The Red Shoes

The Red Shoes has always been one of the most visually ravishing films, even in the slightly faded, slightly scuffed form that has been in circulation for as long as most of us can remember. We should all be thankful that it's Scorcese's favourite movie as the sparkling restoration he initiated is truly a thing of beauty. The reds pop from the screen and the blues are almost too lovely, while Moira Shearer's hair would make anyone want to be a redhead. Only Powell and Pressburger could have made such a film in 1940s Britain. It combines intense theatricality with vivid location shooting without ever feeling like two halves have been stitched together. It weaves high melodrama around the kernel of a fairy tale, and dares to spend 20 minutes on The Red Shoes ballet itself. It doesn't matter that the latter, as we see it, could *never* happen on stage: it starts and ends within the proscenium arch but inbetween every trick in the cinematic book is used as the dance becomes more surreal and disturbing (shadows worthy of Nosferatu clutch at the girl; dancers become first flowers then white birds; a man-shaped piece of newspaper transforms into a newsprint-covered man) Vicky's whole dilemma is encapsulated within that sequence and her subsequent jump from the railway bridge ironically echoes the elegant shape of the dancers as they are lifted by their partners. Torn between the demands of her husband (to leave the ballet company and make a life with him) and Lermontov (to give her life to dance) she suffers the same fate as in her most famous role.
The performances have to carry the weight of what could have been an extremely silly premise. The fact that real dancers are used immediately sells both the ballet scenes as well as the behind the scenes glimpses of a company in rehearsal and on the move. There's a simple joy in watching professionals hone their craft. The main burden though is shouldered by the mighty, multi-lingual Anton Walbrook, here a million miles away from his gallant Theo in The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp (anyone who doubts his range should watch the scene here where he explains why he wants to leave Germany to come to live in England) Lermontov is a monster but one whose motives the audience totally understands. Creating art is the be-all-and-end-all for him and he expects his collaborators to be equally driven. Anyone so foolish enough to cross him, or worse, fall in love, is cut loose - and yet he's willing to woo back both Irina and Vicky after their marriages, and both are equally willing to return to this alternate family. The hints of the conflicting emotions raging beneath his outwardly calm facade make Lermontov one of the great Powell and Pressburger characters, while his final speech (starting loud, as though the emotion is finally bursting out, but gradually quietening as he becomes more human than he ever has previously) invariably reduces me to tears. One of the great, great films of world cinema and yet not even the best film that Powell and Pressburger made (that would be A Matter of Life and Death). They were THAT good.

Henri-Georges Clouzot's L'Enfer

Not exactly a lost film, more a fleeting glimpse of what could have been one of the great films of the 1960s. Even though the soundtrack for these remaining fragments is missing, the images more than speak for themselves. The plan was for the "real world" scenes to be in black and white and the jealous husband's fantasies and torments in colour. This only paints half the picture though. The cans of test footage reveal a sequence of awe-inspiring visual experiments, designed to emphasise Marcel's distorted view of the world. Makeup and lighting combine to create an eerie effect of ever-changing expressions on his wife's face (A Scanner Darkly in live action) and the colour inversion sequences show the women with striking blue lipstick and a lake turning blood red. It's a tantalising glance at what could have been but as the documentary makes clear, Clouzot's perfectionism seemed to become an end in itself. Shooting slowed to a crawl; he pushed everyone to the edge of their limits; and finally the leading man walked off set, never to return. Even while plans were being made to find a replacement, the end finally came when the director himself had a heart attack. The interviewees and on-set photos give a vivid impression of events (I admit to a happy surge of excitement when Costa Gavras popped up, as articulate as ever) complemented by clips from the surviving footage. Although it's only there in fragmentary form, it still makes a powerful impression and one can safely say that it would have been a far more interesting version of the script than the one that eventutally surfaced 30 years later under the guidance of Chabrol. Yes, it might have been very much of it's time but it would still have been astonishing.

Moctezuma

It's always interesting what exhibit in a show captures the attention. It's not necessarily the most famous or the most flashy. There's much to excite the imagination at the British Museum: the sculptures of figures have a pleasing simplicity combined with an attention to detail; carvings on stone are impressively vivid (with helpful diagrams to assist the identification of important elements); ceramics have flowing shapes and colourful decoration; and the various turquoise-encrusted objects show remarkable workmanship. But the item I was drawn to repeatedly was a 5 ft high wooden drum, covered with beautiful carvings of Eagle and Jaguar warriors. Even from a cursory glance, the skill is obvious, and it's hard to believe it's 500 years old. As with many of the objects, it's associated with the rituals of the Aztecs and the exhibition does a good job of contextualizing. Several pieces bear Moctezuma's name glyph and the various year glyphs are also highlighted. There's not much ghoulishness, apart from the mask made from a skull covered with turquoise and lignite. The culture is undeniably alien to our eyes (sacrificial rites, feathered serpents) but it exerts a powerful fascination.

Where The Wild Things Are

I have no idea whether children will enjoy, or even get, this film, but for adults it's a total delight. It's never saccharine or sentimental, instead brimming with youthful exuberence while retaining an admirable edge. There's tremendous fun to be had with Max and the Wild Things, for instance when they hurl clods of mud at each other, or charge around yelling but there's always an underlying sense of danger. We don't forget (nor does Max) that his crown is retrieved from among the skeletal remains of previous kings of the Wild Things (eaten by their subjects for presumably not keeping the sadness away) and his essential vulnerability is emphasised by the way he is dwarfed by his new friends, who come complete with sharp teeth and even sharper claws.
The events on the island spring logically from the framing story: the clodfight itself refers back to the snowball fight with his sister's friends, while the wonderful fort that Max and the Wild Things construct echoes both the igloo carelessly destroyed as a result of the snowball fight (further emphasised when Carol threatens to tear down the structure) and the "spaceship" Max constructs in his room, complete with the stuffed toys that will be saved (and who subsequently mutate into the Wild Things in his imagination). Meanwhile, the heart-shaped gift to his sister, which Max rips to pieces in a fit of rage, is echoed twice on the island.
The Wild Things themselves represent various facets of Max's personality but it's not done in a heavy-handed way. Carol's creativity and temper remind us of Max, but so does Alexander's lack of confidence. It works because the framing story has given us such a vivid impression of this boy in such a short space of time. Max feels very much like a real child as opposed to the Hollywood idea of what a child is like. One particularly lovely grace note is the scene where Max curls up under his mother's work desk and plucks at the toe of her stockings as she works, while the later scene of Carol's model of the island makes one catch one's breath. Carol's destruction of this work of art produces the same emotional pang as did Max's tearing his sister's present to pieces. The damage has been done and can't be repaired. It's not exactly the book but it's a lovely film. And never underestimate the appeal of men in (furry) monster suits ...

Tales from the Golden Age

Portmanteau films are notoriously uneven. There always seems to be at least one weak link, and the more segments, the more chance of duff parts. Luckily Tales from the Golden Age maintains an impressively high standard, with perhaps only the Legend of the Chicken Driver meandering to little purpose. Taken together the pieces give a typically absurdist view of life under Ceausecu, sometimes comic and bordering on the tragic. Possibly the best sections are the first, where the preparations for an on/off motorcade through a small village culminate with eveyone spinning on a carousel, including the person supposed to operate it, and the Legend of the Greedy Policeman, where a relative's promise of pork comes in the form of a live pig delivered to a block of flats, and the subsequent attempt to kill the animal without anyone noticing. As you can imagine, it doesn't go quite according to plan...

The White Ribbon

By the end of The White Ribbon, Germany is about to be plunged into the horror of World War I (to be followed a generation later by the unimaginable cruelties of World Word II) The villagers gather in their church, with the first volunteers proudly sitting in the front row. As the children's choir begins to sing, the image very slowly fades to black. History is about to devour a way of life and it is, appallingly, the logical conclusion to everything we've been watching - cruelty (both psychological and physical), hypocrisy, vengeance, suicide.
The adult males are patriarchal monsters, regardless of class. They don't hesitate to hit or otherwise punish their children. The women have some indications of tenderness but are cowed and unable to effectively protest. As one character says, this is a place dominated by "malice, envy, apathy and brutality". Even worse, those in positions of power refuse to accept the only possible answer to the mystery of who is terrorising the village. The pastor, of all people, rejects what is right under his nose, present within the walls of his own house. The only solution appears to be to leave, as the Baroness intends, and as the schoolteacher and his bride will do after the war.
It's never explained, and the narrator admits some of what he relates is hearsay, but the gathering of children quickly becomes a sinister image. They don't play; they lurk outside doors and windows; they observe silently and sullenly. Hindsight is impossible to ignore. These blonde children bring to mind pictures of the Hitler Youth (perhaps their own children 20 years later), though a couple of the youngest still retain their innocence - the pastor's son offering his rescued bird to replace the one killed by his sister. Erna meanwhile tearfully confesses to "dreams" that come true, which may be an attempt to prevent terrible things happening. The acts directed against adults are more easily understood than those inflicted upon other children. A boy opens a window in an attempt to kill his new-born brother. The Baron's son Sigi and later poor, handicapped Karli are both savagely beaten. Is it because of class? Prejudice? It's all the more disturbing because we don't know.
All of this would be unbearably gruelling if it wasn't for the sweet courtship between the narrator and Eva, the nanny. Perhaps it's because they are both outsiders but both seem free from the oppression weighing down the other villagers, and there's a gently comic scene with Eva's family when the schoolteacher goes to ask for her hand in marriage. It's a little spark of hope amid the gathering darkness, yet even these two will ultimately be caught up in their country's catastrophes.

