A note on Ta-Nehesi-Coates BETWEEN THE WORLD AND ME (New York: One World, 2015)

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It might be heresy to say that I found Ta-Nehesi Coates’ BETWEEN THE WORLD AND ME – a letter to his son on surviving in America as a black man — overpraised. Toni Morrison found ‘its examinations of the hazards and hopes of black male life as profound as it is revelatory’. I didn’t find anything I didn’t know before, though to be fair, it all needs repeating, particularly at this time. It’s written in a James Baldwin style but whereas in Baldwin the language feels rooted in something biblical where anger and love intermingle in the articulation of injustice with the language of God tempered by an acknowledgment of human frailty, here it seemed to me to be derivative and performative, using a vernacular he is familiar with but outside of. The description of Howard University as a Mecca, a concept he re-utilises throughout, irked me by its all too representative invocation of American exceptionalism and ignorance of cultures, countries and continents outside its own (and don’t get me started on his use of The Dream, which he capitalises and deploys throughout, as his description of American’s self-sabotaging aspirations to Whiteness). Coates underlines his son’s privilege without accounting for his own in what he bears witness to, what he warns about. My model for explorations of racism are of course Baldwin’s essays, which are peerless. My model for books about advice to children in difficult situations  is Lord Chesterfield’s letters to his son. Since his own son was born out of wedlock, Lord Chesterfield couldn’t bequeath him anything but his wisdom and advice, and since his son was a bastard without fortune, he’d face particular problems in making his way in the world. It’s a wonderful book, full of sage advice on everything from appearance to ethics. Samuel Johnson despised it for, ‘teaching the morals of a whore and the manners of a dancing master’. It’s what I chose to gift my nephew when he was getting to the age I thought that advice on how to move in the world – something I’ve been particularly unsuccessful at — useful. But Lord Chesterfield wasn’t American and wasn’t black and neither am I. Yet anyone who’s had a black boy in their family will know the fears for them are real and extend beyond the fears any family feels for its young men. Coates’ letter to HIS son describes the racism in all its terrifying levels. How to survive and overcome it remain questions. That said, I did enjoy reading it, and it was fascinating to see the changing referents (here hip-hop, a black president, etc.) to unchanging structures.  The book is a decade old now and everything has gotten worse since its publication, with Trump rollbacks of key civil rights legislation, curriculum and DEI restrictions, and so on. I didn’t think it lived up to the hype though I’m glad I read it.

José Arroyo

Eavesdropping at the Movies: 483 – It’s My Time

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Birmingham’s Mockingbird Cinema hosted the European premiere of Chinese comedy-drama It’s My Time, about a troublemaking old lady who enters the world of speedcubing – solving Rubik’s cubes as quickly as possible. We remark upon the various ways it makes the competitions exciting, its range of themes and its ability to treat them with both levity and gravity, and the contradiction between its subtextual and explicit messages.

Listen on the players below , Apple Podcasts, Audible, Spotify, or YouTube Music.

With José Arroyo of First Impressions and Michael Glass of Writing About Film.

LALKA (Marciej Kawalski, 2006)

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LALKA (Marciej Kawalski) is another of those films I went to see because it’s sub-titled, this one yesterday afternoon, and with less satisfying results. It’s ostensibly the most expensive film ever made in Poland (15 million euros) but still looked rather low-end to me,  with not very many extras, battle sequences shot in close-up, thin backgrounds one associates with CGI, and a conventional style of filming that eschewed symbolism and sub-text in favour of basic visual story-telling that highlighted key story elements in what is clearly a saga. It’s the story of a man who works his way up from poverty to become a rich merchant and his attempts to win over a beautiful young aristocrat; a panorama and critique of a society that excluded work, skill and intelligence, based on the 19th-century novel of the same name by Boleslaw Prus, which is considered to be one of, if not the best, novels in the Polish language. I liked the story but not its telling. Interestingly, there is a Netflix series that has recently come out based on the same novel which I will look at to see if they’ve done a better job with the material. Friends working on issues of adaptations may well find rich material to work with here. It’s a long film (2h42 mins) with great actors (Marcin Dorocinski is the lead) and though I wasn’t dazzled I was engaged and appreciated the exposure to this aspect of Polish culture, which was new to me.

José Arroyo

La Bola Negra (Los Javis, 2026)

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Skipped our usual Saturday dinner because I was offered a preview screening of Los Javis’ LA BOLA NEGRA and couldn’t wait to see it. It lived up to the hype – best director at Cannes, People’s Choice at TIFF, setting box office records with over 600,000 tickets sold in its first three days in Spain alone, etc– and at the end of the film much of the audience was in tears, lingering in the theatre past the credits, not wanting to leave.

