Reviews

The footage in this documentary is both of extraordinary rarity and clarity but the overall message I found superficial. In watching animals struggle and die for our entertainment whilst lionising nature as an immutable that must be preserved, revered but never critiqued: we see the infantile naturalists understanding of the universe. Always to be wondered at, always deferred to but never disgusted by and never rebuked. In wishing to increase polar bear numbers you are widening a circle of perpetual death and destruction amidst the animal kingdom, thousands more seals will be torn to shreds alive...is this wonderful? Is this cycle of destruction that permeates every biome worth expanding. Or should we step in and improve their lot? Then Attenborough states without a hint of irony that we are fast loosing these "icy wastelands". Attenborough once said that when he thinks of nature he thinks of a parasitic worm burrowing through the eye of a child, has he forgotten? Despite this he is and always will be a personal hero of mine. I learned of many new animal behaviours and saw many impressive sights but this show is at once saccharin in it's storyboarding of animal events and yet wilfully ignorant of the evil that exists in the wild.

This film contains some of the finest set design, framing and most immaculately curated prop collection I've ever seen. Every shirt is memorable, every lanyard well chosen. The use of colour and contrast is also sublime. The characters however are rather less well realised: a menagerie of liberally minded doofuses held together by the sensible presence of Sam Neill. To Wim Wenders credit he acknowledges that the insufferable French ingénue at the centre of this epic is indeed a narcissist of the highest order; who like Forrest Gump wafts from one unlikely scenario to another but with a dismal disregard for anything other than her own heart. William Hurt's character is equally atrocious; a totally charmless maudlin mummy's boy who acts with an unsettling glib sincerity. I watched the nearly five hour version and there is a lot more to unpack. Max von Sydow is excellent as the scientist and the French bank robber / dummer is a colourful addition to the troupe. We are once again presented with the notion that indigenous culture (in this case Aboriginal) and woman's feelings in some way point to deep hidden truths but the fact remains they are almost utterly without value when compared with the edifice of Western male thought. This is a truly monumental work of both spirit and technology and in some ways deserves ten stars but I shall give it seven in deference to 'normal' tastes. The soundtrack is excellent and further emphasises to me that this is a film of great maturity (but not intelligence), curation and civility that only a Master and his team could accomplish, rather than a story that will keep you glued to the edge of your seat.

Throughout the film Alex talks about the complete focus you need to take free climbing to the highest level and it seems the filmakers weren't listening when instead of paying attention to his singular achievement they shoehorned it into the last thirty minutes as they pander to some utterly plebeian love interest embodied by a most annoying groupie who is probably an alright person trapped inside the body of a clawing mememe snowflake. Someone who wouldn't suffer a moment of transcendence if it was served up in a caramel frappuccino with a side of blueberry muffins and stuffed up her nose. I wanted to learn about this epic achievement but somehow came away unimpressed. Should have given this project to Herzog.

A 360 degree assault on acting, scriptwriting and on both science AND fiction. Displaying the most risible notion of what an alien visiting Earth would experience - Jeff friggin Bridges' shambolic doppelgänger, clutching its magic balls and teasing out with his immense otherworldly intellect the most witheringly inane platitudes known to man or alienkind. Playing like the first sci-fi sponsored entirely by the Hallmark Channel. A total antithesis to all intelligent discourse on the subject of extraterrestrials with a supporting cast so paper-thin I thought for a moment I was watching GI-Joe. This is Starman. Yes, there are worse films in existence but the fact that this dreck gleaned some measure of critical success has melted my mind.

Superior to almost every toe-curling art-house flick that touches on similar territory Night on the Galactic Railroad says more and presents itself better than one would expect coming from a mere animated movie. Indeed if this was re-shot in live action, maybe in black and white and dubbed into French it would become a canonical post new-wave classic: to be fawned over by leagues of pea-brained cineastes. However it remains a little known and rarely talked about anime that has been seen by more fans of Galaxy Express 999 than by fans of Alan Resnais. Based upon the short children's work of the same name by Kenji Miyazawa the tale is ostensibly of a young cats (Giovanni) coming to terms with death by means of a surrealist adventure along the titular Galactic Railroad. The film contains a sequence of superbly realised vignettes that gradually paint the picture of Giovanni's life at home; his ill mother and itinerant father, bullying classmates and later the fantastical sights and stations he encounters on his one way ticket to the edge of the universe. The train he boards carries with it passengers of many creeds and persuasions: some disembark at the Pliocene Coast to further the cause of science others exit only to blithely tramp towards an afterlife of either Pagan, Christian or Buddhist contrivance . . . but young Giovanni stays on until the end. The less alert may mistake this film for some sort of religious allegory but it is nothing of the sort: Giovanni's revelation at the end seems more a triumph of moral philosophy. All text in the movie is written in Esperanto and the locations on Earth are reminiscent of small town medieval Europe. Beautifully scripted, animated and immaculately directed by Sugii Gisaburo, Night on the Galactic Railroad is one of the unsung masterpieces of cinema.

Music has been blended with film to incredible effect before: Greenaway's Prospero's Books, Vertov's Man with a Movie Camera and Reggio's Koyaanisqatsi spring to mind and I was naively expecting something of similar quality here. Instead I watched an appalling succession of tasteless, overwrought and prosaic imagery married with hysterical howls emanating from the bony profile of Tilda Swinton. Here the actors only served to detract from the music. The directors of the previous films were virtuosi and I think it requires something of that quality in editing, camera work and imagination: to actually add something to a piece of music rather than just take a ride on its tresses. As a backup plan I decided to concentrate more on the Requiem and found it peppered with sung passages of Wilfred Owen's poetry that do them no justice whatsoever.

This is the story of an insipid riverboat honeymoon romance between two moronic paper thin protagonists. The film floats along smoothly just bobbing above tedium. The female lead gets seduced by the bright lights of Paris; goes shopping, has a few mishaps and eventually the two dopey dewy eyed cretins are reunited. A caricatured swarthy sea dog provides some passable light entertainment. This is not the stuff of which masterpieces are made. The themes, characters and direction are all witheringly mundane. Luckily it is short on ineffective plodding Gallicisms. This is not a film that should be rated highly. You may enjoy this if you are recovering from a lobotomy.