The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor (4 Stars)

The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor (2008) is less a continuation than a collision. Arriving seven years after The Mummy Returns, it feels like a franchise trying to reinvent itself by grafting one cinematic mythology onto another. In that sense, it works as a crossover film; not between studios or properties, but between the Hollywood adventure serial of the first two films and the wuxia-inflected fantasy epics that had gained global popularity in the early 2000's.

By shifting the action from Egypt to China and replacing Imhotep with Jet Li's Dragon Emperor, the film attempts to fuse the familiar Mummy formula with elements drawn from Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon and Hero. Terracotta armies, immortal emperors, shape-shifting witches and snowbound monasteries all signal a desire to tap into a different cinematic tradition. On paper, this is a promising idea. A globetrotting franchise built on resurrected legends should be flexible enough to roam across cultures and mythologies.

In practice, the crossover is uneasy. The film never fully commits to Chinese myth in the way the earlier entries embraced pulp Egyptology. The Dragon Emperor is visually impressive but dramatically thin, and the mythology around him is sketched rather than lived in. The result is a film that borrows iconography without absorbing tone. Where Imhotep felt operatic and obsessive, the Dragon Emperor often feels like a boss character waiting for the next effects sequence.

The sense of dislocation is heightened by the recasting of Evelyn, now played by Maria Bello. Bello brings intelligence and energy to the role, but the change breaks the emotional continuity of the series. Combined with the decision to age Rick and Evelyn into quasi-parental figures while pushing their son Alex to the foreground, the film struggles to balance nostalgia with renewal. It wants to pass the torch while still leaning heavily on Brendan Fraser's established charm.

There are clear ways the film could have been improved. First, it needed a stronger thematic link between the two mythologies it was crossing. Instead of simply swapping Egyptian curses for Chinese immortality, the script could have drawn parallels between imperial hubris and ancient religion, giving the crossover an intellectual spine rather than a geographical one. Second, the film would have benefited from slowing down. The relentless action leaves little room for atmosphere, humour or romantic banter, all of which were key pleasures of the earlier films.

Most importantly, the crossover should have extended to character rather than spectacle. Imagine Evelyn engaging more deeply with Chinese history and philosophy, or Rick forced to adapt his roguish soldier persona to a culture he does not understand. Those frictions could have generated comedy and tension far richer than yet another CGI avalanche.

As it stands, The Mummy 3 is an instructive failure. It shows how a franchise can attempt a cultural crossover without fully respecting or exploring the traditions it borrows from. The idea of a Mummy film that travels the world is a sound one, but this entry proves that mythological mash-ups require more than new locations and bigger visual effects. They require curiosity, patience and a willingness to let the crossover reshape the series rather than simply decorate it.

Success Rate:  + 0.8

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Contempt (3 Stars)

Jean-Luc Godard's Contempt (1963) occupies a strange and fascinating place in Brigitte Bardot's career; it is both a culmination of her star image and a deliberate dismantling of it.

By the early 1960s Bardot was arguably the most famous woman in the world, a symbol of sexual freedom forged through films like And God Created Woman. Producers expected her to sell films through her body and her availability; Godard, reluctantly accommodating those expectations, opens Contempt with the notorious nude scene. Yet even here the film signals its intent. The scene is cool, interrogative, almost clinical; Bardot's Camille asks her husband which parts of her body he loves, turning erotic display into a questionnaire about desire and ownership. This is Bardot the icon being examined rather than celebrated.

As the film progresses, Bardot's performance becomes one of her most controlled and tragic. Camille is not the carefree sex symbol audiences expected, but a woman retreating into silence and resentment, her emotional withdrawal mirrored by Godard's austere compositions. Bardot strips away charm and spontaneity in favour of something harder and more brittle; contempt itself becomes her defining expression. In the context of her career, this is striking. Few of Bardot's other roles allow her such interiority, or ask her to play emotional annihilation rather than erotic vitality.

Contempt also reflects the pressures Bardot faced as a star trapped between art and commerce. The film's story of a marriage corroded by compromise echoes Bardot's own uneasy relationship with the film industry, which demanded constant availability while rarely granting artistic respect. Godard uses her presence to critique the very system that made her famous; Bardot becomes both the commodity and the victim of commodification.

In retrospect, Contempt stands as one of Bardot's most important films, not because it confirms her myth, but because it challenges it. Where much of her career traded on immediacy and physical allure, Godard freezes her into an image of loss and disillusionment. It is a reminder that Bardot was capable of far more than the roles that defined her public persona, and that her greatest performance may be the one that most openly mourns the cost of being Brigitte Bardot.

Cover Girl (5 Stars)

Cover Girl (1944) often gets remembered as a glossy Rita Hayworth vehicle, but its real historical weight lies in what it did for Gene Kelly. More than any of his earlier screen appearances, the film announces Kelly as a major Hollywood star and, crucially, as a new kind of musical performer.

Before Cover Girl, Kelly had appeared in films like For Me and My Gal, but he was still feeling his way into cinema. He came from Broadway, where his athletic style and masculine energy already set him apart, yet Hollywood musicals were dominated by a lighter, more elegant tradition. In Cover Girl, Kelly finally finds material that allows him to fuse dance, character and storytelling into something coherent and modern.

The film is important because it positions Kelly as both romantic lead and creative force. As Rusty Parker's press agent and love interest, he is not simply there to support Hayworth's rise; he embodies a working-class, artistic ideal that contrasts with the artificial glamour of modelling and celebrity. Kelly dances not as an exhibitionist but as a man expressing frustration, joy and desire. This approach would become central to his later work.

The famous "Alter Ego" routine is the clearest statement of Kelly's significance. Dancing with his own reflection, Kelly literalises an internal conflict through choreography. It is witty, technically daring and psychologically expressive. No other male dancer in Hollywood at the time was doing anything quite like this. The sequence effectively declares that dance can visualise thought and emotion, not just decorate a song.

