The Killing is the kind of early Stanley Kubrick that makes you want to revisit it. Not because it’s one of his unquestionable masterpieces, but because it reveals so much of what would later define him while remaining compact, lucid, and unexpectedly complete. It earns admiration quickly. It’s tight, intelligent, well-built, well-acted, and already recognisably the work of a serious director.

But admiration isn’t quite the same thing as awe, and that distinction matters here. This isn’t yet Kubrick at full strength. What it is, rather, is a remarkably good film in which many of his major qualities are already visible: structural intelligence, control of causality, economy of means, and a cold understanding of how fragile even the best plan becomes once it passes through human beings.

That last point is the film’s real subject. The Killing is often described as a heist film, which it is, but the label remains too simple. This isn’t merely a film about a robbery. It’s a film about the gap between planning and outcome—about the fact that intelligence can build an almost perfect system without ever being able to compel reality to honour it. What makes the film more interesting than a straightforward caper is that it never presents the robbery as a clean mechanism waiting to be derailed by a single decisive mistake. It presents it instead as a structure exposed from the outset to forces it can never fully master: weakness, desire, humiliation, greed, vanity, mistrust, and finally contingency itself.

The Killing arrived at a pivotal moment in Kubrick’s early career. After the self-financed Fear and Desire (1953) and the low-budget Killer’s Kiss (1955), it was his first production with something like a proper Hollywood framework—made for United Artists with producer James B. Harris, who’d go on to collaborate with him on Paths of Glory (1957) and Lolita (1962). The script, adapted from Lionel White’s 1955 pulp novel Clean Break, was co-written with crime novelist Jim Thompson, whose influence can be felt in the psychological rawness of the dialogue and the almost clinical fatalism of the plot.

Shot in just twenty-four days on a budget of roughly $320,000, the film was made quickly and economically—constraints that, as it turns out, suited Kubrick’s instincts rather well. United Artists, reportedly uneasy with the fractured timeline, pushed for a more conventional linear cut. Kubrick resisted. The non-linear structure—with its repeated time markers and overlapping perspectives—survived intact and remains one of the film’s most distinctive formal achievements.

One of the most elegant things Kubrick does is refuse to hand us the plan as a fully transparent totality. We aren’t simply told everything in advance and then invited to watch the execution. Instead, the operation becomes intelligible gradually—through fragments, assignments, timings, dependencies, and functions revealed in action. That gives the film a particular kind of suspense. We’re not merely waiting for something to go wrong; we’re actively recognising how the system works while also sensing how vulnerable it is.

The film runs on two causal chains simultaneously. The first is the procedural chain of the robbery itself: who has to be where, who has to distract whom, who has to fight, who has to carry, who has to wait. The second is the psychological and relational chain running alongside it—wounded pride, erotic frustration, marital resentment, opportunism, the need to feel important, the inability to remain silent. The robbery isn’t undone by one neat technical error. It’s steadily compromised by a parallel sequence of human motives and reactions that the plan was never designed to absorb.

This is where George (Elisha Cook Jr) becomes the film’s emotional centre. He isn’t merely the weak link in practical terms. He’s the one figure who genuinely aches—humiliated, needy, hungry for love, desperate to feel larger than his life has allowed him to be. He doesn’t simply make an error because the script requires one; he acts out of recognisable, painful human need. In a film full of sharply drawn functional roles, George is the only character who becomes truly painful to watch. He stops being merely useful to the plot and starts arousing pity, discomfort, frustration, and sadness in equal measure.

Around him, the rest of the cast is handled very well indeed. Maurice (Kola Kwariani), the wrestler who also plays chess, is splendidly conceived—one of those supporting figures who enlarge a film’s world simply by existing within it. The sharpshooter Nikki (Timothy Carey) isn’t just a technical instrument but a real presence with his own environment and tone. Johnny (Sterling Hayden), the mastermind, carries authority and intelligence without ever being sentimentalised. And Sherry (Marie Windsor) is particularly interesting: she seems at first glance to be one of the film’s more clear-eyed figures, but she consistently misreads almost everyone around her. What she has isn’t deep insight but tactical instinct. She can smell weakness and money, but she mistakes cynicism for intelligence.

That’s one of the film’s subtler strengths. Its characters don’t only betray one another—they misread one another. Each person grasps only a usable fragment of the others. The film’s human world isn’t just morally unstable; it’s epistemically unstable. People act on partial readings, self-serving readings, frightened readings. That becomes one more source of pressure on a plan that was never as airtight as it appeared.

Kubrick reinforces this with precise, controlled filmmaking throughout. In the scene where Sherry pressures George to reveal details about the robbery, there’s an audible ticking beneath the conversation—like a metronome or a clock. It’s a small detail, but a telling one. The sound fuses domestic pressure with operational time, making the heist feel present in the room before it’s properly begun. That’s a miniature of the whole film: human conversation taking place inside a mechanism that doesn’t stop.

Visually, the film is equally effective. Lucien Ballard’s black and white is hard, clean, and sharply defined—not a foggy or voluptuous noir look, but something more severe, more controlled, more lucid. Interiors, corridors, offices, and track spaces all have a crisp, almost operational quality. Kubrick doesn’t try to display the racetrack as a fully expansive world. He gives us enough of its nodes for the place to exist convincingly: loudspeakers, windows, bars, gates, offices, corridors, snippets of horses in motion. Space is reduced to function, and that reduction suits the film perfectly.

That said, this is also where the film reveals its limits. The Killing is directed with real intelligence, but not yet with full visual inevitability. Kubrick is already a strong constructor, but not yet fully the director whose framing, camera placement, and movement declare themselves with unmistakable authority from shot to shot. The signature is clearly emerging, but the full sovereign force of his visual authorship isn’t yet constant. One can already see the director Kubrick will become—in Paths of Glory the following year, and then in everything that followed—but one isn’t yet fully overwhelmed by him.

It’s also easy to see why one would want to revisit it. The film simply works. It has no real slackness, no conspicuous false notes, no major structural blur. It feels complete. It’s also refreshingly short—a reminder that a thoroughly satisfying film doesn’t need to overextend itself in order to feel substantial. In that sense alone, The Killing is a useful lesson in economy.

What lingers most is the film’s final tension between two uncomfortable readings. One part of me comes away thinking that crime doesn’t pay. Another comes away thinking something worse: not that the universe punishes wrongdoing, but that it’s cold, indifferent, and under no obligation to let intelligence become success. That’s what finally gives the film its aftertaste. Control is real. Planning is real. Intelligence is real. But none of them is sovereign. They improve the odds; they don’t abolish contingency.

The Killing doesn’t merely tell the story of a heist gone wrong. It tells the story of a plan that almost works, of men who distort it, and of a reality that doesn’t need to oppose human control in order to nullify it. That’s not just noir fatalism. It’s something colder.

USA | 1956 | 84 MINUTES | 1.66:1 | BLACK & WHITE | ENGLISH

Cast & Crew

director: Stanley Kubrick.
writer: Stanley Kubrick (dialogue by Jim Thompson; based on the novel ‘Clean Break’ by Lionel White).
starring: Sterling Hayden, Coleen Gray, Vince Edwards, Marie Windsor, Elisha Cook Jr., Jay C. Flippen & Timothy Carey.

The post THE KILLING (1956) appeared first on Frame Rated.

Decades after he first expressed his love for New York City—a love cemented across so many of his films—Woody Allen transmuted that same woozy, romantic wistfulness towards Paris. The writer-director’s 21st-century work has been largely derided, with only a handful of films rising above middling reviews. Midnight in Paris is one of those rare late-stage successes, earning critical acclaim and securing box-office gold. It’s easy to see why from the opening minutes; the picturesque montage depicts this marvellous city so charmingly that it’s enough to make one swoon.

This intoxicating romanticism has infected the protagonist, Gil Pender (Owen Wilson), who both is and isn’t a typical Allen lead. Given the character’s career and life regrets, it’s easy to imagine the writer-director in the role himself. In fact, it isn’t always easy to distinguish Gil from other Allen protagonists, especially considering his writing profession and tendency to overthink. But having Wilson in the lead doesn’t just make sense logistically (Allen would’ve been far too old to portray this period in his character’s life); it makes the entire film. There’s a lightness, an underappreciated grace, to Wilson’s mannerisms. Not only is it his shining quality, it’s a trait he shares with the film itself.

As Gil, Wilson lacks pretentiousness even when despondently bemoaning his cushy life. He could’ve been a novelist constantly trying to improve his craft (without seeking fame or fortune, of course), but instead, he’s a big-shot Hollywood screenwriter. It’s a phenomenal problem to have. Equally distressing is his marriage to the stunning Inez (Rachel McAdams), who doesn’t understand him whatsoever. In one amusing scene, Gil realises the main thing they share is a tepid interest in Indian food—well, not all Indian food, he’s quick to note. But some kinds. The bread, for one thing. Well, maybe just the bread.

He relates this depressing reality to Adriana (Marion Cotillard), a mistress of Pablo Picasso who, in this film, is the inspiration for the painter’s 1928 work The Bather / La Baigneuse. Adriana is a work of fiction, but she’s very real to Gil, as are all his artistic icons. Each appears to him at night, when he suddenly finds himself submerged in 1920s Paris. Allen doesn’t impose strict, or even specific, rules as to how Gil crosses through time; it’s not as if he wanders through a specific alleyway and emerges in a different era.

To trigger this nightly time travel, the protagonist simply embarks on a late-night walk, revelling in the glory of a city that cries out to his soul—a solitary tune no one else in the present day appreciates. On his travels, he encounters such artistic powerhouses as Ernest Hemingway (Corey Stoll), Picasso (Marcial Di Fonzo Bo), F. Scott Fitzgerald (Tom Hiddleston), Gertrude Stein (Kathy Bates), and Salvador Dalí (Adrien Brody). But each morning, he’s re-immersed in a present for which he has no affection.

