Film Reviews by Steve

Plotless arthouse favourite which meanders as the films of Michelangelo Antonioni often do, yet is also interesting and accessible. There are his usual themes of social alienation and cultural atrophy set among a feckless elite. But this looks very different.

It’s his first colour film and there is a gaudy and sickly palette of unnatural, fluorescent shades. It’s mostly a conversation between Monica Vitti as a wealthy housewife who has been discharged from hospital after a mental breakdown, and Richard Harris as a pragmatic business manager.

And they wander around the toxic industrial heartland of northern Italy which reflects her psychological disease. And is indeed a cause of her deep inner anxiety. Because modern life is poisonous. The director even painted and dyed the scenery to enhance its insidious, ominous malignancy.

The director claimed there is no environmental message, but presumably this is disingenuous. The industrial habitat is ostentatiously hostile. The electro-prog soundtrack just deepens the sense of unease. Hell, so does the bad dubbing! This is avant-garde, and there are longueurs. But it’s not obscure.

After Onibaba (1964) was an international success, Kaneto Shindô returned to the mythology of medieval Japan with this similar ghost story. Again, there is the mother (Nobuko Otawa) and wife (Kichiemon Nakamura) of a conscripted soldier left to fend for themselves during a civil war.

This time they inhabit a forest of bamboo, rather than a meadow of tall grass. And the supernatural element is more integral to the story. After the two isolated women are raped and murdered by samurai warriors, they return as malevolent cat-spirits to avenge themselves on the soldiers who pass through their enchanted domain.

Which is complicated when the son/husband returns from the war as a samurai. The mythic tale is interesting though would suit an anthology rather than feature film length. The main difference from Onibaba is there is so much more arcane Japanese theatricality in the staging of the story.

For some this will feel exotic, and for others it will be esoteric, and alien. Why does the mother perform an improvised dance while the wife rips out the throat of the samurai with her teeth? It’s beautifully photographed and performed, but arguably doesn’t cross over to a western audience as successfully as Onibaba. 

Profound allegory which is both philosophical, and ultimately heartbreaking. A travelling entomologist finds himself trapped with/by a passive, submissive widow who seems to have accepted her life, endlessly digging out the deep pit of sand which serves as her home.

And inexorably, the academic conforms to his new reality in reduced circumstances. Within this premise is the whole of the human condition; it is impressively pliable. And we observe how perspective and proximity transform our understanding.

But this isn’t really a head movie. The shifting emotional relationship between the cohabiters is central. The actors are exceptional, including Eiji Okada as the captured male. And especially Kyôko Kishida as the lonely, pragmatic woman of the dunes. Among the greatest screen performances.

Slowly she engages our empathy. And pity. The expressive images of the sand, the sensual closeups of the lovers and the weird atonal soundtrack combine to make it a unique sensory experience. This is an astonishing Japanese art film; once seen, never forgotten.

Critically adored neorealism about the 1954-62 nationalist uprising in Algiers against the French colonial occupation. This was shot with an amateur cast in the real locations- including extensively in the Casbah- and is so authentic that its posters were tagged with the warning that this is not a documentary.

It was banned in France for many years, but was celebrated enough to be nominated for three Oscars. Surely this influenced the popular insurgencies of ’68, and certainly inspired other film makers. It portrays the bombing of civilian targets and the retaliatory torture by the military.

So it’s realistic and disturbing. Though it is balanced, as atrocities on either side are represented as well as contrasting political discourse. It describes the organisation of the terrorist cells and the political pressure applied by public opinion. But this is most celebrated for the astonishing authenticity of the action sequences.

It is put together like a thriller, with moments of suspense which evoke Alfred Hitchcock, and a nervy jazz-rock soundtrack by Ennio Morricone. Eventually, it starts to feel like watching the uprising actually take place. And then, all the subsequent wars in which a colonial power has suppressed nationalist groups. It is that subversive.

After A Fistful of Dollars was a huge success in Italy, Sergio Leone’s producers demanded a sequel to cash in; which inspired the cynicism of this title. It is more sumptuous, with elaborate sets, imaginative use of locations, and there is a big leap forward in the quality of Ennio Morricone’s mythic spaghetti western score.

And there is a second Hollywood actor, with Lee Van Cleef as a foil to Clint Eastwood’s laconic, phlegmatic Man With No Name. And they are great together as the relentless bounty hunters each with a secret motive for gunning down Gian Maria Volontè’s intractable psycho-killer.

This is where Leone’s direction gets that pop art panache that the Dollar trilogy is famous for with the crazy angles, and particularly the montages of the actors squinting at each other in anticipation of another shoot out. There is an improved script with extra humour.

And the violence is more pitiless. It’s possible to miss the concise, lo-fi feel to A Fistful of Dollars. And both will be outclassed by The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. But this is still a fine, transitional western in which the director’s personal signature becomes defined.

Procedural account of operations in the French Resistance during the Nazi occupation. It is adapted from a contemporary record (by Joseph Kessel) and it has the feel of a journal; it is episodic, without a cohesive narrative. It reflects on the structure and strategy of the civilian army; the ethics, and the human cost.

