Reviews by PvtCaboose91

Sometimes movie-goers require a dosage of simple, unadulterated fun in the form of a film that's content with serving up a nourishing dose of action, violence and sex. So thank Mark Neveldine and Brian Taylor that the delightful action-comedy Crank exists. Geared towards the dormant 13-year-old in every male, Crank doesn't merely unfold...it explodes onscreen, careening from one chest-thumping scene to the next. It delivers 85 minutes of pure action and hilarity, with minimal encumbrances (like exposition or character development) and with only skeletal fragments of plot. Crank also throttles forward with a glorious tongue-in-cheek approach - the over-the-top action is delivered with a side order of cheese, and plenty of humour accompanies the cocktail of testosterone and adrenaline (emphasis on "adrenaline"). The film is every bit as trashy, vulgar, sexist, brainless, excessive and callow as you'd imagine, but this reviewer enjoyed every delirious minute.

Former professional assassin Chev Chelios (Statham) awakens in his apartment at the beginning of the film after having been poisoned by his rival Verona (Cantillo) with a lethal dose of the "Beijing Cocktail". Chev only has about an hour to live, but learns that he'll be able to slow down the effects of poison and live long enough to exact revenge if he keeps his adrenaline levels high. And thus, Chev begins a citywide crime spree. In order to keep his adrenaline pumping he resorts to barbaric violence, cocaine, shootouts, car chases (usually in stolen cars), epinephrine, caffeinated drinks, nasal spray and a very public display of affection. And during all this chaos, Chev's "doctor" (Yoakam) - you'd use quotation marks too, if you saw how this guy runs his practise - dispenses advice through a phone line, though he insists there's no actual cure for what Chev has been injected with.

Directed and written by Mark Neveldine and Brian Taylor, Crank is an exercise in overblown simplicity. Prior to this movie, Neveldine and Taylor had only worked as cinematographers and camera operators, which probably explains why the visuals overwhelm all narrative requirements. The story is every bit as dumb as it sounds, but who cares? Why watch Crank for incisive dialogue or intelligent plotting? It has a niche audience, and it aims solely to satiate them. Once you suspend your disbelief, respect the film's decision to dispose of all logic by the 10-minute mark, and realise that the creators are only interested in cramming as much action as possible into a tight runtime, you're in for a fun, action-packed ride that's all about the forward momentum.

Neveldine and Taylor employ every stylistic cinematic technique imaginable. In fact, there are times when the movie feels like little more than an opportunity for the two writer-directors to show off. With split screens, distorted images, first-person shots, slow-motion, fast-motion, freeze frames, animated representations of Chev's heart, colour saturation and use of Google maps, the look of the film is frenzied and adrenaline-pumping; replicating the emotions and anxieties of the protagonist. However the style crosses over into tedium from time to time due to sheer repetition. There's so much happening during every single frame and there's so much action that it all feels like a far too generous helping of junk food. After all, at its most basic level, Crank is overstylised junk food. If one removed all the visual tweaks and tongue-in-cheek humour from the equation, one would be left with a story better off in a direct-to-DVD action flick starring Van Damme or Steven Seagal.

British badass Jason Statham (of Transporter fame) carries the whole feature on his well-formed shoulders; pushing the envelope of acceptable antihero boundaries. With his eyes full of fire, Statham turns Chev Chelios into a laser-guided missile of mayhem, unable and unwilling to stop until he finds an antidote and/or slaughters everyone responsible for his corpse-bound state. Thankfully Statham brings a degree of dimension to the role, and his acting is top-notch. Since Crank is mostly a one-man show, the rest of the cast just needs to be present, accounted for, and playing their minor part for the film to succeed. But oddly enough, the supporting players are just as effective. Jose Pablo Cantillo is all teeth and terror as Verona, while Amy Smart is frequently amusing as Chev's girlfriend Eve. There's also Efren Ramirez (probably best known for Napoleon Dynamite) who plays Chev's sidekick Kaylo with subliminal flamboyance.

Some audiences may choose to dismiss Crank as an over-inflated excuse for blood, guts, firepower and fisticuffs...to an extent, that's correct. But it's also hilarious, irresistible, macho fun. It's best described as a live-action video game (some levels even play out like levels of Grand Theft Auto) with an unhinged Jason Statham in the centre of it all. Stuffy, serious critics may dislike Crank due to its contrived story (after all, why couldn't Verona just shoot Chev instead of poisoning him?) and shallow characterisations, but the movie is more geared towards those who'll take it in the intended spirit. Be sure to keep watching 'til the end credits expire for a scene which cements its live-action video game pedigree.

Followed by Crank: High Voltage in 2009.

7.5/10

The concept of an Australian comedy featuring the once-in-a-lifetime pair-up of Paul Crocodile Dundee Hogan and Shane Kenny Jacobson would appear foolproof. And while this movie doesn't live up to all of its potential, Charlie & Boots (the sophomore effort of director Dean Murphy, who previously collaborated with Paul Hogan for 2004's Strange Bedfellows) is an endearing, heart-achingly poignant, sweet dramedy. This is a film infused with so much heart that even the feel-good clichés come across as charming, and it's simply an ideal vehicle for its two primary stars. Just how well it'll play for an international audience is a mystery, though.

