crumbsroom wrote:

Baseball is the best sport to make movies about.

Oh, I see.  As soon as the Blue Jays are tied for the lead with the Yankees, all of the true colors spill out.

There is some dislocation involved in adapting Thomas Pynchon's Vineland, and subsequently one of this film's biggest surprises is in how little of an adaptation it turns out to be.  Given the shifting chronology, audiences will have to accept a fictitious alternate 21st-century America which had a militant left-wing revolutionary network operating roughly around the time of the Obama years.  It might just be easier to assume this film as entirely "near future", as the extremities of the political polarization, between social justice warriors on one side and anti-immigrant, um, Christmas nationalists on the other, is eeriely more prescient for our current moment than events some 16 years in the past.  But in this way, the film's two time tracks, separated by approximately a generation, seem to both overlap with our current social climate, and if you can shrug off this inconvenient anachronism it doesn't really alter or diminish any of the more pointed commentary on our current day and age.  Whether or not this will be seen as the best film of 2025, and it's surely a candidate, what's less contested is that this is the most 2025 film, and as great films should, it will be seen as a touchstone of the mood and tenor of this era.

Setting the historical incongruities aside, and simply enjoying the film as a tale, it is still a marvelous work.  All of the specifically American idiosyncrasies, the dogmas and the violence, are caricatured and sawed-off and largely rendered tragically absurd, a message for the youth (epitomized in an excellent debut performance from Chase Infiniti - her real name, I'm told) to avoid the "bullshit", the sins and pretenses of the past, a truly progressive incitement.  Our little Leo DiCaprio, has finally gotten as close as he can to summoning his inner Jack Nicholson.  And the most intense car chase sequence which doesn't even require a single turn of the steering wheels.  So much triumph.

And between this and Phoenician Scheme, Benicio del Toro better get his goddamn Oscar this year.  Who are we fooling, folks?
 

This seems like a very medicore effort from someone, Aronofsky, known for some pretty visionary work (Requiem For A Dream, The Fountain, Black Swan, Mother!).  The thrills are such cliches as the NYC confluence of ethnic syndicates (the tagline in the poster speaks for itself) or the post-John Wick trope of putting people's pets in danger, and, for safe measure, a handful of gratuitous stunt castings (the best being an unrecognizable Griffin Dunne), all intended to be vaguely familiar, lazily edgy, mildly amusing, but pretty forgettable.  This is Aronofsky cosplaying a low-grade Safdie Bros film while Austin Butler cosplays a low-grade Johnny Depp jabroni.

7/10
 

Much of my contrarianism, despite what it may seem, happens to be completely involuntary.  I don't know why.  I'm inclined to blame the more arbitrary fickleness of critics, especially those who are more committed to pop cultural relevance than artistic quality.  Pop culture, by definition, is as fickle as the weather and, as an arbiter of cultural significance (outside of sheer nostalgia), tends to be wildy inaccurate.  But FOMO keeps those with insecure discernment constantly focused on the sizzle and the flash, rather than the steak in the pan.  That those who most venerate pop culture are also fully committed to encouraging more erosive attention spans is probably not a coincidence.

Which is why it seems, to me, that many critics who were unimpressed with the latest John Candy doc must have spent the entire film staring at their phones rather than watching the damn thing.  Hey, maybe I'm wrong.  Maybe they're just stupid.  I'll give them the benefit of the doubt by suggesting that they're distraction addicts instead.  In any case, let me illustrate a number of critical inconsistencies in their reviews to make my case.

As I've long railed against the 'talking head' style of documentary, which has been the dominant documentary form for over a decade now, it wasn't lost on me that most film and TV critics were eagerly lapping them up, no crumbs, this whole time.  Hence my contrarian nature, per se.  But in those certain rare instances when a talking-head-template doc manages to keep its participants somewhat relevant to its subject - as opposed to bringing in a variety of 'pop culture scholars', or a small army of readily available C-list quasi-celebrities, or even some rando everypeople off the street to blandly reminisce and basically anything else to make the doc look more and more like a bad VH1 special - and I actually manage to find something insightful and illuminating and even emotionally engaging about the subject under discussion, these rare documentaries tend to be exactly the ones which conversely get short-changed by the same critics so enamored with the typical Netflix-style time-wasters.  Maybe, it could be, people are just slowly recognizing what I've been seeing all along.  Maybe such sharp satire, such as The Onion's recent Bad Pedophile, has made the fans of this same template of documentary, which has been so saturated in the culture for many years, slowly open their eyes to the utter artifice and inconsequentiality of the form.  But unfortunately, like all babes with newly opened eyes, they remain unable to discern the real from the artifice.  Like someone newly introduced to the fact of historical conspiracy, unable to judge whether Paul is dead or not.

