90s All Over Me takes inspiration from 80s All Over, the Drew McWeeny/Scott Weinberg podcast that attempted to review every major film release of the 80s one month at a time; that podcast ended circa early 1985 and McWeeny has continued the project on his Substack. The aims of this series are somewhat more modest; rather than covering every month and release in said month, each entry will cover a year of the 1990s, focusing solely on what I’ve seen from that year. The first half of each instalment spotlights what I saw theatrically at the time, contextualising those works in my own moviegoing journey from ages seven to 17 as well as their wider cultural import. The second half covers every other release I’ve seen of that year across physical media, television, and streaming.
Read the previous instalments on 1989, 1990, 1991, 1992, 1993, and 1994.
- 1995 Total films seen: 118
- Total seen theatrically: 20
- VHS/TV/DVD/Streaming: 98
Theatrical
Batman Forever
Director: Joel Schumacher; Cast: Val Kilmer, Tommy Lee Jones, Jim Carrey, Nicole Kidman; Writers: Akiva Goldsman, Lee Batchler, Janet Scott Batchler.
Neither the best nor most interesting film of 1995, Batman Forever is nonetheless the one I've seen the most and expended the most mental energy on these subsequent thirty years. While it was not quite the film I wanted in 1995—far lighter and goofier than its predecessors, which the passage of time has also revealed to be light and goofy despite their Gothic posturing—I liked it enough, and over the last thirty years I've gone from liking to loathing to liking again to landing at a certain begrudging respect. I certainly wasn't fluent in gay subtext or iconography in 1995, so did not pick up on all the phallic Roman statues and biker bar innuendo, and their presence here in 1995 feels more subversive than anything Todd Phillips wrestled onscreen in Joker. There have also been enough Batman films at this point, of sufficiently wide and varying quality, that what once felt like an affront now just feels of a different clique.
To be a fly on the wall of this production, with Tommy Lee Jones taking an intense, physical dislike to Jim Carrey, Val Kilmer being notoriously prickly and difficult, Joel Schumacher being his flamboyant self, and Nicole Kidman's then-husband Tom Cruise probably hanging around giving off Scientology energy. Kidman and Carrey would collaborate with Schumacher again (on Trespass and Number 23) so I presume this was a positive experience, and they certainly got the most career bump from it. Jones and Kilmer, the unhappiest of campers, are also the weakest of the cast. Though Jones settled into a default dry grump mode following Men in Black in 1997, he wasn't a stranger to going big and broad, as evidenced by JFK, Under Siege, Natural Born Killers, and Blown Away in the preceding years. But his performance here is rough. Regarding the clip below of Carrey reminiscing to Norm McDonald about Jones, crippled with detest, refusing to "sanction your [Carrey's] buffoonery", my take is that Jones was embarrassed about how much mugging he was doing not to be overshadowed by Carrey.
Kilmer is at least earnestly attempting a performance, if not a very interesting one. His casting is more fascinating offscreen than on: starting off in well-liked 80s comedies (Top Secret, Real Genius), he added colour to popular hits (Top Gun, Tombstone) and became a credible leading man (The Doors). Batman Forever was meant to be his anointing into another tier of stardom. It'll be interesting to revisit that trajectory over the remainder of the 1990s, tracking how he ultimately didn't connect with audiences at that tier—in fairness, not everyone does or can—and didn't especially help his own cause. Nonetheless, an actor’s legacy is bigger than their year-to-year popularity, and with a filmography including Top Secret, Top Gun and its sequel, The Doors, Tombstone, Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, and a turn as the Caped Crusader, the late Kilmer’s import is indisputable.
Clueless
Director: Amy Heckerling; Cast: Alicia Silverstone, Stacey Dash, Brittany Murphy, Paul Rudd, Dan Hedaya; Writer: Amy Heckerling.
I hit a moviegoing milestone in 1995: my first movie date, to see Amy Heckerling’s savvy, witty teen comedy and Jane Austen update Clueless. A wonderful breakout for Paul Rudd and Alicia Silverstone, the latter ill-served by entertainment media and Hollywood (her ascent fizzing, in tandem with Batman’s, in 1997)
Ace Ventura: When Nature Calls
Director: Steve Oedekerk; Cast: Jim Carrey, Simon Callow, Ian McNeice, Sophie Okonedo; Writer: Steve Oedekerk, Jack Bernstein.