Structured in the form of a conventional road-trip picture, the storyline here is straightforward. After the tragic death of his beloved wife Grace (Peggy Thompson), Charlie (Paul Hogan) - a hardworking farmer - is left devastated and withdrawn. On a whim, his older son Boots (Shane Jacobson) decides to take an impromptu fishing trip with Charlie in the hope it will shake his old man out of the doldrums and perhaps repair the rift in their relationship. Once Boots climbs into the car, Charlie informs him they'll be travelling from their Victorian hometown all the way up to Cape York (thousands of kilometres away) for a spot of fishing off the country's northernmost tip (a trip long promised but never accomplished). Charlie is at first none-too-cooperative, but Boots does his best to be upbeat. Along the way, they pick up an attractive young female hitchhiker with boyfriend trouble (Morgan Griffin), and they fend off a succession of older women who are interested in Charlie.

Gradually, as the trip unfolds, an uneasy companionship emerges as the protagonists begin to learn more about each other and the dramas that ruptured their lives. A motion picture that celebrates the relationship between father and son, Charlie & Boots is sublimely warm and good-natured. The movie exposes family conflicts and observes the protagonists as both of them divulge emotional revelations while their relationship is gradually placed back on track. In a sense, Charlie & Boots can be perceived as a picturesque tourist guide of rural Australia - during their travels, the characters encounter the Grampians, Tamworth, Forbes, Tenterfield and even the spectacular Great Barrier Reed. A lot of these locations are low-key (Baz Luhrmann wouldn't have used them), and Roger Lawson's cinematography does justice to them. Dean Murphy's competent direction keeps things wonderfully minimalist and naturalistic (an efficient set-up that poignantly observes Charlie's grief is a particular highlight), while Dale Cornelius' delightful score adds yet another layer of enthralling flavour. Sure, the film may be little more than a mere string of vignettes that adhere to a similar formula, but it all comes together nicely.

Charlie & Boots is heavily laced with dry Aussie wit that's well suited to Australian audiences, who should also readily identify with the characters and be touched by their warmth. There are a number of laughs to have here, with most of the humour being derived from witty writing (like Charlie's attitude towards a paddle-steamer) and a number of hilarious comedic set-pieces (such as a sequence involving a dim police officer). Yet despite the film's strong points, there are inherent problems with Murphy and co-writer Stewart Faichney's screenplay. The central problem is that the whole thing is incredibly by-the-numbers - it's your standard road-trip movie which obeys the rules of the genre (it's obvious from the outset that Charlie and Boots will patch up their relationship, for instance). While it could additionally be argued that the laughs are a tad limited considering the talent involved, the material bridging the comic material is solid - there's always something interesting going on, and the drama feels more affecting than forced.

A film joining the comic talents of Paul Hogan and Shane Jacobson was a terrific idea (however tenuous their physical resemblance), and their pair-up here is wonderful. Hoges is his usual brilliant self as Charlie; delivering a trademark performance that has echoes of his glory days. The former Crocodile Dundee star is able to express an inner sadness that's deeply affecting, and the gradual breaking down of his character's bitterness and reserve is effectively conveyed. Meanwhile, Shane Jacobson is pitch-perfect - likeable, sympathetic and above all relatable as Boots (whose real name is revealed in an amusing, nicely judged scene). He perfectly embodied the hard-working Aussie bloke in the 2006 hit Kenny, and in Charlie & Boots, he brilliantly pulls off this type of role once again. In the supporting cast, there's the lovely young Morgan Griffin, who would've been 16 or 17 during production. Griffin brings a delightful warmth and buoyancy to the material, and an audience will miss her (as the boys do) when she abruptly departs from the story. The movie is in loving memory of Reg Evans, who plays an amusing minor role in the movie, and who died in the 2009 Victorian bushfires.

All things considered, Charlie & Boots is a pleasant, down-to-earth, enjoyable little Aussie film of male bonding which is both funny and touching. Its charm is very pervasive, and it's difficult not to yield to it. Any Australian who has ever taken a multiple-day road trip will easily relate to the situations the protagonists encounter (car trouble, snoring relos, etc). Charlie & Boots may be a highly clichéd affair, but it'll surely plant a smile on your face - and who can complain about that? Be sure to watch until after the end credits for a bonus laugh.

7.9/10

Nominally, Hunger is a motion picture about the life of IRA activist Bobby Sands who died in 1981 as the result of a hunger strike. But this startling feature film debut of British visual artist Steve McQueen (no relation to the late actor whose name he oddly shares) doesn't hew to conventional biopic storytelling - instead, it's essentially a relentless and powerful montage of events (mainly the countless protests) that unfolded in Belfast's notorious Maze prison during the 1980s. As a matter of fact, Bobby Sands (played by Michael Fassbender) is not properly introduced until approximately half an hour into the movie. With Hunger, McQueen (who scripted the film with Irish playwright Enda Walsh) has crafted an effective episodic motion picture. The perspective segues smoothly from prisoner to guard to prisoner, and so on, until the film at long last settles on Sands.

