Filth and the Fury
Director: Julian Temple
Rating: Four bugs out of 5.

If you’re a fan of David Attenborough, this documentary is for you.
For the most part, this is a warts-and-all account of an incendiary group of players who were together for a mere 18 months. The aftershocks of their success and subsequent implosion, however, have been felt ever since. Director Temple is one of that rare breed, a bona-fide insider, whose previous Pistols project The Great Rock ‘n’ Roll Swindle (heavily influenced by manager Malcolm McLaren) minted many of the public perceptions which stand to this day.
Here he gives the bandmembers freedom to finally present their sides of this fascinating story. While the silhouetted interviews (“Who wants to look at wrinkly old rock stars?” - Temple) are current, McLaren is represented via previously-recorded file tapes. This makes for a somewhat one-sided affair.
Indeed, the only thing the surviving Pistols can agree upon is the certainty that “Malcolm’s a cunt”. The effect, though, is one of balance, seeing as how McLaren established his vision - the one at which the bandmembers painfully rail- many years ago with Swindle.
Which is not to suggest any resolutions are reached; far from it, and it is the lack of such wherein the charm of this piece is to be found: contradictions abound, sprouting happily from the mouths of the individual players as they roll back the years.
Perhaps the most intriguing question concerning the band is whether or not a group eliciting - by their own admittance- a serious dearth of musicianship could have made it without the razor-sharp publicity machine that was McLaren.
Lydon (Rotten) himself states warmly “We set out to offend everybody we hated, and we succeeded”. The tightness of the group took a back seat from the start, and as the film progresses, we see the band prune itself further of existing competency, replacing the original bassplayer (“If you look like an arsehole, and talk like an arsehole, then you’re an arsehole” - Lydon) with Sid Vicious, a move Lydon instigates, he says, in order to be able to keep an eye on his mate.
From that point, as guitarist Steve Jones states, the band as any form of musical entity headed drastically downhill: “He couldn’t play a fucking note!”.
But was this the whole point? This bastard child, punk, was not born, spitting and shitting, without provocation.
Temple, through the use of file footage, news reports and commercials lets us see why so many people of the same ilk felt honour-bound in displaying their absolute disgust and contempt for what was indeed a shocking political/social/economic scenario. For every reaction there is an equal-and-opposite reaction, we are taught; thus “Fuck that, and fuck you!” became the order of the day.
If we believe the band, and especially Lydon, McLaren was an evil, soulless stooge, responsible not only for the demise of the band, but for the death of Sid Vicious.
Which makes for more ironic musings from Lydon. Even as they played their last show ever in -improbably- San Francisco, he remembers imploring Jones to ditch McLaren in order to continue their career. Once again, remeniscence of musical worth is emphasised, where previously the lack thereof had been proudly championed.
We are treated to real emotion from the interviewees, most memorably Lydon reduced to tears as he recalls Vicious’s inevitable descent into Needleville, U.S.A. Also of note is Lydon’s claim that , even as the band was ascending into infamy, ‘true punk’ was already dead, destined to become cheapened and commodified by those who had never experienced the symptoms in the first place.
Overall, Temple has you hawking deeply for a sympathetic glob with which to plaster the next establishment figure you pass. You be the judge; a great film.

- Ewan Yamates.

