A pragmatic and well reasoned character study, coolly and sensibly developed. The lack of interpolated pop songs over the narrative makes one realise how inane and lazy so much of modern film-making is with clumsy emotive underlining; this film quietly gets on with the craft of storytelling and is all the better for it
Saint Walt. The odds are stacked against anyone taking on the folksy might of Uncle Walt let alone this stiff and starchy dragon in a film stymied by flashbacks which seek to enlighten but simply lengthen. It's competently assembled and played with aplomb by the two leads, but one is left little wiser by an end marred by ghastly pro-Disney speculation. The best moments are the original recordings over the credits.
Competent and not too sentimental despite all the triggers waiting to be pulled. Coogan - as actor and co-script writer - never loses the sarcastic nuances and the condescension towards working class tastes smacks of laziness.
Rather Americanised 'relationship' tapestry which fortunately falls just short of the kitchen sink in the Director's insistence on heavy scene underlining with a rather too literal soundtrack. Otherwise a competent wallow with generally selfish characters, but a good thirty minutes too long whichever way you slice it.
Passable caper marred as in so many films featuring Hepburn by her mawkish gaucheness and that ghastly diction and delivery. A beautiful clothes horse nevertheless.
Gorgeously realised but interminably stilted, spinning out a potentially interesting short film to epically tedious proportions. One really couldn't care less half-way in let alone two hours later at the conclusion. Gratuitous dollops of soft core grunting are appended to little effect.
Logical descent into a tightening spiral of paranoia and desperation edged by a subtle sense of maternalism. Swinton plays an ace in a role that should attract little sympathy but she manages to lace it with well judged and thought-through emotion. It's overlong but has a fascinating underbelly rooted in the blackest of farces.
A generally stylish variation on a familiar theme of navel gazing. It's longeurs can be largely forgiven for providing good company for 90-minutes or so; although you're still not much the wiser as to what's behind The Look at the end of it. Nevertheless a cinematic coffee table book.
Chillily bravura ‘look book’ of a film whose almost entire raison d’etre is its glorious surface detail. As the saying goes, scratch the surface and… what? A clinically assembled mish-mash of Visconti, Wagner with a large dollop of House & Home Italia. It works, but on a visual sensory level: the story is penny plain with daft anti-materialism cleansing; the assembled score is divine but operates on its own terms.
Despite a few liberties with a tight original novel, this is a superbly realised romp balancing the potential horror of a growing mound of cadavers with wit and aplomb. It's rather sad to note one had to wait thirty years for the Brabourne & Goodwin productions of the 1970s for decent screen adaptations of Christie's cinematically oven-ready novels. The intervening adaptations were largely misjudged, flat or dire.
Fairly dire euro-stodge which lumbers through Christie's sprightly original with deadening elephant prints. It looks like a Jess Franco production with its winter woollies on.
Somewhat dreamy and nicely textured character study that leads to an inevitable sorrow of sorts but builds nicely along the way in a series of well-paced vignettes. Slocombe's photography is especially pleasing.
Coherent compaction of all you could possibly wish to know about life in the glittering closet. Douglas and Damon turn in trump-card performances in a solidly realised and densely detailed film. I don't know if television is a wasted opportunity, but this certainly had the better treatment here in Europe with a small cinematic release.
The 'enfant terrible' writ large and literally in this generally engaging subjective summary of Russell's early life and pre-occupations largely conveyed by the directors own son in mute mime overplayed with lip-syncing from the director himself. One is left none the wiser at the end except that Russell has a good line in self-depreciation and can turn a low budget to reasonable effect.
Chirpy propaganda dressed as soap opera. Charters & Caldicott are rather an odd addition to the semi-naturalistic style and add little to proceedings.
The smoothest of cinematic packaging combining all manner of disparate strands (espionage, suspense thriller, sex, slapstick, mild political comment, magic tricks, etc.) into a coherent and consistent whole. There's little to be negative above with such palpable verve, charm and fun, with all involved on top form. The ease with which it's pulled off just points to the sheer professionalism involved.
Splendid riff on the familiar theme of a community pulling together albeit in the faintly criminal and positively conniving pursuit of liquid loot. However, despite Colonel Wagget being set up as the priggish pivot, in the charmingly waggish hands of Basil Radford you somehow wish the islanders had come a cropper.
Often flat-footed but curiously beguiling. A neat pairing with The House in Nightmare Park for hoary old coals warmed over for the umpteenth time.
An on-going master class in suave, supercilious condescension.
Begetter of a dwindling series of naughty schoolgirl comedies where the machinations of the equally corrupt staff were generally more amusing than the tedious playing-up of freckle-faced brats. Sim is of course the chief delight as the richly overripe Miss Fritton.