 

It’s quite extraordinary for a queer movie about Fedérico García Lorca’s last/lost play, historical memory, creating utopias out of disaster, dressing darkness with poetry, bringing into light what was hidden, and dramatizing the effects of all those silences on subsequent generations. The film is set in three different periods, 1932 during the second Republic, 1937, in the midst of the Civil War, and 2017, the film’s present, which is already ten years ago. The film cuts seamlessly from one time to the other as intent on their intermingling as on their demarcations, though the audience is never at a loss to understand what is when.

 

The film is gorgeous to look at with a real eye for finding texture and depth in the visuals but also as is to be expected from the writers of PAQUITA SALAS,  great lines. And indeed much of what the film explores can be relayed through snippets of dialogue: ‘You’ll never understand how much I love you because you sleep within me and are asleep (this one from Lorca); ‘I feel none of the hours have ever belonged to me because I haven’t lived them’; ‘We were very happy, we all lived in mortal sin. Let’s hope we can sin again, soon, in Madrid’; ‘Transvestism is the fantasy of possibility. War is its opposite’; ‘A faggot’s heart is an ocean full of secrets’; ‘What do we lose when we deny our very selves? Life!’; ‘I think I can help people so they don’t end up as you and I’; ‘Who will defend me from your beauty?’; You’ve inherited something you don’t know what to do with. You’re Spanish’; Spain has too many love stories buried in the camps. We have to scratch the earth so they may come out.

I am of course particularly vulnerable to this material. The young people in the war could be my grandparents, though the young man who gets sent on the quest for his grandfather’s legacy would be at least a generation younger than I. It’s a film that, as the audience response in Spain testifies, has all kinds of resonances.  But it clearly also travels well. Miguel Bernardeau (ELITE, the new ZORRO) is the beauty Lorca falls for, pop-sensation Guitarrica de la Fuente is the peasant who falls in love with his captive, Carlos González is the grandson on the search. Penelope Cruz has a marvellous star turn as a cabaret entertainer; and Glenn Close appears as a Lorca scholar. Gris Jordana is the cinematographer. The score of the film is superb and worthy of the film’s visuals. A film to see.

José Arroyo

ONE HELLUVA RIDE by MICHAEL DOUGLAS

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I don’t have a particular fondness for Michael Douglas. Yet, he’s been in my life as far as I can remember, beginning with THE STREETS OF SAN FRANCISCO on TV. He was a key star in my formative early film-going years and I saw all his hits (ROMANCING THE STONE, THE WAR OF THE ROSES etc). Is there an actor who’s starred in more zeitgeist water-cooler movies that sparked national conversations (THE CHINA SYNDROME, FATAL ATTRACTION, BASIC INSTINCTS, WALL STREET, FALLING DOWN, DISCLOSURE, TRAFFIC? He’s a notable producer as well (ONE FLEW OVER THE CUKOO’S NEST, THE RAINMAKER, FACE/OFF). He embodies a particular type of masculinity iin the 80s and nineties: a combination of Gordon Gekko –cut-throat successful – and its opposite – D-Fense in FALLING DOWN – embattled, put-upon, privileged white masculinity under siege – from women or the system itself, symbolising both its apex and its undertow, its fragility, its posturings. He became a good actor too (BEHIND THE CANDELABRA). Whatever one feels about him, he is one of the most significant star/producers of the late twentieth century.

 

All of this to say I very much enjoyed reading his biography, ONE HELLUVA RIDE, his relationship with his parents, his siblings, his wives, his children, all get touched upon. But perhaps the most interesting element is that the memoir is organised around the movies and tv he thinks central to his life (THE STREETS OF SAN FRANCISCO, ONE FLEW OVER THE CUKOO’S NEST, THE CHINA SYNDROME, ROMANCING THE STONE, THE JEWEL OF THE NILE, FATAL ATTRACTION, WAR STREET, THE WAR OF THE ROSES, BASIC INSTINCT, FALLING DOWN, THE AMERICAN PRESIDENT, TRAFFIC, BEHIND THE CANDELABRA). He gives context and background to their development from the page to their release and sometimes even to their after-life, demonstrating the collaborative aspect of filmmaking but also how power operates in getting films made and on what ends up on the screen. Those interested in star as auteur arguments will find a lot of interest here.

