Owen Eather

Idly coming to this series at my normally astute wife's recommendation, I was baffled by the relentless table tennis dialogue of impossibly strident characters. The unrealistic representation ofdiplomatic interactions gave no respite for the hapless leads who all adopted the mein of laboratory rats undergoing operant conditioning. I gained the impression all were surprised to have a second season and increasingly considered the pay cheques, not Emmys. A redeeming feature is the grand locales the producers found for the increasingly frenetic shenanigans. Miles of polished bannisters, rows of noble and ancient portraits and battle scenes, Persian rugs of football stadium acreage and lofty, panneled rooms are visual distraction from the chirping chatter of the script. At this stage, a French farce became the overwhelming motif, doors opening and slamming, scheming lovers, plotters and serfs scurrying in and out. Eventually, the inappropriate influences of " Mon Uncle " and " Doctor Strangelove" seeped insidiously through the style of this disjointed pantomine. I half expected Peter Sellers to appear in one or more characters, closely observed by Jaques Tati. At this stage, the implausible unbelievability of the whole affair drove me off to watch " Mission Impossible" - sanity at last.

Ah, well, all the boxes ticked; feckless male characters, strong and principled female lead, sling off at " Republicans" ( it will be a relief for us not born in the United States to see a Hollywood film that does not assume intimate awareness of their parochial politics), seriously annoying plot jolts that irritate rather than entice - in other words, a contemporary blender movie designed to dazzle with art to conceal its laboured pretentiousness. Stay away ( BTW, the Texas cop with the hat is the one saving grace in this film school failure)

The art direction as to period is appalling. First, officers in Armies in the Second World War .Adelaide sure the SHAVED daily if they could. This curre t fashionable stubble, which indicates poor self discipline and sloppy hygiene, was definitely frowned upon. The laughable wearing of uniform and , out of place, " diversity" is anachronistic. There would have been no black serveants in the British Army,for instance. .modern and u aware audiences may think the period set and location dressing evokes the period. You only have to watch a few British films actually of the period to see how off centre it is. A dreary pot boiler.

Well, before this are gushing posts filled with awe struck fans pouring out hundreds of words on the Great Depth and genius of this , frankly, a bit plodding remake of " Earth versus the Flying Saucers". The first three episodes, taking themselves far too seriously, squirm like amoeba on a microscope slide, with the exception of the Cultural Revolution scene graphically exposing the brutal inhumanity of that particular passage of Cathay massed madness. Otherwise, sanctimonious geeks spout turgid nostrums on pop science to pander to sf groupies in need of these pretentious sermons. This trudges on for about four episodes and then we get down to the evil aliens ( wonder who invented the twee ," San - Ti", label, could be a new energy drink). The chick with a katana and black cocktail dress assures us, as if from the alien handbook, that her real appearance is too horrid to gaze upon and that her mob are coming in 400 (!) years, but in the meantime are going to drive humanity nuts with huge, planet size video games. Then starts the more comfortable and watchable unifying of Earth at the UN; top Nobel prize scientists locked in a mansion to come up with the wonder weapon; Moon bases building giant space battleships; Atomic bomb powered probes: flint eyed Uberfuhrers barking cryptic order, etc.,etc. All the standard Alien war stuff in new Christmas wrapping. It is a very glum tone throughout, regular dazzlement by flashy computer imagery to break the boredom ( such as the cultists oil tanker turned into sushi slices along with the passengers), directed from secret bases ( are there any other kind?) and Benedict Fong giving a down market reprise of his Kublai Khan gig, worth seeing for, despite the clanking armour plate of sententious dialogue, he injects a rueful humour that is most welcome. Not the next " 2001", but passes the time.

