Film Reviews by JK

I liked this film. I liked the stylised set, especially the tiling, I liked the music. I liked the allegorical nature of the whole thing. I liked that it wasn't too heavy-handed on the 'outcast/immigrant/other' of the main characters - disabled woman, gay man, black woman, something other than a 'human being' etc. and how they tolerated the boorish, arse-licking inferiority complexed baddie with such dignity. There were beautifully subtle throw-away lines like when Strickland feels he has to explain certain words to an obviously educated cleaner. He is so clearly from the 'wrong side of the tracks' but tries to make out he's up there with the elite. The scene in the Cadillac showroom is cringeworthy as the spat-booted salesman creams up the patter to easily persuade Strickland that he was made for a Caddie. Strickland is a sap - and he knows it: His wife and kids take him for one. The five star general knows he's one. His side kick and secretary know he's one but he's a bully and they need their jobs. As a psychological thriller it was wonderfully done. The story is absolute rubbish but it was never about the story. Look beneath the surface (which is evidently why the creature was from underwater) and appreciate it for what it is.

No pretensions just a straightforward film about a man whose choices diminished as the waves grew bigger

I am not hard of hearing. My husband is not hard of hearing yet, like several other reviewers, we couldn't make head-nor-tail of what most of the characters were saying. Richard Gere appeared to be miming a typical Richard Gere character and Steve Coogan was doing a fine job of pulling faces but we weren't at all sure why.

This was a wasted opportunity as there were a couple of bits we did manage to catch which were quite funny - the Maitre D over-describing every dish.

Aside from that we strained with increasing bafflement until we gave gave up and went to bed.

Why is it necessary for there to be a 'soundtrack' of music over everything that's going on in films these days so that it's impossible to understand what the characters are saying. They were not in a nightclub, shopping mall, recording studio for any of the scenes as far as I could make out, and it's doubtful that any restaurant that swanky would have had music blaring out in the first place.

There also seemed to be a parallel story line going on with mumbling teenagers - although whose offspring they were was anybody's guess and, frankly, we just didn't care.

I couldn't get to grips with what period of the 1920's/30's this film was supposed to be set in. The story was chronologically in the 1920's but all the (gorgeous) Art Deco furniture looked much more 1930's. My understanding had been that Milne was an 'older' father - certainly late 30's early 40's but the actor looked much younger - as did his wife. This lead me to believe that the whole thing had been 'Hollywood-ised' for the American market. Older man, plain wife and drab furniture do not a stylised, 'English' film make in the eyes of producers, keen to maximise on the cute kid, the doleful bear (not wearing a red vest) and their perception of Upper Class Gentry.

Unfortunately, this overshadowed what could have been a poignant and tragic story about a mother's rejection of her child due to having had a difficult birth, a traumatised father suffering from PTSD; - (read his poem entitled The Doormouse and The Doctor if you want to know the depths to which his depression sank) - and the country-wide craving for sanitised 'normality' following a horrific war.

Only towards the end did I start to feel I could cut through the sentimental schmaltz and begin to get the genuine emotion of the film.

I was so bored with this film I began wondering how much I could get on ebay for some of the props and furniture - that settee in the hallway was fabulous not to mention the double height glass doors.....

Oh - was there supposed to be some sort of plot? Thoroughly unengaging hormonal boy falls for what appears to be a baseball jock when he comes to spend six weeks doing something or other in a very nice Italian villa. It was never clear what it was the jock was supposed to be doing - maybe hanging around the pool, cycling around the countryside - who knows? He and the family he is staying with are Jewish but no explanation is given as to how this might develop the plot. Most of the characters speak French for some inexplicable reason as it's set in Italy - only the servants speak Italian.

The boy 'transcribes' music but we have no idea why. Transcribes it into what? His indulgent parents appear not to notice that their son never lifts a finger to do anything around the house and that his music is a very small part of his life, especially if it interferes with lying on his bed pouting. He has a sister - but she must have fallen in the pool halfway through as she disappears into the ether as do several other characters who glance through and then vanish again.

Plus points - the scenery, set, clothes and especially the soundtrack are gorgeous - Ravel's Mother Goose Suite played on solo piano is ravishing but somewhat wasted watching Mr Pouty either wrestling with the Jock or his turbulent hormones.

The one redeeming point was the father's speech at the end of the film. Had I known it was coming I would have fast forwarded just to watch that bit and missed out on all the inconsequential fumblings.