 

One can’t help but admire his taste and his skill in choosing good scripts and directors. So many hits, so many interesting films, many of which he barely touches upon (BLACK RAIN, A PERFECT MURDER, THE GAME, WONDER BOYS. Interesting also because of the way it recounts the particular dynamics of being a big star child of a big star. Depending on how you define stardom, there are really only a handful (Jane Fonda, Liza Minnelli, Angelina Jolie…I’m sure I could think of a few more with time. But not many.

 

He’s never been a favourite but he’s always been interesting. And he becomes even more so after reading his book. I also found his writing on his son’s drug addiction deeply moving. A movie star memoir worth reading.

 

José Arroyo

RODDY McDOWALL: AN ACTOR’S LIFE FROM HOW GREEN WAS MY VALLEY TO LASSIE TO PLANET OF THE APES BY SAMUEL GAZA BERNSTEIIN

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I very much enjoyed reading Samuel Garza Bernstein’s biography of Roddy McDowall (for which many thanks to Nicky Smith) whilst also ending up feeling a bit disappointed and sad. McDowall is one of those rare child ‘stars’ who continued working as an actor into adulthood, a name, often in feature roles, though never quite a star (he himself argued that he and even Elizabeth Taylor weren’t quite child stars: Jackie Coogan and Shirley Temple were — they had entire films built around their personas). McDowall threw celebrated parties for five decades in which all of Hollywood — from silent stars, theatre and tv people, new stars of Indie cinema such as Johnny Depp and Ileona Douglas – came to meet each other. McDowall was legendarily discrete and legendarily kind, and all of this comes out in the book. I did learn something new from reading it – he was lovers with Montgomery Clift in the 50s, he was responsible for burning Rock Hudson’s most intimate papers during the latter’s final illness; the work in theatre radio, tv and films is well documented. I found it disappointing because the author had access to McDowall’s incredible archive at Boston University (ostensibly he saved everything), had three assistants to investigate it, and still came up with a book that feels too much like a listicle, though I did love reading excerpts of McDowall’s correspondence with Noel Coward, Dirk Bogarde, Cukor and so many other celebrated queers of the period. I found it sad because there’s only so much of a market for biographies of Roddy McDowall and we’ll probably have to wait another generation before someone makes better, fuller use of that magnificent holdings in the archive and offers us a deeper, more complex account of the intersections between the life, the career, the sexuality and the time.

José Arroyo

HOPE (Na Hong-jin, 2026)

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There are so few foreign films shown in Birmingham that I grab every opportunity. That was my only reason to see HOPE (Na Hong-jin, 2026), even though I didn’t know the director or cast, and in spite of the film being over 2h30 long. I found it a bit prosaic at first. A chief of police (Hwang Jung-min) is sent on a call in a village near the Demilitarised Zone by North Korea.  A cow has been mangled. What has such large claws? Could it be a tiger? No, it turns out to aliens.

The first makes its appearance almost forty minutes into the film, and from then it’s non-stop action, shootings from cars, horses, in the town and in the forest. The aliens can leap into trees so they can literally chase the earthlings from any direction. It all had me on the edge of my seat and was exciting to watch. I loved the design and look of the monsters, which are sometimes CGI’d and sometimes  old-fashioned puppets. The film has a retro feel made contemporary with the crudity of its humour and with the speed and inventiveness of its action; a key type of shot is where the camera follows a speeding car or horse which ends up turning in one direction as the camera goes in the opposite one, creating a feeling of frenzied distance.

An hour into the film, during a frantic car chase, the police chief notices that the alien is crying, and that shifts the narrative. Why is he crying? It turns out there are more of them — we’ll eventually see six – and that a hick would-be militia-man has killed what looks to be a child.  Is that the reason for the tears and the franticness that has led to the destruction of the village and the killing of people?

At this moment the aliens become individuals too rather than concepts, the chases and shootings take on a different tone – they’re now killing people not things, and when Alicia Vikander and Michael Fassbender appear near the end as the aliens, who can speak to each other, and who’s speech is sub-titled for us, the film changes direction completely, ready to take us on another journey, which presumably is the sequel. I was a bit iffy at first, the set-up made worse by the rotten projection at Cineworld, with half the sub-titles being off-screen and the image lacking in necessary luminescence, but the film won me over by the end and I now hope there is a sequel.

I see that some critics have been using the term gonzo in relation to the film, which I frankly don’t get. Some of the humour is crude, the chase scenes are inventive, the special effects are sometimes basic but always effective…but there’s nothing gonzo about it in at least my understanding of the term. Ostensibly, South Korea’s most expensive production.

