You kind of look like a slutty Ebola virus.

Crazy Rich Asians

(2018)

(SPOILERS) The phenomenal success of Crazy Rich Asians – in the US at any rate, thus far – might lead one to think it's some kind of startling original, but the truth is, whatever its core demographic appeal, this adaptation of Kevin Kwan's novel taps into universally accepted romantic comedy DNA and readily recognisable tropes of family and class, regardless of cultural background. It emerges a smoothly professional product, ticking the expected boxes in those areas – the heroine's highs, lows, rejections, proposals, accompanied by whacky scene-stealing best friend – even if the writing is sometimes a little on the clunky side.

Rachel (Constance Wu, entirely appealing) isn't far at all from the Pretty Woman or Cinderella persona – excepting her being a successful NYU economics professor rather than a hooker or doormat, although her classes are equally fantasy land, bearing more resemblance to Now You See Me than anything actually higher educational – right down to riches-not-being-intrinsic-to-her-happiness-but-very-nice-all-the-same-thank-you when they come attached to a Prince Charming.

Unfortunately, the Princess Charming in question is probably the movie's biggest stumble. There's a gushingly romantic airplane proposal at the end – in Economy, naturally – during which he must bumble by passengers and profess his bottomless love. You can tell it's been designed for an Asian Hugh Grant, but Henry Golding's Nick is closer to the charisma-free rigidity of a Richard Gere (I see he's an ongoing presenter of The Travel Show for the Beeb, which kind of makes sense).

Nick's family are uber-rich, even by the standards of Singapore's uber-rich, which comes as a shock to Rachel, since he's been reticent about his background. She's as innocent in motive as they come, of course, which means being accused of gold-digging is an affront. Particularly callous accusations come from former girlfriends and hangers-on, but worst is Nick's formidable mother (Michelle Yeoh, on fine form, a relief after her pure wood showing in Star Trek: Discovery), repeatedly making it clear that Rachel isn’t good enough for her son. Inevitably, by the end of the movie she isn't exactly approving, but sufficiently accepting (and all thanks to game theory and a Mahjong match – no one overdoses on the tiles, fortunately – proof that in movies, one can apply one's degree to every aspect of one's life to remarkable effect).

As ever with such fare (see Rupert Everett in My Best Friend's Wedding, Charlotte Coleman in Four Weddings and a Funeral), it's a requirement for the eccentric best pal to steal the proceedings. I know I'm not the first to compare Awkwafina's Peik Lin Goh to Joan Rivers – I suspect every review has – but it undoubtedly bears repeating, as she throws off quip after quip with throaty gusto ("Chinese sons think their moms fart Chanel No. 5"). Awkwafina managed to make her presence felt in the crowded and mostly superfluous Ocean's Eight early in the summer, but here her only competition for attention is Nicos Santos' magnificently camp Oliver ("Your skin is so dry, it's hurting my face"); rather than vie, they bounce of each other in their scenes together.

Elsewhere, Ken Jeong is typically, excruciatingly OTT as Peik Lin's father, while others making an impression include Gemma Chan as Nick's gorgeous but cheated-on cousin and Ronny Chieng as another cousin with idiosyncratic attitudes towards raising and showing off his children (particularly when it comes to family portraits).

I mentioned Now You See Me, and I wonder if it's a coincidence that Jon M Chu directed the sequel to that film (along with G.I. Joe: Retaliation). He brings bags of confidence and visual panache to the table, and amongst the sumptuous (and decadent) locations, a glorious facility for tastelessness (to the extent I'm unsure if the massively expensive wedding is intended to just be repellently tacky or also kind of quite cool; "Is this a church? Or a paddy field?").

He commandeers a very witty opening sequence, in which Rachel and Nick’s presence in a public eatery – as they discuss going to his friend's wedding – finds their photos circulated via texting at express speed, finally reaching Yeoh, hitherto oblivious of Nick's girlfriend, who calls her son before they have even finished their cake (if only the Now You See Mes had an ounce of such explicability with regard to their magical feats). Another nice touch is Mandarin versions of English-language songs (Material Girl, Money (That's What I Want), Yellow, Can't Help Falling in Love), drawing attention to cross-cultural pollination, even as positions of class and heritage among the elites remain entrenched.

