movie review


What a load of wank. In James Franco’s masturbatory ode to youth, weed, and partying it up with attractive high school girls, he’s  managed to make life imitate art onscreen with a sleazy Lolita love story starring himself as Humbert-the-gym-teacher-Humbert. Equipped with the perfect director to peddle his pretentious autobiographical tales of growing up in suburban California (in the form of the latest Coppola to network her way into the industry), the whole thing is so up its own arse it probably can’t even hear the indie synth soundtrack. Eff off Franco, no one likes you.


Sometimes I aggressively review films in 100 words, and sometimes I tone it down for other publications. You can check out my more measured review of Palo Alto on the Oxford Film Journal.

The Secret Life of Walter Mitty


The-Secret-Life-Of-Walter-Mitty3Loathe as I am to criticise anything showcasing the delights of travel photography and Kristen Wiig, this film reminds me of Britney Spears circa-2007: sweet, beautiful, but a bit of a mess. Stiller’s latest go at directing is filled with breath-taking images and earnest stabs at making a point about life the universe and everything, but boils down to a mish-mash of sequences of disjointed if beautiful cinematography disguising a very run-of-the-mill romance plot-line. Somehow Mitty transforms from dull office worker into “Indiana Jones playing for the Strokes” in the clumsiest hour-long character development possible, and it just doesn’t quite work.


(Originally published over here)