Deathgasm 2: Goremageddon (2 Stars)

This is the ninth film in the Stuttgart White Nights Festival.

The film is a sequel to "Deathgasm", which I watched in 2021. From what I remember, it was quite a good film. I can't say the same about the sequel. The film relies on over-the-top gore from beginning to end. I respect the film makers for refusing to use CGI, but they overdo it. I would have preferred a better story and less gore.

Shelby Oaks (3 Stars)

This is the eighth film in the Stuttgart White Nights Festival.

A team of paranormal investigators has a successful YouTube channel. One day they disappear without a trace while investigating an abandoned town called Shelby Oaks. Three of the bodies are found. Only Riley Brennan's body is missing. There are no clues. The police eventually give up the investigation.

12 years later Mia Brennan, Riley's older sister, is given a film tape by a stranger. On it she finds footage of the Shelby Oaks investigation. Convinced that her sister is still alive, she goes to Shelby Oaks to continue the investigation.

I enjoyed the first hour of the film, when it was a chilling mystery. The crazy supernatural occurrences in the last half hour spoilt the film.

My Daughter is a Zombie (4 Stars)

This is the seventh film in the Stuttgart White Nights Festival.

Unfortunately, I missed the first day of the festival. My grandson Oliver was participating in his first football tournament. It was a tough choice, but I decided that family takes priority over films.

The film is about the aftermath of a zombie virus in Korea. All the zombies have been killed, so life can return to normal. Almost all the zombies. Soo-a is a zombie, probably the last zombie in Korea, and she's being protected by her father. He's convinces that he can train her to return to normal, without any medication.

The film's title makes the film sound like a comedy. There are a few humorous situations, but overall it's a serious film. It's emotional to see a father's love for his daughter under the most difficult of situations.

Three Into Two Won't Go (4 Stars)

This is the third of three films I'm watching that belonged to my mother's favourite films. Unlike "Date with a Lonely Girl", it doesn't have a Rotten Tomatoes rating at all. Is it too old (1969) and too obscure to have been noticed?

Steve Howard is a salesman whose office is in London, but he frequently has to travel to Manchester. He picks up a teenage hitchhiker called Ella Patterson while returning home. She seduces him, it's not the other way round. He arranges for her to get a job at a guest house that belongs to Jack, an old army acquaintance. A week later he stops at the guest house again, longing to see her. When he visits a third time, she's gone.

Ella has gone to Steve's house. She makes friends with his wife, claiming that she's left the guest house because Jack was molesting her. This isn't true. She just wants to be with Steve again. She wants to wreck Steve's marriage at all costs.

The film is deliberately austere. Long silences, static compositions and the isolated rural setting emphasise the emotional claustrophobia of the situation. The countryside, often romanticised in British cinema, becomes a place of entrapment rather than escape. The film's pacing is slow, even uncomfortable at times, but this is essential to its effect; it forces the viewer to sit with the characters' unease rather than providing narrative relief.

The film's message is not an attack on non-traditional relationships as such, but a critique of emotional dishonesty and power imbalance. "Three Into Two Won't Go" argues that relationships framed as progressive or liberated can still replicate old forms of control if they're rooted in ego rather than mutual care. Steve believes he's rejecting conventional morality, yet he reproduces its worst elements by positioning himself at the centre of everything.

Crucially, the film refuses to offer a clear moral victory. There's no dramatic punishment, no neat reversal, no comforting lesson about love conquering all. Instead, it leaves the audience with a sense of quiet damage; people leave the arrangement not enlightened but diminished. This ambiguity is precisely what makes the film enduring. It trusts the viewer to recognise that emotional harm does not always announce itself loudly.

In retrospect, "Three Into Two Won't Go" feels like a sceptical response to the sexual revolution rather than a celebration of it. Released at a time when cinema was increasingly embracing permissiveness, it asks whether emotional maturity has kept pace with social experimentation. Its answer is cautious, even pessimistic, but never reactionary.

While the film lacks the stylistic flash that often defines late-1960's cinema, its intellectual seriousness and psychological honesty give it lasting weight. It's a film less interested in romance than in responsibility, and less concerned with desire than with the consequences of indulging it without empathy.

"Three Into Two Won't Go" remains a quietly unsettling study of modern relationships, suggesting that progress is meaningless if it merely repackages selfishness in fashionable language.

Date with a Lonely Girl (4 Stars)

"Date with a lonely girl", also known as "T.R. Baskin", was one of my mother's favourite films. I remember watching it on television a few times. Like all families in the pre-Internet age, we bought a TV guide every week, and my mother closely examined what films would be shown. She was always excited when "Date with a lonely girl" would be shown. Imagine my surprise when I read up on it and found that it has a whopping 0% rating on Rotten Tomatoes. I couldn't remember it being that bad. Nevertheless, it's been released on Blu-ray, so I ordered a copy before Christmas, which finally arrived this week.

The film is about a young woman who moves from Findlay, Ohio to Chicago. The reasons for her move aren't stated, but it was obviously a spontaneous decision. When she arrives she has no job and nowhere to live. She hadn't even told her parents she was leaving. She sends them a telegram to tell them not to worry about her.

A few weeks later two former fraternity brothers, Larry and Jack, bump into one another on the street. Larry works in Chicago as a children's book author. Jack is a salesman from New York, visiting on business. Despite being married, Jack asks Larry if he can recommend female company for his weekend in Chicago. Larry recommends T.R.

In case you're wondering what T.R. stands for, we're never told. She claims that it stands for nothing, it's her complete name.