From beginning to end, Hunger is a masterwork of detailed atmosphere. Steve McQueen directs with staggering Kubrickian precision; offering a strong, visceral sense of the unspeakably brutal and violent world it portrays with its regular riots, beatings and body searches. The director brings Belfast in 1981 to life with substantial skill, aided by Sean Bobbitt's brilliant cinematography and Tom McCullagh's stunning production design. Hunger truly captures the frigid conditions the naked prisoners endured, while also itemising the nightmarish muck as the prisoners covered the walls with their own faeces to compel British officials into action. McQueen doesn't shy away from any details as he transforms this hell into visual poetry; concentrating on the naturalistic moments the inmates happened upon while wordlessly carrying out their orders and smuggling plans. McQueen insists a viewer not only see but ponder the imagery, and the director allows a viewer to do so by employing contemplative, sometimes agonisingly long, speechless takes.

Indeed, Hunger contains barely any dialogue - it elects to let the stark, unflinching images speak volumes about the madness at hand. The contrast of routine English police manoeuvres with the feral panic of the Irish prisoners is riveting, and coloured enthrallingly by the unspoken moments of reflection as both sides attempt to deal with the daily blasts of violence. Yet, this is not a movie based solely on its imagery - a crucial element of the film is the detailed use of sound. Music is used sparingly, with the omniscient soundscape of the prison's interior instead used to heighten the most poignant moments. And the more Sands withers away towards the film's dénouement, the more minimalist the sound design is rendered (at one point supplying nothing but the sound of wind and Sands' cavernous breathing).

After accomplishing so much using images, McQueen stops to acknowledge the power of words during one of the film's final acts. McQueen's nearly always-in-motion camera and artistic eye is set aside for a riveting 25-minute conversation between two characters. For this sequence, Sands discusses his decision to embark on a hunger strike with Father Moran (Cunningham). The two men debate the merits and ethics of the protest; lending insight into Sands' determination. While the dialogue is insanely spellbinding, it's the execution that's amazing - the bulk of this conversation occurs in one single, 17-minute unbroken take. It's simply a tour de force of writing, acting and moral complexity.

It should come as no surprise that the performances are outstanding. Michael Fassbender (of 300 fame) literally gives his body and soul to the part of Bobby Sands; playing defiance and self-confidence throughout the film's initial two-thirds before wasting away to nothingness (there are a number of haunting, unforgettable images to behold here). Another note-worthy member of the cast is Liam Cunningham, whose acting throughout the aforementioned verbal tango with Fassbender is remarkable. Stuart Graham is also given a memorable role as a prison guard whom the film focuses on at certain points.

Digressions from acclaim must be made, however. The scope of Hunger is admittedly too narrow and its methods are too intensive to offer a comprehensive historical analysis of the troubles of Northern Ireland. Unfortunately, too, the movie doesn't offer any profound insight into its characters. Instead McQueen's movie remains a visual exercise which shows how the characters did what they did, and in what circumstances. The result is a consistently harrowing drama that feels somewhat underdone.

Hunger is a tough viewing experience due to the constant depictions of brutality, but it's more than a portrayal of bodily torment - it's a story of finding humanity amongst the walls of a prison during dark days.

8.3/10

By and large, remakes are superfluous. At face value, a Hollywood remake of the BBC mini-series State of Play is extremely superfluous. The intricate plot of the mini-series was weighted perfectly over six gripping hours of television, and its theme (centring on the corruptibility of people in power) was all tied to its Westminster setting. So why shift the scene to Washington, D.C. and adapt it for the big screen? The answer relates to Hollywood's compulsion to remake every good story in its own image (and to get maximum profits from minimal effort). But in this case there's further justification for a remake - since 2003, the state of play has changed in relation to newspaper journalism, and this is pushed to the centre of the frame in 2009's State of Play. In adapting the BBC mini-series for the big screen, the filmmakers have achieved something remarkable: they've condensed the meaty intrigue and thrills within six hours of material into two snappy hours, and still produced a coherent and engrossing film. A study of political power plays, calamitous sexual impulses and the twilight of printed journalism, State of Play is riveting, sublimely acted and smart - it's mainstream Hollywood thriller-making at its best.

The plot primarily concerns the seemingly accidental death of Sonia Baker (Thayer); the research assistant and secret lover of rising Congressman Stephen Collins (Affleck). The night preceding Sonia's death, a petty thief and a pizza deliveryman are shot dead in an alley. Hardened journalist Cal McAffrey (Crowe), who works for a deteriorating Washington newspaper, suspects these apparently unrelated deaths are part of a conspiracy waiting to be uncovered. Sharing a personal history with Stephen Collins and his wife Anne (Penn), he becomes conflicted over the type of story he wants to tell. Cal teams up with political blogger Della Frye (McAdams) and begins uprooting clues that implicate a murky corporate web of cover-ups, insiders, informants and assassins.

Despite a labyrinthine, multifaceted storyline, State of Play is rarely confusing and continuously engaging. It contains an intriguing plotline bursting with twists - and because it's so intriguing, a viewer will be on the edge of their seat awaiting the next big reveal. It's confident and masterful storytelling, handled by a team of excellent screenwriters: Tony Gilroy (Michael Clayton), Billy Ray (Shattered Glass) and Matthew Michael Carnahan (The Kingdom), each of whom draws on the thematic interests that fuelled the best of their previous movies (corporate abuse of power, journalistic ethics and Iraq-war-era government, respectively). Uncredited work on the script was also carried out by Peter Morgan of Frost/Nixon fame. State of Play is vehemently plot-driven, with conversations typically used for exposition rather than character development. However, thanks to both the acting and the screenwriting, virtually every character is given a satisfying degree of depth and dimension. Dialogue is crackling, sharp and at times utterly spellbinding.

