Review: Clone

The Oedipus complex has long fascinated and inspired artists and Hungarian writer/director Benedek Fliegauf is the latest filmmaker to tackle the subject in his first English language picture Clone (Womb, 2010). French actress Eva Green plays Rebecca, a young woman who returns home from Japan to rekindle a relationship with her childhood sweetheart Tommy (Doctor Who's Matt Smith). However, after only a few days together, Tommy is killed in a traffic accident as he and Rebecca are on the way to a political rally.

Traumatised by the incident and stricken with grief, Rebecca makes the rash decision to clone Tommy in order to bring him back to life - the twist being that in order to do so she must offer to be impregnated with Tommy's clone's embryo and eventually give birth to him. It's a bizarre plot, and many viewers may well have difficultly investing themselves in such a far-fetched concept, but with enough skill a good director can sell you even the most preposterous of premises. Whilst Fliegauf is certainly stylistically astute and his camera work and taste in locations is of the highest quality, his script doesn't quite match his technical prowess.

It's difficult to put you finger on exactly why Clone doesn't quite work. Yes, things move at a snail like pace and 1 hour 47 minutes of uneventful bleakness is not popcorn munching material, but in comparison to some arthouse exponents of slow cinema, this is a high octane rollercoaster ride.

Some critics have questioned Rebecca's motivation for wanting to give birth to her dead boyfriend's clone (when it's spelt out like that it's difficult not to chuckle). Yet, although it seems like an absurd thing to do, it's worth remembering that she did see her long lost love's body splattered all over the road. This is not a woman of sound mind, and although Fliegauf hints at this, his biggest flaw is his subtlety. As for Green, the camera clearly adores her and this is a timely reminder that she is a talent who's best days are ahead of her. Smith also does a fine job, but it has to be said that the spectre of Doctor Who looms large in certain scenes.

Overall, Clone is an interesting and thoroughly well-made high concept sci-fi. Whilst there have been cries from some quarters condemning it for it's incest references, these are tastefully-handled and pale in comparison to the likes of Ma Mère (2004) and Savage Grace (2007).

Review: How I spent my Summer Vacation

Few films released in UK cinemas this year have carried as much baggage as Mel Gibson's latest outing How I Spent My Summer Vacation (Get the Gringo, 2012), directed by Adrian Grunberg. The recent release of a tape containing an irate Gibson screaming obscenities at Basic Instinct (1992) scriptwriter Joe Eszterhas was the latest example of the US-born actor's appetite for self-destruction, with many commentators quick to claim that he'd finally banged the final nail in his film career coffin.

Your own personal opinion of Gibson may well effect your decision to go and see his latest movie, and its unlikely that any amount of positive praise will make a blind bit of difference. On the other hand, if you prefer to separate a man from his art then How I Spent My Summer Vacation is well worth the ticket price for those looking for efficient entertainment.

Gibson plays 'Driver', an anonymous American bank robber who is thrown into a Mexican jail after crashing through the border with a few million dollars in stolen cash. El Puebilto, based on a real life prison, is a walled town were inmates live with family members and gangsters run the show. Inside, big boss Javi (Daniel Gimenez Cacho) has both a rare blood type and a dodgy liver, with the only suitable donor a chain-smoking 10-year-old urchin (Kevin Hernandez) who resides in El Pueblito with his gutsy mother (Dolores Heredia) - which is where Driver steps in as the boy's unlikely protector.

Admittedly the organ donor plot device is entirely ridiculous and only truly there to provide a reason why Javi can't kill the kid from the off, the script, written by Gibson and first-time director Grunberg, suspends disbelief just enough for How I Spent My Summer Vacation to work. The transplant saga actually plays second fiddle to Driver's escapades in the prison - in fact El Pueblito is arguably the star of the show, its seedy backstreets and market stalls beautifully constructed and skilfully shot. This might be Grunberg's first job at the helm, but it certainly won't be his last.

As for Gibson, he's an old pro at the action flick template and few can balance laughs and drama with such relative ease. His grizzled, fiendishly clever character tricks and shoots his way through a superb blend of both wit and charm, and it's good to see Gibson finally back in familiar territory, despite of his personal demons.

Against all of the odds, How I Spent My Summer Vacation vacation is arguably the best shoot-em-up of the year so far, and it would be a crying shame for this to be Gibson's swansong regardless of its quality. The man might have some serious issues, but there's clearly plenty of life in the old dog yet.

Review: War of the Arrows

Han-min Kim's historical epic War of the Arrows (2011) is the blood-spattered and thoroughly enjoyable tale of the Manchu invasion of Korea in the mid-17th century. Skilled archer and hunter Nam-yi (Hae-il Park) embarks on a one man guerilla war against the Qing Army who murdered his step-father and kidnapped his sister. Utilising his proficiency with the bow he stalks the soldiers through the countryside but the tables are turned when the Qing commander Jyu Shin-ta (Seung-yong Ryoo) decides to hunt Nam-Yi through the undergrowth.
Fans of Hero (2002) and House of Flying Daggers (2004) will be in familiar territory with War of the Arrows, which features beautiful choreography, breath-taking action and a suitably rousing score. Everything works together in harmony and the director's own inventive 'arrow cam' is one of the highlights of the show.

What does let Kim's historical epic down, however, is tits plot. The potential was clearly there to explore the real history behind the invasion and give the audience a little context, but the director seems more interested in action rather than storyline. This is fine, but more discerning viewers might start to drift after they've watched the 100th arrow flying through some poor soul's neck.

Much of the second half of the film involves Nam-Yi being chased through the foliage pursued by Qing soldiers, and those of you who caught Mel Gibson's Apocalypto (2006) might get a feeling of déjà vu. In fact some scenes are so similar you wonder if Han-min Kim should have given Gibson a writing credit.

Overall, War of the Arrows hits the target, but you are left with the impression the missiles have all been fired before. Still, it will make a welcome addition to fans of this brand of Asian cinema's collection.

Review: Four

When reviewing an independent British-made production, a tiny part of you feels obliged to be kind. After all it's important that everyone supports the UK film industry, especially in this current economic climate, and nobody wants a home grown flick to flop. Unfortunately, John Landridge's debut feature Four (2011) is so mundane it's difficult to highlight the positives in order to coax you into purchasing a copy.

Featuring only four characters (the clue's in the title) and set in a single location, a random warehouse in a random city the premise is interesting enough. A Husband (George Morris) hires a detective (Sean Pertwee) to kidnap his wives Lover (Craig Conway) and the opening scenes featuring an anonymous person tied to chair with a bag on his head as Sean Pertwee's character subjects them to a beating is the stuff of compelling suspense and demands your attention.

Unfortunately, things begin to slide pretty quickly when Pertwee references and parodies the Reservoir Dogs (1992) torture scene, and it's so sloppy and obvious you'll be tempted to book a taxi round to the screen writers house and take his Tarantino films away.

The main twist reveal is tedious and the plot gets more and more confusing but Four's biggest crime is how god damn boring it is. If you're going to set your film a single location with a limited cast then the star of the show has to be the dialogue but other than Pertwee, who manages to squeeze a bit of life out of the lines the rest of the cast are floundering. One particular ramble by Craig Conway is so awful it beggars belief it was included in the final cut and although none of the actors shine, the majority of the blame lies in the script which should be given to budding writers as an example of how a good idea can go bad.

Four is yet another example of a poor British film based on a poor British script. At a rumoured cost of £500,000 you have to question how wisely that money was spent.

Review: Shadows

In the late 1950s, when the French New Wave pioneers were playing with narrative structure and dabbling in existentialism across the Atlantic, a young American director called John Cassavetes was busy conducting his own cinematic experiments and sowing the seeds of the American independent film movement. The work of Goddard, Truffaut and the rest of the Cahiers du Cinémacrew are embedded in the foundations of modern movie criticism, yet Cassavetes' raw output is rarely mentioned in film studies textbooks and lecture rooms.

Shadows (1959), Cassavetes' first picture is a wild, jazz-soaked glimpse into the the New York City beatnik scene, which was first shot in 1957 but remade after after the original received a poor response during its three midnight showings at the New York Paris theatre.