José Arroyo

 

PINK ULYSSES (Eric de Kuyper, 1990)

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How could I have missed PINK ULYSSES (Eric de Kuyper, 1990)? A clear descendent of PINK NARCISSUS (James Bidgood, 1971) , a contrast, and perhaps to some, antidote  to Christopher Nolan’s THE ODYSSEY, it’s queer desire, palpitating and in heat, wrought from a collage of found, perhaps nicked  is the better word, materials from a previous history of culture where traces of it could be made manifest: opera, Zarah Leander, Athletic Guild Model Films, the films of Sergei Eisenstein, the music of Igor Stravinsky, silent epics with Greece or Rome as a setting. It’s tied together through film tableaus of various episodes including Penelope waiting for Ulysses but somewhat longing for her son, Telemachus, who in turns longs for the return of his father with a desire that is not without a sexual component. A reverie of longing, fevered dreams, struggles with desire. Queering of classics couldn’t have found a better expression or example. It would make a wonderful double bill with PINK NARCISSUS. Nolan’s ODYSSEY is too long to be double-billed with anything.

José Arroyo

A note on As You Like It (RSC Stratford-upon-Avon) Monday 5th of October

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I’d given up on seeing Jonathan Groff in the all-male production of AS YOU LIKE IT at Stratford as I thought it was sold out. But a friend recommended it, saying there were tickets, and there were. But there won’t be for long. It’s great. Funny and moving. The Forest of Arden a place where dwellers appear to sing Welsh folk songs in a way that touches something deep in one’s heart and brings out a profundity of feeling: beauty, pain, longing, hope, all bound up in four-part harmonies.
Jonathan Groff plays Rosalind as a human being rather than as a ‘woman’. Aside from putting on a dress at the very beginning I couldn’t detect any difference in his playing of gender when he was passing as male or female, the playing is all of the sentiment and in the situation, and unlike Sigourney Weaver in THE TEMPEST a few years ago, he’s learned to bring out the most of that gorgeous language Shakespeare has gifted them with. Groff’s kept his American accent but learned how to speak the verse. Fisayo Akinade takes a slightly different take as Celia – also playing the character but sometimes as streetwise black girl who knows her friend’s faults all to well and is not afraid to ‘read’ her. It’s a show that valorises feeling, but it’s also a comedy and the production is not afraid of camp. There’s a wonderful moment amidst all the coupling shenanigans were one of the characters in full drag bursts into Raye’s ‘Where is My Husband’? – ‘I want a ring, a diamond ring’
In the Scorsese documentary on Fran Lebowitz from a few years ago, Lebowitz talks of how part of the reason Ballet was so great in the New York City of the Seventies was because the audience was so knowledgeable of what they were seeing and so demanding: they set the standard. AIDS made a large part of its audience disappear and with it, she argues, went much of the knowledge and the standards. The RSC’s audience is still with us, more mixed, greatly knowledgeable and just as demanding. I attended the discussion session before the play with director Daniel Evans and there was a whole 15 minute discussion of the significance of the name Ganymede. At the end of the play, after the Epilogue, there was one of those heartfelt, automatic and electric standing ovations that makes one feel thrilled and grateful to have been in the room: a sexy, funny, joyful and innovative production, worth taking the last train home from Stratford.
José Arroyo

MUYBRIDGE by Guy Delisle (

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Just a few words to praise Guy Delisle’s brilliant graphic novel MUYBRIDGE. It’s beautifully told, surprising, suspenseful, entertaining; and I learned so much about early photography and time-motion studies, how a sewing machine inspired the threading of celluloid, Louis Lumière work on emulsions (he used potato starch), Reynaud and his projections, Leland Stanford who founded the university that bears his name, praxinoscopes, kinetoscopes, zootroopes, zoopraxiscopes, etc. This also has the melodramatic elements one associates with the art of the period: robber barons, fortunes made and lost, inventions stolen, immigration and even murder (Muybridge was tried for killing his young wife’s lover). All of this is beautifully illustrated and not only with the wonderful drawings, but also with photographs, many of the most famous ones by Muybridge, reproductions of paintings, colour is brought in expressively; there’s a biographical element in that Muybridge’s work is still the basis for animation studies and that’s how the author first learned about the subject; and Guy Delisle even offers us graphic footnotes in a graphic novel. It’s marvellous. The book also makes excellent arguments on crediting Muybridge with the foundation of cinema through his time/motion photography but also for the basis of animation, Claymation in particular, more modern techniques such as the bullet time we see in THE MATRIX and much more. I can’t wait for my young nephews to get a bit older to gift them this and I can also imagine teachers of the subject using some of the images/captions for teaching: it makes the obscure Greek designations to some of the devices so easily legible. In other words, a marvellous book.