My second date. Very funny and rather obnoxious, with Carrey continuing untethered (for now) from the niceties and yearning for seriousness holding back most of his peers from talking out of their anus onscreen.
Goldeneye
Director: Martin Campbell; Cast: Pierce Brosnan, Sean Bean, Izabella Scorupco, Famke Janssen, Judi Dench; Writer: Michael France, Jeffrey Caine, Bruce Feirstein.
My first Bond film in theatres after devouring the previous 16 films on VHS over the preceding years. A really perfect gentle reset of the franchise for the 90s, with excellent stunt work and villains and Brosnan hungry to please in his first stab at the role. The more industrial score by Nikita and Leon composer Eric Serra doesn’t sit well with some, but I’ll take it over David Arnold’s boring bombast in subsequent Brosnan films.
Judge Dredd
Director: Danny Cannon; Cast: Sylvester Stallone, Armand Assante, Diane Lane, Ron Schneider, Joan Chen, Max Von Sydow; Writer: Michel De Luca, William Wisher, Steven E. De Souza.
Also my first Stallone movie in theatres after devouring the delightful mutant’s filmography on VHS. British director Danny Cannon’s Hollywood treatment of a cult British comic book—complete with Rob Schneider comedy, a villain from the hero’s past ala Goldeneye, and Stallone’s full visage in place of Dredd’s traditionally visored face—disappointed fans but is better than its reputation and better than Batman Forever. I was starting to read more media on new and upcoming releases—newspaper reviews, British movie lads mags (which would have had national skin in the Dredd game)—understanding films in the context of their wider reception and promotional circus, but also taking note when my own feelings were counter to said circus, Judge Dredd a case in point.
Congo
Twenty is an impressive number of films to see theatrically for most, and I know I saw a handful of these films multiple times, e.g. Batman Forever. I was finally beginning to see in theatres the sort of adult films I was hankering for in 1993 and 1994. Of course, with hindsight, there's plenty that's infantile about Congo and Mortal Kombat and The Net. A Michael Crichton adaptation cashing in on Jurassic Park helmed by regular Spielberg producer Frank Marshall, Congo largely jettisoned its source material. It hit the spot for thirteen-year-old-me but was not built for posterity, despite its entertaining jungle adventure with high-tech toys premise and game hamming from the likes of Tim Curry and Ernie Hudson.
Mortal Kombat
Paul WS Anderson’s adaptation of the popular video game is an engaging Enter the Dragon riff with some effective staging, a banger soundtrack, and economical setup and characterisation.
The Net
Another entertaining thriller, albeit predicated on the fearmongering premise that the internet is an evil force that will destroy lives (which it is, albeit not in the manner depicted in The Net). Sandra Bullock proves a resourceful star of thrillers and Jeremy Northam is nicely cast as the romantic interest turned antagonist.
Waterworld
An infamous, troubled, expensive production from the often-sparring Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves creative team of director Kevin Reynolds and star-producer Kevin Costner. I like this more and the seams are less evident—perhaps because they were hidden underwater—but this was a more complicated and caveat-laden success. Like Judge Dredd, I didn’t jive with the consensus on this one: loved it then, like it now. Costner’s hero isn’t particularly exciting, but the Max Max on water spectacle—shot by Road Warrior and Beyond Thunderdome DP Dean Semler, continuing a streak on troubled productions after Super Mario Bros and Last Action Hero—is impressive.
Apollo 13
A much-loved film that I’ve seen once, liked, but never felt compelled to see again. As immune as I am to its charms, Apollo 13 is indisputably very well-executed by Ron Howard, with excellent effects and thoughtful performances.
Get Shorty
This was as close as I’d come to seeing Pulp Fiction at this point, and I felt like a total adult. Barry Sonnenfeld’s gentle Hollywood mob satire is of course chalk to Pulp Fiction’s Royale with cheese, but it’s a very enjoyable film: smart, witty, with great turns from a post-comeback John Travolta, Rene Russo, Dennis Farina, Delroy Lindo, and the late, great Gene Hackman. Again, I’ll reiterate that Hackman was such a welcome, sturdy part of the tapestry of the 90s, delivering deft comedic work here and characteristically barnstorming performances in two other high-profile 1995 films discussed below.
