Mail bombs making a comeback.

Mail bombs are commonplace now; we've had them for decades. Assassinations, we've had them for centuries. But this week, mail (and pipe) bombs have for the first time in years made global news. And it's all thanks to this dude:

56-year-old American Cesar Sayoc, who has quite extremely taken criticism of Donald Trump into his own hands. A registered Republican (shock horror), he is accused of sending explosives to many notable Democratic figures including Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton and even Hollywood legend (and vehement Trump opponent) Robert De Niro. It now turns out he has quite a lengthy criminal track record. This includes a 1991 grand theft charge, several felony charges in 2004 for possessing a synthetic steroid, a 2013 battery offence and most prominently a 2002 arrest for threatening to discharge a bomb in Miami, Florida. What a saint!

Assassination in general is no way to defeat something or somebody you oppose, but to attempt it in such a long-distance manner like posting explosives I think is just especially cowardly, and inconsiderate of the potential for killing innocent and unrelated people. After all, some US Postal Service employee could've intercepted one of these packages and fatally opened it out of suspicion. But more to the point, by sending them you're not actually daring to attack your target in person.

Now, were I American I'd undoubtedly be a Democrat but regardless, tactics like Sayoc's are also harmful for the images of all parties and their supporters. Politicians and their fan clubs should all stick to trying to defeat their adversaries/leaders at the ballot box, not with violence.

Something Cult, Foreign-Language or Indie #109: The Killing Fields (1984).

After Saigon fell in 1975, ending the Vietnam War, the Khmer Rouge took control of neighbouring Cambodia under Pol Pot's merciless regime. The West, unlike during Vietnam, would mostly turn a blind eye, but one American could not. After his employers at the New York Times sent him there in 1972, journalist Sydney Schanberg met local doctor Dith Pran in 1975 just before the Rouge entered Phnom Penh, with Pran becoming Schanberg's guide and protector. But when Pran was shortly thereafter imprisoned, Schanberg now spent four years in this foreign land seeking news of Pran's fate while the Rouge decimated over two million of their own people.

Nominated for six 1984 Academy Awards including Best Picture, The Killing Fields is based on The Death and Life of Dith Pran, Schanberg's Pulitzer Prize-winning 1980 New York Times article covering his experiences in war-torn Cambodia with Pran, who thankfully did survive to be reunited with Schanberg. By 2018 standards its violence is relatively tame, but in some ways that remains a key strength for a war film because it can mean restraint, not preachiness. Regardless, English director Roland Joffe nonetheless doesn't balk at depicting plenty of the Khmer Rouge's atrocities towards Cambodians (and foreigners) with objective compassion and honesty and maintains a fair amount of suspense and rhythm particularly in these sequences. Bruce Robinson's screenplay achieves the balancing act of convincingly evoking Schanberg's reality as a fish out of water and eyewitness to history, and the Oscar-winning cinematography and editing by Chris Menges and Jim Clark respectively really help to enhance the effect of the movie's pointed but non-sensationalised agenda.

But surely what anchors us most deeply into this awful story here are the two central performances. Sam Waterston is electric as Schanberg, the whole way brilliantly evoking his mounting anger at the Cambodian forces and the West for their ignorance towards the situation, and real-life KR survivor Haing S. Ngor won a well-deserved Best Supporting Actor award for his screen debut here. Aussies should also keep an eye out for Graham Kennedy (yes, that one) in a cameo as an Australian diplomat.

Inevitably but fittingly, the movie ends with a reunion to the tune of John Lennon's Imagine (and tragically Lennon, of course, had himself been recently murdered). Like that song, today The Killing Fields holds up superbly and unfortunately remains no less relevant around the world.

Something Cult, Foreign-Language or Indie #108: Bad Times at the El Royale (2018).

I'm going out on a limb this week: Bad Times at the El Royale has only just hit cinemas. But mark my words (and if I'm disproven here I'll happily eat them): it has "cult classic" written all over it.

It's 1970. Apparent Catholic priest Daniel Flynn (Jeff Bridges), struggling soul singer Darlene Sweet (Cynthia Erivo), damsel on the run Emily Summerspring (Dakota Johnson) and apparent vacuum cleaner salesman Dwight Broadbeck (Jon Hamm) descend upon the El Royale Hotel on the California-Nevada border, where the only employee left is awkward young concierge Miles Miller (Lewis Pullman; Bill's son). What now unfolds is first a series of vignettes exploring how these four quite disparate and troubled individuals ended up at this mostly deserted but palatial desert hotel and why the fifth, Miles, was there alone. Then once they've all settled in, the mutual suspicion and distrust mounts before real danger arrives in the form of charismatic but sadistic religious cult leader Billy Lee (Chris Hemsworth), whose hostage is Rose (Cailee Spraeny), his protégé and Emily's sister, whom she has been trying to rescue. Now, everybody's truths will be spilled, and they could all be off to meet their maker.

