Jacob Kelly's Funeralopolis Vol. 2 Issue 2: Fish Out of Water-A Trip to The Millennium

Fish

In this Weeks Issue:

Page 1-The Battle of the Science Fiction Nepo Babies

Two titan spawn go head to head. Cronenberg's kid versus Scott's kid in the battle for control of the galaxy. Infinity Pool is the headliner on this outing. Brandon Cronenberg's latest act of degeneracy, which takes him from filmmaker to look out for in the future to fantastic filmmaker in his own right. "Jaaaaaameesssss!", oh no, I think I can hear Mia Goth calling. Insert a new round, sharpen swords and let's go in. It's review time.

Page 6-Whatever Happened to Hitchcock's heir?

Elsewhere you'll see reports of M. Night Shyamalan's Knock at the Cabin being a return to form with some even booming out bold statements that it is top shelf of his work. For this critic, it seemed a little jarring and out of pattern with his current style of filmmaking. Starting with 2015's The Visit, we re-visit Shyamalan's return to respectability and eventually go back to where it all began.

Page 13-Where the Fuck is John Wayne to Save You Now?

The first of our found footage double bill takes on festival favourite, The Outwaters. Horror fans may already be familiar with it and anyone with an affinity for the Lovecraftian would be wise to check it out. There has been a small minority out there declaring this a ground-breaking new direction for found footage but is it? Kelly and Bonehead Bill plot their revenge against The Pseuds, which will lead them in turn to a mysterious venue known as The Millennium.

Page 21-Watching Skinamarink

Second on the found footage double bill is Skinamarink, a sweeping sensation that has somehow grabbed plenty of headlines. Those keeping up will have seen all the articles we have been bombarded with about how this is supposedly the scariest movie of all time. Since the art of a film like this is in the watching process, formal reviewing is abandoned in favour of an in-play running commentary as it happens.

Page 24-The Magic Mike, Coda: The Death of Michael Jeffrey Lane

Ladies and gentlemen, the King is bowing out. Magic Mike is hanging up his boots. No longer will he put on his red shoes and dance the blues. We're all emotional over here at Funeralopolis. This review of his final outing is used to explore the history of dance films, gender identity, positive masculinity, lonely middle aged women, stripping and the city of Sex and Steel. Let's Dance!

The Battle of the Science Fiction Nepo Babies

Ladies and gentlemen, as we speak, the battle of the science fiction nepo babies is being fought. There is no denying, these two have mighty heritage. In the red corner, we have Brandon Cronenberg, son of David. An intense looking fellow who looks like the type you'd meet in an internet chat room in the '90s virulently defending the artistic merits of Daisuke Yamanouchi's Red Room. Or perhaps you'd come across him fighting for his life in a Saw trap. Whatever the case, his hard drive is indisputably dirty. Some things are a given. This dirtbag has 3 features under his belt: Antiviral, Possessor and this year's Infinity Pool. In the blue corner, we have Luke Scott, son of Ridley. A more respectable looking chap who would take you out to lunch and discuss the current state of British politics. Noticeably, just the one feature in Morgan, despite being 11 years his opponents senior.

There have been some who have been absolutely rolling down the red carpet and raving about Brandon Cronenberg since Possessor. An "absolute mind trip" they say. The "coolest thing to come out that year". Although not a commonly shared opinion, I believe it is a step down from his debut Antiviral. A much colder and unique commentary on society today. Utterly repugnant and near impenetrable in its slow pacing but for those keeping an ear out, it's a shocking investigation in to future fandom. His father's recent effort Crimes of the Future focused on the artists, whereas Brandon's film addresses the audience, making them near companion pieces.

People have always tried to collect and hold on to any item they can find that their celebrity hero has touched. Spread some of the magic. Naturally, in true Cronenberg family fashion, Brandon has to take that touch element one step further in to matters of disease. He achieves something quite unique with the cinematography adopting a grey and white colour palette. You combine this with its ridiculously pale looking front man Caleb Landry Jones, the king of strung out and you have a film which genuinely looks sick itself. Take it to the doctor! Both aesthetically and thematically displeasing to the eye in a way that's enough to put off the average decent citizen but attract a minor cult following from the weirdos.

On his next project Possessor, he substitutes genuine mystery for a concept that sounds good on paper using words like "brain implant technology" and "elite corporate assassin" to draw you in but upon closer inspection its emptiness comes apparent. Pseudo nonsense is used to hide the fact there's very little of interest here. A far cry from something like Videodrome which had plenty to say about government mind control experiments and the way in which we perceive information presented to us by a screen. The on brand sexual detour coming when Davey compares us all to vaginas, ready to have videotapes slipped in to us.

Whatever Possessor is trying to communicate about technological fears comes off as a lite version at best. I want to say he's too distracted by the construction of memorable graphic images and getting lost in the thrill of the picture. Since the visuals barely deliver, it's hard to back this side and defend it as a purely optical treat. One could align it with his Dad's equally overrated Eastern Promises. Agreed, the writing on that is to a much higher standard but once again were we fall apart is in the cheap looking production. No Cronenberg should ever work with the BBC. They have a plethora of rules with regards to the types of cameras used and it destroys any artists opportunity for creativity. When you've got a man so celebrated for his unique mise en scene and cinematography, seeing that blemished by the BBC's preferred cameras which have a tendency to blur backgrounds is extremely frustrating to say the last. In my head, what they really stand for is, 'Bad Bad Cameras'. They need to get their act together or butt out of movies.

Brandon's crime on Possessor is to go to his signature move at every possible moment of using cheap neon lighting and filters. What was once a stylish aesthetic tool has far too often been used to divert audiences away from low production values. Looking closely at any sets on Possessor, frequently they appear like sets from a television show working on a limited budget. Once you throw in the neon lights, it only adds to the artificiality of the film. It's a sad day when a Cronenberg's style and substance both appear to be lacking. We can forgive one, but both? Consider me dejected. Luckily, there's an adequate amount of gore and a shady Sean Bean to warrant a pass.

Now with his very latest effort Infinity Pool, we have moved past a young man with potential and in to genuinely great filmmaker. Not the classic some have claimed but a fantastic piece nonetheless. Most impressive is that this comes during a break from working on a miniseries of JG Ballard's SuperCannes. We don't have access to information on why production has halted there. Likely, Covid is the guilty party. Although in the meantime, it appears Brandon has put his very own Cronenbergian spin on the SuperCannes spiritual predecessor Cocaine Nights Proper exploitation behaviour of working fast and overcoming production challenges in a move sure to always be championed by myself. Nothing but salutes from this disreputable corner of the world.

Cocaine Nights is a book which many consider to be a reasonably solid piece but firmly in the late effort categorisation. Such labelling doesn't do the text justice, giving the impression of inferiority. It is not often I read a book twice but this is a rare example. In the hands of directors like Fincher or Hitchcock, this could be an absolute masterpiece one day. It starts out life as a routine noir detective story involving a man investigating his brother's possible involvement in murder by a Spanish resort, soon turning in to an observation of paradise and the horrors the community will do to keep it.

A very dark and realistic portrayal of the morality sacrificed in preservation. Only thing people fear more than the deterioration of decent values is the deterioration of their allegedly perfect system. Bobby Crawford with his keen interest in setting up film clubs across Estrella de Mar could be the patron saint of sleaze. He's a man who says hello by nearly choking you to death. He believes that minor criminal activity and mischief is what really drives a community. And what's worse is he might be right. For this is the fuel that ignites Funeralopolis. He's the bad guy you just can't hate. Whatever your situation, you are drawn to him in some way or another. The messiah.

Infinity Pool has many similarities carried over from the book such as an individual at an island resort and getting caught in local debauchery. Alexander Skarsgard is over with the Mrs taking in the sun when Mia Goth takes a shine to him. Skarsgard and his bird are invited to join the goth and her guy. Soon enough they're all out together on a day trip drinking. As one can expect, just like the entire world right now, Skarsgard can't take his eyes of that no good goth. Is she flirting back? Yep. Very early on fellow nepo baby Skarsgard is taking a piss when the gothster comes in from behind and wanks him silly. Hold your horses though folks, cause I have some bad news. In the Sundance premiere that shocked movie goers, Skarsgard hangs dong! In a sad state of affairs, the shot in question has miraculously disappeared. Skarsgard's cock has vanished.

What we have is a tragic story where we see less than we're supposed to. Akin to the old days when sleazy projectionists were cutting out the best bits and supposedly keeping them for their damn selves like trophies. Never thought I'd ask this but who's got Skarsgard's cock? Can you put it back. We won't judge or nothing. Just do the right thing. If you don't want to be identified simply mail it to Funeralopolis headquarters and we'll make sure the rest of the population get what they want. There's people concerned. A man is missing his cock. Thankfully, there's talk of reincorporating the missing images on the DVD release. Come through people. In the meantime, my psycho-schradists, you will have to settle for Skarsgard's cummies hitting some rocks on the ground.

After a night of heavy drinking, our foursome accidentally crash in to a drifter with their car going full I Know What You Did Last Summer. Fearing the foreign law, they agree to pull the old hit and run. Barely even making it back to their resort, the law grab hold of them and they are all under arrest. This is where we get our first glimpse of the Cronenbergian spin. In this country, they have developed an alternative legal system. One in which the rich can be exonerated for their crimes if they agree to pay the high price to clone themselves. Instead of being sentenced the death penalty, their clone takes their place. Old lookalike takes the rap for you. Fucked up part is you have to watch yourself die.

An act which awakens something in Skarsgard. Whole time through the ordeal leading up to the capital punishment, he was being a little wimp but seeing himself die somehow sorts himself out. His bird clings on to his shoulder in tears throughout the tragic death of the clone but my man's like naaaaa I've got trouble on my mind. Look closely, is that a smile on his face? He's about to enter his Pusha T phase.

The beauty of this set up is that it removes the fear of confinement and repercussions for one's actions. Truth is young Skarsgard never felt remorse for killing a man whilst driving under the influence, his only concern was the consequences for himself. Having removed the law from the equation, he is no longer a prisoner to his own sleaze and is free to do what he wants. The mask of morality drops and it turns out this guy has a lot of mischief he wants to get up to. His wife may be sat next to him balling her eyes out but this guy's struggling to conceal his smile. Can see it on his face. He's ready to rub his hands together and start screaming, "get me some clones made baby, cause me and the boys have got crimes to commit!".

Not sure how this clone malarkey works as a deterrent against crime because it only encourages the rich to commit more crime. Unless, that's what the government is counting on and profiting from all the repeat business? There is a sort of anti-rich/anti bourgeois sentiment with Infinity Pool that just barely scrapes past the lazy, safe, superficial and un-radicalised position that has become popular today. Credit to Cronenberg, purely on the account of how revolting his imagery can be. Thus, causing this to step outside of full mainstream acceptability. What is far more interesting is to avoid the class politics and take the psychoanalytical route, reading Infinity Pool as a cinematic undertaking in Freud's Civilisation and Discontents.

In that book, he makes reference to the tensions between individual and civilisation. This conflict arises from the individual's desires for instinctive freedom and civilisations demands for conformity. An individual, true to his nature, has primitive instincts (a lustful thirst and desire to murder) but these are seen as harmful to the progression of the community.

Therefore, laws are imposed that inhibit such activities. This causes a great dissatisfaction in the individual who must weigh up all their actions against Gary Numan's The Pleasure Principle. A system in which the pursuit of pleasure is measured up against the pain that may be caused in the process. Not the first time a Cronenberg would turn to the great philosopher Mr Numan for assistance. Daddy Dave made an entire movie called Crash from the song, 'Cars'.

