The Magnificent Seven (2016)

It’s easy to be cynical about remakes, but occasionally they do succeed in putting a new slant on an old story. Films like A Fistful of Dollars (1964), Scarface (1983), and Cape Fear (1991) are great examples of remakes that used the original films as a springboard for new ideas. This iteration of The Magnificent Seven is, interestingly, a remake of a remake, the 1960 version being an adaptation of the Japanese film Seven Samurai (1954). But I'm rambling: the point is, it’s perhaps best to think of remakes as being similar to the tradition of folk songs and stories, retellings for different times. But does this retelling of The Magnificent Seven have anything new to say?

The film opens with a small town being ransacked and taken over by the nefarious industrialist Bartholomew Bogue (Peter Sarsgaard). Tired of living in fear, the townspeople recruit nomadic warrant officer Chisolm (Denzel Washington) to help them reclaim their town. Aware that he stands no chance alone, Chisolm sets about putting together a miniature army of gunslingers, and then sets about readying the townsfolk for a showdown with Bogue’s men.

The story is simple and straightforward, but sadly the characterisation of the titular seven is somewhat lacking, and there are several members of the team who we don’t really get to know. However, the quality of the actors involved means that some of them are able to make an impression despite their underwritten roles. Denzel anchors the film as the mysterious Chisolm, one of those characters who is engaging precisely because we don’t know much about him. Vincent D’Onofrio, a great character actor, gets his teeth into the role of mountain-man Jack Horne, and Chris Pratt remains a charming and likeable screen presence as Joshua Faraday, although his character is very similar to his Guardians of the Galaxy role. Ethan Hawke has an interesting yet under-developed character arc as Goodnight Robicheaux, while Peter Sarsgaard’s Bogue is menacing but strangely absent for most of the film.

Despite the script issues, The Magnificent Seven benefits from spectacular American scenery which, although we don’t see quite enough of it, still provides a great backdrop for the action. Speaking of action, the action sequences are handled extremely well by director Antoine Fuqua (particularly the climactic shootout, which does a good job of keeping track of what all seven characters are doing), although the film could perhaps have done with one more action set-piece at some stage. The photography is done well without drawing too much attention to itself; I particularly like the contrast between the bright outdoor scenes and the shadowy interiors of log cabins and saloons, which are reminiscent of Clint Eastwood’s westerns.

So does this version of The Magnificent Seven bring anything new to the table? Not really, no. However, it’s very difficult to ruin a good story, and even if the telling of the tale is a little garbled this time around, it remains a good story, and one that I am glad to hear told one more time.

Dracula (1958)

Although Hammer Films had been in existence since 1934, it was not until the release of The Curse of Frankenstein in 1957 that the studio found its niche as the masters of horror. While the film was technically a remake of Universal’s Frankenstein (1931), it bore no resemblance to the earlier picture; Hammer’s Frankenstein was shot in vivid, sickly colour, and revelled in its violence and salaciousness so much that it made Universal’s film seem quaint by comparison. Buoyed by the success of Frankenstein – which featured Peter Cushing as Baron Frankenstein and Christopher Lee as the Creature – Hammer turned their attention to remaking another Universal horror film: Dracula.

The novel Dracula is a hefty, awkwardly structured tome that does not lend itself to cinematic adaptation, so scriptwriter Jimmy Sangster was handed the task of turning the book into a workable screenplay. Sangster streamlined the plot considerably, removing unnecessary characters and confining the action to a single, vaguely European town. The new story was lean and fast-paced: Jonathan Harker (John Van Eyssen) has travelled to Castle Dracula to destroy the infamous Count (Christopher Lee) once and for all. When he fails to return, his colleague – and master vampire hunter – Dr Van Helsing (Peter Cushing) sets out in search of his friend, only to discover that Harker has been turned into a vampire. After reluctantly killing Harker, Van Helsing learns that Dracula has set his sights on Harker’s fiancée Lucy (Carol Marsh) and her sister-in-law Mina (Melissa Stribling). Enlisting the help of Mina’s husband Arthur (Michael Gough), Van Helsing attempts to put an end to Dracula’s reign of terror.

