Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives

Probably the oddest film I've seen this year, Uncle Boonmee is paradoxically one of its director's more straightforward narratives. A dying man receives visits not only from flesh and blood family but also from spirits of those long gone. It's a simple story but it doesn't give any indication of the strange beauty of the film. The living barely bat an eyelid at these visitors from another realm. Instead they all gather around the table, catching up on events. Boonmee's dead wife materialises gradually and looks just as she did when she died. His son, who vanished some time after her death, is covered in fur, with glowing red eyes. It turns out he mated with a Monkey Ghost and has found happiness in this new form. Elsewhere a bizarre digression features a princess' erotic encounter with a talking catfish (it really shouldn't work but against all odds, it does) Like the opening sequence of an errant water buffalo, are we meant to interpret this as one of Boonmee's past lives, or is it something else entirely? Part of the joy of the film is that it's left up to use to decide. The boundary between worlds is as fluid as the narrative structure. There's no denying it's a slow film but for every longeur, there's a haunting image to take away with you: those glowing red eyes watching from deep in the forest, or the final journey of Boonmee, descending through a deep cavern, passing stalagtites, cave paintings and small pale fishes in a spring. By the time the group reach a stunning glittering cave, it feels like they've gone back through time, reaching the centre of the universe.

Of Gods And Men

"You'll outlive us all" Brother Luc tells the frail, elderly Amedee after a medical examination. In one of the numerous ironies peppering the film, he's ultimately proved correct. Although based on the true story of the murder of French monks in Algeria, that event itself is only related by an end title. The bulk of the film focusses on the daily lives of the monks and their harmonious interaction with the local villagers. The monastery provides a clinic, the monks sell honey at the market and they attend local festivities. There appears to be a mere handful of Christians who attend service so clearly conversion isn't a priority. The village elders express bewilderment and despair at the atrocities committed by militants in this unnamed country (the only act of violence we witness is the abrupt, brutal attack on a group of Croatian workmen, left with the throats slit) and the local government offers military protection to the monastery. It's really at the point that the film starts to reveal where its interest truly resides. Brother Christian refuses, only to later be rebuked by some of the other monks for making a decision that effects them all without consultation. The issue becomes: do the monks leave or do they remain? The national government wants the group to depart but the villagers want them to remain. As for the militants, the leader may or may not be protecting the monks after their encounter on Christmas Eve. The monks themselves are divided on the subject, and each must wrestle with his own conscience. Yet as Christian points out, they have all already given up their lives to God and it becomes clear that - despite family back in France - these men actually have no other life. There's no attempt at backstory though snatches appear here and there. Why should there be - that life is no longer important. The film homes in on their faces as they deliberate their individual fate, never more so than in the "Last Supper" sequence (another irony: the visiting monk from the diocese, who brings the supplies, will be in the wrong place, at the wrong time) It's not that they are portrayed as saints. No, it's clear they are very human, with all the quirks that involves: pride, doubt, fear, and yet they are also compassionate, intellectually curious, moderate. They have no wish to be martyrs but nor can they leave. That's the tragedy.

The American

Pleasingly downbeat and 3/4 a very good film indeed, The American is torpedoed by one of those male fantasy subplots where the protagonist falls in love with a beautiful prostitute (OK, this may be the fault of the book but it's not mitigated by the filming) It's like a DTV erotic drama has taken a wrong turn and ended up in the middle of an existential thriller. Hitman Jack is ruthless, taciturn and increasingly suspicious, bordering on paranoid (quite rightly it turns out) He's a stone-cold killer who is in turn hunted - for reasons unknown to the viewer - by "the Swedes". He's frequently isolated within the frame and Anton Corbijn is particularly good at evoking the threat lurking within open spaces. There's an air of foreboding throughout and we instinctively know that redemption will not be forthcoming. Not with those hard eyes, that grimly set mouth. Even that annoying romantic subplot has one benefit: in the final sequence George Clooney gets to convey Jack's growing sense of despairing desperation as he attempts to reach Clara. It's a terrific piece of acting: a man who knows he's doomed, realizing the future is slipping out of his grasp yet refusing to give up.

Monsters

This is not for you if you're expecting an Independence Day-style special effects extravaganza. For a start Monsters was made on a fraction of the budget of the average Hollywood blockbuster - though it makes that into a huge virtue. Rather than a cast of thousands who end up mere cannon fodder, this is basically a two-hander, and a road movie of sorts that is actually a love story at heart, set within a sci-fi framework. The emphasis is on character rather than spectacle, as cynical journalist reluctantly leads the boss's daughter to safety through the Infected Zone of Mexico. Expectations are subverted: it's the poor little rich girl who can speak Spanish (Andrew relies on her translating skills) and who empathises with the locals (the elusive prize for the journalist is a photo of a dead child) Their backstories get gradually sketched in and the development of the relationship doesn't feel forced.
In a similar manner, that title isn't all that it seems. Your interpretation of it changes over the course of the film. The creatures (never "monsters") can be incredibly destructive and chillingly deadly (see the night vision opening and the aftermath of the forest encounter) but as one of the locals comments, if you don't bother them, they don't bother you. Difficult to believe when the landscape is littered with the evidence of their power (vehicles of all kinds and sizes thrown into trees or dumped into the water) and yet proved to be completely accurate when Sam and Andrew watch entranced as two huge bioluminescent creatures entwine in a strangely beautiful mating ritual (the same description could be used to describe the glowing egg sacs on the trees) The creatures pay no heed to the two humans and leave without causing any damage to the truck stop. This isn't an invasion, it's the result of an accident - courtesy of NASA - but like in District 9, the two species can't peacefully co-exist, at least in the minds of the humans. Or to be more accurate, in the minds of the military and those north of the border. The local populace simply carry on with their daily lives, knowing the creatures' annual mating season requires extra caution. The Americans in contrast launch bombing raids on the Infected Zone and build a huge wall at the border - and just like District 9, you don't have to dig too far for allegorical readings. Yet the military are clearly fighting a losing battle, and the wall simply can't keep out the creatures. It's a war that can't be won although the Americans don't seem to have realized that yet. You suspect they never will.

Gauguin

I'll never be a fan of Gauguin (everything about the man brings out the latent feminist in me) but if nothing else, this exhibition has given me a new appreciation of his use of colour. There's a particular shade of orange that can stop you in your tracks and a soft mauve that almost begs to be touched. The landscapes are by far the most arresting part of the paintings, and the juxtaposition of colours - especially in the South Seas works -produce a vibrant effect. Looking at these exotic images you do indeed feel a million miles away from Europe.

Rare Exports: A Christmas Tale

Don't be mislead by that word in the title. This is as far from Hollywood yuletide schmaltz as one could wish (and that's a *very* long way) Nor is this Santa Claus anything like the jovial old fellow dressed in red who is inescapable at this time of year (although if you find him rather creepy anyway, you'll raise a smile). The starting point is the Santa of legend, a scary creature given to throwing bad children into boiling cauldrons. In the mythic past the Sami people trapped him and buried him under what is now a mountain. Of course, in the present day someone is trying to dig him out. Bad idea. (Clearly they never saw The Thing). It's not quite a horror film - in fact it's a feature-length prequel to 2 short films. Black humour coexists alongside an ominous tone (the new rules and regulations issued to the workmen at the dig; the reindeer carcasses strewn across the snow; the "dolls" left in the place of children) Nor are the elves anything like the green-clad little helpers of our jolly old chap. A nice bit of wrong-footing leads everyone to believe that the elderly man caught in the wolf pit is actually the released Santa. He's certainly feral but honestly, did we *really* think he was capable of wreaking such havoc?
What lifts the film out of being merely a clever concept is the gruff bond between Rauno and his son Pietari. The setting might be beautiful but there's no mistaking it's a hard life, with little room for sentiment. The slaughter of the reindeer means ruin for the village ($85,000 lost we're repeatedly told) and the threadbare Christmas tree propped up in the corner of Rauno's house along with the ragged hole in his jumper tell you everything you need to know about the family's poverty. Likewise, the (presumably) deceased mother is evoked via the baking of gingerbread - and a less successful roast - and the toy that Pietari carries everywhere like a beloved pet. Yet despite his inability to verbally express his affection, it's there in Rauno's protective instincts.
I suppose the one disappointment is that we don't get to see what's actually been dug out of the mountain, though the horns that protrude through the block of ice are suitably impressive, and it does finally tell us why a hair dryer and all those radiators were stolen. All in all, wonderfully bonkers.

Thomas Lawrence

One of the delights of this exhibition is the opportunities it provides to work out how some of the effects are achieved: the portrait of Elizabeth Farren for instance features a shimmering gown, courtesy of thickly applied brushstrokes of white paint. So simple, yet so effective. Not that the clothing dominates, impressive though it is. His drawings provide ample illustration of Lawrence's skills and the faces are what you most remember. Selina Meade and Rosamund Croker are impossibly beautiful, though not forbiddingly so, while the elderly Mary Digges shows how adept Lawrence was at portraying age. Likewise the oil sketch of Wilberforce is full of character, while the painting of Pius IV is a worthy descendant of Raphael's Julius II. Perhaps most charming of all are the portraits of children, whether on their own like the famous one of Charles William Lambton, or in groups. There's a real warmth to many of these that is singularly lacking in many other artistocratic portraits of the period.

The Girl Who Kicked The Hornets' Nest

The final part of the Millennium trilogy is a vast improvement on the previous one, even if it does require the viewer to have near-perfect recall of events and characters encountered so far (I literally had no memory of one person frequently mentioned) Our spiky, resourceful heroine is also in subdued mode for most of the film as she first recovers from the near fatal injuries sustained at the end of part 2, and then as she is put on trial for murder (her silence means her opponents underestimate her) However, this does throw into relief those rare moments when she permits herself a smile, the meanings of which are numerous (compare the one upon heraing of her father's death to that with which she greets an illicit pizza delivery) Like part 2, this film keeps Mikael and Lisbeth apart for most of the running time, although the plot strands are inextricably entwined, and avoids any romantic resolution. Another intriguing oddity is the sight of elderly spymasters carrying out the nefarious activities necessary to protect a decades-old conspiracy (one dies of a heart attack after an assassination while another needs weekly dialysis). Not that their frailty makes them any less deadly. The main gripe is the reappearance of the indestructible half-brother, though at least this time he's kept to the margins though he still feels like a renegade character from a 1970s Bond film.