So yes, go on the ride. There's much depravity on the way and it's all scored by the phenomenal noisy dronester Tim Hecker. Doesn't quite match up along with his usual output. So don't expect anything as hauntingly beautiful as (They Call Me) Jimmy but it's still fascinating to hear his sound on a movie, even if it is somewhat toned down and simplified slightly in favour of movie score common cliches. Brandon takes a lean in to the existential too with the unavoidable question of are they killing the main character each time or his clone? Memory implants. It's enough to drive you crazy. Whilst I will say his platitudinous lighting and psychedelic gimmickry is an improvement on previous occasions, I still think his images are often powerful enough that they should not be obscured by such amateur antics. If you can get the aesthetic working like X and Mandy, then all for it, if not pack it in. Happy to say, he mostly gets it right here.

Does it find many paths to go with its concept? Possibly not enough with an abrupt and dissatisfying ending. However, the thrill lies in the journey. Mia Goth being a laudable attraction. Brandon presents a very bizarre fantasy, which I can't say I've wondered up on the shores of before. He's fully aware you find the female star attractive but moves one step further proposing the question of would you have a threesome with her and before you ask, the other party involved is also you. For those lost there, to be clear, that is a threesome consisting of you, Mia Goth and you. A clonesome with Mia Goth. As I said, not something that entered my mind as a possibility prior to this but sure why not.

I can roll with the clonesome like it's Ozon's The Double Lovers, which itself is a homage to DePalma's Sisters and Daddy D's Dead Ringers but made hornier with a touch of eurosleaze and new French extremity. What is it with these Cronenberg boys and clones? Clonenberg. No guesses which is their favourite Star Wars film.

You may have heard Mia Goth's instantly iconic quote, "Jaaaaaaaaaaaaames". Soon as I see the still from the scene, her voice goes through me. Didn't even realise she was British. Her southern drawl on X was so convincing. For Infinity Pool, she's suffering from the Austin Butler syndrome. Except probably worse because she hasn't strictly kept the accent. Instead it's formed an unusual hybrid of annoying London girl and Southern drawl. Essentially, the most extreme parts of the south of the UK and US making her feral girlfriend energy reach an all-time high. Against all scientific reasoning, she remains ever desirable. Go figure.

In all fairness, she's totally mastered the insane girlfriend routine as of late. No doubt she gets great practice being married to colossal lunatic Shia Labeouf. Persona non grata himself. We've admired his transformation over the years from little Even Stevens kid to Stanley Yelnats to teenage L.B. Jeffries to Sam Witwicky to young Indiana Jones to the future Gordon Gecko to American indie king. Assume these two love birds sparked up a romance during shooting Lars Von Trier's Nymphomaniac Part 2. This remains the best of Labeouf's work along with the extremely personal Honey Boy. As for the goth, she's developing her own artistry as both that which all men desire and the ruiner of all men, simultaneously. A superb tightrope she walks with ease. No signs of her stopping just yet. Let her continue. Not that we could stop this foul beast roaming our screens anyway.

If you have any disappointments with the narrative, then all is forgiven due to Brandon creating the experience of having Mia Goth as your girlfriend for 90 minutes. A fantasy that once its finished will have you demanding she just boss you around constantly. Fire guns at me, Mia. Treat me and my clones like dogs, Mia. Fuck it, just straight up bully me, Mia.

Firmly against my wishes, there has not been a film before this to offer such pleasures. Those who share such needs would be wise to check out Infinity Pool. That's it's true victory. There may be limits in its intelligence but there's so much dumb fun to be had that its undoubtedly worth the price of admission. Having considered how much it allows you to be tortured by Mia Goth, I have no idea who could reject that. To quote symbol of sleaze, Bixby Snyder, "I'd buy that for a dollar!".

All in all, a strong piece from this science fiction nepo baby. He even writes his nepo baby status in to the plot. Skarsgard's character is a rich man's kid trying to step out his father's shadow but struggling with writer's block. Don't think I didn't notice that, Brandon! So we get this weird meta commentary on his attempt to form a singular reputation separate to Cronenberg senior. Not too sure what that's about. Yeah, he's laughing at himself but it also reduces the impact of the already flawed class politics because you can't even take that angle seriously as the director clearly doesn't. Mixing Ballard and Dead Ringers doesn't exactly do much to distinguish himself from his father. Yet, I will not take points off for this as continuing the Cronenberg legacy of fucked up madness is to be encouraged. He's allowed to carry on his father's themes. All he really needs to do is find ways to make them relevant in today's society. Not an easy task cause his Dad's work tends to be light years ahead of its time but there's hope for this kid.

What can't be understated is how Infinity Pool serves as a message to that other science fiction nepo baby, talentless hack, Luke Scott. The mark has been set. Ridley's spawn needs to step up his game if he wishes to compete with our golden boy. Never rated that Luke kid. Only gets jobs cause of his old man. When he does, he is granted access to incredible resources that a young starter wouldn't such as elite actors and quality sets from high budget blockbusters and he's still useless. Unfortunately, he very much represents the ugly side of nepotism.

There would not be even the slightest possibility of mistaking Luke for a visual stylist like the old man. Probably a reason why he's only got 1 feature to his name. Mainly just makes short prelude films for his Dad's films. Reeks of take your kid to work day and let him think he's running the place doing the big boy's jobs. But in reality, totally ineffectual. Like watching loanee Wout Weghorst up top for Man United. Whatever keeps him happy. I'm not against him. In fact, I'm rooting for him. Nothing but respect for the Scott family and it be great to see someone carry the flame. No avoiding though, he's got a long way to go and he's not all that young. Brandon's got him up against the ropes with this one. Are we wrong to underestimate Luke's powers? Will there be a response from Ridley's nipper or is he out for the count?

Bonus Points:

-Skarsgard going for a piss and getting wanked off silly

-The cloning pool

-Classic dodgy fears of foreign governments

-Mia Goth in pure psychotic feral girl mode with "Jaaaaaaames"

-The experience of Mia Goth being your girlfriend for 90 minutes. Watch as she shouts at you, fires guns at you, treats you and your clones like dogs and just full on bullys you. Films rarely offer such masochistic pleasures

-Skarsgard's mischievous grin as he watches a clone die. A man with trouble on the mind

-Being a cinematic undertaking of Freud's Civilisation and Discontents

-Brandon making a Cocaine Nights with the Cronenbergian spin whilst his SuperCannes adaptation is delayed

Overall Score: 4/5 5

Whatever Happened to Hitchcock's heir?

Should I have known that liking M. Night Shyamalan's recent wave of efforts postAfter Earth would eventually come back to haunt me? First, we had the low budget horror The Visit, which the director had to put in 5 million from his own pocket due to the failings of The Last Airbender and After Earth. Although far from perfect, a return to roots away from blockbuster territory was a well-timed clever move. Our story starts here.

2015 was perhaps a little late to be jumping on the found footage train. One must remember we were on Paranormal Activity 6: The Ghost Dimension by this point. Technically the 7th if you count the Japanese spin off, Tokyo Night. Some would say the franchise already felt stale by the second one. About all number 2 has to offer that the first doesn't is a few extra cameras and so for better or worse becoming an assortment of clips compiled together like a YouTube video. Whether that's art or a mindless recreation of culture, who's to say? Whilst the post-911 surveillance themes are maintained, gone is the domestic abuse allegory. This is nearly tolerable as it suggests it will carry on with the McMansions theme and on this outing add in racial elements and class politics. However, this is soon abandoned.

The world building is about strong enough to allow for a third film. Being the one I saw in cinema, I do have some nostalgia for it. They abandon exploring a lot of found footage rules and limitations, which on its best day can make the genre so exciting. Thus opposing its generic and repetitive reputation stemming from the fact the cheap cameras required are highly accessible. In this area, the only trick up its sleeve technically speaking is putting the camera on a fan so that it can create a panning shot effect. Easy to downplay it but I admire the DIY like approach and how it allows the suspense to build with a smooth camera movement in a way that's rarely seen considering stationary static shots or shaky cameras too often dominate in found footage. Also, if like myself you love 70s paranormal horror like The Amityville Horror and Poltergeist there's a similar warmth with the family involved. Near Spielbergian this time with the atypical unit presented. He actually was heavily involved in the distribution of the first so don't be fooled by the grass roots illusion.

Paranormal Activity 4 was like being put in the walls of Jericho. I think we all tapped out at that point. Took me years to come back to complete the series. Pure sloppiness by this point with the found footage package being made to serve its audience more than its characters. Extreme laziness with zero justification for its own existence. When cameras keep on rolling after video calls it's time to give up. Strong defenders will mention the Xbox Kinetic effect, which is merely pretty and never used for any decent set pieces. Honestly, I could almost move on from the poor writing and lack of substance and accept this as made for fans utilising an assortment of typical genre scares. I know I champion slashers without substance but the difference is the kills tend to be creative each time. Paranormal Activity 4 is already boring due to there being a lack of narrative but it can't even boast a decent set piece to keep you entertained.

What came next is a familiar franchise move. You've seen this one in Black Panther and very recently in the Creed series. How to fix a failing franchise? Stick a few ethnic minorities in there and people will forget the inherent problems and tiresome genre aspects. Liberals will be on their knees like, "Oh my God, this is so progressive. A black superhero. A black boxer. This is insane. This has never happened before". Ironically, this leads to films like the entertaining Shaft, which is even less challenging to bureaucracy than the right wing Dirty Harry. It's a crazy world.

We can criticise cheap studio tricks all we want but there's no point if we're going to keep falling for them. Won't lie, I was very approving of the cultural addition to Paranormal Activity 5: The Marked Ones because in going 'ghetto' (someone must have said this series needs to come back to the streets) it swerved off white middle class shit and gave us a couple of Latino gangsters rolling up to the house from the third film, ready to blow up some demons and cults with the shotty. Absolute banger of a third act just for that. Some critics write about the adolescence angle which is really just poor re-hashings of Chronicle and Project X. Yes, the found footage genre branched out in to superheroes and teen comedies during its popular phase.

Finally, we get to Paranormal Activity 6: The Ghost Dimension. Sense of realism and shock, totally disappeared and more invisible than the ghosts. Logic is out the window and it should be one of the worst of the series but at the same time it's also not. All criticisms are valid and irrelevant at this point. Why? Because we've entered the banter era. That's past testing patience and into the utterly absurd realms of unintentional parody. Literally, any score you give this out of 5 is fine and entirely appropriate. Defies all rating systems.

Genuinely, the only thing more baffling than its logic is how this is not deliberately mocking itself. They're so out of ideas, half the plot is watching tapes from the third film. Unexpectedly, it's also a Christmas film so next time the season comes, go get festive with The Ghost Dimension! Comes complete with a ghost Santa haunting the hallways. They really switch the formula on this accepting that the majority of people get bored by the waiting game and all the activity being saved for the final few minutes. Therefore, this gets cranked up to a 11 from the first act. Fascinatingly, it is as though they are aware that subtle stuff like slow moving furniture isn't going to cut it any more, they've grown accustomed to the activity and so the filmmakers are pumping it up from the outset. Knock on effect on the characters is quite frankly insane. These people are even more passive observers than we are with their refusal to leave the house. It's like watching any other film from the series at 10x the speed and tripping balls. At this point, I don't even know what's going to shake them.