Cover Girl also marks Kelly's growing confidence behind the scenes. Although officially co-directed by Charles Vidor, Kelly had significant input into the choreography and conception of his numbers. You can already see the seeds of the integrated musical he would later perfect in On the Town, An American in Paris and Singing in the Rain. Dance is not a pause in the story; it is the story.

For Kelly's career, the film was transformative. It proved he could carry a major studio musical opposite one of Columbia's biggest stars. It also established his screen persona; athletic, earnest, romantic without being foppish. After Cover Girl, Kelly was no longer a promising Broadway import; he was a genuine film star and a creative visionary.

In that sense, Cover Girl is less about fashion magazines and show-business fantasy than it first appears. It is the moment Gene Kelly steps fully into his own, reshaping the Hollywood musical from the inside and setting the direction for the genre's golden age.

The Mummy Returns (4½ Stars)

The Mummy Returns (2001) is bigger, louder and more self-conscious than its predecessor, which is both its chief strength and its central weakness. Stephen Sommers doubles down on scale and mythology, expanding the story into a sprawling adventure that sometimes improves on the original, but just as often loses sight of what made it work in the first place.

What is better is the confidence. The film no longer needs to introduce its world or its characters, and it barrels ahead with gusto. Brendan Fraser and Rachel Weisz are visibly more comfortable as Rick and Evelyn, now an established couple rather than tentative sparring partners. Their banter is sharper, their affection more relaxed, and the film allows them to operate as a team from the outset. Evelyn, in particular, is given more agency, becoming a reincarnated warrior scholar whose past-life connection to Imhotep adds thematic symmetry to the story. The mythology is also richer, weaving in the Scorpion King and a larger sense of ancient history, which gives the sequel a grander narrative ambition.

The action is more elaborate, with set pieces that push the pulpy serial aesthetic to its limits. There is a sense of joyful excess in the chases, battles and collapsing temples, and the film rarely pauses to catch its breath. For viewers who wanted more spectacle from the first film, The Mummy Returns delivers it in abundance.

However, this escalation comes at a cost. Where the original balanced adventure with character development and romantic tension, the sequel often feels overstuffed. The emotional core is diluted by subplots and supporting characters who compete for attention. The introduction of Alex, Rick and Evelyn's son, adds family stakes but also shifts the tone towards a broader, more juvenile adventure, occasionally undercutting the danger and romance that once grounded the story.

The film also suffers from its reliance on early 2000's CGI. While practical effects and locations helped the original age gracefully, the digital creatures here, most infamously the Scorpion King, have not stood the test of time. These effects pull the viewer out of the narrative at crucial moments, diminishing the sense of peril rather than enhancing it.

Ultimately, The Mummy Returns is a sequel that understands what audiences liked about the original, but assumes that more of everything automatically means better. It succeeds as a piece of exuberant blockbuster entertainment, and its leads remain immensely likeable, but it lacks the charm, focus and romantic spark that made The Mummy feel special. Where the first film surprised by how much it cared about its characters, the sequel sometimes forgets that spectacle alone is not enough.

Success Rate:  + 2.4

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The Mummy [1999] (5 Stars)

Stephen Sommers' The Mummy from 1999 may be sold as a rollicking adventure, but its enduring charm comes from the slow burn romance between Rick O'Connell and Evelyn Carnahan. Amid the sandstorms, scarabs and reanimated corpses, the film invests surprising care in letting a relationship develop through personality clash, mutual respect and growing attraction.

Rick and Evelyn begin as near opposites. Rick is a pragmatic survivor, all cynicism and physical confidence, while Evelyn is bookish, excitable and socially awkward, more at home in a library than a desert. Their early interactions play like a screwball comedy; Evelyn's breathless intellect collides with Rick's dry understatement, and the film allows their banter to establish chemistry before any overt romantic signalling. Importantly, Rick never mocks Evelyn's intelligence, and Evelyn never attempts to civilise Rick. Instead, each becomes intrigued by what the other represents.

As the expedition to Hamunaptra unfolds, the romance deepens through shared danger. Evelyn proves that her knowledge is not merely academic, repeatedly saving the group through translation and historical insight. Rick, in turn, becomes her protector without reducing her to a helpless damsel. The film consistently frames their partnership as complementary rather than hierarchical, which gives their affection a sense of earned equality. When Rick risks his life to rescue Evelyn from the Mummy, it feels like the natural progression of trust rather than a stock heroic gesture.

Rachel Weisz and Brendan Fraser deserve much of the credit. Weisz plays Evelyn with warmth and vulnerability beneath the comedy, allowing moments of genuine fear and wonder to surface. Fraser gives Rick an easy charm that never tips into arrogance, and his gradual softening around Evelyn is played with restraint. Their romantic scenes avoid sentimentality, relying instead on looks, pauses and gentle humour.

By the time Rick and Evelyn finally admit their feelings, the audience has watched two people grow closer through curiosity, admiration and shared experience. In a genre often content with instant attraction, The Mummy offers a romance that feels lived in. It is this human connection, as much as the spectacle, that has helped the film endure as a beloved classic.

Success Rate:  + 3.2

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Pearl Harbor (5 Stars)

Pearl Harbor (2001) frames Japan's attack on Hawaii with a melodramatic love triangle that drives much of the film's emotional weight.

The story centres on two lifelong friends, Rafe McCawley and Danny Walker, both pilots raised together in rural America and bound by loyalty and shared ambition. When they arrive at Pearl Harbor in 1941, Rafe quickly falls in love with Evelyn Johnson, a naval nurse. Their romance is intense and idealised, presented as a brief moment of happiness before the war intrudes. Rafe volunteers to fight with the RAF in England and is soon reported killed in action. Evelyn, devastated but trying to carry on with her life, gradually grows closer to Danny, who has remained at Pearl Harbor.

Danny and Evelyn's relationship develops slowly and uneasily, shaped by grief and guilt. Both feel they are betraying Rafe's memory, yet they also find comfort and genuine affection in one another. By the time they fully commit, Evelyn is pregnant, and the pair begin to imagine a future together, still shadowed by the absent third presence in their relationship.

