IN 1966, ROGER CORMAN MADE an offer to young assistant Peter Bogdanovich that the wannabe director couldn't refuse. Corman had two days left to run on a contract with Boris Karloff, and the challenge was this: use that time to film 20 minutes of new material with the veteran actor, edit in another 20 minutes of Karloff footage from Corman's The Terror, shoot another 40 minutes with other actors, then stitch the lot together. The result was Bogdanovich's first and, arguably, greatest movie.
Innovative, much admired collage documentary about mankind's physical journey from cradle to grave, culled from 100 years of archive footage by Simon Pummell and graced with an avant-rock score by Radiohead's Jonny Greenwood. Bodysong is hypnotically beautiful in small doses, even if Pummell comes across in the interviews as rather too pleased with a cod-profound idea which, in any case, Godfrey Reggio and Philip Glass pioneered much more convincingly 20 years ago in Koyaanisqatsi.
Macaulay Culkin (contractually refusing to kiss any men—fact) blows hard but fails to convince as camp '90s New York club cyclone Michael Alig. Seth Green's equally berserk, but when Alig brags of murdering his buddy/dealer, everyone assumes he's kidding. Much gay disco muzak, and cameos from Marilyn Manson and Chloe Sevigny, but this is no Last Days Of Disco or even 54.
Oscar-nominated documentary from last year which, unexpectedly, grips like a vice in its climactic stages. Swotty geek-kids competing for the National Spelling Bee contest might not strike you as gutsy drama, but the obsession, the commitment, the heartbreak and the pushy parents make for a brilliantly dynamic and ghoulishly funny interpretation of the American mindset. Word.
Already a boys' own classic, Kevin MacDonald's award-winning doc about two foolhardy Brit mountaineers scaling the 21,000ft Andean peak of Peru's Siula Grande is almost hideously gripping. Brilliantly paced, Touching The Void re-enacts the climb—and the descent, more to the point—with actors Brendan Mackey and Nicholas Aaron. But much of the drama lies in the memories of climbers Joe Simpson and Simon Yates, the interviews with whom are candid and vulnerable.
Coolly stoned record producer Frances McDormand struggles to be a responsible role model for her uptight son Christian Bale and his sexually frustrated wife Kate Beckinsale, while shagging cheeky Britpop 'star' Alessandro Nivola. Though the music's great (Mercury Rev, T. Rex, Roxy), Lisa Cholodenko's languorous movie is more about the gaps in relationships than the rock'n'roll world.
Mercifully free from saccharine Shawshank/Green Mile prison movie proselytising, Steve Buscemi's stark follow-up to the amiable Trees Lounge instead simply tosses luckless dope-dealing suburbanite Edward Furlong in among a brood of psychopathic sexual predators, including Willem Dafoe and Mickey Rourke, and then watches him squirm. Bleak stuff, with a final, disposable redemption.
Reuniting Dana Andrews and Gene Tierney from his glossily perverse Laura, and adding uncharacteristic grit to compositional elegance, the great Otto Preminger delivered this noir about a violently ambiguous cop two decades before Dirty Harry appeared. Andrews is the splintering anti-hero, a brutal Manhattan detective coming apart while trying to cover up his killing of a suspect. Two more of Preminger's most neglected crime movies—superbly seedy small-town murder Fallen Angel and psychodrama Whirlpool—are also making (overdue) DVD debuts.
"Through the camera of Bob Dylan's drummer, Mickey Jones," the opening credits promise. Yes, Jones was there. But the problem is he was more interested in filming hotels and tourist haunts than chronicling Dylan's progress. Then, when it came to the incendiary shows, he was to be found behind drum kit rather than camera. Not much Bob, then. But Dylanologists will still be fascinated by Jones' eyewitness account as he talks us through the electrifying events all over again.