Here comes the smart/dumb part. This time the camera technology enables them to capture the ghosts visually. A last ditch stab at the intellectual, which is really just stupid. More than ever, it'll have you wondering, do these guys even watch back their footage anymore? Absolutely no excuse for staying in the house. That isn't wind, there is literally black blobs moving in your house. We may be the rent generation and decent properties hard to come buy but surely you value your life enough to leave and look for a new home? Paranormal Activity 6: The Ghost Dimension, an accidental masterpiece in exposing the state of the housing economy and the cost of living crisis. People would rather share their houses with dangerous entities than have to pay higher prices.

Not an entirely random detour in to the Paranormal Activity series. Following the franchise through its flaws generally captures the public perception of found footage at any point in time. You can track the genres developments or rather decline with each passing film. In summary, by The Ghost Dimension the series and the genre was in self-parody mode and so it only goes to illustrate the risk Shyamalan was taking in going to that genre for a career revival. In some ways, it changes a minor success in to quite an impressive one. Was risk the right word? Is it risk when you have no other options? The dude had exhausted all connections in the industry and was really beginning to lose his audience with his dumb Hollywood spectacles.

On The Visit, everybody generally agreed whilst it wasn't great, it was a step in the right direction. A back to basics that won him some respect and credibility. What was it he did differently? Avoided the absurdity of where critically panned found footage films had gone. Brought back some actual logic and achieves a sense of gritty realism by reincorporating the home invasion thriller, which is what the genre originally leant in to. Instead of ghosts and existential discussions on death, he went for this raw set up of mistaken identity. Here we get the familiar Shyamalan twisterooney. What if as kids you went visiting your grandparents and they weren't really your grandparents? This premise allows Shyamalan to reverse the formula of the home invasion thriller from external forces to internal forces. What if the intruder is already in the house and has been since the moment you arrived? Almost meta like from the big man in that he's pulling the strings from the start. He's not the guest wanting to break in, he's the host.

Is there something to be said for the way it has children as the main characters and their use of the technology available to them? A generational nod to the accessibility and understanding of hand held camera equipment and its ability to record the faults of the previous generation? Exposing the history that is always trying to be hidden? How far you can take this I'm unsure but there is something youthful and fresh about the project that just clicks. A low key hit.

What do we think of Split? Open to anyone's thoughts on that. Consider me 'split' on it. Indisputably, it turned out to be quite a success both commercially and financially, operating at the right level of disturbing to become a household favourite. When taking this in to account, one could consider it 'Dinner Table Horror', that genre made up by myself that I'm always ranting on about. Tend to like those movies but this one does make me feel a little uncomfortable. Surprises me how it has been so accepted by audiences. It's more questionable than people give it credit for.

Shyamalan's view of mental health is not intentionally appalling but rather clumsy. On the one hand, it's too dumb to take seriously, with him seeing it as something to be vilified. A superhuman force to be attributed to his super villain. Opposite end of the spectrum you have The Predator, released a couple of years later, which was trying to treat autism as a superhero quality. Whether positive or negative dealing with mental health and disabilities in this way is just bizarre. Half of you wants to champion it as an alternative approach to the current trend of superhero movies by injecting some kind of realistic aspect to explain their strengths and weaknesses. Other half remembers how much better Unbreakable was at tackling grief and trauma. Now he's just operating in pure pseudo-science.

Aside from this it's hard to not be stunned by Shyamalan's formal precision on Split. A point I'd always make to the films detractors. Aligning it with old exploitation thriller films it holds up well for sustaining atmosphere and tension. No-one could pretend it isn't entertaining. James McAvoy is on full power as an actor switching between all these personalities in seconds. Usually, I'd often stupidly defend the controversial elements of an exploitation film because whatever direction taken it tends to open up criticism and invite discussion.

Strangely, I struggle to do that on Split, which is not a respectful statement on its ability to shock but rather a declaration of its stupidity. What am I going to do sit here and talk to people about Shyamalan's belief that super powers could come from mental health disorders? Virgin shit, come on.

Let's be honest about this, the main reason Split got us excited was its ending promising the return of David Dunn. Not the former Blackburn Rovers attacking midfielder but Bruce Willis's character from Unbreakable. It proposed the question of how would Shyamalan even combine these two movies? One was a tense thriller, the other more of a slow character study drama. Unbreakable operated somewhat near realism. Ok there's a little leap but it only explores the extreme sides of human strength and weaknesses in that X-Men style mutation way. On the other hand, Split is a massive leap into the ridiculous but not without its fun. Regardless, we had our villain and we had our hero. Took us about 16 years to get them but we sure got them. Was a man in his 30s really going to take on a 60 year old man? Ageist! Absolute bully that Kevin Wendell Crumb or whatever his name is meant to be. Brucey was going to have to go full Charles Bronson on this shit. Find his inner Eastwood. Or was this going to be a Roger Moore situation?

Consequently, we got Glass. Ultimately, something of a disappointment, mainly for the reasons given. In the third act, it has the big Shyamalan twist and reveals this anti-superhero unit. Literally rams that shit down your throat late on. You're just like hold on, isn't this the movie now? Hasn't it just begun? An outrageous manoeuvre from Mr Shyamalan and one I somewhat respect. For all its flaws, Glass wasn't as bad as it was made out to be. Whilst it isn't successful, there is some fun to be had in how you're watching it find its footing. Essentially, Shyamalan testing out some ideas in a well-worn genre. I'll take that any day over Marvel's laziness. That's exactly how I'd explain it, a lot of misses but big risks. Big admirable risks.

M. Night Shyamalan is a man who takes big risks. The ultimate swinger. Always said this but they need an academy award for biggest swing of the year. Needs to be sussed out year on year who's got the biggest balls. Naturally, this goes without explaining but this should be separate to quality. A booby prize for just being a god damn nutcase. No stigmatism involved, no jokes, no embarrassment. Just a big thumbs up from everybody and cries of "fair fucking play!". If there was such an award, well let's just say Mr M. Night Shyamalan would need to buy some gargantuan cabinets.

This notorious swinging that my man has in his arsenal brings us straight in to Old. The phrase 'mixed reviews' is often overused but this one certainly polarised its audience. To this day, I will never understand how Peter Bradshaw felt the need to give it 5 stars. Whilst, it sure is audacious, there's no way this is a masterpiece. Not in the perfect sense of the word anyway. However, at the same time, I can't say I side with the haters on this one. Throughout, it seems to navigate this tight line of genuine intrigue and laughably silly. Forever, you wonder is Shyamalan going to lose you on this project. That thrill could well be my interest in it all.

Dialogue in Old is regularly quoted as clunky but that actually adds to its air of weirdness. The fact it doesn't flow well is not particularly a hinderance. Both are broken up and played around with in a suitable manner for what the film is going for. Therefore, it is not out of place. Also, the acting gets its fair share of criticism too. Well, we're dealing with this psychedelic melodrama, you don't really tend to get realism here, I'm afraid. Everything is led forwards on an emotional basis rather than logical acting. We're dealing with a movie about the progression of time, where people age rapidly over the course of a day. When you've got an existential film like this one, which is covering such huge shifts over a small time, why would it ever have a pragmatic style?

Testament to Gael Garcia Bernal and Vicky Krieps, there is material within Old about the aging process that could be considered profound. Say what you want about the experience but as an excuse to see the impact of time on a family like this in such a surreal manner has a strange beauty.

Being unsure about the twist is easy to comprehend. Old invites comparisons with The Twilight Zone and many have rightly pointed out that those earlier episodes worked better at shorter length. Placing Old more in the category of the later longer episodes that weren't as well received. Begs the question of does a film like Old need an explanation? Does it lose its power without the mystery? Could it have been sharper as a short film or television episode? These are all legitimate questions.

In a gimmicky silly Shyamalan manner, the preposterous twist does have its appeal. On a personal level, it does grab my attention. As I'm sure it would for anyone who either themselves or their family has underlying medical conditions. No doubt a better director would have delved further in to the ethical problems presented by the set up but no our boy Shyamalan isn't one to get distracted in such nonsense. He's here for the thrills. He's about dressing up the overall package. And sorry nerds, on the whole I like it!

It exists in the same realm as The Beach, location wise and critically, which is to say in a sort of post-quality. A pop cultural phenomenon where it simply doesn't matter whether one considers it good or bad. It crosses that line and not in that so bad its good bullshit. We're talking about transcending the two to enter the big swing arena. Too often, we've been led to believe as part of this capitalist culture that we must embrace the good and disregard the bad. As though someone else wants to drip feed us movies, so we don't have to put in the work. Tackling film in this way kills off criticism. Sometimes, can we not just appreciate a movie because it's fascinating aside from being good or bad? What happens when a film does that which is considered 'bad' and still achieves some unexplainable success or approbation? This is what the big swing is about baby! If a movie entices you in a way you don't understand when everything tells you it is a bad movie, then go explore that. You might just find the undiscovered good in it or even new forms of film appreciation along the way.

Old is another bizarre entry in Shyamalan's rocky filmography. On this occasion, cementing him in my mind as firmly the guy who directed The Village. To this day, I cannot decide whether that's a good movie. Yet, like Old I'm drawn to it. Half of me thinks it's moronic, other half is captivated by the blatant originality. This then screams Shyamalan's style from 2015 onwards. He's not here to hit the mark. He's here to challenge and confuse in equal measure. A man who comes armed with near implausible twists and a cameo every time. An auteur. A reliable household name for mischief. Good or bad, nobody does it like M. Night.

His latest effort, Knock at the Cabin , seemed like an absolute home run in the flamboyant department with a very on brand trailer. Who could resist Batista and Ron Weasley turning up at a same sex couple's cabin with their Asian daughter and announcing the apocalypse? About the weirdest spin on the home invasion thriller ever conceived. On paper, a campy thriller for fans of Evil Dead and The Cabin in the Woods. The comedic alternative to The Last of Us in regards to the new, uncharted and undefined genre: gay men in the apocalypse. Until 2023, not something I'd really considered or devoted enough time to. However, you can file it with 'pegging' as things we need to see more of in cinema by request of Jacob Kelly.

Knock at the Cabin has been met with an unusual level of acclaim for recent Shyamalan with some ranking it among his top shelf. Unfortunately, I would be unable to do the same. Whole thing was so jarring coming straight off Old. I thought I had this director aligned in a certain way and boxed in. Yet, there is a distinctive lack of weirdness missing from Knock at the Cabin. In this area, the only thing that really delivers is the repeated use of KC and The Sunshine's Boogie Shoes and Batista reviewing children's cartoons during a worldwide crisis.

This film evidently has something that has been missing from the majority of his movies over the last 10 years. An element of quality. Make no mistake, it's a pretty neat thriller and on a technical basis, potentially his best movie since Signs. Don't get ahead of yourselves folks because even though this is true, I still don't think it's as interesting as what he's been giving us the last few years. Every time without fail, critics will flock to quality. Rarely do they look to whether the quality aspects actually impedes the film and is unsuitable for the material involved. In some scenarios, hamming it up or going trashy is the way to go. A respectable style in the battle against repetitive middle of the road blandness.

That's not to say he had to pick that route. He doesn't. Instead, it's just a nearly movie. Worst part is it reminds me of how this man started his career. New kids may not be aware and older guys may have forgotten but after The Sixth Sense, Unbreakable and Signs, this guy was considered hot shit.

After 3 films, he was labelled the 'heir to Hitchcock' and I fully support that. A real master of suspense. As a boy of about 9, The Sixth Sense scared the living shit out of me. No movie ever freaked me out as badly as some of the scenes in that movie. Namely when the kid says "Hey, come on, I'll show you where my Dad keeps his gun" and turns round to reveal gaping hole in the back of his head. Cue the chilling James Newton Howard score. Or the suicide ghost who flashes out her cut up wrists and screams, "look what you made me do!". Also, the now iconic "I see dead people" confession. Finally, that image of the dead dudes hanging. It's enough to make you creep to the toilet after dark. As soon as the opening credits emerge, you can feel the temperature in the room drop just a few degrees.

