CHANCES are you’re one of the 11million people who bought the book a few years ago and know how it ends.
So I’ll try not to blather on too much about the plot ins and outs of The Girl On The Train.
I was one of those millions but have to confess that sitting down to watch this, I’d completely forgotten what happened.
I could remember that there was a woman who drank too much on a train and saw something horrible — but quite frankly if you commute in London that’s an hourly occurrence.
I remember it being a bit (actually, a lot) like Gone Girl, but not much else.
For those who haven’t read the book, this is the tale of Rachel, a divorced, lonely alcoholic who tortures herself twice a day by commuting past her old marital home to see her husband’s new wife with the baby she couldn’t provide.
A couple of doors down are a sexy couple who insist on living their life on a balcony in full view of the world.
Rachel decides to get nearer, suffers a blackout and awakes to find a tragedy has taken place.
Pieces are fitted together, all is not as it seems, danger lurks in unexpected places. Voilà!
Now I’m sure this will be a massive hit.
It’s an almost faithful adaptation and is a well-made, psychological thriller with a good cast.
It just left me quite annoyed as the film moves the whole thing from England to the New York suburbs.
Aside from losing out on the oppressive and miserable scenes of a train line trundling through, say, Brentford, we see huge, picket-fenced Wisteria Lane houses on large plots of land.
This jars with many elements.
Firstly, one of the main characters is meant to be so hard-up she works as a nanny for a neighbour, yet here she lives in a house seemingly furnished by Ralph Lauren.
Secondly, the whole point of the film is that they live just 20 yards from a train line.
The noise alone would have driven the middle-classes to despair.
Plus, are we meant to believe gorgeous people have sex on their balcony in full view of 500 commuters and only ONE person on the train notices?
It would be on Lad Bible in two seconds flat.
Having said all that, if they’d filmed this on my commute it would have gone eight months over schedule and been the most expensive shoot since Waterworld.
Thanks South West Trains.
The film is presented similarly to Gone Girl, with different perspectives and chapters for different characters.
And all of the cast (especially Emily Blunt) do a great job at either being drunk, sexy, dangerous, suspicious or all of the above.
ON first glimpse, this documentary on the formation and meteoric rise of Oasis begs a few questions.
Does their legacy hold? Are they as good as we remember?
What is there left to discover from a band made up of whatever the opposite of wallflowers are.
Well, I’m pleased to tell you, this is an absolute BELTER of a movie.
From the creators of Amy, Supersonic blends animation, unseen footage and the tiniest smidgen of creative licence to tell its story.
We’re handheld throughout by a motley crew of band members, managers, label heads and, obviously, Noel and Liam.
Noel is without a doubt one of the most entertaining people you can put a microphone in front of.
We are used to his self-aggrandizing, flourished viewpoints on everything from Jack White to Brexit but he still manages to twist the dullest and darkest of moments into a hilarious soundbite.
What I wasn’t prepared for was Liam to be as funny and equally (if not more) passionate about the music and band as his brother.
The image of a parka-wearing knucklehead only really tells a slice of the story.
He is brimming with charm, it is just charm in the shape of a breeze block.
There’s no finesse or grace but he either has a complete lack of self-awareness or (more likely) has run out of tosses to give.
Hats off to Mat Whitecross.
Where most docs fail is they stitch together visuals and then coerce narration based on what they have got.
But his knack is to flip that on its head and match the visuals to the incredible stories he is told.
I was never the biggest Oasis fan but hindsight has made me incredibly proud of them for carrying the torch.
The Oasis legacy has created a lot of dreadful bands in their wake but ignore that, watch this and wait for the riff of Supersonic to blast through the cinema and make you walk out with a Gallagher swagger.
The only reason I’ve not given it five stars is because the final scene wasn’t Liam and Noel hugging it out and booking Knebworth again.
There’s still time, guys.
PEOPLE are often referred to as “SPs” in this Louis Theroux documentary.
Silly presenters? Sucker parishioners?
No, it stands for Suppressive Persons, which means the Church of Scientology thinks they’re a bad influence.
Having failed to gain access to anyone currently in the church, Louis opts instead to get top-level SP Marty Rathbun to reconstruct the cult’s weird procedures using actors.
It’s an entertaining gimmick which is cut back to allow more screen time for Theroux.
Because, as always, this isn’t really about the subject.
It’s about Louis.
At one point we see Louis’ crew filming him filming a Scientologist who is filming him.
Louis is at the centre.
Really, this whole film is just a good excuse for more of his hilarious deadpan humour.
But a movie about Scientology?
No, I’m afraid that’s just a Sorry Pretence.
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