19 films we can watch again and again

What are the films that Den Of Geek writers reach for time after time? We're glad that you asked...

We’d wager that most people have a DVD or video (remember them?) in their collection that’s been played far more than the others. A special film to reach for, that has immortal rewatch value. We asked our writing team to nominate their one film to turn to when they’ve a couple of hours to kill. And here’s what they came back with…

The Breakfast Club Carley Tauchert

The film I can watch over and over again is the late, great John Hughes’ The Breakfast Club. Having discovered it on a late night showing once on BBC1, I went out and tracked down a video copy, along with other great Hughes films such as Pretty In Pink and Ferris Bueller. But in terms of repeat watchability nothing can hold a candle (or sixteen of them, in fact) to The Breakfast Club.

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When five very different students get thrown together for a Saturday detention, they learn that, actually, they are not as different from each other as they think, played against a wonderful, funny and touching script that even two decades later is still relevant to today’s teenagers.

There are so many elements to why I love it, the script, the cast, the one liners (“Screw’s fall out all the time, the world is an imperfect place”), the soundtrack. The list is endless. I still laugh at the lunch scene and when they get high as well as always getting slightly emotional at Brian’s soliloquy on the ceramic elephant. The perfect teen film which many have tried to copy since but none have managed to top.

Transformers: The Movie CJ Wheeler

Forget this summer’s cybertesticularly-challenged pyrokinetic blabberfest. If you want to appreciate true giant robots Bob the Builder would envy, combining into an even gianter robot, then the original Devastator is your… robot.

In Nelson Shin and Toei Animation’s 1986 masterpiece, you may marvel as the gestalt Constructicon single-handedly bests all four remaining Dinobots (Snarl’s robotic form having been destroyed and his brainwaves transferred into a living stegosaurus sometime prior to the movie. Don’t ask). T

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he great cast includes current Optimus Prime Peter Cullen, voiceover supremos Frank Welker, Susan Blu and the late Chris Latta, Shining actor and voice of Hong Kong Phooey Scatman Crothers, the original Emperor Palpatine Clive Revill, Casey Kasem a.k.a. Shaggy from Scooby Doo, ‘Logical’ Leonard Nimoy, Robert Stack as perhaps – Ima let you finish – the greatest fictional underdog of all time, Ultra Magnus, and ORSON WELLES (a man who deserves full capitalisation, not simply for portraying a planet that transforms into a dark god with offhand, contemptuous menace, but also for punking an entire country and, oh yeah, acting in some of cinema’s touchstone works) and Bratpack acting sensation Judd Nelson.

With a synthtastic 80s instrumental score by Vince DiCola, the now legendary karaoke staple The Touch by Stan Bush, as well as epic metal by astonishingly air-guitarable metal bands such as Spectre General and Lion, Transformers is an infinitely quotable classic of quality children’s entertainment that can be enjoyed by all ages, creeds, tax bands, and even the anime-challenged. Unless you wear it out on VHS like I did.

If you show your kids this they will thank you in 20 years time, absolutelypositivelydefinitely.

Stealth Daniel Bettridge

I’m a film journalist and yet I’ve never seen one of the Godfather movies. It’s a shocking admission, I know. But it’s a confession akin to a cinematic war crime when I realise that, whilst I’m still yet to find the requisite 521 minutes to watch the Mafioso classics, I’ve managed to squeeze five (at last count) viewings of the odious 2005 thriller Stealth into my meaningless meander through the past two and a bit decades.

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Now Stealth isn’t a good film. In fact, I’d go so far as to say it’s one of the worst products of cumulative human endeavour since the atom bomb; and yet, I’m strangely drawn back to it time and time again. There’s nothing intelligent about it, nothing worth remembering and nothing to be thankful for (except perhaps that it kept the also-odious Jessica Biel and Jamie Foxx from ruining other perfectly good scripts at the time); yet my self-flagellation continues and I’ve now spent more than 10 hours of my life watching this movie. 10 hours! That’s enough time to learn basic Spanish or to finally investigate that slightly off-putting beige substance in my fridge.

I’ve wasted so much time and I know it. But, I can almost guarantee that the next time I’m feeling down, the next time it’s a bit drizzly out, or when I start to question the futility of my own meagre existence, I’ll slip that same DVD off of my shelf. Why? Because there’s no better way to answer life’s big questions than to stand on the precipice of humanity and stare into an abyss of nothingness, an artistic vacuum so dark that it reaffirms the meaning of life just by watching.