The triangle is violently reopened when Rafe unexpectedly returns, having survived his mission. His reunion with Evelyn turns bitter when he realises she has moved on with Danny. The friendship between the two men fractures into anger and resentment, and Evelyn is caught between her past love and her present reality. Their personal conflict comes to a head just as the Japanese attack Pearl Harbor, forcing Rafe and Danny to put aside their rivalry in order to survive and fight back.

After the attack, the triangle briefly gives way to duty. Rafe and Danny volunteer for the Doolittle Raid, where Danny is killed, effectively resolving the triangle through tragedy rather than choice. In the aftermath, Evelyn mourns Danny while reconciling with Rafe, who accepts responsibility for the future, including Danny's child. The film ultimately treats the love triangle as a symbol of innocence lost, using romance and rivalry to personalise the larger catastrophe of Pearl Harbor and the emotional costs of war.

Success Rate:  + 1.2

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Wheels on Meals (4 Stars)

Wheels on Meals is often remembered as a buoyant slice of mid 1980's Hong Kong action comedy, but what gives the film its lasting charm is Jackie Chan's clear affinity with the traditions of silent era physical comedy, particularly the work of Buster Keaton. More than plot or setting, this is this lineage that defines the film's tone and Chan's performance.

Like Keaton, Chan builds humour out of precision rather than chaos. Every pratfall, missed punch and near disaster in Wheels on Mealsfeels engineered rather than improvised. Chan's character, Thomas, is not funny because he mugs for the camera or undercuts the action with ironic asides; he is funny because he treats the absurd situations around him with total seriousness. This echoes Keaton's famous stone face, where comedy emerges from the contrast between extraordinary physical exertion and emotional restraint.

The film's action set pieces function much like Keaton's silent shorts, where narrative exists primarily to justify increasingly elaborate physical challenges. Chan navigates ladders, staircases, balconies and moving vehicles with the same architectural awareness Keaton brought to trains, houses and collapsing façades. Space is not merely a backdrop but an active participant in the comedy. When Chan fights, he is always reacting to the environment, turning obstacles into tools and mistakes into gags. This spatial intelligence is pure Keaton, translated into a louder, faster modern idiom.

Another point of similarity lies in vulnerability. Chan, like Keaton, allows his body to absorb punishment. He is not an invulnerable action hero but a resilient one, visibly tired, bruised and occasionally overwhelmed. The humour depends on this fragility; we laugh not at domination but at perseverance. In Wheels on Meals, especially during the extended climactic fight with Benny Urquidez, Chan's determination to keep going despite exhaustion mirrors Keaton's stoic endurance in films like The General.

Where Chan diverges from Keaton is in warmth. Keaton often appeared detached from the world around him, an existential drifter buffeted by fate. Chan, by contrast, projects geniality and camaraderie, particularly in his interactions with Yuen Biao and Sammo Hung. Yet even here the comparison holds, because both performers ground their comedy in sincerity. Neither winks at the audience. The laughs come from commitment, not commentary.

Wheels on Meals ultimately plays like a love letter to physical cinema, filtered through Hong Kong's kinetic energy. Jackie Chan does not imitate Buster Keaton so much as inherit his philosophy: that the human body, moving through space with intelligence and risk, can be a complete cinematic language. In that sense, the film stands as one of the clearest examples of how silent comedy survived into the sound era, not as nostalgia but as living craft.

Red One (4 Stars)

Disney Wednesday #29

Red One is a glossy, overpowered Christmas blockbuster that feels less like a festive tale and more like a Marvel superhero film that happens to involve Santa Claus. Directed by Jake Kasdan, it throws Dwayne Johnson and Chris Evans into a hyperactive rescue mission when Santa is kidnapped, blending action, comedy and mythological lore with the confidence of a film that assumes scale alone will generate wonder.

Johnson plays Callum Drift, the stoic head of North Pole security, while Evans is a fast talking civilian reluctantly dragged into the operation. Their chemistry is serviceable rather than sparkling; Evans leans into his sarcastic charm, Johnson leans into his granite seriousness. The result is familiar buddy movie territory, albeit wrapped in snow, elves and CGI creatures that feel imported from half a dozen other franchises. Everything is big, loud and relentlessly busy, yet rarely magical.

J K Simmons' Santa Claus is the film's most interesting element. This is not the twinkly grandfather figure of tradition but a weary, muscular administrator of Christmas, closer to a CEO than a saint. That portrayal feeds neatly into the film's underlying question: is Santa Claus real, or just a story we collectively agree to believe?

Red One answers this in a very modern way: Santa is real within the film's universe, but his power depends entirely on belief. The more people believe in him, the stronger Christmas becomes; cynicism literally weakens the world. This allows the film to have it both ways. Children can take Santa at face value, adults can read him as a metaphor for generosity, kindness and communal faith. Santa exists because people need him to exist.

That idea is arguably the most Christmassy thing about the film, yet it is never explored with much depth. The script is far more interested in lore, chase scenes and setting up a potential franchise. Moments that might have slowed down to reflect on why belief matters are quickly buried under another explosion or wisecrack.

As a Christmas film, Red One feels oddly joyless. It acknowledges the concept of wonder without ever quite delivering it. Compared to classics that let sentimentality breathe, this one keeps moving as if afraid of sincerity. The result is entertaining enough in short bursts, but emotionally thin.

Ultimately, Red Onetreats Santa Claus as real in the way blockbuster cinema treats everything; real as long as it is profitable, expandable and endlessly rebootable. Whether that makes him any less real than the Santa of stories is up to the viewer. The film suggests that belief itself is the point, even if it forgets to make us feel why that belief once mattered so much.

Success Rate:  - 1.1

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Home Alone 2: Lost in New York (4 Stars)

Disney Wednesday #28

Home Alone 2: Lost in New York (1992) is both a confident escalation of the original film and a clear illustration of its limits. It doubles down on Kevin McCallister's intelligence, placing him in a larger, more complex environment, while also revealing where repetition starts to blunt the impact that made the first film a classic.

