Reviews

This film typifies what one might call Hollywood's approach to a smart film. The smartness, such as it is, consists mainly of a self-aware narrator, and what one could call 'reality-style' violence for lack of a better term. The film is funny, but this is the humour of deliberate rudeness. The dialogue is lively, but primarily because the writers did not attempt to 'tone it down' to suit what they would call a mid-western audience.

Apart from that, there isn't much to recommend the film. The acting is all right, as is the cinematography and direction. Nothing stands out really. Best watched in the company of friends, and best forgotten immediately. If you follow the plot carefully you are likely to find strange bits. There isn't much of a story line, and there is the usual 'smart Hollywood film''s attempt at creating mystery by withholding information and obfuscation.

If you hope to watch something that will be worth remembering, avoid. If you just want a few beery laughs with mates, go ahead.

The Andy Griffith show is one of the best television programmes I have seen. It presents a very gentle, humorous look on small-town America, that hasn't been equalled.

The earlier episodes are better than the later ones. I suppose the transition point is when they went from being in black-and-white to colour. Unlike Guareschi's books, the good sheriff does not have a Peppone to ply his wits against, though Barney Fife comes pretty close sometimes, albeit unwittingly.

The episodes are done with great sensitivity and betray a great acumen in human character. It is unfortunate that such programming is no longer produced in America---it cannot be because of a lack of talent.

The Andy Griffith show demonstrates that human nature is essentially the same. Not only is Mayberry amazingly similar to Don Camillo's village, but people have the same kind of obsessions, desires and fears everywhere. This is truly an American classic, and one wishes that it were better known to foreign audiences.

The most jarring aspect of this series is John Cleese's Basil Fawlty. Cleese has made a career out of playing overwrought characters, whose behaviour is weird bordering on the bizarre. Apart from demonstrating a this very narrow repertoire, it often spoils---as in this case---what would otherwise have been an enjoyable programme.

It has been suggested that Basil Fawlty is based on John Fothergill. They couldn't be more different. Fothergill might have been direct to the point of being rude to his customers, but he was no Basil Fawlty. He was a Bourgeois who was trying to make something out of the ramshackle pub he had landed himself with, and eventually succeeded, primarily by never compromising either on the quality of his service or on his expectations from his guests.

Basil Fawlty on the other hand is the usual kind of grovelling inn keeper, with a tendency to behave like a lunatic. He is funny inasmuch as watching someone deranged is funny. What is extremely difficult to accept is that Sybil doesn't get rid of him. There are other weak points in the plot such as Polly's going along with all of Basil's silliness. She is too sober. All these are incongruities because the other characters are too sane to be living with Basil Fawlty. One could argue that that is the whole point. I would argue that the point is that John Cleese can only play Basil Fawlty types.

To sum up, the series suffers from the brand of surrealist randomness that one finds in Monty Python. Weirdness for the sake of weirdness might have been a '60s style rebellious statement, but is very tiresome actually. Someone should have given John Cleese a jolly good shake years and years ago, when he was less fat, but it's too late now.

The first season or two are quite good. After that the series ran out of ideas very quickly.

The episodes that concentrate on cooking and running the restaurant are interesting and funny. The others, most of which have to do with the love life of one or the other character are tedious. One thing that the makers of television programmes in general and comedies in particular refuse to learn is that if you bring love into it, then there is a good chance that you shan't be able to deliver. Relations between human beings have been done to death, so why screw up your otherwise decent idea? Usually this happens when the writers have run out of ideas in the first place. At that point it is wise to bow out and accept that the series is done.

The episodes about Gareth's and Janice's breakup and subsequent reconciliation are rubbish. Those about Everton's unrequited passion are rubbish. Those about Cyril's unrequited love for Savanna, and her unrequited love for Gareth are rubbish...

As long as they are talking about getting unpasteurised Stilton or poaching salmon from the Thames, they do a good job. Lenny Henry tends to overact, but on the whole these episodes are quite good.

This is Tarantino's first major film, and is worth watching for the dialogue alone.

It is interesting to compare this film with Pulp Fiction, which in my opinion was much better directed. Even in reservoir Dogs, the plot is very tight, and we see Tarantino's favourite technique of changing the chronological order of scenes for maximum impact.

The careful viewer shall notice lapses in direction, such as the orangeness/redness of hours old blood, instead of the reddish brown that it becomes. Occasionally, the scenes seem a little loose, but all the ingredients of a good film are there. The acting is not bad at all, and one shall not be disappointed there.

If possible, one should obtain the DVD version that has the deleted scenes. These scenes, though well done in themselves, would have made this above average film a commonplace one. It is easy to see that the difference between a good director and a bad one, is often in the scenes that were left out in the final cut.

A fitting beginning to the Tarantino oeuvre.