A prolific screenwriting career and a stunningly gorgeous fiancée are Gil’s greatest woes. By all rights, we should hate this man. And yet, Wilson is so easygoing that he adds a surprising degree of charm to this neurotic, introspective protagonist. Allen also keenly understands the synergy between Gil’s dialogue and Wilson’s portrayal—which included the sage choice of changing Gil from an East Coast intellectual to a more salt-of-the-earth Californian. Gil might know all the major movers and shakers of the 1920s, but he’s hardly snobbish.

When he struggles to hide how little he cares for the company of Inez’s friends, preferring to wander Parisian streets and reflect on his life, it takes very little to sympathise with him. This is especially true given that his ideas of a day well-spent (and his late-night visions) remain unappreciated by those around him. Gil’s in-laws are as insufferably materialistic and vapid as their daughter, while Inez’s pretentious friend, Paul (Michael Sheen), has all the hallmarks of a self-absorbed pseudo-intellectual.

Paul monologues at length about art and culture, yet it’s all just information in the end. There’s no longing there, whereas for Gil, it’s all about longing. No woman could ever compare to the sultry romanticism of the past for this weary protagonist, who feels beleaguered by the modern world. Of course, these rather one-note—not to mention overplayed—notions become tiring. Allen has made these ideas a core part of his artistic output, so it’s impossible not to notice how much he’s riffing on dependable motifs from previous films. This lends a caricatural quality to the characters, from Paul’s condescension to Gil’s self-centred musings and Inez’s dismissiveness.

While everyone in Gil’s vicinity is callous to the point of extremity, he is helpless to combat their negativity. His mild-mannered pleas to take a walk on the wild side are destined to fall on deaf ears. It makes sense, after all, given that he feels cosmically doomed to live in a timeline that won’t cohere around his sensibilities.

And yet, despite the sorrow endemic to the film’s core, there is a remarkable grace with which Allen and Wilson glide through this narrative. Not only is the pace appreciably rapid, but it knows when to hold on a good joke, letting awkwardness diffuse like a bad smell slowly emanating through a small space. Once Gil tastes the 1920s, he is reinvigorated; not even Paul and Inez’s condescension can dim his optimism. Wilson comes alive in these scenes; he’s at his best when enamoured by the world around him. It’s like watching a child set loose in an otherwise empty toy store, where every object is loot for the taking.

A typical Allen protagonist would’ve made this film unbearable by constantly whining and wallowing in self-pity. Gil isn’t resigned to his fate; he just wants to be left alone to muse on the beauty of Paris and how different his life would’ve been if he had lived here. Even if the screenplay sidelines its characters into one-note clichés, Wilson’s wide-eyed wonder is as charming as the colourful artists he encounters.

There is magic in this world, vibrant enough that one doesn’t feel the need to question its parameters, and fragile enough that it could disappear at any moment. In that delicate balance, the city and its characters come alive. It’s a feeling stronger than any relationship or moment of drama. It outshines the characters and their dilemmas, and though that dampens the storytelling pay-offs, it allows the film to move with a nimble grace that only Allen’s screenwriting chops could’ve achieved. Though he doesn’t act in this film, his helpless romanticism is as keenly felt here as it was decades ago.

FRANCE • SPAIN • USA | 2011 | 94 MINUTES | 1.85:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH • FRENCH • SPANISH • GERMAN

Cast & Crew

writer & director: Woody Allen.
starring: Owen Wilson, Rachel McAdams, Marion Cotillard, Michael Sheen, Tom Hiddleston, Alison Pill, Corey Stoll, Adrien Brody & Kathy Bates.

The post MIDNIGHT IN PARIS (2011) appeared first on Frame Rated.

Attack the Block is so much more than the teen horror sci-fi comedy thriller it pretends to be. It works brilliantly across all those genres while merging the personal with the political—all without spoiling a rollicking good adventure. Keeping a story both emotive and entertaining while tackling serious issues like prejudice and injustice is a skilled balancing act, but it’s something good genre cinema has facilitated for half a century.

Prior to making his feature debut with Attack the Block, writer-director Joe Cornish was best known as half of the comedy duo Adam and Joe. He’s since written and directed The Kid Who Would Be King (2019) and contributed to screenplays for high-profile films like The Adventures of Tintin (2011) and Ant-Man (2015). More recently, he oversaw the short-lived Netflix adaptation of Lockwood & Co. (2023), based on Jonathan Stroud’s popular novels.

Recently, Cornish’s name has been linked to the prospect of a Disney-free Doctor Who reboot. While likely a fan-generated rumour, it’s one I’m happy to perpetuate given the film’s resounding resonance—not least because it gave Jodie Whittaker an early career lead. There’s another connection in Nick Frost, one of many cast and crew members who cut their teeth on British TV comedies like Spaced (1999–2001). This background perhaps explains why the humour works so well without detracting from the drama.

Cornish’s central strength is his ability to convey character while driving a narrative, grounding both in authentic real-world experiences, no matter how fantastical the story. The idea for Attack the Block grew from his own experience of being mugged; he realised the young perpetrator was just as scared as he was. Viewing them both as victims of circumstance, he felt a certain empathy, wondering what would happen if something unexpected—like an alien spaceship crashing—interrupted that moment. Would they recognise their common humanity and stand together? That initial concept survives more or less intact.

While walking home from her nursing shift, Sam (Jodie Whittaker) is accosted by a group of five ‘hoodies’ led by Moses (John Boyega in his feature debut). Midway through the mugging, a meteorite strikes a nearby car. Rather than succumbing to awe, Moses seizes the opportunity to search the wreckage for valuables. This allows Sam to escape as a strange creature leaps from the car, attacks Moses, and flees. He leads his crew in pursuit, eventually cornering and killing it in a disused shed. Realising the creature is something ‘super-strange’, they believe it might have rarity value—though they’ve no idea what it is, or what a dead one is worth.

They take the creature to Ron’s (Nick Frost) cannabis farm, which occupies an upper floor of their imposing tower block. Ron agrees to stash it, but while there, Moses is recruited as a drug mule by Hi-Hatz (Jumayn Hunter), the boss of the gang that rules the block. With slick efficiency, Cornish evokes Moses’s world, its power dynamics, and its physical environment. Of course, the creature in the car was merely the vanguard; the ensuing alien attack disrupts everything.

Because it’s Bonfire Night, the arrival of the aliens in a meteor shower goes largely unnoticed. There’s a palpable influence from The Day of the Triffids, a debt acknowledged by naming the central high-rise Wyndham Tower. There’s also a Wells Court, a nod to the progenitor of the alien invasion genre. Keen-eyed viewers will enjoy spotting several other references in the estate signage.

While I didn’t spot a ‘Kneale Square’, there’s a touch of The Quatermass Xperiment (1955) in the way the alien threat develops in an unremarkable urban setting. In this case, it’s the largely abandoned Heygate Estate, filmed just as the last residents were moved out prior to its controversial redevelopment. In this way, the film commemorates a vanished architectural icon (or eyesore, depending on your view) of 1970s London.

The block and its surroundings are the whole world for most who live there. It has its limitations, but it’s where they’ve grown up and built a community. Their experience of the wider world comes through screens, so anything extraordinary feels alien. Conversely, when they venture outside the estate, they are often viewed as ‘aliens’ themselves. There are shades of Ridley Scott’s Alien (1979) here, with predatory beasts lurking in austere corridors and flickering shadows. The block itself becomes a character in its own right, much like a haunted house in the Gothic tradition or the Nostromo spaceship, gluing the narrative together.

Core themes of race, class, and unity reinforce the scaffolding. Attack the Block is a prime example of how genre cinema can tell socially relevant stories by blending commentary with the sci-fi thriller format. On one level, it’s a coming-of-age drama. Much like folk tales dealing with rites of passage, the script employs archetypal motifs delivered in a contemporary format. These conventions are established and then subverted to explore identity.

The characters fulfil mythic roles as outlined in Vladimir Propp’s  Morphology of the Folktale, published in 1928. . The aliens serve as the primary ‘villains’, representing an external threat. They are mysterious, terrifying, and almost invincible. Their design—a simian-canine fusion with a matte-black silhouette and glowing fangs—was developed with Terry Notary who, having worked on Avatar (2009), was more used to motion capture but enjoyed the physicality of performing with a prosthetic suit. Their arrival disrupts normality and to find a solution Moses must enter Ron’s weed farm, a liminal space where worlds overlap, where the conscious meets the subconscious and the privileged middle class mix with the underdogs. It fulfils the role of the fairy tale forest.

Moses is our ‘hero’, embarking on a quest to protect his block. Though initially portrayed as a criminal, he’s revealed to be brave, determined, and resourceful. The image of a Black hero clinging to a Union Flag snagged on the broken windows of a devastated block remains a defining image of 21st-century British cinema.

Conversely, gang leader Hi-Hatz is the ‘false hero’. Initially appearing dominant and charismatic, his selfish motivations are revealed when he exploits others for personal gain. He is a failed leader, echoing the oppressive governments that crumble in the face of rapid change. Sam acts as the ‘donor’, providing medical assistance and acting as a moral compass, while Brewis (Luke Treadaway), a middle-class ‘white boy’, serves as the ‘dispatcher’. His scientific knowledge identifies the aliens’ vulnerability, driving character choices and encouraging the hero to take decisive, high-stakes action.

Ethnicity also informs character responses. In terms of racism and class prejudice, the boys are often referred to as ‘Black’ and ‘hoodies’ in a way that suggests they’re viewed as threatening or criminal simply because of their appearance.

The theme of cross-cultural relationships is dissected through the lens of Sam and the Black youngsters. At first, there’s inevitable mistrust and tension, but they eventually accept her as part of their group and she proves herself a valuable ally. There’s an overarching exploration of complex identities and the importance of combining individual strengths to create unity in the face of adversity. I like to imagine this is an unofficial Doctor Who story where Sam isn’t a nurse, but the Doctor operating undercover. She does exactly what the Thirteenth Doctor does: improves those around her and encourages them to do the right thing for the greater good, even at mortal risk to themselves.

