River Phoenix is the young Indy, a boy scout on an expedition with his mates who comes across some treasure hunters who have happened upon the Cross of Coronado (an ornamental cross belonging to Francisco Vásquez de Coronado). When he steals it, determined that it be on display in a museum instead of stolen away forever as a trinket for a rich collector, several aspects of Jones’ character the audience knows all too well will be revealed – Indy’s first use of a whip, the basis of his aversion to snakes, and the origin of the famous fedora. This will also be the first time he has his prize stolen from him at the final second, seemingly the mirror of the opening of Raiders of the Lost Ark.

What follows is an action/adventure film with just the right mix of incredible set pieces and character development and exposition. Connery is a welcome addition to the film, in spite of the sense the filmmakers may have been jumping the shark, and his scenes with his ‘Junior’ are witty and fun. Connery is an old master, knowing just how to play opposite his physically more active co-star. Harrison Ford seems to have rediscovered his love of his character after a relatively dull turn in Temple of Doom, and his portrayal of Jones’ frustration at his father’s antics works very well indeed.

Denholm Elliott, Alison Doody and John Rhys-Davies all appear, with both Elliott and Rhys-Davies seemingly present only to afford the film a sense of continuity, such is the limitation on their roles. Doody plays the Nazi love interest adequately, although her final scenes fail to capture the imagination. To this point, the only one of the female characters to have worked well in this series is Karen Allen’s Marion in Raiders of the Lost Ark, and even she could have been allowed a bit more screen time to develop her role.

The problems with pacing that blight Temple of Doom have for the most part been resolved, with adequate time allowed for the characters to interact meaningfully in between running for their lives. The action sequences continue to show Spielberg at his best, with the rather prolonged tank scene completely gripping. The incredible choreography Spielberg displays in Raiders of the Lost Ark is again showed off to its best, with chase sequences using all manner of vehicles crossing and recrossing paths with each other that may never be matched.

Although it certainly isn’t a perfect film, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade successfully reinvigorates a series that was floundering after the disappointing Temple of Doom. Everyone likely has their favourite Indiana Jones film, and although for me it is Raiders of the Lost Ark, for many it will be The Last Crusade. Any fan of the Indiana Jones series will be waiting with bated breath for the release of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, and thankfully the wait is almost over.

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Harrison Ford returns as Professor Jones, archaeologist and adventurer, and is introduced in a Shanghai nightclub completing a transaction involving illicit diamonds and the remains of a Chinese dynastic ruler. After being double-crossed and forced to escape via a small aeroplane that subsequently crashes in India, he and his companions become involved in the disappearance from a local village of all of their children as well as their holy rock, and will face pagan rituals and human sacrifice along with a significant threat to their own lives.

Raiders of the Lost Ark is impressive for its pace – the film never lets up from start to finish, grabbing the viewer from first frame until last. It also features several absolutely stunning action set pieces, choreographed to include all manner of enemies and dangers such that they set an incredibly high standard for Temple of Doom to maintain. In this regard, director Steven Spielberg has partially succeeded, with the prolonged sacrifice and escape sequence rather wonderful for its intensity.

The problem doesn’t lie with the action, but more with the long and often dull segment between Indy’s escape (with Short Round and Willie) from Shanghai and arrival at the mountainside temple with a heart of darkness. Character information is sparse and disconnected, while the frequent and intrusive attempts at a light-hearted comic tone are brutally ineffective. The knowing wit evident throughout Raiders is replaced by ham-fisted sight gags, and this forms perhaps the weakest component of the film.

It isn’t clear why this film was made as a prequel to its predecessor, and the decision to do so adds nothing to the greater narrative about Jones and his world. Temple of Doom seems to fit nowhere, without reference to future events involving the Lost Ark, nor adding substantially to the audience’s understanding of its hero. Explanations for this decision are available but none seems adequate when arrayed against the disconnection the audience experiences by watching two films telling a meta-story in reverse.

Special visual effects are more prevalent in Temple of Doom, and thus in retrospect there are more obvious effect failures than in Raiders. Several scenes are blighted for the modern viewer, and while films must always be viewed with attention to their context and their time, there are occasional signs of Spielberg, Lucas and ILM forgetting their limitations and overshooting.