I can sympathise with the people who found the plot tiresome. The story is not much to write home about, so the less said about it the better.

Firstly, this movies is very much in the 'play-that-happened-to-be-filmed' mode. So for instance, when some one espies Pierette in the grounds, all the women bunch up together to look, as they would on a stage. Such devices, occur throughout the film, and the eight songs introducing each woman are precisely the kind of elaborate stylisms that have sometimes been used in theatre, especially in musicals.

Like many plays, this one too is lousy in itself, but can become a wonderful spectacle under a competent director and a talented cast. This film should be seen for the wonderful acting and the dialogue. Being a man myself, I am always surprised just how vicious feminine invective can be, and this play/movie is full of it. For me, the most enchanting thing was to see some of the loveliest women on the planet on the same screen. They brought out the dynamism and complexity of female relationships very well, in spite of some rather hackneyed bits in the plot.

In any case, it was something out of this world to see Fanny Ardant kissing Catherine Deneuve.

I think this is probably the best satire on Americans that I have seen. It has wonderful characterisations of various 'types' that inhabit the North Amrican continent.

The characters in this movie, from the rustic fishing equipment salesman to the yuppie couple, are stereotypically American characters. The lampooning in the movie depends very heavily on the fact that all of them take themselves very seriously: this is the element that makes them uniquely American. They are all devoted to this one thing in their lives: breeding dogs. Their entire existence revolves around it. They are the proverbial 'keen types', with a clerkish diligence that is both amazing and pathetic at the same time. It is the sort mentality that produces 'gourmet hot dogs'.

This is American satire at its best.

This movie has a very good cast. Most of cast comprises well known British actors, all of whom deliver good performances. However, the plot line is weak, and the promise created in the first half of the movie is not kept.

The movie's aim is confused. There are some `Upstairs Downstairs' elements, which seem a trifle unnecessary, since they are not germane to the murder story. As social comment they are gratuitous and inadequate. The master-servant relationship is a complex one, and Messrs. Altman and Balaban do not seem to understand it.

The movie is a murder mystery, something that is not apparent for the first half of the film. When the movie does get down to it, its development and unravelling take place in a highly unsatisfactory manner. The sense of mystery is only inadequately created, as it is not very clear why anyone should have a motive. The actual motive becomes clear in the last few minutes of the film, and is something that would have been difficult to guess. In any mystery story, the teller has to play fair. He must provide sufficient information for the reader to solve the mystery himself. This Altman fails to do. Thus the suspense is created by not quite playing by the rules.

There also the bumbling inspector with the competent sergeant. One wonders if this is more social comment, or merely an opportunity that Altman thought too good to pass, given that Stephen Fry plays the inspector. Though Inspector Thompson's explanation about why milk is poured before the tea, was rather dismaying.

The film cannot make up its mind. Eventually, the mystery bit takes a back seat, as does the social comment bit. Not surprisingly, with nothing driving it, the plot flails.

The setting is good, and there is attention to detail, which brings out the atmosphere of a '20s-'30s English stately home quite well. I doubt however if that much rumpy-pumpy went on between master and servant.

All in all: well begun, but only half done.

Whether one is writing a book or a movie, one must play fair by the reader. A competent author or director creates suspense by cleverly emphasising some things and downplaying others. Not by witholding information.

This is a bad film because the story is told backwards. Naturally, the viewer is mystified. There is no craftsmanship or artistry in telling a story backwards.

The supposedly Turkish home of `Keyser Soze' was hardly Turkish. The movie being what it is, I suppose it is too much to expect attention to detail.

This film is little more than a montage of violent scenes and the sort of orotund dialogue Hollywood's action movies specialise in.

Pulp Fiction was a brilliant film because it tried a narrative style not used very much in films, but common in literature. However, no one would say that the story was told backwards. Singer should have studied Tarantino more carefully before trying this out.

This is a long movie, and there is not much of what many would call action. Anyone who has an interest in art and about what it can depict, is not likely to regard this as a problem.

I learnt a few things while watching this movie. It had always intrigued me as to why there were so many studies of the female nude and almost none of the male. The classical and renaissance painters were only to happy to paint nudes, male as well as female, but they didn't do any studies. Da Vinci's studies, such as they were, are écorche like.

This has been a question that had intrigued me since childhood: the male body can be more physically perfect than the female one, so why not prefer the male nude? Unlike other higher animals, the male human form differs very significantly from the female one. The idealised human form with its sinews and muscles perfectly formed, is more male than female---just think of Michelangelo's brawny women.

Later on I began to realise that what makes the female form interesting is precisely this imperfection, inasmuch as it can be called imperfect. This movie has convinced me that this is indeed the true explanation.

Ms Béart is a beautiful woman, but her body is not perfect.

