"Scream 2" (18) Nationwide
First, the best bit. Like its predecessor, Scream 2 begins with a mini-film which stands separately from everything else that follows. Where in the original it was solitary Drew Barrymore being terrorised by a faceless telephone caller, this time, in the tradition of all sequels, there's a cast of hundreds, all attending the premiere of a film called Stab, based on the "true-life" events charted in Scream 1, and starring (in a stroke of casting genius) Tori Spelling in the central role. With everyone in the audience dressed in the murderer's uniform of black robe and Edvard Munch mask, a couple discuss horror movies - he's a fan, she isn't - before they in turn meet their gruesome deaths. It's a smart trick, confronting us with a discomfiting mirror image as we settle into our seats and (literally) twisting the knife of uneasiness with some glee. As in the first movie, this opening sequence is the scariest, and director Wes Craven even gets in another metatextual gag by casting black actors Omar Epps and Jada Pinkett, drawing attention to the irredeemable whiteness of most slasher pics.
So far, so clever, but things go rapidly downhill from there. We find ourselves on a Midwestern university campus. where our heroine Sidney Prescott (Neve Campbell) finds her memories of murder revived by the nationwide release of Stab, based on the best-selling book by trashy tabloid journalist Gale Weathers (Courtney Cox). Now, a new killer seems intent on copycatting the original crimes, which provides an excuse for every other surviving member of the original to show up. Along the way, Kevin Williamson's script gives us learned discussions on the irredeemable naffness of sequels, tips on how to spot the real killer, and numerous in-jokes for splatter fans. Somehow, though, none of this is quite as much fun as it sounds. Craven has been down this route already in Wes Craven's New Nightmare, a deconstruction ad absurdum of the horror cycle he began with Nightmare On Elm Street, and here he seems caught between stools, clearly not wanting to alienate a potential audience far larger than any he has reached before, while using the opportunity to take a few pot-shots at critics who complain about the effects of his movies. The resulting film is less shocking, less funny, and less memorable than the original - a typical sequel, in fact.
"Sliding Doors" (15) UCIs, Virgin
Sporting a very convincing Estuary accent, Gwyneth Paltrow stars as a young Londoner with serious romantic problems in writer/director Peter Howitt's engaging, undemanding debut. Arriving one morning at the PR company where she works, she finds that she's been fired, and on her way home, misses her train by a milli-second. Or does she? The film's storyline splits in two, following the very different consequences of missing or catching that train. It's a neat idea, the sort of what-if cinematic trick that works well for romantic comedy (Howitt admits that one of his inspirations was Groundhog Day).
From then on, we get two movies for the price of one. Arriving home early, Paltrow discovers her shiftless boyfriend (John Lynch) in bed with his ex-girlfriend, Jeanne Tripplehorn, and promptly moves out. In the other, parallel universe she fails to catch Lynch in the act, and stays with him. In one life, she meets the sympathetic John Hannah, while in the other her relationship with Lynch continues to deteriorate as her suspicions of him grow. This is conducted against a backdrop of trendy North London - all shiny surfaces, modern interiors and good teeth - the first cinematic manifestation of Tony Blair's much-derided Cool Britannia, in an unabashedly commercial approach that recalls slick American comedies like When Harry Met Sally or Sleepless In Seattle.
No harm in that, although audiences here may cavil at some jarring compromises obviously made for the American financiers - we're expected to believe that these people watch the American TV show Jeopardy, for instance. But Paltrow is charming, and Lynch convincing as the caddish boyfriend. Hannah is also fine, although one might quibble with the script's requirement that he should prove what a witty chap he is by reciting old Monty Python sketches to his appreciative pals. Everyone seems to find this hilarious, which is rather worrying.
"My Son The Fanatic" (Members and Guests) IFC, Dublin
A very different sort of England is portrayed in Udayan Prasad's film, from a script by Hanif Kureishi. Set in an unnamed Northern town, it revolves around middle-aged, Pakistan-born Parvez (Om Puri), whose job as a taxi-driver often leads him into procuring prostitutes for visiting businessmen. Trapped in a loveless marriage, he develops a friendship with one prostitute, Bettina (Rachel Griffiths) which slowly starts to deepen. Meanwhile, he is dismayed to discover that his only son (Akbar Kurtha) has given up his accountancy studies, embraced Islamic fundamentalism and broken off his engagement to a white woman on the grounds that mixed marriages don't work.
Tormented on the one hand by the seediness, exploitation and violence of the commercial sex trade, as represented by the cynical German businessman Stellan Skarsgard, and on the other by the fanatical co-religionists his son brings into his home, Puri finds his own tolerant agnosticism tested to the breaking point.
This complex web of cross-cultural tensions is skilfully and wittily woven in Kureishi's screenplay, which doesn't patronise any of its characters by reducing them to stereotypes. The intergenerational clash he depicts departs significantly and productively from the more familiar themes of youthful modernity versus older orthodoxy, and the film's sympathies clearly reside with Puri, but enough space is provided for us to understand the inner conflicts of both father and son. Prasad, whose second film this is (his first was the 1960s immigrant comedy Brothers In Trouble), elicits performances of some subtlety, particularly from Puri, but it's unfortunate that the film's visual sensibility rarely rises above that of a run-of-the-mill television drama.
Helen Meany adds:
"Breakdown", (15) Savoy, Virgin
Jeff Taylor (Kurt Russell) and his wife Amy (Kathleen Quinlan) may be lost on the desert road, but we know exactly where we are in Jonathan Mostow's new film. It's the staple of a good yarn: two urban professionals from the East Coast hit the lonely desert roads of Nevada; paranoia and helplessness descend with the heat, and before they've time to say Texas Chain Saw Massacre they're at the mercy of every sinister redneck in the county. When Amy disappears, having accepted a lift to the nearest telephone from a plausible truck-driver (J.T. Walsh), her husband is transformed into an action hero - driving through rivers, duping his trigger-happy assailants and crawling along the underside of a speeding juggernaut. It's a highly physical performance from Russell, and considerably more convincing than his last role as a bookish FBI agent in Executive Decision. Kathleen Quinlan is not so lucky; she spends most of the film trussed up in the boot of a car.
Wasting no time on subtleties, this is a confident combination of road movie, Western and action thriller. Tension and suspense are its principal effects, sustained by a whirl of narrow escapes, car chases, and plot twists of the "he's behind you!" variety. Tightly structured, with menacingly atmospheric cinematography of superb desert locations by Doug Milsome, this is guaranteed to dispel all other preoccupations, keep you gripped for 90 minutes, and be instantly forgotten.