Ford is quite reserved in this film, and alongside him Kate Capshaw as Willie doesn’t quite have the impact of Karen Allen as Marion in Raiders. Ke Huy Quan was to follow his appearance in Temple of Doom with a similar turn in The Goonies, and then essentially disappear from the screen.

While for many Temple of Doom will remain an 80s classic, it is hard to (re)view it now with the same positive feeling as its predecessor. Clunky comedy and prolonged exposition in the midsection limit the impact of the opening and closing set pieces, and Ford doesn’t have quite the same charm in the role as before. It was to be another five years before Jones would appear on screen again in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, perhaps allowing the audience a chance to forget the disappointing after-taste of a film that reduces the value of its franchise instead of enhancing it.

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Professor Indiana Jones (Harrison Ford) is an archaeologist, introduced to the audience during a race to obtain a golden figurine from a crypt in South America in 1936. He is accompanied by a couple of hired helpers, neither of whom seem particularly trustworthy as Jones will soon discover. Jones manages to avoid the traps laid by the guardians of the idol and grab the stone for himself, but in doing so sets off a chain of booby-traps that must surely lead to his death like so many others before him.

The introductory sequence is a near-perfect piece of action staging and, given it also defines the character and skillset of the hero, a remarkable achievement in its own right. Jones is shown to be brave, athletic, intelligent, determined, highly skilled and loyal, but also somewhat naïve and possessing an unnatural fear of snakes. One imagines the reaction of cinema-goers during this first segment as being utterly enthralled. More is to come in the following sequence, however, as Jones is seen teaching a college class filled with women, one of whom has drawn LOVE YOU in reverse on her eyelids and insists on closing her eyes to send him the message. Not only does Jones possess all of the above characteristics, but in case the female members of the audience weren’t already enraptured, Spielberg gives them the hint it’s ok to see him as a sex symbol!

What follows is one brilliantly executed action set piece after another, with fights, chase scenes, machine gun fire and crazed Nazis to contend with. The pacing is just about right, although there is occasionally a lack of exposition to explain the action that may jar if paying close attention. Otherwise it is one long and bumpy ride in which the audience barely has time to catch its breath before setting off on the next impossible triumph.

Watching the dvd in 2008 may provoke the occasional smirk at the animation or visual effects in some sequences, but for the most part Raiders has withstood the advance of technology to remain a spectacle. It is actually rather astonishing that so few scenes have dated visually, suggesting Spielberg and Lucas were way in advance of their time.

The late 70s and early 80s were the peak of Harrison Ford’s career, with roles in Star Wars Episodes IV and V just prior to Raiders, and Blade Runner and Star Wars Episode VI immediately after it, with his Oscar-nominated performance in Witness to follow Temple of Doom. Ford gives an iconic performance as Jones, with his now trademark wry grin and quick wit also familiar from his playing Han Solo in Lucas’ Star Wars trilogy. It is a mark of the performance (and also the stature of the film itself) that it is impossible to imagine another actor in the leather jacket and fedora.

Alongside Ford, Karen Allen is feisty although Marion is a litttle underdone as a love interest, serving mainly as a foil to Jones rather than in her own right. Freeman is suitably nasty as Belloq, while John Rhys-Davies, Denholm Elliott and Alfred Molina all appear in supporting roles. Rhys-Davies perhaps fares best given the screen time his Sallah is afforded, but Molina provides the more memorable of the three performances as Satipo.

While some consider Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade the best of the three in the series to date, many more think back most fondly to their first experience of Indy in Raiders of the Lost Ark. Its release was also the sign of much bigger things to come from director Steven Spielberg, who after the success of Jaws and Close Encounters of the Third Kind experienced his first major flop with 1941. Raiders would welcome in a decade or more of nearly unparallelled screen output from a man now regarded as visionary.

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Travis Bickle, former Marine and chronic insomniac, signs up to drive the night shift as a cabbie in New York. With subtle bravado, he acknowledges his colleagues’ questions about why he is happy to go just about anywhere with his cab (including the toughest, dirtiest sections of 1970s New York – a city yet to be cleaned up in the Giuliani purges of the 90s) with a smile. He doesn’t carry a gun, although his peers do, and he almost revels in the grime of the seedier side of the city that – like Travis himself – never sleeps. His interest in Betsy (Cybill Shepherd), a pretty staffer to Presidential candidate Senator Charles Palantine, and a chance encounter with 12 year old prostitute Iris (Jodie Foster), set him on a dark spiral that will end with him unrecognisable from his former self.