Featuring a cast of unknowns and a mixture of scripted and improvised dialogue, Cassavetes' Shadows is a crude and disjointed affair, but as an example of early Guerilla filmmaking it is interesting in a historical context and there are certainly a number of great scenes. This is especially true of the opening credits party, featuring the confrontation between Tony (Anthony Ray) and Hugh (Hugh Herd) after Tony discovers his girlfriend Leila (Leila Goldoni) is of black origin (interracial relationships were still very much taboo during the period). The characters live in a cool bubble, everyone is beautiful and the only thing on their mind is love and good times but prejudice and disillusionment seeps in and sours their party drinks.

Structurally, Shadows is undeniably all over the place, perhaps more of a result of the shooting taking place over three years rather than Cassavetes experimenting with structure. The quality of performance also swings from being solid and believable to downright poor but again, they must have struggled to maintain interest and character continuity due to the lengthy shoot.

Like much of Cassavetes' work, Shadows is an acquired taste. However, if you're an arthouse regular or a young filmmaker then you may well will find plenty here to admire and inspire.

Review: Avengers Assemble

Critics the world over will be scratching their heads and shaking nervously as they ponder their write-up of Marvel's Avengers Assemble (2012) (previously titled The Avengers). Following an average set of trailers and a suspiciously low-key viral marketing campaign, only chronic liars and eternal optimists will claim they saw this coming. Not only is Avengers Assemble the best comic book adaptation to date, but also arguably one of the greatest action adventure blockbusters in cinema history, up there with the likes of Star Wars (1977), Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981) and Ghostbusters (1984).

High praise indeed, but in one fell swoop director Joss Whedon has not only reinvigorated the Marvel comic movie franchise, but also thrown down the gauntlet at Christopher Nolan's feet. The unstoppable juggernaut that is Nolan's The Dark Knight Rises (2012) might be destined for greatness, but it will have to be truly exceptional to better this take on the Earth's Mightiest Heroes.

The balancing act Whedon has pulled off is nothing short of awe-inspiring. As both screenwriter and director, he has brought together a bunch of iconic characters and created a film in which they shine not only as individuals, but also dazzle as part of the Avengers team. Fears that this would be the Iron Man show are quickly diminished. Robert Downey Jr.'s effortlessly charismatic Tony Stark is at the centre of the action, but as any avid reader of the comics will tell you, Iron Man and Captain America are the team's prominent characters and their turbulent relationship is at the heart of most of the film's best moments.

Some critics will say Chris Evans' that Captain America is over-shadowed by Downey Jr.'s Iron Man, but they would be missing the point. Iron Man is the wise-cracking millionaire playboy and Cap is the steady-boy scout soldier, with Evans underplaying the role perfectly despite his ridiculous costume. All the heroes are great with perhaps the exception of Samuel L Jackson's Nick Fury, but it's more a case of Jackson doing a good job with a fairly weak character. Chris Hemsworth's Thor, Jeremy Renner's Hawkeye and Scarlett Johansson's Black Widow all get some fabulous scenes and Tom Hiddleston is suitably impish and evil as main antagonist Loki, yet it's Mark Ruffalo's Hulk/Bruce Banner that really steals the show. The Eric Bana/Edward Norton angry, mindless versions of the jolly green giant pale in comparison - finally we have a Hulk we can all get behind.

Whedon's masterful Avengers Assemble deserves an essay, and no short review could ever do it justice, but if you're in the market for one of the most wondrous and entertaining cinematic experience you could ever hope to have, book your tickets, buy your popcorn and prepare to be amazed.

Review: The Bad and the Beautiful

Rarely seen but frequently referenced in film studies lecture rooms, Vincente Minnelli's The Bad and the Beautiful (1952) is a twisted tale of the rise and fall of Kirk Douglas' ruthless Hollywood producer Jonathan Shields and one of the greatest 'movies about movies' to ever come out of Hollywood.

Wrongly regarded as a damning indictment of the studio system, which was shaking and on the verge of collapse when the film was originally released, Minnelli shows as much admiration for the manipulative Shields' bloody single-mindedness as he does condemnation for his cruelty. In fact, at times the director's affection for this lead character is a little too strong and the lying, deceptive Shields' actions are condoned as being a necessary evil in a dog eat dog business.

Perhaps Minnelli had a point, and in the hands of a lesser actor Shields would be a cardboard cut-out monster the audience would have difficulty empathising with. Fortunately, the passion and charm of Kirk Douglas gives Shields the extra dimension he requires as we are seduced into rooting for the Machiavellian son-of-a-bitch.

The rest of The Bad and the Beautiful's players are all on top form with Lana Turner, famed for her looks rather than her acting ability, giving a career best performance as the used and abused starlet Georgia Lorrison.

The picture is beautifully composed by the talented Minnelli, who must have been brimming with confidence after the Oscar success of An American in Paris (1951). His name is rarely featured in lists of great directors but the man was a true visual artist and the majority of his work is of the highest quality.

The Bad and Beautiful may not be quite the savage castigation of the studio system it is reputed to be (for the real dirt you'd be better off purchasing a copy of Robert Altman's 1992 film The Player), yet Minnelli's love/hate letter to Hollywood is still essential viewing for any seasoned film buff.

Review: The Price of Sex

Many of us may know men who have at one time or another paid for sex. They don't shout about it, nor do they go into detail, but it occasionally comes up in conversation that they went to Amsterdam or Thailand and slept with a prostitute. Yet many of these individuals would think twice about paying for that 'erotic massage' after viewing Mimi Chakarova's excellent documentary The Price of Sex (2011), which focuses on the trafficking of Eastern European girls to countries such as Greece, Turkey and Dubai.

The majority of the girls come from impoverished backgrounds and backwater villages; money and opportunity is scarce and so they are enticed into leaving their families with promises of employment abroad as a waitress or cleaner but in reality, they are whisked from the airport and sold into a life of sexual slavery. Some are locked in cramped rooms and forced to see as many as 50 customers a day.

What's more, the men rarely use protection and pregnancy is common. One girl interviewed describes how she was made to work when she was heavily pregnant because clients will pay double for a woman carrying a child.

It's heartbreaking stuff, but although these women have been emotionally damaged by their experiences, it's their strength and resilience that shines through. Chakarova herself is as tough as they come and whether she's going undercover as a prostitute in an Istanbul nightclub or interviewing the Turkish policeman boasting about his conquests she remains, at least on the outside, cool as a cucumber. She's also a very talented filmmaker who is willing to ask the difficult questions and get her hands dirty so hopefully she has more documentary ideas up her sleeve.

Harrowing subjects are always a hard sell but if you're looking for an educational experience rather than frivolous entertainment, The Price of Sex will certainly broaden your mind.

Preview: Ghostbusters 3

After years of rumours, rewrites and false dawns, CineVue can finally reveal that the cameras will roll on the long-awaited Ghostbusters 3 in September of this year, with a Christmas 2013 release date a real possibility. Speaking earlier this week during a secretive interview at a top London hotel, writer/producer Dan Aykroyd explained, "We're very excited. It's been over twenty years since we wrapped on Ghostbusters 2 and ever since I've received thousands of letters and e-mails begging us to continue the story. It's been a long hard road to get here, but finally I can say,Ghostbusters 3 is go."

Firstly, we asked Aykroyd if Bill Murray had at last agreed to return as the wise-cracking Peter Venkman, and also if the stories of him tearing up the script had any foundation. "Look" said a somewhat agitated Aykroyd, "Everyone wanted Bill to return and yes, he did have issues with some of our original ideas, but we ironed out the creases and he's now fully on board with the project and eager to slip the old Proton Pack on again".

Eager to gather as much information as possible during our hastily arranged meeting, we asked Aykroyd if he could give us any information regarding characters and plot, and were duly astonished by his response. "I'll be returning as Ray Stanz, but unfortunately Harold Ramis and Ernie Hudson will be unable to return so we had no choice but to recast. The part of Egon Spengler will now be played by Johnny Depp and Robert Downey Jnr. will play the Winston Zeddemore role".

Aykroyd continued: "Johnny was an obvious choice for Egon, but it wasn't until we saw Tropic Thunder that we realised Robert would be the perfect Winston". Aykroyd was at first reluctant to reveal the story, but after some gentle persuasion we did get one final revelation out of the 59-year-old Canadian: "I wasn't going to say anything, but here goes: It's going to be a musical." Of course, we were stunned by the concept, but Aykroyd wasn't finished. "It was Bill's idea. He said he wanted to make a musical addition to the Ghostbusters franchise, so we added some show tunes. We struck upon the idea of taking songs from old musicals and adapting them, so we have 'I'm Gonna Wash that Slime Right outta my Hair', 'You'll Never Bust Alone', 'Hopelessly Devoted to Ectoplasm' and my personal favourite ' Luck be a Marshmallow Man Tonight'.