Throughout, character choice is deployed as a powerful storytelling tool that reflects the backgrounds of the young protagonists. Moses is a gang member whose kudos relies on being perceived as daring—which is why he leads the mugging of Sam in the opening scenes. At that point, his identity is tied to the approval of his clique for a sense of belonging in a precarious life. However, his need to step up and protect his turf eventually shifts into a desire to value and protect the people who create that sense of place. His attitude subtly alters, becoming inclusive rather than separatist. These choices lead him into conflict with the aliens and the gang hierarchy, eventually forcing him to confront his own core values.

Concentrating on young characters allows for greater potential to show growth. Joe Cornish believed he could write youth because he’d been one himself. Beyond drawing from his own experiences, he continually sought input from his excellent young cast to keep the characters authentic and grounded. He also visited local youth clubs near the film’s setting, asking real teens how they’d react to his scripted situations. He even lifted some of their comments as direct quotes for the dialogue.

The director has also discussed the ‘emotional authenticity’ he hoped to capture so characters feel like real people with complex motivations that the audience can relate to. Although dialogue is vital, he reiterates that film is a visual medium and that the images should tell the story just as much as the script. Thomas Townend’s cinematography ensures Attack the Block looks superb, using a variety of visual textures such as low light pierced by firework flashes and glowing smoke.

The somewhat unpredictable character arcs also direct the flow of events, with each main character undergoing a transformation as they learn to work together. Dialogue plays an important part here; the language used changes according to shifts in relationships. For example, the threatening terminology and Americanised slang used by the boys is dropped as they get to know Sam, eventually becoming more casual and friendly. She’s no longer an outsider.

The production design team, headed by Marcus Rowland, ensures the mise-en-scène delivers an unspoken narrative. The interiors of the flats quickly establish the characters’ backgrounds and familial relations. The shots of their bedrooms allow these personal spaces to act as portraits of their interests—which, especially in Moses’s case, are highly contradictory to their public image. When Sam sees inside Moses’s home, she assumes he has a younger brother and is surprised to learn he lives alone and is just 15 years old.

We see the young characters’ homes when they briefly return to collect weapons. The fact that they all own machetes, baseball bats, and samurai swords is an economical way of using objects as narrative devices. We instantly understand that these teenagers lead lives where possessing offensive weapons has been normalised. By this time, we know them better and understand they aren’t ‘bad’ people, but are dealing with harsh social conditions. We might ask why it’s necessary for children to defend themselves with deadly weapons; this could be understood as a metaphor for a community structure under attack from government policies, such as social housing issues and the controversial Heygate redevelopment plans.

Interestingly, the aliens are presented as ‘The Other’—the same way the underprivileged, predominantly Black community is often perceived by wider society. Just as certain groups are labelled as ‘The Other’ to portray them as a threat, the film uses the aliens to mirror this marginalisation.

Through dialogue, comedy, and action, Cornish explores race, class, and social inequality in contemporary urban society. By presenting a group of young, working-class characters as heroes, he challenges traditional assumptions about who gets to be a protagonist, using a familiar alien invasion plot as a metaphor for the challenges faced by marginalised communities in real life.

Moses is initially presented as a tough, streetwise kid who mugs a woman in the opening scene. However, as the story unfolds, we learn he’s a complex and sympathetic figure struggling to find a purpose in a world that’s given him few opportunities. Similarly, Sam initially sees the boys as a threat but eventually comes to understand their perspective. Even the drug grower, Ron, is portrayed as a sympathetic character who is manipulated by the gang leader, Hi-Hatz.

The initial theatrical run was a box office disaster, recouping only about a tenth of its $10M-plus budget. This was largely because its well-observed rendering of British social sub-strata was simply too ‘alien’ for the US market. Its character turnarounds subverted expectations, presenting an initially unsympathetic group that we slowly grow to care about. It has since garnered critical acclaim and a cult following. A sequel is currently in development, helmed by Joe Cornish with John Boyega returning as the grown-up Moses. Attack the Block isn’t only hugely entertaining; it sympathetically confronts real-world issues in a well-executed genre piece that remains relevant 15 years after the block was attacked… and then demolished.

UK • FRANCE | 2011 | 88 MINUTES | 2.35:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH

Cast & Crew

writer & director: Joe Cornish.
starring: John Boyega, Jodie Whittaker, Alex Esmail, Franz Drameh, Leeon Jones, Simon Howard, Luke Treadaway, Jumayn Hunter & Nick Frost.

The post ATTACK THE BLOCK (2011) appeared first on Frame Rated.

The 2020s have been an exceptional decade for mainstream horror, with a troupe of new filmmakers redefining the genre’s landscape. Osgood Perkins cultivated a distinct brand of somnambulistic dread and eerie atmosphere with Longlegs (2024) and Keeper (2025), while Zach Cregger established himself as an exciting new voice by marrying visceral thrills with gallows humour in Barbarian (2022) and Weapons (2024). Yet, while these names dominated conversations, writer-director Damian McCarthy lingered just beyond the spotlight. Demonstrating an affinity for folkloric retribution and languid unease, the Irish filmmaker earned admiration among horror aficionados with his sophomore effort, Oddity (2024). His latest work continues his fascination with the supernatural and his unique ability to induce nightmarish scares. Combining Celtic tragedy with a meditation on childhood guilt, Hokum cements McCarthy’s status as one of the most intriguing voices in contemporary horror.

Set against the idyllic landscapes of rural Ireland, the story follows Ohm Bauman (Adam Scott), a successful novelist drawn to dark tales of human suffering. In the wake of his parents’ untimely deaths, he travels to The Bilberry Woods Hotel to scatter their ashes. Upon his arrival, Fiona (Florence Ordesh) offers to help Bauman find a meaningful resting place for them. When he casually inquires about the honeymoon suite, she recounts an unsettling folktale: according to local lore, the room remains closed to the public because it functions as a metaphysical prison for a malevolent witch. Bauman initially dismisses the tale as superstitious nonsense, treating it as potential material for the epilogue of his popular “Conquistador Trilogy”. However, as the weekend progresses, a dramatic event forces the writer to stay in Ireland longer than expected. When he discovers Fiona has mysteriously disappeared, Bauman becomes determined to uncover the truth. As his investigation draws him toward the hotel’s forbidden spaces, he discovers the witch rumoured to haunt the honeymoon suite mightn’t be a legend after all.

After years of endearing himself to audiences with his easy affability in NBC’s Parks and Recreation (2009-2015) and the comic neurosis of Apple TV’s Severance, Adam Scott delivers a sharp and satisfying turn as the cantankerous yet sympathetic novelist. Leaning into his strengths as a performer with an ironic detachment well-versed in deadpan humour, it’s refreshing to see the actor as a curmudgeonly arsehole. At his most abrasive, he’s casually condescending to his admirers and dismantles the confidence of aspiring writers with a cruelty that feels compulsive. Yet, beneath his defensive cynicism is a man defined by loss. The burden of his mother’s premature death and an abusive upbringing has manifested as an emotional withdrawal that renders Bauman inaccessible. It’s a multi-layered performance; Scott manages the difficult balance of making an unlikable character compelling by revealing the vulnerability behind his hostility.

Between his unnerving debut, Caveat (2020), and his breakthrough Oddity, Damian McCarthy steadily refined his particular strain of folkloric terror into something palatable for mainstream audiences. The filmmaker finds a harmonious balance with Hokum, rigorously constructing a supernatural tale that retains his distinct idiosyncrasies and moments of genuine tension. At first glance, the familiar setup invites superficial comparisons to Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining (1980) and Mikael Håfström’s 1408 (2007). The isolated milieu of The Bilberry Woods Hotel, coupled with the author’s own psychological decay, is unmistakably indebted to Stephen King’s oeuvre. Yet, what distinguishes McCarthy’s screenplay is that it’s steeped in rich Celtic mythology. Rather than simply borrowing the conventions of familiar haunted house tales, it enriches them by layering folkloric retribution with deep characterisation. The result is a careful restoration that feels terrifyingly traditional instead of derivative.

Although Hokum is a deceptively simple piece of storytelling, that doesn’t detract from the remarkable craftsmanship on display. McCarthy is eminently skilled at fomenting suspense, locating unspeakable sights in the most unassuming imagery. This pairs wonderfully with Colm Hogan’s minimalism, which creates a truly disquieting atmosphere. During sequences of Bauman innocuously scouring the darkened corners of the honeymoon suite, Hogan composes his images with his subject surrounded by a disconcerting amount of negative space. The interplay of light and shadow is weaponised to great effect, designed to misdirect the audience’s attention and subtly invite our imaginations to populate the darkness with our own demons. The most haunting moments occur during the extended passages of Bauman examining the building’s layout. As indistinguishable silhouettes and horrifying spectres momentarily materialise just beyond the subtle glow of his oil lamp, they catch the eye before dissolving back into obscurity.

The time spent with Bauman trapped in the darkness certainly creeps beneath the skin, but it’s in the curated interplay of Ciara McKenna’s set decoration and Til Frohlich’s production design where McCarthy orchestrates his most resonant moments of dread. The outdated hotel is full of personality, and the filmmaker has a unique ability to turn its whimsical fixtures into nightmare fuel. Whether it’s the cherubic engravings malevolently leering over the fireplace or handmade clay figurines arranged into an ominous diorama, each ostensibly kitsch detail is repurposed into something spiritually oppressive. Perhaps the most unnerving moment occurs shortly after Bauman’s nightmarish visions of his childhood come to the forefront. A recurring motif of a grotesquely distorted character hosting a children’s television show will undoubtedly burrow into the audience’s subconscious long after the credits roll. Admittedly, none of these manufactured frights achieves the visceral shock of the flashlight scene in Oddity. However, McCarthy demonstrates a confident understanding of the mechanics of horror, deploying these moments with enough precision to jolt the audience.