From a time when De Niro epitomised toughness (well before films like Analyse This and Meet The Parents diluted his intense, animal-like screen presence), Taxi Driver is the quintessential example of the use of film to demonstrate the gradual destruction of a man’s psyche. (It is surely the inspiration for so much that has followed – in particular, films like Falling Down and The Machinist.) Bickle starts out a clean-shaven loner with a crush, and ends as a skinhead with a gun, and the trick is that the audience goes with him for the ride.

The supporting cast are adequate without being exceptional, although this is really a portrait of a man, and the secondary characters are there more for their impact on him than in their own right. Fans of ‘Everybody Loves Raymond’ may be interested to know Peter Boyle had a career in film before playing Ray’s father Frank Barone, and although his Wizard is not the focus, Boyle does what is asked. Cybill Shepherd, 26 at the time of release and fresh from 1971’s The Last Picture Show, is appealing in a role with limited substance (albeit with an interesting aftertaste). The real find is the 14 year old Jodie Foster, who is both charming and horrifying as Iris. She is the only of the characters to even momentarily take attention away from De Niro, as a marker of great things to come. This performance won her worldwide acclaim and multiple gongs, including nomination as Best Supporting Actress at the 1977 Academy Awards, and she has subsequently gone on to win two Best Actress Oscars (for The Accused and The Silence of the Lambs), and become a true star of her generation.

The sound design stands out to viewers of the modern era, with its strident and intrusive score quite distracting, but this is firmly rooted in the times. Scenes were shot in New York, and graphically detail life in Alphabet City in the 70s – the garish colours of the streetworkers and pimps offset by the grunge of garbage and decay. Occasionally the cinematographic techniques distract, with several panning takes striking in this regard… Travis’ return to the depot one morning the most obvious example.

Watching a ‘well-known’ movie like Taxi Driver for the first time is fraught – misapprehension may often lead to confusion in the viewers mind. This can be a curse for such a film, as the audience is constantly on edge, wondering when the film will match their expectations, and this may diminish the power of what is on screen. If one can avoid the distraction of a thousand participants in ‘movieoke’, however, and focus solely on the incredible leading performance and striking depiction of one man’s developing insanity, Taxi Driver is well worth the effort.

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Now that I’ve finally watched all 168 minutes of The Sound of Music what can I say? Well, I’m older, that’s for sure. 168 minutes older. And I’m not entirely sure that I’ve learnt or achieved much in that time. Why is it that all the ‘classics’ are so damn long? I recently purchased ‘1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die’, and whilst I’ve seen 340 or so of them, it seems that the majority of the 660 remaining are over two hours. This bothers me. I’ve maintained (quite vocally) for a long time that 100 minutes is the perfect running time for a film. Many of my favourite films are around that length, and I don’t see why every filmmaker shouldn’t aspire to this wonderfully round number. The entire Lord of the Rings could have been done in 100 minutes thusly: little people-ring-evil flaming vagina-giant elephants-volcano-the end. (Note I only had ONE ending?)

Okay so maybe that isn’t very realistic, and to be honest I was behind The Fellowship of the Ring 100 percent, but the fact remains The Sound of Music was way too long. The repetition of songs probably had something to do with it, as leitmotifs very quickly turned into that annoying mosquito that won’t leave you alone at night. I do appreciate the significance of the repeat performances: as ‘Edelweiss’ turns from love song to requiem for a country under occupation, and ‘Climb Every Mountain’ from finding one’s path to the determination of the Austrian people to survive. It’s brilliantly conceived and constructed, there’s no doubt about that. But I worked once in the stage crew for ‘Oklahoma!’ (yep, that was me opening and closing the curtains in Act Two), and I could have sworn there wasn’t quite so much repetition.

Apparently this is a Rogers and Hammerstein musical. Not that you’d notice this from the opening credits, which state that it’s ‘a Robert Wise production of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s The Sound of Music’, with ‘music by Richard Rodgers, lyrics by Oscar Hammerstein II, additional words and music by Richard Rodgers, from the stage musical with music and lyrics by Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II’. Geez, those guys got robbed. Where’s the recognition?! They should have taken their grievances to the guild.