José Arroyo

Alice Friedman’s QUEER MODERNS: MAX EWING’S JAZZ AGE NEW YORK

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One of the finds at Pulp bookshop in Montreal on my last visit was Alice Friedman’s QUEER MODERNS: MAX EWING’S JAZZ AGE NEW YORK. Max Ewing (1903-34) was a writer/photographer/ man-about-town from Pioneer, Ohio who moved to New York City in 1923, was mentored by Carl Van Vechten, to whom we owe so much of our knowledge of the Harlem Renaissance to, got to know everyone in that intersection of black/white/queer/arts/bohemia/Paris/New York/ Harlem, and photographed and wrote about them privately. He committed suicide, just past the age of thirty, at the height of the Depression after the death of his ailing parents when he was forced back to Ohio and couldn’t find a way out., another example of structural queer extinction, dying young but leaving a legacy. Van Vechten bequeathed Ewing’s papers as part of his own donation to Yale University in 1941, creating the James Weldon Johnson Memorial Collection for the study of African American History. Now Alice T. Friedman has woven these treasures of the archive into our knowledge of queer desire and circles of the period, solidifying and expanding them. We see Tom Sansone, the bodybuilder, The Ritter Brothers, George Platt-Lynes, Lincoln Kirstein  and their circles, Aline McMahon, Florence Mills, Paul Robeson. It’s a more inclusive weaving, now incorporating so many members of the Harlem Renaissance, with queer desire and sexuality now central in the nudes, collages, poses of queer desire, male and female, that thrived in the particular era. The pictures are quite extraordinary. The book is also a lovely complement to @Will Straw’s great NIGHTS IN FAIRYLAND: GOSSIP, BLACKMAIL AND THE MANY LIVES OF BROADWAY BREVITIES.

José Arroyo

TWENTY THOUSAND STREETS UNDER THE SKY.

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It was a sadness to see the Southwark Playhouse half-empty for Simon Reade’s adaptation of Patrick Hamilton’s TWENTY THOUSAND STREETS UNDER THE SKY. Hamilton wrote the books on which GASLIGHT, ROPE and HANOVER SQUARE are based. This work is set in 1929, in the aftermath of the General Strike and the Crash and follows six people who meet in a pub. It’s an empty set with a few pieces of furniture that get moved around and it’s the story of sexual obsession and manipulation. The play begins with a wonderful film noir image of a young man on a train, his faces grilled over by shadows, who ends up working in a pub. The young lass who works there and has dreams of working as a nanny for a family in India has a crush on him; he however falls in love with a young prostitute who was manipulated into the life by her best friend and a cruel married adventurer who runs over a cyclist. On the surface a bit cliché-ish, it’s certainly very middle-brow but also very good: one really gets a sense of a the social structures of the time, of the reasons for the limited options the characters have, for why they feel and act as they do. The actors are really superbly relaxed, evoking palpable heat and unfulfilled desire in a very intimate setting. It flows beautifully as well, scene merging into scene with a change of a stocking or a chair, all marvellously directed by Matthew Llife. A choreographed flow of feeling in a period setting. Yanexi Enriquez and Jordan Scowen stand out even amidst this wonderful cast. It deserves a bigger audience than it’s getting:
José Arroyo

A Note on the Roaring Twenties (RAoul Walsh, 1939)

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Aside from one of the greatest endings in all film history, two things stood out in my latest viewing of THE ROARING TWENTIES (Raoul Walsh, 1939), in a gorgeous 4K Digital Restoration at the BFI. One was thematic: when Cagney, Bogart et all return from fighting WWI, they’re pretty much sneered at, lose their jobs, treated as chumps. And this made me wonder if, except for WWII, this has ever been thus in the US’s treatment of its war vets: lots of sanctimonious ‘thank you for your service’ on the surface but ‘enjoy the streets sucker’ in reality. The other was the poetry and intensity of the montage created by Don Siegel to evoke the effects of the Wall Street Crash, the melting skyscrapers particularly impactful. It’s gorgeous. I loved the intensity of feeling without the sentimentality that is such a marker of Raoul Walsh (and of 1930s cinema in general) and is personified here by Gladys George as Panama Smith, street gutter glitter, rueful, down to earth; there’s something in the performing of all the supporting cast, everyone seemingly conscious that they’re in showbiz and have to entertain, so they all attempt and succeed in being believable as the characters they play, but adding little twirls, an inflection, a move of the eyes, vocal and physical embroidery with which to delight the audience. And of course, at the centre of it all Cagney, immense throughout, displacing air, crackling with life, bringing humanity into the darkened theatre, long after everyone involved in this movie, one of the all-time great gangster films, has died. A terrific experience, made more poignant by realising that it explicitly sets out at the beginning to construct a work of memory of one period (Mark Hellinger’s opening narration), the film itself operating as a marker of another, and all its many generation of viewers carrying yet at least one other within them.

