged that Tim Burton has long been an admirer of classic horror films, which resulted in his reoccurring use of German expressionism (mise-en-scène) and Gothic themes in his own works. Similar to many of Tim Burton's films, Ed Wood is about a bizarre, eccentric and unique man.

Chronicling a man's rise to "personal success" and his overwhelming desire to become the next Orson Welles, Ed Wood charts the director's fascinatingly manic career; from Glen or Glenda, to Plan 9 from Outer Space. Both are two of the most shamefully undesirable disasters "Hollywood" has ever produced, but to Ed Wood they were gold. Even so, he was a man who had the utmost level of zest for his so-called "art" and would never back-down to the barrage of criticism he would constantly receive. To Ed Wood, Glen or Glenda was a highly personal film, which was supposed to tell the world his desire to wear women's clothes, instead it made him look entirely foolish. This pretty much defines the career of the "world's worst director." Strangely enough, Ed Wood is not a biopic which bashes the man, or makes fun out of him. Instead, Tim Burton creates a loving homage to the quintessential master of the "Z movie."

Upon finishing a Tim Burton film it is irregular not to undergo satisfaction, but with Ed Wood it is impossible. Evidently, (or at least I believe so) it is Burton's most triumphant work to-date, yet oddly enough, receives underwhelming acclaim. It is a shame that viewers of today are prepared to spend money to see terrible odes like Mars Attacks (a disastrous experiment by Burton) and then turn down the opportunity to experience a genuine homage, such as Ed Wood. The lovable, informative and often amusing take on the life of a cinematic failure ranks among the greatest films from the '90s.

Delivering staggering vigour and once again proving his versatility, Johnny Depp took centre-stage for his finest collaboration with mentor-like Burton. And to think that it was not until 2003's Pirates of the Caribbean was released that Depp received his first academy award nomination. Robbery, considering his performance was undoubtedly the best of its year (1994). How many male actors are prepared to accept almost any role, do anything for it (e.g. prance around in drag) and actually achieve the utmost level of professionalism? Luckily and ironically, actor Marin Landau received an Oscar for Best Supporting Actor (awarded for his role as the drug-addicted and deadbeat Dracula star, Bella Lugosi). These are performances of aching personality, and are drenched with amusing anecdotes.

Filmed in black-and-white, Ed Wood crafts a precise image of the 1950s Hollywood scene. Not only does it signify poignancy, but it also swells with nostalgia. Camera movements are both graceful and erratic, suited as allegory for Mr. Wood's own unpredictability. Surely this is a personal work, something which can be noted through the tactfully comic screenplay. With the exception of factual (although not fatal by any means) inaccuracies, the picture remains a victorious achievement and should be hailed for its comic brilliance more regularly, if you ask me. As a director (and on a side note), Tim Burton should be applauded for his ability to pay sympathy and respect for a man who was painfully oblivious of his exceptional ineptness. It would have been arrogant to have shown blatant pity for Edward D. Wood Jr., so as a director he remains subtle when underlying his sympathy (and even understanding) of a futile longing for excellence.

"The best cast I've ever worked with" said Jack Lemmon after filming Glengarry Glen Ross, and it is definitely no surprise as to why he would make such a bold statement. But what else do you expect from an ensemble of greats; including the likes of Al Pacino, Kevin Spacey, Jack Lemmon, Ed Harris, Alan Arkin, Jonathan Price and a cameo from Alec Baldwin. All of the cast are essential in driving the narrative and perform with utmost level of foul-mouthed professionalism.

"It takes brass balls to sell real-estate" exclaims Blake (played by Alec Baldwin), a corporate business tycoon. Furthermore, it is in this early monologue that Blake verbally abuses a group of real-estate workers and threatens to fire them all unless they produce tangible sales over the space of a few days. All of the men are handed defective leads, which are in urgent need of closing; the closer who comes first wins a Cadillac, the runner-up receives a set of steak knives and anyone else gets fired. It is a blunt and to-the-point story, which becomes exceedingly problematical after a break-in at the office, whereby the "Glengarry" leads are stolen. Soon the film becomes a vehicle for depicting greed, as each of the protagonists slyly con their colleagues, representatives and consumers for the one "big break."

