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.

1984 called. It wants its horror icon back.

There's one truly terrifying moment early on in the A Nightmare on Elm Street remake. During an avid-fart credits sequence, the words "Produced by Michael Bay" flicker across the screen. It's the only genuine scream this otherwise-lifeless dud can muster. Bay's Platinum Dunes have mastered the art of taking once-relevant horror films and turning them into generic conveyor belt slop, devoid of any of the social commentary that made their originators worth the time. The original Elm Street can be read as a statement on the Vietnam draft, with Freddy Kruger standing in for the US government that was all-too-keen to dismember the dreams of American youth and send them off to their death. Dunes' remake has nothing close to this subtext - in fact, there is no subtext. Also lacking is the weird, ethereal quality that made Wes Craven's 1984 original so damn creepy - instead, here it's never ambiguous as to where reality and the dreamworld cross.

To make things worse, Jackie Earl Haley's take on Kruger plain sucks. True, by the time we'd rolled around to the eighth installment of the original franchise, Englund's Freddy was little more than a comedy MC preying on teens who frankly deserved to meet a sticky end. But 2010's Freddy possesses none of the tricksy gimmicks that filled the old series with invention - here, he's just a proto-slasher who talks too much (mostly in unnecessary expositional diatribes) and barely seems capable of doing the job - how many times do his victims need to fall asleep and escape his clutches before he can actually get around to finishing them off? And to cap things off, his objects of prey are a bunch of bland every-teens with no distinct foibles or character traits to make them worth rooting for. It's a testament to how badly-structured the screenplay is when we spend close to the entire first act focusing on a character who is then thoughtlessly slaughtered, only for us to shift on to the next dullard heroine. By this point, caring is no longer an option.

That's not to say the current crop of original horror pictures are much better, though. Take, if you'd be so kind, Tom Six's The Human Centipede (First Sequence) - which is causing all kinds of internet slobbering right now on account of its dark, controversial nature. What they're failing to tell you is that it's actually a dull, poorly-acted mad scientist picture that rarely manages to muster much in the way of outrage or shock. The simple premise sees a retired German surgeon abducting people so he can create a - you guessed it, you fucking star - human centipede, complete with an intestinal tract that runs through several bodies. It's a neat concept, in theory, and some splashes of jet-black humour help it through it's early stages. But it seems so eager to please fans of both the lamentable Saw series, and those oh-so-more-intellectual types who like their horror with a more perverse Asian bent, that it struggles to find its own feet (or in this case, knees). The victims are obnoxious, the doctor's actions outside of his lab are baffling, and even the most grotesque of situations seems somewhat lukewarm in the cold light of day. Maybe I'm just desensitized beyond all repair - or maybe it's just a big hoo-haa over nothing.

To prove that I'm not going to waste every entry in this blog on slagging off movies (believe it or not, I actually love quite a few of them), I'll use this closing paragraph as an opportunity to pimp Chris Morris' excellent Four Lions. A tabloid-baiter of the highest Morris pedigree, it's a radically funny flick that suggests those responsible for some of the most horrific crimes are, in fact, a bit low on intelligence and far too easily-lead. Morris even manages to cram in some oddly touching moments that rescue his protagonists (antagonists? For this viewpoint, it's hard to say) from simple caricature. It's yet another sterling effort for British cinema (alongside the recent Disappearance of Alice Creed and Exit Through The Gift Shop), and as such is well worth seeking out.