With that final reveal laid on the table, our time with Aykroyd was unfortunately up, leaving us dazzled, delighted and drunk on expectation. Fans may well initially turn their nose up at the musical direction, but with old guard Aykroyd and Murray, we have very high expectations.

Ghostbusters 3: The Musical is due to be released in UK cinemas in late 2013.

Review: Wrath of the Titans

Louis Leterrier's Clash of the Titans (2010) was a bloated, passionless picture let down by a poor 3D retro-fit, uninspired direction and ridiculous dialogue. Innocent audiences stumbled into cinemas believing they were about to experience a sweeping mythological epic, but after the credits rolled hordes of them hit the forums to forewarn others and express their disappointment. Yet somehow Clash made nearly $500 million at the box office - hence a hastily cobbled-together sequel in the form of Wrath of the Titans (2012).

This time around, Battle Los Angles (2011) director Jonathan Liebesman takes the helm, and although he lacks pedigree, it's obvious from the first battle sequence that Wrath is a marked improvement on its predecessor. The much-lauded special effects still don't quite astound, only the coldest of souls will be able to deflect Lieberman's adrenaline-tipped arrows as we weave from monstrous battle to battle.

Liebesman's sequel is fast, furious throughout, and with a run-time of 99 minutes you won't get a chance to pause for thought - which probably for the best when you consider Wrath's numerous, near-terminal flaws. Let's ignore the tacked-on-3D which is as pointless as always, and in no way enhances the experience, and instead concentrate on the script. It doesn't fill your heart with hope when you know that the two of the four credited writers of the screenplay were responsible for the dismal Green Lantern (2011) and Red Riding Hood (2011), yet Greg Berlanti and David Johnson have managed to descend even deeper into dialogue hell.

Nobody within the big-name cast is on form here. Sam Worthington (Perseus) might have the acting range of a chair leg, but even old pros like Liam Neeson (Zeus) and Ralph Fiennes (Hades) struggle with their clunky lines. Rosamund Pike's Andromeda is great to look at but surplus to requirements, and only Bill Nighy's bizarre turn as former God Hephaestus stands out from the crowd.
Still, for all it's many faults Wrath of the Titans is an enjoyable ride, and no matter how many critics tear it to pieces the kids, teenagers and blockbuster-guzzlers are going to be purchasing tickets in their droves. This is not high art - and who in the right mind would it expect it to be - so better to turn your brain off at the door, chew on some popcorn and let the sweet waves of blissful ignorance wash over you.

Review: Black Block

G8 Summits have become synonymous with political protest, civil unrest and running battles between activists and police. The 2001 Genoa summit was a particularly dramatic affair, involving around 200,000 protesters and an army of officers whose violent handling of the situation led to a number of individuals being charged. The most heinous example of police brutality - the unprovoked attack on the Diaz school which involved police storming the building as activists slept and subjecting them to savage beatings - is the subject of Carlo Augusto Bachschmidt debut feature Black Block (2011).

Bachschmidt interviews several activists who were at the Diaz school and each of them recounts their own version of events. Obviously they have all been affected by the experience and although their injuries have long since healed the mental scars remain.

Although little footage of the raid exists the snippets of video footage, photographs and eye witness testimonies paint a vivid picture and no matter what your politics are it's clear that something very wrong happened that night and the Italian government attempts to exonerate the police is yet another example of how corruption during the tenure of Silvio Berlusconi was epidemic.

Anyone looking to criticise Black Block might suggest the argument is very much one sided and perhaps an interview with an official or a police officer would have provided the balance that some will require. It's not the most beautifully constructed documentary but it succeeds in it's aim to shed light on an incident that received little media coverage and has long faded from memory.

Whilst films such as this are usually only sought out by left leaning liberals they deserve a wider audience and remind us that cinema can educate as well as entertain. You might not agree with the activists or care about there cause but their courage and determination to fight the good fight despite what they suffered at the hands of the state should inspire you and at the very least, earn your respect.

Review: The Help

Destined to be broadcast on Sunday afternoons from now until the end of days, Oscar-nomineeThe Help (2011) is a sweet, involving and exceptionally well-acted civil rights yarn that is, thankfully, more interested in entertaining the audience rather than painting a gritty, realistic picture of the lives of African American maids in Jackson, Mississippi during the early 1960s.

Emma Stone plays Eugenia 'Skeeter' Phelan, a recent university graduate who returns home to her family's plantation with dreams of becoming a professional writer. Unmarried, liberal and socially conscience, Skeeter is a rare bird amongst the prissy white middle-class housewives who rely on their maids to clean their houses, prepare their meals and raise their children. Feeling a special affinity for these domestic aides, Skeeter decides to write a book, The Help, yet none of the them are willing to tell her their story due to fear of reprisals. Eventually, she manages to persuade one maid, Abileen Clark (Viola Davis) to be interviewed about her experiences.

Writer and director Tate Taylor should be commended on a job well done with The Help, only his second feature. Having grown up in Jackson (one of his childhood friends was the author Kathryn Stockett, who wrote the source novel of the same name), Taylor clearly draws from his own experiences and his fondness for the characters, even the snobbish harpy Hilly Holbrook (Bryce Dallas Howard), is obvious.

The Help is certainly not a complex film by any stretch of the imagination, and although themes of race, gender and class are all thrown into the pot, it all amounts to a very thin stew. This is Driving Miss Daisy (1989) territory rather than Mississippi Burning (1988) and perhaps Stockett and Taylor's affection for the town and it's people is the reason behind the rose-tinted spectacles.

Davis' role in the film was rewarded with a Best Actress Oscar nomination, yet though there is nothing wrong with her performance, calls of outrage from some quarters claiming that Davis deserved the nod over Meryl Streep are preposterous. In addition, Octavia Spencer's Best Supporting Actress Oscar could easily have gone to her co-star Jessica Chastain. Chastain's turn as Celia Foote is unarguably superb, whereas Spencer's Milly Jackson is solid but unremarkable - her ultimate 'gift' to Holbrook a crude and unnecessary plot device.

It's practically impossible to dislike Taylor's The Help due to the fact that it's so damn inoffensive. Though it may have been soured somewhat by Oscar-voting politics and award-baiting tokenism, for the majority of viewers The Help should be a couple of hours well-spent.

Review: The Greatest Movie Ever Sold

Best viewed on a brand new Sony Bravia HD TV, Morgan Spurlock's latest documentary The Greatest Movie Ever Sold (2011) is a noble, yet lightweight attempt to provide the audience with an insight into the murky world of advertising and product placement.

Since the introduction of the Internet and TV recording devices such as the exceptional Sky Digibox, there has been a steady decline in viewing figures for traditional television commercials which has led to advertisers placing more value on product placement and something called co-promotion.

Product placement has been around since the early days of Hollywood and basically it means that a brand will give you a bundle of cash if you feature their product in a flattering light. A filmmaker wouldn't have to abandon his principles as such just make sure that Gary Cooper was smoking a delicious Lucky Strike in a scene rather than a Chesterfield. Co-Promotion on the other hand is far more dastardly and involves brands having control over the way their product is portrayed and in some cases, control over the script and final edit.

Obviously this is a pretty controversial subject and worthy of investigation but Spurlock never digs deep enough and interviews with directors such as Peter Berg and Quentin Tarantino are brief and not particularly revealing. Most of the documentary run time is taken up by yawn inducing scenes of Spurlock sat around a table trying to coax a variety of chinless advertising executives into sponsoring his movie but there are some interesting moments. His trip to Sao Paulo which in 2007 passed a so called 'Clean City' law which banned all forms of outdoor advertising was an eye opener and perhaps he should have sought out a few more examples of brand defiance.

The problem with Spurlock is that his ideas are far better than his delivery and rather than being driven by outrage he is driven by curiosity and a desire to please and entertain. Sometimes this works and his directorial debut Super Size Me (2004) was both amusing and informative, but The Greatest Movie Ever Sold is low on laughs and low on insight and although his intentions are admirable. Spurlock has delivered the documentary equivalent of a cheap watch rather than a diamond Rolex.

