One Paragraph Movie Review: Blow-Up

Forty-ninth film: Blowup, the 1967 fashion, sex, murder and drug film sandwiched between two slices of street mime. David Hemmings plays a world-weary photographer who, when he’s not being a bit of a prick to models, is busy discovering possible murders and looking quite artsy-handsome indeed. Vanessa Redgrave should definitely not dance to jazz, Verushka should absolutely wear black sequins and big hair at all times, and the central darkroom scene where Hemmings excitedly prints photo after photo sent me straight back to the photography department at uni. Except nobody got murdered at my uni. To my knowledge. The clothes are incredible, the scenes that should feel like they’re too long are brilliant and weirdly gripping for no reason, and this is a bloody ripper of a film. “But you haven’t taken any photos!” pouts a half nude Jane Birkin. “Not now, I’m too whacked” says Austin Pow… er, David Hemmings. Tops. Four crinkly studio backdrop orgies out of five.