Despite the unrelenting atmosphere of suffocating dread, Hokum is also deliciously funny. Much like the gallows humour that underpinned his previous work, McCarthy cannot resist puncturing moments of terror with shards of disquieting comedy. An absurd image of narcissistic goats springing onto parked cars to admire themselves in the polished paintwork will certainly elicit a nervous laugh. However, it’s Bauman’s tentative relationship with Jerry (David Wilmot) that breathes much-needed levity into the 100-minute runtime. The eccentric woodsman is equally burdened by past traumas but attempts to outrun his demons by experimenting with powdered psychedelic mushrooms and moonshine. Their exchanges are tinged with an understated absurdity; it’s precisely this offbeat humour that prevents Hokum from succumbing to the oppressive weight of its own morbidity.

Beneath its atmosphere and flashes of brutality, McCarthy constructs a compelling examination of how unresolved grief can manifest in dangerous ways. Trauma isn’t new terrain for the director; it has been a consistent preoccupation throughout his work. Caveat found its leads struggling with impairment following a traumatic event, while Darcy was consumed by grief in Oddity. Though none of those characters achieved true closure, Bauman does manage to find catharsis in the basement of the hotel. Without venturing into spoiler territory, it’s only through confronting his fears that the author reconciles with his past. It often feels the genre has become oversaturated with meditations on trauma instead of meaningful explorations of the emotional spectrum. Hokum doesn’t entirely escape this malaise, nor does it break new ground. However, it serves as a reminder that thematic recurrence isn’t necessarily an issue. Rather, it’s the treatment of the material that determines whether it resonates.

IRELAND • UAE • USA | 2026 | 107 MINUTES | 2:39:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH

Cast & Crew

writer & director: Damian McCarthy.
starring: Adam Scott, Peter Coonan, Florence Ordesh & David Wilmot.

The post HOKUM (2026) appeared first on Frame Rated.

On a bustling London morning, the discovery of a World War II-era bomb at a construction site sends the city into a frenzy. Local police, headed by Chief Superintendent Zuzana (Gugu Mbatha-Raw), section off the city centre, evacuating everyone from the area. Meanwhile, bomb expert Major Will Tranter (Aaron Taylor-Johnson) begins a careful examination of the warhead. A few blocks away, master thief Karalis (Theo James) and his team, including a man known only as ‘X’ (Sam Worthington), use the chaos to break into the vault of a local bank.

Fuze, which premiered at the 2025 Toronto International Film Festival, is a pulse-pounding thriller about the police’s rush to disarm the explosive and the thieves’ attempt to escape with the bank’s jewels without getting caught.

Director David Mackenzie (Hell or High Water) is no stranger to the genre. His recent release, Relay (2024), showcased a similar aptitude for making every small detail a tension-inducing moment. With Fuze, Mackenzie dives right into the chaotic atmosphere of the bomb’s discovery. The first 45 minutes or so are engrossing; I felt as though I couldn’t take a breath without causing some unforeseen catastrophe on screen. From Tranter’s meticulous bomb-diffusing process, which places safety above all else, to the intricate methods Karalis and his team use to knock down a brick wall and drill into a safe, each moment plays with exceptional tension and intrigue.

This is one of Fuze’s greatest strengths. By skipping the backstory and jumping straight into the action, the film allows the audience to be on the same wavelength as the characters, discovering obstacles as they do. However, this lack of insight is also the film’s greatest weakness.

As the twists and turns are unveiled, it becomes much harder to stay invested in the characters because we know nothing about them. Who are we supposed to be rooting for? Even as more comes to light, it still feels like too little to understand what’s driving them beyond money. The unoriginality of the leads eventually stifles the incredible attention to detail that propelled the film from its opening shot.

Ben Hopkins’ screenplay, while lacking depth, does its job in creating a tense thriller. The twists—though there are too many—are well hidden (save for one obvious moment). The unplanned obstacles that threaten to ruin the heist provide enough action to sustain the brisk 96-minute runtime.

Much of the credit goes to the actors. Perhaps they had access to backstories we aren’t privy to, but they’re fully committed. Aaron Taylor-Johnson carries the same cold intensity he brought to his supporting role in Tenet (2020), but Tranter’s overt compassion for his colleagues pervades every decision, making him a worthy lead.

Theo James (The Monkey) is solid as the criminal leader—calculating, yet at times so far out of his depth that it becomes comical. I’d hoped for more from Sam Worthington (Avatar: Fire and Ash), but unfortunately, his character doesn’t even earn a name. Worthington provides a gravitas that few others can muster; he’s constantly suspicious of everyone.

“You put a tracker on him?” one of his co-conspirators asks. “I put a tracker in all of your new clothes,” Worthington’s character replies. “I don’t trust any of you.”

Worthington’s conviction gives us a great deal; it’s just a shame we don’t see more of it.

Even the smaller background characters give their all. Alexander Arnold (not to be confused with the Liverpool right-back) is brilliant as Corporal Martin, a “green” member of the bomb team whose attention to detail proves vital. Gugu Mbatha-Raw has too little screen time but remains a competent foil to the heist team. Elham Ehsas also surprises as Rahim, a tenant in the building used to break into the bank. With a cast this large in a movie that isn’t a minute too long, it can be hard to fight for presence, but they make it work.

On a technical level, Fuze succeeds, namely through Tony Doogan’s original score and Matt Mayer’s editing. As a thriller, the film works because of the effort made in post-production. One cut made me physically jump out of my seat. The tension earned from the editing and the music haunting the heist is masterful. I only wish the script could match that level.

The heist serves its purpose, keeping us glued to the screen, but the script’s lack of character development prevents the film from being something truly great. By the closing flashback, I was at a loss as to what revelations Fuze was meant to be offering.

At times, the film feels stuck trying to be more than just a thriller, injecting comedic moments that don’t always land. There’s plenty of room for social commentary on British imperialism that’s simply left untapped, but perhaps I’m looking for depth that isn’t intended to be there. At its heart, Fuze is a fun heist film—a great action flick to catch at the cinema, or even on a seat-back screen during your next flight.

UK | 2025 | 96 MINUTES | 2.39:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH

Cast & Crew

director: David Mackenzie.
writer: Ben Hopkins.
starring: Aaron Taylor-Johnson, Theo James, Gugu Mbatha-Raw, Sam Worthington, Saffron Hocking, Elham Ehsas, Shaun Mason, Nabil Elouahabi, Alexander Arnold, Honor Swinton Byrne, Luke Mably, Iain Fletcher & Samuel Oatley.

The post FUZE (2025) appeared first on Frame Rated.

One early summer morning, a young widower (John Magaro) rushes his children out of the house for a spontaneous road trip. “Pretend there’s a fire,” he tells Ella (Molly Belle Wright). “What would you grab first?” “A picture of Mom,” she replies.

As he piles Ella, her younger brother Charlie (Wyatt Solis), and their dog Rex into the car, the local sheriff places a foreclosure notice on their home. The engine fails to start, forcing him and Ella to push the vehicle down the street to jump-start it—a moment echoing the Hoovers in Little Miss Sunshine (2006). Their destination is Nebraska, though their father won’t say why. Omaha, which debuted at the 2025 Sundance Film Festival and has now entered wide release, chronicles this cross-country journey of a family navigating grief and an uncertain future.

Cole Webley makes his directorial debut from a script by Robert Machoian, who first conceived the project in 2008. While Omaha bears all the hallmarks of an indie production, Webley appears remarkably assured behind the camera. He allows the cast full control, letting the lens linger as they process the emotions and choices that propel the film’s minimalist plot.

In an uncharacteristic leading role, John Magaro (Past Lives) commands the screen with a vulnerable portrayal of a grieving father. From the opening scene, he’s tender and loving, yet a persistent darkness hangs over him. When his daughter catches him speaking to his late wife, we see a man truly lost. His fits of anger and aloofness frequently clash with his paternal instincts; Magaro navigates these conflicting temperaments with ease, adding a heavy emotional toll to the journey. His performance fuels the tension surrounding the trip’s mysterious conclusion.

Yet, despite Magaro’s excellence, the film belongs to Molly Belle Wright. Omaha is most memorable as Ella’s coming-of-age story—the tale of a nine-year-old forced to grow up far too soon. Her first words upon waking are, “How’s Charlie?” In the wake of her mother’s death, Ella has been thrust into the role of caretaker, not because her father is absent, but because she recognises the maternal void her brother needs filled. Her scepticism regarding her father’s plans informs her every move; she longs to be “in the know” and adopts adult responsibilities, such as paying at the petrol station or buying her brother an ice cream sundae.

Belle Wright’s performance is reminiscent of Frankie Corio in Aftersun (2022), portraying a child enjoying a holiday while quietly weighing the profound sadness consuming her father. Both young actresses possess a gravitas beyond their years, portraying characters unable to enjoy childhood without the weight of the world’s sorrows. It’s heartbreaking to watch Ella, particularly in those rare moments when she can finally stop being a guardian and just be a child.

In one powerful scene at the Utah Salt Flats, Ella and Charlie take Rex to fly a kite across the plains while their father weeps in the car. The camera follows the children as they run with glee, leaving the pain behind. It’s a delightful, blissful sequence that begins with echoes of Nicolas Roeg’s Walkabout (1971), before morphing into something more joyful—akin to an examination of life in a Terrence Malick film.

One of Omaha’s greatest strengths is how it toys with audience expectations. A heavy tension permeates every scene; we suspect where the story is headed but dread arriving. Webley uses this to his advantage, ensuring that even the most mundane moments—the children playing in a motel pool, climbing in a McDonald’s play area, or seeing a lion at the Omaha zoo—carry significant weight. These vignettes provide a charming contrast to the film’s otherwise uneasy atmosphere.

Despite an 84-minute runtime, the pace occasionally flags. While Machoian’s screenplay cleverly uses unspoken tension to drive the narrative, the constant atmospheric shots can feel tedious, occasionally leaning more towards documentary than drama. It’s a credit to the actors that they sustain interest despite a lack of traditional plot engines.

In contrast to the slow-burn journey, Omaha ends abruptly. After providing such a raw, intimate look at the family, the film whisks us away from the characters with startling speed, leaving the viewer satisfied by the journey but perhaps conflicted by the conclusion.