Me and Orson Welles

Someone needs to tell Zac Efron now that pouting and squinting does not equal acting, never mind expressing emotional turbulence. He might be the leading man here but he's totally overshadowed - as one might hope - by Christian McKay's Orson Welles. The very definition of larger than life, Welles is brilliant, maddening and utterly ruthless, winning over people by sheer force of personality but always using them for his own ends (watch how he takes over the radio broadcast with no regard for his fellow actors) That makes his whispered, unheard, "thank you" to the retreating John Houseman all the more touching. He's had full scale rows with his producer, hurling insults at him, and yet deep down he *does* appreciate all his hard work - even if he can't admit publically. Unfortunately there's far too much time spent on Zac and the immensely annoying Clare Danes and nowhere near enough on the Mercury Theatre company and their groundbreaking production of Julius Caesar. Even in snapshop this comes across as far more interesting than the callow leads' relationship (Joseph Cotten is absolutely spot-on for a start) We're told how innovative this production will be but it's all so fragmentary that it has to be taken on trust, though McKay-as-Welles-as-Brutus gives some indication of the power of the interpretation. This was what I wanted to see. Alas, too much "Me" and not enough "Orson Welles"...

Beatles to Bowie

This is a great exhibition to bring out nostalgia even in people who don't remember the 1960s. Did Bowie *really* once look that boyish? And Shirley Bassey somehow doesn't look like Shirley Bassey when she was a mere girl. And for a real shock to the system, there's The Rolling Stones, with not a wrinkle in sight. Balance that with the likes of Jimi Hendrix, forever young, gazing at the viewer, framed by leaves. The other understandable reaction is sheer horror at some of the ghastly fashions on show. John Entwhistle and Pete Townshend seem to be swapping the same hideous jacket in a series of photographs and the less said about the bright floral trousers sported by other males the better (throughout the chronological exhibition, The Beatles transcend whatever's hip and end up looking timeless) Well worth a look for anyone who loves music or portrait photography or simply just wants to relive their past.

Paranormal Activity

"The scariest film ever made"? Hmm, I think not, though admittedly fear can be a rather subjective matter. Having said that, Paranormal Activity is undeniably chilling, even for hardened horror fans, and it's such a relief to have a film that relies on suggestion rather than gore for its effect. The fixed-camera night-time scenes are little masterpieces of creeping dread, each segment increasing ever-so-slightly the paranormal incidents (noises, lights switching on and off, footprints ...) so that by the last few, the viewer is anxiously scanning that cunningly composed frame for anything untoward. These parts work because they are interspersed with the domestic scenes bewteen Micah and Katie (motion-sickness inducing camerwork included) Once he gets the camera in his hand, Micah slips into alpha male mode. At first he seems to regard it all as a bit of fun, in contrast to the increasing worried Katie (he tellingly uses the word "cool") and even stops to grab the camera before investigating why his girlfriend is screaming (she reacts with understandable disbelief) It doesn't matter what anyone else says, Micah is convinced that he can solve the problem. Either he doesn't understand how terrified Katie feels or he doesn't really care. Their arguments settle into the same pattern: she accuses him of not understanding what's happening and he accuses her of bringing *this* into the house. Inevitably Micah's actions make matters worse. Rule no. 1 - if an expert tells you NOT to film/antagonize/try to contact the demon that's taken up residence in your house, then don't. By the time Micah truly appreciates the gravity of the situation, it's way, way too late.

A Serious Man

The blackly comic new Coen film brought home just how disappointing Burn After Reading actually was: broad, loud and populated by dislikeable idiots (with the odd flash of hilarity) This time round there's no big names, no manic gurning. Low key and one of the Coens' more inscrutable efforts, A Serious Man begins - in Yiddish (fair weather fans leave now!) - in a 19th century shtetl, with an encounter between a married couple and an elderly man who may, or may not, be a dybbuk. It gets steadily stranger. In the 1960s Larry Gopnik seems a nice enought guy, though placid to a fault, when suddenly he finds himself assailed on all sides (by God? fate? pure coincidence?) The unctuous Sy Ableman steals his wife, and in a late discreet aside it's suggested he's also responsible for sending poisonous letters to Larry's faculty; Larry's oddball brother (and his cyst) has taken up semi-permanent residence in the bathroom, much to the annoyance of Larry's daughter who clearly wants that position for herself and her endless hair washing; and the Columbia Record Club keep hounding him for money for records *he* has never received, though it turns out his son is far more devious than himself. The only purposes in Larry's life seem to be to provide money upon demand. no matter how unreasonable the request, and to fix the TV aerial so his son can watch F Troop. Oh, and throw in a trio of variously unhelpful rabbis. All of which eventually provokes even the infuriatingly docile Larry to exasperation and tears. It could have felt horribly cruel if it wasn't for the sympathy we feel for Larry, surrounded as he is by a world out to get him (a hilarious nightmare sees his redneck neighbours out hunting Jews instead of the usual wildlife). The filmmaking contrasts with the chaos afflicting Larry. It's calm and controlled, with pyrotechnics saved for moments like a stoned boy's experience of his bar mitzvah. And how does all this relate to the opening? Who knows? You could view Larry and his wife as extensions of the couple in the prologue (easygoing and skeptical husband, forceful and brutally pragmatic wife) but no concrete answers - to anything - are forthcoming, and the double whammy of doctor's phonecall and approaching tornado that ends the film hardly ties up loose ends. Definitely a Coen film to mull over during those many repeat viewings.

The Men Who Stare At Goats

A contender for film title of the year, but not alas movie of the year. Part of the problem is the wandering tone. Everything from that title to the premise via the trailer lead the audience to expect an outright comedy, or at the very least, a sharp satire about the military. George Clooney does indeed effortlessly slip into his Coen mode and has some very funny scenes, but the equivocal introduction telling us that more of the events are true than we'd expect extends to a more general uncertainty. The structure doesn't help matters. The road trip to Iraq tenuously holds together a string of flashbacks in search of a plot. Nor does the film ever manage to locate an ending - and it tries twice. "Free the goats" doesn't quite cut it as a denouement. Overall one is left with the sense of having sat through an occasionally amusing, rather silly and inconsequential film while wishing that the makers had gone for an out and out satire based on the New Earth Army, which one suspects would have been far more effective.

The Sacred Made Real

The polychromed sculptures are the main attraction here. While paintings by the likes of Velazquez and Zurburan form an interesting comparison with their three-dimensional counterparts, it's the astonishing detail of the sculptures that makes an impact. The robes of the Virgin of the Immaculate Conception are beautiful in their colour and presentation of texture, while the skill of the painters involved is obviously in the faces of Saint Francis Borgia and Saint Ignatius Loyola (the latter complete with glass tears) Elsewhere real hair is used for eyelashes, while glass eyes catch the light (if you've ever thought that the eyes of a painting followed you around a room, prepare to be seriously unnerved) What could have been horribly garish in fact becomes deeply fascinating. Walking around the Christ figures, complete with the gory results of flagellation, makes one intensely aware of both the injuries and the suffering. This reaches its height in the lifesize figure of the dead Christ, which manages to be both shocking (open red wounds contrasted with ghastly whitish-blue flesh) and moving (the unbearable poignancy of a dead body) No wonder many of these images are still paraded and venerated to this day. You don't have to be a Catholic - or even religious - to appreciate the artistry and power of these works.

Bright Star

First of all, I have to admit to never liking the poetry of John Keats. I'll take Byron any day of the week. Luckily this minor detail isn't a problem when it comes to appreciating Bright Star. A slow-burning film, it creeps up on the viewer and take a thorough grip on the emotions before you realize it's happened. For such a deeply romantic film, it has a keen sense of ruthless economics. Fanny's extraordinary array of home-made dresses result in bouts of verbal sparring with Charles Brown: he regards them as symptomatic of frivolity, and therefore of Fanny's lack of importance, but she sharply retorts that her needlework can provide her with a livelihood, unlike his writing. It sets up their rivalry but also encapsulates the tragedy at the heart of the film. Fanny's future depends on making a good match, but Keats - as we are repeatedly informed - has no money and is never likely to have any. To continue as a poet means, in effect, that he can't marry her. In order to take a wife he would need a regular income, which would require him to give up his poetry (and all this even before his TB becomes a factor) It's a situation understood by everyone - Mrs Brawne with sadness, Charles Brown with outright aggression.
All of this makes the snatched moments of happiness the more precious and fragile. Great joy alternates with misery as love seems to ebb and flow. The dingy browns and claustrophobia of the city (associated with poverty and death) contrast with the spaciousness of the country, as Hampstead was in those days, where the breeze rustles the grass while people walk and play. Scenes such as Fanny in a meadow of bluebells or Keats lying aloft a tree capture the sensation of their growing love, while the separation of their bedrooms by a dividing wall gives rise to scenes of a palpable aching longing. The attempt to create a butterfly farm in Fanny's room produces both a visual equivalent of an emotional high (brightly coloured butterflies drifting around the room) and a devastating low (their corpses unceremoniously swept away) When Fanny lies on her bed as the wind blows the curtain inwards you can almost feel the air caressing her. The lovers share nothing more than a kiss but the viewer understands everything they feel for each other through the images.
The cruel irony is that only when Keats' death is imminent can the couple be engaged. Keats has nowhere to stay and Fanny's reputation would never survive his continued presence in the house. At the point when they truly have no future, they assume the appearance of contented domesticity, but even this is short-lived. His trip to Italy has been funded by his friends and Fanny cannot accompany him. They cling to the illusion that he will be cured but deep down they know there is no hope. Even so, the end is devastating for Fanny. Kept apart to the last, she hears the news of his death third-hand from a man she has never liked. Neither friend nor lover have been able to avert the inevitable. All that's left is a life cut short and the work that was ignored.

An Education

A woman's lot at the start of the 1960s wasn't a happy one, at least according to the picture painted here. Even the highly educated find their options reduced to teaching or marriage, and it's debatable which is the more soul-destroying. No wonder young Jenny is so easily seduced by a suave older man and his seemingly glamourous lifestyle. The world of flash cars, expensive clothes and glitzy nightclubs prove far more tempting than studying which only seems to lead to a life of housework while listening to the radio (role model: mum) or endless hours marking essays about ponies (role model: Miss Stubbs) Jenny's mother in particular seems to pine for the life she led pre-marriage, while Miss Stubbs' Cambridge education seems to have merely produced a dowdy stereotype with glasses and a bun. Cannily, David isn't presented as sleazy. We might instinctively mistrust his motives, even before his criminal sidelines are revealed, but never to the extent that we decide Jenny is merely stupid. It's a delicate balancing act but David, it turns out, is an expert manipulator (he knows perfectly how to win over her parents, and to get them to agree to whatever wants while being convinced that it was their own idea) The inevitable betrayal is worse than expected, and leaves the viewer almost as angry and disappointed as Jenny (we too have been taken in by David to a certain extent) The straight and narrow path of education beckons once more, but this time, the Swinging 60s and a whole new world are just over the horizon.