A fascinating aspect of Dracula is the presentation of the Count compared with earlier versions. At this point, the role had already received two iconic portrayals: Max Shreck in Nosferatu (1922) and Bela Lugosi in the aforementioned Dracula (1931). Christopher Lee’s portrayal is very different from both, but no less iconic. When we first meet him he comes across as a perfect gentleman, greeting Harker to his castle and even carrying Harker’s luggage for him (what a charming host!). However, at the first sign of a threat, the real Dracula is revealed; a hissing, snarling, red-eyed monster. Interestingly, Van Helsing refers to Dracula as ‘it’ rather than ‘him’ throughout the film, and it’s entirely appropriate, as this Dracula is a wild, feral animal that has become dangerous and needs to be put down. It should be stressed that Lee’s performance is by no means one-dimensional; he somehow communicates to the audience that this terrible creature was once human, imbuing the character with a palpable sense of tragedy.

Despite the magnificence of Lee’s performance, his role in the film is actually fairly brief (an early example of ‘The Jaws Principle’ – keeping the monster off-screen to build suspense). The real star of the show is Peter Cushing as Van Helsing. The quietly intense Cushing was a remarkably gifted actor who was an asset to every film in which he starred, and his performance here is as good as any he ever gave.

But Dracula is about much more than the performances; the people behind the camera were also doing fantastic work. Along with Terence Fisher’s assured direction, we have Jack Asher’s striking cinematography and James Bernard’s thunderous score. Asher’s clever use of the colour red creates the illusion that the film is bloodier than it really is, while Bernard’s music lets you know, right from the start, that bad things are about to happen. Dracula has a great overall ‘look’ (which would become Hammer’s signature), and is a must-see for anyone interested in lighting, set design and shot composition.

Like all Hammer films, Dracula isn’t perfect; there are some misguided attempts at comic relief, and the film does drag slightly towards the end of the second act (although this makes it all the more thrilling when it suddenly speeds up again). As a whole, however, Dracula remains a shining example of filmmaking at its best; a team of masters of their respective crafts working together to produce a timeless motion picture.

Hell or High Water (2016)

The phrase ‘game-changer’ is overused these days, but one film that I think really deserves that title is Clint Eastwood’s Unforgiven (1992). To date Eastwood’s last western, Unforgiven seemed to be the last word on the entire genre, turning all of the familiar tropes inside out and leaving the few westerns that have succeeded it looking redundant; while there have been successful westerns since 1992, these films often feel more like tributes to older movies rather than statements in themselves. Hell or High Water looks to change all of that.

The plot is beautiful in its simplicity. Brothers Toby and Tanner Howard (Chris Pine and Ben Foster) are on a bank-robbing spree in West Texas, and Texas Rangers Marcus and Alberto (Jeff Bridges and Gil Birmingham) are out to get them. And that’s it. But it’s the telling of the tale that really sets Hell or High Water apart, and the sparseness of the plot gives us ample time to admire the well-crafted characters. The brothers are interesting; at first you think that Tanner is the crazy one and Toby is more level-headed, but as time goes on it becomes clear that they have more in common than it first appeared. The rangers are good too, a pair of straightforward old-timers trying to make sense of a world that seems to be leaving them behind. Special praise must go to Jeff Bridges as Marcus, who appears old and worn-out but is still sharp as a tack when it matters most. Death hovers over the film; although we are almost certain from the start that at least one of the main characters won’t make it to the end credits, this does not lessen the impact of the inevitable bloody showdown between them.

But the plot is only half the story, and you could say that Hell or High Water is also about America itself. Director David Mackenzie takes us off the beaten track and into a world we don’t often see in big movies, a rural America ravaged by poverty and debt, where no one has any sympathy for the banks that are being robbed. It’s definitely the same world as films like Unforgiven, but we get the sense that it is very much on its last legs. The dusty highways and earthy fields are filmed and photographed really well, and the soundtrack is laced with appropriately twangy guitars.