I'll focus primarially on this awful AV Club review because it's an easy epitome of the problem, but I will briefly note this one take from someone over at RogerEbert's site who complains that "little to no interest is paid to Candy's considerable growth as an actor over the course of his career - particularly in the last few years of his life."  I'd argue that this critic paid little to no interest in watching the documentary closely, because the doc does indeed include a number of Candy's acting highlights, even finding his ability to bring a touching pathos to films like Splash and Summer Rental and The Great Outdoors, where such pathos was completely unnecessary to these slapstick-oriented roles, and with a special focus on his work with teens and children, culminating in his benchmark Uncle Buck (not a great movie, btw, but greatly elevated by John Candy).  And, obviously enough, a substantial amount of time is spent simply on Planes Trains and Automobiles alone, Candy's finest acting accomplishment.  And "particularly in the last few years of his life" is simply perverse, as John Candy did not have great screen success in these years (middling fare like Harry Crumb, Speed Zone, Nothing But Trouble, Only the Lonely, Delirious and the exceptionally unfunny posthumous Wagons East), but maybe this critic took special umbrage that the doc excludes a celebration of Cool Runnings (which, presumably, would be this critic's nostalgia overcoming their faculties).  But what this doc does show is how this late-career success was a burden on John Candy, who spent these years terribly concerned about his continuing professional viability.

Now for this AV Cunt.  Idiocy amok.  "John Candy: I Like Me doesn’t contain anything even remotely troubling about the Canadian comedy legend."  Oh really?  I suppose this twerp is strictly defining "troubling" in the "pop cultural feeling" of something potentially cancelable.  So, no, in this strictest sense, the doc doesn't reveal any bad behavior on Candy's part.  But what's more troubling is the revelation of John Candy's personal trauma, to which this critic seems casually callous.  "In fact, it doesn’t contain much at all aside from praise. Candy’s relatives, childhood pals, and famous comedy coworkers line up to glowingly reminisce about the actor."  Oh really?  None of these "relatives" especially had anything to say about their worries over Candy's self-destructive consumption, or the anxiety-inducing root of these compulsions?  Staring at his goddamn phone the whole time.

This set-up is appropriate: Aside from a basic biography and the kinds of personal details so broad as to be perfectly impersonal (His family home was filled with food and laughter? He had to make the hard choice to pursue performing instead of working a typical nine-to-five?), the documentary has little interest in psychological insight or the mechanisms of Candy’s approach to his work. It’s only worried about his legacy as a kind man and a good dad.

Such "broad", "perfectly impersonal" details like.....his father unexpectedly keeling over from a widowmaker heart attack on the morning of John's 5th birthday?!?  And the family making John go through the joyous motions of a birthday party in spite of this?  And the repression by his family to never discuss the event again?!?  ("Filled with Food and Laughter!!!")  Yeah right.  No insight whatsoever in how this childhood trauma which Candy had to keep closely clenched to his secret heart had any kind of bearing on Candy's "mechanisms".  What a fucking asshole.