Turner and the Masters

This wasn't quite what I expected, but then, I associate Turner more with his later "impressionistic" works than with the more figurative works on show here. Seeing paintings where the emphasis is on the people within them seems very odd indeed. They aren't bad but they are nowhere near as interesting as his landscape and maritime subjects, though they invariably compare favourably with the work of contemporaries. Elsewhere it's interesting to contrast say Canaletto's Venetian paintings with Turner's. The clear lines and almost photographic detail of one against the looser brushwork and brighter light of the other. The brushwork is also noticeably different when contrasting Ruisdael's seascapes with Turner's. Rembrandt though still emerges in a class of his own. The Limekiln is indeed a beautiful little painting, attempting to match the Master's use of a small pocket of light in an area of darkness but it doesn't make any advance on Rembrandt's Landscape with the Rest on the Flight in to Egypt. The final rooms are where you fully appreciate the experimentalism of Turner. The blinding light emanating from the centre of the Regulus canvas is truly breathtaking, and, my favourite in the exhibition, Snow Storm captures the overpowering sense of the elements as the steamboat is barely discernible in the maelstrom of paint surrounding it.

Fantastic Mr Fox

I don't know whether this s Roald Dahl, having never read the book, but it most definitely IS Wes Anderson. Anyone who ever wondered what an animated film directed by him would be like now has their answer. It's *exactly* as you imagined it would be. If you close your eyes, it could be another of his live action films. In fact, I enjoyed it far more than either of his previous two movies, which seemed to be getting ever more candy-coloured and whimsical but far less involving than the glorious Rushmore or The Royal Tenenbaums (and I'm still halfway convinced that the key ingredient there was Owen Wilson as co-writer) Fantastic Mr Fox ticks most of the usual Anderson boxes: dysfunctional families; awkward father/son relationships; wacky sight gags; leftfield choice of music (the Beach Boys!); and a truly alarming attention to detail. The stop motion has an endearing rough and ready feel, with slightly jerky motion and bristling fur (think the original King Kong) But unlike Nick Park's films, you never get a sense that this is England. No matter how many Heath Robinson-esque contraptions surround Wallace and Gromit, you always feel that you're in some hidden corner of Yorkshire. Fantastic Mr Fox doesn't seem to exist anywhere in particular. Some of the settings might remind you of the English countryside but what to make then of the bizarre appearance of the wolf in front of snowy mountains at the end? There's also the accents (the animals seem to all be American while the farmers are British) and the music (not at all pastoral) One set-piece is even filmed and scored in the style of a spaghetti Western. However, it is still very enjoyable though I suspect moreso for fans of Anderson than of Dahl.

The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus

On the scale of wildly undisciplined Terry Gilliam films, this actually ranks as being surprisingly coherent. This is even more amazing given the appalling tragedy that happened mid-shoot. We've long been schooled to expect his movies to be accompanied by a certain amount of mayhem, but it's usually more prosaic: a public, full-on row with the producers for instance. For a time it looked like Parnassus would share the fate of Don Quixote and end up abandoned. As it is, the solution works a treat, with the costume, hair and makeup of Johhny Depp, Jude Law and Colin Farrell (as Tony in the Imaginarium) all bearing a passing resemblance to Heath Ledger as Tony in the real world - and also giving rise to a hilarious double take when Johnny Depp catches sight of his reflection. This being a Gilliam film the plotting is, shall we say, haphazard, and the performances occasionally swing very broad indeed. There are also a couple of moments that distractingly scream "Monty Python", particularly the singing policemen. But the other thing that one gets with a Gilliam film is an astonishing imagination at work. This is most obvious in the fantasy world through the mirror but also applies to the Imaginarium itself, a vibrant archaic presence in drab modern London, and the flashbacks to Parnassus' deals with Mr Nick. And yet, for all its qualities, it will always be known as Heath Ledger's last film and it's intriguing to wonder how he would have played the three Imaginarium Tonys, particularly the third, when his true colours are fully revealed.

Katalin Varga

The most striking aspect of Katalin Varga is the sound design. Natural sounds are increased to an unnatural volume, while discordant music lends an air of foreboding to this low-budget tale of revenge. The viewer is further unsettled by the oddly timeless quality of the setting. It's only the mention of mobile phones and the sight of passing cars that indicate it's a contemporary tale. Katalin drives a horse and cart across rural Transylvania after being thrown out by her husband when he discovers the truth about the paternity of his son. The boy, meanwhile, thinks they are visiting his dying grandmother but it gradually becomes clear that Katalin has other plans: namely to hunt down and kill the two men who raped her 10 years earlier. As with any good revenge tragedy, morality becomes increasingly murky. Characters pray, and talk about sin and redemption, but Katalin's first crime damns her as surely as her rapists. Matters come to a head when she finds the second man, now happily married and by all accounts a good man. The appalled expression on his face as he realizes the past has caught up with him suggests a man about to face the end of his world. Even the one truly innocent character, his wife, ends up committing an act that costs her sould. As for Katalin, there's a dreadful symmetry to her fate. Blood will have blood.

Fish Tank

There's a moment part way through Fish tank that's as swooningly erotic as anything you'll see this year. Handsome, charming Connor gives 15 year old Mia a piggy back after she cuts her foot helping him to catch a fish (by hand!) The film slows imperceptibly; the sound of Connor's breathing is amplified slightly; and Mia brings her face as close to Connor's as she dares. The sequence perfecly captures the rush of desire that Mia feels for her mother's new boyfriend. And who can blame her? Connor's the one person who offers any encouragement. The very definition of a stroppy teen, Mia seems to have no friends (hardly surprising considering how confrontational she is most of the time) and is on the verge of being sent to a special school. She rows constantly with her mother, the neighbours and just about everyone who crosses her path. Her only release in dancing in an empty flat. Connor praises her - you get the feeling that *noone* has ever done that - and even manages to win over her mouthy younger sister Tyler ("I like you. I'll kill you last" she tells him) As it turns out, the reason Connor is so good with children and at making them feel like they belong to a family is because he's a father himself. It's clear however that Mia doesn't view Connor as a father figure, but as an object of desire. The first time she sees him, in the kitchen early one morning, the camera adopts her POV as she gazes at his naked torso. Later she tests the camera her loans her by filming him getting dressed. Even as his presence seems to make her mother happy, Mia and Connor edge towards the inevitable. Miraculously, it doesn't feel like a tawdry act of exploitation but it nevertheless destroys the brief idyll and reveals Connor's secret. The contrast of his family and Mia's couldn't be more sharp. A spacious, well-kept house and garden instead of an untidy, cramped flat; a neat, well-behaved daughter instead of two neglected tearaways; and a smartly-dressed wife and loving mother instead of the slatternly Joanne. You have to wonder why he stayed so long. And yet, the film is actually compassionate. Rather than being the villain of the piece, Connor is a likeable, kind and generous man, and we never hate him for his actions. Mia, for all her impulsiveness and anger, has a good heart - we might first see her rowing with another girl and headbutting her, but we warm to her when we see her genuine concern for the travellers' elderly horse. She acts before thinking, which almost has tragic consequences, but there's hope. She pulls back from the brink and might even be making a brighter future for herself as she departs with one of the traveller boys. There's even a tentative rapprochement with her mother as the 3 members of the family dance in the flat prior to her departure.

Birdwatchers

Birdwatchers could have been one of those terribly worthy, but terribly dull, films, centring as it does on a group of Guarani-Kaiowas to reclaim their ancestral land. The setting might be Brazil but its themes resonate wherever indigenous people clash with descendents of European settlers over land rights. The opening image is a typically exotic expanse of forest but the final image tracks to reveal how it dwarfs in comparison to the neighbouring farmland. This is the crux of the matter. The Guarani now live on a reservation, have nowhere to hunt, and earn money by either posing as "wild" Indians for tourists or working on the estates that now occupy what was their land. What lifts this above the usual liberal handwringing is the verve of the filmmaking and the sly humour. Subjective camerwork signals the presence of Angue, an evil spirit that drives people to commit suicide. Meanwhile, the conflict over the Indians' occupation of a strip of land escalates, though the women have much fun in teasing the guard left by the farmer. The film is certainly on the side of the Guarani and their predicament. Moreira might protest that the land has been in his family for three generations but that seems laughable when compared to the ancient claims of the tribe. The two viewpoints are mutually contradictory and as such, the film can't offer closure. The young would-be shaman might defeat Angue, but the farmers have killed the leader of the tribe. The tentative contacts made elsewhere in the film are all in shreds and noone really wins.

Zombieland

If you want to survive a zombie apocalypse - and I'm sure you do - you could do worse than take note of young Columbus' (as in Ohio) basic rules. For the most part they are eminently practical, such as make sure your kill is indeed dead (or even more dead than before); avoid restrooms as you end up fast food; and above all, don't be a hero. They must work as Columbus, despite carting a suitcase everywhere ("travel light"), is still alive. Tallahassee (as in Florida) meanwhile is much more what one expects of a survivor. Admittedly not everyone can possess his awesome zombie-killing skills, but they are something to aspire to. A master of all kinds of automatic weaponry, he also proves adept with shears, car doors and the trusty old baseball bat. However, even this alpha male finds himself regularly deprived of both transport and weapons by the wiles of two young girls, Witchita and Little Rock. It's refreshing that for most of the film the female contingent run rings around the menfolk, whether dead or alive. Of course, it can't last and the finale is set in motion by an act of such mind-blowing stupidity, guaranteed to attract every zombie in LA (despite the amount of noise the characters make the rest of time which bizarrely never draws zombies) that you feel the girls actually deserve to get eaten for being so dense. But never fear, the men come to the rescue! Wouldn't it be nice if just for once it was the other way round ...
This though is a small gripe compared to the gleeful mayhem present elsewhere. There's one genuine shock (you actually know it's coming but it still works) but it's not a particularly scary film - though having said that, it nevertheless provoked my usual post-zombie film nightmare. It is however very, very funny, even finding time for a Deliverance joke. There's also a pricelessly surreal celebrity cameo with a cracking payoff (again, you can see it coming but it doesn't matter) and a hilarious letting-off-steam-by-trashing-a-store sequence (see what I mean about noone worrying about making a noise?) You WILL feel good about the end of the world. Oh, and rember what Columbus said: the fatties were the first ones to go in the apocalypse so work on that cardio now.