Salvator Rosa

If ever an artist fit the description of Romantic, it's Salvator Rosa. His paintings might date from the 17th century but they would have fit perfectly into the later artistic movement. One painting in particular brought John Martin to mind, while the witches' sabbaths inevitably conjure up Goya. In addition there are bandits and hermits, usually set amid wild landscapes (again, the Romantics would have swooned) and sometimes cocooned in such darkness that it's difficult to distinguish details (this may or may not be intentional ...) Yet the brushwork is vibrant, the vision singular and the overall impression one of strange beauty.

Venice: Canaletto and His Rivals

Canaletto is an artist that I find is easy to admire but difficult to love. Yes, there's the undoubted technical skill on display (not to mention an insane attention to detail) but the overall effect often feels cold, especially in the later paintings which feel increasingly lifeless. Mind you, even these rather static figures are still miles ahead of the ones that populate the paintings of his rivals. Whereas Canaletto's people seem to inhabit the urban spaces, those in other works look like they are part of a tableau (these were usually painted by other artists in any case) Canaletto is head and shoulders above most of the others, although Marieschi's view of the courtyard of the Doge's Palace is terrific, with it's dramatic contrast of light and shade, and Bellotto clearly inherited some of his uncle's talent. However, it's Guardi who steals the show with his more impressionistic approach and muted palette. It's a breath of fresh air after the hyperdetailed onslaught of the previous rooms.

The Kids Are All Right

"I wish you *were* gay. You'd be more sensitive" an exasperated Jules says to her son Laser at one point during The Kids Are All Right (in the circumstances this is hugely ironic considering what Jules herself has been up to) An earlier misunderstanding had resulted in one of those cringeworthy "do you have anything to tell us" scenes. And yes, Laser did - but not what Jules and Nic (or the moms as daughter Joni calls them) suspected. In fact, it's something that turns out to be far more disruptive: the appearance of the children's sperm-donor father Paul, a laid back, organic gardener/restauranteur. Initially appalled, the moms decide to meet him too, which, with hindsight, is a *big* mistake. Paul and Jules immediately bond, and he offers her a job designing his garden, which in turn leads to a completely unexpected sexual relationship. Nic, the odd one out with her lack of enthusiasm for this unlooked-for masculine presence, ups the wine intake (not good for anyone's peace of mind) In fact, Nic has more in common with Paul than she thinks, as is revealed by an impromptu rendition of Joni Mitchell at a dinner party (cue fondly embarrassed kids yet again) Actually one thing all 3 adults share is a perceptive dislike for Laser's best friend Clay, which indicates that the parental instinct is in full working order all round. Alas, that moment of connection over Joni M is immediately destroyed when Nic finds evidence of Jules' infidelity. Yet this is a resilient, if unconventional, family and the fractures don't ultimately break them apart. Laser, ever the sensitive one, is pleased they're not going to split up - pause - "you're too old" ...
The great strength of the film (apart from some fabulously barbed dialogue) is that you could swap the lesbian couple for a straight couple and it would still work perfectly. The whole point is NOT the characters' sexuality, but the relationships within the family unit. Hardworking, sensible Nic and hippyish Jules are reflected in their children, respectively bright Joni and bemused Laser. The kids react to their moms just like any teenagers (exasperation, embarrassment, outright irritation) while the moms have to come to terms with the imminent departure of their babies. An interloper makes one of the couple feel desirable once more, while festering resentments surface on all sides just as in any long-term relationship (and Nic and Jules have been together longer than many "normal" marriages) Not that Paul is merely the villain of the piece. He's as blindsided as Jules by this sudden passion and he's actually delighted to discover he's a father. More to the point, it forces him to grow up. He's genuinely despairing when it seems the children have turned against him, yet Joni's small act of taking his hat with her to university implies that all is not lost. It's a reflection of the generous spirit of the film as a whole.

My Afternoons With Margueritte

This is a Sunday-afternoon type of film: pleasant and undemanding, though with a refreshing belief in the empowering nature of reading and a tart undercurrent about the deleterous effects of a childhood deprived of love. To all intents and purposes, it's a meeting of opposites - the bear-like Germain (Depardieu larger than ever) and the bird-like Margueritte. Germain hangs out at the local cafe with his mates, sells the produce from his garden and enjoys a relationship with bus driver Anette. He is also regarded by almost everybody as being a bit thick. Margueritte is 95, used to work for WHO and delights in literature. In the park, she reads excerpts to Germain who gradually responds to this new intellectual stimulus. In many ways, she is the enthusiastic teacher so singularly lacking from his own childhood (the one we see in flashback takes great delight in humilating the boy as he stumbles over words) Childless herself, she shows more interest in Germain than his own mother appears to do. The middle-aged man is treated with as much disdain by his elderly mother now as when he was a child. He has more meaningful conversations with his cat than with her. If this was a Hollywood film, there would be a tearful reconciliation between parent and child. Here they remain estranged emotionally (though living in close proximity) for life. It's only after his mother's death that we get an indication of the genuine maternal love that lay deeply buried, though the vast majority of Germain's life has been blighted by her cold, unfeeling behaviour (the more cynical might regard this as a mere plot machination to set up the subsequent happy ending) His mates, meanwhile, aren't sure what to make of the new Germain. They preferred the old version, one suspects because it guaranteed there was someone lower than them in the social pecking order. They will still be frittering away their time in the cafe whereas Germain will be residing in the midst of a newly established, supportive family unit.

Treasures from Budapest

The first sight that greets the visitor to the Royal Academy's main galleries is a massive altarpiece dedicated to St. Andrew. In addition to the central panel of the martyrdom and the wings, there is a painted limewood statue on the saint and an elaborate canopy towering above. It's a smashing indication of the unexpected delights within the Hungarian national collection. All the big names of European art are present and correct (Raphael's Esterhazy Madonna might be the star attraction) as well as those anonymous artists who created the likes of that altarpiece. There's a particularly impressive collection of Old Master drawings, built up by Nikolaus II Esterhazy, which are typically stunning in terms of both closely-observed detail and vibrant swirling line. Elsewhere my personal favourites includes a dramatic Ribera Martydom of St Andrew, with the saint's body glowing through the engulfing darkness and a typically cheering portrait by Hals, full of bold brush strokes. Cuyp's painting of cows in a river with a huge expanse of sky behind was rather endearing and Jan Breughel the Elder's painting of the animals waiting to enter the Ark was full of lovely touches (I especially liked the pair of cats up a tree, apparently sizing up the birds as a potential meal) The big surprise though waited in the final room: Sandor Ziffer's Landscape with a Fence, a banal title disguising a wonderful burst of colour. A vibrant red mounrain towers over a landscape painted in jewel-like colours. Noone would ever describe it as naturalistic but it's almost too sumptuous for words.

Carlos

I can't speak for the shorter cinema cut but the full 5 1/2 hours version (originally made for French TV) is a terrifically engrossing piece of work, with the space to tease out the murky connections between terrorist groups and their state sponsors during the 1970s and 1980s. The starting point, inevitably, is the Middle East but as the centrepiece attack on the Vienna OPEC meeting (the bulk of part 2) indicates, even here all was not as it appeared, and as time progresses high ideals increasingly warp into mercenary acts. The German terrorist "Angie", for instance, leaves the movement in disgust at what he perceives as its anti-Semitism, having a clear distinction in his own mind between that and attacking Zionism - escpecially important considering Germany's history. The political machinations are equally tortuous. The Iranian oil minister might have been one of Carlos' targets in Vienna, but a decade later it's the influence of Iran that wins him sanctuary in Sudan. The Soviets meanwhile ensure that Carlos can establish bases in Eastern Europe after being expelled from the PFLP while funding a plot to assassinate President Sadat (ironically the lengthy period of organizing such a plot ensures it's pre-empted by other militants) Vienna is a neat summation of the complexity at the heart of what appears to be a simple political struggle.
All this is serious stuff, yet Olivier Assayas doesn't neglect the thrills. There are assassination attempts, bombings, hijackings and shoot-outs, staged in a manner that is exciting without being bombastic. In addition there's a streak of wry humour: the failed wrangling of a rocket launcher - twice! - foils an attempted attack on an El-Al aeroplane (though one missile does hit a Yugoslav jet thus giving an unexpected propaganda coup to a Croatian group); 3 Japanese Red Army members are late for an attack on the French Embassy in The Hague because they can't read a map correctly; and the escape plan from Vienna is derailed when Carlos kills a Libyan delegate thus ensuring Gaddafi won't allow the plane to land in Libya which in turn means it can't make it to Iraq ... Contemporary news footage is intercut with the drama for visceral effect.
The linking thread, of course, is Carlos himself, first encountered as an ambitious footsoldier for the PFLP who ultimately antagonizes Wadi Haddad once too often and subsequently tries to set up his own group. Amusingly he demands the complete obediance ostentatiously lacking from his own dealings with superiors. He's also a voracious and charming womaniser who regards himself very highly indeed (see the preening young man naked before the mirror at the start and contrast with the overweight lothario who has liposuction in Sudan) The charisma that makes him eminently watchable (in a tour de force, mulitilingual performance by Edgar Ramirez)nevertheless doesn't disguise his utter ruthlessness: witness for instance the sudden descent into brutal violence when informer Andre and the police gatecrash a gathering of South American exiles in Paris. Yet for all his notoriety and star quality, Carlos lacks the political wiliness of the the new PFLP boss Ali, and finds himself outmanoeuvred, living on his past achievements until justice finally catches up with him.

