Not as astute or ambitious a satire of "reality TV" as Series 7: The Contenders, but Marc Evans' house-of-horror, shot on webcam, hosts a rattling good scary yarn. If the kids stay in the creaky pad for six months they win a million, but as Davina day looms, things get gory. A superior, if pretentious, genre piece.
TV mini series from 1988 directed by David (The Sweeney) Wickes and starring Michael Caine as the police inspector investigating 'orrible murders in Whitechapel, with Lewis Collins as his sidekick. Hack melodrama with red herrings galore, but still quite watchable.
Intense Israeli thriller merging politics, religion and thwarted romance in which Rabbi Meltzer (Assi Dayan) encourages his soldier students to embrace martyrdom. A huge hit on home turf, it's fiery spirit ensures it translates.
This cult item came about in 1976 when Claude LeLouch fastened a camera to the bumper of a Ferrari 275 GTB and sent it on a high-octane, outlaw street race, burning up the boulevards of Paris. No roads were blocked off, no stunt drivers used. Everything you see is real. It's fucking astonishing. Available online at www.spiritlevelfilm.com
Jack Nicholson's second film as director, an anarchic western, with Jack's filthy outlaw saved from hanging, married off to Mary Steenburgen and put to work on her land. It's a shaggy, high plains African Queen, with Nicholson the director simultaneously coarse and tender and allowing Nicholson the actor one of his more raggedly wolfish turns.
"If God could do the tricks that we can do, he'd be a happy man," declares megalomaniacal film director Eli Cross (Peter O'Toole, on epic form), who's just hired a wanted fugitive (Steve Railsback) to be a stunt man in his anti-war movie. Richard Rush's decidedly offbeat comedy thriller from 1980 lies somewhere between genuinely unsettling and extremely likeable.
Arguably the two most powerful kitchen-sink dramas of the early '60s were both adapted from the works of author Alan Sillitoe. Saturday Night And Sunday Morning (1960), directed by Karel Reisz, provided British cinema with an equivalent to Brando thanks to Albert Finney's electrifying performance as marriage-wrecking factory-hand Arthur Seaton ("I'm a fighting pit-prop of a man who wants a pint of beer, that's me!"). But Finney perhaps lacked the surly sophistication of borstal boy Tom Courtenay in Tony Richardson's later The Loneliness Of The Long Distance Runner (1962).
A monumental 150-minute attempt at tracking China's cultural transition from Mao-ish uniformity to the eccentricities of Deng Xiaoping's quasi-capitalism, Platform (1990) follows four wannabe performers from Fenyang over a long and turbulent decade (1979-1989). Unlike director Jia Zhang-ke's excellent 1997 drama Xiao Wu, Platform has a bizarre disregard for character and narrative coherence.
Brilliant comedy about snobbery and class, set in 1947: with food rationing (and the black market) still in operation, chiropodist Michael Palin and his piano teacher wife Maggie Smith discover the only way to climb the social ladder is to steal a pig. Great cast, but Alan Bennett's screenplay's the real star.