Review: Rampart

Few actors have a résumé as diverse as Woody Harrelson's, and even less have managed to leave a long-running sitcom and avoid the perils of audience over-familiarity and typecasting. Since Cheers wrapped, Harrelson has worked with the likes of Oliver Stone, Terrence Malick, the Coen Brothers and Robert Altman, and his turn as a corrupt cop in Oren Moverman's Rampart (2011) is further proof that he is capable of creating troubled, complex characters.

David Brown (Harrelson) is somewhat of a hero to his fellow officers due to his tough no nonsense approach, and although his colleagues and superiors are fully aware that he bends the law to breaking point what they don’t know is the full extent of his abuses of power. Brown shakes down pharmacists for Viagra pills, commits armed robberies and kills anyone that might have something on him.

He's a bad cop in a violent city and whilst Brown echoes Harvey Keitel's nameless gumshoe in the original Bad Lieutenant (1992) he has more in common with Denzel Washington's Alonzo Harris inTraining Day (2001). Both Harris and Brown are corrupt but charming souls who struggle with the guilt and immorality that has turned them into monsters. They would like to get out but are in too deep and despite their efforts to hold back the tide, sooner or later it's bound to wash over them.

Rampart is Oren Moverman's follow-up to The Messenger (2009) which also featured a strong performance from Harrelson and the director has a good eye. His use of reflection, colour and close-up is cool rather than flashy but unfortunately the script, which he also wrote doesn't quite pack the punch that it should. It's all a little too cold and inevitable and although the likes of Sigourney Weaver and Robin Wright do fine their characters are under developed as the constant focus on Brown leaves little room for anyone else to breath.

Moverman's Rampart is a fine film with a towering leading performance from Harrelson, great cast and solid direction, but may perhaps be too low-key to linger long in the memory.

Review: Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance

As ham acting goes, Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance (2011) is a big fat hog roast with a side order of crackling. Nicolas Cage returns as Johnny Blaze/Ghost Rider, cranking up his patented nervous ticks and wide maniacal eyes to 11, but we've seen it to many times and he is now officially tap dancing on the edge of self parody. You can also usually count on Ciarán Hinds to deliver the goods, but his Prince of Darkness is a gurning middle-aged man rather than a fearsome supernatural force.

If this was a parallel universe, Johnny Whitworth as antagonist Carrigan/Blackout would have picked up the Devil's slack and provided The Rider with a worthy adversary, but unfortunately in this universe, Whitworth is incapable of squeezing out a single drop of menace - but to be fair, his character is underdeveloped and severely lacking in screentime. The only saving grace on the acting front is Idris Elba's Moreau, a drunken French holy man who possesses superhuman powers. Who he is and how he acquired these powers is never explained, but Elba's charisma carries him through.

The dynamic directing duo of Mark Neveldine and Brian Taylor manage a couple of nice set pieces, but they have editing issues and the stunts and special effects are low on spectacle - although it has to be said that The Ghost Rider himself looks excellent and is a vast improvement on the first film.

Yet despite a mountain of flaws, Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance is just about entertaining in a 'so bad it's good' kind of way. You may find yourself infinitely more forgiving of its lack of quality if you pretend it's simply a low budget Troma flick rather than a multi-million dollar studio picture.

In a year of massive comic book movies such Christopher Nolan's The Dark Knight Rises, Joss Whedon's The Avengers and Marc Webb's The Amazing Spider-Man, Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance will be quickly forgotten, but if you're in the mood for 90 minutes of mindless nonsense - Cage is your man.

Review: To Kill a Mockingbird

Casting a critical eye over sacred films based on sacred texts is a pretty thankless task, especially when the story happens to be Harper Lee's lauded and beloved To Kill a Mockingbird (1962). Recently restored and re-released on Blu-Ray to celebrate its 50th Anniversary, old believers can enjoy a return to trip to Maycomb to visit Scout, Jem and Atticus - whilst potential converts will either drink the Koolade or question its divinity.

The biggest problem with the film is that it has been imitated and robbed blind by so many coming of age tales and courtroom drama's over the years and whilst Robert Mulligan's direction and Elmer Bernstein's score remain strong the power of the narrative has waned . Back in 1962 when the fight for Civil Rights was on the rise its understandable why the story struck a chord with teenagers in particular due to it's simplistic handling of a complex issue. Looking at it through the eyes of an adult the withered arm defence is cheap and the whole Boo Radley affair under developed and unnecessary to the plot but fortunately the flaws are masked by some excellent performances and camera work.

Gregory Peck is perfectly cast as Atticus Finch. Slow, steady and dripping gravitas, he's almost in the background for the first half of the film allowing the children to take the spotlight but during the courtrooms scenes the man is immense. Some of it is in his delivery but it's his physical presence that makes him a man apart.

They don't make them like Peck anymore, and watching him dominating the screen makes you mourn the decline of his breed. Mary Badham and Phillip Alford as Scout and Jem also give two of the finest performances by child actors in cinema history. Badham in particular is the personification of Harper Lee's Scout and her nomination for best supporting actress was richly deserved.

As for Robert Mulligan's direction, the highlight are undoubtedly two close-ups during the courtroom scene, especially one on Tom Robinson which was not only the perfect choice of shot but also showcased Brock Peters talent. You rarely see a prolonged close-up of an actor these days and Mulligan reminds us just how effective it can be. To Kill a Mockingbird is by no means as irreproachable as our memories would lead us to believe but it's still a gripping yarn and well worth revisiting.

Review: Bombay Beach

Scooping the award for Best International Documentary at last year's Tribeca Film Festival,Bombay Beach (2011) is the kind of refreshing, palate-cleansing experience a film aficionado needs to wash away the taste of greasy blockbusters and unctuous arthouse. Israeli director Alma Har'el's portrait of an impoverished community residing in a dilapidated settlement on the banks of the Salton Sea is a moving, amusing and often beautiful glimpse at a side of America we rarely get to see.

In the 1950s and 60s, the Salton Sea - a 385-square mile body of water on the edge of the desert - was a popular tourist destination and celebrity hang out. Now the stars and holidaymakers are long gone and all that remains are a few dying towns with waning populations and crumbling buildings. Bombay Beach itself looks post apocalyptic, and Har'el frequently casts her camera towards the shoals of dead fish on the shoreline, starved of oxygen due to the high saline content of the water. Nothing should be living here, let alone thriving, and yet as we are introduced to the resident misfits and dreamers it becomes clear that even in the harshest of environments love, humour and aspiration can bloom.

Har'el spent a year embedded in the community, but rather than attempting to overload Bombay Beach with all manner of misfits, she wisely chose to focus on three stories; the Parrishs are a lower-working class family frequently in trouble with social services due to their domestic hygiene issues and fondness for detonating weapons-grade explosives; wizened ladies man Dorran 'Red' Thompson scoots about the desert on his four-wheeler and spouts frontier philosophy and casual racism; finally, there's local football star Cee-Jay Thompson, who relocated to 'The Beach' from LA after his cousin was murdered, yet still dreams of playing in the NFL and hooking up with his best friend's sister.

Even if Har'el had desired to produce a straight-up documentary it would have been a worthy exercise, but instead of letting nature take its course she chose to choreograph some scenes. This has compelled some critics to question the veracity of her film, but it's these dance sequences which move to the music of Bob Dylan, Beirut and Zac Condon that lift Bombay Beach up from the average documentary doldrums.

Those who pine for gritty realism in their docs should look elsewhere, but if you're in the market for some soul-stirring surrealism then grab your bucket and spade - as for Har'el, she's definitely one to watch.

Review: Young Adult

Meryl Streep's uncanny performance as Margaret Thatcher in The Iron Lady (2011) is almost certainly going to secure the US star a third Oscar at this year's Academy Awards, but award-winner Charlize Theron will have every right to feel aggrieved after missing out on a Best Actress nod for her superb turn in Jason Reitman's latest film, Young Adult (2011).

If asked who they thought the five best Hollywood actresses working today were, few people polled would realistically mention Theron. The Dior perfume ads and odd turkey - such as the godforsakenAeon Flux (2005) - have seemingly distracted us from realising that the South African-born actress is an outstanding talent. If, by the time Young Adult's credits roll, you don't think that Theron is the best thing since tinned custard then you're either sick, in heavy denial or you've choked to death on your overpriced popcorn.