Brusque and dynamic mannerisms display the character's lust to win. Razor-sharp and profanity-laden dialogue will leave the viewer gasping for more. This callous language is what makes the film so exceptionally nail-biting. Grasping the upper-hand in the business world is a process which requires constant and immediate struggle. Due to deceitful manipulations the person in control is constantly shifting their status (this can be most notably observed during the final conversation between Kevin Spacey and Jack Lemmon). For the most part, Glengarry Glen Ross relies on its razor-sharp screenplay and weasel-like performances, but the technicalities are just as remarkable, mostly focused on creating a theatrically claustrophobic atmosphere. This is best suited, being that the piece is dedicated in keeping to its stage roots.

Nevertheless, the cynical temperament enables the picture to become unhindered in its honesty, and transmits every misdemeanour with both wit and sincerity. The film's characters have been demoralised in the workplace because of the stream of verbal abuse, condescending lies and the concluding dismemberment of their drained existence. Arguably, the outdoor land that the real-estate agents are attempting to sell could be seen as a contrast to the office environment that they are so intensely surrounded by. Among the greatest films of the '90s, Glengarry Glen Ross contains a superb blend of all that is necessary in crafting an irreplaceable ensemble piece. Vulgar and essential, this is a picture brimming with depressing honesty and acidic realism. Not one to be missed, by any means.

Possibly the most widely controversial mainstream film ever made, The Exorcist has been terrifying viewers for more than thirty years. In 1973 people would flock to view the film which was reportedly "the most harrowing motion-picture of all-time." Although the content of the film might not shock viewers of today, the irrefutable nature of the traumatic events that unfold are likely to silence even the most hard-bitten viewers. Instead of bringing "low-key thrills" through shock-tactics, The Exorcist establishes horror through the progressively distressing notion of an innocent girl becoming demoniacally possessed and therefore undertaking sacrilegious acts.

After winning Best Picture at the Oscars for The French Connection, William Friedkin became one of the most talked-about Hollywood directors. From this success, Warner Brothers decided to allow Friedkin to direct William Peter Blatty's novel The Exorcist. Best Sound and Best Adapted Screenplay (Blatty adapted his own novel) were the two Oscars awarded to The Exorcist. The academy is notorious for their bias stance towards particular genres, but Friedkin's masterpiece is one of a handful of horror films which the academy did in fact recognise as a genuine triumph.

Twelve-year-old Regan MacNeil (played by a teenage Linda Blair) is living in Washington D.C. with her mother Chris MacNeil (Ellen Burstyn). While in Washington, Regan begins to develop bizarre symptoms of what-seems-to-be an obscure, psychological disorder. Distraught and becoming more worried by the day, Chris decides to take Regan to a clinic. After numerous tests the doctors cannot define what is wrong with Regan and eventually resort to suggesting a so-called means of "shock treatment" a.k.a. exorcism. Chris decides to seek help from the Catholic Church; eventually hiring a sceptical priest to examine Regan's violent behaviour. Opening in an archaeologist ground and finishing in the suburbs of Washington D.C., The Exorcist conveys many varying transitions; including, science vs. religion and the fundamental theme of good battling evil.

Littered with subliminal (demonic statues/faces) and metaphorical imagery (the subway staircase as a descent to hell) and scenes of blasphemy, The Exorcist is a deeply religious film which expertly applies a method of crawling under the viewer's skin. Building an ambiance for approximately 40 minutes The Exorcist resists the temptation to spew lashings of extreme gore and alternatively takes a subtle approach towards a touchy subject. Slow, boiling tensions can be noted near the very start of the film when there is a shot of Father Merrin (Max von Sydow's character) standing opposite the statue of a devil. The dessert sands roll and a greying darkness spreads over the screen, this shot symbolises the conflict between good and evil, while foreshadowing the events that Father Merrin acknowledges but are yet to come.

The uncompromising methods of film-making used in The Exorcist question the viewer to such an extent that analysing almost becomes a lost-cause. Drawing parallels between science and religion (in the film religion is shown as a last resort) the unrequited sensation broke barriers of how spirituality could be portrayed through art. A persistent theme is the infiltration of the body, both by medical science and possession, which also drives the fundamental element of desecration. Nonetheless, the performances in The Exorcist are unquestionably persuasive because of the eloquent delivery that each actor abides to. Max von Sydow, Ellen Burstyn, Linda Blair and the most underrated of them all, Jason Miller, all showcase the utmost talent and bestow their most matchlessly penetrating performances. The sheer audacity and belligerent disposition makes every aspect all the more satisfying. Edited in a manner which utilises the environment, The Exorcist never fails to keep the attention of its viewers. Much of the film resembles a polished and distinguishable example of pristine film-making, which engulfs and drains all sentiment. This leaves an impressionable level of numbness long after the credits have rolled.