T.R. visits Jack in his hotel room. While they're talking, we see in flashbacks how she arrived, how she found a job, and most importantly, how she met Larry.

While watching the film, I tried to figure out why the critics hate it. Maybe it's the characters. Everyone we see is screwed up, in one way or another. Everyone is socially awkward. Even T.R. herself has a warped sense of humour that alienates everyone around her. Ironically, Jack, despite being a man who cheats on his wife, is the only normal, well-balanced person in the film.

And yet, from what I've read, many viewers enjoy the film, not just my mother. What makes the film interesting is its refusal to resolve neatly or deliver conventional meaning. On the surface it’s an unglamorous character study about a woman who, time and again, misreads her life and relationships, and pays a quiet price for it. Beneath the surface it’s really about the psychological cost of independence when the world isn’t set up to support it; it’s about the frustration of being clever yet misunderstood, resilient yet repeatedly disappointed, and the corrosive effect of living in a big city where everyone is anonymous.

I don't consider it a bad film. If my mother were still alive we'd sit and watch it together, like in the old days.

Spellbound (4 Stars)

Last month was the 15th anniversary of my mother's death, so I was feeling sentimental. I decided to buy Arthur Hitchcock's "Spellbound", because I remember her saying that it was her favourite film. I also ordered two other films that I remember her liking a lot.

I remember my mother being a film fan, even though it was more inconvenient in her era. There were no videotapes, DVDs or Blu-Ray discs. Apart from the official cinema releases, the only way to watch films was television. We had our regular film evening every Friday. Every Friday there were two horror films on ITV, either the Universal horror films from the 1930's and 1940's, or the more recent Hammer Horror films from the 1960's. The schedule was that one film ended at midnight, and the second film began at midnight. My father went to bed and let the two of us watch television together. We usually drank a glass of sherry together, even though I was very young, 11 to 16 years old. Those were happy days.

Even though she watched horror films with me, those weren't her favourite films. She loved the film "Spellbound", calling it her favourite, and we watched it several times together. There's a story to it. She went to see it in the cinema when it was first shown in 1946. She was 14 at the time. After the film she bought the soundtrack album in the cinema foyer. It was the only soundtrack album that she ever bought. In the good old days it was common to sell LPs in cinemas. There were no DVDs, so the most people could do was buy the film music. When she got home she played it for her father, and he said that it was bad. He played the William Tell Overture as an example of good music. She said that it sounded just the same. But if she'd thought logically she would have known it wasn't the same. She liked "Spellbound" and she didn't like the William Tell Overture, so something must have been different. I remember the LP lying around for years. I have no idea what happened to it. It was probably thrown in the rubbish when she died.

The other two films she liked a lot were "Date with a Lonely Girl" and "Three into two won't go". I remember them, because whenever they were listed in the TV guide she'd get excited and tell me I had to watch them with her. I'm still waiting for Amazon to deliver them, and I'll watch them as soon as they arrive.

---

The film is about Dr. Constance Petersen (Ingrid Bergman), a psychoanalyst in a mental hospital in America. The hospital's director retires and is replaced by Dr. Anthony Edwards, a renowned author of books on the guilt complex. It's love at first sight. Within the first day Constance and Anthony fall into one another's arms. Maybe more happened, but in 1940's films nothing is shown or even hinted at. But it's soon discovered that he's a fake. He's a man suffering from amnesia who wrongly thinks that he might be Dr. Edwards. The police suspect that he murdered the real Dr. Edwards, so he flees. Constance loves him, so she follows him. She's not just his lover, she acts as his psychoanalyst trying to help him remember his past.

"Spellbound" is revered as a classic, even though it's now one of Alfred Hitchcock's lesser known films. It was nominated for six Oscars at the 1946 Academy Awards, winning the Oscar for the Best Soundtrack.

P.S. I would have posted a screenshot of Alfred Hitchcock's cameo, but he's smoking a cigar. My blog is strictly smoke-free.

Success Rate:  + 2.3

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Mean Girls [2024] (3 Stars)

Netflix Thursday #45

Mean Girls (2024) is not a simple remake of the 2004 classic but a film adaptation of the Broadway musical, itself based on Tina Fey's original screenplay. Co-written by Fey and directed by Samantha Jayne and Arturo Perez Jr, the film attempts to translate the story of Cady Heron and the Plastics into a contemporary, social media saturated high school landscape while embracing the conventions of a modern screen musical.

The most immediate and divisive change is the musical format. Characters now express ambition, jealousy and insecurity through song, often in heightened, stylised sequences that lean heavily into TikTok aesthetics and pop choreography. When the numbers work, particularly those centred on Janis and Damian, they add emotional clarity and a sense of theatrical fun. When they do not, they can feel like interruptions rather than narrative propulsion, breaking the sharp pacing that defined the 2004 film.

The cast is uniformly likeable, with Auli'i Cravalho and Jaquel Spivey emerging as highlights. Their expanded roles benefit from the musical structure, giving them space to develop beyond comic sidekicks. Angourie Rice's Cady is more subdued than Lindsay Lohan's original incarnation, and while this fits the ensemble driven approach of the film, it also blunts the impact of Cady's moral decline and eventual self realisation. Renee Rapp's Regina George is more openly vulnerable, shaped less as a pure antagonist and more as a product of image culture and constant online scrutiny.

Social media is central to the film's worldview. Reputation, popularity and humiliation are no longer confined to the school cafeteria but are instantly broadcast and archived online. This is one of the remake's smarter updates, even if it occasionally feels too eager to signal its relevance rather than letting the satire speak for itself.