Her role as serial killer Aileen Wuornos in Patty Jenkins' Monster (2003) earned Theron a Best Actress statue and her turn as the sociopathic Mavis Gary in Reitman's latest is arguably cut from the same cloth. Her Aileen was pure, poor white trash. The long years of sexual and substance abuse had left her bedraggled, bloated and psychically unappealing. Mavis is at the opposite end of the social spectrum; a well-off and well-educated ghost writer of a series of young adult novels who has gone to rack and ruin due to depression and a drink problem. Mavis can hide that she is damaged goods with a bag full of make-up and a hair extension, but on the inside, she is every bit as disturbed and monstrous as Aileen.

At least that's one interpretation of the film's protagonist. Another would be that Mavis is nothing more than a bored, spoilt brat who sets off on a quest to ensnare her ex-boyfriend Buddy Slade (Patrick Wilson) in order to shake off a bout of writer's block. Her day-to-day life is dull and uninspiring, so she creates a drama out of thin air and then feeds off the chaos. All that she wants is enough inspiration to finish her book and it doesn't matter to Mavis who she hurts or steps on in the process.

Young Adult is Reitman and screenwriter Diablo Cody's second outing as a creative team after the hit comedy drama Juno (2007), and they have certainly justified the hype delivering a pitch black comedy that holds up a mirror to the modern, single woman. The film will unsettle certain viewers as they are bound to see shades of their own life in Mavis' selfish and shallow existence where as others will be disappointed that the trailer gave the impression the film is a cross between Bad Teacher (2011) and Reitman's previous film Up in the Air (2009), when it's really more Fatal Attraction (1987) meets American Psycho (2000).

The man they still call Quentin Tarantino recently named Young Adult in his top films of 2011, and if that endorsement hasn't tempted you to part with your money, then trust us - Theron's 'Patrick Bateman in lipstick' is well worth the ticket price on its own.

Review: Moneyball

Baseball has always been a popular subject for Hollywood to tackle and the passion for the US national pastime usually equates to a multitude of bums on seats. During the 1980s there was a flood of big-hitting baseball films such as Field of Dreams (1989), Major League (1989) and John Sayles' superb dramatisation of the 1919 Chicago White Sox scandal, Eight Men Out (1988)(probably the most interesting and cerebral baseball film of the decade). Bennett Miller'sMoneyball (2011) has all the brains and insight into the game as Eight Men Out and much more besides.

Scripted by Steven Zaillian (The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo [2011]) and Aaron Sorkin (The Social Network [2010]),Moneyball is the tale of Billy Beane (Brad Pitt), a former baseball prodigy who never lived up to his potential and eventually became the general manager of struggling major league team the Oakland As.

Unable to compete with the financial resources of the likes of the New York Yankees, Beane - along with Yale Economics graduate Peter Brand (Jonah Hill) - decide to create a team based on player statistics rather than their perceived worth. Of course everyone in baseball is convinced Beane's idea won't work, especially Oakland's veteran team manger Art Howe (Philip Seymour Hoffman), who is unwilling to embrace Beane's method.

One of the problems with sports films is that unless you're a fan of the game in question, you're probably not aware of its history and much of the terminology will go over your head. Whilst some prior knowledge of baseball will enrich the experience of watchingMoneyball, most of the action takes place off-field and concentrates on Beanes struggle against an archaic system. There is plenty for people who don't know the difference between a fast ball and a curve ball fans to enjoy.

Pitt is perfectly cast as the laid back but passionate man with a plan. It's his most grown-up and assured performance to date and he carries the film like a seasoned pro. The supporting cast of Hill and Hoffman both deliver, but such is the gravitas of Pitt that the two are forced to play second fiddle whenever they share the screen with him.

All in all, Moneyball is a fine addition to the baseball film canon. It's not in any hurry to get anywhere and the climax doesn't quite satisfy, but there is enough snappy dialogue and rousing moments to keep you enthralled.

Review: The Last Waltz

Fuelled by supernatural quantities of cocaine and liquor, Martin Scorsese's The Last Waltz (1978) is the rock 'n' roll equivalent of The Last Days of Sodom. Laden with rich, bloated and strung-out musicians suffering the effects of a decade or so of biblical excess, the film focuses on the farewell concert of influential folk/blues combo The Band at the legendary Winterland Ballroom in uptown San Francisco.

Musically, the concert itself is well below par. Neil Young is high as a kite and seemingly unaware of where he is; Lawrence Ferlinghetti performs one of the worst poetry readings in human history and a bored and a sweaty Van Morrison chooses the wrong occasion to develop a taste for Elvis-style sequin jumpsuits. It's not all bad however. Old pro Muddy Waters plays a fine version of Mannish Boy and Neil Diamond - out of place and only there because The Band's lead guitarist Robbie Robertson had produced his last album - sings an average song very well, but in general, nobody is on top form.

The best musical number by a country mile is a version of The Band's classic The Weight featuring smiling soul quartet The Staple Singers, but this was a filmed on a sound stage after the concert along with a few other numbers that didn't work during the live show. These scenes are beautifully shot and it's obvious that Scorsese is much happier having total control of a studio environment rather than dealing with the unpredictability of live performance.

It is the interviews with the members of The Band which are the most interesting element of The Last Waltz. The years of touring had taken their toll both on their bodies and their relationship. Robertson, Levon Helm and Garth Hudson look on the verge of meltdown, whilst Rick Danko and Richard Manuel are in dire need of detox and a long stint in rehab - especially Manuel, who is a frail, wizened shadow of the handsome keyboard player/singer he was 10 years previously.

Levon Helm claimed in his 1993 autobiography This Wheel's on Fire that Robertson and Scorsese (who became fast friends during the production) conspired to make The Band look like Robertson's sidemen, and he does have a point. Robertson seems to be the director's main focus and whilst Danko and Helm also get plenty of screen-time, Hudson and Manuel rarely appear on camera.

For all of its problems, The Last Waltz has been and will remain essential viewing for budding musicians and misty-eyed folks who hark back to a golden era when these rock gods ruled the earth. The film portrays these immortals in decline and if you want to read it as an Icarian morality tale the burnt-out husks of those who reached the dizzy heights of fame are on display for all to see, but there is plenty of light to balance the darkness.

Towards the end of the film the camera pans down from the heavens and reveals the long haired, hat wearing figure of an inexplicably fresh faced Bob Dylan looking like 'Ezekiel with a stratocaster' as a wise man once said.

Dylan leads The Band in a rendition of his slow and mournful hymn Forever Young (all a bit too nice and dreary), but halfway through - and obviously bored of the melancholy - he starts playing Baby Let me Follow You Down, an up-tempo dirty blues number that he used to do with The Band back in the day. It's by no means the best version ever performed but the decision to change it up is inspired. For that moment of genius alone, The Last Waltz is well worth its ticket price.

Review: Blood In The Mobile

Studies attempting to find a link between mobiles and medical traumas are infamously vague and inconclusive, mainly due to the fact that many of them are carried out by the phone companies themselves. Fortunately, Blood in the Mobile's (2010) Finnish director Frank Poulsen has found a new angle to attack the industry: cassiterite, a mineral used in the manufacture of phones is being mined illegally in the Congo and some of the profits are being used to fund bands of murderous guerillas who tax the miners and terrorise the country.

Within the film, Poulsen travels to one of these Congolese mines and find workers living and toiling in poor and highly dangerous conditions. Kids as young as 14-years-old are shown chipping away for low wages in cramped unstable mine shafts by day, and dodging bullets in the plastic sheet shanty town by night. It's the kind of human exploitation that Great Britain used to specialise in during the industrial revolution, before the government decided to give the peasants a few rights so they didn't get angry and march on Westminster with pitchforks and burning torches.

Poulsen's mission is not only to reveal the truth behind this mineral trade, but to get his fellow Finns at Nokia to do something about it. Obviously, Nokia are reluctant to speak about the matter. As every good Nike sweatshop PR man will tell you, admitting that your product is manufactured by slaves is not good for business.

Although Blood in the Mobile should be commended for highlighting the dubious practices of the mobile phone industry, it could have been vastly improved by providing some historical context and casting its net of righteous indignation a little farther. Cassiterite is used to make computers and other electrical products, and perhaps the filmmakers should have tried to get some answers from other companies rather than concentrate solely on Nokia. More time could have also have been spent at the mine itself, and the film would have benefited from more scenes in the Congo and less scenes in various corporate offices.

Still, Blood in the Mobile is an interesting glimpse at the dark side of a billion dollar industry and liberals, closet revolutionaries and anti-capitalists will be suitably outraged. It's not going to inspire you to throw your Blackberry in the bin, but then again if a report was released tomorrow which proved beyond doubt that mobile phones made you sterile and boiled your spinal fluid, it would be skimmed over and ignored.

