D. Simon Olson
Colour
As I sit here and type with the bangs and whizzes of early fireworks rattling and screeching through my study window, I can’t help thinking that surely Ray Winstone could make a good enough crust out of just appearing in big budget Hollywood movies. I know this seems a strange thought to be randomly popping into my head, but please bear with me. In the last few years alone, East London’s favourite big grizzly bear has popped up again and again in lavish stateside productions. I can think of ‘Noah’, ‘Edge of Darkness’ and ‘The Departed’ off the top of my head, all of which boasted the prominent Winstone scowl. But no, it seems any opportunity he gets Winstone will slot into some British film made for tuppence ha’penny with a script that knows gritty violence sells. Which brings me onto today’s subject, this Ray Winstone starring, undeniably British, Bonfire Night-set murder mystery. My thoughts are making a kind of sense now, aren’t they?
A burnt out detective inspector is called to investigate two murders at the start of Bonfire Night. As the darkness falls and the bonfires start up, the cop finds himself alone in a suburban wilderness, without back-up or a walkie-talkie, battling a serial killer who is like a tabby with a rodent. Around him are dead eyed Bonfire Night revellers, many dressed in scary masks and costumes, who offer him no help, aid or solace whatsoever.
Without a shadow of a doubt it’s cinematic. Normal film whodunnits involve a lot of sitting in rooms with people talking. Yes these scenes of people sat in rooms talking can be shot with great tension and skill, they can even be interspersed with car chases, but the modus operandi remains the same. Here however the whodunit takes place in the nightmare bleakness of suburbia, with most of the scenes illuminated by the flickering orange glow of nearby bonfires, thus giving them a savage dream-like quality. In the background there is the savage whizz and explosions of rockets and Catherine wheels, the dark sky suddenly illuminated by screaming lines of fire. It’s no surprise then that Winstone’s character is soon looking so woozy and disorientated, as the whole does look like some dreadful acid trip.
There’s a strange melding of Halloween and Bonfire Night here. Even though the film is truly and obviously British, there does seem to be misinformation about what Bonfire Night is actually like. I’ve not really partaken in awhile, but when I think of Bonfire Nights as a kid I remember huddling in the backgarden watching the fireworks my dad purchased from the newsagent, holding sparklers and eating cheesy jacket potatoes. We never dressed up in monster movie outfits, we never wore scary masks and aiding lunatic serial killers was scarcely ever on our agenda.
But then I guess the international markets wouldn’t know what Bonfire Night was, Halloween is international, they’re near each other – so why not add two to two and come up with the kind of scary Bonfire Night nobody in their right mind would ever want to take part in?
The chase at the end involving a London bus is a tad ridiculous as nobody ever tries to outrun anything on a London bus, but this is, despite the darkness and dialogue muffled by pops and fizzles, a roaring London thriller which – much like bonfire night itself – is not as good as you want it to be.
Showing posts with label November the 5th. Show all posts
Showing posts with label November the 5th. Show all posts
Sunday, 2 November 2014
Wednesday, 6 November 2013
Remember, Remember (1985)
D.
Tom Warmby
Colour
Maybe the casting notes got muddled up, or maybe the actors names were fed into a tombola and the roles were allocated by simple chance. Or perhaps this was the director’s attempt to take something that had ‘bog-standard thriller’ stamped right the way through it, and turn it into a film slightly more interesting. As let’s be fair, if this film was cast the way it should be cast, there’s no way that this blog would give it a moment’s glance. It would just be another generic 80s British thriller with tough cops and brassy birds, all predictably culminating in a shoot-out in the building site that was then the London Docklands. It would have shown up in video stores with scowling men on the front cover, posing in front of explosions. Okay, that’s almost exactly how the cover appeared when it was leaked out like a bad smell, but if you took a moment to read the blurb then you’d have realised it was pushing with all its might against its assigned box.
‘Remember, Remember’ is a duel between two complete opposites. In our corner we have the suave, sexy, super-agent who is working for British interests. In the other we have the asexual, sinister foreign saboteur, looking to succeed where Guy Fawkes failed and blow up The Houses of Parliament. It’s a tense race against time, a high-wire game of guns and explosions which only one man can win. And if I told you that our two leads were Donald Pleasence and Martin Shaw, you’d know exactly who was playing whom. It’s so obvious, scribble the script down on the back of an envelope, shoot it in the most formulaic style possible and consider the job done. Next!
