The Fly

(1986)

Dir: David Cronenberg

“Psycho killer, qu'est que c'est” (Or ‘The Greatest Horror Films Ever Made’)

 

 

And all the girlies say I’m pretty fly for a white guy.

Sex, bodily mutilation and a romping good Howard Shore soundtrack. It must be a David Cronenberg film. Until the more contemporary efforts of A History Of Violence and Eastern Promises, I would argue that The Fly is Cronenberg’s greatest film.

The plot is about as simple and brilliant as it gets: it’s really just a case of ‘Boy meets Girl’; boy tries to teleport, accidentally splicing his DNA with that of a housefly, and the rest is gory, mutilated history.

 

“I was an insect who dreamed he saw a Cronenberg film … and loved it.”

 

Jeff Goldblum plays the unlucky genius, Martin Brundle, who falls for Geena Davies’ voluptuous reporter Veronica. Brundle’s jealousy drives him into his ultimately fatal error. Cronenberg has been blessed with some truly great leads. In the past he’s had the privilege of working with legends such as Jeremy Irons, Michael ‘One Arm’ Ironside, Viggo Mortensen and Ralph Fiennes. Not exactly marquee names, but they can bloody well act, and that’s what is needed in Cronenberg’s intense pieces. But Jeff Goldblum has never been topped. He may be an acquired taste, but if, like me, you happen to have the right palette for random pauses, quirky sentences and excessive hand gestures, you’ll probably love every second that this man is on your screen. He may be slowly mutating into the most hideous creature imaginable, but does Goldblum allow his tragic character to become a wallowing, self-loathing Emily Dickinson caricature? No. He creates a figure so likeable that his demise really is gut-wrenching. A truly wonderful and underrated performance.

The Fly is one of those forgotten gems of both Science Fiction and Horror. It isn’t excessive. Most of the story takes place in Brundle’s apartment. The genius is in the acting, and the perverse glee that can be derived from any Cronenberg film, where you just know you are guaranteed not just any gore, but something truly unique. And with Jeff Goldblum turning into a six-foot insect before our eyes, just imagine how good that is going to be.

A classic in every sense of the word, The Fly should be the starting point for anyone looking to get into either Cronenberg or Goldblum’s work. But it’s so much more than that. It’s 93 minutes of the funniest, creepiest, most heart-breaking Sci-Fi Horror you could ever imagine. I just wish I could get Jeff to read this out.

**** ½ / *****

“Him from Jurassic Park is in it and turns into a fly. Woman gives birth to giant maggot.”

The Omen

(1976)

Dir: Richard Donner

“Psycho killer, qu'est que c'est”

(Or ‘The Greatest Horror Films Ever Made’)

 

“Losing my religion.”

 

One way of getting someone like me to route against the forces of evil and cheer on the Christians is to make the villain a child. Ugh, they’re creepy. That’s essentially what The Omen is. Shameless propaganda against children. Okay, I’m joking, but there are an extraordinary amount of shots of a child staring at us with hellacious music playing over the top. Yes, we get it. He’s no Little Lord Fauntleroy.

The plot of The Omen is one of the most well-known in cinematic Horror history. As with most classics of the genre, the plot isn’t exactly a complicated one. The American Ambassador to Britain, played with typical gravitas by Gregory Peck, doesn’t want to tell his wife that she has given birth to a stillborn child, so he instead adopts one. Oh, and the baby turns out to be The Antichrist. Bummer. That’s probably how my parents felt too.

What follows is what the creators of the ludicrous Final Destination series have been trying to emulate unsuccessfully for about 53 films: a lot of very random deaths in very random ways that are actually creepy rather than hilarious. Okay, it helps that Richard Donner’s movie has the added presence of Catholic superstition hanging over it, and when isn’t that scary? Just ask The Exorcist.

Though the deaths are nasty and creative, there is nothing terrifying about them. The mood of the film is what creates the fear, as with any good horror. There is just such an ominous, serious feeling to everything that you never truly believe there is a way out of this. It helps that Peck can do despair like no other. Now that’s how you should look when you see a man’s head sliced off!

