Set in the near-future, Hotel Artemis is a private, underground hospital run for the underworld elite. Bank robbers, gangsters, arms dealers and international assassins are given refuge between jobs so long as they follow the strict rules laid out by Nurse (Jodie Foster) and her orderly, Everest (David Bautista). Outside, the water riots bear down upon the city. Waikiki (Sterling K. Brown) his brother Honolulu (Brian Tyree Henry), Nice (Sofia Boutella) and Acapulco (Charlie Day) are each guests with their own ulterior motives as an incoming fifth guest threatens to make their stay a deadly one.
The seedy underbelly of John Wick meets John Carpenter’s Assault on Precinct 13 with the political backdrop of The Purge, but somehow not as good as any of them. Hotel Artemis delivers a taut thriller with some well-choreographed action in the final act but there’s a definite sense of the whole not being equal the sum of its parts. Chung Chung-hoon’s gorgeous cinematography and Cliff Martinez’ textured score enriches the world inhabited by the larger than life characters, but unfortunately those characters don’t get enough time to breathe, interact and ricochet off each other.
Jodie Foster and Sterling K. Brown lay a sturdy foundation for their characters by virtue of the fact that we spend more time with them than the others. David Bautista and Sofia Boutella offer layers of humour and ass-kickery but the feelings are fleeting and lack dimensionality. The ticking clock element that builds up, leading into the final act is depressurised with what turns out to be fleeting cameos from Jeff Goldblum and Zachary Quinto. Rhythmically and narratively, a sizeable chunk feels as though it was excised from Hotel Artemis and this is a crying shame
But it’s not all doom and gloom. Amidst the persistent threat of violence and dread that precedes the riot bearing down on the hospital there is a snappy, humorous streak, with Charlie Day being the brunt of many jokes, as the greasy arms dealer, “Acupulco”. Drew Pearce breathes life into a vibrant rogue’s gallery of characters but sadly Hotel Artemis vibes more with Joe Carnahan’s Smokin’ Aces than it does a cult Carpenter classic.
Pin Cushion is a riveting debut from Deborah Heywood that sets diversity at the heart of the film by showing an altogether unsettling and disturbing, co-dependent mother and daughter tale in this coming of age film.
Pin Cushion tells the story of Lyn (Joanna Scanlan), the mother who moves with her daughter Iona (Lily Newark) to a new town in the hope of a fresh start.
The central performances especially that of Lily Newark are what keeps the viewer glued to this film. It does echoes of Carrie not least because the character, Iona, has red hair too. Whereas the seminal scene in Carrie is her drenched in blood, the updated version is of Iona stripping off, her so called friends taking photos of her and sharing them by text to shame her. I am not sure that this makes this a film horror and in truth, too many films are being described as a horror or comic horror etc.
This film is at times darkly comic, rare times, but it is disturbing. What sets it apart is the cleverly observed nature of a co-dependent parent child relationship, and how deeply disturbing these can be. Clearly for dramatic purposes, this is exaggerated but hopefully, it will start a conversation. Pin Cushion also deals with the themes of depression and bullying It is refreshing to see a film that doesn’t take the easy route but holds its nerve right until the very end.
Love them or loathe them, it’s impossible to deny the impact Death Row Records has had on modern popular-culture. Not just in music either, as many of the artists made famous by the controversial record label have since become movie stars, businessmen and personalities beyond their work as musicians.
When it happened it was a huge cultural shift. A change in the way the world viewed the entire sub-genre of rap and hip hop, and of the culture of African Americans. It might not seem like much now, in an age where the latest popular artist only sticks around long enough for the next big thing to take their place, but the late eighties and early nineties was a very different place, and the guys from Death Row Records really altered the entertainment landscape, even if they didn’t realise that they were at the time.
They were subject to scrutiny from protest groups, politicians, religious groups and almost everyone and anyone in between, but they were also wholly unstoppable. Their output had captured an entire generations anger and angst and there was nothing anyone could do.
When it comes to documentaries detailing stories such as the one presented in Welcome to Death Row, they often sit in one of two camps. Either we get a series of clips coupled with some talking heads from those on the edges of the story filling in the gaps, or we get a narrator explaining everything in a cheesy American accent with images flashing across the screen with a loose connection to what is being said.
Welcome to Death Row sort of falls into both camps. There’s no narrator, but the talking heads often act as such. It’s most definitely comprehensive, meaning there’s a wealth of footage, from news reports, newspaper clippings, behind the scenes videos, phone calls, music videos and almost anything and everything in between to serve as a visual representation, while the talking heads give us our story through a series of segments that each have names designed to illicit intrigue.
The level of care that has gone into compiling this mass of different information and cutting it into a coherent story, especially when you consider the differing accounts of all those involved in the story and of those offering their time for the talking heads, is something that can’t really be ignored. This is perhaps the most in-depth overview of the story of the record label you’re ever likely to find.
But while there’s a lot to admire in the effort and time spent putting all this together and figuring out how to turn it into a linear and easy to follow “story”, it’s hardly reinventing the wheel in terms of how these things are presented.
The film itself often falls back the tropes one would expect from a straight-to-video television documentary, and while there’s nothing wrong with that in theory, it makes for frustrating viewing at several point, especially when the subject matter is so fascinating and unique that it continuously feels like there’s a better, more adventurous version of it just around the corner.