Of course, there have been those who attempt to disconnect Signs from the top shelf. Any hands that try to take it down will be met with a wank hand ending karate chop from myself. Do you really want to engage in chopsocky with myself? Thought not, so put it back or next time you won't be so lucky. Yes, I agree the ending is weak with the lazy deus ex machina of aliens pathetically being intimidated by water. Raising the obvious question of why would extraterrestrial life forms come to a planet mainly covered in water. We'll skip that part. A typical common genre problem when facing extinction and the impending apocalypse. The writers always have to come up with their quick fix. Is the genre best suited to television where you can do the whole thing justice?

Getting side-tracked. Back to the main point, when it comes to Signs one should not forget the eerie scenes such as Joaquin Phoenix watching the Brazilian Video in the basement. His look of absolute horror and James Newton Howard's score get me every time. I kid you not, that shits me up. That'll have you bringing out the phone torch light whenever vision is even slightly restricted. You can't take any chances. Still not convinced by Signs greatness? Please don't say you're a Nope fan? We got a way of dealing with those kinds of people round here. That's it, "Swing away Merrill!"

Hitchcock and Shyamalan are not just linked in their technical wizardry and ability to generate suspense. Both have a perverted attachment to their chosen themes. They gravitate towards death. For Hitchcock, it's murder and the erotic pleasures of the taboo. For Shyamalan it's life after death and beyond our galaxy. The pair of them favour paperbacks and dime store novels. What's magical is their frequent tendency to incorporate their kinks in to routine genre work. That's what makes them special.

Over the years, I'd made my peace with the promised potential of Shyamalan's early efforts. Clearly, he picked a road of silliness, which I was perfectly ok with. As I mentioned, there has been some fun in this method, once you accept the illogical twists and ridiculous ruses. In a sense, you have two auteurs. The M. Night Shyamalan between '99 and '02, who is respectably talented and the M. Night Shyamalan between '15 and '21, who is respectably shit. Knock at the Cabin does not really fall in to either and thank fuck it doesn't fall in to whatever he was doing between '08 and '13.

Imagine my surprise though, when I'm getting these amazing scenes in Knock at the Cabin of Batista trying to break out a locked bathroom and planes falling from the sky. The former a reminder of his gifted artistry for tension and the latter, wow. Lost for words on the latter. Never again, did I think I would bear witness to such Shyamalian fears. The cinema screen room might have dropped by a degree or two. The ultimate measure of a good M. Night Sequence. Perhaps, my response to this should have been, oh how wonderful it is to get that spine tingling terror back but it just didn't go down like that. Instead, all I could think was alright let's drop the reputation he's gained in recent years and go back to his form he began with. If he's still got it in the locker, time to stop fucking around. Making this admittedly a rather frustrating trip to the movies.

All things considered then, Knock at the Cabin can only be positioned as a weaker version of his better films. I don't mind which way he goes, respectably talented or respectably shit, I know which I'd prefer but either's ok. What's worse than these two then is a film like Knock at the Cabin, which plainly and boringly falls in the middle.

An improvement that could have easily been made here to go in the serious direction is tying the cults in with contemporary movements and maybe having something more to say on the subject. Either that or on the trashier route make the same sex couple thing campier and play around with that angle. Remake Traynor's Death Game but you switch out the feminism. Rather than have two females teaming up against a chauvinist pig, make it two gay men taking on the insanely built Batista. Now, that would have been a big swing.

To my fellow Batista stans, when it comes to his turn to kill himself in Knock at the Cabin could be his greatest acting yet. To his doubters, I say this guy could really turn out to be something. A Schwarzenegger in the '80s being the perfect front man for high concept sci-fi action movies. Just needs to pick the right projects, which it seems like he's doing after recently discussing his disappointment with the 'Drax' character in the MCU. My mans realised they're not going to explore any back story there so it's just minor comic relief. We continue our support and wish Mr Batista all the best.

Let none of this deter you from watching the film. Those seeking a solid thriller will be pleased. My disappointment mainly lies in Shyamalan semi-reminding me he's still got a few set pieces left in him but not making a great movie out of it and also a desire to express why this is not, as has been reported, top tier from him. There are those though that defend The Happening as this jarring experience with nods to eco thriller B Movies and moments of genuine terror amongst the silliness. So maybe even in all his weaker works there is evidence of greatness that we must come to terms with. My advice to him would either be to take his own advice and "Swing away" or get back in the saddle. As Marty Robbins once said, "something is dreadfully wrong, for I feel a deep burning pain in my side. Though I am trying to stay in the saddle, I'm getting weary, unable to ride". Does Mr Shyamalan have it in him to make it back to Felina? One little kiss and Felina, goodbye?

Bonus Points:

-Batista reviewing children's cartoons for their potential positive impact on the youth

-Shyamalan's suspense when Batista is escaping out the bathroom

-Batista's genuinely incredible acting in the final scene

-Unhinged Ron Weasley

-The seemingly unnecessary but cool decision to have the invaders put bags over their heads before their sacrifices

-The planes falling from the skies

-KC and the Sunshine Band

Overall Score: 3/5

Where the Fuck is John Wayne to Save You Now?

First and foremost, this is a found footage movie. Cue the nerds to start winging, "Why is this genre still a thing? Why do they keep filming? Why don't they put the camera down?". Pack it in nerds, we've heard it all before. Stop thinking you're bunch of big brained fucks cause you know the common flaws of the genre. At this point asking these questions is akin to watching a slasher and saying, "Why is she running up the stairs and not out the door?". Nobody cares. Me and the boys have just the one question each time, "Did you say new found footage? Let's goooooooooooo!". All those criticisms are totally valid mind, the genre has been stale creatively speaking for a long time. I wrote an entire piece on where the genre needs to go if it wants to be interesting again back in Vol. 1 Issue #5. Nerds I suggest you sit this one out and read that instead. My boys who appreciate the fact found footage allows greater access to equipment for aspiring filmmakers and value there being a trashy horror film every Friday regardless of quality read on because this one's for you.

The Outwaters has been sneakily picking up fans since its New Jersey premiere back in February 2022. Although not widely seen, it was big talk amongst the horror crowd who'd attended the few film festivals it had played at. Genuinely, there were those lauding it, calling it a bold new direction for horror and throwing out 5 star ratings like confetti. As always you can't trust horror fans. It's a fact. They are psychotic oddballs with a tendency to overrate. We're dealing with the kind of people who would chat your head off in the boozer about how the fifth film in a series like 'Bob's Murders: The Deaths of Hookers #16-20' is the great undervalued cinematic masterpiece of our time. Not even a series with a generally accepted start like Halloween or Hellraiser. That would be too easy. Nope, it has to be an obscure series you've never heard of and all of sudden a 5/5 has sprung up. Deranged individuals that need the bomb dropping on them like the end of Apocalypse Now. I speak as one of them.

Majority of us managed to catch The Outwaters when streaming service Screambox bought the rights. No longer did we have to rely on the word of the raving lunatics attending festivals and we could see for ourselves. As predicted the Letterboxd score has gone right down since it was accessible to the general public. Now, the question is whether this is a movie specifically made for a particular audience and has its merits or whether it was overrated in early screenings.

A mysterious opening phone call sets the mood of The Outwaters. The screen remains blank and we have to trust our ears. We hear a woman in distress trying to reach the police. As the responder continues to throw questions out, the female caller is distracted by all these indistinguishable creepy voices. Leaving one to imagine something like the orgies in the final act of Society. Solid opening. Come to think of it, so solid in fact, that it will ensure you stick around for the rest of the boring first act, which is an absolute slog. Yes, so appalling that you'll almost be siding with the nerds in believing this genre to be completely over. Anything to get you out of this dull endeavour.

Creativity gone but now the enjoyment too? A bad day for found footage defenders. There is not a single interesting character involved. Set up is this, that annoying attractive girl you know is going to make some edgy music video out in the desert. You know the type, the one who's always at gaffs picking up acoustic guitars and has a bang average voice but a pretty face. Her favourite musicians are Joni Mitchell and Joan Baez. Somewhere on her wrist she has a Fleetwood Mac tattoo. Everybody claps after and offers fake compliments but no-one really gives a shit. They just want to bang her. It's about playing ball. Our filmmaker spends so much time with these early conversations between people but none of them get referred back to later once the carnage begins making them entirely pointless.

As part of the found footage angle, the images we see have been located and assembled by the police. Noticed some mentioning how the police would not be interested in these scenes which attempt to establish characters. Sure, the police are not here to serve our narrative demands such as character development or laying pipe but to say they wouldn't watch these parts too is absolute nonsense. Some unfortunate pig would be tasked with sitting through the full footage. Half makes you want to make a deliberately awful found footage movie, leave it in the woods somewhere and waste the cops time having to sit through such monotonous and brainless garbage.

Aside from torturing cops with terrible filmmaking, I'm sure my fellow non-cop viewers will agree this is certainly overly long at 110 minutes. Shaving 10 or 15 minutes off that beginning at the house so they get on to the road faster would do a world of good. If you can't write characters, don't bother. You're only wasting time and likely to lose your core audience with such dull drama. Get straight to what you're good at and stop fucking about. We know who these people are, you don't need to bore me to death overexplaining them if you haven't got that in your locker. Soon as the gang hit the road, the film shows some real signs of improvement. If there is one thing I love about found footage, from Blair Witch to Willow Creek to Troll Hunter and going right back to The Legend of Boggy Creek, it is the genres ability to capture nature and the environment. They have a playful consideration of history and myth. What would The Outwaters have to add to that?

Completely surprising is the music video footage shot in the desert. I was expecting some faux-beautiful cheap rubbish and maybe even intentionally so. Yet, there is some shots that look directly lifted from Terrence Malick and Wim Wenders movies. Careful placing of the camera allows for experimentation with perspective of the subject in relation to the vast backdrop. Certainly, later on in the film they use this to create psychedelic effects to disorient the viewer with the location. Impressive as it keeps antagonising the audience in that the location remains pretty much the same throughout but appears endless and ever changing. There is that fear of an environment, which is the same but different. As though wondering through a dream and coming face to face with the unheimlich. Leaving you to wonder is this the same row of houses I passed seconds ago or an entirely new street? Perfect for any film with a looping structure.

Undeniably, those who are convinced The Outwaters is a masterpiece are fully entitled to pick out these surreal aspects as part of their argument. However, its shortcomings for me are in its inability to go beyond technique and use that to say something strong about the location chosen in the film: the desert. A missed opportunity for PsychoCondo

We spend so much time wondering what the threat shall be. There is the familiar scene of the campers in the tent hearing peculiar sounds outside. Eventually, when we do get our first image of the intimidator, they are standing in near darkness on a hill with an axe like weapon in their hand. Enough to freak the seasoned horror vet out. It's hard to positively make out who this suspicious character is at this moment in time, which reminds me most of the film is shot so that you can only see a tiny circular beam of torch light with the rest of the screen in darkness. Our big brained fucks have been ranting on about that I see in their reviews. A regular criticism is "you can't even see half the movie!"

Doofus, this isn't Alien Vs Predator 2: Requiem It's not a mistake of lighting, it's blatantly intentional. A creative choice I wholly respect as it restricts vision and harkens back to when found footage would heighten reality by letting your mind fill in the blanks. Making for a much scarier movie. Sometimes, suggestion is better than total actualisation. Then again, some people are just devoid of imagination and can't be helped. Personally, I always go off the basis, that once you completely know your enemy they can be defeated. Their weaknesses come apparent. Keep the mind working away cause if that stops and people can then file and categorise what you're seeing, you've lost your audience. So in this case, hold back on the villain. An outline is all you need. Your viewer will fill in the rest.