Where the film struggles is in its humour. Many of the original's most caustic lines and risky jokes have been softened or removed entirely. The result is a film that is kinder and more inclusive but also less quotable and less sharp. The bite that made Mean Girls a cultural phenomenon has been replaced with a smoother, more agreeable tone.

Ultimately, Mean Girls (2024) works best when viewed on its own terms. It is a glossy, energetic musical that reflects contemporary teen culture with sincerity, even if it lacks the ferocity and precision of its predecessor. It does not replace the 2004 film and does not try to. Instead, it offers a reinterpretation shaped by different priorities, audiences and cultural norms.

Key Differences from Mean Girls (2004)

Musical format

The 2024 film is a full musical, adapted from the Broadway stage version, with characters regularly breaking into song to express internal states and advance the plot.

Social media as a narrative engine

Platforms like TikTok and Instagram play a central role in spreading gossip, enforcing hierarchies and accelerating Regina's rise and fall.

Cady's home life

Cady lives with a single mother rather than two parents, and their relationship is given more narrative emphasis.

Softer dialogue and humour

Several iconic lines and insults from the original have been removed or rewritten to align with contemporary sensibilities.

Revised clique presentation

The cafeteria tour of high school stereotypes is streamlined, with fewer caricatured or racially coded groups.

Regina and Janis backstory

The history between Regina and Janis is reframed to avoid implications present in the original film and to give Janis greater emotional legitimacy.

Talent show sequence

The "Jingle Bell Rock" performance is replaced by a different musical number, and Regina's public humiliation is amplified through social media reaction.

Ending structure

The 2004 film includes brief epilogues showing where characters end up. The 2024 version ends more abruptly at the Spring Fling.

Greater diversity and representation

The cast is more racially diverse, with queer characters written more affirmatively and less as punchlines.

Removal of certain iconic scenes

Moments such as the four way phone call are absent, replaced by texting and online communication.

Success Rate:  + 0.9

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Shaolin Martial Arts (4 Stars)

Historical background

Shaolin Martial Arts is set during the early Qing dynasty, after the Manchu conquest of China in the seventeenth century. In kung fu cinema, this period is commonly portrayed as an era of repression, with the Manchu authorities attempting to suppress Han Chinese martial traditions. Shaolin schools are depicted not only as places of physical training but as centres of cultural resistance. While the historical reality is more complex, the film draws on popular folklore in which Shaolin boxing represents discipline, moral integrity and opposition to unjust rule.

Unlike films that focus on the destruction of the Shaolin Temple itself, Shaolin Martial Arts is primarily concerned with regional Shaolin schools and the spread of Shaolin techniques among the civilian population.

Plot summary

The story opens with the Qing authorities attempting to assert control over southern China by targeting Shaolin-affiliated martial arts schools. Two formidable Manchu fighters are employed to eliminate a Shaolin school led by Master Lin. Their victory demonstrates the limitations of orthodox Shaolin techniques when faced with specialised and ruthless opponents.

Recognising the danger, Master Lin sends two senior students to seek advanced instruction from an ageing kung fu master known for his unorthodox methods. They hope to acquire techniques powerful enough to defeat the Manchu champions. Although the training is severe and the students gain new skills, they rush into confrontation prematurely and are killed. Their deaths underline one of the film's central themes: skill without patience leads to destruction.

With his strongest fighters gone, Master Lin turns to his remaining students, Li Yao and Chen Bao-rong. Li Yao, played by Alexander Fu Sheng, is talented but impulsive, confident in his abilities yet lacking emotional control. Chen is more restrained and methodical, providing a clear contrast between raw aggression and disciplined focus.

Both men are sent for further training, each under different masters. The film devotes considerable time to these sequences, emphasising repetitive drills, physical conditioning and endurance. Li Yao's training highlights hand techniques, power generation and sensitivity, including exercises that require precise control rather than brute force. These scenes reinforce the idea that true Shaolin mastery is earned through suffering and restraint.

Alongside the training narrative runs a restrained romantic subplot between Li Yao and Master Lin's daughter. This relationship softens Li Yao's character and gives him a personal reason to survive beyond revenge, reinforcing his gradual emotional maturity.

Once their training is complete, Li Yao and Chen return to challenge the Manchu fighters. The final section of the film consists of a series of extended duels that test the specific techniques each character has learned. Victory is achieved not through superior strength alone but through correct application, timing and mental discipline.

The Manchu fighters are eventually defeated, restoring honour to the Shaolin school. The ending avoids triumphalism. Instead, it suggests that Shaolin martial arts must continually adapt and be preserved through teaching rather than open rebellion.

Themes and significance

Shaolin Martial Arts is less a political rebellion film than a study of martial development. It presents kung fu as a disciplined craft rooted in tradition, patience and moral responsibility. Alexander Fu Sheng's performance captures the transition from youthful arrogance to controlled mastery, making the film an important example of the Shaw Brothers training narrative.

Within the broader Shaolin cycle of the 1970's, the film stands out for its emphasis on learning and refinement rather than temple destruction or large-scale revolt. It portrays Shaolin not as a single sacred location but as a living system passed from teacher to student, surviving through adaptation rather than force.

