دسته: فیلم‌های آینده و شایعات

  • The 2025 Venice line-up is insanely stacked

    The 2025 Venice line-up is insanely stacked



    The FOMO is going to be very real and very hard for anyone who doesn’t happen to be headed to the Lido this year to sample the delectable delights of the annual Venice Film Festival. One upshot of the Cannes beef with Netflix is that all the streamer’s heavy-hitters tend to come later in the year, right at the door to the vaunted and ever-extending awards season corridor. And this year, it seems as if they’ve got a number of major titles competing against one another in the big race for the Golden Lion (won last year by Pedro Almodovar for The Room Next Door). 

    Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein, Kathryn Bigelow’s A House of Dynamite, and Benny Safdie’s The Smashing Machine will all be representing the big red N this year, and with this many quality horses in the race, how can you lose? We’re also very excited for the new one by Jim Jarmusch (Father Mother Sister Brother, that was mooted for Cannes but never quite made it), Bugonia by Yorgos Lanthimos and No Other Choice by Park Chan-wook. Of the deep-cuts (and there are many!), we’re excited for the return in the out of competition doc strand of the great Lucrecia Martel, and there’s also a new film from Laura Poitras also. And one of Britain’s finest, Mark Jenkin, will be representing with his new one, Rose of Nevada, in the Horizons strand. 

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    But take a look below at this full feast of a line-up and let us know what you’re looking forward to catching? 

    Competition

    La Grazia (Paolo Sorrentino) 

    The Wizard of the Kremlin (Olivier Assayas)

    Jay Kelly (Noah Baumbach) 

    The Voice of Hind Rajab (Kaouther Ben Hania)

    A House of Dynamite (Kathryn Bigelow)

    The Sun Rises On Us All (Cai Shangjun)

    Frankenstein (Guillermo Del Toro)

    Elisa (Leonardo Di Constanzo)

    À Pied d’Oeuvre (Valérie Donzelli) 

    Silent Friend (Ildikó Enyedi)

    The Testament of Ann Lee (Mona Fastvold) 

    Father Mother Sister Brother (Jim Jarmusch)

    Bugonia (Yorgos Lanthimos)

    Duse (Pietro Marcello)

    Un Film Fatto Per Bene (Franco Maresco)

    Orphan (Laszlo Nemes)

    L’Étranger (The Stranger) (François Ozon)

    Eojjeol Suga Eopda (No Other Choice) (Park Chan-wook) 

    Sotto Le Nuvole (Gianfranco Rosi)

    The Smashing Machine (Benny Safdie)

    Nühai (Girl) (Shu Qi)

    Out of Competition — Fiction

    Boşluğa Xütbə (Sermon to the Void) (Hilal Baydarov) 

    L’Isola di Andrea (Antonio Capuano) 

    Il Maestro (Andrea Di Stefano)

    After the Hunt (Luca Guadagnino) 

    Hateshinaki Scarlet (Mamoro Hosoda)

    Den Sidste Viking (The Last Viking) (Anders Thomas Jensen) 

    Chien 51 (Cédric Jimenez)

    In the Hand of Dante (Julian Schnabel) 

    La Valle Dei Sorrisi (Paolo Strippoli)

    Dead Man’s Wire (Gus Van Sant)

    Orfeo (Virgilio Villoresi) 

    Out of Competition — Non Fiction

    Kabul, Between Prayers (Aboozar Amini)

    Ferdinando Scianna — Il Fotografo Dell’Ombra (Roberto Andò)

    Marc by Sofia (Sofia Coppola) 

    I Diari di Angela — Noi Due Cineaste. Capitolo Terzo (Yervant Gianikian and Angela Ricci Lucchi) 

    Ghost Elephants (Werner Herzog)

    Baba Wa Al-Qadhafi (My Father and Qaddafi) (Jihan K)

    The Tale of Sylian (Tamara Kotevska)

    Nuestra Tierra (Lucrecia Martel)

    Remake (Ross McElwee)

    Kim Novak’s Vertigo, Alexandre Philippe

    Cover-Up (Laura Poitras and Mark Obenhaus) 

    Broken English (Jane Pollard and Iain Forsyth) 

    Zapiski Nastoyashego Prestupnika (Notes of a True Criminal) (Alexander Rodnyansky and Andriy Alferov) 

    Director’s Diary, Aleksander Sokurov 

    Hui Jia (Back Home) (Tsai Ming-liang)





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  • Who gets to be on the big screen?

