What's on
Cine Real hosts regular 16mm film screenings in London with rare prints and real film projection.
THIS MONTH:
This month we have two iconic films on 16mm. Alien screens from a beautiful Agfa anamorphic print, bringing Ridley Scott’s landmark sci fi horror back to the big screen. We also present a special crowdfunder screening of Pulp Fiction in support of our feature documentary 'The Last Picture Shop'.
Alien (1979)
Pulp Fiction (1994) plus The Last Picture Shop Crowdfunder
This special Crowdfunder screening of Pulp Fiction, paired with an exclusive teaser for our film The Last Picture Shop.
The Last Picture Shop: For over 40 years, Ümit, a 65-year-old Cypriot Cockney projectionist, has run the last cine film shop in the UK. Now rising costs and gentrification threaten to close it for good. We are making a film about saving Ümit’s shop, and about friendship, community, and a shared love of cinema.
This event aims to raise awareness for our Crowdfunder. We need your support to finish the film and help protect this vital piece of film culture.
Come and watch, spread the word, and be part of keeping the picture alive.
https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/tlps/the-last-picture-shop-feature-documentary
THE LAST PICTURE SHOP
When filmmaker Liam begins documenting his friend Ümit and the last cine film shop in the UK, he hopes the film might rally support and keep the doors open. But as financial pressure mounts, saving the shop starts to feel impossible.
Then comes a wild suggestion from Ümit’s brother. If anyone can help, why not ask the high priest of celluloid himself, Quentin Tarantino?
With nothing left to lose, Ümit and Liam set off for Los Angeles, chasing a long shot dream through Hollywood myth and movie history. What follows is chaotic, funny, and unexpectedly moving. A journey that begins as a rescue mission becomes something deeper. A reckoning with change, ageing, and impermanence.
Along the way, the film celebrates a disappearing craft and the community built around it. Long standing regulars. Young filmmakers discovering analogue for the first time. Friends who gather not just to buy film, but to talk, argue, and dream about cinema.
As the adventure unfolds, they confront a difficult truth. Maybe saving the shop is not about finding a hero in Hollywood. Maybe it is about recognising the value of what they already have, and the people who have stood beside them all along.
The Last Picture Shop is a love letter to cinema, friendship, and the fragile places that shape who we are.
With your help, we can finish this film and ensure that this story, and this shop, are not lost without a fight.
HELP US:
https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/tlps/the-last-picture-shop-feature-documentary
Alien (1979)
At its most fundamental level, “Alien” is a movie about things that can jump out of the dark and kill you. It shares a kinship with the shark in “Jaws,” Michael Myers in “Halloween,” and assorted spiders, snakes, tarantulas and stalkers. Its most obvious influence is Howard Hawks’ “The Thing” (1951), which was also about a team in an isolated outpost who discover a long-dormant alien, bring it inside, and are picked off one by one as it haunts the corridors. Look at that movie, and you see “Alien” in embryo.
In another way, Ridley Scott‘s 1979 movie is a great original. It builds on the seminal opening shot of “Star Wars” (1977), with its vast ship in lonely interstellar space, and sidesteps Lucas’ space opera to tell a story in the genre of traditional “hard” science fiction; with its tough-talking crew members and their mercenary motives, the story would have found a home in John W. Campbell’s Astounding Science Fiction during its nuts-and-bolts period in the 1940s. Campbell loved stories in which engineers and scientists, not space jockeys and ray-gun blasters, dealt with outer space in logical ways.
Certainly the character of Ripley, played by Sigourney Weaver, would have appealed to readers in the Golden Age of Science Fiction. She has little interest in the romance of finding the alien, and still less in her employer’s orders that it be brought back home as a potential weapon. After she sees what it can do, her response to “Special Order 24” (“Return alien lifeform, all other priorities rescinded”) is succinct: “How do we kill it?” Her implacable hatred for the alien is the common thread running through all three “Alien” sequels, which have gradually descended in quality but retained their motivating obsession.
One of the great strengths of “Alien” is its pacing. It takes its time. It waits. It allows silences (the majestic opening shots are underscored by Jerry Goldsmith with scarcely audible, far-off metallic chatterings). It suggests the enormity of the crew’s discovery by building up to it with small steps: The interception of a signal (is it a warning or an SOS?). The descent to the extraterrestrial surface. The bitching by Brett and Parker, who are concerned only about collecting their shares. The masterstroke of the surface murk through which the crew members move, their helmet lights hardly penetrating the soup. The shadowy outline of the alien ship. The sight of the alien pilot, frozen in his command chair. The enormity of the discovery inside the ship (“It’s full of … leathery eggs …”).
A recent version of this story would have hurtled toward the part where the alien jumps on the crew members. Today’s slasher movies, in the sci-fi genre and elsewhere, are all pay-off and no buildup. Consider the wretched remake of the “Texas Chainsaw Massacre,” which cheats its audience out of an explanation, an introduction of the chain-saw family, and even a proper ending. It isn’t the slashing that we enjoy. It’s the waiting for the slashing.