"Sure, it’s mentioned that Candy’s own father died young..."  Oh, is that when you happened to look up from your phone, you cuntbagged son of a bitch?  Oh, sure!  Whateves!!!  "[T]his looming hereditary threat is skirted over just like the miniature histories of Second City, SCTV, and a stacked Toronto production of Godspell...."  Fwtw, John Candy did not take part in the Toronto production of Godspell, so there's absolutely no reason at all to have spent more time on it than this doc does.  And the rest of that is just pure lies, or negligence.  There's a large chuck of the first half of the doc dedicated to both the onstage Second City performances, and backstage camaraderie, and to the SCTV production.  Meanwhile the "looming hereditary threat" is a palpable subcurrent to the entire documentary, but especially and explicitly so while covering his final years.  Overlooking this obvious fact, this critic offers a more glib analysis: "the doc alternatively blames his weight for his failing health and shames interviewers for drawing any attention to it".  I think the latter had more to do with the shamefully mocking manner in which these interviewers broached the subject.  And also, in case you missed it, the doc spends at least as much time blaming things like alcohol and tobacco for Candy's failing health.  Either way, all of these things are symptoms to the true underlying cause which is clearly the very childhood trauma which, through no fault of the documentary, this critic failed to register.  Again, blithely: "this movie handles the topic off-handedly, brushing it away without much consideration to its effect on the psyche or the physique."  I don't know how this fool eats without stabbing his face.

What you’re left with is a bunch of famous faces sitting in separate rooms giving brief talking-head interviews about an old friend who died 30 years ago - a step down from a group in a bar raising a glass to a lost pal. This has a certain bittersweetness, to be sure, but it’s also not much to hang a two-hour documentary on.

I guarantee you that I can scan this bastard's film reviews over the past decade and find at least a handful of precisely the same kinds of talking-head docs which he has praised, and many of them will feature the more impersonal talking heads - the pop cultural VH1 template - which very well might be more digestible for someone inconvenienced by their "second screen".  (Oh, look, he loved Summer of Soul, which interviewed none of the performing participants, in lieu of purely nostalgic reminiscences.  Better for that "pop culture feeling"?)

But you have to have priorities, right?

Every so often, a story or a side interest will come up that’ll threaten to tug a curious thread in Candy’s personality. He was an investor in and avid promoter of Canada’s pro football league, and the team he co-owned won the Grey Cup (the Canadian Super Bowl equivalent) the very first year he was involved with them. That’s a whole movie right there. But telling that story would entail a lot more legwork than Hanks thumbing through his Rolodex and asking for a few minutes of time to wax nostalgic about Candy.

He cannot find a rest stop bathroom in which to go fuck himself fast enough.

"Anyone would be lucky to be remembered this way; most of us will merely get loving slideshows and a few choked-up speeches rather than 120 minutes of Amazon-hosted hagiography."

Aw.  You think you're John Candy now?  You think Candy deserves less of a documentary than "most of us"?  Or worse that Candy's success, or the love which his friends and family had for him, was due to LUCK?!??1?

Absolute asshole.  I envy the crypto-scam that will get him tossed in the streets.
 

Rock wrote:

These online critics love to whine about Roger Ebert as well, digging up every single opinion they disagree with as proof of his limitations, say what you will about the man but at least he could fucking write.

This does remind me.....I was thinking a while back about doing a thread similarly eviscerating reviews from Pauline Kael.  Of course, I admire Kael, especially as a writer and a wit, but equally of course where I disagree with her, I have some pretty strong disagreements.  Her antagonistic attitude towards Kubrick - it really was almost personal, as if maybe the two met once and Stanley said something awfully mean that she never recovered from.  

I really do have to vent a bit about this "second screen" phone business, because it's bad enough that these people who supposedly care so much about cinema that they expect to get paid writing about it can't be assed to actually watch the movies they're writing about.  And this isn't just me presuming their habits, these bitches are proud.  I've seen all of the excuses, "there's more than one way to watch a movie".  Yeah?  Worse!  There's worse ways to watch a movie, like being distracted with your phone the whole time.  And then they'll get offended when you mention it, like being on their phone is some kind of entitlement, like a hard won civil right.  "Who doesn't look at their phone while they watch a movie?"  ME!!!  I don't have time for this!  Especially when you're older and the prospects of multiple viewings are diminishing, you want to absorb as much as you can, especially if it's your job to judge the film and expect people to take your word seriously.  I actually like watching films, I prefer it.  What's your excuse?  One excuse after another.

And one thing about being called a "boomer", which is the resort of anybody who has exhausted their excuses and thinks that their youth will get them out of any uncomfortable realization.  I just want to point out, ftr, I am not a boomer.  Here's the thing: Millennials are boomers.  Zs are boomers.  These are baby booms which are on par with the post-war baby boom.  I am Gen X.  We are literally not boomers, we are, in fact, the only post-war generation which was not a baby boom.  You know the difference?  It's the boomers, from whichever era, who are most likely to take solace in the solidarity of the pretend significance of their peers.  That's why these people need spoilers.  They can't handle the solitude of their own private esoteric thoughts about a film without checking to see what other people might be saying on X or Reddit.

