PEW PEW by Jeremy Brooks

Hotel Pools & Voyage - Focus

M3GAN

Allison Williams' aunt Gemma, having become the scatterbrained guardian to a child whose parents were recently pulverised in a car accident, does what any mechanical genius would do: she builds a fussy little robot to take care of the kid. Gerard Johnstone's M3GAN, written by Akela Cooper with James Wan sharing a story credit, is a pleasant remix of your standard supertoy tale, thanks mostly to the lightly atypical characterisation being applied to the artificial person and its creator. Aunt Gemma really cannot find time in her busy schedule for this bereaved child. Even more crushingly, this neglect isn't driven by malice or strange jealousies, Gemma is just completely unable to disconnect from work, using any distraction she can to keep orphan Cady (Violet McGraw) occupied and, more importantly, quiet. Any nagging concerns about the child's prolonged screentime, voiced by Cady's ill-fated mother in the early goings, aren't even on Gemma's radar.

Even before the doll turns homicidal, and is thereby operating (arguably) under her own initiative, there are notes of open disapproval from the diminutive robot directed towards the distracted Aunt Gemma. M3GAN (voiced by Jenna Davis and physically inhabited by Amie Donald) interrupts and corrects her creator, offering amendments before she is tersely ordered to power down and let the adult apply the kind of quick fix that only benefits one party. Although obviously not taking place within a story where these growing tensions will be dramatically exploited, it's fun seeing brief flashes of a plastic know-it-all twisting its face in horror whenever the story's nominated adult happily stunts her charge's growth. Kill's wise M3GAN tends to hold back - presumably for a lower theatrical rating - aside from the murder of a nosey neighbour, where the artificial babysitter uses a high-pressure hose to wash the lady's face and scalp off. Instead of bloody mayhem, Johnstone's film prefers to delight in the comedy generated by a ruthless little android, dressed in a pussy-bow and ballet flats, running rings around tech savvy dimwits. 

God of War by Artyom Trakhanov

Harold Faltermeyer - Love in the Shadows (Instrumental)

Belle and Sebastian - I Don't Know What You See in Me

Cliffhanger

Director Renny Harlin follows-up Die Hard 2 with another snowbound action adventure, this time enlisting the services of Sylvester Stallone and his army of sweating stunt men. Viewed thirty years out of time, and with that aforementioned Bruce Willis sequel wearing grooves in your imagination, Cliffhanger obviously feels like a subordinate, even repetitious, experience. It's not just that both films featured tanned Hollywood musculature straining against curtains of fluffy crystalline snow, Harlin's latter feature even replays and remixes specific beats from its predecessor. These instances range from incidental acts of violence to full-blown special effects set-pieces. 

So where Die Harder's sub-zero environment allowed John McClane to pluck an icicle from a frozen awning then dagger it into an assailant's eye, Cliffhanger's chilly confines offer Stallone's Gabe Walker the opportunity to gorilla press his opponent into dripping stalactites. Cliffhanger, or rather Michael France and Sylvester Stallone's screenplay, also permits Harlin another pass at a plane crash. Die Hard 2's ill-fated Windsor airlines flight saw screaming civilians quickly burn up in a massive petrol detonation as a way to demonstrate the ruthlessness of that film's terrorists. Cliffhanger's take isn't over so quickly, we rattle around inside the downed Gulfstream as it grinds to a halt on snowcapped plains. 

The aircraft's windows burst, showering the passengers with glass, while the miniature jet hammers - nose first - through rows upon rows of splintering saplings. It's a terrific sequence, the scale effects enhanced by an especially violent sound mix that assigns iceberg cracks to snapping trunks. Another delightful spot of carnage occurs towards the end of the film: Gabe is trapped under ice and stalked by a turncoat treasury agent. Although Michael Rooker's Hal is racing to the rescue with a shotgun, Gabe uses a fictional piton gun to blast his foe. Clearly shot to account for Hal making a pellet-packing save, Cliffhanger instead replays the moment of Stallone firing his one-shot pistol, triggering umpteen soupy squibs on his attacker. As is often the case with Stallone's oeuvre, we are reminded that people aren't paying to see second-stringers rescue the guy at the top of the bill. 