Inevitably, Crazy Rich Asians revels in affluence and superficiality while pronouncing that it isn't everything, since that tends to be par for the course with such fare (you can't really be a Disney princess without it: even for Shrek's DreamWorks one) and if the screenplay from Peter Chairelli (bloody Now You See Me 2 again) and Adele Lim is light on its feet in that area, it occasionally grinds its gears as it over-verbalises and over-explains what-I-am-feeling-right-now. Chu meanwhile, despite his zinging, energised approach, can't prevent the proceedings from dragging in places (perhaps a symptom of the writers straying from bouncing back and forth between the "serious" romantic plotlines and the crazy comedic asides).

The picture has offered further proof that Hollywood knows nothing about hit-making (it was financed independently but has been distributed by Warner Bros – Netflix's bid was rejected, which should probably be a lesson to anyone thinking going to them is a safe option; it may be, but it can also mean a very limited profile; see The Guernsey Potato Peel Society). As the first all-Asian American movie since The Joy Luck Club, no doubt the intervening quarter-century was littered with screenplays rejected by the gatekeepers on the basis they'd do no business. Of course, naysayers might argue its success is mainly attributable to following such a recognisable romcom template, but since when has that been bulletproof?

I tend to think the ultimate test of the romcom isn't so much how side-splitting it is as how invested you are in the characters – it's why Pretty Woman falls down for me, on both lead fronts, and why anything with Andie McDowell on one side of the equation comes up short (Four Weddings is fortunate that everything else is a winner). In that regard, Crazy Rich Asians gets it half right, which means, unless the sequel shifts focus, it will probably only be getting it half right again next time.

Agree? Disagree? Mildly or vehemently? Let me know in the comments below.

I think I’m Pablo Picasso!

Venom: Let There Be Carnage (2021) (SPOILERS) I get the impression that, whatever it is stalwart Venom fans want from a Venom movie, this iteration isn’t it. The highlight here for me is absolutely the wacky, love-hate, buddy-movie antics of Tom Hardy and his symbiote alter. That was the best part of the original, before it locked into plot “progression” and teetered towards a climax where one CGI monster with gnarly teeth had at another CGI monster with gnarly teeth. And so it is for Venom: Let There Be Carnage . But cutting quicker to the chase.

I don’t think Wimpys still exist.

Last Night in Soho (2021) (SPOILERS) Last Night in Soho is a cautionary lesson in one’s reach extending one’s grasp. It isn’t that Edgar Wright shouldn’t attempt to stretch himself, it’s simply that he needs the self-awareness to realise which moves are going to throw his back out and leave him in a floundering and enfeebled heap on the studio floor. Wright’s an uber-geek, one with a very specific comfort zone, and there’s no shame in that. He evidently was shamed, though, hence this response to criticisms of a lack of maturity and – obviously – lack of versatility with female characters. Last Night in Soho goes broke for woke, and in so doing exposes his new clothes in the least flattering light. Because Edgar is in no way woke, his attempts to prove his progressive mettle lead to a lurid, muddled mess, one that will satisfy no one. Well, perhaps his most ardent fans, but no one else.

It looks like a digital walkout.

Free Guy (2021) (SPOILERS) Ostensibly a twenty-first century refresh of The Truman Show , in which an oblivious innocent realises his life is a lie, and that he is simply a puppet engineered for the entertainment of his creators/controllers/the masses, Free Guy lends itself to similar readings regarding the metaphysical underpinnings of our reality, of who sets the paradigm and how conscious we are of its limitations. But there’s an additional layer in there too, a more insidious one than using a Hollywood movie to “tell us how it really is”.

It becomes easier each time… until it kills you.

The X-Files 4.9: Terma Oh dear. After an engaging opener, the second part of this story drops through the floor, and even the usually spirited Rob Bowman can’t save the lethargic mess Carter and Spotnitz make of some actually pretty promising plot threads.

He's not a nightstalker, and it'll take a lot more than bench presses to defeat him.