Men from the Monastery (4 Stars)

Plot Summary

Men from the Monastery is a 1974 Hong Kong kung-fu epic set in the world of Shaolin martial arts heroes and Qing dynasty oppression. It isn’t a single straightforward narrative; instead the film is structured in four interlinked chapters, each focusing on the origins and exploits of three legendary Shaolin fighters before bringing them together for a dramatic final confrontation against overwhelming odds.

1. Fong Sai-Yu’s Trial and Return

The film opens inside the Shaolin Temple, showing Fong Sai-Yu (played by Alexander Fu Sheng) completing his intense training and passing through the notorious “Wooden Men Alley”, a traditional Shaolin initiation test of martial skill and endurance. Soon after leaving the temple he returns to his home region and confronts a powerful Wu Tang-affiliated master, leading to a brutal duel that establishes his skill and reputation.

2. Hu Hui-Chien’s Path to Vengeance

The second segment focuses on Hu Hui-Chien (Chi Kuan-chun), a hot-headed youth whose father is murdered by corrupt officials and martial artists aligned with the Manchu-backed factions. Despite trying repeatedly to retaliate, Hu is defeated until he meets Fong and is told to train at Shaolin. After three hard years of kung-fu training, he returns as a skilled warrior ready to avenge his father.

3. Hung Hsi-Kwan’s Guerrilla Fight

The third chapter introduces Hung Hsi-Kwan (Chen Kuan-tai), a fierce Shaolin disciple fighting as a guerrilla leader against Qing soldiers. Declaring his goal in blunt terms, Hung unleashes his wrath on occupying forces, and his resistance efforts become legendary.

4. Final Stand After Shaolin’s Fall

The climax follows the three heroes as they reunite amid the burning ruins of the Shaolin monastery (footage from the related film Heroes Two is used to show this event). With the temple destroyed by Qing forces, Fong, Hu, Hung and a small group of compatriots make a desperate stand against waves of imperial troops. Blood spills, alliances are tested, and the fight becomes a bitter struggle to the death with only one of them surviving, underscoring the sacrifices made in their resistance.

Historical Background

Although Men from the Monastery is a work of fiction, it plays on real-world legends and common narratives in Chinese martial arts folklore about the Shaolin Temple’s role in resistance against the Qing dynasty (1644–1912). In many martial arts stories the temple is portrayed as a centre of patriotic resistance; Shaolin fighters train and organise uprisings against the Manchus, who ruled China after overthrowing the Ming dynasty.

• Shaolin in Myth and Martial Arts Traditions

In Chinese popular culture, the Shaolin Temple has long been mythologised as a cradle of martial arts and of patriotic fighters who opposed foreign rule. Characters like Fong Sai-Yu (Feng Shih-yu) and Hung Hsi-Kwan (Hung Hei-kwan) are famous figures in Chinese folklore and martial arts literature. They are often depicted as masters of kung-fu and defenders of the oppressed, with their stories adapted and embellished across films, novels, operas and TV series.

• The Qing Dynasty Context

The Qing dynasty was established by the Manchus, an ethnic group from northeast China who conquered the Ming dynasty. Many historical dramas and martial arts films depict this era as one of turmoil and resistance, with rogue fighters and secret societies rising against corrupt officials and imperial control. While real historical details vary widely, the cinematic tradition uses this backdrop as a powerful setting for tales of honour, brotherhood and sacrifice.

• Shaolin Cycle Films

Men from the Monastery is part of director Chang Cheh’s so-called Shaolin Cycle of films made in the 1970s, inspired by these folk narratives. It links to other movies like Heroes Two (1974), which depicts the burning of the Shaolin temple by Qing forces, a recurring motif in martial arts cinema that symbolises the destruction of tradition and the unjust persecution of righteous fighters.

Place in Kung Fu Film History

Men from the Monastery belongs to the golden age of Hong Kong martial arts cinema, roughly the late 1960's through the late 1970's. By 1974, the genre had already moved away from wire-heavy wuxia fantasy towards grounded, physical kung fu, emphasising training, endurance and bodily sacrifice. This film sits firmly in that transition.

What makes it historically significant is how it codifies Shaolin mythology into a cinematic template. Earlier films referenced Shaolin loosely; Chang Cheh’s Shaolin cycle turns it into a shared narrative universe. Characters such as Fong Sai-Yu and Hung Hsi-Kwan appear across multiple films, sometimes played by different actors, sometimes in altered timelines. Continuity is less important than legend. This approach strongly influenced later franchises and television series that treated Chinese folk heroes as recurring archetypes rather than fixed historical figures.

The film also reflects a broader shift in kung fu cinema towards collective heroism. Unlike Bruce Lee’s star-centric vehicles, Men from the Monastery spreads attention across multiple protagonists. Brotherhood, loyalty and shared martyrdom matter more than individual victory. This ensemble focus became a hallmark of many Shaw Brothers productions and helped distinguish studio kung fu films from independently produced star vehicles.

Chang Cheh’s Influence as a Filmmaker

Chang Cheh was arguably the most influential director of Hong Kong action cinema before and during the Bruce Lee era. His impact goes far beyond choreography.

1. Masculinity and Tragedy

Chang Cheh introduced a distinctly tragic form of heroic masculinity. His heroes are rarely rewarded with peace or survival. Instead, honour is achieved through suffering, endurance and often death. In Men from the Monastery, survival is almost beside the point. The destruction of Shaolin and the deaths of its defenders are framed as morally necessary sacrifices.

This fatalistic tone became one of Chang Cheh’s signatures and influenced later directors who explored violence as a test of identity rather than simple spectacle.