The Army of Crime

We know the fate of the Resistance fighters from the very beginning of the film. On the way to their execution, they pass oblivious French citizens enjoying a sunny day, while a voiceover recites a litany of very foreign names who "died for France". For much of the film, France seems unworthy of the sacrifice. The Germans are there, having photographs taken in front of famous landmarks, playing concerts and kicking a football around in the park but it's the French themselves who betray and hunt down the Resistance. There's a telling, though understated, contrast between French-run Drancy - where anyone who approaches is shot on sight - and the German camp where the German officer greets Melinee with both surprise and courtesy. Of course, these Germans will also shoot the foreign intellectuals held in the camp but there's a different attitude towards them. They are the enemy but they are also soldiers. The real venom is saved for the French police, who are merely collaborators of the worst kind. The dreadful irony at the heart of the film is that this particular group of Resistance fighters are foreign Ccommunists and Jews, who have already fled from persecution (the Turks, the Nazis), and end up tortured and killed by a country they think respresents freedom.
It's a sober, thoughtful film that takes it's time establishing its large cast of characters and the key locations they inhabit, such as the Elek bar or the bustling courtyard where the Raymans live. It has far more in common with Army of Shadows than with Black Book. The assassinations and explosions coexist with planning meetings and domestic scenes, while the French authorities plan their own campaign against the "terrorists" (and just ponder how much that word depends on context) The acts carried out by the group against the Germans contrast with the torture later inflicted on them by the French police, including a particularly nasty sequence showing what happens when a blowtorch is applied to flesh. The Manouchian group are derogatorily labelled "the army of crime" and portrayed as a threat to France itself, yet they are the ones trying to free the country from occupation while the majority acquiese.

Creation

I expected Creation to be a typically stuffy British costume drama, pretty to look at but otherwise unengaging. However, it happily confounded my expectations. Instead of the hagiography of a great scientist, we have the moving portrait of a deeply tormented man, grieving for a beloved daughter, emotionally estranged from wife and family (his surviving children are convinced he no longer loves them), and badgered by his fellow scientists who regard his work as vital in the battle against religion. Admittedly it doesn't tell the audience much about Darwin's theories themselves, although there are glimpses of the practical nature of his scientific investigation. Rather, we have his anguished procrastination, the deferral of the act of writing. The viewer empathises with the film Darwin far more than with the eminent figure of history. By humanising him, the film not only creates a connection with the audience but it also defuses any tendency towards hectoring (the character of Thomas Huxley isan amusing cameo but one wouldn't want the entire film to adopt that tone) What we have, in effect, is a family (melo)drama that just happens to impact on the writing of one the major scientific texts.
The film doesn't exactly ignore the science. There's Darwin's experiments with selective breeding of pigeons, and there's a real feel for the natural world - Darwin's observations as he walks quietly through a wood, first alone and then with his children; a time-lapse sequence showing how decomposition can also sustain life. There's a flowing relationship between the dual time frames (easily distinguishable via Darwin's hair but with a confusing lack of ageing of the children) as well as a slippage between reality and fantasy. Most obviously this is through the presence of the dead Annie but also through the grief- and laudanum-induced dreams Darwin experiences. The most disturbing of these is when the specimens in his study return to life while leaves cover every surface. An element of fantasy is also present in the stories he tells his children about his travels: the "savage" children who ultimately can't be civilized; the heartbreaking tale of Jenny the orang-utan. To modern eyes, they also indicate some of the impulses of the age (the exploitation of exotic lands, people and animals; the urge to civilize; the spirit of scientific investigation), not necessarily all for good.
In the end, it's only by allowing himself to properly grieve that Darwin can heal. The loss of Annie had left a festering wound, full of guilt and recrimination between husband and wife, that they had never discussed. By allowing things long-unsaid to be aired, they can rebuild their life. The return to physical and psychological health enables Darwin to begin writing in earnest, though of course the recognition of the religious POV (of Emma, of Innes and of society at large) still weighs on him. He knows full well what his theories mean for his opponents, particularly his wife. Maybe more could have been made of this, but it's threaded throughout the film so that you are aware of it but never oppressed by it. That would be another film with an entirely different feel.

Away We Go

Every so often one is unfortunate enough to sit through an insufferably smug film whose main characters are equally insufferably smug and therefore have to be surrounded by unsympathetic broad caricatures in order to seem remotely sympathetic. Such is the case with Away We Go. Within the first 10 minutes I was possessed by an almost uncontrollable urge to soundly slap Burt (goofy grin does not equal character) and Verona (despite the latter being 6 months pregnant) who go through the film either whining self-pityingly or basking in self-satisfaction. It's no surprise that Burt's parents head to Belgium at the start. I don't blame them at all. Every other couple in the film is set up as in some way lacking, compared to our golden couple. Clearly no self-respecting future parents would dream of following these examples of child rearing whereas a couple who live in a run-down shack with what appears to be no heating and broken windows, then wander across the country trying to decide where to live (where does the money come from? and if they can go jetsetting, why can't they fix the damn house?) when all along there's a large house in a picturesque setting by a river just waiting for them are obviously paragons of sense and stability. It's a mean-spirited comedy, spitefully setting up the other characters to be laughed at for their failings: Burt's selfish parents; Verona's old boss, a loud, coarse and uncaring mother; Burt's old friend Ellen, a wacky New Age idealogue. In fact, the only characters in the entire film who I genuinely cared about, Verona's college friends Munch and Tom, are clearly meant to be overcompensating for their childlessness via their multi-ethnic adopted brood. And yet, the family home exudes warmth and love, and the moment when Tom reveals that Munch has recently had a fifth miscarriage is by far and away the most moving moment in the entire film. Sod Burt and Verona. This was the couple whose story I wanted to be watching.

District 9

Aliens in films usually fall into the cute or the fearsome camp. Well, you certainly can't describe the aliens in District 9 as cute. They are derisively called "prawns" by their reluctant South African hosts and are an unsightly mix of insect and crustacean, with a language that consists of clicking noises (helpfully subtitled!) and a liking for cat food. As for fearsome, they are definitely capable of violence but they are more pathetic than anything. They aren't bent on world domination and seem to have stalled their spaceship over Johannesburg by accident. Humanity, of course, reacts with its customary mistrust and herds the visitors into the eponymous District 9. 20 years later, they are still there but about to be moved to what looks suspiciously like a concentration camp.
You don't have to dig too deep to unearth a wealth of political subtext. The setting immediately brings to mind the apartheid years, with District 9 being nothing other than a township. Not that the aliens are merely standins for the formerly oppressed black population. In the opening "documentary" scenes, we see black as well as white heaping all kinds of vilification on the prawns. Rather, they come to represent refugees more generally and the hatred and distrust they receive.
Wikus, our not so heroic "hero", is a typical bureaucrat, working for the sinister MNU. He's only interested in getting the prawns to put a mark on consent forms in order to evict them, and gleefully witnesses the burning of a alien eggs. It's wonderfully ironic that an accident results in Wikus gradually transforming into one of the despised prawns. Cronenberg would be proud of the subsequent body horror scenes, though the real horror actually resides deep in MNU HQ, where the hapless aliens are the subject of experiments in an attempt to access their weaponry which only works with alien DNA.
Wikus might reluctantly join forces with alien Christopher Johnson and his son Little CJ. initally in an attempt to reverse the process of transformation but the film resists making him immediately sympathetic. For much of the time he's clearly acting out of (understandable) self-interest and ignores Christopher's plan to reactivate the mothership in order to return home. In fact, he comes perilously close to completely destroying this one last chance for the aliens. And yet, by the end, Wikus *has* learned the value of self-sacrifice, at a huge cost. Unlike the vast majority of Hollywood sci-fi, this is a film full of ideas as opposed to the Michael Bay approach of ever louder and bigger explosions. There *is* action and it doesn't stint on the gore - both humans and aliens are literally blown to pieces - yet much of the second half centers around Christopher and CJ (he isn't exactly cute either but you do end up thinking that he's rather endearing) and the final image of a fully transformed Wikus crafting a metallic flower for his wife is deeply poignant. Luckily there are enough plotlines left hanging that just beg for a sequel and this is one of those rare occasions when it really seems like a good idea.

Mesrine: Public Enemy No. 1

Finally, the 3 week wait is over. Even if you haven't seen Mesrine: Killer Instinct, the second part works as a stand alone piece - although various nuances will obviously be missed. Everyone else though will find themselves just as thrilled as they were by part 1, while also following Mesrine's descent into middle-age spread and self-aggrandizement. He's no longer the lean, mean machine of the first part - he's carrying extra weight and his love of publicity continually drives away his collaborators.
He's the lead actor in his own world and at one point is aghast at being pushed off the front page by Pinochet's coup. He might blithely align himself with the PLO or Baader-Meinhof, but he doesn't fool anyone. A wealthy kidnap victim mocks the fact that he's being held for ransom rather than being killed, and a huge gulf clearly exists between Mesrine and the genuinely radical Charlie. However much Mesrine wants to bring down the system, it's very much a forlorn hope. Great for PR but guaranteed to antagonize accomplices. Mathieu Amalric's Francois Besse looks increasingly perturbed every time Mesrine opens his mouth, never mind giving interviews to the press. Superficially they should be a brilliant match: both career criminals and both renowned escape artists. This gives rise to one of the highlights of the film - another brilliantly staged prison break, so boldly carried out that everyone else seems paralysed by its daring. This is followed by a botched holdup in Deauville and the contrasting reactions of Besse and Mesrine during the subsequent escape emphasise the differences that will ultimately drive them apart. Besse is worried, twitchy, appalled at the loss of any money (especially when Mesrine gives some away); Mesrine is calm, charming yet menacing, and ultimately seems to think it's all (even losing some of loot) a great joke.
As in Killer Instinct, Mesrine's likeability is undercut by constant reminders of his propensity for violence, as in the kidnapping of the elderly landlord or the torture and attempted murder of a rightwing journalist who had dared to criticise him. Yet, the end (or the beginning if you remember part 1) is a chilling reminder that the state is equally capable of brutal violence. The events are replayed but this time from the POV of the police - that inocuous van doesn't seem so harmless any more - and the tension increases despite the outcome being known. This time we see the execution in all its bloody detail, and make no mistake, it IS an execution. All Mesrine's goading and arrogance finally gets its comeuppance: a perfect example of "those who live by the sword, die by the sword".

