Review: FRIENDS WITH BENEFITS

Normally, a movie review sets out its stall with a little preamble, then a quick run through the basic plot, then a critique of perhaps the movie’s main selling points, before rounding things up in a tidy summary – the part most people skip to. Doubly so if there’s a star rating at the end.

That’s what I hate about movie reviews. They always stick to a certain formula, even if they try and pepper it up with a light smattering of casual swearing and a few references to popular culture that you can relate to because YOU KNOW ABOUT THAT THING THEY’RE TALKING ABOUT SO YOU MUST BE JUST LIKE JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE / MILA KUNIS, most likely because someone linked you to its YouTube video on your Facebook profile. Twitter. X-Factor. iPad.

Not this review, though. This review is well aware of the above trappings of other movie reviews, and as such, none of that bunkum will occur whilst discussing Friends With Benefits, a new romantic comedy that’s achingly aware of the hokiness of other romantic comedies, and achingly keen to let you know about it. Two recently-single yuppie-types (what do we call yuppies now, anyway? App-ies? Tossers?) hook up for sex, and then…  Y’know. Stuff happens. You already saw it all in that other movie earlier this year. Y’know – No Strings Attached? You saw it, because Natalie Portman’s in it and you found her hot in Black Swan. Did you see the movie Black Swan? Me too. We’re pretty alike. Let’s hang out.

Except, Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal (you know those guys? It’s okay if you don’t. They’re pretty old. Like The Flinstones! Remember them?) already taught us that guys and girls can’t just be friends – especially if their friendly greeting to one another is a sexy(two)backed beast. And if we learned anything from all those romantic comedies that Friends With Benefits keeps bitching about, it’s that sooner or later the couple who underwent a ridiculous meet-cute early on are just destined to end up together. Not in this movie, though – Friends With Benefits is way too ahead of the curve and self aware to pull that kind of OH WAIT NO THAT TOTALLY HAPPENS ANYWAY.

So yeah. Friends With Benefits. It’s good for a few laughs and the leads are attractive and talented enough to carry it, but as this review is totally not like all the other reviews that came before it, how about we just play some Nintendo Wii instead? You know Nintendo Wii too? Excellent.

(Three stars.)

Review: KILL LIST

Hype. Dangerous thing, hype. More often than not, it’s safer to heed the advice of Public Enemy and simply not believe it. It can devour a movie whole and shit it out the front end of a multiplex projector to nothing but hushed audience apathy. Kill List has endured quite a lot of hype since its debut at SXSW back in March, right through to its feverish reception at FrightFest last month. And somehow it’s weathered the storm, and emerged (almost) fully deserving of the lavish praise already heaped upon it. The best case scenario for seeing Kill List (as is the case with so many movies of its ilk) is to go in cold. And yes, that’s hypocrisy in action right there with that statement, but this is a spoiler-free zone. Suffice, if you've even read of Kill List being held up against other movies, there’s a good chance you’ve wrecked some of its delights straight out of the gate.

Nonetheless, a non-spoilery comparison is with the kitchen-sink dramas of Ken Loach and Lindsay Anderson – if their films had been shot through with a queasy dose of unflinching physical violence and a wry sense of dark humour. The movie focuses on former soldier-turned-contract killer Jay (Neil Gaskell) as he sulks in his suburban family home, rowing loudly with his wife Shel (MyAnna Buring) and condemning his young son Sam to potentially-lengthy future therapy sessions in the process. The worst’s most uncomfortable dinner party heralds the arrival of Gal (Michael Smiley), Jay’s best friend and sometime business partner. Gal has a proposition for Jay – a new job, comprising of a series of no-questions-asked assassinations. Desperate to ease tensions with Shel (and equally keen to fix his busted jacuzzi), Jay willingly accepts.

