Needless to say, the trailers and early forecasts for G.I Joe didn’t exactly promise Citizen Kane-esque heights of filmic artistry, but frankly, if that’s what you’re after then you probably shouldn’t go and see a Steven Sommers flick that’s been co-produced by Hasbro.

Let’s get this straight from the outset. This is a film designed to sell toys. Massive truckloads of them. That it manages to do so in a semi-coherent way, without completely spoiling the childhood memories of those lonely 30-somethings watching in their droves out there is nothing short of amazing. If you approach this with an agenda, then it’s an easy target, but if you’re willing to cool those brain cells off for a bit, then it’s an hour and a half of brash, fun excitement. A Saturday morning cartoon writ larger than life.

Dispensing with such pleasantries as characterisation or backstory, the film heaves us into the action from the off, an arms deal gone bad giving us a quick intro to the main characters and just enough plot to be going on with, as the villainous Baroness makes off with some NATO experimental missiles, murdering do-gooder Duke’s pals in the process and setting up a loosely-bound revenge story that allows us to meet G.I.Joe through the eyes of a newcomer.

Throughout, futuristic weapons and ludicrous martial arts showdowns abound. Female leads high-kick wearing little more than skin-tight bin-bags whilst Christopher Eccleston casts off his serious ac-tor/grumpy bugger rep, clearly reveling in his role as flamboyant, masked arms dealer MacGuffin Destro.

The plot is minimal and ridiculous, of course; a team of the finest soldiers and tacticians in the world chase down a hidden terrorist organisation, mounting a massive worldwide mobilisation on the back of what amounts to a hunch. Plot, however, is not why we’re here. We’re here to see the trillion Dollar base ‘The PITT’, the jet-packs, the lasers and the ‘accelerator suits’ -a kind of bargain basement Iron Man armour that JUST manages to look cool, despite the occasionally flabby CGI.

It would be easy to gripe at Sommer’s sense of spectacle, sacrificing story for KABOOM set pieces. Those unlucky enough to have witnessed the execrable Van Helsing will know of his love for dodgy redesigns and over the top spectacle rather than a solid story, but here that’s rather the point. In his defence, the direction manages to stay focused even during an 80mph running battle on the side of a subway train, never falling into the MTV jump-edit incoherence that so often blights big action sequences. Here you always know where you are and who’s who.

In fact, that’s a conceit that flows throughout. The characters themselves are painted in the broadest of black and white strokes, and whilst the acting may occasionally veer a little too close to the original plastic avatars than is comfortable, spouting cheesy, occasionally wince-inducing dialogue and using shouting to convey emotion – lead white hat Duke’s appearance at a funeral is brooding in a hilariously 80s way – it is at least good-natured and doesn’t try to explain itself.

Likewise, while the film does try to ground itself in a real-world ethos, it takes a gung-ho attitude to the technology, never bothering with ludicrous pop-science explanations as to their feasibility. Things just work. And while there’s some guff about stolen nano-tech weapons and Big Bad The Doctor/Cobra Commander (Joseph Gordon Lovett, clearly having the screechy-voiced time of his life) scheming to replace the President, it’s mainly a series of excuses to get us to the next fight.

Bowing to fanboy wishes has destroyed many a franchise (I’m looking at you, George Lucas), but here it stays the right side of goofy. We get a fantastic Wushu faceoff between Evil Ninja Storm Shadow and his polar opposite, Snake-Eyes, which is tons of fun and hugely impressive even if it ultimately resolves nothing. If your attention does start to wander, rest assured there’ll be a shot of Sienna Miller doing the splits soon enough.

Though it doesn’t quite have the explosive impact of this summer’s other toy-based destructothon, Transformers, G.I. Joe scores points for being fast and faithful, cramming in the right amount of nods to hardcore nerd-dom, but concentrating on its target audience: over-excited 10 year old boys with pocket money to burn. There’s a surprising lack of winking towards any accompanying parents too, with the humour generally goofy and good-natured.

An extended advert then, but a bloody good one. Rise of Cobra is exactly what the nine-year-old inner you wants from a movie. Fast, explosive fun that won’t change cinema history, but will leave you with a daft grin on your face and a strange urge to get down to Toys R Us as quickly as possible.