The whole point of disaster movies, especially those which give away the entire plot line in the title, is that they are meant to be formulaic and OTT bad. Trying to make a serious one (as this one is) is about as daft as making a politically correct pantomime - it just doesn't work. If you call something 'The Wave' what the hell was the audience expecting - a surf movie? Had they entitled it 'The Fjord' I might have stayed with it longer than I did assuming it to be a travelogue.

Despite all attempts to introduce twists and turns to the plot it was dull.

Reviewers bought up on a diet of Boney M and Mantovani were never really going to like this film - let's be honest. This sort of jazz is musical Marmite. The sheer cleverness of the wit, the superb tightness of the band, the dark menace of the lighting were the textural underbelly which supported a tried and tested storyline - that was the whole point surely? If you were to listen to only one instrumental section of course it would sound thin and feeble in the same way that if you only took the plot at face value - bully eventually gets the best of pupil/recruit etc. - it would seem hackneyed. But the brilliance was how gorgeously all the instruments and all the film elements blended into the whole.

The lurve interest detracted a bit from the story line but presumably that was to illustrate how much his drum dedication usurped even desire.

Over many years of film watching I have been known to say "This was probably the worst film I have ever seen." La La Land was just such an occasion. Almost everything about it annoyed me; The opening number was hardly Buzby Berkley - it's hard to look elegant jumping over a car bonnet and for all the ceaseless repetition of the chorus hook line - "Another Day Of.....schuwmmnnnmmmm", it was impossible to hear what they were saying. How come I can get an old 1940's or 30's film and be able to understand every word yet with all the technology at their disposal we were either straining to hear mumbled songs and speeches but deafened when it came to sound effects?

Neither character appeared to be able to sing or dance with any proficiency and neither of them appeared to even like each other - the chemistry wasn't just wrong it was non-existent. Apparently, Ryan Gosling 'actually learned to play the piano' to add to the authenticity. Well done Ryan. If you were in a Western you would probably have had to learn to sit on a horse.

I lost track of the plot about ten minutes in and really didn't care anyway - I was too busy being cross. Seemingly, in La La Land, four girls who work as waitresses and baristas whilst they await their big acting break can afford to live in a 20 room apartment, have a complete wardrobe of primary-coloured dresses and spend much of their time necking expensive cocktails in nightclubs with Olympic swimming pools. I suppose this was at least an example of the fairytale disbelief we were supposed to be immersing ourselves in.

The worst part for me was the whole premis that whatever-his-name-was (the male character) had high musical principles and was refusing to compromise his 'art' even if it meant he wasn't able to pay for the flat, the car, the clothes, the nights out etc. he seemed to be able to afford. He goes to his old job, warned by the manager not to play "any of that wild stuff" but to stick to the Xmas carols as a festive token to all the plebs who weren't listening anyway. Then he launches into "Jazz". What he launched into was a sanitised version of jazz whilst invoking names of jazz musicians 'ordinary people' may possibly have heard of to make it appear authentic. This movie is to Jazz what Ludivico Einaudi is to classical music. He then does "sell out" to play in what looked like Emerson Lake and Palmer meets Earth Wind and Fire sound-alike band.

What really beggars belief is how this totally underwhelming film in every way won so many plaudits? The sound was awful. The music was instantly forgettable. The colours were garish - I thought it was a take on the 1950's until she appeared on a mobile 'phone.... and there was nothing that didn't make me wish both protagonists wouldn't accidentally soft-shoe over the edge of a cliff.

There was probably some point to this film but I couldn't hang around to find out what it was. Heaven knows what the set must have cost, not to mention all the luminous green water.

Any film depicting the Holocaust is going to be harrowing to watch and this is no exception but it was beautifully understated and moving in places. Tying it in with a journalist's quest to discover the truth was a clever device but some of the 'coincidences' were stretching credibility a bit too far. You really have to focus hard to connect up all the various characters, some of whom appear in meaningful ways only to be left unresolved leaving one to wonder what they had to do with anything?

Thank heavens we only got the 3 hour instead of the 5 hour version. Yes, it was superbly shot and the actors all did well not to have nodded off between takes but I really must have missed an integral point with this film. A rather unprepossessing lad who says practically nothing throughout the entire film and his little sister are the Fanny and Alexander of the title and the film seems to have been shot through the eyes of Alexander who spends a lot of time sitting under tables swearing to himself.