    Who gets to be on the big screen?


    A group of teenage girls sit on a roof in the sunshine, laughing and smiling.

    Casting director Lucy Pardee lifts the lid on her latest project, Lollipop, and working in the casting industry. 

    In Rocks, a teenage girl struggles to care for her little brother after being abandoned by her mother; In Bird, a young girl seeks magical adventure away from her unpredictable father; In Aftersun, a young girl’s father-daughter holiday comes to hold melancholy meaning. These moving, character-focused recent films share one thing: they were cast by Lucy Pardee. The BAFTA-winning casting director has worked with some of the UK’s finest directing talent, from Andrea Arnold to Jonathan Glazer to Lynne Ramsay, discovered countless homegrown stars and had decades of industry insight dedicated to widening diversity on the big screen.

    Pardee’s careful casting has paid off since her first casting director credit with Arnold’s Wuthering Heights to her most recent film, Daisy-May Hudson’s feature debut, Lollipop. The poignant drama follows single mother Molly (Posey Sterling), fresh out of prison, trying to regain custody of her children but unable to while she’s homeless. It’s a piercing narrative that required a skilled cast. Demystifying the casting process, Pardee notes that finding the right actors is completely different with every project, but with Lollipop, the focus was connection and authenticity. “Because Daisy-May’s a documentary filmmaker, meeting people is really important,” Pardee explains. “She’s rather alternative. She wanted to bring a candle to light, but I said no, so instead she brought scents to neutralise the energy.”

    Pardee shares that this interest in actors with lived experience is where street casting comes in. “There’s a real misconception that we just wander up to people,” Pardee clarifies. “Sometimes we do, but street casting is impossible without contacts with organisations because they will help us translate opportunities for the groups of people they work with.” Pardee’s experience working with theatre companies Clean Break (an organisation illuminating the stories of women in prison) and Cardboard Citizens (the UK’s only homeless people’s professional theatre company) informed Lollipop’s outreach. Pardee says the very purpose of this approach is “about making the ramp into the room accessible to people without previous acting experience.”

    Lollipop embodies this outreach. For instance, TerriAnn Cousins, who plays Molly’s mother, came through Clean Break when Pardee previously cast her in Silver Haze. Also, Idil Ahmed, who plays Molly’s supportive childhood friend Amina, joined Lollipop through an organisation that works with East African and Somali communities after seeing Kosar Ali, an actor of Somali descent, star in Rocks. “I felt incredibly proud that we could bridge Kosar into the industry with Rocks,” Pardee said. “Idil and her four children are huge fans of Rocks. She was one of the people making a connection; Idil had never acted before, but felt like this was an opportunity she could step into because someone else had.”

    Despite these connections and having a slate of exciting projects, Pardee highlights that she remains concerned about the shrinking space for newcomers in the industry. “There’s a real insecurity at the moment in terms of projects being seen,” Pardee shares, adding that there’s added pressure on casting directors to work with actors with profiles, the antithesis of independent film as “a crucible for launching talent.” In response to this industry-wide insecurity in the arts, Pardee co-founded and serves as an advisor for We Are Bridge, an industry body committed to supporting “people who have come into the industry through alternative pathways, bridging to their next opportunities.” It’s not just allowing an actor a first role, but helping them secure a second. 

    Frankie Corio, a young girl with brown hair, stands at the centre of the frame in a yellow t-shirt surrounded by people.

    This work surrounding industry access is not just based on anecdotal experience; less than 10% of film and TV workers are from working-class backgrounds, the lowest in a decade, according to Channel 4’s 2024 report. Pardee says progression towards diverse working-class representation is “not a cultural shift to the future, but it’s almost a cultural shift to the past… [the UK] has a tradition of working class representation; we’re not breaking boundaries that haven’t been broken before, we’ve neglected pathways. Austerity kicked the shit out of those pathways which started with dramas in schools and youthclubs and access at community level.”

    Pardee cites Adolescence as an interesting example, as much of the young cast came from grassroots drama organisations. However, these programs aren’t free to access. “There’s a whole wave of talent that, as soon as you put a price on it, isn’t able to do it,” Pardee notes. “Privilege does not equal talent.” This barrier to entry is not only harming the industry but also the quality of independent film.

