DaViD´82

Veiled Deborah Karr as a walking commercial for the whitening power of Persil and pony rider David Farrar in a hat and tropical khaki drill shorts (how could something so tasteless ever have occurred to anybody), painted in Technicolor, on a par with the work of the Dutch Masters. All this in the shape of an exotic melodrama about suppressed desire and holy duties conducted in a former harem. Exactly as expected, precise in Powell-Pressburger style. Well, all apart from the shorts which are prime candidates for the most horrific costume in cinema history.

The romance novel walks miles in British Technicolor red shoes in a not-so short, fateful melodrama (with a forty minute prologue!) set in a ballet company about two gingers and one “Mephisto" compellingly played by Anton Walbrook. This trio battles that eternal western conflict of personal life and love versus career and ambitions. A movie which, on paper, I’m hopelessly compelled to loathe. But paper assumptions often aren’t valid. Thank god. And so just like how once every umpteen seasons Real Madrid defeats Barcelona, against all odds, the Red Shoes can, despite the black (red?) mark above, be as fantastic to watch as only the best pictures can.

Alan Ball and pulpy, rough and rougher (roughest) schooling, Jim Thompson style, about an ex-con, who used to be an amoral sheriff, only ever acting in his own self-interest. And, to an extent, an unadmitted, but even more “faithful in spirit" adaptation of the “Scalped" comic book series. The main (anti)hero is direct and blunt, and wherever he goes, no-one wants any problems. Another nice thing about it is that is does not take itself too seriously. And Ball himself is a guarantee that despite the “badass" scene full of porn-… um, sex, explicit violence and unwavering testosterone, it isn’t gratuitous (this only applies to the first series). Course, it’s not about holding up mirrors, not even really bloodied ones. The real problem is the main storyline, which is just dumb even for a self-confessed sophisticated B-movie, and so even though every episode in itself is amazing, the way they are fitted together as one whole is just worrying. Everything is centered around unparalleled, extraordinary fights and characters, but not the story (which changes, although subtly, in the course of the second series). At a pinch, you could say that each glance and dialog is an excuse for several minutes of all-out fucking or a several-minute long fight/shootout. And since the third series this is not an overstatement, they do not care about the “story" and just focus on the “dirty". Of course, the method of execution, that is the question! They explicitly pay tribute to everything from The Raid to Carpenter. If you agree to respect these distinctive rules, then… What’s not to love? | S1: 4/5 | S2: 4/5 | S3: 4/5 |

The space of one lounge, ten former members of the resistance, one maid and the exposure of a fifteen-year-old story of betrayal. And even if they could prove what happened in the past, what to do with the traitor after all these years? The point or the identity of the individual concerned is not that important in this movie. It is mainly an acting concert in the form of a conversational drama à la 12 Angry Men where everything depends on a perfectly build up and ever more tense atmosphere of mistrust growing amongst friends who would have sacrificed their lives for one another. Once upon a time, but not anymore.

Shawn Ryan as usually came up with a topic that is sturdier than almost anything else. But instead of becoming a pet project of one of the many cable TV channels that are not afraid to stir up stagnant water, play-it-safe commercial ABC took charge. And so, all explosive and sturdy stuff gets side-tracked. When you add the amount of non-actors in the cast and the recycled scenery from Lost then it’s not at all surprising that this is a B-movie par excellence. And despite of the all I said above, a surprisingly good B-movie.

A melancholic film noir in the snow. I don’t consider it to be a B movie. More like an excellent, straightforward non-genre representative of its style with an unusual hero. And the camera... Tourneur simply understands black and white film more than anybody else. The only reproach I have has to be addressed at Anne Bancroft’s awful hairstyle; she shouldn’t have gone out in public with an atrocity like that on her head.

It’s startling how very naïve it is. His decades-older genre brothers are no match for this. But even more startling is that, (not only) thanks to Bava’s visual sensitivity which makes your heart sing and flutter in your rib cage, it doesn’t matter one bit. So in the end the most startling thing is the fact that back then Andrea Checchi looked exactly the same as what Martin Shaw looks like today.

This could have been an excellent one-part documentary. But this is a two-parter and so the viewer assumes the role of editor, pecking out the wheat from the chaff in terms of interest value. It often seems more like a documentary about special cameras than a documentary about the hitherto unseen life of polar bears. And I bet that the word camera is uttered far more frequently than the word bear. On the other hand, when it’s interesting, it’s really interesting.

If you're expecting a classic gangster movie, keep waiting. If, however, you can put up with a blunt and straightforward popcorn movie with all the trimmings, where instead of CGI robots with lasers, there are tough guys in trench coats with machine guns, you don't have to wait any longer.

A melancholic (non)genre movie with the most unsatisfying zombie ever in the unmistakable style of Darby Jones who proves the rule that “strength lies in simplicity". The unique atmosphere of all-embracing insecurity on an exotic, sweltering island, the occult background and playing with the viewers’ curiosity “and what if, after all..." (all the more with a glass of Caribbean rum in hand) is simply priceless. Especially when it comes to the screenwriter’s guarantee in the shape of Siodmak behind the typewriter and fine artist of black and white canvas, Tourneur, behind the camera.