carmelolia

There is something so classy and elegant about Sidney Lumet's 'Murder on the Orient Express'. From the moment Albert Finney's Poirot steps into frame, immaculately groomed, faintly ridiculous, and utterly commanding, the film announces itself as a piece of entertainment that respects both its source material and its audience.

The great pleasure of this version lies not merely in the mechanics of the mystery, but in how patiently it is allowed to unfold. Lumet resists any urge to modernise or sensationalise, preferring to emphasize the atmosphere instead. The snowbound train becomes a floating pressure cooker: enclosed and increasingly tense. I find Finney's portrayal of Poirot to be a fascinating balancing act. He is theatrical without tipping into parody, humorous without undermining his authority. The accent, the posture, the fastidiousness, Finney grounds Poirot with intelligence and emotional curiosity.

The supporting cast is full of legends, the crème de la crème of stars at the time with Sean Connery, Vanessa Redgrave, Lauren Bacall, John Gielgud, Ingrid Bergman, who won an Oscar for best Supporting Actress for this film, each delivering precisely calibrated performances. No one overplays; no one mugs for the camera. Even minor characters feel textured and purposeful. What truly elevates the film, especially for first-time viewers, however, is its moral complexity. The solution is famous now, but encountering it fresh (like myself) is quietly devastating. Rather than treating the reveal as a clever trick, Lumet allows its emotional weight to land fully. Poirot's final decision feels earned, troubling, and deeply human.

Later adaptations may offer glossier visuals or louder drama, but they rarely match the 1974 film's elegance, restraint, and trust in storytelling. This is a mystery that understands suspense comes not from speed, but from stillness; not from shock, but from reflection. This film is a classic for a reason, and a reminder that sometimes the most luxurious journey is simply letting a great story take its time.

Unfairly overshadowed by 'Star Wars' (1977) upon its release, William Friedkin's 'Sorcerer' is a bruising, existential thriller that treats suspense not as entertainment, but as punishment. It is cinema that sweats, grinds, and dares the audience to endure alongside its characters. It is also one of my favourite films of all time, without any doubt.

Loosely adapted from Georges Arnaud's novel 'The Wages of Fear' (1950), 'Sorcerer' begins with four grim prologues across the globe, each introducing men running from their pasts. Friedkin famously shot these segments almost without exposition, trusting the viewer to piece together motivations through behaviour rather than dialogue, a risky choice that pays off by grounding the film in fatalism from the outset.

The story is about the transportation of unstable nitroglycerin through treacherous jungle terrain, and it is among the most nerve-shredding sequences ever committed to film. It reminds me of 'Speed' (1994), as the protagonists of that story also have to drive in a certain manner to avoid being blown away. Friedkin insisted on practical effects, real vehicles, and punishing locations, including the construction of an actual rope bridge over a river that was swollen by real storms. The result is tension so palpable it feels dangerous to watch, particularly during the legendary bridge-crossing scene.

Roy Scheider delivers one of his finest performances, in my opinion, stripped of heroism and reduced to stubborn endurance. The fact that he was not even nominated for an Oscar is crazy. In this film, Friedkin offers no sentimentality, no noble cause, and no easy release. Even the title, a piece of trivia often overlooked, refers not to magic but to the name painted on the trucks. It is a cruel irony, given how little control these men truly possess.

'Sorcerer' is harsh, relentless, and deeply pessimistic, and that is precisely why it endures and why I adore it so much. In an era celebrated for cinematic freedom, few films pushed that freedom to such unforgiving extremes. Today, 'Sorcerer' stands not as a cult curiosity, but as a towering achievement in pure, elemental filmmaking.

John Boorman's 'Deliverance' remains one of the most unsettling American thrillers ever made because it strips away the illusion that civilisation is a permanent shield. What begins as a seemingly wholesome adventure with four middle-class friends embarking on a canoeing trip before a river is dammed slowly mutates into a harrowing confrontation with nature, masculinity, and moral compromise.

I find that the brilliance of 'Deliverance' lies in how patiently it earns its terror. The early stretches of this film are deceptively serene and contain the promise of escape from suburban routine. Yet Boorman constantly hints that this tranquillity is fragile. The wilderness is not romanticised here; it is indifferent, vast, and capable of swallowing human confidence whole. When violence erupts, it does so abruptly, shattering any sense of safety in a way that feels brutally true to life.

The infamous assault scene is undeniably horrifying (I remember I could not believe what I was watching the first time), but Boorman's restraint is crucial. It is an approach that makes the moment more disturbing, not less, and firmly grounds the film in psychological trauma. This trauma reverberates through the remainder of the story, shaping every decision the characters make. All the actors deliver performances that feel raw and increasingly fractured as the ordeal escalates. Near the ending, the film becomes less about survival skills and more about who these men really are when stripped of social structures and moral certainty.

Perhaps 'Deliverance''s most enduring strength is its refusal to offer clear answers. The ending is steeped in moral ambiguity, leaving the audience to wrestle with the same questions as its characters: were their actions justified, or merely expedient? Does survival excuse everything? Some experiences leave scars that no return to "normal life" can fully erase. Over fifty years on, 'Deliverance' still feels uncomfortably relevant. It is a thriller, certainly, but also a sobering meditation on vulnerability, violence, and the thin veneer of control we like to believe we possess. Very few films capture the idea that, in a single moment, everything can be taken from you with such chilling conviction.