    This investment in the next generation is also clear in several recent films Pardee has worked on (LollipopBird and Aftersun), which see her tasked with finding children and young people who can handle emotionally mature scenes. Exemplifying this, Luke Howitt and Tegan-Mia Stanley Rhoads deliver fantastic performances as Molly’s children in Lollipop. Rhoads is particularly impressive as she sobs and pleads for her mother to obey the rules to regain custody of them. Pardee explains that reaching such emotions is built around fictional play and imagination; there’s an end goal, but the journey to that point is up to each actor.

    There has been a recent dialogue about social media followers dictating who gets into the casting room when it comes to casting young people. “Not in my world!” Pardee laughs, remarking social media is a double-edged sword: though it has unlocked a door for accessibility, an over-reliance has led to a “generation of people who will send a self-tape based on, I think, how they look.” Pardee emphasises that self-tapes will never replace auditioning in the room, which is a safe space for failure and imperfection: “I don’t know whether it’s COVID or social media, but there’s definitely risk aversion in the younger people coming through. In art, you must be able to take a swing, miss, and feel ok to take another one.”

    Jennifer Lawrence, a blonde woman a floral dress, and Robert Pattinson in a yellow checked shirt and jeans, dance in a room with patterned wallpaper.

    Pardee’s upcoming slate includes much-anticipated projects, including Lynne Ramsay’s psychological portrait Die, My Love, starring Robert Pattinson and Jennifer Lawrence. “We found Robert in a Greggs,” Pardee laughs. “I’ve been working with [Ramsay] for quite a long time, but this is the first time we’ve cast a feature film together. She creates such a ripe, safe environment. I think that’s why we all do some of our best work with her, because of this safety.” Pardee is also in the “very, very early days” of casting How to Have Sex writer-director Molly Manning Walker’s A24 show about girls’ football. Pardee notes she’s conducting a lot of outreach and that authentic representation is a core focus for this casting. “If you want to represent a story authentically, I believe in: ‘nothing about us without us’. Because Molly is part of this community, it’s so exciting.”

    Many stars have passed through Pardee’s casting process, but one of her most memorable was Aftersun’s Francesca Corio. Corio beat out 900 applications to star in Charlotte Wells’ heartbreaking film, opposite Paul Mescal. Pardee remembers auditioning 16 girls in a snow-covered, empty wedding venue in Glasgow in 2021 with Welles and producer Adele Romanski. Pardee recalls the special moment: she acted opposite Corio as her mother, and the young actress had to reach a point of sadness. “She was so genuinely sad, I got this feeling of ‘we’ve found her!’ It was profound,” Pardee recalled. “I asked her, ‘What were you thinking about?’ She said her guinea pig is about to die. The next day we tentatively asked about her guinea pig. Frankie said: ‘My guinea pig died, but it’s ok, my mum brought me a chip supper. So I’m fine… let’s act!’”



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  • Marcello Mastroianni: A Life Lived Beautifully

    Marcello Mastroianni: A Life Lived Beautifully



    What do you think of when you hear the phrase la dolce vita”? If, like us, you’re a fan of Italian cinema, chances are one of the first images that will spring to mind is of a man dressed in a tailored black suit and sunglasses, leaning back in a café chair, feet resting insouciantly on a crisp white tablecloth. We’re talking, of course, about Marcello Mastroianni.

    Wrapping up our La Dolce Vita partnership with Disaronno for their 500-year anniversary*, we commissioned ace video editor and regular LWLies contributor Luís Azevedo to create a special tribute to Mastroianni — an actor who, over the course of his glittering film career, always seemed to epitomize the notion of a life lived beautifully.

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    In Marcello Mastroianni: A Life Lived Beautifully, Azevedo explores how, as the go-to leading man for some of Italy’s most revered filmmakers — most notably Federico Fellini, for whom Mastroianni was as much alter ego as he was artistic muse — Mastroianni became the defining face of Italian cinema during its 60s and 70s heyday. Indeed, his breakthrough role in Fellini’s 1960 masterpiece La Dolce Vita introduced audiences to a romantic cosmopolitan ideal that endures to this day.