However, the film’s biggest surprise is saved for the final frames. A postscript regarding Nebraska law reveals the story’s real-world inspiration. Withholding this context until the end allows the film to maintain its ambiguity while ultimately honouring those affected. Omaha thus emerges as more than just a moving portrait of grief; it’s a hidden slice of an obscure period in the American Midwest.

USA | 2025 | 84 MINUTES | 1.78:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH

Cast & Crew

director: Cole Webley.
writer: Robert Machoian.
starring: John Magaro, Molly Belle Wright, Wyatt Solis, Christina Cooper & Talia Balsam.

The post OMAHA (2025) appeared first on Frame Rated.

For much of the 20th-century, mainstream depictions of witches were confined to a tediously narrow binary. There were the grotesque caricatures stirring cauldrons in shadowy corners, forever immortalised in works such as Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937) and The Wizard of Oz (1939). Alternatively, they were rendered as domesticated enchantresses with contained supernatural abilities, as demonstrated in Bewitched (1964–1972) and The Addams Family (1964–66). An argument could be made that these constraints were due to the Motion Picture Production Code. Until its eventual dissolution in 1968, the Hays Code discouraged any overt depictions of nudity, profanity, excessive violence and—perhaps most tellingly—female agency and sexuality.

Thankfully, the erosion of these archaic constraints initiated a gradual reconfiguration of the archetype. As sexual politics progressed, witches were no longer confined to monstrous or domesticated roles. Rather than a symbol of deviance, witchcraft became a conduit for articulating feminist anxieties. This evolution had already begun to manifest clearly in Rosemary’s Baby (1968), but Season of the Witch (1972) developed these themes further, portraying women rejecting conventional societal roles and using witchcraft to awaken sexuality. By the release of The Witches of Eastwick (1987), the occult had been tempered with playful sensibilities, yet it still retained an undercurrent of autonomy and empowerment. It’s within this evolving cinematic lineage of transgressive femininity that The Craft positions itself.

Before being summoned by Columbia Pictures, screenwriter Peter Filardi had already demonstrated a penchant for blending adolescent volatility with supernatural conceits. His debut screenplay for Flatliners (1990) sparked a bidding war and achieved notable commercial success. When producer Douglas Wick (Wolf) subsequently commissioned the writer for another project, Filardi had been developing a narrative loosely inspired by the real-life teenage Satanist Ricky Kasso. However, the studio envisioned a female counterpart to The Lost Boys (1987), reimagining adolescent power through an explicitly gendered lens. When Andrew Fleming (Bad Dreams) came on board as director and co-writer, the project took on a more grounded sensibility, embedding its supernatural framework within the very real struggles of female adolescence. By aligning witchcraft with the feminist movement of the 1990s and the disaffection of Generation X, The Craft emerged as an expression of adolescent rage and a defiant response to social marginalisation.

After struggling with mental health issues, Sarah (Robin Tunney) relocates to Los Angeles with her father and stepmother. Upon enrolling at her new Catholic high school, the troubled teenager is quickly ostracised and treated abhorrently. When a vicious rumour isolates her further, she befriends Nancy (Fairuza Balk), Bonnie (Neve Campbell) and Rochelle (Rachel True). The three young women have formed a coven, practising witchcraft to protect themselves from the horrors of high school. When Sarah inadvertently demonstrates her telekinetic ability during class, she’s inducted into the group. As a quartet, the circle is complete, and their collective power is amplified dramatically. Initially, they tentatively experiment with self-improvement rituals and romance spells. However, as their confidence and supernatural abilities intensify, so too do their cruelty and sadistic impulses.

Much like her breakthrough role in Empire Records (1995), Robin Tunney delivers an emotionally resonant performance as Sarah. The actress initially presents her character as reserved and understandably apprehensive, imbuing the introverted teenager with a gentle fragility. The grief of losing her mother is immediately apparent in the inherent sadness that lingers in her gaze. She’s both vulnerable and isolated—not just emotionally, but physically alienated in her new school. However, as Sarah becomes entangled in the dangerous world of witchcraft, Tunney subtly hints at a deeper strength beneath the surface. She allows the slightest facial expression and casual body movement to communicate her newfound confidence. Her ability to play characters torn between inner turmoil and external pressures would become a defining trait in her career, making her a natural fit for The Practice (1997–2004) and The Mentalist (2008–2015).

In contrast, Fairuza Balk effortlessly transcends the chaos to deliver an unforgettable performance as Nancy. She’s captivating as the volatile leader of the coven, imbuing the character with a magnetic charisma and unpredictable energy. Nancy has suffered deeply and is driven by rage and desperation; her embrace of witchcraft is simultaneously an act of rebellion and a way to assert control over a life that has afforded her very little. Balk’s performance is magnetic, and her face functions as an expressive canvas. The various ways she contorts her features to reveal the character’s vulnerability and capacity for cruelty is hypnotic. The actress continued to demonstrate her talent for portraying troubled women in The Waterboy (1998) and American History X (1998), yet it was The Craft that marked the height of her career as an actress capable of embodying volatility with both fierceness and unpredictability.

It would be remiss not to highlight the supporting cast. In a film dominated by supernatural chaos and intense emotional conflict, Neve Campbell’s turn as Bonnie adds an additional layer of complexity. She offers an understated portrayal of a young girl yearning for both external validation and personal healing. Campbell’s performance would prove to be a pivotal moment; just months after the film’s release, her trajectory changed drastically when she starred in Scream (1996). Her role as Sidney Prescott practically cemented her place as one of the defining horror icons of the decade. Similarly, Skeet Ulrich functions as a catalyst for much of the narrative’s conflict. As the archetypal high-school athlete, Chris, Ulrich subtly infuses the character with an undercurrent of predatory menace. Much like Campbell, his involvement proved to be an early indicator of what was to come; his subsequent role as Billy Loomis in Scream solidified his place in the pantheon of ‘90s horror villains.

Although it never quite ascends to the heights of Carrie (1976) or Heathers (1988), it’s understandable why The Craft has consistently drawn parallels to both. It openly borrows the trajectory of social alienation erupting into anarchic spectacle from Brian De Palma’s supernatural horror, while its fascination with the intoxicating allure of social inclusion owes a conspicuous debt to Michael Lehmann’s cynical comedy. Yet, where Fleming and Filardi’s screenplay distinguishes itself is in its willingness to probe the complexities of adolescence with both empathy and intensity. Rather than reducing the central characters to familiar high-school archetypes, a substantial portion of the 100-minute runtime invests in their individuality. Sarah’s vulnerability is shaped by her history of suicide attempts and the trauma of losing her mother; Nancy’s volatility is a product of her impoverished background and abusive home; Bonnie’s struggle with body dysmorphia stems from severe scarring; and Rochelle’s experience is marked by persistent racial harassment.

When the four teenagers summon the fictional god Manon, they delight in their newfound powers. Initially, they use witchcraft as a form of resistance against those who have marginalised them. Sarah performs a love spell to make Chris desire her, Nancy punishes her abusive stepfather, Bonnie removes her scars, and Rochelle exacts revenge on her tormentor. The great strength of The Craft is that it doesn’t pass judgement on the girls’ actions; they all have legitimate reasons that motivate them. Indeed, Nancy’s thirst for power eventually spirals out of control, resulting in the death of two sexually and physically abusive men. Though the escalation certainly raises moral complications, witnessing the quartet reclaim control feels both emotionally understandable and profoundly relatable—especially when viewed through a contemporary lens.

Despite its strengths, The Craft is not without its shortcomings. It begins as a somewhat grounded supernatural horror, but once the chasm between a morally challenged Sarah and an unhinged Nancy tears the coven apart, the narrative quickly collapses under the weight of its own ambition. During the climactic showdown, the magical chaos reaches a peak where the uneven integration of outdated digital effects creates a visual disconnect. This ultimately weakens the impact of what should be the film’s most powerful moments. Nevertheless, there’s a certain nostalgia embedded in these flaws that enhances the film’s undeniable charm.

To reduce The Craft solely to a revenge fantasy would overlook the more resonant qualities woven into its narrative. Beyond its supernatural trappings lies a celebration of female friendship and a compelling depiction of how camaraderie can become a conduit for identity. One of the most iconic moments encapsulating this is the sleepover sequence. The four girls experiment with their burgeoning abilities through the ritualistic game ‘Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board’. As Rochelle unexpectedly levitates and the girls realise their potential, they collapse to the ground with almost childlike glee. There’s a genuine tenderness during these early sequences that imbues their friendship with a sense of magic that goes far beyond incantations.

Equally resonant is a quieter moment when the girls leave the city on a bus. Fully embodying their newfound confidence, Nancy and Bonnie sport leather jackets and black lipstick, while Sarah and Rochelle wear soft floral dresses and combat boots. As they prepare to disembark, the driver warns them to “watch out for those weirdos”. In an iconic shot, Nancy lowers her sunglasses and unflinchingly responds: “We are the weirdos, mister.” It’s this reclamation of otherness that underscores why The Craft continues to resonate three decades after its release. It reassures audiences that being unconventional may be isolating, but when embraced collectively, it can transform into a source of strength and belonging.

The term ‘witch’ has historically been used as cultural shorthand for women who challenge societal hierarchies or male authority. The same hysteria that fuelled the Salem witch trials of the late-17th-century found an unexpected echo during the release of The Craft. Its depiction of teenage girls experimenting with occult power provoked a degree of moral unease; the film was met with suspicion and even attracted a higher age certificate than expected. Regardless, this did little to hinder its commercial success. Released in a year dominated by blockbuster spectacles such as Independence Day and Mission: Impossible, it grossed a staggering $55M against its $15M production budget. In the wake of this success, it quickly amassed a devoted cult following and contributed to a renewed interest in Wicca. Moreover, it helped normalise witchcraft within popular media, paving the way for television series including Sabrina the Teenage Witch (1996-2003) and Charmed (1998-2006).