Me Myself and Irene (M)
Director: The Farelly Brothers
Bug rating: 2.5/5

Much like Jim Carrey's character(s), this movie has a split personality.
At times, the Farelly brothers surpass even There's Something About Mary form, in terms of both humour and the ability to make their audience squirm. While in other parts, Me Myself and Irene falls flat.
And sadly there is just too many of the other parts for this movie to score very well.
While Mary was charming in a disgusting way, this has very limited charm. And if you enter the cinema expecting another Mary, you will walk out disappointed.
The story centres around Charley Baileygates (Jim Carrey, in good form), a way too timid cop in the US State of Rhode Island.
Everyone takes advantage of him - kids, townfolk, his wife who is cheating on him with the black midget limo driver from their wedding. He has triplets, though they too are black, a bit of a concern considering Charlie is white.
One day, not long after his wife has run off with the limo driver, the townsfolk and an annoying little girl bully him around and a woman pushes in front of him at the supermarket with three trolleys, Charlie finally snaps.
What bubbles to the surface is Hank, Charlie's alter ego. Far from timid or shy, Hank does not take no for an answer and in a single afternoon causes more havoc than around the bargain table at a Myer sale.
With the problem seemingly controlled by medication that causes cottonmouth, Charlie (though sometimes its Hank) is given the job of escorting the beautiful Irene (Renee Zellweger) who is on some charge that is never made entirely clear.
The mayhem really starts then, with Charlie/Hank and Irene being pursued by all manner of thugs and having encounters with cows that just won't die - and albinos.
Me Myself and Irene's biggest problem is its inconsistency. The current masters of this genre, the Farelly Brothers demonstrate their deft hand on numerous occasions here, particularly with the triplets, who grow into brilliant (their midget black father was a member of MENSA, as was their mother) gangsters.
The scene where they discuss electrons interspersed with gratutious use of the word motherfucker is an absolute gem.
But there are also times when Me Myself and Irene almost becomes a drama (well, not really) and plenty of the jokes fall flat.
When it is good, it is very, very good. But when it is bad, leave the cinema.

-Michael Gordon-Brown

The Perfect Storm (M)
Director: Wolfgang Petersen
Bug rating: 1.5/5

There have been a handful of truly great movies about men who go down to the sea in ships.
Down to the Sea in Ships was one of them.
Captains Courageous was another, even with Spencer Tracy as a unlikeliest of blond-haired wops.
Then there's The Perfect Storm.
Let's talk about The Perfect Storm for a while while we try to remember some of the other truly great movies about men who go down to the sea in ships.
Here is the classic modern-day disaster film, awash with all the boring stereotypes that Bill Wittliff's stilted screenplay could muster.
There's tall dark and handsome boat skipper Billy Tyne (George Clooney) who can't catch a toadfish on his Andrea Gail while his rival but close friend Linda Greenlaw (Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio) just has to park the Hannah Boden out on the Grand Banks and the swordfish gratefully jump aboard and gut and ice themselves up nicely. Silent type Billy's so out of luck he doesn't even twig when Linda comes on stronger than the Gloucester wharf where the catch is processed and sold.
With the 1991 season all but over, Billy ventures out with a reluctant crew to the distant Flemish Cap in the hope that the rich pickings there will save their fish fillet. And what a motley crew it is. There's Billy Shatford (Mark Wahlberg), begged not to go by his beautiful wife Chris, (Dianne Lane, who can't act but who loves him so badly after seeing his full frontal in Boogie Nights).
You've always got to have two crew at each other's throats but who grudgingly find respect for each other after some calamitous event where one saves the other's life. John C Reilly (Murph) and William Fichtner (Sully) are they.
John Hawkes plays the weedy little Bugsy, with Allen Payne providing some light and shade as a free-spirited Jamaican.
The Andrea Gail crew sail on, aware that powerful Hurricane Grace is pushing up the Atlantic, but oblivious to the fact that the hurricane is going to collide with two other vicious storm fronts to create the most powerful need for Industrial Light and Magic special effects in the history of cinema.
And what effects they are! Huge seas lashing the Andrea Gail while the crew perform super-human feats of bravery/stupidity. Huge seas threatening to sink a pleasure yacht and the Air Force helicopter crew trying to save them. More sequences of huge seas lashing the Andrea Gail amid more super-human feats of bravery/stupidity.
And then something strange happens.
Even though you've been enjoying The Perfect Storm up to that point as a perfect time-waster with next to no character development, you suddenly want the storm to finish. Not peter out but end abruptly so whatever heroes survive can motor home on a glassy sea to family reunions, stirring music and a nice little fade out.
But it won't! It just blows on and on! The seas get higher, the crews get braver and the special effects bigger! Huge seas lashing the Coast Guard ship trying to save the helicopter crew. Huge seas lashing crew helicopter members saving other members of the helicopter crew. And so on and so on and so on until the whole soggy business is waterlogged beyond repair.
And you suddenly realise that the only good thing about disaster movies - working out who is going to survive and why - is no longer any fun. They can all drown for all you care.
Your bum and that blasted corn on the little toe of your right foot are aching and throbbing in tandem: sure-fire signs that a movie is sinking fast and most of the blame for the disaster can be sheeted home to the men at the helm.

- Don Gordon-Brown