Striding into the Soho Curzon, the grubby seats and collections of movie-freaks in the audience suitably transported you back to 1981, as Midnight Movies celebrated the 30th anniversary of a monster hit. And although Director Landis expressed his hope that this was a good print and waxed lyrical about the Blu-Ray’s detail, the terrible print on offer actually adds to the experience, making this an authentic recreation of those godawful 80s visits to the Scala.

Werewolf is a movie that benefits from being BIG. The Yorkshire moors are oppressive in their grimness – brown and seemingly endless – and, speaking as someone who grew up in a rural area, the tiny hamlet standing in for East Proctor successfully conveys the boredom, and isolation inherent in the location. There really is a feeling that anything could go on out there and it adds to the atmosphere immensely.

Something else striking about the movie is how wacky it is. A lot of the dialogue is terrible, and it’s delivered in an overly stagey way, giving the whole a surreal/hyper-real edge, as though we’ve slipped into a parallel England, like a composite of Ealing Comedies and 70s Robin Askwith titillation flicks. The people in it are grim and malnourished, everything bad about the country portrayed as just a step away. Through a mirror grimly, if you will.

Although most traditional movie monsters finally had stakes driven through them at the end of the 70s, the Werewolf experienced something of a renaissance in the 80s, perhaps in line with the transformative cultural and social geist, and of all the movies released this is still the best, although it’s arguably not a great film.

Firstly, there’s the mix of horror and humour. Traditionally the impulse to laugh at horrific scenes is a defence mechanism, but here the jokes and banter are genuinely funny. Landis’ affinity for humour is evident from Animal House and The Blues Brothers, and here it is codified, becoming something of a last hurrah before the downturn in his fortunes throughout the rest of the 80s (not counting this reviewer’s favourite comedy movie – Trading Places).

The storyline itself is straightforward: A couple of naive students get into trouble in a strange land after ignoring the warnings of the locals, a horror tradition that goes back to silent cinema. The difference here is that after their frosty reception the victims are practically driven toward the monster by the locals.

The movie does have a tendency to rely too heavily on crash bang shocks, although the initial werewolf attack on the moors is a superb piece of tension building with a great double bluff. Likewise, the constant stream of jokes makes it hard to judge where the next scare is coming from as the script and mannered performances stray close to camp or farce (the confused policemen being a prime example), but usually it pulls back in time, while our empathy for David Kessler (An excellent and natural David Noughton) allows us to forgive the film its worst sins.

Down in London, Jenny Agutter’s unlikely and straightforward seduction technique is delivered with aplomb, wish-fulfilment dialogue and all, while the increasing visits from David’s zombiefied best friend Jack offer some of the films best shocks and some great banter, ramping up the dread as he warns of the coming transformation. It’s worth remembering that when viewing this for the first time, the audience might be looking for a traditional wolf-out sequence, particularly given its living room setting. You’d be forgiven for expecting lots of falling behind the sofa and cutaway shots.

Not a bit of it. Rick Baker’s still-excellent prosthetics work shines, Noughton suddenly leaping up and tearing off his clothes, screaming for help as bones crack, his skull flattens, and he sprouts fur and nasty great big pointy teeth. The effects won a well deserved Oscar, and while A Company of Wolves comes close, they’ve yet to be beaten.

From this point on, things move up a gear, the Wolf’s initial prowl through London providing a genuinely striking and unsettling image as it stalks towards a hapless commuter on the tube, giving a great impression of the sheer size and… monstrousness of the creature.

There are also a lot of nice touches throughout – a great line up of classic character actors in support – not to mention Frank Oz as a US Embassy official – and the fantastic line up of moon themed songs throughout still amuses. The climax is surprisingly visceral and unrestrained, as people are eaten, crushed between crashing cars and thrown from bus windows, summed up by Dr. Hirsh (John Woodvine) with the classic line “There’s a disturbance in Piccadilly circus..”.