Blood in the Mobile might be a fairly weak and easily-repelled attack against the phone industry, but one leaves with the distinct feeling that there are some darker secrets out there waiting to be uncovered.

Review: The Adventures of Tintin: Secret of the Unicorn

When the announcement came that Steven Spielberg and Peter Jackson would be bringing Hergé's famous boy detective Tintin to the big screen in The Adventures of Tintin (2011), most of us thought that if any pair could do the books justice, it would be those two master craftsmen. Rumours swirled that it was going to be live action and everyone raised an eyebrow, but when the dreaded words 'motion capture' and '3D' emerged, it was instantly labelled a lame duck.

Everything pointed to The Adventures of Tintin being a spectacular disaster - another failed attempt by the studios to force the already dead 3D revolution on the masses. Yet ironically, The Adventures of Tintin might just be the film that resurrects the technology's twitching corpse.

Based on three classic tales - The Crab with the Golden Claws, The Secret of the Unicorn and Red Rackham's Treasure - we skip any origin story and are dropped straight into the world of Tintin (Jamie Bell) who is already well-known for his good deeds and canny detective work.

During an amble around a market, the boy detective comes across a model of a ship, 'The Unicorn', and having a keen eye for interesting artefacts he buys it off the stall owner at a knock-down price. Almost instantly he is approached by a large, sweaty man who wants to buy it off him. When Tintin refuses, the man warns him to get rid of the ship as it will bring nothing but trouble - at which point the dastardly Ivanovich Sakhrine (Daniel Craig) appears from the shadows, also offering to purchase the ship.

A breakage, a burglary and knock on the head later, Tintin discovers a piece of an old map inside the ship's mast leading to the legendary treasure of the notorious pirate Red Rackham. After being kidnapped and dumped in a cargo crate, Tintin finds himself aboard the Karaboudjan, a merchant vessel helmed by irritable drunk Captain Haddock (Andy Serkis), who has been the victim of a mutiny. Tintin and Haddock team up, escape the clutches of Sakhrine and journey forth to find the missing pieces of the map.

The Adventures of Tintin presents Spielberg in his element. We're very firmly in Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981)territory and the whole film plays out as a fun, sweeping adventure via land, sea and air with great set pieces and plenty of humour. His respect for Hergé's original stories cannot be doubted and all but the most purist, hardcore Tintin fan should enjoy the ride.

As for the animation. It's far and away the best example of 3D and motion capture to date, yet still there are issues with expressionless characters (and the glasses will always be a distraction). The potential is certainly there to create cinematic classics which stand the test of time, but it hasn't quite happened yet. However, if Spielberg's The Adventures of Tintin has achieved anything, it is hope for the future.

Review: Wild Bill

Dexter Fletcher has a fine film pedigree: Bugsy Malone (1976), The Elephant Man (1980), The Long Good Friday (1980) and Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels (1998) are just a few of the movies on his 30-year CV, and his directorial debut Wild Bill (2011) - starring Charlie Creed-Miles, Will Poulter and Liz White - bares all the hallmarks of an experienced old-hand.

Creed-Miles plays Bill, an ex-drug dealer with a history of violence who returns to his former East London stomping ground after an eight-year stretch in prison. Determined to clean up his act and disappear off to Scotland, Bill's plans are put on hold by his two sons, Dean (Poulter) and Jimmy (Sammy Williams) who have been abandoned by their mother and left to fend for themselves in a grim tower block flat. Dean isn't happy about his father's return and wants him gone, but when the social services become involved he is forced to cohabit with Bill until the powers that be decide they are no longer at risk.

Meanwhile, paranoid local gangster Terry (Leo Gregory) and his mob think Bill will return to dealing and muscle in on their turf, so are anxious for him to leave the borough. Suffice to say things get complicated and despite Bill's efforts to go straight and cut all ties with the past, the past just won't leave him be.

Clearly influenced by the work of British directors Mike Leigh and Guy Richie (Fletcher has been directed by both), Wild Bill succeeds in it's portrayal of a lower working class family trying to survive in a harsh inner city environment. Creed-Miles and Poulter are both solid and believable but it's the two female leads Roxy (Liz White) and single mother Steph (Charlotte Spencer) who provide the standout performances.

The Richie influence, however, is detrimental to Fletcher's film. Wild Bill's gangsters are all plastic cartoon characters with little or no air of menace, especially head-honcho Glen (Andy Serkis) who is 99% polyethylene and about as scary as a pillow fight. The cameos are also distracting, and as much as you appreciate the likes of Jason Flemyng, Jaime Winstone and Sean Pertwee agreeing to do a turn in their pal's first film, their appearances can be distracting and shatter the film's realism somewhat.

Although Fletcher's directorial influences are clear, he does prove that he is very much his own man. Most of the action is played out against the backdrop of London's Olympic stadium (which Dean works on as a labourer) and it's obvious the director is making a social comment about the capital and the enormous wealth living side by side with enormous poverty. Wild Bill is a film that the promoters of London 2012 would like to see buried at the bottom of the bargain bin and for that reason alone, it's one to watch.

Review: We have a Pope

Italian director Nanni Moretti has been making films since 1973 and is often labelled as the 'Italian Woody Allen' by lazy critics with a passion for tenuous comparisons. Yet Allen, even on his best day, couldn't match the skill, humour and ambition Moretti displays in his latest effort We Have a Pope (Habemus Papam, 2011). It's almost a masterpiece, and arguably the best film to come out of Italy since Giuseppe Tornatore's Malèna (2000).

Cardinal Melville (Michel Piccoli) is elected to be the Vatican's next Pope, but suffers a breakdown moments before he is due to bless the crowd from the balcony of St Peter's Basilica. He refuses to accept the responsibility bestowed upon him claiming the role requires a greatness he does not possess. Obviously, the Vatican is anxious to resolve this matter as quickly as possible and so they hire a psychiatrist (Moretti himself) to try and nurse the Pope back to mental health.

If you caught the first season of The Sopranos (1999), then the above description will seem familiar - the representation of an all powerful leader prone to neuroses and panic attacks brought on by the weight of responsibility thrust upon him. We Have a Pope deals with many issues, but it is the effect power and responsibility have on the human psyche that is the most prevalent.

The Cardinals are portrayed as heavily-medicated, docile old timers isolated from reality due to their position and lacking basic social skills. Adversely, Moretti's psychiatrist is a Machiavellian egomaniac with relationship problems, spitting his dummy and sulking when things don't go his way. Finally, the Pope himself is a nonentity who would rather hide in the shadows and follow and obey rather than stand up and be counted.

Any film which deals with the inner workings of the Catholic Church is always going to be met with fierce criticism. Some will say it's sacrilegious to parody the Vatican hierarchy, whilst others will bleat on about how the film softens and humanises a corrupt and archaic corporation. It's obvious that Moretti - a confirmed atheist, enjoyed poking fun at the pomp and ceremony and it's the interaction between his psychiatrist (who is unable to leave the Vatican until the Pope recovers) and the doddering cardinals which provide the biggest laughs.

It is an extremely funny film, but also very beautiful in places - a scene depicting the Cardinals dancing to music is almost certainly a reference to The Shawshank Redemption (1994) and the two films share common ground. The Vatican, like Shawshank, is a prison for institutionalised old men and the outside world is a strange, foreign land which they struggle to understand and adapt to.

There are a couple of minor negatives, however. The much-lauded volleyball game could have been shorter, and it seems that Moretti struggled with the ending, which is satisfactory rather than great. Yet despite these minor flaws,We Have a Pope is exceptional and undoubtedly one of the films of the year so far.

Review: Viva Riva!

African cinema is hitting its stride and heading north from the Johannesburg ghettos of Tsotsi (2005) and District 9 (2009) to the post-war streets of Congo's capital Kinshasa. Director Djo Munga's debut Viva Riva! (2010) is an overblown, violent drama which suffers from having an unsympathetic protagonist, but succeeds in its portrayal of a damaged country run by hoodlums and racked by corruption.

Riva (Patsha Mukana) returns to Kinshasa after ten years in Angola with a truck full of stolen fuel that he liberated from a bunch of trigger-happy gangsters. Fuel is a precious commodity in the capital, and Riva spends his ill-gotten gains on wine, women and song, but when he spies the local mobster's moll Nora (Manie Malone) he falls head-over-heels. The course of true love doesn't run smoothly however, and not only does the mobster not appreciate Riva running off with his missus, but the Angolan gangsters roll up in town to get their fuel drums and take revenge on our hero.