It doesn’t quite have the numbing chill factor of Japanese frighteners such as The Grudge for example, but it is still a master class in how to achieve scares through very little. We don’t need blood apparently. Just creepy little kids with chubby faces eyeballing us to a Classical score should do the trick.

**** / *****

Poltergeist

(1982)

Dir: Tobe Hooper

“Psycho killer, qu'est que c'est” (Or ‘The Greatest Horror Films Ever Made’)

 

After this film you’ll be calling in Bill Murray and co. to fuck Casper himself up. That’s Poltergeist for you. It’s the ultimate horror for kids. I always found that a little odd, considering the ‘15’ rating it has in this country, thus alienating its key audience surely? The producers can’t have been too happy about that.

The plot revolves around the Freeling family, a typical American household living in apparent bliss in the suburbs of Randomsville USA. When the furniture starts to become more animated than Leslie Ash’s face has ever been, and the television sets begin emitting strange white lights not of the Pornographic variety, it’s obvious that something is up. Guess what? Bingo. A Poltergeist. What follows is some truly crazy nonsense that could really only take place in the eighties. Wardrobes swallow people, freaky toy clowns come to life, and JoBeth Williams is almost raped by the ghost of Robin Van Persie.

Okay, the last one might not exactly be true, especially since this whole film feels like someone asked a group of little kids what scared them the most and then made a film about it. If that survey had been done in Vietnam, we’d have seen Gary Glitter stumbling in at some point asking us if we want to be in his gang. No, Gary, we don’t.

But that’s not to say that Poltergeist isn’t a lot of fun. It is. Tobe Hooper never lets the narrative pause for a second, hitting us with the action from the outset. It’s no surprise that this film was the brainchild of Executive-Producer Steven Spielberg; it feels exactly like what you would expect a horror from The Beard to be: child friendly. Apparently the original idea was for the Freeling’s to be tormented by nasty Aliens for a sort of Sci-Fi Straw Dogs, but Spielberg dropped that idea in favour of a little film called E.T.

Much like something such as Joe Dante’s Gremlins, Poltergeist is still an enjoyable piece of cinema for everyone who actually gets to see it. I just feel like adults watching it won’t experience the chills unless they have a particular fear of clowns or sexually deviant ghosts, and the little sprogs who would get a fun yet terrifying rush out of this, well, in my best posh old lady accent, one would certainly hope they wouldn’t be watching this sort of thing!

***^3/4/*****

Black Swan

(2010)

Dir: Darren Aronofsky

101 Ways to Win an Oscar: The Films That Tick All The Boxes

 

At one point in Black Swan, Darren Aronofsky’s follow up to 2007’s brilliant The Wrestler, Natalie Portman and Mila Kunis’ bamboo-figured ballerinas dance the night away in a nightclub. There are lights, there’s music, and I reckon if I was epileptic I’d probably still be convulsing in my seat as we speak.

No one does crazy like Aronofsky. His 2002 masterpiece Requiem For A Dream merges mania with drug abuse, but since then Rachel Weisz’ spouse has been a little restrained with his camera, keeping both The Wrestler and the opinion-splitting The Fountain relatively straight forward. But Black Swan is a return to the Aronofsky of old. The gritty, Michael Mann documentary-style visuals are still in place, but back are the jarring, hypnotic frenzied set-pieces of Requiem.

In terms of plot, Black Swan is closest to The Wrestler. Portman’s Nina is an aspiring ballerina who finally gets her shot at the big time, when Vincent Cassel’s lecherous choreographer Thomas makes her his new White and Black Swan for the famous production of Swan Lake. Unfortunately, with the arrival of Kunis’ spiky Lily and the sheer stress of the role, poor little Nina begins to lose her mind, turning from the cute little White Swan she was, into the sinister Black Swan.

 

David Bowie is Black Swan.

 

Considering she is on screen for virtually the entire film, Portman is tremendous, if a little humourless at times. Her scenes with her mother (Barbara Hershey) in particular are a treat, as we see the life of the ballerina literally itching away at her.