USA | 1996 | 101 MINUTES | 1:85:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH • FRENCH

Cast & Crew

director: Andrew Fleming.
writers: Peter Filardi & Andrew Fleming.
starring: Robin Tunney, Fairuza Balk, Neve Campbell, Rachel True & Skeet Ulrich.

The post THE CRAFT (1996) appeared first on Frame Rated.

By 1967, Lee Marvin was a bona fide A-list actor with the professional stature to demand veto power over scripts and final cuts. When he signed up to star in Point Blank, he famously deferred those contractual rights to a fledgling British director embarking on his first US film. John Boorman stepped up to the mark and, with significant input from his leading man, produced a visually arresting thriller that became a genre milestone.

Point Blank has never looked better than in this new 4K digital restoration, supervised and approved by Boorman, as the latest title to join the Criterion Collection on Ultra HD and Blu-ray. The saturation and grading are impressive, shifting from muted greys to acid greens, and cool blues to the warmest reds. The film’s use of colour is not just gorgeous but narrative-driven.

This Technicolor take on noir visual language follows a straightforward plot. A gangster named Walker (Marvin), fresh from a heist, is double-crossed by his partner, Mal Reece (John Vernon). After shooting Walker and leaving him for dead, Reece flees with the loot. We join the story as Walker miraculously regains consciousness in a cell on the newly abandoned Alcatraz. A series of flashbacks fills in the gaps, creating a fractured narrative as Walker seeks both recovery and retribution. Except, that isn’t the whole story.

Walker soon discovers his ex-partner is in a relationship with his ex-wife, Lynne (Sharon Acker). By the time he tracks her down, Reece has already fled. With the help of Lynne’s sister, Chris (Angie Dickinson), Walker eventually catches up with Reece, only to learn the money is gone—used to pay off debts to high-level gangsters. Incredibly, Walker decides to retrieve his share from them instead.

Under a different director, Point Blank might have been a merely passable revenge thriller. After all, Marvin had already left an indelible mark as a monstrous villain in Fritz Lang’s The Big Heat (1953). However, Walker shares the attributes of a movie monster in a different sense: he is relentless, obsessed, and “created” by the evil of others. Some readings suggest Walker is a supernatural force or a “ghost”—a revenant returning from the dead. The character raises existential questions: are we driven by destiny? Is free will an illusion? Are we defined only by our actions while our motivations remain meaningless?

The sequence in which Walker walks down a long terminal corridor is—and I am justified in using the word—iconic. His figure increases in size and importance as he approaches the camera; the passage, devoid of side doors, clearly represents his single-mindedness. This is one of the famous connecting tunnels at LAX, featuring tiled murals by Janet Bennett that progress from cool to warm tones. The film adopts this motif, employing near-monochromatic palettes that match the tunnel. The rhythm of Walker’s footsteps speaks volumes about his momentum. He is absolute.

The shots are cut to the stark sound of relentless footsteps, pushing Johnny Mandel’s incidental music aside. The character now influences the medium he inhabits; the film’s soundtrack and editing become his embodiment. The rhythm continues like a metronome, or a ticking time bomb. Even as Walker drives and later sits in his car waiting, we still hear those footsteps symbolically approaching. The two elements of this montage—the predatory pursuer and his quarry—collide in a startling scene that shocks us from our hypnotic trance with the violent interruption of a door bursting open. Then, the rhythm collapses completely in a volley of gunshots.

Even when he’s doing ‘nothing’, Lee Marvin carries the film. His performance is remarkable, relying largely on silence and physical presence. His stoic stillness becomes almost a blankness at times, through which brutal outbursts erupt like fireworks against a dark sky. He oozes pent-up violence throughout.

With his business suits, brooding demeanour, and monolithic screen presence, Marvin inhabits a character almost recognisable as Charlie Strom—the part he played in Don Siegel’s The Killers (1964), in which he also starred alongside femme fatale Angie Dickinson. He could be the same man, yet changed. It’s much like how Patrick McGoohan’s Number Six in The Prisoner (1967–68) could be John Drake from Danger Man (1960–66).

Interestingly, a similarly iconic corridor walk—complete with stark, metronomic footsteps—appears in the opening titles of The Prisoner, which first aired just weeks after Point Blank was released. It likewise signifies a grimly determined outsider pitted against ‘the organisation’. As an aside, this same metaphor was recycled in The Suspicious Death of a Minor (1975), when rogue cop Paolo is seen walking the length of a corridor after resigning to single-handedly take on a super-powerful, apparently unassailable syndicate.

Walker bears parallels to another ‘new mythic’ icon of the 1960s: Clint Eastwood’s ‘Man With No Name’. With Point Blank, Boorman does for the gangster film what Sergio Leone did for the Western with A Fistful of Dollars (1964). Both reimagined American culture, creating a new mythic rendering of well-trodden themes. Leone’s Dollars trilogy balked against countless reiterations of how the West was won, reinventing the genre as a modern fable centred on a character who’s more Knight of the Round Table than cowboy. Boorman takes a similar mythic approach—one he’d later unashamedly explore in Excalibur (1981)—and turns Walker into a kind of anti-Arthur. Remember, he may start as a criminal, but like the fabled English king, he’s also betrayed by his right-hand man and his wife.

Before signing on to the project, both Boorman and Marvin had read the original script adaptation of The Hunter, a pulp novel by Donald Westlake (writing as Richard Stark). They agreed that, while it was terrible and needed a lot of work, it was worth persevering with because the main character was so strong. Once the film was green-lit, Boorman worked with writer Alexander Jacobs to extensively reframe the story, stripping it back, removing hackneyed dialogue, jettisoning secondary characters and subplots, and moving the setting from New York to San Francisco and Los Angeles. In other words, he found focus.

They remained unsatisfied with the rewrite when filming was scheduled to begin, so Boorman took Jacobs with him to continue working as they shot, adjusting and improvising where necessary. Lee Marvin also had a significant hand in refining the script, replacing much of the dialogue with physical acting. In one memorable scene between Lynne and Walker, Marvin chose not to say any of his lines, instead allowing Sharon Acker to either respond to obvious, yet unspoken questions, or to ask them of herself. The result is all the more edgy and effective for this inspired intervention.

This stripped-down intensity pervades the whole feel of the film. It’s been described as minimalist, and certain key scenes certainly feel that way—especially that iconic sequence of Walker walking. The approach is undoubtedly modernist, but the compositions are too rich to be considered truly minimal; some reach a level of visual complexity reminiscent of a Michel Gondry music video. It’s as though Boorman took everything superfluous from a scene, scrubbed it down to the essential narrative, then built it back up to make it as visually and aurally interesting as possible.

For example, when two characters need to exchange information in a nightclub, the loud music forces them to lean in close, as if about to kiss, while shouting their truncated lines. This pulls us into a very tight two-shot. Then follows a fight scene; Boorman takes the action backstage, behind a projection screen showing the expressive faces of women intercut with what look like religious icons. This backdrop provides the setting for the punch-up, and in place of the fighters’ grunts and screams, we hear the frenzied shouts and squawks of Stu Gardner performing “Mighty Good Times”. The thin fabric of the screen literally screens the crime and violence of the gang-run club from public view.

Every exquisite sequence brings visual pleasure, with each shot meticulously composed, framed, and cut with the utmost care. The whole film looks sleek, stylish, and distinctly European. Although this arthouse approach already had a foothold in European cinema (Boorman cites Alain Resnais as an influence), it was something fresh for Hollywood.

When the final cut was shown to studio executives, they were disconcerted by its use of flashbacks and circular narrative; the visual style was at odds with the expected hard-boiled thriller. Heavy editing was suggested, but luckily, they were overruled by Margaret Booth, the senior editor who upheld Marvin’s faith in Boorman. However, the executives may have had a point regarding commercial appeal. The film didn’t perform especially well at the box office, though it has since been recognised as one of the most important films to emerge from Hollywood in that decade.

Point Blank is nearly 60 years old now, but it’s matured beautifully. It still feels fresh and can be enjoyed on many levels. It’s a superb, well-honed thriller in which every frame is visually gratifying. The performances are bravura, particularly from leads Marvin and Dickinson. Today, it also stands as a great period piece—the cars, clothes, and 1960s architecture were all selected with meticulous attention by Boorman’s production team. For film buffs, there’s plenty to discuss, and one could spend hours tracing its influences through cinema history to the present day. If you’ve already seen it, I assure you it warrants a re-watch. If you haven’t… you know what to do.

USA | 1967 | 92 MINUTES | 2.35:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH

Director-approved 4K Ultra HD Blu-ray Special Features:

• NEW 4K digital restoration, supervised and approved by director John Boorman, with uncompressed monaural soundtrack. A thing of beauty. The film’s vital colours are saturated without losing any subtle grading. Deep shadows, particularly those shrouding the early scenes in the Alcatraz cells, have been balanced to reveal more detail than previous home media editions. As one would expect from a project overseen by Boorman himself, the restoration is both meticulous and sympathetic.
• 1x 4K UHD disc of the film presented in Dolby Vision HDR and 1x Blu-ray with the film and special features.
• Audio commentary featuring Boorman and filmmaker Steven Soderbergh. Two directors discussing the film inevitably leads to a wealth of technical insight. They delve into lighting and lenses, noting the use of what was likely the first 40mm anamorphic Panavision lens while it was still a prototype. Boorman begins by recounting his meeting with Lee Marvin while the actor was in London filming The Dirty Dozen (1967). Apparently, Marvin literally threw the first script out of the window, agreeing to the project only after a complete rewrite that pared the story back to its basics and jettisoned several secondary characters. The directors debate the story’s metaphysical implications and whether it functions as a ghost story. Boorman also briefly recaps his early career in television documentaries and his debut feature, Catch Us If You Can (1965). Soderbergh asks pointed questions that keep the commentary grounded in the on-screen action, quizzing Boorman on production design and composition. While Lynne’s apartment was a set, most interiors were real locations, often dressed in monotonal colour schemes—even the telescope in the Ocean Avenue scene was painted butter-yellow to match Chris’s dress. Boorman shares several behind-the-scenes anecdotes, conveying his admiration for Marvin as a valued collaborator. He explains how they devised the film’s more unusual scenes by replacing dialogue with action or stillness, and recalls the logistical challenges of shooting in the confined cells of Alcatraz. Their discussion touches on influences ranging from the French Nouvelle Vague to Harold Pinter.
• 41-minute interview with Boorman conducted by author Geoff Dyer. Filmed in Boorman’s home, it’s a joy to sit in on their pleasantly relaxed chat about the director’s career with particular focus on Point Blank. There’s a lot of overlap with the audio commentary, but some aspects are discussed in more depth such as the parallel’s between Lee Marvin and Walker. Boorman posits that Marvin was struggling to regain the part of his humanity lost in the war and he shares this spiritual quest with his character. They also explore the metaphysical explanations for some of the more baffling imagery. Boorman looks back over his filmography, happy that he always insisted on final cut, even though this meant he turned down some attractive projects.
• NEW 35-minute interview with critic Mark Harris. Again there’s some repetition as Harris retells highlights from the audio commentary. He gives an overview of Lee Marvin’s career before placing Point Blank into a contextual framework of late 1960s cinema at the tail end of the Hays Code, made just one year before it was replaced by the MPAA film rating system. He cites the movie, alongside Bonnie and Clyde (1967) for pushing the boundaries of shocking violence, opening the door for the kind of gritty realism that became commonplace in the 1970s.
• NEW 17-minutes of reflections on Point Blank by filmmaker Jim Jarmusch. Begins by placing the movie in a broader context of noir-ish crime films set in Los Angeles from Double Indemnity (1944) to Mulholland Drive (2001) of which Point Blank remains his favourite. He talks about its source material in the 1962 novel, “The Hunter”, by Richard Stark—the first in a series to feature the recurring hard-boiled character of Parker, who became Walker. He then breaks down aspects of the production he particularly admires, such as the inspired editing of the linear narrative fractured by unexpected flashbacks. An innovative director sharing his insight about a groundbreaking movie.
• NEW 9-minute program on the midcentury Los Angeles architecture featured in the film, with historian Alison Martino. Fascinating and could’ve benefitted from a little more time as Martino selects eleven key locations from the film, explaining their contemporary context and what those still standing look like now.
• The Rock (1967), a short 16-minute documentary on Alcatraz and the making of the film. Beginning with a history of Alcatraz and its first use as an emergency prison during the 1906 earthquake before becoming a federal penitentiary from 1934-1963, listing a few of the notorious inmates such as Al Capone, George ‘Machine Gun’ Kelly and Robert ‘The Birdman’ Stroud. This promotional documentary is divided into halves with the first providing excellent insight into the filming as well as candid footage of the cast and crew exploring the derelict location together and a magazine fashion shoot using Sharon Acker and Angie Dickinson as models. The second part becomes more pensive as the camera roams the bleak surrounds while we hear the voices of ex-inmates and guards remembering what it was like to live on ‘The Rock’. John Giles, who had very nearly escaped in 1945, voluntarily returns to reminisce about the bad old days as a prisoner.
• 22-minute Interview with Marvin from a 1970 episode of The Dick Cavett Show. The pacing may seem a little laid back bordering on stilted by today’s standards, but Cavett’s relaxed, irreverent style brings out Marvin’s playful side, revealing an understated, self-effacing wit. They discuss his screen image and how he manages to be so menacing when playing ‘rats’… “I just do what I wouldn’t want somebody to do to me,” the actor explains. He also talks a little bit about his wartime experiences when he enlisted aged 17. There are also a couple of snippets from later in the show when he briefly interacts with actress Jeanne Moreau and author Truman Capote, who talks about his latest novel with three alternative endings, pitching the protagonist role to Marvin.
• Trailer.
• English subtitles for the deaf and hard of hearing.
• PLUS: An essay by Dyer. Not available at time of review.
• NEW cover by Jay Shaw.

Cast & Crew

director: John Boorman
writers: Alexander Jacobs, David Newhouse & Rafe Newhouse (based on ‘The Hunter’ by Richard Stark).
starring: Lee Marvin, Angie Dickinson, Keenan Wynn, Carroll O’Connor, Lloyd Bochner, Michael Strong, John Vernon, Sharon Acker, James Sikking, Sandra Warner, Roberta Haynes & Kathleen Freeman.

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For a film containing some of the most iconic movie-star images of the 20th century, it’s disarming to watch Gilda and realise that it’s a film about nobodies. There are plenty of films about people trying to “make it”—to secure their slice of happiness in a cruel world—but this is a film about nobodies of a different sort. These people are vaporous, ghostly. Their forms dazzle, but they are tulpas feeding on human misery.

The vision of Rita Hayworth in a black satin dress, gloves sliding suggestively down her forearms as she sings ‘Put the Blame on Mame’, endures as a singular image of burgeoning Hollywood sexuality; it remains a bona fide “star is born” moment for Hayworth. As she sings, the words filling the room like cigarette smoke, we can’t help but wonder where she came from—seemingly dropped out of space into a nightclub to make every person question how the hell they ever lived without her.

But Gilda, both the film and the eponymous character, is loaded with artifice. They are moving illusions which director Charles Vidor delights in revealing over the course of a cruel, scintillating two hours. We find our characters down and out in Buenos Aires at the tail end of the Second World War. Gilda performs in an illegal casino, just a touch too gaudy to disguise its underlying seediness. It’s owned by her husband, a scar-faced sadist named Ballin Mundson (George Macready). He is cruel, controlling, and walks with a cane that conceals a knife at one end.

Completing the trio is our ersatz hero, Johnny Farrell (Glenn Ford), a chancer who carries his own set of loaded dice and has a knack for counting cards. Mundson rescues Johnny one night from a beating in a back alley and proposes he visit his casino—but what should feel like salvation seems more like entrapment. What kind of business tycoon hangs out in dark alleys in the wee small hours? And what kind of lowly con artist would agree to go anywhere with him?

Charles Vidor and Jo Eisinger, a noir veteran who adapted the screenplay from a story by E.A Ellington, lay a trap for the audience so seductive that once we realise we’re in it, we’re as helpless as Johnny. But what makes Gilda stand out among its film noir peers is that the trap itself has little to do with anything practical or typical of the genre; Mundson, Gilda, and Johnny, pulled ever closer to the centre of their own storm, don’t appear to be driven by money or power. What fuels them instead is a twisted, sadomasochistic desire to inflict pain on each other. They are broken people looking to break each other.

Johnny pads around the floor of Mundson’s casino with a wry grin on his boyish face, his eyes darting in search of his next con. Yet his prowess slips away, his smirk laden with frustration and desire whenever Gilda appears. Her mere presence cuts him down to size. The devilishness in his demeanour is in the mould of classic noir masculinity, but with a child-bully inflection; sometimes it’s unclear whether Johnny wants to kiss Gilda or fire a slingshot at her.

Mundson and Gilda are recently married, having only met the day before they said their vows. As Gilda throws her head into the frame—captured in crisp black and white yet somehow burning red, gold, and wild—she responds to Mundson’s question, ‘Gilda, are you decent?’, with a coquettish smile: ‘Me? Sure, I’m decent.’ Is any of this decent? It certainly doesn’t feel it.

At all times there is a sense of manoeuvring. Just why would someone like Mundson want Johnny to manage his casino? And what are we to make of Mundson’s instruction that Johnny stay away from women, before he goes out of his way to introduce Johnny to Gilda?

The film’s allure lies in these questions, and in the strange valleys between how these people present themselves and what they truly desire. As Gilda, Hayworth maintains an enticing but distancing poker face. She plays the part perfectly: half swept up in the illusion of glamour and sex, half petrified that anyone might ask about her past.

And though this is perhaps the Rita Hayworth role—the one in which she became cinematically immortal—it feels tied into the fabric of the film that she had, in fact, been acting for 20 years with over 30 film credits to her name. Despite the bolt-of-lightning arrival of Hayworth in Gilda, she too had a story. And her name hadn’t always been Hayworth.

Hayworth was born Margarita Carmen Cansino to artist parents in Manhattan in 1918. Her father was of Romani and Spanish heritage; by the time she was under contract at Fox in the 1930s, short-sighted studio heads were worried that she was “too Mediterranean” and retooled her image to align with the All-American lie. Perhaps it was fitting that the film in which this artifice was laid bare would be helmed by an immigrant—Vidor was a Hungarian war veteran who surely felt a pang of outsiderism within the Hollywood studio system.

Gilda is nothing if not a film about outsiders. At its centre is an autonomous woman treated like an idiot child by everyone around her. Mundson won’t kiss or even touch Gilda, but his words are far more oppressive than any action could be. As he watches her evening routine after a show, dressing down and taking off her jewellery, he expresses his perspective: ‘You’re a child, Gilda. A beautiful, greedy child. And it amuses me to feed you beautiful things because you eat with such a good appetite.’

Gilda is desired by everyone and respected by no one. She is surrounded by rooms filled with lusting men who want what she can offer but none of the reality of her personhood. Yet it’s lust that gives the film its thrust and electricity. It’s a broken kind of lust, though—a confused, twisted version of desire that can only end in mutual destruction.

Simmering just beneath the surface is the unspoken, furtive tension between the men. Increasingly, we get the sense that Mundson is getting off on watching Johnny ogle what he can’t have. But there is something deeper and more forbidden astir: a tangible sexual tension between the two men.

What slowly emerges is a thorny, complicated vision of queer desire and a misplaced lust for ownership. If film noir was the genre that could play in the shadows and delve into the then-taboo, then Gilda is perhaps one of the most groundbreaking of its kind.

There is electricity between the men, buried under business and handshakes, but sporadically professed. ‘I was born last night when you met me in that alley,’ Johnny tells Mundson. ‘That way I’ve no past and all future, see?’ It’s easily the most romantic dialogue in the film—the words of someone enraptured in a whirlwind romance.