Kevin remains sharply intelligent, arguably more so than before. In the first film, his ingenuity is reactive; he adapts to being left alone. In the sequel, he is proactive. Lost in New York, he immediately exploits adult systems to his advantage, using his father's credit card, navigating hotels, toy shops and public transport with ease and manipulating social expectations to avoid suspicion. His intelligence here is social as much as tactical; he understands how adults see children and weaponises that perception. The Plaza Hotel sequence, in particular, shows Kevin thinking several moves ahead, confidently lying, redirecting attention and maintaining control under pressure.

The traps, once again, are the film's centrepiece. In technical terms, they're more elaborate and inventive than those in the first film. Kevin uses a wider range of tools, more vertical space and more environmental hazards, reflecting both his growth and the urban setting. His planning is still logical, with cause-and-effect thinking that makes the chaos feel earned rather than random. However, the escalation into outright cartoon physics weakens the sense that Kevin is simply a very smart child. Where the first film balanced plausibility with slapstick, the sequel leans harder into exaggeration, making Kevin's intelligence feel more like narrative convenience than hard-won skill.

This is where Home Alone 2 is both better and worse than its predecessor. It is better in scale and confidence. New York is used effectively as a playground for Kevin's independence, giving the film a sense of expansion rather than mere repetition. Kevin himself is more assured, less frightened and more self-aware, which fits his character arc. The emotional subplot with the Pigeon Lady mirrors the first film's neighbour storyline, reinforcing Kevin's growing empathy and maturity.

At the same time, the film is weaker in restraint. The villains are broader, the violence more extreme and the emotional beats more self-conscious. What felt fresh and surprising in the first film now follows a familiar rhythm. Kevin's intelligence, while still entertaining, no longer feels like a revelation; it's expected. The sequel relies on the audience's affection for the formula rather than reshaping it in a meaningful way.

Despite these flaws, Home Alone 2 has earned its own cult status. It's quoted, rewatched and defended with the same seasonal devotion as the original, especially by viewers who grew up with it. Its appeal lies in the fantasy of mastery; a child alone in the biggest city in the world, outthinking adults at every turn. While it may lack the tightness and surprise of the first film, it remains a spirited showcase of Kevin McCallister as one of cinema's most resourceful and intelligent child protagonists.

Success Rate:  + 10.8

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Home Alone (4 Stars)

Disney Wednesday #27

I've promised my grandson Oliver that I'll watch a film with him every day in his school holidays, preferably in English. I want to combine education with having fun. I laid a few good action films on the table that I thought would excite him, but he told me that he'd rather watch Home Alone, which he already watched with his parents last year. That's fine with me, but I couldn't persuade him to watch it in English. He insisted on the German dubbing. Oh well, why not? As expected, the dubbing was top quality; I could hardly recognise that it wasn't the original language. It's a popular Christmas film which is repeated on television every year in December in Germany and other countries, but I'd never watched it before today.

Home Alone endures not simply as a popular Christmas film but as a genuine cult classic, largely because of the way it centres a child who is not cute or precocious in the usual Hollywood sense, but genuinely intelligent. Kevin McCallister is not special because adults say he is special; he proves it through observation, planning and improvisation, turning his isolation into an exercise in self-reliance.

Kevin's intelligence is practical rather than academic. Left behind, he quickly assesses his situation, learns to navigate adult spaces like supermarkets and churches and adapts his behaviour to project confidence when it is needed. The famous home defence sequence is often dismissed as slapstick, but it is rooted in logic. Kevin studies his environment, identifies weaknesses in his opponents and designs layered traps that work together as a system rather than a series of random gags. The humour comes from exaggeration, but the strategy itself is coherent; Kevin thinks ahead, anticipates reactions and adjusts when plans go wrong.

What elevates this intelligence is that it is tied to character. Kevin is clever because he has had to be. As the youngest in a large, dismissive family, he has learned to assert himself through wit and independence. His ingenuity is not just about defeating burglars, but about proving his worth in a world that constantly underestimates him. This gives the film an emotional spine that balances the cartoon violence; Kevin wants safety and recognition as much as victory.

The film's cult status grows from this combination of empowerment and ritual. For many viewers, Home Alone is not merely watched but revisited annually, quoted endlessly and defended passionately. Kevin's triumph represents a fantasy of competence and control that resonates across generations. Children see a peer who outsmarts adults and criminals alike; adults recognise the nostalgia of a simpler moral universe where intelligence and preparation are rewarded.

Over time, Home Alone has transcended its era. Its traps have become pop-cultural shorthand, Kevin himself a symbol of youthful ingenuity. The film's cult appeal lies in how confidently it commits to its premise; it takes a child's intelligence seriously and invites the audience to do the same. That belief, more than the slapstick or the sentiment, is why Home Alone remains a fixture rather than a relic.

Success Rate:  + 24.5

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Typhoon Club (3½ Stars)

Typhoon Club, directed by Shinji Somai, is a quietly devastating portrait of adolescence trapped in the storm of societal expectation and emotional confusion. On the surface, it tells the story of a group of high school students stranded in their classroom as a typhoon rages outside. Yet beneath this deceptively simple premise, the film pulses with currents of sexual curiosity, suppressed desire and the oppressive weight of gender norms in 1980's Japan.

One of the most striking aspects of Typhoon Club is its subtle exploration of same-sex desire, particularly lesbianism, which is rarely addressed in Japanese cinema of this era with such nuance. The film presents these undercurrents not as sensationalized titillation but as a natural if awkward part of adolescent exploration. Moments of intimacy between the female characters are charged with both vulnerability and tentative rebellion against the heteronormative expectations imposed by family, school and society. These fleeting gestures, an accidental touch, a lingering glance, speak volumes about the isolation and yearning that young women in this context often felt. Somai treats these moments with tenderness, allowing the audience to sense both the thrill and the fear of forbidden desire.