The Social Network

If further proof was needed that Jesse Eisenberg is an infinitely more interesting and versatile actor than Michael Cera (to whom he is often - unfairly - compared), then just try to imagine the latter playing Mark Zuckerberg. No? Didn't think so. As previously shown in The Squid and the Whale, Eisenberg can summon an unpleasantly abrasive edge to his characters (the audience practically cheers when the long-suffering mother finally slaps him in that film) Likewise, his Zuckerberg makes no play for sympathy. Anything that we do feel for him is very hard won indeed - and usually short-lived.
The opening exchange perfectly sums him up: an obviously intelligent man with non-existent social empathy, even for his (soon-to-be-ex) girlfriend. She is merely the first in a stream of people driven to exasperation by his behaviour. It's rare when one feels sorry for movie lawyers but Zuckerberg's in the deposition scenes comes close, as his client's interventions do nothing to help his case. This is a man who insults his ex online and can't understand why she refuses to talk to him; who thinks nothing of discarding his only real friend in favour of the surface flash and ambition of Sean Parker, a man he regards as a soulmate because both were driven to invent in order to impress a girl (though tellingly Parker clearly couldn't care less about this early love whereas Zuckerberg never quite gets over Erica).
Motivations are left opaque but there are interesting suggestions. Saverin and Zuckerberg are both outsiders, looking longly at the exclusive clubs and the girls the members attract, and yet Zuckerberg appears to harbour a festering jealousy when his friend is accepted into one of the clubs (you could never describe Zuckerberg as a supportive friend; his main aim seems to be to undermine Saverin's confidence). Zuckerberg also wants some form of revenge on Erica but also seems to want her back, and equally important (baring in mind her apparent admiration for the rowing crews) he has a powerful determination to best the Harvard elite who shut out the likes of him. There's actually much fun to be had with the representatives of this elite, the Winklevoss twins. Their attitude about the honour of Harvard gentlemen might be gently mocked but they are mostly portrayed as sympathetically naive.
At the film's heart though is the destruction of the friendship between Zuckerberg and Saverin. It's far easier to warm to Saverin, who's endearingly gauche, and never once suspects that Zuckerberg and Parker are plotting to remove him from the company he founded. Even during the deposition scenes he seems hurt more than angry (his one explosion in Facebook's office involves him disconnecting Zuckerberg from the digital bubble in which he exists) yet the minute changes in his facial expression suggest that Zuckerberg feels the loss too. The break though is irreparable. If this all sounds terribly serious, it's not. David Fincher makes it a thoroughly enjoyable experience (and for CSI afficionados there's a "that's Hodges!" moment), with zinging dialogue, classy performances and a surprising emotional kick. Erica tells Zuckerberg at the beginning that it's not because he's a nerd that women won't like him, but because he's an asshole, and while the film mostly substantiates this view, our final image of the young billionaire is of him isolated at a computer, constantly refreshing Erica's Facebook page in the hope she'll accept him as a "friend", more a pathetic figure than anything else.

Eadweard Muybridge

I've been familiar with Muybridge's name because of the vital importance of his experiments in motion photography to the invention of cinema, but I'd never realized he was also a famous landscape photographer. The examples on show often exude that oddly ethereal quality of 19th century photographs, a happy byproduct of the technical processes involved. Water in particular looks very different: waterfalls are bizarrely solid and bright, and it's difficult to tell whether that's surf or sea mist at the base of cliffs. Nevertheless, the photos of Yosemite in particular are beautiful, but equally impressive are the multiple-plate panoramas of San Francisco, a real glimpse into another era as the vast majority of the buildings were destroyed in the 1906 earthquake. The second part of the exhibition contains the work for which he is now most well-known. In addition to the groundbreaking sequences of horses in motion, there are animals of every sort: elephants, buffalo, pigs and even eagles, as well as humans carrying out various activities (though one suspects the naked ladies have considerably less scientific value than claimed ...) Simply looking at the sheets of prints is like examining a filmstrip frame by frame, and the projected recreation of images from the zoopraxiscope is akin to primitive animation. Motion pictures really were only a few years away.

Scott Pilgrim vs the World

As a resolute non-gamer, I had been wary about seeing this (much as I adore Edgar Wright). However, despite probably missing numerous references and in-jokes, I loved every single minute of it. Sometimes you just know you're going to adore a film from the very first seconds and Scott Pilgrim had me at the pixellated Universal logo (subtle and clever) It almost goes without saying that there's too much to take in on a single viewing. Really the film needs to be perused on frame-by-frame ultra slo-mo to process all the information flashing across the screen. To say it's a technical tour-de-force doesn't quite describe the sheer virtuosity and imagination on display. But all that would count for nothing if the audience didn't care about the characters, and while Scott and Ramona didn't exactly rock my world (at times both need a damn good slap), the rest of the characters more than win you over. Hands-down winner on the male front is Wallace Wells, Scott's gay room-mate and expert purveyor of cutting wit, while Knives Chau steals the female title as the adorable high-schooler dated (and cheated on) by Scott. Most of the evil-exes are a riot (a running joke is Ramona's correction of Scott's mentioning of "evil ex-boyfriends" - there is a reason) There's Chris Evans' skateboarder/movie star Lucas Lee, who tells Scott he's going for an Oscar this year (hilariously unlikely) and lets his stunt team fight on his behalf; Brandon Routh's peroxide musician Todd Ingram whose veganism confers special powers (cue an amusing appearance by the vegan police); and Jason Schwartzmann's Gideon Graves, music impresario and gleefully hissable chief villain. Throw in a hip and varied soundtrack and you've got something for everyone who loves either films or music.

The Maid

Would anyone *want* to become a maid, and more pertinently, would anyone *want* to remain one? Raquel has worked for the same family for 20 years, bringing up the children and cleaning up after everyone. The family in turn seem genuinely fond of Raquel, throwing a surprise birthday party for her in the opening moments and generally tolerating her passive-aggressive behaviour. Yet it's a profoundly dysfunctional situation. Raquel and the daughter are at loggerheads, the mother refuses to discipline her, and she doggedly defends her position from any interlopers, even ones brought in to help when it becomes clear that she's ill. Raquel's favoured tactic is to lock out any maid foolish enough to step outside, though it also extends to throwing the new kitten over the wall, which has the added bonus of upsetting the daughter. It's blackly comic but also unsettling as it highlight's Raquel's mental disarray. Her whole life revolves around this family (her meagre possessions include 3 teddy bears sadly propped up on her bed, and she can barely talk over the phone to her own mother) and she truly has no life of her own. She's also a bracingly unsympathetic presence. We can understand her predicament but emotionally we side with the victimised maids - Raquel adds an unpleasant layer of xenophobia to her campaign against the Peruvian girl. All of which makes the halting steps towards sociability, courtesy of the ebullient Lucy, rewardingly touching.

The Town

There's nothing new about The Town: the one-last job against the protagonist's better judgement; the professional criminal unit locking horns with the forces of law and order; the volatile wildcard; the redemptive (and destructive) power of love. Echoes of several genre classics ripple throughout but the film never feels derivative. Partly this is because of the strong sense of place (Charlestown in Boston), partly because of the trio of muscular action scenes that grab the viewer's attention 100%. There's a white-knuckle car chase through narrow streets that's far more thrilling than any CGI-enhanced blockbuster (nothing can really beat the joy of *real* vehicles crashing into each other) and the final shootout is a cracker.
Of course there has to be more than mere action to make a film memorable and for the most part the dramatic scenes deliver. We get the contrast between FBI investigation and criminal planning, though there's no Heat-style mutual respect here between MacRay and Frawley. The latter is totally deteremined to put MacRay and his associates behind bars, despite the "Irish omerta" as he calls it as well as the limitations of the justice system (as he puts it, the only way he'll get 24 hour surveillance of the gang is if "one of these idiots converts to Islam") Crime in Charlestown is like a family business, passed down the generations: MacRay's unrepentent father is clearly going to die in jail and Jem's already has; the Florist tells the gang he knew all their fathers. And loyalty means everything. MacRay and Jem are bound by the murder committed (and time served) by the latter to protect his friend. He might be a dangerously unpredictable presence but he's genuinely outraged - and hurt - that MacRay could possibly want to walk away from everything. MacRay's natural instinct for self preservation goes out the window the minute he falls for the one person who could put them in jail (there's a wonderfully tense scene at a cafe when Jem, and his giveaway tattoo, unexpectedly disturbs the lovers) and triggers betrayals both large and small.

Winter's Bone

A measure of the sheer quality of Winter's Bone is that it completely transcends the hillbilly cliches at its heart. The insular Ozark community all seem to be inter-related to varying degrees, and operates according to its own laws (the sheriff and local bounty hunter know this and are suitably cautious) Almost everyone 17 year old Ree contacts as she searches for her missing father is some kind of blood-relation -which doesn't necessarily mean anyone's willing to help her - and she shares the community's inherent distrust of both outsiders and the law. If her father fails to turn up in court, the house and woodland he put up as a bond will be forfeit.
Ree's already taken on the mantle of adult of the family, giving up school to raise her siblings and look after her catatonic mother yet the power of the film hinges on her youth. The interview with a sympathetic army recruitment sergeant neatly illustrates both her naivety and her basic resilience, and the astonishing air of menace that permeates the film only emphasises her vulnerability. It's one of those rare films where you genuinely fear for the safety of the main character, with the womenfolk being just as likely to inflict violence as the men. Even Ree's uncle is an unsettlingly dangerous figure. He looks frail yet can face down a group of much bigger men without even making a real threat. And the landscape itself is an essential part of the film, rather than merely a backdrop. Only such land could produce such faces and such simmering threat.
And yet it's not unremittingly bleak. This is also a world where people gather to create the most beautiful music, and where family feeling occasionally trumps self-preservation. There's never any doubt about the love between Ree and her siblings, but there's also basic kindness hidden in the most unexpected places. If the fate of the father is never really in doubt, it doesn't diminish the tension one jot (though it's never actually a whodunit as such) and the subtle ending manages to be both optimistic and laden with hints of foreboding, of future retribution and tragedy to come.