But, of course, as you’ve no doubt guessed by now, Martin Shaw is here cast as the villain and Donald Pleasence is the charming and handsome good guy.
How this happened I have no idea (the film is too obscure to have any behind the scenes featurettes). Maybe Shaw thought that the hero as written was too close to Brodie in ‘The Professionals’, perhaps this was his attempt to stretch his acting muscles. Clearly he enjoying himself, adding a demonic glow to his eyes and speaking every line with vague Germanic relish. He’s entertaining in a part which is unlike anything else he’s ever played.
Imagine though, waking up one morning and looking like Donald Pleasence – bald, tubby and now over the hill, yet cast as a charismatic sex symbol. He must have danced his way to the set each and every morning. And to be fair he does mostly sell it, there’s an aura to him, an invincibility, a definite twinkle. He can almost pass as man of action with a plan for every eventuality. It nearly works. The place it falls apart is in his desirability to the opposite sex. No matter how good an actor (and Donald Pleasence was a really good actor), he cannot sell the notion that he is cat-nip to the ladies. It seems incredible unlikely that he and the svelte and lovely Fiona Fullerton would be in an intense on/off relationship; it’s equally absurd that sexy foreign spy, the tantalising Glynis Barber, would lick her lips so excitedly in his presence and change sides to be with him; just as the notion that busty and perky Nicola Bryant would willingly play his Moneypenny and flirt so outrageously is really rather odd and disturbing. Even the most generously minded Donald Pleasence fan will think it looks ridiculous, the kind of thing that happens to Woody Allen in later Woody Allen films, but to no one else. Of course Pleasence enjoys himself, it must be highly flattering to him, but there’s nothing he can do to make himself sexier. If bald, overweight and aging men were actually considered the height of attractiveness, Eric Pickles would be one of the biggest stars in the world right now. They’re not and he isn’t.
And so we have a film which should be dull, and to be honest often is dull, but is enlivened by the casting. The sad problem is that a pedestrian script and bog-standard action scenes cannot be spruced up no matter how ludicrous your leading man. It’s well worth watching just for the performances, but don’t expect any more depth than one would associate with the modern day straight to video equivalent – the Vinnie Jones film.
Pleasence and Shaw are both great: Shaw enjoying his time as a Blofeld knock-off; Pleasence delighted not to be doing Blofeld again. And if you’re wondering who the actress playing Martin Shaw’s ultra-loyal secretary is – then, yes, that is John Hurt in drag. Inspiration did strike more than once while making this film then, but if only it had been more fulsome.
Colour
Maybe the casting notes got muddled up, or maybe the actors names were fed into a tombola and the roles were allocated by simple chance. Or perhaps this was the director’s attempt to take something that had ‘bog-standard thriller’ stamped right the way through it, and turn it into a film slightly more interesting. As let’s be fair, if this film was cast the way it should be cast, there’s no way that this blog would give it a moment’s glance. It would just be another generic 80s British thriller with tough cops and brassy birds, all predictably culminating in a shoot-out in the building site that was then the London Docklands. It would have shown up in video stores with scowling men on the front cover, posing in front of explosions. Okay, that’s almost exactly how the cover appeared when it was leaked out like a bad smell, but if you took a moment to read the blurb then you’d have realised it was pushing with all its might against its assigned box.
‘Remember, Remember’ is a duel between two complete opposites. In our corner we have the suave, sexy, super-agent who is working for British interests. In the other we have the asexual, sinister foreign saboteur, looking to succeed where Guy Fawkes failed and blow up The Houses of Parliament. It’s a tense race against time, a high-wire game of guns and explosions which only one man can win. And if I told you that our two leads were Donald Pleasence and Martin Shaw, you’d know exactly who was playing whom. It’s so obvious, scribble the script down on the back of an envelope, shoot it in the most formulaic style possible and consider the job done. Next!
But, of course, as you’ve no doubt guessed by now, Martin Shaw is here cast as the villain and Donald Pleasence is the charming and handsome good guy.
How this happened I have no idea (the film is too obscure to have any behind the scenes featurettes). Maybe Shaw thought that the hero as written was too close to Brodie in ‘The Professionals’, perhaps this was his attempt to stretch his acting muscles. Clearly he enjoying himself, adding a demonic glow to his eyes and speaking every line with vague Germanic relish. He’s entertaining in a part which is unlike anything else he’s ever played.
