Author: mark

What if I told you there’s a film written by James Cameron, directed by Kathryn Bigelow, that critics praised but audiences ignored-leaving it to vanish into the shadows of cinema history? That film is Strange Days.
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Released in 1995, Strange Days plunges us into a volatile Los Angeles on the precipice of the new millennium – a ‘near future’ 1999 crackling with social unrest and technological anxiety.

At its core is Lenny Nero, played with a desperate energy by Ralph Fiennes. Nero is a charismatic but morally adrift black market dealer in ‘SQUID’ recordings – illegal, immersive slices of other people’s lives, experienced directly through the cerebral cortex. When one such recording captures a brutal crime someone powerful wants buried, the intricate machinery of a classic noir thriller clicks into gear, but with unexpected and subversive deviations.

Why should you invest your time in this commercially overlooked venture? Beyond the inherent thrill of its action sequences and the labyrinthine mystery, Strange Days offers a strikingly unique science fiction premise, explored with considerable thematic depth. Bigelow’s direction is characteristically muscular and kinetic, complemented by innovative, almost disturbingly intimate, point-of-view cinematography that places you directly within the recorded experiences.

And the performances? Fiennes is a wonderful, as is Angela Bassett, as the formidable bodyguard Mace, delivering a powerhouse portrayal that anchors the film with unwavering conviction.

What elevates Strange Days its intelligent deconstruction of noir conventions. While it knowingly flirts with these tropes, it refuses to be  bound by them. Fiennes’ Lenny Nero, intriguingly, embodies characteristics less typical of a hard-boiled protagonist and comes across as a gender-inverted, femme fatale. He’s defined by a seductive pull – not just over others, but critically, over himself through his obsessive reliving of recorded memories. His profound emotional vulnerability and pronounced self-destructive tendencies are hallmarks often attributed to the classic femme fatale, entangled as both architect and victim of her own devastating schemes.

This fascinating inversion clears the stage for Bassett’s Mace to transcend the archetypal sidekick or token love interest role. She emerges as a figure of undeniable strength, competence, and unwavering integrity – a Black woman who serves as the film’s moral compass and action hero. This deliberate re-centering of agency, is a potent and conscious critique of established genre norms and patriarchal storytelling.

Similarly Lenny’s journey diverges from noir’s formulaic fatalism. His redemption-spurred by Mace’s influence-shifts the focus from self-destruction to collective accountability.

So, why did this ambitious, critically lauded project falter so spectacularly with audiences in the mid-90s? Bigelow crafted this film in the long, uneasy shadow of the Rodney King case and the subsequent Los Angeles riots. It’s plausible that, a few years on, a lot of white folks were just not interested in engaging with uncomfortable societal truths and simmering racial tensions, preferring narratives that offered escapism rather than challenging reflection.

And, ultimately, the film’s depth, complexity and courageous subversion of audience expectations may have been too intellectually demanding for mainstream tastes at the time. Yet, these are precisely the qualities that commend Strange Days to contemporary film fans.

You can experience this overlooked gem on the Criterion Channel. Have you encountered Strange Days? What aspects resonated with you, or perhaps, what elements do you believe contributed to its initial commercial struggle? Share your thoughts in the comments; I’m looking forward to your perspectives.

Akira Kurosawa: a name synonymous with cinematic mastery. His debut, Sanshiro Sugata, often heralded as the first glimpse of towering genius. But strip away the reverence, look past the auteurist mythology… What are we really left with?

Released during the height of World War II, Sanshiro Sugata charts the familiar arc of a young, impetuous man seeking mastery in Judo during the Meiji era. Crucially, this historical setting allowed Kurosawa to subtly sidestep the overt ultranationalism demanded by the wartime censors – though not entirely without difficulty. The film reportedly faced initial resistance, and significant portions were later excised by authorities in 1944, leaving us with a potentially compromised version of Kurosawa’s original vision. Despite this, it found favor with audiences, proved commercially successful, and prompted the greenlighting of a sequel.

The narrative is, frankly, rudimentary melodrama. Our protagonist grapples with his own fiery temperament, learns discipline under a wise mentor, overcomes rivals in progressively challenging bouts, and ultimately secures a conventional romantic resolution after confronting the film’s big bad.

Yet, within the sphere of film appreciation, a certain Sanshiro Sugata is often discussed with a kind of retroactive awe. It garners respectable ratings – a 3.4 on Letterboxd, for instance – accompanied by descriptions lauding its supposedly fluid, poetic fight choreography or the profound spiritual journey of its hero. The assumption seems to be that genius must manifest, fully formed, even in its earliest expressions.

But, viewed objectively, Sanshiro Sugata can be a rather challenging watch. The protagonist’s arc towards self-mastery is almost a caricature of a badly written YA novel . The gestures towards spiritual depth feel tacked-on.. And the fight scenes? Far from being dynamic spectacles, they often feel protracted and stiff, far from the kinetic energy that would define Kurosawa’s later work.

Now, I’m not saying to avoid the film. While it fails as entertainment, Sanshiro Sugata offers something invaluable: a window into the nascent stages of a legendary career. We see Kurosawa wrestling, perhaps clumsily, with themes of honour, discipline, and the student-mentor relationship that would recur throughout his filmography. We know he was deeply drawn to Tsuneo Tomita’s source novel, reportedly devouring it in one sitting and immediately drafting a screenplay before even securing the rights – that passion is palpable, even if the execution is crude.

So, should you watch Sanshiro Sugata? Absolutely, if your interest lies in tracing the development of one of cinema’s greats. But approach it with clear eyes. Don’t let the weight of Kurosawa’s legacy, or the sometimes overzealous praise, set expectations the film itself cannot meet. What are your thoughts on Kurosawa’s debut?

What happens when the end of world isn’t the story… but merely the backdrop? That’s the intriguing premise of Didn’t Die, a new indie film that uses a – yes, I’ll say it – zombie apocalypse as a useful metaphor for pandemic upheavals.

The film follows Vinita, a wonderfully snarky Indian-American podcaster. She’s been travelling the country for her Didn’t Die podcast, documenting the myriad ways humanity is coping, surviving, amidst the undead. But her true journey is inward, as she returns to her hometown – a place brimming with the ghosts of her past: family, a former lover, and the weight of unresolved emotions

Didn’t Die isn’t much interested in jump scares. It’s a character-driven piece, a low-budget marvel that owes as much to the mumblecore movement as it does to Romero. Think of it as an examination of anxiety, grief, connection, and disconnection, and adaptation to “a new normal”

There are moments where the pacing feels a little uneven, and the low budget occasionally shows at the seams. But these are minor quibbles in a film that’s ultimately about the messy, imperfect process of finding our footing in a world turned upside down.

If you’re looking for a film that’s less about “Brains…..” and more about heart, Didn’t Die is well worth your time. It’s a reminder that even in the face of the unimaginable, life – in all its complicated, awkward glory – can find a way.