The Secret In Their Eyes

I was as shocked as anyone (and not a little miffed) when both A Prophet and The White Ribbon were beaten to the Foreign Language Oscar by The Secret In Their Eyes. However, it turns out that the Argentine film is a very fine piece of work. It revolves around 2 time frames - Buenos Aires in 1974 and then 25 years late - and 2 thwarted love stories: Ricardo and Liliana are torn apart by her murder while investigator Benjamin falls for his socially superior boss Irene who is engaged to another man. Existing alongside these personal dilemmas are indications of the dreadful political history of that period, where justice gave way to disappearances and murder.
The chaos of the justice system in the first period is illustrated by the haphazard piles of paperwork covering every available surface in Benjamin and Sandoval's office, as well as the faulty typewriter (fittingly it's the "a" that doesn't work) that gets passed from person to person. More damningly it seems that putting away wrongdoers doesn't rank highly on anyone's agenda: Benjamin gets the Morales case by default due to some inter-departmental horsetrading, though his initial reluctance and irritation is transformed into an obsessive desire to apprehend the killer the minute he sees Liliana's corpse; 2 builders are beaten into confessing at the behest of Benjamin's corrupt rival Romano; Sandoval's drunkenness seemingly has no disciplinary consequences; and worst of all, murder ultimately counts for far less than political usefulness.
The solving of the murder by the midpoint of the film might seem odd for a thriller but it's actually crucial. The disgust of Benjamin and Irene at subsequent events throws into relief the agony that Ricardo must be feeling as he sees his wife's murderer not only free, but a crucial part of the current regime. Intimations of the fate of thousands pepper the second half of the film: Romano briefing 2 thugs about "suspects"; his not-so-veiled threats to the troublesome Benjamin (Irene is from the elite and therefore untouchable, unlike Benjamin); the murder of anyone deemed expendable.
Yet of equal importance is the relationship between Benjamin and Irene, conducted through a symphony of looks. Given the title, eyes really *are* important, as indeed is the act of seeing. It's Benjamin's act of looking through Liliana's photo album that provides the vital clue (and later a photo of himself at Irene's engagement party shows him admiring from afar in a similar manner) and the entire football stadium sequence is built upon the hope of spotting one face among thousands. However, Benjamin can also overlook the obvious. Irene clearly looks at him with an equal expression of longing, no matter how irritated she may be with his behaviour. Likewise it's only with hindsight that Benjamin realizes the full extent of Sandoval's final act, with the turning over of photographs (hiding from view) providing the clue. It's a deeply moving moment, as indeed is Ricardo's vigil at the railway station, hopelessly waiting for the killer to commute into the city for work. The emotional beats in the film are hard-won and all the more powerful for being so.
The framing alternates between close-ups (emphasis on the eyes of course) and longer shots that isolate characters behind objects or barriers, and the canted angles clearly express a world gone awry, but the most virtuoso sequence is without doubt the long, pulsating, single take at the football stadium (as thrilling as that in Children of Men) I wouldn't be surprised if it won the Oscar for that 10 minutes alone. Or maybe it was for the genuinely surprising - and shocking - ending, when Benjamin and the spectator slot the pieces into place at exactly the same moment. You don't see it coming, which in itself is an achievement these days and therefore fully deserving of the highest praise.

The Girl Who Played With Fire

The second part of the Millennium trilogy might be shorter in length than the first, but it contains far more plot and introduces several new characters and consequently feels far less satisfying. Details from The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo expand into vital plot points but bizarrely Lisbeth and Blomkvist spend the entire film apart, conducting parallel investigations into a trio of murders connected to sex trafficking. It probably couldn't be helped and will surely be rectified in the final part but it makes for a curiously structured film. What does continue from the first movie is the basic message that all men are sexual predators and/or murderers (the Swedish TV version of Wallander seems to subscribe to this POV as well) which doesn't say a lot for Swedish males. Again, though, the sex trafficking investigation that sets everything in motion gets left behind although it is clear that the corruption spreads right to the top of the establishment. It's Lisbeth's personal history that moves centre stage which unfortunately gives rise to several borderline-laughable revelations (the nigh-invincible half-brother being especially unfortunate) and ultimately distracts from the very serious issue at the heart of the trilogy so far: violence towards and exploitation of women by men.

The Refuge

It's sometimes difficult to believe that Francois Ozon was once the enfant terrible of French cinema. Gone are the days when he seemingly set out to shock bourgeois sensibilities. Nowadays he's more likely to provide top class roles for French actresses. The Refuge is reminiscent of both Under The Sand and Time to Leave in it's exploration of loss and the grieving process, as well as featuring some finely nuanced performances. Mousse, an addict, not only has to come to terms with her boyfriend Louis' overdose but also her unexpected pregnancy, giving rise to musings about the vagaries of fate (she survived taking the same contaminated heroin), the biological changes to her body (half embarrassed, half in awe), and burgeoning feelings for Louis' gay brother Paul. You sense that it's partly their status as outsiders that draws them together initially (he, it turns out, is adopted) while Mousse is perhaps attracted to Paul because of his familial relationship to Louis. Nothing is ever really clarified but it's all the better for that.
The scenes at the refuge by the sea are suffused with a warmth and colour distinctly lacking in the Parisian scenes. Mousse's life as an addict and icily perfect surroundings of Louis' wealthy family contrast with the relaxed atmosphere of village life, the roomily comfortable house and the tentative friendship that develops. Mousse's physical changes also reflect this. The sallow, lank-haired addict postively blooms during her pregnancy to a picture of vibrant health, but also develops emotionally. It's difficult to imagine the Mousse of the early scenes being able to make such a difficult decision as the women we see at the end.

The Illusionist

It's always a delight to watch a lovingly crafted hand-drawn animation. Miyazaki is obviously the main provider of such cinematic comfort but Sylvain Chomet is no slouch. After the glorious mayhem of Belleville Rendezvous, The Illusionist is an altogether more bittersweet experience. There are still plenty of laugh-out-loud moments (many courtesy of a wonderfully belligerent rabbit) and some terrific sight gags (the screen is so packed with detail it's difficult to know where to look) but the narrative itself is a poignant affair. The magician is a figure left behind by the new age of pop culture. Audiences for the traditional music hall acts dwindle while pop groups attract hordes of screaming fans. While the magician struggles to find work - battling with equipment at a garage or humiliatingly advertising goods in Jenners' window - his fellow guest house residents suffer an even worse decline. The clown is suicidal and the ventriloquist pawns his dummy (unsaleable, last seen going for "free") before descending into alcoholism. The young maid who naively believes in magic and who follows the magician to Edinburgh unwittingly pushes him towards poverty before finding romance with a young neighbour - after being transformed from ugly duckling to elegant swan via Tatischeff's kindness. The great glory of the film though is the animation itself. 1950s Edinburgh is beguilingly brought to life and the cityscape at night is a true thing of beauty. The line isn't as clinical as some digital animation can be and the rough edges make it somehow more engaging. And over it all hangs the spirit (and figure) of the mighty Jacques Tati. The film is based on his original script - with the expected lack of dialogue; the magician has a very Tati-like silhouette; and there's even a snippet of the fabulous Mon Oncle (source of some of the best sight gags in cinema). Not your usual animated film then but one not to be missed.

Rapt

To say Rapt is low-key is putting it mildly. Yes, there's a kidnapping and a very real threat of violence (the first act of the kidnappers is to cut off the victim's finger) but the film is mostly lacking in Hollywood-style action beats. There's the kidnapping itself and a ransom money drop-off but even these are more concerned with the mechanics of the events than providing an adrenaline rush. Even Graff, the victim, becomes an almost secondary figure in the narrative. His plight isn't exactly neglected but in many ways the main interest seems to be the manner in which his personal and professional life completely unravel during his absence. The police investigation and media attention unearths Graff's mistresses and his gambling debts, which in turn causes consternation among the board of his company and furious backtracking from his erstwhile political friends. The kidnappers meanwhile confuse the wealth of the company with Graff's personal wealth when they demand a 50 million ransom. As for Graff himself, the audience doesn't have a chance to know him before the kidnapping so for most of the time he's an ambivalent character, deserving of sympathy merely because of his status as victim. Once he attains freedom he becomes increasingly unsympathetic, appearing to have learned nothing from his ordeal and to value his dog more than his family - who can no longer view him as the same man. The effect is oddly distancing but nevertheless intriguing.

Camille Silvy

I suspect Camille Silvy is not a household name, despite his obvious fame during the 19th century. After leaving his native France and establishing a thriving studio in London, he had the patronage of Queen Victoria. What's most impressive though is the range: portraits, landscapes, artistic photography. In addition to his obvious skill he clearly also possessed a lively wit (see the portraits of his father-in-law looking through a frame designed like a postage stamp and of his wife leaning through an Old Master-style frame. Meanwhile his technical proficiency can be seen in the 360 degree panorama of an eerily deserted Champs Elysees, with a ghostly Arc de Triomphe just visible in the distance. You have to bear in mind this was the mid-1800s when the photographic process was very slow. This actually makes the multiple exposure artistic works even more impressive. The real treasure though is the collection of the studio's daybooks held by the National Portrait Gallery. They provide a photographic record of every sitting during those years. They could be opened at any page and would be fascinating. As it is, we get to see a rather ghoulish "momento mori" of a recently deceased child, 2 playful self-portraits of Silvy, and a group of photographs of a (black) Lago merchant and his wife (also black and a goddaughter of the Queen) Alongside the numerous cartes-de-visites of society and theatrical personalities, it all provides an intriguing window onto Victorian society.

White Material

The setting is an unspecified African country at an unspecified time (it could be any time during the last 30 years) but an all too recognisable brutal civil war is simmering. An air of foreboding permeates the film from the very beginning. We know "The Boxer" is a dead man from the first shots so while the flashback scenes lack tension, they have an unnerving ominous weight. The locals are well aware of the implications of the war and endeavour to remove themselves from the crossfire - as one of Maria's fleeing foremen tells her, the French army helicopter came for *her* family, not her workers. The whites have an opportunity to escape; the locals are to be left to their own devices. Maria's stubborn (arrogant?) refusal to accept the reality of the situation and determination to harvest the coffee crop blinds her to what is actually happening around her, illustrated most vividly by the presence of the wounded Boxer on her property and the child soldiers who wander through her house at will. Her ex-husband might act from venal motives but he at least understands the danger, not that it ultimately does him any good. The violence spreads from the surrounding areas - via the child soldiers and the opposing army - into the very heart of the privileged white home, infecting the occupants with its madness. Cannily the violence itself is kept mostly offscreen and both sides are culpable, although the corruption of the existing regime is also plainly indicated. Both sides commit senseless acts of violence but a key sequence reminds us that the child soldiers are just that: children. The group have raided a pharmacy and killed the staff, and then take a variety of the pills they've stolen. Holed up in Maria's house, several curl up on a bed, hugging soft toys, unaware of the soldiers stealthily making their way through the rooms. The blades slash flesh offscreen but the blood splashes into view. Its restraint makes it all the more shocking. The downfall of Maria's family doesn't have the same impact. After all, for the white colonialists, it's all over. For the native inhabitants the agony continues.