This is where the major flaw of the movie comes in. With that single shot of the axe wielding mad man on the hill, I was ready to fill that character in with my understanding of the American West. The Outwaters formulated itself as this cross between Bone Tomahawk and Cannibal Holocaust but with this unexplainable twist on time like Blair Witch. An eerie spot where the ghosts of the Native Americans come to wreak revenge on those that stole their lands. That's the movie The Outwaters should have been. Unfortunately, it shifts far away from that as a concept, instead choosing to go the most simple path it could have taken in making the place a militarised zone and venturing in to the Lovecraftian.

Although we have seen this movie many times, it's hard to be mad about a surreal Lovecraftian found footage movie which presents itself as the summer time version of The Thing. There is little that is ground-breaking about this enough to warrant masterpiece status. Anyone arguing that this is a new aspect to found footage or horror would be incorrect and severely deluded. However, defending this as a fun rollercoaster ride through weirdness is fair.

In the end, it is mainly an excuse to serve as a means to tie together random nightmarish acts in the desert. A favourite being the adequately gnarly cock chopping incident. Downside is that these images have little to connect them to a wider purpose. Definitely believe the Native American analogy would have been suitable and the way to go. Obviously, there can be an advantage to keeping things open to avoid a single reading but there's so little from the filmmakers to provide any particular meaning so getting lost in the possibilities is pointless to me. Best to sit back and get high off its unexplainable images. Robbie Banfitch serves as the director, camera operator and main star. He has made a beautiful looking and likeable movie for a measly $15,000 dollars. A shoestring budget and for that a mighty achievement worth appreciating. Looking forward to what he has next to offer.

Talking of dudes shooting music videos where they shouldn't be, it is time for this weeks Kelly and Bonehead conundrum. Ok, so I'll start this one a few weeks back when I was walking home from doing the weekly shop. Who do I run in to but The Goshima. Sheffield's biggest and whitest Asia appreciator. Catch him firing off fives at every Asian movie he comes across on Letterboxd. He never sleeps, he only smokes weed and plays video games. You call him at any hour and he is glued to his gaming bean bag and probably slurping on yesterday's Chinese takeaway. Usually with some undecipherable shoegaze playing in the background. This music gives him an indescribable warmth that his fellow man cannot provide. Across his walls are posters of Faye Wong and anime films that I couldn't name but probably feature a lot of incest and other questionable things. Across all his body is Japanese symbols. He assures me, he knows what they all mean. His windowsill serves as his small library, with my eyes I can normally make out works by Mishima and Musashi.

Meeting him under these circumstances again was a spot of bad timing. On the one hand, there was much to say considering we hadn't crossed paths in many moons but standing and talking whilst holding heavy bags is no way to catch up now is it? Heavy bags being no exaggeration, a boy gotta eat. Cut the conversation short and said "Let's go for a pint sometime". To which he nodded in agreement and off we went in separate directions. Since I didn't want this to be that metaphorical ghost pint that never happens between acquaintances with a firm respect for one another but not enough time to visit one another, I dropped him a message about a day or two later.

His one and only question was, "where we having this pint, Kelly-san?". Dealing with a man like this there could only be one place. "Got just the place for you, my dude. You'll love it. They got all Japanese samurai armour up by the entrance. New-ish bar on West Street by the name of Guyshi!". He said he's in there every week. Predictable as ever. As old friends, we sat back, demolished a few pints and traded the fates of the old gang. You will never understand the difficulty of going pint after pint sat only yards away from Samurai armour and resisting the urge to go full Harakiri and start drunkenly dive bombing in to the shiny gear on display. Not to make any political statements but purely on the fun of just knocking expensive shit over.

Such an act reminds me that the main topic of our conversation was Godzilla movies of the Showa era. After the obvious choice, his second favourite was Destroy All Monsters. I countered with Godzilla vs Hedorah. Slapping that down on the table like it was my champion conker or royal flush. "Ah, Banno. Such a good director, he never got another Godzilla gig or any movie for that matter", was The Gosima's response. "Yeah but I kind of love the whole psych rock counter to Ebirah's surf rock. They got that Woodstock vigil thing going on by the base of Mount Fuji! Plus Banno went and produced a lot of the American ones so he's clearly respected as an elder statesman of Godzilla", I threw back. "Too weird and it deviated too much from what a Godzilla movie is all about", he retorted like a silly studio head. Asked him how it deviated considering Godzilla's always had an environmental angle.

The Goshima had no comeback to this. How could he? He was pinned in a corner and his only way to respond was to change the subject in to the worst movies of this period, naming Son of Godzilla and All Monsters Attack. Little did this man know this would stir me even more. Told him, "keep my man's son out of your damn mouth". Informed him that any further Minilla slander and I would slap him silly. For some reason he laughed at these words as though he believed they were intended humorously. A warning to the misinformed, I don't joke around when it comes to matters of Minilla. To project such horrible statements regarding the son of God is blasphemy and punishable by death. We drank our final pints and left.

On the walk back to my flat, my phone began ringing. Incoming call from one Bonehead Bill. Answered this and barely even said hello before he announced, "I have the beasts in my sight, General". What the fuck was he talking about?

Bonehead Bill was parked out in Crookes by Bolehill rec, a large grassy spread out field with incredible views all round. Alternatively, his attention was on The Pseuds. A couple of no good punks we'd had a few spats with in the last few months. We hated them. They hated us. Bonehead shit in their sun roof, they kidnapped me. Here he was, laid out across the grass with a set of binoculars, listening on repeat to Cannonball by The Breeders on red light flashing low battery warning wireless headphones with empty beer bottles and cigarette buds to accompany him whilst plotting my revenge for me. The dude was on his own mission without even consorting your trustworthy critic and bringing him in on the plot.

Naturally, I was a little confused just why he was spending his afternoon on his own spying on people. Bonehead kept repeating he had The Breeders to keep him company. "The Breeders. The fucking Breeders, lad!", he kept shouting as though this explained his actions. He demanded I get down to his coordinates immediately without further hesitation. Since, I wasn't doing anything and listening to The Breeders in the sun with a few beers was a hard thing to pass down, I got the Kelly wheels (my trusted legs) in action and hopped on over to his position.

By the time I got there he was playing The Stone Roses's Love Spreads on his shitty phone speakers. The wireless headphones lay next to him. Presumably they'd run out of battery. How long had he been out here? 7 empty beer bottles and 12 cigarette buds gave me my answer. He wasn't too hard to spot out here, when I wandered over all I could see was a curious fat head sticking out of a bush. So this was where he'd set up camp. Some reconnaissance mission. For what certainly worried me.

According to James Bond here, he'd seen the shorter one of the two Pseuds coming out a house just two or three roads away and followed him to Bolehill rec. I think this was Louie but we often got them mixed up. So who's to say? Playing along, I picked up the binoculars and glanced down the scopes. Sure enough, The Pseuds were where Bonehead said they were about 120 yards in front of us. They were enjoying an afternoon in the fool's sun, that bright sun brings little heat with it. Joining our enemies were a couple of other guys we didn't recognise. Kopperberg was the groups drink of choice and some documentary called Meet Me in the Bathroom their topic of conversation. Oh no, not the 2000s indie scene! All that fucking Post-Punk revival rubbish. The Strokes, Arcade Fire, Interpol, Franz Ferdinand and LCD Soundsystem garbage. Who would dare make a documentary about that scene and bring it back when it was best left forgotten? Although these newcomers identities were yet to be confirmed, I could just tell they were insufferable.

"You handing them back or you gonna marry them", Bonehead asked, referring to the binoculars. This led me to ask aloud, "Bonehead, why do you have binoculars?". Without any pause he explained, "Cause sometimes women need to be looked at". Uncontrollably, this did elicit a chuckle from myself. "Bonehead, you're gonna get us all cancelled", I mentioned. Poetically he stood up and returned, "Twas never any hope for us, my friend". He went on to add that he was going back to Sandero to get a joint. As he headed back, he began humming the intro to Black Sabbath's N.I.B and crip walking, leaving me to survey the Pseuds.

A few days go by until Bonehead contacts me again. He gives me the briefest of warnings, stating that in 15 minutes he will be at my front door. Says he has our revenge plot and has figured it all out. The answer to all our problems. At 15 minutes on the dot, there is a knock on my front door. Opening it up, I see Bonehead walk straight in with a smile on his face. I shrug and he withdraws a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket. "On here, written on this piece of piece of paper is my plan. This is how we get those bastards back. Everything you need to know is written on this piece of paper", Bonehead declares.

Taken in by my partner in crimes confidence, I open up his sheet of paper to read the messy scrawl that was worse than a 5 year olds handwriting: "lure pigeons with pigeon food laced with explosives in to The Pseuds house. Watch them shit everywhere and explode like How High" I glance over it again in pure amazement. Bonehead resembles a donkey, showing his teeth with a big smile on his face and nodding repeatedly. "What the fuck is this?", I query. "That's the plan!", screams back Bonehead. "That's the plan? Alright. What do pigeons eat numnuts?", I test Bonehead, knowing full well he doesn't know. This is indicated by his silence and I quickly go in to my next question, "No. You don't know. Moving on. What explosives are we putting in and how do we get hold of them without getting arrested?". Bonehead folds his arms behind his back and tucks in his bottom lip in as he states, "it's a work in progress" "A work in progress. Oh, right", I mock. "Yeah, a floor opener", adds Bonehead. "Oh it's a real floor opener", I mock once more and throw the sheet of paper on the ground.

Never been the brains of this outfit has old Bonehead Bill, yet he continues to try to take charge as though marks go to initiative. I wish they did Bonehead. "What did you do that for?", he cries out defensively and dives to the ground to retrieve his master plan. "My first rule when engaging in criminal deeds is always know the plan inside out so you don't get caught, alright?", I explain. "Brother, this ain't my first rodeo", exclaims Bill.

Over numerous Birra Morettis and endless listening to Method Man's All I Need (Razor Sharp Remix) we discuss our retaliation. When we get stuck in development hell, I defeatedly query, "Why do we even need to do this again?"

Sharp as ever, Bonehead boosts morale by saying, "Cause you thought Scream 6 was fucking shite lad and the last thing you want is a victory for The Pseuds". He was not wrong, I shall review that giant turd next month. We cannot let the nerds win. This encourages me to push on with the planning.

Early in to the next morning we have it all drafted. So get the Ocean's Eleven heist music blaring. Ok, so this is how it will go down. At dead on 02.15 AM, Bonehead will pick me up in the Sandero and drive me to the scene of the crime: The Pseuds residence. Then at approximately 02.30, Bonehead shall use his lock picking skills to break in the house. He assures me his lock picking skills are very good and he's done this tons of times. Upon entering the gaff, we will pour a slippery slime residue all over floor of the house. This mixture will be created by Bonehead earlier in his work garage using various liquids he can mix together. I'm not even sure I want to know what he's going to put in it. I'll leave that to him. Once, the unidentified slippery slime substance is poured out on the floor, I shall open the windows. At about 02.45 Bonehead will then leave a trail of bird seeds and berries bought from the local pet shop that goes all the way to Bolehill rec to attract his pigeons. By 02.50, we're long gone. We were never there. In the morning, The Pseuds will hopefully come down to a room of shitting pigeons. As they try to shoo them away, they will slip in the slime and fall in the piles of shit. How about that? Oh and obviously, we removed the part where the pigeons explode cause we decided that's a bit mean on the birds. Especially, considering they will be assisting us on this mission.