The Exorcist ranks as one of the most challenging and evocative works of art to be released in American cinema. Nothing can prepare you for the overwhelming experience of William Friedkin's exceptional mélange of humanistic drama and staggering horror. It may traumatise, so be wary, but do not be put off from viewing a film which questions one's perception of religion, and can easily be stated as a definitive masterpiece of cinema. Summarising my respect for The Exorcist is an impossible task to perform, so this is merely a futile attempt at nailing it.

Overtly based on Raymond Chandler's classic novel "The Big Sleep", The Big Lebowski is my favourite work from the Coen Brothers, along with Miller's Crossing. When released in 1998 cinema-goers were baffled by the film, with most viewers not being able to even gather an opinion. However, once the film was available for purchase a cult following began to emerge, which has given birth to the annual Lebowski Fest and a so-called religion named "Dudeism." The world of Lebowski has become an element of modern pop-culture, while Jeff Bridge's character "The Dude" has developed into an icon of apathy. His days are spent bowling, drinking, experiencing occasional acid flashbacks and delving in pacifism.

Conducting an exhaustingly (and intentionally) complex tale of a trophy wife's kidnapping, The Big Lebowski puts fourth a crime story as a means of making everything about the picture even more ludicrous than its characters. You see, the Coen Brothers routinely craft films concerning characters that have become swathed in absurdist situations. This is an ulterior motive; a means of clashing wacky diversities with an impelling sense of convolution. The Big Lebowski is about characters that are blissfully unaware of the complications which arouse due to their erratic behaviour. Jeff Bridge's protagonist The Dude (a.k.a. Jeffrey Lebowski) becomes apart of a kidnapping plot by accident. He unwittingly stumbles across the scheme after a contextual naming error, in which two house-breaking thugs urinate on his rug. In response The Dude seeks compensation from the intended victim who happens to carry the same name, hence the confusion. As you can see, I am rambling and could do with a "Caucasian" cocktail.

The Big Lebowski has been apart of my life for many years now; I recall lapping up the dialogue to such an extent that I would unintentionally quote the film during everyday conversations and I still do. This boils down to a screenplay which will retain its status as one of the finest ever written. By no means is the script artificial or plagiarised, instead the breathtaking originality of it came as a breath of fresh air to the QT-laden dialogue which circulated throughout the independent cinema of the '90s. Exemplifying imagination and entertainment is the aim of The Big Lebowski; dumb, half-witted nonsense is not what the film illustrates, as some people have wrongly accused it of being. Oh, and I must not disregard a clear and present fact; Jeff Bridges offers one of the greatest performances of all-time.

Do not dismiss this masterpiece as a senseless twaddle, as that would be an unfair accusation for such a multi-layered outing in confrontational, elaborate humour. This is comedy as an art form, and so is conducted on an ambitious scale of subtly intelligent, foul-mouthed wit. Except this is a farce crafted on a mesmerising scale of ingenuity and radiating charm. Characters like Walter Sobchak, Donny Kerabatsos, Jesus Quintana and of course the German nihilists are irrefutable creations of hypocritical hilarity. Throughout the picture The Dude encounters a vast array of sarcastically written characters, which are effectively caricatures of combined personalities. Stylistically, the film is crammed to the brim with stunning film-making procedures (e.g. the Jackie Treehorn section) which accentuate the confrontational wackiness of what could be hailed as a "warped homage to film-noir." For a film of the '90s, the soundtrack is punctuated with retro rock & roll from forgotten eras and in essence identifies a "hippy" stance.

It might be worth noting that this review is just my opinion, man. Even so, that should not stop you from viewing a film which is destined to be regarded as something not just of the '90s, but of today's culture, too. Remember: abide by The Dude's -rational, whether you like it or not- philosophies. Simply take each day as it comes and try not to live in the past, stranger.

Examining Rashômon is a lengthy process, mainly due to the substantial amount of material on offer and the thought-provoking questions which should be probed subsequent to viewing. Not only does the film ask some of life's most profound questions, but it also begins to confront various evocative ideas. Essentially, Akira Kurosawa's unmatched classic is about gaining an understanding; the film's first conversation introduces characters who "don't understand" and are looking for answers, this is opening the primary theme.