Whilst I had never seen the movie in its entirety, I had seen most of the musical numbers. It turns out that the bits holding the songs together are rather tedious to be honest. It probably doesn’t help that Herr Von Trapp has let the colour drain from the house, his children and his life since his wife passed, but all the same there wasn’t much to attract my eye. The camerawork is disappointingly static most of the time, not including that famous aerial zoom in on Julie Andrews at the beginning, and the choreographed bicycle dance, which was very impressive. Unfortunately, during the former all I could think of was Chevy Chase bellowing ‘the hills are alive with the sound of Griswold!’, and during the latter how they should all really be wearing bike helmets.

I was actually quite thankful for the hooded top I purchased prior to watching The Sound of Music, as it meant I had something else to do whilst the film was running. You see the stupid thing had random bits of red camouflage material stitched on it, so I sat there with the quikunpik and took them off one by one. And you know what? I didn’t even finish by the time the credits rolled, so either the film wasn’t nearly as long as I’ve been suggesting, or I really shouldn’t have bought a jumper that involved so much manual labour.

The performances in The Sound of Music are fantastic of course, even if they feature a little too much ‘stage-acting’ for my liking. Julie Andrews was immortalised in the role of Maria, and she’s not even dead yet, so that ain’t half bad. Plus Maria has some mad freestylin’ skillz, since she apparently constructs a song to help the kids remember the notes of the scale off the top of her head. I’d like to see Rabbit from 8 Mile go head to head with her. I didn’t even recognise Christopher Plummer, so used am I to seeing him with grey hair, and he’s quite charming – kind of a quarter of Mr Darcy, insofar as he warms up a lot quicker.

Much as I am disrespecting the memory of the filmmakers and those millions who love(d) the film worldwide, I really can’t imagine that this is the ‘timeless classic every family should share’, as suggested on the DVD cover. I had considered watching this with my younger sisters, though I’m glad I didn’t, as at least one of them would have disappeared after twenty minutes to watch the latest Hillary Duff film. And before anyone suggests it, my complaints aren’t merely ‘typical of the MTV generation’. I can sit through slower paced films, and I do have patience (you’ll notice The Conversation is in my top ten), but The Sound of Music was overkill. It could have been much shorter, and also could have made better use of the medium. Too often it felt as if a stage production was being filmed, rather than an awe-inspiring piece of cinema, which is what the tale deserved.

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Pairing Holden and Hepburn together again after the success of Sabrina in 1954 should have been an easy way to inject a light-hearted familiarity into Paris – When It Sizzles, but evidently Holden’s worsening drinking problem – and his unrequited passion for Hepburn – caused significant tension. Not that one could tell by the performance of Hepburn, who brings her usual bright comic demeanor to an unchallenging role.

Hepburn plays Gabrielle Simpson, an American stenographer living in Paris, hired by screenwriter Richard Benson (Holden) to assist him in the task of completing a 138-page screenplay in the two days of the Bastille Day weekend. He has been living the high life, drinking, carousing, gambling, and not doing the work he has been paid up-front to do by his patron, film Producer Alexander Meyerheim (Noel Coward). The ensuing time is spent inside his apartment, frantically fleshing out the barebones of an idea for a film called ‘The Girl Who Stole the Eiffel Tower’ and falling passionately in love. Benson’s alcoholic haze prevents him from much original thought, and it comes to Simpson to save the day, and the man.

The trick here – and we are told by Benson that writing an exciting screenplay is all about ‘the switch’, something that seems to have strongly influenced such filmmakers as M. Night Shyamalan – is that while Hepburn and Holden narrate their developing screenplay, they play their characters onscreen, and the film constantly flips back and forward between the real and the imagined storylines. That the imagined reflects what is developing between them in reality is the plot device that allows us to believe their love story.

In truth, none of this really works, and what is left is a bit of a misguided mess. Holden and Hepburn never really connect in the way stars of a romantic comedy are required to, and the ‘switch on a switch’ all beomces a bit messy. It seems the interplay between the real and fantasy worlds is simply a diversion from the lack of depth of the story itself.

Hepburn and Holden are both adequate, with Hepburn in particular bringing her usual joie de vivre – she is always appealing on screen, and in spite of the many failings of Paris – When It Sizzles, it remains a joy to watch her performance. Holden is charming in parts, but certainly doesn’t live in his role in the way he did in the excellent Sabrina.