On the evening of the revenge plot, I was pacing my front room wondering whether this was a good idea and whether it would even come off. The pigeon part was a big ask on their behalf but I concluded that at the bare minimum The Pseuds would wake up to a sticky floor and that was payback enough for them kidnapping me and their championing of the abysmal Scream 6

Right on cue, Bonehead appears and I see the Sandero headlights silhouetted against my windows. Briskly, I sneak out the house and dive in to the passenger seat. Bonehead has Black Sabbath's Who Are You? blasting out his car speakers. I showed him this song a few days back and he hasn't stopped playing it since. One of the cooler points of their controversial prog rock turn away from the stoner and doom metal origins. Who can resist such juicy synths? Although, it must be said, Bonehead's non-stop playing of the song was beginning to drive me crazy. If Bonehead was nervous, he wasn't showing it. As for me, I was bricking one and barely able to speak. "Have you got the bird seeds?", I mumble.

"Ah yeah, it's on the back seat", Bonehead answers. I turn round and see the tin. "And the slime?", I follow up with. "You know I keep that that thang on me. That's riding up with me. Got it here in the side compartment as that needs to stay up right. Don't want that shit getting all over my car. Here smell this...", Bonehead says as he opens the lid and places it under my nose. I recoil at the stench and let out an audible "Urrggghhhh". That smell will never be forgotten. I look around for something to throw up in, anxious I may soon need to. While this is happening, Bonehead just laughs to himself. He's a maniac. A god damn maniac. Once I stop gagging, he starts tapping the steering wheel and humming the sound of the synths from Who Are You?

Eventually, we pull up a few roads down from the gaff. Bonehead shouts, "here" and throws what appears to be a pair of tights at my head. "What are these for?", I ask baffled. "To put them over your head, stupid. I nicked them from my sisters place", responds Bonehead. "Well, I don't want them. Give your sister her fucking tights back, mate", I shout back. He refused to take them back off me and said, "Look, I thought it be a good idea to conceal our identities if shit goes sideways". Cursing the dark skies lack of complete shielding, I ashamedly pulled Bonehead's sisters tights over my head. Jesus, what had we gotten ourselves in to?

Approaching The Pseud's pathway with bird seed and slime tucked under our arms, we crept along quietly. Bonehead begins humming the Who Are You synths again and I have to give him a quick "Shhhh!". Did this man ever snap in to seriousness? Only thing that would get me angrier would be if he couldn't pick this lock. Turned out we didn't have to, the door was left completely unlocked. We looked at each other in surprise and walked straight on in. After that, I just told myself they deserved what they were about to get.

Tiptoeing along the corridors, Bonehead starts that humming of Who Are You business again and putting me so on edge. "Shut the fuck up", I aggressively whisper and believe me there is such a thing as aggressively whispering. Having poured out the slime and bird seed, we got up to opening the windows when we heard footsteps moving up above. My heart stopped. I held my hand out to Bonehead in a gesture not to move a muscle. "What should we do?", mouths Bonehead. Although, it's kind of hard to tell what he's trying to say with his sister's tights on his head. My first instinct was to wait it out but those footsteps were busy making sweet music in the night. Worst of all, they seemed to be getting closer. It came clear that whoever the feet belonged to were coming down the stairs. That meant one thing, based on the design of the house we were trapped. Those symphonic feet would soon be united with a face. I put my hands on top of my head and looked at my partner in crime. Counting the precious seconds until we were fucked. Where was Link with the exit route when we needed him? In a split second it struck me. "The window", I called out to Bonehead and made a beeline for our new exit. We dived on out on to the grass like Gary Cahill jumping for a corner and sprinted in to the streets.

As we ploughed in to the dark, Bonehead with his sisters tights dangling half off his head was chucking bird seeds everywhere willy-nilly in order to keep his pigeon plan. All this running left us lost as to where the car was. Every street looked the exact same round here and the last thing we wanted to do is return anywhere near the scene of the crime. We were screwed with no way out. We needed to get off the streets asap. In anger, I threw the tights off my head and launched them in a nearby bush. "What should we do?", uttered Bonehead looking for our next exit strategy. Who would be up at this time to pick us up in the arsehole of nowhere? My face flashed as the thought came to me. It was time to call The Goshima

A car pulls up, a window rolls down and out comes a thumbs up. The Goshima had arrived. I have never been more relieved. We piled in to his Mitsubishi. Soon as I had the seat belt sorted, I let out a "thanks" "Any time, Kellysan", smoothly replied The Goshima. I could have fallen asleep in the passenger then and there like a child in a pram. No-one had ever felt this safe. I basked in the gift of silence and car comfort.

Still, I was not ready for Bonehead Bill's rambling quite so soon. "Hey Kelly. You're a JFK assassination enthusiast. You'll like this one. The other day I was speaking with Barry me boss and he said, if someone was interested in something like that...he said they should check out who owned the building... the building...what was it called? The one they supposedly shot JFK from", rambled Bonehead. "The Texas School Book Depository building", answered The Goshima putting Bonehead straight. "Yeah that's the one. He said if anyone wanted information. They would be wise to look in to who owns the building. I can't remember the name. But he said it was some rich oil man. A right winger with military ties to Lee Harvey Oswald and one of his associates. Now this might be a bit of a leap but what if that building was actually a covert CIA headquarters? Ah? Think about it. You got to move weapons around secretly. Who's gonna check in a box with 'Children's school books written on'. Smart, huh?", Bonehead rambles again. I was too exhausted and on edge from our previous engagement to even bother to answer him.

After a while of driving, I apologised to The Goshima for the interruption to his evening and hoped he wasn't up to much. "Just a Japanese noise night", he cleared up. "A Japanese noise night? Now where in Sheffield would they have one of those?", I asked in amazement. "You'd have to be in the know", he informed letting out a little grin. "Mr Goshima, would you mind if we tagged along with you and maybe checked this night out with you?", interrupted Bonehead. I wanted to berate my crime colleague for his insubordination but I also wanted to know whether we could go this Japanese noise night so held off. "Sure, if you boys behave" was The Goshima's decision. I assured him we would. Bonehead asked for control on the music of the car speakers, put Who Are You on and hummed along again.

This noise night was the greatest thing I'd ever seen. Just Japanese dudes running about, screaming and headbutting cymbals. "Go on, son!" I screamed in encouragement every time he hit that motherfucker. He didn't care one bit about the trickles of blood running down his forehead. Neither did I. We were all lost in the spectacle. Another guy had brought in what could well have been his car engine and spent about a solid 20 minutes drilling holes in it. Bonehead was frozen to the spot, he had never been so inspired in all his life. We were so drunk, we jumped up and down on the spot, daring these musicians to proceed with their art. Some other guys act was punching an inflatable sex doll and with the other hand carrying a microphone to pick up the sounds which he then heavily distorted and put enough reverb on to make My Blood Valentine wince.

After a while, The Goshima asks, "What do you think?". I pointed at the fella on stage currently slamming a toy Lightsaber in to the wall for about the 100th time and said, "That's music". He giggled and added, "Why don't you have a go?". "Can I do that?", I shouted in shock. "It's sort of like a open mic night. They have this night like once a month. The clubs called The Milennium. Small thing. You just go up and request a slot", clarified The Goshima. Not needing any further persuasion, I went up to a guy stood behind a laptop and whispered in his ear. They pencilled me in after the next act. I gave the DJ just one request, play Les Rallizes Denudes's Night of the Assasin's in its full 12 minutes and I would do the rest. There was just one problem. I'd forgotten the entire song is in Japanese and I didn't know a single word of Japanese. Not a problem, I just improvised by chatting utter shite about how much I loved Les Rallizes Denudes and the Japanese Red Army whilst doing karate chops through the air. Every few steps across the stage, I had to throw a roundhouse kick and this could not be questioned. Chatting utter shite and throwing in kung fu moves. This was my act. This was my art.

Since, this seemed to be met with a very positive reaction, I decided I had to up the ante. You can't be too tame in a place like this. Time to share my admiration for Godzilla with my new found friends. "Oh no, they say he's got to go. Go Godzilla, yeah. Oh no there goes Tokyo. Go Godzilla, yeah!", I chanted across the room.

This caused the small DIY venue to erupt with cheering for the King of the Monsters as Les Rallizes Denudes echoed on in the background. Bonehead had his shitty phone camera out and was announcing, "Live from The Milennium. He doesn't do studio recordings. Only Live. This is the fucking music video!". One man as if possessed, grabbed my neck, stood millimetres from my face and screamed, "Godzilllaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!". Not knowing quite what to do, I screamed back at him, "Godzillllaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa"

Sensing this as encouragement to keep going, I began singing, no wait shouting, "The cries of Godzilla's victims put me to sleep at night. Tokyo tears make my penis stand up right. He's the city destroyer. He smokes cities like the pipe smoking Tom Sawyer. Death to Japan. Goddy's got 'em in a chokehold like Vince McMahon"

Suddenly, the music screeched to an abrupt halt. A ringing filled my ears. "Give it up for The Godzilla Guy!", announced the DJ, quickly snatching the microphone from my hands. There was mostly silence with a few ironic cheers. The DJ screams down my ear, "Look, I know you're just fucking around being silly here. But there's a couple of guys that don't know that and didn't take it that way. There's some guys here really pissed off and really want to kick your head in. They think you just offended the soul of Japan. I suggest you get out now and never come back to The Milennium"

Bonus Points:

-being a Lovecraftian found footage movie

-all the surreal experimentation and trippy looping structure

-the cock cutting

-Robbie Banfitch acting, directing and operating the camera like a true auteur

-respectably making a decent movie on a measley $15,000 budget

Overall Score: 3.5/5

#1-The

Aesthetic

Watching Skinamarink:

Every thought that came to mind in the order they came to mind

This looks fucking gorgeous.

#2-The Concept

Well, this never got past the concept stage.

#3-It's No Blair Witch

Is this the movie idiots think Blair Witch is? The genius of that film was how it devotes so much time in the first act and the supplement promo material to giving a context so that your mind can then wonder. There's no context here so it's not scary. No-ones asking for a concrete answer but you have to provide at least some suggestion of what could be going on.

#4-It's Not Even Paranormal Activity Level

Oh come on, even Paranormal Activity had a few interesting elements such as the McMansions, surveillance and domestic violence. Say something Skinamarink please, for the love of God!

#5-Lack of Close Ups

What's the point in shooting with no close ups of the kid's faces? Hard to identify with them or be scared for them if you have such a detached shooting style.

#6-Slow Cinema Paranormal Activity

How can I be angry at this? It's a slow cinema Paranormal Activity and it's found its own form of storytelling. I just wish it had something to say. Something to match the cool visuals. Still, as a stylistic exercise this is pretty damn interesting.

#7-Do We Have An Allegory?

Woah. Hold on here. This may have something to say yet. Respect for keeping me waiting. I'm on my toes trying to reach for the allegory.

#8-Cracked It

Oh my God. I think I've cracked this. This is about the deterioration of the family home. Getting older, feeling nostalgic and suddenly realising that the place you want to visit no longer exists. That's why everything is slowly disappearing. The idea not to show the kid's faces was a good one because you can substitute yourself in. It's a perspective thing. Setting it during those early hazy hours when you couldn't sleep and would watch cartoons and play with toys while the parents were still asleep is about the most profound thing I've ever seen. That times always been slightly Lynchian to begin with but it's also the most pure visualisation of the family home. The only thing more embarrassing than finding this scary is that I'm actually finding it sad.