Personally, Rashômon has forever been favourite of Kurosawa's directional works. It also happens to be the film which introduced me to the work of an auteur; a man whose vision echoes that of a revolutionary cinematic historian. From the likes of Shichinin no samurai, to Ran, Kurosawa is *the* director of Japanese cinema. During his lifetime he managed to confirm himself as one of the world's leading film-makers. He was director who created cinema which was impossible to match, and his influence still resounds within even the most mainstream works of today. For example, the non-linear narrative structure of Rashômon has been respectfully woven in numerous films since. Rashômon was the work which propelled the career of Kurosawa; even though it was not widely regarded in its own country at the time, it was hailed by the critics of the Western world.

Rashômon is the compressed tale of an innocent woman's rape and her husband's murder, performed by a ruthless bandit (acted out by Kurosawa's long-time working partner Toshirô Mifune). Even though the bandit is caught and consequently put on trial, the seemingly simple crime soon becomes questionably more complicated as it is recounted from four individually detached "eye-witness" perspectives. Posing many philosophical questions for the viewer, the picture asks which story is the one to believe (if any), through -what was at the time and still remains- a highly stylised storytelling technique. Establishing a verdict on the heinous crime centred upon in Rashômon is as much an ordeal as the crime itself because it proves to be an incident which provokes moral questioning and fierce debate.

The film-making techniques used in Rashomon gave birth to a distinct style that Kurosawa was prepared to develop further in his later works, which can be seen in films such as Yojimbo and Shichinin no samurai. Level-headed pragmatism plagued Kurosawa's features throughout his earlier years; this was something that came as an advantage for his films, being that the characters (even the villains) portrayed in his films were genuine people you could feel compassion and remorse for. Also, Kurosawa began to define genres throughout the 1950s and 1960s, while also bringing to light some now-popular (often overused) methods of camera movement, e.g. dutch angles, revolving shots and amplified close-ups.

For those who question the film's offbeat narrative structure, they should ask themselves whether or not the cut-throat editing is there as a means of symbolising the colliding viewpoints. I consider this to be a daring means of combining humanitarian lies and honesty, and also a means of creating a disorientating, volatile impression. With Rashômon, Kurosawa's admiration for silent cinema came into evident practice; this can be seen through the minimalist set-pieces, which are a contrast to the complex storytelling procedure that his work embodies. The ambiguity of Rashômon is detailed through subtly metaphorical cinematography and lighting techniques. I have always seen the setting of the woods as a display of the work's central atmosphere (intrigue) and the shadows periodically depicting a loss of empathy and symbolising the isolated danger of the surroundings.

The majority of films fail to emphasise with the viewer, this can blamed on the morals being "mixed" and ultimately enabling the viewer to become unsure of a film's statement. However, with Rashômon the morals are clear and refined, without being preachy or simplistic. Summing up the greed, confusion, deprivation and indulgence of the world is a tricky business, but somehow Kurosawa has the ability to perform such a task with exceeding talent. Rashômon warrants a right to be hailed as a definitive classic. Unlike its story, I doubt that viewers of Rashômon hold clashing opinions, being that it is far too flawless to be argued over.

Before I saw Stop Making Sense I had never been particularly concerned with The Talking Heads, or lead-singer and solo-artist David Byrne. Indeed, I had always been a fan of certain songs, such as "Burning Down the House" and "Psycho Killer", but I had never actually spent time becoming acquainted with the band's music on the whole. However, Stop Making Sense was something I was desperate to view, due to the substantial amount of praise that had been garnered over the years since its release. Now it is safe to say that The Talking Heads rank among my favourite bands, thanks to this masterpiece of musical art.

Essentially, Stop Making Sense is a showcase of the band's collected works. Throughout the 90-minute running-time the concert simultaneously covers the back-catalogue of The Talking Heads, through fluid, non-stop vibrancy. From "Found a Job" and "Take Me to the River" the work is merely a sample of the group's ability to provide some of the most engaging live shows ever recorded. To say that the film is "original" would be an understatement, given that the title still rings true today. Stop Making Sense defines the band's abilities, attitudes, styles and motifs. The New Wave approach the film takes is stylistically engaging to such an extent that it is virtually impossible to draw your eyes away from the screen. Minimalist set-pieces move along with the mood of the music at such a rate that much of the picture feels like a kaleidoscope of blistering sound and trancelike imagery.

David Byrne is the key constituent; bestowing his stage presence, creativity and musical proficiency. His stage dynamics are let loose during Stop Making Sense. The infamously over-sized business suit donned by David Byrne is otherworldly, just like the viewing experience, which transports you into a deep-seated, vivacious trance. Yet it is the suit which distinguishes the work completely. The fact that a regular item of clothing can have the ability to make the wearer seem out-of-proportion and disfigured is both mystifying and captivating. Even more bizarre is that the suit seems to grow relatively larger as the concert progresses. Personal interpretation could be that the suit is an implicative metaphor for the irony of the business world or conformity; on the other hand it could just be about not making sense.