Director Kevin Macdonald (The Last King of Scotland) competently orchestrates the movie, and is particularly adept at generating tension. Contributions across the board are sound, from Rodrigo Prieto's gripping, muted cinematography to Justine Wright's crisp editing and Alex Heffes' pulse-pounding score. There's no question that State of Play at times feels abridged, with an inability to capture the true density of the original BBC series (then again, what two-hour movie could?). Some of the intricacies and subplots are missing, but surprisingly little has been lost that actually mars the narrative structure, and the story unfolds with brilliant, riveting urgency. It doesn't shy away from the occasional bit of Hollywood hokiness, but by no means is the story transformed into a brain-dead product for the action market. Its target is mature adults - the ADD-inflicted teenage crowd are advised to stay clear.

State of Play is a thriller about conspiracy, murder and politics, but it also shines as a statement on the ostensibly inevitable demise of print media in favour of online blogs and cable news that post every story (or some version of it) the moment it happens. Some would argue that a very important brand of journalism is dying along with newspapers - Cal McAffrey is a genuine, old-fashioned reporter who takes days to write an article, thoroughly examines both sides of the story, refuses to rely on sensationalism and hearsay, and prefers to be right rather than first. This causes him to have a slightly antagonistic relationship with his editor (Mirren) who admires Cal's morals but knows the paper has to make money or perish (with all other considerations secondary). State of Play is an old-fashioned sort of thriller - solid, patient and thoughtful - so it's hardly surprising that it finds heroics in Cal's dogged brand of journalism. There's a definite elegiac quality to this film; particularly accentuated by an end credits montage that lovingly lingers on the process of newspapers being printed.

The acting is magnificent right down the line. Crowe works exceedingly well in the role of Cal McAffrey (it's difficult to imagine Brad Pitt in the part, who was originally cast), and the actor submits his finest work in years. But the biggest surprise is Ben Affleck, who offers his best work to date. It's a nuanced, wistful performance that proves the actor still has some skill left in him (though it's difficult to accept Crowe and Affleck as college roommates). Rachel McAdams holds her own with Crowe in every scene (a real accomplishment), and plays Della Frye as callow but not cynical. Wisely, the relationship between Della and Cal is not a romantic one. Helen Mirren is marvellous as the newspaper's editor (a role originally played by Billy Nighy). She chews the scenery without ever going over-the-top. Jason Bateman deserves a massive kudos for his brief but pivotal role as the scumbag who becomes the linchpin to the entire case. Robin Wright Penn is her usual brilliant self as Anne Collins, while Jeff Daniels the Harry Lennix add their immeasurable professionalism to a couple of important peripheral characters.

All things considered, State of Play is a rare, top-notch thriller that cares about story and characters rather than high-octane action or sex. There are downsides to the overall endeavour (the film feels underdone and truncated, the final twist is clichéd, and the reveal of corporate skulduggery seems far too easy), but in an environment where dumb thrillers outperform the smart thrills by wide margins, we must be thankful to witness a thriller of this standard entering the multiplexes...even if it is a remake.

8.5/10

Americans hate terrorism. This is not an audacious statement considering America's "War On Terror" throughout the early 2000s and beyond, but terrorism has been loathed as far back as the '80s. Currently during the early 21st Century, an intricate system of intelligence is utilised to track down terrorists and an intricate system of weaponry is used to blow them to hell. Back in the mid-80s, the Americans didn't have the benefit of such advanced technology... Instead, they relied on Chuck Norris. In 1986's The Delta Force, the Chuckster is portrayed dispatching Arab terrorists using an array of Norris-esque weaponry, ranging from his martial arts skills to large bazookas to a motorcycle that fires rockets. The film is unbelievably cheesy, often unintentionally hilarious, and rather pro-American.

After an introductory combat sequence which demonstrates the skills of the American protagonists, the action moves onboard a large passenger airplane. A pair of Arab terrorists hijack this plane, taking all passengers hostage and ordering the captain to reroute to Lebanon. These terrorists claim to be freedom fighters for a revolutionary organisation, but their cause is unknown...they just have a thing against America. A group of elite American commandos known as the Delta Force - led by Col. Nick Alexander (Marvin) and Maj. Scott McCoy (Norris) - are sent in to save the hostages and restore American honour. Rather than trying their hand at the fine art of negotiation, the Delta Force cut to the chase and pull out the heavy artillery.

The Delta Force was released in 1986; one year after a real-life plane hijacking in Athens. (This was on a TWA plane. In the film the plane which accommodates the hijacking is an AWT plane... clever.) The first hour of this movie is mostly devoted to retelling the events of this hijacking, but the second hour (when the macho Americans show up) has little basis in reality. This final half sends the message home that the best way to execute foreign policy on America's part is to shoot or blow up all terrorist threats. All this gung-ho business is like a different film altogether. It's full Chuck Norris territory: lots of machismo, gunfire and explosions. It's all very patriotic with the Americans saving the day and the hostages singing the American anthem. That's the '80s for you.

