Jaws (1975)

The Secret of the Blockbuster

In essence, it seems to be the pursuit of the seemingly insurmountable, the Big Obstacle. In Star Wars it was the Death Star; Jurassic Park resurrected the dinosaurs; Harry Potter had to overcome Valdemort and The Lord of the Rings had to reach the mountains of Mordor; E.T. had to find his way back to another planet; Titanic had its iceberg. And Jaws had its killer shark.

"You're gonna need a bigger boat."

Back at school in the 1970's stretching through into the early 80's, the big dare amongst boastful schoolboys was "who's scared of Jaws?" Well I jolly well was, prior to first viewing, discreetly hiding at the back of the bedroom in front of a small black-and-white TV set, to minimise the shocks when they came. I well remember Robert Shaw's grisly demise, and it still puzzles me today how the film got by with a PG certificate.

The anticipation of the shark was scary, but on second or third viewing the fun of the shock was much more enjoyable. This was where the film became such a box office bonanza; audiences came back for more, and recommended those who hadn't already. Who was scared enough not to see it?

The promising newcomer Steven Spielberg was a tender 28 when he took on Peter Benchley's bestseller, and it's the film from which his subsequent lucrative career has blossomed. But as well as being the making of him, it was very nearly the end of him too (as indeed, Star Wars was nearly the end of George Lucas.) Like many filmmakers he and the producers suffered the trials on filming on water, with a specially constructed mechanical shark that soon failed to function as soon as the elaborate circuits were ruined by the effect of seawater.

What Spielberg lacked in on-screen hardware, he more than made up for with suspense, allied with an iconic score by John Williams. The famous two-note motif, much imitated, was the epitome of the film but many other lyrical elements of the score underline the atmosphere and the beauty of the setting (filmed in and around Martha's Vineyard.)

In many ways it's Spielberg's best film because the concealment of the monster's actions (as Hitchcock well knew) makes the horror seem all the greater in the audience's imagination. He also garnered helpful performances out of his three leading actors; at first glance all they had to do was react to the deadly fish swimming around them, but Robert Shaw was never the sort of actor who came second to anything, least of all a shark, and the atmosphere improves immeasurably as soon as he looms onto the screen as the Ahab-like Quint. Richard Dreyfuss also provides a good deal of cherubic postgraduate contrast as younger shark fanatic Hooper, and either side of these two the film is anchored unobtrusively by Roy Scheider as Chief Brody, who holds it all together.

Their interaction is especially effective in the chatty but memorable after-dinner scene on board the "Orca", where the shark veterans brag over each other's experiences, brought to a head by Quint's chilling true story (guest written by John Milius) about the sinking of the USS Minneapolis, and how the sharks ate most of the remaining survivors for lunch.

Other watchable supporting players such as Lorraine Gary as Mrs Brody (who flirts mildly with Hooper at the dinner table), the redoubtable Murray Hamilton as the shifty but well-meaning Mayor of Amity Island, and even Peter Benchley himself as a TV news reporter, all have their moments (and most moving of all is Lee Fierro as a grieving parent), but once things leave dry land it's essentially about these three shark hunters and the thrill and terror of the hunt between Man and beast.

The biggest genius of marketing was the poster

Like generations of cinemagoers avoided showers after the terror of Psycho in 1960, so audiences of the 1970's thought twice before swimming in the sea after Jaws. Many blockbusters have been made, before and since, and relied heavily on packaging as much as the film itself, but Spielberg's monsterpiece is a class apart because it is so well made, as the inferior sequels testify.

Last Action Hero (1993)

There are two moments in Last Action Hero that rather endear me towards it. The first is where Jack Slater (Arnold Schwarzenegger - as if you didn't know), who has stepped out of the fictional world into the real one, plays Chicken with his adversary's stolen taxi. Unlike in the movies, the two vehicles collide head-on and are left in the street like wrecks. "Damn it, that hurt!", bemoans Slater as he steps away from the bust vehicle.

It's a brave moment in an action blockbuster, a fragment of truth in a genre that thrives on superficial action fantasy. It's also the sort of movie that's in most people's heads every time they leave the cinema wondering how certain scenes - particularly in the action genre - would stretch credibility in real life.

