The horror anthology high point film—with a number of part short stories linked together by a bookend strength testimony of some kind—is phylum of a lost art today, but in the late 1960s and beginning 1970s that was the rights to fame by reason of Amicus Studios. With a healthy set of anthologies as factor of their catalog—Dr. Terror’s Legislature of Horrors, Tales From The Crypt, Vault of Horror—the studio bring about great sensation with the aspect, and in 1972 took a stage set of Robert Bloch (Psycho) short stories, prehistoric Hammer director Roy Ward Baker and an impressive abrogate of actors to take on Asylum, hitherto another familiarly received collecting of unrelated tales connected by a narrative that serves as the common link.
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The thread here is the incurably insane residents of the Dunsmoor Asylum, where in order to go down a job there the childish Dr. Martin (Robert Powell) has to appraisal four patients to determine which one of them is the former asylum pilot. It’s part of a twisted little game by the wheelchair-certain Dr. Rutherford (Patrick Magee), and as Martin spends time with the four patients, we then learn their foul backstories, and how they supposedly came to get somewhere at Dunsmoor. It’s clear they’re all nuts, but which one is the doctor?
There are all sorts of strange things at play here, from severed limbs seeking revenge to a tiny instinctive doll with a make of its own, and Baker shows his chops by tightly directing the various stories, using clever camera angles to make what could easily have been purely laughable suspense seem somehow genuine. Not all of the effects have age-old especially wonderfully since 1972—the business-like doll in particular waffles between comical and macabre—but gimmicks such as the breathing of a ghostly head wrapped in butcher paper still comes across as effectively downcast.
Aside from using a talented horror director as though Baker, a fortitude of the Amicus anthologies was also the caliber and range of the cast. Asylum was in fact no exception, with affable faces like Peter Cushing, Herbert Lom, Charlotte Rampling, Britt Ekland, Barbara Parkins and Patrick Magee positively dressing up the material, adding a layer of higher charter out emoting in what was understandably a disconsolate-budget excorticate. No one unusually holds court as the main star here, albeit Robert Powell probably gets the most screentime as he interviews patients, but Cushing, Lom and Magee release the three most ominous and memorable performances, though none appear together at any habits here.
The premise is fun, and this is a vintage 1970s horror good time from one of the genre’s most underrated directors.
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Generous Son (1982) stands as one of the finer moments in the declining days of the old shape kung fu screen and a fine example of actor/director Sammo Hung and lead Yuen Biao’s best collaborations, which includes films like Dreadnaught and Dragons Forever.
Leung Chang (Yuen Biao: Once Upon a Time in China, Righting Wrongs, Peacok King) is the spoiled son of a rich nobleman. Chang has been catered to by his overprotective father, who hired faux martial instructors to teach his son and has bought out the entire town, where Chang engages in fights with guys who always take a dive for some cash. Thus, Chang has grown into thinking that he is a skilled martial artist. When his “masters” are defeated by a Peking opera performer named Yee-tai (Lam Ching-ying: Mr. Vampire, Encounters of the Spooky Kind), Chang goes to extract revenge and for the first time is soundly defeated.
After the crushing realization that he has been lied too all of these years, Chang sets his sights on becoming Yee-tai’s pupil. He attaches himself like a barnacle to the traveling opera troupe, slowly winning Yee-tai’s acceptance though sheer willpower and warmhearted determination. However, Chang doesn’t really get an education until an ironic set of circumstances forces Chang and Yee-tai to go into hiding. Much like Chang, Master Ngai is a favored son, only his henchmen take more drastic means than payoffs to secure his status as a formidable martial master- that is, they will slay, cripple, and poison anyone who is possibly more skilled. They kill off the troupe and poison Yee-tai, who along with Chang, seeks refuge with Yee-tai’s brother (Sammo Hung). Under the guidance of the two squabbling brothers, Chang becomes skilled enough to face off with Master Ngai and prove which is the true… bum-bum-bum… prodigal son.
The early 80’s found Sammo delivering a one-two punch of films showcasing the Wing Chun martial form, the Casanova Wong starring Warriors Two and Prodigal Son. I’ve honestly lost count of the number of times I’ve seen these two films, suffice to say if you are a Sammo Hung/Yuen Biao fan, owning Prodigal Son is a must.
Formulaic, kung fu standard “boy goes from wimp to kung fu stud thanks to some crotchety masters” plot aside, Prodigal Son rises above the rest because of its masterful choreography and the charismatic performance of legendary HK action scene stealer Lam Ching-ying. His role as an effeminate wing chun master who posses womanly grace and manly power is one of the great kung fu film roles, right up there with Simon Yuen’s drunken master and Kwan Tak-hing’s Wong Fei Hung. Sammo and Lam Ching-ying were good friends, and the role was supposedly custom made by Sammo for the (at the time) underappreciated performer.