Watching her move and pose in the film demonstrates the complexities of the female form. There is a whole world of expression which is absent in men.

The film also raises an interesting question. An artist is committed to truth. He must present things as he sees them. In the beginning, Marianne agrees to pose primarily out of curiosity. After a while she begins to sense the importance of the work, and for a while is perhaps more committed to the work than Frenhofer himself. One learns that any work with a human subject is really a duet between the artist and the model: they must both struggle to find the truth. Sometimes the truth is painful. The painting may reveal something about the model that is devastating, hence Liz's admonitions to Marianne that Frenhofer values his work above everything else, and that he won't protect her. This is the central question in this movie. Must the artist reveal his work, even if it means damaging the person permanently? It seems that the compassion that an artist must necessarily possess should prevent him from doing so. So is it sufficient to wait till the model, and perhaps the artist too, are dead? Or must the work be forever hidden from view? A creation which reveals the truth, no matter how hurting to someone must be revealed to the public. Art is not art otherwise. Neither can one cannot accept the destruction of a work of art. The film leaves this issue unresolved, though the dénouement is rather pleasing.

If one likes art than one will find this film revealing and insightful.

This movie has no plot. The acting is good, and the individual scenes are very well executed. However, there is no real plot line, and the pieces though individually pretty, do not form a whole.

The movie is a `behind-the-scenes' look at a drama company whose male lead Tuccio played by Turturro is not getting along with his lover, who is the female lead. There are a number of sub-plots, and essentially everyone want the two leads to get along and be in love. They also want the play to be a success. This is pretty much it. All sub-plot and no main one.

This film could have been good had it been made by say, the Ealing Studios or someone with a bit of wit and taste. As it is, it is rather tiresome.

The greatest problem is Mr. Smith's strong belief in his own cleverness. He so sure that he is being dashed clever and original that he forgets to be either. The result is that for every genuinely funny bit---and there are a few---there are is at least one long, utterly boring bit of cant. Some are delivered by Mr. Rock whose high-pitched, whining, complaining voice begins to grate after a while. Also, Mr. Morissette as God was a thoroughly bad idea. Why couldn't they have picked a good looking woman? There are quite a few around.

There is a lot of confused mythology floating in the film. Had the film been better, one might have believed that it was tongue-in-cheek. As it is, it is merely another demonstration of the director's incompetence.

After watching the movie, one is faced with a dichotomy. One must either conclude that the film is utter garbage or that there is some subtle allegory that has evaded one's perhaps inadequate sensibilities. Which view one takes, depends of course on one's evaluation of one's abilities. If one regards oneself as not being a complete imbecile, one is apt to come to the former conclusion.

There are however two things for which this film may be watched. The first is Ms. Rogers' acting. Ms. Rogers is a consummate actress, and her performance is very good. One is sorry to see it thus wasted.

The other thing is that the naked flesh in the movie, including Ms. Rogers' is, rather nice. The latter may be contrasted with the American filmmaker's tendency of displaying underfed women with minimal charms in the buff. Remember Ms. Paltrow in 'Shakespeare in Love'? Three women are shown partially or completely nude, and they do not disappoint.

What the movie is trying to say is difficult to determine. It certainly is not a simple story, told straight. This is primarily because there is not much by way of a story. It fails to make any interesting points about God or faith. Granted, saying something new about the gent upstairs is difficult. This should not however, have prevented the director from trying.

One of the best from the Ealing studios. I watched the film after reading two volumes from Sir Alec's autobiographical diaries. This is British cinema at its best. Now that there are attempts at reviving the Ealing studios again, one hopes that at least some of the magic seen in this film will be recaptured.

Alec Guinness' performance is a tour de force. There are many touted as being great actors today, but very few of them can pull of playing eight different types of people in the same film. Entirely convincing as an old woman, a dyspeptic lord, a pleasant young man. Guinness was indeed a master. He had the knack of becoming the part he was playing, so that one forgot that one was watching Alec Guinness.

The plot is fairly straightforward and moves at the right pace, with never a boring moment. The camera work is similarly exact, with the gloom of London houses and the emptiness of old manors coming through quite well. Most of the film is shot indoors, and it is remarkable that the scenes are as one would imagine them to be.

A classic!

As Time Goes By is in the better traditions of the BBC. The faults that I list below are mentioned merely as a warning the careful viewer who is sure to find them irritating. However, such errors do not abound, and the series remains one of my favourites.

The only reason why I don't give this programme full marks is because of the occasional rather obvious goofs. For instance, when Rocky and Madge return from Mongolia, Madge talks about how hot it was in the desert. The Gobi is a cold desert! Also, yak butter tea is a Tibetan beverage, not Mongolian.

The series does flag for a while after Jean and Lionel's marriage. The episodes about the love lives of Judy and Sandy are below par. The later seasons in the other hand are quite as good as the first two seasons, and in fact are a magnificent return to form.