Hell or High Water successfully brings the western into the 21^st Century, and will hopefully spark a resurgence for the once-mighty genre. If I had to describe it in one word I would say ‘meaty’; meaty like a steak and just as satisfying.

Bob Dylan: Fallen Angels (2016)

The origins of Bob Dylan’s Fallen Angels stretch right back to the inaugural Farm Aid event on 22^nd September 1985, when Bob performed the popular standard ‘That Lucky Old Sun’ for the first time. Songs from the Tin Pan Alley-era are not what most people would associate with Bob Dylan, but since then his interest in old standards has only appeared to grow. He performed George Gershwin’s ‘Soon’ at a Gershwin tribute event in 1987, sang ‘Answer Me, My Love’ at the 1991 Guitar Legends event, and in 2001 recorded the Dean Martin-sung ‘Return to Me’ for the soundtrack of The Sopranos. That same year Dylan released the album Love and Theft, on which tracks like ‘Bye and Bye’ and ‘Moonlight’ represented his first foray into self-penned jazz balladry. With all of this in mind, it shouldn’t have been a surprise when Bob Dylan released his first collection of standards, Shadows in the Night, in 2015.

I initially wasn’t very keen on Shadows in the Night (although I am now), and for this reason I approached Fallen Angels with caution, afraid that it would be more of the same. What I should have remembered, looking back, is that Bob Dylan never – ever – does the same thing the same way twice. No album of his, for better or worse, has ever been a total re-tread of a previous one, and Fallen Angels is no exception.

Bob kicks things of with an affecting rendition of ‘Young at Heart’, which sets the tone for the rest of the album. It has the laid back feel of a lazy summer afternoon; warm and inviting, a sharp contrast to the nighttime atmosphere of the previous album. All of the songs have the same general effect, but I think my favourite would be ‘Polka dots and Moonbeams’, which has a lovely instrumental intro that gives Dylan’s band a chance to shine. While Shadows in the Night  featured Donnie Herron’s pedal steel as the lead instrument, the sound here is much more varied, and we are treated to pleasant passages of violin and guitar.

Bob doesn’t contribute instrumentally on this album, but Fallen Angels does continue the remarkable recovery of Dylan’s voice, which a few short years ago looked to be ravaged beyond repair. I'm not sure how Bob has managed to recapture so much of his old range, but the main thing is that he is stretching himself again, and that’s good.

So what’s next for Bob Dylan? At this point in a career filled with the unexpected, it's truly impossible to guess. Bob holds all the cards, and he's keeping them close to his chest.

Suicide Squad (2016)

Not many people liked Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice. Maybe it was the darkness of the film, maybe its close proximity to the very well-received Captain America: Civil War, maybe it was the jumbled and overly complex story; whatever it was, Batman v Superman just wasn’t what a lot of people wanted from the first real DC Universe film. While it wasn’t a huge success in terms of likeability, its $872.7 million box office takings guaranteed that the DC Universe would continue to expand, with the next film being the David Ayer-directed Suicide Squad. Personally, I found a lot to enjoy in Batman v Superman (which I mulled over in a previous review), and also happen to think that Marvel is in serious need of some big-screen competition, which meant that I was very excited to see what Suicide Squad had to offer. Would it take the DC Cinematic Universe to new heights? Or leave the upcoming Justice League with the unenviable task of having to rescue the franchise?