YOUTH 83 - Water Girl

Prime by IBI

Graham Coxon - Satan I Gatan

Radiohead - Separator (From the Basement)

Tár

A couple of observations about Lydia Tár, the flawed composer facing irreparable damage to her reputation in Todd Field's latest film. Firstly, she makes it her to business to update her own Wikipedia entry, logging in as a (clearly experienced, based on later conversations with her public relations team) wiki editor to punch up the shorter sections of her own page. Lydia lists recent accolades and positive press attention in short and unobjectionable sentences before methodically filing the source clippings in her office, straight into spurious folders, away from prying eyes. Although this article fine-tuning is portrayed to us as fingers tapping away in brief inserts with no definitive author, Cate Blanchett's Lydia is the only character in Tár seen to actively action anything when using a computer. Her beleaguered assistant-cum-mistress, Noémie Merlant's Francesca, pointedly does not use a computer, even after having been directly instructed to do so. 

Instead, Francesca's domain is her smart phone, a text accented lens through which we are shown Tár in adoring, mocking and, later, accusatory contexts. Tár even creates pretext under which she can seize Francesca's laptop away from her; snooping through inboxes and junk folders in an attempt to conceal a campaign of cruelty constructed around an uncooperative conquest. Lydia's desire to directly curate and manage her presence on the internet's leading encyclopaedia is revealing, especially when judged alongside the film's instantly infamous Juilliard scene. Tár's rebuttal of a performing arts student who dismisses the composer Bach on the grounds of his infidelities is not, necessarily, just that she is experiencing a kind of canonical revulsion that a great composer can be so easily dismissed for, in her mind, such trivial reasons. It's a secret, personal, injury for a woman who is well aware of her moral and ethical shortcomings. 

Lydia Tár knows she is a philanderer; worse she is haunted, in an unconscious and unacknowledged way, by the awareness that she has sabotaged and undermined at least one former quarry to such an extent that the young woman in question has seen no option but to take her own life. While spending minutes tearing down Zethphan Smith-Gneist's student for failing to see the art rather than the artist, Tár is aware that she is guilty of her own scurrilous trespasses. Misdeeds that, in the fullness of time, might one day make their way into the permanent cultural record, tarnishing her own legacy. She's scared, therefore she attacks this young person with every weapon at her disposal. Blanchett's performance here combines the sweeping charm of an arrogant expert, a pretentious insistence on using words and phrases derived from non-English languages (which are then immediately clarified to rub salt into the wound), and a physical intimidation so abrupt and unexpected that her jabbing actions generate their own strange kind of plausible deniability. Surely no-one would be so brazen? 

Secondly, Lydia ruthlessly maintains her own private space within her homes. The office in the apartment she shares with her wife, Nina Hoss' Sharon Goodnow, is off-limits to the rest of the household. It seems to sit in some far-flung corner of this concrete-coloured co-habit, as if physically as far away from the well-trodden rooms as possible. It cannot be stumbled upon, it must be deliberately approached. Lydia's bubble must be penetrated. A heightened moment when Tár discovers that her young daughter is sat in the netting between the sliding door of this office and, presumably, a balcony beyond seems at least about someone having dared to inhabit this space, when Lydia isn't there to supervise, as it is a legitimate safety concern for a child playing somewhere dangerous. Tár's office presents as neat and ordered, a catalogued tribute to music as a record of genius. Naturally though, there are scurry holes and secret, more personal, functions threaded throughout. As well as her secret clippings file, there is a locked cabinet concealing a collection of dead stock pencils -  an affectation centred around uninterrupted routine that we see Lydia mocking another composer for earlier. 

A brief visit to her childhood home reveals an inverted space. In that, far humbler, setting it's spelling bee certificates and academic medals that are on prominent display. They line the walls like sporting achievements in a sitcom bedroom while Lydia (previously, we learn, named Linda)'s obsessively indexed VHS cassettes are hidden in a cupboard; perhaps denoting the strange shame felt by a working class child who feels compelled to catalogue broadcasts featuring her musical hero, conductor and educator Leonard Bernstein. Although appointed to achieve completely different ends, the commonality between these two rooms denotes a person adept at presenting a successful exterior while obscuring their own private face or desires. These secrets are the scaffolding that support the unflappable projection shone out into the world. Lydia also owns a second apartment in Berlin, clearly off-limits to her wife and child, that - outwardly - is maintained to offer the composer a place of retreat or respite when work responsibilities overwhelm her schedule. In practice, it's clearly where Lydia brings her prospective extramarital conquests; the young women Tár is hoping to enchant, then ensnare. 