Casper
Despite all the premature adulting, there were still kids film, and Casper was a family film with a pretty good ratio of mischief to heart and comedy to sap. Based on everything in their preceding careers, Eric Idle and Cathy Moriarty make no sense as a screen couple, but make for delightful sparring antagonists.
Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers: The Movie
The cynical read on this is crass product, but my dim memory of this matinee programming, spun off from the TV series between seasons, is that it was executed with some polish, with a welcome but not especially artful dash of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Ghostbusters in its DNA.
Toy Story, Pocahontas, and A Goofy Movie
Three very different Disney releases: the first computer-animated feature from Pixar, a traditional animated feature from the continuing Disney renaissance, and a watchable matinee programmer clearly demarcated from the wider Disney renaissance to ensure nobody confuses A Goofy Movie for the next Lion King (the Paulie Shore-esque character voiced by Paulie Shore is a clear giveaway). Though I’ve seen it enough that the shine is off, Toy Story’s all-timer status is unimpeachable. I find Pocahontas more interesting, as a film that takes itself slightly too seriously but given the subject can’t really afford not to take itself seriously. A more nimble version from a more diverse creative team could probably nail the tone today, albeit not in live-action.
Babe
Wonderful farmyard fable produced by George Miller and directed—to George Miller’s retrospective chagrin—by Chris Noonan. Babe feels a little forgotten, but it’s warm and thoughtful and one of those cases of greatness hidden in plain sight.
Jumanji
Unlike Babe, Jumanji has had a 21st century signal boost through its Dwayne Johnson-headlined sequels. I saw one of those; I’d rather watch this.
Father of the Bride II and Nine Months
Slapstick comedies with men losing it when their daughters and/or wives fall pregnant, culminating in delivery room hilarity. Though boilerplate, both are very watchable, with the latter launching Hugh Grant in the US.
The rest: Frocks, freedom fighters, mallrats, and cyperpunks
Babe and Apollo 13 competed against Sense and Sensibility and Braveheart at that year’s Academy Awards, with Mel Gibson’s Scottish freedom fighter epic conquering the battlefield. I love both these films for very different reasons: Braveheart as a totemic, rollicking romp that took the pulpiest pages from David Lean and Akira Kurosawa’s playbooks and very deliberately prints the legend, and Sense and Sensibility as a charming, note-perfect fusion of Jane Austen’s source material, Emma Thompson’s wit and handle on said material as screenwriter, and Ang Lee’s thoughtful, observational aesthetic.
Andrew Davies’ miniseries Pride and Prejudice was also televised in 1995, unleashing a dripping wet Colin Firth on the populace, though Jennifer Ehle is that series’ MVP. Meanwhile, releases cut from similar cloth, kilt, or chainmail to Braveheart included Rob Roy, pitting Liam Neeson’s Scottish warrior against Tim Roth’s dastardly British villain; The Scarlet Letter, Roland Joffe’s melodramatic pass at Nathanael Hawthorne’s literary classic, with Demi Moore and Gary Oldman sincere but questionably cast; and First Knight, Jerry Zucker’s follow-up to Ghost, an uninvolving Arthurian love triangle between Sean Connery’s Arthur, Julia Ormond’s Guinevere, and Richard Gere’s dreamy Lancelot.
The 90s was a robust era for Shakespeare on screen, with 1995 yielding a wartime Richard III recasting the Bard’s anti-hero as a 20th century dictator; a slick Othello with Laurence Fishburne and Kenneth Branagh effectively paired as Othello and Iago; and Branagh’s spirited A Midwinter’s Tale, a low-budget black & white comedy about an eccentric theatre troupe staging Hamlet for Christmas.