Similarly, every film fan wonders how their hero would cope in the real world, and that's exactly what happens to precocious but plucky little Danny Madigan (Austin O'Brien), who's seen a few too many Jack Slater movies but nonetheless jumps at the chance to see the latest fourth instalment, a sort of semi-fantasy cop movie blend of Lethal Weapon and Death Wish, at the delightfully nostalgic run-down Pandora cinema in New York (actually the Orpheum Theatre in downtown LA) where seedy but lovable old projectionist Nick (Robert Prosky) has a "magic ticket" (given to him in that very theatre by Harry Houdini!), a ticket "that does what it wants to".
Nick has never used the ticket himself (although he yearned to once - Garbo and Jean Harlow were his idols in those days), but Danny, like his action heroes, is much more reckless. As he sits down to watch the test run of Jack Slater IV, the ticket starts to come alive, as a stick of dynamite flies out of the screen onto the aisle of the theatre, and the terrified Danny runs away towards the screen - and into the film.

Thereafter the boundaries of Last Action Hero (as well as Jack Slater IV) are shifted, to good or bad effect, depending I suspect, on your appreciation of the action genre. Soon Danny is lucky enough to be riding in the back of Jack Slater's car in the middle of a car chase, and is therefore perfectly able to interact with the action, and to impart his own expertly garnered film knowledge ("the bad guys are in there"). But then nasty English hitman Benedict (a splendidly obnoxious Charles Dance) briefly abducts Danny and Slater's daughter (the strident Bridgette Wilson - now Bridgette Wilson-Sampras), and more ominously gets his hands on the mysterious magic ticket, from which he is transported back from the film into the real world. Slater and Danny follow, and suddenly the goalposts are changed again, as Jack realises not only that things are a little tougher in real life, but the villains are out to kill someone called Arnold Schwarzenegger. I enjoy this diversion into reality, but for many audiences it was a turn-off.

The other endearing (and prophetic) moment foe me in LAH is when Slater lands in an adventure park lake (full of tar for whatever reason), and a static dinosaur watches over. Maybe it was an intended dig at the makers of Jurassic Park - but the T-Rex had the last word; the advent of CGI revolutionised cinema in Steven Spielberg's film that same summer, and consigned LAH to a very distant second place at the box office that summer. It's also a pivotal moment in cinema history, when live action gradually gave way to computer effects, so in a sense, it was the Last Action Hero film.

Such a fall from grace seemed most improbable to Arnie and his legion of fans. Here for good measure was not only a staple actioner but also a family-oriented film with an all-star supporting cast, including the likes of veterans Anthony Quinn, Art Carney and F. Murray Abraham ("he killed Mozart!"), and loads of guest appearances (including Sharon Stone and Robert Patrick reprising their most famous screen roles.) I hadn't seen many Schwarzenegger films up to that point (the only one I could remember seeing at the cinema was the comedy Twins), but he has undeniable screen presence, from the first bravura moment when he bestrides the roofs of several police cars - you very much get a sense of "The Man".

Of all the three main action stars of that period (along with Sylvester Stallone and Bruce Willis), Arnold to me has always been the one most self-deprecating, which made him the ideal choice to play the Last Action Hero. Indeed, the role was written ostensibly with him in mind; he knows he isn't the world's answer to acting, and his nickname of the "Austrian Oak" is well chosen for his square-jawed physicality and thick European accent which suited him so well as the monosyllabic Terminator.

His ally in this case was his previous Predator compatriot Jon McTiernan, also a veteran of the action genre, who has always tried to break beyond the boundaries of just basic wall-to-wall action (from which he made his name), with variable results, such as The Hunt for Red October, Medicine Man, and Last Action Hero.

That it failed so much is not just because of Jurassic Park, but also Columbia's overconfidence riding on the coat-tails of Schwarzenegger, as well as I think, a certain lack of control in the balance between fantasy and reality - a little too fantastic for its own good in Jack Slater IV, and a little uncertain about itself in the real world.

In spite of its cleverness and self-mocking, the story never loses sight of the fact that this is Jack Slater's struggle for survival, including his own identity. When he is involved with a shoot-out with The Ripper (Tom Noonan) at the New York Premiere of Jack Slater IV, his mind flashes back briefly to the previous shoot-out when his son was also killed.

The nightmare of the rooftop confrontation of Jack Slater III is reprised, only this time Danny is the hostage. The manner in which he dispatches the Ripper is still a little improbable for the "real" world - but worse is to come for Slater when Benedict re-emerges, having realised that bad guys can (and often do) win, and shoots Slater in the chest.

