Conversations With My Gardener

With it's luminous rural setting, emphasis on male friendship and concentration on the good things in life, this all feels very French. Most of the film is indeed a series of conversations, not simply with the gardener of the title, but usually just between 2 characters. However, it never feels dull or stagey, partly because of the terrific acting (Daniel Auteuil is as wonderful as ever) The lack of plot isn't a problem either, with the emphasis on character. A childhood friendship is resurrected despite huge differences in class and life experience, and as the replanted kitchen garden flourishes, so does this relationship. The painter gradually becomes a more caring, considerate person (as is usually the case when city folk visit the country) This could be appallingly sentimental but the emphasis on the gardener's working class roots and his experiences working for the railway keep it grounded in the real world. Then there's the inherent sadness of the second half as it becomes clear the gardener is gravely ill, but even this can't keep him away from his beloved garden. Whereas the middle class painter was able to follow his dream rather than go into the family business (unlike his own father), the gardener never had that option. He joined the railway, which ultimately provided friendship and love (he met his wife at a work dance) although it might also be the source of his illness. The painter eventually paints the things that fill his friend's life with happiness, producing a noticeably more direct, vivid art. A cliche perhaps but a touching end to a thoroughly enjoyable film.

The Silence of Lorna

There's far more plot in this film than is usual for the Dardenne brothers, and it's not necessarily a good thing. The first half concentrates on the (soon-to-be-ended) marriage of convenience between Albanian Lorna and junkie Claudy. The plan is for her to get Belgian citizenship, and then subsequently remarry a Russian, who in turn will become a citizen. Simple. Until, that is, Claudy decides to clean up and the gang decide an overdose is quicker than waiting for a divorce. Lorna's disdain for Claudy turns into an urge to save his life, and maybe even genuine affection. The second half revolves around the fallout from these events. Lorna's guilt expresses itself via a phantom pregnancy which she steadfastly believes is real despite all evidence to the contrary. Running throughout is the continuous exchange of money - in shops, banks, between Lorna and her boyfriend, Lorna and the gang and Lorna and Claudy (he gives her his money in an attempt to stay clean) At the beginning it represents her desire to own a business, but by the end it's of far less importance than the phantom baby. It's clearly supposed to signal her redemption but actually feels far sadder. The loss of her dreams and a descent into a self-imposed delusion.

Rivals

If Rivals was an American film, there would be a clearly-laid out narrative arc, enlivened by frequent action sequences and with perfunctory love interest. Being French, it's actually more of a character piece, that rambles across time and space. The complex relationship between Gabriel (the elder, criminal brother) and Francois (the younger brother, who's a policeman) is the main focus but the film also pays attention to the details of frictional family life, petty crime, and how love can change a person. The film is set in the 1970 and looks of that era. It's dingy and colourless, with grainy, handheld camerawork and sequences divided by slow fades to black. The low key approach suits the meandering story. There may be car chases, robberies and murders but they happen in a matter-of-fact manner. Just one more incident in the lives of the brothers. The father adores his elder son, while the younger seethes with a mix of brotherly love, indignation and outright anger as Gabriel appears to slip back into his old ways. For a change, the female characters are no mere afterthoughts. The sister, girlfriends, ex-wives are fleshed out, and a pleasing amount of attention is paid to their emotional reactions. The ending itself, while actually clearly signposted, still comes as a shock, which is entirely in keeping with the restrained approach of the rest of the film.

Slumdog Millionaire

A new film by Danny Boyle is always a cause for celebration. Alongside Michael Winterbottom, he's Britain's best and most adventurous director. He might not be as prolific as his compatriot (let's face it, who is?), but Danny Boyle shares his determination to be diverse. For that alone, both should be treasured. Black comedy, fantasy, fairytale, horror, sci-fi: Boyle can do them all. After the headspinning sci-fi and awesome beauty of Sunshine, he now turns to the vibrancy and chaos of Mumbai. For once it doesn't feel like a Third World backdrop to the adventures of privileged Westerners. The focus is firmly on Mumbai and its inhabitants. It might be a fairytale but it doesn't shy away from poverty and violence.
The film is structured via Jamal's interrogation by the police, his backstory interweaving with events in the present, form and content inextricably intertwined. It's inconceivable that a mere "slumdog" could possibly be one question away from winning 20 million rupees (although the opening titles wittily point to both the game show setting and the role of destiny) It does require a certain suspension of disbelief as each flashback to Jamal's past provides the key to the next answer. It could all feel horribly contrived but the backstory is so enthralling that it isn't.
Boyle is never heavy-handed in his portrayal of the slums (they are very useful labyrinths for dodging irate policeman, where noone, including dozing mutts, bats an eyelid at a chase) or poverty (the children come up with ingenious money-making schemes and are indefatigably energetic) We might be shown the Taj Mahal but only as another opportunity for the brothers to get some cash, this time from gullible tourists.
While a lot of this is very funny indeed, there are also a ripe selection of villains. The host of the TV show is a smarmy, patronising narcissist, jealous of losing the limelight for a single second. A seemingly benign philanthropist is in reality a vicious modern-day Fagin, perfectly willing to blind small children with good singing voices as they earn more money. Jamal's older brother is worldly and selfish, prepared to do just about anything to make money, even commit murder. The "bad" brother maybe but there's always the sense that he might be able to redeem himself, whereas his gangster boss is brutal, heartless and totally ruthless. He might rule the slum but he's long since lost his soul. At it's heart though, the film is a love story. Jamal never stops loving Latika, no matter how long he's parted from her or how desperate the situation appears. Even his appearance on the show is motivated by his need to be seen by her once more. Ultimately, the money he could win is less important than knowing that she's safe. If you think this sounds like it's going to be heratwarming, you're correct. And it finishes on a gloriously grin-inducing Bollywood riff. Like I said, only Danny Boyle ...

Milk

I'd become rather fond of Gus Van Sant's recent dreamy, non-lineae style. It worked a treat on Elephant and Last Days. Milk, however, sees a return to a more mainstream approach which, in terms of tempting audiences to see a film about a gay activist, makes commercial sense. Not that it's Hollywood-bland biopic. It's framed by Harvey Milk recording his testament in the event of an assassination (shown very early to be presient) and there is plentiful use of contemporary footage, news reports and photographs. This helps tremedously in establishing the milieu of 1970s San Francisco, and the Castro Street district in particular. It also puts the onus in recreating a similar authenticity in the dramatic sequences. Thus the first half is prey to "chronology by hairstyle", which proves to be rather distracting. The 1970s truly was the decade bypassed by taste. Emile Hirsch has the misfortune to combien a mop of curly hair with alarmingly oversized and unflattering pair of glasses.
By it's very nature (covering a period of 8 years) the film is episodic - another riot averted! another failed political campaign! - and it takes a while to sort out who's who among the minor characters. Once Milk achieves office and encounters Josh Brolin's Dan White however things really click into place. In some ways it's difficult to believe all this happened a mere 30 years ago, especially the concerted campaign to deprive not just gay teachers but also *anyone* who supported them, of their jobs. It does remind one of the continuing influence of the religious right and their involvement in the political life of the country. Likewise, the emphasis might be on preserving the civil rights of gay people but it also resonates strongly with the current whittling away of civil rights by one means or another. In some ways, these echoes are Milk's most impressive achievement.

Dean Spanley

A film based on the idea that an early 20th century dean is the reincarnation of a dog ought to collapse under it's own whimsy. It's one thing for a character to talk about a past life but when that life is not human but canine all kind of potential trouble lies ahead. That Dean Spanley doesn't come across as completely frivolous and silly is due to the early scenes, which combine comedy with a deep-rooted sense of melancholy, and the presence of the sceptical colonial, Wrather. Old Fisk might be the archetypal cantankerous old man (with an imperiously disdainful delivery courtesy of Peter O'Toole) who takes delight in tripping small children but there are hints of slight cracks in that rock-hard facade. His disparaging remarks about souls and whether they transmigrate clearly have a subtext relating to his own losses. This is a man who has apparently never mourned his son, killed in the Boer War, and his wife, who died of grief after the former's death, and who invariably refers to his surviving son Young Fisk, thus keeping him at both an emotional and a physical (Thursday visits only) distance. In fact Old Fisk seems to regret the disappearance of a childhood pooch, Wag, more than any human loss. A contrast is provided by his housekeeper who occasionally talks to the chair in which her late husband sat as a way of coping with his absence. Yes, it is all very contrived, and suspension of disbelief is absolutely vital - guess which dog has been reincarnated as the dean - but it's also surprisingly moving with the underlying themes of loss, grief and mourning. It's also frequently hilarious, and there's a lovely suggestion that the wide-boy colonial might himself be the reincarnation of the adventurous mongrel with whom Wag met his fate.

Changeling

As one would expect from a Clint Eastwood film, Changeling is solidly directed, with good performances and well-observed period detail. It does however sometimes feel like 2 different films edited together, even though both strands are inextricably entwined. The story of Christine Collins herself provides ample material: a single mother, a missing child, involvement with a corrupt police department and a spell in a psychiatric ward. Meanwhile the other strand follows the terrible events uncovered on an isolated farm by a cop who thinks he's merely dealing with a juvenile deportation. Both stories are gripping in their different ways but once the film starts cutting between them, one begins to detract from the other.
What does come across loud and clear is the astonishingly patronising attitude towards women by those in positions of authority. The LAPD bank on Christine being dismissed as merely a hysterical woman when she insists that the returned boy isn't her son. Even physical impossibilities are glossed over by "experts", implying she's too stupid to understand, and when she refuses to conform and be the invisible little woman, she is made to disappear (it turns out that unco-operative women are systematically condemned as being mentally ill and locked up until they decide to conform) Corruption within the LAPD is rife, even extending to an intention to ignore accusations of murder. Purely in formal terms, the audience knows the two strands must be connected. As the horror on the farm is uncovered, we realize Christine has yet to experience the worst. The ending itself is intensely bittersweet. She might smile and say she's now got hope, but the expression on the cop's face says the opposite. In some ways, hope is the worst thing that could happen. There will be no closure for her.