Conversely, the male characters embody the toxicity of a patriarchal culture that was still rigidly entrenched in the 1980's. Their attempts at dominance, through crude humour, bullying and the assertion of heterosexual conquest, highlight a societal expectation that masculinity must be performative and aggressive. Yet Somai does not offer simplistic villainy; the boys' actions feel both conditioned and performative, a reflection of the pressures on young men to conform to a narrow damaging ideal. The tension between male aggression and female desire becomes almost a microcosm of Japan's gender politics at the time, where burgeoning sexual liberation clashed with entrenched patriarchal norms.

Somai's cinematic style amplifies these themes. Long uninterrupted takes create a sense of suffocating intimacy, forcing the audience to inhabit the same claustrophobic space as the students. The storm outside mirrors the inner turbulence of desire and frustration, while the unflinching gaze on adolescent bodies, hesitant, awkward and human, challenges both societal prudishness and male entitlement.

Typhoon Club is therefore more than a coming-of-age story; it's a meditation on the collisions of desire, repression and systemic toxicity. By juxtaposing tender explorations of female desire with the unrefined posturing of adolescent masculinity, Somai captures a moment in Japanese society when the boundaries of sexuality and gender roles were being tested, often painfully. The film remains a haunting testament to the emotional storms that rage beneath the surface of adolescent life and the ways in which society's rigid norms can shape, distort and sometimes suffocate young desire.

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Withnail and I (3 Stars)

Plot Synopsis

Withnail and I is a 1987 British black comedy written and directed by Bruce Robinson, loosely based on his own experiences in London in the late 1960’s. It follows two unemployed young actors, the flamboyant and alcoholic Withnail (Richard E. Grant) and his more introspective, neurotic flatmate “I” (Paul McGann, Marwood in the screenplay but unnamed on screen). They share a squalid Camden Town flat in September 1969, spending their days drinking, doing drugs, moaning about the world and rarely working. Their only regular visitor is their philosophical drug dealer Danny.

After a particularly miserable morning, Marwood suggests they take a holiday to escape their dreary lives. Withnail calls his wealthy eccentric Uncle Monty (Richard Griffiths) and, with a few deliberate lies about their success and Marwood’s supposed background, secures the use of Monty’s cottage in Penrith in the Lake District. The trip soon proves less idyllic than they hope. In the countryside they struggle with freezing temperatures, a lack of food and fuel, clumsy attempts at country pursuits, and awkward encounters with locals. Their urban excesses make them out of place and ineffective in rural life.

Uncle Monty unexpectedly turns up at the cottage, revealing himself as a flamboyant and unmistakably homosexual character who makes Marwood increasingly uncomfortable. After a series of misunderstandings, Monty leaves a note wishing them well, and Marwood decides they should return to London. Back in the city, Withnail drunkenly drives and is arrested; they come home to find Danny and a friend squatting in their flat. Marwood receives a telegram offering him a lead acting role, meaning he must move to Manchester. He decides to leave, prompting a painful farewell with Withnail in Regent’s Park. In the final scene, Withnail stands alone in the rain outside the zoo, wine in hand, reciting Hamlet’s “What a piece of work is a man!” soliloquy to indifferent wolves, symbolizing his despair and isolation as his friend departs.

Themes and Tone

The film has a darkly comic but poignant tone; it’s often uproariously funny yet tinged with melancholy about lost youth, friendship, failure and unfulfilled potential. Its dialogue is sharp and quotable, and the characters embody both the comic excess and deeper emotional turmoil of an ending era of the 1960s counterculture.

Cult Film Status

Though not a box office hit on release, Withnail and I gradually became one of Britain’s most celebrated cult classics. Its reputation grew through home video, repeat viewings and a devoted fan community that embraces its humour, quotable lines, and evocative depiction of a specific time and mindset. It’s widely regarded as one of the greatest British comedies and has been featured in various polls and lists of top films.

Fans often quote lines like “We want the finest wines available to humanity” and “We’ve gone on holiday by mistake,” relishing its unique blend of abrasive wit and emotional depth. Its cult reach extends to student film societies, midnight screenings and festivals, with devotees celebrating the film’s depictions of excess and ennui.

The Drinking Game

Part of the cult phenomenon is the infamous drinking game inspired by the film’s heavy focus on alcohol. The basic rule: drink each time Withnail consumes an alcoholic beverage on screen. Over the course of the film, Withnail is shown consuming a staggering variety and volume of alcohol: roughly nine and a half glasses of red wine, half a pint of cider, a shot of lighter fluid, about 2½ shots of gin, six glasses of sherry, thirteen measures of Scotch whisky, and half a pint of ale.

The game is widely referenced in fandom, though it’s worth noting that participants often warn it’s not for the faint-hearted and could be dangerous if taken literally; the lighter fluid scene alone is traditionally substituted for non-alcoholic alternatives.

Director Bruce Robinson himself reportedly never intended the film to be used this way; the drinking game emerged organically from fans drawn to the unabashed depiction of boozy excess. Some argue this tradition misreads the film’s intent, as it doesn’t glamorize drinking so much as vividly portray squalor and self-destructive behaviour.

Success Rate:  - 0.2

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River (5 Stars)

River (2023), directed by Junta Yamaguchi and written by Makoto Ueda, is a time-loop drama set almost entirely inside and around the Fujiya inn in Kibune, near Kyoto. The film begins with waitress Mikoto (Riko Fujitani) standing by the river outside the inn, briefly lost in her thoughts, before returning to work. Two minutes later, time abruptly resets and she finds herself back at the same spot. This reset repeats over and over, trapping the staff and guests inside an endlessly looping present.

The narrative unfolds as a chain of two-minute segments, each filmed as a single unbroken take. The camera follows Mikoto through corridors, kitchens and dining rooms, gliding between characters as they slowly realise that time is no longer moving forward. At first, only Mikoto notices the repetition, but soon the other staff members and guests become aware that they retain their memories across loops.

Each character’s arc develops through tiny variations within the same physical movements. Mikoto starts as a polite, reserved employee who suppresses her own desires in favour of routine. As the loops continue, she grows more assertive, openly expressing frustration and eventually confronting her feelings for Taku, the quiet cook. Taku, initially withdrawn and hesitant, gradually finds confidence, using the loops to speak more honestly and take emotional risks he would normally avoid.

