Our friend told us to find Dracula.

A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night

(2014)

(SPOILERS) Ana Lily Amirpour’s “Iranian vampire spaghetti western” (presumably the latter two references for the Morricone-esque music accompanying one scene), is something of a hoodwink, since, although its Persian-language and is set in the fictional Iranian town of Bad City, it was shot in California and Amirpour is Anglo-American. On the other hand, such background gives a fair indication of the medley of influences informing this stylish, witty little picture.

The black-and-white photography and empty streets put me most in mind of ‘80s period Jim Jarmusch (with even a touch of Hal Hartley), but the pop culture persuasion Amirpour exhibits is more prevalent than Jarmusch’s idiosyncratic fixations. You can see echoes of Let the Right One In in Sheila Vand’s lonely vampire, befriended by Arash (Arash Marandi). And there are some similarities, albeit less abstractly, with (also 2014) Under the Skin.

But Amirpour’s keen sense of humour keeps this from becoming too derivative; Arash’s James Dean-wannabe dresses up as Dracula to go to a party, leading to a winningly oddball scene where the drug-addled Dracula holds an early hours conversation with the hooded actual vampire. Vand, in her stripy top, appears to be consciously referencing the American cultural vampirism of Godard’s Breathless, in which Jean Seberg also wears a stripy top, while all around are wannabe gangsters (Dominic Rains’ drug dealer Saeed), overt musical influences (the soundtrack is superb, mixing Arab electronica with ‘80s grooves) and decadent western fast food (“I’ve never met someone who doesn’t like hamburgers”).

Admittedly, the inclusion of drug addiction in a vampire movie is overly passé at this point, even if that addict is Arash’s father. The picture also takes a good 20 minutes-plus to find its feet, but once it does it’s full of lovely strange little moments. It also features the most marvellous performance by Masuka the Cat, making up for several rather unfortunate cat-related movies of late (The Grand Budapest Hotel, Inside Llewyn Davis).

I’m not entirely sure how we’ll see Amirpour as a filmmaker a few years down the line. Certainly, someone who describes their films in pitch meeting speak (“Road Warrior meets Pretty in Pink”, “El Topo meets Dirty Dancing”) should probably be approached with caution as a sub-Tarantino type who favours cool over content. But, on the evidence of A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night, she has style, wit and smarts to spare, even if forthcoming cannibal love story The Bad Batch sounds like sophomore folly. Girl may not be that original under the hood (even the “What happens next?” non-ending feels appropriated), but its gorgeously shot, quietly affecting and charmingly performed.

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No matter how innocent you are, or how hard you try, they’ll find you guilty.

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He’s so persistent! He always gets his man.

Speed (1994) (SPOILERS) It must have been a couple of decades since I last viewed Speed all the way through, so it’s pleasing to confirm that it holds up. Sure, Jan de Bont’s debut as a director can’t compete with the work of John McTiernan, for whom he acted as cinematographer and who recommended de Bont when he passed on the picture, but he nevertheless does a more than competent work. Which makes his later turkeys all the more tragic. And Keanu and Sandra Bullock display the kind of effortless chemistry you can’t put a price tag on. And then there’s Dennis Hopper, having a great old sober-but-still-looning time.

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The Wind and the Lion (1975) (SPOILERS) John Milius called his second feature a boy’s-own adventure, on the basis of the not-so-terrified responses of one of those kidnapped by Sean Connery’s Arab Raisuli. Really, he could have been referring to himself, in all his cigar-chomping, gun-toting reactionary glory, dreaming of the days of real heroes. The Wind and the Lion rather had its thunder stolen by Jaws on release, and it’s easy to see why. As polished as the picture is, and simultaneously broad-stroke and self-aware in its politics, it’s very definitely a throwback to the pictures of yesteryear. Only without the finger-on-the-pulse contemporaneity of execution that would make Spielberg and Lucas’ genre dives so memorable in a few short years’ time.

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Doctor Who Season 14 – Worst to Best The best Doctor Who season? In terms of general recognition and unadulterated celebration, there’s certainly a strong case to be made for Fourteen. The zenith of Robert Holmes and Philip Hinchcliffe’s plans for the series finds it relinquishing the cosy rapport of the Doctor and Sarah in favour of the less-trodden terrain of a solo adventure and underlying conflict with new companion Leela. More especially, it finds the production team finally stretching themselves conceptually after thoroughly exploring their “gothic horror” template over the course of the previous two seasons (well, mostly the previous one).

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Hustlers (2019) (SPOILERS) Sold as a female Goodfellas – to the extent that the producers had Scorsese in mind – this strippers-and-crime tale is actually a big, glossy puff piece, closer to Todd Phillips as fashioned by Lorene Scarfia. There are some attractive performances in Hustlers, notably from Constance Wu, but for all its “progressive” women work male objectification to their advantage posturing, it’s incredibly traditional and conservative deep down.

But everything is wonderful. We are in Paris.

Cold War (2018) (SPOILERS) Pawel Pawlikowski’s elliptical tale – you can’t discuss Cold War without saying “elliptical” at least once – of frustrated love charts a course that almost seems to be a caricature of a certain brand of self-congratulatorily tragic European cinema. It was, it seems “ loosely inspired ” by his parents (I suspect I see where the looseness comes in), but there’s a sense of calculation to the progression of this love story against an inescapable political backdrop that rather diminishes it.

What do they do, sing madrigals?

The Singing Detective (2003) Icon’s remake of the 1986 BBC serial, from a screenplay by Dennis Potter himself. The Singing Detective fares less well than Icon’s later adaptation of Edge of Darkness , even though it’s probably more faithful to Potter’s original. Perhaps the fault lies in the compression of six episodes into a feature running a quarter of that time, but the noir fantasy and childhood flashbacks fail to engage, and if the hospital reality scans better, it too suffers eventually.

They literally call themselves “Decepticons”. That doesn’t set off any red flags?

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You don’t know anything about this man, and he knows everything about you.

The Man Who Knew Too Much (1956) (SPOILERS) Hitchcock’s two-decades-later remake of his British original. It’s undoubtedly the better-known version, but as I noted in my review of the 1934 film, it is very far from the “ far superior ” production Truffaut tried to sell the director on during their interviews. Hitchcock would only be drawn – in typically quotable style – that “ the first version is the work of a talented amateur and the second was made by a professional ”. For which, read a young, creatively fired director versus one clinically going through the motions, occasionally inspired by a shot or sequence but mostly lacking the will or drive that made the first The Man Who Knew Too Much such a pleasure from beginning to end.

That’s what people call necromancer’s weather.

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Now In Full Color, with a Happier Ending

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