The sets are sumptuous as are the costumes and it probably depicts life in turn of the century Swedish aristocracy very accurately and meticulously but who were all those people? What appeared to be three identical-looking brothers, each with their foibles. A woman who was supposed to be their mother but who looked considerably younger than all three of them and an assortment of wives, mistresses (one of whom limped for an unexplained reason) and servants in crisp pinnies.

They all appeared to live in one enormous house but 'going to grandmother's for Christmas' was a very big deal all round. A lot of screaming took place in this house which nobody seemed at all bothered about and somebody dies early on which brought on a lot of wailing and gnashing of teeth. Maybe this is an accurate depiction of Swedish life. Every so often, there was a lingering and meaningful shot of a weir with swirling brown water which lead you to think that something meaningful rather than allegorical was about to happen. I missed the next 20 minutes. Perhaps it was all made clear then. It resumed with another boy who appeared to be locked in a cage for his own safety found it necessary to take Alexander's clothes off whilst he whispered something in his ear. The one of the brother made a ludicrously long speech whilst encircling a room full of family and babies and lots of jolly floral garlands and it came to an abrupt end.

I'm certainly not a fan of fast-paced, action movies and plots rattling through at breakneck speed but this was the proverbial 'watching paint dry' albeit expensive and tasteful Farrow and Ball paint.

I thought this was brilliantly done; so true to my own life when my sisters and I experienced the death of our mother. All the cast, especially Julie Walters, were fantastic. You do these things - clean incessantly, drink stuff you've never even touched before, laughed hysterically at stuff - it is all so beautifully observed and understated.

I am unable to match the eloquence of previous reviewers all of whom appear to have a mastery of the English language. This leads me to think that the majority of people who watched this film are middle class and educated - Guardian readers and BBC 4 watchers. I may be (and hope) I am totally wrong with this assumption.

The film is brilliant, well acted and shows up the naivety of a system designed by people who have obviously never had to become involved in the benefits system themselves - much the same way as the people who run the NHS have never been ill or have private medical insurance.

I cannot fault this film but for one niggling thought: What is the two main characters were not 'attractive' or 'fine, morally astute people.'?

What if they had been fat or slovenly or swore a lot or stole things other than necessities from shops? What if their children were not incredibly photogenic or cute or had scabies or physical deformities? Would our sense of righteous indignation at their plight have been as strong as it was calculated to have been?

More twisty than a switchback, the plot keeps you on your toes throughout. Like other reviewers have said before, when someone gets duffed up we all know what's happened without it having to last ten minutes and involve buckets of tomato ketchup. There is no need for sound effects, grunts etc. The same with sex: When two (possibly more - it's a liberal world) go into a room and the door shuts we're fairly sure they're not listening to The Archers.

Beautifully shot - boy, when it rains it really rains (despite the fact that nobody's raincoat drips or they leave wet footprints on the carpet)

Gene Tierney's outfits are to die for. Cross-cut, figure-hugging dresses and she wasn't a stick insect like so many of today's models appear to be. The one big BUT were the lamp shades. If you thought the hats were silly you had to get a load of the lampshades..... oh... and the ridiculous suits the men wore (but that may have been the ratio we were watching the film in were everyone is five feet two with gigantic shoulders and trousers with enough material to fill a schooner sail.)

Back to the lamp shades; Many of them defied description - tarts knickers atop what appeared to be the model of an industrial power station. Gene Tierney's apartment made B+Q look positively tasteful.

Another plus point was that you could hear every word every character said. Each word was perfectly enunciated so we could actually understand the plot - unlike today's films where one has to decipher what may be going on between the mumbled dialogue, the ridiculously over-loud sound effects, the music that has nothing whatsoever to do with the plot but was probably a pop record the producer's daughter liked and the deafening CGI effects.

And finally - the gorgeous music. 'Laura' the theme tune so wonderfully understated but introduced with such subtlety that it imprints itself as a fabulous ear worm for the rest of the night.

This film is deservedly a classic even if it creaks in a couple of places.

This just didn't do it for me. Whoever the 2nd love interest was (at least Hugh Grant had charisma and was good looking) was unconvincing. Colin Firth looked like he wished he wasn't there throughout but needed the money. One or two mild smiles but frankly it was squeezing the dregs from what had been a great comic seam. Please - no more