DaViD´82

The unbearable lightness of being an inflatable doll. A magnificent short story by Hill in a loose adaptation that, among other things, makes up for the omission of the "kernel of the poodle" of the entire tale; namely, Arthur's fascination and contemplation of death and the afterlife.

A Sherlock-like series about a Victorian detective of the supernatural... But wait a minute, they never made that series in the end. Which, judging by the massively atmospheric pilot episode, is a crying shame. Because the captivating atmosphere, a charismatic Nielsen and those several references to Lovecraft’s “Mythos" together form an enchanting concept that I would have gladly indulged in on a regular basis.

It is rather sad (and inappropriate) to adapt a comic that in its time both stood up to and defined itself against the mainstream (super)heroic movement in the most mainstream form possible, with attractive artwork and an emphasis on action.

A hair on Lex Luthor’s bald head better than the "official" version. I fully understand Donner's desire to clear his name after more than a quarter century. Why he did it through a very different, but in many ways equally bad, film is beyond me.

A francophone offering to the genre of romantic “loser" comedies; this time about a shy chocolatieresse (does that word even exist?) and an even shier chocolate manufacturer. And although the resulting movie isn’t about chocolate made from the highest quality cocoa beans that would massacre your taste buds for ever (in a positive way), it also isn’t about any fatty chocolate substitute that would massacre your taste buds (in a negative way). What is most disappointing is that this chocolate storyline almost peters out totally and timid courting takes the main role.

If you ever come across a chart of the best horror stories, Shirley Jackson’s disconcerting short story “The Lottery" will certainly figure in it. And quite rightly. But this wishy-washy, although basically faithful adaptation will certainly not figure in a chart of the best horror story movies. And quite rightly.

Veiled Deborah Karr as a walking commercial for the whitening power of Persil and pony rider David Farrar in a hat and tropical khaki drill shorts (how could something so tasteless ever have occurred to anybody), painted in Technicolor, on a par with the work of the Dutch Masters. All this in the shape of an exotic melodrama about suppressed desire and holy duties conducted in a former harem. Exactly as expected, precise in Powell-Pressburger style. Well, all apart from the shorts which are prime candidates for the most horrific costume in cinema history.

The romance novel walks miles in British Technicolor red shoes in a not-so short, fateful melodrama (with a forty minute prologue!) set in a ballet company about two gingers and one “Mephisto" compellingly played by Anton Walbrook. This trio battles that eternal western conflict of personal life and love versus career and ambitions. A movie which, on paper, I’m hopelessly compelled to loathe. But paper assumptions often aren’t valid. Thank god. And so just like how once every umpteen seasons Real Madrid defeats Barcelona, against all odds, the Red Shoes can, despite the black (red?) mark above, be as fantastic to watch as only the best pictures can.

Alan Ball and pulpy, rough and rougher (roughest) schooling, Jim Thompson style, about an ex-con, who used to be an amoral sheriff, only ever acting in his own self-interest. And, to an extent, an unadmitted, but even more “faithful in spirit" adaptation of the “Scalped" comic book series. The main (anti)hero is direct and blunt, and wherever he goes, no-one wants any problems. Another nice thing about it is that is does not take itself too seriously. And Ball himself is a guarantee that despite the “badass" scene full of porn-… um, sex, explicit violence and unwavering testosterone, it isn’t gratuitous (this only applies to the first series). Course, it’s not about holding up mirrors, not even really bloodied ones. The real problem is the main storyline, which is just dumb even for a self-confessed sophisticated B-movie, and so even though every episode in itself is amazing, the way they are fitted together as one whole is just worrying. Everything is centered around unparalleled, extraordinary fights and characters, but not the story (which changes, although subtly, in the course of the second series). At a pinch, you could say that each glance and dialog is an excuse for several minutes of all-out fucking or a several-minute long fight/shootout. And since the third series this is not an overstatement, they do not care about the “story" and just focus on the “dirty". Of course, the method of execution, that is the question! They explicitly pay tribute to everything from The Raid to Carpenter. If you agree to respect these distinctive rules, then… What’s not to love? | S1: 4/5 | S2: 4/5 | S3: 4/5 |

The space of one lounge, ten former members of the resistance, one maid and the exposure of a fifteen-year-old story of betrayal. And even if they could prove what happened in the past, what to do with the traitor after all these years? The point or the identity of the individual concerned is not that important in this movie. It is mainly an acting concert in the form of a conversational drama à la 12 Angry Men where everything depends on a perfectly build up and ever more tense atmosphere of mistrust growing amongst friends who would have sacrificed their lives for one another. Once upon a time, but not anymore.