*Rock excluded, he's too old soul to be a typical millennial.

A massive nearly five hour dive into the life of Martin Scorsese proves to be appropriately dense for such an intensely determined and driven filmmaker.  While some amount of hagiography perhaps cannot be avoided, this documentary project is remarkably free of fluff, focusing on the culture, relationships and passions of the most committed cinema artist of his generation.  Each of its five segments covers roughly a decade - youth through the 60s, the 70s, the 80s, the 90s, and finally the 21st century.  This has some of the most in-depth coverage of Scorsese's childhood and the second generation Italian immigrant community in which he was raised, Scorsese's incipient obsessions with movies, music, women and his deeply-rooted spirituality.  Through frustrations and struggles - and the doc doesn't shy away from his notorious temper tantrums - to ultimate succeses....to more frustrations.  One thing the doc illustrates is how in spite of Scorsese's seemingly titanic stature and critical esteem he's consistently had to fight tooth-and-nail for everything from financing to final cut even to this day.  Perhaps this struggle is part of what makes Scorsese so great, as the doc also implies how he is fueled by his frustrations, and in times when he has enjoyed the freedoms of success he seems to respond with boredom.  It is something of a surprise that Scorsese is less than enamoured with King of Comedy, which seemed like a relatively stress-free shoot coming off the studio blessings of Raging Bull, as if maybe this film wasn't a sufficient enough challenge.  (Of course this view might very well be colored by the unfortunate sociopolitical circumstances surrounding the film which the doc lays out.)  Less surprising is his lack of enthusiasm for Cape Fear, a similarly smooth genre exercise coming on the heels of Goodfellas's success.  Marty likes to steer for the ditches, in Neil Young's terms, and many of the films which he found personally inspiring - Age if Innocence, Kundun, Silence - are among his least popular, and least typical.

Bringing Out the Dead may fall into that latter category as well, but the doc gives that film pretty short shrift.  Completely omitted, among all of Scorsese's features, is Hugo, although I'm not sure if this is truly reflective of Scorsese's own estimate.  Somewhat obviously, given various rumors, Scorsese does view Gangs of New York as a compromised muddle, given the creative interference from the Weinsteins.  The doc doesn't confirm the rumored existence of a possible 'director's cut'.  And speaking of alternate cuts, the prospect of a 4 1/2 hour version of New York New York is certainly daunting, but it suggests perhaps there could be a redeemable cut in there somewhere.  Scorsese is not one to look back though, and he doesn't seem in the least bit interested in doing any Coppola-esque revisionism.

But I do have to note my disappointment in the complete absence of mention of one of my very favorite Scorsese films, "Life Lessons", Scorsese's segment from New York Stories, because the work clearly has autobiographical significance, with Scorsese at the time entering his fourth marriage, and clearly reflecting the consumption between one's art and one's relationships which is a running theme in the doc through all of the interviews with the many women in Marty's life.  It is an unfortunate misjudgment to relegate this film as a minor work.

After approaching the fifth hour, some of the momentum does begin to unravel, and the ending seems rushed.  Maybe that's because Scorsese's story remains unfinished, and his drive remains intact.  Scorsese's recent film, Killers of the Flower Moon, is only glancingly referenced, likely because it wasn't yet finished when this doc was in production, and Scorsese has no fewer than six projects currently in the oven, even if most of them may go unrealized.  Scorsese is a man of industry, after all - "The sun compels me to paint!"

9/10
 

Antrum: The Deadliest Film Ever Made

Setting the hate aside for a second (I’ll pay it lip–sevice in a second), this is not a bad occult film at all, with some genuinely creepy stuff going on in it. I found myself in the same boat JJ described this past Halloween season, underwhelmed by the majority of options out there and mostly returning to classics, but this is one new(ish) title I stumbled across that suited the Halloween mood. A couple of kids go out into the woods and dig a hole looking for Hell and find it. They are beset by demonic presences and Satanists engaging in bestiality, necrophilia, cannibalism and other novel activities. the film is satisfactorily disturbing on the psychological side, relying on unsettling images and suggestions as opposed to an exploitative jumpscare/torture porn thing. Some parts are clearly derivative, pastiche, or knockoff, depending on how you look at it, taking cues from Blair Witch, Skinamarink, Texas Chainsaw and Wicker Man among others. 