    Yet despite his iconic performances in other classics such as 8½ and La Notte, Mastroianni’s on-screen persona was a lot more complex than his reputation as the undisputed king of cinematic cool suggests. Though he undoubtedly reinforced this image both on and off screen, the characters he played often contained multitudes and contradictions.

    Watch the full video essay below, and go to dis​aron​no​.com to discover more about Disaronno’s anniversary celebrations.

    *1525: The legend of Disaronno begins.





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  • The queer optimism of My Beautiful Laundrette

    The queer optimism of My Beautiful Laundrette



    My partner and I headed from the suburbs into the city to attend a 40th anniversary screening of My Beautiful Laundrette, a film neither of us had seen despite always intending to. Directed by Stephen Frears and written by Hanif Kureishi, this TV-movie-turned-sleeper-success is considered by many to be a cult classic and an early paragon of queer representation, meaning it necessarily carries the burden of fixed opinions and critical interpretations. It seemed there was no room to think about it for ourselves, so we put it off until it appeared at the cinematheque. 

    What surprised me most about the film, which I’d assumed centred around Daniel Day-Lewis’ Johnny Burfoot – who a friend understandably claims as her first cinematic crush – is the taciturn protagonist, Omar. Played by Gordon Warnecke, who the Times critic Vincent Canby called wonderfully insidious,” Omar, when we first encounter him, is conscientiously washing clothes by hand and hanging them out to dry on the balcony of his father’s black hole of a flat.” For a long time, he doesn’t speak, but we keenly observe him. 

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    As we hear, instead, from his perpetually-inebriated father, Nasser (Saeed Jaffrey), his savvy, philosophizing uncle Hussein (Roshan Seth) and his disagreeable cousin Salim (Derrick Branche), Omar is, as Roger Ebert said, the blank slate,” a sponge, assuming their influence as he stirs out of a stupor– his immature outsiderdom – and transforms into a man of consequence. 

    The way the script was written had very…actually no dialogue for Omar in the beginning,” Warnecke told me over email. That enabled the viewer to see the way I reacted to what was going on around me. Sometimes, a look or non-verbal reaction can say much more than words.” The first time he speaks, at drinks with Hussein and his mistress Rachel (Shirley Ann Field), Omar discloses a personal vision: If I pick up Papa and squeezed him… I often imagine I’d get a pure bottle of pure vodka.” The word squeeze” recurs throughout the film, whether from Nasser, who complains Omar’s squeezing of shirts doesn’t stretch him, or Hussein, who says of succeeding in Britain, You have to know how to squeeze the tits of the system.” 

    Kureishi’s script thinks in these terms: stretch and squeeze; rub and tug; hard and soft’ screw and unscrew. The world is a tangible, malleable thing, and Omar, who an uncle says is the future”,is an embodiment of all these sensibilities. If you take [squeeze] literally,” Warnecke says to me, it is almost a metaphor of what the government was doing to the people of Britain at the time. Come to think of it, they were squeezing’ them and rinsing’ them. Rather like clothes. It’s about putting pressure and getting something out of something or someone.” 

    Over time, as he cleans cars at Hussein’s garage, unknowingly traffics drugs for Salim, and inevitably inherits the titular laundrette that he will successfully re-invent and ultimately make his name, he applies the pressure to himself to sharpen his look and learn to speak up for himself. I’m not going to be beat down by this country,” Omar says to Johnny –and we believe him. Perhaps it is only those who refuse the constraints placed on them, by birth or by circumstance, to make something of themselves, to strive for a sort of life where renovation results in regeneration, that ambitious dreams like Omar’s can become actual possibilities. 

    Of Omar, Gordon, who played Nasser in a stage adaptation of the film in 2024, told me: Back then he took stock of what and who was around him. He saw his father was beaten by the system and did not want to make the same mistakes. He was a progressive entrepreneur who wanted to better himself. He had seen how his father had battled the racists and how his father was bitter and angry not only with himself but society as a whole… Omar went the other way.”


    The way that Johnny is weaved into Omar’s narrative is that he appears in the film’s prologue, a memory that fades away the longer we don’t return to it. But during a racist attack, accompanied by a gang of fascists in an underpass, his presence causes Omar to exit his car,the same way that working for his uncle gets him outta the house.” As Omar, grinning, advances towards Johnny, followed in cinematographer Olivier Stapleton’s elegant tracking shot and bathed in a dreamy score produced by Stanley Myers and Hans Zimmer, it is as though he is the antidote to the world trying to do you in, a beacon of hope from the dulling darkness of modern existence. 

