When asked to review a film called The Murderer Lives at Number 21 I rather expected something else. Maybe a grey-pallated pg-13 psychological snooze-horror starring Jeffrey Dean Morgan as either a writer or some sort of dad, moving into a new house without knowing he's accidentally boarded the murder-go-round. Maybe
Cars. Fucking cars. Big cars. Smooth cars. American cars. Vin Diesel in cars. The Rock in bigger cars. Fast cars. Fastest cars. English cars. Crashing cars. Smashing cars. A fucking tank. Flying cars. Flipping cars. Furious cars. Silly cars. Cars. CARS. Caaaaaaaaaars. CAAAAARRRRRRRSSSSSSS!! And occasionally motorbikes. Considering that my knowledge of
The Great Gatsby Tells the Story of Nick Carroway (Tobey Maguire), a frustrated writer turned bonds salesman, who becomes entwined in the lives of the New York super-rich in the booming 20's, and in particular his mysterious and uber wealthy neighbour Jay Gatsby (Leonardo Di Caprio), who despite seemingly having everything
Summer Scars is the one-hour production by Julian Richards, setting itself amongst others of the ‘Broken Britain’ genre. The story is set in Wales and follows a group of young delinquents as they enjoy a day of hot-rodding in the local forest. They soon come across Peter (Kevin Howarth), a seemingly
The British Gangster film is a fundamental field when it comes to modern UK cinema. The combination of gritty backdrops, dry humor and brimmed with violence plots make this genre a prevalent one, albeit some might say a little over done. However, whether it’s meant to or not, award winning