Of course, that’s merely the first act, but to delve deeper into Kill List’s creepy web of intrigue does a disservice to first-time viewers. Suffice, cracks begin to show on Jay’s icy exterior and all hell gradually begins to break loose. “Gradually” being the key phrase there – Kill List has a slow-building pressure cooker structure that keeps piling on the tension (partly through its characters and partly through its impressive sound design) to create an awesome sense of foreboding dread. When the fan and shit finally meet, the result is as chaotic as it is terrifying.

Director Ben Wheatley made the impressive Down Terrace a couple of years ago, and here he confirms he’s one of the best helmers working in British cinema at present. He milks a trio of great performances from the cast, whose contributions to the script give the dialogue a natural and believable rhythm. Smiley (best known as pill-munching club monster Tyres in Spaced) is particularly striking as the killer armed with just as many pithy one-liners as bullets.

If Kill List has a flaw, it’s that the third act can’t quite cash in the cheques its atmosphere has been writing all along. The blame can’t all be attributed to the film itself, though – there are only a finite amount of endings in the world, and Kill List’s is reminiscent of two deeply disturbingly ones. And given that one of those said endings is as recent as last year, accusations of plagiarism are hardly fair.  A minor quibble then, for a film that delivers a steady stream of gut-punches and leaves you reeling as you exit the cinema, yet somewhat thirsty to dive right back in and experience it all over again.

Review: FRIGHT NIGHT (2011)

Horror remakes, eh? What are they like? When they’re not shot-for-shot photocopies, they’re busy fucking with well-established mythologies. Either way, they’re destined to piss off a good percentage of their target audience. Craig Gillespie’s retelling of Fright Night at least succeeds here, as it spectacularly fumbles pretty much everything that made the reasonably-enjoyable 1985 original worth watching.

Essentially Rear Window (or Disturbia, if you’re not old enough to do your weekly shop at Bargain Booze yet) told with vampires instead of boring human murderers, Fright Night (old version) coasted along on a certain goofy charm and a quiet homosexual subtext that seemed rife in horror movies of the time (I’m talking about you, Nightmare of Elm Street Part 2). Fright Night (today version) eschews said charm and subtext, and instead offers you Colin Farrell with a shark mouth and a former Dr. Who swanning around in leather pants and saying “fuck” a lot (settle down, Tom Baker fans – not him).

Anton Yelchin plays another tonally-blank every-teen (despite the fact the wrinkles in his forehead suggest he’s actually 46), who has to deal not only with a hot girlfriend who wants to do sex with him (OH NO TRAUMA), but also the fact that his next door neighbour might be a snarly vampire who’s preying on the teen and/or stripper populace of Las Vegas. Come to think of it, there’s no “might” at play here – it’s established ridiculously early on that Farrell’s slick sex-pest is indeed a blood-sucking creature of the night. This negates any of the tension from Fright Night (old version) that saw William Ragsdale’s horror movie-loving Charlie desperate to convince those around him that Chris Sarandon liked to drink blood. And possibly man-fat, judging from the muscle-headed bodyguard he kept hanging around his abode (also absent from this version). But definitely blood.

Yelchin seeks out the help of David Tennant’s Vegas magician (a poor substitute for Roddy McDowell’s brilliantly-doddery TV host), whose show specialises in “demonic magic.” This makes little sense – why seek out a charlatan like Tennant when surely a priest would be much easier to convince – but then sense, or character logic, isn’t really something that troubles Fright Night (today version).  Witness Yelchin’s instant one-eighty from jittery teen to crossbow-wielding badass – how? Why? Even Farrell’s villain is a damp squib – in the original, Sarandon’s bad guy uses his sexy menace to seduce Charlie’s girlfriend into his arms. Here, Farrell simply deploys the vampire equivalent of a roofied drink, making him less of a feral predator and more a date rapist.

Sluggishly paced, Fright Night (today version) is content to plod along almost at peace with its own dullness; the movie often seems to forget that its protagonists are in mortal peril. There’s a couple of neat flourishes – a one-take attack on a moving vehicle; Yelchin testing vampire lore as Farrell lingers at the back door – but nothing substantial enough to elevate the tedium. And to add the final insult to injury, the 3D is utterly atrocious. Save yourself the effort and money, and go watch the original (and its underrated sequel) instead.