    That juxtaposition – between the tensions of their lives and the pleasures that each other’s presence respectively brings— – is repeated throughout the film as the stakes, and subplots, continue to converge: whether it’s aAfter Omar has been attacked by Salim, while receiving a lecture from his father, and Johnny’s phone call overrides the dread; or their silent, glowing kiss in the shadows, interrupted by an attack on the laundrette; or even on opening day at the laundrette, when their heated, champagne-sodden love-making is contrasted with a classical heterosexual pair, a bond which will soon break, on the other side of the one-way glass (“Daniel improvised the pouring champagne into my mouth,” Gordon said. A brilliant invention.”).

    The intimacy of their bond is expressed in an accumulation of private gestures: the way Omar wants to remove an eyelash from Johnny’s face, or the scene when the men embrace and Johnny sticks his tongue out to lick behind Omar’s ear. Much attention has been paid to the tongue, but how about the nape of the neck, as the wet trace of it dries up? In these brief, blushing instances, Omar manages to get out of his mind and deliver him back into his body. 

    Let’s open,” Johnny says after buttoning up their shirts: The whole world is waiting.” 

    The most moving scene – and one which I’ve returned to since – is when, after the laundrette opens and Omar stands on the other side of the glass watching the neighbourhood file in. It is only his back that we see, but he seems to be radiating pride, his dream realised. Johnny comes up to the glass and peers in so that, for a moment, their reflections transpose and form a new kind of face: one that is neither white or brown, rich or poor, dirty or clean. It’s optimistic. 





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  • From Hilde, With Love review – too staid to make…

    From Hilde, With Love review – too staid to make…



    In East Germany, where director Andreas Dresen grew up, Hilde and Hans Coppi were talked about with the kind of reverence normally reserved for saints. Members of a Communist German resistance group known as the Red Orchestra, which was working to aid the Soviet Union against the Nazis, Hilde and Hans were regarded more as symbols of heroism rather than real people who lived and died for their cause. From Hilde, With Love attempts to breathe life into the legend that Dresen was brought up with, but this handsomely crafted biopic is too staid to make a lasting impact.

    Hilde, played with quiet resilience by Babylon Berlins Liv Lisa Fries, is picking strawberries when the Gestapo arrive to arrest her. The film begins as it goes on, with Hilde’s idyllic life with Hans (Johannes Hegemann), all kissing in sunlit gardens and harbouring Soviet spies, juxtaposed with the unmerciful reality of the Third Reich. As she languishes in prison, where she endures an agonising childbirth, flashbacks reveal her falling in with this group of young Communists for whom resistance is an adventure as well as a duty. For Hilde, however, it’s primarily an act of compassion; after hearing pleas from German POWs via illicit Soviet broadcasts she writes letters to their families, reassuring them that their sons and husbands are still alive. Discussion of politics is kept to a bare minimum.

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    Every one of these flashbacks seems to take place on the most gorgeous summer’s day imaginable. At times it’s rather too beautiful, a Visit Germany” logo threatening to appear at the end of another sequence of cavorting by a lake or speeding through the countryside on a motorbike. A much more significant problem is that these flashbacks play out in nonchronological order for no clear reason. If it’s a vague stab at shaking up the biopic formula it doesn’t work; in practice it’s needlessly confusing, and that the romance between reserved, slightly prudish Hilde and the dashing Hans feels genuine is in spite of this narrative device. One particularly affecting montage features Hans teaching Hilde Morse code by tapping his finger on her body, whether on her naked back after sex or on her knee on the bus, a secret language of love that’s also an act of rebellion.

    To the film’s credit none of the Nazi characters are so cartoonishly abhorrent as to divorce them from reality. Some within this system, such as a prison guard who helps Hilde appeal her sentence, even show some humanity, making their active participation in the régime all the more unsettling. In the current climate rejecting complacency in the face of fascism is a more pertinent message than ever, so while its ending is a gut-punch it’s a shame that From Hilde, With Love isn’t the formally bold, politically radical film that the Coppis deserve.





