Po-faced but spectacular Biblical epic starring Yul Brynner (with hair) as the legendarily wise king who risks losing the throne of Israel by making whoopee with the saucy-but-pagan queen of Sheba (Gina Lollobrigida). George Sanders plays the villain (hurrah), the cast-of-thousands battle scenes are impressive and the unintentionally hilarious 'orgy' is an absolute must-see.
Another brave taboo-buster from Joseph Strick, tackling Jean Genet's play in 1964 with the kind of cast that has you pinching yourself: Shelley Winters, Peter Falk and a youthful Leonard Nimoy. In a brothel that's a hideaway from the war outside, Winters is a fearsome madam and Nimoy's a rebel leader. Surreal and grubbily saucy, though the low budget shows its cracks at times.
A Kyoto skyscraper is contrasted with a crematorium chimney, gravestones abound, as do sinister black crows. And yet despite the lugubrious undertow of this, Yasujiro Ozu's penultimate movie (made two years before his death), there's a warmth to the tale of the Kohayagawa family, their ailing business and their eccentric patriarch that somehow transforms post-war angst into sublime acceptance.
Eric Rohmer's 1981 movie stars Béatrice Romand as Sabine, a twentysomething Parisienne who, fleeing an unhappy affair, resolves to find and wed Mr Right. Meeting Edmond, a young lawyer, she promptly decides she's got her man, and is soon obsessed with the idea of their getting married—little realising that Edmond fails to second that emotion. Meticulously assembled and exquisitely performed, it's a tart, gently mocking but poignant parable.
One of the turkeys which derailed Peter Bogdanovich's career. Hubris-fuelled on the back of runaway success, he cast other half Cybill Shepherd as the Henry James heroine who flits around 19th-century Europe falling in love and dying. The costumes are fine, but there's no feel for what was anyway a mediocre James story, and no momentum. Cybill's a fish out of water. A pretty folly.
Amazing how rapidly John Malkovich has plummeted from exquisite art-house bloom to a kind of Graham Norton version of Donald Pleasance, but his teetering vanity is quite well suited to Liliana Cavani's absurd yarn. This time, Ripley is pseuding it up among the renaissance treasures of Italy's Veneto region, and takes his revenge on tactless English picture-framer Dougray Scott by turning him into a reluctant serial killer. Diverting but hugely forgettable.
Straining to balance bog-standard biopic with anarchic art expression, Julie Taymor's biopic of Frida Kahlo is crammed with exquisite cinematic diversions (dream sequences, hallucinations, animated Kahlo paintings) while simultaneously stultified by the need to plod through Kahlo's life with startling apathy. Wild teen, bus crash, crippled, Diego Rivera, lots of sex, arguments, affair with Trotsky, big show in Mexico, the end.
Intensely felt melodrama collides with saccharine world view in this tale of an Irish immigrant family who attempt to begin life anew in an '80s Manhattan filled with friendly junkies and hackneyed racial stereotypes (see Djimon Hounsou's savage-but-wise African artist). Top performances from Paddy Considine and Samantha Morton are undercut by director Jim Sheridan's squishy screenplay.