Enter The Dragon James Clayton

Maybe it’s the sheer animal magnetism and all-round superhuman aura of Bruce Lee that brings me back again and again. Or maybe it’s the fact that Enter The Dragon – in under two hours – encapsulates all my guilty pleasures and melds ‘em together in one rip-roaring righteous blast of chopsocky brilliance and retro cool.

It’s got Lee and astounding martial arts, Far Eastern philosophy, blaxploitation soul, the essence of old-school espionage cinema and a Lalo Schifrin score giving it funk. It also has a perfect megalomaniac villain in Mr. Han with his dismembered hand, army of kung fu cronies and private paradise island lair. Add unforgettable dialogue (for example, the blasting “Bullshit Mr Han, man!” from Jim Kelly’s afro-excellent Williams or Bruce Lee’s deep wisdom: “Don’t think… feel.”) and you have a timeless classic.

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Enter The Dragon is so much fun both as an action-adventure movie and as a hip historical document of that unmistakable early ‘70s spirit. It’s Bruce Lee’s final production and it retains its power through repeated viewings. As far as I’m concerned, the Dragon can enter again and again.

Top Secret! Simon Brew

There’s a joke that divides those who don’t get the genius of Top Secret from those who do. It goes like this:

“Is this the potato farm?”

“Yes, I am Albert Potato.”

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My wife hates it. She thinks it’s silly. It kills me every single time.

It’s one brutally silly gag in a film that’s chock-full of them. A little Russian? Val Kilmer singing Skeet Surfing? The sign on the electric fence declaring ‘Das Fencen Switchen’? The ballet? Perhaps the finest of them all: “He’s a little hoarse.” Seriously: pick any five minute segment of the film, and I can write bucketloads on its genius.

But then I do love comedy films, and inevitably turn to them more than any other genre when I’m looking for a lift. Yet it’s the astoundingly funny parody of spy and war movies from the Airplane/Naked Gun team of Zucker/Abrahams/Zucker that’s the DVD in my collection that’s most constantly on call. It’s a machine gun battery of jokes, some terrible, some great, but it’s up there with Airplane as one of the most consistently funny, gleeful comedies of all time.

And the Potato Farm gag is seriously, seriously awesome. My wife secretly knows that too, I’m sure.

Aliens Rupert de Paula

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Perhaps it says something about the warped nature of my subconscious that I find a movie about vicious predatory xenomorphs that gestate inside your chest and burst out of your rib cage a comfort film. It’s not exactly The Jungle Book. But then, there are very few films that I can watch again and again without ever getting tired of. James Cameron’s sci-fi masterpiece (a word I use very sparingly), Aliens is one of that prestigiously select cabal.

It is a film that retains a special place in my heart. I still vividly remember watching it for the first time, as a ten-year-old boy, both terrified and fascinated by the sheer immensity of imagination that had been distilled into a such refined form. It was, and still is, quite unlike anything I have ever felt before.

Aliens is a cinematic experience. From the ominous foreboding of the atmosphere and brilliance of the set design to the endlessly quotable dialogue, the underlying subtext of empathy between mothers and the, simply awesome, finally battle – what could be cooler than a giant monster fighting a women in a robot suit? – Aliens is a film that has not been matched for pure visceral intensity for over twenty-five years, despite the incredible advantages modern CGI have given to filmmakers, and probably never will.

Mr Blandings Builds His Dream House Gaye Birch

Although I’m a firm fan of many contemporary films, I love the old black-and-white movies made in an era long before my molecules formed. I’ve always found immense appeal in men in hats and women in stockings with seams. I don’t wish to have lived then. (Frankly, it looks like a lot of effort to pull off the hats, gloves and perfectly-coifed-at-all-times look.) But I’ll admire it from afar, some six or seven decades away.

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One of my favourite actors from this time before my time is Cary Grant, who seemed as at ease in dramatic heart-breakers (Penny Serenade) as slapstick side-splitters (My Favorite Wife, Bringing Up Baby and Arsenic And Old Lace).

In the film that I can watch and rewind and watch again, he’s coupled with another personal idol, the exotic goddess, Myrna Loy, whom I adore as Nora Charles, the better half of The Thin Man series of films.

In Mr Blandings Builds His Dream House, the pair, parents to two pre-teen girls, are seen in their domestic bliss, albeit cramped, confined, city apartment dwellers’ bliss, jockeying for position around a shared bathroom sink and quibbling (lovingly) over the inequitable division of space in the underwear drawer.