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  • I Know What You Did Last Summer review – cramped…

    I Know What You Did Last Summer review – cramped…



    After 30 years, fans can breathe a sigh of relief – Julie James and Ray Bronson are back! Now, Who are Julie James and Ray Bronson…and what fans?” I hear you ask. These are minor quibbles in the bigger picture: for some reason they’ve put together a legacy sequel to Jim Gillespie’s 1997 slasher underdog, I Know What You Did Last Summer.

    It’s difficult to grasp why this version of I Know What You Did Last Summer was made – the bubble for horror legacy sequels has effectively burst after endless, largely bad iterations. Had this been greenlit six months later, it would have likely been a hard reboot; instead, we get an odd, ungainly hybrid with an identity crisis. As in the original, here a new group of hot young people accidentally kill a man in a car accident on the Fourth of July and swear each other to secrecy. A year later, a masked fisherman rocks up in town wielding a big hook to exact his revenge… but this time the group can turn to the original 90s survivors, Julie James (Jennifer Love Hewitt) and Ray Bronson (Freddie Prinze Jr), for help. 

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    It is a strange, sporadically entertaining blend of far more ideas than you’d expect from, well, an I Know What You Did Last Summer legacy sequel. Director and writer Jennifer Kaytin Robinson grapples with wellness culture, gentrification, institutional misogyny and the life altering effects of trauma, all the while executing some of the most loyal fan service I’ve ever seen to two films from the late 90s and early 00s that not many people remember, let alone care about. Even as someone who adores the original film (to the point that one side character’s shared surname with the first film’s director did not go unnoticed) it is still mind-boggling that this strange not-quite-reboot made it to screen. This is Avengers: Endgame for a mostly unbeloved 90s slasher – there is quite literally a mid-credits scene with Jennifer Love Hewitt in Nick Fury drag teeing up a sequel. The target audience is me, a couple of my friends, and maybe 40 to 50 other people on planet Earth.

    Since it makes so little sense to do a slavish legacy sequel for I Know What You Did Last Summer of all properties, it gives Robinson extensive wiggle room to do whatever she wants. Scream, its spoiled cousin, is a roundly beloved franchise and was too important to screw up or fundamentally meddle with when they brought it back in 2022I Know What You Did Last Summer strikes out in far more compelling ways than that Scream sequel – which buckled under the weight of its ouroboric meta narrative – ever did.

    If I Know What You Did Last Summer has loftier ambitions than the average slasher, these are fatally cramped by the limitations of the IP sandbox it’s playing in. The film violently seesaws between paying homage to the original and carving its own path, with Robinson taking some big swings and misses several of them for purely technical reasons. The featherweight script (co-written with Sam Lansky) is too unserious to sell the film’s absurd, intense finale, and the pair have a strong affinity for tin-eared girls rule, boys drool’ feminism, peppering in baffling, entirely unironic lines about how the entire film’s bloodbath could have been avoided if men just went to therapy.” This doesn’t cohere with any of the characters’ established personalities and creates tonal road bumps for the film. The direction leaves much to be desired too; when the film veers into horror territory, with frequent off-screen kills and often incoherent action, it offers little of the original’s gripping tension. 

    None of it really makes sense – both the plot when you think about it (a couple of scenes feel like active plot holes in light of the killer’s identity) and the sheer fact this film got made. The original film is remembered for being a refreshingly uncomplicated slasher about the era’s biggest stars hooking up and getting hooked to death, so there’s not much of a tone or a vibe to replicate. Yet Robinson, a diehard fan, does her damndest, and the cast, in particular Gabbriette and Madelyn Cline, nicely evoke the original cast’s charisma and preternatural good looks. The whole effort is admirable in a surrealist way – there’s one dream sequence that feels like you’ve huffed paint – but this level of fealty to an IP probably isn’t healthy in the long term.





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  • Sudan, Remember Us review – extremely powerful…

    Sudan, Remember Us review – extremely powerful…



    There’s a kindness in the ability to forget. I myself constantly try and not remember the childhood streets I walked down a child in Khartoum, of eating fatoor at my grandmother’s home and of the hope that erupted on the back of revolution in Sudan in 2019. The place and its people now live in disarray, among the cruel remnants of a purposeless war. The optimism of that era feels ludicrous in retrospect so better to try and forget the things you once held dearest.