Memories of Underdevelopment

While not as awe-inspiring as the virtuoso brilliance of I Am Cuba, Memories of Underdevelopment does provide a fascinating snapshot of post-Revolutionary Cuba. Technically, it is equally rough around the edges with some ropey sound recording, but these deficiences are more than compensated for by the flair of the film-making. Photos, news footage, newspaper headlines, trips round Hemingway's house, all are woven into the film to provide context and commentary, and it's far from being straightforward propaganda. Sergio is neither a revolutionary or a counter-revolutionary. He might remain while others of his class leave but his main concern seems to be womanizing. Ending at the height of the Missile Crisis, both the fate of the country and of Sergio are open to doubt. He seems ready to finally abandon his country but one suspects he lacks the energy even for that. By contrast, the city around him is alive with activity as the new society prepares to meet the crisis head on. The film might be ambivalent about the Revolution but it certainly doesn't endorse the apathy of the society it replaced.

Hunger

The subject matter is grim (the Maze dirty protest, hunger strikes, brutality) but luckily Steve McQueen hasn't chosen the usual Britfilm default of gritty social realism. Such a film would be truly unwatchable. As it is, the film probably shows far more of the dirty protest than one would ever want to see, and the acts of violence have a visceral impact. There's very little dialogue, apart from one very important sequence, with much of the story told via images. These convery much of the ritual of life inside and outside of the Maze. You only need to see the guard checking under his car, anxiously watched by his wife, to realize the danger that's inherent in merely leaving for work. Similarly, the repeated shots of blooded hands being washed not only suggest violence but also a washing away of sin.
The structure is also daring. Bobby Sands himself doesn't appear until some time into the film. We've spent the early scenes with the prison guard and with a new Republican prisoner, being introduced to everyday life inside the Maze. Once Sands appears the focus becomes more single-minded. The key scene is the lengthy, but rivetting, single take where he discusses the decision to go on hunger strike with a priest. Both consider themselves to be good Catholics and good Republicans but their debate raises vital differences. The priest views the decision as the arrogance of a martyr, while Sands is convinced of his own righteousness. It's possibly the most impressive piece of acting you'll see all year.

Body of Lies

Body of Lies clearly has ambitions to be another Syriana, with all of the latter film's intelligence and resonance. Unfortunately, it's hamstrung by some clunking plot mechanics, especially a romantic subplot that's crowbarred in merely to set up the ending. Ridley Scott's hyperactive visual style is present and correct, sometimes distractingly so. Equally distracting is Russell Crowe's tic of lowering his head and peering over his spectacles. Having said that, he is always a wonderfully watchable actor, even when the performance is dialled right down, as is the case here. The film isn't a complete write-off. Mark Strong is terrific as the head of Jordanian intelligence, faced with never-ending American arrogance and duplicity. The appalling consequences of American machinations are illustrated by the inevitable fate of an innocent Arab architect set up to look like a terrorist leader in order to lure out the main target. It's fitting that the climax revolves around the Jordanians taking a leaf out of the CIA's book - with far more effective results.

Waltz With Bashir

I had assumed that the stupidest piece of behaviour at the cinema this year would be the family that brought a 3 year old to The Dark Knight, but no. That has been surpassed by the morons who brought a baby in to Waltz With Bashir. How? It's an 18 certificate! It might be animation but there's no cute talking animals here, only red-eyed savage dogs and dying horses. The format permits such nightmarish images to coexist alongside more surreal visions and "normal" life in a way that live action - even supplemented by CGI - couldn't. It's not glossy, smooth animation. That would be totally inappropriate. There's a feverish, hallucinatory feel: the repetition of the orange-hued scene of soldiers emerging from the sea; the murkey green of a soldier's reverie; the dislocation of Ari's furlough, his stasis distancing him from the everyday life that surrounds him. No straight documentary would be so effective, no matter how many reenactments were involved. Even towards the end, when animated talking heads begin proliferate, the interspersed memories keep it visually interesting while portraying the Sabra and Shatila massacres in a powerful non-exploitative manner. Nothing however can match the horror of the news footage that finishes the film. Grainy, fuzzy, difficult to decipher sometimes, but with the real victims in all their grief and suffering.

Annie Liebovitz

I'm not a huge fan of Annie Liebovitz. Her images are striking but they mostly leave me cold - and if I never see the pregnant Demi Moore photo again I'll be very happy. The photos in this show date from 1990 onwards and include celebrity shots (a young Brad, that Demi Moore, Daniel Day Lewis looking like he belongs in the 19th century), snaps of family (with some very disconcerting pictures of Susan Sontag's cancer treatment and death) and a handful of landscapes (mostly unimpressive, which takes some doing when you're talking about Monument Valley) The most engaging photos are those of Annie Liebovitz's children, especially young Sarah who's a contender for the cutest baby ever.

The Baader-Meinhof Complex

Wow, two cracking German films in one week. Like The Wave, TBMC is very much concerned with politics. It doesn't make many concessions to those with no knowledge of the period and milieu that produced the RAF. Apart from the main trio of Baader, Meinhof and Ensslin, characters appear and disappear with practically no introduction (often via the images crossed off wanted posters), and the 2nd and 3rd generation members of the RAF cross the screen with bewildering frequency. As Baader tells the police late on, the murders and kidnappings committed to try and free the leadership are being perpetrated by people he's never even met.
What the first half of the film does extremely well is to capture the political climate of the time which convinced many young people that violence was the only option to defeat the forces of oppression. These people, unlike those in The Wave, are intensely aware politically. The previous generation allowed Nazism to rise to power and they can see remnants within the West German state. They also regard American imperialism as another form of oppression of the poor and weak. The cumulative weight of events (a student killed by police during a demonstration; the attempted assassination of a radical student leader; the ongoing war in Vietnam) convince the main characters that there's a real danger of fascism returning. Ironically the actions of the RAF bring about some of the things they feared.
Far from glamourizing terrorism, the films shows the numerous faults of the members of the group. Baader is a racist, misogynist boor; Ensslin and Meinhof turn on each other once they are in jail; the training camp in the Middle East highlights their insensitivity to the customs of others and their willingness to dispose of anyone they feel has betrayed them. The murders, especially by the later generations, are brutal and pointless (Baader himself warns the police that worse will follow) and achieve nothing. The film ends on a suitably grim note as the cycle of violence continues.

The Wave

Yet more proof of the current strength of German cinema, The Wave takes a Californian high school experiment on the dangers of fascism and transposes it to Germany, immediately adding layers of resonance. The intellectual arrogance of Rainer Wenger results in his project week class on autocracy forming themselves into a group called The Wave, complete with uniform (white shirt and jeans) and a rather laughable salute. This basis set-up raises several issues. The class might be fully aware of their country's Nazi past but they ignore the fascist underpinnings of The Wave, even though these tenets have already been stated during the first lesson. Those in positions of authority, be they parents or the school head, support The Wave while it appears to be having a beneficial effect on pupils' behaviour. This in turn indicates the undoubted positives that emerge from the establishment of the group: feelings of comradeship and solidarity in a class formally riven with cliques (although The Wave actually replaces several small cliques with a large one); new friendships (for instance between Sinan and Marco, formally antagonistic team-mates on the water polo team); increased confidence among some of the pupils (Dennis the put-upon theatre director *finally* asserts himself during yet another ramshackle rehearsal) These are the immediate, obvious results which blind people to the darker undertones.
Also interesting is the point at which the handful of dissenters decide it's gone, or is going, too far. Mona baulks at the uniform, while Karo breaks with The Wave after feeling persecuted for wearing a red top instead of white. Marco however only realizes the full repercussions after he's committed an act of violence, and Rainer only when Sinan attacks an opponent during a match, while a fight breaks out after Karo throws anti-Wave fliers into the crowd (clear echoes of Sophie Scholl) The point of Rainer's experiment may have been to demonstrate how easily a nation can drift into fascism, or let it flourish but the class (and Rainer) lose sight of it being a project and it gathers a momentum of it's own. The timeframe may be unrealistically foreshortened and the ending melodramatic, but there's an undeniable power to its conclusion. Fascism = violence and terror.

Let's Talk About The Rain

This is probably best described as a comedy of manners, although it isn't exactly packed with belly-laughs. True, there are a couple of genuinely hilarious moments (note to budding documentarians: don't conduct an interview on a picturesque hillside where sheep are grazing ...) but mostly the humour is very gentle. Michel seems oblivious to his own incompetence as a film-maker. He misses a cracking interview because he hasn't started the camera and manages to drop part of his camera equipment on a baby's head during a baptism (another comic highlight) However, he's never vilified. For all his faults, the film is as generous to him as it is to the other characters, although Florence, the neglected younger sister carrying a lifetime's worth of resentment on her shoulders, verges on the truly irritating. The heart of the film is Karim, Michel's assistant, who proves to be a better filmmaker than his mentor: he possesses a nice line in aggressive interviewing and a knack for hilariously apt montage. As the son of the bourgeois family's (now unpaid) Arab housekeeper, he also seethes with resentment but never lapses into self-pity, unlike Florence. He provides a much needed opposing viewpoint to the smugness surrounding him.

Renaissance Faces

The best thing about going to an exhibition is the element of surprise. Walking around, which painting or artefact will grab your attention? I find that often it's something entirely new to me, maybe even by an artist whose name has never impinged on my consciousness previously. Alongside the expected highlights of this exhibition - Pope Julius II, The Ambassadors - sits the delightful Portrait of Agatha van Schoonhoven by Jan van Scorel. This was clearly painted by a man who loved her. It's very simple, just a smiling woman looking out from under a white headdress, and couldn't be further from the elaborate court paintings done for Philip II elsewhere. It's easy to admire the richly decorated armour and expensive cloths in such portraits but you are always kept at a distance.
Other highlights include a fascinating oil skeptch by Beccafumi which looks like it belongs in the 19th century rather than the 16th with it's loose brushwork. Then there's Ghirlandaio's Old Man and his Grandson with the accompanying deathbed sketch of the man. The deformity of the old man's nose contrasts with the perfect features of the angelic child but what's important is the obvious affection between the two. It makes one smile. For entirely different reasons, so does Arcimboldo's portrait of Rudolph II, formed entirely from flowers, fruit and vegetables. Even today it looks startling amid all the attempts at naturalism, yet the more one looks at it, the more one can see the Emperor's facial features, so it's not out of place at all.