A curious observer observes the ambulance skidding by along the New York streets - for the magic ticket has acquired another cinematic icon - Death from The Seventh Seal, played not by Bengt Ekerot, but by Sir Ian McKellen (villains with vicious knives seem to be a pre-occupation in this film, first The Ripper, and now Death itself with his scythe.) But He's only come along to watch this particular casualty out of curiosity - Slater's not scheduled to die, because he's a fictional character, and will only disappear from existence when the grosses go down. It's another curiosity in a curious action film - that has no particular big finish, other than to return its man of the movies into the fictional world where he belongs.
Of course, it tried to have its cake and eat it - as Hollywood always does - by trying to sentimentalise whilst at the same time satisfying the genre's lust for action and macho one-liners. This was possibly the other reason for its critical and commercial failure, for trying to be too clever.

Two Schwarzeneggers for the price of one: the "real" one's on the right.

Arnold himself was the most philosophical (and secretly the most wounded) by the film's failure. As he himself said, "the bigger they are, the harder they fall." I still think it's an enjoyable film, that suffered a rough ride from critics and audiences who were expecting something a little less existential than what they got. I particularly like its enthusiasm for Big Screen Cinema, and how the scenario throws up so teasingly the possibilities of bringing so many movie characters into the real world: imagine Darth Vader escaping from his cinematic intergalactic confines to strike back for the Empire in this galaxy as well as his own; or Hannibal Lector having even more fun in the real world than he ever had in his own lurid movies.

Who knows, had Last Action Hero it been the success he was hoping, Mr. Schwarzenegger would still be a full-time movie star now and not the Governor of California.

A Night to Remember (1958)

98 years ago today, the illustrious RMS Titanic, on her maiden voyage, sailed dangerously through heavy ice in the North Atlantic on her way to New york. Such was the ship's titanic size (to use the pun), the amount of water that it took for the "unsinkable" ship to overspill beyond its water-tight compartments (that were only as high as the first 5 decks) meant that it was a whole hour and a half - until approximately 1am on April 15th - before the ship sank.

I mention these relatively obvious details that history has made them because the story of the Titanic has long since become folklore. Of the many melodramatic film versions that have been made of this famous tragedy, only A Night to Remember has been specifically concerned with covering the reported facts of the disaster in documentary-like fashion, making it still the best and most authentic Titanic film ever made.

Author Walter Lord garnered together all the known or most commonly recorded memories by witnesses (such as the notion that musicians were still playing when the ship was sinking), for his informative and compelling factual novel. In its unpretentious and unmelodramatic way (as well as the audacity not to require the name Titanic in the title), the company which was the first to option the film rights was therefore the relatively humble British Rank studio, but with the sort of facilities at Pinewood to be able to pull off a decent film adaptation of the tragedy.

The Titanic musicians' memorial at Southampton.

Producer William MacQuitty had an emotional attachment to the ship himself having seen the Titanic launched from Belfast docks, and was therefore able to convince John Davis, the head of Rank (then largely noted for Doctor comedies and other lightweight fare) to undergo the challenge of staging the sinking with a combination of the Pinewood tank, the Ruislip Lido, and the interiors for the well designed sets (by Alex Vetchinsky).


For such an ambitious but relatively restrained production, good reliable character actors were called upon rather than stars - with the exception of Kenneth More, then Rank's leading contract player, who receives top billing as Lieutenant Lightoller. Other familiar faces of the years to come are to be seen such as a young David McCallum (as one of the two valiant wireless operators), and future Bond/Avengers girl Honor Blackman, and even Bond himself, Sean Connery, is apparently among the many extras assembled on the boat decks. The real star of the show however is the ship.

In the days before the all-star disaster movie, many of these actors played their small but telling little cameo parts - like all good British character actors do - staying in spirit to the style of Walter Lord's book in brilliantly accessible fashion by screenwriter Eric Ambler, and directed with an excellent eye for the escalating tension by Roy (Ward) Baker. Also covered in subtle fashion was the endemic class distinction that led to most of the First Class passengers being rescued, whereas 1,500 of the Second Class and steerage (Third) class and crew perished - plus those few who chose the dignity of death before dishonour for the sake of their wives and children.