2. Violence as Meaning, Not Decoration

Chang Cheh’s films are often criticised for their bloodshed, but the violence in Men from the Monastery is ritualistic rather than gratuitous. Training sequences, duels and mass battles all reinforce the idea that kung fu is earned through pain. This emphasis helped redefine audience expectations. Martial arts were no longer just exotic skills; they were expressions of moral resolve.

Later filmmakers such as Lau Kar-leung would refine this idea further by grounding violence in authentic martial arts lineages, but Chang Cheh laid the philosophical groundwork.

3. Myth Over History

Chang Cheh was not interested in strict historical realism. Instead, he treated Chinese history as mythic raw material. Qing oppression, Shaolin destruction and patriotic resistance are simplified and stylised to serve emotional clarity. This approach shaped decades of kung fu storytelling, where historical eras function more like moral landscapes than documented realities.

Because of this, Men from the Monastery feels less like a historical drama and more like a cinematic folk tale, passed down through repetition and variation.

Legacy

While Men from the Monastery is not as famous as some Shaolin films that followed, its influence is quietly substantial. It helped establish:

• The Shaolin Temple as a cinematic symbol of moral authority

• The Qing dynasty as the default antagonist of kung fu legend

• The idea of kung fu heroes as disposable martyrs for a greater cause

Later films and television series, from Shaw Brothers productions to modern mainland Chinese epics, continue to draw from the narrative structure and emotional logic Chang Cheh refined here.

In short, Men from the Monastery matters not because it tells a single definitive story, but because it helped define how kung fu cinema tells stories at all.

John Wick (5 Stars)

When John Wick arrived in 2014, it looked at first glance like a modest, even disposable action thriller. Keanu Reeves, long past his early-2000's peak, was starring in a revenge story triggered by the death of a dog; hardly the stuff of a major franchise launch. Yet the film did something quietly radical; it rethought how a modern action series could be built, not through escalating spectacle alone but through world-building, tone and physical credibility.

At its core, John Wick is disarmingly simple. A retired hitman is dragged back into violence when the last emotional connection to his late wife is brutally taken from him. The script understands that this simplicity is a strength. By stripping away subplots and moral hand-wringing, the film creates a clean emotional through-line that justifies the relentless action. Wick is not positioned as a hero in the traditional sense; he is a professional monster briefly unleashed, and the film never pretends otherwise.

What truly marks John Wick as the birth of a franchise, rather than a one-off revenge picture, is the way it sketches an entire criminal ecosystem without overexplaining it. The Continental Hotel, gold coins, blood oaths and whispered reputations are introduced as everyday facts of life. Characters speak of John Wick in hushed tones, as if he were a myth who happens to exist in the real world. This approach invites curiosity and rewards repeat viewing; it also leaves narrative space for expansion, sequels and spin-offs without feeling retrofitted.

Equally important is the action itself. Directors Chad Stahelski and David Leitch, both with stunt backgrounds, foreground choreography, geography and duration. Fights play out in longer takes than audiences had become used to, allowing Reeves' training in gun-fu and judo-inspired movement to read clearly on screen. The violence is stylised but legible, elegant but exhausting. In an era dominated by frantic editing, John Wick made clarity fashionable again, and its influence can be seen across action cinema in the years since.

As a franchise starter, the film is also notable for its restraint. It does not try to be bigger than it needs to be. The mythology is suggested, not dumped; the ending closes Wick's immediate arc while leaving his world intriguingly open. This balance is precisely why the series could grow bolder with each sequel without collapsing under its own weight.

In retrospect, John Wick feels less like the first chapter of a planned saga and more like a confident proof of concept that audiences embraced. Its success lies in understanding that franchises are not born from scale alone but from a distinctive identity. By combining a minimalist revenge story with rich, implicit world-building and a new standard for action choreography, John Wick did not just introduce a franchise; it redefined what one could look like.

Success Rate:  + 2.3

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Venom: The Last Dance (4 Stars)

Venom: The Last Dance, more commonly known as Venom 3, arrives with a sense of finality, but also a feeling of diminishing returns. After the bruising odd-couple energy of Venom and the more confident comic-book silliness of Let There Be Carnage, this third instalment feels thinner, safer and oddly less sure of what makes the series work.

The most obvious problem is the script. The earlier films thrived on the anarchic push-and-pull between Eddie Brock and his alien lodger; their bickering, co-dependence and warped affection gave the chaos a human core. Here, that dynamic is still present but watered down. The dialogue leans on familiar jokes rather than sharpening them, and the emotional beats feel pre-packaged rather than earned. What once felt anarchic now feels routine.

Tom Hardy remains committed; he always does. Yet even his dual performance struggles against a story that gives him fewer interesting situations to play. In the first two films, Eddie was constantly reacting to an unstable world and an even more unstable voice in his head. In The Last Dance, he often feels like he is being carried from set-piece to set-piece, reacting less and explaining more. Exposition replaces escalation, which is rarely a good trade.

The villain problem also returns with a vengeance. One of the weaknesses in Let There Be Carnage was its rushed antagonist, but at least Carnage had a clear personality and a grotesque mirror-image quality. Venom 3 introduces threats that are bigger in scale but flatter in character. They exist to be obstacles, not provocations, which drains the confrontations of tension. When everything is cosmic, nothing feels personal.

Tonally, the film seems uncertain whether it wants to be a scrappy anti-hero comedy or a sombre farewell. The earlier films embraced their silliness; this one often apologises for it. Moments that should feel outrageous are undercut by a muted visual palette and a surprisingly cautious direction. The rough-edged, slightly disreputable charm of the first Venom is replaced by something closer to a standard studio template.