There are many celebrity cameos, including Tony Curtis in a slightly larger role, Marlene Dietrich and Hepburn’s husband at the time, Mel Ferrer. Sinatra and Astaire sing on the soundtrack. References are made in the script to previous films – in particular one amusing discussion between Holden and Hepburn of the plot points of the vastly better, (but unnamed in the film), Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Sadly, the injection of all of these elements never lifts this film above its inadequate plot and unneccessarily confusing style of story-telling.

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Hud Bannon is the middle generation represented on the farm he grew up on – his father Homer (Melvyn Douglas) is the patriarch and his nephew Lonnie (Brandon De Wilde) – his dead brother’s son – the youth. Lonnie is being raised by his grandfather to live by certain ideals, but instead he idolises his womanising, disrespectful uncle. The ensuing battle over Rightness, Honour and Integrity forms the basis of the film.

Newman himself is wonderful as Hud, bringing a wild-eyed anger and a burning frustration to the title role. Hud is dissatisfied with his role in life, can’t see any way out, and behaves as such.

You don’t look out for yourself, the only helping hand you’ll ever get is when they lower the box.
From adultery to drunkenness and brawling, he is spiralling downwards, and knows it – and he just doesn’t care. This is an amazing character for a Hollywood that was generally turning out ‘heroes’ and was yet to realise the potential of unredeemed evil to entertain.

Brandon De Wilde as Lonnie is also excellent, and demonstrates the conflict he feels at his idol’s actions as truly as he does his love. For while he despairs at Hud’s treatment of his grandfather of whom he is truly fond, he also longs to be just like him. He sees Hud’s success with women as a roadmap, and he longs to be accepted as his equal. Much like many other films in which this prototypical relationship is utilised, it is the eventual realisation of the fallibility of the one idolised and the development of his own beliefs and behaviours that will define Lonnie.

Little by little the look of the country changes because of the men we admire. You’re just going to have to make up your own mind one day about what’s right and wrong.
Hud is not only about finding one’s path, it also speaks to generational attitudinal change and the flexibility and fluidity of concepts like respect and honour. Homer Bannon is incapable of behaving in the way his son does, and has no frame of reference that allows him to even understand him or his actions. Hud Bannon sees the world differently, and thinks he can do things better by doing them easier. He cannot fathom his father’s stubborn approach to what he believes is right. This leads to a breakdown of communication that is complete, and irreversible. Even when, in the final moments of Homer’s life, we think Hud might bend just a little and feel something for his father, the film refuses to take that route. It is this rock-hard attitude to difference that marks this film as something special.

Rounding out the offerings is a wonderful supporting performance by Patricia Neal. Best known (to me at least) as 2-E, William Holden’s keeper in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, she is amazing as housekeeper Alma. With a definite and overt sexuality that is surprising for a woman in her late thirties at that time, Hud zings when she is onscreen. Neal is warm, sensual and sassy, and the moments she shares with Newman are cinematic truffles. That she was rewarded with a Best Actress Academy Award is no surprise.

Also receiving an Oscar was Cinematographer James Wong Howe, who not only brings to life the Texan wilderness, but perfectly complements the barren lives of the characters with his shots of the wastelands they live in. Forming another character in Hud, the land, the dirt, it is all vividly detailed.

Hud is not a perfect film, and there are moments that I feel drag a little. Incredibly bleak and without the happy ending one might expect, Hud is, however, very surprising, and it does feature some stunning performances and an insight into family and the passing of time that make it worth the effort.

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When the incumbent Senator Foley dies, he is replaced by the naive leader of a boys movement, popular in his state for his idealistic vision of America and his fight for the future of his boys. Jefferson Smith is a true believer in ‘The American Way’, quotes Lincoln and Washington in his daily life, and idealises his father and his father’s best friend, Senator Paine, both of whom had fought for ‘lost causes’ all their lives. His appointment is at the behest of the business interests that control the Governor and the State, with the intention that his inexperience and youth will stop him from interfering in the passing of a bill that will bring these men a massive return on some shady land investments.

The obvious conflict ensues, and it is in Washington that Senator Smith is truly tested. With the media aligned against him, powerful political enemies arrayed to hold him in line, and several beautiful women used to manipulate him, it seems there is no way for this idealist to survive.