Review: RED STATE

Whipped into the public eye via a storm of anti-critic hostility; snake-oil salesman marketing tactics and rampant ego-felating retweets from his legion of hardcore fans, the furore around Kevin Smith’s Red State seems to be ignoring a key question: is it actually any good?

The short answer is no, it’s not. Essentially a horror-tinged swipe at Fred Phelps and his posse of Westboro Baptist Church fuckwits, Red State lacks several vital elements that would have helped it succeed as either a satire or a straight-up fright flick. After an opening that could well be hoisted straight from a DTV American Pie sequel (three horny teens setting out to nail an older prostitute), the film changes track and turns into a Southern Gothic horror as Phelps-a-like Michael Parks summarily preaches his hateful wrath whilst routinely executing sinners before his congregation. Yet before it settles into this unsavoury groove, the film again morphs into a siege drama, with John Goodman’s ATF agent trying to regain control as the body count at the Five Points church escalates around him.

It doesn’t help that there’s no discernable protagonist here. Our teen leads are thoroughly dislikeable from the offset, so their plight feels of little consequence. Melissa Leo – best known at this point for dropping an f-bomb all over the delicate ears of the AMPAS – doesn’t really deliver anything of note; to the extent that at one point I had to double check they weren’t just using out-takes of Marcia Gay Harden’s character from The Mist. Goodman tries hard, but his character isn’t provided with enough shading to make his conflicted emotions worth caring about. Late in the film Smith tries to establish a teenage member of Parks’ family as a pseudo-heroine. Had we been following her turmoil as a member of the church from the offset it might have paid off – instead, her motivations seem knee-jerk and improbable.

This leaves us with Parks, who quickly establishes himself as the best thing in the movie. Tarantino fans already know that Parks can chew up a scene and spit it out with deadly accuracy, but here he’s given the chance to snarl dialogue front-and-centre for the majority of the film. He acts with the demeanour of a grandfather who’d just as soon beat you to death with his shoe as share his bag of Werthers Originals. He's equally on top form regardless of whether he's sat quietly tinkling at the piano as chaos breaks out around him, or spilling bilious hate from his pulpit.

Smith’s departure from his weary brand of stoner comedy should at least be commended, although after six movies featuring Jay and Silent Bob, it all feels like a case of too little, too late. He can’t resist shoving some humour into the mix – mostly from a pointless Kevin Pollak cameo which requires him to even follow a punch line with a “zing”, like the audience were unsure there was a joke – but the satirising of Phelps (who gets a name check) or any number of his nut bag equivalents seems disappointingly toothless. Previously known for his flat directorial style, at least here the camera pings and zips around with some urgency – this may be the first instance of a Smith movie where his direction actually improves a script rather than diminishes it. A greater effort to focus his story and give the audience something to care about would have worked wonders, but as it stands, Red State is a misshapen, confused tangent with no discernable voice and little to recommend, save for a knockout Michael Parks performance.

Red State is available now to anyone with a US iTunes account; it opens in UK cinemas on Sept 30th.

(Why) It's Shite Being (At A) Scottish (Film Festival)

“It doesn’t matter who you are. You’ll feel like a failure and a nobody.” Those were the words imparted upon me by an acquaintance when I announced to her that I was heading out to Cannes in May 2008. Normally I’d have brushed off such wisdom as hyperbole, but this particular acquaintance happened to be the producer of the first four Harry Potter movies (combined worldwide receipts = a gazillion dollars). When someone of that standing tells you something of that ilk, your first reaction can only be to gulp.