Over the years this has become a cult classic and there’s a tendency to overrate it. It isn’t great, it’s silly. Sometimes the lines are just bad, and the storytelling is disjointed with no real character arcs, while the supporting actors are often stereotypes. Nevertheless, there’s an enduring, kooky charm about the whole thing that Dimension’s planned remake will struggle to live up to. Arguably the best werewolf movie ever made.

All that and a Jenny Agutter shower scene too.

You may not know it yet, but you’re already (we’re pretty sure) familiar with the phenomenon of the ‘one line wonder’. They mostly appear in 80s movies, but occasionally they crop up in other decades. They’re similar to, but entirely separate from, the ‘one liner’ – the throwaway pun often used by action heroes like Arnie or Stallone after they’ve killed a throwaway villain.

The one line wonder is a comment uttered by a character who takes no part in the plot or action of a movie and has no other lines. However, they are usually memorable, funny and brilliantly quotable.

We at Slashing The Seats have come up with (what we think is) a decent list, but we’d like to throw the comments open to anyone who can think of more. We’re pretty sure we’ve missed a load.

Innerspace (1987) – Martin Short is taking a leak while talking to a miniaturised Dennis Quaid, currently floating about inside his body, reassuring him that his small size doesn’t matter. A fellow toilet-user comments: ‘Play with it pal – don’t talk to it‘

Flight of the Navigator (1986) – David temporarily parks up the spaceship at a gas station to make a phone call, leaving the attendant agog. As Dave leaves, the attendant (a great big fat guy – which makes it funnier) tells the equally amazed family: ‘He just said he wanted to phone home’

Bill And Teds’ Excellent Adventure (1989) – Ted asks the lady at the Circle K when the Mongols ruled China. Her reply: ‘I don’t know I just work here’

Bill and Teds’ Bogus Journey (1991) – Jim Martin (of Faith No More) comments on the evil terrorist Chuck De Namolos: ‘What a shithead’
(Ok, he did say ’station’ before, but I think it counts)

When Harry Met Sally (1989) – After Meg Ryan does the infamous orgasm fakery scene, the lady at the diner says: ‘I’ll have what she’s having’

Predator 2 (1990) – After the Predator bursts through an old folks house, Danny Glover says ‘It’s all right, I’m a cop!’. An old lady counters: ‘I don’t think he gives a shit!’

So, STSers – got any decent One Line Wonders?

Get to the comments!

Like a drunken friend asleep on your kitchen floor, The Hangover manages to be both a messy, rude shambles and curiously endearing.

The stag-do-gone-wrong premise isn’t particularly original, but The Hangover works hard within narrow confines, dishing out big laughs thanks to ingenious set pieces and some hilarious verbal sparring throughout. Thanks to roofies being mistaken for E, the stock characters (the wimp, the instigator, the nice guy, the weirdo) have even less of a clue as to what’s going on than the audience, and as they embark on a wild hunt for The Groom (not to mention a missing tooth and the owners of both a baby and a tiger found in their hotel room). Gags come thick and fast.

The pace is furious throughout as stolen police cars, Heather Graham’s hooker-with-a-heart and a pissed off, Phil Collins-obsessed Mike Tyson all get thrown into the mix, almost threatening to sink the movie under the weight of information overload. Fortunately it all works on the ‘Airplane’ principle – if one joke doesn’t work, there’ll be three more along at any moment.

The leads work well together throughout, turning what could be a repeat of the director’s previous, insipid take on ‘School for Scoundrels’ into a loveable ensemble piece, with some brilliant dialogue that works because you genuinely like the guys. Stand out for me was the line “do you know where the best little wedding chapel is?” – “sure, it’s on the corner of Fuck Off and Get A Map”

In short, a quick-witted scramble down a well-trodden comedy path. The chemistry and verbosity manages to turn what could’ve been a shallow and misogynistic tale into a big summer hit, combining gross-out, bromantic and detective story into one sharp story.

The Unborn arrives still-born, confused, overwhelmed by its influences and riddled with incidental music that seems designed to inflict the viewer with its own brand of barbarous audio-vandalism.

Classic horror, this is not.