Considering this is an '80s action film with Chuck Norris and Lee Marvin, one expects The Delta Force to be chock-full of terrorist ass-kicking goodness and brainless action. Alas, the meaty action doesn't commence until the first hour has passed. Even with a plenty of action as the climax nears, the unusually long runtime of over two hours will prove a serious test of anyone's Chuck Norris attention span. The running time might've been more tolerable if the film provided interesting exposition, a compelling story or meaningful character development...but The Delta Force provides none of this - it's instead packed with filler. Empty threats against obnoxious hostages and hollow, repetitive dialogue does not make gripping cinema.

The Delta Force also exploits blatant stereotypes - there's the disillusioned soldier who returns to action because of his noble sense of duty, the abuse of a kindly priest, and even a pregnant lady who could go into labour at any moment. Meanwhile the terrorists have no legitimate motive or objective. At times, the depiction of these Arab terrorists is borderline racist - they're single-mindedly scheming, vicious, and they look very grubby.

If nothing much else, The Delta Force can be admired for its star-studded cast. Chuck Norris, as usual, just plays himself. The bearded action icon usually delivers his dialogue in a subdued fashion with no great conviction...but he's still watchable. This film marked the final screen appearance of Lee Marvin. He's pretty badass, though he's never given a chance to test his acting abilities. Also in the cast is a Who's Who of B-Movie star-power: Martin Balsam, George Kennedy (star of those Airport films from the '70s), Robert Forster (sporting dark hair, dark skin, a little moustache and a thick accent as the head Arab terrorist), Robert Vaughn, Shelley Winters, Steve James, Bo Svenson, and many others. The direction by Menahem Golan is adequate, and Alan Silvestri's score alternates between intense and cheesy power pop.

All in all, The Delta Force is your standard American cheerleading propaganda flick, with Chuck Norris and Lee Marvin holding the pompoms. The action is at times thrilling and the novelty value of seeing the Chuckster in '80s mode never wears off, but that's all there is to this one. For a film which lacks anything even resembling an intricate story or deep characterisations, there sure is plenty of talking. And considering this is a Chuck Norris movie, this is a problem. There's a far more agreeable 80-minute actioner lying somewhere within this somewhat tedious 125-minute feature.

4.9/10

As soon as the movie industry felt the dust of the Vietnam War had settled, a deluge of Vietnam-related movies started pouring in. There were films such as Apocalypse Now, The Deer Hunter and Platoon which handled the source material respectfully. But the mid-late 1980s was the era of bazookas, guns and superhero-style action heroes. Once First Blood was released, a string of films flooded the market that attempted to transplant the history of the Vietnam War into the '80s action format. Furthermore, the subject of American soldiers left behind in Vietnam functioned as a catalyst for several '80s action flicks (Rambo: First Blood Part II being the most prevalent). The Chuck Norris vehicle Missing in Action was one such movie. This isn't the most egregious entry in this particular sub-genre, but it's hardly a classy fare. This is just your typical Chuck Norris romp: there's action, nudity, one-liners, stunts and a few moments of pure fantasy. And best of all, it's fun!

For this film, the Chuckster plays an American officer named James Braddock who spent several years at a Vietnamese Prisoner of War camp and believes there are still American soldiers being held captive in Vietnam. The plot, such as it is, involves Braddock returning to Vietnam in an attempt to locate a POW camp. With assistance from an Army buddy (in the form of M. Emmet Walsh) and an assortment of weaponry, Braddock ventures deep into the jungle to free the American MIAs.

Cue perfunctory explosions, action sequences, and lots of 'all gooks are villains' propaganda. The other actors featured in this movie function as mere props for Chuck Norris to dispose of in whatever way he sees fit. The only character who's even mildly developed is Braddock since the supporting characters merely make an appearance to move the story along before curiously vanishing. The film's attitude towards Vietnamese soldiers and officials is borderline offensive since they're depicted as unequivocally shifty, villainous and deceitful... But on the other hand, this is the 1980s! This is the age of cartoonish stereotypes!

The Chuckster is grudgingly assisted here by a woman at the U.S. Embassy in Vietnam (who seems like she was intended to be a love interest, but no real romance ever occurs...), and an ex-colleague who hooks him up with a bunch of backstreet arms dealers. Inexplicably, these arms dealers possess a large cache of machine guns as well as a helicopter and a bulletproof raft in a tiny storage room. It's also peculiar that Braddock just happens to have the thousands of spare dollars necessary to purchase all this expensive equipment. But then again, a viewer isn't supposed to question the plot - Missing in Action is about the action and violence, not a sensible storyline or anything deep.

And my word, it delivers in the action department with commendable aplomb. Gear yourself up for an unrelenting onslaught of rousing shootouts, car chases and explosions, with Chuck Norris in the midst of it all in regular Chuck Norris mode. Director Joseph Zito (who later collaborated with the Chuckster for Invasion U.S.A. in 1985) manages the action adeptly, though these aren't the most spectacular set-pieces you’ll ever witness. Jay Chattaway's accompanying score is of the usual '80s standard; combining the tense with the cheesy (though patriotic music is in surprisingly short supply). All of this stuff combines to generate an engaging escapist romp guaranteed to leave a smile on the face of any action fan.