Turns out she was half-right. By mere virtue of actually being at Cannes, and getting to rub shoulders with such luminaries as Shia LaBouf and the frog-like accountant from The Untouchables, I didn’t feel like a failure at all. A nobody, yes, but I still felt somewhat accepted there. Which makes the clinical, isolating atmosphere of this year’s Edinburgh Festival even more chilling to recall. People rush back and forth between the expo centre and the festival screenings like there’s a bomb set to explode in their chest if they don’t check in at regular intervals. Maybe it’s simply because they feel that standing still on Lothian Road for more than 30 seconds will result in a mugging or, at very least, some drunken berating from the local winos. Either way, everybody seems desperate to get to places without actually being sure of what’s in store when they arrive. Parties and networking events seemed mostly like forced meet-and-greets, where people politely explain what they do before awkwardly commenting on the buffet and moving on to the next pocket of attendees. It’s all very civil, but at the same time everyone seems so afraid of cutting loose in case they accidentally upset or offend. Of course, I hate people in general so I’m possibly not the best judge of social functions. Nonetheless, I was still desperate to hear a heated argument (that I didn’t start) or to receive an invite to the gents to do some blow.

In fairness, it’s a festival that prides itself on prestige. Whereas Cannes is a meat market of people desperate to sell you their third-rate Transformers knock-off, Edinburgh is all about cinema. There are no curveball screenings of some Z-grade horror clag or lavish press conferences. You go, you watch, you absorb, you reflect. Unfortunately – and this is wholly down to personal preference – this year’s line-up lacked any real bite. Granted, the setting doesn’t help. London has the vaguely-glamorous hosting of Leicester Square and the “fuck-we’re-serious-about-film” locale of the BFI to help maximise the experience. Edinburgh boasts the (admittedly brilliant) Filmhouse, and a Cineworld located directly opposite a tyre-fitters. There’s something crushingly unresplendent (not a word) about being ushered into a European premiere on the same screen that you saw the Scooby Doo movie.

Of the films I did bother to catch, nothing really stood out. Toy Story 3 is an oddly depressing affair; The Runaways is a bland rock biopic that forgets to include any real character shading or emotional wallop; Winter’s Bone is the kind of movie that people mutter in the same breath as the word “Oscar” for about ninety seconds and then forget about (although John Hawkes proves again why he’s one of American cinema’s most under-valued actors, despite being still primarily known for getting blown to shit by Tarantino in the pre-credits sequence of From Dusk Til Dawn). Other movies caught my attention but slipped through my grasp – partly down to bad scheduling, and partly down to my staggering indifference to the whole thing. Making myself rancidly ill after three days of not eating and staying awake until 5am (not through festival-related joviality, but rather through the generous company of city-based friends) probably didn’t help my mindset.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe I was just resisting the charms. Edinburgh is a tourist trap at the best of times and generally I hate the place, so perhaps I automatically set out to berate the whole experience. I’m grateful that I’m even granted access to such events, but you simply can’t win them all. I’ll do Frightfest next. At least I might see someone’s head get pulled off, even if there’s still no blow.


Neth acknowledges he’s being overly-harsh, and knows plenty of people who had a wonderful time; as such, he’s deeply envious of them. And he’s kidding about the cocaine. Probably.

Robert Roberts Esquire to you, honky!

The first role I saw Dennis Hopper perform was King Koopa in the dreadful Super Mario Bros in 1993. The second film I saw Dennis Hopper in was as Frank Booth in the superb Blue Velvet, six months later. That level of diversity was synonymous with the guy - the cynical would suggest he took plenty roles simply as a paycheck, but I can honestly say I've never seen a movie where Hopper didn't give it his all. There was never an autopilot for the guy; something many of his contemporaries will never lay claim to. And while he'll be rightly remembered as Booth, or as Easy Rider's Billy, or Speed's Howard Payne, or for that movie-defining showdown with Christopher Walken in True Romance, Hopper went full-tilt in countless other flicks. And because you can't have a celebrity death these days without an accompanying list, here's five little-seen or oft-forgotten picks from the great man's CV:

Tom Ripley (The American Friend, 1977)
It's a shame people most associate the role of Patricia Highsmith's sociopathic creation with Matt Damon. Some even draw a closer link with John Malkovich. But Hopper (the second actor play the character, after Alain Delon in 1960's Plein Soleil) essentially revived his post Last Movie-career with this stunning turn in Wim Wenders' movie.