Quantum of Solace

Growing up, the Bond films I saw were travelogues packed with girls, gadgets, evil villains and inappropriate quips whenever a bad guy died. Over time the plots became ever more baroque and improbable, taking second place to the increasing array of gagdets and customised vehicles. No more. Those days are gone. Bond was re-booted in the shadow of Bourne. QofS strongly suggests that from now on, the Bond films will be more closely connected to each other. There are plenty of Quantum operatives glimpsed in this film who may yet reappear in subsequent movies, and the events of Casino Royale are referenced frequently.
The gadgets and quips no longer take centre-stage, though the occasional sarcastic remark remains, and girls no longer appear merely to end up in Bond's bed. In fact, on current form that's a sure way to end up dead. A variation on the fate of Jill Masterson happens to one unlucky character. The villains have also changed. They are no longer megalomaniacs holed up in their elaborate (but eminently destructable) lairs while hell-bent on world domination. These men are out in the world, moving in high circles but all the while minions of the mysterious Quantum. Dominic Greene achieves his nefarious aims via his environmentally-aware company, not that the plot is particularly clear. Like the last Bourne film, QofS moves at such a pace that exposition is left well behind, and when it's there, it's often buried beneath an impenetrable accent or is way down in the mix and difficult to hear. Luckily, you're so gripped by the action that it doesn't really matter. Crunching car/boat/foot chases and fights are all present and correct, without losing the emotional element introduced in Casino Royale. I wouldn't describe QofS as "fun" in the manner of the Connery films, but it's an exciting action film with brains as well as brawn.

Quiet Chaos

If Gomorrah represents the political strand of Italian film-making, Quiet Chaos is part of the more sentimental tendency, though thankfully not the sickly sweet variety. It begins with 2 lives saved and 1 life lost, and the emotional aftershocks are the heart of the film. Pietro worries that his daughter isn't grieving for her mother while seemingly oblivious to his own emotional deadness. A lot of the power comes from merely hinting at key facts or leaving them completely unexplained: Pietro's pre-marital affair with his eccentric sister-in-law; the emails exchanged between his wife and a children's author; Pietro's conversation with the mysterious businessman Steiner. Likewise, the real reason behind Pietro's decision to spend his days in the park outside his daughter's school is vague. He might claim it's for the little girl's sake but it's also a convenient way to avoid the office politics surrounding the merger at his workplace, as well as delaying having to deal with his own grief. An entirely different life springs up around him. There are new aquaintances centred on the park and visits from old friends and colleagues who use him as a sounding board for their thoughts and plans. In his own small way, he's become famous. The one truly false note in what is otherwise a moving portrait of love and loss is the sex scene late in the film. It might well be justified as a working out of guilt and anger but stylistically it's horribly jarring. The low key, open ending is much more fitting.

Burn After Reading.

I can't make up my mind about this one. The Coens are back in zany mode, and the plot is as convoluted as that of Lebowski but lacks that film's winning laidback charm. It's also got the cartoonish exaggeration of Raising Arizona, combined with the violence from the brothers' more serious films. This might be one of those Coen films that grows on one over time (I initially wasn't a huge fan of Lebowski but now I love it) although the absence of truly sympathetic characters may ultimately tell against it. Norville Barnes in Hudsucker may have been a self-deluding idiot but he was lovable with it, which isn't something that can be said about Burn's cast of morons. There are certainly hilarious performances such as Linda's eager plastic surgeon with his alarmingly perfect teeth and, funniest by far, J.K. Simmons' bemused CIA chief. Clooney adds an extra layer of slime to his patented Coen idiot, and the spy film cliches work nicely to complement his growing sense of paranoia. Pitt is like a hyperactive puppy as the empty-headed Chad, with only the music from his iPod filling the space between his ears. The women are even less sympathetic. Tilda Swinton is yet another ice queen, while Mrs Joel is the plastic surgery-obsessed Linda (and don't even think about the implications of her husband writing that role especially for her!) At least the women end up with what they want (sort of) which I suppose puts them well ahead of the poor schmucks surrounding them.

Love's Labour's Lost: RSC

I'll never be converted to the comedies. There are simply too many irritants built into their structure: "comic" rustics (Costard); wilful disguise and subsequent misunderstandings (the princess and her women wearing masks in retaliation at the men disguising themselves as Muscovites); a deeply distasteful cruelty displayed towards the lower orders by the aristocrats (the mean jibes throughout the Nine Worthies scene); and plots that never seem to go anywhere. Give me the dramatic tension of the histories and tragedies any day. Love's Labour's Lost sparks to life whenever David Tennant's Berowne takes centre stage. His relaxed comic timing is a delight, especially compared to the laboured machinations elsewhere. The comedy Spaniard Don Armado also proves a highpoint, forever manging English grammar and syntax. He works far better than the endlessly tedious Holofernes and his sidekick. There is also a delightfully simple set comprising a tree centre-stage with "branches" and "leaves" hanging down from the rafters. It provides both a backdrop and a handy hiding place, and doesn't distract from everything else. Alas, there are moments in the play when one wishes that it did!

Gomorrah

At last. A much-needed corrective to the cinema's glamourization of the mafia and gangsters in general. While 2 young thugs might quote from Scarface and have delusions of following Tony Montana's rise, Gomorrah instead shows the grimy, ruthless and violent reality of the Camorra. The opening sequence is a terrific piece of wrong-footing. Black turns to an eerie blue as various men step into tanning machines. It could almost be a sci-fi film. Until they are brutally shot. This is the first indication of the war brewing within the Camorra, which impinge s on a variety of characters. The deeply depressing housing blocks undergo a form of ethnic cleansing, with families forced out if they choose the "wrong" side. Not that the film focuses solely on the drug-riven underclass. Other strands follow the insidious penetration of legitimate enterprises, such as high fashion, by the Camorra, and their involvement in the shockingly cavalier disposal of toxic waste. Money rules, the fate of ordinary people is disregarded. As one would expect, the film is violent but what really registers are the quieter moments: young Toto's shocked bewilderment in the aftermath of a shooting; blood-spattered Don Ciro's terror after setting up his boss; the bulldozer disposing of the bodies of 2 hoodlums who've pissed off the local bosses once too often. If this sounds grim, it is. For most of the characters there's no escape from this world. Toto gains comradeship (under threat) but has to assist with the murder of a woman who's his friend. Pasquale the tailor escapes with his life after becoming involved with rival Chinese manufacturers but has to abandon the job he loves, becoming a truck driver. The wannabe Tony Montanas discover that life doesn't resemble art, while Don Ciro's desperate attempts to stay alive involve betrayal of his clan. Only Roberto manages to extricate himself, his horror at the young children drafted in to drive the toxic waste trucks after the truckers refuse providing the catalyst for a difficult decision. What future awaits him in Camorra-dominated Naples is uncertain. There's nothing romantic about these gangsters.

Brideshead Revisited

There's no way I can be an impartial observer of this film, growing up as I did with the enormously lengthy Granada TV adaptation (about which I actually remember very little apart from certain iconic images) I may even have read the book at some point but that clearly left zero impression. So it's all very pretty, with lots of cliched Oxford scenes, and Venice and Castle Howard looking very photogenic. The cast are equally easy on the eyes. However, that is part of the problem. It's all surface with no depth whatsoever. Every so often someone mentions religion or Catholicism just to remind us that there's more to the story than nice clothes and glorious interiors. Only Ben Whishaw's Sebastian ever really touches the emotions. Every look he directs at Charles speaks unrequited love while the guilt and manipulation he undergoes courtesy of his mother is quite heartbreaking. It's a glimpse of the destructive force of repressive religion which resides within this particular country pile.

DVD roundup September

Le corbeau - Probably the most controversial wartime French production, which managed the impressive feat of being loathed by both Right and Left *and* the Germans. The film's ambiguity gives rise to such wildly differing interpretations. Whether you view Le corbeau as an attack on French society or on collaboration with the Germans, it certainly has a cynical attitude about human nature. The supposed hero is actually rather unpleasant and is labelled as an adulterer and abortionist by the poison pen letters driving the plot. Just about everybody else reveals themselves to be totally self-serving, and the most sympathetic character commits a cold-blooded murder before calmly walking away down the street. In other words, a thoroughly fascinating and gripping film.

Seven samurai - Kurosawa's film will forever be associated with the American remake, The Magnificent Seven, even though a comparison reveals some crucial differences. Seven samurai is set in a wartorn society with a rigid class structure which creates a totally different dynamic. The farmers hate and fear both bandits and samurai, and in turn are viewed with contempt by both. In this world there can be no happy romantic union at the end because a farmer's daughter can never marry a samurai. The farmers also hunt down and kill weak and injured samurai, stealing their armour. The samurai they hire are furious about this but Toshiro Mifune perfectly summarizes the bitter relationship that exists between the two classes. Himself a farmer's son, he can never be a true samurai and his behaviour is never quite up to the standards of his companions, yet he is also brave and resourceful. It's Kurosawa's masterful pacing that makes this a classic. The lengthy running time flies by. He understands that the quiet moments, the character development, hugely increase the audience's involvement with the action scenes. Something different jumps out at each viewing. This time it was the lovely moment when the young samurai finally blurts out his total admiration for his quietly professional colleague, who responds with the slightest of smiles...

Throne of blood - Personally I think Kurosawa's Shakespeare adaptations are the finest ever made, despite differing from the source plays and using none of the original texts. Macbeth is transplanted to the chaos of 16th century Japan, and is full of images of spinning and entrapment. The witch spins out the fates of Washizu and Miki, who are frequently framed through the tangled branches in Cobweb Forest. At the end, Washizu is trapped behind wave after wave of arrows slamming into the walls around him. It's a supremely eerie film, from the storms that herald the witch's appearances, to the bloodstained wall behind Washizu and his wife as they plot murder, Miki's ghost revealed by the prowling camera, and the unnerving sight of the forest moving through the mist.

Yojimbo - Another Kurosawa film later remade as a Western. Considering all the murder and mayhem involved, Yojimbo is a very funny film, and has a wonderfully eccentric and playful score. Mifune is far more restrained than in the other 2 films, though he's still an incredibly physical actor. Sanjuro might be a man of few words but he manipulates the two opposing gangs into slaughtering each other with consummate guile. Despite his appearance he's a deeply moral and honourable man. He rescues the abducted wife of a gambler, and is suitably embarrassed by their gratitude, and spares the life of the foolish young man first encountered at the start of the film. However, it's not clear how much is left of the town by the time he's finished clearing out the criminals. A victory yes, but what's left?