It's possible to watch a Chuck Norris vehicle like Missing in Action and come away with the misimpression that the bearded hero has not said a word. He occasionally talks, of course, but his eloquence is strictly physical. Norris (with his minimalist, taciturn acting style that often earns him substantial criticism) has never displayed any genuine acting ability, but he's skilful enough to carry a simple, bullet-riddled, crowd-pleasing action movie like this one.
Norris' celebrated martial arts skills don't feature very prominently in this escapade. Instead, he mostly relies on machine guns or grenades. The iconic moment of Missing in Action depicts Norris rising out of a river in slow motion (looking suitably ferocious in green fatigues and a matching headband, along with his M-60) and blowing holes in three soldiers who made the grave mistake of laughing at him.

The moral of this story is clear: if a government denies a widely-believed possibility, they run the risk of Hollywood green-lighting a string of B-Grade films about it. Those who genuinely hate Missing in Action, perceiving it as jingoistic or racist propaganda, are missing the point of the film completely - it was never intended to be anything provocative or liberal...it's just a good old-fashioned guy flick featuring Chuck Norris who's a formidable adversary for the Vietnamese enemy.

Interestingly, if one watches the credits you'll see a certain Jean-Claude Van Damme listed as a stuntman.

5.9/10

Action Jackson is pure '80s blaxploitation - plenty of savagery, sex and sinew with a predominantly African American cast. The crowd-pleasing meatloaf at the centre of this macho action film is neither Stallone nor Schwarzenegger, but their former sidekick Carl Weathers instead. If you're familiar with the movies of maverick '80s super-producer Joel Silver, you'd have an accurate idea of what to expect from Action Jackson: there are shootings, stabbings, flaming corpses, broken bones, explosions, careening vehicles, and a nourishing dose of humour in the form of snappy one-liners. Fans of '80s action romps are destined to enjoy it.

Jericho "Action" Jackson (Weathers) is a Detroit police sergeant with an apparent inability to control his actions during heated situations (hence his notorious moniker). Jackson is pitted against esteemed car magnate Peter Dellaplane (Nelson) who's suspected of masterminding a murder spree against local officials from the auto workers' union. In typical action film fashion, Jackson dashes from clue to clue, and is framed for murder. With Dellaplane's mistress Sydney (Vanity) in tow, Jackson sallies forth to prevent an assassination, vindicate himself and bring down Dellaplane, all the while facing plenty of opportunities to live up to his titular nickname.

One thing's for certain: Action Jackson wastes no time before pumping up the noise levels. Five minutes into the movie, a flaming corpse plummets from a high-rise and smashes through a glass ceiling. Alas, the action subsequently takes a backseat while the film focuses on plot and characters. Unfortunately, the plot is hackneyed and the characterisations remain one-note. Despite clocking at a mere 90 minutes, the film feels unusually bloated since quality action sequences are on the short side. There's a bit too much flab.

Make no mistake: Action Jackson is a no-brainer action film. It's overflowing with so many genre conventions that it's almost as if the screenwriter had a checklist beside him while penning the script. Utterly useless policemen? Check. Slipshod depiction of police procedures? Check. A few opportunities for the buff hero to remove his shirt and display his impressive physique? Check. Amusing one-liners just prior to the death of a bad guy? Check. The list is endless. This is a strictly by-the-numbers fare. Action movie enthusiasts will be able to predict every beat, and any casual movie-goer will be able to foresee the outcome for any conflict that arises. Action Jackson is also irretrievably unrealistic. The bad guys are unable to shoot straight, characters turn up at the most convenient time, and so on. It's all quite hopeless.

Gripes notwithstanding, Action Jackson is very enjoyable - it's a straightforward, brainless B-Movie blast of entertainment. One-time stunt maestro Craig R. Baxley's direction lacks the oomph to convincingly propel the movie out of the doldrums, but he gets the job done. As to be expected from a product of the '80s, a lot of the action is clichéd stuff (for instance cars just happen to run into trucks hauling flammable tanks which are just eager to burst into fiery goodness).

Carl Weathers had a single note to play as Jericho Jackson, and he plays it terrifically with all the necessary charisma. However Weathers lacks presence, and isn't intimidating enough. R&B singer Vanity is passable as Sydney, and she's given a few chances to prove that her singing skills outshine her acting abilities. Unfortunately, the budding romance between Sydney and Jackson feels obligatory and unnatural. Craig T. Nelson is a serviceable villain, though he's nothing remarkable. Sharon Stone also appears for a brief period, and she's there purely to look nice (a job she accomplishes well). There are a bunch of other actors who make cameo appearances, including two of Weathers' Predator co-stars (Bill Duke and Sonny Landham), an '80s James Bond villain (Robert Davi), and two actors who played terrorists in Die Hard (Dennis Hayden and a very recognisable Al Leong).

Action Jackson is an enjoyable guilty pleasure. It's packed with genuine '80s flair and dubious plot holes, in addition to explosions, stunts and special effects. It's a shame, then, that the film is only ever-so-slightly exciting.