After his debut with 2011's game-changing horror gem The Cabin in the Woods and a tenure writing for Lost (of which this is particularly reminiscent, with its trademark flashbacks and cryptic mysteries), writer-director Drew Goddard has once again managed to consciously turn a very old genre (this time film noir) on its right on its head, and the result is more refreshing than a summer's day at the beach. It also feels rather reminiscent of Pulp Fiction with its retro-themed title cards, nonlinear structure and a soundtrack of obscure yet vaguely familiar (and well-chosen) pop songs. Some have questioned its 141-minute length but I considered that necessary for the number of characters we need to get to know here, and for numerous scenes to be repeated from alternating perspectives, being stuck as they are in one location together. And with the aid of poetic cinematography and consistently sharp editing, Goddard held my interest keenly the whole way; not once did I look at my phone in the theatre (although one wanker beside me wouldn't turn his off even after receiving two calls during the movie).

The whole cast don't hit a false note anywhere, but there are three unquestionable standouts here for me. Pullman keeps it in the family by letting the vulnerability and naivete gradually seep out for more relatability as the junior concierge who's just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Then there's Hemsworth, going as far away from Thor as he has so far, bringing rock star swagger and emotional authority to this 1970s David Koresh type. But shining the brightest is Cynthia Erivo. As this compassionate and talented but increasingly desperate Darlene, the British Erivo seizes her chance to put a strong black female protagonist before us to make us take this horrible journey with her. She is indomitable, and has a singing voice that will also leave you gasping. I can't believe I'd never heard of her until seeing this film.

It could prove very polarising, or even be called pretentious, but Bad Times at the El Royale is a dead-set knockout for me. Pretty good for being Bad.

Alan Jones and the Opera House.

It's like it's pathological for him. Alan Jones, Australia's seminal right-wing radio shock jock, this week called for Sydney Opera House chief executive Louise Herron to be fired in light of suspended betting for the Everest horse race which was to be projected on the SOH's sails.

Now I don't know about Ms. Herron, but Jones has now had decades worth of reasons to be fired himself, permanently. To name but a few, calling the selection of Mr. Yunupingu as 1993's Australian of the Year an insult and claiming he was only being given that honour because of his race, claiming former PM Julia Gillard's father died of shame, saying last year that we need more Stolen Generations, or being caught in the 1980s of lewd acts with young boys while coaching junior rugby league in Sydney. He's one of the few people who truly make me ashamed to be an Australian.

Regardless, instead of using the SOH to broadcast something as frankly superficial as a horse race (and remember how horse-racing is commonly associated with gambling, animal cruelty and alcohol advertising), if we wish to use it to promote anything, should it not be some meaningful, topical social issue? I for one could very easily get behind that.

Something Cult, Foreign-Language or Indie #107: Jackie (2016).

After John F. Kennedy's fatal trip to Dallas in 1963, US First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy (Natalie Portman) became saluted worldwide for her composure following his assassination. But privately, it was quite another story. After leaving the White House a week later, she agrees to do an interview at her temporary lodgings in Hyannis Port, Massachusetts with a journalist (Billy Crudup) who seeks as delicately as possible to discern just how that tragic November day felt for her and how she handled planning the funeral and consoling her children, Caroline and John Jr., along with her tenure as First Lady leading up to that. Throughout the interview, Mrs. Kennedy asserts her authority over which aspects of it will be either on or off the record.

After his 2012 gem No was nominated for the Best Foreign Language Film Oscar, Pablo Larrain seamlessly makes the jump to English-language filmmaking with this riveting portrait of such an iconic figure. Larrain and screenwriter Noah Oppenheim, both of whom weren't even born until the 1970s, collectively nonetheless manage to evoke the mood and aesthetics of 1963 like they'd lived through that era, and when the film explores how the President's and First Lady's roles work inside the White House, the Chilean Larrain demonstrates a sharp understanding of this most American of American landmarks. Oppenheim's screenplay also wisely invokes the lingo of the time and hints at the tradition of etiquette and property First Ladies still have to uphold; at one point Jackie reprimands Robert Kennedy (Peter Sarsgaard) for swearing. Also at their disposal and benefit are Madeline Fontaine's costumes and Mica Levi's score, both deservedly Oscar-nominated, and Stephane Fontaine's nicely relaxed photography.

But undoubtedly the heart and soul of Jackie is the indomitable Natalie Portman. Herself Oscar-nominated in 2017, Portman spent months preparing for the part, watching footage of White House tours the real Jackie hosted, reading over twenty biographies and studying a recording of the actual interview whose depiction here is used as a framing device (Crudup's journalist was based on Arthur Schlesinger, Jr.), and you can tell. She gets everything right, from Jackie's husky vocal cadences to her fashionista swagger to her shattered and shell-shocked private breakdowns. When she gradually removes her make-up and bloodied clothes, Portman reveals how she's also struggling to remove the memory of what she and her nation have just had to endure. The only weakness among her co-stars, too, is the usually reliable Sarsgaard, lazy and uneven as RFK.