It’s all deliciously familiar and so effortlessly portrayed that the movie becomes cosy – like a chair or couch cushion that has contorted to your contours – and I can snuggle in and lose myself in the banter, as Mr and Mrs set out to buy a house in the country that’s big enough to hold their love, daughters, and everybody’s socks and undies.

The quality of the comfortable dialogue and humour in the minutia of glorious, ordinary life is summed up in Mrs Blandings’ discussion with her decorator, my absolute favourite scene, which, happily, I can share with you here…

The Hunt For Red October Mark ‘one ping only’ Pickavance

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If I was asked to name the one movie I’ve watched more than any other, with the possible exception of the Bond series, it would have to be The Hunt For Red October.

Why I like this movie isn’t obvious to me on initial reflection, but it could have something to do with the two stories that converge at exactly the right point in the proceedings. I also love the opening credits where Sir Sean Connery is speaking Russian with a broad Glaswegian accent, before the helicopter tracks out to show what a fecking enormous submarine he’s on.

What we’re presented with is a perfect storm of sorts where all the parts from the Clancy story, to the casting and effects, all come together for once. The music is also wonderful, by the late Basil Poledouris, who probably did his best work since Conan here.

I’d also class it as one of those movies where it doesn’t really matter where I come into it, I’ll happily watch the rest. How, after doing this, Alec Baldwin didn’t think this a franchise worth sticking with boggles my mind, but that’s his prerogative.

It might be cheesy, but my favourite sequence by far is when the USS Dallas decoys away a torpedo heading for the October and then executes an emergency ballast blow to avoid being destroyed. Fly, Big-D, fly!

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Duck Soup Glen Chapman

Duck Soup is widely regarded as the Marx Brothers’ finest film and rightly so. Although the film wasn’t always regarded as the masterpiece it is today. Upon its initial release Duck Soup received mixed reviews. As with most Marx Brothers movies, the plot here is fairly simple: Groucho plays Rufus T. Firefly who is appointed, by the wealthy Mrs. Teasdale, as the leader of the small country of Freedonia. Harpo and Chico Marx play spies employed by the ambassador of neighboring country Sylvania’s ambassador to dig up dirt on Firefly.

The mirror scene – undoubtedly, the most memorable scene in the film – is one that has been imitated on many occasions, but never bettered. The scene involves Harpo disguised as Groucho’s Rufus T. Firefly, imitating his every move so as not to give himself away. The scene goes on for some time and the fact that Harpo and Groucho are able to mirror each other’s actions so perfectly for such a period of time is an unbelievable achievement. The scene ends when Chico, also disguised as Firefly, collides with Harpo and Groucho.

Although the mirror scene is the highlight here, there are a number of other scenes in the movie that stand up against anything in the Marx Brothers’ other films. Most notably, Chico and Harpo antagonising a street vendor and the battle scene.

This is a film that I was encouraged to watch by my dad some years ago and it’s one that I can watch over and over again without getting tired of it.

Big Trouble In Little China Duncan Bowles

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I first saw Big Trouble In Little China when my dad rented it on video in the 80s and remember being in awe of it. The poster alone was a work of art, with the all encompassing strap line ‘A Mystical, Action, Adventure, Comedy, Kung Fu, Monster, Ghost Story!’, while also featuring the ever-dependably-naked-80s-treat Kim Cattrall (start as you mean to end), wrapped around the man-god that is Kurt Russell.

Beyond the poster, the film itself left an impression on me as it featured (to my young brain) a confusing hero in Jack Burton, who seemed to possess all the looks and muscles of a standard action hero, but was utterly incapable of being much use for the most part. It also had a typically 80s monster/creature which alarmed me greatly at the time, mostly from its final appearance which made my imagination go haywire and left a somewhat traumatic scar, especially when I was only used to seeing conventional action movie finales. I still don’t like it, man in a suit or not.

Despite Big Trouble In Little China forming the final point in the holy trinity of the John Carpenter/Kurt Russell collaborations (Escape From New York and The Thing being the other two), its re-watch value out strips most films as it has peppered my history and had a different affect on me with each re-discovery.

After seeing it several times during my teen years, I finally picked up an ex-rental VHS copy when I was 22 (the summer my long standing video rental shop closed down, my then girlfriend moved to France, I got Mars Attacks! on American laserdisc and Princess Diana died – an eventful month) and fell in love all over again, roaring at the humour and getting even more enjoyment out of it than ever before.