In any Titanic story, the most moving scenes are those of the loved ones unwilling to part from each other: most well known is the case of Mr. and Mrs. Isidor Straus, who had lived together for over 40 years, and therefore Mrs Straus was adamant that wherever her husband would go, she would go too.

It's worth pointing out that in terms of attitudes the world was a very different place in 1912. The First World War was two years later, where such notions of chivalry and the dignity of an entire generation were destroyed on the battlefield (and memorials were listed alphabetically instead of the Titanic memorials' order of officers and First Class passengers first), so it seems a little improbable nowadays to think of people gladly forsaking their lives for others in such a way that those on board the great liner did.

In its way, just as the September 11th terrorist attacks changed the way we view the world, so too did the Titanic disaster, before the rest of the 20th century unleashed its devastation on the planet.

The story of the Titanic has created many myths and retellings (especially James Cameron's 1996 blockbuster), but for the original story, or the best that can be approached to it, watch A Night to Remember.

Titanic memorial plaque at Southampton dock

The Red Balloon (1955), plus other shorts

This is a gem of a film, only three reels (30 minutes) long, but too brilliant to deny being included on this 100 list.

I'll admit it, I often cry when I watch movies: often it's not too difficult if the film is doing its job, and the intensity of feeling and focus on the emotions in the cinema is so much more suited than anywhere else.

A small boy (the director's 12-year old son) is given a red balloon for a companion, and it soon becomes a character in its own right, every bit as young, cheeky and innocent as the boy himself. He takes it around with him whenever he can, on the grimy atmospheric streets of Paris, to his delight but to the annoyance of his parents and crusty schoolteacher, and the vengeful jealousy of other boys (the scene where the balloon is punctured and gradually deflates, is unbearably sad.)

But then there is the finale that always has me tearful, where all the other balloons in Paris - of whatever colour - fly up into the sky and descend on the little boy and carry him heavenwards, accompanied by a sentimental but memorable score by Maurice le Roux. Technically this is quite an accomplishment, although you can probably see the wires dangling above the balloons from time to time, not that this really matters. It's not too difficult to see where Spielberg got some of his artistic inspiration for films such as E.T. and Schindler's List (the little girl in red) from.

The Red Balloon (or Le Balon Rouge if you want to be French) is, to put it simply, a masterpiece - and I use that term very rarely.

Other Shorts

While we're covering the subject of classic short films, I'll take the opportunity to shoehorn one or two more favourites into this blog. (In the case of Laurel & Hardy, see Way Out West.) I have to mention what is for me The Red Balloon's partner piece, THE SNOWMAN (1982), also a film about childhood innocence with a heartbreaking ending. It's hard to look at the film objectively nowadays as it's become such a cultural phenomenon since then, and strictly speaking it was made for television (a regular on Channel 4 every Christmas), but Diane Jackson's animation of Raymond Brigg's illustrated children's book does have a special cinematic magic about it.

I remembered seeing a film on television decades ago,
and later discovered it was called COSMIC ZOOM (1968), about a boy and a dog in a boat (again, the simplicity of childhood theme) at which point the camera zooms out - out of the lake in Montreal where the boat is travelling, out to the edge of the Earth, then beyond the Sun, to the outer reaches of the galaxy, to the furthest known point in outer space - and then it zooms in - back to the Earth, to the lake, the boy, and then further in towards the blood cells of a small mosquito bite on his arm, to its infinite micro organisms (DNA was not developed back in 1968) right down to the atom.

Probably the most startling and avant garde of all short films ever made is UN CHIEN ANDALOU (1938), conceived by Luis Bunuel and Salvador Dali as a deliberately abstract piece of work which is nonetheless nightmarishly bizarre in its concept and execution, and most of all, the images are striking. Any cinematic history lesson would be incomplete without a viewing of it.

Nor indeed, is the first ever cinema film ever made, known under no particular title other than LEAVING THE LUMIERE FACTORY (1895) (La Sortie des Usines Lumiere), a simple but historical piece of film where the employees at the factory run by the Lumiere brothers (who considered moving pictures just a novelty) stand outside the factory door at closing time. It was the first of a programme of 1-minute unedited moving picture sensations at the Grand Cafe of the Boulevard des Capucines in Paris, in December 1895 - the birth of cinema.

If you notice a French theme running through most of these short films, well, they were practically the inventors of cinema after all (Edison and a few others notwithstanding), and I'll claim a little birthday connection with cinema history here: it was on 19th March 1895, that those employees were filmed leaving the Paris factory.