The fight scenes in this film are simply put- a thing a beauty. It speaks so much to the level of athletics and precision the performers put into the choregraphy that the one complaint I have (other than the too goofy clowning in the final thrid) is that the grand finale is so short. It still works, and perhaps the lack of a ten minute long spectacle of fists and feet speaks more for the chracters and the situation, a swifter defeat of the bad guy. Maybe I just love everything that came before so much that I wish it wasnt over so quick.
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Reviewed by Dennis Schwartz
A sparkling crime melodrama richly steeped in theatrical atmosphere. Much of the film seems to have been shot either at the Broadway theater or at Sardi’s restaurant. It’s directed with style by John Gage and adapted from the story “Annabel” by William Mercer. Leo Rosten is the screenwriter.
Valerie Stanton (Russell ) is a famous Broadway actress who has been associated with successful producer Gordon Dunning (Ames) for the last ten years. The film opens as they are arguing in his theater’s office, just before the closing show of “Escapade” their latest comedy hit. She is tired of doing popular fluff comedy plays and wants to do a serious play, Ibsen’s “Hedda Gabler,” with rival producer Peter Gunther. Gordon seems amazed that she would want to play a tortured neurotic woman who kills herself. The argument gets more heated when they talk about love and their relationship, as Gordon believes love is a business proposition. He tells her, “I created you. I can’t let go of you.” She tells him that she wants to marry the prominent architect Michael Morrell (Genn), someone she has fallen in love with. When Gordon threatens to sully her name with Morrell, the black gloved actress becomes fearful and in the heat of the moment kills him when she conks him over the head with a statue from his desk.
Since Valerie has an iron-clad alibi, suspicions go to a rival actress in the show, Marian Webster (Trevor). The body is found by Marian, an actress in Gordon’s stable who was his girlfriend and star before Valerie moved into the picture. Marian’s fingerprints are found all over the murder weapon, and she has to be hospitalized as she goes into a state of shock and is unable to be questioned by the investigating homicide officer, Captain Danbury (Greenstreet).
The colorful captain is a theater buff, and in his inimical style adds a comical contrast in moods to the other more sober-minded leads. Russell is all fear and trepidation. Genn is the gallant gentleman lover. Ames is the jealous producer who must possess what he creates. Trevor is the bitter woman who feels she has no luck after being jilted.
In this solid production, the tension is kept up until the final curtain call as to whether Russell will confess, get caught, or get away with the crime of passion.
Loaded from her suburban Sydney home, backpacker Ruth Barron (Winslet) is so touched by an Indian guru that notwithstanding Tell no-one turning up with tales of dad’s imminent demise can’t charm her back. Ironically, mum’s own asthmatic reaction to Delhi leads to Ruth escorting her to Oz, where awaits wizard ‘cult exiter’ PJ Waters (Keitel), hired by the family to rid Ruth of her plans to change a certain of her mentor’s wives. His three-step system takes in the right in a cabin in the comeuppance, a suitably scorched, remote arena for a blazing battle of wills that takes them beyond standard power struggles into a heady realm of charity, abhor, worry and wish. With its switches in tone, from searing psycho-drama to broad, in the seventh heaven comedy, its sometimes purposeful, sometimes crooked description and its splendid hues, the film initially seems an efficient if uneven entertainment. As it progresses, however, with Ruth and PJ moving into endlessly murkier territory, it becomes easier to discern a thematic thread: how we’re all conditioned, and how we must interrogate traditional assumptions to discover our real selves. It’s brave, adventurous, refreshingly frank - qualities also marking the performances, particularly those of the leads.
Vivian (Roberts) is not a felicitous hooker. She looks the part, but unlike her feisty baby Accoutrements (San Giacomo) she retains a core of vulnerability. So does workaholic Edward (Gere), fifty-fifty though he’s a millionaire take-’em-and-break-’em merchant prince. In LA recompense the week, he hires Vivian to act as a beautiful, disarming escort while he dines the defiance, grooming and schooling her in the process. Formerly you have knowledge of it, she’s discovering a sense of self-worth, while he’s taking shoes and socks (and time) off to stray in the park and overhaul his ethics. This is predictable Pygmalion stuff, but with prodigality of laughs along the way. Roberts can dissemble, and Gere, yet not renowned for his comic skills, is more than a smoochy foil to kooky Vivian, and justified about manages to look take to a man who has channelled all his reproductive energy into corporate ball-crushing. Retch-making moments (he thinks she’s doing drugs in the bathroom, she’s really - aaawww! - flossing her teeth) are kept to a minimum and the shacking up scenes sweetly restrained. But payment a smokescreen that attempts to satirise snooty materialism, it focuses too pantingly on the schemer labels, and comes down constantly on the side of ‘rich is better’.