5.9/10

The modern Hollywood remake train continues unabated with The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3; flash-over-substance specialist Tony Scott's reimagining of the crackling 1974 suspenser of the same name. In a sense, The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3 is similar to riding the subway: it moves forward at a decent pace, hitting all anticipated stops before reaching a predetermined destination. In other words, it's a suspense movie without any real surprises, twists or turns. Scott also imposes his signature bag of visual tricks - there's incessant camera movement as well as plenty of random zooms, seizure-inducing edits, bleary slow motion, and other assorted forms of superfluous visual assault. However, to the credit of Scott and screenwriter Brian Helgeland (whose name appears on about as many good films - Mystic River, L.A. Confidential - as bad ones - Sin Eater, The Postman), the story (essentially a psychological thriller) is not transformed into a brain-dead action film. The preposterous climax notwithstanding, this movie is light on pyrotechnics and special effects, and it's surprisingly low-key. Happily, too, it's an engrossing, enjoyable summer flick.

Just like its 1974 predecessor, The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3 disposes of anything resembling a setup. By the time the opening credits have elapsed, a sociopath who calls himself Ryder (Travolta) and his gang (Guzmán, Gojcaj, Vataj) have hijacked subway train Pelham 123. They take eighteen hostages in the first carriage (letting loose the inhabitants of the other carriages) before Ryder makes his demands known to the MTA: he wants $10 million in cash in an hour or he'll begin executing hostages. Walter Garber (Washington) is the unlucky dispatcher on duty at the time of the hostage-taking, and Ryder refuses to talk to anyone but him.

The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3 is the third cinematic incarnation of John Godey's 1973 novel (Joseph Sargent's 1974 movie being the first, and a 1998 television movie being the second). Suiting up the premise for a big-budget modern realisation is understandable since Helgeland is able to alter the original characters and their motivations, as well as updating the concept with modernised plot points (such as one involving a webcam). It's a shame, then, that Helgeland's script lacks surprises. The story has been bled dry of tension due to repetition, so its rote nature is disappointing.

The main divergence between The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3 and the 1974 original is that the characters are mined for additional depth here. In the original, Walter Matthau and Robert Shaw played simple roles (a hard-working cop and a bitter ex-military type), and their communications often centred on the transaction at hand. In this remake, Garber is given a wife and back-story, while Ryder has a history which reveals his motives (it's unfortunate that cinematic villains must always be explained so elaborately in this day and age, which detracts from the mystery and consequently most of the menace). In addition, the banter between Garber and Ryder is too draggy here. Their discussions about religion add a nice dimension to their relationship, but it's ultimately a lazy way for the villain to let slip personal information which will only undermine him later. At least Helgeland had the good sense to incorporate a nourishing dosage of wit during these lengthy passages of dialogue.

Meanwhile, Ryder's accomplices unfortunately lack distinctive characterisations and names barely stick (the original film gave them memorable colour-coded names - Mr. Grey, Mr. Blue, etc - which was recycled by Quentin Tarantino for Reservoir Dogs). Depiction of the hostages is slipshod in the film as well - clichés are thick (mother and son, the token black guy, etc) and ideas are inadequately explored (talk of taking control of the situation is limited to a few seconds of cheesy discussion).

Another small annoyance with The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3 is Scott's trademark visual style. To his credit, Scott has actually dialled down his style to an extent for this project (certainly, it isn't as indecipherably jittery as Domino). Following an almost unbearable opening sequence swarming with stylistic overkill, Scott settles down and shows a bit of restraint for the quieter moments. Harry Gregson-Williams' supplementary score is suitably intense, though it lacks the memorable zing of the theme from the 1974 original.

Much of the movie consists of tense verbal standoffs between Garber and Ryder, but Scott does play up the action when available. Most detrimental is the reworked climax which not only deviates from the simple, effective brilliance of the original's finale, but also employs the tritest of clichés: a chase sequence. Other elements, such as gratuitous car crashes (which are very crashy), are included to maintain some level of excitement, but they're easily spotted as slapdash audience response gimmicks. Worse, characters are usually shot in unrealistic hails of bullets (after being shot ten times, characters are still moving). Also, for no reason at all, Garber eventually morphs from humble civil servant and family man to a gun-waving, car-stealing John McClane emulation.

Where Robert Shaw's performance in the original film was calm and chilling, John Travolta plays Ryder like a bipolar bulldog with rabies. The actor was clearly treasuring the opportunity to depict an unhinged lowlife, but his exuberance borders on camp, with his verbal diarrhoea, overzealous shouting and wild gestures far too over-the-top and theatrical for the character. His utterance of the word "motherfucker" is extremely overdone (he also sounds contrived every time he says it). At the other end of the radio, Denzel Washington (who gained a bit of weight for the role) plays Garber as the quintessential everyman. It's an effective, low-key performance infused with humanity.
In the supporting cast there's James Gandolfini who's amiable as the Major, and John Turturro who submits an above-average performance as a professional hostage negotiator.

The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3 is not a bad film by any stretch, but it also isn't the great film it had the potential to be. Compared to the 1974 original, this reimagining is shakier, shootier, shoutier, swearier, crashier, and isn't surprising enough. Yet despite its flaws, it's also enjoyable.

6.2/10

If there's one consistency in Quentin Tarantino's cinematic oeuvre, it's that he never delivers exactly what you'd expect. 2009's Inglourious Basterds is no exemption to this. The fact that the title of Tarantino's revisionist World War II fantasy is intentionally misspelled can perhaps be best perceived as a subtle hint that the movie itself is nothing like most imagined it to be. Neither the sweeping war movie nor the orgy of ultra-violence its title and marketing suggests, Inglourious Basterds is a talky drama that centres on a variety of coincidentally-connected characters during WWII. Unfortunately, too, this isn't the masterpiece one would have expected either. Clocking in at approximately 150 minutes, this is an unforgivably leisurely, almost glacial feature that loses its way in the thickets of alternative history and dialogue. Most importantly, this is not a movie about history or war, or anything of substance or meaning - it's a movie about movies & influences. For all its visual bravura and sporadic bursts of brilliance, it simply feels trivial.