We’re plunged headlong into an ill-conceived dream sequence in which Odette Yusman finds herself jogging along an autumnal scene, only to be stopped in her tracks by a spooky child with bright blue eyes. The spooky child turns into a dog wearing a mask. The dog runs off and our heroine idiotically follows its path into a plot haunted by endless, unrelated and supposed scares that are less likely to make you touch cloth than a quarter-bag of imodium.

They don’t let up on the sub-Exorcist set-pieces and the choreographed shocks become so familar you can set your watch by them. One minute it’s insects climbing out of lavatories, the next the small boy is thrusting his hand into a stomach, then the dog reappears with its head on upside down (disproving Shaun of the Dead’s theorem that ‘dogs can’t look up). We get contorted old men, back-snaps and a bemused looking Idris Elba, fresh out of another career wrong-turn in Rocknrolla and, what’s more, we get Gary Oldman’s first memorable screen appearance in ages – and it’s memorable for all the wrong reasons.

In his role as an American rabbi he not only looks completely out of place, he appears to spend the rest of the movie trying to find the right place, before failing and giving up.

Things come to a head at the exorcism he was dead against, but then decided to perform after a rush of blood to the head. This final set piece is overblown, underwritten and mercifully brief – its happy brevity only soiled by the insipid promise of a sequel.

And what, exactly, have we done to deserve that?

Firstly, a confession. When I was a bogey-encrusted, bad-breathed 10 year old boy, I was obsessed with The Punisher. Blissfully unaware that there were far cooler superheros for a youngster to be fascinated by, I had my bedroom wall painted black, with a lovingly rendered white skull emblazoned over the top. I had my school lunch box similarly repainted. Where once there was a spot colour, as-purchased and off-the-shelf Mask Crusaders logo, there was soon a Punisher emblem perfected in Dulux paint once I’d had my way.

Looking over my primary school exercise books, every other story I wrote for creative writing was about The Punisher. By far my proudest possessions were a few shoeboxes stacked with dog-eared and knackered copies of the British editions. The fact that I later used these old comics to hide copies of Mayfair and Whitehouse don’t change one iota the fact that, for an important period of my childhood, I bloody loved the Punisher.

I am no longer 10 years old and am now wise enough not to be disappointed by the news of another attempt to bring Frank Castle’s raging alter ego to the screen. It couldn’t be any worse than the Dolph Lundgren disaster, after all, let alone the more recent one with John Travolta. I was enthusiastic to see what they’d done with a character who, along with quite a few other comic book heros, will never, ever suit Hollywood – being just too amoral (or morally simplistic), way too violent and far, far too cold-blooded to suit the big screen.

A quick catch up might be necessary if, quite reasonably, the idea of a man in a black spandex suit with loads of massive guns never interested you and The Punisher passed you by. Frank Castle served in Vietnam, raised a family and then saw that family die at the hands of the Mafia during a botched execution. Thus, The Punisher was born, swearing to avenge the death of his wife and child by murdering every single gang member he encounters using a variety of automatic and non-automatic weapons.

Firstly, this new outing probably warrants its 18 certificate. Endless scenes of violence include a pensioner’s blown-apart cranium, a man losing his face in a bottle-crusher and a kidney being bitten out of an obese man’s ribcage. We’re witness to a the full range of GBH indecency to the point where faces being split open with gunfire become a bore. It’s so relentless it becomes, aptly, a fading cartoon.

Aside from the violence, the only thing of note (aside from, for once, a half-decent portrayal of the big man himself) is the presence of The Wire’s Dominic West – or McNulty to his friends in Baltimore. Here he plays Jigsaw – a gang leader with a reconstituted face. How West made the transition from a carefully nuanced police drama about gang-bangers to a to completely ludicrous version of the same is something only he could know.

Punisher: War Zone’s main problem is that the audience it best suits won’t be able to get in to see it. Any kid can get his hand on all the two dimensional gunfire gut-puncture imagery he fancies, but that 18 certificate means the only people like to see this are either hardcore comic book fans who weren’t disappointed by the first two efforts, a handful of children donning false moustaches or, more shamefully, nostalgia-seeking, thirty-something adults who should know better.