Broken Embraces

I miss the old Almodovar and his slightly ragged, totally outrageous and frequently hilarious movies. These days he's a consummate director, fully in control of his material and awards-worthy but somehow I find the resulting films less satisfying. There's nothing wrong with Broken Embraces (the production and costume design are as gobsmacking as ever) but it inspires a "so what?" shrug rather than an impassioned reaction of any kind. The biggest mis-step is the final peek at the film-within-the-film, Girls and Suitcases. The characters react as though it's the funniest thing they've ever seen in their entire lives and comment about the hilarity of the clip. Alas, said clip was greeted in a real cinema with deafening silence. Hilarious? You've got to be kidding. The clip is so obviously based on the escalating hysteria of Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown that it's just asking for trouble - and unfavourable comparisons. Bad Education made far more interesting use of its film milieu, and with greater emotional impact. If only Almodovar had stuck to the melodrama and tried not to be so cute ...

The Hurt Locker

Motion sickness alert! I wouldn't want to deter anyone from seeing The Hurt Locker as it's a very good film indeed, but anyone prone to motion sickness might like to take a few precautions. While not in the same nausea-inducing class as, say, Cloverfield, there's still enough lurching camerwork and changing of focus to make one feel rather ill. It's a shame as I'm sure I would have appreciated the film even more if I hadn't been fending off a headache.
Unlike most of the Iraq War films inflicted on us so far, The Hurt Locker doesn't try to score political points or tubthump it's anti-war credentials. Rather than have characters remind the audience that "war is hell" etc., the film builds up telling details such as the room full of white crates containing the belongings of the dead. Mainly though it gets the point across by focussing on the psychological toll on the soldiers, particularly the 3 man bomb disposal unit at its heart. For these men, more than any other group, death is an ever-present companion, a fact brought home in the opening sequence. A soldier can take every precaution possible and still be brought down by something as inocuous as a wheel coming off a cart. Sergeant James, on the other hand, is seemingly reckless. A man who wilfully puts himself in harm's way, his actions cause consternation for the rest of the unit. At one point, Sanborn and Eldridge seriously contemplate shooting James and making it appear like just another KIA - and you totally understand why. And yet James is undeniably good at his job: he has to be to have survived so long. The key lies in the men's different attitudes to war. The rookie Eldridge is convinced he won't make it, while Sanborn believes in self-preservation. James, however, loves the rush of adrenaline, the very fact of being in dangerous situations. Despite having a wife and baby son, the only place he feels at home is in the war zone. When he admits to only loving one thing, he doesn't mean his family. That in itself is a devastating comment on the way war effects those who fight.

(500) Days of Summer

I hate romcoms, with their irritatingly smug and predictable "boy meets girl and will *definitely* end up with her despite various thuddingly contrived obstacles" plots. Lazy plotting is the least of their problems. Luckily, (500) Days of Summer isn't strictly speaking a romcom. Half of it is (sort of) and half of it isn't (breaking up and its aftermath) but not necessarily in that order. Title cards mark the various days so the temporal jumping around is never confusing. Instead there's a bittersweet juxtaposition of the happy times and the sad, and a canny use of the same images for entirely different effects depending on the emotional state of Tom. Not that he wasn't warned from the very beginning. He believes he's found "the one" but Summer doesn't believe in fate, doesn't particularly want a boyfriend at all and wants to keep it casual. Tom assumes she'll end up loving him as much as he loves her - something even his little sister can see isn't going to happen.
What could have ended up unbearably quirky actually manages to be completely wonderful. There's a lovely "morning after" musical number that develops as Tom makes his way to work, which will bring a smile to the face of anyone with a soul, and which contrasts with his later post-break up misanthropic response to passing couples. Periodically there's a deft use of split screen (the credit sequence of the protagonists as children; the contrast of Tom's expectations with reality as he attends a party) and the soundtrack is a cracker, even Tom's karaoke version of Pixies' Here Comes Your Man (that's one hell of a karaoke machine)
Of course, all the clever touches mean nothing if you don't give a damn about the characters. Tom might be frustrated by Summer's attitude but as a subsequent blind date points out, she's never lied to him or cheated on him. In fact, she told him exactly where she stood at the very beginning. The film might be from Tom's POV but Summer's never demonised. You can see why Tom's besotted. Tom meanwhile is adorable while trying to win the girl and deeply sympathetic when he loses her. Joseph Gordon-Levitt works wonders, managing to be charming, funny, vulnerable and thoroughly likeable even during the depths of self-pity. After seeing his astonishing turns in Mysterious Skin, Brick and The Lookout, it's nice to see him smiling through a film. Perhaps the sweetest (in the best sense) part, however, belongs to Paul, one of Tom's friends. He's the object of some stick for dating Robin, his childhood sweetheart. After describing what his ideal woman woud be, he ends by saying that actually he prefers Robin, because she's real. Which kind of sums up the all-round loveliness of the film ...

Inglourious Basterds

The War According to Tarantino, or, Historians Beware! When a film begins with the phrase "once upon a time ... in Nazi-occupied France" you should know that any resemblance to reality is purely accidental. After swearing *never* to see another Tarantino film after the bloated, self-indulgent Kill Bill, there were enough intriguing elements to Inglourious Basterds to make me change my mind. OK, not the presence of Eli Roth (dear God, as bad as Tarantino when he acts) but that's really the only bit where gritting the teeth is required. I did worry about the 2 1/2 hour running time - plenty of opportunity for verbosity and more self-indulgence - but it actually flies past. This might be due to the episodic nature of the film, divided into chapters concentrating on different characters or plot lines. You don't have time to get annoyed with any single character or development. It also helps that Tarantino's broken away from the same old faces. Instead, there's an impressive array of multi-lingual Europeans all strutting their stuff. Even Diane Kruger turns in a good performance, and it's hard to visualize Simon Pegg in the role of Archie Hicox as now played by Michael Fassbender (upper class, suave, an obvious choice of date for a glamorous German movie star, and subtly hilarious) The scene in the basement bar is one of the highlights: talky, funny, tense and ultimately disastrous for all concerned. In fact, the best parts are scenes of people talking, with an undertow of menace and unease permeating everything (see the opening sequence) There are lots of film-buff in-jokes but they actually fit neatly with the plot, based as it is around Operation Kino, and don't feel like the gratuitous cultural riffing of some of Tarantino's other films. And towering above everything is Christoph Walz, proficient in four languages (in this film at least) and creating a monster that is nevertheless endlessly fascinating. You loathe him but whenever he's on screen the film moves to another level. Brad Pitt might be the name above the title but the real joy is the European contingent.

Sin Nombre

Yet more evidence for the quality of contemporary Mexican filmmaking and another reminder, if any were needed, of the dreadful quality of most American films that clog up our screens. While not by any means particularly original, Sin Nomber nevertheless tells its story with verve and compassion. Most of the audience will guess the fate of one of the characters early on while fervently hoping that they are wrong. From the beginning it's clear that the paths of the Honduran family heading North and the Mexican gang will collide at some point. Two totally different "families" with entirely different values, and in normal circumstances only one would win. This time, however, there's a wild card in the form of Casper, a member of the gang and therefore a killer, but one with some remaining shreds of decency. When history seems to be repeating itself, he reacts in a way that irrevocably breaks all ties with his past. We suspect he won't be able to change his own fate but he can certainly influence that of the Hondurans.
If nothing else, like In This World and Ghosts, Sin Nombre illustrates the difficulties and dangers for those seeking to illegally cross borders. Some people throw food up to the Hondurans travelling on the roof of the train; others throw rocks at them and hurl abuse. They are preyed upon y criminal gangs and at any moment they could be picked up by the border patrol. Failure doesn't deter them (Sayra's father has already been deported once and, at the end, her uncle is embarking on another attempt) though death is the end of the journey for some.

Mesrine: Killer Instinct

The sense of frustration felt during the wait for the next episode of a favourite TV show is nothing compared to that felt when the "end of part 1"! caption appears after 2 hours of thoroughly gripping filmmaking. The prospect of a 3 week delay before the second part is not a happy one.
The film itself is actually more a sequence of episodes than a tightly constructed narrative but it never feels disjointed, driving forward with boundless energy and a tremendous performance from Vincent Cassell in the title role. He has one of those distinctive French faces (the individual parts might not be anything special but the overall effect is rather wonderful) which manages to be immensely expressive. He can switch from charming to threatening in the blink of an eye, and as a viewer you never quite know what he's going to do. This is perfect for capturing Mesrine's volatility. Rather than glamourize him, the film constantly reminds the audience of the violence and bordeline-psychopathic behaviour of which mesrine was capable. He also possesses a nasty racist streak and a propensity for violence against women. Possibly the most shocking scene is the one where, out of the blue, Mesrine attacks his wife. Even his criminal cohorts seem uncomfortable. The fact that the audience doesn't totally loathe this man speaks volumes for the performance.
In addition to top-quality acting all-round, there are beautifully-executed action set-pieces. These reach a giddy high towards the end when a tense and daring Canadian prison break is closely followed by an even more daring (not to say insane) attempt by Mesrine and Mercier to free the other inmates as they had promised. It's a breathlessly exciting sequence, with the camera in the midst of the shooting, but it also speaks volumes about Mesrine himself. You don't doubt for a second when he later tells his girlfriend he's going to get *her* out of jail that he means it. She knows this too and acts out of both love and self-preservation to prevent this.
The film had opened with the very end of Mesrine's story - the ambush by police in the streets of Paris - in a split-screen sequence that stays just the right side of tricksy. Logically, you would expect this to lend the remaining running time either an elegiac quality or a sense of foreboding. Oddly enough, in the first part it does neither. Instead we follow the brutal rise of Mesrine as he robs, kills and kidnaps, working for others and for himself. The film doesn't necessarily pass judgement on him, but there are enough incidents and psychological insights for the spectator to draw a few conclusions for him/herself - even though they probably conflict with Mesrine's own opinion of himself. It's going to be a long 3 weeks ...