Of the others Kunis doesn’t really have much to do other than act like a slut, whilst the always excellent Cassel is perfectly detestable as the pervy teacher, and Winona Ryder’s bitter Beth is just kind of there. Hershey is the standout of the supporting players. But really this film belongs to both Portman and Aronofsky.

As with most Auteurs, Aronofsky really is an acquired taste. You either love his brain frazzling style, or you consider him to simply be a very, very lucky kid with ADHD, a camera and a few million bucks. I happen to fall into the former category, so while Black Swan isn’t quite his best work, it is nice to see Aronofsky attempting the merge the dark, angsty beauty of his drug addled world in Requiem with the earthy realism of The Wrestler. He truly is a unique talent in Hollywood. After all, who else could go from ballet to Wolverine without batting an eyelid?

**** / *****

True Grit

 

101 Ways to Win an Oscar

The Films That Tick All The Boxes

 

(2011)

Dir: Joel and Ethan Cohen

 

“The kids are alright … finally.”

To all ‘Friends of Dorothy’ out there, I must apologise for the following review.

No, it’s not a raging, hate-filled rant against homosexuality; but rather the opinion that Judy Garland’s yellow brick road-skipping Dorothy has been replaced at the top of the ‘Great Movie Child’ category. Don’t act surprised. It was always likely to happen one day. What has kept her on top has been the sheer level of nauseating sprogs and whiny adolescents that have graced our screens in the decades that followed. But finally someone has stepped up to the plate. And that someone is 14-year old Hailee Steinfield.

In the Cohen’s True Grit, a remake of the John Wayne-starring 1969 original, Steinfield is Mattie Ross, a young girl who enlists the help of a grizzled old U.S Marshal to help her track down her father’s killer.

Steinfeld’s performance is quite extraordinary. At the slender age of fourteen she achieves the unthinkable task of acting her fellow cast members off the screen. You might think that’s all well and good, but considering her cohorts include such heavyweights as Jeff Bridges, Matt Damon, Josh Brolin and the underrated Barry Pepper, it become a little more impressive. Upon an initial viewing, you would be excused for thinking Steinfeld just another babyfaced twenty-five year old, as her performance carries more maturity than a thousand Ben Stiller movies, and more dignity than a million Jennifer Anniston vom(it)-com vehicles.

Really the only performance I can think of that was almost as impressive in recent years was Natalie Portman’s portrayal of the wayward Mathilda in Luc Besson’s brilliant 1995 thriller Leon. Interestingly enough, Portman’s performance for Black Swan this year has been the one gaining all the plaudits. But Mathilda still acts like a child - albeit an extremely disturbed child shacking up with an illiterate hitman - whereas Mattie Ross is a girl in a man’s world, and has to adjust her behaviour accordingly. Her scenes with one local businessman are a particular delight.

To place her performance in context, the entire cast excel, with Bridges at his entertaining best, incomprehensibly growling and groaning his way through Rooster Cogburn’s dialogue in a much less annoying fashion than John Wayne ever did; whilst Matt Damon’s wonderfully named LaBoeuf goes from mysterious stranger to annoying prat to conquering hero with effortless ease in the space of a few hours.

In terms of its sheer performances, True Grit is right up there with recent titans such as The Social Network and Winter’s Bone. But it’s a Western after all, and the Coen’s love them a good ol’ Western, so it looks amazing. Aside from one rather dodgy closing ‘Green Screen’ horse riding sequence, it’s a joy to look at throughout.

It only came out in February, but I’d be amazed if it wasn’t on ‘Best of Year’ lists by the time December 31st rolls around.

**** ½ / *****

 

***********************************************************

 

Alas, the appeal of the Western has always eluded me. The same old duff nonsense assaulting my senses for ninety minutes straight, no thanks. The films are so damn near intolerable to me that I find my fight or flight reflex is switched on and so off I run, snarling like a wolf that has just got kicked in the nut sack.

As you can probably tell, I take the stand that if you’ve seen one Western, then you’ve basically seen them all. You’ve seen every single one that was ever made and that will ever be made and that’s that true to the point of ad nauseum.