Now, I would normally pass over any review of this maudlin and lugubrious film school exercise. It's what you'd expect if there was a remake of "The Last Picture Show" written by a Bangladeshi and directed by an Egyptian, flamingos being substituted for Cybill Shepherd in the swimming pool scene. Thank heaven Kevin Bacon did a tongue in cheek impersonation of Ben Johnson, complete with Cowboy hat, on his way to collecting his pay cheque. I was about to flick off when we got to the white EV highway pile up and wated a bit. I'm glad that I did, as Julia Roberts in grim mode, read the self drive sticker on one. At this point, the spirit of Mel Brooks mercifully intervened with, " The Mad Tesla Stampede", manically impelled steroidal golf carts plunging to battery powered death as Julia's hapless family dodged them in the best cattle drive tradition. Laughing like a drain, I replayed it three times. It's worth putting up with the plodding symbolism which precedes. Hoping I had twigged the true intention of the director, to hide a Cohen Brothers' farce behind an all too familiar and leaden apocalyptic trudge, I was finally disappointed when there was no " Blazing Saddles" upraised finger reprive of the cast driving off in a limo to New York ( first stop at the Orthodontist for the insufferable son's grimace).

This travesty of entertainment, long and dreary, with Iraeli and American characters largely painted as devious, unprincipled and mean contrasted to others, so obviously exploits Christian lore and imagery, as well as sarcasm aimed at conservative values, as to be laughable and tiresome. Plodding, pretentious dialogue, lack lustre editing and no characters that are in the least likeable, especially the Messiah, a tediously pious and fatuous fake, who no sane person would bother staying with, all make viewing a chore so boring that the only reason to watch it all is to see how all the clanking plot lines are resolved. Save yourself the bother and flick to the last episode.

Well, thank Heaven the blond, East end barrow boy has departed. Good actor though he is, the portrayal was only ever going to be a discount Jason Boirne and that travesty is comprehensively over. Bond, as Ian Fleming saw him, reflected the Eton educated, Oxbridge type of dispassionate certitude he exuded as did his contemporaries. This was faithfully impersonated by Sean Connery ŕesulting from coaching by another of these unblinking, resolute types, his director in "Dr No", Terence Young. Both he and Fleming held the King's Commission in World War 2, in the Guard's Armored Brigade and Royal Navy Intelligence respectively. It produced a ruthless and iron willed view on life that neither brooked or asked questions of the way they dealt with enemies. Pierce Brosnan came closest to this archetype, after Connery: Craig never did. The whole mess could have been retitled as any one of the other indistinguishable action fests that glut screens. The pap of a soap opera love story is as banal as it is lifeless. Ralph Fiennes' slack, disillusioned expression as the missiles streak toward the climax exactly transmits his unease in being part of this dimal, overblown and unfitting end to a much liked character. The series is beyond redemption and ought to be mercifully laid to rest.

Shut Qi rises above her past commercial persona to deliver a dignified and powerfully restrained performance. The rest is almost an anime of Tang dynasty tableau, stiff beyond verisimilitude. It is often, it seems, to indulgently show off the director's exquisite evocation of classic Chinese imagery . This is engaging but pointless, static and not film making. See it for Shu Qi, but don't expect much else, especially narrative clarity.

Tim Olyphant strides in dignified authority through this entirely satisfying and monumental Western. True to its roots and heritage, the story's intricate, but crystal plotting allows him to step in footsteps trod by earlier staunch and resolute marshals in this most classic of tale telling vessels set in the myth of American pioneers. Gary Cooper, in "High Noon" and Henry Fonda in "My Darling Clementine" shadow Tim. The intense but curbed fury and ultimate savage justice of their characterisations is precisely recreated by him. Ian McShane might have been expected to overarch the other performances. Certainly his on masterful capture of the off centre and ruthless pragmatism of his character, interwoven with amoral charm, is beyond critique. Also, the other performances show all players at their best, sincerity and dedication manifest in all. But it is Tim's film and no one would begrudge him there. He joins those other actors who have created the legend of knight errant Western marshals. As an Australian, the use of "Waltzing Matilda to close, was endearing. marshalserrant

Yet another gloomy, middle class bashing, dimly photographed BBC non entertainment, as resolutely Britain hating as "The Bodyguard". Only " Guardian" or "Sydney Morning Herald" readers would endure this dreary, over plotted and achingly grating bad use of licence fees. None, absolutely none, of the characters draw even a smidgin of sympathy or have an dollop of likeability. The exception, perhaps, is the unfortunate infsnt, saddled as it is with parents so Millenially self absorbed, shallow and clueless. One wonders what deeper depths of dramatic grimness the BBC has in store after this indigestible lump of turgid agitprop.