Coco avant Chanel

Coco avant Chanel is considerably less baffling for the general viewer than, say, La vie en rose, the Edith Piaf biopic that juggled time frames and left plot threads hanging left, right and centre. You at least know what's happening in Coco, even if, frustratingly, there's no sense of how much time is passing: at one point someone mentions the possibility of war but if World War I happens, it does so offscreen and without any impact on the characters. The film tries to emphasise Coco's independence of thought and action butthis is constantly undercut by her reliance on men and their money. She installs herself in Balsan's mansion then bristles at his condescending attitude but never quite manages to leave. Even her relations with Boy Capel, while being portrayed as real love, also involve her being dependent on his money. There are some sharp points to be made here about women's economic dependence on men, but it all gets swamped beneath the melodramatic love triangle. Such a shame.

Katyn

I doubt that there will be a more gruelling, horrifying sequence in film this year (and that includes the likes of Saw and its torure porn ilk) than that which ends Katyn. In an interesting structural choice, Wajda ends the film with the massacre of Polish officers rather than include it in the logical, chronological place which would be halfway through. In fact, it's the only place for such a powerful sequence. Anywhere else and it would completely unbalance the film, whereas now the viewer leaves the cinema with one of the most traumatic events in Poland's unfortunate history seared into the brain.
The vivid ending is mirrored by an equally striking opening that perfectly encapsulates the tragedy of of Poland's situation in 1939. On a bridge, one group of refugees fleeing the Germans encounter another group fleeing in the opposite direction, from the advancing Russians. Which is the greater evil? As it turns out, either choice can lead to death and disaster. We get vignettes of life during both the occupation and the immediate post-war period (Wajda's dealt with both many times during his long career) but while the first half effectively cross-cuts between the captive officers and the families left behind, the second reverberates with the emotional toll of their deaths. On the negative side, there's occasionally some heavy-handed symbolism - in particular the reference to Antigone - and it becomes rather disjointed. However, it's the sort of film where one is prepared to overlook such lapses. What does work well in the second half is the Kafkaesque nature of Communist Poland, a place where everyone knows the truth about what happened but can never actually express that truth (dates of death can't be 1940 as that would mean the Russians were responsible) There is also effective use of German and Russian newsreel footage of the discovery of the mass graves. To our eyes, the images are genuinely shocking although each regime merely uses it as part of the propaganda war.
The knowledge of the fate of the officers hangs over all these scenes, in the first part providing a sense of foreboding and in the second an aching melancholy. Nothing though quite prepares the viewer for the dreadful final moments. Partly this is the emphasis on details (barbed wire to tie the hands, the efficient workflow required to shoot 21,000 men in the head, the impassive killers, the dawning realization of the doomed officers) and partly it's the clinical portrayal of the deaths. The repetition doesn't dull the shock but rather increases the horror. It's a suitably moving memorial to the dead, including the director's own father, and ensures that the coverup by the Russians that lasted for half a century is now rectified.

35 Shots of Rum

This is the sort of film that only the French can make. Nothing much happens but you glean a vast amount of information from the body language, facial expressions and physical interaction of the characters. A good job really as none of the characters is particularly talkative. They don't need to be as they know each other so well. Several characters comment that Lionel doesn't say much, though after encountering Jo's chatty German aunt, that counts as a good thing. The scene in a bar, after hours, is a textbook example of how to convey large amounts of information about changing relationships without anyone saying a word. Various characters dance together while others watch and by the end of those few minutes, everything has subtly altered. The other notable feature of the film is the amount of beauty it finds in the maligned Parisian suburbs, especially after night. The train windows gleaming with light are echoed by the lights in windows and on the streets, resembling a jewel-like abstract painting. It all remains totally grounded in reality yet never acquires that dull, dreary look which so bedevils British films, nor do you feel it's the rose-coloured spectacles approach. As I said, only the French ...

Futurism

I have a suspicion that my taste in art is changing again. Whereas in my teens I liked the Pre-Raphaelites, now they make me feel queasy. I don't think I'll ever like much contemporary art, but I'm definitely starting to warm to early 20th century modernism. In one respect Futurism follows on quite nicely from the Italian Divisionists exhibition at the National Gallery last year. In fact, I'm certain that a couple of the paintings appeared there too. Not that it just focuses on the Italians. The most interesting aspect of the exhibition is that it shows how Futurism interacted with/influenced other movements in Europe (Cubism, Orphism, Cubo-Futurism and Vorticisim) The different groups could never be mistaken for each other. The distance and abstraction of the British Vorticists contrasts with the liveliness and movement of the Russian Cubo-Futurists and the amazingly vibrant colours of both that group and Orphism in France. Boccioni is probably my favourite of the Italians, although I also found the work of Carra and Severini rather appealing. Elsewhere it's a role-call of famous names: Picasso, Malevich, Popova, Braque, Delauney, Duchamp et al. In all, a surprisingly wonderful exhibition - even if the politics are still loathsome...

Moon

A serious contender for film of the year, Moon is one of those blissful sci-fi films more concerned with ideas than blowing up stuff. Like just about any sci-fi with brains, it inevitably has echoes of illustrious predecessors (Silent Running, 2001, Solaris, Alien et al.) without actually feeling like a blatent rip-off of any of them. For people of a certain age, the sequences of vehicles trundling across the moonscape irresistibly recall Space 1999. Best of all, it has a terrific performance - or two - from the great, underrated Sam Rockwell (go and watch Confessions of a Dangerous Mind or Lawn Dogs to see just how good he can be) He has to carry the film on his own, and it's a measure of his talent and versatility that the film remains gripping from beginning to end.
At it's heart, the film ponders the question of identity, and what it means to be human. Whereas Marcus in Terminator Salvation was unaware that he was a machine, the two Sams in Moon don't realize that they are clones. In fact, it's only a bloody-minded stubborn streak in Sam 2 that reveals the existence of two identical Sam Bells, each convinced that *he* is the real Sam and that the other is a clone. As it turns out, they are both wrong (and right) Moon is surprisingly moving, and the first of its tear-inducing moments comes when Sam 1 - who we've followed from the start, sympathizing with his desire to return to Earth after a 3 year contract mining Helium 3 on the Moon - discovers that he isn't "real", that he's also a clone, that everything he held dear has been torn from him. An even more heratbreaking moment occurs later when Sam 1 finally makes contact with Earth, only to discover that his "wife" is long dead and his baby "daughter" is a 15 year old girl.
The moral implications of what Lunar Industries has done resonates deeply because we react to the Sams as people, not clones, not pieces of disposable equipment - a distinction the company doesn't make. It ensures live contact with Earth is impossible so that noone, least of all Sam, is aware of what is actually happening. To Lunar, the clones are a cheap and efficient method for the mining operation. At the end of their contract, each Sam is convinced he's returning home but tapes reveal the disturbing truth: the clone disappears in a flash of vaporising light. The question inevitably arises: how can this not be murder? There is also a suggestion that perhaps the clones have a finite lifespan anyway, much like the replicants in Blade Runner, but the fact remains that for the 3 years of the contract each Sam is totally convinced that he is human and that he loves and misses his family. The callous disposal of each unit is deeply unsettling. And this is a film where a rescue mission is something to be feared as Sam 2 quickly realizes that in addition to fixing the equipment, the task will be to get rid of the inconvenient clones (in effect malfunctioning equipment). GERTY might be a computer but he has no HAL-like priorities. Rather he's programmed to protect Sam, and this allows Sam 2 to formulate a plan. GERTY even makes helpful suggestions to ensure its success.
The film might end on an optimistic note but mostly it's very poignant, constantly circling around issues of memory and identity. If a clone has the memories and emotions of "Sam Bell", does he then become Sam Bell? The clones believe they are Sam for their 3 year period of life and most never know otherwise. For Sam 1 and 2 though the destruction of that illusion is horribly cruel. Their pain and confusion aren't lessened because they are clones. They are, in other words, human...

Terminator Salvation

Time-travel and its implications in films usually result in severe brain strain. This is particularly true of the first Terminator film, and the subsequent sequels and spin-off TV series have only made matters worse, as cyborgs and humans are continually sent back to the past in order to alter the future. Terminator Salvation takes place post-Judgement Day (i.e. T3) but before the advent of the T-800 (Arnie in T1) Not that Skynet's creations are primitive. The Terminators themselves are on the clunky side but are nevertheless alarmingly persistent and difficult to destroy. Furthermore, in this apocalyptic landscape we see that machines menace land, sea and air, killing and "harvesting" humans. The T-800 *does* put in an appearance late on, which isn't as jarring as I feared (a bit unnerving yes, but not film-destroying)
The onset of a headache begins early. John Connor listens to tapes made by his mother, telling him what he must do in the future (now) in order to ensure the survival of his father and therefore his own birth. He must save the young Kyle Reese, the father who is almost young enough to be his son. This is the point at which thinking about the plot becomes a seriously BAD idea, though the meeting between the two does have an emotional impact. Kyle is awed at meeting his hero, yet John is looking at a blood relative, who he knows will die saving his mother Sarah. One would imagine all this presdetination would make for a tension-free plot, but because each instance of time travel somehow effects future events, there's a genuine sense of danger for both John and Kyle - especially as it becomes clear that Skynet is actively hunting the pair. One of the best things about the film is watching Kyle grow up, from a scruffy boy scavenger to a young man showing leadership qualities.
Then we have Marcus, first glimpsed on Death Row receiving a visit from Cyberdyne, and clearly not surviving to 2018 by any normal means. His indestructability is gradually revealed, although he suffers cuts and bruises like anyone else, so the final reveal isn't exactly a surprise. It does, however, raise the question of what it is to be human. Marcus thinks he's human and his anguish as realizing the truth is palpable. Pointedly referred to as "it" by the resistance, Marcus as half-machine is actually more human than when he was 100% flesh and blood. John has a vested interest in wanting to rescue Kyle (his life depends on it) whereas Marcus wants to save the boy who helped him. Things get horribly muddied when the talk turns to Cyberdyne/Skynet programming - far too many unanswerable questions occur to the audience - and the first resurrection smacks suspiciously of cheating. Ultimately though Marcus' redemption is surprisingly poignant and brings with it a real sense of loss.