I've Loved You So Long

Thank heavens for the French. It sometimes feels like the only decent roles for women of a certain age (no matter how beautiful they may remain) are handed out by French directors. Condemned to play mothers or middle-aged professionals in mainstream English-language films, they are allowed to flex their acting muscles across the Channel. Francois Ozon came up with some cracking roles for Charlotte Rampling and now Philippe Claudel has written a terrific part for Kristin Scott Thomas as a woman just released from jail after 15 years. It's gradually revealed that she killed her own child (the reason why is withheld until the end) prompting distrust and unease from her brother-in-law, especially when she's around her nieces. The real heart of the film though is the relationship with her younger sister Lea, who unconditionally welcomes Juliette into her home, despite resistance from both her husband and her sister herself. Gradually the wan, withdrawn Juliette rejoins the world, bonding with the eldest niece by teaching her to play the piano, just as she did with Lea. There's a terrific moment when an aggressive dinner host goads the "mysterious Juliette" into revealing the truth about herself. The guests burst into delighted laughter at how she has bested him, apart from one who realizes she has indeed revealed the truth.

Linha de Passe

If you ever saw Central Station, an earlier film by Walter Salles, you will be in for a shock. The cute little boy has grown up to be an acne-plagued teenager. It's an moments like this that one feels old. He's one of 4 brothers from a poor family living in one of Sao Paulo's slums but it isn't City of God pt.2. The threat of violence is indeed ever present but it's more likely to take place at traffic lights with a car window being smashed and a bag stolen. One of the sons clearly had a criminal past but is now involved with a local church; another desperately tries to gain a foothold in the world of professional football; while the eldest is a motorcycle courier, never quite earning enough. The youngest meanwhile rides the buses searching for his absent father. The brothers fight and the youngest has a huge amount of turmoil lurking beneath his angelic features but the affectionis there. It's not sentimental. The mother might be pregnant yet again with another fatherless child, but film doesn't end with anything as crass as a sweet little baby making everything alright. The futures of the boys are left open to interpretation although reason suggests that they won't ultimately be able to escape from their poverty-stricken lives. Yet it doesn't feel pessimistic. Noone's died and the spark of decency is still flickering in all the characters.

Hadrian

The first items that you see as you enter the exhibition are the remnants of a huge statue of the Emperor Hadrian, recently excavated in Turkey. You look at the head and think that it does indeed look larger than the usual statues you see. You look at the section of leg, and then you look at the beautifully carved foot. It's at that point that the true scale of the original becomes clear. This statue would have towered above mere mortals and would have been an awe-inspiring sight. Later on in the exhibition, there is an equally enormous sculpted head of Antinous, the Emperor's lover. Expressions of power don't come more blatant. Elsewhere there are beautifully detailed friezes and columns, and pieces of brightly coloured marble floors that enable the viewer to imagine the full glory of the villa at Tivoli, and two bronze peacocks indicating themajesty of Hadrian's tomb. Possibly the most amazing items on display though are the selection of items from the Cave of Letters, the refuge of rebels during the Jewish revolt, including letters, keys, domestic implements and, wonder of wonders, a complete large glass dish looking as lovely as the day it was made. So while sculpture features very prominently as one would expect, there are many other objects to excite the eye and mind.

The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas

This could have been ghastly: children + the Holocaust. I still shiver at the memory of the unspeakably awful Life is Beautiful. Fortunately this, for the most part, avoids the clutches of rampant sentimentality. The child actors are mostly competent, although Shmuel looks way too healthy for an inmate of a work camp. With those chipmunk cheeks he's clearly got a stash of food somewhere. It's even more jarring during the final sequences with adults who *do* look alarmingly thin. The best performance probably comes from Vera Farmiga as the mother who gradually becomes aware of just what her husband's new job truly entails and begins to unravel. While her daughter becomes increasing pro-Nazi, she finds herself increasingly at odds with those certainties. While she may view the Jews with disdain, the harsh treatment and cruelty they receive, even under her own roof, gradually prompts a more humane reaction. In the circumstances that is about as hopeful as it gets.

Jar City

A lot of the expected elements of the crime thriller are present in this Icelandic film: a taciturn policeman who has a dysfunctional relationship with his troubled daughter; a seemingly ordinary murder that leads to a murky, hidden past; an apparently unrelated parallel plot that eventually converges with the main story; eccentric secondary characters. However, this is no hack job. The bleak, windswept setting, a streak of blackly comic wit (noone in Iceland seems to be a vegetarian) and some excellent performances lift this above the competition. There's also a pleasing attention to details, such as the way Inspector Erlandur puts on and removes his spectacles as the occasion arises. His sardonic remarks at the expense of a younger and rather inept colleague and his disconcerting taste for sheep's head as an evening meal make him a thoroughly engaging character to guide the viewer through the labyrinth.

Hamlet: RSC

Another production of Hamlet, but luckily one with a few unusual touches. Don't be alarmed if you think that "To be or not to be" occurs a bit earlier than you recall. It does. Gregory Doran has repositioned the speech to its place in the First Quarto instead of the more familiar First Folio. He's done this because it seems to fit in better with the psychology of Hamlet at this earlier point in the play, and it does work rather well. Likewise, the actor playing Old Hamlet usually doubles up with the role of the Player King. However, this time Patrick Stewart plays both Old Hamlet and Claudius, adding an extra dimension. This means that in addition to Hamlet being mirrored by the more active characters of Laertes and Fortinbras, and the true friendship of Horatio being contrasted with the more venal Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, the warlike Old Hamlet is thrown into relief by the wily politician that is Claudius. Curiously this makes the latter more sympathetic as a diplomatic ruler endeavouring to avoid war. There's also a hilarious Polonius, prone to rambling mid-sentence, but with flashes of dignity. As for Hamlet, he's clearly not mad and the Doctor's performance is very solid. There's a few too many pauses between the lines during the early monologues but matters improve later in the play. The final appearance of Fortinbras might not be completely obvious to those not familiar with the play, especially as his lines are cut, but otherwise it's all very enjoyable.

The Duchess

Keira pouts her way through yet another film but at least that plummy accent perfectly fits the milieu. Set among the upper classes, the message hammered home is the dreadful treatment of women in 18th century England. Hence, endless scenes of Georgiana, her friend and her mother bemoaning their lot. Just think what life must have been like for women without riches, lots of clothes and servants to carry out their every whim, but that film would involve fewer pretty dresses and elaborate hairstyles. It doesn't help that it's all so superficial. Thank goodness for Ralph Fiennes. His potentially one-note "heartless cad" is invested with unexpected flashs of self-awareness. Not that the character becomes sympathetic but occasionally his eyes reveal glimpses of the decent man buried under the weight of tradition and his class upbringing. And he gets the best line in the film in a scene where a wig catches fire. Yes, it gets *that* deep.

The Wackness

Words can barely express how much I hated this film. Everything about it. The awful rap soundtrack (what a blessing when a reggae track appeared!); the slack-jawed expression of the main character (really, could a boy look any more stupid if he actually tried?); the lurking misogyny (oh, the women just *don't* understand the poor put-upon men!); the terrifying indulgence extended to the psychiatrist (as far as I can tell, he must break every code of conduct in the profession and that's only in the sessions we see); the fact that the film made me start to react like a neocon while watching it. Avoid, avoid, avoid.

Hellboy II: The Golden Army

Another of those rare creatures: a sequel that is far better than the original. Don't get me wrong. I enjoyed Hellboy but it was badly let down by it's finale and didn't make the best use of it's villains. This time, Guillermo Del Toro has imported the emotional heft of his Spanish language films into the mix and packed the screen with so many creatures and ingenious gadgets that only freeze framing on DVD will ever enable a person to see everything. The other good news is that Abe Sapien gets more screen time, not to mention a wistful romance with a fairy princess and a drunken singalong with Hellboy to Barry Manilow. Del Toro's imagination seems to know no bounds. The troll market, the tooth fairies, the Golden Army and the Elemental are all breathtaking (and in the case of the tooth fairies thoroughly vicious little beasties). In fact, the culmination of the scene with the Elemental produced the same heartclenching reaction as the snow sequence in Edward Scissorhands. It sums up the dilemma facing Hellboy and his colleagues. Do they belong with the (mostly ungrateful) humans or should they be on the side of the elves, fighting to keep their world alive? There are moments when you wish Hellboy would switch sides. In fact, the appearance of another of Del Toro's wonderful creations, the very unnerving Angel of Death, hints at a much darker fate for Hellboy. After the loss and self sacrifice at the end of this film, it wouldn't be surprising.

Un Secret

This is one of those films that feels much longer than it is. Part of the problem is the tortuously complicated use of different time frames. Once the main flashback gets under way it's a gripping watch, but the build up involves jumping between the 1950s, 1960s, present day and an idealised child's-eye view of his parents' experience of the war. All of this can actually be justified as spaces reverberate with different meanings across the decades (the swimming pool, the shop, the courtyard) but it makes for an unwieldy structure. Having said that, the film does have an impressive emotional impact. The sickly young boy who always disappoints his athletic father imagines an elder brother who is everythig he isn't. Poignantly it turns out such a brother existed but that part of the family history has been kept a secret by everyone for reasons that are never quite clear. It could be guilt for a not-quite adulterous relationship during the war which caused the breakdown of the first wife and led, in a shocking moment, to her condemning both herself and the much-loved son to the death camps. The terrible irony is that nothing had actually happened. It's only the subsequent terrible grief that finally throws the couple into each other's arms. Likewise it's only the two women travelling with the wife and child who witness her betrayal of the boy to the police and who decide to keep this from everybody else. The real war experienced by his parents is totally different from that idyllic courtship imagined by the protagonist, and it reverberates for decades afterwards.

Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day

It's always a delight to watch Frances McDormand, especially in a lead role where she gets to play both dowdy and glamourous, repressed and exuberent, and generally show off her wonderful comic timing. The film is a frothy confection, with a hint of melancholy set as it is on the eve of WWII. Guinevere and Joe both remember the Great War with its high cost and this sets them apart from the frivolous party set. It's a slight story with a clutch of happy ever afters. True love triumphs over fakery and commerce. People drop the masks they wear: Delysia reverts to being Sarah Grubb once more and chooses an impoverished pianist over her wealthy lovers; Joe no longer wants to design the women's lingerie for which he's famous and goes back to designing the humble sock; and Guinevere, having spent a day living with the rich and famous, reverts to her lowly status only to find her own white knight has hunted her down. If this feel does't make you feel good, nothing will.

Elegy

There are several close-up shots in this film of Ben Kingsley, staring intensely, teary-eyed, silent. Presumably these are meant to convey some deep-seated emotion that he can't experess. However, what they conjure up for me is his psychotic gangster from Sexy Beast. This slightly unnerving sensation is only exacerbated by the presence of Dennis Hopper. On the whole, he's very restrained, and rather good, as the poet friend of the main character - until he laughs, at which point he reminds you of every psycho that he's ever played. On such unintentional associations do films head off the rails. The male characters in this film are a pathetic bunch, verging on the totally dislikable: middle aged men trying to hang on to their youth by sleeping with as many young women as possible, and to hell with their families. Even the main character's son finds himself following in his loathed father's footsteps by having an affair. If it wasn't for the presence of two such strong actresses as Penelope Cruz and Patricia Clarkson this would have been an unbearably macho film.

Paris

This never quite hangs together unfortunately. It's clearly meant to be a panoramic view of modern-day Paris and it's inhabitants, but it only sparks periodically which is a shame considering the quality of the cast. That inveterate scene-stealer Fabrice Luchini is by far the most entertaining even if his plot strand is that old cliche the May-December romance. Just watch him dance! Alas Francois Cluzet is underused, characterised as a sensitive soul (in contrast to his brother played by Luchini) by his tendency to become tearful and Romain Duris mopes around his apartment while waiting for a heart transplant. Luckily Juliette Binoche makes it watchable as a feisty, though lonely, single mother whose shy encounters with a market stall holder run through the film. When they finally link up, it's a wonderfully sweet moment.

Summer Hours

I enjoyed this far more than I expected, not being a huge fan of Olivier Assayas. It's a simple story centred around a handful of lengthy family set-pieces but raising questions about culture, heritage, preservation of memories, and what it means to be French. When their mother dies, three siblings have to decide what to do with her rambling country house and the works of art that it contains, including the sketchbooks of their artist great-uncle. The eldest wants to preserve it all, in order to pass it on to the next generation. However, his brother and sister no longer live in France and their lives are not centred around their childhood home anymore. Their futures lie in China and America. As for the works of art, they get dispersed to museums or sold at auction. Rather than being the domain of one select group of people, they now become visible to many more. A nice touch is when the eldest son allows his mother's housekeeper to select a keepsake. She doesn't want to take advantage so chooses a vase which she alone has ever liked. He agrees despite just learning that it is in fact very valuable. It's a comforting thought that while one of the vases will be behind glass in a museum, the other will still be containing flowers somewhere.

Exhibitions

Another Saturday, another trip to London to see a couple of exhibitions. The Vilhelm Hammershoi at the Royal Academy certainly counts as enigmatic. You would never call his paintings colourful, with a palette of black, brown and white, and it often feels like you are looking at them through a haze. Some of the interiors brought to mind Vermeer, in the arrangement of rooms and the way light falls through windows, and one painting of a woman sewing immediately made me think of the Vermeer seamstress in the Louvre. Mostly the interiors are unsettling: deserted rooms, or a solitary figure with her back to the viewer. It feels slightly voyeuristic. My favourite work was a pencil and oil sketch of boats at Christianshavn Canal, which felt less claustrophobic and controlled than the rest.
In contrast the De Bray Family exhibition at Dulwich is vibrant. I'd seen some of the portraits at the National Gallery's Dutch Portraits exhibition a while back so it was interesting to see more work by the family. Salomon's delightful portrait of the new-born twins Clara and Albert de Bray is a highlight but his sons were equally talented. Jan's group portraits of various regents in Haarlem sit alongside paintings of his own family (most of whom were to die of the plague), while both Joseph and Dirck painted still life. Dirck in particular playfully juxtaposes items in stark contrast to the cornucopias of Jan van Huysum which are on display elsewhere in the gallery.

The Dark Knight

The Dark Knight is a movie riven with bitter ironies and harsh truths, where ends start to justify means and the good end up corrupted. The glittering surfaces of the city mask the darkness lurking in the depths, which erupts into full view via the actions of the psychotic Joker. He claims to make no plans, to merely be the agent of chaos, and his irrationality makes him truly frightening. Yet the beautiful simplicity of the initial bank heist, where each of the gang kills one other member until there's noone left, verges on genius and he seems to have an unerring instinct for what will cause the most mayhem among the forces of good (a relative term in this film) Perhaps most impressive of all, not for one moment did I sit there thinking "that's Heath Ledger". The character grips the attention from the start and never lets go.
In one sense, the film is structured around a series of triangles that bring the moral conundrums into focus: Batman/Joker/Harvey Dent; Bruce/Rachel/Harvey Dent; Batman/Gordon/Harvey Dent; Bruce/Alfred/Lucius. Harvey Dent might be Bruce's rival for the affection of Rachel, but Bruce has hopes that the crusading DA might also allow him to put aside his alter ego. In fact, so many hopes are vested in Harvey Dent that at key moments the only thought of other characters is to save him. Batman goes to tremendous lengths to rescue him from the prison van and ends up sacrificing Rachel to save his rival/ally (although that was manipulated by The Joker), and Gordon's one thought during the hospital explosion is for Harvey Dent's safety, although by that stage it's too late. The Joker has intervened to "save" his enemy for the forces of evil. Where the Joker worships chaos, Two-Face will put his faith in chance as he hunts out those he blames for his fate including those who only ever wanted to save him.
The finale of the film undercuts the brief moment of optimism when decency triumphs on the two boats (and it's a lovely touch that it's only the hardened killer who has the common sense to throw the detonator overboard) only for the city's White Knight to fulfill his earlier prophecy. To maintain Harvey Dent's reputation in order to save the city, both Gordon and Batman must promulgate a lie. He died a hero and Batman is now little more than a loathed and hunted vigilante. The lies extend further of course. Alfred ensures that Bruce will never know Rachel finally chose Harvey Dent, leaving him his illusion of true love lost. It's a dark film where the sense of danger is palpable, although the violence is frequently off-screen or happens so quickly (the Joker demonstrating a point to the mob, using a pencil and a gangster's head) that the viewer can imagine the worst. The most horrific image it provides is Two-Face's burnt and ravaged features, a visual indicator of everything lurking elsewhere in the film.

Couscous

A meandering French drama centred around an extended Franco-Arabic family in a run-down port city. Refreshingly, religion doesn't rear it's ugly head once. The film's far more concerned with social and familial relations. There's great joy in the lengthy dinner sequence where the numerous family members and their partners gather to eat, talk and bicker, but it also reveals the fractures within the family unit. The eldest son is a womaniser cheating on his fragile Russian wife, whose brother seems to take more care of their baby than either parent. The mother harbours resentment towards her ex-husband, and the aunt and her French husband don't really teach their son Arabic. In general the women are far more forceful personalities than the men. Slimane, the father, is a rather passive figure, especially compared to his abrasive daughter and the independent-minded daughter of his new partner. Nevertheless, despite all these differences the plot ultimately revolves around a sense of community, encompassing the family, fellow dock workers and the group of elderly exiles living at the hotel. It might not have a traditional happy ending but you're left with a vivid sense of this group of characters.

DVD roundup July

Another month, another batch of DVDs which I shouldn't have purchased ...

The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford - this was the best film of last year and shamefully overlooked. OK, so it was a long film which always deters some people, but the running time flies by even on a second viewing. The one disadvantage of catching up with it on DVD is that you can't fully appreciate the sheer beauty of the cinematography. On the big screen Roger Deakins' images are luminous, and bring to mind Terrence Malick. What still remains are the terrific performances, especially Casey Affleck as Robert Ford. You start off finding him just as irritating as the rest of the James Gang - he's ingratiating and desperate to be noticed - but gradually the humiliation heaped upon him makes him a more sympathetic character. When the key moment arrives, you feel he's been left with only one option, which will ultimately destroy both him and his brother.

Pan's Labyrinth - the Spanish language films of Guillermo Del Toro are always far more interesting than his English language films. His commentary draws out the parallels with the equally wonderful The Devil's Backbone, which likewise focuses on a child protagonist faced with fantasy crossing over into the harsh reality of Civil War Spain. Del Toro also elaborates on the highly detailed mise en scene, drawing the viewers' attention to aspects that aren't immediately obvious. This is a man who plans his films to the minutest detail, though it definitely pays off. Not that he then neglects the actors. No, he gets top class performances from them all, and Sergi Lopez is more scary than anything in the fantasy sequences - and yes, I'm including the Pale Man. And it *still* makes me cry.

The Truth About Demons - quite why "Irrefutable" was dropped from the original title I don't know (too many syllables? too controversial for fundamentalists?) I've always enjoyed horror films having grown up watching those BBC2 Saturday double bills. They used to mix Univeral and RKO classics with stuff from the opposite end of the quality spectrum. I didn't mind. This New Zealand horror isn't bad and has some nice one liners. The plot though is all over the place but at least it mostly disguises the low budget effects. And of course there's a young Karl Urban to enliven proceedings ...

Shotgun Stories

The title makes it sound like a macho shoot-'em-up but in fact this film is a low-key, slow-moving meditation of violence and a family feud. There's a surprising amount of humour, both verbal and observational, but the real focus is the long-standing hatred between two sets of half-brothers. The background is sketchily filled in via hints in the dialogue although some things, such as the scars of shotgun pellets on Son's back, are left intriguingly vague. Ultimately it's even a hopeful film, despite the economic poverty of both sets of brothers and the lack of prospects for the majority of the characters. The feud hasn't been resolved, but two of the half-brothers have had the courage to back away from the violence that has already wrecked both families. That counts as a huge victory offering hope for the next generation.

