Naked Lunch (1991)

 "It's a Kafka high. You feel like a bug."

When I was in my late teens and early twenties, I got into the habit of reading novels that were seen as a bit counter-culture, a bit alternative, a bit offbeat. Hunter S. Thompson, Jack Kerouac, that sort of thing. And, for some reason, I ended up reading a lot of William S. Burroughs including, yes, Naked Lunch. And that isn't exactly an experience I can recommend. Let's just say it's a novel you can only read when you're young...!

This film, though? Oh, the novel and David Cronenberg were made for each other. So much body horror, and not just the (deliciously realised) Mugwumps. No, we have sentient, spymaster typewriters which are highly sexed, which ejaculate and which, er, stand to attention when excited. Because of course we do. This is the perfect canvas for Cronenberg to do his thing.

The film is visually exquisite, as one might expect. Yet the highlight may be Peter Weller's monologue recounting that surreal anal-related sequence from the novel. He truly carries the film in a suitably deadpan performance, believable as Burroughs himself, the still point beside whom all the gloriously surreal stuff makes a weird kind of sense.

No, this isn't a straight adaptation of a novel that is, straightforwardly, unfilmable, with its complex, bonkers plot and even more complex, bonkers subtext... and written by an author who was a heavy user of certain substances. Yet, albeit with the addition of certain elements from Burroughs' life (the notorious "William Tell" act especially), it comes surprisingly close.

Absolutely peak Cronenberg. A film that achieves the impossible, and does so with aplomb.

Jaws (1975)

“We’re gonna need a bigger boat...”

My parents still remember seeing this at the pictures, two years before I was born, at the old Cannon cinema in Hinckley. It made quite an impression on them. And now I see why.

This isn’t Spielberg’s first film by any means, but it’s where he invents the blockbuster, right here, with a film where every lock of hair and every item of clothing is, unmistakably, at Peak Seventies. If any film defines a decade, this is it.

What's incredible is how very, very, straightforward the plot is- shark attacks terrify small town; police chief is prevented from taking action by stubborn mayor; three men ultimately spend the second half of the film hunting the shark and fighting for their lives. That's it. In lesser hands this would have made a kitsch B movie. That such a ho-hum premise and plot could lead to such greatness is a testament to Spielberg's mastery of the camera- some of the POV shots are dazzlingly creative- and a wisely scarce use of a not-that-good shark prop. It’s also the start of a very fruitful film career for the great John Williams. That musical hook is genius.

The other difference, of course, is the cast. Roy Schneider, Richard Dreyfuss and a very much against type Robert Shaw are all superb, especially towards the end of the film when it’s just the three of them doing a lot of nautical stuff that we landlubbers (I’m from about as far from the sea as you can get on this island) don’t understand. A lot of the little things are done right, and that’s good filmmaking.

My God, the young Spielberg is good.