Public Enemies

Michael Mann's films are always very stylish affairs although his control freak attention to detail sometimes crushes the life out of the narrative. Much as I enjoyed Public Enemies, there's something curiously unsatisfying about it. The film looks astonishing, and with the handheld HD camera, it feels disconcertingly as though the audience has stepped right into the middle of Depression-era America. We get a pair of bank robberies, a couple of prison breaks but Dillinger's career and subsequent reputation suffer from underdevelopment. The set pieces provide glimpses of how the legend came into being but an awful lot has to be taken on trust. It's one of those occasions where I actually wouldn't have minded a film being longer.
Both of the escapes are brilliantly constructed, especially the second, with the viewer following every step of the ingenious yet blindingly simple breakout. The robberies meanwhile highlight how even the talented have to depend on their partners. His trusted gang (post-escape) execute a heist with few problems. By the time of the second bank raid though, most of that first gang are either dead or in jail and Dillinger is forced to break one of his cardinal rules by working with people he doesn't know. In this case, it's the psychotic Baby Face Nelson and events go from bad to worse, culminating with one of Mann's trademark shootouts in the woods.
Likewise, Dillinger's professional calm, maintained under the most trying circumstances, actually comes closest to cracking - and costing him his life - when his only remaining ally, his girlfriend, is arrested. He instinctively gets out of his car, but even though he's in full view, gun in hand, the police fail to notice. This echoes an earlier scene when Dillinger and his gang are in a packed cinema. Mug shots appear on the screen and a voice exhorts the audience to look out for these men. The gang shift nervously but noone recognizes the famous criminals in their midst. Similarly, late in the film Dillinger wanders into a mostly-deserted police station, looking at the boards covered with material about him. The mug shots reveal that his trusted gang are now all dead, and despite his bravado, his fate is already sealed.
In a film of terrific set pieces, the ending is a wonderful piece of editing. For the final time, Dillinger walks through a crowd, unrecognized, but also unaware of the FBI agents closing in all around him. There's no chance of going out in a blaze of glory (or even self-defence). Purvis might have won, but it's Dillinger who still attracts the crowds, gathered around his corpse. There's indications of why he was such a fascinating figure but not quite enough.

Rudo y Cursi

You wait an age for a halfway decent film about football and then two crackers arrive within a month. Much like Looking for Eric though, Rudo y Cursi isn't really about the game itself but rather what it means to people. Similarly it combines the comic and the serious in a very engaging manner. It's made clear that sport, in particular football, is one of the few ways out of poverty for young men in Mexico (and by extension, Latin America) - although Cursi would much rather be a singer despite all the evidence pointing to him having far more talent in his feet than his vocal chords. His ambitions to be a pop star provide some of the comic highlights, especially the hilariously tacky video he makes for his C&W version of Cheap Trick's I Want You To Want Me. Blonde streaks appear in his hair and he acquires a mercenary TV star girlfriend. You sense impending disaster. Rudo meanwhile finds his existing gambling problem increasing dramatically once he finds fame and fortune.
The brothers play for opposing sides and have intermittent spats but family ties are never totally broken although they are stretched very thin at times. The bitterest irony is that their future ultimately depends on the largesse of their drug baron brother-in-law. It's he who builds a longed-for house for their mother and provides jobs for them. It's a world where money talks. The talent scout, the coach, everyone it seems takes a cut before a player even sets foot on the pitch. A vacuous TV presenter who ignores anyone who isn't a celebrity - even someone as handsome as Gael Garcia Bernal - expresses interest the second he becomes famous, and is equally quick to dump him when his form fails him. Ultimately the fate of the brothers hangs on two penalties that bookend the action, one of which brings success and one disaster. One suspects that what happens in between is depressingly close to real life.

Last Chance Harvey

The very definition of "nice", Last Chance Harvey provides an ideal opportunity for a wallow in wish fulfillment and first-rate acting. Emma Thompson reminds us why we should actually see far more of her on the big screen, while Dustin Hoffman manfully copes with being dwarfed by his co-star (on several occasions, she even has to wear high heels, thus emphasising the difference further) Screw-up Harry learns that family is more important than a job he doesn't enjoy, while Kate learns to take a chance on life. There's nothing earth-shattering about it but ther are worse ways to spend 90 minutes.

Fermat's Room

Fermat's Room sprints along at such a pace that the viewer has no time to fret about potential plot holes (with a story as complex as this, logic says there *must* be some!), never mind trying to work out the mathematical puzzles the characters have to solve to prevent the walls of the eponymous room crushing them to death. In fact, the first instinct upon reaching the end of the film is to re-watch it, preferably with a pause button to hand.
The credits sequence slyly sets up the mystery as a gloved hand constructs a miniature room, subsequently revealed to be the room where the 4 mathematicians will be trapped. There's something unnerving about the sequence and it prepares us for the mystery to come: who? why? In fact, most of the first half masterfully succeeds in misdirecting both characters and audience about precisely these questions. One of the mathematicians appears to be the obvious target while another the equally obvious mastermind, but this is a film that enjoys playing games and nothing should be taken at face value.
The pseudonyms the characters adopt might be those of mathematicians, and the puzzles might be mathematical in nature, but the narrative is never ponderous. It's a smart film that wears it's cleverness lightly. If anything, the film is perhaps just a little too frenetic, especially during the denouement when the revelations come thick and fast and it's difficult to work out just what's truth and what's a lie. The initial question appears to be what links the 4 characters with the mysterious "Fermat" but it turns out it's not as simple as that. Inconsequential events have huge importance with the advantage of hindsight and it's the ability to correctly interpret them that proves vital. In that regard, it's natural that it should be "Pascal" (inventor of a popcorn-spouting duck, who initially struggled to solve to entrance puzzle and is battling with a drink problem) who can see most clearly. His practical mind hones in on the essentials at important moments - he's the one who first notices the walls closing in, as well as working out who's responsible. You can practically see him thinking things through. In many ways, he's the most sympathetic of the characters, with his self-inflicted penance for one tragic mistake. Only "Fermat" has a similar poignancy. The others are far too obsessed with the appeal of mathematics and fame (the true reason for their predicament) to connect in the same way. It's therefore satisfying that it's "Pascal" who has the last word.

Sunshine Cleaning

Another Sundance favourite, another quirky indie-by-numbers. Dysfunctional family: check. Life lessons learned through adversity: check. Alan Arkin as a loveable curmudgeon: check. In fact, any film labelled "quirky" should be treated with kid gloves these days. The premise itself sounds like things could actually be inventive and entertaining - sisters set up as crime scene cleaners - but alas cutesy wins out over anything more gritty. There's the seriously annoying son of one sister. I think he's supposed to be adorably troubled but personally I just wanted to slap him. Then there's the cringe-inducing use of a CB radio as a way of talking to the dead. If only iy had had the nerve to be a full-on black comedy, it could have been so much better.

Julius Caesar: RSC

The Courtyard Theatre might be a lovely theatre in it's own right but I always have trouble hearing the actors whenever I sit in the stalls. Somehow, the sound gets lost under the galleries above. True to form, I spent a lot of the first half straining to hear what Brutus was saying, particularly when he was facing away from my section of the stalls. Luckily as the play progresses, passions are raised, voices get louder and audibility is no longer a problem. Julius Ceasar is one of those plays that improves as it goes along, especially once it reaches the assassination itself. Up until then it tends to be rather static and talky, but after that point, the conspirators find their plans unravelling and are outwitted by the seemingly buffoonish Mark Antony. There may be suggestions of the indolence and luxury to come in Antony and Cleopatra, but Cassius was right in wanting him removed. He's still a first class orator and a sharp political operator, fuelled by a sense of righteous vengeance. Brutus on the other hand proves to be disastrously naive. Video projection makes the bare stage seem more populous than it is and gives a sense of Rome's bustling crowds, appealed to by both factions. Sam Troughton's Brutus comes into his own in the latter half of the play as events spiral out of his control. The scene where he relates news of his wife's death shows the Stoic desperately suppressing overwhelming emotion. It's a great scene with Cassius, who ends up more sympathetic than usual, and his death feels genuinely tragic. Mark Antony, Lepidus and Octavius meanwhile show signs of the future cracks in ther alliance, yet these men can still mourn Brutus for his honour and nobility.

The Girl Cut In Two

It's been a long time since Claude Chabrol made a truly great film, and the wait continues. He's impressively prolific for a pensioner and his films are invariably well made and erudite - in this one, the characters quote at each other endlessly - yet they rarely leave much impression. To compound matters further, his latest has also succumbed to the French obsession with May-December romances i.e. attractive young women bafflingly finding men old enough to be their fathers totally irresistible. In fact, neither suitor to our heroine is particularly appealing. The elder is basically a heartless decadent womaniser (bizarrely tolerated and adored by his wife - only a man could have made this film) while the younger, although wealthy, is obviously deeply unstable . It all becomes rather tiresome rather quickly and then just when it seems it should end, it contrives to trundle along for yet another 20 minutes ...

