A long time ago, when Best For Film Towers was as busy as it was happy, we had a blog series called Best For Film’s Favourite Flicks. It wasn’t regular, or concise, or tightly argued – Best For Film was never any of those things – but it was individual, it was witty and it showed off our brilliant writers to perfection. It’s still my favourite column onsite, because it offers the most insight into the motley crew of interns, freelancers, chancers and MA dropouts who have written for the site over the past four years.
Featuring our favourite dotted line since that ellipsis in Trainspotting.
Continuing Best For Film’s series of slightly mucky blogs in the run-up to Nymphomaniac‘s release tomorrow, our resident pervert Vincent has rolled up his sleeves and charged fist-first into the unexpectedly lavish castle of erotic inspiration (well, unexpected to everyone but Vincent) that is the Disney canon. Ever wanted to witness a grown man confess to fancying a fox? You’ve come to the right place.
Sex is awful isn’t it? Sweaty rutting that fails to stimulate a beneficial experience greater than the nerves, the physical exertion or the time you could have spent playing Final Fantasy XIV. Hello ladies, why yes I am single. Like most crippling personality defects, revulsion of sex probably stems from cinema. The great sex scenes are bad enough, creating a standard for physical beauty, ambient lighting and stamina that a mortal male could never hope to achieve, but it’s the terrible sex scenes that have really burrowed deep into your psyche.
Hollywood is big business. With more and more films now scraping, or downright flying, past the billion-dollar mark in box office receipts, it’s understandable that studios are going to pump cash into projects they think will net them a profit. Quite often, however, they appear to have absolutely no idea that a film is going to bomb. Here are a few examples of when studios should have absolutely known beforehand that a project was doomed.
This Valentine’s Day, forget about booking a table at Dorsia. If Patrick Bateman can’t get a reservation, then neither can you. Instead, lure your other half into a dark room, force feed them popcorn and sit on separate sides of the couch while making your way through these gruesomely romantic films.
Gossip columnists and film writers alike are rejoicing in the endless snarky articles to be wrung out of what seems to be Shia LaBeouf’s prolonged and very public breakdown. But – regardless of whether or not he really is ill – what does this say about our attitude to mental health in the public eye? There aren’t many jokes in this one.
Navigate office life that much smoother with our guide to The Princess Bride’s best pithy put downs and responses; just make sure you don’t accuse your boss of being the six-fingered man who slaughtered your father unless you’re ABSOLUTELY sure it’s true.
The Legend of Hercules, which is described as being “from the makers of Olympus Has Fallen” despite sharing neither director, writers nor producers with Antoine Fuqua’s latest carcrash, is heading for the UK after receiving a critical and commercial drubbing in the home of the awful action movie. On the basis of the new trailer, here’s why you mustn’t see it.
The world’s press has descended upon Sochi, home of this year’s Winter Olympics, to discover that you really shouldn’t let former KGB agents with latent sexuality issues to design an international sports centre. Twitter is rife with stories of missing floors, broken doors and filthy water in the official press hotels; although we obviously have zero interest in sports journalism, here are some Hollywood hostelries that, on balance, we’d rather frequent.