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You could enthusiasm a truck via the plotholes in Directorty Harry, which wouldn’t be so importance were the movie not a likely, phony glorification of the fuzz and criminal brutality [from a testimony by Harry Julian Fink and R.M. Fink]. Clint Eastwood, in the title role, is a superhero whose antics suit almost satire. Strip away the detached garbage and all that’s left is a fine-made but surface running-and-jumping meller. Don Siegel produces handsomely and directs routinely.
Andy Robinson plays a mad sniper who attempts to hold up San Francisco for money to stop his random carnage. Mayor John Vernon is willing, police chief John Larch goes along, police lieutenant Harry Guardino unctuously follows the prevailing wind, and the work falls to supercop Eastwood.
Eastwood is dedicated - to his own violence. Perhaps his anger at Robinson is more at the delay in capturing him; after all, between bites on a hot dog, Eastwood foils a bank heist at midday, talks down a suicide jumper, and otherwise expedites assorted ‘dirty work’. The character nearly drools, but Eastwood is far too inert for this bit of business.
There are several chase sequences - before the sadist-with-badge dispatches the sadist-without-badge. Thereupon, Eastwood flings his badge to the wind and walks away. At least Frisco is safe from his protection (but think of the rest of us).
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IT ISN’T just any actress who can age 23 years convincingly ¿ and move you at every step of the way.
Meryl Streep? Sure, with an arm tied behind her back. But how about Michelle Williams? (Yes, I’m talking about that kid from "Dawson’s Creek" and the throwaway comedy "Dick.") In "Me Without You," a decades-spanning drama about growing up while growing out of a suffocating friendship, Williams does just that, playing a British woman who blossoms in slo-mo, starting out as a mousy teenager in the punk-steeped 1970s and only arriving at adult independence in the new millennium, all the while turning in a performance that is seamless, canny and artistically mature.
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Not bad for a girl from small-town Montana who just turned 22.
As directed and co-written by Sandra Goldbacher ("The Governess"), who has called the film semi-autobiographical, "Me Without You" is the story of Holly (Williams) and Marina (Anna Friel), childhood friends so close they refer to themselves as "Harina," a hybrid name whose asymmetry mirrors the imbalance in their relationship. "Some people are pretty people," says Holly’s mother, "and some people are clever people."
Fleshy and bookish, Holly is clearly in the thrall of Marina, the popular, thin and streetwise party girl. Oh, Marina may envy Holly’s Jewishness, finding it exotic when compared with her blandly gentile absence of religion, but otherwise Marina is the gravitational force here, setting the agenda, issuing orders, stealing boyfriends ¿ notably Kyle MacLachlan as a sleazy college professor ¿ and undertaking other casual betrayals so numerous they leave Holly numb.
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For a while. It’s a long time coming, but when Holly finally has her epiphany and angrily tells Marina off, in a scene that will be painfully familiar to anyone who’s had to cut a destructive friend loose, we are so into Holly’s character that she feels like an extension of ourselves.
With on-screen chapter titles and era-defining musical selections ranging from Wreckless Eric to the Cowboy Junkies, "Me Without You" feels like a late-baby-boomer family album. The memories are fond and embarrassing.
In addition to the obvious allusion to Holly and Marina’s gradual separation, there are a couple of additional meanings to the film’s title. On a second, perhaps superficial, level, it can be read as referring to Holly’s longing for Marina’s older brother Nat (Oliver Milburn), a mostly unrequited love that forms a kind of spine for the film’s plot. On yet a third level, "Me Without You" suggests not merely Holly’s journey toward becoming her own person but Marina’s definitive emptiness.
"There’s no me without you," whines Marina during the big "divorce" scene with Holly. It’s a telling comment from someone who feels she doesn’t exist without Holly to tell her so. And it’s a measure, ironically, of Holly’s wholeness. In the end, it’s Holly, not Marina, who has real, solid presence, after a lifetime of living in the orbit of another.
ME WITHOUT YOU (R, 107 minutes) ¿ Contains obscenity, drug use, sexuality and partial nudity. At the Cineplex Odeon Dupont Circle 5.
Lola, illustrious at the sleaziest nightclub in separate out history, meets, seduces and ultimately destroys the perpendicularly propertied teacher, Professor Rath. A tragedy? A comedy? It’s actually a surprisingly complex morality play: a celebration of Lola’s sexuality (it was Dietrich’s original pre-eminent role) and an ironic observation of Rath’s hindrance and masochism (Jannings conditions suffered more or better). The film looks and sounds its age, but remains enthralling. Sternberg shot English and German versions simultaneously.
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