The inn’s owner and senior staff begin in denial, clinging to professionalism and structure even as reality collapses. Over time, their composure cracks, revealing anxiety about responsibility and control. A novelist staying at the inn, paralysed by creative block, first treats the loop as an inconvenience, then as a perverse gift; the repetition forces him to reflect on his avoidance of meaningful decisions. Other guests reveal small but telling shifts, turning impatience into cooperation and self-interest into shared problem-solving.

The single-take structure is crucial to these arcs. Because the camera never cuts, the audience experiences growth not through plot twists but through altered behaviour; a line delivered sooner, a glance held longer, a decision made instead of postponed. The repetition highlights how small changes accumulate, mirroring the characters’ internal transformations.

As the group works together to understand the cause of the loop, their individual arcs converge into a collective one. What begins as confusion and irritation becomes empathy and mutual reliance. By the time the loop finally breaks, the resolution feels less like a scientific solution and more like an emotional one; the characters have learned how to move forward by confronting what they had been quietly avoiding all along.

Blade of the Immortal (4 Stars)

Takashi Miike’s Blade of the Immortal (2017) adapts Hiroaki Samura’s long running manga into a bleak, violent jidaigeki that uses genre spectacle to question the value of revenge, immortality and moral absolutism.

The film opens in late Edo period Japan. Manji is introduced as a feared samurai whose life has been defined by killing. In the past, he slaughtered a group of men he believed to be criminals, only to discover that they were honorable samurai defending their lord. When Manji realizes his mistake, he also understands that his actions have destroyed any claim he had to righteousness. His sister Machi, horrified by what he has become, has become nad with grief. Shortly afterward, she is murdered by bandits, leaving Manji broken and suicidal.

Manji attempts to end his life, but his death wish is interrupted by Yaobikuni, an ancient crone who possesses supernatural powers. She infects Manji with kessen-chu, blood worms that regenerate his body and make him effectively immortal. Any wound heals, even decapitation. Yaobikuni condemns Manji to live until he has atoned for his sins by killing one thousand evil men. Immortality, rather than a gift, becomes a punishment that forces him to endure endless pain and moral compromise.

50 years later, Manji is living as a wandering outcast, hated and feared. His path crosses with Rin Asano, a teenage girl whose parents were brutally murdered by the Itto-ryu, a radical sword school led by the charismatic and fanatical Anotsu Kagehisa. Anotsu seeks to overthrow the established dojo system, which he sees as corrupt, stagnant and tied to feudal hypocrisy. His methods are extreme; he annihilates rival schools, including Rin’s family dojo, in order to force a violent rebirth of the martial world.

Rin asks Manji to become her bodyguard and executioner, promising to end her own life once her revenge is complete. Manji accepts, because Rin looks identical to his sister Machi. He even calls her Machi at first. Together they hunt the members of the Itto-ryu. Their journey is episodic and brutal, with each confrontation revealing different shades of cruelty, idealism and despair. Manji’s immortality allows Miike to stage extreme violence; limbs are severed, bodies impaled and Manji himself is repeatedly torn apart, only to regenerate. The spectacle emphasizes suffering rather than power fantasy.

As the story progresses, the line between good and evil becomes increasingly blurred. Some Itto-ryu members are sadistic killers, others are tragic figures driven by loyalty or survival. Anotsu himself is not portrayed as a simple villain. He genuinely believes that only destruction can clear the way for progress, even if it means becoming a monster. Parallel to this conflict, government agents and rival factions attempt to manipulate both Anotsu and Manji for political ends, suggesting that institutional violence is as ruthless as personal vengeance.

Rin grows increasingly traumatized by the bloodshed carried out in her name. Manji, despite his vow, tries to protect her from becoming consumed by hatred. In the climactic battles, alliances collapse and nearly all major characters meet violent ends. Manji finally reaches the symbolic threshold of killing one thousand evil men, though the exact morality of that number is left deliberately ambiguous. Rin ultimately abandons her quest for revenge, choosing life over endless hatred. Manji, having guided her away from the path that destroyed him, is released from his immortality. He walks away alone, mortal once more, carrying the weight of his memories.

Miike uses Blade of the Immortal to dismantle romantic ideas of the samurai, revenge narratives and even immortality itself. Violence in the film is relentless and ugly; it is meant to exhaust the viewer rather than thrill them. By making Manji immortal, Miike removes the heroic stakes usually associated with sword fights. Pain has no release through death, and killing solves nothing permanently.

The central message is that revenge is a self-perpetuating cycle that consumes both victim and perpetrator. Rin’s journey demonstrates how easily moral certainty turns into dehumanization. Anotsu’s ideology, though grounded in real social decay, becomes monstrous once it justifies limitless slaughter. Miike refuses to offer a clean moral hierarchy; institutions, rebels and lone warriors all participate in the same machinery of violence.

Immortality functions as a metaphor for historical and personal guilt. Manji cannot escape his past through death; he must live with it, confront it and guide the next generation away from repeating it. Redemption, in Miike’s view, does not come from righteous killing but from breaking the cycle and choosing compassion over ideology.

In the end, Blade of the Immortal argues that progress and honour built on blood are hollow. True change is quiet, painful and often invisible. By letting Rin live and allowing Manji to become mortal again, Miike suggests that accepting fragility and moral uncertainty is the only way out of endless violence.

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Once upon a time in China 3 (4½ Stars)

Once Upon a Time in China III (1993), directed by Tsui Hark, continues the semi-mythical biography of Wong Fei-hung while anchoring its story in real political tensions of late Qing dynasty China. The film is set in 1895, shortly after the First Sino-Japanese War, during a period when China’s weakness had become painfully visible to both foreign powers and internal reformers.