In the end, Venom 3 is not a disaster; it's watchable, occasionally amusing and competently made. But compared to its predecessors, it feels like a retreat. Where the first two films doubled down on their weirdness and let Hardy and his symbiote run wild, this finale plays things too straight and too safe. For a series built on chaos, that restraint is its greatest weakness.

Success Rate:  + 2.4

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Snake in the Eagle's Shadow (5 Stars)

"Snake in the Eagle's Shadow" is the film where Jackie Chan truly learns how to move; not just acrobatically, but dramatically. More than a kung fu comedy, it is a study in training as transformation, and in how fight choreography can express character rather than merely deliver impact.

The training sequences are the backbone of the film. Chan's Chien Fu begins as a put-upon dogsbody, absorbing punishment with little understanding of technique or purpose. His instruction under the disgraced master Pai Chang Tien is deliberately unconventional; this is not the solemn regimen of endless stances and shouted aphorisms found in earlier Shaw-style kung fu films. Instead, training is embedded in daily labour, improvised exercises and animal mimicry. Watching Chan practise the snake style feels exploratory rather than rote; movements are tested, refined and sometimes fail outright. This sense of experimentation gives the training scenes narrative weight; we are not simply told that Chien Fu is improving, we see him thinking with his body.

Crucially, the training emphasises adaptability over brute strength. Chan's physical intelligence shines as he transitions from clumsy mimicry to confident synthesis, blending snake techniques with his own instinctive athleticism. The process feels earned; by the time Chien Fu applies what he has learned in combat, the progression is clear and satisfying.

The fight scenes build directly on this foundation. What distinguishes them is clarity; choreography is staged so that techniques are readable, rhythms are precise and cause and effect are always visible. Chan's movements are fast but never chaotic. Each exchange has a conversational quality; attack, response, feint, counter. Comedy emerges naturally from timing and spatial awareness rather than mugging or undercutting the action.

Animal styles are not just cosmetic flourishes. The snake style is low, coiled and reactive, while the eagle claw techniques of the antagonist are rigid and aggressive. The contrast gives the fights a thematic structure; flexibility versus rigidity, intelligence versus domination. Chan's final battles feel like extensions of his training philosophy; he wins not by overpowering his opponent, but by outthinking and outmanoeuvring him.

What makes the action especially compelling is Chan's willingness to look vulnerable. He gets hit, loses balance and recovers in motion. This vulnerability enhances the credibility of the fights and underscores the film's central idea; mastery is not the absence of weakness, but the ability to adapt when things go wrong.

In "Snake in the Eagle's Shadow", training is not a montage to be endured and fights are not mere spectacle. Both are expressions of growth, creativity and physical storytelling. The film marks the moment when Jackie Chan's action cinema found its voice; playful, precise and grounded in the joy of movement itself.

Singing in the Rain (5 Stars)

Singing in the Rain (1952) is one of those rare films whose reputation feels both earned and oddly insufficient; no amount of praise quite captures how effortlessly it works. On the surface it is a light, witty backstage comedy about Hollywood's transition from silent cinema to sound. In practice it becomes something richer; a musical that understands film history, celebrates performance and never forgets that its first duty is to delight.

Gene Kelly's Don Lockwood is a silent star whose carefully manufactured image begins to collapse with the arrival of talking pictures. The plot uses this upheaval as a springboard for satire, romance and bravura musical numbers. What makes the film special is how organically those numbers grow out of character and situation. Songs do not interrupt the story; they are the story, expressing joy, frustration and romantic possibility with a fluency that spoken dialogue could only flatten.

Kelly's famous title number remains the film's defining moment, and for good reason. It is not merely a catchy song paired with athletic dancing; it is cinema at its most expressive, using rain, lamplight and camera movement to externalise happiness. Debbie Reynolds brings warmth and quick intelligence to Kathy Selden, even if her dubbing role is undercut by the irony that her own singing voice was partially replaced. Donald O'Connor's Cosmo Brown almost steals the film outright; his "Make 'Em Laugh" sequence is a masterclass in comic physicality, editing and sheer endurance.

Much of the film's claim to greatness lies in its self awareness. Hollywood is both the subject and the punchline. The studio system is gently mocked, from manufactured romances to technical incompetence, yet there is no bitterness here. The satire is affectionate, suggesting that cinema survives not because it is perfect but because it adapts, improvises and occasionally gets lucky. The film knows its own medium intimately, and that knowledge gives it confidence rather than cynicism.

Many critics claim that Singing in the Rain is the best musical ever filmed. Is this true? The answer depends on what one values. Other contenders excel in different areas; the integrated drama of West Side Story, the emotional sweep of The Sound of Music, the stylised fantasy of The Wizard of Oz. What Singing in the Rain does better than any rival is balance. It blends music, dance, comedy, romance and technical craft so completely that nothing feels strained. There is no sense of prestige chasing, no obvious bid for importance. Its greatness comes from precision and pleasure rather than scale.

If "best" means the musical that most perfectly understands what cinema can do with song and movement, then the case is very strong. It may not be the most ambitious musical ever made, but it's arguably the most complete. More than seventy years on, it still feels fresh, generous and alive; qualities that matter more than grandeur when judging the form at its peak.

Success Rate:  + 0.8

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The Final Girls (4½ Stars)

I'm assuming that most of my readers know what a final girl is, but I'll explain it for the rest of you. In teen slasher films the main characters are killed one by one, but one young girl survives till the end of the film. That's the final girl. Examples are Sidney Prescott in "Scream" and Laurie Strode in "Halloween".