Inglourious Basterds is divided into a number of titled chapters, with the main narrative focus split into three. One of the plot strands focuses on the Basterds; a group of bloodthirsty Jewish-American GIs under the command of Lt. Aldo Raine (Pitt) who spread fear throughout the Third Reich by brutally killing Nazis. Another focal point of the plotline is a fugitive Jewish woman (Laurent) who lives incognito in Paris and owns a movie theatre. The story also concerns a German SS Officer known as "The Jew Hunter", Col. Hans Landa (Waltz).

Nominally, Inglourious Basterds is about the titular troupe of commandos conducting raids throughout occupied France. But in actuality, the movie is a self-indulgent compilation of Tarantino's inspirations. In fact the Basterds themselves hardly appear in the film since Tarantino instead continues to obsess over wronged females seeking bloody vengeance (a trend he started with Jackie Brown, then exhausted with Kill Bill and Death Proof). The short screen-time of the Basterds would be more forgivable if they were replaced with interesting characters. Alas, the film spends more time with a bunch of boring, cardboard characters as a substitute. By the time all the multiple plot strands interlace for the finale, it's tough to care about what happens to any of the characters.

Tarantino has never been one to be succinct when he can masturbate through endless pages of self-indulgent, referential dialogue. The basic formula for a chapter is simple: a pointlessly long conversation takes place that acts as a precursor to a short burst of violence. The problem with this formula is that the dialogue rarely offers any effective characterisation...it's all gratuitous filler without any relevance to the story instead. (At one stage, characters converse for at least 40 minutes before they're all gunned down. And the point of that was...?) Each segment drags on for far too long until you no longer care about who's in danger or what's at stake. The necessity of such excessive chatting is especially questionable when the outcome is predictable.

Inglourious Basterds is just a radically undisciplined movie since Tarantino wanted the film his way and can never bear to cut a frame. He's unable to understand relationships in the movie industry too; in fact his most profound relationship is with himself. This is primarily reflected in the fact that he never hires a composer because he doesn't want another person to have that much influence on his work. The soundtrack for Inglourious Basterds is therefore pilfered from various sources, and the result is often jarring. Spaghetti-western music (ala Ennio Morricone) is used for an establishing shot of a French farmhouse, and a 1980s David Bowie song plays over a scene happening in 1940s Paris.

Sly winks pervade the movie as well. At the premiere for the latest Nazi propaganda movie, Hitler tells Goebbels "This is your finest film yet". The last line of the movie is perhaps the most significant wink - "I think this might just be my masterpiece", Aldo quips.

Moments of brilliance are contained within Inglourious Basterds which remind a viewer just how excellent Tarantino can be as a writer and director. Take for instance the brilliantly executed opening sequence in which Col. Landa interrogates a French dairy farmer about the whereabouts of his Jewish neighbours. At around half an hour in length, this dialogue sequence is sustained by the relentless tension Tarantino manages to conjure up. Also noteworthy is the movie's surreal inferno of a climax which rewrites history with such operatic verve that it's difficult not to get swept up in its ludicrous exhilaration. Other excellent segments can be found here and there as well (such as the hilarious Mike Myers cameo). In essence, the film is about 50 minutes of magnificence that's tragically squandered by the 100 minutes of boring, pointless filler surrounding it.

As for the cast... Christoph Waltz as Col. Landa is an excellent find. His performance itself (which earned him an award at Cannes) is effortlessly charming, while the character is one of the film's only three-dimensional creations (though his sudden change of heart in the final 15 minutes feels contrived and at the convenience of the plot). The role called for an actor with the linguistic ability to speak French, German, English and Italian, and Waltz delivers with aplomb.
Unfortunately, none of the Basterds are badasses; they're plain, unremarkable caricatures. Brad Pitt underwhelms as Aldo Raine, while scenes featuring Eli Roth's minor character unfold like outtakes from Hostel. Diane Kruger is note-worthy as an undercover German actress who helps the Basterds.
Mélanie Laurent is worth a mention; she submits a top-notch, immaculately nuanced performance as a beautiful young Jewish fugitive. Meanwhile Der Führer and Joseph Goebbels, played by Martin Wuttke and Sylvester Groth (respectively), are portrayed as cartoonish buffoons.

Somewhere in the midst of the overstuffed Inglourious Basterds lies two very enjoyable movies - an enjoyable, 89-minute slice of exploitation cinema and a potent war drama. When merged together, the result is two main stories connected by contrivances. All things considered, Inglourious Basterds is one of Tarantino's least-focused films to date. The director has paid so much attention to the film's peripherals that he has neglected to provide a centre worth embracing. While one can appreciate and (to an extent) enjoy what Tarantino has achieved here, one must wonder if a more Dirty Dozen-style action film (tailored for Arnie and Sly, as originally intended) would have yielded a better overall experience.

5.4/10