 

“Yee hah motherfuckers.”

 

So it was with some reluctance and only because I’d been hearing so many great things about it that I went in to see True Grit. I ventured in not really knowing what to expect and you know what I found? It’s only about the best bloody film I’ve seen in ages. The entire film gave off an air of immaculate brilliance. The cast make the script come alive. The sounds and pictures are rendered onto the screen so vibrantly that the essence of the old West is somehow tolerable to me. The sort of atmosphere that justifies using the word epic or panoramic is what we see and hear. The film might well belong to a genre that has been done to death a 1000 times before but I simply couldn’t care less. The weight of brilliance buoys it up so much that all the prior animosity in the world couldn't sink it. The Coens have actually achieved the seemingly impossible. They’ve made a Western that I actually care about.

Perhaps it was to be expected that they would one day. After all, they’ve already made a career out of making films that encapsulate the modern West with such gems as No Country for Old Men (technically a period piece, as it’s set in 1980) and especially the film Raising Arizona, which remains to this day to be one of my all time favourite films in any genre. The point to make here is that a successful translation to the old West was by no means going to be a piece of cake for them. Indeed it is a testament to the performance of Hailee Steinfield in the role of Mattie that the film succeeds in the way it has done. The technical execution of the Coens alone would have counted for nothing was it not for the spellbinding performance that she gives at the heart of this movie. The assured maturity she brings to her character contrasts with her understandable naivety so charmingly that as a result you find yourself warming to this character that might otherwise have appeared truly obnoxious and annoyingly bratty throughout. 

So then, the hours passed by soothingly enough and I came out of the screening room blinking into the light with a changed attitude to the old West. Well sort of. It’s changed a little in any case.  I still feel that all Westerns are kind of the same but at least now I can see that sometimes a film can be so damn terrific that it just reverses years of pent up revulsion and bile in an instant and that’s a glorious thing to happen. Now, I can see some of the appeal that I never had before, which can only be a good thing. The only genre that is left to fall is the dreaded, god-awful musical….

Anyway, here’s a random digression to finish on. I know that they are spelled differently and so perhaps they are pronounced differently but take a good look at the surnames – LaBeouf and LaBouef. Now don’t tell me that the one that actually looks closer to La beef is not pronounced that way. Considering the popularity of this film, I’m thinking that this might soon be brought up in Shia’s presence an awful lot. 

****3/4 /*****

The Fighter

 

101 Ways to Win an Oscar

The Films That Tick All The Boxes

(2010)

Dir: David O. Russell

 

 

Christian Bale and Mark Wahlberg in a film together? What’s not to love?

Okay, you will see a LOT of love for these two actors on this blog if you read enough of it. From Bateman to Batman, and Diggler to, uh, Bob Lee Swagger respectively, I find it hard to see a performance from either of these guys that’s not entertaining. It’s really for the same reasons as well. Both Bale and Wahlberg excel at playing it both as straight as an arrow, as well as being able to lose their motherfucking minds as well. Bale even achieves the rare feat of doing both in the same film, as the same character, in the superb American Psycho.

But in The Fighter, it’s Marky Mark’s turn to play it straight, as he takes on the role of Micky Ward, the lowly boxer who’s never really amounted to anything in his life, and is considered nothing more than a “stepping stone” for other, better fighters. Bale is Ward’s brother, Dicky Eklund, another boxer, but this time very much in the former category, these days preferring to sweat it out in a crack house than a gym.

This is a sporting drama, so, of course, it’s all about trials, tribulations, and Micky overcoming the odds to get his life back on track. It’s a modern-day Rocky, shot in such a visceral, gritty way by director David O. Russell that it resembles Darren Aronofsky’s The Wrestler. Interestingly enough, Aronofsky has a producing credit, and was originally attached to direct before heading off to another Oscar fodder vehicle Black Swan.

The Fighter once again falls into that old trap of a lot of boxing films that, in order to appease non-boxing fans one would imagine, the actual fights themselves are about as realistic as a John Wayne flick, and actual boxing fans such as myself will find them hard to get into.