Max Cartwright is the daughter of Amanda Cartwright, an actress who starred in a teen slasher film called "Camp Bloodbath". Amanda was killed in a car accident shortly before the film's 20th anniversary. Max is invited to speak at a fan convention when the film is shown, but there's an accident and the theatre catches fire. Max and her friends think they've died, but when they wake up they find themselves within the film "Camp Bloodbath". They know the film and what will happen next, but the film characters don't believe they're in a film and want to follow their own urges.

The film's final girl (Paula) is killed out of sequence, so Max struggles to make her mother the final girl. But how can she survive the film? None of the characters in the film are real people. Dilemmas.

The final scene promises a sequel, but none was made. The box office takings weren't high enough to justify a sequel. That's a shame.

This is an excellent film. If you sit down and analyse the plot, many things are left unexplained or simply don't make sense. But does it matter? Suspend your disbelief, and you'll enjoy it.

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Die Hard 5 (2 Stars)

Die Hard 5, also known as A Good Day to Die Hard (2013), is the point at which the franchise finally loses its grip on what once made it special. While the first four films stretch plausibility to varying degrees, they all understand the core appeal of John McClane; a stubborn, vulnerable man surviving chaos through wit, pain and bloody-minded resilience. The fifth film forgets this almost entirely.

The most obvious problem is tone. The earlier films balance spectacle with humour and tension, allowing McClane to react to danger rather than dominate it. Here, the film embraces a generic modern action aesthetic; hyperactive editing, anonymous explosions and weightless destruction. The sense of geography that defined Nakatomi Plaza, Dulles Airport or even the internet-age Manhattan of Live Free or Die Hard is absent. Moscow becomes a blur of collapsing buildings and car chases with no spatial logic, making it hard to feel either excitement or suspense.

John McClane himself is also diminished. In the first four films, Bruce Willis plays him as exhausted, sarcastic and often outmatched. Pain matters; injuries slow him down and bad decisions have consequences. In Die Hard 5, McClane is virtually indestructible, shrugging off crashes and gunfire like a superhero. The wisecracks remain, but they feel hollow because the character is no longer under real threat. Without vulnerability, McClane stops being relatable and becomes just another action archetype.

The introduction of his son, Jack McClane, should have refreshed the formula, yet it does the opposite. Their relationship is sketched in the broadest strokes, relying on clichéd father-son conflict rather than earned emotion. Jai Courtney's Jack is competent but bland; he lacks the charisma to carry half the film and his CIA backstory further pushes the series away from its original premise of an ordinary man in extraordinary circumstances. The franchise has always flirted with spy-movie excess, but this instalment dives headfirst into it.

Villains have also been a strength of the series, from Alan Rickman's elegant Hans Gruber to Jeremy Irons' mischievous Simon. Die Hard 5 offers antagonists who are forgettable and poorly motivated, with a plot that hinges on convoluted double-crosses involving uranium, files and political corruption. The story feels more like rejected Bond material than a "Die Hard" film, and none of it gives McClane a personal or thematic stake in the outcome.

Ultimately, A Good Day to Die Hard misunderstands the franchise it belongs to. The first four films, even when uneven, are built around tension, character and a clear sense of place. The fifth replaces these with noise, speed and scale, mistaking excess for excitement. It is not just weaker than its predecessors; it feels disconnected from them, as if John McClane has wandered into the wrong film altogether.

Success Rate:  + 1.3

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Eternity (4 Stars)

It's unfortunately common that a film has a premise that sounds great, but the story lets it down. In the case of "Eternity" it's the other way round. The premise sounds ridiculous, but the resulting film is well written and well filmed. I'm glad I went to see it. When I read the film's description on my cinema's web site my initial impulse was to stay at home because it sounded too stupid.

The premise: when people die they arrive in a waiting area where they can pick their own afterlife. They have seven days to choose, during which time they're harassed by hundreds of salesmen with leaflets promoting their styles of afterlife experience. The catch is that decisions are final. Once you've decided where you want to go, that's where you stay forever. Eternity.

The only way to postpone your choice is by getting a job in the waiting area. Some people do this because they don't know where they want to go to – for instance, a beach or a mountain resort – whereas others want to postpone their choice until their loved one dies and they can choose together.

That's what happens to Larry (Miles Teller), who dies after choking on a pretzel. He knows that his wife Joan (Elizabeth Olsen), to whom he's been married for 65 years, has terminal cancer, so he delays his choice to wait for her. Luckily she arrives a week later.

This is where the problems start. Joan had a husband before Larry who died in the Korean War. Luke (Callum Turner) has been waiting for Joan for 67 years. Now Joan has to decide between her two husbands.

This was the introduction. Now the real story starts. It's an amazing film, deeply emotional.

General: Top Films of 2025

As I've done each year since 2015, I'm publishing a list of my top 10 films of the year. To qualify for inclusion in the list I must have seen the film in the cinema during the year. This year I watched 78 films in the cinema. It was difficult for me to compile the list, because the overall quality of new films is lower than in any previous year.

1. The Life of Chuck

It's about dancing, it's about the end of the world.

2. Fantastic Four First Steps

I don't understand why this film flopped at the box office. It's one of the best Marvel films for years.

3. Becoming Led Zeppelin

It's not often I rate a documentary so highly.