Period pieces, especially when they focus on somebody who's been covered to death, can seem thoroughly dull and derivative. Jackie, however, is beautiful and moving because it consciously takes a fresh narrative and visual approach and slowly peels the layers back without feeling contrived. Deeply impressive.

Requiem for rental stores.

This week, the last remaining DVD/Blu-Ray rental store in my city of Rockhampton, Queensland, Australia, a Video Ezy outlet, announced it will close this month. That was hardly surprising as the industry's been dying a slow death for years, but as an insatiable consumer it's naturally still lamentable for me. I suppose now I'll soon have no alternative but to this point I've never downloaded films, and I've only downloaded episodes of TV shows on "catch-up" websites after I've missed their broadcasts. Admittedly I'm too impatient to wait for them load, usually, and I've heard stories of viruses and whatnot coming from download sides. Plus, the artists themselves usually don't profit from consumers downloading media (even if certain people only in entertainment for the cash don't either).

But probably the prime reason why I've resisted downloading media for so long is that I just have always preferred the tangibility of having hard copies. I think that's due to my Asperger's preference for being able to truly feel things physically; with a DVD et cetera, you can open it up, flick through the sleeve or booklets, hold the disc in one hand, run your fingers around its edge and so on. Furthermore, having a big collection of hard copies and keeping them together just makes your place really look and feel more inhabited, especially to visitors. More inhabited means more homely; I just don't think you can achieve that with digital copies of movies or shows. Then again, they do consume far less space.

Another pro rental stores offer (or offered) would be the chance to actually go out, socially, and that way grab something to watch, with people to help you and mingle with. With so much addiction to social media and smartphones et cetera now (helpful though both of those phenomena can be), we can't get fully out of the habit of making direct, genuine face-to-face interaction.

But regardless, I digress. All good things, as they say, must come to an end, and the demise of rental stores obviously doesn't mean that of art or physical copies of it. I mean, God knows we can still thankfully buy them. It's just the end of an era, and that's always quite poignant. But I'm sure I'll be able to scoff some gems permanently at their closing-down sale, and while it lasted, it was a pleasure each time. Video Ezy Rockhampton, thank you and vale.

Something Cult, Foreign-Language or Indie #106: Captain Fantastic (2016).

Ben Cash (Viggo Mortensen in his 2016 Oscar-nominated performance) lives with his wife Leslie (Trin Miller) in the Washington wilderness where, disillusioned with contemporary capitalist society, they have raised their six children: Bodevan (George MacKay), Kieylr (Samantha Isler), Vespyr (Annalise Basso), Rellian (Australia's own Nicholas Hamilton), Zaja (Shree Crooks) and Nai (Charlie Shotwell). Ben particularly insists on raising and educating them on a diet of survivalism, philosophy, no technology and leftist politics, including observing Noam Chomsky's birthday as a holiday instead of Christmas. After the bipolar Leslie takes her own life, Ben calls her father Jack (Frank Langella), who threatens to have him arrested if they attend the funeral which defies Leslie's wishes for cremation anyway. Ben initially complies with this but then reneges, leading his brood on a bus road trip into life outside the wilderness. En route, the kids learn a lot about life amidst civilisation as we know it, and Ben is forced to re-evaluate just whether his approach to parenting has benefited them in the long term or not.

Writer-director Matt Ross has here hit upon a most unorthodox premise for a dramedy and infuses it with enough sincerity and wisdom so as to not make it feel like it's trying to be transgressive; instead the result is delightfully infectious and resonant. Ross is clearly familiar with the anarchic content invoked throughout here and shares Ben's enthusiasm for it, but not so much that he's oblivious to the hazards inherent in how it's often embraced. With this insight, he gradually succeeds in exploring the character arcs thoroughly but never becomes didactic. Also helping him here are Stephane Fontaine's evocative cinematography and Alex Somers' nicely New Age score (and the soundtrack also features a surprising and beautiful cover of a certain Guns N' Roses classic).

But undoubtedly the crown jewel here is Viggo Mortensen. In maybe his best performance ever (which I think should've won him the Oscar and yes, I've seen (and hated) Manchester by the Sea), Mortensen puts his very earthy, spiritual quality to impeccable use as he brings Ben from a devotedly nomadic and anarchic paterfamilias to one who comes to discover, from his distant relatives and more so from his kids, just why and how he and they need to move on. That said, Mortensen and Ross still don't let the story completely lose its rabble-rousing initial nature. (And as a devoted long-term The Lord of the Rings fan, Viggo will still always be King Aragorn to me.) Captain Fantastic is, well, fantastic.