Danny Wallace had a way with words when it came to Yes Man. His comedy book that inspired the Jim Carrey-led feature was an interesting bit of work because Wallace has the conviction of a man telling the truth. He did tell the truth. Showing evidence of lottery tickets that win him big bucks but are cancelled out by the gluttony of scratching off one more square and subsequently voiding it, travelling around the world on a whim and involving himself in scenarios that are well beyond what any dedicated socialite could hope to achieve. It is the freewheeling lifestyle so many dare not live but love to dream of that Wallace lived. It died in the hands of Carrey, but it lives on the page forever.
Taking the “born in the wrong generation,” shtick and pastiche to a completely new and horrifying level, Last Night in Soho bears the brunt of pigeon-holed nostalgia paired with the underwhelming static of the modern horror genre. Reigniting some fire into that genre is a near-lost cause. Edgar Wright may have a firm hand in that style, always using it one way or another in his films, but never focusing on it all that much. Shaun of the Dead had typical horror elements lying dormant under the barrage of laughter, and Hot Fuzz had the terrifying pretence that small English towns were fuelled by murder and funnelled that raw aggression into winning small-town prizes. None of that features in Last Night in Soho, a more streamlined look at the horror genre with a desire to replicate the period without crossing into a full parody of it. Wright and Thomasin McKenzie are well-meaning in their efforts here.
Unpacking Theorem, it is difficult to get anywhere past scratching the surface for what director Pier Paolo Pasolini wishes to display. Unfulfilled lives shuffle through a grand estate, their temporary display of joy and fruitful living comes in the form of a stranger, who has visited the house. His name, occupation and past are not of interest, neither to the audience nor these self-invested characters, who weep and cry out in anger when trying to produce some sort of life for themselves. He embodies happier times and is just as fleeting as such a feeling. His permanence would ruin reality, as would the removal of negativity and harsh truth.
With ego-centric shoulders bustling through the drab offices of New York, there, festering at the core of it all, is a goldmine for filmmaking. It should not be surprising that, especially in recent years, there are more than a handful of films set within these harsh, stinking stock rooms. Wall Street, from the mind of Oliver Stone, indicates a change of pace from the usual attempts Hollywood have made, cracking through the moral lessons and presenting a voice and set of characters who are bloodthirsty and conniving until the bitter end. Are there better representations of Wall Street than Wall Street? Yes. Jungle 2 Jungle and The Wolf of Wall Street show the embittered corruption, but Stone is the first to showcase how a corruption of power does not always lead to consequences.
I hate Superman. I hate his smug, chiselled face. His obnoxious smirk as he saves the day in no time whatsoever. A man that can do quite literally anything, can also be made entirely redundant by a green rock if it gets too close to him. But even with this innumerable hatred towards the Last Son of Krypton, I’ve managed to avoid more or less every reference, recommendation or mention of him in the wider media. I know nothing of the character, and my exposure to possibly the most famous face of comic books comes only in the form of an episode of Smallville, an early Xbox 360 game entitled Superman Returns and whatever it was Henry Cavill was doing in Justice League. Whatever the case, I went into Richard Donner’s Superman with an open mind.