And inevitably, their incredible bravery, which isn’t muted by Jean-Pierre Melville’s leisurely, understated approach. He was a soldier in the resistance and this seems authentic. Partly this is technique, with the distressed set design and barren locations and the chilly colour palette.

There is a plausible impression of emotional trauma. Of living in fear when no one can be trusted. And death is just a matter of time. All the performances are subdued. Lino Ventura has the central role as the ruthlessly pragmatic leader of a resistance cell, though Simone Signoret makes a greater impact as his astonishingly committed deputy.

And her story gives us the devastating conclusion. There are no major action scenes. There’s a lot of exposition and no explosions. It is utterly convincing. It’s conceivable that one day someone will make a better film about the French Resistance. But it won’t be directed by someone who was actually there. 

Sergio Leone’s mythic Dollar trilogy is the most influential western series ever made. They have been picked so clean by other film makers that it is now less obvious why they were a revolution. And in this low budget initial entry, the director’s pop art visuals are not as ostentatious as they would become; though we get the grotesque closeups.

In his breakout big screen role, Clint Eastwood is the stranger in a dusty, dirty, flea-bitten Mexican border town who aims to make money by exploiting the feud between the two prominent clans. The release was held up by a legal challenge from Ikira Kurasawa who noticed the similarity with his 1961 picture, Yojimbo.

Still, as the samurai film took the premise from Dashiell Hammett, it’s hard to be sympathetic. The detective in Red Harvest was even a Man With No Name, like the gunfighter in Leone’s trilogy. The drifter has no real motivation, other than money. Besides greed, there are no themes. This is about violent, stylish action and iconic motifs.

Which includes Clint’s instantly recognisable costume. He joins the ranks of stars known merely by their silhouette. His dialogue is stripped back to make him the original of the laconic/impassive/ironic ’60s tough guy. Accompanied by Ennio Morricone’s seminal mariachi score, this reimagined the western for another generation.

Ominous period drama with supernatural themes and a few moments of genuine horror. This is most memorable for its location, staged in meadows of tall dark grass which sways over the heads of the astonishingly pragmatic protagonists… set in feudal medieval Japan during a long civil war.

The mother and wife of a missing conscripted soldier survive by murdering samurai warriors and selling their armour and weapons, dumping the corpses in a deep abyss. His companion (Kei Satô) flees the war and reports the son/husband dead. Then has sex with the young widow (Jitsuko Yoshimura) while rejecting the older woman (Nobuko Otowa)...

And then things get really strange, with the appearance of a mysterious warlord in a demon mask. The dense eeriness of the period is engulfed by the uncanny, drawing on mythic buddhist legend. And the final, spine chilling sensation that all of this is intended to represent the horror of Hiroshima.

This superstitious, primitive, lawless society may even imply a post-apocalyptic future… Well, that’s my interpretation! The superior widescreen b&w photography, the sound editing, the weird jazz/percussive score… this is high quality cinema; an unorthodox historical spectacle like no other. 

Louis Malle’s best picture is a detailed and very compassionate account of the last 24 hours in the life of a depressed alcoholic who traverses his old support network searching for a reason to go on. Maurice Ronet is outstanding as the man who seems to have everything, but is consumed by his emotional sterility.

The script makes further gestures towards the cultural atrophy of the Parisian intellectual set. And the struggle for progressive causes. But this is mainly a precise examination of a psychological and philosophical degeneration. And an inability to find a second act for the causes of youth.

Every possible reason to endure is considered, and rejected. The music of Erik Satie is employed as a kind of wistful refrain for his emptiness. It’s astonishing that Malle makes this futility so compelling. His visual impression of internal despair is extraordinarily potent.

Today, the condition would be classed as a disease, though this isn’t examined. The psychiatrist has no insight. This is a sensitive and artistic, but inevitably challenging experience. The ambience of existential paralysis is so powerful. It’s my pick as the standout film of the French New Wave. 

This invented a whole new sub-genre; the conspiracy thriller. And inspired a wave of films that imagined secret corruption at the heart of the establishment. And really, what could be more now? For that, novelist Richard Condon deserves credit as his bestseller provides the twisty intrigue of the plot.

Which is expertly adapted into pure cinema by John Frankenheimer. It looks so fresh; surely he’s been studying the Nouvelle Vague? This is the most compelling film imaginable. It grips all the way to the last reveal. A US army platoon goes missing for three days in Korea. Have they been programmed to act against the state?

Military intelligence (Frank Sinatra) investigates a well connected war hero (Laurence Harvey) who may be a communist agent. The two stars are effective- with Harvey well cast for that slightly repellant quality. But Angela Lansbury steals the film as his conniving, frightening mother.

It is the first of the director’s conspiracy trilogy. Maybe there’s disappointment that the theme of the subterfuge is anti-communism, which reflects the real objectives of the American government. So it isn’t actually subversive. But the assassination of JFK a year later made it seem thrillingly intuitive. 