Although Riva has his charms and Mukana does a fine job playing the cool playboy, it's difficult to root for him. He gives money to a street kid and a wad of notes to his ageing parents, but at heart he's a selfish, single-minded fool who seems intent on causing trouble just for the hell of it. This is fine on one level as it shows that everyone in Kinshasa is on the take and out for themselves, but Munga wants us to feel for the impulsive Riva.

The city itself is the real hero of Viva Riva! - the dance clubs, whorehouses, warehouses and hotel rooms of Kinshasa. The fusion of tribalism and modernity, of colonial Africa and the years of war and mass murder that followed have created a strange, battered but frequently beautiful urban landscape. These are some mean streets indeed and torture, killing and blackmail are part of everyday life. All the locations and background actors seem completely genuine, and credit for that has to go to the director.

All in all, Viva Riva! is a pretty solid, but very forgettable effort - you'll enjoy the ride, but by the time the end arrives you'll probably be suffering from chronic indifference. Still. If Viva Riva! is a taste of what we can expect from Congolese cinema, then a gem will surely emerge sometime in the future.

Review: Real Steel

Everything about Real Steel (2011) reeks of epic failure. The trailer is horrific, Hugh Jackman hasn't made a decent film since Christopher Nolan's supremely underrated The Prestige (2006) and as for director Shawn Levy, his CV is stained by the likes of The Pink Panther (2006) and Night at the Museum 2 (2009). Real Steel has box office bomb written all over it and yet, miraculously, it is one of the finest family films I have seen in many a moon.

Jackman plays Charlie Kenton, a washed-up ex-boxer who earns his living pitting his old robot Ambush against other robots in illegal underground boxing matches. When Ambush is destroyed, Charlie finds himself heavily in debt to thug promoter Ricky (Kevin Durand) and his friend Bailey (Evangeline Lilly) is about to skip town when he is informed that his ex-girlfriend has died, leaving his son Max (Dakota Goyo) in need of parental supervision.

That's all you’re going to get from me plot wise, and although there are scenes of weepy sentimentality that some viewers may find offensive, Real Steel has giant metallic balls compared to most kid-friendly flicks. The relationship between Charlie and Max is the core of the film - Jackman and Goyo have great chemistry and the banter between them has not been sterilised (thankfully).

Max swears on a couple of occasions and although strict religious folks who exist on a diet of porridge and prayer might take offence to such profanity, it makes the characters more rounded and believable. It reminded me of 1980s movies such as The Goonies (1985) and the The Karate Kid (1984) - films aimed at children in their early teens which appreciated the fact that kids don't exist in a bubble and can handle adult themes.

Anyway, who cares about the father-son dynamic when what you really want to see is giant robots ripping each others heads off (Rock'em Sock'em Robot style). The fight sequences are great - quality CGI and enough rousing, Rocky-esque moments designed to keep your inner 12-year-old cheering along. The sound effects are especially good, and if ever a film was worth seeing at the cinema this year, it's Real Steel.

As for negatives, the ending could have been better and Jackman and Lilly's relationship never catches fire, but if you're a parent looking to treat your spawn to a day out at the pictures (or you simply fancy something fun and forgettable on a cold Friday night) then you won't leave the auditorium disappointed after seeing Real Steel.

Review: Way of the Morris

'Morris dancing' is officially cool, and it can only be a matter of time before the likes of Jay-Z start sampling a few beats from the 1972 floral folk classic Morris On, simultaneously inspiring kids from Compton to Clapham to strap on wrist bells and get their handkerchiefs flapping. When the history of this new Morris revival is written, many will claim to be the founding father but those in the know will point to Tim Plester, Rob Curry and their charming documentary Way of the Morris (2011) as being the rock on which we first bashed our sticks together.

OK, so that may never happen; Morris dancing is - and always will be - a bunch of jangling, ale-drinking men in strange costumes hopping around and waving hankies. It's quaint, eccentric and quintessentially English. However, Plester and Curry's Way of the Morris - which focuses on the Morris men of Adderbury in Oxfordshire - will certainly persuade many viewers who formally ridiculed the tradition to show it a lot more respect.

Adderbury lays claim to being the birthplace of the early-1970s Morris dancing revival. Before the First World War, the village had a thriving Morris scene, but all but one of the dancers tragically died in the trenches. This seems to have been a common theme; after the war people didn't feel like dancing anymore and it wasn't until the birth of the English folk-rock movement - spearheaded by the likes of Pentangle and Fairport Convention - that interest in Morris was rekindled.

For Plester, this is a deeply personal project. He comes from Adderbury and his father and grandfather were Morris men, but growing up he had no interest in joining the group. At its best, Way of the Morris gives a rare insight into a tradition that few of us know anything about. He shows great affection for the people and some skill as a filmmaker. Everything is beautifully shot, and at just over an hour in length, he manages to avoid dragging out the story.

The only real qualm is that he doesn't delve deeper into the history of Morris. He hints at possible roots in North Africa and pagan rituals, but claims that nobody really knows the true origins. Whilst it's easy to appreciate the desire to keep things shrouded in mystery, the film would have benefited from some more thorough research.

Way of the Morris is a short, sweet and satisfying glimpse at a national pastime that has become a national joke, and Plester and Curry's documentary goes a long way towards redeeming the reputation of a very British tradition.

Review: Warrior

Before Christopher Nolan's third and final Batman effort The Dark Knight Rises (2012) propels Tom Hardy's stock into the stratosphere, he'll already have three more films in the bag; John Hillcoat's depression-era epic The Wettest County in the World (2012); McG action comedy This Means War (2012) and out this week, Gavin O'Connor's cage fighting drama Warrior (2011), opposite Joel Edgerton and Nick Nolte.

Hardy plays Tommy Conlon, a former US marine who turns up on his reformed alcoholic father Paddy's (Nolte) doorstep for the first time in over a decade, and asks him to train him as a cage fighter. Their relationship is fraught, to say the least. It transpires that during his drinking years, Paddy was handy with his fists and so his ex-wife took off with the young Tommy, leaving his brother Brendan (Edgerton) to remain with her husband.

Brendan went on to become a school teacher and mixed martial artist, but never quite made the big leagues. However, financial stress forces him to move back into cage fighting, much to the chagrin of his wife Tess (Jennifer Morrison).

If you can't guess what happens next, you've probably received one too many flying elbows to the head and although the inevitable happens, there is just enough uncertainty as to what the eventual outcome will be.

Lazy critics have been comparing Warrior with theRocky series, with which it has few similarities. There is, of course, plenty of fighting and working class grit on display, but Sylvester Stallone's plucky boxer inspired empathy and the audience couldn't help but root for him. The problem with Warrior is that although the idea of having two fighters to get behind seems like a good idea, earlier on you make a choice as to who you want to win the title, and if the brother you backed doesn't succeed in the final bout, you may well be left unsatisfied with the outcome.

You also have to question the decision to go for a PG-13 rating. The move smacks of a studio stripping away anything considered too 'adult', in order to ensure that teenage fans of televised cage fighting are able to buy a ticket. Subsequently, the film's drama is diluted and the themes of violence, war and alcoholism are not explored in any great depth. The potential for Warrior was clearly there, and two brief scenes with Nolte and Hardy provide us with a glimpse of how good this film could have been if the objective had been to make a truly affecting film, rather than simply money.

With lesser actors involved, this could have been an average yet entertaining sports movie. However, the cast of heavyweights just about mange to redeem the faults in the narrative. Hardy is excellent: broody, damaged and closed off from the world, his physical presence is something to behold. The man has everything, and watching his performance, you'd be forgiven for being reminded of a youthful Marlon Brando.

Edgerton is almost as good, proving that his brief but stand out role in David Michôd's Animal Kingdom (2010) was not a one-off. As for the grizzled Nick Nolte, he certainly impresses, but its hard not to feel that his character is somewhat underdeveloped, a reflection of a watered-down script.

All in all, Warrior is a solid sports movie that the majority of people who go to see it will enjoy. However, it but could have been a great one if someone had shown as much balls in the production office as the fighters do in the cage.

Review: A Lonely Place to Die

Julian Gilbey's mountaineering thriller A Lonely Place to Die (2011) - starring Melissa George, Ed Speleers, Eamonn Walker and Sean Harris - is yet another example of heavy marketing for a substandard product. The posters are everywhere and every time you click on a movie website, Melissa George in full climbing gear descends from the top of the screen.