Taxi Driver (1976)

Of all the brilliant films made by Martin Scorsese, this one to me is his most potent and haunting in its effect. The setting is 1970's New York, but in truth it could be anywhere, as it really concerns one man's isolation into his own personal hell, created (in part) by the society around him.

At its centre is a definitively intense performance by Robert De Niro as Travis Bickle; in essence an ordinary man (as the poster suggests) but with that explosive element hidden underneath - even in his gentle moments you sense an uneasiness. The idea for the film was borne out of the mind - one might say the soul - of writer Paul Schrader, after a particularly desolate spell of isolation, out of which came this searing screenplay with an uncomfortably real feel to it.

Scorsese's terrifying moodpiece is made that way by colourfully seedy photography by Michael Chapman and a brooding, menacing and typically eccentric score by the late Bernard Herrmann, whose last great contribution to cinema this was (passing away in 1975 before the film's release.) His score conveys not only the menace of the city streets, but also a nostalgia for that transitional era of 1960s/70s New York, with a lovely lingering jazz nighttime theme, ostensibly for the character of Betsy (as played by Cybill Shepherd), whom Travis adores from afar.

Like most elements of the city however, Bickle is set apart from her, as detached from the city and yet as much a part of it in the taxi he drives every night, with the various ill-assorted customers who sit in his back seat - including an aspiring politician (Leonard Harris), a homosexual pimp (a creepily hip performance by Harvey Keitel) and his 12-year old child prostitute Iris (the excellent Jodie Foster), whom Bickle takes on as a personal crusade as his state of mind becomes ever more intense and troubled. This provocative sub-plot hit a chord sufficiently for one young man, John Hinckley, to unsuccessfully assassinate President Ronald Reagan, out of his devotion to Jodie Foster in 1981.

Why Hinckley did this, or what motivates Bickle to want to kill his hero Charles Palantine never seems clear (there are also certain parallels with Bobby Kennedy's assassin); maybe it is just a general reflection of both men's frustrated desire to do something to change society.

Certainly Bickle's motives are more clearly felt when he unleashes his arsenal on the pimp's apartment where Iris is detained. Appropriately, it is Martin Scorsese himself who gives Travis the idea of using guns to solve his problems, in a scene-stealing cameo that's much more than just a Hitchcock-style director's appearance. That, and a later incident in a store where Travis just happens to be wandering in and shoots a burglar, and though he is shooed out of the shop before the police arrive, in his eyes the deed is a gesture of vigilante heroism to help clear up the streets.

The resulting bloodbath that comes at the film's climax, I remember well when I saw it in the autumn of 1989 at the sadly missed Ipswich Film Theatre; Scorsese had become a speciality there, ever since its gala opening with Alice Doesn't Live Here Any More in 1973. The film studies lecturer who introduced the film warned audiences how its violent conclusion might have a disturbing effect, and how it haunted me for some hours afterwards. Even by today's standards, when we are relatively attuned to violent images, this finale still packs a punch.

Bizarrely however, the story takes an unexpected turn when Bickle is cherished as a folk hero after his bloody rampage - with the unseen voice of Iris's father thanking Bickle for his actions. Continuity lets down the side a little here, as Bickle is seen back with the same long haircut he had from earlier in the film, and still doing his taxi round - almost as though nothing had happened. One of his passengers is Betsy, who has similarly warmed to him like the rest of the community, but Travis is wise to her aloofness now - or maybe just too far gone himself to engage in any normal relationship. The ending is unusually mellow for such a horrific climax preceding it, although it does offer a brief hint of the simmering violence underneath, as Travis adjusts his rear view mirror and a Walter Murch "backwards" sound effect conveys the state of the taxi driver's mind as he continues on his way.

A brilliant film, but one to be watched in the right frame of mind, for it preys upon loneliness and isolation and how they can bring one to the brink of despair, or in this case, violence.

Postcards from the Edge (1990)

Carrie Fisher has always entertained me, right from the time when I first saw her in Star Wars as the feisty Princess Leia to her occasional welcome appearances on TV chat shows or cameo roles in other films.

Since those halcyon days of the 1970s, I have often followed the fortunes of the three principal heroes of Star wars: Harrison Ford became the star he is today thanks to Han Solo and Indiana Jones, Mark Hamill's film career lived and died ultimately with the name of Luke Skywalker, and whilst Carrie Fisher similarly remains Princess Leia to most people, her alternative career path is perhaps the most interesting of the three.