Academy award winning director Jonathan Demme does not just "get the gist of The Talking Heads". Instead he is able to comprehend the themes of the band's work from an unmistakably refined tone that he captures through his direction. The irregularity of the group may be hard for some viewers to swallow, but that can be expected from a group which make music of an acquired taste. As for the choreography, it seems there is none, since the musicians all behave in a volatile and limitless manner. The progressively shifted set-pieces convey the altered reality that you have become apart of, and are an extraordinary example of unbound craftsmanship. Stop Making Sense ultimately displays the band's antics from their perspective; this is due to the extended takes of the performers and the lack of audience shots (the fans can only be seen during wide shots or when the camera moves behind the performers). There are even moments where the viewer effectively becomes apart of the band. A prime example of this manoeuvre is when the camera swings behind drummer Chris Frantz and faces the audience during the rendition of "Thank You for Sending me an Angel."

Characteristically speaking it is hopeless trying to describe the feeling you receive while viewing Stop Making Sense. This is because when seen and heard the mind becomes so fixated with the audacious madness of the piece that every viewer will react differently. Personally, this is the concert which I would irrefutably name as the finest ever recorded, maybe you will too.

Addressing the ploys of consumerism and materialism, Fight Club created a distinct manifesto of liberation during the last few months of the '90s. Its impact is yet to of worn off and with each passing year the imperative social-commentary becomes more popular. At its time of release, Fight Club was widely misunderstood, due to the "graphic" depiction of nihilism which is expressed through the film and was hailed by some as misogynistic. Although it did not receive much attention around the time of release, the rise in DVD sales helped to propel popularity and eventually resulted in Fight Club becoming a cult picture.

In 1996, Chuck Palahniuk wrote Fight Club, a novel which held the inevitability of an adaptation. It was only three years later before Fight Club was released as a motion-picture. Twentieth Century Fox acknowledged that the film was going to hold a mass appeal and garner a much deserved following of fans who could relate to the picture's satirical take on the woes of modern life. Emerging talent David Fincher was chosen to direct the adaptation (though remaining hesitant because of his experience with Fox on Alien³), while Jim Uhls wrote the screenplay. Edward Norton was chosen to star as the film's protagonist and Brad Pitt (who Fincher had previously worked with on Se7en) was cast in the key supporting role. It was from here that David Fincher gave birth to his undisputed masterpiece.

Telling the tale of a nameless, thirty-something office-worker (often referred to as The Narrator and performed by Edward Norton) who has lost all motivation and self-respect, the picture chronicles his journey through enlightenment. Starting off as a spectator and consumerist, The Narrator's venture begins with his sudden addiction to anonymous self-help groups. It is from the testicular cancer and alcoholics anonymous groups that he gains pity, and because of being an unexposed faker can wallow in the sympathy he has craved for. On a business trip, The Narrator encounters Tyler Durden, a soap-salesman who he chooses to befriend. The two friends soon assemble a fight club, where men endure bare-knuckled, underground fighting. Essentially, the group (which becomes a guerrilla organisation) is a metaphor for "feeling alive" and allows men to feel the utmost level of masculinity.

Fight Club does not promote violence, deprivation, anarchy, communism or even mischief; it merely works as a representation for turning a mundane, forlorn lifestyle into a way of venting out primitive frustration. The numbed office drones depicted in the film realise that their lives are meaningless and are prepared to go through pain to receive clarification that they still exist both mentally and physically. Fighting is an embodiment of man's most archaic and rebellious instincts. Man's aspiration for chaos is symbolised through Project Mayhem, (the mischief group, built upon members of the fight club) and the disdain aimed towards materialism is etched inside the personality traits of Tyler Durden. Laden with justifiable transgression, the film portrays its hatred of consumerism through subtle character interactions, repressed emotion and glaring visuals (e.g. Ikea, Starbucks, Soap), which are often an amusing –arguably contradictory- disparity of beliefs. There are a number of themes below the surface of the picture (such as homosexuality) which should be taken into consideration when in search of understanding.