#9-Another U-Turn

Ok, disregard all that. I seem to be wrong here. There does not appear to be an allegory.

#10-Fucking Ghosts

Oh for fuck sake, is that a ghost? I beg this not to do away with its unique style for cliches. I'll get over the poor writing just don't do away with the style. Do not even think about giving me jump scares.

#11-Style Maintained

So I'm not too happy about ghosts being invited to the party and the easier route taking place of allegory but for the most part, it has maintained the style and remained dedicated to the way it began telling the story.

#12-Familiar Set Pieces In A New Way

We may have slipped narratively by the inclusion of conventional ghosts but in maintaining the style the familiar is presented new. I refer to the blood down the wall, eye stabbing and creepy phone call afterwards. It doesn't linger on the actions themselves but let's the dialogue play over strong images, far more effective. Instead of jump scares we get hazy faces in the dark where you have to lean in and form an image with your mind. Japanese style! This may be empty but I've got so much time for that.

#13-Conclusion

Without a doubt an wonderful stylistic exercise. Same with The Outwaters, maybe next time, I'm not asking for a fully comprehensive story, but maybe a bit more to make your mind wonder. That's not to say dialogue explaining what's happening but images which have a strong meaning. Personally, I liked my own idea best with bullet point number 8.

Overall Score: 3/5

The Magic Mike, Coda: The Death of Michael Jeffrey Lane

What is the opposite of a sausage fest? A clam jam? A taco party? Whatever it is, there was one down at The Light Cinema when I caught the excellent Magic Mike's Last Dance. Only place you can see so many women normally is the Coco Lounge bar every Saturday when the hen dos are on. No-one with a penis walks through those doors and never has. The bouncers are extra tight, if they see you're packing, you are refused entry. 86'd out of there straight on to the tarmac. What goes down in there is anyone's guess. You'd have to be well connected in the 40 year old single women scene or have an older relative living the life. Otherwise I'd recommend waiting outside the doors when the animals are let loose on to the streets to catch a glimpse of them. Hordes of drunken middle aged women granted parole, ready to strike on unsuspecting males and going out in a blaze of glory. Your money or your life. And you better give them what they want.

Magic Mike 3's all women audience is somewhat baffling considering in the first 15 minutes Salma Hayek is being thrusted against giant glass windows. Nearly reaching the exaggerated levels of Showgirls when Kyle Maclachlan launches Elizabeth Berkley up against the fountain. Key emphasis on the nearly because no-one can reach that. Fair play to Sandman for allowing this Goddess Hayek to explore comedic paths in the past but it's great to see her back doing what she does best, being ferociously horny. Keep up or be left for dead. She slows for nobody. This is still the same actress who at the end of Desperado, chased Antonio Banderas across the highway with Tito & Tarantula's Back to the House blaring and demanded to be thanked for her services. Imagine that. The audacity. Stopping the sexiest voice in Hollywood and demanding he show you more gratitude. Who else could do that? No damsel in distress could resist him and tell him what's what. That bastards charms are hypnotising. Hayek is the only one to ever show signs of immunity. Honestly, those two throw it back and forth in that movie constantly. Could well be the sexiest action movie of all time?

Given my appreciation for that movie you can understand why it thrills me to see her being launched in to giant glass windows in such an over the top sexualised manner. As a male, I believe it is your civic duty to witness such an absurdly horny sequence as this from the Latino Queen on the big screen. However, as evidence has shown, I am clearly alone in this belief. Throw my sexuality in to question but I remain as ever a Magic Mike stan and if you think my man's going out on his last hurrah without me being there, you have another thing coming. Soon as the invitation was out, Mike's hanging up the boots after one last dance, I had to RSVP on that event immediately. Those who can't be there to support their boys final shindig can't be trusted. He calls, I answer. Mike's going out and you'd be a damn fool to miss it!

Me and my friend Michael Jeffrey Lane first met back in 2012. Over a decade since our journey first began. What struck me as great in that initial introduction is how well Steven Soderbergh balances the beefcake cheese requirement arising from focusing on male strippers whilst addressing genuine economic issues of 21st century living. Unfortunately, many dance movies are laughed off as pure silliness and some deservedly so. Those that deserve greater credit are the ones which have used the serious elements as a secret weapon amongst the feel good factor. Saturday Night Fever and Flashdance being perfect examples in depicting working class characters struggling with financial difficulties.

Going more local, The Full Monty is the pride of Sheffield. First time I watched that, I was in utter shock as a scene had been shot one street away from where I was living at the time. Never has that happened before and it is unlikely to ever occur again. Actually, that's not true, around the same time, I saw Shane Meadows's The Virtues, which had been shot over in Endcliffe Park pretty much outside the house I was living in. Another time, I put Kill List on after a night out and my head rolled off as I spotted clear as day in the background of a scene none other than Sheffield Train Station. She's a beauty.

Back to The Full Monty, like Flashdance it utilises the steel worker central character. Always referred to Sheffield as 'The City of Sex and Steel', so it makes sense that this would be the characters profession. Unmistakably that film embodies the full meaning of what we're talking about when we're talking about Sex and Steel. Steel factory workers turning to stripping on the side to earn extra cash. Oh yes. Definitely says something about the state of the economy when dudes gotta be turning to sleaze to pay their way in this town. Alternatively, Flashdance is set in Pittsburgh, which as it turns out is also a steel city. My knowledge of Pittsburgh is limited to the movies of George A. Romero and Tom Savini. In their eyes, the inhabitants are mindless consumers, racist lynch mobs and serial killers who think they're vampires. Therefore, Flashdance has always been very striking in its more realistic direction. I've often wondered what horror heads Romero and Savini made of Flashdance

Magic Mike inverts the structure of The Full Monty. It's protagonists full time job is stripping and he seeks to establish a respectable construction business. Like Jesus himself, Magic Mike is something of a carpenter. Take note though, his dream is not to be a worker but a business owner. Sadly, Mike is tied to the life with a greedy stripper boss in Matthew Mcconaughey. Easily Mcconaughey's best ever role this. In Wolf of Wall Street, he gives one of the finest cameos in the history of weird cameos. He didn't need long at all to establish an impression with his chest slamming and warrior like humming chants. Should come as no surprise that these are actually his own vocal warm up exercises done in between takes and Dicaprio was sent so white by these that he asked Scorsese to put them in the movie. We owe Steven Soderbergh for creating a role that Mcconaughey could bring that same energy and explode in.

Mcconaughey is so good in fact that he opens the first movie of the Magic Mike series with one of his irresistibly watchable stripper show introductions. Dressed head to toe in cowboy gear as he addresses his all middle aged female audience. Kicking things off this way is almost like mocking American history. It could have so easily have just began with an intertitle gag to set the scene reading, "In the 1800s cowboys moved out west and chased the American dream. Not much has changed"

Almost as though this is Soderbergh's take on the modern cowboy and what became of manifest destiny. Our heroes of the west didn't die, they're in stripper joints every night strutting their stuff to make ends meet! For those unaware, since location is often a big thing in these movies, Magic Mike is actually set in Tampa, Florida. Hence, why the stripping gang call themselves The Cock Rocking Kings of Tampa!

One for the trivia heads. Recently came across an absolutely hilarious piece of trivia that police once followed up a noise complaint to a house only to find a naked coked up Matthew Mcconaughey playing bongos. When they tried to arrest him, he resisted and fought the cops. What a legend. We salute you Mr Mcconaughey. He brings this vibe to his performance in Magic Mike. Every time I see that scene where he's coaching Alex Pettyfer (yes him, Stormbreaker himself, Number fucking Four) it has me in fits of laughter. Mcconaughey with his gym gear that's several sizes too small talking about making love to the mirror is trash cinema gold. He's so funny that that you might actually miss he's something of a self-interested villain in the movie, promising big dreams, delivering little and running off with the money. Last person you want to go in to business with.

Let's not forget Channing Tatum though who has shown some of his best acting in this role over the trilogy. An actor primarily known for his good looks and athletic abilities. Easy to see why when to a large extent this is deeply personal and serves as a quasi-biopic for him. It's well documented that he was a stripper in his youth and a lot of this is filled with his own experiences and contempt for the industry. Story goes that he gave up on that life because he thought modelling and stripping was too simple and that he needed a challenge so he took on acting too. Respect, chief. His contributions to Hail Caesar and The Hateful Eight are in this critic's opinion, underrated. His funniest moment ever coming in the former when he rides that boat over to the communist submarine. Pure cartoon brilliance. I'm sure no-one had it on the cards that Kanye West's antisemitic turn would be ended courtesy of a single screening of Channing Tatum and Jonah Hill's buddy cop comedy 21 Jump Street Reports are that Mel Gibson is lining himself up next in the queue to receive the cure for his inner Jewish loathing. Come get your medicine, Mel!

Whilst I remain disappointed that the first Magic Mike was not the twisted epic of Boogie Nights or Showgirls, you've got to respect the precision of the package. Soderbergh may turn to an accessible romantic comedy and pop entertainment but that doesn't mean he leaves room for slack. Hitchcockian meticulous devotion to craft whatever the job. Magic Mike is armed with superb writing, editing and cinematography. The fact it feels like both a little indie character study and popular mainstream film is a testament to its brilliance. Only problem that comes with this is you get idiots complaining about the colour grading. They seem clueless to the fact experimentation with colour is clearly intentional as an artistic choice with yellow for all the exterior Florida beaches and blue for the interior club sequences. If I hear any more people complaining about bad colour grading I will fucking end them with a 2 footed drop kick to the chest like Godzilla did Megalon back in '73.

Magic Mike features plenty of style and you sure as hell don't expect the drops of substance. Soderbergh may not be shooting this on an iPhone like Unsane but there's certainly a modern appeal. Allowing it to be compared favourably with Hustlers, which focuses on female strippers who target male Wall Street stockbrokers. Bringing us straight back to the Wolf of Wall Street strangely enough. This is where Hustlers actually tops Magic Mike. Nobody cares about Wall Street stockbrokers being the victims but having lonely middle aged women as the johns could be seen as problematic these days.

Who could have been prepared for the sequel Magic Mike XXL though? More Mike than you know what to do with! Our mighty sequel turns that problematic angle on its head and positions them as respectably, male entertainers. They're no longer the dodgy exploiters they seem in the first movie taking desperate people's money but now talented decent folk who share their gifts to the world. During a scene at a place I like to call 'Milf Mansion'. The Cock Rocking Kings of Tampa bring joy to the lives of these middle aged women who feel unseen. The sequel separates the wall of audience and performer in this rather wholesome sequence. You don't need a stage to do what's right! There's something almost meta about the casting of a now older Andie MacDowell, who previously worked with Soderbergh on Sex, Lies and Videotape.

This section is proof they do care about their audience/clientele and that it is unfair to say these guys are any different from musicians, who charge for their albums and shows. It's a living at the end of the day. Listen here, The Cock Rocking Kings of Tampa are genuine artists. Exactly what Magic Mike XXL teaches us. They sing. They dance. They paint. They build. As Dirk Diggler once said, "Everyone's blessed with one special thing". Here they are back for a tour across the country. Getting the band back together for one big show The Blues Brothers style. At the start of the second one, Mike is out the game and lost in his construction business, which may seem a cleaner, more respectable profession but deep inside he feels empty. As though society has told him this is a good job and stripping isn't so he's followed the consensus but in the process lost sense of who he is. Give Magic Mike his identity back! Yep, this is what his boys do. First, they play a joke on our Michael by saying they desperately need his help for one stripping gig otherwise they're going to go broke. It's a sad state of affairs, that if they'd have put it any other way, he wouldn't have come. When he does arrive, they reveal they were just messing and wanted to see him and invite him on tour with them.