The Hangover

This isn't normally the sort of film that I'd go to see at the cinema, although I'd probably catch up with i on TV several years down the line. However, a free ticket can tempt me to the most unlikely things and in this case, I'm extremely pleased that it did. I can't remember the last time that I laughed so much at the cinema. The premise (a bachelor party gone wrong) may sound like it's a typical blokes' film but the preview audience had a good proportion of females and they certainly enjoyed it every bit as much as the men. The key difference between The Hangover and the usual gross-out comedies inflicted on the audience is that some effort has actually been put into developing the characters and creating a plot that engages the viewer. In it's own oddball way, it all makes sense!
After the initial setup - old friends Phil and Stu and future brother-in-law Alan take Doug to Vegas for his bachelor party - the film jumps to the aftermath of the evening. There's a tiger in the bathroom, a baby in the closet, a chicken roaming around - and no Doug. Noone can remember anything; Stu (henpecked by his girlfriend and constantly announcing himself as a doctor only to be undercut by the others' revealing he's a dentist) has a tooth missing; Phil (capable of talking himself into and out of anything) has a hospital wristband; and Alan is just as weird as he was before - and it turns out that it's all his fault. Let's just say it involves the world's worst drug dealer and the purchase of roofies instead of E. The reason the film works so well is that it functions as a mystery for both the characters and the audience. We're no wiser than the trio about what's happened or why, so every surprise for them is also a surprise for us (instead of the expected Merc being driven to them by the valet, they get a police car; Stu discovers he's now a married man; Chinese gangsters keep trying to attack them; and Mike Tyson is *very* pissed off) There are some wonderful comic setpieces throughout, some going the obvious route and others heading off in very strange directions. It's not just the physical comedy, although the sight of grown men being tasered at a class demonstration or dealing with a tiger waking up in their car is inherently funny. There are some hilarious dialogue exchanges too, mostly arising naturally from the situation rather than being shoehorned in because it's a funny line. As the search progresses, the trio get increasingly cut and bruised, not to say outright humiliated, and there's a very nifty bit of misdirection about Doug that wrongfoots cast and viewer. The laughs come constantly which is exactly what you want from a comedy.
But I'm still not sure how the chicken got there ...

Looking for Eric

A lot of people seem to dismiss Ken Loach as a maker of dour socialist polemics. These people are usually British (the French sensibly adore him) and have obviously not seen any of his films recently. Yes, he can do passionately political (Land and Freedom, The Wind That Shakes The Barley, Carla's Song) but what he can also do brilliantly is an earthy humour that thrives among society's have-nots, that binds together friends and family and that gets them through the hard times. In his very best recent work, such as Riff-Raff, Raining Stones and My Name is Joe, the humour and the politics are inextricably entwined, drawing the viewer into the story via a genuine interest in the characters' lives.
Looking for Eric has plenty of humour but also a darker side, as we see how a life can sometimes spiral out of control before a person realizes what's happening. As far as the humour is concerned, not only do we have the (possibly marijuana-induced) appearance of Eric Cantona - a most unlikely saviour if ever there was one - into Eric Bishop's life, dispensing enigmatic bon mots in order to get him back on the right track, but there's also the loveable bunch of fellow posties determined to help their friend. The comic highlight is arguably the self-help session set up by Meatballs, which involves all the gang, some more sceptical than others. Meatballs himself takes these things *very* seriously, which can't be said about all of the group. However, where most films would merely poke fun at this unlikely band engaging in such an activity, there's a delightful surprise as the posties select the person they most admire. While Eric's choice of Cantona is a given, the rest range from Fidel Castro to Gandhi via Nelson Mandela, Sammy Davis and Frank Sinatra) In fact the real theme of the film is summed up by Cantona: "You have to trust your team mates. Always. Otherwise you are lost". It's only through the solidarity of the football fans that Eric can save his stepson from the clutches of a local criminal, but on a more mundane level, his workmates try to cheer him up and worry about him, and the Man Utd fans share a deep camaraderie. People are bound together by family ties, their work, their love for a football team. If you consider this dour polemic, then there's no hope for you.

Anything for Her

As soon as the summer blockbusters arrive, a stream of French films arrive in their wake. In the past couple of years, the most impressive have been muscular thrillers. While these might not end up being the best films of the year, they usually have a satisfying grittiness and an equally appealing "ordinary", mature cast. The leading men are those typically French plain-but-actually-handsome actors such as Francois Cluzet or Daniel Auteuil, the kind you would NEVER find as leads in American films. The women are admittedly classier, but with luck might have more to do than simply stand around looking decorative and/or helpless. Anything for Her is no more plausible than, say, Tell No One and Julien likewise gets increasingly battered and bloodied as the film progresses. As the title suggests, this is a man who will do anything to get his suicidal wife out of jail. He becomes increasingly secretive and taciturn; his flat gradually empties of all furniture and belongings; his work is no longer teaching high school students but accumulating the information required to plan the perfect jail break and escape. I can't help but think that the premise would be even more intriguing if Lisa's innocence hadn't been established - at least for the viewer - quite so early. Some of the Julien's family clearly have their doubts about whether she committed the murder but never Julien himself. He believes wholeheartedly in her innocence, hence his extreme actions to free this innocent woman. If there had been doubt in the mind of the audience, the steps that he takes, and the lives it costs (which include one riff on a scene from Reservoir Dogs) would have left the viewer feeling deeply uneasy. As it is, there's a sense that his actions are all ultimately justified.

Blue Eyelids

Romances don't get more low-key than this. Marina and Victor may end up together but it's not exactly optimistic. They seem to have very little in common apart from their loneliness. Conversations are punctuated by agonizing silences or repeated exchanges. Victor constantly asks about their fellow students but Marina can't remember any of them, not even him. Victor though recognizes her immediately although he comments that she seemed much happier back then. There's no obvious reason why either character should be as isolated as they are. Both are presentable, if poor, but Marina in particular seems crippled by shyness. Desperation rather than attraction prompts her to phone Victor after their initial meeting. You just know that if her sister had agreed to accompany her on the prize holiday, she never would have called him. Victor meanwhile does seem to be genuinely attracted to her despite her lack of much personality. They might have hopes that life will resemble the overblown romantic film they watch together but instead it's rife with disappointments: being ejected from a good table at a bar; a picnic that descends into uncomfortable silence; unsatisfactory sex. Nevertheless, Victor's anger at being stood up for the holiday is shortlived while a repentant Marina wishes she'd had his company. The jump from a reconciliation to an immediate proposal of marriage is both ridiculous (logic says it can't last) and somehow touching (maybe at last they've finally connected with another person) Maybe it is, after all, a happy ending.

Exhibitions

There are some exquisite items on display in the Shah 'Abbas exhibition. The calligraphy and manuscripts are as beautiful as any Western illuminated manuscript. The style might be different but the colour, the finely painted flora and the attention to detail are as aesthetically stunning. Oddly, some of the most lovely items are metallic flasks, with their sinuous shapes and Islamic decoration, although some are influenced by Indian art. In fact, not all the exhibits are Iranian. Shah 'Abbas donated works from his own collections to religious institutions and there are early Chinese and Vietnamese ceramics displayed alongside later Iranian items that they influenced. As Iran was at the centre of trade routes passing East to West, it's not surprising that such influences should occur.
On then to Japanese art. I love landscape and nature prints but have never been quite so fond of those featuring the human figure. However, among Kuniyoshi's warriors, geishas and actors there is a wealth of energy and imagination. Famous warriors fight mythical beasts, actors appear in their famous roles and, as a way of circumventing censorship, animals adopt human guise. Several prints are even in the triptych format. The joins might be obvious and the colour might vary across the 3 sheets but it provides a different overall effect to the usual single sheet print. It doesn't just lend itself to epic subject matter either. It works just as well for portraits of women at work or play. There are also humorous prints to outwit the censors, with octopi behaving as humans and a pleasure district populated by sparrows. The playfulness is what sticks in the mind rather than the belligerent heroes.

Encounters at the End of the World

Early on, Werner Herzog announces that his documentary won't feature "fluffy penguins" - and let's be honest, cute critters and Herzog don't really go together. In fact, he seems far more interested in the eclectic bunch of humans who inhabit McMurdo Station. Not the Station itself though, which Herzog despairingly describes as resembling a mining town. One senses the final straw is the presence of an ATM. Herzog can't wait to leave "civilization" and head out in to the wilderness, albeit a wilderness dotted with assorted scientists. Surprisingly few animals appear: some enderaingly fat, indolent seals, unperturbed by the humans surrounding them; multicoloured, wierd and wonderful marine life under the ice; and yes, penguins. Not fluffy penguins, but penguins nonetheless, although Herzog being Herzog hones in on the one little chap who hesitates before waddling off in the opposite direction to his fellow penguins, towards certain death. The taciturn penguin specialist (who clearly prefers the company of penguins to humans) finds himself on the receiving end of some typically Herzog questioning: are penguins gay? (there are threesomes apparently); do they go insane? (unclear) The backstories of the McMurdo humans are every bit as bizarre. Herzog is fascinated by what has driven former bankers and PhD students to abandon their careers and head to the ends of the earth. Many would fit perfectly into any of his fiction films. He also captures some gloriously surreal moments, such as the whiteout training that involves a group of newcomers bumbling around with white buckets on their heads or the guitar-playing biologists rehearsing on a roof or the recording of seals under the ice sounding just like 1970s avant-garde electronica. Only Herzog.

Mark of an Angel

There'll probably be an inferior American remake of this at some point, infinitely blander and cliched, so see the French original while you can. The viewer is cannily led to doubt the sanity of Elsa when she becomes obsessed with the idea that 7 year old Lola is in fact her own daughter who died as a baby in a hospital fire. Conversational hints point to a woman already psychologically disturbed and it now appears that she's slipping into stalking the child and her family, and possibly much worse. Just when the plot seems to be following a predictable, if stylish, route, events take an unexpected turn. Lola's mother is suddenly captured doing similar actions in similar shots to those of Elsa earler in the film. She seems to be behaving just as irrationally as Elsa. Luckily this isn't Hollywood so there's no abrupt histrionics. The unsettling set pieces peak with a subtly menacing ballet performance but ultimately there's no psycho, no violence (OK, just a teensy bit), just the revelation of a devastating moral choice that gains it's impact from the restraint elsewhere.