Oliver Stone tapped a vein of Shakespearean tragedy in his biopic Nixon, neither hagiographic nor apologetic but certainly romanticising the disgraced President. It’s a welcome return to meatier material and less stylistic excess following Natural Born Killers. Also meaty and satisfying are Michael Mann’s Heat and Martin Scorsese’s Casino, both stylish, substantial works from their gifted directors. Both feature engaged, focused Robert De Niro performances—squaring off against equally strong co-stars Al Pacino in the former and Joe Pesci and Sharon Stone in the latter—the actor clearly doing penance, as was Branagh, for Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.
I've spoken in previous articles about the long tails of certain hit films. The long tail of 1989’s Batman is still evident in 1995, with not only Batman Forever but Rachel Talalay’s spry Tank Girl. The tails of Dances with Wolves and Unforgiven can be seen not only in Costner’s blank cheque for Waterworld and Clint Eastwood’s atypical romantic drama The Bridges of Madison County, but also Sam Raimi’s nifty and fun Sharon Stone-led spaghetti Western The Quick and the Dead, introducing Russell Crowe to US audiences; Walter Hill’s more old school Wild Bill; and Jim Jarmusch’s fascinating, idiosyncratic Dead Man.
The tail of Basic Instinct, meanwhile, can be seen in Showgirls, a tacky Vegas expose from the same creative team of Joe Esterhaz and Paul Verhoeven; the Esterhaz-scripted Jade, helmed by William Friedkin and casting the not-quite-ready-for-the-majors David Caruso; Roger Donaldson’s fun sci-fi thriller Species, with alien Natasha Henstridge seducing men and an elite team—including Ben Kingsley, Michael Madsen, and Forest Whitaker—in pursuit; Nick Broomfield’s documentary Heidi Fleiss: Hollywood Madam digging into some real-life LA sleaze; and Oliver Parker’s abovementioned Othello, elucidating the erotic thriller potential of the source.
The tail of The Silence of the Lambs can be seen in Seven, David Fincher’s moody and effective urban thriller that served as a spectacular bounce back following Alien 3’s troubled production and reception, and Jon Amiel’s serviceable Copycat. Television commercials, at least in Australia, framed Copycat as the successor to The Silence of the Lambs and Seven, a stretch that might convince an Amish farmer who’s never seen either or indeed a movie, but the film is elevated by strong co-leads Sigourney Weaver and Holly Hunter.
The tail of Die Hard was evident in three engaging actioners: Sudden Death, re-teaming Jean-Claude Van Damme and director Peter Hyams for “Die Hard in a sports stadium”; Under Siege 2: Dark Territory, the Steven Seagal vehicle—on a new vehicle—that was “Die Hard on a train”; and sequel Die Hard With a Vengeance, teaming Bruce Willis with returning director John McTiernan and, onscreen, Samuel L. Jackson to thwart Jeremy Irons’ Eurotrash n’are do well.
Breaking with formula and unfolding across the expanse of New York City rather than a contained location, Die Hard With a Vengeance nonetheless moves and feels like a Die Hard film, with McTiernan finding and mining odd character details and narrative grace notes among heroes, villains, and bystanders alike. I love that Jeremy Irons, after a string of tormented roles under auteur directors, decided to make bank hand over fist in 1994-95 by appearing in The Lion King and Die Hard With a Vengeance, then cashed a whopping blank cheque by throwing his support behind Adrian Lyne’s Lolita, released 1997.
Finally, the long tail of Pulp Fiction was also becoming apparent, in films like the abovementioned Get Shorty—casting Travolta as a cool criminal—and Die Hard With a Vengeance pairing Tarantino alumni Willis and Jackson. There was also Bryan Singer’s well-crafted and sneaky The Usual Suspects, the less memorable Things to Do in Denver When You’re Dead, and anthology film Four Rooms, with Tarantino directing and starring in the most indulgent, meandering segment: better segments were executed by Alexandre Rockwell, collaborating with wife Jennifer Beals, and especially Robert Rodriguez, with the resourceful and economical director wringing every bit of juice from his segment’s premise. Tarantino also appears onscreen briefly in Rodriguez’s Desperado, the pricier, starrier Antonio Banderas-headlined sequel to (but essentially remake of) micro-budget wonder El Mariachi.