The fact that the film-makers were unable to acquire the rights to use Death Row Records’ music only further harms the feel of the film. Often there is a sense that a real electricity is being missed, especially when the people on screen are referencing these songs and tracks but the film is unable to provide an extract to help the audience understand just why it was such a big deal.
If you’re anything like me then you already know a lot of the songs already, and you’re at least aware of the controversy that surrounds the artists and the label, but there’s something somewhat anti-climactic about listening to someone tell us a song was so controversial it got banned from a performance, only to then swiftly move onto the next topic without hearing the song in question.
Having said that, it does make for an interesting and in many ways insightful watch. For all it’s flaws in execution, and for all it’s use of tropes and generic documentary styles, the subject matter really is incredibly fascinating, and that alone is enough to keep you watching.
If you have even a passing interest in the genre and the people that helped define it, stirring up controversy and changing the media and entertainment industry in the process, then there’s plenty to enjoy here. It might not be an earth-shattering, life changing documentary but then were you expecting it to be that anyway? What it is is a well told, if not a little uninspired, account of one of the most bizarre and surprising rise and fall tales of the modern era.
After the success of 2015’s Straight Outta Compton the book that spawned out of Welcome to Death Row has been shopped around Hollywood as a sort of sequel, in search of a studio interested in adapting the story for the big screen and there’s no denying that it would make a fascinating movie. But until the time comes, this documentary offers up a detailed look at that same story, and it’s an efficiently told and carefully collected version. You could do a lot worse.
In honour of all things Hollywood, Blaxploitation horror was clearly profitable, leading to the creation of “Blackenstein”. This 1975 take on the original Mary Shelley classic Frankenstein follows war veteran (Joe DeSue), whose limbs were medically restored, who becomes a killer when his physician’s (John Hart) aid switches his medication.
Before I watched the film, I naturally perused the trailer on Youtube and was immediately struck by “Dr Steins” uncanny resemblance to a Dick Van Dyke. Just me? Okay.
Secondly, I was worried by how painful it was to sit through the trailer. Surely if I was this hesitant during a short 3:20 minute trailer, I wouldn’t be able to sit through a whole 1hr and 27 minutes?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6bxOc–RLtA
Well, let me tell you. The first half, I was completely right. I was basically waiting for Eddie to do something. I came for sloppy, b-movie carnage and that was not what I was getting. What also bothered me was how careless it all seemed. Surely even by any films standards. The most notable example that sticks in my mind, is when Eddie is being taken to Dr Stein’s hospital after having both his legs and arms (how a landmine blows one’s arms off is beyond me), when he is taken from the ambulance you quite clearly see his legs underneath the blanket! I know movies like this weren’t recognised for there sheer beauty and were more harmless fun, but c’mon.
Moving onto the second half however, still just as terrible, and not in the way that usually comes with the terrority, things perked up. Only to see the entertaining ways in which “Blackenstein” rained terror. But all in all, to sum it all up, nothing could save the movie from its slow and awkward dialogue, it’s questionable acting or complete lack of interest in bog standard science.
This is one of those films you feel would be necessary to see in a cinema, just to stop you constantly getting distracted by your phone as you feel the minutes slowing pacing by.
Not a classic by anyone’s standard. If you are looking to explore the world of Blaxploitation movies, this is not what I would start with. Stick with “Blacula”.
Rudy Ray Moore is the Disco Godfather aka Tucker Williams, a retired cop and semi-famous DJ. There’s only one thing that could bring Williams back to the force – his family being in danger – and luckily for us, they are. When his nephew Bucky has a bad reaction to a new street drug Angel Dust, Williams launches a crusade against the suppliers, throwing a spanner into the operations of gangster Sweetmeat.
The film ticks off just about every cliché you’d expect in a ‘maverick cop’ movie. Montages of rough street interrogations follow, with Williams going out of his way not to do things by the book. Moore handles it well, he is a cool and likeable hero, fighting for a just cause. It is a shame then in parts when more emotion is required of him – at the side of his nephew’s hospital bed, or remembering his deceased mother. Moore recalls the acting style of Richard Pryor: hilarious for the most part, but without the range to carry a film that isn’t a comedy.
This overly simplistic plot is interrupted now and then by a return to the Blueberry Hill Nightclub, for the Godfather to host another night of dancing. These scenes are enjoyable enough but entirely unnecessary. It is a testament to Moore to see just how much he is enjoying himself, whether beating up thugs or just throwing some shapes. Disregarding his other work, he deserves legend status for this character alone – the credits actually list the phrase “Put your weight on it!” as copyrighted to Rudy Ray Moore.
Drug usage is surprisingly well handled and mildly terrifying; the user’s visions recalling the bad trip in Easy Rider, and Tina Turner’s Acid Queen cameo in Tommy. These sequences are quite effective but under thought: like something David Lynch thought conceived in about five minutes and then decided against.
Director J Robert Wagoner doesn’t seem willing to pay tribute to the films that Disco Godfather undeniably owes a debt to: revolutionary cop movies like Bullitt and Dirty Harry, or even Moore’s earlier blaxploitation movies. As such, the film is far more limited in imagination than Moore’s other work, and sacrifices impressively coordinated stunts in favour of atrocious fight choreography. By the time of Disco Godfather’s release in 1979, the blaxploitation genre was in full swing, and the film relies on that. But the cop movie genre had reached the end of that era’s stage of innovation, something that wasn’t to be repeated until the late eighties with Die Hard and Lethal Weapon. Wagoner’s film feels stuck in already outdated tropes, when the director could have looked to advance the genre.