The strengths in this film lie in its amazing performances. James Stewart is incredible – in his breakthrough role, he brings wide-eyed innocence mixed with a steely determination to stand up for his ideals. Ultimately, his actions are entirely predictable – for how else could this man react to the loss of his heroes? – and yet Stewart never fails to keep one captivated. The final act, containing the famous ‘filibuster scene’, is rightly acknowledged as one of cinema’s classic sequences, but it is only so due to the incredible screen presence of Stewart. With bicarbonate of soda on his vocal cords to increase the fatigue in his voice, a progressively more dishevelled appearance, and failing physical strength, his rally against corruption amongst his peers is inspiring cinema.

Jean Arthur plays the embittered Clarissa Saunders, a woman who has spent so much time around these political machinations that she has seen it all. Initially kept on as Smith’s secretary by the corrupt businessman and his friends, she finds herself attracted to Smith’s idealism, and, underestimated by those who control her, becomes his most powerful ally. Arthur plays the world-weary cynic ‘Saunders’ of first impressions as if her life depended on it – she is abrupt, fiery, sarcastic and often plain rude. With a tear in her eye and a clearly adoring mien, her second half ‘Clarissa’ is a loving, supportive friend. Arthur handles this duality with great skill.

Rounding out the main players is Claude Rains as Senator Paine. Best known for the later Casablanca, in which he shares one of the most famous scenes in movie history with Humphrey Bogart – Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship – this role requires a conflict of interest that he carries off superbly. An owned man, he must struggle with the idealism that resurfaces in his mind with the arrival of his former best friends son, and the compromises he has made over the years to enable his retention of power. His final decision is a powerful indication of where Capra stood on the issues raised in this film, and although it seems sudden, Rains’ quiet personal conflict had been quite effectively developed throughout.

Unfortunately, there are some sections that aren’t quite pacy enough, and the overall running time of 129 minutes is a little excessive given the relatively straightforward nature of the story. Perhaps the earlier development sequences could have been more judiciously cut, which would allow the final act to have the resounding impact it could have had were the audience not fading. The final moments also aren’t well handled, with the abrupt change in fortune and final curtain seeming extremely precipitous given all that had come before. Earlier versions, however, included a much more detailed ending, but were cut after test audiences felt it reduced the impact. Perhaps some middle ground between these two approaches could have allowed a few moments for us to absorb the effect of the final actions without it seeming so sudden.

Made in what we always assume were more innocent days, there is much of relevance to modern-day society. In a time when allegations against former President Clinton over the Whitewater scandal have never truly been resolved, and the possibility of similarly criminal actions by President George W. Bush in assisting business colleagues have also being raised, it seems this film is more accurate than ever. The message that men should act on principle to the betterment of their country seems a naive one, but find someone who doesn’t suspect that politicians worldwide are in their jobs for other than altruistic reasons. In this respect, Mr. Smith Goes To Washington has a similar call to the individual conscience that pervades the wonderful 12 Angry Men.

Nominated for eleven Academy Awards in 1940, but sadly the winner of only one (for Lewis R. Foster – Best Writing, Original Story), Mr. Smith Goes to Washington has rightly claimed a place amongst the most significant American films. Ranked 29th in the American Film Institute 100 greatest American films, and currently #76 in the all-time international top 250 at IMDb, it remains controversial with audiences, some of whom claim it is the ultimate in patriotism, while others denounce its perceived slight on the integrity of the democratic process.

Highly recommended, and (yet) another example of what classic cinema can offer a modern viewer.

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12 Angry Men starts with the façade of a courthouse, then enters quickly to show the final, bored summation of the judge. He is disinterested, he knows this will be a guilty verdict, and seemingly can’t be bothered to get too excited about it. Without even blinking, he states that if found guilty, the accused will face the electric chair. Lastly, we see the jury get up to deliberate, many of them looking across at the accused, who we finally see as a barely adult male of indeterminate, but certain, ethnicity. This all takes about 90 seconds, and the remainder of the film occurs solely in the jury rooms.

By getting us inside the cramped, sweaty, jury room as soon as possible, Lumet doesn’t allow anything to distract us – we are clear that our focus should be on the jury’s deliberations, not on the victim, the accused, the lawyers or the judge. We see that it is the twelve men of the jury who are effectively on trial here… being assessed on their merits, their ability to discard their own prejudices to fairly assess another’s innocence or guilt. Not allowing us to be sidetracked by legal antics or witness fallibility, or even the names of the jurors, we have no choice but to see the evidence through their eyes. Their world views include racism and bigotry, laziness, disinterest and self-interest – in short, we realise something of ourselves in these men, and every possible obstacle to our realisation is removed for us. It is these decisions by both writer and director that makes 12 Angry Men the powerful document it is.