Historical background

The defeat of the Qing Empire by Japan in 1894–1895 exposed the failure of China’s military modernisation and intensified national humiliation. Reformist scholars and officials argued that China needed Western-style education and technology to survive, while conservative factions saw these ideas as a betrayal of Confucian values. The film directly references this ideological struggle through the Lion Dance Competition, a traditional cultural event that becomes a symbolic battleground between nationalism, reform and corruption.

Plot synopsis

Wong Fei-hung arrives in Beijing with his father Wong Kei-ying and his students to attend the annual Lion King Competition, an event meant to celebrate Chinese martial arts and unity. Unofficially, the competition also serves political ends; government officials use it to promote their own power, while reform-minded figures hope to reclaim Chinese dignity through tradition rather than empty spectacle.

Soon after arriving, Wong crosses paths again with his 13th Aunt, who is practising photography in Beijing. Her presence highlights the film’s central tension between tradition and modernity. Unlike earlier entries, 13th Aunt is more assertive here; she openly challenges sexist customs and advocates education as a means of national renewal.

The competition itself is overseen by Li Hung-chang, a real historical statesman and key figure in the Self-Strengthening Movement. Li is portrayed as a pragmatic but compromised official, caught between appeasing conservative forces at court and dealing with the realities of foreign pressure after China’s defeat by Japan. His political weakness allows corrupt Manchu officials to manipulate the event for personal gain.

As the lion dance trials progress, Wong Fei-hung faces rivals who use dirty tactics, bribery and violence. These confrontations escalate when Wong uncovers a plot to assassinate Li Hung-chang during the final ceremony. The assassination attempt reflects real fears of political instability in the Qing court, where reformists, conservatives and secret societies often resorted to violence.

The climax unfolds during the final lion dance performances, staged high above the ground on precarious poles. This sequence is both a physical test and a metaphor for China’s unstable position in the world. Wong Fei-hung defeats his opponents through discipline, moral integrity and mastery of traditional kung fu, rejecting the corruption surrounding him. He also thwarts the assassination attempt, saving Li Hung-chang and preventing further chaos.

Despite Wong’s victory, the ending remains bittersweet. Li Hung-chang survives but the system he represents is unchanged. Reform remains limited, corruption persists and China’s future is uncertain. Wong Fei-hung returns south with his students, reaffirming his role not as a political leader but as a moral guardian of Chinese values.

Themes and historical meaning

Once Upon a Time in China III uses spectacle to explore the cultural crisis of late nineteenth-century China. The lion dance competition symbolises national identity under threat; Western influence is unavoidable but blindly copying it is portrayed as dangerous. Wong Fei-hung stands for ethical tradition rather than reactionary conservatism, offering a vision of Chinese strength rooted in moral conduct, discipline and community rather than political power.

In this way, the film frames history not as triumph but as warning; China’s survival depends on balancing reform with cultural integrity, a question that remained unresolved at the end of the Qing dynasty.

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Once upon a time in China 2 (4 Stars)

Once Upon a Time in China II (1992) continues Tsui Hark’s semi-historical portrait of Wong Fei-hung, setting its story against the political turbulence of southern China in the early 1890s, when the Qing dynasty was under intense pressure from foreign powers and internal reform movements.

After the events of the first film, Wong Fei-hung returns to Foshan as a respected physician and martial arts master, but he is quickly drawn into a wider national crisis. China is reeling from humiliation at the hands of Western imperial powers following the Opium Wars and a series of unequal treaties that granted foreign nations trade privileges, extraterritorial rights and control over ports and railways. Anti-foreign sentiment is growing among ordinary citizens, while reform-minded officials and intellectuals argue that China must modernise to survive.

The story introduces Sun Yat-sen, portrayed as a young revolutionary doctor who is secretly organising resistance against the Qing government. Historically, Sun Yat-sen was active in Guangdong during this period and would soon attempt uprisings aimed at overthrowing the dynasty. In the film, Sun arrives in Foshan to raise funds and support for his cause, placing him in danger from both Qing authorities and conservative forces who see reform as betrayal.

Wong Fei-hung initially tries to stay neutral. His philosophy emphasises moral conduct, discipline and harmony, and he is wary of political extremism. However, the situation deteriorates when the White Lotus Sect emerges as a major antagonist. The White Lotus is depicted as a fanatical, anti-foreign cult that claims mystical invulnerability and promotes violent resistance against Westerners and Chinese collaborators. This portrayal draws loosely on real secret societies and millenarian movements that flourished in late Qing China, including groups that would later feed into the Boxer Rebellion of 1899–1901.

Led by the charismatic and ruthless Master Kung, the White Lotus stages public demonstrations, humiliates officials and attacks foreign institutions, particularly Christian missionaries. Their actions provoke brutal reprisals from Western powers, who threaten military intervention if their citizens are harmed. The film shows the mounting tension between foreign legations and Chinese authorities, reflecting the historical reality of gunboat diplomacy and the constant threat of colonial violence.

Caught between these forces, Wong Fei-hung is forced to act when innocent people are endangered. His conflict with the White Lotus is both physical and ideological. He rejects their superstition and cruelty, arguing that blind hatred and false mysticism will only bring further suffering to China. At the same time, he becomes increasingly sympathetic to Sun Yat-sen’s reformist ideals, which are presented as rational, forward-looking and rooted in genuine patriotism rather than xenophobic rage.

The narrative builds toward several major confrontations. Wong repeatedly clashes with Master Kung, whose belief in spiritual invincibility is exposed as a dangerous illusion when faced with modern weapons and disciplined martial skill. These battles symbolise the film’s central theme; traditional Chinese values must survive, but they must evolve rather than retreat into myth.

In the final act, chaos erupts as the White Lotus attempts a large-scale uprising, drawing the attention of foreign forces and threatening catastrophic retaliation. Wong Fei-hung intervenes to prevent a massacre, defeating Master Kung and dismantling the sect. His actions help avert immediate disaster, though the film makes clear that China’s deeper problems remain unresolved.