So Mike's a little hesitant about returning to the old life but the series unofficial theme song 'Pony' changes all that when it begins pumping out on a radio. Like all great musical and dance movies, this forces him to groove, baby! Choosing to express himself through the art of dance. Don't knock it, Kevin Bacon once saved an entire town by dancing. Dancing as a means to emancipation. Gyrating 'til the shackles come loose. Michael Jeffrey Lane pulls some of the most outrageous moves you've ever seen. Wall runs, back flips, the lot. He goes all Prince of Persia in a rather small garage, leading some to call it the dance sequence of the decade. This could well be true but I would like to propose we throw in Craig Brewer's underrated Footloose remake. Nothing amuses me more in these types of movies when dudes just vent out their anger and frustration by engaging in sweaty dancing. Let off some steam, Bennett!

On my last revisit of Magic Mike XXL, I forced my boy Ricardo Carvalho and his girlfriend to endure this wonderful work of art with me. As it turned out that Pony sequence was a make or break and the key to the movie. Read a review that perfectly sums that song up a while back. Said something like, "you can almost always guarantee that somewhere, someone is grinding on someone else to pony". Following this sequence, Mrs Carvalho said, "right that's it, I'm going to bed!", and left the room faster than John Wick can take out an entire army of goons. On the other hand, Ricardo sat up straight and went, "na, I'm staying up me. I've got to see more of this Michael character". Magic Mike XXL, it makes or it breaks you. It does not apologise for what it is. Powerful, unadulterated, life changing art.

Mike's backwards cap wearing was a real talking point for Ricardo and I. A real taboo breaker in 2015. When Magic Mike asks about why Mcconaughey is no longer their leader, they mention he found he didn't need them anymore and fled Tampa with Pettyfer for riches elsewhere. A bastard 'til the end! Magic Mike XXL then allows them to break from his chains. Over the movie, they come aware that they all had skills, which stripping allowed them an excuse to practice, albeit a muted and toned down version. See, that's what confuses the guys. They don't want to strip and yet they keep getting drawn back to the life. Why? Because that gives a stage to practice some of the things they really want to do. An indirect thing. These guys don't want to be manual labourers as society tells them is honourable, they want to be artists!

If they are to succeed, Mike tells them they have to forget their former employer and boss, the mean and manipulative Mcconaughey. It's time to do away with the boring and cliched routines of firemen and cowboy costumes. Out the window this gear must go. For their last gig all together, they must look deep within and find their own interests to explore on stage. Injecting a slice of personality and maybe even come auteurs to achieve originality, truth and identity. Maybe even to make stripping the 10th art or whatever we're up to now. Everyone gets their moment, making this one of the most wholesome experiences a male viewer could ever have. A fantasy in which you and all your boys artistic endeavours come true. All supporting each other and thriving.

The character known as, 'Big Dick Richie', doesn't believe this is possible and that the art form can be transformed to such a high status. He requires further encouragement. In one of the funniest scenes Mike dares him to make the most miserable looking cashier smile. Big Dick Richie enters the shop and throws some insane moves whilst intentionally dropping Cheetos everywhere and sliding across the floor to Backstreet Boys's I Want It That Way playing over the speakers. As he engages in this act of madness, the rest of The Cock Rocking Kings of Tampa stand at the window cheering him on like school boys in the playground. Eventually, the cashier smiles and all self-doubt is removed. Stripping is becoming the 10th art. Big Dick Richie has the best scene at the end too where he enters in a full suit soundtracked by Bruno Mars and picks out a girl from the crowd, does a mock marriage, then gets all sleazy to Nine Inch Nails's Closer Strapping this girl in to a torture device, stripping to his boxers, swinging up and down on the metal bars and thrusting his genitals in to her grinning welcoming face. What a change of pace. Get yourself a man like Big Dick Richie who can switch it up and do both. At the click of a finger he reverts from Mr Romantic to The Sadistic Torturer. Sometimes a girl wants to be hugged and sometimes they want to be strangled. It is wise to be a man of all trades.

Out of nowhere, just for the fucking fun of it, Childish Gambino joins the gang and serves as their MC to introduce them all on the big night. Adding to the euphoria that Magic Mike XXL provides. Firmly, ties it closer to The Full Monty in the feeling that it achieves. I've seen many films in my time but rarely can I say I have experienced what these two movies provide. Believe the word I'm looking for would be healthy or positive masculinity.

Many support the abandoning of the hackneyed aspects of the first film such as the drug addiction, mentor and apprentice roles in favour of XXL's rebranding as an ensemble film. Males bonding together and achieving their dreams like this. That is the Magic of Mike. It’s the friends made on the way. With male suicide constantly on the rise, a film like Magic Mike XXL would do the world a whole load of good. We've seen how 21 Jump Street ended fascism, could Magic Mike XXL do the same for toxic masculinity? It's the cure that seldom know exists.

Tell your boys about Magic Mike XXL. We'll form a new society based on its foundations. Make male suicide a thing of the past. We don't need to do the sad thing any more. Rather appropriately this ends with DJ Khaled's All I Do Is Win and it's like Ocean's Eleven where they all meet up by the Bellagio fountains postheist, emerging successful and that classical song Claire De Lune is playing but here we have the trash version. In spite of its pop trash aesthetic, there have been critics singing the praises of Magic Mike XXL and declaring it a masterpiece. They could well be right.

Watching the opening of Magic Mike 3, you'd almost think they had the wrong title. We hear some teenage girl's shoddy narration and all I could think was come on guys, it's Magic Mike's Last Dance not Magic Mike's Last Chapter! No points off for this though because they shoot it correctly. Our jacked up protagonist is stood in a suit and sunnies with his back to us on a pier as though this is his superhero pose. The joke certainly lands. Given the clothes and location, you'd be under the impression Mike's thriving in his business endeavours. This is then spun on its head when it's revealed Mike is not the boss of this operation, he is merely collecting the catering goods. We get some shots of him in robot mode serving the guests at a party. This isn't living. This isn't Mike. What we have here is Johnny Drama's worst nightmare. Where dreams are diminished and you're nothing but a washed up waiter.

In a lovely nod to the original, a now older female guest recognises Mr Lane from when he came to her house, dressed as a cop and stripped for her friends. Since, the girl is with a new boyfriend and doesn't want to embarrass Mike or herself, she maintains that he was a real cop. The boyfriend wants to know more and asks how Mike dealt with the situation. Cooly playing along he tells him he, "let her off with a warning". Smooth as ever. There's a reason they once called him Magic Mike. Who is hosting this soiree? A rather rich and dissatisfied woman played by Salma Hayek. Well, once she hears that this guy used to be in the stripping game, she books him in for a private dance to close the night after the attendees have all departed. Adamant he's not going back to the life, Mike turns her down but he doesn't need too much convincing. This leads in to the previously mentioned window slamming action.

After Mike's thrown her in to just about every surface in the room like she's Oh Dae Su in Lee Woo-Jin's apartment, they proceed to intercourse. Salma Hayek takes a shine to Mikey Mike and proposes that he come to London with her to direct a play. So that's what we get here, Mike lost in the London theatre scene. Shitting all over it. Turning nerdy elite rubbish in to stripping. What a King. A master of mockery. He's here to do for theatre what Happy Gilmore did for golf. Meaning, he's here to do the Lord's work. Overseas in Albion, he begins to wonder whether he's out of his depth, why he was offered the job and if it's just Salma Hayek trying to get back at an ex who owns the theatre. As her daughter informs us, she never finishes anything. Can Mike do the impossible, navigate the London art scene and regain his heroic status from long ago as 'Magic Mike'?

To complete his mission, he must rub shoulder to shoulder with the wealthy big wigs. A man of humble origins lost in a world of high culture. The 21st century Oscar Wilde. We've done the cowboys and American west, now it’s the cutthroat world of the British bourgeois. Now, this is where I totally love the movie. An idiot like him having somehow found himself infiltrating these different classes and scenes. Rest assured, where ever there are milfs, that is where he shall be. Living out all our sugar mummy fantasies. Makes you feel good to know there's people like him out there in the world just turning up in all sorts of places and leaving nothing but admirers where ever he goes. A conqueror of any social situation. Knock him out, put him on a boat, sail to distant lands, drop him in the waters to float ashore, come back 6 months later and find him completely integrated in to whatever civilisation is present.

This mission being a side quest for our beloved hero, having left The Cock Rocking Kings of Tampa in the US of A for this brief trip. Those wanting to check in on the old gang will be pleased to know that they all make an appearance via a zoom call. They want to drop in on their boy virtually and offer words of wisdom from one stripper to another. Wouldn't be the same without them for at least a brief stop by!

Due to the story being set a while after XXL, Last Dance embraces a sort of aging poetic touch. Using that Top Gun: Maverick approach where the protagonist isn't hired for his own direct involvement but to use them as a teacher. In the process, realising they're still in many ways the unorthodox student and not exactly known for their discipline and other qualities they must teach. I'd be lying if I said they achieve it but there is the sense that this could fit in to Schrader's Walkers of the Night trilogy. There are clear similarities to American Gigolo, Light Sleeper and The Walker. All that's missing is a diary and the desolation. Personally, I'd love to get my hands on something like this. With me, it would have to the ageing pornstar but the serialised storytelling does have its appeal. Taking a creation like Juan Peterson and finding all the situations you can put him in. A drifter at heart. Allowing us to go right back to the cowboys and dying west.

Possibly, this angle draws me to the material more, even if the film doesn't quite live up to what it could have been. Even if it can't deliver on the London art scene dissection and critiques of economic status, it's still a fun time nonetheless. Can you really knock a movie for its main flaw being that it sacrifices some of its potential to be crowd pleasing fun? Obviously, Pony is brought out at some point. In the words of the now ex-communicado'd Mr West, "Every superhero needs his theme music". What you need to be warned about is the low key banger Sail by Awolnation finding its way in to the proceedings. Who let that get in here? Stinking out the gaff. One of those dumb epic pop songs like Hozier's Take Me To Church (Once described to me as Nick Cave for Disney heads) and every single Linkin Park song that you'd find yourself going back to after pint number 13. When your mental age begins to deteriorate with each passing pint. An uncontrollable wreck at the afters who should have gone to bed hours ago but missed the boat. Making an absolute fool of yourself like Apollo Creed against Ivan Drago in Rocky 4 and your boys too slow to throw in the towel for you. But hey, sometimes we all need a night like that, right?

If this is the end for Michael, the swan song, the final goodbye, the send-off, know that it gives me no joy to see him go. As others have been quick to point out, it doesn't quite reach the heights of his glory days like XXL but all those in attendance would agree, it was a fitting tribute to an incredible man and he would have loved it. At the end of the day, that's all that matters. Michael remains unmatched in the slow dance. Nobody has created a beat he can't dance to. They still need to hire the repairers in after every dance cause he tears up the fucking floor. There will never be another like him. Long live the King. Whether this is the final curtain call for Michael Jeffrey Lane, we cannot know for sure. All we know is that he lives on in the lives he touched. The sun is sinking in the west. The cattle go down to the stream. The redwing settles in the nest. It's time for a cowboy to dream. Purple light in the canyons. That's where I long to be. With my three good companions. Just my rifle, pony and me. That was for Michael.

Bonus Points:

-Salma Hayek being slammed in to big glass windows

-Mike going full Oscar Wilde

-The Cock Rocking Kings of Tampa checking in via Zoom

-Shitting all over high art. Mike doing for theatre what Happy Gilmore did for golf

Overall Score: 4/5