Suicide Squad picks up exactly where Dawn of Justice left off. The showdown between the Caped Crusader and the Man of Steel has left the world reeling, and the US government decides that measures must be put in place in case anything similar should happen again. Amanda Waller (Viola Davis) – a government official who is essentially a cold, hard, extremely sinister version of Marvel’s Nick Fury – suggests putting together a team of incarcerated supervillains; the worst of the worst, powerful enough to battle out-of-control superheroes, and yet totally expendable in the event that they fail. Under the watchful eye of Colonel Rick Flag (Joel Kinnaman), the team consists of Deadshot (Will Smith), Harley Quinn (Margot Robbie), Captain Boomerang (Jai Courtney), El Diablo (Jay Hernandez) and Killer Croc (Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje), and the incentive for the criminals to participate in the scheme is an explosive implanted in their necks. Before long an ancient witch called Enchantress (Cara Delevingne) has awakened from a centuries-long slumber to make a play for world domination, and the newly-formed squad is called into action for their first mission. Meanwhile, Harley Quinn’s boyfriend – who happens to be The Joker (Jared Leto) – sets out to steal back his girlfriend.

Where the plot of Batman v Superman was very convoluted and hard to follow, the story of Suicide Squad sometimes feels perfunctory and familiar; a threat arises and the team simply has put aside their differences and find a way to destroy it. However, this actually works in the film’s favour, as the straightforwardness of the plot allows us to focus all of our attention on the interaction between the film’s superb cast of characters. A problem with making films about villains, and one which Suicide Squad could easily have fallen into, is that you can end up with a group of horrible, unlikable characters who the audience have no sympathy for. Thankfully, the film gets around this by ensuring that its characters are multi-layered and interesting. We have Waller – ruthlessly efficient and willing to stoop to any depth to get the job done, yet ultimately working for the greater good. Deadshot – committing high-priced assassinations to provide a secure future for his daughter. Harley – a tough and resourceful criminal hopelessly in love with a man who is pure evil. El Diablo aspires to forgo his life of crime to become a man of peace, while Rick Flag goes from supervising the team to gradually becoming one of them. Captain Boomerang mainly serves to provide comic relief, and Killer Croc remains engagingly mysterious without coming across as one-dimensional.

The film’s wildcard is The Joker, who is not aligned with Waller, Enchantress or the Squad. He just wants his girlfriend back. The Joker’s relationship with Harley is fascinating in is horribleness: she has clearly become ensnared by his extraordinary personal magnetism, but his attachment to her seems far more sinister, and the exact purpose of it is never fully revealed. Never before has the Joker been more grotesque and vampire-like; he is like a cross between Anthony Hopkins’ Hannibal Lecter and Klaus Kinki’s Count Dracula in Nosferatu the Vampyre (1979). While he doesn’t appear often enough to steal the show, he makes a big impact, and the best is surely yet to come when this Joker eventually goes toe to toe with Ben Affleck’s Batman.

Characters aside, Suicide Squad has a lot going for it on a technical front. A big highlight of Batman v Superman was its sustained mood, and its successful efforts to create a universe for its characters to inhabit. Happily, that mood has carried over to Suicide Squad; it isn’t a sequel, but we definitely know we are in the same world as the previous film. Suicide Squad has a very distinct look, a sort of grey fog contrasting with bright colours in the form of flashing neon lights and the characters’ costumes. Occasionally the colour-o-meter swings too far in one direction, leaving us with either garishness or murk, but on the whole the photography is effective and has a genuine comic book flavour to it. The Joker’s scenes are a highlight in this respect; they have a weird, otherworldly vibe which is completely in synch with Jared Leto’s interpretation of the character.

One slight problem with Suicide Squad is the way the first part of the film is edited, and you suspect that the cold reception afforded to Batman v Superman forced the team to make some last minute changes to this film in an attempt to save it from the same fate. Consequently, where the first third of Dawn of Justice was slow and ponderous, the first third of Suicide Squad passes by in a blur, as it rushes to introduce all the characters and set up the plot. However, I can’t hold this against the filmmakers; they clearly listened to the criticisms of Batman v Superman and acted (perhaps overzealously) to rectify them with Suicide Squad, and you can’t fault that.