Man on Wire

Quite why anyone would want to wire-walk hundreds of feet above the ground is something that I've never understood. The mere thought makes me feel ill. The subject of this documentary, Philippe Petit, on the other hand has spent his life doing just that. Not content with walking above Notre Dame and the Sydney Harbour Bridge, in the early 1970s he set his sights on the newly-built World Trade Center. A combination of talking heads, reconstruction and actual footage shot by his associates tells the story. Petit's obsession butted against the slightly more rational concerns of his friends (do we really want to be partly responsible for th death of our friend?) although there was only ever going to be one winner. Miraculously 9/11 is never mentioned once. It doesn't need to be. It's there in the mind of every person in the audience, especially during the archive footage of it's construction and an eerie of photograph of Petit on the wire with a plan flying overhead.

WALL-E

Ah, an animated film that *doesn't* feature cute talking animals, or awful "showstopper" songs. Thank heavens for Pixar. No other animation outfit would make the first 30 minutes of their tentpole summer film almost dialogue-free, relying solely on the electronic noises of two robots. Meet WALL-E, a ridiculously adorable little waste disposal unit on caterpillar treads, and EVE, a high-tech i-Pod with a blaster. It's difficult to convery the sheer amount of pleasure derived from the interaction of these two. WALL-E's the last of his kind, trundling around still doing the job he was given 700 years ago. He repairs himself from the remains of his fellow robots and has developed a magpie sensibility. Cutlery, a Rubik's cube, Christmas lights, a whisk: whatever grabs his attention is taken back to his home. What he doesn't have is company, apart from a cockcroach (see, indestructible!) and this is driven home every time he watches his prized tape of Hello, Dolly! Enter EVE, and cue some neat visual comedy as she does the Rubrik's cube in mere seconds, pops a sheet of bubble wrap in record time and inadvertently sends WALL-E crashing into the ceiling. Amusement lies in little details such as WALL-E removing his treads before going to bed or the fact that he's not a morning robot as he needs to power up from the sun. There is also the wonder of how much expression is conveyed simply through the use of what passes for the robots' eyes and body movement. You know immediately how either feels. Once the action moves to the Axiom, home of the remaining humans, it becomes slightly more predictable although still highly inventive. The first time we see the row of photos of the ship's captains we notice the decline of the human race to little more than a blob, the second time we notice the ominous encroachment of the ship's autopilot. This isn't to say that the film doesn't pack an emotional punch too. The mere thought of this last lonely little robot on Earth is heartbreaking and the sequence at the end when a repaired WALL-E seems to have lost his personality is a terrible moment. But there are good tearful moments too, such as EVE and WALL-E dancing in space (with the aid of a fire extinguisher) and the most beautiful image of all - WALL-E brushing his hand along Saturn's rings and sending stardust swirling.

La Antena

This is quite possibly the strangest film that I will see this year. An Argentine sci-fi/thriller filmed in black and white and in the style of a silent film (because the city's population have had their voices stolen), it references some of the most famous images in cinematic history. There's Fritz Lang in there, Melies, early Soviet sci-fi and even James Whale as well as hints of Expressionism and Surrealism, and more imagination than any Hollywood blockbuster can manage. Not that it's all fluffy pastiche. Far from it. The strange deformed and hooded monkey-like henchman could give any child nightmares and the entire concept of people being robbed not only of their voices but ultimately of words is deeply disturbing. Lang would be proud of it's vision of a totalitarian society, feeding on itself.

Radical Light: Italy's Divisionist Painters

I had never heard of the Divisionist painters until this exhibition and I had certainly never seen any of the paintings before. None will ever become my favourite works of art, although the Longoni paintings of glaciers are rather lovely, as are the Grubicy landscapes and a Boccioni Lombard landscape. The style is related to both the Impressionists and pointillism, but with thin streaks of paint instead of dots and dashes. On some works the paint is applied incredibly thick, and on others, the brushwork isn't too discernible. By the time Cara paints The Funeral of the Anarchist Galli, you can see that Futurism is the next step. Oh, and it doesn't matter what is the country of origin, Symbolist painting is still hideous.

The Visitor

This is an absolute gem. With a plot involving an emotionally repressed widower who comes to life via the power of music, and the illegal immigrants he befriends, it could have been terribly worthy and po-faced. However, it never does quite what you expect. Walter's attempts to follow in his late wife's footsteps by learning to play the piano come to nothing, but surprisingly he finds himself fascinated by the djembe drum played by Tarek, and even more surprisingly has an aptitude for it. From being a disconnected, disinterested presence in his own life, he starts unsconsciously tapping out rhythms during banal activities and slowly rejoins the world - friendship, a rather touching not-going-anywhere not-quite-romance, and a sudden outburst of anger at the sheer idiocy of American official bureaucracy. The potential melodrama of the arrest and deportation of Tarek is downplayed, letting the viewer simmer with their own indignation at his fate, and by extension that of his girlfriend (also illegal so unable to see him again) and his mother (another illegal alien), who leaves the country she's made her home in order to be with her son, knowing she can never return. Throughout, there's a wonderful strand of humour, particularly from Richard Jenkins' pitch-perfect performance. Just watch him join the drumming jam session in the park, or drift into domestic life with Tarek's mother. He's the heart of the film although the rest of the cast of equally fine.

Female Agents

An old-fashioned WWII romp with the twist that the main SOE operatives followed are a mismatched group of women. There's nothing particularly original about the film but it rattles along from set piece to set piece and with the group being progressively reduced. Some reveal themselves to have unexpected reserves of courage while others fall short. It's not a cynical film. People have the chance to redeem themselves like Eddy, a collaborator pandering to the Germans, who we finally see as a fully fledged member of the Resistance, or Jeanne, the prostitute who murdered her pimp, who ends up as one o the bravest of the agents.

Let's Get Lost

I'm not a jazz fan. I can happily listen to Jelly Roll Morton and early New Orleans jazz, but that's about as far as it goes. The music in Let's Get Lost hasn't converted me. Perfectly pleasant but rather soporific, which could also be said of the manner in which Chet Baker speaks during this documentary. The film itself is stunning to look at, all moody black and white, and comes complete with a "is that who I think it is?" fascination (and no, I wasn't imagining things: apparently I did spot an impossibly young-looking Viggo Mortensen in a very brief shot) The most interesting aspect of the documentary is the way it gradually reveals Chet's entangled love life and the generally appalling way he behaved towards his loved ones, not to mention the venomous attitude towards each other of some of the women in his life. None of which is quite as shocking as realizing that the once beautiful young man looks as old as his mother.

Welcome to the Sticks

Time for a rant: how difficult is it for *professional* filmmakers to ensure that the mic and the boom do NOT appear in shot? And not just once (anyone can have a lapse) but repeatedly both indoor and outdoor scenes, closeups and long shots. Surely someone notices these things? Maybe the editor while putting the film together? Or anyone who actually watches the first rough-cut? From my POV the constant intrusions into the upper screen space totally detracted from the enjoyment of what is actually a rather funny comedy. I expect if you're French you get the most out of the linguistic and regional humour, judging by the reaction of the French people dotted in the audience, but even in translation it's still quite amusing - and physical humour works whatever the language.

In Search of a Midnight Kiss

Not one for any elderly relatives, containing what might be described as "language (of a sexual nature)", this is actually a bittersweet indie romantic comedy filmed in sumptuous black and white. It manages the near-impossible feat of making LA look like an unknown place, possibly because it's a film that follows characters mostly walking around the city rather than driving. Rather than the glittering, glamorous image presented by Hollywood, we see the more rundown parts, where beautiful old theatre lie empty and subway stations are as glacial as anything in a sci-fi movie. Wilson is in search of a New Year's kiss, egged on by his housemate after a *very* embarrassing incident involving a photo of said mate's girfriend. Vivian is speed dating for the same reason and they spend most of the running time bickering, talking, upsetting each other and generally not-quite falling in love. It would be misleading to say that all ends well but you feel the two characters end the film more self-aware than they began it, which counts as progress of sorts.

The Revenger's Tragedy: National Theatre

A terrific production of one of the most complicated (not to say downright daft) Jacobean revenge tragedies. What starts out as a simple quest for revenge against one man soon spirals into an intricate web of plot and counter-plot with almost every character trying to kill someone else. The revolving stage, with it's hidden passageways, aptly conveys the corruption at court while allowing several bits of action to be glimpsed in rapid succession, and the modern dress doesn't detract from the power of the play at all. Vindice and his brother set about ensnaring the Duke in revenge for the poisoning of the former's fiancee 9 years ago. Vindice, in an echo of Hamlet, talks to his beloved's skull but more ingeniously uses it as the means to kill his enemy. Meanwhile, in disguise at court, his machinations become entangled with the various maneouvrings of the Duke and Duchess's children, resulting in yet more bloodshed. By the end, revenge has turned into a palace coup with the final irony being Vindice's boasting wrecking the perfect murder(s). Far from being grateful, the new Duke orders yet more deaths. This is a world where justice is thoroughly compromised and men must act for themselves, thus sowing the seeds of their own destruction. A bleak, and blackly comic, view of the times.

Street and Studio

This exhibition at Tate Modern is a fascinating look at the history of urban photography. I found the earlier examples the most intriguing although there is something for all tastes. One of the constants from the 19th to the 21st century is the fascination with vagrants and others at the bottom end of the socio-economic ladder. This extends from shots of tramps asleep on benches in Paris to photos of "undesirables" to be used by the Swiss authorities. Leading on from this there is also a selection of mugshots from the Chicago police. The photos also provide an important historical function. We can see 1899 San Francisco Chinatown, later destroyed by the earthquake, the execution of a Hungarian Fascist leader at the end of the war, and a murdered Mexican striker in the 1930s. Then there are the more mundane photos such as those taken by street photographers in Berlin or urban studios in Mali. These too provide evidence of their time. The exhibition also raises issues about the ethics of secret filming. How do those people innocently sitting on trains or walking down a street feel about their later use as art? Where does consent fit into this? In all, a thought-provoking show.

DVD roundup June

I can't blame HMV this time. I did it all myself by looking at Amazon...