A Nightmare on Elm Street 4: The Dream Master (1988) (SPOILERS) The most successful entry in the franchise, if you don’t count Freddy vs. Jason . And the point at which Freddy went full-on vaudeville, transformed into adored ringmaster rather than feared boogeyman. Not that he was ever very terrifying in the first place (the common misapprehension is that later instalments spoiled the character, but frankly, allowing Robert Englund to milk the laughs in bad-taste fashion is the saving grace of otherwise forgettably formulaic sequel construction). A Nightmare on Elm Street 4: The Dream Master boasts the most inventive, proficient effects work yet, but it’s also by far the least daring in terms of plotting, scraping together a means for Freddy to persist in his nocturnal pestilence while offering nothing in the way of the unexpected, be it characterisations or story points.

Give daddy the glove back, princess.

Freddy’s Dead: The Final Nightmare (1991) (SPOILERS) Looking at Freddy’s Dead: The Final Nightmare , by some distance the least lauded (and laudable) of the original Elm Street sextet, you’d think it inconceivable that novice director and series old-hand – first as assistant production manager and finally as producer – Rachel Talalay has since become a respected and in-demand TV helmer. For the most part, Freddy’s Dead is shockingly badly put together. It reminded me of the approach the likes of Chris Carter and Sir Ken take, where someone has clearly been around productions, absorbing the basics of direction, but has zero acumen for turning that into a competent motion picture, be it composition, scene construction, editing or pacing. Talalay’s also responsible for the story idea here, which does offer a few nuggets, at least, but her more primary role actively defeats any positives.

Give poor, starving Gurgi munchings and crunchings.

The Black Cauldron (1985) (SPOILERS) Dark Disney? I guess… Kind of . I don’t think I ever got round to seeing this previously. The Fox and the Hound , sure. Basil the Great Mouse Detective , most certainly. Even Oliver and Company , so I wasn’t that selective. But I must have missed The Black Cauldron , the one that nearly broke Disney, for the same reason everyone else did. But what reason was that? Perhaps nothing leaping out about it, when the same summer kids could see The Goonies , or Back to the Future , or Pee Wee’s Big Adventure . It seemed like a soup of other, better-executed ideas and past Disney movies, stirred up in a cauldron and slopped out into an environment where audiences now wanted something a touch more sophisticated.

Monster nom nom?

The Suicide Squad (2021) (SPOILERS) This is what you get from James Gunn when he hasn’t been fed through the Disney rainbow filter. Pure, unadulterated charmlessness, as if he’s been raiding his deleted Twitter account for inspiration. The Suicide Squad has none of the “heart” of Guardians of Galaxy , barely a trace of structure, and revels in the kind of gross out previously found in Slither ; granted an R rating, Gunn revels in this freedom with juvenile glee, but such carte blanche only occasionally pays off, and more commonly leads to a kind of playground repetition. He gets to taunt everyone, and then kill them. Critics applauded; general audiences resisted. They were right to.

What about the panties?

Sliver (1993) (SPOILERS) It must have seemed like a no-brainer. Sharon Stone, fresh from flashing her way to one of the biggest hits of 1992, starring in a movie nourished with a screenplay from the writer of one of the biggest hits of 1992. That Sliver is one Stone’s better performing movies says more about how no one took her to their bosom rather than her ability to appeal outside of working with Paul Verhoeven. Attempting to replicate the erotic lure of Basic Instinct , but without the Dutch director’s shameless revelry and unrepentant glee (and divested of Michael Douglas’ sweaters), it flounders, a stupid movie with vague pretensions to depth made even more stupid by reshoots that changed the killer’s identity and exposed the cluelessness of the studio behind it. Philip Noyce isn’t a stupid filmmaker, of course. He’s a more-than-competent journeyman when it comes to Hollywood blockbuster fare ( Clear and Present Danger , Salt ) also adept at “smart” smaller pict

Oh hello, loves, what year is it?

Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings (2021) (SPOILERS) Simu Lui must surely be the least charismatic lead in a major motion picture since… er, Taylor Lautner? He isn’t aggressively bad, like Lautner was/is, but he’s so blank, so nondescript, he makes Marvel’s super-spiffy new superhero Shang-Chi a superplank by osmosis. Just looking at him makes me sleepy, so it’s lucky Akwafina is wired enough for the both of them. At least, until she gets saddled with standard sidekick support heroics and any discernible personality promptly dissolves. And so, Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings continues Kevin Feige’s bold journey into wokesense, seemingly at the expense of any interest in dramatically engaging the viewer.

Now In Full Color, with a Happier Ending

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