The film suffers from flaws aplenty, though they weren’t enough to kill the deal for me personally. It’s steeped in gimmickery, most prominently the whole “deadliest film ever made” thing. It’s presented as a 1970s low budget horror film that was lost and presumed destroyed, “until now,” and cursed in that whoever sees it will die. Hence the cinema in which the only screening occurred promptly burned in a fire killing all inside. 

It’s off–putting, however, that all synopses and promotional material you’ll find are made with the intent of really fooling people into thinking it’s really a film from the 1970s. The syopsis on Prime video actually describes it as “A cursed film from the 1970s about a brother and sister who travel to a forest to dig a hole to Hell." The visual style as well is made to emulate 70s cinematography, editing and film grade such that it could fool anybody who didn't know better. So it’s been accused of going so far as to be guilty of false advertising.

The film also doesn’t seem confident enough either in itself or the audience. It’s peppered with subliminal images, some appearing as flashes of a few frames (evocative of Skinamarink), others as scratches on the film appearing as occult symbols, still others as subtle superimpositions. But rather than leave them subtle, frequent cues are included to draw the viewer’s attention to them, like, "see what we did, there?” For example one particularly gorgeous shot contains a demonic image in the frame that is hidden in plain view, quite masterfully. But then the shot is ruined when the demon intentionally nods its head as if to draw the viewer's attention to it, as though we couldn’t have noticed it on our own, or otherwise ben subliminally influenced by its presence. It’s a bit like when someone tells a joke and then says “get it?” 

I decided to intentionally play along with the gimmickry, psyching myself into thinking maybe I really will die from watching the film (they really play up that aspect, even with a warning before the film starts, and a countdown representing the amount of time you have remaining to either leave the room or turn it off). It did add an extra level of willies for me. But even without that intentional participation, it’s still full of good creepiness. 

I could nit–pick other details, like certain borrowed bits being a little too on–the nose (one bite from Blair Witch in particular is just too much to take entirely seriously), and the oft–committed cinematic crime of characters seeming to quickly recover from bullet wounds. But at least we might be able to imagine the explanation for that being that the characters are already in Hell. 

Well I gave myself a time limit to complete this entry and as usual I’ve gone over it, so I have to end it in classic “gotta go” anticlimactic style. As I’ve indicated before I prefer to demure from star ratings, but I guess I could give this one… oh man, even with the egregious gimmickry I’ll be generous and say the accomplishments outweigh the failings. Seven willies out of ten.


 Antraddendum:

I don't want to give the impression that it's a mere recycling of stolen bits. It bites certain riffs, but it brings plenty of novelty and originality to the table as well. It avoids numerous clichés to take its own direction rather than fall back on tired old themes, and it does go places most movies dare not go.

I neglected to mention that it's couched in a mockumentary about the film itself, so it's bookended by ostensible film historians and experts talking about the film. So don't be thrown by the beginning and think the whole thing is documentary–style. It's just part of the gimmick, building up the mystery and danger like a modern–day William Castle.

Again, I might be accused of not punishing the film hard enough for its shortcomings, but the totality of the overall effect and the satisfying aftertaste are enough for me to approve the pudding, even if a few corners were cut in the preparation process.

Last edited by Rampop II (11/16/2025 6:21 pm)

The new Cattet/Forzani film is equally rich in cinematic sugar as their previous work (Amer, The Strange Colour of Your Body's Tears, Let The Corpses Tan), and as those previous films were lovingly pastiches of Italian genre films, ranging from Bava to Leone, this film aims for the post-Bond era of stylish spy thrillers, especially Bava's Danger: Diabolik, while retaining a modern psychedelic sensibility.  Basically the kinds of genre homages Tarantino could make if he wasn't such a self-absorbed jack-off.

This film involves some smuggled diamonds and an aged spy played by a resurrected Fabio Testi and a few leather-gimped assassins.  I have to admit, I'm still not entirely sure what else actually happened, but I am sure that it was gloriously lensed.