José Arroyo

A FISTFUL OF DOLLARS (SERGIO LEONE, 1964)

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I left my nephew and his kids and braved a thunderstorm to see A FISTFUL OF DOLLARS (Sergio Leone, 1964) at the Cinema Moderne last night. It was a sold-out screening. I was put on a waiting list but did manage to get in, probably thanks to the rain. Everyone applauded at the end. I liked it very much. But I don’t understand its current status as one of the great masterpieces of the cinema. Influential, without question. Historically significant, of course; amongst other things, it made Clint Eastwood a star, and one can definitely understand why watching it. But Kurosawa’s YOJIMBO (1961), which borrowed its structure from American Westerns and of which this is a remake, is funnier, deeper, more complex and with characters that  convey something about people, ways of life, structures of feeling. Watching A FISTFUL OF DOLLARS is a somewhat dislocating experience, the dubbed language, the Spanish landscape standing in for the West but so different from it, everything a trope, a witty take on a cliché, a referent to something else. It’s all fun with surfaces, an evocation of a certain kind of mid-sixties cool, and épater de older generation aimed at the younger one: the shooting at the kid at the beginning, the close-ups of an extremely handsome Eastwood doing his poses. It might be seen as an early postmodern film. I loved the music, the shot of the horse galloping and the poetic raising of the dust, the intriguing compositions and uses of perspective and point of view. I do think Leone is an extraordinary visual filmmaker. And this is a very fun film; but to praise it as anything more seems to me a lack of discernment. This was particularly brought to mind through the presence of Margarita Lozano, who plays Consuelo Baxter, and who was also played the maid in VIRIDIANA, and thinking of both films in relation to art. Perhaps I should re-read Christopher Frayling and figure out exactly what I’m missing, if anything

José Arroyo

THE PHILADELPHIA STORY (George Cukor, 1940)

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Magical experience watching THE PHILDALPHIA STORY in the 4K restoration with Chris and my sister amidst a goof size audience at the Cinema Moderne yesterday. Everybody laughed in all the right places, loudly at all the scenes I remember from childhood viewings (Virginia Wiedler, particularly wearing a huge diamond collar – a copy of Marie Antonoinette’s famous mammoth one —  dancing ballet, speaking French and singing ‘Lydia, oh Lydia, the lady with the Tattoo’) and pointed out laughs to me I hadn’t noticed viewing the film alone subsequently. I remember having a conversation with VF Perkins where he told me why he didn’t like it though I now can’t remember the specifics – was it the beginning? The characterisation of the husband to be? Yesterday, I loved it all. It’s got Hepburn, at her most beautiful, and filmed uber glamorously, Joe Ruttenburg puts eye-lights in her face, her lips glisten, her hair  — by Sidney Guilaroff –seems to float in little curls above her head; she’s at her most chic too, dressed by Adrian. James Stewart won the Oscar for it that year, and he is simply great – and what a year HE had (THE SHOP AROUND THE CORNER, THE MORTAL STORM, NOT TIME FOR COMEDY). Cary Grant still has that chubbyness around the face that made him so attractive. The goal was to revitalise Hepburn’s stardom, which it did, magnificently; how it did so – by ‘taming’ her, bringing her down to earth, humanising her – is something that so many of her later films would continue to do, not always this well or humanely. In the RADIO DAYS, Woodly Allen has a marvellous scene where an aunt takes a child to see a movie at Radio City Music Hall to convey the thrill and magic the movies then represented. There they watch the drunk scene with Hepburn and Stewart in THE PHILADELPHIA STORY and nothing personifies the sexiness, romance, beauty and glamour of the movies better. A farce, a screwball, a commentary on Hepburn herself, celebrity, the rich, the gutter press – I’ve been reading Will Straw’s NIGHTS IN FAIRYLAND about the Broadway gossip celebrity press, which connects beautifully to the blackmail plot in the film. Delightful.

José Arroyo

Pressure (Anthony Maras, 2026)

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The biggest surprise at my screening of PRESSURE (Anthony Maras, 2026) at Cineworld was the elderly woman in a wheelchair vaping huge clouds of smoke and a smell I initially thought was some kind of bubble gummy perfume. I was too stunned to think much of it other than admire her brass.