Now approaching my mid-30s, the poster hangs proudly framed in the lounge and I can safely say that I’ve seen it more times in the last few years than ever before, laughing and cheering just as hard, still finding new lines that make me laugh, while now having an utter sympathy with Jack Burton’s plight.

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It’s a testament to the films’ strength that I’ve shared it with people of all ages over the years and it never fails to entertain. If you’ve never seen it and are in the mood for an off the wall action/comedy, then I cannot recommend it enough. Just don’t watch it with me or you’ll find a plastic figure of Lo Pan in your face shouting “Shut up, Mr Burton!”.

Oh, and I nearly forgot to mention the almighty music video to accompany it, by John Carpenter’s once band The Coupe de Villes. So good it hurts.

An American Werewolf In London Barry Donovan

For my entry I thought about suggesting Groundhog Day. Not so much as a play on the theme of the feature, but because I’m lazy and could effectively get away with copying/pasting a single paragraph until I reached the word count.

I considered subverting the feature and entering The Sixth Sense, a film you surely can’t sit through more than once. Any ambiguity is relentlessly ignored in favour of beating you about the head with heavy-handed explanations, pretending it’s far more clever than it actually is, and lasting far too long. Throw in a couple of regional accents, and it’s the movie equivalent of a Michael McIntyre routine.

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I’ve decided on An American Werewolf In London because I saw it recently in Leicester Square over Halloween and had the epiphany that the reason I watch it so often is simply because that level of awesomeness cannot be fully appreciated by our human minds in one sitting.

    * Watch it for the special effects from Rick Baker. There’s no gimmicky CGI here and the film was responsible for the creation of the ‘Outstanding Achievement in Makeup’ Oscar.     * Watch it for a classic appearance of the Landis fictional film, See You Next Wednesday. This time portrayed as a non-stop orgy.     * Watch it for the fantastic soundtrack; all songs with the word ‘moon’ in them, including a really jarring upbeat version of Blue Moon by The Marcels over the end credits.     * Watch it for the scene which would be a great teaser for an episode of Quantum Leap where David Naughton’s character wakes up naked in London Zoo and utters the classic idiom “Oh, boy”.     * Watch it and ponder why on Earth anyone would ever think An American Werewolf In Paris was ever a good idea, and what the hell Dimension expect to achieve with a remake.     * Watch it for the obligatory ‘Jenny Agutter gets her kit off’ scene. There are other movies where she’s much more naked, but I was perhaps nine-years-old when I first saw this and it says something about how influenced by the film I was that I just adore sex in showers. And also leaping naked, teeth-bared, at nurses down dark alleyways.

The Wizard Of Oz (Anime Version) Matt Haigh

There are a handful of films that, as an adult, I can watch numerous times, but I think the prime time in our lives for watching things over and over again is childhood. As a kid I had dozens of films I was obsessed with, most of them dark and quite twisted, such as Pinocchio and the Emperor Of The Night.

But the one I remember renting from the video shop relentlessy is this charming Japanese anime version of The Wizard Of Oz. Not only are the visuals that beautiful blend of hand-drawn and watercolour that the Japanese so excel in, but the music is also a compelling, jazzy joy. The wicked witch in this version is also terrifying, sporting an eye patch and summoning giant birds, glowy-eyed wolves and flying monkeys from the ether.

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As you might expect, the violence is also slightly cranked up here, as instead of simply splashing a bit of water on the witch, Dorothy sends a giant cauldron smashing into the old crone, knocking her down a flight of stairs in the process. It’s just a pity this has yet to make it to DVD.  

Manos: The Hands of Fate Pete Dillon-Trenchard

Made in 1966, fertiliser salesman Harold P Warren’s tale of an innocent family who become trapped by a creepy cult leader and his goat-legged manservant is widely regarded as the worst movie ever made. And it’s about as bad as you’d expect on a budget of less than $20,000; the plot is confusing, the dialogue is atrocious, and the characters are all voiced by the same three actors, because the cameras used by Warren were incapable of recording sound.

Manos is a truly terrible movie, which causes pain and suffering to all who watch it. And yet, call me a masochist, but I can’t get enough of it. From the opening sequence, during which Warren simply ‘forgot’ to add the film’s credits, to the laughably optimistic “The end..?” shown at its climax, there’s something oddly lovable about this film. It’s the tale of one man who shot for the stars, only to crash into the side of a mountain. Every viewing reveals new and more comical layers of awfulness, and it’s a perfect film to show to potential friends/partners. If they can make it through Manos, they’re made of strong stuff.