8.5/10




This film, also gloriously lensed and a festival favorite this year, is simply too accomplished to dismiss.  But unfortunately, for me, it's ultimately way too dismal for me to fully embrace.  I saw one review which said that the film proves "the journey is better than the destination".  Which seems like a roundabout way of rationalizing how the destination of this film happens to be so dismal.  Otherwise I would agree.  The film, overall, is a lot better than its resolution, but I can't entirely forgive its edgelord fatalism.  That said, I wouldn't hesitate recommending it either.

7.5/10
 

I didn’t know raspberries grew in Thailand.



So, on the heels of my Sam Raimi and Muy Thai rewatches, and more than tired of the same old “rescue the damsel from the gangsters” plot line, I found myself considering the challenge of writing a plot for a martial arts movie set in modern times, with modern weaponry rendering martial arts all–but obsolete. During my contemplations, one of the options that came to mind involved potential dealings with the undead. Any kind of undead, be they regular old zombies, or something more specialized, like re–animated fighting badasses tasked with serving some conjurer or mad scientist, or maybe occultist mobsters even (I mostly left out vampires due to all their other abilities)… they mostly negate the need for guns and lend themselves to endless opportunities for squishy–bashy fun. It should be at least somewhat tongue–in–cheek, imo, if not a hell of a lot more than somewhat, seizing opportunities for the type of Raimi/Jackson humor that has apparently come to be known as “splatstick.”

So since I can’t possibly be the first to think of it, I googled it: any zombie martial arts movies out there? The search results yielded a couple of vintage titles like 1981’s Kung Fu Zombie, and, well, lookee here! A brand–new 2025 title from Thailand, Ziam, described as a Muy–Thai movie set in a hospital full of zombies! “Perfect!” I thought. Just what I was looking for. Ol’ Rampop's finger still has the touch for the pulse of the Zeitgeist. And it’s on Netflix! It had the look of a “serious” horror movie, no indication of it being a Muy–Thai Evil Dead II or anything, but all the same I couldn’t wait for the cable guy to fix my Internet so the first thing on my watchlist would be some Muy–Thai zombie mayhem. I mean, how can you go wrong with a concept like that… er, right?

I was still careful to temper my expectations, but nothing, noooo–thing could have prepared me for just how much Ziam sucks. I mean, it suuuuuucks! It’s barely a martial arts film at all, and what little fighting does happen is more, what would you call it? “Cam–fu?” Where the camera angles and editing seem to do most of the stage combat, seemingly covering for the fact that the actors can’t really fight. I got the sense the hero was played by a pretty boy instead of a real fighter, because a Tony Jaa movie this ain’t.

And I sensed right: lead man Prin Suparat is described as a “Thai actor and model,” as is his lady co–star Nuttanicha Dungwattanawanich. No mention of martial arts involvement in their bios whatsoever. So, a martial arts movie without martial artists. That’s downright insulting, to audiences as well as to the many hardworking actors with proven track records kicking ass for the screen, and bearing the scars to prove it.

Predictably, Ziam's characters are as interesting as a clothier’s catalog, and the movie is a drab mix of generic 28 Days–style “fast zombie” gore, and that weepy brand of Southeast Asian ultra–saccharine super–schmaltz that I have never, ever understood. That syrupy soft–focus sector of mainstream pop culture, characterized by one laboriously long tearstreaked romantic pop–ballad after another, a high–fructosity so pervasive and widely beloved by so many across multiple generations, that I have to shrug without even bothering to hate on it and simply accept that it’s something I just don’t get, but something of apparent value to someone... one of those incredible kicks I’ll never know. How it has any place in a gore flick, especially a “serious” one, I cannot understand …unless that romantic sweetness is the humor, just lost on me in translation; maybe the juxtaposition of saccharine pop–romance aesthetic against the backdrop of a dystopian zombie gorefest is the Thai version of a grimacing Ash clutching his decapitated Linda’s necklace in anguish, and as an outsider I just don’t realize it. To my eyes it looks more like the hallmark of executive interference. Someone upstairs didn’t trust the recipe, and the notion prevailed that a cheesy romance starring a couple of models was more likely to appeal to a mainstream audience and reap the returns. And since “returns" are measured by Netflix in terms of viewership, the question of whether or not 2025’s Ziam reaps enough to justify the $200 million(!) investment remains to be seen. Reviews meanwhile have apparently been inexplicably and sickeningly positive. 