    Yet that, of course is a privileged position, as unlike I, so much of the Sudanese diaspora could not speak of the horrors enacted by the genocidal militia leader known as Hemedti, and so work like this documentary from Hind Meddeb impresses upon us all to remember. There’s a quiet moment in Sudan, Remember Us where a young activist paints over a crumbling wall not far from my childhood home, her brush moving with a deliberateness that makes time stretch. It’s not just paint; it’s insistence, even if that wall likely has been now reduced to a pile of rubble. Meddeb’s documentary is full of such moments, of gestures weighed down by a history of violence, but simultaneously buoyed by a hope that refuses to die.

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    Following the euphoria of the revolution, when Omar al-Bashir was ousted after three decades of authoritarian rule, Meddeb traces the fallout through the eyes of those who truly believed that something new might emerge from the blood strewn ashes. What makes this film extraordinary is its refusal to romanticise that belief. Instead, it sits with the disillusionment, the justified fear and the impossible resilience of young Sudanese artists and activists whose lives become quiet testaments to the revolutionary potential that was squandered.

    Meddeb, a French-Tunisian journalist, employs a gonzo blend of handheld camerawork and vertical smartphone videos, and the film steps beyond the formalities of traditional filmmaking, just as a generation of Sudanese activists have broadened their horizons. If there’s a fault here, it’s not in the film’s ambition, but in its scope. Few people are aware of the hardships Sudan has endured over the past few decades, and the film doesn’t aim to educate them with an overabundance of context. Instead Meddeb commits to speaking directly to and with those who lived it. The result is something more intimate, more painful: a film that mourns the loss of collective innocence; laments the naivety of hope; but also insists on recording the bravery of bearing witness.

    There is no false uplift here. No closing text promising a brighter future around the corner. Sudan, Remember Us ends with a silence that echoes across a cruel void of indifference. The title is less an appeal to the West than a message to the Sudanese diaspora who would rather compartmentalise, and to the disappeared and displaced, to those still fighting. It’s not an easy watch, and nor should it be. But in giving space to those who cannot and should not be erased, Sudan, Remember Us becomes not just a documentary. It is an act of resistance in itself.





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  • Peter Cushing lives forever in Whitstable

    Peter Cushing lives forever in Whitstable



    I, on the other hand, was determined to commit as much of my day to memory as I could – and it was clear, as a I arrived early at the venue, the Horsebridge Arts Centre, that others were of a similar mind; a crowd was already gathering, chatting over tea served up by Noël himself, and rubbing shoulders with guests including Cushing co-stars Melvyn Hayes and Caroline Munro. I’ve written for Intermission and am a regular contributor to the TPTV podcast, so caught up with Sarah and Mel Byron, the Cronins’ chief factotum. Then it was time for the day’s action to begin.

    After a brief introduction, the 150 or so hardened Cushing fans heard from Hayes, Munro, and former Hammer Films runners Phil Campbell and Brian Reynolds, who regaled us with tales of working with the great man, but the most amazing stories came from Geoffrey Hughes, whose father sold their family home to Peter and his wife Helen in the 1950s. The Hughes clan moved a few doors away, but remained friends with the couple; Geoffrey and his siblings appear to have been surrogate nephews and nieces to the Cushings, who were unable to have children of their own. Peter treated them to gifts from the local toy shop and encouraged their hobbies. I once interviewed the actor William Franklyn about his work with Cushing. He told me his daughters nicknamed him St Peter; if the tales recalled here are anything to go by, it was rather fitting.

    Afterwards, we watched The Curse of Frankenstein (1957), the film that began the actor’s long association with Hammer’s gothic horrors, before a brief lunch. The fun continued afterwards; like kids on a school trip, we were split into four groups, each taking it in turn to tackle various activities. For me, it began with a guided tour of some Cushing hotspots with comedy historian Andre Vincent. He admitted he wasn’t an expert in his subject, but in a way, that might have been an advantage – he really had to have done his homework, winging it’ would not do for the audience of ardent Cushing fans. Nevertheless, he did miss out the Tudor Tea Rooms, the actor’s favourite eatery.

    What we did see, however, was Cushing’s View, a spot looking out to sea towards the Maunsell forts in the distance. Unfortunately, a couple were sitting on the bench donated by the Cushings and steadfastly refused to move, despite 30 pairs of glowering eyes boring into their souls. (Vincent had earlier described the local folk as resolute and they were proof of that.) Cushing’s beachfront house, complete with its top-flight art studio, was also featured, along with places he would visit, such as the local golf course (to admire the view rather than play), as well as the local Wetherspoons pub – a former cinema now called The Peter Cushing.

