'In the summer of 1977, I saw "Star Wars" twenty-one times, mostly by myself. I was thirteen—that kid alone in the ticket line, slipping past ushers who'd begun to recognize me, impatient to get to my favorite seat. All twenty-one viewings took place at the Loews Astor Plaza at Forty-fourth Street, just off Times Square. The Astor Plaza was a low, deep-stretched hall with a massive screen and state-of-the-art sound, newly enough renovated to be free of the soda-rotted carpet that was a feature of New York theatres in those days. I associated the theatre with the Death Star; getting into it always felt like an accomplishment.'
My own thoughts on seeing the film as a kid in Cornwall here:—
'... to the average 10-year-old, there was only one only thing that could possibly be cooler than the thought of owning your own spaceship. And that was the thought of owning your own spaceship for such a length of time that it had broken down on you repeatedly, reaching the same level of fond decrepitude into which people let their cars sink. “What a piece of junk!” exclaims Luke. “She may not look like much,” replies Han Solo, “but she’s got it where it counts, kid”— an exchange of dialogue that provides such a neat encapsulation of critical opinion on the film that you wonder why critics in 1977 didn’t simply put their feet up and leave the film to itself. For junk is everywhere in Star Wars. It fills its characters’ garages and homes, their spaceships and speeders. One race of creatures trades exclusively in junk: when R2 D2 and C3PO land on Tatooine, they fall into the hands of Jawas, small feral creatures who drive around the planet in a big mobile rag-and-bone shop for robots, stopping every now and again to hold a garage sale, which is how Luke comes to buy the droids — as junk. The Star Wars universe, in other words, seems to run on roughly the same principle as a New York thrift store, except with less in the way of woolly hats and more in the way of laser cannons. The only piece of new technology on display is, of course, the Death Star, which disposes of its junk in a big garbage masher, and into which Luke and his merry band naturally fall, like seeking like. That the Empire are the only people in the universe who haven’t yet heard of recycling is enough to mark them out at the bad guys. The good guys don’t buy off the peg; they tinker and solder, retrofit and weld. They are to be found in their garages, souping up their landspeeders, or up to their necks in the wiring of the Millennium Falcon. As Han Solo says proudly, “I made a few modifications to her myself.”
Everything points back, in other words, to Lucas’s most formative experience — souping up his Fiat Bianchina in his garage — and forwards towards his defining aesthetic as a filmmaker. For Star Wars, as many critics have pointed out, is itself junk — quite literally so. It is made up from the spare parts of other movies — offcuts of western, snippets of swashbuckler, and scraps of dialogue well past their sell-by date. “You can type this shit George, but you sure as hell can’t say it,” complained Harrison Ford — the only real actor in there, who further embarrassed proceedings by giving the only real performance, in which his disdain for the goings on is palpable: the sequels would fight hard to keep him and Luke separated, as if sensing that Luke’s ascent up the Jedi pole would never withstand Ford’s powers of sarcasm. But then Star Wars was never really about good acting, any more than the Road Runner cartoons were about the detailed delineation of beaks. A film which avoids close-ups like an introvert avoiding eye contact at a party, it is a movie consumed with motion blur and escape velocity, forward thrust and back blast. That’s all the Force was, really, once you had stripped it of some of the more mystical mumbo-jumbo in which Lucas wrapped it: that feeling you get when you’re driving so fast and well that you feel you’ve merged with your car, no longer really conscious of the decisions that you’re making, but thinking through the car’s fenders and chassis. If you’ve ever gone into the Zone while playing a video game, its much the same feeling. Star Wars is junk but it is fast junk. It’s got it where it counts.'