That being said, the comparison to Rocky can only mean one thing: clichés. Yes, The Fighter is about as clichéd as films get. The sterling performances of Wahlberg and Bale, as well as both Amy Adams and Melissa Leo, can’t disguise the fact that you can predict every scene, every swerve, every dip, before they happen.

It’s a shame, because the performances really are terrific. But, as with another ‘Based on True Events’ thespian’s dream released at the same time, Tom Hooper’s The King’s Speech, the plot unfortunately lacks the same punch as its lead character.

*** ¾ / *****

 

Needs more body work.

The King’s Speech

 

101 Ways to Win an Oscar

The Films That Tick All The Boxes

(2011)

Dir: Tom Hooper

Spit it out, old boy.

Who cares about the Royal family?

That was my feeling going into Tom Hooper’s The King Speech, starring Colin Firth as the stammering King George VI and Geoffrey Rush as the Australian speech therapist helping him to overcome his impediment.

Despite all the positive things I had already heard about it, let’s be honest here, when you have a strong political opinion, it’s going to affect certain things you do. My anti-royalist sentiments didn’t really come into play during Inception or Toy Story 3 - though I’ll be damned if that Buzz Lightyear isn’t an allegory for Western Capitalism’s influence on the rest of the world - but they can’t help but be aroused by a film all about the monarchy.

Ah, but therein lies the dilemma. Is it just simply ‘a film about the monarchy’? Or it a film about a man struggling to overcome a problem, who just happens to be the future King of England? There is an argument that says that given the time and setting of this film, the actual subject matter just seems utterly ridiculous and unimportant. Here we are, supposed to empathise with stuttering aristocrat, when the country is on the brink of war. Indeed, I don’t think it is too much of a spoiler to say that the film’s climactic sequence involves old Bertie gasping his way through announcing that we are war with Germany. Uh … yay? Not quite sure what to make of that.

But the thing about The King’s Speech is that, though the above is certainly true, there can be no denying the strength of the performances. The film itself might be riddled with clichés and “Really?” moments - such as Helena Bonham Carter’s pleasant performance as a surprisingly likeable Queen Mother. Not sure how accurate that was – the central efforts from both Firth and Rush are so mesmerizing that it’s impossible not to have a big fat smile on your face when Georgie boy finally spits out his last word. It is also helped by a booming and inspiring Beethoven soundtrack, and when is that not a good thing?

It might not be the greatest film of all time like some are lauding it. It may be pompous and silly and insignificant in parts. But there can be simply no denying that The King’s Speech isn’t an enjoyable piece of foppish English cinema.

**** / *****

127 Hours

 

101 Ways to Win an Oscar

The Films That Tick All The Boxes

(2010)

Dir: Danny Boyle

 

“And that’s why … you always leave a note.”

Ah, the famous words of J. Walter Weatherman. George Bluth would be proud of Danny Boyle for this movie. If none of what I’ve should said made any sense to you, then shame on you for not watching Arrested Development. Anyhow, that sentiment really does summarise 127 Hours nicely. It’s impossible to spoil anything about Danny Boyle’s follow-up to the phenomenally successful Slumdog Millionaire, since the story of real-life adrenaline junkie Aron Ralston was already fairly well-known thanks to his book, and Boyle and co. went around telling everyone about it anyway.

Ralston, played by James Franco, goes cayoneering alone near Moab, Utah, without leaving that all important note. Of course, disaster strikes, and the adventurer soon finds himself trapped under a boulder for … can you guess how long for?

It’s a Danny Boyle film, so despite the rather unappealing synopsis of a man on his own in a cave for a few days, it’s probably one of the most lively and energetic pieces of cinema you’re likely to see all year. With a cracking score from Slumdog collaborator A. R. Rahman, and camera shots quicker than a Humming Bird in mating season, this film, to use a terrible cliché, certainly doesn’t feel like 127 hours. Thank you, thank you. I’ll be here all week. It doesn’t even feel like the already slender 94 minutes it clocks in at, which is a credit to both Boyle’s jazzy direction and Franco’s engaging performance as what could potentially have been an irksome and alienating character. Despite his gung-ho approach at the start of the film, Franco’s portrayal of Ralston’s emotional breakdown and breakthrough is very convincing, although his ‘Chat Show’ segment feels a bit contrived.