4. Exit 8

A minimalist film. I gave it a low rating when I saw it, but changed my mind the next day. And I never alter my ratings after they're posted.

5. Frankenstein

A good film, despite taking liberties with the source material.

6. Ballerina

This is the only film I watched twice in the cinema last year. It's not up to the quality of the John Wick films.

7. Redux Redux

A woman travels the multiverse, killing every instance of the man who murdered her daughter.

8. One Battle After Another

It's difficult to describe this film in two sentences. Counter-terrorism and corruption.

9. Thunderbolts

My second Marvel film in the list this year. It didn't deserve to flop. I like Bob.

10. I fell in love with a Z-Grade Director in Brooklyn

A love story between a couple who don't speak each other's language.

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As always, the list is very subjective. They're the films that I personally like. Please post comments, letting me know any films I've omitted in your opinion. I'd love to see the personal top 10 lists of any of my readers.

Seneca (5 Stars)

Seneca is the kind of film that seems almost designed to slip through the cracks on first release, only to be rediscovered later by a small but fiercely devoted audience. Ostensibly a historical drama about the Roman philosopher Seneca and his final days under Nero, it is in practice a far stranger and more provocative work, one that feels deliberately out of step with mainstream expectations.

Part of its cult potential lies in its tone. Seneca refuses the polished prestige-movie sheen that usually accompanies films about ancient Rome. Instead, it leans into theatricality, artifice and anachronism. Dialogue often sounds more like modern political or philosophical debate than period drama, and the staging frequently recalls experimental theatre rather than epic cinema. This creates an unsettling effect; viewers are constantly reminded that this is not history being reconstructed, but ideas being argued. Films that make such bold stylistic choices tend to alienate casual audiences while captivating those who respond to them.

John Malkovich's performance in the title role is another key factor. He does not attempt to play Seneca as a conventional sage or dignified martyr. His Seneca is ironic, weary, self-aware and sometimes uncomfortably smug. It is a performance that invites disagreement as much as admiration, which is often a hallmark of cult acting turns. Fans of the film are likely to quote his lines, debate his interpretation and defend it passionately against detractors.

The film's portrayal of Nero also contributes to its cult appeal. Rather than a straightforward monster, Nero is depicted as a volatile mixture of childish insecurity, performative cruelty and desperate need for approval. The dynamic between Nero and Seneca feels disturbingly contemporary, echoing modern discussions about power, complicity and the moral compromises of intellectuals who serve authoritarian regimes. This thematic resonance gives Seneca the kind of relevance that encourages repeated viewings and late-night discussions.

Finally, Seneca is unapologetically talky and idea-driven. It foregrounds philosophy, rhetoric and ethical contradiction over action or spectacle. For many viewers, this will feel dry or pretentious. For others, it will feel like a refreshing provocation, a film that trusts its audience to engage intellectually rather than emotionally. Cult films often thrive precisely because they reject broad appeal in favour of a clear, uncompromising vision.

In short, Seneca is unlikely to be widely loved, but it is very likely to be intensely loved by the right audience. Its eccentric style, divisive performances and philosophically confrontational approach give it all the ingredients of a future cult favourite; a film discovered not by marketing campaigns, but by word of mouth, debate and the slow accumulation of devoted admirers.

Dragon Lord (4 Stars)

Jackie Chan's Dragon Lord (1982) sits at a crucial turning point in his career; it is the moment where the lessons of his early kung fu comedies and his growing obsession with cinematic control finally begin to fuse into a recognisable auteur style.

By the early 1980's Chan had already escaped the Bruce Lee clone phase that defined his unhappy early years at Lo Wei's studio. Films like Snake in the Eagle's Shadow and Drunken Master had established his comic persona; the cheeky underdog who combined elaborate choreography with slapstick timing clearly indebted to silent comedy. Dragon Lord arrives after The Young Master and just before Project A, and it feels like a laboratory for ideas Chan would soon perfect.

The plot is slight even by Chan standards. He plays Dragon, a mischievous village idler whose athletic talents repeatedly land him in trouble before he is drawn into a nationalist struggle against foreign smugglers. Narrative coherence is not the point. What matters is the physical storytelling; Chan is less interested in character psychology than in how bodies move through space, how a joke can be constructed from rhythm and escalation.

Visually, Dragon Lord marks a step forward in Chan's ambition. The action scenes are longer, cleaner and more punishing than in his late 1970s work. The now famous extended kicking duel in the courtyard is not simply a fight; it is a display of stamina, precision and repetition that borders on masochism. Chan is clearly testing the limits of both himself and his audience, a tendency that would define his Golden Harvest peak years.

Comedy is still central, but it is more disciplined. Where Drunken Master often feels anarchic, Dragon Lord shows Chan learning control as a director. Gags are built patiently, often starting with sport or play before mutating into violence. The film's elaborate opening game sequence, absurdly prolonged and meticulously staged, may frustrate some viewers; it also reveals Chan's growing confidence that pure physicality can sustain interest without plot.

In the context of his career, Dragon Lord is less immediately satisfying than Project A or Police Story, but it is arguably more revealing. You can see Chan moving away from broad parody towards a synthesis of action, comedy and national identity. The hints of patriotic subtext, rough though they are, foreshadow his later embrace of heroic, almost mythic roles.

As a standalone film, Dragon Lord is uneven and indulgent. As a career milestone, it is invaluable. It captures Jackie Chan in transition; no longer the scrappy imitator of his youth, not yet the fully formed superstar, but an artist obsessively refining his craft through bruises, broken bones and relentless repetition.