Other independents in 1995 not stylistically indebted to Tarantino—but with places at the table he helped set—included Wayne Wang’s Smoke (featuring Harvey Keitel), indie filmmaking satire Living in Oblivion (featuring Steve Buscemi), and Kevin Smith’s Mallrats. A quantum leap in scale and casting from Clerks, if not command of the craft, Mallrats is Smith’s most watchable film, hugely aided by Jason Lee’s charismatic lead. Lee uses pretty much all the tricks in his toolbox, leaving little new to offer in other parts, but is wonderful as Smith’s droll mouthpiece.
Other independent and arthouse titles, from rising and veteran filmmakers alike, included Hal Hartley’s Flirt, Todd Solondz’s Welcome to the Dollhouse, Peter Greenaway’s The Pillow Book, Donald Cammell’s Wild Side, and Larry Clark’s controversial Kids. Gus Van Sant leagued up with satire To Die For, a reputational turning point for Nicole Kidman and key early role for Joaquin Phoenix, while Mike Figgis elicited heartbreaking work from Nicolas Cage and Elisabeth Shue in Leaving Las Vegas.
Nelson Mandela became President of South Africa in 1994, and 1995 yielded a thoughtful adaptation from Afrikaner director Darrell Roodt of Alan Paton’s 1948 race relations novel Cry, the Beloved Country. Featuring James Earl Jones and Richard Harris, this is a forgotten little gem enriched and given heft by a characteristically lush John Barry score.
On US soil, key films from African-American directors included Spike Lee’s Clockers, Carl Franklin’s very good Devil in a Blue Dress, and John Singleton’s Higher Learning. The latter, a network film exploring race and power on a university campus, is sharp and ambitious, and while onscreen events can feel somewhat far-fetched they’ve proven prescient with time.
Black actor showcases of 1995 included Just Cause and, again, Othello for Laurence Fishburne; Devil in a Blue Dress, Crimson Tide (more below), AND the junky Virtuosity—another VR-centric effort from Lawnmower Man director Brett Leonard and another early Russell Crowe showcase—for Denzel Washington; Eddie Murphy in Wes Craven’s unfortunate Vampire in Brooklyn, and Wesley Snipes reteaming with Woody Harrelson, with diminishing returns, on Money Train.
A distant cousin to Higher Learning, Dangerous Minds casts Michelle Pfeiffer as a honky teacher who inspires a dysfunctional inner city classroom: it’s not a very good film, but boasts a classic song. A many-times-removed cousin of those films, Mr Holland’s Opus affords Richard Dreyfuss a meaty mid-career role under the unlikely purview of Bill & Ted and Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead director Stephen Herek. Another pairing of distant cousins is Murder in the First—about a wrongly-sentenced prisoner’s suffering in Alcatraz and his lawyer’s crusade for justice—and Dead Man Walking, about a death row inmate’s spiritual redemption; the latter left the bigger cultural footprint, though I find it very academic.
From Australian filmmakers working aboard came Braveheart, obviously, but also Simon Wincer’s Operation Dumbo Drop. As live-action Disney product of the mid-1990s, the film brushes very faintly against the darker realities of the Vietnam War, and stars Danny Glover, Ray Liotta, and Dennis Leary—all headliners in more corrosive entertainments—are amiable but sedated, all rough edges sanded down. Nonetheless, Wincer once again defies the proverbial mandate to never work with children and animals—see also Free Willy, Phar Lap—eliciting solid performances from both, and there’s skilful location shooting by Russell Boyd.
Meanwhile, Jocelyn Moorhouse’s How to Make an American Quilt, with Winona Ryder leading a stacked cast of veterans and ingenues, is a tapestry of lovingly crafted women’s stories and experiences spanning mid-to-late twentieth century America. Alternately funny, tragic, and affecting in its depictions of women’s trials and tribulations—particularly with the men who romance, cheat on, and/or leave them—some episodes skew towards the saccharine or the obvious, with others balancing this out with oddball black comedy.
Richard Franklin returned to home turf, after a decade crafting thrillers abroad, with Hotel Sorrento. A successful, well-cast translation of Hannie Rayson’s stage play to screen, the film is nonetheless pedestrian and its shower of AFI Award nominations is an indictment of an industry late to the party—two in fact, including Hollywood—that didn’t recognise what they had in Franklin at the height of his prowess crafting superior Hitchcockian thrillers like Roadgames.
