One of the best US TV shows around, a relentlessly kinetic, breathlessly filmed and edited conspiracy and counter-espionage drama starring Jennifer Garner as CIA agent Sydney Bristow, clandestinely placed within the sinister SD6, an organisation plotting global domination. The serial plot twists, constantly shifting allegiances, reckless narrative pace and relentless action make these 22 episodes essential viewing. Brilliant.
Richard Linklater's warm-hearted comedy is elevated to late-night stoner classic status by a manic central performance from Jack Black, here masquerading as a substitute teacher in a posh American private school who educates his privileged pre-teen charges in matters RAWK. Great, throwaway fun.
Robert Aldrich's most profitable movie presents war as mean-spirited farce: Major Lee Marvin offers a bunch of jailed WWII Gls—including John Cassavetes, Telly Savalas, Charles Bronson and Donald Sutherland—the chance to join him on a suicide mission into Occupied France. The movie wastes its greatest actor, Robert Ryan, but it's a relentless work—violent, funny and deeply cynical.
San Francisco, 1969: do enough acid and anything is possible. A gaggle of (mostly) gay freaks and flower children (and latterly, disco diva-to-be Sylvester) become the Cockettes, a utopian, ragged-arsed theatre troupe who wow the West Coast but flop in NY. This funny, moving doc eventually unravels in a roll call of deaths, both drug and AIDS-related. They were stardust, but all too briefly.
This made Edward Burns' name as an actor-writer-director when it won Sundance back in '95 on a matchstick budget. He plays one of three Irish-American siblings trying to understand each other and the women in their lives. Straight-talking, romantic yet unsentimental, it's the kind of comedy we wish Woody Allen still made. Or, for that matter, Burns himself.
Johnny Cash is the criminal holding a banker's wife to ransom in this extraordinarily low-budget 1961 B-flick. Originally christened Door-To-Door Maniac, Cash is only too convincing as its eponymous gun-waving psycho, a-leerin' and a-sneerin' and even a-singin' the title tune. Look out, too, for an absurdly young Ron Happy Days Howard as the irksome brat who saves the day.
It was inevitable that Oliver Stone's trip to Havana to shoot 30 hours of interview with Fidel Castro would unleash a storm of controversy. Hawkish US commentators couldn't miss a chance to condemn Stone, and HBO, having bought the film, then decided not to show it. There's no doubt the director, who shares centre stage with Fidel himself, looks a little too pleased with himself for landing this coup, and as he develops a chummy camaraderie with his host, issues like Castro's human rights record and his laughable claim that Cuba is in some way democratic go without scrutiny.
When her daughter's kidnapped by murderous types in this odd, grisly gothic western, frontierswoman Cate Blanchett saddles up and gives chase, accompanied by estranged father Tommy Lee Jones. A tiresomely grim offering from Ron Howard, whose fussy, pointlessly tricksy direction is a consistently irritating distraction. Very poor.
In October 1992, Brazil's notorious São Paulo Detention Centre—aka Carandiru—erupted in a full-scale riot which left 111 inmates brutally slaughtered by trigger-happy military police. Director Hector Babenco's movie charts the events that led to the uprising, using the arrival, some 12 years earlier, of Drauzio Varella, a doctor employed by the authorities to quell the rapidly rising AIDS epidemic in the facility, as our entry point into the story of this hellish, overcrowded facility.