Obviously the thing that most people have been talking about concerning 127 Hours is just how the devil does Mr. Ralston escape from under that pesky boulder.

 

Raise your hand if you liked this film?

 

Let’s just say the person I was watching it with said he had his eyes closed the entire time. Not me though. Far too manly for that.

127 Hours isn’t near the level of Boyle’s best work, such as Slumdog, 28 Days Later and Trainspotting, but it is above such pieces as The Beach and Sunshine. It’s an interesting look at what a truly talented master of his craft can do with such minimal story and setting. The only problem is, if you’ve ever been at home on a Sunday afternoon and turned on ITV, you may have seen some of their great survival programmes about people being stranded at sea or attacked by a rabid badger. I can’t help but feel that while good, 127 Hours is essentially one of those programmes with a handsome lead, cracking soundtrack, and Danny Boyle at the helm.

*** ½ / *****

Never Let Me Go

(2011)

Dir: Mark Romanek

I remember studying Margaret Atwood’s classic dystopian novel The Handmaid’s Tale several years ago in a class full of the fairer sex. To both my classmates and my female teacher’s complete and utter amazement I didn’t enjoy the dark and thought-provoking story of enslaved concubines in a sinister religious future world because blokes ruled the world, but rather because it was just a very, very well written and well told story.

The same can be said for Never Let Me Go, Mark Romanek’s adaptation of the novel of the same name by Japanese-born British writer Kazuo Ishiguro. Looking at the adverts for this film, and indeed its title, it would be perfectly reasonable to believe it some kind of epic romance saga. And whilst there are romantic elements to the story, Never Let Me Go is far less Romeo and Juliet, and much more Hamlet. That is to say that the tragedy outweighs the romance.

The plot revolves around three central characters, Kathy, Ruth and Tommy, following them from an early age at Hailsham, a jolly old English boarding school right out of Mallory Towers. Unfortunately for our heroes, as time goes on, we learn that all of these children are nothing more that cattle, clones bread for the strict purpose of one day harvesting their organs.

Cue epic action and chase sequences involving trains and lots of motherfucking helicopters! Oh wait no, that’s the other film about cloning from that director who did Pearl Harbor. Right? Gotcha’. No, Never Let Me Go is definitely not The Island. It is a sad, melancholy, thought-provoking piece featuring very strong performances from both its child and adult leads.

As Kathy, Carey Mulligan and Isobel Meikle-Small are the obvious standouts, though Keira Knightley and Ella Purnell do a fine job as the conflicted Ruth. Andrew Garfield doesn’t really have much to do as the romantic object of these ladies’ desire, other than mope around and look bashful.

Never Let Me Go is a very British dystopian film. There are no redeeming qualities about this world. It shares its grey, earthy pallet with any piece of Social-Realism you can point your finger at. Sombre, sullen and heartbreaking, but that’s what us Brits love right?

*** ½ / *****

“Needs more explosions.”

The Texas Chainsaw Massacre

 

“Psycho killer, qu'est que c'est”

(Or ‘The Greatest Horror Films Ever Made’)

(1974)

Dir: Tobe Hooper

 

“Just a short, back and sides please, mate.”

 

How does someone go from this to Poltergeist? The latter might be one of the friendliest, cuddliest, safest horror film ever made, whilst Tobe Hooper’s original hardware shilling scream-fest is one of the nastiest. Not nasty in the same crass, exploitative manner of Eli Roth’s Hostel or the later Saw films, but just the sheer mood that pervades every second, every reel of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

One of the most famous horrors of all time, it follows five youngsters as they travel to their grandfather’s old farm. Guess in what state? Along the way they pick up a hitchhiker, who, even by hitchhiker’s unpredictable standards, is an eleven on the batshit crazy scale. Unfortunately for our fresh-faced and nubile heroes, they come across a house owned by a dysfunctional family that make the Osbourne’s look like the Brady Bunch. And that leathery face chap? It ain’t Mick Jagger. But he’s just as scary.