By giving the protagonists real personalities, their behaviour is instantly recognisable. From Juror #3 who is so keen to find the accused guilty, as he sees in him his own disloyal son, to Juror #10 whose belief that the fact the accused is ‘one of them’ makes him surely guilty; we see ourselves and our peers in this room. The overly logical Juror #4 who seems to feel nothing, (not even heat, as he doesn’t sweat like the others), or the sports-mad Juror #7 who is only interested in these proceedings as they may run late and make him miss a baseball game. These are our neighbours and our friends.

Henry Fonda as Juror #8 initially provides the sole voice of dissent, and remains the conscience of these men – he forces them to confront their beliefs, through cajoling, deal-making and outright intimidation. His is a star turn, and he is wonderful. Lee J. Cobb is particularly striking as Juror #3, in the role of his career. The other cast all perform at the highest level – there is not one poor reading, and there could not be for this film to succeed. There is nowhere for these actors to hide in this cramped film, and they really must be at their best. Thankfully, they all are.

There are several interesting cinematographic techniques utilised that impact significantly on the viewing experience. Firstly, there are many long continuous shots, from the start when we follow various bystanders around the courthouse before finally entering the courtroom itself, and again often throughout. We will see one conversation between two jurors, and overhear another interesting one and turn to follow that, before returning to a different one again – all without editing, just with camera panning, and precise placement of lines and movement of actors. This technique, not allowing for editing to interrupt the sense that we are in this room with the jurors – or, in fact, are one of them – is particularly demanding of the cast. It requires them to have stage skills, for all twelve to know where they are going, and how they are going to behave, at any one time. It is much less common in these days of jump-cuts and hand-held cameras, and is a refreshing change.

Another technical feature is the progressive change in camera height throughout the film. Initially, the jurors are shot from above, but by film’s end, we see them from below, with the jury room’s ceiling coming down upon us. This change contributes to the sense that this room is becoming smaller and smaller, and increases our own tension in combination with that coming from the on-screen action. Never particularly noticeable, it nonetheless contributes to the thrill of watching this film.

Throughout the 96 minutes running time, we get progressively more and more tense. It’s easy to get caught up in the revelations, the changing of opinions, and the interpersonal drama. This is an exciting film, made more so by the editing and cinematography, and the excellent performances. It draws heavily upon our personal experiences of the world, and yet it can teach us something about ourselves at the same time. A remarkable film.

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First of all, The Last House on the Left doesn’t disappoint. It’s brutal and unforgiving, and definitely not for the faint hearted. Whilst not exceptionally gory, it certainly doesn’t hold back, what with all the rape, mutilation and murder going on. It’s the extremes to which people will go that is particularly disturbing. Whilst this is essentially a revenge story (just how far will an ordinary person go?), one particular scene that isn’t violent yet is horribly demeaning is possibly one of the most uncomfortable moments in this film.

To watch the documentary in the DVD extras is even more disturbing. Apparently The Last House on the Left was originally intended as a hardcore porn/violence film, and the glimpses we get of the original script are deeply disturbing. Several of the actors were in fact from ‘adult films’, so their confidence in some of the more demanding moments is understandable, as is my use of the word ‘deeply’ in the previous sentence. The doco also discloses the fact that Craven and the producer had not only never made a film, but hadn’t studied filmmaking or even read a book on the subject. This naïveté works to their advantage as this film has a distinctly unsettling amateurish look about it.

The acting itself is pretty decent, but the script (particularly at the start) is sometimes laughable. The girltalk between the two teens is embarrassing, and the cake making scene is surreal in a Brady Bunch kind of way (maybe this was the intention though). Once things take a turn for the worse, however, this film is in a league all of its own.

Interestingly, The Last House on the Left is actually based on the Ingmar Bergman film Virgin Spring (Jungfrukällan), yet I don’t quite understand how this can be when no reference is made in the credits to it being a remake. Craven has never made anything so disturbing since, and it’s hard to imagine this film being made today (all the ultra-violent horrors seem to come from the late 70s and early 80s, think The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, Friday the 13th). This film is a must for any horror film aficionado, as well as any amateurs hoping to make it big from a low budget film.

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