Alien: For the Love of Sex Monsters
The horror here is disquietingly personal. A masterclass in turning style into story.
The horror here is disquietingly personal. A masterclass in turning style into story.
The rare horror film that makes you afraid of your own life, rather than for it. A paranoia masterclass.
A movie disregarded even in its own series. Flawed and beautiful as the human race it’s about.
A thoughtful exploration of why we keep going to these movies. This is where sci-fi gets its conscience.
The film actually makes the fictional landscape of the gangster film more real, by taking its troublesome boys and distant, unknowable broads and making them children at an age when that’s just the way things are. The mysterious sexual tension is made strangely innocent, though the archetypes haven’t changed from when Bogart and Cagney inhabited them. Bugsy Malone is a gangster film that took a good look at itself and wondered if it could do better. It’s really close.
Beneath its skin, this film is really a coming of age tale. Can you see how horrifying that makes it?
Visually daunting and perfectly performed, it’s easy to ignore the film’s muddled plot and struggle to justify its existence.
Moonraker skips the part where all is as it seems, a noble approach for a film in a formula series (they might have made it stick as self-aware humor, but even that would have been too “wink-wink” with Moore at the Helm). “You appear,” says Drax after Bond’s fourth miraculous escape, “with the tedious inevitability of an unloved season.” Here is an oddity: a franchise that doesn’t know it knows itself.