Imagine though, waking up one morning and looking like Donald Pleasence – bald, tubby and now over the hill, yet cast as a charismatic sex symbol. He must have danced his way to the set each and every morning. And to be fair he does mostly sell it, there’s an aura to him, an invincibility, a definite twinkle. He can almost pass as man of action with a plan for every eventuality. It nearly works. The place it falls apart is in his desirability to the opposite sex. No matter how good an actor (and Donald Pleasence was a really good actor), he cannot sell the notion that he is cat-nip to the ladies. It seems incredible unlikely that he and the svelte and lovely Fiona Fullerton would be in an intense on/off relationship; it’s equally absurd that sexy foreign spy, the tantalising Glynis Barber, would lick her lips so excitedly in his presence and change sides to be with him; just as the notion that busty and perky Nicola Bryant would willingly play his Moneypenny and flirt so outrageously is really rather odd and disturbing. Even the most generously minded Donald Pleasence fan will think it looks ridiculous, the kind of thing that happens to Woody Allen in later Woody Allen films, but to no one else. Of course Pleasence enjoys himself, it must be highly flattering to him, but there’s nothing he can do to make himself sexier. If bald, overweight and aging men were actually considered the height of attractiveness, Eric Pickles would be one of the biggest stars in the world right now. They’re not and he isn’t.
And so we have a film which should be dull, and to be honest often is dull, but is enlivened by the casting. The sad problem is that a pedestrian script and bog-standard action scenes cannot be spruced up no matter how ludicrous your leading man. It’s well worth watching just for the performances, but don’t expect any more depth than one would associate with the modern day straight to video equivalent – the Vinnie Jones film.
Pleasence and Shaw are both great: Shaw enjoying his time as a Blofeld knock-off; Pleasence delighted not to be doing Blofeld again. And if you’re wondering who the actress playing Martin Shaw’s ultra-loyal secretary is – then, yes, that is John Hurt in drag. Inspiration did strike more than once while making this film then, but if only it had been more fulsome.
Sunday, 3 November 2013
Bonfire Bill (1964)
D.
Sidney Hayers
Colour
Equally there’s something quite terrifying about the being known as Cliff Richard. It’s the fact that he’s so perky and smiling, and yet so absolutely sexless. He should have – as the first British rock star – been a figure of snarling, rebellious, unfettered libido. Instead he was a eunuch type character who maiden aunts thought would be quite nice for cuddle. Of course we mock him for having sung ‘Bachelor Boy’ and then never marrying. But I think we should take it more seriously than just a joke. I think Cliff Richard has taken the word ‘bachelor’ and absolutely ruined it. Back in the day your ‘confirmed bachelor’ was a swinging and happening ladies’ man, a proto Don Draper. Now it’s a euphemism for a man who is a bit creepy and odd, but – hey – is okay with that. Thanks a lot, Sir Cliff. And it’s amazing how early in his career this happened, how young a man he was when he truly embraced this oddball image. Here he is in 1964, totally anodyne and as unthreatening as a corner table. Elvis is similarly declared to be neutered post-Army, but this is the same year he had ‘Viva Las Vegas’ (with ‘Wuthering Heights’ and ‘The Great Gatsby’ not long behind him). Cliff however is already your granny’s favourite, and not a very discerning granny at that.
Here we have an oddball children’s film which shows how utterly irrelevant these original British rock stars had become in the mid-sixties. All the cool kids are screaming at The Beatles and The Stones, while Tommy and Cliff sing to their younger brothers and sisters while idly remembering how nice it was to have testicles. Cliff is the eponymous Bonfire Bill, the man who brings bonfires to all communities every November the fifth. He’s a spectral and other worldly being, but one with boyish charm and a great singing voice. We get to watch him sing songs like ‘Party Every Year’ and ‘November the Fifth – The Day for Fire’ which are every bit as boring and pedestrian as those titles suggest. More impressively, he performs Peggy Lee’s ‘Fever’ with so little heat it wouldn’t even singe the thinnest slice of bacon. On the other side is Tommy Steele as Councilman Ciljoy, wearing a grimace which has served him well in dozens of revivals of ‘The Christmas Carol’. He's a sour-faced misery who doesn’t want bonfires in his town this year, thank you very much, and so bans them.