It’s still mindboggling that this film was actually banned. Of course, I am writing from a modern, British perspective, where you have to practically murder an audience member to earn a tut of disapproval. Yes, people are killed in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and killed in not very nice ways. But there is no blood. What makes Tobe Hooper’s horror such a terrifyingly unsettling classic of the genre is the sound. There isn’t a horror film with a more effective understanding of the power of noises than this. Even before the screaming and gurgling begins, the atmosphere of this remote land is created through an ominous buzzing. Is it insects? Or is it something else? Other horrors of the amazing 1970s boom of excellence, such as The Exorcist and The Wicker Man have utilised natural sound as part of the manipulation of fear, but never as effectively as it is done here.

In Marilyn Burns, Hooper also has a heroine whose screams don’t sound like the contrived, forced, cartoonish wails of, for example, the otherwise excellent Jamie Lee Curtis in Halloween. When Burns’ Sally loosens her vocal chords, you really believe that she is being pursued through the woods by a crazy lumberjack. Even when one character is offed in a particularly swift and unpleasant fashion, he doesn’t simply die. Once again, not a drop of claret in sight, but we get the noisy convulsions of death, and the demented squealing of a psychopath. It really does unnerve.

By contemporary standards, the lack of blood and overt gore make The Texas Chainsaw Massacre a rather hard sell, but that doesn’t stop it from being an absolute, bone chilling classic, deserving of its spot in the eerie ‘Horror Hall of Fame’.

Now there’s a place I wouldn’t want to go at night.

**** ½ / *****

The Lion King

(1994)

Dir: Roger Allers and Rob Minkoff

 

With Helen Mirren donning the tights for yet another version of The Tempest this year, it raises the question of just what is the greatest Shakespearian adaptation in the history of cinema. Is it something as straightforward and disturbing as Roman Polanski’s Macbeth or Kenneth Branagh’s Othello? Do we prefer the punky, MTV version of Romeo + Juliet from Baz Luhrmann to Laurence Olivier’s thespian musings in Hamlet?

What is clear is that The Bard’s work has infiltrated every reel of film since its birth, finding its way into every kind of genre imaginable, perhaps highlighted best in 1956’s Forbidden Planet, a Sci-Fi re-telling of, interestingly enough, The Tempest. Animation is no different. 1995’s The Lion King is one of the most successful Disney productions of all time, producing a hit West End Musical production several years later.

Arguably the greatest use of any Shakespearian plot, The Lion King transports the adolescent strife of Hamlet from Denmark to the savannah’s of Africa, turning the previously titular Prince of Denmark into a young lion named Simba, who will one day inherit the ‘King of the Jungle’ mantle from his regal father, Mufasa. Unfortunately for our young hero, Mufasa’s dastardly brother Scar (if you name your child this, how can you not expect him to become evil?) has other plans, swiftly offing dear old pops, and sending the guilt ridden Simba fleeing into exile.

So far so Shakespeare. But The Lion King knows its audience, terrifying us with the brilliant menace of Jeremy Irons’ nefarious Scar and his troop of savage hyenas. One scene in particular, where Simba and love interest Nala first encounter the hyenas of Shenzi, Banzai and Ed in a beautifully sinister elephant graveyard, ranks right up there with some of the great villain introductions in cinematic history. But whilst The Lion King has the ability to terrify, it also has the ability to dazzle, featuring a multitude of catchy and engaging tunes, the stand out of which belongs to Irons as Scar, who really does steal the show.

From the gravitas of James Earl Jones as Mufasa to the light-hearted comic relief of Nathan Lane and Ernie Sabella’s iconic and unlikely double-act as Meerkat Simon and Warthog Pumba respectively, The Lion King is a rollicking good 90 minute ride that makes The Bard’s four-hour epic feel like a blast.

*** ¾ / *****

Compare the meerkat … and warthog. Simples.