Barbet Schroeder's outré 1976 tale of feral love between petty criminal Olivier (Gérard Depardieu) and high-class Parisian dominatrix Ariane (Bulle Ogier), complete with scrotum piercing and golden showers, was originally denied a BBFC certificate. In retrospect, the analogy between S&M and romantic power games is overplayed, but Schroeder's willingness to draw sex and death so close together is compelling.
The nominal director is Lee H Katzin, but this was entirely Steve McQueen's project. Starring and driving, his 1971 film about the famous 24-hour race was his obsession, and he was in a strange place when he made it, his paranoid quest for perfection reflected in the extraordinary cinematography of motors in motion. Barely any plot, it's all wheels, speed and engine noise. Less a movie than a machine.
The 1973 story of young fairground worker Jim (David Essex) making it as a pop star on the cusp of the '60s captures the very smell of small-time rock'n'roll dreaming. It ekes real pathos from the bloating of Jim's ego. Keith Moon's his drummer. In the sequel, Jim turns Lizard King, forgets his roots, shags around and gives manager Adam Faith headaches. Great.
Ridiculous documentary in praise of the gigantic ego of producer Robert Evans, 'somebody' in the '70s but a self-promoting Hollywood Del Boy now. Sure, he bankrolled great films once (The Godfather, Chinatown), but this indulgent, visually static puff-piece (chiefly composed of photos and Evans saying what a fabulous mogul and stud he is) isn't one of them.
Burt Lancaster, gruff and manly, and Tony Curtis, delicately fey, star in Carol Reed's howlingly homoerotic tale of two leotard-clad acrobats in '50s Paris, vying for each other's respect, for the affections of Gina Lollobrigida, and for mastery of the triple somersault. "Teach me the triple!" says wide-eyed Curtis to Lancaster. "Are you crazy?!" splurts Lancaster, outraged.
Arthur Penn's follow-up to Bonnie And Clyde, based on Arlo Guthrie's blues hit about his arrest for littering and how it led to him being rejected for service in Vietnam. Penn's movie follows Guthrie as he wanders the US from draft board to college to commune, providing a time capsule of the dreams and rituals of late-'60s drop-out America; and one that, with its lingeringly downbeat ending, now looks prescient.
Prompting both genuflections at its breakneck brilliance and gasps at its gung-ho grisliness, Roger Avary's comeback has been a startling opinion-divider. Fans of the Bret Easton Ellis novel will relish the former Tarantino sidekick's fidelity to the blank immorality of the prose, yet the movie bursts with visual ideas. James Van Der Beek is fearlessly irredeemable as Sean Bateman (younger brother of the American Psycho), flailing across campus, gobbling up narcotics, rock'n'roll (it has a great soundtrack), girls, boys, suicides, whatever.
Rowdy late John Ford comedy starring John Wayne and Lee Marvin as Guns Donovan and Boats Gilhooley, brawling Navy veterans who stay on in the South Pacific after the war against the Japanese ("bad, black days"). Contemporary audiences will probably find it crude, noisy and rambling—but it's ravishingly shot, and beneath the slapstick there's a sharp satire on class, race and friendship.
Michael Winterbottom veers as far away as imaginable from 24 Hour Party People, proving yet again that he's bizarrely versatile, in this "fictionalised documentary" about two Afghan refugees who flee across Pakistan, Iran and Turkey in an attempt to reach the relative safety of Kilburn High Road. Not an easy watch, it won multiple awards for its grainy worthiness.
Deeply cool 1957 musical based on the feckless chancer of the John O'Hara stories. Who else but Frank Sinatra could play the nightclub crooner who's a heel to not only Rita Hayworth but Kim Novak (both of whose singing was dubbed)? Rodgers & Hart songs, some (though not quite enough) smart-ass dialogue, and Frank in full effect.