Her talents as an acerbic wit only really came to the fore, ironically, when she nearly put an end to her life after an overdose of drugs (the cause was later diagnosed as manic depression.) The resulting rehabilitation process formed the basis of the novel Postcards from the Edge, telling the story (through multiple narratives) of Suzanne Vale, a thinly veiled reworking of Carrie Fisher: a semi-successful but hardly self-fulfilled star actress, who sought to solve life's missing pieces by taking drugs.

The book's anecdotal and only partially conventional structure was too abstract for Carrie to adapt into a film, and so her screenplay of the novel concentrates instead on one incidental part of the story, namely the relationship between Suzanne Vale and her mother - an equally veiled version of Debbie Reynolds, played with perfect aplomb and sympathy by Shirley MacLaine, who gently steals the show from her on-screen daughter Meryl Streep - among many others in an impressive cast gathered together by Mike Nichols, including Gene Hackman, Dennis Quaid, Richard Dreyfuss (himself a fellow manic depressive), and others.

Streep is the consummate actress, whether playing big roles or small, and her recent enduring success thanks to the likes of Mama Mia and Julie and Julia just shows how well her talent (and self-determination) has lasted her out. If I have only one qualm with this particular film, it is that I find it hard to imagine Meryl Streep as a semi-successful actress with identity crises. That role is, to most intents and purposes, Carrie Fisher. And maybe, if drugs, celebrity fame and manic depression hadn't got in the way, then maybe Carrie Fisher would have been as distinguished as Meryl Streep.

As it is, I'm quite happy with both of them. And the film.

Postcards from the Edge premieres in the UK at Odeon Leicester Square (right), January 1991.

Who Framed Roger Rabbit (1988)

Cinema thrives on innovation: right from when audiences ducked in horror at the sight of the Lumiere brothers' steam train coming towards them; The Jazz Singer was as much about the introduction of sound as about the story of a Rabbi's son's rise to redemption; in 1952 audiences gazed in wonder when This is Cinerama introduced the wonders of widescreen cinema; most recently James Cameron's Avatar has showcased the latest in state-of-the-art 3D animation.

Cartoon animation in particular - most especially cartoon characters mixed with live actors - has also been one of cinema's little fascinations: in the 1910's American showman Winsor McCay animated himself into the adventures of Gertie the Dinosaur, and Max Fleischer's Out of the Inkwell cartoons frequently had the main characters dipping their toes into the live action photographic world. There were major feature film examples such as Disney's Three Caballeros, Dangerous When Wet and Anchors Aweigh (the last two featuring Tom & Jerry). Up until 1988 the most notable example of animation mixed with live action was the chalk drawing adventure in Mary Poppins - but all of these were used as novelty interludes, and never dared to make a whole feature film in the process.

Who Framed Roger Rabbit topped all these animation milestones, but was a very enjoyable film too, for all that. Innovation is its keynote, but there's a great deal of charm in the enterprise, right from the moment of its opening "Maroon Cartoon" prologue, a slightly over-imaginative pastiche of Tex Avery and Tom & Jerry, which is suddenly halted by an irate shout of "Cut! Cut!" from an angry director (played by film producer Joel Silver), because one of his cartoon actors (aka. "toons") is not following instructions in the script - he should be concussed with stars in his eyes, not birds! We are then instantly transported into another world, where cartoon characters intermingle in the real world of 1940's Hollywood, with all the town's trappings and dangers.

As a cinematic novelty as well as a rattling good entertainment, a great deal of the credit has to go to three men - or at rough count, four. The fourth in question is someone called Steven Spielberg, who enthused about the project as a semi-tribute to Walt Disney and suggested it to his friend and disciple Robert Zemeckis, after the pair were looking for something to top the highly successful Back to the Future.

That was back in 1985, around which time Britain's top emerging character star was Bob Hoskins - the second key player in the making of Roger Rabbit - who gives an acting masterclass in how to perform alongside special effects. Nowadays it is quite commonplace for actors to work with non-existent characters created by CGI, but few of them can do it so well. Hoskins' acting technique has always been based on simple essentials: for the adventurous challenge of acting in a film with "nothing", he simply studied how his two children would play games at home with imaginary friends. Together with Zemeckis's technical assistance (and the presence of Roger's voice on-set), Hoskins brought his kudos as a tough guy of British cinema (in films such as The Long Good Friday and Mona Lisa), giving the film that extra edge, and to my delight, making what was at the time a rare family-type film for his bullet-headed personality.