As to the film itself, about the impact meteorological predictions had on the scheduling of D-Day, the vast stakes in that decision, and the pressure that in turn placed on those making it, I liked it very much. It’s all rich browns and golds, with a nostalgic dimension, including singing of hymns at chapel, iconic images of England – the rolling hills, the stately homes, the variable weather – and, as a finale ,whether the protagonists’ wife lives and whether the child was safely born which could have been overegging but isn’t. But for the scene of the D-Day landing, it’s mainly filmed in medium-length shots and close-ups, an intimate focus on a great historical event. The main thrusts invites a comparison to current events – unlike the orange one’s thoughtless and impetuous war on Iran – this is measured, debated, down to the last detail, even to what is predictable about the weather. It’s a film that valorises facts, data, knowledge, method, argument, debate, discipline; and in which the loss of life is integral to the decision making. The film doesn’t make a direct comparison to current events but the juxtaposition inevitably arises.

The acting is admirable: Andrew Scott reliably excellent and nuanced – the sound he makes at the hospital near the end is so expressive and moving. Brendan Fraser surprised as Eisenhower; he is so physically unlike the pictures of the eventual President, but ends up utterly convincing; Kerry Condon is believable as Kay Summersby, Eisenhower’s no-nonsense, unflappable but sympathetic private secretary (and lover); and I adored Damian Lewis as ‘heigh-ho old chap’ bullyish Montgomery; it’s a turn but excellently done.

I enjoyed it much more than I thought and was surprised to be so moved.

Jose Arroyo

One Night Only (Will Gluck, 2026)

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It’s interesting what the worlds of romantic comedy tell us. In the great Doris Day/ Rock Hudson hits of the late 50’s/ early 60s, we were shown a rich, sophisticated, vibrantly coloured world with clear rules and very rigid gender roles that the characters themselves struggled to live up to. In PILLOW TALK (Michael Gordon, 1959), Doris was a successful career woman who wore chic clothes, the latest hair-dos, and was uber-careful about sex, which some derided, but really who wouldn’t be in those pre-pill, illegal abortion days, when a pregnancy could sink one’s career and ruin one’s life? Rock was the lothario who pretended to be a gay mama’s boy to ease the conquest, embodying all the contradictions and giving life and voice to that which was taboo. Tony Randall did almost the opposite, signifying gay no matter how many marriages and divorces the plot assigned to his character.
ONE NIGHT ONLY (Will Gluck, 2026) presents a world, also using New York as setting but in the near future, 2035, where sex for unmarried people is prohibited except for one night only, and even then, they can only have sex with a condom. The government has developed this bar code which people have tattooed on their wrist and instantly communicates any infringement to the authorities. So how to turn this dystopian premise into a light romantic comedy? The film focuses on the frenzy of that night, the different ways people take advantage of it, the desperation for condoms…while our protagonists, Callum Turner and Monica Barbaro, really want something deeper. It’s a film with a great central premise, not fully or well explored (think of the kind of comedy Italians might have made of people trying to evade this rule the rest of the year). There’s a tension between the film’s attempts at being titillating, which it doesn’t really succeed at, and the fundamental prudishness, which persists in spite of the premise. The film highlights the authoritarianism of the culture but one which the leads take for granted and accept. What is meant to be a light sexy romantic comedy ends up with a gleeful acceptance of the status quo, a culture so fascistic it tries and succeeds in regulating sexual expression..
It’s a very misjudged film, by Will Gluck, the director of ANYONE BUT YOU, (Sidney Sweeney and Glen Powell are used for some good jokes). Turner and Barbaro are sexy and witty, well-handling even the physical comedy. I was also very pleased to see Molly Ringwald as Turner’s mom; and LeVar Burton as her boyfriend. Pity about the rest

THE DOG STARS (Ridley Scott, 2026)

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Reviews of THE DOG STARS were so muted that I was surprised I liked it as much as I did and now suspect it will be one of those Ridley Scott films (like, recently, THE COUNSELOR and THE LAST DUEL) that will be re-evaluated upwards in years to come. I liked the depiction of nature, which remains beautiful, whilst all humans have built is ugly and deteriorating. This is a world almost eradicated by a virus and now dog-eat-dog survivalist. The film is about overcoming the sadness that overhangs everything and finding love (romantic as well as communal) and hope. The pace feels slow (though is that just because of our current doom scrolling from ten sec clip to ten sec clip?). There are some fantastical moments – gothic meets the surreal – with Allison Janney ruling an airport outpost and I loved the John Fordish prelude to the film’s end. The cast is starry indeed, Jacob Elordi and Margaret Qualley lovely together; Josh Brolin at his most appealing; Guy Pearce brilliant at playing someone almost ordinary. I liked the film’s valuing of skills and knowledge and really loved the combination of apocalyptic circumstances not without nature and beauty, overhanging sadness, and a finding of more than a glimmer of love and hope as those circumstances unfold. I was very glad to see it.