Gainsbourg

Even a biopic as unconventional (and gleefully unreliable) as Gainsbourg falls prey to the usual pitfall - an inherent fragmentariness, and consequently a largely unsatisfying narrative. Figures come and go, barely leaving any impression (Juliette Greco), while others pop up for a couple of scenes before vanishing (Bardot) Only Jane Birkin has any substantial presence. Gainsbourg himself is an annoyingly self-centred and abrasive figure, and quite how he attracted so many beautiful women is a complete mystery. What does enliven proceedings is the figure of a grotesque alter ego (complete with glowing eyes, Nosferatu-esque fingers and a nose worthy of Pinocchio), a reflection of how Gainsbourg essentially views himself and with all his worst instincts. At those moments, the film reaches another level entirely.

Italian Renaissance Drawings

Don't stand on ceremony. In this exhibition it's essential that you can get right up close to the drawings. A handful are so faint that at first glance you seem to be looking at a blank sheet. It's only when you get centimetres away that outlines become clear. Most though are much easier to see than that, even from a distance. All the great Renaissance names are here though it may not be the obvious artists who catch the eye. There's a delicate King David by Fra Angelico; janissaries by Bellini; beautiful female faces by Filippo Lippi and Verrocchio - all alongside drawings by Leonardo, Michelangelo, Raphael and Botticelli. Cannily there are a couple of useful compare-and-contrasts. Raphael's drawing of St George is displayed alongside the painting (the drawing shows a slightly more aggressive saint) and a film superimposes Carpaccio's St Augustine onto the finished work. Possibly my favourite drawing though - as usual, completely unexpected - was a large, wild, landscape by Piero di Cosimo. That sense of the artist's imagination at work is everywhere in the exhibition but nowhere more than here.

Inception

It takes a special kind of talent to consistently construct genuinely complex narratives that manage to retain coherence. Chris Nolan's a past master. His films assume the audience is intelligent (or at least can pay attention) and are never tricksy for the sake of being tricksy. Everything is integral to the plot, whether it be the reverse construction or Memento or the sleight of hand of The Prestige. This is equally true of Inception, where the viewer plunges through multiple dream levels and is never (totally) lost. It also means we never get ahead of the plot either. We might think we know where the story's going but we don't, not entirely. It's definitely a film that requires multiple viewings and I'm sure that when I get round to a second (or third) one I'll change my mind about stuff (the ending for sure as I'm totally undecided about how to interpret it) I think on a first viewing the sheer spectacle and momentum obscure some important piece of information (I wish I'd paid more attention to the matter of totems), and some of the dialogue gets swamped. Yet it somehow manages to make sense.
Considering how long the film is, the time actually flies by, especially once the inception plot itself gets under way. The concept is easy to grasp (plant the seed of an idea deep in the subconscious) which makes the multiplicity of dream levels equally easy to accept. That in turns generates the lovely idea that incidents in one dream impact in unexpected ways on what's happening on the other levels. Because of this, and the differentiation between the dreams, the film can crosscut between the multiple strands without losing clarity. As an extra treat, the deepest dream level unexpectedly turns out to be James Bond-like, complete with Arctic HQ and a bloody great safe. Even for sci-fi, it's delightfully out of place (but then, that's dreams for you)
Amid all the action - and there's a lot - there's also space for some top-notch performances. Leo is of course anguished but the real star turns are Cillian Murphy's Fischer, a man trying to live up to the expectations of others (and who, lest we forget, is actually the *victim* in all of this), and Tom Hardy's Eames, who has a nice sideline in winding up Joseph Gordon-Levitt's Arthur. Cobb's dead wife meanwhile is a worringly malign presence within the dreams, something which he can't control and which he fails to mention to his colleagues, with disastrous repurcussions. It's only in retrospect that the essential amorality of the entire enterprise hits home. This isn't a band of good guys, but nor are they villains, exactly. What they do is morally dubious yet we don't think about that while watching. What we focus on are the astonishing visuals: a Parisian street folding itself over; buildings crashing down into the ocean; Arthur's encounter with zero gravity. But for a change, this is a blockbuster that is about more than just the surface. There's much to ponder and re-watch and re-assess.

Heartbreaker

One of the more depressing laws of cinema is that any successful foreign-language film will immediately be snapped up for an American remake. Invariably everything that made the films distinctive and interesting in the first place mysteriously vanishes during the Hollywoodization. Such a fate probably awaits Heartbreaker, a huge hit in France. I suspect it will remerge as a cliched American romcom - probably with someone like Seth Rogen as the oddball brother-in-law and a pretty-but-blan leading man - all those sharp corners surgically removed. The other possibility, an R-rated raunchfest, is actually even more depressing as it would miss the whole point.
Alex has a most unusual job. He, with the help of his bolshy sister and her husband, specialize in breaking up couples. Not just any couples, mind. Happy couples are off limits. They only accept assignments where unhappiness is already lurking in the wings, ready to make an entrance. A montage shows an array of friends and relatives giving their reasons for hiring Alex to extricate a woman from her current relationship. It's the sort of premise that could lead to a catastrophically tacky, ill-judged film but luckily, the French version breezes along on the charm and charisma of Romain Duris (a man who manages to look endearingly rumpled even when wearing expensive suits), who has an unpredictable presence even in a romantic comedy. The supporting cast is agreeably spiky and there's the refreshing sight of a leading lady who is beautiful even with that gap between her front teeth. OK, the result is never in doubt (it *is* a romcom after all) but it takes an enjoyably offbeat route, with both Wham! and Dirty Dancing having unexpectedly important roles to play ...

Rashomon

Nobody does rain like Kurosawa. Think of the downpour that drenches the combatants towards the end of Seven Samurai. Rashomon too features a spectacular example, as rain lashes down around the three men sheltering under the eponymous gate. It's the sort of rain one can imagine causing cataclysmic floods, yet it also acts as a catalyst, bringing those 3 characters together and setting the story in motion. The rain of the framing story also provides a sharp contrast with the sunlight and palpable heat (the shifting shadows of the forest; the sweat glistening on Mifune's skin) of the flashbacks. In a similar manner the three main settings contrast with each other: the derelict gate, the almost-otherworldly forest and the dry, dusty yard of the trail. The viewer is intensely aware of both place and the elements, a rich backdrop for the main story.
The film of course is famous for the contradictory testimonies about what transpired in that forest. The only fixed points are the rape of a woman and the death of a man. Everything else is constantly in flux depending on whose viewpoint we see. The complexity only begins to emerge with the second testimony, the wife's. The bandit's version has been entirely plausible, but the next narration overturns that interpretation. The husband's death now no longer happens during a duel, but mysteriously after the bandit leaves, the suggestion being it was suicide. Nor is he any longer sympathetic and noble, but a man who immediately turns on his wife with loathing after her rape. And what of his version? Doubly unreliable, it's filtered through a medium (an oddly creepy sequence) and this time it's the wife who's portrayed as unsympathetic, driving her husband to suicide and eternal darkness. Truth it appears is as elusive as the light and shadows playing across the forest, making everything appear in motion. With truth such a slippery concerpt, can we even believe the woodcutter's version of events where everyone is seriously flawed and the death is more farce than tragedy. Certainly the commoner doesn't think so. He shows the woodcutter to be a thief and would say it's merely the way of the world - people lie for their own advantage. Yet, it's the desperately poor woodcutter who offers hope. He's willing to take the abandoned baby, reasoning that with six children already one more won't make a difference, whereas the commoner only steals the items left with it. As the priest rediscovers faith in mankind, the rain finally relents ...

The Time That Remains

Elia Suleiman's latest excursion into the tragicomic life of Palestinians in Israel centres on his own family history. Jumping from 1948 through the 1970s and up to the present, it makes amusing and insightful use of repetition and variation: during each stage we see a group of men sitting outside a cafe (a group of Arab fighters, a trio of young friends and then those friends when they are middle aged); Fuad and his friend's nightly fishing trip forever interupted by an Israeli patrol (the encounters move towards bonhomie before finally taking a suitably paranoid turn in the 1970s); Fuad's neighbour repeatedly trying to set himself alight in his despair (being foiled each time by the honed response of the neighbours). Frames within frames suggest an inherent lack of freedom, ultimately represented by the wall that divides Paestinians from Israelis. The basic absurdities of day to day life under occupation, meanwhile, are hilariously encapsulated by the sequence of a tank's gun methodically tracking every movement of a young man taking out rubbish and then making a phone call (seemingly oblivious), or the patrol ineffectively proclaiming a curfew in Ramallah outside a club where everyone is dancing to loud music. Yet there's also an aching sadness at lives unfulfilled and families torn apart, much of which comes across through the silence between characters, as if the ability to speak has also been oppressed.

The Killer Inside Me

The Killer Inside Me places the viewer totally inside the viewpoint of psychopathic deputy Lou Ford. In the novel, this was done via first person narration. The film makes use of sporadic voiceover but mainly achieves the effect through Ford's presence in almost every scene. The viewer sees and knows what he sees and knows (the handful of scenes where he's absent arguably show actions that he can imagine: Conway asking his driver to take him to the hospital; Amywalking to his house; the lawyer bulldozing his way down the asylum corridor) There is no other POV, only Ford's interpretation of the world around him. We never see the point at which Bob realizes the extent of his deputy's crimes, nor any of the machinations conducted by Conway or the DA. Most importantly, we *never* see how Joyce and Amy truly feel about him, only his projection of their pathetic devotion to the man who brutalizes them. The only occasion the film shifts perspective is near the start (in Joe's office and later on the night of the first crime) and it's done subtly, via a change in framing and a bit of handheld camerawork. It's also a crucial bit of information for the viewer to file away for later use.
As for the already notorious violence - especially the attack on Joyce - it's mostly done through blocking, editing and judicious makeup. We hear the blows slamming into Joyce but don't see them (although we think we do). It's a deeply distressing scene: for the violence and for the revelation of Ford's shocking coldness. He plans his murders calmly and commits them without the slightest shred of mercy or conscience. He willingly sacrifices others for his own ends, though bizarrely, he never seems to contemplate killing Joe who represents the biggest threat, while Joe himself never seems to fear for his own safety. In fact he even provides the lawyer who gets Ford released from the asylum. Perhaps they recognize oddly kindred souls, though with Ford's slippage between sanity and madness that's not a comforting thought.