The Bourne Ultimatum - it's still a tremendously thrilling experience although my favourite of the trilogy remains Supremacy. Ultimatum does suffer from a slight case of sequelitis, especially in the car chase sequence which seems determined to top that in it's predecessor but without the same effectiveness. David Strathairn makes a steely adversary even if Albert Finney is wasted. The Paul Greengrass commentary is typically informative and generous. I do hope though that the powers that be *don't* try to extend the franchise further. It would be a shame to see it succumb to the movie law of diminishing returns.

Out of the Blue - this disc has a lot of very useful extras that fill in the background to the true-life events depicted on screen. It becomes clear why the film is made with such care as the traumatic happenings in Aramoana have left a deep mark on the community. Out of the Blue is the complete antithesis of the Hollywood action film. There's no superhuman cop to save the day, no snarling embodiment of evil to revile. The sense of panic and confusion is perfectly captured and the acting complements this. No histrionics, no flashiness. As deeply moving as it was on first viewing.

The Chronicles of Riddick Director's Cut - I was hoping that the Director's Cut might make more sense than the theatrical version, and in some ways it does. The roles of Vaako and Dame Vaako are expanded considerably so their Macbeth-like subplot now feels less like an afterthought (plus more Karl Urban is always a good thing) However, the addition of Riddick's Furyan visions actually make that side of the plot more confusing. OK, so the film was supposed to be one of a sequence and in the overall scheme of things, Furya might have made sense, but as a one-off it's not helpful.

Gone Baby Gone

Having never read the source novel, I have no idea just how much Ben Affleck cut from the original story. Given some of the editing techniques in the second half, I suspect quite a lot. Even so, the plot becomes fiendishly complicated and the viewer really has to pay attention. And what a relief it is to be confronted with a film that doesn't treat the audience like idiots. This is a refreshingly grown-up film that doesn't tie everything up neatly with a bow. By the end you feel that Kenzie, although taking the moral - and legal - high ground might actually be wrong while Angie, adopting a more pragmatic approach, could very well be right. It's a moral quagmire where noone really wins. This makes the private detective couple's earlier comment that their involvement couldn't do any harm even more ironic. By the time they've finished, people are dead and their relationship is in tatters. The acting is top class, although Michelle Monaghan seems miscast. Angie should have a bit more spikiness about her for her two key scenes to ring true. However, the rest of the actors are terrific. I could watch Ed Harris all day and his Remy is unreadable. You sense that maybe he's not all that he seems but can't be sure. Amy Ryan as the neglectful mother gives an astonishing performance. The scene where she lays into her sister-in-law will draw gasps for it's sheer viciousness - and this from a woman who at that moment is supposed to be helping the police find her missing daughter. The film really works though because of Casey Affleck. There's a running joke in the first half about his youthful looks (greeted with increasing irritation each time) but there's steel beneath that innocent exterior. Watch the bar scene to see just how dangerous he can be. He might get all self-righteous at the end but before that he's killed a man in cold blood. While others greet him as a hero for this action, that's not how he views it himself. Maybe that's why he makes the decision he does at the end. For him, the end doesn't justify the means. You fear he's made the wrong choice.

Mongol: the Rise to Power of Genghis Khan

Anyone who thought that there was too much walking in The Lord of the Rings will certainly feel that there's too much horseriding in Mongol, particularly in the scenes set during the main character's childhood. This first half suffers from a few too many capture/escape/recapture scenes, and an arch-enemy who constantly threatens to kill the hero but somehow never quite gets round to it. However, things come into sharper focus once Temudjin reaches adulthood and the two plotlines revolving around his relationship with his fesity wife and with his bloodbrother-turned-enemy hold the attention. The battles scenes are surprisingly gory but could have happily done without the CGI shots, and the overall narrative is rather episodic, with one key setup left completely hanging to be dealt with almost as an afterthought in an end title. Possibly one of those rare occasions when a *longer* film might have been required.

London Assurance: Northern Stage (Oxford Playhouse)

I didn't know anything about this play before going to see it. In fact, I'd never encountered Boucicault on stage before. It was quite funny (although Restoration comedy has sharper social satire) but I found the dreadfully strident female lead incredibly offputting. I just wanted her to lower her voice. It was far too reminiscent of some of the staff and students at Oxford. It was also quite disconcerting to be the youngest person in the theatre as far as I could tell. At least it made a change from Shakespeare, although the tendency to be irritated with all these vacuous upper class characters meant that I didn't enjoy it as much as I thought that I would.

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull

I so wanted to enjoy this. OK, so I hated Temple of Doom but I can watch Raiders and Last Crusade time after time and never get bored. It's not exactly a poor film but it doesn't have the breathless excitement and sheer joy of those two earlier films. Plus there are some rather unconvincing stunt doubles (especially during the motorbike sequence) and a bit of dodgy CGI just to distract further from what's actually happening. Perhaps the makers were hoping this would take the audience's mind off the sheer idiocy of the plot - something to do with aliens, crystal skulls, lost cities and equally lost explorers. Oh, and nasty Commies who needless to say get their just deserts. I refuse to believe that Frank Darabont's rejected screenplay wasn't better than the one we've got, and the endless film referencing does become a bit wearisome. Having said all that, it's not a complete waste of time. There's a nice chase in a warehouse that you might just recognize from Raiders and the finale works pretty well, assuming that you buy into the setup. But please, no more. Let Indy hang up his whip and have a quiet retirement.

Caramel

An amiable comedy, set in Beirut although you wouldn't know it. There are no signs of warfare or civil turmoil, just a slightly rundown beauty parlour with an erratic electricity supply. Nor do the women particularly conform to the stereotype fixed in Western minds. Their problems are more universal: an affair with a married man, an ageing actress, how to convince a future husband that you're a virgin when you're not. It all meanders pleasantly enough but never actually excites. The most interesting character is Rima, who clearly prefers women but whose only opportunity for physical feminine contact is when she's washing clients' hair. If any of her colleagues are aware of her secret, none of them ever show it.

Ansel Adams

A glorious exhibition of some of Ansel Adams' beautiful black and white photos of Yosemite National Park (as well as a few other national parks and pueblos in New Mexico) dating from the late 1920s to the early 1960s. The earliest photo has a soft focus, almost magical quality. Later photos are sharper but lose none of the sense of looking at a place of wonder. In the days before mass tourism, it's a glimpse into the wilderness. Some of the photos, especially of water or trees, have an almost abstract quality. Others, such as the snowbound trees and lanscapes, are more obviously picturesque. I could quite happily have chosen any print to put on my wall. It's a very rare exhibition where I like every single item on show.

Joy Division

After Anton Corbijn's Control, which used Deborah Curtis' book as it's inspiration, Joy Division is much more the lads' POV. The refrain "we didn't talk about it" becomes a desperately sad theme. One can't help wondering whether the outcome would have been different if Ian Curtis' bandmates and friends *had* talked to him about his epilepsy and messy romantic life. What remains of course is the music, and what music it is. The moment when Peter Hook's bass line starts is still thrillingly electric, and the songs have stood the test of time better than the work of many of their contemporaries. The documentary doesn't necesarily explain why this is, but it pushes the lyrics into focus as a reflection of Ian Curtis' state of mind, particularly on the startling final album Closer. It appears that even the rest of the band didn't realize just how true to life they were, and the lingering guilt is still palpable behind the bravado. What you take away though - as it should be - is the legacy of the music. The urge to go home and play the albums back to back is overwhelming.

A Doll's House: Northern Stage (Oxford Playhouse)

The 1950s setting worked surprisingly well in this production. Far from being some long lost Golden Age, it was a period of repression and that aspect is caught perfectly. Torvald might be all babytalk on the surface but there are enough flashes of the tyrant lurking beneath the surface. He has very clear ideas about what Nora should and shouldn't be doing. Nora meanwhile progresses, perhaps a little too quickly, from a thoroughly irritating flibbertigibbert to a woman with a steely determination to discover just who she is. The glass box that doubled as the entrancehall leading onto Torvald's study made good use of the stage space and served as a reminder that Nora is constantly on display, even when inside the confines of the house. The sheer hypocrisy of men is also laid bare. Nora's actions were solely to save the life of her husband and spare her ailing father any worries, but all Torvald can see is *his* imminent disgrace. The minute Krogstad (unexpectedly finding love himself) rescinds his threats, Torvald reverts to his old ways, as if nothing had happened. Nora, however, has finally seen what he is truly like and how little her own thoughts and feelings count in this male world. Her exit is thrillingly empowering.

Honeydripper

Not one of the very best films by John Sayles (certainly not in the same class as Lone Star or Matewan, which probably top the list) but a perfectly amiable, pleasant couple of hours. The one thing you are always guaranteed in a Sayles film is top class performances and he gets the best out of his mostly coloured cast, whether they are speaking dialogue or playing/singing the music that drives it all. The plot is predictable but it doesn't really matter when the soundtrack's this good. Even what could have been a heavy-handed 50s Deep South race-relations background is sketched in without fuss. The sheriff is as venal as they come - and knows it - but he's not the usual stereotype. Sayles knows better than to make it as schematic as that. It's a crying shame that he finds it so difficult to raise the money to make his films. We need all the intelligent movies we can get.

Be Kind Rewind

I'm not a big fan of Jack Black. In small doses he's very funny but this can quickly switch to intensely annoying. Luckily this is one of the bearable roles, partly because everything else is so insane too. Michel Gondry has one of the most fertile visual imaginations out there and he uses it to gleeful effect. There's one of the best sight gags (involving a ladder, a chain-link fence and Mos Def) that you'll ever see and the sweded films themselves are hilariously recreated. I was particularly fond of the Rush Hour 2 retread, although the initial Ghostbusters filming is also an absolute delight. Everything culminates in an "original" film about Fats Waller, complete with scratches, flashing and a truly awe-inspiring DIY ethic.

Iron Man

So the wasteland that is the summer blockbuster season is now officially under way. The good news is that the first entry is great fun. It benefits immensely from the presence of Robert Downey Jr in the title role (and who would have thought he'd end up in a film like this?) His sarcastic, unruly, and sexy presence makes Tony Stark the sort of person you should hate but can't help but adore. He has some cracking one-liners and the interplay with his robotic "assistants" is hilarious, especially the very helpful one doubling as a fire extinguisher. The dark scenes and the light ones complement each otherrather than jarring. And even for a non-comic book nerd like me the Mk. 2 suit was incredible, and there's a nice touch with Stark seemingly managing to destroy each version he creates (this is not a man you would want trust with your most loved possessions). OK, so Terrence Howard doesn't really have much to do apart from playing exasperated and you can spot the bad guy a mile off, but considering the horrors that usually unfold between May and September, Iron Man gets a big round of applause.

