Indie tyro Doug Liman (Go!) takes a gripping premise (amnesiac superspy is hunted by CIA while seeking clues to his own identity), an efficient leading man in Matt Damon, and a raft of stellar supporting players including Brian Cox, Chris Cooper, Clive Owen and Franka Potente, and delivers a confident if ultimately soulless knockabout thriller.
Along with Insomnia and the inexplicably-unreleased Death To Smoochy, this eerie thriller serves to rehabilitate Robin Williams. His cloying wacky zaniness jettisoned, he's a broody bugger as the middle-aged loser who becomes obsessed with a cute family whose holiday snaps he's developed for years. Like a chubbier Travis Bickle, he feels his fantasy figures owe him emotional payback. He freaks, rivetingly.
Watching the ripples set in motion through the suburbs of Sidney by the murder of therapist Barbara Hershey, Ray Lawrence's movie is the most unfashionably mature murder mystery of the past decade. There may be something too neat about how everything fits together, but it's a film that understands life at its messiest. As the cop brooding at the centre, Anthony LaPaglia gives the performance of his career.
Riding the ever-popular straight-man-gay-world comedy wave (see Happy, Texas, Three To Tango, In And Out), debut writers, actors and co-producers Jennifer Westfeldt and Heather Juergensen add a distaff twist with their tale of a bi-curious gallery manager and her impulsive fling with a neurotic Jewish copy editor. The lines are witty, the nods to Annie Hall ubiquitous, though the resolution is strangely conservative.
Two strands of British comedy collide with utterly predictable results (all together now: "Oooh, Matron!") as the usual crew is augmented by the sublime Frankie Howerd and a positively quirky supporting cast (Anita Harris, Peter Jones, Julian Orchard). Post-irony, I think we should admit the Carry Ons are dreadful, but Sid James' laugh remains an imported national treasure.
Nick Broomfield's documentaries are as much farcical as investigative, with the director affecting the role of bumbling, plummy-voiced faux-naif, Kurt & Courtney (1998) was no exception. He looks hilariously out of place trailing around grungey Seattle, politely interrogating a series of eccentrics, conspiracy theorists and whacked-out dopers. He examines the possibility that Courtney murdered her husband, but witnesses prove so unreliable he drops the charge.
Usual Suspects writer Christopher McQuarrie makes his directorial debut with this hip crime caper, with Ryan Phillippe and Benicio Del Toro as two petty criminals who kidnap Juliette Lewis, a pregnant surrogate mother, unaware that the baby she's carrying belongs to mob boss Scott Wilson. Needless to say, the bullets barely stop flying in this slick, violent thriller.
The sequel to Robert Rodriguez's maniacally good Spy Kids, with budding-Bonds Alexa Vega and Daryl Sabara up against a rival team of adolescent agents and the monsters of mad scientist Steve Buscemi's fantasy island. Suggesting a Ray Harryhausen movie invaded by the screwball surrealism of a Looney Tunes cartoon, it ups the first film's formula of candy-coloured cool stuff for kids and in-jokes for grown-ups. Quite fantastic.
The clinically style-obsessed Tony Scott might not have been everybody's choice to helm a Tarantino script just as St Quentin was white-hot (seems a while ago now, huh?), but he made a splendid 1993 pulpy pot-boiler which, in sum, outshines its pithy but disjointed parts. Christian Slater and Patricia Arquette are the doomed Detroit lovers-on-the-run with a suitcase of coke, negotiating baroque badlands after Slater kills sleazoid pimp Gary Oldman and his comedy dreadlocks. Everyone who's anyone turns up to harass the couple and their sad dad Dennis Hopper.