Regardless, one thing I can say with certainty is that as a martial arts film, Ziam is unequivocally not up–to par. As I said the camera does most of the work, with added help from the foley art, of course. Speaking personally, it's everything a martial arts zombie flick should not be, so much so that it gave me a flood of great ideas born from all the missed opportunities, the way awful movies can sometimes do. I mean, come on, Muy–Thai–plus–zombies is inherently outrageous. Attempting to make it “serious” is nearly an open invitation to ridicule.

Ziam even has a scene in the NICU… without any zombie babies! How do you pass on that opportunity??? Can you IMAGINE a sequence with martial arts fighters fending off a nursery’s worth of rabid zombie babies??? That shit would be hilarious!!! I hope we get to see that someday. Where else in cinema would it be acceptable for the hero to go full–powered black belt baby–bowling? When else would an audience howl in approval as a newborn is mercilessly drop–kicked into that huge plate glass window? Have you ever seen a crown–cracking Muy–Thai triple–combo unloaded on a bloodthirsty tot? Because I haven’t. But I now feel my life will be less–than complete if I never do.

I will grant a little corner of a “star" for a novel plot twist at the end that renders the zombies transformed into a toothy zombie/mutant monkfish hybrid. The result is a promisingly outrageous image that could have helped make for a more entertaining ride, but coming so close to the end it was barely capitalized upon, and became just one more example of what this drearily disappointing movie could have been.

Maybe I should take some steps to find out if Ziam played better among Thai audiences, but coming from Rampop personally, unless you have all the time on this Earth of the undead on your hands, or are just into agonizing boredom, Ziam is a stinker to be avoided.

Nicolas Ray's melodrama isn't nearly as sleazy as the poster suggests, and in fact it's a very interesting look at a woman with borderline personality disorder long before that was an acknowledged diagnosis.  Joan Fontaine is luminous as seemingly naive Christabel with steep social ambitions and a tendency to achieve them off of the misfortunes she subtley causes to those in her immediate proximity.  Fontaine is clever enough to never fully show her insidious side, though Robert Ryan, as a cynical author, is keen enough to suss out her latent duplicity.

Ray was a more mature filmmaker capable of avoiding the cliches of the genre, but the strongest element is a sharp script from Edith Sommer with lots of dishy dialogue, including giving Ryan a backhanded line which would put Rhett Butler to shame: "I love you so much... I wish I liked you."

8/10




It's easy enough to consign this to the era's plethora of James Bond imitations, even if aided by U.N.C.L.E. star Robert Vaughn, but more interestingly is that this film (written by MI6 agent Helen MacInnes) falls into that category of films which presciently alluded to the MK-Ultra program (along with Manchurian Candidate, Ipcress File) long before the public had any awareness of the existence of such a program.  Vaughn helps significantly as well as a more sensitive ex-CIA officer caught in-between intelligence factions and his ex-lover (Elke Sommer) who happens to be a double agent herself.  There's also a tremendous bench of supporting players, from Ed Asner (looking like Bob Hoskins), Boris Karloff and Karl Boehm as a particularly slithery spook.  Also Luciana Paluzzi (Thunderball) has a funny but brief turn as an accomplice's secretary just to tie the Bond connection all together.

7.5/10




Richard Burton goes full Edgar G. Robinson as a vicious cockney crimelord, relishing the role in froth and fury.  For a 1971 British film, this is probably second only to Get Carter in the extremity of its violence and language, and its homosexual subplot (inspired by the then-recent Kray Brothers arrest and convictions, and the revelations of their relationships stemming from that) is suprisingly frank for a period when, just the year prior, the subject was quite controversial in Performance (which incidentally was also inspired by the Krays).  Besides Burton's bulldog swagger, Ian McShane is impressive as an opportunistic pimp, and the heist at the center of the film proves to be a thrilling demolition of unfortunate contingencies.  Apparently the screenwriters, adapting the hardboiled source novel, were comedy writers, which makes some sense in hindsight.

8/10