1995 also yielded Dad and Dave: On Our Selection, reviving Steele Rudd’s beloved characters for late 20th century audiences and celebrating the centenary of Australian cinema. From its sepia-tinted opening sequence followed by John Williamson’s theme song, the film’s message is very clear: Dad and Dave, like its source, is unapologetically old-fashioned and old-timey. It’s easy to see why Dad and Dave, nostalgic for battlers past rather than present, felt old hat in the wake of Muriel’s Wedding and The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, but its sincerity makes for likeable viewing. Two other notable Australian releases of the year were drama Angel Baby and TV’s Blue Murder, a very effective miniseries with a strong ensemble that nonetheless seeded some ugly trends into Australian television.
Action-wise, the Simpson-Bruckheimer partnership yielded Tony Scott’s abovementioned Crimson Tide, a maritime suspense thriller and dramatic showcase for Denzel Washington and Gene Hackman that’s shot and cut like a first-class actioner, and from the new Tony Scott, Michael Bay, Bad Boys: a slick and glossy spin on the buddy cop formula that also launched one of the few franchises entirely born of the 1990s that continues today.
Hollywood’s other major action film manufacturer, Joel Silver, produced Assassins, Richard Donner’s at-times low energy but very entertaining and underrated thriller about dualling assassins, pitting Stallone’s seasoned killer against Antonio Banderas’ jittery usurper. The veteran and rising stars play well off one another and it’s fun seeing Stallone defer the more physically decisive role to Banderas.
Renny Harlin and wife Geena Davis released the unsuccessful (commercially, critically, and creatively) Cutthroat Island, simultaneously reviving and drowning the pirate movie genre for another nine years until Pirates of the Caribbean. Like Waterworld, this troubled waterlogged production is more watchable and better than its repute, with a memorable villain turn from Frank Langella; it’s nonetheless hobbled by the casting of Matthew Modine, a reliable actor with little knack for Errol Flynn-esque mischievous romantic heroism.
Future pirate Johnny Depp flirted with the action genre for the first time in John Badham’s serviceable Nick of Time; Cindy Crawford essayed her first and last action heroine role in Fair Game; after several false starts Jackie Chan enjoyed a Hollywood breakthrough on his own terms in Rumble in the Bronx; and Mark Dacascos led Christophe Gans’ stylish Crying Freeman.
Comedy-wise, a frattier breed of SNL stars—Adam Sandler, Chris Farley, David Spade—carved their place at the table with Billy Madison and Tommy Boy; Damon Wayans tested my lifetime goodwill for The Last Boy Scout with Major Payne—another cousin twice removed from Dangerous Minds—while an older guard delivered Grumpier Old Men and Mighty Aphrodite. The latter is one of Woody Allen’s wobblier films of this era, but Mira Sorvino’s perky performance as the prostitute mother of Allen’s adopted son is a highlight.
Horror titles included The Texas Chain Saw Massacre: The Next Generation, Halloween 7: The Curse of Michael Myers, remake Village of the Damned, Hideaway, The Mangler, Castle Freak, Lord of illusions, and The Prophecy from Highlander creator Gregory Widen, a sneaky little threadbare gem showcasing thoughtful work from Elias Koteas and colourful supporting ham from Christopher Walken among others.
Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers wasn’t the only TV property to get the big-screen treatment: the quietly very clever Brady Bunch Movie savvily transplanted the square household into the 90s, recasting them as oblivious aliens. And the underwhelming Village of the Damned wasn’t the only classic film to get remade: Sydney Pollock’s classy Sabrina fares better, but feels similarly dislocated from time and cannot help but pale beside the exquisite Billy Wilder-Humphrey Bogart-Audrey Hepburn-William Holden original. Following 1994’s Legends of the Fall, 1995’s First Knight and Sabrina were clearly intended as Ormond’s anointing, but unflattering comparisons to Hepburn proved the unkindest cut.