Like Bugsy Malone was an affectionate spoof of gangster films using children and ice cream guns, so Roger Rabbit is a nostalgic pastiche of the Philip Marlowe detective thriller with cartoon weasels for goons, and a very oversexed femme fatale in the shape of Mrs Jessica Rabbit ("I'm not bad, I'm just drawn that way"), suitably voiced by a husky Kathleen Turner (and also sung seductively by Spielberg's ex-wife Amy Irving.) Her frankly improbable figure is already well celebrated on the Internet, so there's no need for me to go into any further details, suffice to say she makes Marilyn Monroe's distinctive hour glass figure look positively ample by comparison.

The only slight drawback to Who Framed Roger Rabbit really, is Roger Rabbit himself. Irritatingly voiced by Charles Fleischer, the character is something of an amalgam of styles - from Tex Avery to Looney Tunes - with no substantial identity of his own. It's interesting 20 years later to compare the relation Roger has in the film to Jar-Jar Binks in The Phantom Menace years later, where in both cases a tremendous amount of expertise and special effects were at work, and most of the effort was spent just making the character able to appear on screen - although in Roger's case what's going on around him is much more interesting - and nostalgic.

Roger and Valiant hide in a cinema (showing cartoons of course), filmed at the State cinema, Grays (below)

Detractors of the film have said that the plot is thin; far from it, it's just that the cartoon part is the "showpiece". Indeed, there's a good deal of Chinatown-style complexity to the corporate conspiracy sub-plot (the dismantling of the tramcars to make way for the freeways) that screenwriters Jeffrey Price and Peter Seaman added to Garry K. Wolf's original story ("Who Censored Roger Rabbit"), investing a nice element of whimsy for the bygone era of 1940's California, now long gone: the end of an era for the great detective thriller, but the beginning of the coming of age for cartoons.

Admittedly the intriguing plot settles down in the end to a simple case of Good versus Evil, of which it's pretty clear who the chief antagonist is: Christopher Lloyd was reunited with Robert Zemeckis after playing the likeably bonkers scientist Dr. Emmet Brown in Back to the Future, but his Judge Doom had very little sentiment and a great deal of Darth Vader-like menace about him. Younger audiences be warned: one scene where Doom dispatches a toon shoe using a sinister combination of chemicals - turpentine, acetone & benzine (used to remove paint from celluloid), nicknamed "Dip" - had some little kiddies weeping in their seats when I saw the film in cinemas in 1988.

The monumental technical challenge of filming an entire feature with the animated part still to follow, was akin to "making an Invisible Man movie" for Spielberg and Zemeckis (and Hoskins apparently suffered from hallucinations for weeks after shooting finished), but the 2-year wait while the animators got to work, was well worth it.

Some 700 people - a record number listed on the end credits - pooled together to create this amusing masterpiece of illusion. And not only were the names confined to those off-camera. As a unique coup of cartoon casting, Spielberg brought together the star toons from both the Disney and Warner Brothers studios (together with or two extra guests such as Betty Boop and Droopy). There they all are, littered through the film in guest cameos: Goofy, Dumbo, Pinocchio, Bugs Bunny (how interesting if the film had been about that rabbit instead), Tweetie Bird, Yosemite Sam, Porky Pig, the broomsticks and hippos and ostriches from Fantasia, and of course Mickey Mouse, and my favourite of the bunch, Donald and Daffy Duck playing Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody at The Ink & Paint Club.

All were presided over by the third and by no means last and least hero of Roger Rabbit: the sanguine figure of Richard Williams had been animating countless commercials and short films in Britain as well as imaginative title sequences for the Pink Panther films and The Charge of the Light Brigade among others. With Roger Rabbit, his consistently brilliant animation was deservedly given a wider audience (and also enabled him to pursue his cherished dream of finishing his own epic feature film, The Thief and the Cobbler).

Director Zemeckis, skilfully aided by Dean Cundey who photographed with an eye for the missing pieces (in much the same way as he later did with Jurassic Park), gave Williams the perfect canvas with which to weave his magic. Who Framed Roger Rabbit will be his lasting legacy. Not a bad one to have either.