The Cars That Ate Paris

How many Paris are there in the world?Thanks to the movie,we know that there's Paris,Texas and Paris,Australia.Ah and there's also Paris

,France for those who care.

Weir is full of savoir faire when it comes to create an atmosphere:"picnic at hanging rock" "Mosquito coast" the highly superior " fearless" would exist even if there was no plot at all.but plots they all have and first-class at that.

"The cars" begins quite well and the first half is a little treat:this town ,where everybody tries to help you ,this bunch of weirdos ,everything is much fun to watch.Their idee fixe to help the unfortunate hero is not unlike the neighbor's behavior in "Rosemary's baby" .The "test" is sheer shrink paraphernalia spoof and it superbly works.Even the past and the guilty feeling which come back to haunt poor Waldo verge on parody.

But the movie loses steam halfway through:it features scenes à la Leone (complete with morriconesque music)which come at the most awkward moment and destroy the inimitable atmosphere that Weir had built.

Despite these reservations,Weir's fans could do worse than watching this little film .Other good lines when the lad explains to moron Waldo: "well,this is the waiting room and these are people waiting!"

A camp horror classic and Weir's feature debut. It's smart, gross, cheeky, macabre and just great.

Don't watch it if you think low budget is the same as being 'amateurish' because it's not. And if you're not used to Australian English, well, try not to panic. Doesn't matter if you don't get every word - just go with it!

This is the kind of film you don't see much any more, perhaps a product of its era. They weren't thinking much about marketing or target demographics - these filmmakers were just having a lot of fun, experimenting and coming up with something unique. Genre crossing, challenging and freaky, it also taps into some big themes about Australian identity and paranoia.

Peter Weir must have been an angry young man as his first film makes fun of every level of society. The corrupt, bumptious, mayor of the two-bit New South Wales town is the obvious fall guy, but no single character escapes Weir's wrath. You might expect the wild, local youths with their vitality to provide the film's conscience, but they are ultimately portrayed as dumb, reactionary yokels whose demise is mocked. Tellingly the film's key line, 'I can drive', is used to belittle the death of the gang member we get to know best. However, Weir goes too far by mocking the audience. Our hero is a pathetic emotional wreck who barely speaks, while many scenes are dragged out with ponderous monologues and plodding development, as if Weir is saying 'you've consumed this sort of rubbish before, now I am going to serve it up to you in a dark satire. Can you tell the difference?'. The Cars That Ate Paris is best watched with the fast forward in your hand, but do not skip the brilliant finale in which the sordid little town gets its just desserts.

The residents of a small outback town cause car crashes on it's country, hilly roads and strip all valuable parts from the vehicles to make new cars. When Arthur Waldo survives a crash that kills his brother he stays in town as he is too scared to drive. He begins to notice strange things happening around the town, with the doctor and the mayor drawing suspicion.

This is a "cult" movie. When someone tells you something is a cult movie it usually means one of two things: 1- it's a small, indie movie that people have come to discover and it's has grown gradually in success such as Reservoir Dogs (that outgrew it's cult status). Or 2- it's a movie of any size that the vast majority of people hate and a small group of fans adore. Unfortunately this is the latter. Some people will sing this things praises till the end of time but I'm afraid I don't get it. The plot seems to be going somewhere - you start off knowing very little about who's involved in the crashes and why they do it etc, along the way we get clues about experiments on humans and outsiders who live like Mad Max style scavengers, but it leaves us with no answers. The relationship between the mayor and Arthur is strange and isn't followed and I still don't see why the crashes were staged - other than to let some of the residents build a scrap yard.

The performances are sufficiently creepy to help build an air of expectation. Terry Camilleri is epically good and the wishy-washy Arthur. However they are all betrayed by a story that has nowhere to build to and nothing to say. The director also builds the tension well but with nowhere to go what could he do, it's good he's had much better material since.

Overall the film was a severe disappointment - and I wasn't expecting much from it! It's full of promise but the story dies three-quarters of the way in. The spiky beetle is very menacing and looks great but it's not enough to build a film around one cool image. OK - but don't expect any answers.

One hour into this movie and I wasn't exactly sure what kind of movie it was trying to "be". It starts off as a smalltown horror mystery of sorts but Peter Weir saddles it with so much absurdist black comedy the mystery all but evaporates and we're looking at something that is more weird/awkward than mysterious/surreal, more slow-ponderous than slow-absorbing, large parts of it reminiscent of Aki Kaurismaki and his static shots, cynical humor, deadpan delivery, and smalltown squalor. By the end of it however, the movie seems to emerge as some sort of societal parable, an allegory to the repression of a close-knit society that values appearances and tradition more than anything else and which must bury secrets in its own backyard to do so, but there's so much distraction and incoherence the point is never made with any clarity or force.

At one point the score turns Morricone circa Once Upon a Time in the West and we get a showdown in the street and young men dressed with cowboy hats. We get Carmageddon-style cars circling the statue of a cannon like Comanches painted for war. We get the vague promise of a subplot about car crash survivors turned vegetables who are kept in the hospital of the small town and who later turn up in a ball masque dressed in hoods and carton boxes (a nod to Shock Corridor?), but it never goes anywhere. Peter Weir went on to make such remarkable films as Picnic at Hanging Rock and The Last Wave, and while this never reaches the hypnotic levels of those films, it's intriguing in its own quirky awkward way. It's like a movie struggling with itself, a cult classic trying to break free from the confines of a forgettable eccentricity.