Manos: The Hands Of Fate thoroughly deserves its reputation, but it also thoroughly deserves pride of place on my DVD shelf.

What’s Up, Doc? Janey Goulding

Nostalgic, stylish and stuffed full of warmth and witty one-liners, Peter Bogdanovich’s 1972 screwball comedy is the story of four identical overnight bags that get mixed up. It showcases Barbra Streisand at her most effervescent, Ryan O’Neal as the hapless booby and a scene-stealing Madeline Kahn in her first proper film role, plus memorable turns by the likes of Austin Pendleton and Randy Quaid. This affectionate throwback to 1930s slapstick crackles with charm and sparkling dialogue – and even multiple viewings reveal fresh funnies.

We learn that a bag belonging to musicologist Howard Bannister (O’Neal) contains igneous tambula rocks with musical properties, and that he and his overbearing fiancée Eunice Burns (Kahn) are in San Francisco to win a grant funded by Frederick Larrabee (Pendleton). We see identical bags carried by Streisand’s Judy Maxwell (hers contains underwear), Mrs Van Hoskins (jewels) and ‘Mr Smith’ (top-secret government papers) as the group arrives at the Hotel Bristol, where two employees plot to steal the jewels, operatives seek to purloin the documents, and Judy sets out to grab Howard.

The accident-prone Judy, who has been expelled from countless colleges, has an answer for everything and her sass secures the grant, but also leads to the unravelling of Eunice, as a baffled Howard staggers from one mishap to the next. Bags get switched, a hotel room goes up in flames and a party degenerates into a pie fight before Howard and Judy, who have seized the bags, are chased across San Francisco in a dizzying display of mirth-driven mayhem involving blind alleys, slow-drying cement, ricocheting dustbins, a large pane of glass and a Chinese dragon.

The first time I watched this, my dad laughed so hard he nearly broke his chair – and for sure it still has the ability to tickle the ribs with its cute visual gags (the constant tearing of Howard’s clothes, Eunice’s increasingly ratty-looking wig) and weary turns by John Hillerman as harrassed hotel owner and Liam Dunn as the pill-popping judge. But beyond the silliness and snap is an old-style Hollywood heartbeat that elevates this fillum above mere cacklefest to something truly enduring.

Just sit back, make sure your igneous rocks are well secured, and let this kooky classic do the rest.

Ferris Bueller’s Day Off Doralba Picerno

I know, I know, you wouldn’t expect a teen comedy here… And believe me, I did not expect me to write about one either, and there are plenty of other movies that I watch over and over again. But Ferris Bueller… oh well, how can you top that mix of  good humoured  devil-may-care attitude, adolescent cheek, great editing, fun music and a character to die for?

Actually, like most memorable characters, Matthew Broderick’s Ferris Bueller is only enabled to be who is by the proximity of his peers: the jealous sister and the nerdy friend with low self esteem. It is their interaction which propels him to ever more daring feats, and to get away with it, as usual. The lightness of touch that John Hughes presents is a pleasure to behold, and you cannot begrudge Ferris for never being caught, because you want to be him or you want to date him.

Written and directed by Hughes in 1986, this is not one of those typical teenage angst movies or brat pack comedies popular at the time. It has a strong amoral core and great performances from the cast (and a great cameo from a fresh faced, pre-Platoon – but only just -Charlie Sheen), and I am sure it will still put a smile on my face in 20 years’ time.

Donnie Darko Nathan Box

Richard Kelly’s cult classic starring Jake Gyllenhal, Drew Barrymore and the late Patrick Swayze is one of the most fascinating films I’ve ever seen. With a plot that follows Jake Gyllenhal’s troubled Donnie, the entire movie is designed to be watched multiple times to actually find out actually ‘what’s going on’.

Darko,  as a ‘Living Receiver’, equipped with only a sense of duty and his trusty guidebook ‘The Philosophy of Time Travel’, tries to tackle this mind-blowing scenario of being the only person to have the ability to prevent the end of the world. Stumbling through the movie, Donnie is not your standard hero on a quest, but like any good quest, there are difficulties and dilemmas to overcome, not to mention the imposing spectre, ‘Frank’.

The film is so disorientating, with a plot so complex, that by the end of the film, the viewer is left confused, but compelled to understand more. A second viewing reveals more, as you are clued in to what is to come, but it takes many more to come to a full conclusion. The Directors Cut is easier to follow, but narrows down the possible interpretations.