Less a bolthole than an entire wing of unmolested and uncompromised space for Lydia to inhabit, this second apartment isn't the first place we encounter the red-haired spectre that is haunting this woman - during a stage interview with The New Yorker, someone with redheaded curls sits watching an out-of-focus Lydia - but it is the first instance that goes beyond the circling presence of a human stalker, tipping into the explicitly paranormal. While Tár fusses with rolls of musical parchment paper, we can see a partially obscured red-headed woman standing in the next room, next to a piano, staring at us. As the shot continues the person slips out of focus, becoming an ill-defined blur as Lydia selects her sheet music. The effect is not unlike that of watching an analog video recording of Three Men and a Baby and mistaking a Ted Danson standee for an actual ghost; it's an offhand startle generated by a fabricated figure that has limited presence in the surrounding feature. This choice is deliberate though, rather than strange happenstance. Viewed in the fullness of the completed film, it's tempting to presume that these are the moments when Krista Taylor, the former lover that Lydia ruthlessly blackballed, chose to end her own life. 

The shot that follows has Tár walking directly into the room and space just inhabited by the shape. She doesn't notice or react to anybody, and the rest of the scene plays out without gesturing towards the idea of home invasion so, presumably, the presence has dissipated. Perhaps this ghost represents the human trauma that Tár has pumped out into the world? She has an idea it's there, lingering, at the back of her mind - Lydia even ritualistically lights candles after entering this apartment prior to her brief visitation - but this force cannot exert itself on her in any way that counts. As the film continues and Lydia's life systematically falls apart though, this presence creeps closer and closer to her real home. Her nights are troubled and sleepless, the conductor plagued by intrusive melodies and metronomic clutter that keep her from slipping off into slumber. Possessions start moving and disappearing - although this meddling could simply be Lydia's scorned assistant Francesca exerting her own quiet revenge - culminating in the loss of an entire unperformed draft of her Mahler symphony. The last sighting of the Krista wraith comes immediately prior to the sequence of events that detonate Tár's personal and professional life. In the middle of the night, having finally succumbed to sleep, Lydia is awakened by her daughter screaming her name. As she rushes from her marital bed the ghost sits perched and observing. As Lydia tries to comfort her child, the young girl stares beyond her tightly held parent, her eyes locked onto an apparently empty doorway. Tár's bubble is beginning to burst. 

Friday the 13th by Kazumasa Yasukuni

VIQ - Jane's Gone

James Horner - The Hunter

Battle Beyond the Stars

A space opera remake of Akira Kurosawa's Seven Samurai, made in the wake of the all-conquering Star Wars, that uses the disparate identities of its hired mercenaries as an excuse to chart several distinct passes at scratch-built starfighters. So while the sozzled earthling played by George Peppard gets to sit upfront in the landing craft portion of an intergalactic eighteen wheeler, Robert Vaughn's morose assassin Gelt pilots something closer to an Italian concept car while protecting his peaceful alien employers. Famously, James Cameron - credited here as one of the art directors, a director of photography and as a member of the miniature special effects department - made his big splash at Roger Corman's New World Pictures by designing the lead craft in Battle Beyond the Stars. 

Cameron's more organic take on a interstellar fighter garnered executive-level attention thanks to the two enormous breasts he attached to its undercarriage. The design that so captured Corman's imagination goes further than this anecdotal mammoplasty though. The body of the craft is the colour of clay, moulded in the shape of a muscled sphinx, while the face is an enormous uterus; its two horned tubes holding laser cannons (rather than, say, ovaries) either side of its pilot, The Waltons' Richard Thomas, who sits inside an armoured womb. A shot of the ship resting on a dead, smoke-filled planet seems to indicate that Cameron's design concept is that of a living, feminine answer to the dried-out, fossilised derelict seen in Ridley Scott's Alien. 

Director Jimmy T Murakami handles Battle's non-special effects photography like television, the film closer to a Battlestar Galactica or a Buck Rogers in the 25th Century episode than George Lucas' (admittedly far more costly) space adventures. Characters largely sit in their little boxes, chatting away to thin air, while the audience collectively yearn for yet another adoring appraisal of a gimcrack battle cruiser. In fairness though the film's highlight does occur inside an airlocked area. John Saxon's space pirate Sador, having captured one of the tranquil Nestor clones helping his gentle quarry, decides he wants to transplant the pearlescent android's arm onto his own body. Following a successful operation the remainder of the clones (one of whom is played by the late Earl Boen) command the appendage, from across the galaxy, to strangle its new owner, forcing Sador's panicking doctor to fire up a surgical chainsaw. 

Radiohead - Climbing Up the Walls (Zero 7 Mix)

Crystal Cola - Paradise Night

Megatron by hinomars19

Crystal Cola - Heatwave