For Harrison Ford, the romantic comedy Sabrina fell between two thrillers, 1994’s Clear and Present Danger and 1996’s The Devil’s Own, a very old school movie star move he’d pulled before—see Working Girl between Mosquito Coast and Frantic—and others pulled throughout the 90s, e.g. Tom Cruise following Mission: Impossible with Jerry Maguire. Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock, the recently minted stars of Speed, both followed this stratagem in 1995: Bullock headlined The Net but also the charming While You Were Sleeping, while Keanu headlined period romance A Walk in the Clouds but also Johnny Mnemonic.
Helmed by artist Robert Longo, cyberpunk actioner Johnny Mnemonic feels authentic to the genre and thus a bit lumpy, not going down as smoothly as some of its Hollywood brethren that streamline the aesthetic. There’s a whiff of Nothing but Trouble to its assortment of novelties, among them a talking Dolphin and Dolph Lundgren Dolphin’ it up as a fire & brimstone preacher-assassin. This was maybe the second or third Keanu film I saw (definitely after Speed), and my first indication he might not be good at his job. Time’s proven him a survivor, but Johnny Mnemonic evinces why he’s better served playing physically decisive composed types that verbally decisive gesticulating types.
Cyperpunk and dystopia were gaining steam(punk) cinematically in 1995, with Johnny Mnemonic accompanied by films like Hackers, anime Ghost in the Shell, and Strange Days. Kathryn Bigelow’s turn-of-the-millennium thriller, impeccably made and co-scripted by James Cameron, has parallels with Johnny Mnemonic, most notably a miscast actor (here Ralph Fiennes with an American accent) as a motormouthed weaselly profiteer who stumbles into a conspiracy and is aided by a more competent female partner (Dina Meyer there, Angela Bassett here). However, despite its heightened style, Strange Days is more of a five-minutes-into-the-future affair, making its cyberpunk milieu more recognisable and, by extension, its dim view of authority and human entertainment more prescient and pessimistic.
While Terry Gilliam’s 12 Monkeys has many admirers, and I forced myself to be one of them for a time, I really don’t care for it; ditto Outbreak, a big hit then and a streaming hit of the pandemic. Ditto the decidedly non-dystopian Boys on the Side and Empire Records, both generational staples for many. Before Sunrise is great though, and while I suspect its superior pair of sequels in subsequent decades and opportunity to grow with Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy’s couple have infused it with more heft and meaning, on its own terms the original remains an exquisite little gem.
Other winning rom-coms of the year included The American President, the last film in Rob Reiner’s assured streak, and French Kiss, similarly the last Lawrence Kasdan film I enjoy fairly unconditionally, the director once again affording Kevin Kline opportunity to unleash a questionable but delightful accent.
Paris was also on Merchant Ivory’s brain with Jefferson in Paris, casting Nick Nolte as Thomas Jefferson and dramatizing his French romances. More authentically French were La Haine—Matthieu Kassovitz’s impressive and stylish debut with a fierce breakout performance by Vincent Cassell—and Marc Caro and Jean Pierre’s fantastical follow-up to Delicatessen, City of Lost Children. At Cannes that year, the latter film opened the festival, Kassovitz won Best Director, and Emir Kusturica’s Underground—a sharp satire with a deep bench of Yugoslavian national context I lack that’s nonetheless very watchable—won the Palme d’Or.
For the record, some notable films of 1995 that I have not included because I haven’t seen them: Carrington, Dolores Clairborne, Palookaville, The Brothers McMullen, The Basketball Diaries, The Crossing Guard (also omitted from the 1991 unseen list, Sean Penn’s other film The Indian Runner), Indian in the Cupboard, Restoration, Dead Presidents, Waiting to Exhale, Jury Duty, Kicking and Screaming, Screamers, Mad Love, Circle of Friends, Nelly & Mr Arnaud, Canadian Bacon, Tales from the Crypt: Demon Knight, dog films Napoleon and Balto, and To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar.
If you’re still here, thanks for enduring and see you back here for 1996, when independent and arthouse titles dominate awards season while the studio aspirants stumble, several major filmmakers make strong debuts, a major action franchise is born, and aliens both malevolent and mischievous invade. Til then …