Heartily recommended.

As versatile and good an actress as Ms. Routledge is, I am afraid Hyacinth Bucket will prove to be her defining role. After watching Appearances, I found it difficult to believe that it wasn't Mrs. Bucket pretending to be Mrs. Fozzard in Alan Bennet's sketch. Even Hetty Wainthrop, who is in many ways a very different character, seemed to be a masquerade that Hyacinth Bucket had thought up.

Clive Swift is the hen pecked husband to the hilt, and is the perfect match for Routledge's Hyacinth. I suppose why this programme is so watchable, in spite of horse play and slapstick, is because we all have suffered the bossy schoolgirl with cultural pretensions, which is what Hyacinth essentially is.

Onslow is of course, the yob. Surprisingly, he is a nice yob, and is perhaps more akin to Mr. Doolittle in his chutspah than to someone more `modern'.

A recurring theme in the series is how Daisy and Hyacinth, in their very, very different ways, manage to drive both their husbands up the wall.

Rose's oversexed middle aged woman and Daddy's senile old man with a taste for the ladies are now stock characters in British comedy, and Mary Millar and George Web play them well.

The only two characters who are a little unsatisfactory are those of Elisabeth and her brother Emmott. They do not appear to have any means of support. Whereas a husband living in Japan is mentioned for Elisabeth, nothing clear is known about Emmott.

Not in the same league as Yes Minister, or even As Time Goes By. Too much horse play of the Wodehouse variety with little of the wit. However, slightly better than Barbara, substantially better than Duck Patrol, and so fairly enjoyable.

A fitting sequel to Yes Minister. Yes Prime Minister is very, very slightly inferior to it, as the authors had realised that what they were creating would be regarded as the last word on British Democracy. The last episode therefore ends on a note of despair, and there is the occasional wistful tone which betrays Jay's and Lynn's awareness of what they were doing.

The book and television versions of Yes Minister are fairly close to each other. However, in the book, Yes Prime Minister was substantially expanded. I should think that the books Yes Minister and Yes Prime Minister are on par with each other, so that means that the televised version of Yes Prime Minister is a bit below par.

As I revise this comment in 2005, Yes Prime Minister seems very much to belong to a by gone era. Under Blair, the prime ministership of Britain has been conducted in a radically different style, which is more similar to that of Indira Gandhi than to that any British prime minister. Perhaps Anthony Jay can be persuaded to create a series based on Blair's time in power?

All in all, 8/10.

Yes Minister is Britain after three hundred years of Democracy.

As an assessment of Democracy it is hard to surpass, and so I believe that every one studying for a degree in political science should watch this serial, or better still, read the books.

I watched this programme with my parents who are civil servants (in India), and they tell me that every bit is true.

If one had to nitpick, then I should observe that the initial episodes had more of a serious strain than the later ones. They are better because they concentrate on the politics, rather than on the comedy as is the case in the later episodes. Yes Minister became massively popular very quickly, and so the authors naturally tried to enhance its comic appeal. The last few episodes are a bit feeble in comparison to the initial ones, though they are, of course, still much, much better than any other television comedy.

Crossman's diaries are the real antecedents of this programme, and some of the incidents, such as moving the contents of the in tray to the out tray come directly from Crossman.

This is the best programme on television that I have seen, and the the standard by which one should judge all others.

This is quite a Gothic tale of horror, including sundry gory bits. The castle is expectedly dark and brooding, and Corman creates an eerie atmosphere very well.

I spotted two directional errors. The handguns are revolver like, and I do not think such guns were used in Europe in the early years of the nineteenth century. Also, the servant Stefan often stands too close to the Baron, and to Lieutenant Duvalier. For reasons that become clear later, he could assume such familiarity with the Baron. However no nineteenth century officer of the French army, especially one of aristocratic lineage, would tolerate such behaviour from a minion.

Jack Nicholson said of the film, 'This is the only Hollywood film with a complete script that has absolutely no story.' This about sums it up. It should be watched for the camera-work and the ambiance.

I saw the movie, or most of it, around the age of eight or nine. It made a deep impression on me, and I have wanted to watch it again. Now that I have been able to find out the name and the director, I soon will!

The special effects in the film, as I recall them, must have been fabulous for the time, and were quite dazzling even by the standards of the eighties. The movie is surreal, and though it sounds trite, this is perhaps the best description. It left one with a delicious feeling, and even after almost twenty years I feel quite thrilled when I think about it. I found the notion of being in love with death, who is portrayed by María Casarès, and whom I found incredibly attractive, was overwhelmingly wonderful. That was my interpretation at that time. I am curious to see what I would think of it now.

Certainly a terrific film for a child. I think I would still find it wonderful.