But there is mostly loathing, jealousy, and hatred, much of it carved out years ago. Johnny and Gilda have a past—largely mysterious and kept hidden from Mundson. Whatever happened between them, it ended badly. ‘I’ve been hearing her voice in my sleep for nights,’ Johnny narrates, Gilda taking on almost supernatural proportions of libidinous torture. Later, her smile breaking and her image faltering, she breathes the words she’s longed to tell Johnny between kisses: ‘I hate you so much I think I’m going to die from it, darling.’

And so we have a strange love triangle formed of deceit. Mundson, almost double the age of Johnny and Gilda, uses these “kids” for his amusement; both are too broken and confused, too clouded by impulse and desire, to get out while they can. While many film noir plots tug at a slow realisation that it’s all a big frame-up, Gilda’s strange potency comes from the fact that these people enjoy being playthings. They want to hurt and to be hurt. They toast to the three of them—all without pasts.

What ultimately thrills about Gilda is its moral ambiguity and its hedonism, because it exists beyond money, guns, and police. It’s something more recognisably human: a film about broken people making bad decisions in the pursuit of feeling anything at all.

They hold cigarettes but seldom take puffs, the ash whittling away to nothing. The war ends and none of them care. A gambler blows his brains out in the restroom, unable to repay his debts to the casino; an employee sees the aftermath and blows a raspberry. Life goes on, and we hardly ever see the sky. Our trio are damned by past lives and saddled with desire and no means to satisfy it. Gilda is where film noir goes when it dies: a limbo of vagabonds and lost souls paying for sins that they can no longer remember.

USA | 1946 | 110 MINUTES | 1.37:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH • SPANISH • FRENCH • GERMAN

4K Ultra HD & Blu-ray Special Features:

This new Criterion disc contains a new 4K digital restoration of the film with an uncompressed monaural soundtrack. Visually, the film is absolutely gorgeous. Rudolph Maté’s cinematography is stylish and rich; seeing the amount of detail in the world he and Vidor construct is a treat. The lavish sets are filled with striking details, from the props to the mise-en-scène, all of which stand out in this new restoration. There’s a real sense of glow and light, especially in the more Vaseline-smeared star-shots of Hayworth. It’s a film of shadows and light, and the contrast spectrum here is truly impressive. The film grain is present and, though it’s an 80-year-old film, the dialogue is clear throughout, while the music has clarity and heft.

• NEW 4K digital restoration, with uncompressed monaural soundtrack.
• 1x 4K Ultra HD disc of the film presented in Dolby Vision HDR and 1x Blu-ray with the film and special features.
• Audio commentary by film critic Richard Schickel.
• Interview with film noir historian Eddie Muller. Muller’s knowledge of this genre is absolutely indispensable for any fan of the genre, and this interview gives some important context for Gilda, and what makes it stand apart from the crowd.
• Program featuring filmmakers Martin Scorsese and Baz Luhrmann discussing their appreciation for Gilda. Another extra from the archives, but an essential one nonetheless. Hearing Scorsese and Luhrmann discuss the film and its influence on their work is enough to make you want to start the film over again.
• “The Odyssey of Rita Hayworth,” a 1964 episode of the television show Hollywood and the Stars. An interesting addition from the archives, giving information on Hayworth’s rise to stardom and the compromises she was forced to make.
• Trailer.
• English subtitles for the deaf and hard of hearing.
• Plus: An essay by critic Sheila O’Malley.
• Cover by Jessica Hische and Eric Skillman.

Cast & Crew

director: Charles Vidor.
writers: Marion Parsonnet, Ben Hecht (uncredited) & Jo Eisinger (story by E.A Ellington).
starring: Rita Hayworth, Glenn Ford, George Macready & Joseph Calleia.

The post GILDA (1946) appeared first on Frame Rated.

Revisiting a film decades after a single viewing can be—for me, at least—like trying to recall a dream from the night before. As the opening credits roll, you might find a few fragments floating in your mind—perhaps a scene or two—but the experience remains largely surreal. More often than not, you’re left thinking, “That isn’t how I remembered it,” which perfectly summarises my return to the 1986 thriller At Close Range.

For some reason, I was convinced the film was more violent and set in an urban environment; perhaps I was confusing it with the New York-based State of Grace (1990), which also stars Sean Penn. What I do remember—and I’ve just fact-checked this—is first catching this unusual, well-crafted feature during the fourth season of Moviedrome (heaven for cinephiles) on BBC Two. That was in July 1991, so I suppose 35 years is ample time for the brain to become hazy regarding specific details.

I digress; let’s return to the film. At Close Range takes its lead from the real-life Johnston crime family, led by Bruce Johnston Sr. The infamous gang was active throughout the 1960s and ’70s, primarily stealing jewellery and cash from safes, farm equipment, and cars.

This group operated across several counties in and around Pennsylvania and was well-known to the police. Their illegal activities finally caught up with them in 1978. As the authorities closed in, gang members—including Johnston Sr’s youngest son—were murdered to eliminate potential witnesses. Eventually, after five killings, Bruce was convicted in 1981 and received six life sentences.

The script changes the family name to Whitewood and, interestingly, shifts the focus from the father to the eldest son, “Little Brad” Whitewood Jr, played by a 25-year-old Sean Penn in one of his earliest roles. The plot functions as a quasi-coming-of-age drama and a descent into criminality. Brad, unemployed and living in poverty with his mother, stepfather, and younger brother Tommy (Chris Penn), finally reconnects with his crime-boss father, Bradford Whitewood Sr (Christopher Walken), and is immediately seduced by his father’s lifestyle of flash cars and relative wealth.

We first meet Brad as he’s drifting aimlessly with friends, drinking, smoking cannabis, and living a rootless existence. He meets Terry (Mary Stuart Masterson), and the pair begin a relationship, much to the chagrin of Terry’s family, who are well aware of his father’s reputation. Brad begins to engage with the gang, and Terry, also attracted to the prospect of easy money, encourages Brad to seek full entry into the family business.

After a brief period of prosperity, Brad witnesses a murder and decides he wants out. This does not sit well with his father who, in an attempt to sever Brad’s ties to Terry, gets her intoxicated and rapes her. Matters spiral further when younger members of the group are subpoenaed, leading Brad Sr to murder them. I’ll avoid further spoilers for those who haven’t seen it, but the script sticks remarkably close to the grim facts of the real case.

What stood out most on this rewatch was the storytelling. Director James Foley takes a calm, controlled approach. There’s nothing flashy or overly dramatic about the filmmaking; instead, it feels grounded and realistic, which ensures the darker moments hit harder. Foley isn’t interested in making a fast-paced heist movie; he’s concerned with the emotional toll of such a life.

This was only Foley’s second film in what would become a chequered career spanning films, music videos, and television. Looking at his filmography, there are more misses than hits, but he was clearly most adept when exploring the darker side of human nature. Sadly, he died in 2024, aged 71. Alongside this film, I can strongly recommend his neo-noir After Dark, My Sweet (1990) and the black comedy-drama Glengarry Glen Ross (1992), which features a peerless cast including Al Pacino, Jack Lemmon, and Alec Baldwin.

The film moves at a steady, occasionally slow pace, but this works in its favour. It allows the viewer to absorb the setting: the dusty roads, worn-down homes, and the general sense of stagnation in small-town America. You understand why Brad is drawn to his father’s world; it doesn’t feel like a sudden whim, but an inevitability.

Sean Penn is excellent, displaying the intensity that would later define his career. Despite his immaturity, Brad possesses a shred of integrity and emotional intelligence. Penn’s performance is subtle; he says little, but his internal conflict—torn between a desire for paternal approval and the horrifying realisation of his father’s true nature—is etched on his face.

Christopher Walken, meanwhile, gives a controlled and menacing performance. By avoiding the “over-the-top” villain tropes, he becomes far more frightening. The scenes between Walken and Penn are the film’s strongest, precisely because they are so understated. Chris Penn also adds a layer of vulnerability as the younger brother, showing how toxic influences pass through generations.

Finally, Mary Stuart Masterson is remarkably natural as Terry. Despite being only 19 during filming, she shares a genuine chemistry with Penn, which lends the later tragedies real dramatic weight.

Visually, the film is effective without being showy. Spanish cinematographer Juan Ruiz Anchía captures the countryside with a natural, soft lighting that suggests a faded world. One scene—the younger gang members playing in a lake—is particularly haunting. The use of skewed angles and close-ups during a seemingly lighthearted moment creates a sense of foreboding, given what follows.

Patrick Leonard’s score is simple and effective, blending into the atmosphere. Interestingly, an instrumental version of Madonna’s “Live to Tell” is used throughout, with the full vocal track playing over the credits. Given that Leonard co-produced Madonna’s True Blue album and Penn was married to her at the time, one could dismiss this as vanity-driven promotion. However, the track genuinely fits the film’s melancholic tone.

Though At Close Range is a crime drama, and has violent scenes throughout, its most harrowing moment is the rape of Terry. Presented in a matter-of-fact style rather than a sensationalised one, it serves as the pivotal moment where any remaining bond between father and son is irrevocably shattered.

The finale eschews Hollywood tropes; there is no grand shootout. Instead, the confrontation is tragic and believable. When it was released, Roger Ebert praised the film, noting that “few recent films have painted such a bleak picture of human nature.” Despite critical acclaim, it recouped only $2.3M against a $6.5M budget. This is unsurprising; it isn’t “entertainment” in the traditional sense. It is a sombre mood piece on how poverty and broken homes can lead to ruin.

Ultimately, At Close Range is a superior piece of filmmaking. Foley’s direction keeps the story grounded, and the powerhouse performances from Penn and Walken carry immense weight. It may not have been a commercial success, but it’s undoubtedly deserving of your time.

USA | 1986 |115 MINUTES | 2.39:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH

Cast & Crew

director: James Foley.
writer: Nicholas Kazan.
starring: Sean Penn, Christopher Walken, Mary Stuart Masterson, Crispin Glover, Tracey Walter & Chris Penn.

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