The Losers

The best way to approach this comic book adaptation is to not take it remotely seriously. The film has zero pretensions to any kind of depth (something of a relief), but accept it on its own terms and it's an enjoyable 90 minutes (see, short too!) There's lots of guns (large and small); things get blown up (cars, planes, haciendas); comic book panels are recreated; and there's lots of sarcastic dialogue (not least from Max, the villain) We're not exactly talking chcracter development, but the interplay among the Losers is wildly entertaining. At opposite ends of the scale there's Cougar, the sniper who rarely talks, and Jensen, the techie who never stops (when Roque threatens to break his neck if he doesn't shut up you feel it's a threat that's been used before); there's Pooch, the family man, and Clay, the leader continually derailed by his involvement with women (enter Aisha, immediately distrusted by Roque possibly for that very reason). Roque is the most enigmatic, the large knives he carries pointing to just how dangeous he can be but he's also the most pragmatic, ready to cut his losses and reclaim his life after the Bolivian debacle that starts the film - which immediately puts him at odds with both Clay and Aisha. The latter turns out to be smarter and more devious than everybody, though Roque runs her close, pursuing her own agenda of revenge.
There's a lot of fun to be had from the incidental details (don't worry about the plot): Cougar and Jensen reduced to working side by side in a Bolivian doll factory; Pooch's lucky mascot nodding away on the dashboards of various vehicles; Jensen's hopeless attempts at wooing, including a hilariously deflating one-sided flirtation with Aisha; the alarmingly conspicuous vehicles stolen by Pooch (often yellow it seems); and the wondrous array of T-shirts worn by Jensen (I deeply covet the bright pink Go Petunias one that provokes such ire from Roque) Clearly none of this is Oscar material but everyone seems to be having a whale of a time -Jeffrey Dean Morgan looks increasingly rumpled as the film progresses (a neat contrast to the besuited Max), Idris Elba glowers forbiddingly (really, you wouldn't mess with this man), and Chris Evans walks off with the film, especially in the sequence where he infiltrates a building dressed as a bicycle courier (if you want the lift to yourself sing loudly and appallingly), which also has a great payoff involving the incomparable Cougar.

Kingdom of Ife

It says a lot about the racism of colonial attitudes that many refused to believe that the incredible sculptures uncovered in Ife could possibly be the work of medieval Africans. All kinds of wild theories were thrown up in order to show that it was actually Europeans (any group would do) who actually created them. The British Museum displays a selection a stone, terracotta, brass and copper sculptures, exquisitely carved or cast, and very definitely African. Many of the heads seem to show scarification, while some, presumably of foreigners, have a distinctive cat's whiskers marking. I was particularly taken with an equestrian statue with a very endearing horse. In fact the sculptures aren't just of the human form. There are crocodiles, mudfish, apes, rams and other animals, often stylised but immediately recognisable. The sculpted heads often show traces of paint so would have looked rather different than they do today, especially if crowns or veils were fixed via the holes in many of them. It shows that it wasn't just the Renaissance Europeans who were creating exquisite objects.

Lebanon

Film distribution in Britain is hardly awash with Israeli product and yet by one of those curious quirks of fate I've ended up seeing *two* Israeli movies in as many days. Lebanon might be the higher profile of the pair but I much preferred the tender and sad Eyes Wide Open. Lebanon's concept of confining the action to the tank's interior while limited the outside world to what can be seen through the tank's viewfinder sounds like an intriguing premise. It does indeed convey the squalor and claustrophobia of the 4 soldiers, but the zooms of the viewfinder rapidly start to feel like a gimmick instead of a valid artistic choice. In fact at times it becomes worryingly voyeuristic, focussing on the distressed or lifeless faces of the Lebanese. There's no attempt to put the war in context, and like Waltz with Bashir, it pretty much lets the Israelis off the hook. The complicity of central command with the Phalangists is the exception. Their brutality inevitably conjures up the spectre of Sabra and Shatila but otherwise it's a thoroughly inward-looking film.

Eyes Wide Open

Eyes Wide Open ends with an ambiguous image: Aaron, respectable family man once more, revisits the spring outside Jerusalem where he swam with his soon-to-be lover Ezri. He immerses himself anumber of times before finally disappearing under the water. Are we to view this as a suicide attempt or as something more metaphoric? Certainly the spring is the location where Aaron was first led astray ("when did you last leave Jerusalem?" Ezri asks him) but it's also the beginning of his rebirth (Aaron tells the rabbi that he was dead before he met Ezri and now he's alive) Is it even possible to go back to his previous existence once Ezri departs?
The ultra-Orthodox community where both men live is not an environment where their love can flourish. Initially Aaron rebuffs Ezri's advances by claiming that resisting temptation will bring both of them to God and to the outside world he seems initially to be trying to redeem the young man (already thrown out of his previous yeshiva) However this only torments them further. Ironically they finally succumb in the cold store of the butcher's shop that Aaron owns, and their affair plays out in the confines of this building, yet from the start it is doomed. Ezri, the only character who is true to his nature, is viewed with hostility by the community; his former lover pretends nothing happened and coldly rejects him; and prying eyes are everywhere. Even worse, members of the synagogue take it upon themselves to be the upholders of morality - and Aaron himself is one of them. He is one of the trio that visit a young transgressor. The man may claim that he and the girl Sara are deeply in love but her father has arranged a marriage for her and the obstacle must be removed. It's no surprise when Aaron finds himself the recipient of such visits, complete with threats of a boycott and broken windows. Posters proclaim "A sinner in the neighbourhood" and Ezri is ostracized, and later beaten up while Aaron does nothing to help. Once more the young man is driven away. Love, it appears, is no match for persecution and intolerance.

Robin Hood

Ridley Scott's Robin Hood and Richard Lester's elegiac Robin and Marian bookend the legend itself. Both cleverly utilise the well-known tale, with the latter showing the outlaw and his companions at the end of their lives, gathering themselves for one final battle. Robin Hood on the other hand shows us the genesis of the legend, with subtle tweaks. King Richard, so often viewed as the ultimate saviour of England, here dies at the beginning of the film. The Sheriff of Nottingham is a marginal, ineffective figure, and certainly no match for the ruthless traitor Godfrey. Robin himself has a double identity: the humble archer, who fought alongside King Richard on Crusade, ends up impersonating the noble Locksley initially in order to return home. However, he retains his new identity at the specific request of Locksley's blind, elderly father. Marian meanwhile is a feisty independent woman, as befits someone who has been responsible for her husband's domain during his 10 year absence, yet also keenly aware of her potential vulnerability - with no heir, the death of both her husband and father-in-law would leave her destitute. Amid all these slight revisions there's nonetheless an undoubted thrill at the first sight of Friar Tuck or realizing that Robin's antagonist in an early scene is the future Little John. Historians of course had best take a deep breath and ignore the usual Hollywood embellishments (Magna Carta? really?) and the geography is deeply confusing (for such a small island nation it's alarmingly easy to wonder where on earth the characters have ended up this time). The less said about some of the accents the better. Yet it's a pleasingly gritty Middle Ages, where even King Richard's crown looks more like a helmet, and ordinary people are thoroughly at the mercy of the nobility. Definitely not Errol Flynn then, but on its own terms it has merit.

Lion's Den

A prison movie with a difference, Lion's Den focuses on the females inmates in the mother-and-child wing. In doing so it manages to both cunningly disguise the cliches of the genre (lesbian relationships, fights, riots) and be deeply unsettling. The children remain with their mothers until they are 4 so their formative years are spent incarcerated in a run-down cell block. Julia gives birth and raises her child while in jail for murder (although it's never clear what actually transpired between her, the injured Ramiro and the dead Nahuel). Despite inevitable tensions, there's a communal approach to childcare - Marta initially feeds baby Tomas as Julia can't cope (a crying baby sets off a chain reaction of wailing children and shouting prisoners) - and the children do attend a kindergarten inside the prison. The bars of a prison door double as a climbing frame and colourful stickers adorn the grimy window of a cell, while the maternal bond is never in doubt. One woman cuts her wrists when her child reaches the age for removal and Julia falls apart when her mother takes Tomas. It's a tricky dilemma: prison is clearly no place for these young children (they can't run around in a park or make new friends or do any of the things other children do) and yet they also need to be with their mothers. This is the heart of the film, and as Tomas grows physically so does Julia emotionally, reflected in her hair changing from a dyed blonde mane to a brunette crop. The wish-fulfilment ending only emphasises the true impossibility of the situation.

City of Life and Death

Remarkably, considering this is a Chinese film based around the infamous Rape of Nanking in 1937, the closest we have to a protagonist is Kadokawa, a young Japanese soldier. There's no hero, rather a selection of people from different walks of life struggling to survive in an occupied city. Considering that the film doesn't fudge the atrocities committed, it's a remarkably restrained piece of work. The black and white cinematography helps, occasionally feeling like newsreel footage but mostly radiating an air of sober melancholy. Not that it's dull film-making. There are virtuoso sequences, such as the cross-cutting of the massacre of Chinese POWs or the framing and editing of the Japanese celebration of victory. Elsewhere classical film-making alternates with handheld camerawork, and the framing is unerringly spot-on (amid the chaos of a small room, as soldiers attempt to drag away women, one unexpectedly - and shockingly - lifts a small child onto a windowledge, opens the window and throws her out; Kadokawa, standing benumbed amid the draped beds of the "comfort women") Survival is a lottery: a young boy somehow survives the massacre that kills his idol Lu; the bodies of the luckless "comfort women" are piled on carts; Tang swaps places with a disguised Chinese officer, in effect sacrificing himself as amends for collaborating with the Japanese. There might not be much character development but the characters themselves are impressively nuanced. The Japanese commit appalling acts but are never actually demonized. Rabe might be a Nazi but he (futilely) attempts to defend the refugees in the Safety Zone (and is recalled by an irritated Hitler). Tang only wants to protect his family but his actions result in the massacre of wounded Chinese soldiers in the Safety Zone and the murder of his daughter and sister-in-law. Kadokawa kills a woman out of mercy before freeing 2 prisoners. It's not an easy watch by any means but it's never exploitative or hectoring. It doesn't need to be. The events are powerful enough to grip the viewer.