 

José Arroyo

Bitter Christmas/ Amarga Navidad (Pedro Almodóvar, 2026)

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BITTER CHRISTMAS is about an aging director who’s having trouble finding an original idea, keeps cannibalising his old work, can’t let go of the death of his mother, and it turns out the movie you’ve just watched is the movie he’s been writing. We’ve seen it all before, though with a less self-referential acknowledgement much less inquiry. The complex structure veering from fiction to non-fiction is what he used in BAD EDUCATION and PAIN AND GLORY; the narrative ease with which he moves through time and media is still a wonder; women searching in the night for drugs that will alleviate their pain we’ve seen in WHAT HAVE I DONE TO DESERVE THIS, WOMEN ON THE VERGE OF A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN, and even THE FLOWER OF MY SECRET. We’ve seen the black Fomentera beach in BROKEN EMBRACES; the artistic pottery and works of art as backdrop in all of his movies. He’s upscaled to cleaner lines and fancier kitchens but you can still get interior decorating tips from Almodóvar movies, though now you need a much bigger budget. Even sonically the film repeats themes you’ve heard before in his older movies. Chavela returns from the grave to make the characters and us cry again, more layer but not too different a deployment than Caetano Veloso  in TALK TO HER. Handsome men swimming, cars driving on darkened Christmas streets like in LIVE FLESH; cars coloured Valentino red like in almost all his movies; even all the bit part players that have featured in his films since the 80s – and his brother—here pose for a group picture with Rossy de Palma. Filmmakers obsessed with films about filmmaking can be tiring for audiences and I do look at what seems an embourgeoisification with sadness, though I’ll grant that his recent films don’t neglect history, the social and the political and a filmmaker can’t do everything at once. This is about autofiction, mythmaking, self-iconisation, and it’s best viewed through an auteurist lens. Through that lens, it can be very fascinating. Watching it, my mind kept flickering through the various associations, where you’d seen what before, and I was quite unmoved by what I was seeing, admiring the narrative facility of chucking out characters, doing impossible scenes; critical of a loss of sex and desire in the way the strip-tease scene was filmed. Unusually for an Almodóvar film, it stimulated my brain more than my emotions.

José Arroyo

A CHORUS LINE AT THE PUTNEY ART THEATRE & PRIDE AT THE NATIONAL

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We saw two musicals yesterday, both wonderful experiences. The matinee was an am dram production of A CHORUS LINE at the Putney Arts Theatre. I saw the last professional production at the Palladium, and it seemed too much of its time, slick and fake. This was brilliant, most of the actors were almost good: some could sing, not all could dance, and then not at too high a level. But there was something about the yearning, the desire, the need to perform that was true and endearing, funny and moving. An hour before the show, the guy who played the director did ‘castings’, which people, including members of the audience could sign up for beforehand and which segue-wayed very smoothly into the start of the show. The ‘One Singular Expression’ number brought cheers, as it always does, even though the execution lacked the unity and precision of movement that is normally thought essential and by the end the audience was at its feet.

 

The other musical we saw was the adaptation of PRIDE (Matthew Warchus, 2014), at the National’s Dorfman theatre, which also brought the audience to its feet, this time with tears in their eyes, like the film did. The film starts with images from the culture of the period, protests, Thatcher, Madonna, the Miner’s strike, to a Jimmy Sommerville soundtrack. Is any musician ore associated with the queer politics of the time? The show, about the need for community, solidarity and collaboration in the force of oppression is funny, moving, still defiant. It really works. The second act opening curtain, a real corker of a number, fantastically camp and like the best camp with a real zinging critique at its heart. The problem, which funnily was not much of one, is the score, which didn’t seem good enough. But is it really not up to par or is it just unfamiliar to us? And how could the quality of the music not matter much in a musical? I’m not sure. I didn’t think much of the music but it was good enough to be effective, act as a vehicle for the melodrama and the humour of the piece: it’s a good enough conduit without being dazzling in itself. Whatever, the play worked, and I was one of those teary eyed and on my feet by the end, though I admit being particularly sensitive to the period – my youth – and the material. The production is such a hit it’s transferring to THE BRIDGE  this Autumn.

José Arroyo