Coming of Age: American Art 1850s to 1950s

A pleasantly surprising exhibition, especially for someone with an very glancing knowledge of American art. The Hopper (Manhattan Bridge Loop) and Pollock (Phosphorescence) don't disappoint, and there's an unusual Remington (Moonlight, Wolf) that seems a million miles away from paintings of the West: very dark, with striking specks that seem to glow in the night. I also liked the Winslow Homer Eight Bells, another dark picture, that captures a wild ocean and the sailors upon it. What was most enjoyable and made the trip to Dulwich worthwhile was the final room. I've always been under the impression that I don't like modern art and yet this room was a delight. It was mainly sculpture or to be more precise, constructions of various kinds, although the Pollock was hung there. Bets of all were the Moholy-Nagy Twisted Planes, a perspex and metal piece and my very favourite, Alexander Calder's Horizontal Spines, half artwork, half mobile. The gentle breeze made the various parts move in a thoroughly hypnotic manner and I found myself drawn back to it repeatedly. It's also the sort of piece that makes you smile, which has to be a good thing

Happy-Go-Lucky

In general I'm not a fan of Mike Leigh's work. I often find it thoroughly patronising and don't get me started on Naked, which is the closest I've ever got to walking out of a film (I didn't but only because I was in the middle of a row of friends) However, his more recent work hasn't annoyed me anywhere near as much. Happy-Go-Lucky is a much brighter film than usual - and not just because of Poppy's dress sense. She's the sort of person who sees the good in everyone, although there are hints that there's more turbulence below the surface than first appears. Driving instructor Scott is her complete opposite, all venom and bitterness. Refreshingly she doesn't convert him to her worldview. In fact she throws his life completely out of kilter. The driving lessons are priceless as an irrestible force meets an immovable object, although I have to admit to a sneeking sympathy with Scott at such moments. The urge to shout "for goodness' sake concentrate woman!" was almost overwhelming. Yet, unusually for Leigh, there are no hidden secrets lurking for the unwary. Poppy's a great teacher, has fast friends and by the end there's even the prospect of love, and if that doesn't count as a happy film, then I don't know what does.

Persepolis

The version screened was the English-dubbed one, which brought a number of distractions with it. The rather jarring mix of American and French accents wasn't helped by the Marjane character morphing from an American tot to a very European-sounding teenager. Still I suppose not having to read subtitles meant that it was much easier to concentrate on the gorgeous animation which is about as far away from Pixar as you can get. No hyper-realism here, just stark black and white in the manner of the graphic novels. It makes the flashbacks within the main flashback particularly effective and beautiful, with their nods to what we think of as traditional Islamic design. However, for a relatively short film, it felt long so there is something wrong with the pacing. The second half, with the grown up Marjane, is far less interesting than the early scenes set during the Revolution. Teenage angst falls a long way behind political mayhem in the interest stakes.

The Merchant of Venice: RSC

This was my O level play and I've seen several productions of it over the years. Some go for modern dress, others for a historical setting. One approach doesn't necessarily yield better results than the other. It's all down to the interpretation. The new production at the RSC is curiously underpowered. Shylock barely raises his voice, in passion or anger, and in dress is almost indistinguishable (smarter perhaps) from the rest of Venice. The only real flicker of genuine emotion is his distress over the loss of his wife's ring, which makes a telling contrast with Bassanio and Gratiano subsequently giving away their rings. In a similar vein the relationship between Antonio and Bassanio is muted. There's very little sense of *why* Antonio is willing to risk so much for his friend. For a change Bassanio comes across as the more engaging character rather than merely as a rather selfish chancer. This is partly because of Antonio being equally low key. You can't imagine this man behaving towards Shylock in the anti-semitic manner of which he's accused. He doesn't seem to have the passion for it. In effect the heart of the play (rather than Antonio) has been removed. So, not one of the best versions of the play that I've seen unfortunately.

The Red Balloon

A masterclass in how to make an inanimate object into a character. It's not like a balloon even has anything approximating facial features, but by the end of this film, the audience is totally enchanted by the "hero". And how is this miracle achieved? By movement (the balloon has a rather jaunty motion and bobs around endearingly) and by the interaction of the balloon and the small boy who finds it. The little game of hide and seek is one of the most sweet and lovely images I think I've ever seen - and this from someone with a strong aversion to *cute*. I started to think of the balloon as being mischievous, and there's a genuinely charming bit where it almost flirts with a passing blue balloon. Of course, having won over the spectator, the ending is all the more affecting. Who would have thought that the (deliberate) bursting of a balloon could be so upsetting? Still, the film finishes on a literal high as all the balloons in Paris come to the boy and carry him away. One of a kind.

[REC]

Zombies are the only horror film creatures that truly freak me out. I think it's the whole being-eaten-alive scenario. [REC] is creepily effective and for the second time in a month a Spanish horror film makes genuinely unsettling use of a nightvision sequence. Not being able to properly see the terrors that are suggested by the soundtrack always works better than the tortureporn approach of showing every last detail. Top marks too for being thoroughly ruthless with the characters, even poor Pablo, the man behind the camera whose face is never seen. A nice touch too with the hint of an escape route - involving a tense find-the-right-key sequence - that is immediately made an impossibility as the survivors find themselves cut off at the top of the building with no hope of reaching the basement. And the most disturbing scene? The hysterical mother cuffed to the banisters, the key that could release her with the now-infected policeman, and the zombies breaking through the barrier. You can guess the rest.

Son of Rambow

An absolute delight, blessedly free of sentimentality and cute kids. For those of a certain age, the details ring totally true. The early shot of the cinema full of smokers sets the tone (I remember watching Bambi in just such a setting) and the rest of the film follows. The mere mention of scree in the geography lesson took me right back. Best of all, the kids feel like real human beings instead of child actors playing a role. From their POV, the sixth form common room is a New Romantic disco, the French exchange students exotic and exciting creatures, and Rambo the filmic forbidden fruit. In this world, imagination knows no bounds - a rest home becomes a rambling mansion full of wonders (not least the pirate video itself), a rather pathetic scarecrow transforms into a terrifying creature, and a dog can fly (sort of). Even reality itself takes a turn for the better, at least for this summer ...

The Savages

Are there two better actors than Laura Linney and Philip Seymour Hoffman? In terms of one-off performances, possibly, but for sheer consistency, I doubt it. Watching them bicker and spark off each other is a joy, which is the last thing one would expect from a film about the alarming mental decline of a not-so-loving parent. It's grim subject matter and a topic that is horribly relevant to most people, but rather than being a depressing slog, The Savages leavens the downbeat tone with flashes of biting humour. Sometimes it's tinged with desperation, sometimes it's sarcastic and sometimes it's just bloody hilarious. I defy anyone not to laugh at the "jaw sling" scene. Underneath it all though lurks the dreadful decisions two estranged children have to make about a man who they love almost despite themselves.

My Brother is an Only Child

You never know what you're going to get with Italian films. Sometimes they are so sickly sweet that you want to vomit or at least leave the cinema pronto. Luckily there's also a handful that are more politically minded. With the writers behind The Best of Youth penning this, it was always going to be worth seeing. Not as good as the earlier film, and with a slightly dubious and schematic division of political allegiances, it nevertheless scores highly with the portrayal of acrimonious yet still loving family interaction. In those scenes it's also rather amusing too, which is a necessary counterbalance to the rest of the film.

Exhibitions

Saturday was a day of exhibitions. Weapons of Mass Communication at the Imperial War Musuem and Cranach at the Royal Academy. I hadn't been to the IWM before so that was a treat in itself. I was shocked by how small a Spitfire is/was. I'd always assumed they were larger than that. I felt claustrophobic just looking at it. And *then* I went into the Trench ...
Anyway, the posters were interesting. Whereas most of the propaganda posters had a snappy or at least brief text, the post-Revolution Russian ones ended up with alarmingly long exhortations! I think my favourite poster was one from France, WWI, which actually looked more like a film poster for a 1950s sci-fi movie. There was nothing else like it.
I'd had a sneak peak of the catalogue for the Cranach exhibition so knew what to expect. The portraits were probably the most impressive although they don't approach Holbein levels of realism. The eyes and mouth tend to be very stylized which you only truly realize when you see a selection of them together. The figures of his (clothed) females also follow a pattern, and certain elements such as the apple tree and various animals reappear. Looking at the paintings, they almost seem to belong more to the preceding century.

DVD roundup March

HMV, your sales are evil. I have no willpower to resist whenever I set foot in the store. This month has been particularly bad for what little space I have left on my shelves.

Blade Runner: Final Cut - I'm not enough of a nerd to remember all the minute differences between the various cuts. However, this one does look nice and shiny and more to the point doesn't have that wretched voiceover. I realized that I don't much like the music apart from the main theme and that the sections with the replicants are far more interesting than the rest of the film. Another good Ridley Scott commentary too. He's always so proud of the way he reuses props and parts of the set!

Children of Men - Still works on a second viewing. Actually it feels even shorter. Michael Caine's performance is his best in years. Genuinely moving.

Tell No One - Again it still works despite now knowing what the various twists and turns will be. The performances are terrific and carry you across the more unlikely pieces of the plot, of which there are many!

Amazing Grace - What I like about this so much is the way it captures a genuine sense of friendship between Wilberforce and Pitt. You feel that they have indeed known each other for years. I also love the ramshackle air around Wilberforce's home, with all the rescued animals roaming around. It immediately makes you warm to the man. Plus it doesn't shy away from scenes of politics. It trusts the audience to actually listen.

Seraphim Falls - Almost a mixture of Anthony Mann and Clint Eastwood though it goes seriously odd (in a Dead Man kind of way) at the end. I do love a good Western, especially one that treats the genre with respect. Inventive ways of killing people also a plus.

Pathfinder - OK, my "I've had a rotten week" treat to myself. Every bit as daft as you would expect for Vikings vs. Native Americans, but who cares when there's a barely clothed Karl Urban to lift the spirits:)