All in all, I think Suicide Squad is a success. It serves as an effective continuation of Batman v Superman, lays the table for Justice League, and manages to work on its own terms as a standalone feature. I particularly like that the DC films up to this point have a real heft to them that the Marvel films, for all of their positive attributes, tend to lack; Avengers and Guardians of the Galaxy keep you thoroughly entertained while you’re in the cinema, but Batman v Superman and Suicide Squad will have you thinking about them weeks later. Suicide Squad also continues to establish DC’s cinematic identity. The anti-Marvel: dark, violent, but ultimately driven by a strong cast of complex and interesting characters played by top-tier actors. That’s a recipe for success, and I’m looking forward to the next helping.

Getting to know... Bob Dylan

A few years ago I was rooting around in the shed at my Granny’s house, looking through assorted bits and pieces left by various family members over the years, when I came across some discarded records. There were quite a few, but the ones that caught my eye were two Bob Dylan albums: Bringing It All Back Home (1965) and More Bob Dylan Greatest Hits (1971). Both have extremely striking covers, and they immediately grabbed my attention. The expression on the face of the young man on the Bringing It All Back Home cover seemed to be saying “Don’t even think about leaving me in this shed”. I am happy to say that I didn’t, and ended up becoming a huge fan. But not straight away.

When I got back home I put on Bringing It All Back Home, and the first thought that struck me was “What is this?” I had always thought of Bob Dylan as an acoustic guitar-wielding folksinger, the man who sang the song that played over the opening credits of Watchmen. But this was very different. This Bob Dylan was backed by a rollicking blues band, thrashing an electric guitar while singing a stream of strange, surreal lyrics: “Johnny’s in the basement mixin’ up the medicine/I’m on the pavement thinkin’ ‘bout the government”. What? I didn’t know what that meant, but he certainly sounded like he did. And that voice! I didn’t find it off-putting, but it was unlike any singer I had ever heard and I had no idea what to make of it. More Bob Dylan Greatest Hits provided no easy answers; a daunting 24-track melting pot of musical styles, it was far too much to take in in one listen. Fortunately, a chance encounter with the far more accessible Bob Dylan at Budoken album caused everything to fall into place, and before long I was officially a fan. Delving into Bob’s back pages, I was fascinated by the amount of stylistic changes he had gone through over the years.

Bob began as a Woody Guthrie-ish folksinger before starting to write his own songs, which ranged from moving love songs, (‘Girl from the North Country’), to goofy comedy monologues (‘Talking John Birch Society Paranoid Blues’) and austere observational songs (‘The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll’). By 1964 Dylan was moving away from writing songs that could be interpreted as ‘protest songs’, and his writing leaned increasingly towards the surreal, although he still retained his trademark wit (‘Motorpsycho Nitemare’) and talent for love songs (‘To Ramona’). A big change came in 1965, when Bob started using a backing band for the first time; a significant portion of his fan base apparently felt that he had ‘sold out’ in pursuit of a more commercial sound, but personally I think the extra musicians added texture and colour to his already impressive compositions. My favourite song from this period is ‘Desolation Row’, an extraordinary phantasmagoria of people and places which benefits immensely from Charlie McCoy’s sparkling guitar and Russ Savakus’ pulsating bassline, not to mention Dylan’s impassioned singing.

After an exhausting tour in 1966 to promote the album Blonde on Blonde, Bob Dylan disappeared from public view, having been injured in a mysterious motorcycle accident. For the next eight years he appeared in concert extremely rarely, and his recorded output during this period sounds like the work of a content family man enjoying a quiet yet happy life of domestic tranquillity (Bob was by this time married with children). Unfortunately this was not to last, and by 1974 rumours suggested that Dylan’s marriage was breaking down. This speculation appeared to be supported by the appearance in January 1975 of the album Blood on the Tracks, which contained numerous songs dealing with relationships ending. This album is often thought to be autobiographical, but Bob has denied this and I believe him; while elements of his personal life must surely have seeped into the record (especially on the raging ‘Idiot Wind’), Bob for the most part retains a healthy detachment as a narrator, and the gentle lightness of the music prevents the album from becoming maudlin, despite the subject matter. 

