Gilmour93

Frank Grillo is quite the oddball here. He’s rescuing a daughter who has a head shaped like Skipper from Penguins of Madagascar, and her mother is an ugly guy in a wig. In the process, he wipes out half of Oklahoma and Texas, only opening his heart when talking to a severed head on the passenger seat. Somehow, his snow-white shirt stays spotless, even while he’s slicing up a body with a chainsaw (to be fair, in the last two scenes there’s a tiny ketchup stain on his right shoulder from breakfast). And then there’s the tough kidnapper who enjoys killing, pretentious speeches, and the backsides of aging drag queens. Building the entire film around their inevitable confrontation is a pleasantly satisfying genre standard, and if you can look past the logical inconsistencies and dumb mistakes (like the return of blinking corpses, as seen in Candy Land), you might even catch a vibe of Paul Schrader and Abel Ferrara in there.

When good female archetypes meet the traditionally bad male ones, there’s no time left for cuddling. A few instances of verbal humor aside, the characters feel more like puppets being maneuvered to achieve a comedic outcome. Any real drama is essentially abandoned, and the soundtrack feels like elevator music (preferably in an elevator that isn’t stuck). I get that the crime plot was also supposed to ride the comedic wave, but in that case, Frank Drebin should have made an appearance at the resort’s reception. In terms of acting, Jana Plodková stood out, approaching her role like a mix of a cynical Lisbeth Salander and her slightly tipsy character from The Watchmaker’s Apprentice.

It’s not enough that Roy Scheider is traumatized by the death of his wife; he also has to quickly learn Aramaic. Especially the words for revenge, syphilis, and "you’re next." The positives are Tak Fujimoto's kinetic camera work and the charisma of the remaining entry on the death list. However, the tension-building, with all those bells, shower disturbances, and cliff-hanging moments trying desperately to kiss Hitchcock’s plump hand, makes it worse. Fortunately, it was over a decade before the glass-paneled office of Dr. Lecter opened, giving Jonathan Demme time to hone his craft.

"I forgot to tell you, I don't trust anybody—especially women!" Bogie would love a woman he could shrink down to pocket-size. When heading out for a chat with friends, he’d take her to his favorite restaurant (just to keep tabs on her), let her scamper across the table among coffee cups, and when he got home, he’d wave her back to her original size and beauty. But since he knows that’s not physically possible, he settles for "reserved" trust. While frolicking with a femme fatale might heal the bruises and scrapes from a beating within 36 hours, you still have to be ready to shout "Geronimo" at the right moment. The decent genre direction through a nostalgic "confession" is slightly dulled by melodramatic elements, but by the end, you’re still faced with the reality that Bogart holds all the cards in his pocket.

You’ll notice right from the start that you’re watching a neo-western rather than a traditional western, as the stranger doesn’t arrive in town on a steam locomotive but on a diesel train. The paranoia of the locals, supported by their dark consciences, slowly reveals the underlying motives and objectives of the story, culminating in a final showdown that follows traditional templates with the added value of insight into racism and the discrimination faced by Japanese Americans during World War II. Throughout, I expected Spencer Tracy's character to have some sort of ace up his sleeve, perhaps hiding a mini Gatling gun in his left pocket instead of a prosthetic limb, but he ultimately relies only on Japanese and Finnish elements (karate and Molotov cocktails). He somewhat reminded me of Gabin: calm, measured, principled, and capable of getting under people’s skin with just his words. These were the keys to essentially completing the mission.

A police strike, and murder is just fine! One might smile at the acting performances, the accuracy of the improvised bazooka, or the contribution of the blind expert on wiretaps with a glass on the wall, but from the initial character setup, we’re on a ride more thrilling than those on precincts built by American carpenters. The mass execution in the bar, the faces of homophobic "scarecrows" from the New Order, the use of limited space and its claustrophobic effects, and the final shot, which is stylistically "shocking" yet, given the preceding events, feels natural. Within the home invasion genre, it’s a dusty gem from Canadian soil.

Survive and testify, just to sit in the courtroom and watch as the judge delivers the verdict and the convicted criminal starts to feel the noose of his tie tightening. Thanks to Hackman's unfiltered mouth, the conversational aspects (a friendly chat with killers over coffee and something stronger) are more entertaining than the unconvincing action scenes (starting with a toy helicopter and ending with a fight between “too tall” characters on top of a train). As a spoiler, I must mention that the longevity of the Walshes here is surprisingly brief.

Mother Nature can’t be thrown into a cell at Guantanamo, so what’s left for us to do? Change our email signature to: “Think of yourself… Print this email in as many copies as possible!” It seems we can't do anything. Shyamalan usually hits the right note with his choice of themes and presentation, but here, even with its slim runtime, there’s a lack of coherence, the relationship to the central duo at the heart of the apocalypse is entirely indifferent, and Professor Wahlberg's "performance" wouldn’t even suffice for modeling underwear. However, it makes no sense to pretend it didn’t happen. Compared to The Last Airbender, it’s still an attractive spectacle.

Two seemingly unrelated cases and the salvation of the British Empire from a world war—albeit temporarily, by principle. Although it's almost at retirement home levels, the collaboration between Cushing, whose sharp features could be used for opening envelopes, and Mills, who looks like he fell out of James Mason’s belly, works quite well. Sherlock, as usual, gets exasperated by women, engages in disguises akin to Inspector Clouseau, and in the end, in collaboration with a future CI5 chief, manages to move some unpleasant events to Belgian soil. By the way, it’s odd that Cowley looks the same here as he did at the end of the seventies. When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. So he must be Highlander...

White Warrior! White Warrior! White Warrior! White Warrior! A marvelously subtitled work where coach Jean-Claude Van Damme can hardly believe his eyes and is lucky no one bit his ear off. Overloaded with a plethora of supposedly thrilling fight scenes, which, due to frequent slow-motion shots, only needed the occasional flying dove (until Ronaldinho knocked them out with a volley). If this tires you out, you’ll get a dose of macho speeches and interludes of mentor wisdom (you must anticipate the movement of the air before it happens, regardless of whether your opponent had legumes for lunch). The endless final "gladiatorial" fight against the Icelandic clumsy oaf lacked credibility without any cuts, bruises, or visible contusions. As it was, the doctor was only there to pronounce the time of death, and he should have his diploma revoked for that.