Sincere though laborious adaptation scripted by Alan Sillitoe from his own short story and filmed in the style of the British new wave. So it’s a look at ordinary lives made with authenticity and documentary style realism in legitimate locations, with the use of hand held cameras and natural lighting.

The frame of the author’s original story is sturdy but there is so much ballast loaded onto it that it becomes awkward and overextended. A feral kid (Tom Courtney) who habitually commits petty crime is sent to borstal where he is handpicked by the governor (Michael Redgrave) to represent the institution in a prize race.

The prison scenes endure, including the runner’s final act of futile rebellion. Tony Richardson’s Free Cinema vérité approach is robust. But the flashbacks to the boy’s impoverished existence in Nottingham slums are commonplace and burdened with mundane political insight.

The language of the unruly adolescents is dated and inert, though as a visual record of how things once were done, it stands up. There’s too much Sillitoe; not enough Richardson. Tom Courtney’s debut performance is convincing, but this feels more like something to study than entertainment. 

Dated culture clash comedy that supposes an introverted American academic finds another way of living among the spontaneous and non-materialistic residents of the Athenian port of Piraeus. But then attempts to change a carefree but illiterate sex worker to be more like himself.

So it’s Pygmalion, but set in 1960s Greece. Presumably this was personal for its writer/director Jules Dassin who settled in the country while a political casualty of the Communist blacklist. He also plays the earnest traveller of good intentions. And maybe there is some satire of American imperialism.

This was a box office success, and nominated for five Oscars. Its ethnographic approach to postwar Athens now feels patronising, though nostalgic for a time before mass tourism. The musical theme became hugely popular and will be instantly recognised by anyone who has ever been in a Greek restaurant.

It is most memorable for the performance of Dassin’s future wife, Melina Mercouri, as the happy-go-lucky working girl, a symbol of a naive but uncorrupted proletariat. She is really the whole film. Perhaps this had a greater impact in the ‘50s, a decade of conformity, but now seems ironically to lack spontaneity. 

Intriguing modernist enigma. Or pretentious arthouse bore. Few films have polarised its audience as decisively, and for so long. Alain Resnais’ puzzle is problematic because it is many different things. It moves between layers of symbolism and mood. And it is one of the most visually arresting films ever made.

At a grand Baroque estate populated by aristocrats in evening dress, a man (Giorgio Albertazzi) tells a woman (Delphine Seyrig) that he met her last year at Marienbad. Or was it Frederiksbad? Which she denies. To emphasise that this is a riddle- or a game- they and her husband are identified by letters.

And the viewers wonder what the hell is going on. There are many diverse opinions. The figures that occupy the palace are like ghosts who never quite connect with each other, who reflect on events that may never have taken place. It scored by the eerie, ominous drone of the organ and poetry of loss, impermanence and regret.

Resnais creates a unique space which is instantly recognisable. The visual imagery gives the film a surreal, dreamlike quality and a cool, aloof beauty. The symmetry and formal design emphasise the schematic nature of the plot. And we get lost- once more- in its mysterious, labyrinthine passageways.  

Fascinating though complex- and yes, difficult- arthouse classic which famously aroused loud disapproval at its opening in Cannes, though ultimately won a prize. It reflects on the themes which became characteristic of Michelangelo Antonioni’s films: isolation, communication and cultural atrophy.

And there is the familiar satire of some kind of elite; here, of the wealthy fashionistas of la dolce vita. A party of well connected yet trivial socialites visit the volcanic islands around Sicily and mysteriously lose one of their group (Lea Massari). Her partner (Gabriele Ferzetti) and friend (Monica Vitti) try to find her.

The opening titles are scored like a Mediterranean thriller and the disappearance might trigger that kind of story. But the two photogenic sleuths are soon distracted. They have an affair and their lives return to usual patterns. This unwillingness to pursue, or even resolve the puzzle is what got everyone upset at Cannes.

But of course, Antonioni is representing the condition of being alive. The scenes among the rocky islands are the most haunting, illustrating the inert isolation of the characters. Sure, sometimes this is frustrating, even boring, but that’s part of the experience! Antonioni was an esoteric, cerebral film maker, but usually more accessible than this sounds.

Gorgeous and ultra-stylish version of Patricia Highsmith’s The Talented Mr. Ripley set on the touristic Amalfi Coast, Italy, which deservedly made a star of moody Alain Delon in the title role. Its serene pacing allows for atmosphere without compromising on the suspense.

The sunny locations are so lovely that although this is about a schizophrenic who kills a couple of filthy rich expats, the tourist board of Naples must surely have approved. And with the shabby-chic clothes, beautiful stars and elegant interiors this is one of the most fashionable films ever made.

That aspirational quality is ideal for story about an insolvent, sociopathic American (Delon) who wants some of what the rich have and will do anything to get it. And given how cooly he goes about it, may have done it before. Which means danger for the affluent dilettante (Maurice Ronet) he was hired to bring home.

Delon is a sensation. At first, as the poor nobody, he is sympathetic. Until we see just how crazy he is. The whole photogenic cast is excellent. And it is superbly edited and photographed. There is nothing else like this. The remakes don’t come close; this is one of the great thrillers.