I976 saw the release of the wonderful Desire album, on which Dylan collaborated with playwright Jacques Levy to create a series of incredibly visual and cinematic story songs; pieces like ‘Hurricane’, ‘Isis’, ‘Joey’, ‘Romance in Durango’ and ‘Black Diamond Bay’ could easily be adapted into full-length motion pictures. Dylan’s personal life remained troubled, however, and the following year Bob’s wife Sara filed for divorce.

I mention this because it appears to have had a profound effect on Dylan’s music making. From 1978 onwards Bob’s songs, once so bright and outward-looking, veered increasingly towards melancholy introspection, and his voice, formerly powerful and confident, suddenly seemed strained and frail. His mood only appeared to worsen when the public rejected his conversion to born-again Christianity and a subsequent trilogy of gospel albums which, at their worst, sounded uncomfortably like a man in the throes of a total nervous breakdown. Dylan was also struggling with the recording process itself; his albums throughout the 1980s suffer from over-production, and you get the feeling that Bob had far too much time in which to second-guess himself in terms of arrangements and song selection.*

To some at the time it must have seemed that Dylan had lost his spark, but a closer examination of this period reveals that the old magic was still there. Bob’s Christian albums might have not been to everyone's taste, but the performances he gave in support of these records were incendiary; one need only listen to a recording of his performance in Toronto in 1980, for example, to dispel any suspicions about the sincerity of his conversion. In another flash of brilliance, Bob showed up for a 1984 appearance on Late Night with David Letterman with punk band The Plugz in tow. The group proceeded to tear the house down with barnstorming performances of ‘Don’t Start Me Talking’, ‘License to Kill’, and ‘Jokerman’ (during which Bob wandered off-stage to retrieve a misplaced harmonica, leaving the band and the audience to wonder where he had gone and if he was coming back).

With his record sales falling and his star in decline, Bob Dylan made two crucial decisions in 1988. The first was to join The Traveling Wilburys, a supergroup consisting of George Harrison, Roy Orbison, Tom Petty and Jeff Lynne. Working with friends in an informal environment seemed to revitalise Dylan, who turned in some terrific songs including the wonderful ‘Tweeter and the Monkey Man’, another story song that I hope is one day made into a film. The second big decision was to go on tour with a tight three-piece band, playing dozens of shows throughout the remainder of the year with a fire and energy that many had probably presumed lost forever. A big reason for the success of these shows was, in my opinion, Dylan’s hiring of GE Smith as lead guitarist and bandleader. Dylan is by many accounts an eccentric man who is at times hard to work with, but Smith genuinely seemed to like and ‘get’ Bob, and the two appear to have enjoyed playing together tremendously.

No one could have predicted it at the time, but the tour that began on 7^th June 1988 is still going today, twenty-eight years later. Countless band members have come and gone, but the whole process seems to have allowed Dylan to rediscover his mojo. He still releases albums, but I get the sense that Bob thinks of himself primarily as a live performer as opposed to a recording artist. Bob uses his shows as a chance to reimagine his back catalogue; sometimes the results are poor (his diabolical 1991 tour remains infamous), but often he succeeds in successfully reinventing his songs and sometimes even eclipses the studio versions. Personally, I think something gets lost in translation when Dylan performs in the studio; from the late-70s onwards, many of Bob's songs have only really come to life when being played live on stage. A lot of his performances can be found on YouTube, and are well worth investigating.

As I hope this piece of writing shows, I have a lot of love for Bob Dylan’s songs and for the man himself, although I have never met him and have yet to see him in concert. If I did meet him, I wouldn’t ask him to sign anything or pose for a selfie; all I would really want to do is give him my sincere thanks for his music. Thanks Bob! 

* I now completely disagree with the opinions expressed in this paragraph - 12/5/2018

Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan (1982)

It is difficult to fully appreciate the impact that Star Wars had upon the film industry when it was released in 1977, or the flurry of frantic activity it triggered in Hollywood as studios rushed to capitalise on its massive success. Without Star Wars we might not have witnessed the unbearable tension of Alien (1979), the twists and turns of The Empire Strikes Back (1980), or the surreal sight of James Bond engaging in an outer-space laser battle in Moonraker (1979). But perhaps the most intriguing sci-fi film to follow Star Wars was one that banked on audience nostalgia as well as the new space-craze:  Star Trek: The Motion Picture.