A Lonely Place to Die is the twisted tale of a bunch of climbers who stumble across and rescue a girl buried in a hole in the Scottish mountains. It turns out that the girl has been kidnapped by Mr. Kidd (Sean Harris) and then held to ransom. Of course, Kidd and his associate want her back in order to collect the cash, so they kill two random hunters - stealing their high powered rifles - and chase the girl and her rescuers through the Highlands.
Admittedly, this isn't the greatest premise in the world, but with a good script and assured direction, greatness was still reachable. Unfortunately for everyone concerned, A Lonely Place to Die has neither.

After further researching the Gilbey brothers (the screenplay was written by Julian's brother Will), I discovered that the siblings come from a long line of aristocrats. Money and contacts are the lifeblood of directors, and the industry is littered with the over-privileged. Most of the time, they have the talent to back it up but there are some rich kids (Brett Ratner for example) who regularly produce poor products and continue to find work.

That said, there are some competent scenes and camera work in A Lonely Place to Die. Melissa George was adequate in the lead role and should still be considered for better projects. Sean Harris is always solid, but he's played the same weaselly villain too many times and Ed Speleers is in dire need of an acting refresher course.

Julian Gilbey's direction was just awful in places, and the director must have received a slow motion machine for Christmas because he uses it whenever he feels the urge. The script is too far-fetched, the killing spree of the kidnappers gets more and more ridiculous and when the action finally reaches a remote town, Gilbey seems to be under the impression he's remaking The Wicker Man (1973). It's safe to say that when the end credits rolled I felt like I'd been duped.

Review: Troll Hunter

André Øvredal’s Norwegian monster movie Troll Hunter (2010) has been reviewed to death already.
On one hand it's a horror film in the mode of The Blair Witch Project (1999) and The Last Broadcast (1998), but it's about as terrifying as being hit by a marshmallow hammer.

On the other hand it's a darkly comical mockumentary about a couple of college students following around a strange stoic backwoodsman (Otto Jespersen) hired by a shadowy government agency to hunt down giant trolls. The comedy element, to an extent, succeeds, but the laughs are so dry and infrequent that many viewers will miss the humour completely.

There are far too many scenes of people in bobble hats running through dark woods being chased by an invisible troll and it takes a long time for the beast to be fully unveiled; a trick that worked in Cloverfield (2007) but the temptation to shout "get on with it" during the umpteenth chase through the pine trees was mighty indeed.

For all the film's problems, I did leave the screening room impressed. Øvredal might not have succeeded in making a great film, but his ambition has to be respected. His use of the Norwegian landscape, particular in the final snow drift showdown were nothing short of awesome. His skill with the wide shot far exceeding the shaky camera action of the chase scenes. In fact it was during the climax that I realized Øvredal owes more to Ray Harryhausen then the likes of Blair Witch and if a remake of The Golden Voyage of Sinbad (1974) or Jason and the Argonauts (1963) ever gets off the ground, then I believe Øvredal and his team deserve to be considered to take the wheel.

Another recent film which has much in common withTroll Hunter is Gareth Edwards' Monsters (2010)which I admired because of what was achieved on such a low budget, but at the same time loathed. A lot of promotional cash was thrown at Monsters and the hype didn't match the quality of the product. Troll Hunter has also been heavily promoted and again, it's not as good as billed, but due to the low production costs it is worth throwing a million or so at a viral campaign - because you're going to make your money back, and then some.

I expect to see more Troll Hunter and Monsters type efforts trickle out of the dream factory over the next few years. Some will be worth the ticket price and others will be expensive packaging and cheap content so do beware and make sure you are not being sold a dummy.

Review: Source Code

Director Duncan Jones (formerly Zowie Bowie) follows up the highly acclaimed Moon (2009) withSource Code (2011), a short but exceedingly sweet slice of good old fashioned sci-fi. Jake Gyllenhaal plays Captain Colter Stevens, a soldier who wakes up to find himself on a speeding Chicago-bound commuter train opposite mystery woman Christina (Michelle Monaghan).

Dazed and confused, Colter tries to establish how he got there but before he can get his hands on an over priced chicken sandwich the carriage is consumed by flames and the train explodes.

Colter wakes up again but this time he is strapped into a metal capsule in what appears to be a military base. On a screen in front of him is the face of Sergeant Colleen Goodwin (Vera Farmiga) who informs Colter the train he had been on was the victim of a terrorist attack and he been transplanted into the body of one of the victims, via the 'Source Code' project, to investigate who blew up the train.

Unfortunately due to the limitations of Source Code he only has eight minutes in which to carry out his mission and if he doesn’t succeed he will be transported back to the capsule and returned to the train for another eight minutes until his mission is complete.

That’s about all you need to know plot-wise and any further description would spoil the broth, but rest assured that Source Code supplies plenty of action, tension and unfathomable science for you to suck on for 90 minutes.

Discerning fans of my favorite childhood TV seriesQuantum Leap will recognize the whole time traveling body switching idea. During one scene Colter looks into the bathroom mirror and sees another reflection staring back at him and I thought for a moment he was going to utter the immortal lines ‘Oh boy’ and I was slightly disappointed that he never. The writer missed a trick and it would have been a perfect homage to the show which was obviously the biggest influence on the Source Code script.


I’m not usually fan of Jake Gyllenhaal. Since Donnie Darko (2001) he’s found himself on leading man duty in lots of average films and in his best flick of the last ten years, Brokeback Mountain (2005), the late Heath Ledger’s performance proved that he was by far the most talented actor of the two. He does a fine job here though as the heroic solider determined to finish his mission and it turns out that he does have the acting chops which I previously thought were lacking.

Some critics have slated Source Code for its eagerness to get to the pay off at the expense of a solid plot but I don’t think the film suffers as a consequence and complaints about the implausibility of leaping into dead men’s bodies are ridiculous. This is high quality science fiction at its very best and if you’re unable to suspend disbelief then stick to documentaries.

Review: The Tree of Life

To be honest, this is more of a purge than a review. Since I saw The Tree of Life (2011) in a sweaty London screening room two weeks ago it has infected me with dread . I have attempted to write this article no less than seven times but on every occasion I have been filled with the overwhelming urge to stick a hot fork in my eye rather than continue.

The temptation to ramble on about this film is heavy indeed. A cursory web search will reveal hundreds of pages of reviews spitting bile or singing praise and if you feel the urge for in depth analysis then happy Googling and God speed.

I want to keep things as simple as possible and if that casts doubt on my critical faculties, so be it.So here's the thing. Everybody should watch The Tree of Life (2011).

Not because it's enthralling, entertaining or laden with meaning. It's none of those things. In fact it's easily one of the most tediously boring, self absorbed, bloated and pretentious films I have ever seen. I would rather eat my own face then sit through another screening, and if the rumours of a six hour directors cut are true, I finally know what the walls of Hell are made of.

I went along to the show with a colleague and when we left the auditorium the first words he said to me were, “Well, that was definitely an artistic masterpiece,” and you know, he was right.

You don't have to like a piece of art to appreciate the artists vision. Terrence Malick has created a beautiful and ambitious meditation on memory, childhood and the nature of being. Using the marquee names of Brad Pitt and Sean Penn he has managed to sneak an experimental art house film into mainstream cinemas, and for that trick alone you have to admire the man's intelligence.

For some viewers it will be a revelatory experience. They will ponder the philosophical questions Malick is posing and find meaning in every frame. Others, including myself, will think he's revealing nothing new and you can find meaning in the telephone book if you really want to find it.

All art is subjective, as the old saying goes, and that is exactly the reason I want you to go and see it. I am not saying a word about the plot or how well the roles were played. You need to experience it with a fresh pair of eyes and I guarantee that when you leave the show you are either going to be mesmorised or foaming at the mouth and an artist wants exactly that, what they don't want is indifference.

In a round about way the Tree of Life is similar to the Human Centipede II (2011) they are just at different ends of the spectrum. Neither are an enjoyable watch but both provoke a reaction. Does Malick aspire to greater things than odious Centipede director Tom Six? Of course he does, and this, I think, is the reason why The Tree of Life won the Palme d'Or. I hope so anyway. If they awarded the prize because they genuinely enjoyed the film the jury should be sewn ass to mouth and be forced to star in the Human Centipede III.