Everyone ends up with a different theory in the end, and the many possibilities, aside from the fact that the film is a  great blend of horror, comedy, and sci-fi, with excellent directing and editing, has brought me back to the film many, many times. This one is worthy of cult classic status, but prepare for a headache!

Paperhouse Madeleine York

This film never fails to scare the living daylights out of me, but in a really, really good way. It’s an adaptation of a children’s book, Marianne Dreams by Catherine Storr, which I read as a child before I found the film. It’s the story of a very ill young girl who draws a pencil-drawing of a house only to find that the house comes to disturbing life in her feverish dreams.

The more she sleeps, the more she visits this house, and the more she wants to return to her drawing to fill the house with objects and people. She is creating a world all of her own, far away from the sickness of her real life and the sadness she feels about the absence of her father. Sadly and terrifyingly, unreal collides with real, and she becomes obsessed with the house. She draws her father in the house, but her anger with him makes her represent him as a violent man she has to escape from.

It’s harrowing, really harrowing! But it is also so imaginative and stylish. It’s a book that Tim Burton would have made into a kooky, fun fantasy if he had got to it first, but, fortunately, in the hands of Bernard Rose it became darker and scarier than I think Catherine Storr ever thought it was.

Ghostbusters Rob McLaughlin

The supernatural exploits of Egon, Ray, Peter and Winston make for a film that I can quote nearly word for word, and one thatthat even after nearly 25 years is still as fun, fresh and funny as it was the first time I saw it at the cinema.

From being part of the crowd that sung the theme tune at my local flea-pit cinema in 1984 to the Blu-ray copy I have of the movie, the ‘spirit’ of Ghostbusters is something that has always stayed with me.  The idea that four grown men make laser-firing backpacks and track down ghosts is every kid’s fantasy and when you eventually grew up and the effects were not the first thing you focus on (even though to this day they are superb),  the characters, banter and one liners are all the things that really make the film.

The on-screen chemistry of Bill Murray, Harold Ramis and Dan Aykroyd is perfect, with their comedy background (Stripes, Saturday Night Live) and personal friendship really shining through. And while Ray, Egon and Peter are only just caricatures of the actors personalities, the team is just perfect.

Even the secondary players all add to the movie, with Louis, Janine and Walter Peck all adding to the fun in their own way. Added to the superb cast is a story of pure imagination set in very real settings with architecture, surroundings and feel of New York used to its fullest with the iconic firehouse, Central Park penthouses and the grim and gritty streets adding a realness to what is, essentially, a fantasy film.

Added to this is a giant marshmallow man, monster dogs and a ghost that looks like a flying bogey.

Ghostbusters has everything you could ever want in a film and whether you are seeing it for the first time or the hundredth it still holds a lot of magic.

The Last Boy Scout Stuart Turton

The Last Boy Scout is bloody awful. I could try to slide this fact past you with my word rohypnol, but in two minutes time you’d just feel angry and strangely dirty, and I’d be standing here ashamed. It’s better I front up early doors.

Ostensibly a buddy cop movie (it was penned by the writer of Lethal Weapon), it stars Bruce Willis as a down-on-his-luck private detective and Damon Wayans as an ex-American football player. The pair are drawn into an illegal sports-betting racket, and bullets, explosions and car chases swiftly ensue.

The film has two major problems. Well, three, if you ignore the fact that the plot makes as much sense as my nan after four shandys and a heart attack – and I’m going to. The first is that the bad guys are a fat dude and the kid you bullied at school because, quite frankly, he was going to grow up to be a paedophile. Bruce Willis deserves better.

The second significant problem is that Tony Scott’s behind the camera and he directs like he’s having an epileptic fit. It’s particularly bad here, with Scott editing every scene to the length of a mosquito’s heartbeat.

But blimey, it’s funny. Bruce Willis quips and cracks jokes from the first line to the last, and they’re brilliant. The dialogue almost makes Damon Wayans bearable, too. Quite an achievement given how far I’d normally go to dig his eyeballs out with a spoon.

I know The Last Boy Scout is shit. I know it with every fibre of my being, my future children’s being, and their progeny stretching away to the day the sun explodes. I know it, and yet every time it’s on telly I watch it and chortle like Jeremy Beadle watching a child falling down a well.

There’s probably something wrong with me, but there it is, my most watched movie ever. The Last Boy Scout.