Unfortunately, the transition from small screen to large screen was not a smooth one for the Starship Enterprise. The Motion Picture is not without merit - the special effects and sense of epic scale remain impressive to this day – but the script was painfully low on action and often left the highly capable cast with nothing to do except literally stare into space. While the film did sufficiently well at the box office to guarantee a sequel, it was clear that drastic changes were in order. Enter director and screenwriter Nicolas Meyer.

Meyer’s philosophy for Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan seems to have been to strip everything back to the barest essentials, and that is reflected in the streamlined plot. Khan Noonien-Singh (Ricardo Montalban), an insane, genetically engineered superman from the 20^th Century who was exiled by Captain Kirk (William Shatner) to a planet named City Alpha 5 in an episode of the original series, has escaped, and wants revenge on Kirk for banishing him to a planet that subsequently became uninhabitable. He has also stolen a Starfleet ship and a potentially dangerous piece of technology called Genesis, which can create life on even the most barren of planets – or destroy life on planets that are already populated. Kirk, who is leading a crew chiefly comprised of trainees on a simple training cruise, is lured into a deadly game of cat and mouse with the unhinged yet brilliant Khan.

Star Trek II’s intention to distance itself from its ponderously-paced predecessor is made abundantly clear right from the opening scene, which is worth describing in detail. The Enterprise is under attack, and the camera pans across the bridge, which is bathed in a sinister red light. All of the familiar faces are there, all except Kirk; in the captain’s chair is Kirstie Alley’s Lieutenant Saavik. The attack on the ship intensifies and a series of explosions rock the ship, and one by one all of our favourite characters fall to the ground, apparently dead. What is happening? Where is Captain Kirk? Just then the alarms die down, the front of the bridge opens up, and there stands Kirk, visible only in silhouette. It was all just a training exercise. This one action-packed scene immediately communicates to the audience that this is going to be a very different film from The Motion Picture, and establishes a tense, claustrophobic atmosphere that remains throughout the rest of the movie. It’s flawless.

Fortunately, the rest of The Wrath of Khan lives up to this superb opening, as we are swiftly introduced to the evil villain of the title. Khan is clearly a brilliant man, but has been so consumed by his hatred for Kirk that he has gone completely mad; you really get the sense that he has spent every moment of his exile festering and stewing over what he perceives as Kirk’s betrayal of him. Ricardo Montalban gives a layered performance in what could easily have been a totally one-dimensional role, and he plays Khan with an evil relish and perverse charm that makes him a joy to watch. As good as Benedict Cumberbatch was as Khan in 2013’s Star Trek Into Darkness, you just can’t beat the original model.

But despite Montalban playing the title character, this is really William Shatner’s movie. Often unfairly written off as a shameless ham, here he gives a wonderfully understated performance that perfectly contrasts with Montalban’s more theatrical turn. A running theme of the film is Kirk coming to terms with middle-age, and this results in some great subtle moments, like the scene in which Kirk self-consciously puts on a pair of reading glasses while straining to read a computer monitor on the bridge. His final scene with Leonard Nimoy’s Spock at the film’s climax is just wonderful, and remains incredibly moving no matter how many times you see it. All of the regular cast give top-notch performances as usual, but Shatner is the heart and soul of this movie.

If the original Star Wars was a space-western, then Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan is a space pirate movie, with the Enterprise as a naval vessel and Khan and his crew as a band of villainous rogues. Indeed, the film is replete with nautical terms and allusions, and you can even see a dog-eared copy of Moby Dick perched on Khan’s straining bookshelf. Some may prefer the films that feature more exploration and a less militaristic tone, but Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan firmly cemented Star Trek as a big screen force to be reckoned with, and set the template that the series continues to follow to this day.