The story closes on a bittersweet note. Sun Yat-sen escapes to continue his revolutionary work, hinting at the future overthrow of the Qing dynasty in 1911. Wong Fei-hung returns to his medical practice and school, reaffirming his role as a moral guardian rather than a political leader. The film leaves the audience with a clear historical message; China stands at a crossroads, torn between decaying tradition, violent reaction and the difficult path of reform.

In blending real historical figures, secret societies and political tensions with martial arts spectacle, Once Upon a Time in China II transforms its sequel into a meditation on national identity during one of the most volatile periods in modern Chinese history.

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Once upon a time in China (4 Stars)

The Historical Background

Once Upon a Time in China (1991), directed by Tsui Hark, is set in Foshan during the late Qing dynasty, a period of intense social upheaval as China struggled to reconcile tradition with the pressures of Western imperialism and internal decay. The film blends martial arts spectacle with a historical drama about cultural identity, national pride and the painful cost of modernization.

Foshan, located in Guangdong province near the Pearl River Delta, was one of southern China’s most important commercial and cultural centres in the nineteenth century. It was famous for its ceramics, metalworking and bustling trade networks, and it was also a stronghold of southern Chinese martial arts. Styles such as Hung Gar, Wing Chun and Choy Li Fut flourished there, often taught through family lineages or associated with local guilds.

By the time the film is set, roughly the 1880's to 1890's, Foshan was caught between worlds. Western powers had forced China to open treaty ports after the Opium Wars, bringing missionaries, merchants and military influence deep into Chinese society. Foreign factories, churches and consulates appeared alongside traditional temples and schools. Many locals saw Western technology as both impressive and threatening, while resentment simmered over unequal treaties, extraterritorial rights and cultural humiliation. This tension provides the political and emotional backdrop of the film.

Wong Fei-hung was was born in 1847 in Xiqiao, Nanhai County, Guangdong. He moved to Foshan as a child, and he was raised in a family deeply rooted in martial arts and traditional Chinese medicine. He was a master of Hung Gar kung fu, a physician and a respected community leader. Wong was known not only for his fighting ability but also for his moral code, emphasizing discipline, compassion and restraint. Over time, his life became heavily mythologized through oral stories, opera and later cinema, transforming him into a symbol of Chinese virtue and resistance.

In Tsui Hark’s film, Wong Fei-hung represents the ideal Confucian hero struggling to uphold ethical traditions in a rapidly changing world. He is not portrayed as blindly anti-foreign; instead, he is cautious and reflective, recognizing the need to learn without surrendering cultural integrity.

Plot Synopsis

The story follows Wong Fei-hung, played by Jet Li, as he navigates the growing chaos in Foshan. Foreign missionaries and businessmen arrive with modern weapons and machines, while local gangs exploit fear and confusion for profit. Kidnappings, human trafficking and exploitation of women become rampant, often hidden behind the façade of Western progress or criminal opportunism.

Wong runs a martial arts school and a medical clinic, positioning him as both protector and healer of the community. His attempts to maintain order are constantly challenged by corrupt officials, violent bandits and cultural misunderstandings between Chinese citizens and foreigners. These conflicts escalate when a local criminal ring collaborates with foreign interests, leading to public unrest and violent clashes.

Central to the film is Wong’s internal struggle. He must decide how to defend Chinese values without becoming reactionary or xenophobic. His relationship with his 13th aunt, a Western-educated woman who adopts foreign dress and ideas, embodies this tension. Through her, the film explores the possibility of coexistence, while also highlighting the prejudices and dangers faced by those who cross cultural boundaries.

The climax sees Wong confronting both physical enemies and symbolic ones. Traditional kung fu faces off against guns and modern weaponry, raising the question of whether moral strength and discipline can survive in an age of industrial violence. Wong ultimately prevails not simply through combat, but through leadership, restraint and a reaffirmation of cultural dignity.

Themes and Legacy

Once Upon a Time in China reframes the martial arts film as a historical epic. It uses Foshan as a microcosm of China’s national crisis, and Wong Fei-hung as a moral anchor in a society under siege. The film argues that true strength lies not in rejecting change outright, but in confronting it with clarity, ethics and self-respect.

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Beyond the Infinite Two Minutes (5 Stars)

My brain hurts.

So the guys in a cafe find a way to communicate with themselves in the future. Right?

Their future selves tell them where they can find money hidden on a scrap heap. So they rush out to get it.

But how did their future selves know where the money was? They knew because they'd been told where it was in the past.

My brain hurts.

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Barb Wire (5 Stars)

Barb Wire is often dismissed as a relic of 90's comic-book excess, yet it works surprisingly well as a pulpy celebration of girl power. Pamela Anderson's Barb stands at the centre of the chaos with a kind of swagger that leaves every man in the film looking slow, confused or hopelessly outmatched. The plot may swim in dystopian tropes, yet the film's energy comes from watching Barb outthink and outfight a line of men who underestimate her every step of the way.

Barb runs her nightclub, negotiates with corrupt officials and takes on mercenaries without waiting for help from anyone. The men around her posture and threaten, yet Barb treats them like minor obstacles. The film sets up a world in which men try to impose rules while Barb survives by ignoring those rules and doing things her own way. Every time a man tries to dominate the scene she shuts him down with either a sharp remark or a well-aimed shot. She never loses control.

The romance subplot exists only to underline her independence. Her former lover Axel believes he understands her, yet she consistently proves she does not need rescue or guidance. Their shared history matters only because it gives her another chance to demonstrate that she sees through the emotional games that slow everyone else down. Instead of melting into nostalgia she keeps her priorities clear and shows that strength can be both emotional and physical.

The action sequences reinforce this theme. Barb moves with confidence while her opponents stumble. The film delights in showing her as the most competent person in any room. Whether she is trading blows with hired muscle or navigating back-alley deals, she always comes out ahead. The men react to events while she shapes them.

As a film Barb Wire is messy at times, yet its core is a straightforward celebration of a woman who refuses limitations. It offers a heroine who is tougher, smarter and more decisive than every male character around her. For viewers who want stylised grit with a loud shot of girl power it still delivers.

Success Rate:  - 2.4

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