The cult of Michael Moore reaches back to '94 for his non-documentary debut, a satirical comedy about a PR-inspired American war with Canada that pushes all the Moore-ish buttons (rapid-fire jibes about corporate domination, hawkish Republicans, arms proliferation and conspiracy theories) while remaining alarmingly unfunny.
With swashbuckling swordplay now back in style thanks to Pirates Of The Caribbean and Master And Commander, what better time to revisit a creaking, many-times-remade, 1959 classic of the genre? Directed by André Hunnebelle and starring Jean Marais, it throws us into the crazy court of Louis XIV, where the cut and thrust of rivalries and flirtations matches that of the duelling blades.
Beautifully played, smartly directed low-key change of pace from Ridley Scott. Nic Cage plays a neurotic compulsive-obsessive grifter who has to deal with the unexpected arrival of his teenage daughter (Alison Lohman) as he and his partner (Sam Rockwell) prepare to pull off an elaborate con. It failed to ignite at the box office, but is well worth catching now.
The Merchant-Ivory formula finds a few new flavours in this picturesque cultureclash comedy. Naomi Watts and Kate Hudson play American sisters in Paris, stumbling as they try to adapt to the French mores regarding love, sex, family and money. Subplots include Matthew Modine cracking up convincingly. Elegant and urbane.
This tender 1986 romance is generally considered one of Eric Rohmer's finest films, though you have to be in the mood: it's as slow as it is gently touching. A lonely secretary (Marie Rivière, who co-wrote) holidays alone, fails for a while to meet anyone special, then possibly does. Eventually, its charm and delicacy—and underneath them, realism—get you where it counts.
James Foley back on form with a nimbly entertaining, fleetingly noir, conman romp. Ed Burns, Rachel Weisz and gang unwittingly rip off sleazy crimelord Dustin Hoffman, and are forced to pull a bank heist for him. Andy Garcia floats around, countertwist follows triple-bluff, but for all the cleverness it's pacy and energised, with a smattering of drop-dead one-liners. Makes you want to like it.
Michael Winner's 1972 Cold War thriller manages to be built entirely from clichés, yet is almost completely incomprehensible. Burt Lancaster is the seen-it-all CIA man on the run through Europe from superiors who want him dead, pursued by his protégé, cat-loving contract killer Alain Delon. Muddy, but the stars tough it out, and if you've ever wanted to see Lancaster in blackface, dressed as a priest, this is your film.
You'll be—yes—giggly at how truly grim this really is. It's embarrassing watching the ego-addled Ben Affleck straining to show us what a stud he is for pulling J-Lo. The block Jenny's from is clearly made of wood, for her acting is equally dire in a would-be comic thriller from Martin Brest, who even calls in Pacino and Walken for cameos. To no avail.