Hitchcock knew this, with his famous example of a bomb under a table. (It goes off — that’s action. It doesn’t go off — that’s suspense.) M. Night Shyamalan’s “Signs” knew that, and hardly bothered with its aliens at all. And the best scenes in Hawks’ “The Thing” involve the empty corridors of the Antarctic station where the Thing might be lurking.
“Alien” uses a tricky device to keep the alien fresh throughout the movie: It evolves the nature and appearance of the creature, so we never know quite what it looks like or what it can do. We assume at first the eggs will produce a humanoid, because that’s the form of the petrified pilot on the long-lost alien ship. But of course we don’t even know if the pilot is of the same race as his cargo of leathery eggs. Maybe he also considers them as a weapon. The first time we get a good look at the alien, as it bursts from the chest of poor Kane (John Hurt). It is unmistakably phallic in shape, and the critic Tim Dirks mentions its “open, dripping vaginal mouth.”
Yes, but later, as we glimpse it during a series of attacks, it no longer assumes this shape at all, but looks octopod, reptilian or arachnoid. And then it uncorks another secret; the fluid dripping from its body is a “universal solvent,” and there is a sequence both frightening and delightful as it eats its way through one deck of the ship after another. As the sequels (“Aliens,” “Alien 3,” “Alien Resurrection“) will make all too abundantly clear, the alien is capable of being just about any monster the story requires. Because it doesn’t play by any rules of appearance or behavior, it becomes an amorphous menace, haunting the ship with the specter of shape-shifting evil. Ash (Ian Holm), the science officer, calls it a “perfect organism. Its structural perfection is matched only by its hostility,” and admits: “I admire its purity, its sense of survival; unclouded by conscience, remorse, or delusions of morality.”
Sigourney Weaver, whose career would be linked for years to this strange creature, is of course the only survivor of this original crew, except for the … cat. The producers must have hoped for a sequel, and by killing everyone except a woman, they cast their lot with a female lead for their series.
Variety noted a few years later that Weaver remained the only actress who could “open” an action movie, and it was a tribute to her versatility that she could play the hard, competent, ruthless Ripley and then double back for so many other kinds of roles. One of the reasons she works so well in the role is that she comes across as smart; the 1979 “Alien” is a much more cerebral movie than its sequels, with the characters (and the audience) genuinely engaged in curiosity about this weirdest of lifeforms.
A peculiarity of the rest of the actors is that none of them were particularly young. Tom Skerritt, the captain, was 46, Hurt was 39 but looked older, Holm was 48, Harry Dean Stanton was 53, Yaphet Kotto was 42, and only Veronica Cartwright at 29 and Weaver at 30 were in the age range of the usual thriller cast. Many recent action pictures have improbably young actors cast as key roles or sidekicks, but by skewing older, “Alien” achieves a certain texture without even making a point of it: These are not adventurers but workers, hired by a company to return 20 million tons of ore to Earth (the vast size of the ship is indicated in a deleted scene, included on the DVD, which takes nearly a minute just to show it passing).
The screenplay by Dan O'Bannon, based on a story he wrote with Ronald Shusett, allows these characters to speak in distinctive voices. Brett and Parker (Kotto and Stanton), who work in the engine room, complain about delays and worry about their cut of the profits. But listen to Ash: “I’m still collating it, actually, but I have confirmed that he’s got an outer layer of protein polysaccharides. He has a funny habit of shedding his cells and replacing them with polarized silicon which gives him a prolonged resistance to adverse environmental conditions.” And then there is Ripley’s direct way of cutting to the bottom line.
The result is a film that absorbs us in a mission before it involves us in an adventure, and that consistently engages the alien with curiosity and logic, instead of simply firing at it. Contrast this movie with a latter-day space opera like “Armageddon,” with its average shot a few seconds long and its dialogue reduced to terse statements telegraphing the plot. Much of the credit for “Alien” must go to director Ridley Scott, who had made only one major film before this, the cerebral, elegant “The Duelists” (1977). His next film would be another intelligent, visionary sci-fi epic, “Blade Runner” (1982).
Though his career has included some inexplicable clinkers (“Someone To Watch Over Me,”) it has also included “Thelma & Louise,” “G.I. Jane,” “Gladiator” (unloved by me, but not by audiences), “Black Hawk Down” and “Matchstick Men.” These are simultaneously commercial and intelligent projects, made by a director who wants to attract a large audience but doesn’t care to insult it.
“Alien” has been called the most influential of modern action pictures, and so it is, although “Halloween” also belongs on the list. Unfortunately, the films it influenced studied its thrills but not its thinking. We have now descended into a bog of Gotcha! movies in which various horrible beings spring on a series of victims, usually teenagers. The ultimate extension of the genre is the Geek Movie, illustrated by the remake of “Texas Chainsaw Massacre,” which essentially sets the audience the same test as an old-time carnival geek show: Now that you’ve paid your money, can you keep your eyes open while we disgust you? A few more ambitious and serious sci-fi films have also followed in the footsteps of “Alien,” notably the well-made “Aliens” (1986) and “Dark City” (1998). But the original still vibrates with a dark and frightening intensity. R, Ebert, 2003
PULP FICTION (1994)
Quentin Tarantino is the Jerry Lee Lewis of cinema, a pounding performer who doesn’t care if he tears up the piano, as long as everybody is rocking. His new movie “Pulp Fiction” is a comedy about blood, guts, violence, strange sex, drugs, fixed fights, dead body disposal, leather freaks, and a wristwatch that makes a dark journey down through the generations.