    It was then time to watch a 1992 interview, carried out by journalist Peter Williams (who was present to discuss the show) for his TV series The Human Factor, in which Cushing discusses his spiritual side as well as his love for his wife, who by then had been gone for over 20 years.

    A trip to the local museum followed, where a plucky band of volunteers proudly showcased their exhibition devoted to the local hero, including his bicycle, his art equipment (Cushing was a skilled watercolourist) and a costume from The Masks of Death (1984), his final outing as Sherlock Holmes. Then it was back to the Horsebridge for the last event: a Cushing quiz. I’m proud to say I won.

    After a quick catch-up with Mel, in which we mused on what Cushing would have thought of all the fuss (we decided he would have been touched, embarrassed and surprised), I was back on the train to St Pancras, passing some of the Charlton fans going in the opposite direction. They were jubilant, having won the match and therefore promotion to the Championship next season.

    They can’t possibly have been as happy as me, however. I mean, I spent the day with’ my hero, and then topped it off by winning some cake. Surely there can be no finer end to an event than that.

    Talking Pictures TV’s Peter Cushing Celebration ran from May 25 – 26 2025.





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  • M3gan 2.0 review – a silly sequel shooting for…

    M3gan 2.0 review – a silly sequel shooting for…



    The better moments are in the friction between M3GAN and her human companions; the eccentricities of her being programmed for children clashing with simmering anger from the first film. Its better (and funnier) in building on the adversarial relationships made in the first film; the best callback sees her physically forcing Gemma to sit and listen to her belting out an insufferable radio song after a pep talk. 

    Its better still when the comedy crosses with sincere questions about M3GANs personhood, and that she phyically feels this believable is a credit to the films animatronics team. It’s less charming, however, when M3GAN speaks like Bender from Futurama (Alright, meat sacks”), or worse, a Deadpool-esque figure who yells things like, Hold on to your vaginas!” before recklessly driving a supercar.

    When Johnstones not aggressively expanding M3GAN lore, theres some alignment between M3GANs (misguided and amusingly morbid) attempts at winning over her human companions, and M3GAN 2.0s own charm offensive. In all of its quips and surprisingly energetic action, its riffing on Mission Impossible and Terminator 2 plotting and its actively trying to be a crowd pleaser. But the filmmaker sometimes overextends: some of the fights do become a little numbing after a while. 

    Similarly, for a sequel where the main character is hounded by the mistakes of the their past, M3GAN 2.0 runs back a few of the same sticking points — namely some laborious pacing which, here, is exacerbated by the sheer amount of story there is. Its hard not to wish for a little more economy, especially when there are so many moments where the appeal of a sillier follow-up feel clearer. Despite occasionally indulging its worse instincts, there’s still a surprising amount of fun to be had with M3GAN 2.0 – a bigger and funnier sequel which could stand to pull back on both of those elements.





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  • Chicken Town review – how do you make a granddad…

    Chicken Town review – how do you make a granddad…



    Like the doddering sexagenarian at the centre of its plot, Chicken Town lumbers along, frequently mis-stepping and fluffing its lines. It’s a dull, eye-roll-inducing half-way house of a film, neither a biting, black comedy nor an uplifting, whimsical jaunt. British comedy royalty Graham Fellows stars as Kev, who teams up with teenagers, Paula (Amelie Davies) and Jayce (Ethaniel Davy) to sell the weed he’s accidentally grown in his allotment. The few sincere interactions between this central trio are the sole highlights of the film, as Fellows’ comedy talents are wasted in a flimsy script.

    Chicken Town bites off more than it can chew as a small-town, crime caper quickly spirals into conflict with the powerful family at the heart of the town’s livelihood and a serious of increasingly ridiculous acts of violence. However, instead of pouring effort into providing any standout, laugh-out-loud gags, the writer/​director overly relies on these sudden but brief moments of intensity to liven up his film. The less said about the racial prejudice levelled at Jayce’s friend, Lee Matthews Jr (Ramy Ben Fredj), the better. It’s tasteless, cruel, and painfully lazy. Come film’s end I was ready to hightail it out of Chicken Town as fast as I could.

    Get more Little White Lies





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