Filmed in damp, dirty lighting and mixed with "ultra-cool" editing, viewers will find it difficult to resist the overwhelming generosity of aesthetically pleasing film-making. The satirical temperament of the picture is empathised by the characteristics of the film's subtext. Fight Club is thoughtful, exhilarating and amusing, so the absurd visual stance is best suited for a film of its genre. Characters will often break the "fourth wall", letting viewers relate to the ideas more freely. Welcomingly peculiar visuals are an extra ingredient for keeping the viewer instantly immersed. Since the film contains such robust characters, it is hard to deny the charm of the narrative style. When you have each performer delivering witty, anti-conformist sentences then it is impossible to become detracted or disconcerted. In fact, the three main protagonists are some of the finest ever written. Edward Norton, Brad Pitt and Helena Bonham Carter provide what are three of my favourite performances from the '90s, which should be rank among the most exciting and versatile.

Sadly, it is within the second act that the picture misdirects its testosterone. Of course, none of the entertainment value is lost. Instead, the nature of the film suddenly becomes a plunge into non-stop anti-capitalism, which in my opinion becomes overused to a slight extent. Fortunately, this does not linger and the narrative turns back to being the journey of self-discovery it started out as. Nothing can stop Fight Club from being a film I love to watch. Its vigorously entertaining ambiance provokes exhilaration and reflection that few films can match. The notions and philosophies of such a statement may be too testing for a number of viewers to grasp; nevertheless, the stinging candour and acrimony should not be ignored.

I was always anticipating Superbad, but I never expected anything near to the quality of film-making and cinema experience I received. Coming out of the cinema with a huge grin on my face made me realise that a "teen flick" can be a winner, something which seemed impossible. Technically speaking, it is almost impossible to create an even decent "teen flick", given that to class Superbad as such a thing would be dismissive. For example, the '90s classic Dazed and Confused is often classed as a teen movie, but it is much more than that, considering the film studies the social-trends of a forgotten era which gave birth to modern teen culture. It is nostalgic viewing for many, just like what Superbad will grow to be in the years to come.

Seth Rogen has been having a victorious time throughout 2007; kicking off the summer with Knocked Up and ending with Superbad, he is establishing himself as one of the finest actors and script writers working within modern comedy. Deservedly, this is something the talented comedian has been working for, and now maintains a place within comedic history. Seth Rogen wrote and starred in Superbad, and on viewing the picture you will observe his talent as both a writer and actor.

Superbad does not exactly carry a narrative structure, something best suited for a film of its kind and so should not be used as a criticism. Essentially, the film follows the day of three high-school friends who have been invited to a party on account of them providing the alcohol. It is that simple on the surface, but the film turns out to be significantly more intelligent than just teens looking to score and get wasted. Not only does the picture place some moralistic ideas into the dialogue, but it speaks to its audience with an easy-to-relate-to style.

If you ever did or are experiencing the high-school lifestyle then Superbad will be an instantly recognisable achievement. The film is crammed with themes which the viewer can relate to and sums up the series of gauche events encountered throughout adolescence. Filmed in garish colours and through exaggerated techniques, Superbad epitomises retro cool and certainly does not value discretion. Everything works perfectly against the outlandishly preoccupied sex jokes. Written with a bravura tone of angst and rebellion, the nerdy comedy fuses with the energetic and welcoming characters. The screenplay is crafted on a torrent of clever hilarities, which progressively become slightly more subtle (if that is even possible for Superbad) as the film develops. Moving at a consistently fast pace, the film refuses to let the viewer have room breathe; it is at these moments that the viewer will most likely realise the timing of the film. And although these moments are a sign of thin wearing, the picture manages to pick its momentum up again, due to the rapid-fire and constant barrage of jokes.

The film is going to undoubtedly propel the careers of the three protagonist actors. Jonah Hill and Michael Cera have become relatively well-known over the last couple of years for their work within American comedy. Nonetheless, it is supporting performer Christopher Mintz-Plasse (in his debut role) who outshines the rest of the cast. The casting of him as Fogell a.k.a. McLovin is too good to be true, as he personifies the character entirely and crafts a role which will forever be quoted and loved. Seth Rogen and Bill Hader also star as the two off-beat, lazy cops; the pair work together with an amusing ease, proving that the chemistry depicted is not forced but completely natural. In fact, this goes without saying because the whole cast combine flawlessly.

Overflowing with memorable scenes (which should not be spoiled) and relentless entertainment Superbad continues to be a riot long after the credits have rolled. Superbad is something truly spectacular and was an intrepid business risk worth employing. Its success is overwhelming, but once seen it is easily understandable.