I think we all know who will win this battle of the out of time 50s’ singers though.
What’s truly depressing about this film is not how toothless (and it is quite a feat to make a toothless film starring Tommy Steele) and sexless these pop stars were by 1964, but how this film exists having torn the guts out of its own setting. There is no mention of Guy Fawkes, there is no mention of the actual roots of bonfire night. That is a story which involves oppression and brutality, one which ends with hanging, drawing and quartering. All of those details are ignored. Instead we get bonfire night as the gift of this impish Easter Bunny-eque character, albeit one with less sex-drive than any rabbit ever born. It’s a dispiriting watch, and the audience can only wish that the chief antagonist – instead of just glowering – would make good use of those teeth and eat Cliff instead.
Colour
There’s something quite terrifying about Tommy Steele’s
teeth. They loom out of his face at you, seeming to lurk and then leap forward,
far further than could humanly be possible. They’re floating white obelisks which
will hide in the dark determined to gnash at you when your weakest moment
arrives. They are not just too big for his mouth, they’re too big for his head,
too big for his entire flipping body. They are horrifying teeth, monstrous
teeth, the kind of teeth great white sharks would be intimidated by. I have
written a lot of horror in my time, but I can think of no more terrifying image
than Tommy Steele’s teeth in 3D cinemascope. Can you imagine those giant, shiny
whites thirty foot high and reaching out to you? It’s the kind of sight which
would make the toughest strong man wet himself with fear.
Equally there’s something quite terrifying about the being known as Cliff Richard. It’s the fact that he’s so perky and smiling, and yet so absolutely sexless. He should have – as the first British rock star – been a figure of snarling, rebellious, unfettered libido. Instead he was a eunuch type character who maiden aunts thought would be quite nice for cuddle. Of course we mock him for having sung ‘Bachelor Boy’ and then never marrying. But I think we should take it more seriously than just a joke. I think Cliff Richard has taken the word ‘bachelor’ and absolutely ruined it. Back in the day your ‘confirmed bachelor’ was a swinging and happening ladies’ man, a proto Don Draper. Now it’s a euphemism for a man who is a bit creepy and odd, but – hey – is okay with that. Thanks a lot, Sir Cliff. And it’s amazing how early in his career this happened, how young a man he was when he truly embraced this oddball image. Here he is in 1964, totally anodyne and as unthreatening as a corner table. Elvis is similarly declared to be neutered post-Army, but this is the same year he had ‘Viva Las Vegas’ (with ‘Wuthering Heights’ and ‘The Great Gatsby’ not long behind him). Cliff however is already your granny’s favourite, and not a very discerning granny at that.
Here we have an oddball children’s film which shows how utterly irrelevant these original British rock stars had become in the mid-sixties. All the cool kids are screaming at The Beatles and The Stones, while Tommy and Cliff sing to their younger brothers and sisters while idly remembering how nice it was to have testicles. Cliff is the eponymous Bonfire Bill, the man who brings bonfires to all communities every November the fifth. He’s a spectral and other worldly being, but one with boyish charm and a great singing voice. We get to watch him sing songs like ‘Party Every Year’ and ‘November the Fifth – The Day for Fire’ which are every bit as boring and pedestrian as those titles suggest. More impressively, he performs Peggy Lee’s ‘Fever’ with so little heat it wouldn’t even singe the thinnest slice of bacon. On the other side is Tommy Steele as Councilman Ciljoy, wearing a grimace which has served him well in dozens of revivals of ‘The Christmas Carol’. He's a sour-faced misery who doesn’t want bonfires in his town this year, thank you very much, and so bans them.
I think we all know who will win this battle of the out of time 50s’ singers though.
What’s truly depressing about this film is not how toothless (and it is quite a feat to make a toothless film starring Tommy Steele) and sexless these pop stars were by 1964, but how this film exists having torn the guts out of its own setting. There is no mention of Guy Fawkes, there is no mention of the actual roots of bonfire night. That is a story which involves oppression and brutality, one which ends with hanging, drawing and quartering. All of those details are ignored. Instead we get bonfire night as the gift of this impish Easter Bunny-eque character, albeit one with less sex-drive than any rabbit ever born. It’s a dispiriting watch, and the audience can only wish that the chief antagonist – instead of just glowering – would make good use of those teeth and eat Cliff instead.
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