Paris Trout (Paris Trout, 1991)
A million miles away from his comic-book villainy in the likes of Speed, Paris Trout could almost be Frank Booth's distant relative - a sexually abusive, bigoted child-murderer. A truly chilling performance from Hopper - in a movie directed by Stephen Gyllenhaal, dad to none other than Jake and Maggie.

Bob Roberts (My Science Project, 1985)
The antithesis to Doc Brown, Hopper's scientist teacher-come-mentor is a whacked-out hippy desperate to get back to the good old 60s. The movie around him may be second-rate (although not without some charm), but any time Dennis is on screen the yucks increase ten-fold.

Lyle (Red Rock West, 1993)
Anyone who menaces the shit out of a sneaky Nic Cage is just fine by me, and Hopper did it in spades here as the bona-fide hitman mightly miffed at chancer Cage stealing his gig.

Bill (Jesus' Son, 1999)
As was so often the case, Hopper nearly walks off with the entire movie as a psychiatric inmate dispensing sage advice to Billy Crudup's heroin-addled FuckHead. "There's no deeper shit than the kind we're in right now, I'll tell you that..." Brilliant.


So thanks, Dennis Hopper. Whether it was within cult gems like River's Edge, or mainstream guff like Waterworld, or iconic classics like Apocalypse Now, you were never anything less than utterly watchable. RIP.

Seven Interesting Facts About Danny Dyer

When he's not writing relationship advice in cheap-wank publications squarely aimed at illiterate morons, Daniel Amadeus Dyer (b. 24 July, 1977) makes a healthy living appearing in British feature films squarely aimed at cine-illiterate morons. He's been carving out a niche in the industry for over ten years, cropping up in such diverse timeless gems as Human Traffic (the shit Trainspotting) and Doghouse (the shit Shaun of the Dead). But Dyer himself remains a somewhat camera-shy individual away from his film and agony cunt aunt work. After what feels like literally minutes of tireless research, I've compelled seven interesting facts about Mr Dyer that may help throw a little light on his towering, methodical approach to characterisation.

1. Danny Dyer was the first British baby to be born on the backseat of a Ford Fiesta. Other notable Fiesta-births include that slapper who used to show you her tits for 50p at school, and Chelsea / England defender Ashley Cole.
2. Dyer excelled at secondary school in his formative years. His top subjects included crayons and weeing up the toilet wall. His record of 7ft 11in (as measured by classmate Alan Harris) has yet to be beaten. A plaque in the boy's bogs of the science block at the Canning Town School For Special Children confirms this feat.
3. Although his first screen credit is Prime Suspect 3, eagle-eyed 80s children may remember Dyer playing the role of Mike in the CITV sitcom Mike & Angelo, about a kid whose creepy adult mate is actually an alien. And a bit of a nob.
4. Dyer's on-screen wide-boy persona is actually an example of his dedication to Method performance. Danny has, in fact, never been to Essex on account of a phobia of flat land. As a result, he lives half-way up a mountain in Wales.
5. Despite professing a love of all things football - and in particular West Ham - Danny is hampered by the fact that a childhood incident involving a spud gun left him unable to see spherical objects. This is why he can spend days on end staring directly at the sun, to no optical damage whatsoever.
6. In 2008, Dyer released an album of grime-core rap songs derived from theme tunes to vintage television cartoons. The single "Thundercats - Ho" was a top 75 hit in Bulgaria.
7. Saying Danny Dyer's name five times in the mirror will summon him to appear behind you, in order to give you a right shhlap.

Danny Dyer - I salute you. As long as you promise to keep making movies, I promise to keep not watching them.