“A master-class‑–immersive, detailed, meticulous, privileged inside-dope… Tom Shone is the king of critical cool.” — Craig Raine
“An up-close and personal look at one of Hollywood’s most successful directors…This erudite book is packed with extensive, expansive discussions about Nolan’s films… insights into what he was trying to accomplish with each film; and the movies, directors, books, art, architecture, and music that influenced him…. Fans of Nolan’s films will find this revealing book invaluable.” — Kirkus, starred review
THE NOLAN VARIATIONS
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"Shone is simply one of the most eloquent and acute film writers we have" — Teddy Jamieson, The Sunday Herald
"Shone is a clever film columnist who can also write a wise book: two attributes that don't often go together." — Clive James
"Is there anyone now writing about movies better than Tom Shone? I think not” — John Heilemann, New York magazine
B O O K S
BEST MOVIES of 2018
1 The Irishman A
2. The Souvenir A
3.Marriage Story A-
4. Once Upon A Time in Hollywood A-
5. Apollo 11 A-
6. Parasite A-
7. Ford vs Ferrari
8. Toy Story 4 A-
9. Ad Astra B+
10. For Sama B+
B O O K S
R E V I E W S
"This level of discernment and tart dissent is an unexpected treat... Shone's prose has a beauty of it's own, abounding in nonchalantly exquisite turns of phrase" — Guy Lodge, The Observer
"Sharp, smart... Shone doesn't just follow critical orthodoxies. He makes his argument beautifully. It's the brain food Allen's rich career deserves." — Ian Freer, Empire
"The book is a must for Woody Allen fans" - Joe Meyers, Connecticut Post
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R E V I E W S
"What makes the book worth taking home, however, is the excellent text... by Tom Shone, a film critic worth reading whatever aspect of the film industry he talks about. (His book Blockbuster is a must).... Most critics are at their best when speaking the language of derision but Shone has the precious gift of being carried away in a sensible manner, and of begin celebratory without setting your teeth on edge." — Clive James, Prospect "The real draw here is Shone’s text, which tells the stories behind the pictures with intelligence and grace. It’s that rarest of creatures: a coffee-table book that’s also a helluva good read." — Jason Bailey, Flavorwire
"There’s a danger of drifting into blandness with this picture packed, coffee-table format. Shone is too vigorous a critic not to put up a fight. He calls Gangs “heartbreaking in the way that only missed masterpieces can be: raging, wounded, incomplete, galvanised by sallies of wild invention”. There’s lots of jazzy, thumbnail writing of this kind... Shone on the “rich, strange and unfathomable” Taxi Driver (1976) cuts to the essence of what Scorsese is capable of." — Tim Robey, The Sunday Telegraph
"A beautiful book on the Taxi Driver director's career by former Sunday Times film critic Tom Shone who relishes Scorsese's "energetic winding riffs that mix cinema history and personal reminiscence".' — Kate Muir,The Times "No mere coffee table book. Shone expertly guides us through Scorsese’s long career.... Shone shows a fine appreciation of his subject, too. Describing Taxi Driver (1976) as having ‘the stillness of a cobra’ is both pithy and apposite.... Fascinating stuff." — Michael Doherty, RTE Guide"An admiring but clear-eyed view of the great American filmmaker’s career... Shone gives the book the heft of a smart critical biography... his arguments are always strong and his insights are fresh. The oversized book’s beauty is matched by its brains”— Connecticut Post
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“The film book of the year.... enthralling... groundbreaking.” — The Daily Telegraph
“Blockbuster is weirdly humane: it prizes entertainment over boredom, and audiences over critics, and yet it’s a work of great critical intelligence” – Nick Hornby, The Believer
“Beautifully written and very funny... I loved it and didn’t want it to end.” – Helen Fielding “[An] impressively learned narrative... approachable and enlightening... Shone evinces an intuitive knowledge of what makes audiences respond... One of those rare film books that walks the fine line between populist tub-thumping and sky-is-falling, Sontag-esque screed.” – Kirkus Reviews
“Exhilarating.... wit, style and a good deal of cheeky scorn for the opinions of bien-pensant liberal intellectuals.” – Phillip French, Times Literary Supplement
“Startlingly original... his ability to sum up an actor or director in one well-turned phrase is reminiscent of Pauline Kael’s... the first and last word on the subject. For anyone interested in film, this book is a must read.” – Toby Young, The Spectator
“A history of caring” – Louis Menand, The New Yorker “Smart, observant… nuanced and original, a conversation between the kid who saw Star Wars a couple dozen times and the adult who's starting to think that a handful might have sufficed.” – Chris Tamarri, The Village Voice
"A sweet and savvy page-turner of a valentine to New York, the strange world of fiction, the pleasures of a tall, full glass and just about everything else that matters" — Gary Shteyngart, author of Super Sad True Love Story and Absurdistan
"A cocktail with bite. I downed it in one" — Helen Fielding, author of Bridget Jones's Diary
"A deft, witty satire which casts its sharp eye over the absurdities of addiction, recovery and contemporary New York" — Marcel Theroux, author of Far North
“Laugh-out-loud funny” — Toby Young, author of How to Lose Friends and Alienate People
"Tom Shone's superb debut is a wise and witty examination of literary celebrity, Anglo-American mystification and the cult of recovery. Shone's prose sparkles: his humor detonates smart-bombs of truth" — Stephen Amidon, author of Human Capital
“A cutting comic debut” — The Sunday Times
“Clever, witty, acerbic, warm” — Geoff Nicholson, author of Footsucker
"A sharp, funny, and ultimately touching debut novel" — Library Journal Reviews
"One of the few novels set in Manhattan that gives you a true feel for the city” — James Wolcott, Vanity Fair
"A splash of cynicism, a dash of self-doubt, and a good measure of humour.... In the Rooms is an entertaining page-turner about humanity, with plenty of hilarity" — The Economist
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