Iron Man 2

The problem with many sequels is that they are swamped by the urge to be bigger and better than the original. Mostly this merely equates to being louder, more frenetic and less coherent. Very rarely do they end up better (The Dark Knight is a notable exception) Iron Man 2 isn't necessarily better than its predecessor but it does remember what made the first one such a wonderful, enjoyable surprise: RDJ's mercurial, witty performance; a focus on the human amid all the metallic suits; and exciting action set pieces. Stark is now juggling the demands of being a superhero, fending off the unwelcome attention of the government, running a multinational corporation and battling with his own mortality (ironically the thing that keeps him alive is also the thing that is killing him) He's more snarky and reckless than ever, unwilling to recognize that he's alienating the people who care about him.
As in The Dark Knight, the law of unintended consequences comes into play. Venal business rival Justin Hammer aims to produce his own version of the Iron Man suit to sell to the military, despite an inherent incompetence (there's a running joke about the essential shoddiness of Hammer's military hardware). Far more dangerous is Ivan Venko, a man with a vendetta against the Stark family. A tech genius to rival Stark, he's also far more cunning than Hammer who foolishly thinks he can control Venko purely because of his wealth. The set piece at the Monaco Grand Prix sets up key character beats (Stark's bravado and vulnerability, Pepper's loyalty) and establishes the very real threat posed by Venko. Seen to be fallible, Stark's world teeters on the brink of collapse: his enemies circle, his behaviour becomes increasingly erreatic and he drives away his closest allies Pepper (even as he realizes he loves her) and Rhodey (who makes off with one of the suits after a bout of robotic fisticuffs that wrecks Stark's malibu mansion)
If there's one problem with the film it's the need to exist on 2 separate levels - on its own terms and as a piece of the Avengers jigsaw puzzle. Cue Nick Fury appearing to lecture Stark and provide exposition (the file helpfully entitled Avengers Initiative is hilariously heavy-handed); Black Widow infiltrating Stark Industries (and in a great scene taking out ALL of Hammer's security while Happy's struggling to deal with one guard); and Stark's resourceful yet amusingly disrespectful use of Cap's shield. As for the Iron Man films themselves, there remains just a small, lurking suspicion that too much action involving men in iron suits and/or robots hitting merry hell out of each other might ultimately become just a tad repetitive - though Jon Favreau (unlike Michael Bay) thankfully seems to understand that the action works as well as it does because the audience feels empathy with the characters. The Iron Man suit is indeed incredibly cool but it would count for little without the fascinatingly flawed Tony Stark inside it.

The Glass Menagerie: Shared Experience (Oxford Playhouse)

There's a point halfway through this production when Amanda Wingfield, in a flurry of frantic cleaning prior to the arrival of the longed-for gentleman caller for her daughter, absentmindedly dusts her son as well as the furniture on which he's sitting. She's in the midle of another of her overwrought monologues to the exasperation of Tom. It's a very funny moment and one amongst many that centres on the discrepency between Tom's hopes and dreams and those of his mother. Tom looks enviously towards the future while Amanda harks back to her Southern belle past. In fact past and present coexist onstage. Tom in the "present" in effect presents the main action and occasionally his present self slips into the past, speaking the lines that will be repeated seconds later by others. Within this past there are other manifestations of Amanda's memories (dancing with an old suitor, being swept off her feet by her errant husband-to-be) often accompanied by slowed-down film footage projected onto a screen at the back of the set. It all nicely illustrates the slippage between past and present. The suffocating nature of the family home is all too evident and it's painfully obvious why Tom longs to escape. The beautifully judged final act briefly holds out hope for his fragile, painfully shy sister as she visibly blossoms under the attentions of the gentleman caller (initially appearing a blow-hard, he actually turns out to be kind and pereceptive). It's the only time we see Laura laugh, and for once she starts to interact with another person in a normal manner, which makes the denouement all the more devastating.

Agora

The early Christians who gradually take control of 4th century Alexandria are a deeply unpleasant bunch - little more than a brutally intolerant, self-righteous paramilitary in some cases. As Hypatia points out, there's little evidence that their god is any more compassionate than the ones just ousted. Hypatia herself has the misfortune to be an intelligent, rational woman living in a time of huge religious upheaval. Under the pagan religion she's a respected philosopher and mathematician, inching her way towards the conclusion that the earth moves elliptically around the sun. Every single one of these factors makes her loathsome to the Christians. Even worse, she refuses to be a "silent" woman as advocated in the scriptures, and the prefect Orestes (a former pupil and suitor) values her opinion. Thus she ultimately becomes a victim of the power struggle over control of the city.
Ancient Alexandria is brought vividly to life (the CGI isn't too distracting thankfully) - the teeming streets contrasting with the calm of the great library, while the famous lighthouse domonates the harbour. This cosmopolitan metropolis (with many of the Christians actually looking as though they come from the Middle East instead of Western Europe for a change), renowned for its intellectual achievements, is about to be ripped apart by religious fundamentalism in a horrifying display of violence begetting violence. A pagan being thrown onto a fire by a Christian leads to a pagan attack on the Christians which has disastrous consequences. It's only as they view the mass of Christians filling the streets that they realize they are totally outnumbered. The new Christian Emperor rules on the side of the Christians, sealing the fate of both the pagan religion and the great library itself. The Christians gleefully sack the library, destroying the assembled knowledge of the world (throughout there are such unsettling reminders of other, more recent, events). Ironically the Jews are spared this initial bout of score-settling but as soon as the Christians gain power they turn their attention to them. The Jewish audience at a theatre are stoned by the armed band of Christian enforcers, and in retaliation the Jews trap a group of Christians and return the favour. The sickening sound of stones hitting flesh (and bone) make these dreadfully visceral acts. It's all a long way from Jesus remarking that those without sin should cast the first stone.
It's no coincidence that Hypatia is the only notable female character. It's very much a male world and marrying would mean giving up her teaching and research. In such ways she thoroughly defies what the male authorities (both pagan and Christian) expect of female behaviour. The film is especially good at pinpointing the basic misogyny at the heart of the Christian church and the accusation that she's a witch is one that would be repeated down the ages to dispose of troublesome women. Fanaticism wages war on rationalism under the impassive "perfect" stars that so fascinated Hypatia. No wonder people become atheists.

Irving Penn

What's most noticeable about the photographic portraits on display is how the (mostly) spartan settings focus attention so comprehensively on the figures and faces of the subjects. There are no extraneous distractions and in the early works, where full-figure shots are the norm, the body language tells all. Many of the subjects don't smile, the exceptions being some of the actors (Spencer Tracy positively twinkles while Audrey Hepburn and Grace Kelly exude Hollywood glamour). Not all though: the double portrait of the redoubtable Anna Magnani and director Roberto Rossellini feels thoroughly confrontational as their shadowed faces glower at the camera. That's the other thing. Many of the subjects stare back, unsmiling, at the viewer. They are a fascinating mix of 20th century cultural icons - artists, writers, dancers, actors, designers - and almost best of all, amid of group of Italian intellectuals in a Roman cafe out peaks the familar figure of Orson Welles, completely unexpectedly ...

The Ghost

Noone does creeping unease quite like Roman Polanski, and The Ghost has numerous moments that unsettle the viewer. There are all the more effective for avoiding both bombastic action and heavy-handed jolts. Instead, there's ex-PM Adam Lang's bolthole. Isolated on a windswept island, the house has disconcerting floor-to-ceiling windows that blur the line between inside and outside.. Those inside can watch activities happening outside (a jittery Lang on the phone for instance) but conversely are themselves horribly exposed to prying eyes (watching images of themselves on TV, broadcast from the helicopter flying above the house). The interior decor includes forbiddingly large modern paintings that look more like crime scene blood spatter than art, and then there's the room of the deceased original ghostwriter, his belongings still in place. This house is more than enough to set nerves jangling.
Meanwhile, pieces gradually start to slide into place suggesting that McAra's supposed suicide was something more sinister. The opening sequence of the abandoned car on the ferry sows those first seeds of dread, while also cannily setting up one of the best sections of the film: the pre-programmed satnav taking McAra's successor on an unexpected journey. All is clearly not as it at first appeared.
Pacing is key. The set pieces are thrillingly effective but relatively understated and there's a lovely series of barbed one-liners (many from Lang's wife) that feel entirely in keeping with the characters. In fact, there's a surprising amount of humour, both verbal (the list of refuges for Lang, America aside, includes the uninspiring likes of North Korea, the key being that none of these countries recognises the International Court; Rycart commenting that "they" can't drown two ghostwriters as they're not kittens) and visual (the period dress of the sullen hotel receptionist; the Vietnamese gardener's losing battle against the combined forces of wind and sand) The culmination is a book launch reception at which the ghostwriter realizes he's actually misinterpreted the evidence. The camera follows a note passed hand to hand through the throng before panning up to the appalled expression of the recipient. And as befits such a restrained piece of storytelling, the final action takes place offscreen while the camera fixedly gazes at the street, passersby reacting to the unseen accident and sheets of paper flying past.

Lourdes

Considering the potential to either offend or glorify, Lourdes takes an admirably impartial stance. Christine could indeed experience a miracle or merely the remission (albeit unexpectedly complete) of her multiple sclerosis. Either way, the question everyone - pilgrims, helpers - asks is "why her?". She's not a particularly devout pilgrim - she explains that it's the only way she can get out - so there's no obvious reason why she should be singled out. And there is no answer to this. Rather the camera contemplates the events with a minimal amount of movement. The viewer has time to ponder the sheer number of pilgrims, the oddly beautiful basilica, the tawdry souvenir shops, as well as becoming aware of helper Cecile's increasing pallor and her habit of fiddling with her hair (later revealed to be a wig disguising her baldness and therefore her illness) and of the very slight movement of Christine's hand at the baths. There's even time for a fabulously agnostic joke from the leader of the male helpers (told to a priest!) But the film also captures an essential truth: the cruelty of having hope snatched away. We've already seen it in the figure of the mother whose disabled daughter briefly seems cured, and there's a hint that possibly the same fate might await Christine.