Seeing this movie last May at the Cannes Film Festival, I knew it was either one of the year’s best films, or one of the worst.
Tarantino is too gifted a filmmaker to make a boring movie, but he could possibly make a bad one: Like Edward D. Wood Jr., proclaimed the Worst Director of All Time, he’s in love with every shot – intoxicated with the very act of making a movie. It’s that very lack of caution and introspection that makes “Pulp Fiction” crackle like an ozone generator: Here’s a director who’s been let loose inside the toy store, and wants to play all night.
The screenplay, by Tarantino and Roger Avary, is so well-written in a scruffy, fanzine way that you want to rub noses in it – the noses of those zombie writers who take “screenwriting” classes that teach them the formulas for “hit films.” Like “Citizen Kane,” “Pulp Fiction” is constructed in such a nonlinear way that you could see it a dozen times and not be able to remember what comes next. It doubles back on itself, telling several interlocking stories about characters who inhabit a world of crime and intrigue, triple-crosses and loud desperation. The title is perfect. Like those old pulp mags named “Thrilling Wonder Stories” and “Official Detective,” the movie creates a world where there are no normal people and no ordinary days – where breathless prose clatters down fire escapes and leaps into the dumpster of doom.
The movie resurrects not only an aging genre but also a few careers.
John Travolta stars as Vincent Vega, a mid-level hit man who carries out assignments for a mob boss. We see him first with his partner Jules (Samuel L. Jackson); they’re on their way to a violent showdown with some wayward Yuppie drug dealers, and are discussing such mysteries as why in Paris they have a French word for Quarter Pounders. They’re as innocent in their way as Huck and Jim, floating down the Mississippi and speculating on how foreigners can possibly understand each other.
Travolta’s career is a series of assignments he can’t quite handle. Not only does he kill people inadvertently (“The car hit a bump!”) but he doesn’t know how to clean up after himself. Good thing he knows people like Mr. Wolf (Harvey Keitel), who specializes in messes, and has friends like the character played by Eric Stoltz, who owns a big medical encyclopedia, and can look up emergency situations.
Travolta and Uma Thurman have a sequence that’s funny and bizarre. She’s the wife of the mob boss (Ving Rhames), who orders Travolta to take her out for the night. He turns up stoned, and addresses an intercom with such grave, stately courtesy Buster Keaton would have been envious. They go to Jack Rabbit Slim’s, a 1950s theme restaurant where Ed Sullivan is the emcee, Buddy Holly is the waiter, and they end up in a twist contest. That’s before she overdoses and Stoltz, waving a syringe filled with adrenaline, screams at Travolta, “YOU brought her here, YOU stick in the needle! When I bring an O.D. to YOUR house, I’LL stick in the needle!” Bruce Willis and Maria de Medeiros play another couple: He’s a boxer named Butch Coolidge who is supposed to throw a fight, but doesn’t. She’s his sweet, naive girlfriend, who doesn’t understand why they have to get out of town “right away.” But first he needs to make a dangerous trip back to his apartment to pick up a priceless family heirloom – a wristwatch. The history of this watch is described in a flashback, as Vietnam veteran Christopher Walken tells young Butch about how the watch was purchased by his great-grandfather, “Private Doughboy Orion Coolidge,” and has come down through the generations – and through a lot more than generations, for that matter. Walken’s monologue builds to the movie’s biggest laugh.
The method of the movie is to involve its characters in sticky situations, and then let them escape into stickier ones, which is how the boxer and the mob boss end up together as the captives of weird leather freaks in the basement of a gun shop. Or how the characters who open the movie, a couple of stick-up artists played by Tim Roth and Amanda Plummer, get in way over their heads. Most of the action in the movie comes under the heading of crisis control.
If the situations are inventive and original, so is the dialogue. A lot of movies these days use flat, functional speech: The characters say only enough to advance the plot. But the people in “Pulp Fiction” are in love with words for their own sake. The dialogue by Tarantino and Avary is off the wall sometimes, but that’s the fun. It also means that the characters don’t all sound the same: Travolta is laconic, Jackson is exact, Plummer and Roth are dopey lovey-doveys, Keitel uses the shorthand of the busy professional, Thurman learned how to be a moll by studying soap operas.
It is part of the folklore that Tarantino used to work as a clerk in a video store, and the inspiration for “Pulp Fiction” is old movies, not real life. The movie is like an excursion through the lurid images that lie wound up and trapped inside all those boxes on the Blockbuster shelves. Tarantino once described the old pulp mags as cheap, disposable entertainment that you could take to work with you, and roll up and stick in your back pocket. Yeah, and not be able to wait until lunch, so you could start reading them again.
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