The Headless Woman

The Headless Woman revolves around an act that may or may not have happened. It's never clear whether Vero, distracted by her mobile phone, did indeed run down a child. She certainly killed the dog that was seen at the beginning of the film, but was one the children also a victim? In some respects, whether it happened or not is irrelevant. The important fact is that Vero *believes* she has killed someone, and the film is built around the psychological repurcussions of this. Yes, she's in shock but it never for a moment occurs to her to report the accident. She continues with her privileged life, slightly more detached than usual (expressed in looming closeups of her head), and only several days later - in a queue at a supermarket! - announces to her husband that she's killed someone. But this is a class that believes in taking care of its own and the males make the hospital records, hotel reservation and damaged car all vanish as if nothing ever happened. Yet a boy did die in the flooded canal, possibly drowned, possibly left there by a car accident, but the death means almost nothing to these people. All evidence removed they can continue with their lives, taking as little notice of their Indian servants as they do of the dead Indian boy.

I Am Love

There's much to admire in I Am Love, not least the sumptuous design and cinematography. The latter ranges from otherworldly shots of a snowbound Milan which open the film to the loving display of succulent dishes prepared by young chef Antonio. Yet it's difficult to warm to the film itself. The icily composed upper class Recchi clan, with their immaculate interior decor, clothing and accessories, look pretty but keep everyone, including the viewer, at a distance. The Russian wife, Emma, had her Christian name changed by her husband upon marriage and claims she can no longer remember it, while Eva, who is merely the fiancee of son Edo, remains noticeably isolated among the grieving family at the hospital. Even our heroine, Emma, remains rather unapproachable and unreadable, though her own surprise at the unexpected passion she finds with Antonio is palpable. It's probably no surprise that her sense of freedom, both emotional and physical, finds it fullest expression away from the family mansion - in the sunlight of San Remo and the open air of Antonio's father's estate. The Recchi home feels like a particularly well-endowed prison by comparison. Once the family are away (at university, on business) there's nothing to alleviate Emma's basic loneliness. Even the sympathetic Ida refuses to share a meal, keenly away as she is of her inferior status. It's no wonder the lure of companionship and freedom wins.

Samson and Delilah

No, not the 1950s Biblical epic, but a sobering look at a romance between a pair of Aboriginal teenagers. Samson's early attempts at courtship are met with irritated indifference, though Delilah's granny is highly amused and decides they're as good as married already. Matters aren't helped by his refusal to speak. It's only late in the film, when he finally states his name that the audience realize it's because he has a bad stammer. Likewise a dedication on the radio towards the end reveals that his father is nearing the end of a prison sentence. In fact, the males on show are such a dispiriting bunch you can entirely understand Delilah's attitude. The womenfolk at least have a spark to them, and Delilah shows real resilience in overcoming the horrendous events that happen to her. Violence is worringly rife: the women beat Delilah for supposedly neglecting her granny (she didn't); Samson hits his brother and smashes his guitar and in turn is given a violent beating; when the couple eventually return one of the women tries to attack Samson. It's hardly surprising that addiction is a relief from the tedium, yet this almost costs Samson the girl he loves as twice we see him walking on oblivious to her fate (rape, being hit by a car) This all probably sounds grim, but there's a dry humour - Samson relentlessly following Delilah as she pushes granny in her wheelchair (by the end Delilah, despite being the one with an injured leg, is now pushing Samson around in the wheelchair); the brother and his pals endlessly playing what feels like the same reggae riff all day; Delilah's withering glances at Samson's hapless attempts to impress her. There's even a glimmer of hope at the end.

Ponyo

This has to be the most effortlessly delightful film of the year. It's beautiful to look at and seriously cute but never sentimental. Most of all, it's a triumph for the glories of hand-drawn animation. The pre-credits sequence of a teeming, vivid, colourful undersea world sets the standard and it never drops. It looks deceptively simple but the portrayal of both the natural and manmade worlds is actually breathtaking (the variety of underwater life, Sosuke's house perched on top of the cliff, the junior school and the old people's home) and for once, a sea goddess does feel exactly like the most beautiful and magical creature on the planet. Then there's Ponyo herself. In her goldfish form she is wonderfully cute (and given to shooting waterspouts at the humans around her) Curious and playful, she swims away from home and ends up stuck in a jar before being rescued by young Sosuke. A bond is formed and she magically transforms into a little girl. This is actually where Miyazaki shows his genius. They might be animated, but Sosuke and Ponyo also act just like children. The scene where Ponyo first enters the house on the cliff is a gem of observation. Everything from the fluffy towel she uses to dry herself to the green mug and the honey put in her drink are new experiences for Ponyo and her facial expression captures that perfectly. She charges around the house, gripping these new wonders, and goes head first into the glass door (I have seen a small child do *exactly* the same thing). Undeterred she continues her route, bouncing along the sofa, before eventually falling asleep where she lays. The film is full of such light touches. Miyazaki's characteristic concern with the environment is present and correct too, but it's integrated into the plot rather than being heavyhanded - human detritus litters the seabed and traps fish-Ponyo, her powers threaten the balance of nature and cause a tsunami that floods the town. But this is a children's film so the danger is subsumed beneath the wonder. Ancient giant fishes swim along the roads formerly driven along (badly) by Sosuke's mother; the glowing sea goddess revives a stalled ship merely by her presence. In a way, words can't begin to describe the beauty of the animation. The colours are frequently luminous, the objects unfussily drawn and the viewer wants to curl up into a ball of happiness.

Hedda Gabler: Theatre Royal Bath (Oxford Playhouse)

Surprisingly, there was an awful lot of laughter from the audience for this production. Admittedly, most of that humour stems from the either the self-obsession or self-delusion of the characters. Tesman is slightly pompous and single-minded to a fault. While essentially harmless, he's also totally boring as a spouse - at least as far as Hedda's concerned - and yet he's clearly devoted to both her and the elderly aunts who raised him. Aunt Juliana (who clearly drives Hedda to complete distraction) idolises her nephew, tirelessly nurses her ailing sister and tries to be nice to Hedda, yet has a tendency to both witter and pry. Decent people yes, but Hedda doesn't belong in their world and to be honest doesn't make much effort. We can tell it's the sort of milieu that she will find mind-numbingly stultefying and yet it's difficult to totally sympathise with her because her petulance, jealousy and lack of empathy only destroy. She pushes Loevborg towards self-destruction apparently for her own satisfaction and because he seemingly found some peace working alongside Mrs Elvstad, but his weakness deprives his death of any "beauty". Presumably she would consider her own suicide to be such an act though it feels more like desperation to escape a trap of her own making.

Alice in Wonderland

I am now officially fed up with greenscreen. Sin City and 300 were the epitomy of style over content and now Tim Burton (who has always had an easy approach to narrative) is the latest to decide an all-GCI world is the way to go. It's bright, weird and undeniably imaginative but totally insubstantial (and in 2D replete with many spot-the-3D bits better known as throwing things towards the camera) And as with all CGI, it only takes one thing to be poorly rendered to drag the viewer out of the film. Prime example: every time the Knave of Hearts appears in long shot or on his horse it's so jerky that you immediately stop believing in the reality of the character. There's also that old perennial which has plagued everything from LOTR onwards, the obvious fakery of the digital substitute. The movement is never right and it applies just as much to Alice as it did to the Fellowship running across the bridge. Having said all that, the Cheshire Cat is great, with his disconcertingly wide, toothy smile and a disconcerting habit of popping up unexpectedly, while the poor hedgehog is totally adorable. My other bugbear is the unintelligibility of some of the dialogue (step forward J. Depp, esq. and his silly accents) OK, it's not exactly depriving us of essential exposition but it's very, very annoying. Thank heavens for the clarity of Stephen Fry's Cheshire Cat and Alan Rickman's laid-back Caterpillar. His mere vocal presence can improve any film by 50%.

Welcome

Now there's an ironic title if ever there was one. The illegal immigrants arriving in Calais get no welcome from the French and are even less welcome in their ultimate destination: England. No surprise there. However unlike the British films In This World and Ghosts, the attention isn't solely on the plight of the immigrants themselves. The opening introduces us to Bilal and his failed first attempt to cross the Channel in a truck (the plastic bag he has to keep over his head to ward off carbon monoxide fumes reminds him of his treatment at the hand of the Turkish police after he crossed from Iraq) but the focus switches to his relationship with swimming instructor - and former champion swimmer -Simon. His reasons for helping Bilal are opaque: is it to impress his soon-to-be-ex-wife, and activist herself? to give himself some purpose now that he's on his own? or does the childless Simon start to view Bilal as a surrogate son? It could be any or all or something else entirely. The determination of Bilal to reach his girlfriend by any means necessary also appeals to this lovelorn man. Deep down he realizes that Bilal's plans are hopelessly impractical - to become a professional footballer, to reach England by swimming the Channel - but he finds himself supporting the teenager as much as discouraging him. Needless to say, this doesn't get wholehearted approval from anyone because what is most surprising about the story is the rampant surveillance and persecution of anyone who remotely helps the illegals (readers of the Daily Mail might like to know that the French don't just escort them onto the nearest lorry) Townsfolk inform on anyone they suspect giving aid, the charity that runs a soup kitchen is harrassed, activists are arrested. It feels a million miles away from a democratic, civilized society - and of course it doesn't deter the immigarnts one iota.

Tate Modern

I have a sneaking suspicion that I've seen more exhibitions at Tate Modern in recent years than anywhere else - despite claiming to not actually like modern art! Clearly I need to reassess that statement. The tentative footsteps into this strange new world *have* broadened my horizons a little without ever replacing my existing preferences. Of the 2 shows that I saw on Saturday I expected to like the Arshile Gorky one the most, but as it turned out Van Doesburg and the International Avant-Garde was far more enjoyable. In the Gorky exhibition there were a few nice "spot the influence" moments (Cezanne in Pears, Peaches and Pitcher, Picasso and Miro elsewhere) but there rapidly came a point where the doodlings became infuriatingly formless, repetative and apparently meaningless. Oddly, the preponderance of grid-like squares and rectangles in the Van Doesburg managed not to have the same effect. Admittedly they were merely part of the numerous De Stijl-influenced architectural drawings and models, furniture, typography, film and art on display but they didn't become monotonous. In some respects the architectural exhibits were the most fascinating: the geometric shapes and primary colours working surprisingly well both inside and out. And then there's the stained glass, again geometric in design in a limited palette but with an undeniable beauty as the light shines through.